the treasure, did you see it?”
“I couldn’t go near it. I was constantly watched.”
“How did you find out about it?”
Victor did not reply; instead, he rose and walked over to the wall of bookshelves, where he reached for a thick book in a set of four. “This venture needs strong young men, men like you and your cousin Etienne – he was in the desert in Syria and is fluent in Arabic, quite a linguist I’m told. You’ll make a good team.” As he spoke he removed several books and a crystal vase from the shelves. Then he pushed aside the back panel to reveal a small wall safe. He opened it, and took out a soft leather pouch. After putting on a pair of white cotton gloves, he unrolled a papyrus on the bureau du plat, while Felix looked on with increasing interest.
“Have a good look. It’s this papyrus that gave me the clue. When I bought it I didn’t know what it was, neither did Beaufort, so I showed it to Reinhardt. He wanted to buy it immediately; he became so excited I realised there must be more to it. So I asked Schiaparelli, curator of the Turin Museum and an eminent archaeologist, what he thought of it. He wanted it for the museum, but was good enough to tell me what it is. This is the Book of the Dead from the funerary treasure of Ramses II. These writings are prayers for his acceptance into the afterlife. It’s priceless.” Victor looked at his nephew, who remained silent. “The real secret is where it was found.”
“In Siwa?” asked Felix.
“Bravo, now you’ve got it.”
“Perhaps I should put it in better perspective for you. Several very select pieces have been offered to me, secretly, as a seller could be arrested and forced to reveal his source. The government has strict guidelines on antiquities: they can be confiscated and penalties applied. Over the centuries tomb robbers have learnt to be very cautious.
“I dabbled in this clandestine business for twenty-five years and learnt many things. The imprudent amateur could be ruthless, and reckless. On the other hand, professionals and academics were aloof and stubborn. This gave a favourable chance to a middleman, who was neither imprudent nor impractical. I was considered such an agent.
“Now I’ll tell you about Ali. When he had something to sell, it was always exceptional. We had a good relationship. He was always calm, unassuming; his life was simple. I think Beaufort knew him longer and better than I did. Every so often he would come up with the most remarkable item, yet he had never been to Cairo or up the Nile. We could only guess at his secret – and what a secret it was.
“Twelve years ago Ali told James and me that he had nothing more to sell, except one last thing: his secret source. It was to be a three-way share, and soon enough we were in much deeper than we realised. The secret happened to be in one of the most inaccessible places you can imagine. Ali’s directions were vague, as could be expected in a desert with no landmarks and drifting dunes. By a stroke of luck Beaufort found the place, but had to leave it untouched when hostilities started with the Sanussi. Three weeks after his return, Ali died.”
Victor paused, but Felix said nothing. “More whisky?” Victor indicated the bottle with a wave of his hand, as he put the scroll back in its protective cover.
“This has a smooth taste of peat; it’s real y good.” Felix put a dash of soda water in each glass.
“It’s good for digestion.”
Felix shrugged. “Right. Now tell me. How did he come to find it?”
Victor looked his seemingly sceptical nephew in the eyes. “Do you know how much treasure is buried out there? No, you don’t. Whole armies have been lost with their plundered loot.”
Victor lowered his voice. “I am talking about the lost caravan of 1805. Many of the camel drivers were young boys, as was the custom at that time. Ali’s father was one of them, and its only survivor. The caravan set off into the Libyan Desert to vanish without trace in a fierce sandstorm. According to Ali, who had been told the story many times, they had marched five days from the Nile when the wind came up, creating havoc. Ali’s father knew what was coming and that he had to find shelter. He also knew he was somewhere south of the Siwa oasis. Lashed by wind and disoriented by swirling clouds of sand, he broke away from the caravan as it was thrown into disarray.
“Using the wind direction as a rough guide, he headed north followed by several camels and drivers, hoping to reach the safety of the oasis. They found a rock escarpment and sheltered beneath its cliff face, while Ali’s father took refuge behind an outlying rock. The sandstorm increased in its fury, obliterating all visibility with blinding sand and suffocating dust. For five days the sandstorm raged and when it ended, he found himself alone. Three days later he reached his village in the oasis.”
“What became of the others?”
“They perished in the sea of sand. My God, you can’t survive a sandstorm in the open desert.”
“Ah, yes. But I mean those who took refuge with him?”
“They were entombed.”
“Entombed?”
“You see Felix, during the storm part of the cliff gave way under the weight of sand above it and sent tonnes of sand crashing down on them, burying them alive. Siwans are notoriously superstitious; the place held bad portent for Ali’s father. Europeans seldom passed that way – of the few who did in the last hundred years, half were never seen again.”
“Weren’t you worried that it was a fictitious invention on his part?”
“It happens of course, though sometimes one can be too cautious, as Reinhardt was. In 1910, he was offered a good lead, but hesitated – unfortunately. A countryman of his, Ludwig Borchardt, was not so sceptical and he found a queen too beautiful to describe. For thirty centuries her name was obliterated from the memory of men – just a faint whisper – and then ten years ago to this day, in a ruin on the bank of the Nile, Ludwig found the portrait-bust of Nefertiti. It’s now in the Berlin museum, smuggled out of Egypt by Ludwig. That Reinhardt was so close, yet missed out, has enraged him no end.
“Archaeologists are protected by their embassies as nations compete for discoveries to embellish their museums. Competition is tough.” Victor downed the last mouthful in his glass and went on without a pause. “They also have government protection because they buy concessions. We don’t have the luxury of such protection: Siwa is free for all. That has its advantage – we couldn’t afford a concession – and its obvious danger. Our movements cannot be kept secret in Egypt. You’ll soon learn that there’s always someone looking over your shoulder.
“Now I’m coming to the most important thing of all, this map. It belonged to Beaufort and he wrote the bearings on it.” Victor held aloft a creased, well-used map, and then put it back in the safe. “Only James and I should have known about it. But recently, several strange incidents have convinced me otherwise – there is someone else. We have a rival. In fact, Beaufort’s parting words to me were ‘never let anyone know you’ve got it’.”
Felix jumped in. “It seems he too suspected that someone knows about it.”
“Doesn’t it? Well, we can talk about this further when Etienne arrives.”
“I have only one last question. Do you think this person knows what you’ve found?”
“He doesn’t have to be choosy.” Victor took a breath, as this needed more
