was too late. His friend was kicking at the old door; even as the infernal shrieking went on, and on.
‘C’mon – open up!’ Freddy laughed, ‘Open up, in the name of all that’s holy!’ Now Freddy stepped back and kicked even harder at the splintering door, and at last it succumbed. The lock snapped and the old door swung open, revealing a roar of heat and howls and things, strange black burning shapes, racing out at them, fleeing and burning—
A flaming creature leapt at Malcolm’s face, and its claws sank deep. Malcolm’s scream echoed down from the lonely carn, carried on the freezing wind.
La Bodega bistro, Zamalek, Cairo
Victor Sassoon sat in a darkened corner of the darkened bar, cradling a glass of Scotch and water, his fourth of the afternoon, and maybe his fortieth of the last four days. It was his last afternoon in Cairo. The whisky tasted like the bitter herbs of Seder: the taste of defeat.
The monk was dead. The Sokar Hoard, if it had ever existed, would probably never be found. His one last hope, that he might meet Albert Hanna, was about to come to nothing.
Hanna was a Coptic antiquities dealer. He was also notorious for his serpentine skills in fulfilling the desires of museum curators and billionaire collectors across the globe. The mummy of a concubine of a Rammeside Pharaoh? But of course. An intact and entire Fayum portrait rescued from the black mud of Antinopolis? Please allow me.
His methods were obscure, and probably illegal, but he got results. Albert Hanna knew every rumour of every new find from every sandy corner of Egypt. If anyone knew anything about the truth of the latest gossip – the whispers of the Sokar Hoard that had brought Sassoon to the polluted streets of the Egyptian capital – it would be Hanna.
But Hanna was an elusive quarry. He didn’t answer his phone; he didn’t answer emails; like many Christian businesses, his office in central Cairo was closed because of the recent and ongoing riots.
So, La Bodega bistro was Sassoon’s rather desperate and concluding bid. Many of Cairo’s antiquities dealers were middle-class Copts like Hanna, and nearly all of them liked to drink discreetly – and many of them were regulars at the Bodega, not least because it was increasingly dangerous to drink everywhere else. Some of the bars near the Coptic quarter were getting trashed and gutted by Islamists. Christian grocers who still dared to sell beer were being forcibly closed.
Pensively, Sassoon inhaled the aroma of his Scotch, and remembered a time when it had been much easier to drink in this city. He remembered drinking good German beer in Shepheard’s Hotel, with that keen young American Egyptologist, Ryan Harper.
Victor wondered what had happened to Harper. But then, he wondered that about many people these days. Friends died like flies when you reached your seventies, as if there was an Old Testament plague, the Great Pestilence of Egypt. Now, which book of the Bible was that?
His aged thoughts were wandering, again. Sassoon sipped the solacing bitterness of his Johnnie Walker, walked to the heavy velvet curtains, and gazed down at Zamalek.
The street outside was a parodic vision of its own history: this part of Cairo, situated on an island in the Nile, had been built in the early twentieth century as a place of European elegance, with boulevards and plane trees, and chic apartment blocks – even a palace for Princess Eugenie, wife of Napoleon III. But now all the trees had been chopped down, the apartment blocks had been turned into tatty shops and crowded flats, and the traffic was, of course, endless and polluting.
Yes, the smoke and scuzz of Cairo disgusted Sassoon. It was time to go home, and to give up. It was never going to happen; it had all been a foolish dream.
‘You can positively smell the smoke from the TV centre. N’est ce pas?’
Sassoon swivelled, letting the velvet curtains fall.
Standing behind him was a slightly paunchy man in his mid-forties, wearing a perfect yet worn Savile Row suit, with a beautiful faded Milanese silk tie, and a moustache that curved down to a goatee.
It was Albert Hanna.
The man was unmistakeable. Sassoon had seen this face in Egyptological websites. It was his first stroke of luck: five tedious days of patient waiting had paid off. At the very last moment.
‘The Islamic students, in their vulgar fury, are burning everything. One can only pray that the Sphinx is inflammable.’ The man sighed, and pulled himself a seat. ‘You know the Arabic name for the Sphinx, Mister Sassoon? It is Abu al-Hol, the Father of Terror.’ The dealer smiled, politely. ‘And yes, of course I know who you are. You are quite famous.’
Sassoon slumped into his own chair, and set down his Scotch. He realized his demeanour probably seemed defeated, yet inside he was secretly delighted.
‘I also know, Mr Sassoon, that you have been searching for me. My apologies if my delay in contacting you seems rude: I have been distracted by the troubles. Soon the fundamentalists may make it impossible for us Copts to live, let alone drink.’ Hanna swirled his glass of cognac. ‘You know Egypt was once renowned for its wines? Tutankhamun was buried with several jars of a fine dry white. But now, ahhh, où sont les vins d’antan?’
He stroked his dyed goatee, which had indubitably been dyed pitch-black, and added, ‘There is no hope for us, there is no hope for the drinkers, for the Copts. But we will stay here anyway! We are the true descendants of ancient Egypt, after all. Now tell me. Why are you in Egypt? A famous Anglo-Jewish scholar like you, visiting Egypt amidst this turmoil, when Tahrir is engulfed in flames? Why do you want to talk to me?’
This was Victor’s chance. ‘The Sokar Hoard.’
Hanna looked at Victor, darkly, and his eyes flashed with thought. ‘Why did you not mention this in your emails? I might have responded sooner.’
‘Because …’ Victor paused. ‘Because this is a delicate issue. I know there are severe laws regarding antiquities. If the Sokar Hoard exists it belongs to the Egyptian state and people.’
‘You were being discreet? That is well advised.’ Hanna picked up his balloon glass of cognac and swirled it again. ‘So. The Sokar Hoard. Hmm. The rumours are ripe, are they not? Exuding a heady perfume of promise? Just imagine: a cache of ancient documents that make Nag Hammadi look like …’ Hanna closed his small and sparkling brown eyes while he summoned the words ‘… like a cheap photocopy of Harold Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Yes, the Sokar Hoard, if it exists, would be an unexampled prize. If you could decipher such a thing, this would eclipse your spectacular work on the Dead Sea Scrolls. You would finally have your statue in the sunlit plaza of greatness, for pigeons to soil.’
Was he trying to insult? Or merely provoke? Sassoon didn’t care. ‘I’m not hunting for academic glory, Mr Hanna. As I understand it, the Sokar Hoard contains evidence that alters our perception of Jewish history. The exploration of Jewish history and theology has been my life’s calling. As such, if there is a deeper truth, I want to know it – before …’
‘It is too late?’
‘What
