James Becker - The Messiah Secret

‘In the centre and in Cairo proper, I guess that’s true, but I imagine that if you went out of the city you’d see houses that have hardly changed for half a millennium.’

About a quarter of an hour later, Angela spotted a sign for Al-Gebel al-Ahmar, and Bronson hacked his way through the traffic to make the turn. Angela had been right — once they cleared the main road and started heading south, the traffic was much lighter.

They crossed a railway line and kept moving, Angela checking the street signs as they passed.

‘That’s the first address,’ she said, pointing to the left as Bronson drove past the end of a minor road. ‘That’s where Hassan al-Sahid — or at least a Hassan al-Sahid — lives.’

‘Right,’ Bronson said, swinging the car round in a U-turn to retrace their steps. ‘Let’s find out.’

‘Your name is Suleiman al-Sahid?’

The young man standing in the doorway of the large whitewashed house on the eastern side of the Al-Gebel al-Ahmar district looked puzzled. He hadn’t been expecting any visitors, and certainly not a black-suited American priest carrying a large and apparently heavy suitcase, with a thick plaster covering most of his left ear.

‘It is,’ he replied in heavily accented English, ‘but I-’

‘You don’t know me,’ the priest interrupted, ‘but I know your father, Hassan. How is his health these days?’

Suleiman shook his head. ‘He died a few years ago,’ he replied. ‘But I-’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I also know the Wendell-Carfax family, from England. Now, I have an important message for you from them, so may I come inside?’

Suleiman nodded, and stepped to one side. The priest picked up the suitcase and followed Suleiman into the house.

‘You have a message for me, you said? And what is your name?’

‘Daniels. Father Michael Daniels.’ The priest extended his hand. ‘You have a lovely home here,’ he added, glancing around the spacious hallway.

‘Thank you.’

‘Now, Bartholomew Wendell-Carfax entrusted your father with two large oil paintings. Were you aware of that?’

Suleiman nodded. ‘Yes. My father left very specific instructions about them. They’re hanging in this room.’

He turned and led the way into a room just off the hall, dominated by a large dining table surrounded by eight chairs.

‘My father bought this dining set in England,’ Suleiman said. ‘It’s not to my taste, but he loved the British way of life. And those are the paintings.’ He pointed at the wall opposite the doorway, where two oils were hanging.

The priest smiled. ‘I’ve been asked to collect these two paintings ready for Oliver Wendell-Carfax when he arrives here in Cairo to start his expedition. Did he advise you that I was coming?’

A shadow of doubt crept suddenly across Suleiman’s face, and he shook his head. ‘No. In fact, in his last message to me he specifically told me he would be arriving here in person to inspect the paintings. He also said that under no circumstances was I to release them to any third party.’

The priest looked puzzled. ‘How strange. I have a letter here’ — he reached into his pocket and pulled out a creased and folded sheet of paper — ‘in which he has authorized me to take possession of them.’

He passed the paper to Suleiman. But as Suleiman reached out to take it, the priest moved with fluid, well-practised ease, seizing Suleiman’s right wrist and dragging him towards him, pulling him off-balance. Then he swung his right fist, hard, into Suleiman’s stomach.

The unexpectedness of the attack caught Suleiman by surprise, but he was a young and strong man and the blow rocked, rather than incapacitated, him. He straightened up and danced backwards, moving away from his attacker, and brought up his fists to ward off any further blows.

But the priest still had the advantage of surprise, and he, too, was very strong, and a trained fighter. He powered forwards, knocking Suleiman’s arms aside, and landing two more hard punches on his stomach.

Suleiman swung wildly, one fist catching his attacker on the left side of his head.

The priest howled in pain as the blow slammed into his ruined ear, reopening the wound and sending a throb of agony searing right across his skull. For an instant his vision clouded and he lifted his left arm high to prevent Suleiman following up with another punch.

Suleiman realized instantly his best chance of defeating the priest was to target his head again — the man’s reaction to his lucky blow had been extreme. He swung his right fist once more, aiming for the now bloodstained plaster on the left side of the priest’s head.

If the punch had landed, that might have been enough, but the priest saw it coming. He expertly blocked the blow with his left hand and swung his right straight into Suleiman’s jaw.

Suleiman’s head snapped up and he stumbled back, crashing into one of the chairs that lined the dining table. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that had descended over his vision. But the priest didn’t give him the chance. He stepped forwards and slammed two more blows into his face, opening deep cuts on his lips and breaking blood vessels in his nose.

Suleiman lifted his arms weakly to try to ward off the attack, but the priest finished it with two more hard punches to his face. Then he grabbed Suleiman’s shirt, hauled him upright, spun his limp body round and slammed his forehead into the edge of the dining table. The Egyptian crashed to the floor, unconscious.

Killian stood looking down at the man for a couple of seconds, then raised his left hand and carefully felt his injured ear. The plaster seemed to be intact, but blood was flowing from the open wound at the top of the ear, and he knew he’d have to change the dressing. But that could wait. He had more important things to do. He kicked Suleiman hard in the ribs, then turned away.

He walked across to the wall where the paintings were hanging and swiftly lifted them both off their hooks. He didn’t know where the parchment had been concealed in them, but he guessed it was probably hidden in a secret compartment in the frame. He would need time to inspect them thoroughly.

Killian carried both paintings out into the hall. He opened the front door of the house, checked in both directions, saw nobody, then walked across the kerb to his hire car, opened the boot and slid them inside.

He looked back at the house, wondering if he should just drive away. Then he shrugged and retraced his steps. Better to finish the job properly.

‘I have never heard of anybody called Wendell-Carfax,’ the elderly Egyptian man said, his tone polite but with an underlying edge to it.

Bronson and Angela were standing outside a small white house on a side street at the northern edge of Al-Gebel al-Ahmar. They’d received no reply at the first property they’d tried, the one listed as the residence of Hassan al-Sahid in the phone directory, so they’d moved on to the second address, the home of one ‘M. al-Sahid’. The man’s first name had turned out to be Mahmoud, and he obviously wasn’t pleased at the interruption to his day.

‘I am sorry we have disturbed you,’ Bronson said, speaking slowly and clearly. Mahmoud al-Sahid’s English was far from fluent, his accent thick and heavy. ‘Obviously you are not the person we are looking for. Our apologies. You do not, I suppose, know where Hassan al-Sahid lives?’

‘Hassan al-Sahid is dead, as I told the other man. But his son — his name is Suleiman — still lives in his father’s house.’

‘What other man?’ Bronson asked, alarm bells suddenly ringing.

‘The priest,’ the elderly man said. ‘The priest was also looking for Hassan al-Sahid.’