Робин Кук: Intervention

“Dr. Daughtry?” Abdul questioned. He leaned slightly forward to get a better look.

“Rahul,” Shawn replied, “I’m shocked that you remember me, much less my name after all these years.”

“How could I not?” Rahul said, rushing from behind his counter and pumping Shawn’s hand. “I remember all my clients, particularly those from famous museums.”

“You have clients at other museums?” The shop was so modest it seemed farfetched.

“Of course, of course,” Rahul intoned. “Whenever I get something special, which isn’t too often, I communicate with whom-ever I think would be the most interested. It’s so easy now with the Internet.”

While Rahul hastened out into the alleyway by pushing through the beads and barking orders in Arabic, Shawn marveled at the speed of globalization. It seemed to him the Internet and the ancient Khan el-Khalili should have been worlds apart. Obviously, such was not the case.

A moment later, Rahul reentered the shop and gestured for Shawn to pass beyond into the seating area at the rear of the store. Oriental carpets covered the floor and the walls. Large, heavy brocade pillows dominated the space. A hookah stood to the side, along with a number of stacked, faded cardboard boxes. A bare lightbulb dangled from the ceiling. On a small wooden table were a few faded photographs, one of a large man in typical Egyptian dress who resembled Rahul. Rahul followed Shawn’s line of sight.

“A photo of my uncle, given to me recently by my mother. Almost twenty years ago he owned this shop.”

“He does look like family,” Shawn commented. “Did you buy the shop from him?”

“No, from his wife. He was my mother’s brother, but he got himself mixed up in an antiquities scandal involving a very important find: an intact tomb. His association cost him his life. He was killed here in the shop.”

“My goodness,” Shawn voiced. “I’m so sorry to have brought it up.”

“In this business one cannot be too careful. Allah be praised that I have had no such trouble.”

In the next instant the heavy curtain was drawn aside and a barefoot young boy appeared with a tray and two glasses in metal holders, each filled with steaming-hot tea. Without a word the boy placed the tray on the floor next to Shawn and Rahul, then retreated back through the curtains. All the while Rahul maintained a lively chatter about how pleased he was to enjoy a visit from Shawn.

“Actually, I had a specific reason,” Shawn admitted.

“Oh?” Rahul replied questioningly.

“I have a confession to make. When I was last here in your shop, I bought a predynastic terra-cotta pot.”

“I remember. It was one of my very best.”

“We had a rather lengthy argument about its authenticity.”

“You were reluctant to be convinced.”

“Actually, I was never convinced. I bought it as a souvenir of our most interesting conversation, but when I got back to New York, I had it looked at by a knowledgeable colleague. She agreed with you. Not only was it real, but the pot is now on prominent display in the museum. It is truly a handsome piece.”

“You are so kind to admit your error.”

“Well, it has bothered me all these years.”

“That is easy to remedy,” Rahul responded. “If you would like to appease your conscience, all you need to do is pay me additional money.”

Taken aback by the unexpected suggestion, Shawn stared at Rahul. For a moment he thought the man was serious. Then Rahul smiled, exposing his yellow, poorly maintained teeth. “I am joking, of course. I made a handsome profit with the pot from the children who found it, and I am satisfied.”

Shawn smiled himself with obvious relief. He found Arabic humor as unexpected as Arabic hospitality.

“Your confession has brought to mind a most amazing piece I got only yesterday from a fellahin friend who is a farmer in Upper Egypt. It’s something you might find of particular interest, given your biblical scholarship. With this particular object you will know more than I, so I trust you will not cheat me if you decide to buy it. Would you like to see it?”

Shawn shrugged. “Why not,” he said. He didn’t know what to expect, and he wasn’t about to get his hopes up.

After rummaging in one of the cardboard boxes pushed against the wall, Rahul pulled out what looked to be a soiled cotton pillowcase. It wasn’t until he’d sat back down that he removed the contents and placed them in Shawn’s hands.

For several beats Shawn did not move while Rahul sat back and made himself comfortable against his large pillows. He wore an expectant, self-satisfied expression. He knew the archaeologist would soon guess what he was holding. The question was whether he’d be willing to buy it. The illegal cache needed the right person, one with relatively deep pockets.

Shawn quickly surmised what it was. Like most biblical scholars worth their salt, particularly those interested in New Testament studies or early Christian Church history, he’d seen and even handled the originals. The question was: Was what he was holding genuine, or was it a fake, like the scarabs and most of the other imitation antiquities that Rahul sold? Shawn had no idea, but given the unexpected authenticity of the predynastic bowl, he was willing to gamble and buy what he had in his lap. If by some chance it was real, it could be the biggest discovery of his life, and even if he eventually returned it to the Egyptian authorities, it was the kind of object whose story alone would set him apart from his contemporaries. Shawn didn’t want one of Rahul’s major museum contacts to get it — a distinct possibility, given his Internet contacts.

“Of course it is not real,” Shawn began, in an attempt to start the haggling on the right foot. The problem was that despite the modest appearance of the shop, he knew he was dealing with a professional, business-savvy negotiator.

6:05 A.M., MONDAY, DECEMBER 1, 2008

NEW YORK CITY

(1:05 P.M., CAIRO, EGYPT)

You’re a doctor?” the uniformed policeman questioned with exaggerated surprise. The policeman’s car was pulled to the curb behind them on the west side of Second Avenue as morning traffic streamed past on its way downtown. The cop’s partner was still sitting in the passenger seat, drinking coffee. Jack’s relatively new Trek bike was lying on its side on the pavement just in front of the cruiser. When Laurie had started her maternity leave, Jack had gone back to his old habit of commuting to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner by bicycle.

Jack just nodded. Although he was calmer than he’d been, he was still irritated as hell at the taxi driver who’d cut him off by pulling across four lanes of traffic and stopping on a dime to pick up a fare. After managing to stop himself with just a minor jolt against the car’s rear bumper, Jack had dashed around to the driver’s side before the customer had gotten seated in the back. Jack had quickly inflicted several small but definite dents in the cabdriver’s side door with his heel in hopes of encouraging the driver to climb out of the car so that a proper discussion could ensue. Lucky for everyone, the incident was brought to a rapid close by the arrival of the police. Apparently, the cops had witnessed at least some of the confrontation.

“I think you could use some anger-management classes,” the policeman continued.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Jack said sarcastically. He knew he was being provocative, but he couldn’t help himself. The policeman had dismissed the cabdriver without even checking his license. It was as if the cop thought the incident was Jack’s fault, since he was the one being detained.

“You’re on a bike, for crying out loud,” the cop complained. “What do you want to do, get yourself killed? If you are going to be crazy enough to ride a bike you have to expect the unexpected, particularly from cabbies.”