David Gibbins - Pyramid

Rebecca turned and glared at Jack. “You had me followed ?”

Jack continued to hold the man’s gaze. “Precisely for this reason.”

The boy returned with a tray of little glasses of tea, which he offered around. Jack took one, dropped a sugar cube into it, and sipped the strong liquid. He replaced it on the tray. “So, I take it you are an antiquities dealer?”

The man opened his arms expansively. “I am Abdullah al-Harasi. My shop is one of the best known along the Via Dolorosa. I am licensed by the antiquities authority, and everything I sell in my shop comes with an export permit. Every day I sell to tourists: coins, lamps, little pottery vessels, mementoes of antiquity that bring them closer to whichever prophet or messiah they hold dear, inshallah. I sell to them, that is, when there is not another war looming. Business has been difficult these last months.”

“And this is your storeroom?” Jack said.

Abdullah opened his arms wider. “This is where I keep my prize items, for select customers.”

Jack knew that those words were a thinly veiled code for artifacts excavated illegally and sold to those who could get antiquities out of the country without a license. He hoped that Rebecca had not gotten herself in too deep. The uninitiated could easily be seduced into an agreement over a glass of tea. If some kind of deal had been struck, it might be difficult to extract themselves without things getting ugly. The antiquities black market was a murky underworld that only those experienced in its ways could negotiate without coming to serious grief. Even David’s surveillance team could not prevent what might go on behind closed doors. For a moment Jack felt culpable, responsible. His decision to let Rebecca come to Jerusalem at this time might have been more fallout from his quest in Sudan and Egypt, preoccupying him when better judgement might have prevailed.

Rebecca finished her tea and replaced the cup. “Abdullah brought me here after I’d visited the antiquities dealers asking if anyone had Egyptian antiquities that might have been found in Jerusalem.”

Abdullah reached under the table next to him and took out a square object about twice the width of his hand. “By good fortune I had just what she wanted, eh?” He held the object up so that Jack and Jeremy could see. It was like a miniature icon, an ancient frame of hardwood surrounding a plaque of beaten gold about ten centimeters across. Abdullah held it under the bare light-bulb that lit up the room. To his astonishment, Jack saw the Aten sun symbol in the upper right corner, the radiating arms with upturned hands extending from it.

“Akhenaten,” he murmured, moving for a better view. “It can only be Akhenaten.”

“There’s a hieroglyphic cartouche below,” Rebecca said. “And you can see partial clusters of hieroglyphs on the left-hand side that show that this plaque was actually cut out of a larger sheet of gold, a decorative cover for a curved surface.”

Jack’s mind was racing. He had seen something like this before, only a few days ago. And the hieroglyphs in the complete cartouche were identical to those that Hiebermeyer had found in the tomb of the general in the mummy necropolis, on the wall painting that recounted his achievements: a sheaf of corn, two half circles, two birds. “That’s the Egyptian word for the Israelites,” he exclaimed. “This is incredible.”

“Turn it over, Abdullah,” Rebecca said.

He did so, and on the back Jack saw an inscription in black ink, like a museum acquisition label. He immediately felt a cold shiver down his spine. If this was a stolen antiquity from a museum, then they were in even deeper waters. He peered at it and read it out. “Jerusalem, 27 April 1864, CRW, RE.”

“This was once a possession of General Gordon of Khartoum,” Abdullah said.

Jack looked at him in disbelief. “ Gordon of Khartoum? How do you know?”

“Because my great-grandfather got it from him.”

Jack stared at the letters again, racking his brain. Of course . “CRW. That’s Charles Richard Wilson, surely. RE means Royal Engineers. Wilson was employed by the Survey of Palestine in the 1860s. He surveyed extensively in Jerusalem and had an abiding interest in archaeology.”

“Later General Sir Charles Wilson,” Rebecca said. “I worked that out too, and I looked him up. He was intelligence chief during the campaign to rescue Gordon from Khartoum in 1884, and a close personal friend of Gordon himself.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Abdullah said, holding up one hand and counting off the names. “Wilson. Warren. Gordon. Kitchener. All of them British officers who came to Palestine to map the land for Queen Victoria, but who became obsessed with antiquities and the ancient past. Men little different from you and me, Jack Howard.” He turned the artifact over in his hands as he eyed Jack. “You wish to purchase this? For your museum? It did not come to my family cheap. But for you, a bargain price.”

Jack raised his hands. “Not this time.”

Abdullah considered it again, and then handed it to him. “Accept this as my gift. In hopes of future business, inshallah. If you ever wish to sell the artifacts from your shipwreck finds, I offer myself as your agent. My clients include the richest Russian oligarchs, those of Jewish background who now have interests in Israel and can ship antiquities unseen back to the mother country. You could be a rich man, Jack Howard. You could reclaim the Howard family fortunes. Think of your daughter’s education. Of her future.”

Jack placed the object firmly back in the Abdullah’s hands. “I’m grateful for your offer and your hospitality. But you know my position.”

“Ah, yes. Archaeology versus treasure hunting. Artifacts consigned out of sight from an excavation to a museum store, or artifacts made available for anyone to own and enjoy. But there is a bridge, my friend, and we can meet in the middle.”

“You know I can’t be associated with an unprovenanced artifact acquired from an antiquities dealer. All our museum exhibits are finds from our own excavations.”

“We could photograph it,” Jeremy said.

Abdullah wagged a finger, suddenly looking less amiable. “No photography.”

Jack turned to Rebecca. “Do you have anything more you want me to see?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe. But you might not think it’s safe for me. Without an escort.”

Abdullah cackled and twisted his hands in the air. “Fathers, daughters, eh? I have four of them. Two are doctors, one is a police colonel, and one is in my business. One day the women will rule Jerusalem, eh? It is the men who have made such a mess of this place over the last two thousand years. Men of the Roman army, of the jihad, of the Crusades; the British, the Zionists, and the fundamentalists today. Look at the Al-Aqsa mosque. The authorities prevent Jews from worshipping at their holiest site, the platform of the temple. Jews must crowd against the edges, praying at the Western Wall, digging tunnels into the rock to get as close as they can, but no farther. If women were in charge, they would be more accommodating, eh? As accommodating as you and I could be in our business, Jack Howard. Think of my offer. You know how to contact me. Inshallah.”

“Thank you for helping my daughter.”

Abdullah waved his hand dismissively. “Go now. Follow your daughter. She has a good nose for treasure. My son will show you out.”

Ten minutes later they were again hurrying through the labyrinth of the Old City, along streets and alleys that Jack recognized as leading toward the Western Wall and the site of the Temple Mount archaeological project. Rebecca slowed down and gave him a piercing look. “I still can’t believe you had me followed.”