Michael Pearce - The Mamur Zapt and the Spoils of Egypt

‘And statistical,’ corrected Miss Skinner. ‘There are a number of things I wish to look into while I am here.’

Behind her back Paul raised his eyes heavenwards.

‘I am sure our Finance Department will be glad to help you,’ said Owen, who had a grudge against the Finance Department.

Miss Skinner pursed her lips.

‘It is the flesh and blood behind the statistics that interests me. I am not sure that Finance Departments are so good at that.’

‘I am taking Miss Skinner to see some of the excavations,’ said Paul doggedly.

‘Fascinating!’ said Owen.

The vendors of antiquities, recovered, had regrouped in front of the terrace and were now beginning to slide their wares beseechingly through the railings. Miss Skinner looked down.

‘Fake!’ she pronounced.

‘But nice, don’t you think?’ said Owen, who rather liked the blue scarab beetles and admired the workmanship that went into the barques.

‘I am only,’ said Miss Skinner, ‘interested in the truth.’

There was something of a pause.

‘And where,’ asked Owen chattily, seeing signs of desperation in Paul, ‘were you planning to go?’

‘Der el Bahari, primarily.’

‘Oh, there are lots of things to see there. You’ll find it very interesting,’ Owen assured Miss Skinner.

‘There’s an American team up there at the moment,’ said Paul. ‘I gather they’re making some promising finds.’

‘I know Parker,’ said Miss Skinner. ‘I’m afraid I don’t like his methodology.’

‘Ah well,’ said Owen, ‘you’ll be able to help him put it right, then.’

He felt something touching his foot and glanced down. A particularly resourceful vendor had laid out some ushapti images on a piece of coffin and was poking it under the table for them to see.

Miss Skinner picked up one of the images and turned it over between her hands. She seemed puzzled.

‘It looks genuine,’ she said, ‘but—’

‘It probably is genuine.’

‘But how can that be?’

Owen shrugged.

‘It might even come from Der el Bahari. That’s where a lot of these men came from.’

Miss Skinner’s eyes widened.

‘You mean—these things are stolen. ’

‘Accumulated, say. Perhaps even over the centuries. The ancestors of these men, Miss Skinner, built the temples and tombs in the Valley of Kings. And ever since they have been, well, revenging themselves on their masters.’

‘Then they are grave-robbers,’ cried Miss Skinner, ‘and must be stopped!’

As Paul piloted Miss Skinner down the steps, the vendors closed in again. The man with the mummified arm pushed his way through the crowd and waved it once more in her face.

‘For you, Madame, for you!’

‘No,’ said Miss Skinner, ‘no.’

‘For you especially,’ the man insisted.

‘Grave-robbers!’ said Monsieur Peripoulin hotly. ‘That’s what they are!’

‘Oh, come—’

‘That’s what they are!’ the Frenchman insisted. The sweat was running down his face, which wasn’t surprising since he was wearing a dark suit and a stiff, high, white collar, which was, apparently, what he always wore at the Museum.

‘Just tourists,’ said Owen.

‘Not the ones I’m talking about,’ Monsieur Peripoulin declared. ‘Tourists go to the bazaars and buy a few souvenirs. These men usually go straight to the excavations and buy there.’

‘They can’t, surely,’ said Paul. ‘Excavations are closely controlled these days and all finds have to be listed and reported to the Director of Antiquities.’

‘Closely controlled!’ said Monsieur Peripoulin scathingly. ‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything!’

Paul sighed. The meeting had been going on for two and a half hours now and it was past midday. He had been relying on the French habit of dropping everything at noon and going for lunch, but the elderly Frenchman seemed as determined as ever.

‘What exactly, Monsieur Peripoulin, are you proposing?’ he asked wearily.

‘A licence system,’ said the Frenchman immediately. ‘That is what we need. Anyone wishing to export an antiquity should have to obtain a licence first.’

‘Don’t we have that already?’ asked Carmichael, from Customs. ‘Or the next best thing to it. If anyone wishes to export antiquities they have to send them first to the Museum.’

‘Yes, but that’s only to determine export duty,’ said Monsieur Peripoulin. ‘We put a value on it—and that’s not always easy, let me tell you: what value would you put on the Sphinx?—seal the case and notify the Mudir of Customs.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked the man from Customs.

‘It just goes ahead automatically. No one makes a conscious decision.’

‘We make a decision,’ said Carmichael. ‘We decide what level of duty applies.’

‘Yes, but you don’t ask yourselves whether in principle the thing should be exported at all. It’s that kind of decision I’m talking about.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Paul, chairing the meeting on behalf of the Consul-General. ‘Are you suggesting that we should interfere with the free flow of trade?’

‘These things cannot be seen solely in terms of money,’ declared Monsieur Peripoulin stoutly. ‘They are part of Egypt’s priceless heritage.’

‘I quite agree,’ said the man from Finance: an Egyptian. He was an Under-Secretary—which was a sign that someone somewhere was taking the meeting seriously—and his name was Abu Bakir.

Paul raised an eyebrow.

‘Naturally, works of art have an intrinsic value,’ he said smoothly. ‘Once they are on the market, however, they have a market value.’

‘The question is: how do they get on the market?’ said Abu Bakir.

‘It is not their value that I am concerned about,’ said Monsieur Peripoulin, ‘but their location.’

‘That, too, is determined by the market.’

‘But ought it to be? That is what I am asking. It is an issue of principle,’ the Frenchman insisted.

‘Yes,’ said Paul, ‘but which principle? At this stage in Egypt’s development I would have thought the overriding necessity was to ensure Egypt’s economic health. And that is best done by adherence to the principles of Free Trade.’

‘I am afraid,’ said the Egyptian, who was, after all, from the Ministry of Finance, ‘that I have to agree.’

‘What?’ cried Monsieur Peripoulin, throwing up his hands in dismay. ‘You are willing to see Egypt’s treasures disappear?’

‘I did not say that,’ said Abu Bakir. ‘I did not say that.’ He turned to Paul. ‘Can we return for a moment to a distinction Monsieur Peripoulin made earlier?’

‘What distinction?’ said Paul, glancing at his watch.

‘The one between the ordinary tourist and the specialist buyer. As far as the ordinary tourist is concerned, I think I agree with you: we should not interfere in the ordinary processes of trade. With respect to the specialist buyer and the exceptional item, however, I find myself tempted by Monsieur Peripoulin’s licensing proposal.’

‘I don’t think we can take a decision on something as major as that today.’

‘Perhaps not, but I don’t think we ought just to leave it. Perhaps we can ask Customs to look into it and report back?’

‘We could do that,’ assented Paul.

It being past lunch-time, everyone was prepared to agree and the meeting broke up. As they walked out, Monsieur Peripoulin put a hot hand on Owen’s arm.

‘All this is missing the point. Licence, not licence, that is not the point. What happens when the goods don’t come to us at all?’

‘They should all come to you.’

‘But what happens when they don’t?’