The Messiah Secret

‘I’ve no idea. We were in the dining room when he attacked me. I tried fighting back, but it was no use. Finally, he slammed my head into the side of the table and I blacked out. I assume he did take them.’

‘If he didn’t,’ Bronson said, looking at the house, ‘they’re totally destroyed now.’

‘What treasure did Bartholomew think he was looking for?’ Angela asked.

Suleiman shrugged. ‘Only the biggest and most famous of them all. He was convinced he was on the trail of the Jews’ Ark, the Ark of the Covenant.’

Angela glanced at Bronson. ‘And where was he searching?’

‘Various places, because he kept on interpreting the clues slightly differently, which led him to different locations each time. My father never knew what those clues were because Bartholomew always kept that information to himself, but he did at least know the starting point of each search Bartholomew conducted, because it was always the same – Moalla.’

Suleiman smiled slightly at Bronson’s puzzled expression. ‘He was convinced that the Pharaoh Shishaq had seized the Ark when he invaded Judea, and had brought it back to Egypt as one of the spoils of war. He believed that later in his reign Shishaq ordered the treasure to be hidden a long way up the Nile, in a secret valley, where it would remain for all time. According to Bartholomew, the clues he’d found stated that the treasure convoy had started its journey from Moalla, so that’s where he always based his searches.’

Angela’s face suddenly lightened. ‘He must mean el-Moalla,’ she said.

‘Which is where?’ Bronson asked.

‘On the east bank of the Nile, about twenty miles south of Luxor. It’s a very ancient cemetery,’ Suleiman said. He glanced across the road to where the firemen were tackling the blaze. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I need to go and talk to the fire chief. Is there anything else you need from me?’

‘Not for the moment,’ Bronson said, pulling a card out of his pocket. ‘This has got my mobile number on it. If you think of anything else, please call me.’

‘I will,’ Suleiman said, shaking Bronson’s hand. ‘And thank you again for giving me back the rest of my life.’

31

Killian drove about five miles away from Al-Gebel al-Ahmar, heading east, away from Cairo and the suburbs of the city, until he found a deserted stretch of road. He hadn’t wanted to take the paintings to his hotel room because some of the staff would remember him arriving with such unusual items, and he didn’t want to be disturbed while he was examining the pictures. He also needed privacy to replace the dressing on his wounded ear.

A narrow, rough and unmade track snaked away to one side of the road, meandering around a series of low dunes that would provide him with the privacy he wanted. He drove down the track until he was about a hundred yards from the road, then pulled the car to a stop.

Getting out of the vehicle, he looked about him. The air was still and silent. Grunting in satisfaction, he took a blanket from the boot of the car and spread it on the ground. Then he placed both paintings face-down on it, ready to examine them. But as he did so, a stabbing pain shot through his skull and a couple of drops of blood splashed on to the dusty ground at his feet. Killian grimaced, then took a medical kit from the car, opened it and sat awkwardly in the passenger seat to change the dressing. With only his reflection in the interior mirror to guide him it wasn’t easy, but eventually he finished and stood up, a fresh dressing and plaster covering his injured ear. Suleiman’s blow had knocked the scab off the top of the wound and he knew that would delay the healing process still further.

At least the wound was still clean and showing no sign of infection – perhaps surprising in view of the way he had sustained the injury. In his mind’s eye he could still see Oliver Wendell-Carfax’s yellowish teeth, stained with blood and shreds of flesh, when he’d finally managed to get free of his grasp. God knows what bacteria or worse had been in his mouth. As well as cleaning the wound twice a day, Killian had also been sprinkling it with holy water and that, he thought, perhaps even more than his rudimentary medical care, might be the reason it was still clean. It was yet one more manifestation of the power of God and of the sure and certain way that He protected His servant on Earth.

Killian gave a grim smile. Both Oliver Wendell-Carfax and Suleiman had more than paid for their temerity in resisting God’s will. And Wendell-Carfax and the fat man from the museum had felt the teeth of the scourge, the oldest and most sacred instrument of holy chastisement, before they died. If he’d had a little more time, Killian would have taught Suleiman a proper and complete lesson using the instrument as well. But his first priority had been to get the paintings out of the building.