The Messiah Secret

‘That’s the man who started this hare running. That’s one of the paintings of Bartholomew Wendell-Carfax as a young man, one of the two we were looking for. I told you there were decent-quality photographs of the paintings in Bartholomew’s box of goodies. They were almost A3 size and folded, in fact, and I scanned them both in my office at the museum.’

Bronson glanced down at the screen of the laptop Angela was holding, and a sudden thought struck him.

‘We never really worked out why he had those pictures painted, did we?’ Bronson asked. ‘I mean, we guessed from that remark about “the Montgomerys” that Bartholomew had hidden the text of the parchment in them somewhere, in a cavity in the frame or something, but why did he choose those subjects? Himself as a young man wearing – what – a Red Indian outfit in one and dressed like an Indian prince in the other.’

‘Nobody seems to have any idea. Maybe it was just an old man’s vanity, wanting to see an image of how he would have looked in his late twenties.’

‘Maybe. Or maybe it was something else. Let me take a look at that.’

Angela looked at him in surprise, but obediently handed over the laptop.

Bronson stared at the screen for a few seconds. ‘Where’s the other one?’ he asked. ‘The one in which he’s dressed like a Red Indian?’

Angela leaned across and flicked through the pictures until she found the correct one. ‘There,’ she said.

Bronson studied the photograph, then nodded in satisfaction and passed the computer back to Angela. He checked his mirrors and pulled the car on to the road, accelerating to match speed with the traffic approaching them from behind.

‘Well?’ she demanded.

‘I think I know where Bartholomew hid the text of the parchment he found,’ he said, looking very pleased with himself.

‘But we know that: in those paintings. The paintings that we haven’t the slightest chance of finding.’

‘No. I mean, I know exactly where Bartholomew hid the text.’

38

Killian had got lucky. He’d gone back to his hotel, grabbed a copy of the local phone directory from the reception desk downstairs, and taken it, along with a street map of eastern Cairo, up to his room. Then he’d started from the airport and worked his way outwards, calling each of the major hotels he had located, asking to be connected to Mr Bronson’s room. It wasn’t the commonest name in the world, and the receptionist at the fifteenth hotel he rang told him that the guest he was looking for had been out of his room all day.

It was as easy as that.

Killian packed his bags and paid his bill, then set off towards the hotel where he now knew Bronson and Angela were staying. He drove past the building, then pulled in to the side of the road a hundred yards or so beyond it and looked back.

The hotel was situated on a reasonably straight section that offered good visibility both ways, and Bronson, of course, could approach it from either direction. But the main road ran along one end of the street and that, logically, would be where Bronson would be most likely to appear, so that was where Killian decided to wait. It was essential he spotted his quarry before they arrived at the hotel – once they got inside the building they’d be out of his reach.

Killian pulled out into the traffic and picked a vacant lot close to the main road where he would see any cars turning into the road. He locked the car, walked down the street to a small store where he bought bottled water and several sealed packets of biscuits and cakes, then returned to his vehicle. He opened all the car’s windows, and placed his food and drink on the passenger seat beside him. He opened the bonnet and skilfully disabled the Renault’s air bag safety system. Then he took a pair of binoculars from his pocket and placed them on the dashboard, where he could reach them easily. Finally, he fastened his seat belt and left the key in the ignition, so that he could start the car and drive away at a moment’s notice.

Then he settled down to wait.

39

Bronson paused and glanced at Angela, who was giving him her full attention, and then some.

‘Go on, then,’ Angela said, obviously irritated. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. Where is it?’

At that moment her mobile rang, and she rummaged in her handbag to retrieve it. Before she answered the call, she looked at the screen.

‘Damn,’ she muttered, ‘it’s Roger Halliwell, probably ringing to find out where I am.’

‘I thought you’d left him a message at the museum, saying you were taking a few days’ leave?’

‘I did. Maybe that’s the problem. Strictly speaking, I should have got his approval first.’

‘That is the usual routine,’ Bronson said mildly.

‘Anyway,’ Angela said, ‘he can wait. I’m up to date with everything, and I’ve never known anything to happen in the museum that could possibly qualify as urgent. I’ll call him tomorrow.’

But as she replaced the mobile in her handbag, they heard the familiar beep indicating that a text message had been received.