The Deceit

‘Duh?’

‘Something weird. And I keep hearing it.’

‘That’s Amy Winehouse. She’s dead.’

‘No. Not the music. Something else.’

‘But—’

‘There it is again! Listen.’

Freddy Saunderson was, for once, not joking. From way up on the moors there came a wild and very loud scream. No, not a scream – a feral chorus of screams; yet distorted and shrieking, mingling with the howl of the wind.

Malcolm felt an urge to step back: to physically retreat.

‘Jesus Christ. What is that?’

For a moment the noise abated, but then it returned. A distant choir, infantile and hideous. What the hell would make a sound like that?

At last, the noise ceased. The relative silence that followed seemed all the more oppressive. The thudding music in the house; the waves on the rocks below. Silence otherwise. Malcolm felt himself sobering up very fast.

Freddy pointed.

‘Up there.’

He was surely right. The noise appeared to be coming from the moors above them: from Zennor Hill, with its great granite carns and its brace of ruined cottages.

They’d walked around that forbidding landscape the day before, in the driving rain and blustering wind. The hilltop was druidic and malignant, even by day.

Freddy’s eyes flashed in the dark.

‘Shall we go and have a look?’

‘What? Are you nuts?’

‘No. Are you gay?’ Freddy laughed. ‘Oh come on. Let’s investigate. It’ll be fun.’

Malcolm hesitated: quite paralysed. He was seriously unkeen on investigating that noise, but he also didn’t want to appear a wuss in front of Freddy; he was wary of Freddy’s cruel sense of humour, his lacerating jokes. If he didn’t show he was up for this, Freddy might just humiliate him the next time he was feeling a little bored at the union bar.

Malcolm tried to smile.

‘All right then. Let’s see who’s the real gaylord.’

‘Excellent.’ Freddy rubbed his hands together. ‘We’d better get coats and stuff. This is like Enid Blyton, only with ritual murder.’

When they went back into the house, they found that Jojo had disappeared. Probably gone to bed? Malcolm was glad, in a protective sort of way. They turned off the music, grabbed their coats, boots and a pair of torches.

The path up to Zennor Hill began just outside the grounds. It had been treacherous the previous day; in the moonlight it was even trickier. Ferns and brambles dragged at them, tussocks of grass tripped every step. Above them, the imponderable carn glowered, framed by myriad stars.

But the horrible noise had stopped.

For five, ten minutes they ascended the silent, narrow path up the hill. The view of Zennor village below, its Christmas lights twinkling in the wind, was beautiful and sad. Malcolm began to wonder if they had imagined it. Maybe it had been some curious sound effect, perhaps the fierce January wind whistling through the rocks: there were many strange rock formations up here.

But then it came again, and this time it was even worse. The sound curdled the thoughts in his mind. This scathing and animalistic wailing was surely the sound of somebody – or something – in terrible and angry pain?

Freddy turned, just ahead, his face a blur in the gloom.

‘Pretty sure it’s coming from the ruined cottage, the big one, Carn Cottage. Is that a fire inside?’

Malcolm desperately wanted to go back now. This had been a daft idea; and yet he was still scared of Freddy’s put-downs. He was stuck.

The noise came, and went. This time it was so close it was like an exhalation – you could feel the scream on your face.

‘There, look!’ Freddy pointed his torch beam excitedly. ‘Scoundrels!’

Figures. There were people walking away – no, running away – down a lane across the top of the hill, dark shapes. How many? It was too difficult to see. Who were they? What were they?

Freddy was laughing.

‘Do you think it’s devil-worshippers? We might be turned into newts!’

The figures were already out of sight, swallowed by the darkness. Had they been spooked by the noise? Or by the fire? Or by Malcolm and Freddy?

Malcolm waved a desperate hand. ‘Look. Please. Can’t we just go? This is dangerous. Let’s just go, please. Call the cops.’

His protestations were futile; Freddy simply vaulted the low garden wall of the half-ruined cottage, and ran across the garden; he was followed by Malcolm, much less briskly.

As they neared the cottage, Malcolm could see there was indeed a fire burning inside the building. And it was a large fire, too, casting eerie orange shadows on the windows. The heat from within was palpable in the cold winter air.

‘Freddy – wait – don’t—’

It was too late. His friend was kicking at the old door; even as the infernal shrieking went on, and on.

‘C’mon – open up!’ Freddy laughed, ‘Open up, in the name of all that’s holy!’ Now Freddy stepped back and kicked even harder at the splintering door, and at last it succumbed. The lock snapped and the old door swung open, revealing a roar of heat and howls and things, strange black burning shapes, racing out at them, fleeing and burning—

A flaming creature leapt at Malcolm’s face, and its claws sank deep. Malcolm’s scream echoed down from the lonely carn, carried on the freezing wind.

4

La Bodega bistro, Zamalek, Cairo

Victor Sassoon sat in a darkened corner of the darkened bar, cradling a glass of Scotch and water, his fourth of the afternoon, and maybe his fortieth of the last four days. It was his last afternoon in Cairo. The whisky tasted like the bitter herbs of Seder: the taste of defeat.

The monk was dead. The Sokar Hoard, if it had ever existed, would probably never be found. His one last hope, that he might meet Albert Hanna, was about to come to nothing.

Hanna was a Coptic antiquities dealer. He was also notorious for his serpentine skills in fulfilling the desires of museum curators and billionaire collectors across the globe. The mummy of a concubine of a Rammeside Pharaoh? But of course. An intact and entire Fayum portrait rescued from the black mud of Antinopolis? Please allow me.

His methods were obscure, and probably illegal, but he got results. Albert Hanna knew every rumour of every new find from every sandy corner of Egypt. If anyone knew anything about the truth of the latest gossip – the whispers of the Sokar Hoard that had brought Sassoon to the polluted streets of the Egyptian capital – it would be Hanna.

But Hanna was an elusive quarry. He didn’t answer his phone; he didn’t answer emails; like many Christian businesses, his office in central Cairo was closed because of the recent and ongoing riots.

So, La Bodega bistro was Sassoon’s rather desperate and concluding bid. Many of Cairo’s antiquities dealers were middle-class Copts like Hanna, and nearly all of them liked to drink discreetly – and many of them were regulars at the Bodega, not least because it was increasingly dangerous to drink everywhere else. Some of the bars near the Coptic quarter were getting trashed and gutted by Islamists. Christian grocers who still dared to sell beer were being forcibly closed.

Pensively, Sassoon inhaled the aroma of his Scotch, and remembered a time when it had been much easier to drink in this city. He remembered drinking good German beer in Shepheard’s Hotel, with that keen young American Egyptologist, Ryan Harper.

Victor wondered what had happened to Harper. But then, he wondered that about many people these days. Friends died like flies when you reached your seventies, as if there was an Old Testament plague, the Great Pestilence of Egypt. Now, which book of the Bible was that?

His aged thoughts were wandering, again. Sassoon sipped the solacing bitterness of his Johnnie Walker, walked to the heavy velvet curtains, and gazed down at Zamalek.

The street outside was a parodic vision of its own history: this part of Cairo, situated on an island in the Nile, had been built in the early twentieth century as a place of European elegance, with boulevards and plane trees, and chic apartment blocks – even a palace for Princess Eugenie, wife of Napoleon III. But now all the trees had been chopped down, the apartment blocks had been turned into tatty shops and crowded flats, and the traffic was, of course, endless and polluting.

Yes, the smoke and scuzz of Cairo disgusted Sassoon. It was time to go home, and to give up. It was never going to happen; it had all been a foolish dream.

‘You can positively smell the smoke from the TV centre. N’est ce pas?’

Sassoon swivelled, letting the velvet curtains fall.

Standing behind him was a slightly paunchy man in his mid-forties, wearing a perfect yet worn Savile Row suit, with a beautiful faded Milanese silk tie, and a moustache that curved down to a goatee.

It was Albert Hanna.

The man was unmistakeable. Sassoon had seen this face in Egyptological websites. It was his first stroke of luck: five tedious days of patient waiting had paid off. At the very last moment.

‘The Islamic students, in their vulgar fury, are burning everything. One can only pray that the Sphinx is inflammable.’ The man sighed, and pulled himself a seat. ‘You know the Arabic name for the Sphinx, Mister Sassoon? It is Abu al-Hol, the Father of Terror.’ The dealer smiled, politely. ‘And yes, of course I know who you are. You are quite famous.’

Sassoon slumped into his own chair, and set down his Scotch. He realized his demeanour probably seemed defeated, yet inside he was secretly delighted.

‘I also know, Mr Sassoon, that you have been searching for me. My apologies if my delay in contacting you seems rude: I have been distracted by the troubles. Soon the fundamentalists may make it impossible for us Copts to live, let alone drink.’ Hanna swirled his glass of cognac. ‘You know Egypt was once renowned for its wines? Tutankhamun was buried with several jars of a fine dry white. But now, ahhh, où sont les vins d’antan?’

He stroked his dyed goatee, which had indubitably been dyed pitch-black, and added, ‘There is no hope for us, there is no hope for the drinkers, for the Copts. But we will stay here anyway! We are the true descendants of ancient Egypt, after all. Now tell me. Why are you in Egypt? A famous Anglo-Jewish scholar like you, visiting Egypt amidst this turmoil, when Tahrir is engulfed in flames? Why do you want to talk to me?’

This was Victor’s chance. ‘The Sokar Hoard.’

Hanna looked at Victor, darkly, and his eyes flashed with thought. ‘Why did you not mention this in your emails? I might have responded sooner.’

‘Because …’ Victor paused. ‘Because this is a delicate issue. I know there are severe laws regarding antiquities. If the Sokar Hoard exists it belongs to the Egyptian state and people.’

‘You were being discreet? That is well advised.’ Hanna picked up his balloon glass of cognac and swirled it again. ‘So. The Sokar Hoard. Hmm. The rumours are ripe, are they not? Exuding a heady perfume of promise? Just imagine: a cache of ancient documents that make Nag Hammadi look like …’ Hanna closed his small and sparkling brown eyes while he summoned the words ‘… like a cheap photocopy of Harold Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Yes, the Sokar Hoard, if it exists, would be an unexampled prize. If you could decipher such a thing, this would eclipse your spectacular work on the Dead Sea Scrolls. You would finally have your statue in the sunlit plaza of greatness, for pigeons to soil.’

Was he trying to insult? Or merely provoke? Sassoon didn’t care. ‘I’m not hunting for academic glory, Mr Hanna. As I understand it, the Sokar Hoard contains evidence that alters our perception of Jewish history. The exploration of Jewish history and theology has been my life’s calling. As such, if there is a deeper truth, I want to know it – before …’

‘It is too late?’

‘What do you know, Mr Hanna?’

‘Call me Albert. Like the German–English prince. You know he used to couple with Queen Victoria three or four times a day? It is a surprise she looks so grumpy in her photos.’

‘Please. What do you know of the Sokar Hoard?’

Hanna smiled his moist and thoughtful smile. ‘First tell me what you know of the Hoard.’

Victor Sassoon finished his whisky, and impatiently recounted his own story. ‘It all derives from Wasef Qulta. Brother Wasef Qulta was something of a fixture in circles of Egyptology and biblical history. For instance he corresponded, occasionally, with a colleague of mine in London, a professor at the Flinders Petrie collection.’

‘Ah yes, one of the finest, the Flinders Petrie, a very excellent museum – I always loved that adorable faience cat from Amarna. I have sold similar.’

‘Last month my London friend got a rather emotional email from Qulta. Telling him that the Coptic church was in possession of an astonishing discovery of crucial early Christian texts which had been unearthed in Middle Egypt. Qulta claimed the texts were comparable to the Dead Sea Scrolls or the Oxyrhynchus papyri: maybe even more important, more exciting. My friend told others, and the rumours and speculations spread.’

‘Indeed. I have also heard these rumours. The late Wasef Qulta started quite a fracas.’

‘A week later Qulta emailed again. He told my friend the Coptic church was keeping the Hoard close and hidden, and that he was being told to say no more, and stay silent. And then the emails stopped.’

Hanna was quiet.

Victor concluded, ‘I felt I had no choice but to come to Cairo and seek out Qulta for myself. Last week I went to the Monastery of the Cave in Moqqatam.’

‘You went alone to Moqqatam?’

‘Yes.’

Hanna tittered. A couple of ex-pats – white businessmen – glanced over. ‘Well, well. How did you deal with the Zabaleen, Mr Sassoon? Did you fight them off with your walking stick?’

‘Sorry?’

‘The Zabaleen are perfectly mad. The poorest of our Coptic brethren. They brawl and they fornicate and they live in their palaces of swine and rubbish. They say life there is getting worse, the madness and the diseases, the mental afflictions, the suicides, all that horrible trash.’

‘I saw Qulta. I saw his body. I know he was murdered.’

Hanna stroked his goatee. Patiently waiting, like a cat that is confident of being fed.

Victor went on, ‘Do you know why he was killed, Mr Hanna? Albert? I know you have intimate connections across Coptic society. Was the Hoard stolen, is that why he was killed? Was it a violent robbery? The papers say nothing.’

The ex-pat white men were telling coarse jokes; and chortling.

At last Hanna spoke, leaning close. ‘Ah, but Mr Sassoon, does the Hoard even exist? What can I say? I can barely speak. My throat is quite dry. Parched as the Qattara Depression.’ Hanna looked at his empty glass, then at Victor.

The message was clear. Sassoon ordered the most expensive cognac for his companion.

Hanna accepted the glass, and sniffed the liquor, and tasted it with a wince of pleasure. Then he gazed around the quiet old bar. ‘God bless the old Bodega. One of the very last oases of civilization in Cairo,’ he said. ‘You know the British Satanist Aleister Crowley had his famous thelemic revelation here?’

‘In 1904, the Book of the Law.’

‘Quite so! You really are the scholar of your reputation. Crowley’s wife saw the so-called stele of revealing, the stele of Ankh-ef-en-Khonsu, in the Bulaq Museum.’

‘Item number 666.’

‘Then she began raving, and he repaired to his apartment, probably in this building, and had his moment of intimacy with the divine, his theophany – or perhaps some more opium? Crowley was so very fond of opium. My grandfather knew him. Apparently he liked to be sodomised by Nubians. But this is true of many.’

‘I don’t have much time, Mr Hanna. Please tell me: how much do you know about Qulta and the Sokar Hoard? I can pay, and I have a lot of money.’

The correct switch had evidently been thrown. Hanna’s evasive smile disappeared and he gazed directly at Sassoon. ‘Five thousand dollars and I will tell you all I know.’

Sassoon didn’t even bother to haggle. The sum was large, but he was too old and tired, and too eager and excited, to haggle. And he had enough money. A lifetime’s savings.

‘I have it here. In cash.’ He reached in his blazer pocket, opened his calfskin wallet and took out a wad of new, one-hundred dollar bills. He briskly counted out twenty notes and arranged them in a neat and tempting stack. ‘Two thousand now. Three thousand if your assistance is as valuable as I hope.’

Benjamin Franklin stared at the ceiling.

Hanna snatched up the notes and thrust them in his pocket, his expression businesslike.

‘From what I understand, Monsieur Sassoon – and this may or may not be true, but my half-brother is quite senior in the Coptic church, and he knew Qulta – yes, the Sokar Hoard does exist. And yes the documents are said to be, potentially, a revelation. Some of them are in French and Arabic and quite legible, but the oldest, most crucial and, unfortunately, most incomprehensible, documents are in Akhmimic. Qulta was a scholar of Akhmimic, so it was hoped he could translate these most opaque Coptic documents. And so he was allowed to take the Hoard to his monastery in Moqqatam for further scrutiny.’

‘That’s why he was killed, someone stole it? Theref—’

‘Wait.’ Hanna frowned. ‘Brother Qulta’s indiscretion did not meet with the approval of his superiors. The emails to your friend, the rumours he allowed to spread – they were attracting unwelcome attention. He was ordered to shut his foolish mouth.’

‘The Hoard?’

‘Furthermore … when the latest troubles began in Cairo, the riots, the strife, the threats against Coptic communities, the Pope himself – our own Coptic pope – decided that the Hoard should be taken somewhere safer. So it is alleged.’

‘But where? Where did it go?’

The bar was getting even darker, as the winter evening finally descended on Cairo’s grimy streets. Hanna shook his head gravely. ‘Who can say? These things are occult. But I have heard this: a few days before his death, Brother Qulta took a trip to the Monastery of St Anthony.’

‘The oldest monastery! By the Red Sea. Yes. Of course. Remote, untouched. A perfect place to keep a treasure.’

‘And a tiresome journey across the eastern sands. Why did Qulta do that? Why do that if not for some serious reason? He must have taken the Hoard with him, to hand it over. That is what I believe.’

Sassoon was confused. ‘But if the Hoard was not in Qulta’s possession, why was he killed? You mean it wasn’t a robbery?’

Hanna picked up his glass, and swirled the cognac. ‘Perhaps he was killed because of what he knew, perhaps because of what he said. Perhaps he was secretly canoodling with the belly-dancer mistress of a major-general in Heliopolis. It is a mystery. And there it is. C’est tout. Would you like something else while we are? Here. Look. I have a precious jar of Mummy Violet.’ Like a cardsharp, Hanna flourished a small silvery, seemingly antique steel jar from a pocket of his suit jacket, and carefully unscrewed the top. ‘It is a pigment used by painters, made from the decayed corpses of the Egyptian dead, from mummies, mummiya, hence its name: Mummy Violet. I believe the Pre-Raphaelite artists were very fond of it, the hue it offers is intense, though of course some find the concept, eheu, politically incorrect, and a touch Hitlerite, like those lampshades. Consequently it is very rare, I can sell it for two thousand US dollars – a pigment made from the desiccated flesh of the ancient dead – imagine what your exciting London artists could do with that!’

Sassoon stood up. He had his information.

Hanna raised a hand, looking up at him. ‘Please, Monsieur Sassoon, I did not wish to offend. The Jews are a great people, and I know you are a great believer, as well as a great scholar. Allow me to say one more thing.’

‘What?’ Sassoon was impatient to get going.

‘Mr Sassoon, please be careful.’

‘You mean it is dangerous? The journey?’

‘No. Yes. A little. But it is more that … you might be careful of what you wish for. My half-brother told me that when he saw Qulta …’ Hanna’s face was almost invisible, the velvet-draped bar was now so dark. ‘The poor monk was quite deranged. It seems the contents of the Hoard are, in some form, sincerely devastating. Really quite calamitous.’

But Sassoon didn’t care to listen; he was already walking to the door. The idea had entirely seized him with its romance, its intense biblicality. To find his prize, his promised treasure, he had to cross the Egyptian wilderness, to the very shores of the Red Sea.

Like Moses.

5

The Monastery of St Anthony, the Red Sea, Egypt

It took Sassoon two days to find a taxi driver who was willing to make the journey. The driver who finally agreed was fifty, and shifty, and hungry, and desperate, and he said he would charge Sassoon five hundred dollars for the job. He spoke a slangy Arabic so accented it sounded like a different language, but Sassoon certainly understood the figure ‘500’ when the man wrote it with a stubby pencil on his tattered map of Egypt.

They left at dawn to avoid the rush hour but got caught in traffic anyway. It took two hours for them to crawl out of the final dreary suburbs of Cairo, past the last shuttered Coptic grocer, with its defaced sign advertising Stella beer; and then they headed into the grey austerity of the Eastern Desert, the rolling dunes and stony flats, stretched out beneath an overcast sky.

The driver played loud quartertoned Arab music all the way, music that sent Sassoon half crazy. It felt like the music of delirium. But he was also glad that he didn’t have to talk to the driver. Talking would be pointless anyway: they couldn’t understand each other.

Six hours later they attained the outskirts of Suez, and the driver made an extensive detour, avoiding the centre of the city entirely. Sassoon guessed why: the Al Jazeera English news had told him last night. Central Suez was in uproar. Riots were wracking the city, several youths had died and, even worse somehow, several people had been blinded by plastic bullets aimed deliberately at their eyes. The televised image of one protestor, his sockets empty yet filled with blood, had stayed with Sassoon for half the night.

The hours droned past. The wailing music droned on. The desert became emptier and dustier. It was now clear they weren’t going to make it in a day, so the driver pulled into a scruffy truckstop with a village attached.

What looked from the distance like a public lavatory turned out to be their designated resting place. A ‘hotel’ with cracked windows, five rusting beds, and one shared and fetid bathroom. Sassoon drank whisky, alone, in his bare cement room, to force himself to sleep. The mosquitoes danced around his face, drunkenly, as he nodded out.

Morning cracked blue. The sun of the desert had won. And Sassoon’s spirits rose as the driver slowed, and turned the music down, and Sassoon caught his first glimpse of the Monastery of St Anthony, lost in the fathomless depths of the desert.

It looked enchanting: a complex of spires and tiled arches and archaic chapels, tucked into a fold of red desert rocks. This was it, the oldest monastery in the world, founded by St Anthony in 250 AD.

The car stopped; Victor disembarked. ‘Shukran,’ he said, handing over the dollars.

The driver took the cash, shrugged, gave Victor a faint smile of pity; then he turned on the hollering music, and sped away.