The Deceit. Tom Knox

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ