The Lost Testament

27

‘You know Mahmoud Kassim?’

It wasn’t so much a question as a statement of fact, because the market trader sitting opposite Anum Husani in the coffee house in central Cairo had been involved in at least one deal with both men in the past.

Husani nodded.

‘Of course,’ he replied.

The other man glanced around him before he said anything else.

‘Then you know that he’s dead?’ he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice.

‘What?’

‘Somebody broke into his house last night,’ the Arab trader explained, smacking his lips with something like relish. ‘I heard that he was so badly cut about with a knife that the police weren’t even certain it was his body. Wounds everywhere, apparently, and his throat slashed open to the spine. The bedroom floor was covered in blood.’

For a few moments, Husani said nothing as he processed what he had just been told. Even allowing for the normal exaggeration and dramatization that would have occurred as the startling news was passed from one person to another along the alleyways of the souk, the news chilled him.

Of course, Cairo had its fair share of violence, including not infrequent murders, but what had been done to the Arab trader sounded as if it was a far cry from the kind of casual brutality meted out on the streets between rival factions, or the depredations of even the most violent mugger. Those deaths, when they occurred, were usually quick, the fatal wound being administered by a single blow from a knife or, increasingly commonly, by a couple of shots from a pistol.

‘What do the police think?’ he asked. ‘Was he attacked by a gang of men, burglars? Or what?’

The trader shrugged his shoulders and took another sip of thick black coffee then replaced the cup in the saucer.

‘I only know what I’ve heard, what the story is on the streets, but it sounds as if a gang might have been involved. Anyway it wasn’t just a killing, and he didn’t die quickly. They cut him about first, maybe to try to make him talk, and then they slit his throat.’

Husani nodded, and finished his own coffee, his mind whirling.

The introduction of torture added a new dimension to the killing, a dimension that was alarming on a number of levels.

Whoever had taken Mahmoud’s life had clearly been after information of some sort and, presumably having obtained it, had then decided that the trader knew too much to be allowed to live. And the man was little more than a small-time market trader, successful in his own limited field, but most unlikely to possess any information of the slightest importance to almost anyone else. So his killer had to be after something very specific.

He was suddenly certain that Mahmoud hadn’t just been the victim of an unusually aggressive and dangerous burglar. It was something much, much more than that.

Could the piece of ancient writing material be more significant than he had ever suspected? If so, it wasn’t a big jump for him to guess that he was most probably the next name on the killer’s list.

But there was, of course, another way of looking at it, an aspect that instantly appealed to his commercial instincts. If somebody was prepared to kill to possess the relic, then it obviously had to be of considerable value. The more Husani thought about it, the clearer his course of action became. Mahmoud would certainly have told his killer who had bought the parchment from him: anyone with a knife sticking into his body will tell the man holding it whatever he wants to hear. So the murderer would already be looking for him. If he was caught, he had no doubt he would suffer the same brutal treatment as Mahmoud Kassim, and whether or not he had the relic in his possession probably wouldn’t make the slightest difference to his fate.

He had to act immediately.

Husani nodded to his companion, glanced at his watch and then stood up.

‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘If you hear anything else about Mahmoud’s death, please leave a message for me at my shop.’

Almost before the other man had time to reply, Husani turned and in moments was lost to sight in the crowd of pedestrians on the street outside.

As he walked away, weaving around the tourists and shoppers and traders, Husani did his best to try to see if he was being followed, glancing back frequently and looking to both his left and his right. He saw nothing and as far as he could tell nobody was paying him the slightest attention, but that could just mean that he was being watched by a professional. Or that he wasn’t under surveillance at all. He had no possible way of telling which.

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his mobile phone. Keeping one eye on where he was walking to avoid colliding with other pedestrians, he opened up the contacts directory and used his thumb to scan swiftly down the list until he reached the entry for Ali Mohammed.

He heard the ringing tone in his earpiece, but after about twenty seconds the voicemail system kicked in. As soon as he heard that, Husani ended the call. He wasn’t sure how security conscious Ali Mohammed was, but the last thing he wanted to do was leave a message on an electronic answering machine that could be played back at a later stage by somebody who might not have his best interests at heart.

Husani waited a few seconds, then pressed the redial button to make the call again. This time, the mobile was answered on the second ring.

‘Ali?’

‘I thought that might be you, Anum, calling a minute or so ago, but you rang off before I could reach the phone. I’m afraid you’re a little too keen. I haven’t had time to finish work on the parchment yet.’

That wasn’t exactly what Husani had been hoping to hear.

‘Have you managed to do anything with it?’

‘I’ve made some progress, yes, but I certainly haven’t finished.’

‘Can you read any more of the text?’ Husani asked.

‘Yes, a bit, though it still needs a lot more work. I’ve used a couple of the latest techniques on—’

‘Sorry, Ali, but I’m in a real hurry now,’ Husani interrupted. ‘Can you meet me at the usual café right away and bring with you the parchment and whatever you’ve managed to decipher?’

The confusion in Mohammed’s voice was clear.

‘But the devices and equipment I need are here in the laboratory. I won’t be able to finish if you don’t—’

Husani interrupted again.

‘I’ll explain everything when I see you. I’ll be at the café in an hour. Please just get there as quickly as you can. And don’t tell anyone anything about the parchment.’