The Deceit. Tom Knox

      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.

      Hoisting his heavy bags, Victor stumbled across the road and under the arch. At once he was engulfed by the silence, the silence of silent worship, of punitive adoration, the silence of the endless Red Sea sun.

      And then a monk came out from a darkened chamber, squinting at this sweating old man in his ludicrous blazer with his walking stick, and the young monk smiled quietly and said, in accented English, ‘Hi, I am Brother Basili. Andrew Basili. This way please. You are a pilgrim? You can stay here, no worries. There are no other visitors, they’re all too scared of the troubles. You must be pretty brave. This way. Over here. Guess you’ll want some refreshment? You are in time for breakfast.’

      Breakfast turned out to be austere plates of olives and flatbread, and