——————— ◆ ———————
Undisclosed location
Identity theft.
Malchus loved the whole idea. It was so easy.
He wondered why, in this day and age, anyone still did it the old-fashioned way—spending weeks setting up a fake identity with forged passports and complex alibis.
These days it was so much simpler—there were thousands of lives on the internet just there for the taking.
He had quickly found out that the old adage was correct—truth was indeed much stranger than fiction.
People's desire for publicity meant the internet warehoused all sorts of quirky and unexpected details about their otherwise anonymous lives. The result was a treasure-chest of off-the-peg identities—infinitely more colourful, textured, and credible than anything he could have invented.
He looked out of the window at the vast expanse of deep blue water stretching ahead of him in the valley below, ringed by the blues and greens of the spectacular low mountains all around.
It was the perfect spot. But then he always knew it would be, all those years ago when he had first come here. Since then, it had never disappointed.
It was His. He had been here. The rooms were still filled with His presence.
Malchus walked through into the clean white Bauhaus-style study, and sat down at the taut white leather and metal desk.
After a few hours hunched over his laptop, he was done.
It was child’s play.
It had not taken him long trawling the backwaters of cyberspace to find his man—Professor Erik Schottmüller of the University of Vienna.
Professor Schottmüller was ideal—a German-speaking specialist in the early-modern history of central Europe. He was exactly who Malchus needed to be. And there was more information on him than Malchus would ever need.
The professor’s biography page on the university’s website gave his full curriculum vitae, research interests, the courses he taught, the location of his office, a full list of all his published books and articles, and even the hours he was available to students.
His career had been impressive. He was evidently a busy and devoted scholar, whose published works demonstrated that he had sifted through many of the world’s greatest libraries. Over the course of a solid career he had risen from junior teaching posts to the prestigious appointment six years ago as a professor at the oldest university in the German-speaking world.
As Malchus combed through the hundreds of hits on Professor Schottmüller, he slowly put together a picture of the distinguished academic’s life—professional and personal.
A newspaper interview revealed he was not married and enjoyed spending time hiking in Austria’s natural parks. Court papers relating to a class action against a failed holiday travel company provided his home address and an indication he liked classical Aegean holidays. And a prickly e-mail he once sent a colleague had been archived as part of a chain posted to a public newsgroup, showing he was tetchy and irascible.
Malchus assiduously collected all these small gobbets of information. They were gold dust.
Best of all, he noted with satisfaction that there were no photographs of the professor anywhere on the internet, and the university website wisely did not give his direct dial phone number or e-mail address.
Malchus printed out the professor’s bio page, along with his full curriculum vitae and list of publications. He put them onto his scanner, and quickly turned them into .pdf files.
Next, he found a sharp good quality image of the University of Vienna’s impressive medieval logo and dropped it into a new document which he swiftly built into a formal-looking piece of university stationery.
He added Professor Schottmüller’s name and list of degrees, before printing it out on heavy white paper.
Examining it critically, he was pleased with the result. It looked grand and self-important—the way he knew continental academics liked it.
Finally, he registered the domain name www.univienna.ac.at. It was close enough to the real one, www.univie.ac.at, and would fool most people. He took a screenshot of the university’s real homepage, and uploaded it to his fake site with a small banner across it announcing the site was undergoing temporary maintenance.
He then created a mailbox for the e-mail address [email protected], before adding it to the letterhead. It was not Schottmüller’s real e-mail address, of course, but no one would compare it to the genuine one. Who had time for that?
Next, he set up a remote +431 Viennese telephone number and routed it to his virtual internet telephone, before adding the number to the letterhead as Schottmüller’s private office number at the university.
Happy with his morning’s work, he addressed a letter on Professor Schottmüller’s new official stationery to the curator of the Prehistory and Europe Collection at the British Museum.
He wrote quickly, the words coming easily.
Dear Sir,
As part of my current research trip, I shall be in London tomorrow afternoon, and would very much like to be given private access to examine your unique collection of artefacts formerly belonging to Dr John Dee (1527–1608), chief mathematician and astrologer to Queen Elizabeth I. My ongoing research into sixteenth-century intellectual life in Prague has caused me to spend an increasing amount of time focusing on Dr Dee, who, as you know, was prominent in the city and at Emperor Rudolph II’s court in the 1580s.
I fervently hope you will be able to extend me this accommodation, as I shall only be in London for the day, before returning to my duties in Vienna.
I attach my credentials.
Yours faithfully,
Professor Erik Schottmüller, DrPhil
Malchus printed the letter off, signed it with a fine-nibbed fountain pen, scanned it, and attached it along with the other .pdf files to an e-mail from the professor’s new e-mail address.
Finally he addressed the e-mail to the curator of the Prehistory and Europe Collection at the British Museum, and pressed SEND.
He watched with satisfaction as a little bar on the screen quickly zipped from zero to a hundred per cent, showing the e-mail was now seconds away from hitting an inbox at the British Museum.
Malchus was at his desk several hours later when the call came through.
It was a polite lady from the British Museum. She confirmed to him that he was most welcome to visit, and she would put a study room at his disposal for the afternoon. She carefully explained the opening and closing times, and said she would e-mail him a map and a formal letter to show to security when he came to the Enlightenment Gallery in the East Wing. On arrival, he was to ask for her by name, Mrs Pamela Richards, and she would look after all his requirements during his visit.
He thanked her profusely and rather formally for her help, and apologized courteously for the short notice.
When the letter from the curator arrived in his inbox, he printed it off and slipped it into his soft brown leather satchel.
He was already packed, and within ten minutes he had left the house and was on his way to London.
——————— ◆ ———————
Abbasid Palace
Baghdad
The Republic of Iraq
As she stepped from the air-conditioned SUV outside the ancient palace, Ava asked the driver to come and find her if she was not back within the hour.
Passing through the grand main entrance, the honey-stoned twelfth-century building spread out geometrically around her. She headed for its large central courtyard, where two floors of intricately carved and high-arcaded passageways wrapped themselves around a central fountain.
She could see E.S. immediately, standing in the shade of the colonnade to her left.
He need not have said he would be wearing a grey suit and ivory tie. He was one of only a handful of people milling about the building—and he was noticeably the sole westerner.
She headed through the nearest archway into the gallery, and moved up the cool elaborately decorated stone corridor towards him. The arabesque detailing of the niches, walls, and ceiling was exquisite, but she had no time to stop and look.
She had not given E.S. a description of herself, yet he moved forward to greet her immediately.
“Dr Curzon, how good of you to come.” He smiled affably, extending his hand. “No security? Then I have not underestimated you.”
She shook his hand, looking at him closely.
He was probably in his late sixties, yet he still had a full head of silver hair, and a surprisingly firm handshake. She guessed he was around six foot two, and he carried the height with poise—there was no sign of even the slightest stoop.
He released her hand, and set off gently along the shady corridor. “Let’s walk,” he suggested. “I think more freely when I’m moving.” His accent was old-fashioned and precise, Ava noticed—a relic of a fast-dying English aristocracy.
“How did you know to address the package to me?” Ava asked. It had been bothering her.
He shot her a friendly smile. “Come, come, Dr Curzon, we’re both professionals.” His tone was playful. Yet Ava noticed something else there, too—a reserve, protecting his privacy. It was not uncommon, in Ava’s experience, among the wealthy.
“You haven’t told me yours,” Ava replied.
“Forgive me. How rude.” He paused. “Edmund Saxby.”
Old English name, Ava thought. It suited him.
“So you have an interest in early Christian magical artefacts?” Ava decided to keep her first questions general.
“Among other things,” he replied nonchalantly. “But to be perfectly honest, the Abraxas amulet is not mine.”
Abraxas.
She remembered it now. That was the name of the cockerel-headed god on the back of the amulet. She had been about to look it up when Saxby’s e-mail had distracted her. Now it all came back. Abraxas was a strange magical man-animal figure much loved by the early Gnostic Christians. But as the pope and his army of bishops gained in power, they stamped out lingering pagan practices, and Abraxas and other magical deities like him were sidelined and forgotten.
“Not yours?” Ava asked, her curiosity piqued.
“I represent a collector,” he explained. “A very private man. I conduct some of his more sensitive business affairs—on his behalf.”
They paused to turn a corner of the gallery, which enclosed all four sides of the courtyard, allowing them to stroll around in a circuit under its elaborate coffered ceiling.
“How much does he want for it?” Ava asked, although even before he answered she knew she would have to give it back. There was no way the museum could afford it. “Nobody simply gives rare objects like that away.”
“You’re right that he’s an unusual man.” Saxby affirmed. “But I can assure you it’s a gift—a humble one, with no strings attached. He genuinely wants to see it on public display. Most museums have so many artefacts they can only show a fraction of them. But your museum is low on exhibits, so he would like you to have it.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask,” Ava replied, “does he have the papers to prove its legal provenance?”
Saxby shook his head slightly. “I’m afraid not.” Seeing Ava’s raised eyebrows, he continued. “But I can assure you the amulet doesn’t appear on any police or other list of stolen artefacts. It’s been in the same private collection for many centuries. It belongs to him as surely as anything ever belongs to anyone.”
“Which collection are we talking about?” She was intrigued. The world of private collections was a shadowy one, and all manner of treasures still lay in darkened vaults, as unknown to scholars as to the taxman.
“It’s a type of private foundation,” Saxby answered, “linked to my client’s family.”
Ava waited for him to continue, but it seemed he had said as much as he intended.
“We will, of course, have to research the amulet’s ownership history,” she explained, wanting to be clear about the museum’s procedures. “But meanwhile please tell your principal it’s a most generous and appreciated gift. Can the museum at least thank him in person? I’d very much like to.”
Saxby shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible either.” He looked apologetic. “But I’ll certainly convey your gratitude.”
They carried on in silence for a few moments, walking around the shaded ambulatory. “Anyway,” he continued, “as I mentioned, he has another artefact he wishes to donate.”
Ava stopped. “You’ll forgive me. But in my experience, if anything looks too good to be true, it usually is. So I can’t help asking myself why someone wants to give my museum free antiquities.”
Saxby smiled. “How very astute you are. As you rightly suspect, the next artefact will not be for free.”
Ava nodded. That made more sense. “You must understand,” she replied, “the museum is not a wealthy institution. If all the objects in your principal’s collection are of a comparable quality to the amulet, then I doubt we can afford to purchase any of them.”
“Have no concern for the cost,” he shook his head dismissively. “He doesn’t want money for it.”
Ava inhaled deeply, not sure she quite liked the direction the conversation was taking. “Then I don’t quite understand.”
Saxby stopped walking, and turned to face her directly. “The additional artefact would be payment for a private service he is inviting you to render for him—personally, and discretely.”
Ava was on her guard now. It would not be the first time someone had asked her to get involved in shady antiquities dealings. If that was what this was about, then it was going to be a very short conversation. “Go on. I’m listening,” she replied.
Saxby set off walking down the corridor again, moving between the dappled shadows from the traceried architecture. He waited for a few moments before beginning. “He’s very interested in a significant biblical artefact that was last seen in Kazakhstan.” He paused, shooting a glance at her. “I believe you’re familiar with it.”
Ava stopped dead in her tracks, poleaxed—her mind whirring.
How could he possibly know?
She exhaled deeply.
And he had known exactly the moment when she was opening the amulet in her office.
She stared at him, her defences on full alert.
What was going on?
Her mind cycled through the possibilities.
Who was he?
Had Hunter sent him? If so, why the subterfuge? Was U.S. Central Command setting this up as a deniable operation? Or, more worryingly, was he connected to the militia? If so, she had made a bad decision in coming with no security.
“Listen.” The friendliness in her voice was gone. “If our transatlantic colleagues in Qatar sent you, tell them to call me themselves—I’m not available for cloak-and-dagger work. And if you represent our Congolese friends, then I’m not remotely interested—I like some excitement now and then, but their way of doing business doesn’t agree with me.”
Saxby nodded distractedly, evidently weighing something up in his mind.
Reaching a decision, he put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, and took out a small stiff white envelope. He gave it to her. “Open it.”
Ava hesitated, before eventually taking it.
Tearing the envelope open, she could see inside it a rectangle of shiny black metal about the size of a credit card. She pulled it out, mystified.
The metal card had a round hole in its centre, and she could see it had a wide circular band of slightly lighter-toned surface on one side. Embossed on both faces was a large golden symbol of the looped astrological sign for Leo.
“It’s a CD.” Saxby explained.
Ava turned it over. He was right. It was smaller than usual, and rectangular instead of round, but the lighter shading was clearly data, engraved into the metal.
He continued. “It’s a key. Or should I say—an invitation.”
“To what?” Ava asked hesitantly. “And who’s doing the inviting?”
Having made his decision to share the disc with Ava, Saxby now seemed keen to talk. “The RMF militia from Congo no longer have the object we’re talking about. It’s passed into other hands—a Russian fixer by the name of Arkady Sergeyevitch Yevchenko, and it’s now the subject of an auction. Only twelve invitations have been sent—all to connoisseurs. You’re holding one of them.” He looked at her gravely. “Be careful. There are people who would kill for it.”
Ava looked down at the metal card, dozens of questions spinning in her head. “Why doesn’t your principal go himself, or send you?”
Saxby smiled apologetically. “I know nothing about ancient artefacts, Dr Curzon. I could easily be duped into buying a fake. My client, on the other hand, is very discerning, but also highly reclusive. He’d much rather send a real expert—like you.”
“What makes him think I’d be interested?” Ava replied. “I work for the Baghdad Museum Project. I’m not freelance.”
Saxby gave her another smile. “He was rather hoping you’d find it an irresistible opportunity.”
They walked on in silence, turning the corners and completing a whole circuit before they spoke again. “So, Dr Curzon,” he said quietly as they approached the central double-height arch where they had started, “I need an answer.”
Ava’s mind was a maelstrom.
Of course she wanted to get back on the trail of the Ark. She had barely thought of anything else since regaining consciousness on the boat in Astana.
But she did not want it on any terms, or at any cost.
She was not prepared to work for the wrong people.
At the same time, since General Hunter had told her what was in the file on her father, she had not been able to stop thinking about Malchus either. And from everything she had heard, if the Ark was in the market and up for grabs, then Malchus would not be far away.
“So, will you do it?” Saxby pressed her.
Ava breathed in deeply, trying to order her conflicting thoughts. “I’m not saying yes or no, but what’s the budget for bidding?” she asked.
Saxby face remained impassive. “Exceptionally for this item—it’s unlimited.”
Ava could barely hear herself think over the sound of the blood pounding in her ears.
Saxby pursed his lips. “So what’ll it be Dr Curzon? Will you go to the auction for us?”
Ava paused, then slowly nodded her head. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Saxby smiled. “Then we have an agreement. I’ve already made the necessary travel arrangements, just in case. The auction is tomorrow, at the Burj al-Arab hotel in Dubai. A suite has been booked in your name. The tickets and reservations will be e-mailed to you within the hour, along with a number you can call to report in afterwards.”
He shook her firmly by the hand. “The invitation disc contains all the details you’ll need. Good luck, Dr Curzon.”
Ava leaned up against the cool ancient stone wall and watched Saxby cross the courtyard and leave through the main gateway.
She could feel her heart still hammering and perspiration breaking out down her back. She was not at all sure what she was letting herself in for. But she knew she would never have forgiven herself if she had said no.
Tucking the mini-disc into the back pocket of her jeans, she headed for the exit.