The Curse (16 page)

“Unfortunately, that describes most of the third world.”

Even as I said it, it occurred to me that “third world” is really a term that should be forgotten. Wide-scale travel and the Internet has made it one world.

“We can't afford to spend hundreds of millions of dollars ransoming antiquities from museums and collectors,” he said. “Right now, besides the Heart of Egypt, the Supreme Council is demanding back the bust of Nefertiti from the Berlin Museum, the Rosetta Stone from the British Museum, and the Dendera Zodiac from the Louvre. Plus hundreds more around the world.

“Those are some of the greatest historical treasures in existence, but the scarab also has great political significance. It was discovered during a time when nationalism was rising in an attempt to throw off British dominance. Its disappearance has become a symbol of my country's loss of its heritage and political power.”

Kaseem had essentially told me the same thing. I would have dropped Kaseem's name on him to learn what he knew about the man, but didn't dare betray the trust until I knew for sure that Kaseem had lied to me.

“I told you that the Supreme Council has tried on a number of occasions to get Isis, and other family members before her, to return the scarab to Egypt. Not willing to give up possession of one of the world's most precious relics, the family always turned a deaf ear to the request.”

“Perhaps you should have tried another line of persuasion.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Like telling her it was cursed?”

Something else he had learned from the curator.

“Someone beat you to that one, but since she's so superstitious you might have wrestled it from her if you told her you'd throw a curse tablet into the waters at Bath.”

“A curse tablet?”

“A thin piece of metal with a curse scratched on it, usually asking the gods to damn an enemy. Archaeologists found a number of them here at the baths, but they were found all over the Greco-Roman world.”

“I'll try to remember that when my supervisor fails to give me the promotion I deserve.”

“Who do you think stole the scarab from Fatima?” I asked, not expecting an honest answer from him.

“If I knew, I would not be here begging for your help.”

Begging? I tried to keep from laughing. It was more threats than pleas.

“Okay … but you must have a theory,” I said.

“A gang of professional thieves? Colombian drug gangs have discovered that art is a type of international currency they can use to launder money with. How about an inside job? Perhaps the mummy itself returned for its heart. I will find out if Tutankhamen left his sarcophagus at the museum.”

“You know, Rafi, I was just beginning to warm up to you, but here you go again, reverting to cop talk and jokes to avoid disclosing anything. As long as your notion of sharing information is for me to tell you everything I know and you to tell me nothing, you can direct your questions in the future to the mummy.”

I got up and he rose with me.

“Maddy, I told you we don't pay ransom. But we do pay finder's fees.”

“How much do you pay?”

“That wouldn't be my decision. But I suspect that my superiors would not be adverse to paying a reasonable reward if the scarab was found and turned over to us. Did you have a figure in mind?”

“Not really. Besides, getting involved with thieves of an antiquity would make me lose my self-respect.” I didn't add, however, that if Kaseem ended up cheating me out of my fee, I would not hesitate to get compensation from the Egyptian government.

“Rafi, I know you're just trying to do your job. Frankly, it would be a lot easier for you if you believed me. You think I know more than I'm letting on, maybe even that I know where the scarab is, but you're wrong, I don't. If by some miracle I came into possession of it, I would send it back to Egypt. Is that good enough to get you to forget I exist?”

“Absolutely. Will you have dinner with me now?”

“No. And you're lying about getting off my back.”

“Yes, though I'm sure it's a very lovely back.” He smiled.

I noticed his left earlobe was clipped. It added to his tough look.

“Gunshot?” I asked.

“Hungry rat when I was a kid,” he said.

That piece of information told me that he reached his position through work and not family standing.

He had a scar across his nose. I didn't dare ask him about that one, but he volunteered when he saw me looking at it.

“Ex-wife,” he said.

We each made an excuse about what we planned to do for the rest of the day and parted, though I at least told the truth about visiting the spa again.

It has always struck me that the universe, Mother Earth, and life seemed to operate in circles, which I guess is why they say what goes around, comes around.

I knew the first time I met Rafi al Din that it wouldn't be the last time I saw him. I had a feeling as I left to visit the art counterfeiter that Rafi and I would circle around to meet again.

On one level, I didn't balk at the notion of seeing him again. He was an attractive man.

What always puzzled me about my choice in men was how many bad mistakes I made as I kept spinning around the circle of life, meeting and discarding men.

In my financial condition, I should be offering myself as a foot warmer to a man with a Rolls-Royce limo like Sir Georges-Hamilton rather than a cop who had gotten his ear bitten off by a rat and his nose busted by an ex-wife, who no doubt had adequate provocation.

29

The counterfeiter's lair was a small, two-story Georgian-era box with decorative plasters on the front and an elaborate cornice capping off the front of the roof. The grayish brown brick building had a weathered patina that showed it was aging with grace even though its appearance as a whole needed a bit of a touch-up.

Curtains on the two windows of the second floor gave me the impression that he lived above his shop, while the large window in front looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the Napoleonic Wars.

I suspected he preferred it that way. Dirty windows suited the purpose of a man who worked in a secretive trade. So did the simple tarnished bronze plaque near the front door that quietly read,
BOTWELL.

Duplicating rare treasures to protect them from thieves wasn't exactly the type of business someone advertises to the public at large. Nor would the customer want it known that they had a counterfeit made.

I expected Jeremy Botwell to have grim eyes and a prison pallor. Instead he was tall and lanky with a broad nose, thin blondish hair, and bright rosaceous cheeks. He struck me more as a schoolteacher than the criminal counterfeiter he had once been.

Criminals, of course, are also subject to the theory of law that what goes around, comes around. Which means most are repeat offenders. That made Botwell my chief suspect for masterminding the theft of the Heart of Egypt.

From what I knew about Fatima Sari, in an excited moment she might have told him about the plan to return the scarab to its homeland.

Botwell was dressed as an artisan: khaki pants, brown shirt, tennis shoes, all stained with paints and dyes.

I had arranged for Fuad to give Botwell exactly three minutes' notice that I would be picking up the photos. When I left the taxi a block from the shop, I called Fuad to tell him to make his call to Botwell.

The procedure had raised Fuad's eyebrows but he grinned when I told him why: I didn't want to give Botwell an opportunity to make a copy of the photos before I arrived.

The photos were on a laptop computer that Botwell had brought to the Radcliff museum and that Fuad had seen backed up on a flash drive. It wasn't a sure thing, but I planned to tell Botwell that Heather Radcliff had insisted that he turn over the photos to me and erase any copies he had.

Botwell had not been happy when upon entering I immediately asked for copies of the pictures and for him to erase all of the other copies while I stood by.

He looked ready to tell me to shove off, but I smiled sweetly and said, “I understand that Heather plans to have you duplicate quite a number of pieces. She just wants to make sure that hers are the only copies in existence.”

The promise of money softened him enough to copy the pictures onto a flash drive that I had brought and then I watched as he erased the pictures off his computer and flash drive as we stood on either side of a wood counter on the first floor of his shop.

He claimed no prints had been made.

Fuad mentioned Botwell had an assistant named Quintin Rees who had helped produce the reproduction of the scarab, but I didn't see or hear anyone else in the shop as I was talking to Botwell.

“Does Mr. Rees have a copy of the pictures?” I asked.

“No,” he answered immediately. “If that's all, I need to get back to my work.”

“Actually, Miss Radcliff had a few other questions about the reproduction you made.”

“I don't make reproductions,” he snapped, “I make duplicate originals.”

“Having seen your work, I don't doubt it. It would have taken a scientific test to determine that the scarab you made was a fake.”

He scoffed. “It would have passed the test. I use stone from where the original object would have been quarried and get many slabs to make a perfect match.”

I knew a perfect match wasn't possible when there are thousands of tiny flakes of gold-covered dust scattered in a piece, but I didn't correct him.

“I shape it only with the same type of tools used by the ancients. I do my own chemical analysis of the patina to make sure my mix will match. When I'm finished, God wouldn't be able to tell the difference,” he said with pride in his voice.

Like all crooks—and ex-crooks—Botwell believed he was infinitely more clever than the rest of us. Apparently he hadn't been clever enough one time to stay out of jail.

“Was a second duplicate made?” I asked.

“No. Of course not. I never do that, I do honest work. I need to get back to work now.”

I don't know why I bothered to ask the question, it just popped out, but his response pinged false in the lie detector at the back of my head.

“Is your assistant available? Miss Radcliff wanted me to ask him some questions.”

“He's gone. No longer works here.”

“Why?”

“Why is none of your business.”

I could see he was ready to throw me out if I asked another question. I had run the Radcliff promise of business as far as it would go.

It was time for another turn of the screw.

“Mr. Botwell, I know you do incredible work, and what I've seen was pure genius. But a problem has arisen. I'm a private inquiry agent—”

“Take your inquiries elsewhere.”

“Who has been called in by Miss Radcliff to investigate the matter. Unless she gets some answers that satisfy her, I'm afraid her next call will be to Scotland Yard's Art and Antiquities Theft unit.”

“I had nothing to do w-with-with anything,” he stammered.

“So you knew about the theft?”

“Theft? What theft? I'm talking about the copy the woman wanted.”

“What woman?”

“I don't know. She was Middle Eastern.”

“Fatima Sari?”

“No, of course not, I know Fatima. It was another woman, but she had a dark complexion like Fatima.”

“Egyptian?”

“I don't know. She came in one day and asked us to do a copy of the heart scarab. I wouldn't do it and sent her packing.”

“You said she asked ‘us.' She asked Quintin Rees, also?”

“She spoke to him first, yes. But I sent her packing.”

I nodded and chewed on my lip. Botwell sent her packing, but what did Rees do?

“Your assistant spoke with her. Privately.”

It wasn't a question.

Botwell surrendered.

“Look, I used to make things and sell them as something they weren't, but I found the perfect business for me doing it the honest way. I am straight, you understand. But that worthless scum has a drug problem and a drinking one. I was going to get rid of him anyway, but when I found out he talked to the woman on his own outside of the shop, I fired him immediately.”

“Did he take a copy of the photos with him?”

“No.”

His answer didn't sound too convincing.

“Tell me more about this other woman. Her name?”

He threw up his hands. “We weren't introduced. Never got as far as getting names.”

“What did she look like?”

“I told you, Middle Eastern, dark hair, maybe in her late twenties. That's all I know. I told her no, showed her the door, she never came back.”

“How did you know Quintin talked to her?”

“His wife. She called here in a rage saying Quintin had been out all night with some bitch who wanted him to make a copy of a scarab. His wife wanted me to tell her who the woman was.”

“Did the woman say why she wanted the copy made?”

“Said she collects Egyptian stuff.”

“I need to talk to Quintin. How can I contact him?”

“You'll find him in the gutter, rehab again, or on his way back to the gutter.”

“Thanks for all your help.”

I was on my way out the door when he said, “Hey, why don't you ask Radcliff's curator? The woman said Fuad sent her, but when I called him, he denied it. Lied to me, he did. I've lied enough times myself to know one when I hear it.”

I was speechless.

“Shut the door on your way out.”

30

I dutifully shut the door behind me and walked up the street with questions, facts, and theories bumping into one another in my head like jalopies at a demolition derby.

Quintin was gone. He obviously made duplicates of the pictures. He'd made a copy of the heart for a woman. And Fuad might have sent her.

The question burning in my mind, though, was why the mystery woman wanted a copy of the scarab.