The Eye of the Serpent (19 page)

SONCHIS DID NOT
like the way the driver kept glancing at him in the rear-view mirror. The man had the cold, cunning eyes of a jackal and it was evident that he sensed something was wrong. But, Sonchis told himself, he could not possibly have an inkling of what had
really
happened to his client, Mr Llewellyn; and even if he guessed at the truth, who out there would believe him?

The sun had been down for less than an hour, and under the covering of his clothes Sonchis felt his supernatural skin itch maddeningly. He longed to make his flesh real again, to inhabit his
own body; but he understood that it would take a little more time.

He knew exactly what was required to rectify the situation and was pretty sure that he would find it back at the bazaar. He had already spent several weeks there in his former body, searching the various souvenir and curio stalls for the item he needed. Indeed, the previous night he had just received a valuable tip-off from a stallholder.

‘There is a man who calls himself “the Algerian”,' the stallholder had informed him. ‘He has a shop in Kasr al-Birkir and deals in
real
curios, not this fake tourist stuff. If anybody has what you are looking for, it will be him. But he doesn't come cheap. Expect to pay top dollar for anything you want.'

Sonchis had handed the man a few piastres and the stallholder had told him exactly where to look for this shop. He had just been on the point of heading Tom Hinton's form off in that direction when the fat detective had called out his name; and then, of course, everything had changed.

His first thought had been to simply escape, but Llewellyn had followed him back to the rat-infested hovel in which he was staying and, in doing so, had unwittingly offered Sonchis a
better, safer way of getting around. If Tom Hinton suddenly turned up after so long away, there would be all kinds of awkward questions to answer; much better to be the one asking the questions – and who would expect anything else of a detective? So the transfer was made. Sonchis had taken possession of the man with no great difficulty, but had found he needed a few hours to walk Llewellyn's bones around, to get used to being somebody else. Soon, if everything went according to plan, Sonchis would be walking around as nobody but himself.

Mohammed brought the battered old Ford to a halt and pointed along a narrow street. ‘Kasr al-Birkir is just through there,' he said. ‘Would you like me to walk along with you, sir?'

‘No. Wait here,' snapped Sonchis; and then, realizing that he had not sounded like Llewellyn at all, he softened his tone, forced himself to smile. ‘I shouldn't be long,' he added. ‘If you would be kind enough to wait for me?'

‘Of course,
effendi
.' Mohammed bowed his head politely, but his eyes told a different story. Once again he had noticed that something was different about his passenger, something that didn't tally with the man he had met only a
couple of days earlier. But Sonchis didn't have time to be worried about such details. He told himself that if the Arab driver became too difficult to handle, the scarabs were always ready to eat – and there were surely other drivers for hire in Luxor.

He turned away from the car and headed along the crowded street. In his right-hand pocket, the serpent's eye seemed to hum with a life of its own. For so long the item had held his ka prisoner; now it was his amulet, his touchstone, from which he derived a sense of power. But it could not arm him against the light. He was condemned to walk only by night until he could find something that would enable him to brave the sunlight.

He pushed his way through the crowded bazaar, the stalls lit by a succession of hurricane lamps. There were a lot of tourists here, he noticed, and nearly all the stalls sold souvenirs and curios. As he passed by one stall, he noticed a cheap and inexpertly carved figurine of Apophis: the Arab stallholder was telling a middle-aged couple that this was a genuine curio, thousands of years old. Sonchis felt a sudden urge to grab the man by the throat and throttle the life out of him for daring to cheapen the name of the one, the
only true god, but he consoled himself with the thought that when he had regained his power, such people would be amongst the first to be made an example of.

Now, up ahead, he saw a row of shops, their interiors lit by gas lamps, and he peered in through the open doorways. He quickly identified the one he was looking for. A long wooden counter ran the length of the place and, on the wall behind it, rows of shelves were stacked with more expertly crafted pieces. He went into the shop and scanned the rows of objects, noting that some of them were genuinely old, but he didn't see anything like the item he was searching for. Two people stood behind the counter – a middle-aged fellow and a bored-looking teenager. The older man had a grey moustache and wore a striped woollen galabiya and a red fez – to impress the tourists, no doubt. He was chewing handfuls of cherries and kept spitting out the stones onto the floor. The youth, who had curly black hair and deep-set brown eyes, was obliged to keep hopping out of the way for fear of getting the discarded stones on his sandals.

The older man studied Sonchis for a moment; and Sonchis had to remind himself that he was
not seeing the great wizard in his true form, but a fat, hapless westerner. Sensing a potential sale, the man spat out a last few stones and approached, rubbing his hands together.

‘Good evening, sir. Can I be of assistance?'

‘Perhaps. You are the one they call “the Algerian”?' asked Sonchis.

The man bowed his head in agreement.

‘I have been given your name by another trader. I am searching for a particular item and he told me that you might be able to supply it.'

The Algerian considered the question for a moment, then gave an oily smile. ‘Your friend is most kind to consider me,' he said. ‘But it would rather depend upon which item you are seeking.'

‘A small statue of Apophis. Small enough to fit into the hand. And of genuine antiquity.' Sonchis waved a dismissive hand at the items on display. ‘Not elaborate fakes like these,' he added, so there could be no mistake.

Again the Algerian smiled, but his eyes were cold. ‘If I knew of such an item for sale, I would have to be sure that you were a genuine collector,' he said. ‘There are of course people employed by the government who make it their business to go around seeking such items; and when they are
produced, the seller invariably finds himself in hot water.'

Sonchis nodded. ‘I appreciate your concern,' he said. ‘I am not such a man. My only interest is to procure a genuine artefact for a museum in London, England.'

The Algerian frowned, then nodded. ‘If such an item existed – and for the moment, you understand, I do not say that it does – but if it did, it would of course be a very expensive piece. And the seller would understandably require cash.'

‘Understandably.' Sonchis reached a hand into the breast pocket of Llewellyn's jacket and pulled out his wallet. He opened it to display the large wad of British banknotes that he had found in Llewellyn's luggage the previous night. ‘Would this be suitable currency?' he asked.

The Algerian's smile deepened. Clearly, money was a language that he understood and spoke fluently. ‘I believe we might be able to do business together,' he said. ‘Of course, such a valuable item could not be kept on display here. But my rooms are only a short walk away. One moment, please.' The man moved aside to leave instructions for his young assistant. Then he came
out from behind the counter and led the way along the street.

‘It is a fine evening, is it not?' he said, making small talk.

Sonchis couldn't be bothered to give a reply to such a pointless question. He was impatient to reach the man's rooms, to see if what he had to offer was genuine. Beneath his shirt, his scarab followers twitched and twisted.

‘I don't believe I caught your name . . .' said the Algerian.

‘I don't believe I threw it,' said Sonchis; but then forced himself to be more agreeable. ‘Llewellyn. Professor Llewellyn.'

‘Ah yes, you mentioned a museum! I must say it's refreshing to find that somebody of your standing is prepared to obtain their exhibits by less . . . proper channels. Mind you, you're not alone. Even the famous Howard Carter has been known to deal in ancient artefacts.'

‘Really?' Sonchis tried to look interested.

‘Oh yes. I am honoured to report that he has bought the occasional piece from me over the years. Why, only the other day I read in an English newspaper that the late Lord Carnarvon has left a vast collection of Egyptian relics to his
dear wife. It seems he instructed her to sell them to the British Museum for the sum of twenty thousand pounds sterling. But the enterprising lady sold them instead to an American museum for considerably more.' He raised his eyebrows. ‘It seems everyone understands the principles of business,' he said.

‘I believe in using any means available to give our public what they wish to see,' said Sonchis. ‘We're mounting an exhibition of the gods of Egypt, and Apophis is the only one we're short of. So the museum made some funds available to rectify the situation and despatched me to take care of it.'

The Algerian looked impressed. ‘What a refreshing attitude,' he said. He stopped in front of an open stone doorway, where a hurricane lamp hung from a hook. ‘Through here,' he said, taking up the lamp and holding it out in front of him. He led the way along a stone-flagged hallway and up a flight of stairs. They came to a landing with several mahogany doors. The Algerian produced a heavy iron key, unlocked one of the doors and entered the room. He set the lamp down on a table. ‘I keep reading about the wonderful electric lights they have in
England and America,' he said. ‘The world is changing fast, is it not?'

Sonchis regarded the man expressionlessly, tired of his prattle. ‘The item?' he prompted.

‘Of course. Please wait here.' The Algerian went through into another room, and after a few moments a glow of light appeared from within. Sonchis heard the sound of another key in a lock and a second or two later the man reappeared with a wooden tray bearing several small cloth bundles. He set it down on the table beside the lamp and waved a hand at the bundles.

‘These objects are of great antiquity,' he said. ‘The man I obtained these from came from a long line of workmen who lived at Deir el-Medina, the village of the tomb workers. You can still see the ruins of it today.'

Sonchis grunted. The man was telling him ancient history now. He waved a hand in dismissal but the Algerian kept prattling on.

‘Over the centuries, these workmen had access to the tombs of the pharaohs and were able to help themselves to all manner of items, which were then passed down from generation to generation.' He smiled. ‘Occasionally, when times were hard, such items would be sold. Indeed, many of
the great museums of the world have been stocked with treasures bought from such people.' He gestured at the tray. ‘Not much is left to sell, but here there are still a few rare items . . .' He stroked his chin. ‘Now, you mentioned Apophis, did you not? If my memory serves me correctly . . .'

His hand moved to and fro across the wrapped bundles and then stopped to pick one of them up. He unwrapped it slowly, with infinite care, and Sonchis began to think that the object really might be of genuine antiquity. The Algerian removed the last layer to reveal a small stone idol, which he placed in Sonchis's hand.

Sonchis gasped. He stared down at the small figurine in stunned amazement. He could never have dared hope for such an outcome, not even in his wildest dreams; for he was looking down at his own personal charm, an item he had not seen since the day he was arrested by the royal guard three thousand years ago. What powerful fate had ensured that he would be reunited with it after so long? What irresistible magic had ensured that their paths finally converged? He could feel the power of it discharging along his arm and spreading into every part of his insect-clad body,
which seemed to stir and strengthen beneath his clothing; and a vivid memory came to him. He was a small child, lying in his bed, the reassuring coolness of the powerful charm clutched in one tiny fist. He had not thought of his childhood for a very long time and an involuntary tear spilled from the corner of his eye. The amulet had been his for as long as he could remember, a gift from his mother, who had also been a follower of Apophis.

The Algerian was puzzled by his silence. ‘The object pleases you?' he asked.

‘Yes, very much.' Sonchis could hardly control his voice. ‘You have no idea,' he added. He couldn't stop staring at the figurine.

The Algerian coughed politely, a reminder that they were here to do business. Sonchis nodded. He took out Llewellyn's wallet, removed the entire wad of money and placed it in the Algerian's outstretched hand. The man counted the notes thoughtfully and then frowned.

‘This will do as your deposit,' he said after a pause. ‘Bring the same amount tomorrow and you may have the charm.' He held out his hand for it.

Sonchis stared at him. ‘What are you talking
about?' he snarled. ‘It's mine now. I've just paid you, haven't I?'

‘With respect, sir, that's not enough. I did warn you it would be very expensive. But don't worry, I shall keep it safe for you until you return with the rest of the money.'

‘There's no more,' Sonchis told him flatly. ‘It's all I have. Just be grateful I have paid you for something that is rightfully mine.'

The man laughed. ‘Rightfully yours?' he cried. ‘How could that be? You are simply buying this for your museum, are you not?'

Sonchis shook his head. ‘That's what I told you,' he admitted. ‘But the truth is, this charm is mine. It was given to me by my mother when I was a child and now I am reclaiming it. So I warn you, take the money or take the consequences.'