The Moses Stone (12 page)
“And you’ve still no idea what the clay tablet itself is? Or if it’s valuable?”
Baverstock shook his head. “It’s certainly not valuable. As to what it is, my best guess is that it was used in a school environment. I think it was a teaching aid, something to show children how to write particular words. It’s a curiosity, nothing more, and certainly of no value other than simple academic interest.”
“OK, Tony,” Angela said, standing up. “That was my conclusion, too. I just wanted to make sure.”
Once she’d left, Baverstock sat in thought for a few minutes. He hoped he’d done the right thing in giving Angela Lewis an accurate translation of some of the sections of Aramaic script he’d been able to read. There were another half-dozen words he’d managed to decipher, but he’d decided to keep the meanings of those to himself. He would far rather have told her nothing at all, but he didn’t want her running off to another translator who might take an interest in the possible implications of some of the words on the tablet.
And now, if she did decide to do any more digging, about the only place she’d be likely to turn up was Qumran, and he was quite certain that she’d find absolutely nothing there.
About two hours later Baverstock knocked on Angela Lewis’s office door. There was no reply, as he’d hoped and expected, because he knew she normally went out to lunch at about that time. He knocked again, then opened the door and stepped inside.
Baverstock spent fifteen minutes carrying out a rapid but thorough search, checking all her drawers and cupboards, but without success. He’d hoped she might actually have had the clay tablet in her possession, but all he found were two other pictures of the relic, which he took. The last thing he did was try to check her e-mails, but her screen saver was protected by a password so he couldn’t access her PC.
There was, he supposed, still a possibility Angela had the tablet in her possession, maybe at her apartment. It was time, he mused, as he walked back to his own office, to make another call.
19
Half of the ability to blend into a particular situation is having the right appearance, and the other half is confidence. When the dark-haired, brown-skinned man walked in through the doors of the Rabat hotel, wearing a Western-style suit and carrying a large briefcase, he looked pretty much like any other guest, and the receptionist didn’t give him a second glance as he strode across the lobby and walked up the main staircase.
He reached the first floor, stopped and called an elevator. When it arrived, he pressed the button for the fourth floor. As the doors opened, he stepped out, glanced at the sign on the wall indicating the location of the rooms, and turned right. Outside number four zero three he stopped, put down his briefcase, pulled on a pair of thin rubber gloves, took a hard rubber cosh from his pocket and rapped sharply on the door with his other hand. He’d spotted the woman sitting with a drink in the bar just off the lobby as he’d walked through, but he hadn’t seen her husband in the building. Hopefully he’d be out somewhere, in which case the man would use the lock-picking tools in the slim leather case in his jacket pocket; if her husband was up there in the room, that was his hard luck.
He heard movement from the other side of the door, took a firmer grip on his cosh and lifted a large white handkerchief up to his face, as if he was blowing his nose.
David Philips opened the door wide and peered out. “Yes?” he said.
Philips registered the presence of a dark-haired man directly in front of him, his face largely obscured by a white cloth, and then fell backward as a dark object whistled through the air and crashed into his forehead. For an instant he saw stars, bright flashes of white and red light that seemed to explode inside his skull, and then his consciousness fled.
His attacker glanced quickly up and down the corridor, but there was no one in sight. He picked up his briefcase again, stepped into the room, dragged the body of the unconscious man inside and then closed the door behind him.
It wasn’t a big room, and his search took him under five minutes. When he left the room, his briefcase was significantly heavier than when he’d arrived and, just as when he’d walked in, nobody took the slightest notice of him as he left the hotel.
“I’m sorry to bother you with this as well,” Bronson said, sitting down opposite Kirsty Philips.
Dickie Byrd had called him a few minutes earlier and told him there had been a burglary at the Philipses’ house—something that Bronson hadn’t liked the sound of at all. The theft of their computer just had to be connected to what had happened in Morocco. The trouble was that Byrd wasn’t convinced.
“What happened?” Kirsty asked, a mixture of irritation and concern clouding her voice. “I mean, didn’t any of our neighbors see anything?”
“Actually,” Bronson said, an apologetic smile on his face, “several of your neighbors saw
exactly
what was happening. They all thought you were back from Morocco and were having a fridge or something delivered. Two men arrived in a white van and carried a big cardboard box into your house. They were inside for about ten minutes, and then walked out with your desktop computer, presumably in the same box.”
exactly
what was happening. They all thought you were back from Morocco and were having a fridge or something delivered. Two men arrived in a white van and carried a big cardboard box into your house. They were inside for about ten minutes, and then walked out with your desktop computer, presumably in the same box.”
“And was that all they took?”
“Yes, according to your neighbor, a Mrs. Turnbull. She’s looked round the house, and thinks that only the computer was taken. The good news is that although the place was ransacked—it looked as if every drawer had been emptied—nothing seems to have been damaged apart from the lock on the back door. Mrs. Turnbull has already arranged to have that replaced for you, and she’s told us she’ll tidy up the place before you get back.”
Kirsty nodded. “She’s always been good to us. A very competent woman.”
“She sounds it. Where’s your husband, by the way?”
“He nipped up to our room just before you arrived. He should be down any minute.”
As she said this, Kirsty glanced toward the lobby, and gave a sudden start. “David,” she called out, and jumped to her feet.
David Philips was staggering across the lobby, a trickle of blood running unheeded down his cheek as he weaved from side to side.
Bronson and Kirsty reached him at almost the same moment. They grabbed his arms and led him across to a chair in the bar.
“What the hell happened? Did you fall or something?” Kirsty demanded, her fingers probing at the wound on his forehead.
“Ouch! That hurts, Kirsty,” Philips muttered, pulling her hand away. “And no, I didn’t fall. I was quite definitely pushed.”
“I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but that’s a very nasty bruise,” Bronson said, looking closely at the wound.
The barman appeared beside them, clutching a handful of tissues. Bronson took them, and asked the man to bring a glass of water.
“I’d prefer something stronger,” Philips muttered.
“It’s not for you to drink,” Bronson said.
“And a brandy,” Kirsty called out to the man’s retreating back.
When the barman returned, Philips sipped the brandy while Kirsty dampened the tissues in the water and gently cleaned away the blood from his face and the wound itself.
“The skin’s broken, obviously,” she said, looking at the injury, “but the cut’s not big enough for stitches. That should help stop the bleeding,” she said, folding another few tissues and placing the wad over the wound. “Just hold it in place. Now tell us what happened.”
“I was in our room,” Philips said, “and there was a knock on the door. I opened it and some guy hit me over the head, hard. He didn’t say a word, just knocked me cold. When I came round, he’d gone and so had your laptop.”
Kirsty looked at Bronson, clearly terrified. “They’re after our computers, aren’t they?” she demanded.
Bronson ignored her question. “I’ve just heard there’s been a burglary at your home,” he told David. “The thieves took your desktop machine.”
“Oh, bloody hell.”
“How old were your PCs?” Bronson asked.
“We bought them about three years ago,” David Philips said. “Why?”
“That makes them antique,” Bronson said flatly, turning back to face Kirsty. “A three-year-old computer’s only worth a couple of hundred pounds at best. And that means whoever carried out these two burglaries wasn’t after the computers, but what was on their hard disks—the e-mails your mother sent and the pictures she took.”
“So do you still think the car crash was just a simple traffic accident?” David Philips asked.
Bronson shook his head. “Definitely not. It looks to me like you’ve been targeted, and that can only be because of the pictures your mother-in-law took out here in Rabat. Nothing else makes sense. Have you sorted out the repatriation?”
David Philips nodded.
“Right,” Bronson said. “I think you should go back home as soon as possible. And watch your backs while you’re out here. Right now you’ve only got a headache. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”
Bronson got up to leave, then looked back at the two of them. “I’ve got one other question. If I’m right and the thieves were after your data—the photographs and other stuff—did you have copies on the other machine?”
David Philips nodded. “Yes. The e-mails were only on Kirsty’s laptop, but I copied the photographs my mother-in-law took onto the desktop. It’s a belt-and-braces form of backup, really—we’ve always done that, regularly duplicated the data on both machines. So whoever stole the computers will now have pictures of the fight they witnessed in the
souk
and photographs of the clay tablet that Margaret picked up. And now the computers have been stolen, all our evidence has gone.”
souk
and photographs of the clay tablet that Margaret picked up. And now the computers have been stolen, all our evidence has gone.”
20
Angela stepped inside her apartment and closed the door behind her. She was carrying two bags of shopping, which she took into the kitchen, then walked through into her bedroom to get changed. She pulled on a pair of jeans and jumper, returned to the kitchen and put away her shopping, then made a coffee. She was on her way into the lounge when she heard a faint knock from outside the apartment.
Angela stopped and for a couple of seconds just stared at the door. It hadn’t sounded like someone knocking, more like something knocking against it. She put down her drink on the hall table, walked across to the door and peered through the spy-hole.
Her view was distorted, but the bulky shapes of two men outside her door were clear enough. One of them was in the act of raising a jimmy or crowbar to insert between the door and the jamb. And the other man was holding what looked like a pistol.
“Dear God,” Angela muttered, and stepped back, feeling her pulse starting to race.
With fingers made clumsy by nerves, she slipped the security chain into place, though she knew that wouldn’t hold up the burglars for very long. If they’d brought a crowbar, they would probably have a bolt-cutter as well.
Her drink and almost everything else forgotten, she ran down the hall and into her bedroom, scooping up her handbag en route. She grabbed a warm jacket from her wardrobe, slipped her feet into a pair of trainers, picked up her laptop bag, checked that she had her passport, mobile and purse in her handbag, stuffed the phone charger in as well, and unlocked the back door of her flat, which gave access to the fire escape that ran down the back of the building.
She glanced down, checking that nobody was waiting at the bottom of the steel staircase, and pulled the door closed behind her. As she did so, she heard a cracking sound from inside her apartment, then a sharp snap that she guessed was the security chain being cut.
She didn’t hesitate, just started running down the fire escape as fast as she could, glancing back up toward her apartment door every few steps. She was barely halfway to the street when two figures emerged. She saw them look straight at her, and then one of them started pounding down the fire escape, the impacts of his shoes making the metal staircase ring and shudder.
“Dear God,” Angela murmured again, and moved even faster, jumping the last few steps to each of the steel platforms as she neared the ground. But she could almost feel that her pursuer was gaining on her.
She hit the ground running, dived around the side of the building and headed for the street, where she hoped desperately she’d find crowds of people.
But as she reached the corner of her apartment block, a man stepped out from the front of the building, his arms stretched wide as he grabbed for her.
For one heart-stopping moment she felt his hand grasping at her jacket; then she spun round, swinging her laptop bag with all her strength. The heavy bag smashed into the side of his face and the man grunted with pain and staggered backward, almost losing his footing on the damp grass. Angela sprinted past him, through the open pedestrian gate and out onto the pavement.
A handful of people were walking down the street, and she immediately saw a single black cab cruising down the road, its light illuminated. Angela whistled and waved her arm frantically at the driver, then looked behind her. The two men were still running after her, now only about twenty yards back.
The cab pulled into the curb and stopped. Angela sprinted the last few yards, wrenched open the door and climbed in the back.
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