The Curse (15 page)

The heart was short, broad, and ugly, as all scarabs were.

I thought about the insect and its importance to the Egyptians as I looked at the pictures.

People who see a scarab for the first time find it strange that the personification of the dung beetle is a significant source of the mystery and magic of ancient Egypt, and that a bug who waddled in excrement was worshipped as the symbol of rebirth after death.

The beetle lived off the dropped excrement of animals, grabbing a piece of the stuff, forming it into a ball, and rolling it off to a hole in the ground or inside a dead animal where the dung was used as food. Eggs were wrapped in dung, too, for nourishment, so life appeared to come from the inanimate animal droppings.

Because it appeared to the Egyptians that the beetles were reborn from dead matter, and the way they rolled the round balls that were used to create life, they identified the beetle with Khepri, a god who rolled the ball-shaped sun across the sky during the day. At the end of the day the sun was swallowed by Nut, goddess of the sky, and reemerged from her womb the next day, mimicking the birth of beetles from dark mass.

Death and rebirth became a ubiquitous theme in the minds and art of the ancient Egyptians, with the death and rebirth cycle of the beetle symbolic of it. King Tut's tomb wasn't just rich in material possessions, but had been stocked with food and other provisions he would need when he was reborn.

“I realize the pictures are not of the best quality. Here,” he said, handing me a scarab. “This is the most important item. Other than it being only a few years old, rather than a few thousand, it is an exact replica of the Heart of Egypt.”

The scarab was made of the same grade of Afghan blue lapis lazuli with a brushing of a very fine gold pyrite like I had observed on the pictures.

“The surest way to tell if it's a counterfeit,” I said, “would be to compare the pattern of the gold dusting with the pattern on the original. It would be impossible to make a model that had exactly the same pattern as the original even if it came from the mining site. Or even if it came from the same piece of rock,” I added.

“Yes, of course, the patterns would look the same to the naked eye, but a closer examination would show differences.”

“Are there better pictures available?”

“There are, but I don't have them here.”

I took a thorough look at the scarab he gave me.

“You know, this is an excellent reproduction,” I said. “If you hadn't told me this was a copy, I would've taken it to be a three-thousand-year-old artifact from the tomb of King Tut.”

Its connection to the boy king was obvious: Tut's name signed in hieroglyphics appeared on its back.

After examining it for a moment, I still had the same impression—that I was looking at a piece of antiquity. But as I had told Kaseem, reproductions are often so good they are extremely difficult to sort out. The counterfeiter who did this one not only used the correct Afghan stone, I had no doubt that a microscopic examination would show it was carved with the type of tools used in antiquity. Without the real scarab to make a comparison with, the key to revealing it was a copy would be a chemical analysis of the patina on the stone that usually formed over the ages.

“Howard Carter had a method for determining whether a piece was an artifact or a reproduction,” I said.”He placed the item where he would see it during the day. After a few days he knew whether it was real or a fake.

“I think Carter would have reached the same conclusion I did about this piece—it looks real; nothing's screaming at me that says it isn't, so it'll take more than a brief examination to determine that it's a fake. Unlike Carter's day, there are lab tests we can do.”

He suddenly gave me a small smile.

“There is a quicker way,” he said and offered me a magnifying glass. “Something about the appearance of the scarab may tell you it is a reproduction.”

I felt like a schoolgirl being tested, but he was a sweet little man and I didn't want to disappoint him.

“I'll use my own,” I said, as I took out the jeweler's loupe from my purse and started examining the piece.

Nothing on the top or the sides shouted fake at me. On the bottom I found a tiny mark, a swirl, that would have been visible to the naked eye only if you knew to look for it. Even at that, making out the detail of the swirl required a magnifying glass.

I guessed the purpose.

“The reproduction is so good, the maker put a mark on it so you see a difference from the original … but not easily, you'd still have to double-check it under magnification. They used a swirl pattern so the mark could be distinguished from marks created accidentally.”

He grinned and clapped his hands. “Yes, yes, it's a pattern that would not be duplicated accidentally by people or nature. I put it on myself. Not even the counterfeiter knows I did this.”

“Is the weight also the same?”

“Exactly the same,” he said.

“So the reproduction was made for public display?” I asked.

“Yes. Miss Radcliff used to show the real heart to guests. But after a couple of incidents in which robbers stole from private collections like ours, I convinced her to have reproductions of the most valuable and irreplaceable pieces created for public display, while the real pieces were kept in a vault.”

Reproductions were common among private collectors for the reason Fuad stated and for insurance coverage. With artwork selling commonly in the tens of millions, and even more than a hundred million for a single item sometimes, the cost of insuring the “priceless” was enormous.

Most collectors would have loaned their pieces to museums for safekeeping and to let other people enjoy them, but altruism didn't appear to run in the Radcliff family.

“How many reproductions of the scarab were made?” I asked.

“From the original only this one, but there are many other copies in existence. You can buy them at any marketplace in Egypt, but they are tourist junk, with the appearance based upon conjecture because there are no public photos of the heart.”

“No photos were taken back when Carter opened Tut's tomb?”

“There is a story that the heart was photographed, as were other items, but the pictures of items that never made their way to the Egyptian Museum were destroyed by the men who helped themselves to what they called mere tokens of the greatest archaeological find in history.”

Photos of that era would have been black-and-white and of poor quality compared to the ones today. They would also have been evidence that the heart existed and was missing.

“Who made this replica?”

“A firm in Bath run by a gentleman with a rather colorful history. He was once imprisoned for counterfeiting a van Gogh that sold for millions. When he got out of prison, he turned his talents to making reproductions for legitimate purposes.”

“Well, at least he put his talent to good use. Can I take this copy with me to compare it with the scarab presented as the original?”

“I'm afraid not. Miss Radcliff wishes to keep it here in the collection. She plans to show it to her friends after the heart is returned and a great deal of publicity is generated … to prove she had given up the original for the sake of the Egyptian people.”

He didn't hide the sarcasm in his voice.

“Did the counterfeiter take pictures of the heart?”

“Yes, those are the ones I mentioned. He never had the heart in his workshop. He examined it here under my supervision several times and took pictures to use when he needed to.”

“Good. I'm sure he would've taken really high-quality pictures. I'll need them. They should show the pattern of the gold dusting well enough to distinguish the original from a copy.”

“I will call and have them sent over.”

“I'd rather pick them up myself in Bath,” I said. “It'll give me an excuse to have scones with clotted cream at the Roman baths.”

I also wanted an excuse to talk to the counterfeiter. Fuad saw the scarab with a professional eye, but not even the best curator saw artifacts with the penetrating vision of an artistic counterfeiter. I wanted to make sure that Fuad was right and that only one perfect copy existed of the heart.

He showed me other scarabs in a glass case. I got the impression he was stalling for time as he gathered his thoughts. He stared down at the pieces in the case as he spoke.

“The heart belongs to my people,” he said.

“True. And you have a good chance of getting it back. The thieves can't sell a well-known work of art. Their only hope is to ransom it and that's why I was retained—to make sure the scarab is the genuine article.”

“I know that you once fought to get a looted artifact back to the people of Iraq. Will you do the same with the Heart of Egypt?”

“That's my intention. I wouldn't have taken this assignment if I thought it would end up anywhere but where it belongs.”

I had the feeling he wanted to tell me something. He started to speak and stopped as we heard the door in the other room open.

“Would you like to join me for lunch and continue our discussion?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, I am tied up here for the rest of the day.” He gently put his hand on my arm. “Will you be in the area tomorrow evening?”

“I think so.”

“There's a Druid fair near Stonehenge. Fatima and I used to go to it every year. We stand at the medieval tower overlooking the grounds and watch the people from above. Perhaps then we can talk some more.”

“What time shall I meet you?”

“After dark,” he said.

So we wouldn't be seen?

28

I took the train to Bath, less than an hour's run, half expecting Rafi al Din, the Egyptian antiquities cop, to sit down across from me, but he didn't appear, much to my surprise. However, my gut told me he was still around … and not very far from me.

I tried calling Michelangelo to find out if he had any more information about the subway tape but he didn't pick up, so I left a message asking him if he was avoiding me.

Before heading out to see the counterfeiter, I checked into a small hotel and then paid a visit to one of my favorite places in Britain—the Roman ruins.

Aquae Sulis, the waters of Sulis, is what the Romans called the hot springs at Bath. Finding Britain's weather cold and damp, the conquerors from sunny Italy built a spectacular spa on the spot, the only thermal springs in the country. Though much abused and neglected over most of the last couple thousand years, the baths have now been restored.

The ruins come not only with history, but a place to have scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, good British tea, and gentle music from violins and bass to listen to.

I was enjoying the music and scones when I got a jarring note—in the form of a chit, a rather old-fashioned way to convey a message.

The waiter handed me a scribbled note that read: “May I join you?”

“It's from the gentleman in the leather jacket,” the waiter said, pointing to Rafi al Din, sitting in a corner behind me. He must have arrived after I had.

I smiled and nodded.

“I hope you don't mind,” he said.

“Much better than a text message that sounds like it was composed by a nine-year-old computer geek. Actually, I expected to see you on the train.”

“I had to do some business in Bath.”

“And purely by chance ran into me here?”

He leaned forward and spoke in a faux-whisper. “I knew you were here because I'm a detective.”

“So you talked to Fuad, who told you I'd come here. Which means you know I'm here to see the man who made a reproduction of the scarab.”

It didn't surprise me that the Radcliff curator would cooperate, even secretly, with his homeland's antiquities department.

He shook his head. “Maddy, it's difficult for me to do my detecting if you are always one step ahead of me.”

“I doubt that. What do you know about the counterfeiter? Fuad said he spent time in prison for fraud.”

“That is about the extent of my knowledge, also. He makes copies for rich people so they can hide their originals from thieves. I'm sure it makes their insurance companies happy.”

“Did your government ever attempt to buy the scarab from Isis?”

“We don't pay ransom. We requested the return of the stolen artifact on many occasions. There may have been some discussion about compensating the Radcliff family even though it had been stolen.”

“In the antiquity trade,” I said, “the word ‘stolen' has different connotations than it does elsewhere. From Sir Jacob Radcliff's point of view and the others who spent years financing excavations in Egypt, your government violated their rights when it changed the terms of their agreement after the biggest find in history was made.

“I'm sure you know that almost immediately after the treasure was discovered, Carter and his colleagues became embroiled in a controversy with the government over division of the artifacts.”

“We obviously have a different view of what occurred,” he said. “By the terms of the concession agreement signed with Carter's group, if the tomb was found to be intact, my government could deny the excavators a share of the objects recovered. And since King Tutankhamen's tomb was in fact intact, that gave us the right to void the contract.

“Even though that was the position my government took, a large amount of money was paid to reimburse the concessionaires.”

“An amount that didn't equal a fraction of the value of the find,” I replied.

He was about to rebut my opinion but I didn't give him the chance to respond. “Don't get me wrong. I'm happy that Egypt kept most of the King Tut treasures. I'm just pointing out that it wasn't a case of greedy exploiters trying to get something they had no right to.”

Rafi shrugged. “The dilemma in my country has always been the choice between bread and history. Every dollar spent on finding and preserving our antiquities is food out of the mouths of our people. That was how it was in the past and how it is even now—the majority of my people have little but the dirt between their toes while a small group of the rich live like kings.”