“Where did you get this?” she asked.
As soon as she asked it, she knew she had overstepped her bounds. Mr. Atallah lost his serene gaze as his expression turned guarded. “I cannot reveal such information. If you are not convinced of its authenticity, perhaps we should not do business.” He lifted the black cloth, prepared to cover the canopic chest.
Donovan kicked her foot surreptitiously in an urgent message she didn’t need. She couldn’t lose their only lead.
“No, no,” she said, holding up a calming hand. “I understand, and that is none of my concern. I was simply amazed to find an object of such quality for sale. I believe it speaks well for your contacts.” She smiled, doing her best to look sincere and all the while hoping that when this was over they could find a way to put Mr. Atallah in prison for life. Selling the chest to a private collector was not only against Egyptian law, it was a crime against humanity, hiding a treasure rich with history that should be available to all. “I merely want to know that my husband need not fear that Interpol and Egypt’s Ministry of State for Antiquities will be hot on the trail of his gift.”
“I assure you, this is not stolen. I am merely brokering the item for the owner’s estate. The man unfortunately passed away and his widow would prefer to have the money.”
“I see.” Bullshit. The unfortunate truth was that museums often displayed only a small percentage of what they owned, while their storage rooms were full of items being “rested.” While this canopic chest was admittedly magnificent, the pharaoh Tutankhamun’s was more impressive yet, with tiny golden coffins holding his internal organs inside each jar. Perhaps that had caused this one to be relegated to a back room. Then all it would take was one dishonest employee giving in to temptation for it to end up at Mr. Atallah’s. It wasn’t far-fetched. Currently, with politics and the economy in turmoil, Egypt had seen a dramatic increase in stolen antiquities, a fact that caused much distress with the Ministry of State for Antiquities. One call to them, and Mr. Atallah would be busted.
She soothed her anger with images of bringing Mr. Atallah to justice, but Donovan’s thoughts seemed to have taken a different direction. “Who was it?” he asked, gesturing to the canopic jars and their grisly remains.
“The pharaoh Ramesses VIII,” Mr. Atallah told him. “You can see his cartouche here.” He pointed out the glyphs enclosed in a neat oval on the outside of the box, the symbol for a pharaoh’s name.
“Ramesses VIII,” Jess murmured aloud. There was something familiar about the name, but she couldn’t remember what. The pharaohs and their queens had been the stuff of stories that her father told, bringing the ancient kingdoms to life, but that had been years ago, and many pharaohs had ruled under the name Ramesses.
“A Twentieth Dynasty pharaoh who reigned briefly, I am told. Probably less than a year,” Mr. Atallah said.
Perhaps that was why she couldn’t remember anything about him. But still, there was something her father had told her…
“But a king is a king, is he not?”
“And a dead king is a god,” she agreed. “According to their beliefs.”
“Precisely. That means this chest is worth far more than one million dollars. I’m afraid the owner is asking for five million.”
She assumed he was right about its value, but she would have bet she could get it for two million if she wanted it. She didn’t. Her father had specified a vase, and she couldn’t get sidetracked. Not that she had any idea what meaning a vase could hold. She tried not to think of that, sticking to the only clue they had: the rabbit buys a vase.
“I’m afraid five million is more than I care to spend. And while a jar is a sort of vase, an unguent vase is more what I had in mind.” Such vases had been tall and elaborate, made of alabaster, and holding precious oils that were worth a small fortune in ancient Egypt. For that reason the contents had been some of the first things stolen from tombs, poured out into something easier to carry while the empty vase was left behind.
“It’s a shame that a discriminating collector such as your husband would miss the opportunity to own this chest,” Mr. Atallah said, looking saddened at the very thought. “Perhaps if I could convince the seller to lower the price just a bit…”
She realized he’d taken her statement as the first volley in bargaining a lower price. She held up a hand. “Please, don’t. I’m sure you can get the asking price from someone else.” He could try, anyway before they busted his ass. “I really think a vase is what he prefers. But you can be sure that he will wonder where I found it, and I will let him know that you may have other, more expensive objects to sell. That is, if you think you will?”