The Moses Stone

'This is one of the words Tony couldn't translate,' she said. 'He told me it wasn't clear enough.'

When she was satisfied that she'd got it as accurate as possible, she copied the word into the online dictionary and pressed the 'search' button.

'That's not a good start,' she muttered, looking at the screen. The message 'word not recognized' was displayed under the search field. 'It looks like Tony was right about this word, at least.'

'Maybe one of the characters you've used isn't exactly right,' Bronson suggested. 'It is pretty blurred in that photograph. Why don't you try a different word?'

'OK. This is what Tony translated as "tablet", and it's one of the words I checked earlier. Let's see what the system makes of this.'

She prepared the Aramaic characters and copied the word into the search field. Immediately the system returned the English translation as 'tablet'.

'That worked,' she said. 'Let's try this one.'

She carefully composed a different set of characters – – and input that. The system correctly translated the Aramaic word as 'cubit'.

'OK, now we're cooking.' She looked up at Bronson and smiled. 'Let's make a start on the Cairo tablet.'

31

'Did you get it?' Alexander Dexter asked, as Izzat Zebari – now wearing Western-style clothes instead of his usual jellaba – sat down opposite him in the lounge of the midpriced hotel near the centre of Casablanca. It was early evening. Dexter had flown from London to Rabat that morning, and then driven down to the city in response to Zebari's summons.

It had been a blisteringly hot day and the evening wasn't much cooler. Dexter wished he'd thought to bring even lighter-weight clothes than the jacket and slacks he was wearing.

Zebari glanced around the room at the handful of other residents and guests. Then he looked back at Dexter.

'No, my friend, I did not get it.'

Apart from the unwelcome news that he had failed to achieve his objective, something else in Zebari's voice and manner bothered Dexter.

'There's a "but", isn't there?' he asked.

Zebari nodded. 'Yes, there is a "but", as you put it. A big "but". The cost of trying to recover the object was much higher than I had expected.'

'How much higher?' Dexter asked, guessing that Zebari might be trying a serious shake-down, even though he'd failed in his mission.

'Probably more than you can afford. The man with me was shot down and captured as we tried to escape. I think we can assume that his subsequent death – and I've no doubt that he is dead – was neither quick nor painless.'

'Oh, Jesus,' Dexter muttered. He knew the world of stolen and smuggled antiques was pretty rough, but he hadn't expected anything like that. 'All you had to do was steal a bloody clay tablet. How could you possibly screw that up so badly?'

Zebari's voice was ice cold. 'One of the problems we faced, Dexter, was that the man who possessed the tablet pretends to be a businessman, but in reality he's nothing more than a gangster. His house was fitted with alarms, which we disabled, but he'd installed an infra-red sensor inside the display cabinet, and we didn't see that until I reached inside it. And by then, of course, the alarms had gone off. I managed to scramble over the wall and get away, but my companion wasn't so lucky. His name, should you be interested, was Amer Hammad. He was a man I've known and worked with for over ten years, and I called him a friend.'

'But you didn't get the tablet? You know I don't pay for failure.'

'You're not listening, Dexter. I told you that I didn't get it, simply because it wasn't there. And there are other . . . complications. Quite apart from Hammad's death, that is.'

'Like what?' Dexter demanded.

'The man who owned the tablet has very good contacts inside the Moroccan police force. A number of officers are believed to be on his payroll.'

'So?'

'So it probably won't take him too long to discover Hammad's identity.'

'What will happen to his body?' Dexter asked.

'He'll probably stick it in the back of a jeep, drive a few miles out into the desert and dump it. The jackals and the vultures will take care of it. But whatever method of disposal he chooses, Hammad's corpse will simply vanish. The point is that if this man manages to identify me as the other burglar, I've got real problems.'

'So that's why we're meeting here in Casablanca instead of up in Rabat?'

'Exactly. I need to get out of Morocco, quickly, and for at least a year. And that costs money, serious money.'

'OK, I understand the position you're in, and I'm sorry. But I told you I don't pay for failure.'

Dexter shifted slightly in his seat, as if preparing to stand up and leave, but Zebari stilled him with a gesture.

'We did get something,' he said. 'A piece of card.'

'Is that all?'

'Yes, but it has a good picture of the tablet on it, and the story of its origins. Does your client want the tablet itself, or just a copy of the inscription that's on it?'

Dexter looked at him appraisingly. 'What do you mean?'

'What I say. Some people talk, other people listen. The word is that this clay tablet is worthless, but the inscription on it is priceless. It's a kind of treasure map, or a part of one, anyway. Now, if your client really just wants this lump of fired clay for his collection of relics, our conversation here is probably over. But if all he wants is a picture of the inscription – a much better picture than the one you sent me – then I hope he has deep pockets, because it's going to cost him plenty to get his hands on the card.'

Dexter sighed. 'OK, let's cut to the chase. How much do you want?'

Zebari took a slip of paper out of his pocket and passed it across the table.

Dexter picked it up and looked at the number written on it. 'Ten thousand? Ten thousand pounds?' he asked, keeping his voice low, and Zebari nodded. 'You have just got to be joking. Ten grand for a picture of a clay tablet? My client will never agree.'

'Then neither you nor your client will ever see the card. It's your choice, Dexter. I've given you my first, last and totally non-negotiable offer. If you don't agree, I'll walk out of here and you'll never see me again. I have friends who'll help me.'

For a few seconds the two men stared at each other, then Dexter nodded. 'Wait here. I'll call my client and see what he wants to do. I'll need a few minutes.'

'Make it quick, Dexter. I'm running out of time.'

Dexter left the hotel, walked a short distance down the street, then pulled out his mobile phone. He relayed to Charlie Hoxton what Zebari had told him, and finished by telling him the price the Moroccan was demanding. Or, to be completely accurate, he told him Zebari wanted £15,000 for the card – he had his commission to think of, after all.

When he told Hoxton the price, Dexter held the phone away from his ear, which was just as well. The stream of invective being emitted at full volume from the earpiece might have damaged his hearing. When the tirade had diminished, he cautiously replaced the phone.

'So I'll tell him it's no deal then?'

'I didn't say that, Dexter. Will he negotiate?'

'He told me he wouldn't, and I believe him. He's deep in the shit because of what happened, and selling this picture of the tablet is about the only way he has of getting out. And he wants to know right now. When I go back into the hotel, either it's a deal at fifteen or he walks. Those are our choices.'

'Thieving bastard,' Hoxton said angrily. 'He does know the price he's demanding is totally bloody extortionate, doesn't he?'