The Messiah Secret - James Becker [61]
A few seconds later, a slight gap opened up in the traffic on their left and Bronson slid his car expertly into the space. He was rewarded with a cacophony of blasting horns. Then he swung down a fairly narrow street, dodging parked cars, dogs and children, and at the end turned right. Here the road was wider, better surfaced and properly marked, and almost entirely full of virtually stationary traffic.
‘Bugger,’ Bronson muttered. He was completely surrounded.
‘It doesn’t matter. Once we get off the main road, I’m sure there’ll be a lot less traffic.’
‘Well, there could hardly be more traffic, could there? This is supposed to be a three-lane road but I can see four lanes of traffic heading in each direction.’
Just then it all started moving again – slowly, but it was moving – and Bronson eased the car forward, keeping it no more than eighteen inches behind the battered rear bumper of the vehicle in front. They came to a stop again, then began inching forwards once more.
‘It’s more modern here than I anticipated,’ Bronson said, after a few moments, looking at the slightly grubby skyscrapers that lined both sides of the road.
‘In the centre and in Cairo proper, I guess that’s true, but I imagine that if you went out of the city you’d see houses that have hardly changed for half a millennium.’
About a quarter of an hour later, Angela spotted a sign for Al-Gebel al-Ahmar, and Bronson hacked his way through the traffic to make the turn. Angela had been right – once they cleared the main road and started heading south, the traffic was much lighter.
They crossed a railway line and kept moving, Angela checking the street signs as they passed.
‘That’s the first address,’ she said, pointing to the left as Bronson drove past the end of a minor road. ‘That’s where Hassan al-Sahid – or at least a Hassan al-Sahid – lives.’
‘Right,’ Bronson said, swinging the car round in a U-turn to retrace their steps. ‘Let’s find out.’
30
‘Your name is Suleiman al-Sahid?’
The young man standing in the doorway of the large whitewashed house on the eastern side of the Al-Gebel al-Ahmar district looked puzzled. He hadn’t been expecting any visitors, and certainly not a black-suited American priest carrying a large and apparently heavy suitcase, with a thick plaster covering most of his left ear.
‘It is,’ he replied in heavily accented English, ‘but I—’
‘You don’t know me,’ the priest interrupted, ‘but I know your father, Hassan. How is his health these days?’
Suleiman shook his head. ‘He died a few years ago,’ he replied. ‘But I—’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I also know the Wendell-Carfax family, from England. Now, I have an important message for you from them, so may I come inside?’
Suleiman nodded, and stepped to one side. The priest picked up the suitcase and followed Suleiman into the house.
‘You have a message for me, you said? And what is your name?’
‘Daniels. Father Michael Daniels.’ The priest extended his hand. ‘You have a lovely home here,’ he added, glancing around the spacious hallway.
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, Bartholomew Wendell-Carfax entrusted your father with two large oil paintings. Were you aware of that?’
Suleiman nodded. ‘Yes. My father left very specific instructions about them. They’re hanging in this room.’
He turned and led the way into a room just off the hall, dominated by a large dining table surrounded by eight chairs.
‘My father bought this dining set in England,’ Suleiman said. ‘It’s not to my taste, but he loved the British way of life. And those are the paintings.’ He pointed at the wall opposite the doorway, where two oils were hanging.
The priest smiled. ‘I’ve been asked to collect these two paintings ready for Oliver Wendell-Carfax when he arrives here in Cairo to start his expedition. Did he advise you that I was coming?’
A shadow of doubt crept suddenly across Suleiman’s face, and he