Kabbar drummed his stubby fingers on the cracked leather top of his desk and studied the young man. "I think I can save you some trouble Stone. It does exist, and I believe it is authentic. Vanier claims he got it from some Fellahin trader down out of the Ghard. My guess is that it probably did come from somewhere up there originally."

"You're talking about Abu Malerik?"

"Muharik, Stone. Abu Muharik. Hasn't your time out here taught you anything?" He stuffed another scoop of rice in to his mouth, chewing quietly and giving Stone a disgusted look.

"Whatever. So what do you know about him?"

Kabbar settled his bulk back in the chair, spreading his hands and tipping a coy glance at Stone.

"Alright you heathen blackmailer," he dug around in his pocket and tossed a crumpled five pound note on the desk, "I'm not on an expense account you know."

Smoothing the money on the desk top, carefully straightening the bent corners, Kabbar grinned a toothy smile, "He stays at the El Fahid in the west quarter."

"Thanks buddy, but I'm not giving you money for something you know I already know." Stone reached out for his bill, seeing it disappear into the old man's robe.

"He's a Dutchman who has been back and forth through this area for several years. He is of honest repute, as far as I know. I've had a few, so, so profitable dealings with him." He tipped his pudgy hand side to side. "Like many Europeans and Westerners, a little full of his own importance, other than that . . ." Kabbar bobbed his head indifferently, pleased at having slipped a small dig in at his friend.

Stone chuckled and withdrew his hand from the desk, "Can I trust him you think?"

"From what I know, as much as you would me."

"Oh thanks! That's a dandy recommendation. He sucked his teeth and leaned across, shaking the dealer's moist hand, "may that ill gotten money plague your house and all your fortune."

"And may Allah turn all Little Satan Westerners to camel dung," Kabbar chuckled, waving a delighted farewell to his young friend.

*****

The sign behind the drab counter was the brightest aspect of the crumbling, plaster coated lobby of the El Fahid. What caught Stone's eye and gave him a start, as he crossed from the doorless entry, was the amazingly daring, tongue-in-cheek motto, painted neatly within the ornate frame in dull red Arabic script. 'Allah Slept Here'. A skinny young man with a stringy moustache, ears resembling open clam shells and a red fez, stood eagerly beneath the declaration, dry washing his hands.

"How may I assist you effendi?" His voice squeaked nervously in rapid Arabic.

"English?" Stone raised his eyebrows and smiled.

"Ah yes. I speak English. I am very particular in the speaking of English." He bobbed up and down, pleased to be able to display this questionable ability.

"Hilton Vanier. He stays here?" Stone placed a pound note on the counter, intending to keep his fingers on it, knowing full well that nothing was for nothing.

The money vanished in a blink and the man bowed and nodded, "Our guest Mister Hilton Vanier stays quite comfortably above the stairs in one of our rooms of the most gracious welcoming." A delicate hand waved airily in the approximate direction.

Stone snorted and shook his head as he signaled his thanks, looking morosely after his vanished pound note, and headed up the dried out wooden staircase, his boots scuffing away some of the stubborn remainder of the threadbare carpeting. Fragments of peeling, beige paint fluttered to the floor as he knocked, and another strip wafted down as the door was jerked open with a shivering screech.

"Hilton Vanier?"

"Who are you?" The short, balding man looked him up and down with curious, dull grey eyes. He kept a thick arm across the doorway as a barrier while awaiting Stone's reply.

"Jeb Stone. I'm doing an errand for Professor Van Reagar in Asyut? You contacted him about your find? Sent photos? Anyway, he wanted me to have a chat with you." Stone took in the stocky build planted in front of him. Bare to the waist, revealing a tangle of thick grey chest hair that disappeared into the waistline of a pair of light cotton pants, which in turn were tucked into a pair of military style boots.

Vanier pulled back from the door, cracking a set of knobby knuckles as he did. "Stone is it? C'mon in. Sit wherever. Wanna drink?"

Stone entered the room and selected a worn writing table to lean against. "No thanks. A little early for me." He scanned the room briefly, taking in the cracked, faded walls and the ratty carpet under the tilting chest of drawers. A bush jacket and hat hung from the back of the door and he could just see the tip of a leather gun holster beneath it.

Vanier held up a glass filled with a dark liquid, "You sure? It's arrack. I love this stuff." Stone shook his head and watched the man toss back the whole glass then pour himself a refill. He strolled over to the bed and flopped down on the bumpy looking pallet, taking another swallow and studying Stone.

"So what's this errand you're on?"

Stone uncrossed his arms and leaned his hands back against the top of the chest, "The professor asked me to take a look at this jar you sent him the photos of. A sort of eyes on confirmation. His time is very restricted at the university and he can't afford any, uh, you know. Wild goose chases?" He watched the man take another swallow of the drink and set the glass down, trying to hide the blank look in his eyes.

"He uh, wasn't satisfied by the pictures?" A loud crack of knuckles.

"Well let's say he was very interested, but he also wants to make sure the object really exists, and that you have it here." Stone was getting the impression that something was slightly off centre and a little bell sounded in the back of his brain. "You do have it, right?"

"You mean the uh, the . . ."

"The jar?"

"Right, of course. The jar." Vanier reached down and pulled a dirty haversack from beneath the bed and slid it across the floor. "See for yourself."

He bent down slowly and slipped the straps on the haversack. Inside was a cloth wrapped bundle tied with a piece of frayed cord that he rolled off and opened the packet. The jar was about ten inches high, a little wider at the bottom than at the top. One side of the cloudy glass had been broken away but the lid was still holding the top intact. He pulled a photo out of his pocket, which the professor had sent to him after their phone call, and compared it with the image on the lid. The worn but still legible cartouche seemed to match. He hefted the jar in his hands and looked up at the man from his squatting position, "And where did you say you got this?"

Vanier stood and walked to the small cupboard, filling his glass again. "Some old Arab trader I ran across in town." He looked pointedly at Stone.

"Did he say where he got it?"

"Uh no, no he didn't. Probably stole it from someone else," his grin exposed a set of stained teeth that validated a love of dates and Egyptian tobacco.

Stone rewrapped the jar and slipped it back into the haversack and did up the straps, his little bell clanging again.

"Well it seems to match the picture, so I guess my errand is over. I'll call the professor and tell him and you two can make whatever arrangements you want."

"You mean you think he wants to buy it?" Draining the second refill, Vanier's eyes widened slightly at the prospect.

Stone hesitated, watching the man. This didn't sound like the Hilton Vanier he'd heard about. Hilton Vanier was reputed to be an amateur Egyptologist, a man interested in ferreting out the secrets of the past for any information and collateral glory they might provide. This guy just didn't fit the profile.

"Search me. I can mention it to him if you like. You got a price in mind?"

The man set down his glass and cracked his knuckles again, his face a display of cunning and unexpected advantage.

"Just mention it to him and see if he makes an offer, after all, it's a rare piece- isn't it?"

Stone stood up, holding out the sack to the man, "Not my field, I wouldn't really know. I'll see what he says. Will you be here for awhile?"

Vanier took the haversack and clutched it close to his chest, "For a while. Don't be too long in getting back, I'm sure there are others who might be just as interested."

Stone tipped him a good-bye salute and departed. Outside, in the dingy hallway, he paused, listening at the door, but after a moment he left, disappointed that the man wasn't prone to talking aloud to himself. Downstairs, he queried the skinny little desk clerk about Vanier and discovered that he hadn't actually seen the guest check in, he just knew that a man by that name was in that room. Stone declined the clerk's eager offer of accommodation and left with the uncomfortable feeling that he had stepped in something unpleasant.

--------------------------

Max Baeder sat on the bed, still clutching the haversack and pondering the unusual turn of events. He knew he was lucky that this Stone guy hadn't know Vanier, and that since Vanier had already contacted somebody about the contents of the sack, he was in a position to possibly make some money. His concern was whether or not Vanier knew the people he contacted, but he reasoned that there wouldn't have been a need for this guy to come and verify it if that were the case. Feeling smug about the situation, he shoved the sack back under the bed and went to pour himself a congratulatory drink. Not since his misfortune running diamonds in South Africa had he suddenly felt so close to a profitable outcome.

This could be the one, he thought, feeling the adrenaline rush with the prospect. He'd been so close with the diamonds, only the failure of the fools he'd been forced to work with, prevented him from enjoying a luxurious retirement in some coastal paradise village today. Max was the only free survivor of the scheme, after it all went up in smoke; the others serving long, hard sentences in some god forsaken, Cape Town prison. All except that miserable accountant, who served as a stand-in for Max's fiery death in an automobile crash. He chuckled to himself, raising his glass toward the open window in a mock salute.

At forty six, Max had seen a good share of Africa; fighting as a mercenary in Zaire, smuggling guns in Lybia, even hunting and trapping illegal birds, for sale to private zoos and collectors. None of these ventures, however, had put him in the path of any real money. He was always an employee, never the boss. Never the guy with the big prize. Now he felt he was in charge of something that might turn out to be that big score, the one that gets him his fantasy villa and life of luxury. The one disadvantage, he knew, was that he had no idea of the value of Vanier's find. It would be a case of treading very carefully with whoever this professor was, to turn that lack of knowledge into a profit. Too bad he hadn't known anything about this before he'd popped old Hilton and stolen his stuff. Anyway, he thought, draining his glass and savouring the thick, warm liquid in his mouth, it's their move.