just travelled. She made documentaries by herself, with her own camera. Just her and a camera. Her living was precarious, but exhilarating.
‘Sometimes I get lucky, sell a film. To German TV or the BBC or America. That feeds me for a while. I made a documentary two years back about Gilles de Rais.
The First Serial Killer.
You have heard of it?’
‘Sorry. No.’
‘A medieval mystery, a Frenchman who was a murderer. I tried to solve it. I did not. But at least I sold it. My movies try to answer historical or modern puzzles.’
‘What were you doing in Egypt?’
‘I think you can guess. You are beginning to guess? No?’
‘Am I?’
‘I was in Egypt making a film about Tutankhamun. It was not so good. Boring. But then I heard about Victor Sassoon.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I heard about his disappearance, and all the other rumours. This was much more exciting for me. A great possibility, a real modern mystery. What did he find in the desert? The Sokar Hoard? Why did he disappear? Walk off into the wilderness? So for these last weeks I have been tracing his steps across Egypt. Cairo. The Red Sea. Nazlet.’
Ryan stared into the deep red tea in his glass; then he looked into her clear blue German eyes. ‘But how do you know who I am?’
‘I began with lots and
lots
of research. I did not sleep for days! Learning everything I could. In a lot of Cairo internet cafés.’ Her smile was very brief. ‘I now know many things about Sassoon. Who he taught, who he knew, who he met. You were one of his more famous pupils when he taught at UCL. What happened to you? You used to be famous, then,
pfft
!’
The question was so direct it was beyond rudeness. Maybe it was just Teutonic and efficient? Ryan shook his head. ‘Something happened. It doesn’t matter. Tell me more about … Nazlet.’
Helen Fassbinder paused, and looked past him at the doorway and the street, and Ryan took the opportunity to assess her. She was beautiful, but in a very severe way; indeed it was so severe her beauty bordered on plainness. Her blonde hair was too-tightly tied back, her blue shirt was stainless, despite the rigours of the day. Her black jeans were quite immaculate. But there was also a real nervousness there, a vulnerability, a flaw in the ice-blue of her eyes.
‘I came to Nazlet and stayed for three weeks. I rented a house. A hovel. I rented a motorbike. I scoured the desert, I made a friend. But of course it was impossible. The desert is too big.’
A text pinged on her mobile phone. She broke off the conversation and read it, without apology. A wordless nod. Then she looked back at Ryan. Blue eyes fierce, judging him. ‘Then a Bedu, a camel herder, came into town, from the western desert.’
Ryan nodded. The old trading routes, from oases like Kharga and Farafra, often made shortcuts straight across the wilderness. Modern Egypt had long since abandoned such three-thousand-year-old thoroughfares but Bedouin would still use them.
‘The Bedu man was bubbling. Gossiping. He told everyone in Nazlet that he had found a body, a white man, in a cave. Apparently his dog had wandered off, into the cave. The Bedu followed. Found the body. I knew it had to be Sassoon. A body wearing Western clothes? Of course it was Sassoon.’
‘And he had a bag with him?’
Helen didn’t answer. ‘I made my move immediately. I knew that as soon as the news spread, the police would come. Treasure hunters. Journalists. I paid the Bedu to come with me, two hundred dollars. We got another motorbike. He led me into the desert, and I found Sassoon. Lying there, in the cave. He had already begun to mummify.’
A tiny ripple of emotion made Ryan bite his words away. Helen’s voice softened, just for a moment. ‘I am sorry. He was your friend?’
Ryan Harper fought the sadness.
‘Victor Sassoon wasn’t just my friend, he was an
exemplar
. The amazing work he did on the Dead Sea Scrolls, they were an inspiration to me, one of the reasons I took up
‘Sometimes I get lucky, sell a film. To German TV or the BBC or America. That feeds me for a while. I made a documentary two years back about Gilles de Rais.
The First Serial Killer.
You have heard of it?’
‘Sorry. No.’
‘A medieval mystery, a Frenchman who was a murderer. I tried to solve it. I did not. But at least I sold it. My movies try to answer historical or modern puzzles.’
‘What were you doing in Egypt?’
‘I think you can guess. You are beginning to guess? No?’
‘Am I?’
‘I was in Egypt making a film about Tutankhamun. It was not so good. Boring. But then I heard about Victor Sassoon.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I heard about his disappearance, and all the other rumours. This was much more exciting for me. A great possibility, a real modern mystery. What did he find in the desert? The Sokar Hoard? Why did he disappear? Walk off into the wilderness? So for these last weeks I have been tracing his steps across Egypt. Cairo. The Red Sea. Nazlet.’
Ryan stared into the deep red tea in his glass; then he looked into her clear blue German eyes. ‘But how do you know who I am?’
‘I began with lots and
lots
of research. I did not sleep for days! Learning everything I could. In a lot of Cairo internet cafés.’ Her smile was very brief. ‘I now know many things about Sassoon. Who he taught, who he knew, who he met. You were one of his more famous pupils when he taught at UCL. What happened to you? You used to be famous, then,
pfft
!’
The question was so direct it was beyond rudeness. Maybe it was just Teutonic and efficient? Ryan shook his head. ‘Something happened. It doesn’t matter. Tell me more about … Nazlet.’
Helen Fassbinder paused, and looked past him at the doorway and the street, and Ryan took the opportunity to assess her. She was beautiful, but in a very severe way; indeed it was so severe her beauty bordered on plainness. Her blonde hair was too-tightly tied back, her blue shirt was stainless, despite the rigours of the day. Her black jeans were quite immaculate. But there was also a real nervousness there, a vulnerability, a flaw in the ice-blue of her eyes.
‘I came to Nazlet and stayed for three weeks. I rented a house. A hovel. I rented a motorbike. I scoured the desert, I made a friend. But of course it was impossible. The desert is too big.’
A text pinged on her mobile phone. She broke off the conversation and read it, without apology. A wordless nod. Then she looked back at Ryan. Blue eyes fierce, judging him. ‘Then a Bedu, a camel herder, came into town, from the western desert.’
Ryan nodded. The old trading routes, from oases like Kharga and Farafra, often made shortcuts straight across the wilderness. Modern Egypt had long since abandoned such three-thousand-year-old thoroughfares but Bedouin would still use them.
‘The Bedu man was bubbling. Gossiping. He told everyone in Nazlet that he had found a body, a white man, in a cave. Apparently his dog had wandered off, into the cave. The Bedu followed. Found the body. I knew it had to be Sassoon. A body wearing Western clothes? Of course it was Sassoon.’
‘And he had a bag with him?’
Helen didn’t answer. ‘I made my move immediately. I knew that as soon as the news spread, the police would come. Treasure hunters. Journalists. I paid the Bedu to come with me, two hundred dollars. We got another motorbike. He led me into the desert, and I found Sassoon. Lying there, in the cave. He had already begun to mummify.’
A tiny ripple of emotion made Ryan bite his words away. Helen’s voice softened, just for a moment. ‘I am sorry. He was your friend?’
Ryan Harper fought the sadness.
‘Victor Sassoon wasn’t just my friend, he was an
exemplar
. The amazing work he did on the Dead Sea Scrolls, they were an inspiration to me, one of the reasons I took up
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