The Moses Stone

way out here to Morocco, but I had no choice.'

'I know, Chris, but it's not a problem. You told me what happened.'

'Well, I'm still sorry about it. Now, are you busy?'

Angela laughed shortly. 'I'm always busy; you know that. It's eleven thirty in the morning. I've been at work for nearly three and a half hours and I've just had another three boxes of potsherds dumped on my desk. I haven't even had time to grab a cup of coffee this morning, so if you're calling just to pass the time of day, forget it. Or did you actually want something?'

'Just the answer to a question, really. There's an article on page thirteen of the Mail today about a clay tablet. Have you seen it?'

'Oddly enough, I have, yes. I read it on the way in to work this morning. It made me laugh because I was the socalled expert the reporter couldn't contact. He rang the museum yesterday afternoon, and the call was diverted to my office. Clay tablets aren't really my field, but I suppose the switchboard operator thought 'ceramics' was close enough. Anyway, I'd just slipped out for a cup of tea and by the time I got back, the Mail reporter had hung up. So it's quite true that I was 'unavailable' for comment, but only for something like three minutes. Typical of the bloody press.'

'I thought it would be something like that,' Bronson said. 'But could the report be correct? Could that clay tablet be really valuable?'

'Highly unlikely. Clay tablets are ten a penny – well, not literally, but you know what I mean. They're found all over the place, sometimes as fragments, but complete ones turn up very frequently. There are estimated to be about half a million locked in museum storerooms around the world that haven't yet been studied or deciphered, or even really looked at. They really are that abundant. They were used by most of the ancient races as short-term records, and they listed everything from property ownership details and accounts to recipes, and almost any other information you can think of in between. They've been found with inscriptions in Latin, Greek, Coptic, Hebrew and Aramaic, but the majority are cuneiform.'

'Which is what, exactly?'

'It's an ancient written language. Cuneiform letters are wedge-shaped, and that kind of script is particularly easy to impress onto wet clay using a stylus. Clay tablets are just curiosities, really, that help us better appreciate daily life in whatever period they were made. They do have some value, obviously, but the only people who are usually interested in them are academics and museum staff.'

'OK,' Bronson said. 'But two people have been killed out here in Morocco and the clay tablet we know the woman picked up in the souk is missing, along with her camera. And yesterday I was chased through the streets of Rabat by a gang of men who—' 'What? You mean some local thugs?'

'I've no idea,' Bronson admitted. 'I didn't hang around to ask what they wanted. But if the tablet really is worthless, maybe the important thing is what's written on it. Is that possible?'

Angela was silent for a few moments. 'Just about, I suppose, but it's extremely unlikely, simply because of the age of the object – most of them are between two and five thousand years old. But what happened to you is a worry, Chris. If you're right and the inscription on the tablet is significant, then anyone who's seen it might be in danger.'

'I've got half a dozen pictures of it, but I haven't the slightest idea what the inscription means. I don't even know what language it's written in.'

'Well, we can do something about that. Email a few of the photographs to me here at the museum and I'll get one of our ancient-language specialists to take a look at them. That way, at least we'll know what's on the tablet, and then you can see if you're right about the inscription.'

'Good idea.' That was exactly what Bronson had been hoping she'd suggest. 'I'll do it right now. Look in your inbox in about five minutes.'

15

A quarter of an hour later, Angela checked her messages and immediately spotted the one sent by her ex- husband. She glanced at the four pictures of the clay tablet on the screen of her desktop computer and printed a monochrome copy of each of them, because the definition would be slightly better in black and white than in colour. Then she leant back in her leather swivel chair and studied the images.

Angela had occupied the same office ever since she'd first arrived at the museum. It was small, square and organized, dominated by a large L-shaped desk, on the short arm of which stood her computer and a colour laser printer. In the centre of the larger section of the desk was a collection of potsherds – part of her current workload – and several files and notebooks. In one corner of the office was the wooden bench where she carried out the mechanical aspects of her conservation duties, working with a collection of precision stainless-steel tools, cleaning fluids, various types of adhesive and other chemicals. Beside that was a row of filing cabinets and above them a couple of shelves lined with reference books.

The British Museum is simply huge: it has to be to accommodate the one thousand permanent staff who work there and the five million visitors who pass through the doors every year. The structure covers about 75,000 square metres – that's four times larger than the Colosseum in Rome, or the equivalent of nine football pitches – and contains 3,500 doors. It's one of the most spectacular public buildings in London, or anywhere else, for that matter.

Angela stared at the photographs she'd printed, then shook her head. The quality of the images was nothing like as good as she'd hoped and expected. The object in the pictures was clearly some kind of clay tablet, and she was reasonably sure she could identify the language used, but transcribing it was going to be difficult because all four photographs were so badly blurred.

After a minute or so, she replaced the pictures on her desk and sat in thought for a few seconds. Looking at the images had inevitably started her thinking about Chris and that, as usual, revived all the confusion and uncertainty she felt about him. Their marriage had been brief but it hadn't been entirely unsuccessful. They had at least remained friends, which was more than a lot of divorced couples could say. The problem had always been the unacknowledged third person in their relationship – the shadowy presence of Jackie Hampton, the wife of Bronson's best friend. And that was almost a cliche, she realized, a wry smile playing across her lips.

Bronson's problem had been his unrequited desire for Jackie, a desire that she knew he had never expressed, and that Jackie had been blissfully unaware of. There had never been any question of his being unfaithful to her – Bronson was far too loyal and decent for anything like that – and in one way the failure of the marriage had been Angela's fault. Once she'd realized where his real affections lay, she had found she simply couldn't cope with playing second fiddle to anyone.

But now Jackie was dead and Bronson's feelings had inevitably changed. He'd been trying – trying hard – to get closer to her, to spend more time with her, and so far Angela had done her best to keep him at arm's length. Before she would allow him to re-enter her life, she had to be absolutely sure that what had happened before would never be repeated, with anyone. And so far, she didn't feel she had that assurance.

She shook her head and looked back at the photographs.

'I was right,' she muttered to herself. 'It is Aramaic.'

Angela could understand a little of the language, but there were several people working at the museum who were far better qualified than her to translate the ancient text. The obvious choice was Tony Baverstock, a senior member of staff and an ancient-language specialist, but he was far from being Angela's favourite colleague. She shrugged, picked up two of the printed photographs, and walked down the corridor to his office.

'What do you want?' Baverstock demanded, as Angela knocked, walked in and stood in front of his extremely cluttered desk. He was a stocky, grizzled, bear-like individual in his late forties, who had the indefinably scruffy appearance common to bachelors everywhere.

'And good morning to you, too, Tony,' Angela said sweetly. 'I'd like you to look at these two pictures.'

'Why? What are they? I'm busy.'

'This will only take you a few minutes. These are a couple of pretty poor photographs of a clay tablet. They're not good quality, and don't show the text – which is Aramaic, by the way – in enough detail to be fully translated. All I need from you is an indication of what the inscription is about. And if you could hazard a guess at its date, that could be useful.'