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Paris

From the air, Paris looked deserted. X circled around for one last check. 'Can you see anyone down there, Arthur?' X called back to his partner from the the rear of the cockpit.

'No-one. The place seems empty.'

'That's unusual, right?'

'Yes, X. That's very unusual.'

'Well, I need to set it down eventually. Where do we need to go to again?'

Arthur uncrumpled the sheaf of paper the Swiss Premier had given him. 'The message from London just says to go to the Louvre Museum and contact someone called... the Curator. I guess they must be in charge — look, set it down over there. There's a bridge.'

Coming in low over the roofs, X approached the bridge over the River Seine and set the jet down with pin-point precision, artfully removing several lampposts from either side. Ahead of them were the arches that led to the courtyard of the Louvre palace. X popped open the canopy and got out and then he helped Arthur lower Sfret to the ground. Sfret offered a hand and kept his eyes firmly clamped shut. X took it and followed his partner towards the museum.

Arthur, X and Sfret approached the kiosk for the guided tour around the museum. Arthur rapped on the wood. 'Helloooo?'

A small figure emerged from the shadows. 'I am the Curator,' he said, clasping his hands and bowing his head slightly.

'Not many tourists here today,' Arthur observed.

'No, most of them have fled from... the others. Come in. Hurry. It's not safe to be outside.' He scanned the courtyard agitatedly.

'Excuse me?' Arthur blanched as the trio entered. Sfret wandered a little way behind Arthur and kept stopping to admire the paintings.

'You are from the British Agency, yes?' The sprightly curious figure announced suddenly as he scurried inside.

Arthur and X stopped in their tracks.

The Curator seemed surprised at their reaction. 'My apologies, perhaps I should explain. I am a member of a special group.'

'Which group?' Arthur asked inquisitorially.

'The 100,000 Committee,' the Curator replied.

'Never heard of you,' X said.

'Well no, I expect not. We are a highly secretive order.'

'Still doesn't explain how you knew who we were,' Arthur said, sounding highly suspicious, 'or why I got this message.' He produced the teleprint from Switzerland. 'I dislike being at a disadvantage.'

The Curator gave a small sigh and, adopting a narrative tone, began. 'The 100,000 committee was set up to monitor worldwide events. We wait and we watch — occasionally we intervene.

'What sort of "events" exactly?' Arthur probed.

'Those that are particularly associated with the mystical and...' the Curator paused, worried, '... and the demonic.'

'Go on.'

'We catalogue and trace disturbances in the firmament, eddies in the ether. We watch for portents, forecasts and predictions' — he looked straight at them with a somewhat gaunt gaze that suggested several nights spent without sleep — 'to protect that which is most sacred against... Him,' he exclaimed in tones of pure dread and loathing.

'Who?' Arthur said, slightly taken aback.

'The One who has Risen.' The small figure of the Curator looked haunted as he recalled this terrible duty.

'Why go to all that trouble?' Arthur asked, genuinely confused.

'The World is about to end — surely you've noticed — someone has to do something! The gead of our order is a man called Richter. He contacted your Agency recently to offer his services as a guide in matters... infernal.'

'Infernal affairs,' X chuckled.

The Curator spun and glared at him. 'I assure this is no laughing matter! A man known to you as UPS Guy authorised me to approach you when you reached Paris.'

'How did Guy know we were coming here? We didn't know ourselves until Martin gave us that note.'

'The 100,000 Committee can predict the future.'

'How?' Arthur scoffed. He was sensible down to his socks.

'We study scripture and varous malifeic tomes.'

'We appear in scripture?' Arthur said, arching an eyebrow.

'A minor passage,' the man waved a hand dismissively, 'but enough for us to anticipate your arrival here. Most of the relevant passages refer, of course, to the Ascension of Rasputin.'

'Rasputin! What has he got to do with all this?' Arthur asked.

'It has long been portended that Rasputin — the vicious and crazed monk in the court of Tzar Nicholas — would rise again. History records that when he was murdered in 1916¹ he was already in communion with dark powers. None of his assassins suspected, though, the depth of his lust for power. It was not unreasonably assumed that his death had rather put an end to the matter,' the Curator explained, inclining his head sadly.

'However, at the time of his passing, Rasputin was already well-practiced in the dark arts. It is these dark powers that allowed Rasputin to endure his eternal torments — and it is by these same dark powers that he has resurrected himself now!'

'Hang on,' X said. 'We've been on a case, we're a bit out of the loop. Rasputin has come back from the dead?'

'That is correct. I know...' The curator massaged his temples dejectedly, '... it sounds bizarre.'

Arthur and X exchanged glances.

'But it is the truth. Look around you. He is more powerful now than when he was alive. His mind control is also very strong; people everywhere are already being unconsciously bent to his will,' he said despairingly.

'No, no, we believe you,' Arthur said to reassure the fretful Curator.

X turned to look at his partner. 'Pieter,' he said.

'Who is Pieter?' the Curator asked.

'He had those crazy eyes and that pale skin,' Arthur said, looking at X.

'Kinda zombified,' X said, holding his arms out in front of him and pretending to walk stiffly.

'Yes indeed, these are Rasputin's minions. They are, I believe, under his direct persuasion. But it is not they who act, but Rasputin who controls them.'

'We've already met one. Are they all as difficult to kill as he was?' Arthur asked matter-of-factly.

'You killed him? The Curator's spirits sank. 'Oh dear. Oh dear,' he muttered mournfully.

'Well, he'd already wiped out an entire base of Swiss commandos, so it really was either him or us.'

'Hmm... well, not all of them are so violent. The possession takes different forms. The essence is control. Once Rasputin seizes their mind it is the strength of Rasputin's terrible spirit that animates them. They are not all willing volunteers but victims of his terrible power.' He thought for a moment. 'Come — I have something you should see.'

X wrinkled his brow as they entered a long Baroque gallery, following their furtive guide.

'Arthur, old chum — you remember the last time we were here?'

Arthur Robinson nodded, the world-weary nod of an agent who has been there, done that and bought the Kevlar vest.

'It was '92, wasn't it? Those pre-Raphaelite doomsday cultists and the nuke hidden inside the Venus de Milo. A clean operation...'

X shook his head. 'No, it was '94. You remember? The Agency's conference weekend? We went to EuroDisney, and Guy bet you you couldn't eat a full plate of snails and you got sick...?'

'Yes. Yes. Thank you for bringing that up,' snarled Arthur. 'Your point?'

'Well, and correct me if I'm wrong, but these weren't here the last time, were they?'

They had entered the new 'Rasputin Wing' of the museum. There was an explicit odour of drying paint.

Here was Grigory Efimovich Rasputin in watercolours; in oil paints; on huge epic canvasses stretching from floor to ceiling and on odd little cubist creations; in countless portraits; studies and full-length likenesses. Some Babylonian tomb-carvings improbably featuring the new world leader stood next to a collection of 6th-century Chinese vases carrying his image. Visitors, had there been any, could have consulted their brochures that had been hastily doctored with tipex and biro. A huge classical nude of the resurrected devil-monk, grinning cheekily, dominated the gallery, beneath a rather grim banner reading:

'Oh, sacrebleu...' Their guide groaned and gestured at a painting on the wall. 'Perhaps you recognise this work, my friends? "Rasputin Crossing the Delaware".' The figure of Rasputin had been crudely painted over George Washington, perched in the prow of the boat. 'Or maybe you prefer this: "Rasputin With A Pearl Earring"? Monet's "Starry Night (feat. G Rasputin)"? Or the Bayeaux cave monks?'

Their guide turned and gasped. 'No! No! Ah, my beautiful lady, what have they done to you?' In a small alcove, a blank-eyed artist had just finished enhancing the Mona Lisa with a greasy beard and a suggestive smirk.

'Don't you see? There will be no more art. Not once he comes to power. It will only be reflections of his twisted evil,' the Curator stated with genuine revulsion. 'He has risen from the dead and he wants to enslave us all.' A sad shrug of the shoulders and he sighed. 'Even as we speak he is accruing power unto himself. The governments of the world are lining up to welcome this demon, for they are blind. The Revelations of St John are at hand.'

Arthur and X exchanged sidelong glances. 'You don't think Bob would try...?'

'Nah,' dismissed X airily — but Arthur held his gaze. 'No,' repeated X, trying to sound convincing.

'He wouldn't... would he?' X winced, finally caving in².

The distraught curator lifted them from the collective reverie. 'Poor François has been like this all since yesterday, wandering around the exhibits in a daze with that can of swarfega from the storage cupboard and the oil set and brushes from the gift shop. He'll be beside himself when he realises what he has done.'

Sfret wandered over for a closer look at the masterpiece.

Picking up his theme once again, the Curator continued as before. 'But you see, this Pieter and François, they are afflicted by the same curse. It is Rasputin's doing.'

Arthur leaned into X and whispered, 'We haven't got time for this. I don't know what Guy was thinking, but we've already lost the trail on the Daltmooreby and the others and that girl. We can't stay here wasting more time.'

'You fear that you are wasting time,' the Curator said, flapping a handkerchief in the air and preparing to blow his nose theatrically.

'You can't have heard me,' Arthur said as the Curator expectorated loudly in the background.

The Curator sniffed back another round of tears and turned to face the agents, regaining a stoical pose. 'Lord Richter has forecast that your enemies flee from you and you know not where to turn next? Do not abandon all hope yet, gentlemen. Allow the 100,000 Committee to facilitate your search. Please, follow me into the Temple.' The agents followed the Curator out of the exhibit.

They reached an impressive door — it would have been more accurate to describe it as a portal. Somewhere in the back of Arthur's head a little voice was repeating over and over that and awful lot of trees went into making the fluted pillars and engraved panels.

'Whoooo,' whistled X, hands on hips, giving base expression to Arthur's own perturbance.

Some clever weighting meant the Curator pushed them open and they swung in as if suspended on air. 'This is the Pharaoh exhibit. The temple is beneath us. Follow,' he instructed. In the empty museum, their hurried footsteps echoed on the hardwood of the floors. Rounding a corner, Arthur and X had to shield their eyes from the light streaming in iridescent beams through the high glass of the large windows. They walked around the outside and descended a short flight of stars which doubled back and took them down another level into the temple exhibit. Ahead of them was a plinth on top of which was the stern golden visage of an Egyptian death-mask. The curator motioned them to stop, walked over to small side panel, searched for the access key on a large ring, selected one, opened a lock, tapped in the passcode on a keypad, reached inside the box and turned a master switch. The post began to lower into the floor.

'Clever,' remarked Arthur. The post lowered about about two thirds of the way into the floor, putting the golden mask within arm's reach.

'Makes cleaning easier,' said the curator matter-of-factly. 'Indeed,' he continued, 'it was during a spring dusting in 1987 that we discovered it is in fact a forgery.' With a considerable heft, he pushed the not-so precious artifact to the floor, where it smashed into large obsidian shards peppered with gold-leaf. Sand spilled out over the pristine marble floor, and something else with it.

'We had a magnetic-resonance image taken in 2000, which was when we discovered it was a reliquary,' the Curator added as Arthur and X stared in mute fascination at the destruction at their feet.

'A what?' said X.

'It was a receptacle of some sort...' began the Curator.

'It was hollow,' said Arthur, translating.

'The pattern of sedimentation and granular ribbing in the pottery allowed us to date it well outside of the Pharonic dynasties.'

'Bent as a two-bob note,' said Arthur.

X nodded sagely.

'But the real clue was the inverse signature of James Moriarty in the ridges behind the eyes.'

'Who?' said Arthur.

'A prolificate crime lord in London during the late 19th century. One of the most successful in the modern era. He disappeared shortly before 1900. His criminal empire persists, but slowly it too vanishes. There is some evidence that the Moriarty crime network generated a significant profit in the trade of stolen and forged paintings. In an established market I have little doubt he could have moved antiquities as well.'

'But you said this was a forgery.'

'Indeed — it is based on a sculpture that was recovered from the dig at Thebes.'

'From the Valley of the Kings, in Egypt?' Arthur asked.

'Correct. You know the area?'

'I may have spent some time in various desert regions, since you ask³.'

'Well,' continued the Curator, 'the bust, er — that is to say, the original bust — had come from one of the burial sites at the Valley of the Kings. You are familiar with the fate of Lord Carnarvon, I presume?'

'The famous curse of King Tut?'

'Indeed. Pneumonia, they said — hah!, I... er... that is, the 100,000 Committee, have long postulated that his fortune and inheritance with which he funded the Howard Carter digs were based on the illicit trade of antiquities and relics. We are quite certain a majority were manufactured by Moriarty's gang, who would have been quite skilled in this artistry. I believe the discovery of KV62 — er... Tutankhamen's Tomb was a fluke. Carnarvon had no intention of discovering a new tomb. He had this fake head smuggled into the dig site for the more prosaic and grubby reason that he needed to inflate its value on the market. He intended it to be 'discovered' to revalue its worth and generate a profit against his investment in Egypt — he never imagined Carter would find Tut's tomb itself! It was supposed to be a classic scam.'

'Which dig was the original bust taken from?'

'Rameses II, also known as Ozymandias.'

'Ozymandias?' said Arthur, '"I met a traveler from an ancient land..." something, something?'

'Yes, that's the one.'

'Doesn't that poem⁴ speak of a lost city?' said Arthur.

'Hmm... quite — consumed by the desert!' The Curator raised his eyebrows theatrically. 'All of which brings us to this,' said the Curator, bending down to collect the spilt something from amongst the sand and the ruined visage of the mask. He held it out for them to inspect.

'A key?' said X, perplexed.

'But what does it open? No-one knows,' answered the Curator. 'It is inscribed with an ibis on the reverse.'

'Meaning?' said Arthur.

'An ibis was the symbol of the Egyptian God Thoth. Now, he was an interesting fellow. He's generally associated with the moon, magic and astronomy... amongst other things. A god of wisdom and knowledge. Also served in the Underworld, weighing the souls of the dead. A further curious detail: there is this turquoise gemstone lain into the key — it makes its worth incalculable.'

'Turquoise, you say?' Arthur asked. 'Our case. It involved... a diamond,' he admitted warily.

'Oohh I see... the Turquoise Moon. You are treasure hunters, then?'

Er... no, I, er... that is — we are looking for a girl.'

'We are?' X interjected.

'And this group who are searching for this diamond, they kidnapped her.'

'Well, no — this is indeed fortunate,' the Curator said. 'The scriptures were quite plain — this key would assist you. This key opens a door somewhere in Egypt. If the girl you are searching for is with this group who trying to locate the...' he paused and continued in a critical tone, '...mythical Turqoise Moon, then they are also in Egypt and so she should be too.'

Arthur cast his eyes down, then looked back up at the Curator as he assembled all these curious details. Finally he spoke: 'And you want to us to go to Egypt, to the tomb of Rameses, to see what this key opens, maybe find a clue that will help stop this Rasputin chap and meanwhile stop these mad diamond thieves from acquiring the Turquoise Moon?'

'Mmm... not quite. The Tomb of Rameses would be a good place to start, but you are looking for the lost city from Ozymandias.'

'Underneath the desert, right?' said Arthur, biting his lips.

'Correct,' the man said with a nod.

'Marvellous,' Arthur said with a grimace.

At that moment the glass in the museum cloister smashed, then another. Through the broken panes of glass new sounds arrived.

'That sounds like a mob,' said X.

'Oh my!' the Curator exclaimed, suddenly looking very nervous. 'Rasputin, he... he has possessd a throng, I should have said! they mostly come at night!'

'Mostly?' X said.

'Quickly! You need to get out of here — take the key with you!' he said, placing it into Arthur's hand and closing it. 'I'll lead them away!' he called back, running out of the Egyptian Temple exhibit. 'Both of you! Get out of the museum!'

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