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  Reassured, she smiled to herself, but then frowned when she caught sight of her reflection in the glass. She had always hated her freckles. Her mother had called them angels’ kisses. Her mother had always known what to say.

  Her mind flashed back to when she was ten or eleven. She had been a lonely child, lacking in confidence. One boy in particular at school had taunted her for weeks. “Carrots, Carrots…” he had called her, making the other children laugh.

  Her mother had been a fighter. An independent-minded artist and musician, she had taught her daughter how to stick up for herself and answer back.

  Her father, a sociable, laid-back travel writer, had said she should put herself above comments like that and ignore them. It was his interest in places and people that had inspired her to be a journalist. And now they were both gone.

  She looked at her reflection one more time and then, self-consciously trying to smooth down her bouncing hair, made her way to one of the glass cubicles that surrounded the open-plan office. It had the name ‘Charles Wright: Foreign Editor’ on the door.

  Nearing sixty, Charles had the patrician looks of a senior diplomat. Rebecca was aware of his reputation for always acting cool, like the successful journalist he was; confident and unflappable. Yet, as she walked in, he slammed down the phone and threw his hands in the air.

  “Why can’t people understand that a deadline is a deadline?” As she stood there, wondering if she had chosen a good moment, he quickly regained his composure, his face relaxing into a friendly smile.

  “Rebecca. And what brings me this pleasure?” He fingered the top of his open-necked shirt to straighten the tie that was no longer there.

  She already knew it was always best to get straight to the point with Charles.

  “I’m thinking of going to North Africa. Just for a short break. I wondered if you needed anything doing? Since I’m going to be there.”

  Charles looked interested and smoothed back his silver hair. “Thinking of anywhere in particular in North Africa?”

  Rebecca sensed an opportunity. “I’m not sure yet. I might look at some Roman ruins. Can you recommend anywhere?”

  Charles pushed the phone away and gestured for her to sit down. She noticed that he was looking at her hair.

  “If you fancy going to Tunisia, there’s been an intriguing incident down in Carthage. Could make a good little piece. It seems some workers were doing some repairs at an ancient sacrificial site. Apparently a couple of them saw visions of children being sacrificed, and now they refuse to go anywhere near the place.”

  “Sounds a bit grim.”

  Charles looked her straight in the eyes. “The odd thing is – the workers who saw the visions both had red hair.”

  “Redheads – in North Africa?”

  “Sure,” said Charles. “They’re not that uncommon. Quite a few Berbers have red hair. Tell you what – we’ve got an excellent contact in Tunis. A friend of mine, Ali Benzarti – writes mostly for Le Soir. Good man – does some work for us occasionally. He mentioned the story to me when I spoke to him a couple of days ago. It’s not really his sort of thing – he’s a political correspondent. You could be just the person, if you get my drift. You might spot things other people wouldn’t. Mind you, you might have to tread carefully. Don’t want you running any personal risk or anything.”

  A look of concern flitted over Rebecca’s face.

  He laughed. “It’s okay. I’ll get Ali to meet you at the airport. He’ll look after you.”

  Rebecca made her decision instantly. “Okay. Done. I’ll sort out flights.”

  “Have fun,” said Charles, getting up to escort her to the door.

  She went straight to Syreeta’s desk, ignoring Evans’ enquiring look. “I need a coffee,” she said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Syreeta said, taking the hint. “So? What did Charles say?” she asked, as soon as they were out of Evans’ range. When Rebecca told her about Charles’ proposal, she grimaced.

  “I thought he might get you to do a nice little travel piece. But ‘children being sacrificed’ – yuk. Don’t let it spoil your holiday.”

  CHAPTER 3

  As she exited customs in Tunis Carthage airport, Rebecca was relieved to see a smart, middle-aged Tunisian approaching her. He was tastefully dressed in a pale grey checked sports jacket, a quiet blue tie and a cream silk shirt, and he exuded an old world courtesy. The scent of an expensive aftershave wafted around him.

  He took off a pair of tinted glasses as he stepped over to greet her. “Miss Burns? My name is Ali Benzarti.”

  “How did you recognise me?” she said, immediately regretting her decision to travel in jeans.

  “I spoke to Charles on the phone. He gave me a very good description of you.”

  “Did he indeed!”

  “He was actually very complimentary,” said Ali.

  When he politely took her trolley, Rebecca quickly warmed to him. Walking to the exit, they were accosted by numerous men, loudly touting taxi services. Ali politely declined them all in Arabic, until they drifted away.

  Emerging from the terminal into the brilliant sunshine, Rebecca put on her newly purchased designer sunglasses. The warmth enveloped her, and she felt a growing sense of happiness and well-being.

  Ali headed towards the car park. “You know, Charles and I were both Paris correspondents when we were young. Different newspapers, of course,” he explained. “We’re still good friends, you know. He is in good health?”

  “He seems fine. Actually, I don’t know him that well. I haven’t been working with the Metropolitan that long. I think he’s very well respected.”

  “I’m not surprised. He always got better stories than me.”

  He opened the passenger door of an old white Mercedes for her, before placing her suitcase in the boot, making sure it was firmly locked.

  The car purred towards the barrier. Once they had cleared the precincts of the airport, he turned towards her.

  “First of all, we shall go to your hotel. Tonight, we shall go out for a meal and I shall tell you what I know.” He shook his head. “I can tell you now, it is a very strange business.”

  Almost straight away, she caught sight of a large expanse of smooth water in the distance.

  “That is Lac Tunis,” said Ali. “And beyond it is the Mediterranean Sea.”

  The sunlight glinting on the water abruptly disappeared, and a drop of water fell on the windscreen. Ali switched on the wipers.

  “It’s only a light shower,” he said. “We get lots at this time of year. It will soon stop. See the rainbow?”

  A rainbow had formed high over the lake, the colours vivid and distinct. But a minute later the sky cleared, and the rainbow faded away, as rapidly as it had appeared.

  Rebecca’s hotel was in a quiet street off a broad, French colonial style, tree-lined avenue. Small and intimate, the hotel retained the Art Deco look of the 1930s, creating an air of refined decadence. Rebecca guessed that Ali had chosen it carefully.

  Ali picked her up at eight o’clock sharp, as promised. He looked immaculate in a cream suit, lilac shirt and silver silk tie.

  “You like French food?” he asked.

  “Very much,” replied Rebecca, liking the idea of any food.

  “Then we shall go to my favourite restaurant. It is not far. But first, we shall have an aperitif on avenue Habib Thameur. We can sit outside and watch the world go by for a while.”

  Ali’s world was clearly exotic. He was greeted effusively by numerous men, and one elegant woman in particular. She was sitting at an adjacent table with two Pekinese dogs and caught Rebecca’s attention. Rebecca instinctively noticed that the woman’s hands and feet were peculiarly large.

  “Ça va, Pierre?” Ali greeted her. Startled, Rebecca looked at the woman again, trying hard not to stare. Despite heavy makeup, the woman definitely had the shadow of a beard.

  Smiling, Ali directed his attention back to Rebecca. “Now, we must celebrate your
visit. I propose we have a Kir Royale.” Rebecca willingly assented.

  When the cocktails arrived, Ali raised his glass with a well manicured hand. “A votre santé.”

  Rebecca raised her glass and returned the toast.

  “First, I shall tell you what I’ve managed to find out,” he said. “Then we can relax for the evening.”

  “I like that idea,” replied Rebecca, ignoring the attentions of one of the Pekinese dogs.

  “Well, you will know that Carthage is not far from here. Just a few kilometres up the coast. Have you heard about the tophet?”

  “Is that the place where sacrifices were carried out?” she asked, remembering her chat with Charles.

  “That’s right. Sacrifice by fire. Terrible. They used to burn their victims. The site was excavated in the 1920s by the French. That’s when they found many urns containing human remains. Some were babies.”

  “Charles mentioned children being sacrificed.”

  Ali nodded. “They also found stelae. Some of these are in the Bardo Museum here in Tunis.”

  He stopped and bid “Bonsoir, Alain” to a good-looking young man passing by on the pavement.

  “Recently, the authorities have put new railings around the site. The old ones were rusting away, and they were worried about things being stolen. There are some carved stones there, just lying around the place. Not particularly interesting, but worth quite a lot.”

  Rebecca took out her notebook and pen, placing them on the table.

  Ali smiled. “You are going to quote me?”

  “I just want to remember all this,” said Rebecca. “At least I haven’t brought my tape-recorder.”

  “Thank God – I can’t stand those things,” he said. “Well, a group of workers was asked to do some overtime in the evening, to finish the job of painting the rails. There were five workers – two had red hair. They were Berbers, probably related. It was just getting dark when they started to pack up.”

  Rebecca took a large sip of her drink.

  “First of all, both the Berbers suddenly heard the sound of babies crying. Soon, the sound got louder, and there was the noise of drumming and children screaming. They say they saw the ghostly faces of the children as well. The men were terribly upset. But the odd thing is, the other three workers did not see or hear anything at all. They thought the Berbers were mad. The Berbers ran away as quickly as they could. The most remarkable thing is that all the children had red hair.”

  “Oh, Charles didn’t tell me that,” she said. “Do we know what happened to the two Berbers?”

  “They’re all right. But they absolutely refuse to go anywhere near the tophet.”

  “Do we know where they are?”

  “They’ve moved on to another excavation at the Punic ports in Carthage. There is a British archaeologist there.”

  “Could we talk to them?”

  “I’ve already arranged for us to go over there tomorrow morning. We can take the commuter train to Carthage. It takes only half an hour.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “There’s something else I should tell you about.” She looked at him expectantly. “The day after we did the story, I got a phone call. It was from a Madame Bourguiba.”

  He leant towards Rebecca. “Madame Bourguiba is French, but she married a Tunisian and stayed on after Independence when most of the French left. She is a widow now, her husband died a few years ago. He must have been quite well-off, because she still lives in an expensive part of the Medina. Recently, she told me a story about her father, a certain François Attali and his friend Paul Durand…”

  Ali proceeded to recount the extraordinary incident which had occurred in Carthage in 1921.

  He picked up his glass of Kir Royale, took a sip and put it back on the table. “One more thing I must tell you,” he said. “Monsieur Attali had red hair.”

  Rebecca looked anxious for a moment. “What happened to him? Was he badly hurt?”

  “He survived, but his face was always badly scarred. He died some years ago.”

  “How sad. How reliable is this Madame Bourguiba, do you think?”

  “I checked the archives. The story is true, exactly as she said. But there was something else, too, according to some other reports.”

  Rebecca opened her notebook.

  “Both Attali and Durand said that the moonlight was quite unusual that night. It was extremely bright – so bright that they could see the red colour of the funeral urns they had found. I personally went through the news articles from that time, and people were reporting many other strange things. Some fishermen commented on the strong moonlight as well, and also on a glow in the sky that kept changing colours. Two of them reported that their compasses had inexplicably malfunctioned, with the compass needle spinning round and round, apparently out of control. Then the needle began to point south, instead of north. It was as if the North and South Poles had switched over.

  Nothing like that had ever happened before, but the phenomenon did not last more than half an hour, and it later appeared it was just a local incident. I couldn’t find any other reports of similar occurrences outside Tunis. In the end, the meteorologists put it down to a local atmospheric disturbance.”

  “Are you saying that the events at the tophet could have been related to the abnormal meteorlogical conditions? That Attali heard babies crying and was attacked by a bird because of unusual weather? If I put that in a news story, it might raise a few eyebrows.”

  “I agree with you. It does sound bizarre,” said Ali. “But the two sets of events definitely coincided with each other.”

  As Rebecca scribbled in her notebook, Ali placed a sheaf of papers on the table. “I have made some copies of the articles for you,” he said. “They are in French, naturally, but I think you will find them very useful for your work here.”

  She glanced at them. “This is very kind. I’ll read them tonight – I do know some French.” She put them in her handbag. “Do you think we could see this Madame Bourguiba?”

  “It is already organised. I am sorry I shall not be able to come with you, but I have to cover a student protest at the university tomorrow afternoon.

  “What’s it about?” asked Rebecca.

  “They are protesting about the large amount of foreign investment here. They think we are giving away the right to control our own country, that foreigners are taking over again. I hope it doesn’t get nasty. Last time, they were throwing Molotov cocktails. Anyway, I’ve arranged for you to meet Madame Bourguiba at her house at four. She seems well-educated – her English is very good. And you will have the chance to visit the Medina.”

  “One thing,” Rebecca said. “I’d like to ask your advice. As you see, I have red hair myself. Do you think I should cover it up when I go into the Medina?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “It’s very attractive. You certainly should not cover it up. Oddly enough, I was called a ginger once – by a Cockney in a London pub. I don’t know why, because my hair is dark.” He smiled knowingly at her. “And now, would you like to eat?”

  Neither of them had noticed the tall, well-built man who had arrived a few minutes earlier and had seated himself a couple of tables away. His features were distinctly Middle Eastern with black hair, olive skin and a prominent nose. He exuded a cosmopolitan smoothness. Even in such a colourful environment, however, it was his eyes which immediately commanded the attention of those seated nearest to him. His eyes were not brown as expected, but an unusually bright green.

  CHAPTER 4

  The TGM, a little metro-type train, left Tunis and rattled its way along the causeway over Lac Tunis. It soon reached the Mediterranean coast at La Goulette and trundled up towards Carthage.

  In the morning, heading out of town, the train was quiet. Rebecca studied the station names on the map of the line in the carriage. They read like a lesson in ancient history: Carthage Salammbô, Carthage Byrsa, Carthage Hannibal, Carthage Amilcar… Her appreciation of the romance of Carthage easil
y persuaded Ali to offer to show her around the ruins.

  They were the only two people to get off at Carthage Hannibal, named after probably the city’s most famous inhabitant. She wasn’t quite sure what to expect and was agreeably surprised to find that, despite its ancient name, the whole area looked more like a smart suburban estate; green and pleasant with spacious villas surrounded by large, mature gardens. Clearly popular with the wealthier Tunisians, these luxury villas were set back from roads lined with orange trees.

  As they climbed to the top of Byrsa Hill, Ali detailed the colourful and cruel history of Carthage: the founding of the once mighty city by the Phoenicians, its sacking and then rebuilding by the Romans.

  Reaching the summit, she was delighted to see only a handful of tourists around at this time of year. Surveying the ruins with the Mediterranean hazy in the distance, her imagination ran riot, fed by Ali’s descriptions. Only when he gently reminded her that they were there to do a job did they head back to the train and the few stops to Carthage Salammbô.

  “We can walk to the Punic ports,” said Ali, as they emerged from the station. “They’re not far.” He stopped as they reached a crossroad. “We can see the tophet if you want,” he suggested, a little hesitantly.

  “I’d love to,” said Rebecca. “As long as you think it’s quite safe. I don’t want to be attacked by an evil bird, you know,” she added, with an ironic smile.

  Ali chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll be all right. It’s daylight and the sun is shining. And there’ll be other tourists around.” He was right. The other tourists included a group of voluble French.

  “To be honest, there’s not a lot to see,” explained Ali, as they walked around. “There are a few good votive monuments dedicated to Tanit, though. This sort of thing.” He patted a large stone with the sign of Tanit, like a stylised keyhole with arms carved on it.

  “Remind me,” said Rebecca. “Who’s Tanit?”

  “She was a lunar goddess, the consort of Baal Hammon, the supreme god of the Carthaginians.” He walked ahead. “Over there, there’s a sort of stone cavern with some more stelae in it.” He led her into a shadowy vault. It was empty apart from scattered stones, some of them labelled.