The King's Egg

By Clive Strutt

The former SAS man turned probation officer little realised what was in store for him when he visited a dying prisoner – a former friend and confidant of the late King Farouk of Egypt – a visit that would change his destiny and send him on an action-packed Mediterranean sailing quest to recover priceless treasure once owned by the deposed King. Dogged by political intrigue, the mafia, and conspiratorial allies, this life-changing venture not only had the potential to make him very rich, but also forced him to come to terms with his long-term relationship with the only woman who had ever meant anything to him. The fabulous Fabergé Egg was his quarry, finding it was imperative – but at what cost?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clive Strutt
• Release date: Mar 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476283739

Clive Strutt

Clive Strutt has worked as a journalist, photographer, and a probation officer. He and his wife Maggie gave up their salaried jobs when in their forties to go on a seven year cruise in their Vancouver 32 sailing boat – Minden Rose – which they fitted out themselves from a bare hull. Both he and Maggie contributed to the yachting press – Clive was the Mediterranean correspondent for Yachting World for most of their cruising life. They live in Suffolk, England, and travel worldwide contributing articles on their experiences.

Book preview

The King’s Egg

A novel by Clive Strutt

This novel is based partly on researched historical fact. The main plot and storyline are entirely fictional.

Published by Clive Strutt at Smashwords

Copyright: Clive Strutt. 2012

Dedication

To my wife Maggie: my soul mate, sailing buddy, travelling guru,

photographer, copy editor, researcher, linguist, and my best pal.

"Taught by care, the patient man and wife

Agree to share the bittersweet of life".

George Crabbe (1754-1832)

CHAPTER ONE.

Heavy rain lashed the windscreen, mercifully blurring my view of the grimy red brick wall that surrounds the drab Victorian blockhouses of Norwich Prison. Turning off the engine I lingered in the cosy warmth of the car: the windows quickly misted over. Headline news on the car radio told of gale force winds creating havoc all over the British Isles – the weather gods were not happy at the debut of the ‘90s.

Opening the green document file lying on the front passenger seat, I removed a letter received this morning from Francesco Marchise – a sixty-three year old inmate. Unfolding the blue-lined prison notepaper, I read it again. It was the contents of the last page that made me hastily rearrange my day.

‘...I have been told I do not have much longer to live. I’m not frightened by death; in fact I welcome the peace it will bring me. Since my wife was killed, my daughter is all I have left; she means everything to me. She has dominated my thoughts during the past two weeks since the doctors told me about my terminal illness. Mr Fane, there are things I wish to discuss with you concerning her future. I have no one else I can talk to. I tell you this because I feel there is a special kind of friendship and trust that has developed between us during the past twelve months, and I must confide in you about matters of great importance to my daughter. Can you visit me as soon as possible, it is very necessary, and time is running short..."

Replacing the letter in the envelope, and wiping the windscreen clear of condensation with the palm of my hand, I sat in silent reflection, marshalling my thoughts about a man for whom I’d developed a good deal of respect during the preceding months.

Franco – as he prefers to be called – was serving a three-year sentence for causing death by reckless driving. He admitted being drunk when he lost control of his car when it mounted the pavement and severely injured a male pedestrian, who later died in hospital without regaining consciousness. Franco hadn’t stopped. A witness took his registration number and the police quickly traced the car to him. He was arrested the next day.

Evidence was strong. Car damage and blood samples found on the vehicle were consistent with its having collided with the victim; the only fingerprints on the steering wheel were Franco’s. He didn’t resist when arrested, denying any recall of the accident, due, he admitted, to the amount of alcohol he had consumed. His only defence was that he’d been drowning his sorrows after feeling depressed about the death of his wife some eighteen months before, ironically from a hit and run driver. This plea did not impress the sentencing judge.

He was serving his time with quiet resignation, and was popular with both staff and fellow inmates. Every spare moment was given over to writing his memoirs – something he told me he’d always wanted to do. His daughter Katrina, whom I’d never met, had twice visited her father in prison, making the journey from her home in Switzerland. Franco hadn’t spoken much about his daughter, saying only that she was the most important person in his life.

While he was on bail awaiting trial I visited him in his small rented flat to prepare a report for his Crown Court hearing. I never really got to know much either about his past, or about him personally during these initial contacts. He came across as a very private person, telling me only what he wanted me to know. Since being sentenced he has talked more about himself, and of his earlier life when he walked side by side with some of Europe’s most glamorous and sought-after socialites, of dining in top class restaurants, staying in the best hotels, playing with the rich in the most exclusive casinos. He never elaborated on how he came to be mingling in these dazzling circles. He would simply shrug and say in answer to my curiosity, one day you will know – when the time is right.

His natural, relaxed, worldly aura made everything he said believable; it was easy to picture him being equally relaxed in the company of dukes or dustmen. Possessing a charismatic personality that exuded charm, he had eyes that spread laughter as he spoke, an expressive face that radiated his mood and affected those around him – one moment it could be alight with fun and a zest for living, the next sombre with tear-filled eyes as he talked about his late wife – upon whose memory he doted.

‘Well, dear Franco, perhaps you have now decided the time is right to tell me more?’ I said aloud to myself as I replaced the letter in the open folder beside me.

‘Let’s go and find out, Fane me old lad.’

Holding up my coat collar to shield my face from the cold driving rain, I quickly walked towards the entrance. The usual dose of hot sweats and cold shivers made a lie of my outward appearance of inner calm as I approached the prison gate. ‘Experts’, claiming to know about these things, tell me it’s due to ‘an unresolved psychological aftermath of a traumatic experience’. I put it down to a little problem I endured in some God-forsaken land ten years ago, when I found myself regaining consciousness in a place of incarceration that was the closest thing to hell that I’ll ever want to experience again.

I rang the bell beside the large wooden entrance gate. A prison officer on duty opened a smaller inset ‘priest’ door. Handing him my probation pass, I told him whom I’d come to see. He beckoned me through to the enclosed courtyard, and then went to the small reception kiosk to telephone the hospital wing. Having received confirmation that I was booked in, he unlocked the steel gate to the main building and accompanied me to the medical wing.

A white-coated medical orderly was sitting at the reception desk. He acknowledged me only by raising his eyebrows.

‘You’re booked in sir. Check in with Senior Officer Cartwright on your way up.’

With the metallic clatter of keys in locks, he let me through the main gate, and I made my way unaccompanied to the office of Brian Cartwright, the senior prison medical officer. I knocked on his glass-panelled door. He was in the middle of a phone call, but with a sweep of his hand gestured me to come in and sit down. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

‘Be with you in a sec, Fane.’

I’ve been answering to ‘Fane’ – my surname – ever since I joined the Army. My Christian name is Sebastian, which, to my intense embarrassment, was always pronounced by my mother with particular emphasis on the first syllable; she thought it sounded rather grand. The fights I got into because of that damned name were probably more instrumental in teaching me to stand up for myself during my childhood than anything else I can remember. I couldn’t wait to drop it. Only the Inland Revenue’s immutable database insists on addressing me by it these days.

His call finished, Cartwright turned to me with a concerned look on his face.

‘You know Franco’s very ill with lung cancer?’ he said, getting straight to the point.

I nodded. ‘How serious?’ I asked.

‘Like... he’s probably only got a few weeks left – if he’s lucky,’ he replied, absent-mindedly tapping his note pad with the end of his pencil.

‘We suggested he applied for early release on compassionate grounds: at least he could die with some dignity outside prison. He refused; wants to die here, says there’s nothing left for him on the outside.’ Cartwright shrugged and raised his eyebrows in bewilderment that anyone should choose to die in prison.

‘There’s a limit to how much care we can give him if he gets too bad,’ he continued.

‘But we’ll keep him for a bit longer and see how things go. So far he seems reasonably happy and comfortable.’

‘Has his daughter visited recently?’ I asked.

‘Two weeks ago: but he’s told her not to visit again. He was quite adamant about that.’

‘He seemed very keen for me to visit.’

Brian smiled.

‘You’ve built up quite a relationship with that man, haven’t you Fane? He’s let slip one or two things you’ve told him about yourself, things that few other people seem to know.’ He hesitated, not sure how to continue with this line of conversation. I sensed what was coming.

‘I knew you were a serving officer in the Paras... Had no idea you did a spell with the SAS though...Got a gong or two as well I understand...What the hell made you end up as a Probation Officer of all things?’

I grinned and shrugged my shoulders. I’ve never felt comfortable talking about my military past – especially with those unconnected with the events of the time – but for some reason Franco had been the exception: Not only did I feel relaxed sharing snippets of my life with him, I enjoyed talking with him.

‘It’s a satisfying job being a Probation Officer, Brian, it’s as simple as that. Perhaps I should go and see Franco now,’ I said rather dismissively.

‘Take as long as you like Fane, I’ve arranged for you to have the doctor’s room – it’s free all day. If there’s anything I can do, just give me a shout.’

I walked down the long echoing corridor that reeked of over-cooked cabbage and pine disinfectant. I reached the main hospital dormitory. Franco was standing outside his ward door with a big smile on his face. News travels fast in prisons; the internal grapevine had already alerted him to the fact that I was in the building.

‘Hello Mr Fane, it’s so good to see you.’

I was taken aback by his appearance. He’d lost weight since I’d last seen him. His pale sunken features were in stark contrast to the chubby-faced man I’d visited only a few weeks ago. I shook his hand and placed an arm around his shoulder.

‘It’s good to see you again Franco. I came as soon as I got your letter.’

We walked in silence towards the vacant office at the far end of the ward. It was a small room, normally used by visiting medics, with a nicotine stained glass partition separating it from the ward. The furnishings were spartan, just a well-used desk and two tired looking chairs. The paint on the walls was scarred and discoloured by brown sticky tape that once held notices in place; one dog-eared poster still remained – warning of the Aids virus. I removed the more comfortable looking of the two chairs from behind the desk and beckoned Franco to use it, placing the other next to his.

‘I have much to tell you Mr Fane, too much to say in one day,’ he said, pausing for breath. The strength-sapping walk along the corridor had taken its toll. The ashen skin on his face was paper-thin and ballooned in and out when he breathed.

‘So… I will speak only of the things you need to know... you will discover later.... other things.’

His excellent English, spoken with an Italian accent, was engaging, and compensated for the false impression of abruptness his clipped delivery tended to give. In spite of inviting him to do otherwise, he’d always insisted in addressing me as mister Fane.

‘Mr Fane, I want you to know...I have never misled you. There have been some things I did not tell to you, but I have never told you an untruth, except...except ...for one thing.’ He coughed – a nervous dry cough that obviously pained him as he held his chest.

‘I was not drunk on the night I killed that man. I killed him…in sober...calculated ... cold blood. That bloody murdering Mafia bastard got everything he deserved,’ he exploded.

‘The night he died…I became a happy man. I was free…I knew my wife’s death had been avenged. I didn’t care what happened to me...all that mattered...was ...’ His voice tailed off, choked into silence before he broke into tears.

I put my hand on his shoulder, he sobbed like a baby. The suddenness of his outburst had taken me by surprise.

‘He died the way he killed my wife,’ he said softly with regained composure.

‘That bastard...Gino Lapito...he murdered my wife, Mr Fane. It was no accident, she was murdered...by that bastard man.’ Although there was still venom in his voice, his tone was more calm and deliberate.

‘When I drove at him I saw the look on his face just before the car struck him. I knew he recognised me behind the wheel – just as my wife must have recognised him the instant before she died. I shouted with joy as I hit him Mr Fane...God was I happy, so really happy. The last thing he saw in this world was my face full of happiness.’ His recall gave vent to his loathing of the man.

Without invitation a prisoner came shuffling in carrying two mugs on a battered tin tray.

‘Mr Cartwright asked me to bring you these,’ he grudgingly announced, putting the tray on the table. He left, looking straight-ahead, zombie like and totally expressionless.

We sat in silence for a while, he clearly grateful for the chance to regain his breath, and a chance for me to gather my thoughts.

‘I’m sorry Mr Fane. I didn’t plan it this way. I wanted to lead up to this gently, but somehow it just came out. I needed to...how you say? ...get it off my chest.’

‘I think you’d better start from the beginning, Franco,’ I suggested.

He nodded slowly.

‘I will tell you as much as I can, everything is true, I have nothing to hide,’ he said, almost in a whisper.

Clasping his hands in front of him, he leant forward and gazed down at the floor. He raised his head, his face laden with tension. He stared blankly at the wall opposite, then took a deep breath.

‘As you already know, I’m Italian, but born in Egypt into a wealthy and influential family. My childhood was happy, and I was well taken care of. We had many servants in our house, and a large number of workers employed on our cotton-growing estate. I was – I suppose – a spoilt brat of a child, and became even worse as a teenager. I didn’t want to work, I was only happy when I was having fun – shooting – riding – hunting. All I wanted was to enjoy life, to be happy and carefree.’ He turned to face me.

‘You understand what I’m saying Mr Fane?’

I nodded.

‘My father died when I was very young, and my uncle took over as my mentor. As I got older he didn’t know what to do with me. I wouldn’t work, I was a lazy bastard.’ His face lit up with a roguish grin at this recollection.

‘It so happened that my uncle had influential friends. There is no need to go into detail, but it is enough to say that I was introduced to the then young King Farouk, who had occupied the throne of Egypt since the age of sixteen. He was ten years older than me, but we became great friends. We hunted, we sailed, we gambled, we womanised, we went racing; together we had a good time.’ His expression changed and he looked earnestly into my eyes.

‘But I will tell you, I was never allowed to become involved with politics or affairs of state; he excluded me from all of that. I was his play-friend with whom he relaxed, with whom he could have fun and lead a normal life away from pressures imposed by the monarchy. I was his companion, with me he could escape from his tedious official life.’

He paused to catch his breath.

‘He was a wonderful, generous man. I loved him like my own brother. I would happily have died for him. He was the last great Pharaoh, and universally liked by his people. In the end he was treated so badly, the politicians and the military just kicked him out of Egypt – they say he abdicated, but he had no option – he either went or they would have killed him.’ His eyes took on a watery glaze as he shrank into unhappy reflection. Clearing his throat, he continued,

‘The King went into exile in Rome. He lived in great style, but attracted bad press wherever he went. He was only ever photographed when a woman was at his side – and there were plenty of those; or else he was plagued by stories about how much money he lost at the world’s casinos. He was a natural and easy target for the press. Those close to him knew the real man, he wasn’t the way the news media portrayed him. He fell prey to anyone cunning enough to exploit him; and hundreds did. Believe me Mr Fane, I know; I watched as people grovelled to seize whatever rich pickings they could.’

He fell silent again. His sunken eyes served only to mirror the anguish of his inner scream as he struggled with both conscience and the memories from the past.

‘I suppose I was as guilty as anyone’. He fixed a meditative stare into infinity.

‘It just didn’t seem that way at the time. I had no wish to take from him, I never asked for anything; he gave me whatever he thought I might like.’

He looked at me for reassurance.

‘You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you Mr Fane?’

I gave him a comforting nod.

‘Anyhow, I must cut a very long story short and get to the point.’ He took several more deep breaths before continuing.

‘One of the happiest days in my life was when the King invited me to a private dinner party while he was staying in Monaco. He introduced me to this beautiful girl, Maria, the daughter of a Greek banker. She was every man’s dream of what a woman should be, elegant, sophisticated, and so captivatingly attractive that everyone turned to look as she entered a room. I fell helplessly in love with her, and courted her vigorously until she agreed to marry me.’ His voice became more animated as he spoke about her.

‘Shortly after we married, she gave birth to a baby girl. She was a beautiful baby’, he said tenderly, ‘as pretty as her mother, with large dark eyes and jet-black hair. The King was besotted by her, and was embarrassingly generous. He endowed money for her education, and presented her with a very special gift to celebrate her first birthday – a Fabergé Egg, one of the most prized treasures from the King’s private collection.’

He paused, looking at me, and asked,

‘You know about Fabergé Eggs, Mr Fane?’

I nodded, although my knowledge was limited. I knew they were priceless objets d’art, resembling gem-encrusted Easter-eggs, made by a jeweller called Fabergé.

Satisfied, he carried on.

‘This was an extravagant example of the skill of that great Russian jeweller, who created his masterpieces only for the collections of the wealthiest people in the world. This one was covered in priceless gems, making it one of the most sought-after collectors’ pieces. The Egg, together with the deed of gift to my daughter, was placed in my father-in-law’s bank in Athens for safe custody, to remain there until her twenty-first birthday, after which she would be free to choose what to do with it.’

He leaned back as he took a deep breath, and then slumped forward, shaking his head gently from side to side in a despairing gesture of incredulity.

‘Shortly after he made this generous gift, the King died in a seedy restaurant in Rome where he was dining alone. Natural causes they said...From excesses was the official line. But I tell you Mr Fane, to my last breath, I will maintain he was murdered – poisoned.’

He put his hands together, prayer-like, searching for words to explain something he clearly found extremely distressing.

‘But that’s another story... best left for now,’ he said despondently.

‘When Katrina reached her twenty-first birthday, a decision needed to be made about what to do with the Egg. She took professional advice, and word soon spread about the generous gift she had received from the King. Suddenly everyone seemed to know about Katrina’s Egg. A valuation was undertaken, and it was assessed, conservatively, at a staggering one and a quarter million pounds. In auction, we were told, it could fetch as much as twice that figure.’ He looked at me with renewed intensity to reinforce what he had just said, and repeated,

‘Twice that figure! It’s unbelievable Mr Fane, quite unbelievable.’ He sighed, and again shook his head.

‘Since then.... that bloody Egg has been the cause of all our troubles ... I had no idea how much pain it would bring.’ My attention was now riveted.

‘We lived in a grace and favour house near Rome, granted to us by the King as a wedding present. We didn’t own it; we just lived there. It was a beautiful house. One evening, shortly after the valuation had been done, we had a visit from a well-known Rome businessman – a certain Carlo Testoni – a very rich and powerful man, a mafia man, and not a person to cross. I knew him Mr Fane; I knew who he was and what he was like. He then told me this crazy story. He claimed that he and the King had been playing the tables one night shortly before the King’s death. The stakes had been high and the King’s luck was down, and he had put up the Fabergé Egg as ante to wipe off the night’s earlier losses. The table was crowded with onlookers – his mafia friends – all of whom, he said, had witnessed the bet and would be willing to testify to that effect. Needless to say, he claimed the King lost to him that night.’ Franco sighed deeply.

‘The King’s gift to Katrina was made years before: we have the deed of gift to prove that. So either the King gambled away something he no longer owned – and Mr Fane, I have reasons for believing he would never do that to Katrina – or, and this is almost certainly the way it was, Carlo Testoni invented the whole bloody story to make a false claim to Katrina’s priceless treasure.’

He furrowed his brow into a look of intense and determined thought.

‘Of course I rubbished his claim to the Egg, we knew that the deed of gift was proof of ownership. That bloody bastard then offered Katrina a sum of money – about fifty thousand pounds – for, as he put it, compensation for her disappointment. I ask you, would he have done that if he’d had a genuine claim to it?’ He looked across at me expecting a reply. I gave a non-committal shrug.

‘His offer was of course ridiculous, totally unacceptable, but it became obvious he was determined to get the Egg, no matter what he had to do.’ He looked down at his bony hands clenched tightly together on his lap.

‘He started making threats; we knew he would stop at nothing to have it. Life became very difficult for us: all the time we were followed and watched. Then the intimidation began. My car was set on fire outside our house; windows would be broken in the middle of the night.’ He became agitated.

‘Then I received a phone call to say that unless we co-operated, our daughter’s safety would be at risk. That was a bad time for us – a really bad time. We took this harassment for a while longer before it became unbearable; eventually we left our lovely house and fled to England. It was Katrina’s wish to remain in Switzerland where she had been living for the past few years – we all thought she would be safer in hiding there.’

He took a deep breath and swallowed hard. With a faltering voice he continued,

‘You see Mr Fane… to put you completely in the picture… after the King died my lifestyle changed. I needed to work, my job was badly paid – but it didn’t matter, we’d been happy. When we had