The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus

by Sean McLachlan

  That night they had dined on bread and ful. Despite his fear, or perhaps because of it, Faisal ate ravenously. As he ate he kept thinking of Mina.

  Hakim didn’t have any spare blankets so Faisal had to sleep on the dirt floor with only an old jute sack as a carpet. Hakim laid himself down on one side of the tomb and Faisal laid down as far away from him as possible. The baboons slept in the center of the room.

  “Do not try to unlatch the door or any of the windows,” Hakim had warned. “Baboons have very good hearing and I might not wake up in time to stop them from ripping your face off.”

  Faisal shuddered. He would end up looking like the Englishman. He wished the Englishman were here. He’d defeat Hakim and his filthy beasts in less time than it took to pick a pocket. Faisal thought he would never fall asleep that night but exhaustion finally overtook him.

  That morning he woke to a hand touching his face.

  He screamed and scrambled back, pressing himself against the wall. A baboon squatted next to him. Hakim sat on the other side of the room, contentedly smoking.

  “Pleasant dreams?” he asked.

  “Can I go now?” Faisal pleaded.

  Hakim chuckled. “Just as things are getting interesting? Oh no. I’m taking you to see some friends of mine. I think they’ll like you very much.”

  Faisal gulped. He must be talking about the Apaches. He hoped they wouldn’t scalp him or cut his head off and put it in a big stone box.

  After a breakfast of bread and dates, Hakim led him through the City of the Dead, the two baboons trotting behind like faithful dogs. At the edge of the old cemetery they met with a burly Egyptian in a filthy jellaba who took one look at Faisal, snorted, and joined them without a word.

  “His name is Abasi,” Hakim said. “He rarely talks.”

  They left the City of the Dead and moved through a better neighborhood, ending up close to the river in a warren of streets lined with a mixture of old houses and new. The people were mixed too, and included some better-off Egyptians and various Europeans. While most Europeans still all looked the same to Faisal, he had come to realize that not all were rich. Some had humble jobs, working in the shops of richer Europeans. These were the kind of Europeans who lived in this neighborhood.

  They came to a grimy building with an open entryway leading to a flight of steps. A European lounged at the entrance. Faisal could tell he was a thief and a bully. Europeans thieves and bullies looked just like Egyptian thieves and bullies. They had the same hardness to their eyes, the same way of standing that showed they were just as likely to lash out at you as to light a cigarette. Hakim led Faisal to a closed door right next to the open entryway and knocked three times, then twice. The European pointed to Faisal and said something in his language, followed by a cruel laugh. Faisal trembled.

  To Faisal’s amazement, Hakim replied back in the same European language. It didn’t sound like English, which he had heard a lot of by listening at the Englishman’s window.

  Hakim noticed him staring and smiled down at him. “Are you surprised I speak French? I was stationed in France with the Egyptian Labour Corps. I was forced to go, like so many others, but I learned so much. Just like you will learn, Faisal, even though you don’t want to be here.”

  The door opened, and a suspicious-looking European man standing inside said something to Hakim, then glanced up and down the street. He pointed at Faisal and grunted something. After a quick conversation, the European nodded and they went inside.

  They entered a low-ceiling room crowded with old, worn tables and chairs. At the back wall ran a counter and behind it several shelves filled with bottles. Faisal wrinkled his nose at the stench of alcohol that hung in the air.

  At a large round table in the center of the room sat half a dozen Europeans. Each had a glass in front of him and several half-empty bottles stood on the table.

  Despite his fear, Faisal looked at them with disgust. He hated drinkers, especially morning drinkers. His father would open a bottle before breakfast, and by the time he had finished the morning meal would be in his usual angry, slappy mood.

  These Europeans looked like they’d be a lot worse.

  One of them leaned forward and studied Faisal. He had the brown skin Europeans got once they had lived in the desert for a while. As he reached for the bottle, Faisal saw his hand and forearm were covered with thin scars. Faisal had seen those before. People got them by fighting duels with razors.

  “So what do we have here?” the man asked in Arabic.

  Hakim smiled. “My new assistant. He’s quite the little housebreaker and climber. It solves our problem.”

  “Do you trust him?” the European asked.

  “I trust his fear.”

  “Fear isn’t enough.”

  They switched to French for a minute before the man with the razor scars turned to Faisal and continued in Arabic. “My name is Edmond Depré. I speak your language because I was in a French prison in Algeria for many years, crammed in a tiny cell with inmates of your race. I learned a great deal from them, enough that once I escaped, I knew the ways of your kind. Enough to stake out territory here.”

  “You’re the ones who have been taking over the gangs,” Faisal said.

  Edmond nodded and smiled. There was no mirth or friendliness in that smile. “You’re well informed, I see. Does it bother you that a group of Europeans are taking over the streets?”

  “No,” Faisal said, hoping that was what he wanted to hear.

  “Good. Because we are like you. We are oppressed, just like you. It is the rich Europeans who you should hate. People like the English generals who run the army of occupation here. People like the police commandant.”

  Faisal repeated the words Bisam the water seller had said to him. “He’s a bad man. I’d like to slap him in the face with my sandal.”

  Edmond grinned.

  “I bet you would, but you don’t have sandals. That’s how poor they want to keep the Egyptians. Would you like some sandals, Faisal?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “And a new jellaba?”

  “OK.”

  “And some money in your pocket and food in your belly, eh? You can have all that. You deserve all that. Hakim tells me you’re the quickest, most agile little boy he’s ever seen. You were even able to get away from his baboons for a time. We can use you. We need you to do a little job, not much different than the little jobs you do every day to keep yourself alive, and you will get to strike back against the rich Europeans who have hurt you and your people. I know you hate them. All Egyptians hate them. I hate them too for the war they started and we suffered in.”

  “Rich Europeans suffered in the war too,” Faisal blurted out. He stopped before he went on. He had almost revealed that he knew the Englishman.

  To his surprise, Edmond Depré did not get angry at being contradicted. Instead he took a swig from the bottle, set it down, and said in a quiet voice, “That’s true. Yves here knows such a man. He was in the army. The stories he tells show me that I was lucky to be in prison the whole time. He tells me of a man, a rich man, who suffered worse than he did. You know what happened to him?”

  “What?”

  Edmond Depré ran a hand slowly down one side of his face. “A German shell took half his face off.”

  Faisal’s eyes went wide and he started to tremble more than before. They were talking about the Englishman!

  Edmond chuckled. “Terrible, isn’t it? Terrible enough for me to feel sorry for a rich man. There are more than a few like him. They will be valuable in the revolution to come, because they have connections, they have knowledge. They hate the European elite just as much as the working man, perhaps more. They got betrayed by their own kind.”

  “You think he will join you?” Faisal didn’t mean for it to come out as a challenge, but the idea that the Englishman would ever team up with these fake Apaches made him angry.

  “He will,” Edmond nodded. “We have watched him and know that he has come t
o hate Europe. He is always showing up the police commandant because of his hatred. He will join us when the time comes. But never mind that. The question is, will you?”

  Faisal blinked. Was he really being asked? He glanced at Hakim and the baboons. Edmond smiled.

  “Don’t be scared. I won’t let Hakim hurt you. I’m not one of those street thugs boys like you have to watch out for. The only people who have to fear me are the rich and powerful.”

  Faisal had his doubts about that.

  Edmond got a distant look in his eye. “I had a little boy once. My, he’d be a young man now. Seventeen years old. Eighteen next month. But he died of fever when he was eight. I was in prison at the time, but that cold, dank cell they put me in was no worse than the filthy tenement where he and his mother lived. Rats, fleas, mold, it’s a wonder any child can grow up in such places. He caught a fever and I had no money to send for medicine. The bastards wouldn’t let me out to see him, not even to attend his funeral.”

  Edmond slammed a fist down on the table and looked at Faisal with such fierceness that the boy almost ran for the door. It might be better to take his chances with the baboons than stay here.

  “He was a clever boy too, just like you. Yes, he was a lot like you. He already knew how to filch candies from the sweet shop to feed all his friends. I was teaching him how to pick pockets too, just like you can. Oh, I would have taught him so much.”

  “Sorry you lost your son,” Faisal said.

  Edmond looked at him. “I bet you mean that. You’ve lost family too, so you know what it’s like. But the Apaches are like a family, protecting each other from the cruel, greedy world. You can be part of that. You can have new clothes and three meals a day and a safe place to sleep. You can have money to buy the things you can’t steal. And all you have to do is deliver a message.”

  “What will that do?”

  “Help us kidnap Sir Thomas Russell Pasha.”

  Faisal’s jaw dropped. “He’s the police commandant!”

  “Exactly,” said another Frenchman in Arabic. He, too, had a deep tan. “If we take him, think what a blow it will be to the empire! All of Cairo will rise up, and we will be at the forefront of the revolution.”

  “I thought you were thieves,” Faisal said, confused.

  Edmond reached over and put a hand on Faisal’s shoulder. Faisal pulled away.

  “Silly boy. Don’t you know that theft is a revolutionary act? The rich steal from us every day, so it is only right to steal back from them. And as my comrade Vincent said, stealing the police commandant will be the most revolutionary act we’ve ever done.”

  Faisal stared at them. These people were crazy. Stealing was all right if you needed to, but they were talking like it was some big noble thing, like what Chief Mohammed did. But wait, Chief Mohammed killed and robbed from the Americans to protect his own people. Weren’t these fake Apaches trying to protect their own people too?

  No, that couldn’t be right. These people were bullies, bad people. Weren’t they?

  He decided to test them.

  “The, um, the European who lost his face. If he doesn’t join you, will you kill him?”

  “Only if he continues to fight against us. Why do you care?”

  “What if I don’t join you?”

  Hakim cut in. “Haven’t I treated you well? I could have hurt you when I had you in my house but I didn’t. And didn’t I give you money and food? What have the Europeans ever given you?”

  “You’ll pay me if I help you?”

  “Of course,” Edmond said.

  “But what if I don’t help you?”

  Vincent smiled. “Then we’ll stick you in a cage with the baboons and sell tickets so people can see what they will do to you.”

  Edmond, who seemed to be the leader, did not contradict him.

  Faisal nodded. Yes, that’s what he thought they would say.

  “Then I’ll work for you.”

  Edmond nodded. Vincent poured some wine into a glass and pushed it over to him.

  “Here you go. Now you’re one of us. Are you hungry? We’ll get you some lunch.”

  Edmond snapped his fingers and an Egyptian came in from another room with some bread and olives. He set them before Faisal and without a word left the room. After he went through the door, Faisal heard him say something to someone in the other room. Both laughed.

  Edmond gestured to the food with a grandiose wave of his hand.

  “Eat!”

  Faisal ate as the Frenchmen drank and spoke in their own language. Hakim and Abasi drank too.

  “Why aren’t you drinking?” Abasi asked, speaking for the first time.

  “I don’t like wine. It smells gross,” Faisal said.

  “Drink it,” he said. The man sounded drunk already. He sounded like Faisal’s father.

  Faisal kept on eating, hoping that if he kept quiet and didn’t look at him the Egyptian would lose interest. That had worked with his father. Sometimes.

  Abasi grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head back. With his other hand he brought the wine glass up to Faisal’s lips.

  “Drink!”

  Edmond leaped up and smashed a fist into the man’s face, sending him to the floor.

  Within an hour they were crossing the Nile in a felucca, headed for al-Rawdah Island in the middle of the river. Faisal had never been there and didn’t know anyone who had. Besides a little village of fishermen, he had never heard of there being anything else on the island.

  “You know why we’re going here?” Edmond Depré asked.

  “It’s your hideout,” Faisal said.

  The Apache leader nodded and smiled. “Clever boy. But living on the streets would make you clever, wouldn’t it? You’ll make a good Apache some day.”

  When Faisal didn’t respond, Edmond went on.

  “Of course you’re still scared of us. Perfectly reasonable considering Hakim kidnapped you. But think of it this way. You’ve slept under a roof and you’ve had three big meals in a day. When’s the last time you had that?”

  “A long time ago,” Faisal lied.

  “Exactly,” Edmond said and patted him on the shoulder, making Faisal flinch. “We are good to our friends. We’ve been on al-Rawdah Island for a couple of months now and the fishermen who live there have been enriched by our presence. Smugglers, the lot of them, and now they’re our smugglers. Oh, their village headman didn’t want to cut a deal with us, but now he’s the village headless man. The rest fell in line quickly enough, and they’re making more money than they ever imagined.”

  They reached the island and Hakim dragged him out of the boat, his fingers digging into his arm. Hakim always kept a close eye on him. The Apaches moved out ahead, scanning the shoreline for trouble. But they looked confident, only searching out of habit. This had obviously become their island.

  An Egyptian carrying a rifle emerged out of the shade of a grove of palm trees, nodded, and without a word disappeared back into the gloom.

  “I know you want to run,” Hakim said. “Try that and I’ll set the baboons on you,”

  He let go of Faisal’s arm and whistled. The baboons loped up like a pair of dogs and flanked him. Faisal shuddered and bowed his head.

  They moved through the grove’s cool shade, at times having to push their way through thick underbrush, and came to a clearing. Faisal saw a strange mosque standing at the far side. It had no building, only a short minaret with no window for the muezzin to call from.

  “You’ve taken over a mosque?” Faisal said with disbelief. If these Apaches had even taken over the religious teachers, they had more power than he suspected.

  Edmond Depré laughed. “In time, my little anarchist, in time.”

  Faisal had heard him use that term before. “What’s an anarchist?”

  “It’s a man who is free.”

  Like I was before you captured me, Faisal thought gloomily.

  An Egyptian man opened a small door in the minaret and Hakim pushed him toward
it.

  “Relax, my friend,” the Apache leader told Hakim. He put an arm around Faisal’s shoulder.

  They passed through the doorway and entered the strangest mosque Faisal had ever seen. Just inside the door they stopped on a landing. A spiral staircase went down the inside of the wall. The space in between was open like a giant well. In the lamplight Faisal could see a circle water rippling far below. A thin pillar with writing and lines on it ran from the ceiling to the water. High above, a domed ceiling was painted with calligraphy, the windows surrounding it letting in light.

  “This isn’t a mosque,” Faisal said.

  “No it isn’t,” Edmond said, squeezing his shoulder. “This is the Nilometer.”

  “The what?”

  “See these markings?”

  “I can’t read.”

  Edmond grimaced. “Of course not. Reading would allow you to get ahead in the world, and the wealthy who run your country don’t give a damn if you progress or not. In fact, they want to keep you in your place. These markings show the level of the Nile. A clever boy like you knows that the level of the Nile’s annual flooding is vital for the peasants working the land. Too little of a flood and the crops don’t grow. Too much and the fields flood. This is an old place, from a time when your people were ruled by Egyptians and not British. The Egyptian rulers would check the level to know how much they could tax the peasants. It’s not used anymore because the British will tax the peasants whether they’ve had a good crop or not.”

  “The British are bad,” Faisal said, repeating what he had heard so many adults say. “They should be kicked out of Egypt.”

  “That’s right, and you’re going to help make that happen.”

  “How?”

  “With that message you’re going to deliver.”

  “Deliver where?”

  Instead of answering, Edmond moved over to a large chest standing by one wall and opened it.

  “We have a new suit of clothes for you,” he said, holding up a clean white shirt and pantaloons, plus a green vest with red embroidery. “I even have a little fez to go with it.”

  “That looks like a servant’s uniform.”