by Anna Butler
Perhaps that was the case. Come to think on it, she had ignored Tatlock, but not favoured him with the same snake-eyed stare I garnered. She might have assumed I’d been the one to kill John. Truth be told, I’d have had no compunction about it in my own defence, but it hadn’t been my hand on the trigger. Not even morally so—that dubious honour was my father’s. Who was also John’s father and Madame Stravaigor’s estranged husband.
Internal House politics made my head ache. A man could find more kindness in a nest of angry vipers.
“Do you know, monsieur?” she persisted.
Theo stuttered out a response. “I’m afraid I have no idea where Abydos is in relation to Hermopolis, madame. I’m an accountant.”
She stared.
“My brother is the Aegyptologist. I’m not even very good at geography.” Theo added an apologetic, “Rafe may know.”
She glanced sidelong at me and made the peculiarly Gallic shrug of the shoulders which conveyed a world of disdain. “Of a certainty, he will.”
It was tiresome, but she was a mother whose only son had died. In every possible sense, I had benefited from that death. I could understand her resentment. So I smiled and said, in the kindest possible tone, “I do, indeed. Once we have completed our task, madame, allow me to take you there before I return to London.”
Well, that silenced her. She reddened under her face powder, and from then on, she glared at her lacy handkerchief and ignored me. I was content with that.
It was good to have a reminder about what I was going to change about my House. I had been forced by circumstances into being the jackal, but I didn’t need to be a viper.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The anteroom to my bedchamber was not as empty as I had the right to expect. Two soldiers stood inside, resplendent in full white trousers and scarlet jackets, and stared at Tatlock and me. I expect we wore the same nonplussed expressions as we stared back.
“His Nibs’s lot.” To give Tatlock his due, he had well-honed House guarding skills. He’d leapt to my side the instant he saw the two soldiers, hand on his pistol, but he’d refrained from committing mayhem. Quick reactions, quick wits.
I didn’t need to be told who they were. I recognised the uniform as well as he did. The door to my bedchamber was open. I walked to it, the two soldiers moving politely aside for me though never taking their gaze from Tatlock, and peered inside.
El Khawaga Pasha, the Khedive’s police chief, waited for me, dapper and elegant as ever in Western evening dress. With an enviable self-confidence and panache, he had made himself comfortable at the small tea table set before the windows. The Pasha owned this particular part of the world, and he knew it.
“Wait out here,” I told Tatlock, and went in. I closed the door in his outraged face.
The Pasha rose to greet me, shaking hands with great cordiality and the same insouciance as if we were meeting at a Palace reception rather than in this covert fashion. A carafe of coffee and two elegant coffee glasses in elaborate metal holders sat on the table in front of him, and after the initial courtesies and I’d taken the other chair at the table, he poured us each a glass of spicy kahwa bl baharat, Turkish coffee infused with cardamom.
He got down to business after the first sip. “I was sorry to hear the Gallowglass’s news when he called me yesterday. Winter has damnable luck. He rarely seems to have a digging season without some sort of incident. You have no notion of where he is?”
I was hollowed out. Empty. “No.”
“I believe he left Mr Causton in command at Hermopolis. You did not ask him when you spoke yesterday?”
“There are many links in the Marconi chain, and the Gallowglass was reluctant to say or ask too much in case unfriendly ears were listening.”
He twitched a brief smile towards me. “Oh, not all the ears are unfriendly. Indeed, this is why I am here.” He sipped his coffee, frowning, as if gathering his thoughts. Not that I was fooled. His thoughts would be precisely where he wanted them. “I am aware Winter went south, out of the country. He was very circumspect about his exact destination, but I am told he went into the Abyssinian Highlands.”
Abyssinia?
“I expect Causton can brief me.”
“Indeed.” He inclined his head. “I owe you and Winter a debt for your ridding us of the assassin, Sulayman, in Abydos two years ago. Therefore, I made some inquiries of my own. I am giving you my findings in private since I do not know the younger Winter, but I appreciate you will need to pass this on.”
“That sounds ominous.” The hollowed-out space inside me jerked and ached.
He nodded, sober as the proverbial judge, which did little to boost my confidence. “On the fifth of this month, as you Westerners count it, a steam launch went south from the Boulak wharves. It carried nine German passengers. We believe they were military gentlemen. The launch stopped at Antinoë, collected three more men—archaeologists—and continued upriver. After that, things are murky. I have people trying to confirm it reached Aswan, and, if they can, discover the whereabouts of its passengers.”
“German military.” My gut clenched as if around sharp thorns. Piercing. Jagged. It was all I could do not to gasp.
“I stress I cannot yet confirm that they are soldiers.”
“But you suspect it.”
“Yes.” He placed his coffee glass onto the table, lining it up with the coffee carafe. “Maspero tells me that a German archaeologist, Von Saxe-Eichshofen-Altenfeld, has the Antinoë concession. He wanted Hermopolis.”
Altenfeld. The footman’s son, and Friedrich Lansbach’s pupil.
“I met Altenfeld when I was here early last month. I don’t know much about him.”
“Von Meiningen, the German ambassador, did not employ him. This mission was sanctioned without the ambassador’s knowledge. My source says this archaeologist is an agent of the Kaiser’s, but not of the traditional espionage departments.”
“Hence the ambassador’s ignorance.”
“Indeed. There are factions within any court.” He favoured me with a slight smile. “Except, of course, ours. I do not permit them.”
I’d wager he didn’t.
“Von Meiningen’s residence is not as secure as he believes, and his mistress will always be willing to gossip if a trifle from Cartier or Boucheron is dangled before her eyes. A few hours ago, Von Meiningen was told by Berlin about Winter’s disappearance, the existence of the launch and its passengers, and that you were expected to arrive to lead the rescue attempt.”
“Berlin knows a lot.”
“I suspect through those unfriendly ears you mentioned. I will continue to inquire into Altenfeld’s allegiances, but the hint I had suggested someone very close to the Kaiser himself. The German chancellor perhaps. I have not been able to discover why such a man has been pretending to dig up my ancestors.”
The coffee wasn’t doing much to moisten my dry mouth. “I doubt this is about academic rivalry, or an ambitious fellow archaeologist hoping to beat Ned Winter to a prize.”
“No. This appears to be a military venture, and the archaeologist has a role in it. Your search for Winter has become complicated.”
A masterly understatement. I couldn’t even begin to comprehend what this would mean. “I was expecting the search, sir. The potential for conflict with the German Empire is something of a surprise.” I abandoned the coffee and made for the drinks tray on a nearby sideboard. I needed something stronger.
He made no protest at my imbibing alcohol, although as a good Mohammedan, he would never drink himself. “You will forgive me if I pray Allah grants it does not play out on Aegyptian soil.”
“Of course.” The Scotch tasted like nectar. “I am grateful for the information, sir. At least I’m not going into this blind. Thank you.”
He smiled and stood, retrieving his evening cloak and top hat from the bed where he’d laid them. “You will need some time to think about what this will mean. I’ll leave you now. However, I still consider myself in
your debt. If you need aid, get a message to me. I will help if I can, where I have influence. Give my regards to Winter when you find him.”
Bless the man. Not for the first time, I was grateful for friends in high places. Even friends as intimidating as the urbane Aegyptian who shook me by the hand while brushing aside my repeated thanks and gratitude, before sweeping out to gather up his two soldiers and depart.
Tatlock had likely kept his hand hovering over his pistol grips the entire time I’d been closeted with the Pasha. When the door closed behind our unexpected guest, he drew the gun. “We still on the right side of the law?”
I could only imagine what my expression told him. “Yes.”
“Bad news, though?”
“Very bad. I’ll tell you tomorrow, when I can tell Theo.” I shook my head at his raised eyebrow. “Not now. I need to think about it.”
He frowned and went to the cot in the anteroom that would be his bed for the night. He sat at semi-attention, the pistol on his knee and, after one more glance at me, fixed his watchful gaze on the door leading to the corridor. I didn’t think he’d sleep much.
I went to my luggage to fish out Herodotus. There would be very little sleep for me either. I might as well spend the night pretending to read, while all the time the cold, spiky, flash-frozen thing in my chest and gut yammered and cried its alarm and shook with fear.
Oh, Ned. What in hell have you got yourself into?
I rousted out Theo at four, as we’d agreed. I had slept very ill indeed. Perhaps I would feel better sharing the burden. Get another perspective, at least.
Theo was already up and half-dressed. Whelan and Tatlock stood guard, listening in. I sat on Theo’s bed while he shaved, and relayed the Pasha’s tale to all three of them, adding what I’d learned of Altenfeld’s history from Günter Reitz’s gossip in Cairo.
The face Theo turned to me had the greenish-white hue of a man about to sick up his toenails. Whelan looked as though he had a toothache.
Tatlock, though, sucked air in through his teeth in an unpleasant, anticipatory way. “We stopping off in Aswan?”
“Yes. For a rest, at least. Possibly overnight, depending on how long we spend at Hermopolis this morning. I can’t fly us all the way into Abyssinia in one day. Why?”
“I looked up a few places before we left London. There’s a good arms dealer on Al Meridab Street. We can stock up there.”
There were moments when I almost liked Tatlock. “Good idea.”
“What do we tell my father?” Theo’s colour was better.
“Everything we know. At least we now have a general idea where Ned might be, though not a precise destination. Ask him to speak to the Huissher about military support. That might take a day or two to arrange, so the sooner we ask, the better. As soon as we find Ned, we can give them the map coordinates.”
“I like the way you think, Rafe.” Theo rinsed the remains of the shaving lather from his face and folded the razor.
“Also, ask him to get the Huissher to give more impetus to the people working on the Berlin end, and get a message to my people there with the same instruction to find out what the Kaiser’s looking for and anything they can find on Altenfeld’s boss. Tell him to go through my finance officer.”
“A very good idea.” Theo shrugged into his jacket and stuffed his nightshirt into his valise. Whelan added Theo’s toilet things and snapped shut the locks before heaving it to the door for the porter to collect. “Listen. My father told me he’d mentioned to you that the Huissher had an agent near Hermopolis.”
“Yes, although it’s beyond me what a British agent has to spy on at a dig.”
“He gave me the name. It’s another German archaeologist. A man called Günter Reitz.”
It wasn’t laughter that escaped me then, although it must have sounded like it. Something between a choke and a whoop that had Tatlock giving me uneasy glances. I shook my head at him and forced it all back under control. I couldn’t allow too little sleep to impair me.
“I know him.”
“What do we do?” Theo asked.
“Nothing we can do, right now. If it becomes germane, then we’ll deal with it. At the moment, it changes nothing. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
I felt a momentary yearning for the innocence of five hours previously, when I’d thought all I had to worry about was a rescue. It appeared plots were thickening all over the shop.
When Theo and I clattered into the hotel lobby at four thirty, Nell and Madame Stravaigor were sitting there already, surrounded by their baggage. I wondered if they’d slept at all, or if they’d packed their belongings when they’d retired after dinner and sat in the lobby chairs all night, rigid and wide awake, staring at each other over the valises clutched on their knees, terrified to sleep in case they wouldn’t wake in time and I left without them.
Or perhaps I was impressing my own night onto them.
We ate the most cursory of breakfasts before hurrying out into the street. Our baggage and the two Stravaigor House guards went in the smaller autocar supplied by the hotel. The rest of us piled into the spacious autolandau loaned us by the Pasha. Whelan and Tatlock tossed for who sat with the Pasha’s chauffeur and who took the guard’s seat on the outside at the stern—Tatlock won, and every now and again as we drove to the aerodrome in the dim predawn, he twisted in the front seat to grin at me through the privacy glass separating the driver from the driven.
The interior of the autocar was dark, and we were silent—four people locked into their own worlds that morning, each with varying reasons for our journey. I was intent on getting started. Ned was somewhere in Abyssinia, unaware of the forces searching for him, and he needed me. Anxiety had eaten away my ability to fill the silences with small talk.
Perhaps the others were silenced, too, by anxiety or anticipation, although I couldn’t imagine what had dimmed Nell’s light. Either she really had sat up all night in the most uncomfortable chair she could find, or she didn’t like early mornings. She yawned the entire journey.
It was still dark when we reached the aerodrome. Theo took charge of settling everyone into the Brunel and used the new Marconi apparatus to speak to the Gallowglass back home, while I completed the preflight checks. I didn’t skimp on them, but I did them at a speed between a canter and a flat-out gallop. Theo interrupted me only once, to confirm his father was rousting the Huissher out of bed to lay their plans to foil Berlin’s machinations. I can’t say it gave me a real boost, but I returned to the checks with a renewed confidence. I didn’t feel quite so alone against the German behemoth.
The final task was to load the Gallowglass guards under Banger Bill’s command. They’d guarded the hangar as I worked, and on Theo’s signal they threw open the hangar doors, then ran up the steps to settle into the main passenger cabin and exchange measuring looks with Tatlock, Potts, and Glover. No bristling and posturing, so far as I could see as I locked the portal behind them, but an armed neutrality as they sized each other up. Machismo, I believe the Spanish call that strong sense of masculine pride. I could almost smell it as I headed through to the pilot’s cabin.
We left as the dawn broke open the eastern skies, turning them the same faint pink as Madame Stravaigor’s cheeks the previous night, overlaid with silver and apricot and, at the edges of the low clouds, a soft clear green. A beautiful start to what I feared would be a harrowing adventure, but Nature was in ironic mood and remained so for the entire flight as I followed the course of the Nile south. It was a perfect flying day: clear-skied with a high cloud base, and the light wind was to our stern, blowing us along with some mild turbulence when we coasted through the air thermals spiralling over some of the higher hills on the western shore.
We arrived just after nine. Still early, if I were measuring against my London life. The long, flattened area of compacted sand doing duty as an aerostrip sat at the southern edge of Hermopolis, about half a mile from the extensive ruins. The remaining members of Ned’s team waited
for us beside the strip, turning their backs and drawing scarves over their faces against the gusts of dust and sand our landing threw up. I switched off the engines before running through the main cabin to open up the portal, then raced down the steps with Theo on my heels.
Tom Causton waited with Willem Baumann. M. Archambault stood with them, his ascetic, saint’s face alive with anticipation as he stared beyond me, looking for the appearance of his beloved Marie Josèphe, known to me more formally as Madame Stravaigor.
With them were Friedrich Lansbach, who had been with Altenfeld’s expedition, and Günter Reitz.
Well, well, well.
“God alone knows what those two want.” Tom Causton jerked a head towards them. “Friedrich has more excuse, since normally he’d be here with us anyway. But I have no idea why Günter Reitz came along with him. Anyhow, they turned up about an hour ago, both wanting to talk to you when you arrived.”
“They knew we were coming?”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Pretty havey-cavey, as you Englishmen would say.”
Yes, indeed. The plots were so thick, a man could walk across the Nile on them and not get his feet wet.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Causton, Theo, and I held a quick consultation on our walk to the expedition tents. We divided our forces—Baumann would socialise with our German visitors for an hour while Causton and Archambault, once the latter was prised from Madame Stravaigor’s clutching arms, would take us into the excavation site to show us what had sparked Ned’s side trip.
Madame Stravaigor went to make herself at home in Archambault’s tent, and Causton gathered us around him. “This is a mess of a place. As you can see, most of the ancient structures are gone. The portico was all that was left of the temple, and it was destroyed about eighty years ago. Would you believe the stones were used to construct a sugar factory? That lot”—he waved a dismissive hand at a set of columns level with us, to our right—“is Romano-Hellenistic and is still standing because the Christians co-opted it as a basilica. I know what made Ned so keen on the place, but honestly, I could have shot him when I saw it.”
