The Case of the Golden Greeks

by Sean McLachlan

  If only this job didn’t involve getting shot at …

  “Hello!” a voice chirped from the other end of the street.

  Moustafa’s hand thrust into his pocket for his gun, but then he saw it was only Faisal.

  The boy paced them on the other side of the street. He still clanked and rattled as he walked.

  “Now what are you up to?” Moustafa snapped. “Planning on destroying more property?”

  “No, just seeing how you’re doing.”

  “And sniffing around for your payment, I’m sure.”

  Faisal pretended like he had just remembered that. “Oh, right! I need ten piastres for breaking into the house and another piastre because I had to pay the shoeshine boy.”

  Mr. Wall reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. When Faisal remained on the other side of the street, he said, “Well, come on over here and get it.”

  Faisal glanced at Moustafa. “Can you throw it over here?”

  “Whatever for?” Mr. Wall asked.

  “Because if I go over there, Moustafa will turn me upside down and shake out everything from my pockets.”

  Moustafa grunted. The boy may be ignorant, disrespectful, and utterly lacking in religion, but he was not stupid.

  Mr. Wall laughed, a true laugh this time, and tossed the coins across the street. Faisal snatched them out of the air.

  “Now what are we doing?” the boy asked.

  “Going home and going to sleep,” Mr. Wall said. “After that, we’re meeting with the chief of police. Want to come along?”

  “Nope,” Faisal said, turning into an alley and disappearing. “I’ll check on you later, Englishman,” his voice said, fading away. “I know you’ll need me.”

  The next day, Moustafa sat sipping tea in a European cafe with Mr. Wall and the chief of police. He would rather be anywhere than there. Firstly, he was the only Soudanese in the place who wasn’t serving drinks, and secondly, he had to sit with a murderer.

  Sir Thomas Russell Pasha had a dim view of the independence movement. When there were mass demonstrations earlier in the year protesting the lies the English had told the Egyptian people, the police had replied with truncheons and gunfire.

  And what justification was there for that? During the war the English had used Egyptian labor, Egyptian crops, and Egyptian cotton. A million Egyptians had worked in Europe for the war effort, and many had died of diseases or artillery fire. Egypt had been promised a seat at the table at Versailles, and the chance to negotiate for independence. Instead the independence leaders had been arrested and the protestors attacked.

  The English always talked about fair play, but they really only meant fair play among themselves.

  Moustafa focused on what the killer with the respectable title was saying.

  “So we arrested Ainsley Fielding last night. One of my men shadowed him and caught him meeting with three other officers of the Geographical Association. With them was a ledger enumerating their affairs. It turns out they were funding expeditions to perform illegal excavations in out of the way places, then selling the artifacts on the antiquities market and splitting the profits. The expeditions got funding plus access to the society’s maps and field reports, making them much more efficient than your usual grave robbers.”

  “I assure you they didn’t sell me anything,” Mr. Wall said.

  Mr. Wall never bought antiquities that didn’t have a proper provenance and he always turned away the many shady dealers who came calling. Mr. Wall frowned on the illegal antiquities trade. He didn’t have an issue with selling fakes to the shallower members of the buying public, however.

  Neither did Moustafa. The idiots who wanted a New Kingdom sarcophagus as a flowerbed for their garden got what they deserved.

  Sir Thomas took a sip of his tea. “I never dreamed that you would do business with such people, my good man. It seems that the late Professor Harrell had learned of this operation and threatened to go to the police. The culprits feared he had already told other members of the society, so they murdered him in public, both to silence him and intimidate the others.”

  “But the actual killer is still at large,” Mr. Wall said.

  Sir Thomas shook his head and smiled. “No, and this is where it gets interesting. We caught a man standing guard, and what a strange sentinel he was. A South American native, no doubt brought back by Fielding. And you shall never guess what he had on him.”

  “A blowgun and poison darts,” Mr. Wall said.

  “Indeed.”

  “But the man we’re hunting is an Egyptian.”

  “You and your servant didn’t get a good look at him, you said so yourself.”

  Moustafa rankled at being called a servant, but kept his mouth shut. There was no use trying to tell this boil on the toe of a camel anything.

  “We didn’t get a good look at him,” Mr. Wall said. “Faisal did.”

  The policeman’s brow furrowed. “Who’s Faisal?”

  “The beggar boy.”

  Sir Russell laughed. “Really now, you don’t believe him, do you? He was just looking for a handout. Didn’t you hear how vague he was? I say, Sir Augustus, I think you’re going a bit too native.”

  “There’s more to this gang than you’ve caught,” Mr. Wall replied, an edge to his voice the police chief either didn’t notice or chose to ignore.

  “That’s true enough. At least one of the gang got away. Someone killed three servants in Fielding’s house last night and made off with the silverware.”

  “You just can’t get good help these days,” Mr. Wall said. “You said Professor Harrell seems to have learned about the operation. You don’t know that for sure?”

  “No. The criminals are keeping their mouths shut and have hired good solicitors. Not good enough to keep them out of prison, but we’re going to have a devil of a time finding out who those anonymous donors are. At least we’ve broken up their operation.”

  “So it had nothing to do with the professor’s excavations in Bahariya Oasis?” Moustafa asked, remembering the maps and notes.

  The chief of police laughed and said in a voice dripping with condescension, “Goodness no. Why should it? But you did very well chasing after the murderer and gained us a vital clue. Your master must be very proud of you.”

  Moustafa missed whatever the son of a dog said next because through a red haze he was having a vision of taking the teapot and shoving it up one of Sir Thomas’s orifices and out through another. By the time he recovered his senses, the illegitimate son of a pimple on a baboon’s bottom had gotten to his feet.

  “So case solved. Thank you for your help, Sir Augustus. A pleasure as always.”

  And then he was gone.

  Mr. Wall turned to Moustafa. “There’s more to this than he’s seeing.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him about the maps, boss?”

  “Should I have?”

  “No, boss.”

  Mr. Wall laughed. “Because we would have to admit how we got them, eh?”

  That and we wouldn’t get to do whatever it is you’re planning.

  “So, Moustafa, how would you like to do a little exploring? It requires a bit of a trip, but you’ll get danger pay the entire time.”

  “Would this trip involve going to Bahariya Oasis, boss?”

  “It would indeed.”

  “Those papers do make it look like Fielding and the others were mixed up with Harrell more than they admitted.”

  “And if they aren’t admitting it, that’s because there are more conspirators still at large. I’d like to find out what they’re hiding.”

  Moustafa smiled. One of Mr. Wall’s best traits was that he liked to show up the chief of police.

  Moustafa enjoyed that too.

  And he liked seeing parts of Egypt he had never visited, and exploring ancient temples and tombs no one had seen for thousands of years.

  Damn that man. He’d yank him out of his comfortable family life without a second thought and drag him ha
lfway across the Western Desert to face an unknown situation that would certainly involve risking his life. And yet Moustafa could never say no. Moustafa had always looked to the horizon. Even when he was a little boy in his village in the Soudan he had always listened to the marabouts when they told tales of their travels. When he had turned sixteen he had left his village to see the world. He had traveled to Khartoum, worked on excavations in the Soudan, and eventually made his way all the way north to Cairo.

  But he’d never been deep into the Western Desert.

  Just the thought of it stirred his imagination. Unlike the Europeans, he did not romanticize the desert. It wasn’t mysterious or alluring, it was harsh and dangerous. But what lay beyond, now that was interesting. The oases were terra incognita to most Egyptologists. They dismissed them as peripheral areas lacking in importance. Professor Harrell was the first researcher to do any systematic excavations.

  What he had found was enticing—a rich tomb with mummies from the Greco-Roman period. And Alexander the Great himself had probably passed through there. Moustafa wondered about that temple to him, no doubt a grandiose monument to a great leader. He’d like to see it.

  He’d like to see something most of those arrogant European researchers had never seen, and learn some things they did not know.

  Perhaps he could write another journal article. His first article, written under an English pseudonym since they would not consider an article from a Soudanese, would come out in a month’s time in the Journal of Egyptian Archaeology.

  Yes, another article would be a good idea. What had the editor said in his acceptance letter?

  May I congratulate you on such a fine study. You have a most promising career ahead of you.

  Those words looked so beautiful they could have been written in gold.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Mr. Wall said.

  Moustafa looked at him. “It will be a long and dangerous trip. Neither you nor I have ever crossed the Western Desert. Neither of us know what to expect.”

  He saw a glint in Mr. Wall’s eyes. “And that’s precisely why you want to go.”

  Moustafa smiled ruefully. Why had God ordained that the only European who truly understood him had to be a complete madman?

  CHAPTER NINE

  “You want me to go where?”

  The Englishman was out for his usual evening walk, leaning on his cane because he had gotten injured in the leg. Faisal had spotted him and tagged along, hoping he was going somewhere interesting. That was when the Englishman told Faisal he had a new job for him. Faisal didn’t know if this Bahariya place was interesting or not, because he had never heard of it.

  “It’s an oasis in the desert. The killer has probably fled there, along with his associates. I’d like you to come along because you are the only one who saw the killer’s face. I need you.”

  Faisal smiled. The Englishman was one of the only people who really appreciated him. And why shouldn’t he? Hadn’t he helped him more times than he could count? He even did things for the Englishman that he didn’t know about, like protect the house from djinn and robbers and pour his alcohol into the sink when he was sleeping.

  But then Faisal thought of something that didn’t make him feel so good.

  “Is it far?”

  “Yes, quite far.”

  “Will we have to cross the desert?” Faisal asked, looking around at all the houses. He’d only been to the edge of the desert a few times. It had felt strange not being surrounded by buildings.

  “I see no other way to get there unless you have a flying carpet.”

  “Not even you have enough money to buy that kind of magic. The desert is dangerous. There are sandstorms and bandits and djinn and—”

  The Englishman stopped and rapped his walking stick on the cobblestones impatiently.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that djinn don’t exist?”

  “I’ve seen them!”

  “Where?”

  In your house.

  When Faisal didn’t answer, the Englishman went on.

  “We will travel with a caravan. I’m getting Moustafa to arrange it. They travel between Cairo and Bahariya all the time. We’ll be perfectly safe.”

  “Nothing is perfectly safe with you, Englishman.”

  The Englishman let out one of his long, strange laughs and started walking again. Faisal paused before following. He didn’t like it when the Englishman laughed like that.

  He noticed the Englishman was still limping badly, even though the fight had been two days before.

  “Does your leg still hurt?”

  “It’s nothing. Didn’t you know I’m immortal? No bullet can kill me. No artillery shell either.”

  Faisal gulped. It had been a German cannon that had taken half the Englishman’s face off.

  “What does Moustafa say?” Faisal asked.

  “About what?”

  “About going to this oasis.”

  “He is in complete agreement.”

  Faisal had his doubts about that.

  “What does he say about me coming along?”

  “I haven’t yet told him.”

  That’s what Faisal thought.

  Karim the watchman rounded the corner, a grumpy old man with a big cudgel who kept an eye on the neighborhood at night. He liked to give Faisal beatings when he could catch him, which wasn’t often.

  Karim scowled at Faisal. Faisal scowled at Karim.

  “Is this filthy urchin bothering you, sir?”

  “Not at all. Have a good evening,” the Englishman said as he passed him by.

  Karim stopped and turned in astonishment. Faisal thumbed his nose at him, then ran to get the Englishman between him and Karim.

  “So how much will you pay me?”

  “I was wondering when we’d get to that.”

  “I’ll be very helpful.”

  “I have no doubt you will be. We still need you to identify the killer, after all. How about a piastre a day?”

  “Is that what Moustafa makes?”

  “No, of course he makes more.”

  “Why of course? I’m more helpful than he is!”

  “He has a family to support.”

  “But I do more for you,” Faisal whined. “Besides, I need to pay for a—”

  Faisal stopped himself. He had almost told him that he needed to pay for a charm to protect himself from the desert djinn. But if he told him that, the Englishman would never hand over the money. Faisal would make good money hawking that silverware, but that was stolen money and couldn’t be spent on magic. Khadija umm Mohammed said so and she knew absolutely everything about magic.

  “What do you need to buy? If you’d like my recommendation, I’d suggest some soap.”

  “Why?” Faisal asked, scratching himself.

  “Never mind.”

  “I, um, need to buy some wood for the shelter I live in with the other boys.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t steal some. That’s what you do with everything else.”

  “Oh, there are no houses being built where I live. We’d have to carry it a very long way and someone would take it from us.”

  “Hm, I suspect Moustafa would say you are lying. But I will consider it a sign-on bonus.”

  Faisal didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded like he’d get the money.

  “Wood is very expensive,” Faisal said hopefully.

  “Of course it is. How about ten piastres?”

  “Better make it twenty. The shack is pretty big,” Faisal said, checking that Karim was still walking away. If the watchman saw the Englishman handing him money, there was no telling what he might say.

  “Twenty it is,” the Englishman said, handing it over. Faisal looked at it, surprised. He thought he’d have more of an argument. “Now we have a deal, don’t we? You’ll come across the desert with us and help us find the man with the blowgun.”

  “The what?”

  “That tube you saw him with that you thought was a flu
te. He blew into that to shoot a poison dart to kill another Englishman.”

  “Oh. Will he shoot that at us?”

  “He might.”

  Faisal’s young mind tried to think through what he was agreeing to. Twenty piastres felt good in his hand, but how long would this desert trip take? And what about all the dangers on the way? And then at the end of all that there was a killer. Knowing the Englishman, there were probably a lot of killers.

  But that was all too far in the future for him to picture clearly. All he could really focus on was the twenty piastres in his hand and something the Englishman had said.

  I need you.

  Who ever said that to him?

  No one, that’s who.

  “All right,” he said at last. He felt a spike of fear as he said it.

  “Moustafa is organizing our passage on a caravan. It would help if you didn’t look like a complete ragamuffin. Whatever happened to that blue djellaba the French gang gave you? It was brand new and here you are dressed in rags.”

  “How can I beg in a brand new djellaba?”

  “I see your point. But wear that. And the sandals they gave you. You’ll need the sandals in the desert. During the day the sand will burn your feet, even through all those layers of dirt. And take a bath.”

  “A bath? The public bathhouse costs money.”

  “Then go jump in the Nile. From what I hear the Bedouin look down on city dwellers, so we have to make a good impression.”

  They walked in silence for a time. Some of the people who passed looked at the Englishman curiously, both because of his mask and because he was the only European who lived in this neighborhood. Nobody took much notice of the beggar boy dogging his footsteps.

  “Englishman?”

  “What is it, Faisal?”

  “Are you still mad at me for helping the Apache gang?”

  “You had to. They kidnapped you and threatened you. That wasn’t your fault.”

  “So you’re not mad?”

  “No, Faisal. I’m not mad.”

  Those words didn’t reassure him as much as they should have. The Englishman didn’t know the whole truth. Faisal had been kidnapped, it was true, but then Edmond, the leader of the Apaches, had treated him well. Edmond had protected him from the other gang members and gave him good food and a nice new blue djellaba and even the first pair of sandals he had ever had in his life. Edmond had talked a lot about his son who had died. He always talked about his son when he was giving Faisal things.