The Case of the Golden Greeks

by Sean McLachlan

  Edmond had even called him a good boy. No one, not even the Englishman, ever called him that.

  But he had been a criminal. Faisal still hadn’t figured out what he thought about the Frenchman. Edmond had treated him better than anyone, better than the Englishman even, but he’d been a bad person. He had tried to kill the Englishman and other good people.

  And Faisal had helped Edmond escape.

  He knew that had been wrong. He knew many of the things he did were wrong. But stealing was something he did because he had to. Begging wasn’t much better. Pointing the police in the wrong direction after all the bad things Edmond had done was the wrong thing to do. Edmond was out there now, hurting more people, and all because Faisal had lied to the police.

  So why didn’t he feel bad about it? Just because Edmond had treated him nicely? Was it because Edmond was so sad about losing his son?

  Sometimes Faisal found himself wishing the Englishman had lost a son.

  “Englishman?”

  “What is it now, Faisal?”

  Faisal was about to ask why he had never taken a wife. But he sensed that the Englishman wouldn’t like that question. It was strange, but it had been easier to talk to a bad person like Edmond than a good person like the Englishman. Edmond was a killer, and the Englishman caught killers. So why had he felt safe around Edmond and he always felt a bit afraid around the Englishman?

  Afraid? Why should he feel afraid? The Englishman would never hurt him.

  No, but being around the Englishman was dangerous. Moustafa had been shot and stabbed and beaten up, and he was the strongest man Faisal had ever met.

  And this journey would be dangerous. He didn’t have to know anything about the desert or caravans or this Bahariya place to know that.

  “Are you sure you need me to come along?”

  “Of course. You’re essential to our investigations. How else would we find the murderer?”

  Faisal smiled. Once again, they couldn’t do it without his help.

  Maybe he should ask for more money.

  He almost did, but couldn’t summon up the courage.

  Faisal felt the money in his pocket. Twenty piastres would buy a good charm. At least he would be safe from djinn.

  If only Khadija umm Mohammed sold charms against bullets and flutes that shot poison darts.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Despite the continuing pain in his leg, Augustus was in a fine mood. He had an interesting little mystery to solve, one that Sir Thomas didn’t seem to be aware of. The chief of police had caught the main culprits, found what he thought was the murder weapon, and was tracking down the various fake archaeologists who had benefitted from the sham expedition scheme.

  Sir Thomas had dismissed the idea that an Egyptian had learned to use a blowgun and had already decided that Professor Harrell had nothing more to do with the conspirators than threatening to reveal their crimes.

  A study of the papers found in Fielding’s home showed otherwise. Among them was an itemized list of equipment necessary for an expedition to Bahariya. Calculating from the amount of food stores, Augustus estimated that at least twenty men had gone on that trip. The map of the oasis was marked with a small dot labeled “Temple of Alexander”, and three more dots just south of it.

  There were also a few sheets of paper written in Turkish.

  That intrigued him. Looking through his collection of archaeological journals, he could find no evidence that Professor Harrell had ever worked in the Turkish-speaking areas of Asia or indeed had ever been there. In their brief survey of Fielding’s library, Augustus and Moustafa had not seen any volumes in Turkish. So that meant that in all likelihood that neither the late professor nor the well-traveled criminal spoke the language. Then why did Fielding have these papers in his possession?

  Augustus couldn’t read Turkish, and neither could Moustafa, although that polyglot could probably learn it in a couple of months.

  They didn’t have a couple of months, so that meant he got to call on the aid of the most enticing, vivacious woman in all of Cairo—Zehra Hanzade.

  They met at her house, that sanctuary of good taste and beauty in a fashionable side of town. A muscular, bare-faced eunuch ushered him into a front hall with a gleaming marble floor and Classical statues. He followed the eunuch, who Augustus knew also worked for the Hanzades as a spy and bodyguard, down a corridor lined with French and Dutch landscapes into a sumptuous sitting room decorated in the Louis XIV style. All of the furnishings were period and not reproduction, and Augustus would have wagered a fair bit of money that some of the more elegant pieces had once been owned by the Sun King himself.

  Zehra rose to greet him, taking him by both hands. She wore a burgundy caftan embroidered with gold thread, and her hair was, for once, tied up with a complex array of gold braids.

  While Augustus had always been hypnotized by how her tresses flowed down her shoulders, having her hair up allowed him to admire her neck, as well formed and free of blemishes as the marble statues in the front hall.

  “So nice to see you, Augustus. Suleiman sends his regrets. He is currently working.”

  The distant sound of a hammer smashing stone came to his ears. Suleiman must be making one of his creations look old.

  “One mustn’t interfere with an artist in the crucible of creation,” he said, grateful to have this splendid woman all to himself.

  “You mentioned on the telephone that you needed help with a translation,” she said as they sat, she stretching out on a divan and he sitting primly on a chair opposite. He would have loved to have stretched out on the divan as well, but there were limits to his courage. Charge into machine gun fire? Yes. Get any closer to her than he had already? No man had that amount of courage.

  He outlined what they had already discovered and produced the papers, which were three small pages written in an expansive hand.

  She read the papers. Augustus used it as an excuse to watch her. He could watch her read all day. Perhaps he should buy her the collected works of Tolstoy.

  “It’s some sort of code,” she said, looking at him with those lovely brown eyes. “Written in plain Turkish but obviously referring to something else. It details supplies for a caravan from Cairo to the Sinai.”

  “The opposite direction of where we need to go.”

  “I doubt that’s coincidental. It goes into great detail about how much fodder the donkeys will need, including the number of donkeys, and very specific amounts of oats and forage.”

  “Don’t most caravans use camels or have I been greatly mistaken all this time?”

  “They do. Some poorer merchants going short distances use donkeys, but no one would use them to go to the Sinai, especially not for a caravan of supposedly this size.”

  “Some sort of tally for something else?”

  “I think so. No one makes such a detailed plan for feeding animals on a caravan. Those with the knowledge to run such a caravan do the numbers in their head. I’ll make out a translation for you.”

  “Could you make it out in French? Fewer people will be able to read it.”

  “Yes, I speak French.”

  “I know. You speak most beautifully.”

  Augustus felt a flush of nerves at his daring, but those eased as he was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

  As she got to work, Augustus opened a gold cigarette case on the coffee table—Zehra always kept Woodbines on hand especially for him—lit one, and thought about the significance of the note being in Turkish. Until the last war, Egypt had technically been an Ottoman territory, although it had long since stopped being so in reality. In fact, it had been a de facto British protectorate since 1882, with a puppet khedive nominally in charge and nominally subservient to the Sublime Porte.

  All that ended with the war. The Turks made a brief attempt to invade, and then got pushed out of the Sinai, out of Palestine, and out of Jordan and Syria and Iraq. The British Empire ended up with a lot more colonies in the Middle East than it had bargaine
d for.

  But Turks still held a great deal of economic power in the city. The Hanzades, although wealthy, were rather petit bourgeois compared to some of the great families. Huge mansions in Zamalek and the Sheikh al-Maarouf district were the centers of great merchant dynasties. The British government looked at them with a wary eye, but they were too influential to root out and, being merchants rather than patriots, were perfectly happy to continue with business as usual—that is, making money under the regime of the moment while ignoring the pleas for pan-Turkish patriotism constantly issuing from Constantinople.

  And Augustus was increasingly becoming aware that the British were only the latest “regime of the moment.” The Greeks, the Romans, the Libyans, the Nubians, the Persians, the Turks, the French … all had been sent packing sooner or later. And the British luggage was already out of storage. Earlier that year there had been a wave of independence protests that brought the colony to a standstill. Sir Thomas and his men had crushed it, but nationalist sentiment seethed below the surface.

  Even his own assistant Moustafa had gotten in on the game.

  Fortunately, that mountain of muscle had a good brain on top, and he hadn’t turned his desire for independence into a hatred of foreigners.

  Augustus couldn’t say the same about some of the natives he passed in the street. From the whitest Greek merchant to the darkest Nubian doorman, there was a new attitude in the air—aloof, reticent. Outward displays of hostility were rare, but the half-glanced glower when they thought you weren’t looking, the slowing down of work, the clipped responses, all showed that a large number of Egyptians—not all, but enough—had tired of English dominance.

  Unlike of the fools that Sir Thomas dined with and Augustus only tolerated when he had no other choice, he did not think this was a passing phase, a fit of pique as one might get with a petulant child. No, this was deep rooted and would not go away. Sir Thomas thought he could crush it, and failed to see that while his heavy-handed measures could stop the protests and break up strikes, he only ended up encouraging the sentiment he was trying to abolish.

  Zehra finished and handed him both the original and the translation.

  “So you are going to Bahariya Oasis?” she asked.

  “Yes. Care to make the journey?”

  “I am not one for long camel rides. I prefer my palanquin.”

  “I am sure if you asked, your servants would carry you the entire way.”

  Good Lord, just ask me. I’d be happy to perform the service.

  She laughed—a brilliant, musical sound—and then grew serious.

  “This could be dangerous. I know a merchant who sends caravans into the Western Desert. He might know a good local contact. Let me telephone him.”

  She put on a pair of silk slippers and padded away. As Augustus waited, the eunuch came in with some Turkish style coffee. Augustus studied him as he poured, wondering if being unmanned in the presence of such feminine beauty was a blessing or a curse.

  Zehra returned a few minutes later.

  “He can see us this afternoon. His name is Orhan Bey, one of a dynasty of merchants who have been here for three generations. I only told him that you are interested in conducting an excavation in Bahariya Oasis and that you need local contacts.”

  “That could prove most useful. Thank you.”

  Orhan Bey’s palace stood on the banks of the Nile, on a little bluff that had a commanding view of the river. It was surrounded by a high crenellated wall that must have dated back centuries. Nothing was visible within but the tops of some palm trees and a minaret of complex brickwork laid in a pattern that spelled out verses of the Koran.

  “He has his own mosque?” Augustus asked Zehra as they arrived in a hired coach.

  “He only uses it on Fridays, when his entire family and a member of the ulema come. On other days he likes to pray at Al-Azhar. He’s a major donor to both the mosque and the religious school.”

  They came to the arched gate, where a heavy wooden door stood shut. Like in many old houses, including Augustus’s own, the large portal had a normal-sized door set into it for more regular use. The larger gate would only be opened for processions or to allow a carriage or motorcar to pass.

  They rang an electric buzzer, the simple brass button looking startlingly modern next to the aged wood and medieval arch, and a view slit protected by a heavy iron grill opened in the door.

  Before Zehra could speak, the servant who answered cried,

  “Ah, Mrs. Hanzade, you grace us with your presence! A thousand pardons for making you wait.”

  “Really, Abdullah, I have waited less than ten seconds,” Zehra said with a smile as the smaller door opened.

  “Too long for such an esteemed guest. My master told me to expect you. I should have been waiting outside.”

  This was said as the servant, a small man with a pencil-thin moustache, fez, green vest and matching pantaloons, bowed deeply. He then welcomed Augustus by name and led them through a vast garden. Palm trees offered shade, a sparkling fountain cooled the breeze, and an explosion of flowers filled the air with perfume.

  “I’m surprised our host doesn’t have a eunuch guarding the door,” Augustus whispered to Zehra in English, giving her a wry smile.

  “Oh, he is much more conservative than I am. His wives are kept in the women’s quarters. A staff of eunuchs guards them there.”

  Augustus almost pointed out that if the man was so conservative, that his morals should keep him from inviting a woman like Zehra over for coffee, but he decided discretion was best in this situation.

  From the gate a wide graveled driveway led to a large garage, another modern anomaly, as was the chauffeur in full livery polishing a Rover luxury touring car with silver fittings. As the servant took them down a path cutting across the garden, they left these last vestiges of the modern world behind.

  Beyond the garden stood an imposing stone palace. The stone itself was plain, but several large windows of dark wood had intricately carved wooden meshrabiyya screens, allowing the women inside to look out without being seen. One corner of the upper story was entirely given over on two sides to these screens, Augustus supposed this was the sitting room for the harem. He wondered how many ladies were looking out of those screens at them.

  A pair of burly servants at the front doorway of the palace bowed as they passed. Augustus noticed the telltale bulges of pistols hidden under their shirts.

  The front hallway couldn’t have been more different than that of the Hanzade home. Instead of cool marble and an array of nude Classical statues, the hallway was one of complex blue and green tiles on both the floor and walls. The ceiling was of wood, carved in a pattern of interconnecting stars sitting atop an arcade of arched windows that let in daylight. A gallery ran around the upper story and a grand staircase swept up to it. On the walls of the ground floor were an array of animal heads—lion, gazelle, Barbary sheep, and hippo.

  “Is our host a sportsman?” Augustus asked, switching back to Arabic for the servant’s benefit.

  “Oh yes,” Abdullah said. “I had the honor of reloading my master’s spare rifle when he shot that one.” The man indicated a particularly large lion. “He shot it from five hundred yards as it was running after a gazelle.”

  “I’m sure the gazelle was grateful for your master’s marksmanship.”

  Abdullah laughed. “Not for long. That’s the gazelle over there.”

  The servant led them to a small sitting room cast in a strange green light thanks to the stained glass windows to one side. Unlike the native stained glass, which were made up of patterns of small holes cut through marble and filled with tiny colored panes, these were more European in style, having large panes held in place by a network of thin lead cames. Their host being a Muslim, the colored glass only showed abstract designs, but they were pleasing to the eye, as were the tile walls that hinted at floral designs without quite crossing the line into depicting living things, and the embroidered silk cushions on the low d
ivans set around a hexagonal wooden table inlaid with mother of pearl.

  Given the lavish interior, Augustus had half expected to be kept waiting, but Orhan Bey was no fool. Not amount of wealth would make Zehra Hanzade wait for anything. He came out of a side door, dressed in a fine suit that looked like it had been tailored for him in Paris, a spotless white turban on his head. He went up to Zehra and bowed.

  “Zehra, enchanting to see you as always.”

  This was said in perfect French, Orhan Bey showing Augustus the courtesy of assuming that he knew the language.

  Orhan Bey extended his hand. Augustus took it.

  “Sir Augustus Wall, I have heard so much about you. Zehra sings your praises on every occasion.”

  Augustus almost swooned. “Pleased to meet you too, Orhan Bey. Does she really?”

  “Oh yes, she says your antiquities shop is second to none. I do not collect such things myself, as they are contrary to my religion, but I always admire a keen businessman.”

  While these and other pleasantries were exchanged, there was a flurry of activity in the sitting room as servants set out coffee, tea, sweets, cigarettes, and a sheesha. Orhan Bey invited them to sit and the servants withdrew. Zehra sat at the chair provided with the sheesha. Augustus cocked an eyebrow. Conservative Muslims frowned on women who smoked in public, or indeed women mingling with men who were not their close family. Orhan Bey was obviously selective in his conservatisms.

  “I took the liberty of having my man fill the sheesha with strawberry flavored tobacco, your favorite,” Orhan Bey told his female guest.

  Augustus opened the gold cigarette case set in front of him and was not surprised to find Woodbines inside. No doubt the rich Turkish merchant had asked Zehra what he smoked.