Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 03 - Cairo Caper

by Barbara Silkstone

  I removed the cover from Horus’s cage, the forgotten member of our team, so he could get some air. The falcon stretched his neck and shot me a bird look of thanks. Was it possible he was Maltese? Was it possible I’d lost the few marbles I had left?

  Petri was gone for all of five minutes when the captain emerged from the wheelhouse. He shooed us off the boat waving his hands as if to dry his nail polish. We got the message and grabbed what little gear we had.

  Fiona, Roger, and Horus made the shaky trek to the dock. I sat on a mooring post with Fiona at my feet clinging to the edge of my skirt. Roger paced the length of the planks. I was starting to feel like an abandoned kindergartener whose mom forgot to pick her up.

  Just as the crew pushed off, Roger jumped back onto the boat and clamped his hand on the captain’s shoulder. Panic stabbed my gut. Don’t leave me here, alone.

  Before I could yell what I thought of him, he leaped back onto the dock carrying three bottles of beer. I was losing it. Roger would never have abandoned me.

  “The Asp is out of bottled water. Beer, it’s not just for breakfast anymore. Although today… it is.” He passed us each a bottle. It wasn’t caffeine but it would have to do.

  I gulped half of mine then sat on the dock with my back against a piling. Fiona scrunched against me. Lack of sleep and beer instead of Cheerios caught up with me. I dozed in the already-broiling sun. My chin snapped off my chest when a pain in my arm wakened me.

  Fiona pressed her tiny hands into my biceps. Worry lines stamped her face. The transition from traipsing through library stacks to unintentional assistant tomb raider was setting in for the little poppet. “Petri’s been gone way more than an hour.”

  I checked my watch. She was right, if you considered two minutes as way more. She brushed the dust from her skirt as she stood with a hand shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare. “Is that a phallic symbol?”

  She pointed to a tower in the distance then pulled a pair of hoot-owl sunglasses from her bag and wedged them under her trusty pith helmet.

  I squinted to focus on the target of her finger, and then said as though I’d seen it many times, “That’s Pompey’s Pillar, where we’ll meet Petri if he doesn’t come back.” I wanted to keep her confidence up. Everything I knew about it came from my Internet jogs. The Pillar, made of red granite and over one hundred feet high, marked the center Alexandria.

  Fiona jumped up and down like a kid trying to see a parade. “We need to go find Petri. He’s not coming back… here.”

  “Try to look casual,” Roger said, wiping a torrent of sweat from his brow and blinking droplets from behind his sunglasses. “Relax. We’ve got to stay below the radar.”

  “Let me get this straight. Two fair-haired women, an archaeologist with two left shoes, and a hostile bird in a cage are not standing out?”

  “Work on patience. That’s something you sorely lack. We should give Petri more time. An hour was just a figure of speech.”

  He sat down, crossed his legs and assumed a lotus position. He began mumbling a mantra. I was tempted to brain him with my ashtray.

  The other half of my warm beer called my name. I guzzled it then tied the arms of the robe together and strung them between two pilings to create a shady area for me and the pith helmet who was attached to me like a barnacle to a seawall.

  Desperate for a moment of Zen, I imagined myself on Miami Beach downing a Pina Colada at Joe’s Stone Crab.

  Another hour passed and no Petri Dische. Roger snapped out of his meditation as I was about to smack him.

  “The Frenchman should be back by now. I think we should hoof it to Pompey’s Pillar,” Roger said.

  I knew that was the plan but every fiber of my body screamed no way. “You’ll destroy your feet walking in two left shoes.” I’m always putting Roger’s needs before my own.

  I untied the robes and threw one to him. “Here put this over your head. You’re the color of a blood orange. I hope your hat is comfortable back in our hotel room.”

  Wrapping the robe around his head like a humongous turban, he glanced down at his brown wingtips. “I’ve gotten used to the pain. Walk slowly and ignore my whimpering. Maybe we’ll find a peddler selling mandals.”

  Mandals, yuck. I shuddered. A batch of cartoon hallucinations induced by my near-starvation, kicked in. Bacon and eggs over easy on the sand. A cup of coffee the size of a swimming pool, laced with half and half.

  I was so empty I would have gambled on a street vendor, which for me was about like saying I’d eat out of a dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant. I led us off the dock toward Pompey’s Pillar, Fiona firmly attached. Roger ooched and ouched behind us. Sand poured into the toes of my peep-toe Ferragamo pumps.

  Silently we marched, the glamour of tomb raiding disappeared as the ashtray banged against my thigh and the sun cooked my eyeballs through my Polaroid lenses. Fiona’s clinging was getting to be a real nuisance. I glared at her. “If you must hang onto me, at least lift the ashtray up. It hurts.”

  She gave me a startled look. “What ashtray?”

  It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know I was packing. “Just lift my skirt.”

  She took me literally and flipped my dress up over her head. I yanked it away from her and tripped over air. I caught myself before I hit the ground, but managed to break the heel off my left Ferragamo pump. Sadly, I picked up the leather heel and tucked it in my purse. Maybe the loss could be a business deduction.

  An hour into our hike and I imagined I was trapped in the English Patient. “Die already,” I mumbled to myself. I was losing it. My mind drifted to my last open house on Miami Beach. I served chilled Pinot Grigio and caviar canapés. What the hell was I doing wandering in the desert? I could find all the air-conditioned adventure I needed in the nightclubs on Collins Avenue.

  “Why couldn’t we take the train like normal people?” I said.

  “Because we’re maintaining a low profile,” Roger barked.

  Twenty minutes after I broke my heel, which I wasn’t taking well, we reached a pleasant residential area on the outskirts of the city. It could have been any Mediterranean city. Pretty tree-lined streets with older well-kept cars parked at the curbs and flower-bordered walkways leading to Moorish style homes. I was tempted to knock on doors and beg for an iced-coffee.

  Limping, lumpy pilgrims, we made our way toward the heart of Alexandria and Pompey’s Pillar. We stepped through the looking glass from sand in our shoes to the fumes of thickening traffic. The scent of humanity assaulted my nostrils. We were swarmed by peddlers and souvenir hawkers.

  “Don’t make eye-contact,” Roger said.

  I looked straight ahead willing Petri and the Land Rover to appear.

  We collapsed on a rocky path above an ancient Roman amphitheater. The place looked like an archaeological dig with cut marble seating and a small stage for a speaker or two.

  A guide was lecturing to a small flock of tourists. “Is true. When you talk from the stage the acoustics are supposed to be perfect. Perhaps once the tour is complete you may return to the stage.” He scooted them away.

  “Stay out of trouble. I’ll be right back with water,” Roger said. He plunked Horus’s cage on a gray marble step and headed to the market. I watched him disappear into the crowd. The first time I met Roger I thought he had a broom up his butt. That was almost a year ago. Now I couldn’t imagine life without him.

  I settled in next to Horus’s cage and worked my tushie into the grooves in the stone. If you knew no better back in 30AD, this must have been a real rocking place. I closed my tired eyes and conjured a vision of a night out at the theatre thousands of years ago with primped ladies and handsome heroes.

  “Hellooo! Hellooo!”

  “Shit!” I opened my eyes.

  Fiona stood on the stage testing the acoustics in a falsetto yowl.

  I flagged her to shut up. She waved back and called my name. “Wendy Darlin! Hellooo!”

  Racing down the steps with Horus’s cag
e clonking against my leg, I stumbled to the stone platform just in time to see Roger standing on the upper lip of the amphitheater holding bottles of water and wearing a look of horror.

  The force of the whap of my hand on Fiona’s mouth sent us both falling backward. She recovered quicker than I. With the weight on my left foot I tried to bring my right into action. The angle and pitch of the insole made it next to impossible to hold my foot level. I fell on my butt. Ouch!

  “Take the bird,” I said to Fiona. I rolled onto my hands and knees and pushed myself to a standing position.

  Red-faced, I hobbled after Fiona up the ancient marble stairs to our fearless leader who was standing on the upper rim glaring down at us.

  Hands on hips and wearing his most angry face, Roger rumble-mumbled, “Nice job of keeping a low profile.” He yanked Horus’s cage from Fiona sending the bird tumbling against the bars with a loud squawk. Roger placed the cage on a step and sat next to it.

  What could I say? I was responsible for Fiona being with us and she pulled a dumb stunt like that. I lowered my tender hind end carefully and sat next to Roger. My new appendage sat next to me.

  Roger passed sealed water bottles to Fiona and me and slipped a fourth bottle into his jacket pocket. “Ten bucks a bottle and worth every penny.”

  I stopped to free my numb arm from Fiona’s death grip and massage my left calf. Without a heel on that shoe I was developing painful cramps and an attitude from hell. The cat was back, nuzzling my ankles.

  “I’ve had the weirdest feeling like a cat’s been rubbing against my legs. I can feel her fur but when I look there’s nothing there.”

  “It’s just dry skin,” Roger snarked.

  “I know the difference between dry skin and cat fur.” I was not in a tease-receptive mood.

  Roger trickled a few drops of water on Horus. The falcon threw his head back, and let the droplets run over his beak, and bead on his feathers. We sat for all of ten minutes then it was time to move on.

  It was well after lunchtime and Horus was beginning to look tasty. The horizon spun up like a kaleidoscope slicing into my dehydration-induced headache. My eyelids stuck to my Lasik-vision eyeballs, so much for the protection of designer sunglasses.

  We approached Pompey’s Pillar. I stopped to gawk at one of two pink granite sphinxes that sat on either side of the approach to the Pillar. Each was about the size of an SUV and mounted on a large rectangular base. The facial details were almost pristine, unlike the Great Sphinx of Giza, which was much older and exposed to the desert. These beauties were worth stopping for.

  “Don’t dally!” Roger said.

  I repositioned my purse and followed him through the sand-covered open ground. We plopped down near the base of the Pillar.

  A lone figure ambled toward us. It looked like Petri strolling in a swirl of dust. He had some nerve taking his time when we were dying. Okay… maybe not dying but pretty damn miserable.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Was it Petri or a mirage? The low-plains drifter held a frosty glass of Coke in his hand. I shook my head. When I focused again I was looking at a wizened Egyptian dressed in colorful street robes. His hands were empty except for a tattered sack.

  The stranger approached Fiona as if he recognized her.

  Roger and I shared a cautious look. Fiona reached out to grab me, did a quick sidestep, and hid behind my back. Her quaking frame sent my body into a rumba as she pressed against me.

  Before she had a chance to object, the stranger unwound some dirty bandages, bumped her helmet, and wrapped the rags around her head and neck. What the hell?

  Fiona’s eyes flooded with startled tears. “Help”

  “Take photo!” the peddler yelped. “Kodak! Kodak!” he sounded like a grubby duck as he placed his arm around Fiona and posed in a touristy stance.

  Roger yanked the guy by the shoulder, until they were nose-to-nose then he yelled at him in Egyptian. The peddler argued back and wound more rags around Fiona. I kicked him in his right shin. He gave me a gleefully sadistic look and kept wrapping Fiona who was now his stunned prisoner. I would have kneed him but he wore a dozen layers of musty robes, and moved faster than the Tasmanian Devil. I couldn’t figure out where to aim.

  Roger grabbed him from behind in a stranglehold. Ick. Mummy germs on Roger and Fiona. The man rattled off a slew of words including US dollars. He broke loose and stood holding his hands in a prayerful pose.

  “Bollocks! This street blackmailer won’t take the bandages off unless we give him money, and he won’t leave without his bandages. This is one of the nastiest peddler tricks. I don’t want to create a scene, otherwise I’d beat the shit out of him.”

  Fiona reached for me. I stepped back. She looked and smelled like a mummied zombie.

  Grinding my teeth, I began to pull at the nasty cloths.

  The peddler jerked my hands away. I imagined the cooties parading from the bandages to my fingers. There wasn’t enough lice soap on the planet to make me feel clean again. I could see Fiona’s green eyes peeking through the wraps. She still made no move to free herself. Her chest started to heave. She was either going into shock or about to barf.

  Roger discreetly twisted the peddler’s arm behind his back. “Take the rags off or you will be armless.” He scanned the crowd but his move went unnoticed.

  To observers it was a typical street vendor with a dissatisfied customer.

  “Is joke!” the little man said. “Not funny? Will take mummy wrap.”

  Roger yanked the end of the wrap, and Fiona spun like a Hanukkah dreidel, ending on her fanny on the ground. She staggered to her feet and clung to me like a wart. She was going to have to be surgically removed.

  The little man extended his hand to Roger. “Tickemoff.” He bowed.

  Roger put his hands in his pockets. “Tick them off?”

  The man broke into a snaggled-tooth grin. “No. Say like this… one name, not three. Tickemoff.” He wiped the grime from his face revealing a much younger man.

  “Are you a Russian?” I said.

  “No, missy. Tickemoff is old pharaonic name.”

  Roger stepped between us. “Cut the chatter. Have you seen a Frenchman with a Land Rover?”

  “We are all Frenchmen at heart, are we not?” He batted his eyes at Fiona. She climbed further on my back and burrowed into my shoulder.

  “Answer the question,” Roger growled.

  “A Frenchman stopped at my home two, perhaps three hours ago. He was seeking petrol. He disappeared before I could make a deal with him. For tourists there is no petrol in Alexandria. The government has taken all the fuel.”

  He bent in to whisper although there was no one within hearing distance. “I have petrol at my villa.” He put a filthy finger to his mouth. “I will be most happy to sell it to you. Very cheap.”

  Roger shot him a quizzical look. “What did that Frenchman look like?”

  “Like Niles. Brother of Frasier Crane.”

  “You have American television?” I asked.

  “We are known in my village for our international culture. We have Seinfeld and George… and Kramer.” He let out a high-pitched cackle. “You must come to my house. You will see my plasma screen. You will meet my five unmarried sisters.” He glanced at Roger. “And I will sell you the petrol and give you ten mini-sphinxes for free.” He held up eight fingers.

  Roger tapped the right hip pocket of his jacket where the Russian’s gun bulged slightly. He picked up Horus’s cage and the three of us trudged after Tickemoff.

  As we drew closer to the city, the Tick appeared to grow nervous. “You look much like tourists. Can we not cover your clothes?”

  “Put the robe on,” I said tugging it from Roger’s head where it sat like an over-sized marshmallow.

  Clenching my jaws I inched my robe gingerly over my sticky-stiff outfit. This was like rolling in sandpaper coated in superglue. I flipped the hoodie up to cover my blonde hair.

  Fiona looked like a tourist but sh
ort of putting her in a sack we were stuck. She smashed her helmet onto her head and smeared a third layer of dust over her face, trying for camouflage.

  I was running on empty except for a beer. I felt like a Hobbit. I’d shrunk four inches and shed twenty pounds. The hope of an air-conditioned Land Rover was the only thing that kept me in motion.

  Thirty minutes later we were still walking through slippery sand-dusted streets. Our guide led us to a four-story apartment building. It looked pleasant enough, but then anything that provided shade would toot my whistle. The structure was concrete and brick with balconies, dreaded Egyptian balconies.

  Tickemoff swept his arm toward the building and said with a sly smile, “We are arriving. Welcome to my home.”

  Had we just been welcomed into the parlor by the spider?

  Chapter Fourteen

  We followed Tickemoff up two exterior staircases, the drifted sand made for a dicey climb. I placed my hand firmly, but carefully on the rusted handrail. Were my tetanus shots up to date?

  Tickemoff produced a key from somewhere in his folded cloak and with a flourish opened a battered green door.

  My companions gasped. The place was stunning. It was a slightly over-decorated Manhattan penthouse except this pad was located on the second floor and the collection of museum quality furnishings, though ritzy, was disorganized. It appeared to hold pieces from a mind-boggling array of periods. Gaudy Louis XIV and heavy Russian armoires, an 18th century Italian banquette, and an Andy Warhol triptych that bore a striking resemblance to our host.

  “Is light and airy? No?” The Tick said.

  He led us through a humongous foyer and into a family room, startling a cluster of a half-dozen ladies, all petite like the Tick. The women arose up from an immaculate dining room table made of bleached cypress polished smooth with the natural details of the wood intact.

  “Seibonne shwaya, ameshou bara yal la,” Tickemoff said and grabbed the arm of the tiniest lady shoeing the others from the room. With thick black hair and deep violet eyes, she’d be a stunner with a little plucking. She smiled shyly and stood behind Tickemoff.