by Overton, Max
"The imam told me only of the letter and made no mention of anything else. I hope you do not entertain the notion that Imam Abdel Nour has kept the money." Mohammad's eyes hardened and he glared at Muammar as if to dare him to accuse his own relative of theft.
"Why would any man throw away money?" Muammar asked. "It is obvious that the person who opened the envelope stole the money before throwing the letter away."
"Indeed," Mohammad said. "We must thank Allah, the Merciful and Beneficent that the culprit was seen in the commission of his crime, thus allowing you to take receipt of a letter that was intended for you."
"I will offer up thanks at the earliest opportunity."
"It is close to sunset. Will you join me and my household for Maghrib?"
"I would be honoured."
"What of your companion?"
"He is an unbeliever, though a Person of the Book."
"Then I will show you to a room where you can perform wud'u and don clean garments, for you are travel-stained and unfit to approach God."
Marc was given the opportunity to clean himself up while the Sukrah household--Mohammad, wife Juman, two teenage sons and three small daughters, plus a cook and a manservant--enfolded their relative Muammar and prayed together in the main room. Afterward, as their clothing was in a poor state, Mohammad gave them Egyptian garments to wear--gallibaya and trousers, with skullcaps.
"I presume you will be travelling to Luxor, where perhaps this enemy you mention is lying in wait," Mohammad explained. "In your western attire you would stand out, but dressed as simple fellaheen you will be able to blend in." He allowed himself a small smile. "Even your infidel friend can pass as an ignorant peasant with his sunburnt face and thick beard, as long as he does not open his mouth."
"Thank you, cousin. Your hospitality overwhelms me."
"You are family, Muammar al-Hadi. You will stay for the evening meal before you depart?"
Mohammad embraced his cousin in the doorway in the late evening, pressing a few crumpled notes into his hand as they made their farewells.
"I would not have it said that you left my house without that which was your expectation, cousin. I cannot offer you the full sum that was stolen from you, but this may help."
"May Allah the Merciful and Beneficent shower you with His blessings," Muammar said. "Such generosity should be rewarded. I will repay you double when I can."
Mohammad shook his head. "There is no need, for this offering is Zak�t and brings its own blessing."
Muammar and Marc walked down the darkened street toward the city centre, keeping to the shadows and walking slouched over as befitted their new identities as fellaheen.
"How much did he give us?" Marc asked.
"Six pounds. He was very generous."
"Will that be enough?"
"If we are careful it will get us to Luxor. After that, we must hope that we meet the others."
"How do we get there?"
"Bus and ferry. I doubt there's a bus to Esna before tomorrow morning, but we'll see. Uh, Marc...just in case Ali Hafiz is still looking for us; we must stay in character as ignorant peasants. Keep your head down, your hands in your gallibaya, and don't speak unless we're alone. Let me do all the talking."
Marc shrugged and said nothing.
They found the bus station and found some seating at one end where they could stretch out. Even at this late hour there were several people around, and more drifted in as the hours went by. Most people were farmers, some with produce in wicker baskets, and all were poor. They ignored each other for the most part, sitting and smoking cigarettes, though a few talked, discussing farm prices, and two old men pulled out a battered chess set and started playing. Others gathered round the old men, watching and murmuring comments.
After a few hours, Muammar and Marc got up to stretch their legs and watched the chess players for a time. When they returned to their seats, they found them taken.
"I should have thought of that," Muammar muttered.
He found them a place nearer the middle of the bus station, sandwiched between an old woman and her granddaughter, both women laden with baskets and bags of vegetables, and an old man with a pair of goats. They squeezed between the old people, sitting on the bare ground, Muammar smiling and greeting them politely and Marc saying nothing. The old woman regarded the young men suspiciously and slapped her granddaughter when she gave Muammar a bold look. The old man just grunted and shifted slightly, while the trussed goats stared at Marc. One of them nibbled tentatively at Marc's gallibaya until he tugged it out of reach.
The night became chilly and they huddled together, Marc even allowing the goats to press close, lending their body warmth, while the women kept to themselves, bundled in voluminous robes. Hours passed and in the pre-dawn darkness a motor started up, grumbling and spluttering, echoing around the station and awakening the fitful sleepers. Headlights, weak and yellow, illuminated passengers stiff of limb and yawning, as they prepared to board the bus that crept into the station.
Marc yawned and stretched, scratching beneath his gallibaya. He grimaced and scratched again, before casting a look of disgust at his four-legged sleeping companion. "The damn beast's given me fleas."
The goat owner gave Marc a strange look when he spoke in English but said nothing, and Muammar cautioned him again to remain silent. The young Libyan parted with some of their money and secured two seats at the back of the bus. He bought two cups of sweetened tea and a stale loaf of bread from a young boy hawking his wares near the bus. They stood and chewed on the tough bread, softening it by dunking it in the tea, and drinking the rest of the hot sweet liquid. Marc suggested another cup but Muammar cautioned against it.
"Rest stops are few and far between. The bus won't delay."
"Speaking of which," Marc said. "I could do with a loo break right now."
"Hurry then--behind that shed." Muammar pointed.
The bus driver started the engine while Marc was gone, and Muammar had to remonstrate with him to wait. Voices became raised, but as the driver and a couple of the passengers started to rise from their seats, Marc ran back, gallibaya flapping, and scrambled aboard. With a grind of gears, the bus lurched forward and rumbled out of the bus station in the first light of dawn, turning onto the north road that led to Esna.
The journey was every bit as unpleasant as an earlier bus trip in Libya, though this one lasted only one day. The bus was crowded with people, produce and livestock, it shook and rattled as if on the verge of coming apart, and the open or missing windows admitted copious quantities of dust and waves of heated air. Muammar closed his eyes and went to sleep, but Marc found himself unable to and suffered and scratched for most of the trip.
Shadows from the western cliffs overtook them an hour out of Esna, and the temperature eased, though the stink of bodies and animals stayed with them, overlain with the acrid taste of dust in their mouths. They left the bus in the town centre and, limbs stiff and trailing dust with every step, made their way down to the ferry. After buying the necessary tickets, Muammar had a few shillings left over from the money his cousin had given them. They were famished, so sought out a street vendor in the poorer part of town. A few pence supplied them with a hollowed out crusty loaf filled with a concoction of lentils, beans, onions and chickpeas, and another vendor sold them tin mugs of hot sweet tea.
Marc fell to with a will, not caring what people thought of his manners, digging into the vegetable stew with scooped fingers, biting off chunks of bread and gulping down tea. Muammar followed suit, though a trifle more elegantly--or at least as elegant as one can manage when eating with one's fingers. Marc finished, swallowed the last piece of bread and washed it down with a last mouthful of tea.
"Ah, by God, I needed that." He belched loudly and grinned. "It'll be the other end later after all those beans."
"I will pray not," Muammar murmured. He bought a hand of bananas from a stall and they walked back to the ferry, munching on the sweet fruit.
; On board the ferry, they found a place on the upper deck away from other people and hunkered down in the lee of some machinery. The temperature had dropped further as the sun set, so they huddled together for warmth and watched the shore slowly slip past, the vibration of the engines felt through every part of their bodies.
"What's our plan when we get to Luxor?" Marc asked.
"I think we must find our friends first," Muammar replied, "Though we must also contend with the presence of Hafiz."
"I suppose it's the same man? But if so, why was Dani so nice about him in the letter? Why wasn't he marching them off at gunpoint, like us?"
"We cannot be sure it is the same man, but I think it likely. As for his behaviour--well, we don't know what he might have said, what threats or persuasion he used. If our experience was anything to go by, he wanted to capture us for someone else, presumably this Minister Bashir who robbed you."
"Yes, but why would he want us?" Marc asked. "We're in Egypt illegally, with no funds or special expertise, and he already has what we want--the golden scarab."
Muammar watched the darkened shoreline and the scattering of lights from the villages they passed for several minutes. At length, he stirred. "I overheard Dr Hanser and Dr Rhys-Williams talking once when we were in the desert with my badaw� cousins. They talked of being in the desert with someone called Smen-ka-ree and having the golden scarab. I thought it none of my business so walked away, but now you mention this golden scarab also, and it seems that it might be relevant to our present problem. I presume this is the heirloom that was stolen from Dr Hanser. Do you want to tell me about it, Marc?"
"It's complicated."
"We have time."
"Hmm." Marc thought about what he could safely divulge. "Smenkhkare was a pharaoh and he had a sister who called herself Scarab. He was deposed by their uncle Ay and he led an army across the western desert to reclaim his throne, but failed and died. Scarab survived and was loved by the gods of old Egypt. They gave her a...a talisman--a golden scarab--that worked wonders."
"A children's tale, surely?" Muammar said. "A bedtime story."
"One might think so," Marc conceded, "But in Syria, where we discovered a series of chambers in the cliff face with this tale and others from the life of Scarab written upon their walls, Dani also found a carved golden scarab. The same golden scarab. With it, she too worked wonders."
Muammar grinned, his teeth showing white in his bearded face. "Now you are pushing the leg, as you English say. What wonders?"
"I'd never have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself. She could find things with it, for a start. She found the positions of the second and third chambers when even sounding equipment couldn't find them. It could disguise itself too--appearing as a simple rock to Minister Bashir and his secretary Nazim. It was incredible. Bashir would have given his right arm for a precious artefact like that, but he ignored it."
Muammar laughed, a trifle uncertainly, his expression tailing off into a puzzled frown. "These are the people that Dr Hanser believes now hold the golden scarab? These people who only see a rock? Why would they keep something they think is worthless?"
"I don't know, but they confiscated it in Syria along with all our notebooks and photos, so they must believe it is important in some way."
"And if they have discarded it?"
"Then this is all a waste of time," Marc said. "Daffyd and I came along to show our support for Dani, and I suppose she'll know what to do next--either way. That's why we have to find her."
Muammar considered Marc's words. "I understand about the golden scarab, though something that works wonders can only be from Allah, not from non-existent pagan gods; but what about Dr Hanser saying she was in the western desert with this Pharaoh Smen-ka-ree? What is that all about?"
"I don't like to say anything bad about Dani--she's a damn fine lecturer--and sexy as hell, too, but she's also a bit wacky." Marc thought for a moment. "No, that's unfair, but I think she needs a rest, all the same. She got so involved in translating the hieroglyphs on the chamber walls that she came a little unstuck mentally. Sometimes she has difficulty separating her life from that of this Scarab person." He chuckled. "Someone even suggested she was Scarab reincarnated."
"Reincarnation is impossible," Muammar said. "The righteous are in paradise with God and the wicked burn in hell."
"You could be right, but the description of Smenkhkare and Scarab leading an army out of Nubia through the western desert to attack Thebes--olden-day Luxor--was quite vivid, and maybe because of the golden scarab artefact, Dani identifies strongly with Scarab. She slips in and out of a dream world where she is Scarab."
"Then I fear she is in need of a psychiatrist," Muammar said.
"God, I hope not, but the sooner we can get this business wrapped up and get her back to England the better."
"Well, if my cousin was correct and the letter was delivered yesterday, we are only a day behind her and Dr Rhys-Williams. They will be waiting on the museum steps at opening time tomorrow, so we can all plan how we are to get this artefact from Bashir and Nazim."
* * *
Marc and Muammar spent the rest of the night in the portico of the Luxor museum, determined not to miss the arrival of their friends. They did not even step away to find food or a hot drink at dawn for fear of missing them, but nine o'clock rolled round and the doors opened, but there was no sign of Dani or Daffyd. An hour later, they left to find something to eat, though by now all they could afford was bread.
"Something must have held them up," Marc said, searching for crumbs in the folds of his gallibaya. "They'll be there at closing."
There was no sign of them when the museum doors closed, however; nor when they opened next morning. Increasingly desperate, they waited until nearly midday before giving up and spending the last of their pence on day-old bread.
"What do we do now, Marc? You know your friends--what could have happened?"
Marc held up a hand and grimaced. A few moments later he sneezed violently. "Sorry, I think I might have caught a chill. As for Dani and Daffy, if they said they'd be here, they'd be here. They're not, so something has happened to them, and the only thing that is likely to have happened is Bashir."
"How do you mean?"
"They know Nazim has the golden scarab so they've tried to get it back from him. Unsuccessfully. We need to find Bashir and Nazim ourselves."
"We also need money for food."
"What do you suggest?"
Muammar considered their options. "You know what these men look like, and I speak Arabic. I think your task today is to find these men by asking at hotels--I can teach you one or two Arabic phrases you can use, and mine is to raise some food money so we can prolong our search. Meet back at the museum at closing?"
* * *
Tahir spotted Muammar and the infidel known as Marc as they came out of the door set in the brick wall in a back street in Edfu. The Bedouin remembered the shame of being bested by his cousin when he and the infidels escaped, and ground his teeth in anger. He thought of the sweetness of recapturing these two, but knew that Zufir would kill him if he failed. Better to follow these two in the hopes that they would meet up with the other infidels. Then he could gather his brothers and take them all.
He followed, blending in with the crowds of people on the streets. Muammar and the infidel made their way to the bus station and took seats on a bench, apparently settling in for a long wait. Tahir watched from a distance, certain that the others would arrive to meet them, but by midnight there was no sign of them.
I should return to camp and fetch Zufir and the others. Clearly, they are meeting the other infidels elsewhere .
Tahir left, making his way through the darkened streets toward the place where they had made camp on the outskirts of Edfu. As he moved through unlit alleys, he was set upon by two men intent upon robbing him. With little effort, he left one lying dead in the street and the other whimpering as he nursed a slashed arm. He sheathed his knife and resumed
his journey.
Zufir gathered his men at dawn and led them swiftly to the bus station, prepared to overwhelm the passengers and snatch Muammar and the infidel. They were too late, and all the information they could garner from bystanders was that the destination of the bus was Esna.
"We follow," Zufir roared. "And I shall demand extra recompense for all my trouble."
Return to Contents
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Nazim Manouk had never thought of himself as particularly imaginative, but he was rapidly changing that opinion of himself. He was also talking to himself, arguing even, and that disturbed him more. The last two nights had become increasingly harrowing as images and sounds invaded his sleep, awakening him from deep sleep, his heart racing. He would sit awake the rest of the night, afraid to close his eyes, and then at dawn drag himself to the nearest caf� for cups of strong coffee. He found he could doze during daylight hours without fear, but the rest he obtained from these cat naps sufficed merely to give him the semblance of sanity, while below the surface his mind still reeled from the nightly onslaughts.
His demeanour and wan looks invited comment, but he brushed aside Al-Din's concerns muttering that he must have eaten something that disagreed with him, or else had a touch of stomach flu. He withdrew from the Lieutenant, and the Minister as much as possible, keeping up his duties of venturing out on the launch to investigate possible tomb sites though his heart was no longer in the search. Instead, he sent Al-Din ashore to follow up possibilities and spent many hours on board the launch wrestling with the cause of his nightmares. Increasingly, Nazim felt as if his mind was dissociating as his conscience racked him.
Lieutenant Jamal Al-Din often heard Nazim muttering to himself, but not wanting to eavesdrop, paid as little attention as possible. The secretary was obviously worried about something, or was ill and best left alone. He thought Nazim would ask if there was anything he wanted Al-Din to do. The most disturbing aspects of Nazim's condition came from the arguments the man held with himself, and also from the fixation the little man had with a small river stone. Thinking himself unobserved, he would furtively bring it out of his pocket and stare at it, quickly hiding it when anyone approached.
