Map of the Dead: A mystery thriller that's a page turner

by Murray Bailey

  Vanessa pointed along the platform. “Look over there.”

  Alex followed her indication. A tall thin man dressed smartly in a black suit was standing near the exit, clearly staring straight at them. “The guy from the BMW! It was him at the airport!”

  Vanessa nodded. “One of yours then, Pete?”

  “What? Who?”

  The man was walking quickly towards them. Something in his intense eyes gave Alex a shiver.

  Pete was staring.

  “Pete?”

  “Never seen him before!”

  The train started to move.

  Vanessa grabbed Alex’s arm and pulled. “Get on the train!”

  Alex was momentarily mesmerized. The man started to run. Was that a gun in his hand?

  Vanessa had already jumped into an open doorway, forcing her way through.

  Alex and Pete walked quickly beside the train.

  Vanessa shouted, “Get in, for God’s sake!”

  Alex glanced along the platform. The man was closing fast. Alex gripped the rail beside the door and swung in. Pete was right behind. He flung his bag on the train and reached for the handle on the opposite side.

  A woman on the platform screamed.

  “Alex!” Pete shouted.

  Alex twisted in the mass of people by the door and saw Pete holding on but leaning back with the man holding onto his neck. The train shuddered forward and Pete’s eyes bulged with desperation. His fingers started to slip and then he let go.

  Alex leaned out, grabbed hold of Pete’s jacket and pulled as hard as he could. The train jolted and BMW man lost his grip. Pete tumbled through the door.

  Alex scrabbled to a window in time to see BMW man getting to his feet. He just stood there staring after the diminishing train as if he had all the time in the world.

  FORTY-SIX

  1325 BCE, Ugarit (Northern Syria)

  The young officer said, “I joined the army to fight, not sit in this stinking tent all day reading boring documents.”

  “What?” Yanhamu looked up from the clay tablet he was translating.

  The other officer continued to bitch: “We spend a year learning to be officers and just because we can read and write we get lumbered with the clerical stuff. The job stinks. The tent stinks. I stink!”

  The other young man was called Thayjem and, during the year they had worked together, Yanhamu had learned to tune out the complaints. He went back to his translation. Something was troubling him. The Hittite document appeared to be a list of supplies, but every now and then place names and numbers seemed out of place.

  “Oh, Ra protect us!” he blurted with sudden realization.

  “Hey, you’re supposed to pray to Seth! We’re in the Black army, remember?”

  Yanhamu didn’t respond; he was already heading out of the tent. He flagged a message runner. When the boy sprinted over, Yanhamu said, “Make haste to the western valley where the Fourteenth are advancing. Tell the commander he’s being led into a trap—tell him to retreat!”

  The boy nodded abruptly and ran to where a charioteer was readying his horse. Within seconds, the horse pounded up the dusty road as fast as the messenger could drive him.

  “What the hell got into you, Yan-Khety?” Thayjem said as Yanhamu ducked back into the tent. “A mosquito go up your arse?”

  “I wish.” Yanhamu picked up the tablet he’d been translating and stared at it as if glaring would make the words more true. He put it on the table and slid it over to his colleague. “What do you make of this?”

  After a cursory analysis Thayjem said, “A shopping list, I should say. What did you take offence to, the pork? The heathens eat the disgusting stuff, I know, but you really should control your vomit.”

  “Shut up and read it again!”

  Thayjem translated out loud and concluded: “Still a shopping list.”

  “And this one?” Yanhamu slid over a tablet they had translated the night before: the message that spoke of a sneak manoeuvre to outflank one of the Black units and cut them off.

  “You know this was a great coup. The Fourteenth has been sent to ambush the enemy. If that Amurru messenger hadn’t defected, we would not have known and we could now be handing out Hittite shopping lists to our men.” Thayjem laughed and then stopped when he saw Yanhamu had not smiled.

  Thayjem said, “Are you all right? You look sick.”

  “I’m going for a walk.” Yanhamu slipped out of the tent and squatted in the shade. Across the plain he could see a stream of soldiers heading towards the main encampment. He tried to judge the number of men and horses but lost count in the confusion of heat haze and dust. Beyond the hill he knew the Blacks’ leader had his command tent. It was said that General Horemheb himself had given the leader his name: Apephotep—son of the serpent who fought Ra beyond the horizon. The name was both a challenge to the gods and a reflection of the soldier’s fierce reputation.

  It was said that Horemheb had been sent to Qadesh by Pharaoh as an emissary with promises of funding and military support, but no one in the army believed there was a chance of a lasting allegiance. The city-state was too important and too used to playing a political game to commit to one side. There was also talk that Horemheb had the Reds—the army of Ra—moving north from the Egyptian–Syrian border. He didn’t expect peace.

  From inside the tent, Yanhamu heard his colleague fart and then laugh. Thayjem may bitch about not fighting, but they had both seen the dreadful result of battle, and being away from the front line meant they had a good chance of getting out of the army alive. It wasn’t until Yanhamu had joined the academy that he realized old soldiers were a rarity. Most of the time the men were fed reasonably and there was always beer to drink, and they all seemed to think that they would be the exception—the soldier who would return home a hero and make love to all the young girls. Yanhamu wondered then what Nefer-bithia was doing, and the thought of her made his heart heavy. He could have accepted the magistrate’s offer and married her. At sixteen, she was undoubtedly married to another now and he was stuck in a foreign land with only the promise that, should he die here, his body would be returned to Egypt. It was a promise made to all the men, for everyone knew that you had to be buried beneath the soil of the Two Lands to find your way to the afterlife and the Field of Reeds.

  He shook the morbid thoughts from his head, collected two cups of beer and returned to the tent. He handed the beer to his colleague and began translating the clay tablets again.

  The light was fading and braziers had been lit when a chariot pulled up outside their tent and a mid-ranking officer charged in. He looked the two translators up and down disparagingly.

  “Which of you girls is responsible for the message to the Fourteenth this afternoon?”

  “Yan-Khety,” Thayjem said, and pointed with excessive vigour.

  Yanhamu stood to attention, a hand on each thigh. “It was me, sir.”

  “And you ordered a retreat?”

  Thayjem gasped.

  The mid-ranking officer continued: “You are to come with me immediately. The commander wants to see you.” He turned, marched to his chariot and pulled himself athletically beside a driver. Yanhamu slung his scribe’s satchel over his shoulder and squeezed beside the officer on the footplate.

  The charioteer lashed at his horse and it jolted into a gallop. Yanhamu clung to the rail as they were driven at speed along the dusty track, leaving their tents in the supply section and heading for the Seth commander’s encampment nearer the front line. During the twenty-minute journey, Yanhamu shivered. The evening air had a chill, but he realized it was more than the drop in temperature that cooled his skin. As they neared, he could see the long flowing black pennants against the dying embers of the sky and he thought of serpent’s tongues tasting the air and judging his fear.

  When the chariot pulled up at the massive tent, bigger than most noble’s houses, they jumped off. Beside two giant Nubian guards, with faces blacker than river mud, the mid-ranking office
r told him to wait until he was called. Yanhamu wiped dust from his tunic and shoes and, taking a damp cloth from a slave, cleaned dirt from his face.

  The wait was so long that Yanhamu became thirsty and wondered whether he had been forgotten. Finally, an attractive boy wearing kohl around his eyes stepped between the guards and said he should follow.

  He was led into a section of the tent and Yanhamu knew immediately that this was Apephotep, a large man with a charisma that seemed to fill the air like an invisible cloak. Yanhamu thought the air shimmered, although this could have been the effect of the fading light and torches around the tent. To his side stood a scribe and behind the commander were six slaves with the markings of deaf mutes who encouraged the air to circulate by moving their ostrich feather fans like the rhythm of a gentle sea. He stepped forward, eyes down and bowed, lowering his hands to his knees and out.

  Apephotep growled, “So you are the imbecile who ordered the retreat.”

  “Sir, I found something that suggested our intelligence was false. I did not mean to order a retreat, merely to prevent an attack that would have left our men exposed. I believe we were the victims of misinformation.”

  “Look at me!” The big man slammed his fist on the table. “Do you realize the punishment for such a loss of face? The Blacks are the most fearless of Horemheb’s armies. We do not retreat!” He calmed but continued to glare. “Your job is to use your head, is it not? How would your clever head feel if it was separated from that pretty neck?”

  Yanhamu did not answer.

  “But you were lucky. The message got to the Seth Fourteen just in time. There was a fight and we were victorious.” The officer studied Yanhamu for a while as though deciding his fate, before he said, “Glory to Pharaoh, the living god, he who unites the Two Lands.”

  “May he live for eternity in the palace of Ra,” Yanhamu recited.

  “Glory to Horemheb, our beloved general who will make our great nation powerful once more and drive the usurper from our beloved land, the land of the true gods.”

  Yanhamu was unsure how to respond. Men whispered ill feelings towards the pharaoh and said terrible things in the stupor of their beer, but he had never heard Pharaoh Ay referred to as the usurper before. It was tantamount to treason.

  Apephotep watched his reaction and then said, “What are your politics?”

  Yanhamu shook his head. “I have no politics, sir.”

  “Is Horemheb your leader, no matter what? Would you lay down your life for him?”

  “In this foreign field, My Lord Horemheb is Egypt.” Yanhamu kept his face straight. He knew there was only one answer he could give and prayed he could mask his feelings as well as he could read others. He said, “Of course, sir, without question.”

  Apephotep nodded thoughtfully and let Yanhamu sweat before saying, “Your life shall be spared, although I must tell you my decision was a close one. If you had realized the subterfuge before, the leader of the Fourteenth would not be wounded and now lying in the care of the priests of Bast.”

  Apephotep beckoned him forward and the scribe indicated he should kneel. To Yanhamu’s surprise, the commander reached forward and, over his head, placed a collar of office with gold embroidery and trim and lapis lazuli beads. “You are to report to Serq, the leader of the Fourteenth, as his personal strategist and officer second class. You will be responsible for his personal safety and you will take a blade in his place if the time comes.”

  As he stood, Yanhamu noticed a few specks of dried blood on the collar and couldn’t help himself.

  “What happened to his last one?”

  “He asked too many fucking questions!” Apephotep guffawed. “Now, the captain’s boy is here and will take you to the temple.”

  Yanhamu entered the area that had been designated as a temple of Bast. A statue of the cat goddess had been placed in each corner of the yard and between them bundles of papyrus flowers represented the walls of the temple. Torches burned all around and bowls of incense smouldered and fed a layer of smoke that hung below the awning. Of the thirty or forty wounded, either seated or lying here, Yanhamu knew that none of them would be lower class and all would have Egyptian blood. The gods of health were for the higher classes and were ministered by priests who walked between them chanting and rattling their sistra.

  Yanhamu knew of the commander of Seth Fourteen by reputation. One story was that he had gained the name Serq because of the speed of his aggression, like the strike of a scorpion. Others said it was just because a scorpion had stung him in childhood, leaving its mark on his face.

  The boy, who had led the way from the Seth encampment, pointed to a chair at the rear of the yard. Yanhamu walked over and bowed his head to avert his eyes and stopped just short of the captain’s chair.

  “My new strategist,” Serq said in a voice that was rough but slightly higher pitched than Yanhamu had anticipated. “What’s your name?”

  “Yan-Khety, sir.”

  “I knew of a Khety once. A magistrate from Thebes. Are you related?”

  Yanhamu hesitated. When he enrolled at the military academy in Memphis he had been surprised at the magistrate’s letter. Instead of an introduction, it was a statement of Yanhamu’s heritage. His acceptance had been guaranteed and the enrolling officer had noted the name.

  Yanhamu said, “I am his son, sir.”

  “Gods protect me, a strategist and a judge!” He laughed mirthlessly. “Let me see your face.”

  Yanhamu looked up and choked. The light was poor, but the evidence was clear: the man in the chair had a hard face with a small scar on his left cheek that looked like his namesake—Serq, the Scorpion. Yanhamu’s legs buckled. He grabbed the chair for balance. After more than two years in the army, he had finally come face-to-face with Captain Ani.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The train rumbled slowly on tracks that creaked and groaned and they began to pick up speed.

  Vanessa glared at Pete. “You’re not coming with us,” she said, her voice clear and final.

  Pete laughed. “As I said, lady, I know too much and can make Alex look guilty. In fact, for all you know, he is guilty. I’m part of this whether you like it or not.”

  “You’ve got nothing,” Alex said.

  Pete pushed someone aside and picked up his bag. He placed his hand inside. “It’s all in my notebook in here. The whole sordid truth.”

  Alex reached towards the bag. As he started to move, Pete withdrew his hand and, in a smooth motion, slapped Alex across the face. At precisely the same time, the train jolted and began to slow. Vanessa used the sudden move to grab and spin Pete around. She slammed him hard against the carriage wall, twisting his arm behind him.

  Other passengers moved aside as she strong-armed him to the lavatory. They disappeared inside, and moments later Vanessa reappeared on her own.

  The train was pulling alongside platforms at Giza, Cairo’s second station.

  Vanessa said, “We need to get off and switch trains.”

  Alex nodded dumbly.

  She looked into his eyes. “You OK?”

  He took a long breath and noticed all the dark faces close by watching him intently.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you got the notebook?”

  He held up Pete’s bag.

  The train stopped and Vanessa beckoned to Alex, saying, “Keep your eyes open for the BMW man.” She looked up and down the platform and stepped off. Then she waved him over to a wall. They followed it around the side so they were away from the platform, with a good view, but shielded from anyone not at the far end of the station. Only one man could see them clearly and he appeared to be security. It was a small station with two platforms. A rail flyover swept overhead. The sound of wheels drew their attention and they shrank back as a cleaner pushed his trolley past them.

  Alex put his hand on his heart. “God, it’s doing ten to the dozen.”

  A minute later a train stopped on their platform. The engine was identical to all the other
s: a square block of dirty petrol blue, like an oversized container but with small windows behind metal grills. The carriages, on the other hand, were much better. Some cream with green stripes, others blue with a grey stripe. All first class.

  An announcement in Arabic was followed by a series of places in English ending with “Dairut”.

  “Our train? Only an hour late.”

  A few locals got on, but most of the orderly queues at the carriages were backpackers. Alex and Vanessa waited until everyone was on and then ran to the open door, jumped in and shut it behind them. Vanessa waited by the window and watched the platform until the train began to move.

  “No sign of anyone suspicious,” she said.

  They found their allocated seats in a compartment although the numbers were handwritten in Arabic above the seats and Alex had to ask which were twenty-five and twenty-six.

  Alex held up Pete’s bag. “What did you do to Pete?”

  “Helped him sleep for thirty minutes or so.” When Alex frowned, she added, “Like you, I had some martial arts training. Uncle Seth insisted before I was allowed to go to Israel on my own. Self-defence really, but I know how to make someone go to sleep.” She studied Alex’s reaction and shook her head. “Don’t you dare be concerned for him. He wasn’t a friend. He was using you.”

  “I guess.”

  “There’s no guessing about it.”

  Alex opened the bag. Inside were mostly clothes, but there was Pete’s passport and a tatty black notebook.

  Vanessa held out her hand. “Let me see?”

  Alex handed it to her and placed Pete’s bag under the seat. He’d point it out to a guard and say someone had left it. Hopefully Pete would get his passport back.

  After a long anxious wait, the train finally pulled away and, through a window that looked like it had been sandblasted, they watched the outskirts of Cairo pass by. Houses looked unfinished, with concrete-encased metal rods on most roofs. Most were unpainted and rugs dangled from windows.

  “Look at that!” Alex said, pointing to a bicycle hanging from a window ledge. “Saves space, I suppose.”