‘Now is the moment,’ Heinrich Nadir told himself, feeling the knife nestled within his jacket. Its blade would taste blood before the night was through.
Cornelius Quaint steadied himself against the ship’s railings. He was looking forward to getting back to his cabin – if only he could remember where he had left it.
He fought against the wind to open the door that led inside, tripping over the raised step. He found himself at the end of a long corridor with rows of identical doors on both sides. Feeling inside his trouser pocket, he pulled out his door key and squinted at it whilst his inebriated vision tried its best to decipher the numbers embossed upon the key’s tag.
‘Is that a five…or a six?’ he mumbled to himself.
Those ales were stronger than he had thought – or perhaps it was merely the number of them that he had consumed. He thumbed his lips, bringing the tag closer to his beleaguered eyes. He decided to wait until his vision remembered what gravity looked like, and he propped himself against the corridor’s wall.
The ship was quiet. It was the early hours and most of the passengers were tucked up nicely in their bunks, the rocking of the ship sending them quickly to sleep. Only a few crewmembers were drifting around the ship like ghosts, tidying their stations, locking doors, checking safety equipment. Away from the ballroom and dining saloon and a lot closer to the passengers’ cabins, the occupation was scant – a fact that Heinrich Nadir clung to. He lurked in the shadows just beyond Quaint’s sight. He could hear the conjuror mumbling to himself, drunkenly chastising the world for all its ills, promising to set them right in the morning.
The German smiled at how easy this was going to be.
After finding his sense of balance, Quaint then discovered that his key wouldn’t work, but when he turned the handle, he was relieved to find that he had left it unlocked. He opened the door, bouncing off the doorframe and into the cabin.
Nadir rounded the corner just as the cabin door closed shut. He grinned. Now his target was caged, in a drunken haze with nowhere to run. It almost seemed unsporting to kill him in such a state – but then he was reminded of the reward he would receive from his employers and all pity went out the window. For some reason that he was not party to, the Hades Consortium had targeted Cornelius Quaint. The order to kill had come from very high up, possibly from the inner stratum itself. That spoke volumes to the German. Killing such a high profile target gave him a chance to make a name for himself, and he would not let this moment slip through his fingers. Cornelius Quaint was going to die this night – even if Nadir had to drag him to hell himself.
Arriving outside the cabin door, he pressed his ear to it, hearing the rumbling of heavy snoring from within. His target had already fallen asleep or, more accurately, passed out. Removing his knife from his jacket, Nadir silently turned the handle and pushed open the door. He hovered in the doorway for a moment, not wanting to broadcast his entry into the room. Not that it would have mattered. His arrival could have been announced by a trumpeting fanfare and still the snoring beast would not have woken. He pushed the door closed, wincing as the latch snapped noisily into place. Stepping towards his mark, he raised his knife into the air.
‘Guten Nacht, Herr Quaint,’ he said.
And then he launched himself.
The blade struck its target, closely followed by the German’s bodyweight. Again and again he brought the knife down, feeling his quarry flinch beneath him. Nadir thrust a pillow over his target’s head to smother the screams, and then stabbed the man’s heart to finish him off. Soon, the room was silent and still.
Silent that was apart from Nadir’s heavy panting, stringy spit clinging to his lips.
Still that was apart from the nervous twitching of the man beneath him.
Nadir lifted the pillow to take one final look at the man that would cement his name in the ranks of the Hades Consortium for ever.
Except…
The face that stared back at him was that of a stranger.
Horrified, Nadir rushed to light the oil lamp on the bedside cabinet, which was quite a task considering how much his hands were shaking. Holding the lamp closer to the bed, he could not believe his eyes. The dead man was of a broad build, with a bushy grey beard lining his chin, branching into mutton-chopped sideburns, and very definitely not Cornelius Quaint.
‘This can’t be!’ Nadir gasped.
Just then, he was distracted by a woman’s scream in the cabin directly next door, as a familiar deeply toned voice apologised profusely. Nadir swore and dived to the door, listening intently.
‘This is E16, you lunatic! You want D16, one deck up!’ the woman screamed. ‘I’ll have you thrown overboard for this outrage!’
‘Dear madam,’ hiccuped Cornelius Quaint, ‘it is quite possible that my present orientation is a trifle out of order.’
‘I’ll say! Now get out of here before I call the guard!’ the woman yelled, before slamming the door in Quaint’s face.
Heinrich Nadir smeared the blood from his hands across the bed sheets. Yet another body for the incinerator, he supposed. Once more Cornelius Quaint had evaded death, and Nadir had run out of chances. Killing him was obviously not as easy as he had first thought. Quaint was a wily foe, and not to mention blessed. Nadir’s options were decreasing, and a change in tactics was called for.
‘You have the gods on your side, Herr Quaint,’ he said. ‘But I wonder if your luck extends to your travelling companion? If I cannot kill you…perhaps I can make you seek out your death willingly.’
CHAPTER XII
The Awkward Silence
THE REST OF the trip passed uneventfully.
If anything, Quaint was a little bored by the time the Silver Swan arrived in Egypt.
The amber-hued sun blazed low in the sky, caressing the flat rooftops of the buildings with elongated shadows. There was a tangible sense of excitement in the air. The gleaming sugar-white steamship was moored in the port, and the cacophony of dockside activity was in full swing. A succession of suitcases and cumbersome trunks were being carried from the cargo hold to the docks by a flurry of eager Egyptians. The infrequent visits from passenger ships always created a tingle of expectation among the dockland community. High-pitched whistles, wails and booming yells floated on the breeze as traders, workers, travellers and all those in between made their way around the port. It was rapidly approaching nine o’clock in the morning, and most of the Silver Swan’s passengers were bustling about trying to grab the last remains of the breakfast service before it closed.
Bucking the trend, one passenger was decorum personified.
Cornelius Quaint grabbed the thin net curtain and peered out of the open porthole of his cabin at the chaos on the docks below.
‘Ah…there’s nowhere quite like Egypt,’ he said, taking a long sniff of the air.
He pulled on a dark grey pinstriped jacket over matching trousers, and ran a thumb down his braces before buttoning up a tan waistcoat. He rested a brown felt hat upon his nest of curls, and strode towards the door.
‘Room service,’ he called, knocking on Destine’s cabin.
‘I ordered a braised ox with a sour temperament and passing interest in bad manners,’ sang a French voice through the door. ‘I trust it is fresh?’
‘You’ve been spending too much time with the clowns,’ said Quaint. ‘Their poor excuse for humour is starting to rub off on you, Madame.’
Destine smiled to herself, as she snatched up a parasol and a wide-brimmed hat. The Frenchwoman was no lover of the sunshine and her pale, marble-like skin was painfully sensitive to the light. Today was no exception, and she placed a whitelace scarf around her neck to shield herself from Egypt’s harsh sun.
Pulling open her door, she looked Quaint up and down, giving him a satisfactory nod of approval. ‘You took my advice about the suit, I see. It slims down your waist and accentuates your shoulders nicely,’ she said, stifling a yawn.
‘Bad night’s sleep, Madame?’ Quaint asked.
‘Non, just a malaise that has set in over the past few weeks. Perhaps it is all this time at sea. Other than our brief stops en route, I have not set foot on dry land for a long time. Now that we are finally at our destination, I must admit a slight fatigue. The hours on ship seem to obey a different clock than on dry land.’
‘I know what you mean,’ nodded Quaint, offering the Madame the crook of his arm. ‘Can you believe it was Christmas a couple of days ago? We did well getting an invitation to Captain Adamson’s table. All the best goose and the finest of wines! Do you know it’s the first Christmas dinner that we’ve spent apart from the circus in years?’
‘Oui, my sweet, I thought that also,’ said Destine. ‘Although, I admit that I certainly did not miss Jeremiah’s brandy butter. I spilled some once and it almost burned a hole in the train’s flooring.’
‘Brandy butter? Is that what that stuff is supposed to be?’ Quaint rocked his head onto Destine’s and laughed along with her. ‘Come on, we’ve got a big day ahead of us.’
And the conjuror was not to be proved wrong.
Quaint and Madame Destine took their favourite table by the oval window in the dining saloon, and soon a lavish breakfast had been delivered. Whilst Destine tucked into warm bread with lashings of butter and conserves, Quaint devoured a platter of eggs, sausages, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, topped off with a hefty slice of black pudding. After twenty minutes, with the majority of his breakfast consumed, Quaint sat quietly waiting for the conversation to resume. He ran his hands through his silver-white hair, choosing to occupy his eyes around the dining hall – anywhere but in Destine’s direction. During the long voyage, they had spoken little of their plans once they arrived in Egypt – partly because the conjuror was intentionally ignoring the subject. It was only on this, the day of their arrival, that time seemed to catch up with him.
‘You have something that you wish to tell me, Cornelius,’ said Destine when she had finished her breakfast.
‘Me? No…no, certainly not,’ Quaint lied.
‘Vraiment?’ Destine asked. She removed her gloves, placing them neatly on top of the wide-brimmed hat on the seat next to her. This was a signal that she was not about to let the conversation drop. ‘You are thinking about what we are going to do once we go ashore.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Quaint.
‘Merely a logical assumption, my sweet – unless you have devised a way to thwart this plot without leaving the confines of the ship.’ Madame Destine blinked hard. ‘You have something that you wish to discuss – or is it that you have something that you do not wish to discuss? Have our plans changed without my knowing?’
‘No, they haven’t changed,’ said Quaint. ‘We’re still here to stop that poison, but by now we’ve surely missed its interception in Al Fekesh, and that means that we’re on the back foot. We’re still no nearer to knowing what the Hades Consortium plans to do with it, other than tip it into the Nile. According to Renard, their plot is set to conclude at New Year, which means that we have less than a week to put a stop to it. This country isn’t like England, Destine. At the best of times Egypt is unfamiliar and undoubtedly unfriendly territory. We can’t trust anyone.’
‘Not even the local authorities?’ asked Destine.
‘Especially the local authorities,’ said Quaint. ‘They practically make up the law as they go along here. We can’t risk involving them yet. Not until we’ve found out more. Plus they might be a teensy bit interested in a little something called evidence, of which we have none.’ He tousled his silver curls nervously. ‘So I’ve been thinking—’
‘How very unlike you,’ interjected Destine.
‘…about how best to play this,’ Quaint continued. ‘I think it’s wisest if I venture out on my own this morning, just so I can test the water. It’s been years since I was last here, and things have no doubt changed. Egypt has a distinctly murky side to it, Madame. There are some places that I would prefer you did not have to see.’
‘I am no child, monsieur!’ Destine snapped, defensively. ‘Do not forget that I was brought up in the backstreets of Toulouse. I have seen things that would make your hair stand on end.’
‘This is a little different from bordellos and burlesques, Destine.’ Quaint leaned back in his chair, forcing the wooden frame to complain against its joists. ‘I’m sorry, but my mind is made up. It’s just too dangerous.’
‘And what am I supposed to do whilst you are out snooping – stay onboard ship and powder my nose?’ enquired Destine.
‘Not at all. I know this fantastic little place called Agra Bazaar a few miles from here. You can buy anything and everything there. I went there many years back when I first visited this country. You’ll adore it, Madame, I know you will…in fact, so much so that I’ve already arranged an escort to take you there,’ Quaint said, chancing a smile.
Madame Destine rapped her fingernails on the table in annoyance. ‘If you did not wish to be saddled with my company on this trip, Cornelius, you should have told me before we left England!’
‘Destine, it’s not like that,’ insisted Quaint. ‘Let me put it this way…‘ He reached across the table and picked up the silver saltcellar next to a tray of conserves. Placing it in his hand, he enclosed his fingers around it, hiding it from sight. ‘I’m going to have to do a lot of stone-lifting today, and some of the things that crawl out might not be very friendly. If we got separated, you could turn down the wrong alley…and just disappear.’
He unfurled his fingers one by one, revealing a completely empty hand.
The saltcellar had vanished into thin air.
‘Très impressionnant, Cornelius,’ said Destine. ‘So if I am to be kept busy in this bazaar that you mention, what is going to keep you busy?’
‘I need information about the Hades Consortium’s operations in Egypt. How they operate, who their spies are and where they’re based,’ replied Quaint. ‘I thought that I might track down an old friend of mine.’
‘Are you sure that is wise? You have fallen foul of your “old friends” before remember,’ said Madame Destine, warily.
‘Alex’s father was an old college professor of mine before he moved out here many years ago. He’s the one who first ignited my interest in Egyptian history, the reason for my coming here back in the forties.’ Quaint loosened the tie at his neck. ‘Alex is a tailor, and you’d be amazed at what talk a tailor overhears. If there is a word to be heard about the Consortium, it will have reached her ears for sure.’
Destine cocked her head to one side. ‘Her ears? Alex is a woman?’
‘Oh, absolutely – of the kind it’s taken me a long time to forget,’ grinned Quaint. ‘Her brother Joran is due to meet us down on the dockside in about an hour. I’ll accompany you as far as Hosni where Alex’s store is located, and then take my leave.’
‘Well, just promise me you will be careful,’ Madame Destine said, as she collected her belongings from the seat next to her. ‘I know what you are like when—’
She gasped, her hands leaping to her cheeks in shock.
Underneath her hat was a silver saltcellar.
She glanced across the table at Quaint – who was wearing the smuggest of smug grins. ‘Mon Dieu, how on earth did you do that? I never even saw you move. You were in your seat the entire time!’
‘A magician never reveals his secrets, Madame,’ Quaint said with a wink. ‘The mechanics involved with making a saltcellar disappear are surprisingly simple; it’s defeating the Hades Consortium that will test my abilities to their maximum.’
CHAPTER XIII
The Deadly Delivery
AMIDST THE HUSTLE and bustle of the docks, Heinrich Nadir strode down the gangplank of the Silver Swan with determined haste. He scurried from the port exit and across the street, weaving in and out of pedestrians, horses and camels. His beige cotton suit was marred by sweat stains emanating from under the armpits and striping his back, and he wore a hat low on his furrowed brow as he clutched a l
arge, sack-covered item tight against his chest. Hailing one of the many horse-drawn carts that were lined up outside the port exit, he handed a crumpled piece of notepaper to the driver.
‘And be quick about it!’ he added, and the cart was soon on its way.
Less than half an hour later, Nadir arrived in Al Fekesh. Approaching a tavern, he stared up at the flaky painted sign above the door. This was the place. With one last glance at the dusty street around him, he entered the tavern. The morning sunlight had taken its time to bleach through the slatted blinds at the windows, and a lone bartender stood in the shadows at the empty bar. The German raised his hand to catch the man’s attention – a pointless effort, for Nadir had ensnared that the second he had entered the tavern.
‘Good morning, sir,’ greeted the bartender. ‘And how are you this fine day?’
‘Miserable! I have spent a long journey with fools,’ said Nadir, scathingly.
‘Perhaps a drink will ease your troubles, eh?’ the Egyptian asked, wiping the towel he used to clean the glasses over his sweat-soaked forehead.
‘Ja…a large rum,’ Nadir muttered, nestling his buttocks firmly into a stool.
The bartender nodded. ‘In my cellar I have many quality rums. I am sure you will find something down there that you seek, Mr…?’
Nadir looked blank, as if his name were a closely guarded secret.
‘Nadir…Heinrich Nadir,’ he said, shifting his eyes around him, scouring the empty bar. ‘And I would very much like to inspect your cellar, danke.’
The bartender’s dark eyes glanced at the package that the German had placed upon the bar. ‘It might be sensible to bring your belongings with you, sir. We do sometimes get an undesirable element in these parts.’
Lifting a trapdoor set into the wooden floor, he ushered Nadir down the steps into the enveloping darkness. Nadir hovered at the bottom, fear rooting his feet to the spot. He was just about to take a step forwards, when he heard a noise from the far end of the cellar.
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