'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.
'Tres 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 large, 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.
'Hello? Is…is someone there?' Nadir called out.
'Come closer,' said a gruff voice.
The German shuffled forwards as if his shoelaces were tied together.
'Where are you? I…I cannot see you!' he said, more shakily than he had planned.
A match was struck, and Nadir gasped as a dark-skinned, greasy face peered out at him through the darkness. The face was long and muscular, with a firm jaw sporting an unkempt goatee beard. As the light of the match waned, the fingers that held it beckoned Nadir closer.
'Is that the delivery?' asked the Egyptian, his voice all gristle and brutality.
'Ja,' Nadir answered. 'But I have specific orders not to hand it over until I am satisfied that you are the correct recipient. Show me your identity.'
The Egyptian struck another match and Nadir's eyes darted to the tattoo of a scarab beetle etched onto the back of the man's right hand.
'My name is Aksak Faroud, leader of the Clan Scarabs,' said the owner of the tattoo, more as a statement of fact than an introduction. He snatched a lantern from the cellar wall and lit it. 'You will open the box now.'
'As you wish, Herr Faroud,' said Nadir, as he lifted the wooden casket from the sack, and placed it on the cellar floor.
Aksak Faroud crouched down to inspect it, and Nadir saw the entirety of the man for the first time. He was in his early forties, wearing a long, ragged robe from head to toe. Clothes of function, not fashion. The garb of a desert rider. His eyes were tainted by grey shadow, and his fingernails were dirty, as if the man had just crawled out of his own grave. Faroud held the lantern over the box and ran his fingers across the engraved pattern of a sideways-tilted figure of eight – the mathematical symbol for 'infinity'. Lifting the lid, he saw twelve inlaid grooves, nine of which contained cylindrical glass vials, whereas three pockets were empty. He reached inside the box and pulled out one of the vials. It was roughly the size of his index finger, with decorative, ascending ivy etched into the glass.
'Mr Joyce will be most pleased,' Faroud said.
'I am sure that he will. But if he is pleased by that, then he will be positively ecstatic when he hears what else I can offer him,' said Nadir.
Faroud raised an eyebrow. 'Explain.'
'There was a woman onboard the ship. A Frenchwoman by the name of Madame Destine. Now, I have proof that she is possessed of a fantastic gift…and one that would suit a man like Herr Joyce's needs most spectacularly,' explained Nadir.
Faroud's stony expression did not budge for a second. 'And what makes you believe that this woman would be of interest to Mr Joyce?'
'She is able to see the future!' Nadir saw the look of distrust flicker in the Egyptian's eyes and spoke quickly to seal his words. 'I am serious, Herr Faroud. She travelled here with an Englander…the very same man that I was ordered to kill, yet he evaded my best efforts to do so.'
'An Englander?' Faroud's dark eyes narrowed into slits. 'How frequently they have come to desecrate my country! I have killed many who have tried.'
'Good for you,' chirped Nadir. 'And would Mr Joyce not profit greatly from a woman who could predict the future at his merest whim?'
Faroud pondered for a moment. 'This was not part of my agreement. I am merely supposed to collect this casket and deliver it to the British Embassy. However, your words give me pause. I will take you to Mr Joyce. If you can convince him of this woman's worth, perhaps he will let you live.' Faroud offered a tentative smile towards the German. 'Perhaps.'
CHAPTER XIV
The Two-Faced Man
AT THE EMBASSY in Cairo, Godfrey Joyce was not a happy man. Far from joyous at the best of times, this morning he was possessed of a particularly foul distemper. He was facing pressure on all sides, and not all of it courtesy of the British government, for Mr Joyce was a duplicitous man. He had successfully juggled careers both as British attache to Egypt and as a Hades Consortium spy for several years, feigning servitude to Her Majesty Queen Victoria whilst secretly plundering the Empire's secrets. It was Joyce's foremost desire to gain higher notoriety within the Hades Consortium's inner circle, and he was fully prepared to sell his soul to achieve it. However, the urgent communique that he had just received was not sitting well on his portly stomach. His employers had requested his delivery of a certain casket, and with the Hades Consortium, a request was always construed as an order.
A gentle knock on his office door disturbed his discomfort, and a plump young man entered. 'Good morning, Mr Joyce,' he said cheerfully. 'It seems you have two gentlemen to see you this morning. Aksak Faroud, of your previous acquaintance, and one other gentleman. A rather unkempt individual, if I may be so bold, sir. They aren't in the appointment book, so I thought I had better check with you.'
'Faroud, eh? Oh, don't you worry about that, Reginald. He's got something of interest for me I hope,' Joyce said. 'Send him on in, lad.'
Joyce twisted around a small mirror mounted on his desk, checking his appearance studiously. His russet-red hair was greased flat against his head, sweeping down his pale face into two mutton-chopped sideburns that formed a thin moustache resting on his top lip. He was in his late forties yet his hair had a youthful vitality to it, apart from bushy eyebrows that perched like two white doves on his prominent brow. Despite the youthfulness of his hair, Joyce's face did not lie as easily. It was wrinkled with heav
y-set jowls under his chin, clearly displaying his age for what it truly was. Like the man himself, Mr Joyce's face was one of conflicting allegiances.
A cough alerted him to another's presence as Aksak Faroud entered the office.
'Good day, Mr Joyce. I have the consignment from England, as requested,' he said, placing the rough sack on Joyce's desk.
'Excellent work, Aksak,' Joyce said. 'I know a certain young woman most anxious to get her claws on this.' He pointed at Nadir. 'And who is this? I didn't realise the Clan Scarabs were in the habit of picking up strays.'
Nadir offered a polite, but brief, bow. 'Herr Joyce, my name is-'
'I wasn't talking to you,' snapped Joyce, steering his eyes to Faroud.
'Apparently he is called Nadir, the delivery man from the Hades Consortium, the one that transported that casket from England,' answered Aksak Faroud.
'I am a little more than a mere delivery man,' said Nadir. 'I come to you, Herr Joyce, to inform you of an important development.'
Joyce looked mildly interested. 'You're not here bringing yet more bad news from our mutual employers, I trust?'
'Thankfully not,' said Nadir. 'In fact, I bring news of the highest quality. I have travelled from England to deliver that consignment as arranged, but there was something of far greater interest aboard the ship.' His beady eyes floated around the office, never settling in one spot for long. 'On my journey I met a very charming Frenchwoman. She is part of a travelling circus, acting as a teller of fortunes, but unlike most in her trade, her clairvoyant gift is genuine.'
Joyce snorted in sudden annoyance. 'Have you been at the gin, man? A fortune-teller? Those charlatans are two a penny down any side street in Cairo, what makes you think this one is worth my notice?'
'Her gift has been confirmed by an impeccable source, Herr Joyce, and one that carries all the confidence of the Hades Consortium, let me assure you,' said Nadir.
The Eleventh Plague cq-2 Page 6
