The Amun Chamber

by Daniel Leston

  It was amazing to him that Elizabeth showed no signs of exhaustion after their long afternoon browsing the colorful bazaars and quaint shops of the Khan el-Khalili. The novelty of the experience still lingered on her face, a glowing residue of something much enjoyed. He smiled just to look at her, something he found himself doing all the time. Was this a tacit admission his feelings for her had grown beyond the bounds of mere physical attraction? Pleasing though he found this sensation to be, it was vaguely disquieting, as well. For him, this was uncharted territory. He knew he was becoming emotionally involved with her in subtle and unanticipated ways—ways seemingly beyond his conscious ability to manage.

  “I really did have a wonderful time,” she said, returning his smile. “I don’t think I’ve enjoyed anything as much in a long, long time. I’m just sorry it’s over.”

  Like her, he was reluctant to see it end.

  “It doesn’t have to quite yet. If you think you’re up to it, there’s another view of the city that shouldn’t be missed. The observation deck on Cairo Tower is only a short walk from here. What do you say?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  A few minutes later, David guided her out through the lobby’s revolving doors into the crowded street. Almost immediately they were hailed by an adolescent voice.

  “Hey, mister! You Professor Manning?”

  The shouted query came from a gangly teenager at the curb. Looking no more than fifteen, he was seated astride a battered motorbike and dressed in black slacks and white tee shirt.

  “I’m Manning. What do you want?”

  “Mr. Khafaghi says he’ll see you now. You got a car someplace?”

  David nodded, thinking how the timing couldn’t possibly be worse.

  “Then go get it and follow me,” said the youth.

  Confused by this unexpected exchange, Elizabeth asked, “What’s this all about? Where are we going?”

  He put himself between her and the kid, thinking there was no tactful way of explaining this. “I’ve got to go see someone,” he said. “Something I set up earlier today. Best you go up to your room. I’ll fill you in as soon as I’m back.”

  “No,” she declared without hesitation. “Whatever it is, David, I’m going with you. I’m part of this, too.”

  “Hey, look mister—what’s it gunna be?” The teenager took the unlit cigarette from his mouth and spit into the street. “You coming, or not?”

  Elizabeth’s determined look offered no real choices. Nor was there time to argue, for this arrogant little punk was obviously prepared to take off without him.

  Damn!

  “Okay,” he told the boy. “Give us a minute and we’ll be right behind you.”

  * * *

  At that very moment, not two miles away in Shepheard’s Hotel, Heikal paced the length of his suite with a restless momentum born of growing frustration. It was only ten minutes after eleven, yet he already felt caged, uneasy with the restrictive confines of his room. Patience was one of the many disciplines he’d long mastered, but the prospect of spending the next six hours here seemed almost intolerable.

  The cause of his agitation was the American woman.

  The faint stirrings of his old demon began the instant he laid eyes on her, and now he was paying the price. The reddish color and length of her hair, the structure of her face—it was all too reminiscent of another, triggering dark urges that should’ve died a long time ago. Now he cursed the tormenting devil that chose this of all nights to resurface. Worse still, experience had taught him there was only one guaranteed way to make the demon recede.

  Contrary to belief, he wasn’t someone wholly free of self-indulgence and sexual lust. Far from it. He withdrew the thin dagger from the leather sheath strapped to his chest; then idly tested its razor edge against the flat of his thumb. The tempered steel caught the light from his bedside lamp, glinting as he slowly turned it in his hand. Here was the sole instrument of his passion, the only release ever potent enough to satisfy his darkest desires. Periodically, his inner devil demanded to be fed. But to do it right, he knew, took both time and careful planning—two luxuries denied him at the moment.

  It would challenge his endurance, but the feeding must wait.

  The knife was Heikal’s favored weapon, what he used to kill his first man not ten city blocks from this very room. He was a mere child at the time, not yet fourteen, and the bloody incident became the seed from which ultimately evolved the violent creature now so prized by Oristano. Ironically, it might actually have been otherwise had the boy killed twice that day. That he didn’t proved a fateful oversight, a mental torture that came to haunt him for the rest of his life . . .

  It happened in early spring of 1968.

  Though hardly more than a boy, Sabir was somewhat fortunate in being tall and physically advanced for his years. It allowed him to secure desperately needed work in a large hotel on the western edge of Ezbekiah Gardens, one catering to foreigners. The management’s policy was to hire only men over sixteen, and only those of respectful manner and pleasing appearance. But due to his exceptional height and muscular build, none thought to question his true age.

  The long hours were brutal, yet the youngster was uncomplaining, grateful for the small pay. With both parents dead, he was sole provider for himself and his beloved sister, Nayra. Older than he by four years, she was all that remained of his family, and he cherished her as he was never to love another living being. Though already a man in body, he saw her through the eyes of a child, and she was to him as pure and virtuous as he could conceive a woman to be. As fate had it, however, she proved unworthy of his adolescent adoration.

  It was warm and sultry on the night he returned home earlier than usual from his arduous duties. The small quarters Sabir shared with his sister were in the poorest quarter of the Wasa, the ‘open land’ of the Ezbekiah Fishmarket. As always, he reached the aged building by way of a narrow alley, there climbing a precarious flight of stairs to their third-floor rooms. As was his habit, he entered quietly so as not to waken her. But to his great shock, he found his sister was anything but alone.

  Sabir stood motionless outside the arched entrance of her room, staring at the lanky, blond foreigner lying naked in Nayra’s bed—and it was abundantly clear even to the inexperienced boy that his sister was no unwilling partner in their frenzied act of love-making. Frozen in place, he listened in horror to her unashamed gasps of pleasure, watching as her slim legs encircled the thrusting white buttocks of her lover. Like a bitch mongrel in heat—like the lowest of whores—Nayra was joyously giving herself to this foreign dog!

  Sickened by this vision, the boy could scarcely breathe in his growing rage and terrible shame. And the man was known to him! he realized. Not three hours before, he and several more of his kind had been drinking heavily at the hotel bar. He recalled their crude laughter—their insufferable arrogance—and something deep inside him turned icy cold. How many more of these jackals had his sweet Nayra bedded without his knowing?

  He knew immediately what must be done—what his honor demanded of him!

  Pausing only to snatch up an iron knife, he hurriedly retraced his steps down the outside stairway; then concealed himself in the dark alley.

  His wait was brief.

  When the man strode past just minutes later, Sabir sprang on him from behind, clamping his hand tightly over his mouth as he dragged him down. Taken by surprise, faint resistance was given as the lethal blade was driven twice into the small of his back. Yet it was not enough for the boy to know the foreign dog was mortally wounded. His vengeance required more. Much more! He needed to see up close the terror in the man’s eyes, wanted to revel in his dying anguish and pain! Rolling him over, he gazed with grim satisfaction into the man’s bloodless face as he repeatedly—methodically—worked the blade deep into his bowels.

  The boy fled Cairo before sunrise.

  Whatever became of his sister, he never learned. Nor did he ever regret the brutal murder on that long
ago night. His only remorse—if so it could be called—was in not having cleansed his sullied honor with Nayra’s blood, as well.

  * * *

  David gunned the Renault’s accelerator in pursuit of the darting motorbike; half-convinced Khafaghi’s teenage messenger was intentionally trying to lose him. It sure as hell appeared to be the case! It was Thursday evening, the end of Cairo’s work week, and the kid was piloting his machine through the throng of celebrants with reckless abandon. Miraculously, the crowds seemed to part at the last possible instant. Simply keeping the boy within sight was a challenge. Following him with a car was damn near impossible.

  As David steered sharply out onto the Qasr al-Nil, stalled traffic suddenly loomed in front of him. Swearing under his breath, he slammed on the brake, cutting the car dangerously close to a standing taxi—then again tramped the gas, threading his way through a seemingly unconcerned mass of pedestrians set upon moving against the red light of an intersection.

  Elizabeth’s face was pale under the spotty glare of the streetlights, her hand braced against the dash. Certain of imminent collision when he last hit the brake, she’d closed her eyes. Now she no longer saw the bike.

  “Did we lose—?”

  “Not yet. He’s up on the right.”

  He swung around a packed bus; then pulled into the same lane as the speeding motorbike, quickly closing the distance between them. He knew they were moving to the northeast, away from the city center. Thankfully, the traffic was beginning to thin out. For the moment, at least, it appeared they were being led into the heart of Old City.

  “Doesn’t look like there’s going to be time for lengthy explanations,” he said, “so just listen carefully. The man we’re meeting with is Sharif Khafaghi, an old-timer whose family’s been in the illegal artifacts trade since God knows when. He’s not the sort of fellow you’d want living next door, mind you, but in his own peculiar way he’s basically an honorable man. I did some business with him a few years back, so please let me do all the talking.”

  She gave no response, still staring ahead through the dusty windshield. A good hundred feet in front, the bike abruptly veered to the right. David followed. There was a huge, unlit area off to the left, which he figured had to be Ezbekiah Gardens.

  “Needless to say,” he added, “Sharif isn’t the easiest man to reach.”

  “I can see that!”

  Her retort forced him to smile, if only briefly. “Just keep that sense of humor and it should work out fine.”

  Several minutes later found them southbound on Shari’ al-Qalah, a broad avenue slicing deep into the city’s medieval quarter. It was an older business section of tiny shops, now largely empty of any real traffic. A dozen or so blocks down, the kid cut to the left and raced up an unpaved lane barely wide enough for two cars to pass. It was little more than a dirt alley, lined on both sides with colorless, two-story buildings. Here the young biker finally braked, kicking up a plume of dust beneath one of the few functioning streetlamps. When the car pulled up behind him, he paused only to point at a rough brick structure; then quickly sped off into the night.

  David shut off his engine and killed the lights, noting there were no other vehicles around. An even narrower alleyway flanked the building, but if a car was parked back there it was well concealed. The foul smell of a nearby sewer was evident as he stepped out to assess the situation. What disturbed him most was the stillness of the place. The silence was far too deep, too complete for his liking. Sharif was known as a cautious man, yet this didn’t seem his style. With Elizabeth along, the smart thing would be to simply leave while there was still time.

  But it was already too late. The building’s single door swung open, a murky light from within putting a tall figure in silhouette.

  “Manning?”

  David nodded.

  “Come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Unshaven and hawk-faced, the man silently scrutinized both of them as he held the door open. The dimly lit interior looked like a warehouse of sorts; holding textiles mostly, by the musty smell of the place. Bound rolls of cotton were stacked randomly along the bare walls. A leggy dog growled menacingly from a corner, but showed no inclination to get up. The man led the way back to yet another door, then rapped before entering. This second room was smaller, marginally cleaner, and apparently meant to serve as an office—and now David knew that not following his first instincts was a huge mistake. There were two more men inside, and neither of them was Sharif Khafaghi.

  The oldest was presumably in charge. He sat facing them behind a flimsy, metal desk, studying them through rather thick, round glasses. A single light bulb hung from the ceiling above his head. Behind him was a high window barred against entry from the alley. He was almost certainly one of Sharif’s many sons. With his round face and wide, blunted nose, the resemblance was too strong to be otherwise. If true, then the Khafaghi family had fallen on hard times. Despite the crafty cast of the man’s eyes, he looked little more than a village peasant dressed up in an oversized suit.

  His companion was considerably younger and potentially the more dangerous. He had the unmistakable look of a brawler stamped on his rough, sullen face. Wearing a dingy, stripped galabia, he was leaning nonchalantly against a side wall, his muscular arms folded across his chest in evident boredom. Now the tall one closed the door and positioned himself so as to effectively block the only exit. Unnerved by this, Elizabeth clung tightly to David’s hand.

  “I’m Abdel Khafaghi,” said the seated man, confirming the suspicion. “So how may I be of service to you?”

  “Perhaps my message was unclear,” David said. “I requested a meeting with my friend Sharif, not his son.”

  Abdel showed a thin smile, choosing to ignore this. “I believe you once transacted some business with my father several years back, correct? And most successfully, as I recall.” He shifted his eyes, pointing a stubby finger at Elizabeth. “Who is this?”

  “No one that concerns you. There’s really nothing for us to discuss.”

  Abdel raised an eyebrow, appearing amused by the stupidity of someone unwilling to accept the reality of his situation. Leaning forward, he pulled open his desk drawer and pointedly rested his hand over it. It was meant as a subtle threat, the implication being there was a gun inside. However, this ploy imparted more information than Abdel intended; it said that neither of his henchmen was armed, doubtless both recruited more for show than actual ability.

  “I assume you’re not a foolhardy person, Professor. Therefore I see no reason we cannot bargain together like civilized men. Perhaps there is something that you wish to acquire? Be assured, I can be a most reasonable man to do business with.”

  “Perhaps so,” replied David, “but it doesn’t change anything.” He was aware that the tall one had edged up closer from behind and was now standing slightly to his left. The fellow was either totally inexperienced—or just plain stupid. “My business is with your father, and no other.”

  Abdel frowned, shaking his head. “I’m a busy man, and you truly begin to tax my patience. I invested valuable time seeing you tonight. One way or another, I mean to profit from it. I understand you paid handsomely for my father’s influence in that small matter, did you not? I have to wonder if maybe you came prepared to do so again. Please empty your pockets on the desk.”

  This wasn’t something David felt inclined to do. He slowly released Elizabeth’s hand, estimating the distance between himself and the desk to be less than five feet. The brawler was obviously the strongest, yet the overconfident oaf continued to lean against the wall, perhaps believing David accepted the fact of being outnumbered three to one. Whatever pittance these two louts were being paid was definitely too much.

  “That wasn’t a request, Professor!”

  David knew his opportunity was now. He raised both hands in a non-threatening gesture, then snapped his left arm back sharply, nailing his elbow hard into the tall one’s middle. The man doubled up in pain, the ai
r driven from his lungs. Eyes bulging, mouth gaping, he collapsed to his knees.

  As anticipated, Abdel was the first to react. Alarm registered behind his thick glasses as he grabbed for the gun inside the open drawer. He was quick for a man of his years, but not fast enough. David lashed out with his foot, throwing his full weight against the edge of the desk, hurling the metal frame back into Abdel with sufficient force to up-end both. Catapulted from his chair, the pudgy man shrieked in anger, the pistol discharging in his hand a split second before the back of his head smashed into the unyielding block wall. The errant bullet ripped into the ceiling at a sharp angle, raining bits of shattered plaster across the room.

  Incredibly, it took the loud report of the gun and the flying debris to finally spur the brawler into action. Enraged at what had just transpired under his nose, he plowed into David like veritable bull, attempting to overpower him with his formidable size and strength.

  The collision was jarring. Caught off balance, David was propelled sideways against the opposite wall. Though shaken by the impact, he recovered in time to see a balled fist arcing towards his face. He managed to slip under it, and countered by driving his own solidly into the man’s unprotected ribs. Not just once, but twice. The second blow was placed with more calculation—and he felt the unmistakable crack of bone beneath his knuckles. Yet the brawler refused to go down. He stumbled backwards, his face contorted in disbelief. Then, desperate to redeem himself, he clumsily made for the pistol beside his unconscious boss. Knowing his intent, David tackled him before the weapon could be reached, ramming his shoulder into the man’s damaged ribs. The lout’s guttural roar of frustration filled the room as they both hit the floor. David quickly swept the gun aside; then ended the one-sided struggle with a chopping right fist to the jaw.

  “David, look out!”