The Amun Chamber

by Daniel Leston

  It was Gobeir who completed it for her.

  “Like taking him home to his spiritual father,” he said. “My dear that may be it exactly!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A three-hour drive up the Mediterranean coast the following morning brought them to the small, picturesque port of Mersa Matruh. Situated around a deep lagoon cut off from the sea by a chain of ragged rocks, the town’s beautiful white beaches had long established it as an off-the-beaten-track vacation spot. During the hot summer months the permanent population of sixty thousand was said to more than double with the influx of tourists—all mostly native Egyptians, for few Europeans were willing to brave the intense heat at this time of year.

  And David could well appreciate why as he parked in front of the Municipal building at the intersection of Matruh’s two main streets. Not quite eleven o’clock and the temperature was already ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit.

  Despite its rural appearance, the town was the capital of the Matruh Governate, the immense province encompassing the entire northern half of Egypt’s vast western desert. As such, it maintained a sizable government administration center. Before leaving Alexandria, Gobeir had the foresight to phone ahead and schedule an appointment. Their meeting was with Mr. Mahmoud Wassef, the Director of Tourism.

  Mr. Wassef greeted them cordially in his air-conditioned office on the third floor. His great pleasure at receiving so distinguished a guest as Dr. Gobeir was immediately apparent, for he withheld his deepest smile until the moment of shaking Lewis’ hand, which he then pumped with enthusiasm. A broad man of considerable height and girth, his fleshy face was amiable as he supervised their seating. The room was spacious, if somewhat old fashioned. Metal blinds were drawn open, allowing bright sunlight to spill across the polished tile floor. Beneath a twelve-foot ceiling a bay window overlooked the main harbor, giving an unobstructed view of the sea.

  “It was very wise of you to contact me when you did, Dr. Gobeir,” he said, now seated behind his desk, “but I fear you may be somewhat disappointed in the quality of the accommodations I’ve arranged for you and your party. Securing rooms in any of our better hotels at this time of year is most difficult. If perhaps I was given more time . . .”

  “I understand completely,” said Gobeir congenially. “As I explained over the phone, our trip here to Matruh was unplanned. I’m sure whatever you’ve come up with will be quite acceptable.”

  Wassef appeared relieved. “Then with your approval, your reservations are confirmed at the Qaddis. A rather small establishment, to be sure, but I believe you will find the rooms clean and presentable. Earlier this morning, I took the liberty of sending over one of my people to inspect them. He assures me all is as it should be.”

  “Our appreciation, sir.”

  This business out of the way, Wassef now moved to other matters. “I believe you also mentioned the possibility of driving inland to Siwah. Are you still contemplating this endeavor?”

  Gobeir lifted his shoulders in a noncommittal gesture. “It’s still a possibility, yes. I understand, however, that special permits of some sort must be arranged through your office, correct?”

  “This is true. The Ministry has placed Siwah Oasis off-limits for some years now, mostly as a protection for unprepared travelers. Tourists without proper authorization are routinely turned back at a military checkpoint south of Matruh. We do this for their safety, of course. You would be amazed at the regularity with which people try undertaking this grueling journey into our desert country without the necessary water and gasoline to see them through. At a bare minimum, two vehicles are an absolute necessity. As you doubtless know, there’s but one road, the greater part of which is unpaved. Mechanical breakdowns are commonplace over such rough terrain.”

  “Should we decide to go,” asked David, “will the issuing of passes present any problems?” He strongly doubted it. If there were, Wassef would’ve warned Gobeir in advance of their coming.

  “No obstacle at all, Professor,” Wassef assured him. “A few hours notice will be more than adequate for their preparation. If you so choose, I can even arrange for the rental of vehicles and appropriate gear. I would be honored to assist in any possible way during your stay here in Matruh. Please consider my office completely at your disposal.”

  Gobeir stood, again shaking the man’s hand. “You’ve been most helpful,” he said. “We may very well take you up on your generous offer, sir.”

  * * *

  The precise directions of the rather obsequious Mr. Wassef led them to their hotel without difficulty. The Qaddis was an aged establishment in the southern section of town, a mere two stories high and ringed with quaint, cobbled streets. Once registered, they deposited their luggage in four modest rooms on the upper floor.

  The proprietor’s wife at the front desk confirmed the address they sought—172 Sharia Galaah—was located in the heart of the town’s old bazaar district, just four blocks away. In view of the narrow streets and heavy pedestrian traffic, the obvious choice was to leave the car and proceed on foot. Gobeir and Rashidi led the way, pacing themselves in the intense heat, which only promised to worsen as the day advanced.

  A ten-minute walk took them into the bustling activity of Matruh’s marketplace. The colorful gathering was reminiscent of the Khan Khalili in Cairo, even down to the pungent odors of cooking meat and exotically spiced food; in many ways like stepping back a thousand years in time.

  David clung to Elizabeth’s hand, knowing how easy it would be to lose her in the jostling throng of farmers, vendors, and shopkeepers, all shouting for attention as they hawked their wares. The majority of the people, he knew, were city-dwellers belonging to the Arab tribe called the Awled Ali, though a fair number of shoppers were clearly visiting Bedouins. The distinctive stripped dresses and white scarves of the desert women stood out in sharp contrast to the traditional black clothing of their local counterparts. The dark-skinned Bedouin men—equally recognizable in their flowing white robes and ghotra headwear—tended to gather in small groups around open cafes, occupying themselves with sipping cups of strong coffee.

  Elizabeth, who had dressed for the heat in a thin cotton blouse and matching slacks, quickly became the object of many lingering glances, yet the attention appeared not to bother her. Instead, she appeared charmed by the busy activity around all the various shops and open-air stalls. She even laughed in delight when a flock of bleating sheep was suddenly herded without warning from a side alleyway, the animals blocking their way and raising a cloud of fine, yellow dust.

  This delay only served to separate them further from Gobeir and Rashidi. Looking above the crowd, David saw Rashidi turn and shout something unintelligible in the general din. When he realized he wasn’t heard, he then pointed across the street, gesturing for them to follow.

  “Looks like they found it.”

  “Where?”

  “Over there. This way.”

  He forced an opening, pulling her with him.

  They caught up with Rashidi in front of a sandstone building specializing in the sale of copper pots and pans. Vessels of every size and description were stacked outside on woolen blankets for display to passersby. From an adjoining workshop came the rhythmic clang of hammer against metal. Gobeir was already in conversation with an elderly sheikh who had paused to rest in the shade of a tattered cloth awning.

  “The painted numbers aren’t very legible,” said Rashidi, “but this should be the place.” He nodded towards Gobeir. “I guess we’ll know soon enough”

  But as they watched, it didn’t prove this simple.

  After some talk, the old townsman turned and strode into the shadowy workshop, only to reappear seconds later with a barefoot boy in tow. Looking amused, he deposited the thin youngster in front of Gobeir; then headed back out into the flow of traffic without so much as a backward glance.

  Looking somewhat perplexed, Gobeir steered the child over.

  The boy was no more than twelve, naked from the wais
t up save for a sweaty, cloth cap worn rakishly to one side. He flashed a toothy grin, giving Elizabeth an open and favorable appraisal with his dark, adolescent eyes.

  “A problem, Lewis?”

  “Well, I’m not really sure. It seems we have the correct address, all right, but beyond this, things get a little confusing. Near as I can tell, this young lad here is well known up and down the street as a bit of a troublemaker; into more than his share of mischief, you might say. That old gentleman apparently assumed we were here to bring the boy to task for one of his recent pranks.”

  “Wonder what gave him that idea.”

  “I guess it was a natural assumption, old boy, considering what I asked him. You see, as far as the man knows, there’s only one Nawal Mehra living along the Sharia Galaah” He chuckled as he dropped his hand on the boy’s brown shoulder. “And like it or not, you’re looking at him.”

  “This is Nawal Mehra?”

  The boy responded by immediately sweeping off his stained cap and stabbed a dirty thumb to his chest. “That’s me! You wish buy something from Nawal, mister? I have only the best to sell!” He clutched at David’s hand. “You come look see, yes?”

  The lad’s determination was admirable, but he must be set straight. “I’m sorry, son. We’re not here to buy anything. But we do want to speak with your parents. Do they work here?”

  Though visibly disappointed, the boy nevertheless led them into the main shop, perhaps believing a sale was yet possible once he had them inside. The interior was filled with handcrafted vessels identical to those stacked outside. Less numerous were fancier items worked in silver and brass, all prudently caged behind iron grillwork secured to the wall. The boy darted to the rear, disappearing behind a beaded curtain—and within moments a noisy commotion developed that was impossible to ignore. As they listened, the plaintive voice of the child was drowned out by a man’s—one much louder and shrill with anger. Then came the unmistakable sound of a slap, bringing an abrupt end to the one-sided dispute.

  The boy ran headlong through the curtain, the reddish imprint of a hand still visible across his cheek. Weaving to avoid a collision with Rashidi, he slid onto his backside, his bare feet scattering a stack of bowls that spun and clattered in every direction. Before he could rise, a scowling man in a rimless hat hurried out and seized him by the wrist, jerking him to his feet. Like the elderly man in the street, it was obvious this man also assumed the boy had brought trouble to his door. Shouting in Arabic, he shook the lad before setting him to the task of cleaning up the mess created by his carelessness. Only then did he turn his attention to the four strangers inside his shop.

  “Sabah en-nur,” he greeted them, a wary look in his eyes.

  “Sabah en-ful,” replied Gobeir, giving the traditional response. After introducing himself, he assured the man young Nawal did nothing wrong, and not the reason for their being here. “And you, sir, are the boy’s father?”

  “I am Khaleel Mehra,” said the shopkeeper, his expression only slightly more cordial. If not customers, he seemed to wonder, just who were these people? “My son says you wish to speak with me. How may I serve you?”

  Gobeir came directly to the point.

  “We’re seeking a man who bears the same name as your son. He once worked out of Cairo and would be about my age now. A relative of yours, perhaps. The address we were given brought us to this shop. Hopefully, sir, you can help us locate him. We’ve come a long way to speak with—”

  “I can be of no help to you,” the man said. It apparently hadn’t escaped his notice that Gobeir offered no explanation for their search, and his narrowed eyes reflected his growing apprehension. “You have come a great distance for nothing. The man you seek is long dead.”

  It was what David feared.

  “Was he your father?” he asked.

  The shopkeeper hesitated. Not possessing the subtlest of faces, he seemed to be debating the wisdom of responding. Finally, he said, “Nawal Mehra was my uncle, but I know nothing of him. Allah took him before I was born.”

  David felt a sinking feeling of déjà vu. Khaleel looked roughly in his early fifties, about the right age if what he suspected was true. “Can you tell us how he died?”

  “I cannot. It was before my time.”

  “Let me assure you,” said Gobeir,“that we mean no trouble. You see, this young lady’s grandfather and your uncle were friends long ago. They once worked together. He may even have visited with your uncle here in Matruh for a time. Please, sir, if not you, then perhaps there are others in your family who could speak with us.”

  Khaleel only stared at them. They were getting nowhere, David saw, and pressing the man would only anger him further. He caught Gobeir’s eye, conveying the message to back off.

  Gobeir grudgingly saw the wisdom. “Then we’ll take no more of your time,” he said. But in a last effort, he added, “We are staying at the Qaddis. If you do think of anyone who might help us, we would be most grateful for—”

  “There is no one, I tell you! Why do you not understand? I think you must leave!”

  There it would’ve ended but for the boy. Having listened to this curious exchange with keen interest, he completely missed the warning behind his father’s brusque manner with these people. Stepping forward, he volunteered, “Gidd-ya would remember these things, mister. He knows everything of the old times in—”

  A hard backhand from his father silenced him, and he yelped in pain and surprise. Stunned, he clapped his fingers to his lip, then brought them away bloody. Now shamed yet again before strangers, he spun on his heels and ran out through the shop entrance as Elizabeth tried unsuccessfully to grab him.

  “Nawal, wait—!”

  Khaleel’s angry scowl only deepened as she dashed after his son. “The boy speaks foolishness!” he declared, showing no remorse for his action. “Leave now!”

  They found Elizabeth alone in the street, the boy nowhere to be seen.

  David swore under his breath. His Arabic was limited to only a few general words and phrases—but he sure as hell knew that ‘gidd’ meant grandfather.

  “Lewis, did you hear what the boy started to say?”

  Gobeir immediately nodded. “Wasn’t sure if you caught it. Seems there’s someone here in town his father doesn’t want us to know about.”

  “Damn right. But if he thinks he’s put us off—then he’s dead wrong!”

  * * *

  On the northwestern edge of Matruh, well within walking distance of the bazaar district, lay a fertile strip of land bordering the azure sea. Though not a large section of property by any stretch of imagination, it was pleasantly situated, for it was flanked on one side by a lush, green orchard, on the other by a grove of olive trees the color of old silver. In the center of this piece of land—surrounded by a narrow garden of beans and green peppers—was the modest, mud-brick home of Yousef Mehra. And it was to here, the house of his beloved grandfather, that young Nawal ran for sympathy. In truth, a day rarely passed that the boy didn’t visit the old man, for Yousef was far more to the active and mischievous child than mere grandfather; he was Nawal’s confidant and dearest friend. The boy brought to Yousef all the daily activities of the busy bazaar—something his grandfather much enjoyed—and in return received all the affection and serious attention a boy of his years required.

  Thus it was Nawal now sought out his grandfather, who lived alone with only himself and his gardens to care for, telling him of the four strangers who came to his father’s shop. As was their habit, they sat in the shade of a single eucalyptus rooted in Yousef’s unpretentious courtyard, Nawal sampling the ripe figs and fruit his grandfather provided, the old man absorbed as always by his spirited chatter.

  But on this day Nawal found his aged grandfather even more attentive than usual, for he bid the boy retell his story twice, questioning him closely on each small detail. As this wasn’t normal, the boy quickly forgot the uneaten figs in his lap and studied Yousef’s face, becoming alarmed by the o
ld man’s solemn expression.

  “Are you ill?” he asked.

  Lost in his own thoughts, Yousef’s troubled eyes stared out through the open archway of his dusty courtyard towards the wide, flat sea. Young Nawal couldn’t know the chilling effect his story had upon him. Nor could the lad have comprehended the numbing fear gripping the old man’s heart. After all these many years! thought Yousef in amazement. The great evil had come full circle!

  “Grandfather—?”

  The old man now looked into the boy’s concerned eyes. He knew what he must do—and too, the high price he would have to pay. He clutched his grandson’s arms, saying in an urgent voice, “Listen carefully to my every word, Nawal, for you must do exactly as I tell you. Exactly!”

  * * *

  The sudden appearance of the thin boy outside the Qaddis entrance didn’t escape Heikal’s notice as he sat beneath the heavy awning of the open-air café. The youngster had seemingly popped out of nowhere; yet despite the late afternoon shadows lengthening across the narrow street, the big man recognized him as the boy who earlier fled the shop on Sharia Galaah.

  Intrigued, he lowered his cup of coffee, watching as the lad sought an opportunity to gain admittance. His chance came in the form of two veiled women who chose this moment to walk inside. By artfully ducking around them, the boy used their voluminous dresses as camouflage. Heikal nodded in appreciation, for it showed skill. That this was somehow linked to Manning, he felt relatively certain. Within twenty minutes, his supposition proved correct, for the youngster came out with Manning and Gobeir in tow, leading both men quickly up the street.

  Interesting, Heikal thought; then followed at a discreet distance.

  * * *

  As was the Arab fashion, the tea served to David and Lewis in the quiet solitude of the old man’s courtyard was burning hot and cloyingly sweet. Not a fancier of tea in any form, David nevertheless sipped at it stoically, for he understood that to refuse Yousef’s courtesy would be an unpardonable breach of etiquette. He estimated the gentleman to be about the same age as Gobeir, though the wispy, gray beard and long, white robe imparted the image of an aged patriarch in comparison. Curiously, Yousef bore little physical resemblance to his son, Khaleel, for his face was much longer, his thin, arched nose far more pronounced. Also, there was a distinct quality of compassion projecting from his deep-set eyes, an attribute which his son was unlikely to ever possess.