“Best not to say, sir. I believe they left it just past the opening. You should grab it.”
“Yes.”
Moustafa looked all around as they moved up and out of the pit. The Germans had taken up position in a wide semicircle facing them, lying prone in the sand and several yards away, half-invisible in the shadows. Moustafa and the others, however, were illuminated from behind by all the light in the tunnel. Moustafa glanced at the tarpaulin that blocked the light from view of the hotel. Was a German lurking behind there?
“I’ll tell them to back off toward the pit,” Mr. Wall said, picking up the bag from where it lay not far from the entrance. He shouted something in German. There was a brief argument, and then the Germans moved to either side and around them as they advanced. They kept their guns leveled as they moved toward the entrance.
Then Otto made his move. When Moustafa turned his head to look around the desert for any hidden enemies, Otto slapped his pistol arm away and drove a punch straight into Moustafa’s face. The veteran may have been smaller than Moustafa, but his fist was like iron. Moustafa stumbled back and fell to the ground as a well-placed kick got him straight in the stomach.
Otto shouted something, and suddenly the air was filled with bullets.
Moustafa went prone. His employer dove down next to him. Rifles blammed from several locations in and around the pit. Mr. Wall let out a burst of submachine gun fire. Moustafa thought he saw one German go down but couldn’t be sure. He fired his own weapon at the muzzle flares as bullets kicked up sand all around him.
After two shots, his gun did nothing but click.
A moment later, Mr. Wall ran out of ammunition too.
Mr. Wall cried out. Moustafa glanced over and saw him grasping his forearm.
“We have to run,” Moustafa said as a bullet plowed through the sand between them.
“Retreat? We’ll never make it. Here.” Mr. Wall emptied the bag and out spilled several grenades. “Were you trained in these?”
“No.”
“It’s simple. Pull this pin here and throw.”
Moustafa grabbed one, put his finger through the metal ring his employer had indicated, and gave it a swift yank, half expecting it to blow up in his face.
He threw it as hard as he could. Mr. Wall did the same beside him. Moustafa felt a hot streak on his hip and fell down hard.
“Got me again!”
Mr. Wall wasn’t listening. He was already throwing another grenade, and another and another. They went off in rapid succession, a series of thuds and blinding flashes in the night. Only when he ran out did he fling himself back down.
The sand trembled. A low rumble shook the desert. Blinking and trying to see past the afterimages of the blasts, they saw the sand shift. The pit the Germans had dug was no more. The entire area was shifting, sand moving inward on the blast site.
The sand they lay on started moving too, pulling them toward where the grenades had gone off.
They got up and ran, Moustafa limping as fast as he could with his injured hip. The rumbling continued, along with several deep booms as the great masonry of the subterranean temple collapsed. Moustafa imagined priceless statues toppling over and smashing on the flagstones, the roof caving in, and sand pouring through the gaps.
The rumbling stopped, followed by a loud hiss of the sand rearranging itself. After a minute, they looked out on a featureless desert. In the distance, they could see the tourists on the brightly lit porch of the Mena House Hotel staring into the night, wondering about the noise and unable to see what was happening. Moustafa clearly saw the two soldiers on guard start hustling everyone inside.
Otto’s distant voice came to them from out of the night. “Well fought, Kamerad, but we will win the next one!”
“How did he survive?” Moustafa asked.
“People like us always do,” Mr. Wall muttered, cradling his injured forearm. “Let’s get out of here before the Germans launch a counterattack.”
“You mean before the police arrive.”
“What? The, um, oh yes.”
“Come, Mr. Wall.”
The two helped each other through the darkness of the Egyptian desert, making a wide circle away from the vanished temple before heading for the light of the distant hotel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Augustus found Sir Russell standing in the hallway in front of his office door at police headquarters talking with a correspondent from the Times.
“Is it true that a soldier was killed in the rioting?” the reporter asked.
Russell nodded grimly. “Yes, unfortunately it is true. Private Declan Andrews got separated from his unit and was set upon by some cowardly thugs in the crowd. They literally tore his limbs from his body. My officers tell me that one big brute of a Soudanese actually charged our line wielding poor Andrew’s leg as a club. I’m happy to say that he was killed with a single shot to the head.”
“Were any other natives killed in this engagement?” the correspondent asked, writing in his notebook.
“None,” Sir Russell replied with an authoritative shake of the head. “The other culprits had all slunk away, and it is the policy of the British army not to fire on unarmed protestors. We only shoot when we’re attacked.”
“Do you anticipate further disturbances?”
“A few, perhaps. I think the natives have learned their lesson, at least here in Cairo. The fellahin in the countryside are a bit slower in getting the message no matter what it is.”
“Fellahin?”
“The Egyptian term for peasant.”
The reporter smiled. “Aren’t they all?”
Russell smiled in return. “Quite right. In any case, I think Cairo has been more or less pacified. And by the time your readers see your article and book passage to come visit Egypt’s many wonders, I have no doubt the countryside will be well in hand.”
“Thank you, Commandant. Most kind of you to meet with me.”
“Not at all. I am always happy to meet with representatives of the press.”
The reporter left. Russell spotted Augustus waiting a few steps away and signaled for him to enter his office. He closed the door behind them and settled behind his desk with a sigh. Augustus took one of the comfortable leather chairs facing him.
“What happened there?” Russell asked, pointing the Augustus’s arm in a sling.
“Spot of bother with the murderer.”
“Well, I daresay you’ve had a livelier time of it than I. What a bore these press interviews are,” Russell said, reaching for a decanter of whiskey. “Hacks and sycophants, the lot of them. Who are these journalists, anyway? Failed novelists, I suppose.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Augustus replied, taking the glass the commandant offered him. “So is the situation really in hand?”
“More or less,” Russell said, an enthusiastic grin cutting through his fatigue. “Oh, we’ve had a fine time of it, chasing the Cairo riffraff down alleys and throwing them in the wagon. The jails are fit to burst.”
“Can they hold a few more?”
“You found the murderer?” Russell asked.
“I did, but I had to shoot him. Self-defense.”
“Oh dear. I’m afraid I’ll have to launch an investigation. Simple formality, you understand,” Russell said, taking a sip of his whiskey.
“I understand. No, the fellow I mean is an Egyptian by the name of Hassan who’s causing trouble in my neighborhood. Quite the local rabble-rouser. He tried to break into my house, and when that didn’t work he tried to start a riot against me. His cousins are in on the game as well.”
“Point them out to me and I’ll give them five years hard labor.”
“Most kind.”
“Now do tell me more about this shooting.”
Augustus did, leaving out as much as he dared. There was no mention of the underground temple on the Giza Plateau or of the involvement of the German diplomatic corps or the shootout in the house. Augustus knew that to mention any of this woul
d lead to nothing except trouble. Russell was on side as far as these matters went, but he was still a police commandant, and he could not ignore civilians shooting at diplomats or one of His Majesty’s subjects keeping a large cache of weapons in his house.
Sir Russell seemed satisfied with the explanation and poured them another whiskey before launching into a long, boastful account of suppressing the riots. Augustus listened with half an ear as he wondered how the German embassy would explain Herr Neumann’s disappearance. Did they know what he had been up to? Probably not. And if the diplomat had kept it secret, then his disappearance would remain a mystery to them. No doubt they would assume the rioters had killed him.
At last Russell declared that he had to get back to work, which suited Augustus just fine. He hadn’t wanted to speak with the man anyway.
“I’ll have some officers come over this afternoon to take away this Hassan fellow and the rest. As for the shooting, have no fear. We’ll get it sorted. I have enough to worry about at the moment, however. Did you know there was a big shootout reported in the Zamelek neighborhood night before last? Some old house rented under a false name. My men were too busy to get to it in time and when they did, everyone had cleared out. Bloodstains and bullet holes everywhere.”
“Did they find anything else?”
The police commandant shook his head. “A few personal effects. Nothing of value. Wouldn’t be a bad case for you, eh?”
“Perhaps so.”
“Indeed, but here’s something a bit more up your street. The staff at the Mena House Hotel reported another gunfight near the pyramids last night, and some explosions too.”
“Probably grave robbers taking advantage of the chaos in town to do a bit of looting,” Augustus said, shifting in his seat. He felt terrible about what he had done to the temple, not that he had been given much choice. At least he couldn’t remember most of it.
“That’s what I thought, but Monsieur Dupris went over the ground and couldn’t find anything.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Augustus muttered.
Sir Russell cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, nothing. Good luck with your investigations, Sir Russell.”
Augustus took his leave and caught a taxi back to his house on Ibn al-Nafis Street. As Sir Russell had predicted, the streets were calmer today. The roadblocks remained up, and there were still protests in some more remote neighborhoods, but the movement seemed to have lost its steam, at least for now. Augustus didn’t think it was over by any means. Too much blood had been shed.
As he went to his front door, Faisal popped out of hiding.
“Hello, Englishman!”
“Hello. I took care of Hassan and his cousins for you. The police will get them today, and you won’t have to worry about them until you’re big enough to take care of yourself.”
Faisal leaped up and spun around.
“Great! They’ll be breaking big rocks into little ones for years! I hope they get sent to the mines in the Sinai. That’s the worst place for prisoners to go. Everyone says so.”
“I have to admit you are a font of unusual and occasionally useful information,” Augustus said, opening his door.
Karim the watchman came up to them, brandishing his club.
“I am sorry, sir. I told this beggar boy to stay away from here. I’ll teach him a lesson.”
“That’s quite all right, Karim. He’s with me.”
Faisal made an obscene gesture. “That’s right. I told you he was my friend. Now go back to the mangy jackal that sired you!”
The watchman glared at Faisal and stalked away, muttering under his breath.
“Some of Moustafa’s language seems to have rubbed off on you,” Augustus observed.
Faisal grinned. “We sure had fun, didn’t we?”
“I’m not sure ‘fun’ is how I would describe it,” Augustus said, although he couldn’t suppress a smile.
Faisal looked beyond him into the house.
“Do you like your new house?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever see any jinn?”
“There’s no such thing as jinn.”
Faisal gave him a knowing grin.
“Not in your house there aren’t. Not anymore.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Faisal was still looking beyond him, into the front hallway and the courtyard beyond, where the fountain bubbled with water, sparkling as it caught the sunlight.
“It’s an awfully big house for one person.”
“That’s the way I like it. I enjoy my privacy.”
“You don’t have anyone to clean for you? Or cook for you?”
“An old woman comes twice a week to clean and do the laundry. And I cook for myself or eat out.”
“But who shines your shoes?”
“I got quite accustomed to doing those things for myself in the army.”
“What about the shop? You don’t need any help in the shop?”
“Oh, Moustafa is quite efficient at all that.”
“Oh.”
They fell into silence, staring at each other. Augustus pulled out his wallet.
“Here. For all your help,” he said, handing over a note.
Faisal’s face lit up. “Fifty piastres!” Then he grew serious. “This will only get stolen. When you have to sleep outside, things always get stolen.”
“I see.” Augustus took back the note and gave him ten piastres. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. What’s that falafel seller’s name down the street?”
“His name is Mohammad.”
“Of course it is. I’ll give him enough money that you can have a falafel every day for a month. And who’s that woman who sells fruit next to him?”
“Raisa. She’s Mohammad’s aunt.”
“Well, I’ll do the same with Raisa, so you’ll have food every day for a month. For all you’ve done for me.”
Faisal grinned. “Thanks.”
“Good luck,” Augustus said, putting his hand on the doorknob.
“Will you be borrowing your friend’s motorcar soon?”
“I don’t know. I think he might be a bit reluctant to loan it to me.”
They both laughed. Faisal stopped first.
“The trip to the pyramids was fun,” Faisal said wistfully.
“Except for the mob of village children throwing stones at us.”
“Why do you always think of the bad things?”
“Now you’re sounding like Heinrich. I’m glad you enjoyed the pyramids, but now I really must go. It’s been a long few days and I must rest.”
Faisal looked beyond him again.
“Sure is a big house. I bet ten people could live in there and never get in each other’s way.”
“Yes, Faisal. It’s a big house.”
They stared at each other for a moment longer.
“Good luck to you, Faisal.”
Augustus shut the door.
***
The chatterers at the Sultan El Moyyad Café had much to talk about. The protests were the main topic of conversation, and speculation was rife that London would finally relent and set the independence leaders free. Ali’s son, the university student and protest leader, had even made a brief appearance to fill them in on the latest news before returning to the struggle. He read French and had scoured the foreign press, discovering that all the powers were against England in this matter.
“They’ll put pressure on London and soon all our comrades will be free,” the youth declared.
“And once Sa’ad Zaghloul and the rest are free, the whole country will soon be out of its jail!” Ali said, beaming with pride at his son.
But the café goers on Ibn al-Nafis Street had more to talk about than most Cairenes. The café sat right opposite the Englishman’s house, and there were endless opportunities to gossip and speculate about that place. First there had been the party, with all its fine guests and that stunning Turkish woman who dressed like an
Ottoman but acted like a European, and then there had been the shooting. But even that hadn’t been all. There had been much coming and going during the day and in the middle of the night, which had made for many wild theories and comments in the café, and the motorcar parked out front led to more comment. When one morning Anwar the waiter opened the café while his father dozed in the back corner, he had seen that the car had obviously been in an accident. In fact, it looked like it had been in several accidents.
Anwar assumed, like everyone else, that the Englishman had been attacked by the protestors.
“Too bad we weren’t there to protect him again,” Ali said as Anwar brought him his first coffee of the day. “Hassan was ready to tear him apart. A good thing Youssef and Mohammed were with me, or we would have never freed him.”
“May God protect him,” Mohammed said as he set up the backgammon board. “As your fine son says, Ali, it is the British government we are against, not the British themselves.”
“Except for the soldiers,” Ali responded.
“Beasts in uniform,” Youssef called over from next door, where he was opening up his barbershop for the day’s work.
“When the colonial government goes, the soldiers will go,” Ali said with a nod. “And once they do, I suspect the British civilians will be a little less haughty.”
Mohammed chuckled as he set up the pieces, and Ali shifted his chair to play with him. “No, Ali, that won’t happen. Look at the French. Their soldiers left a hundred years ago and they still act like they own Egypt. The Germans and the Italians aren’t much better.”
“Ah, just in time to see Ali get beaten again!”
This was from Bisam the water seller, who set down his big keg of sweet well water from a village outside Cairo and sat down next to them.
“May God grant you long life. I’ll beat him this time,” Ali said.
“May God grant you good luck.” Bisam chuckled. “He’s already granted me some.”
“How so?” asked Mohammed, picking up the dice.
“Hassan and his cousins are in jail, praise be to God. They always made me give them water for nothing.”
Anwar leaned over, bringing Bisam his morning tea.
“I saw the whole thing,” he said with a grin. “It was the best sight I’ve ever seen!”
The Case of the Purloined Pyramid Page 23
