Goldsands

by William Maltese

  "But who would want to kill you?” Peter asked. It had been a question Gil would have put forth if he hadn't been beaten to it.

  "Oh, we all have enemies, haven't we?” Abdul answered cryptically.

  "I can't imagine one of my colleagues, even one whose theories I might have criticized, coming after me in retribution with a loaded gun,” Peter said. For a moment, Gil suspected Peter might be referring to Peter having bad-mouthed Gil's archaeological attempts to link Crete with Atlantis, but Peter didn't oblige by taking the statement any further.

  "It's the nature of my business that makes my enemies a little more volatile than yours,” Abdul said, sipping his coffee.

  "The oil business, right?” Peter asked. If he, like Gil, had skirted the subject earlier, willing to let Abdul volunteer whatever he figured it was their business to know, Peter apparently now found the circumstances suddenly giving him a right to know more. Thinking about those circumstances, Gil shivered once again at the recollection of how Peter had risked his life to pull Abdul out of the line of fire, and how Gil had experienced such a life-numbing reaction in thinking Peter had been fatally wounded.

  "Yes, oil,” Abdul admitted, seeming in agreement that some explanation was in order. However, it soon became just as evident that he wasn't going to volunteer it without a bit of prodding—which Peter was more than willing to do.

  "I'm not really all that sure I get the connection,” Peter said. “Would it be too much to hope for a few more specifics?"

  "Unfortunately, a good deal of it is considered classified,” Abdul replied. “However, I'm sure I can come up with a few facts that won't breach national security,” he added with a wave of a hand that insinuated he sometimes felt all of the rules and regulations governing his present wok assignment were a royal pain in the ass. “Egypt is, as you might or might not know, not one of the Arab world's major producers of oil at the present,” he said. “Oh, I realize many people imagine that all Arab nations are floating atop an ocean of crude, but that really hasn't been the case of Egypt—so far. I certainly won't bore you with statistics that are classified anyway, but our neighbor to the east, Saudi Arabia, puts out many more barrels for every one barrel that we manage to squeeze out of Egyptian soil. I'm one of those people who would like to see Egypt's piece of the pie become just a little bit bigger. There are, needless to say, those who don't want that to happen."

  "The Saudis want you killed?” Gil asked, thinking that could certainly be one logical conclusion to be drawn from what the sheikh had just said. Abdul, however, if his smile was any indication, didn't necessarily agree.

  "Quite frankly, we're not yet really sure who's behind this latest assassination attempt,” he admitted. “I'm sure you're well aware of the complexities of social, political and economic matters in this part of the world. Everything and anything is always so not what it initially seems."

  "By killing you, someone keeps Egypt's oil production back of the mark?” Peter asked.

  "Oh, I'm not that key! You give me a far more important position in the scheme of things than I really merit,” Abdul said modestly. “I'm merely one piling of a very large foundation. However, knocking me out would certainly slow down things for a bit—though not, of course, forever."

  "How would it slow things down?” Peter asked; he and Gil wanted to hear the answer.

  "I'm a very good organizer,” Abdul obliged. “I have connections here through politics, position, family, and wealth. I have contacts elsewhere in the world that I acquired while traveling extensively and while going to school abroad. I know people with money who are looking for high-paying business investments. I know people who have the technology necessary for examining a piece of barren land and saying there is such-and-such potential for oil down there. I know people who own such barren land. Finally, I know people skilled enough to drill for that oil. I merely draw on those considerable resources at my disposal to bring everyone together into one happy family—although happy is usually a misnomer. And there's the rub! Fearful as they are that their associates’ pockets are the ones being the most fully lined with gold, only a few end up happy with such arrangements. Ideally, therefore, there must be at least one person who every party can trust. In many such instances, I'm that man. With me dead, the element of trust would suddenly be removed on many fronts, and the feuding would begin until a replacement could be found to fill the gap. When people are busy fighting amongst themselves, they achieve very little by way of constructive results. Wouldn't you agree?"

  "How horrible, though, to be a walking target!” Gil said, wondering if he could ever get used to living continually under such a shadow.

  "It's not really,” Abdul contradicted and surprised. “I find it merely makes each minute of my living that much more vibrant and intense. You can't truly appreciate the pure wonder of life until you've skirted close to the brink of losing it."

  They heard the arrival of a Jeep outside. Abdul put down his glass. “If you don't mind, Gil, I'd like a quick word with Peter in private before he goes. If you'd be so kind as to tell the driver that Peter will be joining you shortly?"

  "Of course,” Gil said, curious as to what was so private that it could only be said between the two men. For a minute, he thought that maybe Abdul's wound was more serious, that the sheikh had merely been putting on an act and was now preparing to tell Peter the truth. Gil discounted that idea soon enough, however, realizing there was no way Abdul could have faked being so quickly and completely on his way to recovery. “I shall be looking forward to seeing you, then, at Hierakonpolis,” Gil said, getting to his feet, “without the accompanying fireworks, I hope!” He decided Abdul just wanted to thank Peter in private for saving his life.

  "If it is the will of Allah!” Abdul replied with a wistful smile, watching until Gil exited the tent before he turned to Peter in whispered undertone.

  Gil identified himself to the driver who went off for a quick cigarette to kill the time spent waiting. Gil sat in the Jeep, suffering the cold that hadn't left him—despite all the coffee—since the ill-fated Land Rover had come barreling down the hill to release its deadly charge. It all seemed like a dream.

  Gil went over all of it in his mind, trying to pinpoint his feelings at every step along the way. Each time he managed to isolate an emotion, he tried his best to analyze the contributing factors behind it. It wasn't so much the surprise, shock, and the excitement of the attack that had disturbed him. More significantly, it seemed, were those feelings he had experienced from the moment he first realized Peter had gone back for Abdul ... to the point at which he had realized—finally—that Peter had come back alive. As often as he told himself that he had experienced no more anxiety than he would have felt in the face of any man subjecting himself to such danger in his presence, he couldn't quite convince himself of that. The anger, frustration, and utter helplessness he had experienced at the mere prospect of Peter dying had been so intense that he realized he had never before felt anything like it—except maybe when he had received the news that his parents were dead.

  Gil had loved his parents. If he refused to believe he loved Peter, he was at least able to recognize that something was happening—something, he decided, that would be better stopped now than allowed to continue.

  "Goodbye, then,” Abdul said, emerging from the tent with Peter. “Although I suppose it's more au revoir, since it's now obvious we'll be seeing each other again."

  "Yes, I suppose so,” Peter said without much enthusiasm. It was his last utterance for several minutes, except for the undecipherable grunt he delivered by way of greeting when he climbed into the Jeep, choosing the front seat and not the place beside Gil. The driver emerged from the shadows after having quickly ground his cigarette in the sand and drove them to the main road at Saqqâra, pretty much retracing the route taken earlier by the gunmen's Land Rover. The tracks of the latter were clearly visible in the headlights. It was still possible to find tracks in the desert made by troop movement during W
orld War II. In a landscape that hadn't seen rain for literally decades, such things as mummies, pyramids, temples, tombs, and car tacks were often preserved. “Well, aren't you even curious?” Peter finally asked after they had made the transfer at Saqqâra to a limousine with driver.

  The Mercedes was far more comfortable than the Jeep, and Gil was even getting warm from the car's heater. He noticed blood stains on the upholstery, vivid reminders that this same vehicle had played ambulance a short time earlier, but he pulled his thoughts back sharply, unwilling to dwell on such morbid recollections. He shivered slightly at the realization that there but for the grace of God could have been Peter's blood. The thoughts of how Peter might well have been killed, or seriously wounded performing his feat of heroism, were still giving Gil deep-running chills. Curious about what?” Gil asked, all innocence, although he knew exactly to what Peter had referred.

  "About why Abdul held me back for that private tête-à-tête,” Peter said. He was smiling, but his eyes lacked any sparkle of genuine amusement.

  "Actually, I wasn't curious in the least,” Gil said—which was certainly a lie of first-class magnitude. He found it in exceptionally bad taste, however, for Peter to have brought up the subject.

  "Why? Because you just naturally assumed he wanted to thank me personally for pulling him out of the jaws of death?” Peter asked. Off to the right of the eastbound car was Memphis, an ancient city that had reigned as Egypt's capital through four hundred years, two successive dynasties, and eighteen kings after its founding by the legendary Menes around 3000 B.C. In the outside darkness, conspicuously little evidence was visible to suggest that it was from here that a divided Egypt had first been joined under a formalized central government. In the daylight, the place would have been no more impressive, boasting precious little of its famous past but an alabaster sphinx from the Eighteenth Dynasty and a small museum that housed a recumbent figure of Ramses II. “Well, that's exactly what he wanted to do,” Peter continued. “Thank me."

  "You deserve his thanks and mine,” Gil said, deciding to be gracious even in the wake of Peter having rather immodestly tooted his own horn. “It was very brave, what you did."

  "Abdul thought so, too,” Peter said. The car turned left and headed north toward Cairo. “So much so that he figured I should somehow be rewarded for a feat of derring-do that I assured him had been more spontaneous reflex reaction than any consciously formulated plan to come to his rescue."

  "Don't downgrade what you did!” Gil insisted. If he resented Peter's initial boast, he also resented any pretending that Peter had merely done what anyone else would have done under the circumstances. Some men simply wouldn't have bothered pulling Abdul out of the line of fire after having already gotten themselves to safety.

  "He wanted to offer me reimbursement for my efforts,” Peter said. “I mean, you and I both know I rescued a very rich, very important, very powerful man, don't we? We know that because he told us so.” Gil was about to remind him that Abdul hadn't volunteered that information without them having had to pry it out of him, but Peter apparently wasn't going to let Gil get a word in edgewise. “So, naturally, I could have expected all sorts of offers for riches and power, don't you think?” Peter asked. “Maybe even a nice big lump of British pound sterling? And, as a matter of fact, he did offer me a sizable amount of money as a reward for my heroism. Had I not already had more money than I could ever need, it would certainly have been a tempting offer but, as my family has a good deal of the filthy old lucre lying around—a feat extremely difficult to pull off in Great Britain these days, let me remind you, I was able to tell him magnanimously that the pleasure of his rescue had been all mine, my reward being that inner satisfaction I felt in having successfully done my good dead for the day.” He paused for a good long minute. To their right, the Nile flowed toward the sea. Gil found the river, in its present dispensation, not in the least romantic, marred by the outline of two ugly barges passing in the night. “Tell me, Gil,” Peter started up, again, “you were aware that my family has money, weren't you? Or were you?"

  Damned right, Gil knew! Once more, he knew from where that money had come, too. Not hard won by any great feats by one or two industrious men who worked and sweated in honest labor to begin a dynasty. Oh, no! The Donas family's first fortune had been derived from the slave trade—the running of human merchandise, under the most primitive, inhumane, and unsanitary conditions, between Africa and the markets of the New World. Hardly savory money, that! When they had gone legitimate, moving on from slaves to eventual major investments in South American rubber, the development of synthetic rubber had put their finances into a slide. Their fortune had gone progressively downhill from then until Frederic Donas had performed the needed miracle to bring the family back to solvency. Not, mind you, by the sweat of his brow, either, but merely by marrying Caroline Byner, whose father luckily had enough money from his mineral investments to support just about everybody involved in the manner to which they had all found it very easy to become accustomed.

  "I mention it only so that you can better appreciate the reward Abdul finally did reckon had to be irresistible to a man who apparently has everything,” Peter said. He accompanied with a sarcastic laugh. “Although as it turns out, he was sadly mistaken. I can't begin to imagine what made him think I was even vaguely interested in you in the first place.

  There was a teasing tone to Peter's voice but, nonetheless, Gil was astounded. “In me?” Gil's response had been shocked out of him.

  "My reaction exactly!” Peter said. He then turned to gaze out the window on his side of the car, as if he were now prepared to let the subject drop. He had to know good and well that Gil wouldn't be satisfied to leave it at that.

  "What do you mean, he thought you were interested in me?” Gil demanded. He didn't know what game Peter was playing, but he had every intention of finding out.

  "Well, first off, we do know that he's interested in you, don't we, Gil?” Peter said. He turned back from the window and added, “And vice versa.” Gil couldn't tell whether Peter's light tone was intended to tease or to irritate; it did irritate.

  "That's none of your damned business!” Gil shot back.

  "Granted!” Peter replied with a sudden iciness that put the tinkling of bewit bells to shame. “Your and Abdul Jerada's romantic inclinations certainly have nothing whatsoever to do with me—which is the whole point of my beginning this little discourse in the first place."

  The pyramids of Giza became visible in the distance, flashing on and off like neon signs—an indication of a Sound and Light show in progress. Each summer evening at eight-thirty, a “History Began Here” recording overdramatically blared out facts and figures, spotlights playing on pertinent Giza monuments while tourists sat huddled en masse on folding chairs.

  "If you're trying to make some kind of point, please do get to it."

  "He offered to give up the chase,” Peter said.

  "What chase?"

  "His chase after you, of course,” Peter said. Gil tried to read Peter's expression there in the darkness of the car and had a good deal of difficulty doing so.

  "Let me get this straight,” Gil said. “As your proposed reward for saving Abdul's life, he agreed to quit chasing ... me?” He added a punctuating little laugh that he hoped relayed his opinion of the total ludicrousness of what Peter had been saying—if that had been what Peter had been saying.

  "Damned good of him, don't you think?” Peter's voice was edged with sharp sarcasm. “I mean, it's not every man who would willingly sacrifice his and his true love's happiness out of gratitude to another man, is it?"

  "You're lying!” Gil accused, and shook his head in disbelief.

  "Don't worry, though,” Peter replied. His words were tinged with more than a little bitterness. “I wouldn't think of interfering in the course of true romance. I told him that no matter how tremendously flattered I was by his willingness to make that ultimate sacrifice on my behalf, it was hardly necessary,
since the gentleman in question had obviously already made his own choice, and it wasn't me. I'm certainly not so much of a masochist as to enjoy banging my head against a brick wall. And after all, you do have every right to pick whom you willingly kiss and whom you fend off in mid-pucker."

  "I hardly stopped you in mid-pucker!” Gil reminded, unable to control his chagrin. It was an indication of the driver's discretion that he didn't once turned around to investigate the verbal goings-on in the back seat."

  "And just how far, I wonder, would you have gone with Abdul Jerada if I hadn't interrupted?"

  "Well, we'll never know now, will we, since you didn't give us the chance to find out?"

  Gil found himself momentarily without anything else to say. The car had long since entered the city and was approaching the Kû al-Tahrir. The lights from the street lamps on the bridge reflected off Peter, showing the strong lines and virile planes of his face. The car turned left on the Korneish al-Nil, the Hilton in its entire lighted splendor directly ahead. The Mercedes stopped at the main entrance to the hotel. Immediately, Peter opened the car door on his side and got out, entering the building without a backward glance.

  Gil was left wondering if he would have actually let his kiss by Abdul in the Serapeum progress any further than had the kiss by Peter atop the pyramid. He decided, finally, that he wouldn't have.

  He was thankful the driver continued to be tactful and didn't seem in the least bit hurried to get Gil out of the car.

  The armed guard at the revolving door nodded a greeting as Gil headed on in and to the elevators. Once in his room and facing the mirror, for not the first time, in his bathroom, Gil decided he looked decidedly haggard. Hopefully, the damage wasn't anything that couldn't be fixed by a hot shower, a cold rinse, and a good night's sleep.