The Khamsin Curse (15 page)

“You wish to buy mummy of
crocodile? My brother has many for sale. All genuine.”

There was something familiar
about the throaty tonality and when she whirled round she
recognized a pair of brilliant wolken eyes that not even the dark
umbra of a voluminous hood could dull. Her heart began beating
fast, sending an adrenaline-charged shockwave through her veins,
not of terror but delight. “Major…!”

“Shh,” he hissed, cutting her
off. “This place is like an echo chamber.” He pointed toward the
riverbank. “See that shadoof. I’ll meet you there in ten
minutes.”

Her heart continued to pump and
thrash as he receded into the dirty orange miasma and she made her
way in what she hoped was a leisurely fashion down the steep path
to the riverbank where two ancient stelae served to support a swape
that drew water from the river in a bucket and tipped it into a
small irrigation channel. Two children, a boy and girl about ten
years of age, were working the counterpoised well-pole.

He arrived a few moments later,
ambling lazily along the riverbank like an indolent dust-maker. He
gave the children a handful of coins. They ran off without looking
back. The boy suddenly remembered the baby goat tethered to the
stele, raced back, untied it, scooped it up in his arms and thanked
the Habiru before rushing off to catch up to the girl.

Questions begged to be
answered: Where have you been? What happened? Are you all right?
She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him.

“There’s not much time,” he
said, taking strength from the light in her eyes that told him she
was thrilled to see him. “I’m going to talk quickly. Just listen
and don’t interrupt. Pretend I’m explaining how a shadoof works.
Look interested and nod every now and again.”

She nodded.

“I lost Mallisham in Luxor so I
went straight to the papyrus workshop because I had memorized the
address. I didn’t see Mallisham but I saw Ali Pasha. Before I could
get close enough to hear what was being said someone coshed me on
the head. I blanked out and woke up next to a railway line
somewhere in the desert. I had been robbed but fortunately I always
keep a second wallet in a private place. I was walking back to
Karnak when a freight train heading for Aswan came along. Because
of the blinding Khamsin it was going slow enough for me to jump on
board. I got off here in Kom Ombo because I figured you’d stop off
to see the temple.” He dipped the pole to draw up some water in the
bucket then tipped it into the irrigation channel to make it seem
as if he was demonstrating how the well-pole worked. “On my way to
the workshop I spotted Mrs Baxter and Moran having coffee together
in Luxor. They were holding hands.” He picked up a small pottery
cup resting on the stone and offered her a drink of water. “One who
drinks from the Nile will one day return to Egypt,” he said,
meeting her gaze and briefly holding it. “I’m not coming back
aboard the Sekhmet. I’ll meet you in Aswan. I want whoever thinks
I’m out of the way to keep thinking it. When they see me in Aswan
it will unsettle them. Needless to say my cover is blown. That
doesn’t necessarily mean your cover is compromised but stay alert
to the fact someone could be onto us. Did anything happen that I
should know about?”

She drank thirstily then
pretended to inspect the counterweighted pole. “Herr Graf and his
niece have joined us on board the Sekhmet. The interesting thing is
that it was Mallisham and Hayter who vouched for the Germans. Mr
Lee wasn’t keen on new passengers. We saw Colonel Moran in Luxor.
He’s taking a herd of horses to Aswan and hopes to be there a day
ahead of us which won’t be difficult since sand and grit have got
into the ship’s engine and we won’t be going anywhere until
tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“In that case, I’d better not
waste any more time. I’ve got a fresh horse waiting for me on the
other side of the temple. I’ll see you in Aswan.”

He began striding off when her
voice caught up to him.

“Take care…I love you.”

Something exploded in his
chest; he did an about face. “Say that again.”

Now that she’d blurted out what
she’d been thinking all along, she felt the rush of blood to her
face.

He doubled back, manacled the
top of her arms and pulled her close. She could feel the pulsating
heat of his body as his eyes raked her face for signs of falsehood.
“I want you to say what you just said but this time I want you to
look at me when you say it.”

“We can discuss it in Aswan.
Now isn’t…”

Something whistled through the
air, hit the back of his head and plopped into the shallow water
trough that fed the irrigation channel. It was a small sharp
stiletto. The thick ammama wrapped around his skull and the
voluminous hood covering it had turned what might have been a fatal
injury into tomorrow’s annoying headache.

“Run!” Twisting awkwardly, he
gave her an urgent shove that propelled her forward just as a
murderous madman materialised out of the poisonous orange haze.

Armed with a scimitar, a Nubian
wearing an ammama that covered most of his head and face, except
for a pair of piercing black eyes, electric with menace, leapt down
from the rock ledge and began scything the sulphurous cloud that
continued to hang over the land of the pharaohs like a supernatural
shroud.

The slashing sound put the fear
of death into their hearts.

Thinking quickly, Major Nash
snapped off the upright lever of the shadoof and used it to fend
off a plague of furious blows. It was lance against sword, but this
lance was more like a broomstick. Each deadly blow of the curved
blade splintered off another chunk of wood. It wouldn’t be long
before the broom was reduced to a toothpick.

Slashing and spinning, their
assailant demonstrated his martial arts superiority, toying with
them, enjoying the spectacle of his own artistry before going in
for the kill.

Frantic, heart crashing against
her ribs and drenched in sweat, she began fumbling for the muff
pistol buried inside her reticule when the Nubian must have guessed
what she was doing. A vicious kick sent the bag flying from her
hands. Gasping, she fell backwards, hard, momentarily winded.

Eclipsing the dirty light, the
giant djiin who cast a long shadow, came at her with the scimitar
raised, forcing her to dive and roll to avoid having an arm sliced
off at the elbow.

While the Nubian was focusing
on her, Major Nash landed a mighty whack on the monster’s back.
Crack! It splintered the last of his toothpick but at least it sent
their attacker sprawling face first onto the sand with a heavy
groan.

Uncoiling quickly, he slashed
the air, glinty eyes seraphic with rage.

Major Nash ripped the leather
bucket off the end of the stick and swung it round in the hope of
lassoing the curved blade but the action was futile.

Half-blind with desperation,
her eyes flew to the pottery cup lying within arm’s reach on the
ground. Snatching it up, she hurled it at their attacker, not with
the aim of taking him down, just hopefully to distract him long
enough to grab her reticule and retrieve her gun. It hit him on the
side of the head. Stunned, he lost his sure-footednes. The scimitar
dropped from his hands and lay in the sand like an inert silver
snake.

Enraged at being thwarted by a
woman, the angry djiin cursed and lunged for his weapon.

Major Nash, still thinking
quickly, fished the stiletto out of the shallow trough and plunged
it into the thick neck wrapped in the ammama, twisting and twisting
until he was sure. A scarlet stream soaked through the cloth. Blood
spurted like a fountain and sprayed the major’s jellabiya the
moment he withdrew the blade. He tossed the dagger into the river,
dragged the brute, still convulsing, down to the shore-line and
pushed it into the reeds. He then took the plunge and washed off
the scarlet stain before the bloodstain set. When he emerged from
the river he was breathing hard and dripping wet and the muscular
outline of his heaving physique under the thin cotton garment was
something to savour.

“The crocodiles will take care
of our Nubian assassin. Do you recognize him? I think it’s the same
man who was outside your bedroom in Cairo.”

Having retrieved her reticule,
she was busy trying to draw a claming breath, dust herself off, and
soak up his virility all at the same time. In an effort to force
concentration, she looked back at the water but the floating corpse
was lost in the reeds. Reptiles were already circling. “If you mean
did I notice him while you were kissing me the answer is no. I had
my eyes closed.”

Unsure whether to feel
flattered or admonish her for not paying attention, he shook his
head. “Do you always close your eyes when you’re being kissed?”

“Only when I’m enjoying it, and
I think we’ve already established you’re better than most.”

“Most?”

“All right,” she conceded,
“everyone else.”

“Including Jim?”

“Let’s not go there.”

But he knew they had to discuss
Jim sooner or later. Colonel James Isambard Moriarty was the thorn
in his side, the spoke in his wheel, the man who could dash all his
dreams, the one man who could make her change her mind and retract
what she just said. “I should have told you earlier. I intended to
tell you several times.”

“Tell me what?” She sensed
something dire. Her feelings for Jim were still strong within her
and she felt the pulling power of his name tying her innards in
knots. “Tell me what?”

“Queen Victoria gave the nod to
the formation of an Irish regiment. She announced it on the first
day of April. That was a week ago. In reality, everything was
decided months ago: Men, uniforms, mascot, deployment, the lot. Jim
is already in Egypt at the head of the regiment. They’re on their
way to the Transvaal. They’re camped on the east bank in Aswan,
sharing the facilities of the construction camp, heading to
Khartoum in a day or two.”

Her heart soared then
plummeted. It continued to seesaw up and down, elated and
terrified, proud for Jim but scared too. “I see.”

His eyes scanned the embankment
to make sure no one was coming their way, perhaps in search of the
Nubian, and to avoid meeting her gaze. “Now you know.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

There was a thrashing in the
reeds as crocodiles began to feast on the body. The river turned
beetroot red. The water looked like a bubbling pot of borscht.

“When I leave, which will be in
a moment, take out your gun and fire it. Dr Watson will come
running. You can say you were attacked by two robbers – an Arab and
a Nubian. I’ll leave the scimitar here. There’s a discarded shoe
here too. You can say one man fell into the water and the other
fled along the riverbank when you pulled your gun.”

She gazed at the expensive silk
shoe and it sparked a thought. “I’ve seen this shoe before, or one
just like it, and I cannot imagine there would be many shoes of
this quality adorning the feet of Egyptian farmers in Kom Ombo. Ali
Pasha’s houseboy wore something like this.”

“Houseboy?”

“A euphemism for handsome young
man who lives-in and does his master’s bidding. Japhet was
Nubian.”

“At least he cannot report back
to his master. I don’t know if he was following me or you.” He
cupped the back of her head; his voice dropped to a husky timbre.
“I’m going to give you time to think about what you said earlier. I
want you to be sure of who and what you want before we go any
further. Fire that gun as soon as I get to the top of the
embankment.”

Later that night, Dr Watson
came to her cabin to find out what really happened at the
riverbank. After travelling with her for seven months, sharing
adventure after adventure, he could tell when she was spinning a
yarn. She explained about Major Nash, the fact he was still alive,
and exactly what had transpired with the Nubian, adding that she
thought their attacker might have been Ali Pasha’s houseboy,
Japhet.

The only thing she omitted to
mention was that Colonel Moriarty was camped at Aswan with an Irish
regiment. She knew the good doctor tolerated Jim for her sake. It
would be several more years, possibly decades, before he could
separate the sins of one brother from the accident of birth of
another. The incident at Reichenbach Falls ran deep.

And then it hit her. What about
Colonel Sebastian Moran? What relationship existed between the two
colonels? They were both Irish by birth. Did that make them blood
kin? Did Moran regard Moriarty the Younger as an extension of his
dead boss? The potential protégé of the man he had obeyed without
question? Or the son he never had?

Dr Watson’s shaggy brows drew
down in a thoughtful frown as he fingered the calabash pipe in his
pocket. He was desperate to light it but he didn’t want to cloud
her cabin with Latakia. The air was just clearing from that toxic
windstorm. “We need to get our heads round what’s going on and who
is involved. Before we know it we’ll be in Aswan. Let’s go over
what we think we know. You start.”

She quickly turned over in her
mind all that happened. “Jurgen Graf comes to mind again and again.
We saw him give something to Professor Mallisham in the souk. We
thought it was a pastry but it could have been something else.”

“Such as?”

“A coded message. Secret
papers. Money.”

He nodded. “Go on.”

“Professor Mallisham vouched
for Herr Graf to come aboard the Sekhmet. Considering that he spoke
disparagingly of Herr Graf when recounting the suicide of Rhinehart
Graf it surprised me that he should suddenly take pity on the
German.”

“Hmm, Hayter took pity too and
yet the few times I have seen them together they have been at
loggerheads.”

“Did money change hands there
too? Was there some sort of bribery going on? Was it designed to
get him a berth on the Sekhmet or was it for something else? And
who else is in on it? Is it Jurgen and Hayter? Or Jurgen and
Mallisham? Or all three?”