The Khamsin Curse Page 10

  Countess V had been wandering around the Luxor temple with Mr Lee and an Egyptian guide for around an hour when someone hissed at her in the Hypostyle Hall. It was Major Nash. She hung back, pretending to be interested in a hieroglyph then hid behind one of the giant columns. The major sounded edgy.

  “I’ve just spotted Mallisham moving briskly in the direction of the road where the calashes are parked. He looks like he’s going somewhere in a hurry. I want to follow him. Keep an eye on Hayter.”

  In the blink of an eye he was gone.

  Colonel Hayter was nowhere to be found but in the Offering Hall the Countess bumped into her counterpart. A fuchsia scarf was hanging out of his pocket.

  “Where’s Mrs Baxter?” she said, noting the distinctive silk scarf.

  He shrugged and looked blank. “I’ve got no idea. She told me she dropped her scarf in the Colonnade and asked if I would go back to get it while she sat down and rested. The scarf was there all right, but when I returned to where she sat down she was gone.”

  “Do you think it was a deliberate ploy to slip away?”

  He nodded glumly. “Where’s Mr Lee?”

  “I left him with the Egyptian guide when Major Nash signalled that he wanted to speak to me in private. Mallisham was heading toward the calashes. The major is following him.”

  “Hmm, remember what the major said about the information that Cambridge chap scratched onto the wall of the well about the fake papyri workshop. Mallisham might be…”

  “Shhh, someone’s coming. Quick, let’s dart into the Hypostyle Hall and hide behind a column.”

  Together they fled into the massive hall full of gigantic columns that provided better cover and watched as Herr Graf and Miss Ursula Graf sailed past.

  “Well, well, well,” hissed the doctor in a surly undertone. “Look who’s here.”

  “Nothing unusual in that. Let’s say hello.”

  Brusquely, he grabbed hold of her arm. “Wait! Look who he’s just met up with.”

  It was Colonel Hayter. The two men immediately appeared to be at loggerheads over something. The exchange wasn’t heated but words were accompanied by emphatic gestures – crossed arms, shake of heads, squared shoulders. The body language spoke volumes.

  “Give me that scarf,” she said when Miss Graf walked off and left the two men to argue it out. “I’ll catch up to Ursula Graf. You wait here until Herr Graf goes then catch up to Hayter and see if he’s got anything to say for himself. It would be interesting to know what was being discussed. Be subtle.”

  She nabbed the scarf and walked briskly after the fraulein, waving coyly at the two men who briefly paused to acknowledge her presence. She caught up to Ursula Graf in the Colonnade.

  “Oh, hello, Fraulein Graf. How lovely to see you again. Did you see an American lady with red hair come past here?” She gave a jaunty wave of the scarf, painting fuchsia circles in the air. “She is a fellow passenger on our paddle-steamer and she dropped her head scarf in the Hypostyle Hall. I wanted to return it in case she is planning to visit a mosque.”

  Miss Graf seemed unsurprised to hear the Countess’s voice. “Hello, Countess Volodymyrovna. No, I didn’t see anyone with red hair pass by here just now but about half an hour ago I saw a lady with red hair hurrying along the Avenue of Sphinxes. I thought it was strange to see someone hurrying because of the midday heat, especially a lady. She looked like she was running to meet someone.”

  “She was probably hurrying to meet Dr Watson,” supplied the Countess with patent falseness. “He must have started for Karnak ahead of her and she was trying to catch him up.”

  “Well, in that case, I hope the doctor didn’t wait for her to join him. He would have been waiting in vain. She stopped suddenly at one of those stalls by the side of the road. When she finished paying for her purchase she turned and went to the road where the calashes are parked.”

  “Mrs Baxter has such a good eye for a bargain. I am so envious of her ability to spot a hidden gem. I wonder what she bought.”

  “It was a kilim. A small Turkish rug. If you will excuse me, I see my uncle waving for me to re-join him. Good afternoon to you.”

  Miss Graf turned and walked back the way she had come.

  The Countess began the hot and dusty trek toward the Avenue of Sphinxes to check out the traders who sold kilims when she bumped into Miss Lee and Miss Clooney sitting on a large stone block, fanning their faces with their guide books. They had lost sight of Professor Mallisham in the Court of Amenhotep and enquired if she had seen him anywhere.

  “I haven’t seen him since we left the Sekhmet this morning,” replied the Countess in all honesty.

  “Was that Miss Graf we saw you talking to just a moment ago?” asked Miss Lee who had taken to wearing a peacock feather in her hair to symbolize the goddess Ma’at.

  “Yes.”

  “I didn’t realize her father had killed himself,” said Miss Lee sympathetically, fingering the feather to make sure it was still in place. “Max told us it was a scandal involving fake artifacts. I thought the man accompanying her was her father.”

  “I thought it was her husband,” said Miss Clooney facetiously.

  “The man with her is her uncle. He’s also an archaeologist.”

  They were joined a few moments later by Mr Jefferson Lee. The cattle king had dismissed his Egyptian guide and was looking red-faced and ready to expire. He was returning to the Sekhmet for a bourbon with plenty of ice. It was almost time for lunch. The three ladies decided a Pimms would go down well.

  In the meantime, Dr Watson managed to latch onto his ex-army chum. They sat down in a tiny pocket of shade. The sun was high overhead and shadows were at their shortest.

  “Was that Herr Graf I saw you talking to?”

  “Yes,” said the colonel, mopping his face with a damp handkerchief soaked with perspiration. “He’s a regular visitor to Egypt. Have you met him?”

  The doctor nodded dourly. “He was on the Queen of Cairo with us. I cannot say I like him much. He hogged three deck chairs and was extremely rude when I asked if one of them was vacant. He was staying at The Mena House too. The Countess seems fond of his niece but I cannot take to either of them.”

  “I don’t have anything good to say about him either. He’s always badgering me for special treatment – now it’s a permit for his niece.”

  “Permit?” Dr Watson feigned ignorance.

  “Foreigners need a permit to work on archaeological sites. He purchased a permit for himself. He’s always poking around, hoping to stumble across that one big spectacular find, in between snapping up treasures to sell to private clients or museums, but he forgot to purchase a permit for his niece. She’s an archaeologist too apparently. Her father was a distinguished Egyptologist but his reputation was ruined by greed. The way Jurgen Graf goes on you’d think it was my fault he forgot to purchase a permit for the pretty fraulein. He now expects me to supply one at the drop of a hat.”

  “Can you do that? Supply a permit at the drop of a hat, I mean?”

  Hayter bit his lip; rivers of sweat were trickling down the side of his face and soaking into his grimy collar. “Why do you ask?”

  Dr Watson was on top of his game; the heat had not melted his brain cells. “Oh, I just wondered if the Countess could get one before we get to Philae. She was hoping to do some pottering around. She fancies herself as an amateur archaeologist.” He gave a short, light, risible chuckle. “You know what these rich types can be like. They think the normal rules don’t apply to them. I don’t think she realizes she needs a permit to go poking around ancient sites.”

  “Is she English?’

  “Ukrainian.”

  “Well, then, yes, she can visit the site and wander around, but the moment she starts assisting Mallisham or sifting sand or removing shards of pottery she will need a permit. Did you say she was rich?”

  “Extremely! Rolling in the stuff!”

  Hayter looked past the doctor’s shoulder; his face was s
uddenly flushed. “Have you seen that Eastern advocate chap around? He wandered off and got lost more than an hour ago. I’ve been searching for him ever since.”

  Dr Watson managed to sound convincingly vague. “I saw him about half an hour ago in the Court of Ramses, or was it the Court of Amenhotep? He was looking for you. He wandered off and I didn’t see him again after that. He probably returned to the Sekhmet for lunch. We should probably head back now too. I’m famished.”

  Hayter pushed to his feet and seemed to wobble like a nine pin that had taken a hit. The doctor caught him by the elbow to stop him toppling over.

  “Are you all right?” he asked with genuine concern, overlooking the fact his chum might be up to the eyeballs in something shady.

  “It’s just this damned heat,” whined the colonel, trying to steady. “It makes me feel light-headed when I stand up suddenly. It saps a man of strength. My appetite hasn’t been the same since I arrived in Cairo. The smell of food makes me come over all queasy. But I could use a cold drink, that’s for sure. A gin and tonic will hit the spot.” He glanced back over his shoulder one last time; his shirt was drenched in sweat. “I hope that Longshanks fellow got back to the Sekhmet in one piece. I would hate to see him end up like that Cambridge chap.”

  Countess V had changed into a muslin dress trimmed with blue embroidery and was splashing on some refreshing eau de toilette, rather than the French parfum she favoured in the evening, when Dr Watson caught up to her in her cabin to relay the news that the argument between Hayter and Graf was most likely related to a permit for his niece.

  “If Hayter approaches you about acquiring a permit,” he added, “act as if you are interested and money is no object. It’s the only way we will know for sure if he is taking bribes.”

  She nodded to show she understood. “Have you seen Major Nash? Did he return to the Sekhmet?”

  “I only just returned myself. But Hayter said something worrying. He said he hopes Longshanks doesn’t end up like the Cambridge chap.”

  She was thinking the same thing herself and her heart sank. “Do you know if Professor Mallisham has returned?”

  He shook his head. “Did you catch up with Mrs Baxter?”

  She shook her head as well. “We aren’t very good at this espionage game are we? Everyone seems to be running rings around us. Mrs Baxter apparently returned to the paddle-steamer before anyone else. According to Hypatia, she bought a kilim rug from a street trader and came straight back here. You better change quickly for lunch. I’ll go and see if Major Nash has returned.”

  “We better stop referring to him as Major Nash, even in private, just in case someone overhears us.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed. “Gideon Longshanks it is.”

  When they sat down to lunch half an hour later, Mr Longshanks was the only member of the party who had still not returned and the order was given to continue upriver without him.

  “We cannot wait any longer,” said Mr Lee tetchily, thinking about that surprise birthday party for Hypatia; there was no point arriving in Philae the day after her birthday, everything had been organized – musicians, food, extra servants, costumes. “Mr Longshanks will have to make his own way to Aswan.”

  They were building up steam, ready to weigh anchor, when two people appeared on the dock. It was Herr Graf and his niece. The chap they had hired to ferry them from Luxor to Aswan in his felucca had taken their money and disappeared. The train had departed hours ago and the next one wasn’t due until tomorrow afternoon. There was mounting fear the Khamsin was on its way and they begged to come aboard just as the gangway was about to be raised. They offered to pay whatever fee was asked.

  “You cannot leave them stranded, Daddy,” beseeched Miss Lee earnestly, taking pity on Ursula Graf who looked quite vulnerable among the gangs of dirty fellaheen and shifty calash drivers hanging about the wharf.

  “That’s their problem,” asserted Mr Lee frankly. “This isn’t a ferry service. It has nothing to do with money. I have my guests to think about.” He had heard the story of Herr Graf’s rudeness on the Queen of Cairo and he wasn’t thrilled about welcoming aboard a man who might upset the status quo. He was just starting to relax and enjoy everyone’s company.

  Lunch had finished a short time age and everyone had returned to their cabins to rest. It was the hottest part of the day and the morning’s excursion had tired them out. When voices were heard, several of them stepped out to check what was happening. One of them was Professor Mallisham.

  “I can vouch for Jurgen Graf,” he said. “I’ve known him for years. He’s one of those amateur archaeologists who sources treasures for private European clients and German museums. The young lady is his niece. Her father was the renowned Egyptologist, Rhinehart Graf.”

  “I can vouch for him too,” said Colonel Hayter, albeit reluctantly, stepping up to the hand-rail to see what was adding to the delay of their departure. “And I don’t like the idea of leaving an attractive young lady at the mercy of unscrupulous inn-keepers, not with the Khamsin on its way. It can be a nasty business for anyone who hasn’t organized a bolt-hole.”

  Dr Watson and his companion were also standing at the hand-rail. They were pretending to enjoy an apres-dejeuner cigarette whilst scanning for any sign of Gideon Longshanks. But since it was the hottest part of the day, there was hardly any movement anywhere. Calashes stood empty and donkeys’ heads drooped wearily. Street traders were closing up their stalls ahead of the ominous Khamsin. A handful of fellaheen still hanging about the wharf were dozing off; the rest had disappeared.

  One half of the doctor was secretly hoping Herr Graf would not be invited to join them, but the other half conceded that to leave the German pair stranded in Luxor for twenty-four hours at the mercy of the Khamsin would be an act of unnecessary bastardry. They had two spare cabins and it was no skin off Mr Lee’s nose to fill them. Money was not an issue. He actually felt relieved when their host relented and gave the nod for the Germans to come aboard.

  “Look,” whispered the Countess, indicating with a discrete nod of her head a man on a horse watching the ship. The horse was standing in the shade of a palm tree on the riverbank and further along was a small herd of about six or seven more horses having a drink from the river. They were being minded by a group of camel herders who had also stopped to give their animals a drink. “Isn’t that Colonel Moran?”

  As soon as she gave voice to the ominous name a terrible feeling of foreboding clutched her throat and she was filled with a sense of dread. Where was Major Nash? Why hadn’t he returned to the Sekhmet? Was he safe or was his life in peril? Was he being held somewhere against his will? Or was he already dead?

  She had always dismissed her feelings for Major Inigo Nash as superficial physical attraction. She attributed the sensual frisson in her belly to his extraordinary handsomeness. But in the blink of an eye she knew it was more and she felt terrified. Terrified that she might have fallen in love without knowing it. Terrified that it might be too late.

  “Yes,” whispered the doctor portentously, “that’s Moran all right. I’d recognize him anywhere. Mallisham told me Moran is taking a fresh herd of horses to Aswan to sell. He plans to be there the day before the Sekhmet arrives. I imagine he does most of his travelling when darkness falls and the temperature is cooler. Probably navigates by the stars.” He glanced back the other way and even scanned the opposite bank. “I’m getting worried about Major, er, Mr Longshanks.”

  She felt sick with worry too. Sick at the thought of him being tortured. Sick at the thought of him languishing at the bottom of a well full of scorpions. Once the Sekhmet pulled anchor it would be too late to launch a rescue mission. She heard the roar and whoosh of the giant paddles, felt the deck shift beneath her feet, and knew it was already too late.

  When Dr Watson made a move to greet the Germans to prove there were no hard feelings, she went to her cabin to lie down and contemplate the best course of action.

  Luxor was a large,
sprawling, desert city and beyond it sat Karnak. Where would she start looking and who could she trust? She felt conflicted, helpless, and sick to the stomach.

  Not far from here lay Edfu and further along was Kom Ombo. Professor Mallisham was familiar with the region, having spent years researching the crocodile temple of Sobek. He probably had numerous Egyptian friends he could call on to assist in any search. But once again, who could she trust?

  It was Mallisham that Major Nash had chased after in the first place. Did the professor lead him to the workshop that produced the fake papyri? Did foul play follow? And what did Mrs Baxter get up to when she returned early to the Sekhmet? Did she stay on board or did she rush off to meet Colonel Moran in secret? Were they part of the espionage circle? And who else was in on it? What about the two Germans who had managed to inveigle themselves aboard the paddle-steamer? Was their plight a coincidence or carefully contrived?

  9

  Khamsin

  God sent the east wind to blow across the desert and part the waters that allowed the Israelites to escape from Egypt on their way to the Promised Land.

  That was the earliest reference to the Khamsin.

  Literally, it meant fifty because it lasted fifty days. Fortunately it did not blow continually but came in sporadic bursts that allowed people and animals to gasp for breath between onslaughts, for it was more than a wind, it was a huge oppressive wave of heat laden with suffocating particles of dust and sand that choked the life out of anything that stood in its path.

  That evening they had their first taste of it.

  Windows were closed, wooden shutters tightly secured, curtains drawn, and everyone stayed indoors. There was no more promenading on the deck or dining under the striped canopy. They hurried from their cabins wrapped in shawls or blankets and congregated in the main saloon where a dining table presided at one end and overhead fans whirred in ever-spinning circles in an effort to move hot, dry, stuffy air from one end of the room to the other.