The Khamsin Curse Page 3

  “Hmm, I think it might just be a case of purse strings. He who controls the money controls the women. It doesn’t pay to get on his wrong side. Most self-made men have an urge to control everything, and by that I mean absolutely everything, pertaining to their own lives and the lives of those anchored to them.”

  3

  Giza Plateau

  “Man fears Time; Time fears the Pyramids.”

  The Countess recalled the Egyptian proverb as she and Dr Watson breakfasted early, keen to explore the Giza Necropolis before the daytime temperature soared. From the window of the breakfast room they could see Khufu’s Pyramid looming out of its sandy bed, reaching skyward like a Jules Verne rocket ship made of stone. A short calash ride, not much more than half a mile, would have them there before the sun warmed the pointy end.

  “Isn’t there a theory about the Pyramids being the granaries of Joseph?” Dr Watson was savouring every mouthful of the spicy couscous and herb omelette he had been brave enough to order from the breakfast menu while at the same time studying the largest of the three monuments, the other two not being visible from the window; the second in size but on higher ground built for Khafra, and the smallest built for Menkauru.

  “You’re thinking of that mosaic on the ceiling of the Basilica di San Marco we saw in Venice last month. The pyramids in the mosaic had stepped sides and flat tops. Most likely the artist copied them from the three smaller pyramids behind Menkauru’s tomb. The Egyptians built granaries but they were underground pits with domed roofs made from mud blocks. The ancient Egyptians wouldn’t have been daft enough to build granaries that were ninety-nine per cent stone and one per cent grain storage. But biblical storytellers never let logic get in the way of a good myth.”

  They were finishing their Arabic coffee when the German arrived for breakfast minus his fair-haired companion. Dr Watson turned instantly grumpy. “Time to make tracks,” he said abruptly, grabbing hold of his binocular field glasses. “Do you need to go back to your room for anything?”

  She indicated her lacy parasol. “No, I have everything I need. I presume we will return to the hotel for lunch sometime in the early afternoon?”

  He nodded as he pushed to his feet, anxious to be off. “Let’s go. The concierge said we can hail a calash at the gate of the hotel.”

  Always the case that when one is in a hurry one will bump into several people one does not wish to meet. First up was Mr Jefferson Lee.

  “Going out early,” he remarked cheerfully. “And where are you off to? Let me guess,” he posed, spying the field glasses strung around the doctor’s neck which told him it was sight-seeing and not shopping they had in mind. “I bet it is the Sphinx. Everyone wants to see that one first. And if I was a betting man - which I am - I would say the Pyramids second. Is that right?” He gave a hearty laugh, pleased with his reasoning.

  “Right on both accounts,” confirmed Dr Watson briskly. “But it will be the Pyramids first since they are closer and then the Sphinx and we want to do it before it gets too hot.”

  “Yes, yes, quite right! Get in before the heat. We did it the other way around. Sphinx and Pyramids, I mean. Can’t think why? But when my daughter gets an idea in her head as she did that day, well, I just go along with it. Though I suspect that sand-grubber had something to do with it. He was at the Sphinx, you see. The distance is the same either way, I told myself. This trip is her birthday present so I am indulging her a bit. She will be twenty-one years old the day we reach Philae. That is not a hint to buy a birthday gift, mind you. She will be most aggrieved to find I have mentioned it. You will have to pretend you have no idea what is happening when a birthday cake with twenty-one candles appears at dinner that evening. I’m planning a surprise party on the island. Well, I am off to breakfast and then I shall pay a visit to the floating ranch to see how things are coming along. I am delighted you are sailing with us. Good day to you both.”

  Mr Lee was big not only in stature but in heart, generous to a fault though it was not a trait shared by all tycoons; some were frightful misers, stingy with their loot. Dr Watson felt awful for giving the big American short shrift.

  “Sand-grubber?” he said quizzically.

  “I assume he was referring to Professor Mallisham,” supplied the Countess. “I think the idea of an archaeologist for a son-in-law is not a prospect pleasing to the King of Texas.”

  They crossed the foyer and reached the entrance doors when they bumped into the antiquities trader known as Ali Pasha, though it was possible he had positioned himself in the doorway so as to deliberately waylay them. He inclined his head by way of greeting, introduced himself and procured two business cards, seamlessly slipping them into their hands before they knew what he was up to.

  “If you are wanting to acquire genuine treasures of the Pharaohs please to make visit to Khan el-Khalili Bazaar, Bab al-Badistan gate,” he said, smiling unpleasantly to reveal a row of razor-sharp teeth. “All things in shop of Ali Pasha are genuine. Statue of Horus, Ra, Sobek, and many more. All the gods you want. Ebony, ivory, gold – you will see.”

  “Do you have any mummies?” asked Dr Watson, glancing down at the card and momentarily forgetting he was in a hurry.

  “Yes, yes, many mummies to choose. I can get for you what you want. Old Kingdom, Middle Kingdom. Third dynasty, twelfth, male, female, dog, cat, crocodile – what you wish, that I can get. Please to visit Ali Pasha.”

  “Thank you, Mr Pasha,” said the Countess firmly, “we will keep that in mind.”

  This time they made it all the way to the iron gates of the hotel where a queue of calashes awaited them on the dusty road. Drivers jostled for attention, calling out prices in an effort to undercut each other, but then, strangely, they seemed to back off, as if intimidated by the heavily-bearded, broad-shouldered driver who pushed his way to the front. He was wearing a jellabiya, but not in cool summery white like the others. His caftan was striped grey and black. Around his head was wrapped the traditional cloth headdress known as an ammama, also in black. Having no choice, our two sleuths clambered into his calash and the horse trotted up the gentle slope to the Giza Plateau.

  They had every intention of climbing up to the top of the Pyramid but when they found themselves standing at the base of the ancient tomb they conceded the awesomeness of every individual block of stone and changed their mind.

  “Man fears Time,” repeated Dr Watson, gazing skyward, “and Time fears the Pyramids.”

  For a nominal fee the calash driver offered to guide them inside the Pyramid of Khufu and into the burial chamber of the Pharaoh. To have tons of stone hanging above one’s head held up by gravity and the marvel of man’s engineering ingenuity was an existential terror hard to describe. Suffice to say, it was easy to see why people believed in gods.

  The burial chamber was empty save for a stone slab on which had rested the sarcophagus of the dead Pharaoh but the experience was nonetheless extraordinary and once again the ‘sacred terror’ of the place was palpable - though this time it was the gods who held their breath and the stillness and silence spoke volumes about the power to inspire.

  When they staggered back into broad daylight and stood under the burning sun where Dr Watson gave out three hail Mary’s in the form of sneezes and they gave thanks for being back in the land of the living, they proceeded to the next wonder of the ancient world, even older than the Pyramids, the date put at anything between 10000 BC and 2000 BC.

  The Sphinx had more myths surrounding it than grains of sand.

  There was not even a consensus on whether it was male or female. All agreed it was a lion couchant built from mummulitic limestone approximately 240 feet long, 63 feet wide and 66 feet high but that’s where it ended. Was its name an aberration of Sphingo: answer this riddle or I will strangle you? Or was it a loose translation of The Terrifying One or Father of Dread? Was it built for the pharaoh who built the second pyramid? Or was it a mythological relic from an earlier time? A symbol of eternal vigilance? Or eternal
loneliness?

  “Who shot off its nose?” Dr Watson gazed up at the missing chunk. “Napoleon or the British or the Mamluks?”

  “Never let facts get in the way of a good myth, mon ami, it was a muslim iconoclast in the fifteenth century. Imagine seeing a giant head poking out of the desert. That’s all you could see until 1878 when an archaeologist partially excavated some giant paws. Then came the body. So how many centuries of shifting sand did it take to cover it?”

  “Fascinating question. I’m going to take a walk around the perimeter. Care to come?”

  She shook her head as she moved out of the burning sun into the shadow of the hybrid beast. “I studied it in detail from all sides when I visited Egypt with my step-aunt. You go ahead. I’ll wait here.” She sat down in the shade and began to fan her face.

  “Man fears Time,” said a husky male voice from somewhere close; a voice that sounded strangely familiar, “Time fears the Sphinx.”

  The calash driver had crept up on her, but there was something strangely familiar about him too, especially the pale blue eyes incongruously framed by a thick black beard, furry eyebrows and a nuggety face.

  “Major Nash!”

  Innate handsomeness shone through the heavy disguise. There was no masking those demigod looks which always managed to set the female heart beating that little bit faster. Though she managed to pretend it was because he had taken her by surprise.

  “Shhh! Keep your voice down. Mycroft wanted me to warn you that Colonel Sebastian Moran is in Cairo. We had it on good authority that he was in Rhodesia but he returned to Cairo a week ago.”

  “We saw him in the hotel yesterday. He was talking to Professor Mallisham.”

  “Do you know what they were talking about?”

  “No, but the colonel didn’t look happy. Did Mycroft send you all the way to Egypt to alert us to Colonel Moran?” That would explain why a photograph of the colonel hadn’t been included in the faces to look out for. It hadn’t been a conspiracy to keep the doctor in the dark.

  “Several men are looking our way. We’re standing too close together. Look annoyed. Put your hands on your hips, wave your parasol around, berate me then storm off toward the calash. I’ll follow sheepishly a few paces behind you. While I pretend to check the harness we can talk further.”

  A few moments later she was seated in the calash with the hood up, fanning her face in an agitated manner.

  “I’m here on another matter,” he addressed her way without meeting her gaze. “There’s a strong rumour someone may try to sabotage the Aswan Dam. It’s an important project for the British Empire. Failure isn’t an option. As soon as I ditch this disguise I’ll arrive at the hotel under the guise of Mr Ernest Cassel’s advocate on Eastern affairs.”

  “So you’ll be travelling to the construction site at the earliest opportunity?”

  “Yes, I have a formal letter of introduction to Mr Jefferson Lee. He has a river steamer going that way the day after tomorrow. I’m going to hitch a berth.”

  That bit of news caused a brief but welcome frisson. “Dr Watson and I will also be hitching a berth along with the three engineers overseeing the construction of the dam – Willcocks, Aird and Baker.”

  How on earth did she manage to score an invitation when she’d only just arrived in Cairo the previous evening? His invitation had been weeks in the planning. He still hadn’t figured out what her relationship to Mycroft Holmes was and it bothered him no end. He fiddled with the carriage harness then strolled around to the opposite side to do more of the same.

  “Are you acquainted with Mr Lee?”

  “No, we met last night at dinner. We’re going to check what Professor Mallisham is up to on the island of Philae. Do you know what Moran’s connection is to Mallisham?”

  “Ostensibly, he’s a gun for hire. He’s providing security at the site Mallisham is working on which I presume is the island you just mentioned.”

  “I recall Dr Watson describing him in one of his chronicles as the second most dangerous man in England - I presume he was quoting Sherlock – and now that Professor Moriarty is out of the picture that must make Moran the most dangerous?”

  “He would have that honour if he actually spent any time in England, but he prefers Africa. He wasn’t interested in taking over Moriarty’s criminal empire, even though he would have given the Yard a run for its money.”

  “What’s your theory? Why didn’t he return from Reichenbach and take over the empire?”

  Sharp blue eyes winnowed the fellaheen from the foreign tourists, noting any that didn’t quite fit the grain. “I suspect he’s a man of action. He prefers to be in the thick of it rather than give the orders. That’s what made him such a perfect soldier. He could have been promoted to top rank but for his devil-may-care attitude. He rubbed too many people up the wrong way.”

  “Was he dishonourably discharged?”

  Major Nash waved away a couple of flies to disguise the fact he forgot himself and shook his head. “No. There was a scandal and he chose to retire.”

  “Not a question of avoiding a court martial?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “Not a lack of bravery?”

  “Never! He was mentioned in despatches after the battle of Char Asiab. Should have been awarded a Victoria Cross more than once but he was always overlooked.”

  “What was the scandal?”

  “Take your pick: Deflowering the unmarried daughter of a superior officer. Starting a fist fight at a Vice-regal dinner. Cheating at cards at the Bangalore Club. Getting drunk at the Maharajah’s annual ball and insulting the Maharani. All of the above have been documented but the straw that broke the camel’s back is unknown. Enough about Moran. Steer clear of him. Who else will be on board the Lady Constance?”

  “Miss Hypatia Lee, Miss Daisy Clooney and Mrs Lorna Baxter; respectively, daughter, niece and personal secretary of Mr Jefferson Lee. By the bye, the Lady Constance is morphing into the goddess Sekhmet.”

  He caught sight of a figure wading through the sand toward them. “Here comes Dr Watson. He must have decided not to go all the way around the Sphinx. You better tell him what we discussed so he doesn’t let the cat out of the bag when he sees me at the hotel later this evening. But don’t do it yet. Several men have been keeping an eye on us since we left the hotel. I can’t figure out if they’re watching you or me.”

  “Your shoulders are too broad.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t look like a calash driver – your shoulders are too broad and your back is too straight.”

  He tried not to laugh as he hoisted himself up and remembered to slump wearily on his perch. One glance at Dr Watson’s face alerted him to the fact something was gravely wrong. The doctor looked distressed. Major Nash wondered if the doctor had just had a nasty encounter with Colonel Moran, but he dared not turn around and was forced to eavesdrop.

  The Countess couldn’t fail to note the doctor’s stricken state and wasted no time getting to the bottom of it. “You look as if you’ve just crawled out of a pit full of death adders.”

  He removed his Panama hat and mopped his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his sandy-hued-sort-of-lilac linen jacket. “I just bumped into Colonel Hayter.”

  She wondered if he got the two colonels confused. “You mean Colonel Moran?”

  “I know who I mean,” he snapped. “Gerald Hayter was on the other side of the Sphinx interviewing a group of Englishmen who’d made a complaint about their dragoman luring them to a shop which sold fake artifacts.”

  “Caveat emptor! That’s half the shops in Cairo. The rule is to only buy from reputable dealers who have been recommended by someone like Mallisham.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s not the point. This group was from Cambridge, all scholars, they know a fake when they see one, anyway, these fakes were rather good, so one of their members returned to the shop last night to confront the dealer and the Cambridge chap hasn’t been seen since.”

  “O
h, I see, they are all worried about him.”

  “Of course, they’re worried about him. It looks like foul play. But that’s not the point of the story either. The point is that Gerald Hayter looks dreadful.”

  “You may need to elaborate.”

  “He looks seriously ill. He has shed half his body weight. He is skin and bone. What’s more, he didn’t even recognize me. I had to prompt him with my own name. I was shocked.”

  “You know better than anyone how tropical climates can affect delicate English constitutions and cause loss of weight and temporary mental confusion.”

  “Gerald Hayter spent years in the Hindu Kush. He has the constitution of an ox. Enteric fever and dysentery regularly struck down entire platoons while he remained immune. And what does temporary mental confusion actually mean?” he challenged, still in shock at seeing his old comrade vastly changed and not for the best.

  “A mental lapse, a brief forgetfulness; we all get them when we are distracted. Even I had one once. And you’ve probably changed quite a bit since he last saw you. You’re fuller in the face. You have a few, er, grey hairs. And he had a lot on his mind with the missing Cambridge chap. His mind was elsewhere.”

  “Look,” he said severely. “I’m not going to argue with you but I have a doctor’s instinct when it comes to these things. There’s something seriously wrong with my old friend but I cannot put my finger on it. I invited him to join us for lunch. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not. I’m delighted you did. You will be able to observe him in a more relaxed setting. You will laugh at your fears by the time lunch is over.”

  Colonel Hayter was waiting for them in the foyer of The Mena House, and he looked every bit as dreadful as the doctor described.

  Feeble framed, painfully thin, distrait, nervy, incoherent and forgetful. Twice in the space of ten minutes he forgot the Countess’s name, and although many might find the name difficult to pronounce, few could actually forget it in its entirety.