The Khamsin Curse Page 5
“Let’s go before he notices us. Just the sight of him is enough to ruin my day. Where’s the cave of Ali Baba?”
“Ali Pasha,” she corrected, glancing back over her shoulder. “It looks like the colonel is coming this way, gaining on us. You cannot pretend not to notice him. Brace yourself.”
Bracing was not what the doctor had in mind. Impulsively, he grabbed her elbow and hauled her into a lantern shop. “Quick! Let’s duck in here!”
He grabbed the first object that came to hand and pretended to be interested. “How much for this lamp?” he blurted; standing with his back to the door.
The vendor named a price and without even bartering Dr Watson reached into his pocket.
“No, no, it’s too much,” interceded the Countess. “It’s not even genuine silver. It’s what’s called German silver – an alloy of nickel, copper and zinc.”
The vendor glared daggers at her then whisked another lamp from the shelf behind him. “This one genuine silver, esteemed great lady.”
Dr Watson came to his senses. “How about this brass one? How much for this?”
“Very popular design. Last one in shop.”
“How much?”
“Very special lamp.”
“How much?”
“Magic lamp of genie. You make three wishes.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Dr Watson. “How much?”
“Oh, for goodness sake!” said the Countess, slapping enough money on the counter to make the daggers gleam. “We’ll take it! No need to wrap it.” She put it in the cotton bag with the three scarves and off they went.
Colonel Sebastian Moran was nowhere to be seen and yet for the remainder of the morning the Countess could not shake the feeling of being watched. It was as if the doctor’s fear and loathing had rubbed off on her. Was it because she was Sherlock’s daughter that she felt inexplicable dread? Mortal dread, as if her life was in danger, as if the gods had marked her out, as if every shadow in the souk was sinister and jackal-shaped.
Once an idea enters the head it’s no good telling oneself it is causeless, especially in Egypt. Here, every action was an act of sacred terror; every thought a superstition. Life was a dream. Death was real.
She looked back over her shoulder but there was no one there. Not Anubis, not Horus, not Sobek, and not the second most dangerous man in England. Only white ghosts in jellabiyas and black ghosts in burqas and foreign ghosts like corpses trailing dusty shrouds.
It was a relief to arrive at the shop of the antiquities trader.
“Ahlan Wa Sahlan,” greeted Ali Pasha, flashing a row of pointy teeth. “I will be with you in a moment.”
He was wrapping a small parcel in brown paper and tying it securely with string. The parcel was oddly shaped; perhaps a statuette of an old god, possibly Sobek himself.
Oil lamps gave off an opalescent glow that washed the bijou cave with blue-green light. It was like diving into an underwater grotto where objects swam before one’s eyes – ivory inlaid cigarette boxes, gold and silver scarabs ornamented with gemstones, and delicate papyri covered with hieroglyphs that defied translation.
The shop was deeper than it looked. One room led to another, then down a few steps and into yet another cave. In the third cavern, where a single oil lamp glimmered dimly, there were mummies by the score. Most looked quite small, as if constricted by their bandages, though people might have been smaller several thousand years ago, or perhaps corpses shrank after being eviscerated and embalmed.
They didn’t see the German until they ventured into the bowels of the third cavern. He was perusing a papyrus pertaining to a mummified crocodile. Dr Watson turned abruptly on his heel to avoid the prospect of making polite conversation. The Countess had no such qualm.
“How I envy you,” she said.
Surprised to hear the voice of a woman, the German peered over the top of his pince-nez, then looked around the watery bluish confines crammed full of dead things to see if the attractive young woman was addressing him. “It is to me you speak?”
“Yes, how I envy you?”
“Envy me?”
“You are able to read hieroglyphs, I think?”
He gave a modest nod of his head and smiled. “That is correct.”
She gazed at the cartouches on the papyrus and wondered how difficult it might be to learn to read glyphs. “I believe we travelled together on the Queen of Cairo but we were not introduced. I believe we are also staying at the same hotel. I am Countess Volodymyrovna.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Countess. I saw you on the steamer ship, of course, and at the hotel, yes, yes, of course, but I am not sociable. I am not on vacation. I am looking to make some purchases for private clients. It is popular to have an Egyptian room with a few treasures to show off to one’s friends. I apologise for any rudeness. Your travelling companion, he is displeased with me, I think. A dispute over deck chairs. I did not wish to have company. I placed some personal items on the chairs either side of me. He was annoyed. It happens all the time. There are never enough deck chairs for all the passengers.”
“Quite right, I have witnessed fearful rows, not only between men, but women too.”
He gave a quick chuckle. “I too have witnessed this. I am Herr Graf.”
The name rang a bell. “Herr Rhinehart Graf, the Leipzig archaeologist who translated the Heliopolis papyrus on Egyptian law, which contradicted Diodorus on the subject of punishment in the afterlife?”
He was stunned she was familiar with the treatise and even more stunned she could remember what it was about. He considered it obscure and rambling. “That was the work of my younger brother. I am Herr Jurgen Graf. I perceive you are interested in archaeology? You are joining a dig perhaps? The excavation in the Valley of the Kings?”
“I am highly interested, although I will not be joining any dig, however, I do intend to explore the island of Philae. There is the possibility it may become submerged when the dam is built. Are you acquainted with the work of Professor Mallisham?” She knew very well the two men were known to each other and was suddenly interested in what the German might say about the professor.
“Oh, yes, Max Mallisham and I go back many years. We do not always agree but I have the highest respect for his current project. The dam will be a catastrophe. I hope to visit Philae with my niece before it sinks into oblivion. My niece is the reason I stole your calash. She was waiting for me to meet her at the Cairo railway station and we docked later than expected. I did not want her to worry too much. This is her first trip to Egypt. She has been studying Greek, Hebrew, Arabic and Hieroglyphics with private tutors for the last five years with the intention of following in the footsteps of her father. Rhinehart died tragically many years ago. Ursula was only twelve at the time and came to live with me and my wife. She is very keen to see Philae. We may even see you there. We travel by train to Karnak first thing tomorrow.”
“We also leave early tomorrow. My travelling companion and I will be sailing with the party of Mr Jefferson Lee. He has a Swiss paddle-steamer. The name is rather fittingly being changed from Lady Constance to Sekhmet.”
“Ah, yes, I saw her as we docked yesterday. Sekhmet – The One who is Powerful, daughter of Ra, the goddess with the face of a lioness. She may have been a pre-dynastic precursor to the Sphinx. It was Sekhmet who led warriors in battle. Offerings were made to her at the end of war. She is a powerful figure in the Egyptian pantheon.”
“A formidable goddess makes a nice change to the Christian pantheon. The Christian church feared women so much they expunged them totally, unless you count the oxymoron of Virgin Mother. I believe most female saints were beatified for attempting to escape rape, incest or a bad marriage. No Sekhmets there!” Her eyes roved back to the mummified crocodile. “Are you interested in purchasing a mummy for one of your clients?”
“Ah, yes, everyone wishes to have a mummy to show-off to their friends.”
“You have just purchased something else. A statuette? May I a
sk which god interests you?” The Countess’s tone was light and friendly despite being probing.
“A statuette of Sobek; not for me; but a gift for my wife. She is unwell and could not join us on this trip. She is fond of Sobek! Ali Pasha, he wraps it well so that the long nose does not get damaged during my travels, and while I wait I come to look at the mummies. You are interested in purchasing a mummy?”
“No, but my companion, Dr Watson is interested. Are these the real thing?”
“Oh, yes, all genuine,” he assured. “Ali Pasha can spot a fake and he has a good reputation. He looks a bit like Sobek, don’t you think?” Herr Graf gave a quiet chuckle and looked at the door to make sure the antiquities trader was not about to walk in on them.
“I have a theory,” she dared, “that all men resemble an animal in one way or another. Dr Watson reminds me of a bear. (She refrained from adding baby bear.) Professor Mallisham with his tight, curly, fair hair and stern features reminds me of the ram-headed god.”
Herr Graf gave a throttling laugh. “Oh, yes! Khnum the ram! The god of inundation! I hope that is not an omen of ill-luck! And randy too! Yes! Yes! That rich young American will need to watch out! And the other two ladies as well! He will make sport with all three. Oh, I beg your pardon. I lost my head.” He went bright red.
“No need to apologise, Herr Graf. I thought the same thing the first time I met him.”
As if to atone for his embarrassing faux pas, he turned the harsh spotlight on himself. “And me – what animal do you see?” Herr Graf was short and embonpoint with an ambling gait. His face was defined by a pair of beetling brows and the top of his head was flat, covered with a helmet of straight black hair. “You are too polite to say, but my wife, Gisela, she calls me her Kabraz or Kafer! I am Khepri, the scarab god! Yes?”
The Countess knew that kafer and chafer shared the same Old Germanic-English root. From it came the word cockchafer! “Khepri – He who is coming into Being. Yes, Herr Graf that is you! You should buy your wife a scarab while you are here.”
He gave a hearty laugh which almost dislodged his pince-nez. He pushed it back into place. “She already has three of them!”
They were joined by Dr Watson. It had long been a fantasy of his to purchase a mummy and he had no choice but to check what was on offer in the room where the German chatted to the Countess.
Herr Graf, sensing some unease on the part of the doctor, bid farewell and departed. After much umming and ahhing, the doctor chose a female mummy and paid to have it shipped to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson would die a thousand deaths when she saw a life-size parcel from Egypt and Sherlock would be thrilled to bits. He’d probably unwrap it and start prodding and poking before the doctor even got home.
Countess V purchased a statuette of Sekhmet and another of Anubis, several cigarette boxes and half a dozen scarabs. She asked for her purchases to be delivered to the hotel. When Ali Pasha learned they were intending to have lunch at a street stall before paying a visit to the Citadel, he insisted on serving them lunch. He lived above the shop.
An old woman - not his mother - did the cooking, and a houseboy of Nubian extraction called Japhet kept house. Houseboy was a misnomer. The handsome young man was tall and muscular with an ostentatious sense of style that ran to the exotic, indicative of that particular fashion once known as Turquerie. In other words, he reminded them of a eunuch in the harem of an Ottoman Sultanate.
A delicious repast was quickly procured even though Ali Pasha was not expected home for another hour. It started with Egyptian flatbread, soft white cheese, tahini dip, then came Mulukhiya, a rich green broth flavoured with garlic and coriander, followed by Kushari, a dish with lentils and chick peas, then Fatta, rice stew with fried bread, garlic, onion and meaty chunks, finishing with a tisane and some sweet Halawa.
A feast fit for the Pharaohs.
5
The Citadel
From the ramparts of the Muqattam Hill it was possible to appreciate the vastness of the featureless plain that stretched northward for endless miles. The twelfth century Ayyubid ruler, Salah al-Din (Saladin), who ordered the construction of the Citadel, must have stood here and surveyed his kingdom with pride and not a little humility. The sun would have gilded the shiny armour of any Crusader Knight foolish enough to venture thus far just before it cooked him inside his own pot; and in pre-Biblical times - how fiercely the menacing lances and swords of ancient warriors must have glinted and bristled in that searing moment prior to the heat of battle!
Dr Watson wondered how many wars had been won and lost on this very spot, how many conquerors had triumphed, and how many had tasted the bitter gall of defeat. “Every man who stands here must picture himself at the head of an all-conquering army.”
“Indeed! Never on the losing side!” teased the Countess. “You haven’t sneezed once since we came up here and yet there is plenty of dust and sand blowing about in little eddies. Your head cold or allergy must have acclimatized.”
“Mmm, yes, let’s go inside before those eddies breach my defensive nose hairs!”
They were in the process of removing their shoes in preparation for entering the Citadel which was now a mosque, when they spotted Herr Graf standing out of the sun under one of the archways. He appeared to be waiting for someone.
“Let’s go inside before he catches up to us,” suggested the doctor, who was able to forgive but not forget the rudeness of the German. Not being on vacation was no excuse for hogging three deck chairs!
“He must be waiting for his niece,” observed the Countess as she slipped her stockinged feet into a pair of cloth slippers.
Wearing a worried frown, Dr Watson lined up their footwear. “I hope no one steals our shoes while we’re inside. Do you mean the young woman who joined him at the hotel?”
“Yes, she’s the daughter of Rhinehart Graf, the Egyptologist who translated numerous papyri. He’s written several books on the subject of hieroglyphs. The most famous being a translation of the papyrus of Heliopolis. I got him confused with his brother. Half way through the conversation with the German I recalled that the brother killed himself. That was about ten years ago. I cannot recall the details but there was some sort of scandal involving his archaeology work.”
They were about to pass from suffocating heat into the airy coolness of the mosque, with the Countess ushering a few steps ahead of the doctor, when the latter glanced back over his shoulder to check if the German had spotted them, and what he saw pulled him up sharp with a suddenness that caused his breath to catch.
Herr Graf had met up with Colonel Hayter. That of itself would not normally have garnered his attention but the meeting appeared pre-ordained. There was no greeting, no look of surprise, no formal acknowledgement of the other. They were standing deep in the complicit shadow of an archway and each man seemed to be looking over his own shoulder as if in fear of being observed. And then it got worse. Herr Graf passed an envelope to the colonel.
Now, there were lots of reasons one man might give an envelope to another man, but it was what happened next that invited alarm. Colonel Hayter looked inside the envelope and nodded as if pleased with the contents. He then took a piece of paper from his inside breast pocket and gave it across to Herr Graf. This time it was the German who checked the paper and looked pleased. No words were exchanged during this transaction. Without ado the two men parted and walked off in separate directions, Colonel Hayter shambling off across the dusty courtyard like an etiolated ghost and portly Herr Graf beetling directly toward the doors of the Citadel.
Quickly, Dr Watson rushed inside, looked around for the Countess and spotted her conversing with the fair-haired German niece. He knew what would happen next but he had no hope of avoiding it. Herr Graf would arrive any moment and the four of them would be forced to make polite chit-chat. Clichés would fall thick and fast as soon as introductions were out of the way, followed by comparisons to the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque in Istanbul.
Miss Ursula Graf turned
out to be an intelligent young woman who was happy to translate the Koranic verses adorning the walls. Dr Watson encouraged her because it saved him blurting out accusations about what he’d just witnessed. The transaction appeared not only furtive but dishonest. He felt incensed, alarmed, angry and alert to the possibility of something underhand, perhaps even linked to the reason they had come to Egypt.
The incident cemented his dislike of the German and caused him to fret even more about his old chum. Was Colonel Hayter taking bribes? He had admitted to being hard-up. And the thickness of the envelope suggested a wad of money. His thoughts returned to the espionage business they had been charged with investigating on behalf of the Foreign Office – more specifically Mycroft Holmes. Was a highly respected, British colonel at the heart of it? The mere thought of it made him break out in a cold sweat.
As soon as he was able, he proposed heading back to the souk, explaining that he had forgotten to purchase some Latakia for his pipe. The Syrian tobacco was his favourite and he vaguely recalled a tobacco shop a few doors down from the shop of Ali Pasha. The Countess offered to go with him but he insisted on allowing her to continue sightseeing. He could see that she was enjoying the company of Herr Graf and Fraulein Graf. They were talking about visiting some more mosques. He left them to discuss it and hurried away.
He took a calash back to the Bab al-Badistan gate where he remembered the shop of Ali Pasha was situated. Inside the antiquities shop he noticed Mrs Baxter at the counter. Her unassuming manner appeared to have been replaced by a more forceful personality. It caused him to pause in his tracks and stare through the open window. She was shaking her head and remonstrating about something; at one stage she slammed her hand on the counter. Most likely she was haggling about price. Since the items in the shop were genuine, they were pricey. If she wanted something cheaper there were plenty of street traders. Then it occurred to him she might be buying something for her employer at his request. But then why haggle? The cattle king could afford to buy the whole shop.