by Melissa Yi
Tucker cleared his throat, glancing at Gizelda Becker.
Gizelda's eyes shone with unshed tears, but she shook her head at Tucker. "Don't worry about me. I want justice served. If my brother killed Abdallah Hussein, and if he's responsible for a child nearly suffocating, I want to know about it."
"All of you will need to join us at the station to make a statement," said an older police officer.
"Please, I need to recover for a minute," said Gizelda, clinging to her wine glass.
Karima Mansour switched to Arabic to charm the officer into agreeing to a short reprieve. Then she ordered more wine.
I glanced down at my empty plate. I would have loved to get in a few bites before my police statement.
"Your appetizer is coming, madam. We'll pack up the rest for you to take with you," said a waiter.
Truly the best service of my life. I grinned at him as I unhooked the microphone from my collar and placed it on the table for Karima Mansour. "Thanks so much to you and your team. Gizelda, you were so brave."
Gizelda shook her head. "You've answered a lot of questions for me already. This is my treat. I gave the staff my credit card information."
"Oh, Gizelda … "
"It's the least I can do. It won't bring back our mother, of course." Her voice shook. "I always wondered what had happened, and why my father changed so much even before her death. I'll hire a fleet of forensic accountants to comb through our company books. I'll look through our father's papers as well. Now that I realize that a cat with an ☥ is his symbol for Nedjemankh, I can decipher his records."
I'd wondered about that. I couldn't remember the name Nedjemankh myself, until I parsed it into Nedjem—sweetness, like the cats who'd repeatedly visited me—and ankh, which meant life. Once I started looking for the ankh, I saw it everywhere, including in King Tut-ankh-amun.
"Good idea," said Tucker. "I bet that's why your father kept her car. He wondered if there might have been foul play, but couldn't bring himself to confront your brother. You can have the car checked if you feel up to it."
Gizelda touched her temples. "I know my father wasn't a saint. He must have been the instigator, or at least involved, with the looting in 2011 and the coffin sale in 2017. But he did try to give back that hand in the cobra pouch. He was going to present it to the Grand Egyptian Museum. He was meeting with staff and trying to figure out the best way to return it, but that IED killed him first." She took a deep breath. "I entrusted the hand to Abdallah. He promised he'd take care of it for me in exchange for my necklace and some money to bribe officials."
I exhaled. It was possible that Abdallah had returned the hand. It was also possible that he'd pocketed her cash and diamond ankh and hung onto the hand to resell it before dying of fire (electrocution) and floods (drowning).
"And pestilence," I said aloud, remembering Luke's dental abscess. At least one source had described the infected spot sitting on Lord Carnarvon's left cheek.
I'm a doctor. I believe in science. However, for the first time, legends and history had led me to solving this crooked case. I wouldn't cry if that dental abscess expanded, disseminated, and killed Luke Becker in jail.
"How did you figure out my brother's role?" asked Gizelda.
"Your father was giving you clues," I said. "The story about the mongoose and the cobra—when he smuggled antiquities, your father probably imagined himself as the mongoose fighting with the cobra, the symbol of the pharaohs."
"And his nickname was Meerkat, which is a type of mongoose in South Africa," Tucker said. "Meerkats are excellent diggers, building tunnels underground. Pretty symbolic for someone digging treasure out of tombs."
Treasure. I touched his hand. Tucker had figured that out by himself, since I hadn't bothered to look up meerkats. Then I turned to Gizelda. "Meerkat was his nickname as a student athlete. Do you think he started stealing artifacts back then?"
Gizelda lowered her head. "I'm afraid I don't know. My mother kept the books at home and at work, not me. Father always did love Egyptian heritage. In those days, they didn't have the same kind of rules."
They'd had rules since at least 1970. And Phillip Becker had "loved" Egyptian heritage so much that he'd ripped it out of the earth, away from its people, and sold it for a multimillion dollar profit.
I didn't buy the "back in the day" argument. Even if kids like Hadi hadn't died at his feet, Phillip Becker must've known of the blood shed for his precious "treasures."
A few months ago, I would have told her so. Tonight, I surveyed Gizelda Becker's lined, weary face and realized that she was now an orphan with a killer brother. Whatever her father had done, he'd died for it. We'd never know the whole truth. And we had to keep her on our side to prosecute her brother.
Sometimes a scorpion must sting in order to eat or to defend herself. And sometimes a goddess wields her scorpion power in order to heal and to help a person breathe.
So I asked a different question. "You remember that after the IED, you said Phillip was all mixed up, praying and calling for Luke and asking the time? One of our friends suggested that your father might have been citing something like Luke 13:5."
Tucker bowed his head. "'I tell you, no! But unless you repent, you too will all perish.'" In addition to feeding us shawarma, Maryam had solved L 12:15, that tiny clue in the red book, the first minute we met.
Gizelda's jaw dropped open. It took her a few seconds to speak. "I thought he was praying."
Either that, or Mr. Becker had been naming his own son, Luke, as the instigator of the bombing and/or the inheritor of his tomb raiding empire. That, too, I'd leave to the police. I only had one more question. "Did I hear you say Krygers to your brother?"
Gizelda hesitated before she nodded. "Yes, it's the expensive accounting firm my brother hired to take over the books after our mother died."
"That's the word your father was saying. I thought it was Kruger, like Kruger National Park." Like the Kruger Millions. Instead, Mr. Becker had named the last of his enemies before he died.
Gizelda bit her lip and lowered her head. "My father told me everything, and I didn't understand. I was holding his head, I was trying to stop the bleeding, but I didn't listen."
"Don't blame yourself. We didn't understand it either," said Tucker. He held up his phone. "It's interesting, though. Looks like krygers is Afrikaans for 'warrior.' That could be another interpretation of your father's words."
Gizelda placed a hand on her chest. For one terrible second, I thought she'd throw up, but the moment passed, and she said, "It makes no sense. My father wasted so much time on this trip telling me about Egyptian gods and goddesses. Osiris, Isis, Anubis, Bata … "
I nodded and said, as gently as possible, "The legends of Osiris, Isis, Set, Nephthys, and Horus, as well as Anubis and Bata, are really stories about usurping power from the rightful king."
"With a war between the siblings before good finally triumphs," Tucker said. "Your father fed you clues, using allegories to show how your brother fought him for control the company and the Becker fortune."
Gizelda's eyes filled with tears. "Stubborn old man. Why couldn't he tell me directly?"
I touched her weathered hand. "Sometimes it's easier to speak indirectly. I think the smuggling would be really hard to confess after what, 70 years?"
"Especially if your dad drafted your brother into the business and might have gotten your mother killed," said Tucker.
Gizelda's shoulders stiffened. She grabbed a napkin to cover her sobs.
I tried to soften the blow. "Your dad knew he might lose you too. You were the only loyal family he had left. So he planned this trip with you, trying to stay safe by keeping with the group." I hesitated. "I wonder if he was even behind Nedjemankh's repatriation, letting the Egyptian authorities know that the documents were forged. So that the coffin of Nedjemankh would make it safely home before he returned the hand and made a clean breast of things."
Gizelda shook her head. "He would never be clean." S
he turned to Karima Mansour. "I saw your report about the poor little boy and the other children who were injured or killed digging for 'treasures.'" Her mouth twisted. "I'll take Luca to court for damages, and I'll see what I can do for the children."
"Thank you," said Karima, raising her glass of wine in appreciation.
I squirmed in my chair. Not to make this a total downer, but I couldn't leave it like that. "The whole family's in trouble. Hadi's father donated his kidney to try and raise money. Hadi's pregnant mother was beaten last night."
"Oh, goodness. Is that another story?" Karima's eyes gleamed, reflecting the candlelight.
Tucker shook his head. "The mom won't talk about it. She won't even go to the hospital."
The mother wouldn't risk another hospital bill. She'd returned to Hadi's side, limping and refusing to speak.
Gizelda's forehead wrinkled as she repeated, "I'll do what I can."
"They're both doing better today, In'sha'Allah," said Tucker, and we all relaxed.
"In'sha'Allah," I repeated. I hoped Hadi and his family could relax and heal. I hoped that my stalker, Gizelda Becker, generous Canadians and Egyptians, or some magic combination of all of the above, would join forces to help at least this one family.
Tucker slid the fly box toward Karima, who palmed it. Maybe the 24K gold fly would make its way back to the stalker. Or maybe Karima and her cameraman would put it to good use. Either way, I wanted no part of that pestilence.
"Let me know if we can help," I told Gizelda. Historically, Set had battled Osiris and Horus with Isis in the wings.
In the 21st century, we'd pit Isis directly against Set. Maybe I could play Serket and help Isis breathe while she prepared for war.
"You've already helped so much, darling," Gizelda said.
Tucker called me a scorpion goddess. Every woman in Egypt called me darling. So what was I? The lady or the tiger? The scorpion or the darling? The sister or the wife?
Was it possible to say "all of the above"? I threw my head back and laughed, feeling the soft napkin in my lap and Tucker's eyes on mine.
Tucker smiled and squeezed my hand before he leaned toward Gizelda. "Your father was treated at KMT Hospital. That's the ancient name for Egypt, which was drawn like this." Tucker pulled out Gizelda's red notebook and laid a piece of paper on top. Then he drew some shapes that looked vaguely familiar, including a bird, on the paper. "KMT also means 'shield' or 'conclusion.' Although I know this is a difficult time for you, I can't help thinking it's symbolic that your father did try to make amends at the end, at his conclusion. That should be good for his Ma'at, right? Ma'at means balance and order and putting things to rights."
Gizelda downed some more wine. "Father did talk about Ma'at. He said that in the afterlife, she's the goddess who weighs your heart against a feather on the scales of justice."
"We'll all pray for him," Karima assured her. "Don't worry."
If an afterlife existed, would Phillip Becker's 11th hour turnaround be enough? Suddenly, I remembered him saying, My heart is heavy. It weighs too much.
I'd assumed he had chest pain from the trauma and/or ischemia. But what if, at the end of your life, a goddess really did greet you in Osiris's Hall of Truth to weigh your heart on a golden scale against Ma'at's white ostrich feather?
If that organ weighed more than the feather, as Amal had pointed out, your heart was tossed on the ground and devoured by Ammut, the monster. And then you would cease to exist.
What if I'd witnessed that moment of weighing before Mr. Becker lost consciousness?
Boy. I'd better start living righteously from this second forward.
On the other hand, one other quote rang in my mind, the second quote Tori had written on a card for us: "Fear does not prevent death, it prevents life."
I exhaled and met Tucker's eyes across the white tablecloth. Death surrounded us.
And yet I rejected fear.
I chose to live.
I chose to love.
I chose, as Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote,
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.
Afterword
On May 19th, 2019, my tour group posed near the Giza Pyramids when they heard an explosion.
"What was that?" One of them jumped. She could feel the earth tremble.
"Oh, nothing," said the tour guide, hurrying them along.
The IED, planted in a car near the Grand Egyptian Museum, hit a bus carrying 28 people, 25 of whom were tourists from South Africa (https://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-48328793).
Fortunately, no one died, although 17 were injured, including two who suffered eye trauma.
This is the inciting incident for Scorpion Scheme.
Most other details are true, too, if rearranged: the retaliation against Hasm; the bomb that killed three Vietnamese tourists and an Egyptian tour guide; the repatriation; the children dying underground; the organ trade; the political unrest; even the sneaky toilet and fake palm trees.
Yet I felt safe during my trip. I walked in the Valley of Kings and Queens. I cruised down the Nile. I swam in the Red Sea.
My friends thanked me for my positive portrayal of the Middle East on social media, because Western media emphasizes the danger.
So I want to stress that, in 2019, the vast majority of tourists had absolutely no trouble visiting Egypt. And I, for one, relished discovering an entire civilization with thousands of years of history.
However, on my outbound flight from Vienna to Cairo, I chatted with a seat mate who informed me of the bombing we'd missed. I assumed he was joking.
"No. It was a bomb. You can read about it yourself when we land."
"Really?" I'd joined the tour late so I could celebrate my son's birthday with him, which meant I was a continent away when the IED went off. I thought, Wow. My son protected me.
What a fluke. Is this what happens? Random things tilt us on the knife edge between an indulgent vacation and losing our eyesight?
Yes. That's become even more clear in 2020. In case you're reading Scorpion Scheme in the future, this is the hardest year our planet has collectively faced in my lifetime. We've recorded 36,778,228 cases of COVID-19, with 1,066,391 deaths as of October 9th.
I'm still practicing as an emergency physician and a hospitalist looking after admitted patients. We brace for the next wave as I write.
Which reshaped Scorpion Scheme in real time. I'm not writing about the pandemic because it's not entertaining to me. Literally, doctors, nurses, war veterans, children, cancer patients, writers, artists, musicians, scientists, parents, grandparents, athletes, and more have been killed by SARS-CoV-2, taking a disproportionate toll on the poor and people of colour.
I want to escape that right now. So Scorpion Scheme contains very little on-page violence and more food, myths, dancing, and getting busy.
Why?
'Cause Hope needs it.
Because I need it.
I have only two small inklings of what will happen next to Hope, Tucker, and Ryan. I only know that they'll keep on living, loving, fighting crime, and fighting each other.
Keep reading. Keep fighting. Keep dreaming. We need you.
Acknowledgments
Enormous gratitude to everyone who helped shape Scorpion Scheme, my first pandemic book.
Dr. Kyrollos explained a lot of crucial details about Egypt, including the lack of scorpions in Cairo (oops);
Dr. Monica Hanna, a real Egyptian archaeologist, answered a question that changed a crucial scene;
RN Margaret MacDonald managed to edit even though she came out of retirement to juggle telehealth and to assist with three grandchildren, including two new grandbabies;
Dr. M zeroed in on my Arabic and food misdirections, with help from Yusra Jomha;
Drs. Najat Al-Refaie Sasani, K, H, Y, W, and Y kindly offered to help;
I received some Arabic guidance from pharmacist George Nagy and several kind people in D
iscord's Arabic Learning Centre: رَشِـيِــدُ بْـنُ دِرْهَــمِ, Arabic Tesla, coldasice, and Agent P;
My wonderful beta readers continued wonderful-ling;
My sharp-eyed, quick-witted readers voted on titles and potential cover photos; and
Chris McIntosh created the final title.
All faults are my own.
Considering COVID-19, this is a group win for 2020.
About the Author
Melissa Yi is an emergency doctor with an award-winning writing career.
She believes in health, humour, hard work, and hoorays.
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Win a free Hope novella by joining the KamikaSze newsletter on Melissa’s website, www.myi.ninja
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Earn literary karma by leaving a positive review at your favourite retailer.
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And rock on.
Also by Melissa Yi
Code Blues (Hope Sze 1)
Notorious D.O.C. (Hope Sze 2)
Family Medicine (essay & Hope Sze novella combining the short stories Cain and Abel, Trouble and Strife, and Butcher’s Hook, which are also available separately)
Terminally Ill (Hope Sze 3)
Student Body (Hope Sze novella post-Terminally Ill; includes radio drama No Air)
Blood Diamonds (Hope Sze short story)
The Sin Eaters (Hope Sze short story)
Stockholm Syndrome (Hope Sze 4)
Human Remains (Hope Sze 5)
Blue Christmas (Hope Sze short story)
Death Flight (Hope Sze 6)
Graveyard Shift (Hope Sze 7)
Scorpion Scheme (Hope Sze 8)
More mystery & romance novels by Melissa Yi
The Italian School for Assassins (Octavia & Dario Killer School Mystery 1)
The Goa Yoga School of Slayers (Octavia & Dario Killer School Mystery 2)