In the Eye of the Storm

by Robert Thier

  Thwack!

  ‘Help! Help! I’m being abducted! Help me!’

  Thwack! Thwack!

  ‘I can leave her here, if you wish,’ Mr Ambrose offered. He didn’t break his stride once. He didn’t even blink.

  ‘That’s not… what I… meant!’

  Thwack!

  ‘Help! Police! Arrest this villain!’

  ‘Then what did you mean, Mr Linton? Do you wish to carry her?’

  ‘No! I meant we should set her down and explain things to her!’

  ‘By all means, try, if you want to stay here to get shot.’

  Mumbling a curse, I suppressed my further arguments. He did have a point. The old lady didn’t seem to be very receptive to any new concepts delivered without the help of a megaphone.

  On the courtyard outside the hotel, a coach was already waiting for us. Mr Ambrose shoved the old lady inside with the sweet gentleness of a charging bull, then picked me up and threw me in after her.

  ‘Hey! What do you-’

  Before I could finish my protest, I landed solidly on the hard bench and got my breath knocked out of me. Mr Ambrose swung in after me and slammed the door shut. Through the open window, he shot a last look back at the hotel.

  Another explosion made the ground shudder. The windows on the third floor of the hotel burst outward, spewing tongues of flame into the night. Sparks rained down upon the courtyard like a hailstorm from hell.

  Mr Ambrose cocked his head thoughtfully. ‘Well, I think our cover has been blown.’

  I snorted. ‘You don’t say!’

  ‘Kidnapper! Villain! Black-hearted rogue! Don’t you dare to touch me!’

  Grabbing his cane, Mr Ambrose thumped it against the roof of the coach. ‘Drive! Now!’

  *~*~**~*~*

  I never learned where we spent the next night. After depositing the old lady at a suitable hotel with less chance of rooms exploding, Mr Ambrose muttered some unintelligible destination to the driver, and soon afterward we stopped in front of a dark building.

  It was a large house, but considering that it had nearly no windows and most of it was filled with barrels that smelled strongly of fish, I didn’t think it was usually meant for the purposes of habitation. There was a room in the back that had a fireplace, though, and a few blankets on the floor that served well enough for a bed, as tired as I was.

  Youssef and the others never left. They took turns standing guard outside the door and in front of the small barred window.

  ‘Won’t the fellow who owns this place object to our being here?’ I asked drowsily, my eyes already half-closed.

  ‘I doubt it,’ I heard Mr Ambrose’s voice out of the darkness. ‘It happens to belong to me - as do the four blocks of buildings around it.’

  A smile tugged at my lips.

  ‘Of course…’

  And I drifted off to sleep.

  The next morning, I was awakened by a rat nibbling on my shoe.

  ‘Piss off,’ I yawned, and kicked. Squeaking indignantly, the rodent scurried back.

  ‘That is not a very polite greeting,’ came a cool voice from the other side of the room. Rolling over, I saw Mr Ambrose standing near the small window, looking out between the bars into the street.

  ‘I, um, wasn’t talking to you.’ I yawned again. It was astonishingly warm and comfortable in my little nest of blankets. Looking down, I saw that not just blankets were spread over me, but Mr Ambrose’s cloak and tailcoat, too. He stood in the cold morning air wearing nothing but a shirt. A shirt, I noticed with some embarrassment, on which most of the buttons were missing.

  ‘I see.’ He still hadn’t turned around, but kept looking out into the street.

  Silence filled the room. Heavy silence. The knowledge of last night’s events hung heavy in the air between us. Not the explosion, or the gunfire, no. They were insignificant compared to what had come before.

  Hot skin on skin… mouths melding… whispered words in the darkness… a disguise carried a little too far. Far too far, in fact.

  A ray of early morning sunlight jumped over the horizon, down through the iron bars into our little room. It made the dust motes dance a glittering jig in the air. Still, there was silence.

  Finally, I cleared my throat.

  ‘What now?’

  The question had more than one meaning.

  ‘Now?’ At last, he turned to look at me. His cold, dark eyes regarded me as I half-sat, half-lay on the floor, the sheets draped around me. ‘Now our cover is gone. Now we have only one choice. We go hunting for bandits!’

  The steel in his voice sent a cold shiver down my back.

  ‘That wasn’t all I was asking,’ I whispered, pulling the blankets more tightly around me. I couldn’t help but be very conscious of the slivers of bare chest that peeked out through the gaps in his torn shirt. Even in the dim light that filtered in through the small window, his muscles seemed to gleam, smooth like stone.

  Am I still ‘married’ to him? When I leave this room, will it be as Mrs Thomson, or will I be Mr Linton again? What fake identity will he make me use this time? And was what happened between us last night just as fake?

  He regarded me for a moment, not saying a word. He might have said more, might have explained - but at that moment, someone knocked at the door.

  Mr Ambrose turned away from me.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Youssef, Effendi,’ came a voice from outside. ‘I’ve brought the clothes you requested.’

  Instead of unbolting the door at once, Mr Ambrose first pulled his revolver and cocked it. Only then did he push the bolt on the door back. ‘Come in.’

  The Egyptian entered - only to find his head once more being touched by the barrel of a gun.

  ‘I am alone, Effendi,’ he said, perfectly unconcerned. I had to admire his composure. I knew that I would have been somewhat miffed if my employer went around waving guns at me! But Youssef seemed to consider it all part of the job.

  ‘I see.’ Mr Ambrose threw a look out of the open door, then gave a curt nod and put the gun away. ‘I had to make sure. After last night…’

  ‘No need to apologize, Effendi,’ Youssef said with a bow. ‘I quite understand.’

  ‘He didn’t actually apologize,’ I pointed out, raising an eyebrow. ‘Nor is he likely to, I fancy.’

  Mr Ambrose shot me a dark look and, without saying anything, grabbed the packages Youssef was carrying. The smaller one contained a new shirt.

  ‘What? You went to the expense of buying an entirely new shirt?’ My other eyebrow shot up to join the first. ‘Not just needle and thread to sew the buttons back on? You must be in a hurry!’

  That earned me another dark look. Picking up the second, larger parcel, Mr Ambrose threw it to me, and I caught it in mid-air. My heart beat faster as I undid the string that held the wrapping together. From underneath the brown paper, I pulled not a shirt, nor a tailcoat, nor any other kind of men’s clothes. Instead, I held a dress in my hands.

  So… He wants you to continue to be a female - at least for now.

  Slowly, I let the smooth material glide through my hands. With another shiver, I remembered his words to me, spoken in a moment of pretended passion.

  While we are here, you’re mine. Do you understand? Mine!

  Apparently, he had meant what he said.

  I heard a soft thud as Youssef stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Mr Ambrose rose, the new shirt in one hand, and before I realized what he meant to do, he pulled the torn one over his head. My mouth dropped open. He stood above me, gazing down at me with cool, sea-coloured eyes.

  ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Get dressed.’

  ‘Err… um…’

  ‘Is something wrong, my love?’

  ‘Well… err… I… um… err…’

  Just in case I wasn’t clear enough before, I’m going to repeat myself and make it explicit: he had pulled the torn shirt over his head - without leaving the room, stepping behind a screen, shrou
ding himself in magical mist or otherwise concealing himself - a shirt, I must emphasize at this point, under which there was nothing else. Absolutely nothing. Nix. Nada. At least nothing resembling clothing. But there was himself. A lot of himself, very firm, and hard, and there.

  He cocked his head. It made certain parts of his neck and chest shift in an interesting way.

  ‘Are you quite well, my love? There seems to be something wrong with your facial muscles.’

  ‘I… um… err…’

  ‘If you’re ill you had better tell me right now. Once I start after the bandits I’ll need to travel quickly, and I can’t have you tagging along if you’re going to hold me back.’

  ‘I, um… no. I’m fine. Quite fine. Actually, I feel excellent. There’s nothing wrong with me whatsoever.’

  ‘Well, then get dressed.’

  I took a deep breath.

  Gather your eyeballs up off the floor and get your head straight! Just because he’s so very… himself, that doesn’t mean you have to act like a stupid damsel. You’re a feminist and a suffragist!

  Only, it was a lot harder to be a feminist with Mr Ambrose standing over me half-naked.

  He made an impatient gesture. ‘Didn’t you hear me? Get a move on!’

  ‘Certainly.’ Raising my chin, I did the impossible and met his gaze. ‘Just as soon as you get out.’

  He blinked. Just once, like a lizard that saw a fly make a surprising twitch, but that still knew the fly was going to be eaten. ‘Excuse me?’

  I met his gaze head-on. ‘You heard me. Get out!’

  Stay strong, Lilly! Just because you were ready to rip his clothes off a little time ago doesn’t mean he gets to stay to watch you take off yours! That was part of the job - this isn’t! Stay strong!

  We gazed at each other for one long minute, neither of us willing to break the staring contest. An impressively long time, considering how much Mr Ambrose despised all kinds of time-wasters. Finally, he jerked his head in a movement that could be seen as a nod, or maybe a headshake, turned on his heels, and marched out of the door, his upper body still conspicuously lacking in the clothing department.

  That was close!

  Letting out a breath of relief, I quickly slipped out of my old dress and into the new one. Already under normal circumstances I hardly ever noticed what colour or pattern a dress was, and right at the moment I had no attention to spare for fashion whatsoever. But what I did notice as I pushed my hands through the sleeves was the thing glinting golden on my finger. One of the rings Mr Ambrose had given me. The wedding ring of Mrs Richard Thomson.

  Almost unconsciously, I took my left hand with my right, and examined it in the shaft of sunlight falling in through the window. The gold sparkled in the early morning glow. I felt an odd tugging sensation somewhere inside me.

  Harrumphing, I let the hand drop. Probably indigestion!

  Can you have indigestion in the heart?

  Yes, you bloody well could! Determinedly not looking at the sparkling ring around my finger, I buttoned up my dress and yanked on my hair, in the hope to make it a little more presentable. Although, once we were in the desert, that would hardly matter.

  Finished, I opened the door and stepped out. I hadn’t been mistaken last night. It really smelled rather strongly of fish in this place. I had my suspicions about the contents of the barrels stacked up around us.

  ‘I must commend you on your choice of accommodation,’ I said with a smile and gracious curtsy to Mr Ambrose. ‘You could not have found a more romantic location for our wedding night.’

  I waited for him to snap at me, to insist on my calling him ‘Sir’ again - but it didn’t happen. Instead he took a step closer and leaned forward, gently stroked one finger over my cheek and down the side of my neck, making me shiver.

  ‘You’re welcome, my love.’

  While we are here, you’re mine. Do you understand? Mine!

  I swallowed.

  ‘What next?’

  ‘Well, it appears our ruse has been discovered. We have no hope of acquiring any further information here in Alexandria - at least not without having to dodge bullets left and right.’ His eyes became hard - or perhaps I should say harder. ‘I know Dalgliesh. He’s not going to shrink from spilling blood - especially if he has the chance of spilling mine.’

  ‘Why don’t we simply go to the authorities?’ I voiced a question that had been bothering me for quite some time. ‘Surely, there’s such a thing as police here in Egypt? If we tell them…’

  ‘Tell them what? That Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh, Peer of the Realm of Great Britain and Ireland, Member of the Most Noble Order of the Garter and one of the major foreign investors in the Egyptian economy is hiring assassins to eliminate business rivals? Tell me, what do you think they would say?’

  ‘Well…’ I tugged on my lower lip. ‘They might be just a tiny bit sceptical.’

  ‘Indeed. Do you know what the motto of the Order of the Garter is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It is Honi soit qui mal y pense - in English, that means Shame upon him who thinks evil of it. It could be Lord Dalgliesh’s personal motto, in a twisted way. He might be evil as the devil, but his reputation is spotless, and his power immense.’

  ‘But yours must be, too! You’re nearly as rich as he!’

  Mr Ambrose’s eyes sparkled, coldly. ‘Richer! I am the richest man of the British Empire, not he!’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you-’

  ‘I surpassed him long ago! His wealth cannot compare with mine, do you understand? I am the first! I am the best! I am the stronger and the richer!’

  ‘Um… yes, of course you are.’

  Ouch! Apparently, I had struck a sore spot, there. Taking that into consideration, my next words probably weren’t very smart.

  ‘Um… how much richer, exactly?’

  This time, his eyes flashed with lightning. ‘Currently,’ he said in a voice clinking with ice-cubes, ‘I believe the difference between our fortunes stands at three pounds, twelve shillings and four pence.’

  Wisely, this time I held my tongue.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ he continued, ‘power isn’t always measured in superior wealth. Lord Dalgliesh has political influence, built up over years of court intrigues, which I couldn’t hope to gain in the short time since I’ve returned from the Colonies. And besides, there’s the little fact of his private army to consider. Such things tend to impress foreign nations.’

  That I could understand. I remembered all too well the men in scarlet uniforms at Lord Dalgliesh’s command. As the main shareholder of the East India Company, he essentially had control over the army that company used to enforce its rule over the sub-continent. And he utilized this control freely, whenever and wherever it suited him.

  ‘Well,’ I repeated my question from earlier. ‘If we can’t go to the authorities, what then?’

  ‘I shall take matters into my own hands, naturally. As I said before, we will leave the city. It is time to go bandit-hunting.’

  ‘But… do we have enough information about their location?’

  Most of Mr Ambrose’s conversations with his informants had been conducted in foreign languages of which I understood nothing. He never seemed to feel it necessary to share the results with me, one of the reasons why I’d aimed frequent kicks at his feet whenever we had been dancing.

  ‘Not enough to know where the bandits’ camp is, exactly, no,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘I only know their general area of operation, and that they have slowly been moving westwards, extending their raids farther and farther.’

  ‘What use is that to us? We still don’t know how to find them!’

  So quickly I thought I might have imagined it, one corner of Mr Ambrose’s mouth lifted up into what wasn’t a smile, not even a half-smile, but a quarter-smile, at most. It still was more than you ever got to see from him… unless there was something very special ahead.

  ‘I have a plan. If it works, we don’t necessarily need
to find them.’

  I waited for further explanation - but I had forgotten with whom I was conversing. Turning away, Mr Ambrose gestured to Youssef.

  ‘Youssef! Alert the men! We’re going!’

  My heart made a leap. I had known this was coming, but still… Last night had really driven home what I had gotten myself into. For the first time I had a real inkling of what our trip into the waste would be like. Deadly.

  ‘We’re going?’ I breathed. ‘Into the desert?’

  ‘No. To the bazaar, to buy supplies and transport.’

  ‘Oh.’ I couldn’t suppress my sigh of relief.

  ‘That, and we’ll make a short stop at the ship to collect something.’ Pulling his pistol out of his tailcoat pocket, Mr Ambrose checked and reloaded the weapon. ‘All in all, it shouldn’t take more than an hour. Then we’re going into the desert.’

  Bizarre Bazaar

  The bazaar looked nothing like what I had imagined. I had dreamed up palace-like constructions, glittering golden in the sunlight, where sultans and beautiful, veiled (and of course deplorably unfeminist!) women were carried around on litters by hordes of slaves.

  The reality seemed to consist more of a labyrinth of small booths constructed from wood and striped cloth. There were no sultans to be seen anywhere. True, there were quite a lot of veiled women, but they weren’t being carried around in litters, and to judge from the volume and vigour with which they argued with the red-faced merchants inside the stalls, they were considerably more forthright than I had expected.

  And last, but certainly not least, there were camels. Dozens of them, even hundreds. And they were all extremely large, extremely loud and extremely smelly. I had my issues with animals at the best of times, but at least horses didn’t stink like public privies or try to spit in your eye!

  ‘Is it quite necessary to utilize these creatures?’ Mr Ambrose asked Youssef, his eyes narrowed at the nearest camel in a derisive stare. The animal managed to return the look without blinking, which increased my already significant respect for the ugly beasts. ‘I have observed their movements, and horses are considerably faster.’

  ‘But horses wouldn’t make it through the desert, Effendi. Do you see this?’ Yousef pointed to the great hump on the camel’s back. ‘The animals use it to store water.[21] That way they can travel for up to three weeks through the desert without drinking a single drop of water.’