He picked up the submachine gun lying nearby and examined it.
“This will prove handy as we expand our territory. A bit of a trick finding ammunition for it, but we’ve just co-opted a cotton smuggler. I suppose he can smuggle other things too.”
A squishing sound coming up the stairs made Augustus and Edmond turn. A dripping-wet Frenchman, no doubt the one that fell of the ledge, came up the stairs, leading Faisal. He had his pistol up to the boy’s head.
“Yves Savatier, it’s been a long time,” Augustus said.
“So you do remember me? The officer corps generally don’t remember the ranks.” Yves replied in Arabic, instead of the French with which he had been addressed.
“I remember them all.”
Yves cocked his head. “Do you? Is that why you take opium every night, so you don’t see them?”
“Speak in French,” Augustus said.
Yves continued in Arabic. “Why? So the boy won’t understand? He knows you, doesn’t he? Most likely he led you here.”
“Let him go and you can do what you like with me.”
Yves grinned and shook his head. “That’s not how it works. I was hoping you’d join us. I was hoping you understood.”
Something inside him turned. “I do understand. Now let him go.”
Yves shook his head again. “I am under no illusions. If I let him go you will kill me. We fought side by side, remember? I know I cannot beat you.”
“Get away, Englishman!” Faisal shouted.
“Quiet now. I’ll sort it all out,” Augustus said.
Yves nodded. “You will. Come downstairs. You’ll have another reunion today.”
They went downstairs, Yves and Faisal in front, Augustus and the other prisoners behind them, and Edmond and Vincent taking up the rear.
Augustus couldn’t help but admire the architecture of this place. He’d only visited once but it was just as fascinating as he remembered it. He didn’t recall those chips out of the central pillar, however. Had those been his doing? A pity.
When they got to the bottom floor, just a few inches above the water level, Augustus stopped short and gasped.
Two men stood chained to the wall, both soaked to the skin but otherwise unharmed. One was Sir Thomas. Cordelia rushed for him but Vincent dragged her back.
The other was Captain Fortier.
Yves chuckled. “Yes, you recognize him too, don’t you? He’s the one we really wanted, not Legrand. We knew Fortier lived incognito somewhere in Alexandria. He had taken on a new name just like you, and we didn’t have enough connections in that city to flush him out. Besides, there are richer pickings here. We knew the two were friends, so once Legrand’s murder made it into the papers, all we had to do was put a man on the widow’s house and eventually he’d come calling.”
“Who is this?” Captain Fortier asked in French, staring at Augustus.
The entire conversation had taken place in Arabic, with Yves glancing every now and then at Faisal to make sure he was listening. Now Augustus switched to French.
“I was on a firing squad of yours, Captain Fortier, back when I was a captain in the Oxs and Bucks.”
The French veteran stared at the remaining side of Augustus’s face and gaped.
“Why it’s—”
“That name is long gone.”
Captain Fortier paused for a moment, confused, then nodded with understanding. “What happened to you?”
“The same thing that happened to you. The war. You tried to leave it behind too, eh?”
Captain Fortier nodded sadly. “It looks like we never can.”
“No we can’t,” Sir Thomas grumbled.
“How did they get you here?” Augustus asked him. “What was written in that note that made you run off so?”
The police commandant bowed his head. “The war. The past. Nothing I want my sister to hear.”
Vincent laughed. “This is quite the reunion of sinners!”
“Keep quiet,” Yves told him, then turned to Augustus and addressed him in Arabic. “Would you like to be let go? You and all your friends?”
“At what price?”
“Just kill the captain, that’s all I want.”
“What! Why?”
Yves’s face contorted. For a moment he looked like he would start to cry.
“You know why. He made us murd—”
“Speak in French!”
Yves paused, glanced at Faisal and back at Augustus.
“Why? You don’t want him to know?”
“He’s seen enough suffering. He doesn’t need to see ours.”
Yves paused, then switched to French. “Fair enough, but that’s not it, is it? I saw how he looked at you when you came sweeping in with your gun blazing. He hero worships you. Oh, it’s nice to be a hero, isn’t it? They gave us a big parade when the war ended. I marched down the Champs-Élysées as everyone cheered. Girls came out of the crowd and gave us flowers and kisses. Old men bought me drinks every time I stepped into a café. Oh yes, I felt ten feet tall. But I couldn’t fool myself for long. I knew what I had done. I had killed German workers so French millionaires could make more millions. I even had to kill one of my own comrades. That’s not being a hero. All those kisses tasted like acid and those drinks went down like castor oil. We weren’t heroes. The people at home are fools.”
“And yet you speak French to me.”
Yves shook Faisal. “You think I have anything against this little runt? No, let him continue with his hero worship if you and he live. I’m going to help him. I’m going to make you a hero for real.”
“By killing Fortier? Don’t be daft.”
“It will be a fine lesson in revolution. Edmond has been teaching Faisal. Edmond, too, wants someone to hero worship him. Your little Egyptian boy has been hearing all about class warfare.”
“Not that he learned anything,” Edmond snapped and glared at the boy. Even though Faisal didn’t understand the words, he understood the tone. He hung his head, then looked up at him defiantly.
Augustus turned to the Apache leader. “You’ve been silent through all this. Aren’t you the man in charge?”
Edmond shook his head. “Not in this case. Yves took a blood oath to exact revenge for the death of a fellow Apache. No man can deny him that opportunity.”
“And so you imperiled your entire operation just to fulfill that oath?”
“Nothing is more sacred than the sacred oath of the working man.”
“What tosh. Getting that sarcophagus into my house was a neat trick, though.”
“That was Marius. He was an officer in an engineering regiment, decorated for his service to the nation, but he was a worker at heart. Now he lies dead upstairs.”
“I shan’t shed a tear,” Augustus said. “Oh dear, baboons!”
An Egyptian man had come out from behind a tapestry, revealing a hidden passage. Two baboons loped behind him. It turned out Faisal had been right about that.
The baboons came up and sniffed the newcomers. Cordelia let out a little cry.
“Oh, is the lady afraid of baboons?” Edmond said. “Then I suggest Sir Augustus here had better do as Yves suggests, or those baboons will tear apart that pretty face.”
“Watch it, you cad,” Augustus said.
Yves gestured with his pistol at the old French captain chained to the wall.
“If you’re looking for a cad, look no further than him. Here’s the deal, Sir Augustus. Once you let me free when you could have denounced me to Captain Fortier. Now I will give you the same chance. You kill him and you shall all go free.”
“Nonsense, you have the police commandant prisoner. As if you’d ever let him slip from your grasp!”
“He’s more useful to us alive,” Edmond said. “When we let him go safe and sound, but tied naked to the back of a mule and led through the streets of the city, he’ll become the laughing stock of the entire Arab world. Better a living fool than a dead martyr.”
“Oh, is that how
you survived the war? By being a living fool?”
Edmond’s face turned red. “I suffered my own war, in a hellhole prison in the Algerian desert.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have been garroting people for their pocket watches.”
“Enough of this,” Yves said, holding out his pistol. “Edmond, keep your gun aimed at him. Sir Augustus or whatever you call yourself now, take this and shoot Captain Fortier.”
The big guns started rumbling in this distance. Augustus caught a whiff of cordite. He took a deep breath. “No.”
“If you don’t, you will all die, and we’ll kill the captain anyway. Kill him, show yourself and your boy what you really are, what I know you to be, and I will let them all go.”
Augustus paused.
“You know you want to,” Yves said, and his voice was not unkind. “He’s what made you what you are today. He’s the reason you take opium to sleep at night. He’s the reason you’ve changed your name and hidden yourself away. I saw your face after that execution. You were as sickened as I was. No, more. Because before then you had believed in the war. I was never under any illusions. Take this gun and put your ghosts to rest. Take this gun and set your friends free.”
Captain Fortier straightened himself as much as the chains would allow and looked at Augustus with sympathy in his eyes.
“Do it,” he said.
Augustus trembled. He blinked his eyes, trying to focus.
“It’s the only way,” Captain Fortier said. “These men are barbarians, but like all barbarians they have a code they live by. He will keep his promise. Kill me or we all die. It’s the only way.”
Yves still held the revolver in his outstretched hand. Augustus drew away from it like it was a serpent.
“Any tricks and I’ll kill you all,” Edmond told him. “If you don’t do it, I’ll kill you all.”
“No, I get Captain Fortier,” Yves corrected.
“Of course, comrade,” Edmond said, “if the gentleman here doesn’t see sense.”
One of the baboons shrieked, a sound like metal tearing.
“They can sense blood,” the Egyptian said.
As the sound of cannon fire thudded in his ears, Augustus took the gun. He couldn’t bring himself to look at any of the others, only Captain Fortier.
“You were a good officer,” Fortier said. “You did your duty then when it was a hard thing to do. Do your duty now.”
With a shaking hand, Augustus raised the gun. The big guns intensified their bombardment, their low rumble shaking him to his core. The stone walls of the Nilometer began to look like mud. Captain Fortier closed his eyes and began to pray. Instead of the conservative suit he had been wearing, he now had on his uniform.
Augustus cocked the revolver.
23
Moustafa could tell when his boss had one of his attacks, and it was clear he was drifting into one of them right now.
When his mind was off in France, he was capable of anything.
Even shooting that poor old man in chains.
Moustafa had to do something. He didn’t believe for a second that these Apaches would be true to their word.
He tensed. Vincent wasn’t far behind him. God willing, he could turn around and belt him across that smug jaw before he could fire. And if God had written that they should all die today, at least he could give a good accounting for himself before that happened.
Just as he was preparing to strike, Cordelia spoke up.
“Don’t do it, Augustus. Don’t give them what they want. I am quite prepared to die rather than see a good Englishman give in to a bunch of Marseille riff raff.”
The gun wavered. Faisal glanced at Cordelia and seemed to understand the gist of what she had said.
“Englishman, what are you doing?” Faisal said. “You’re in Cairo.”
Mr. Wall paused, shook his head, and brought his hand up to his mask.
He lowered his gun.
“I … am in Cairo,” he said softly, “and I will not be a murderer a second time.”
Yves stepped up to the trembling veteran and took the gun from his hand. He holstered it and gave Mr. Wall a sympathetic look.
“I understand, comrade. I wish you could have seen through the blinders society has put on you, but I understand why you could not.” With a sigh he turned to Edmond. “Let’s get this finished.”
Moustafa spun around, lashing out at Vincent, hoping to hit him square in the jaw and knock him out.
But Vincent was no longer within reach. He had anticipated the movement and took a short hop back, just enough to get out of reach.
The Apache laughed. He wasn’t even aiming his gun at Moustafa.
“I’m too quick for you and too clever. Free men always beat slaves.”
“What did you call me?” Moustafa growled. He lunged for Vincent again, who nimbly dodged him. This brought them out of the group of people standing before the prisoners, out into the more open landing around the well. Moustafa rushed him, but Vincent veered to the side and ducked the sweep Moustafa made with his arm.
Still laughing, Vincent holstered his pistol and got into a fighting position.
“Think you will be third time lucky, eh? Hold your fire, comrades, I need to teach this slave a lesson.”
“I am no slave!” Moustafa roared.
“Anyone who works for the nobility and the police is a slave. You are worse than most. Your country is a colony and you work for your occupiers!”
“I work for my own advancement, and we’ll take care of the British before long. But first I’ll take care of you!”
Moustafa rushed him. This time Vincent didn’t try to back away. Instead he landed one of his expert Savate kicks on Moustafa’s thigh. His foot connected with a loud thud but Moustafa barely felt it. Grinning, he swung a meaty fist at Vincent’s face. The Frenchman managed to dodge enough that it was only a glancing blow, but it landed with enough force to send him back a couple of steps.
Moustafa rushed him again. Vincent blocked his next punch with his arm, wincing from the impact of the strong man, and kicked him in the thigh again. Just like the last time, it had no visible effect.
Ducking a right hook, Vincent lashed out with his feet again, hitting Moustafa’s right thigh and left shin in a rapid one-two kick. Moustafa’s grin widened as he stood just as solidly as before. He landed a fist in Vincent’s stomach. A normal man would have gone down and spent the next five minutes doubled over and gasping, but Vincent only let out a grunt. It kept him from attacking, however, and Moustafa jabbed at him with his left and his right four times in rapid succession. Vincent blocked all of them, giving ground as he did. He ended up with on the edge of the well with nowhere else to go.
And then the Frenchman recovered enough to fight back.
He swung at Moustafa’s face, who blocked it easily enough before discovering that it was merely a feint for a kick to the ribs. Vincent’s foot landed a direct hit, and Moustafa felt one of his ribs crack.
Growling, Moustafa lashed out at him. The nimble Frenchman ducked and ended up getting hit on the shoulder, the force of the swing spinning him around.
Moustafa locked him in a bear hug. Vincent groaned, his arms pinned to his sides. He could only move his legs, and kept kicking at Moustafa’s shins and instep. The kicks to the feet made Moustafa grit his teeth in pain, but the kicks to the shins did nothing.
Moustafa squeezed harder, expecting a bullet from one of the other Apaches at any second. It did not come. Vincent whipped his head back, butting Moustafa in the face and making him see stars.
“You tricky spawn of a goat!” Moustafa shouted, and slammed him into a nearby pillar. He gave him two hard jabs to the kidneys, lifted him over his head, and tossed him in the water.
Vincent sank like a stone. For a second everyone paused, staring at the rippling surface. Then Vincent came up, sputtering and splashing.
Moustafa belted out a laugh. He knew he was going to die but at least he saw that son of a mangy c
ur put in his place.
“You think you are the only one who knows how to play dirty tricks?” he taunted Vincent, who splashed about the pool, trying to get a grip on the edge. “I can play them too.”
He pulled up his jellaba, making Cordelia yelp and turn away. On his legs were a pair of shin guards, and wrapped around his thighs were thick bundles of cloth.
“I bet you didn’t know my boss was once an avid cricket player. His old equipment came in handy!” Moustafa laughed again.
“Well done,” Yves said. “I have never seen someone beat Vincent. I hope that means you can die happy.”
Yves reached for his gun, but found the holster empty.
Faisal stood beside him with Yves’s gun in his hand.
He tossed it to Mr. Wall and the room exploded into violence.
24
Everyone had been looking at the fight and it had been easy to slip the gun out of Yves’s holster. Edmond and Yves were still staring at Moustafa and they didn’t get to react in time as Faisal tossed the pistol to the Englishman.
Edmond saw the movement just as the Englishman caught it. He tried to grab the woman, who stood nearby, but she struck his hand with her parasol and jumped away, ending up right next to Faisal.
That was a mistake, because Hakim let out a whistle and his two baboons lunged for the both of them.
The woman smacked one with the parasol and Faisal dodged the other. Suddenly there was shooting and shouting everywhere, but Faisal didn’t have time to pay attention. The baboon sprang for him again and he barely got out of the way in time. Meanwhile the Englishwoman was screaming and jabbing with her parasol like it was a sword, keeping the other baboon at bay.
An especially accurate jab got the baboon right in the eye. It let out a piercing shriek that brought its companion loping over. The Englishwoman didn’t see it coming. At the last second, Faisal jumped at it feet first. His brand new sandals hit the side of its head and it staggered, surprise on its brutish face.
Faisal grabbed the woman and dragged her away. He had seen a large chest set against the wall and had an idea.
Before they could make it, the uninjured baboon rushed at them. The Englishwoman jabbed it in the face and it scampered back.
The Case of the Shifting Sarcophagus Page 23