by Anna Elliott
A crowd of curious children had gathered to peer in at them—rather like visitors to the zoo looking in on a new and exotic breed of animal, Zoe thought. But they had giggled in response to whatever Holmes said to them, bobbed heads in thanks for the coins he distributed, and scampered away.
Now they were alone, the headman having apparently—as part of the price Holmes had paid in banknotes—agreed to vacate the premises for the remainder of the night. Safiya was lying in one corner of the room, curled up on her own grass mat and deep in a profoundly exhausted sleep.
A lamp with a round shade of pierced tinwork sat on the floor in the centre of the room, casting spangled-looking shadows on the wall and allowing Zoe to see the bone-deep weariness that etched Holmes’s features, as well.
“I’d better take a look at your shoulder,” she said.
Holmes opened his mouth.
She held up her finger for silence. “Now, you asked the headman to bring whatever passes for an alcoholic beverage in this place—I assume with the intent of using it to sterilise the wound.” She gestured to some earthenware jugs that had been set down near Holmes’s sleeping mat. “You were probably planning to take care of it once I’d fallen asleep, but it will be more efficient to take care of it now. And besides, I’ll do a better job of it than you would, one-handed.”
The edges of Holmes’s mouth thinned, but he didn’t protest as she unwound the makeshift bandage of Safiya’s scarf.
He didn’t speak, either, as she took up one of the pots and started to trickle the liquid inside—it smelled like very strong beer—across the bullet wound. The headman had also provided some rags, but she didn’t trust their cleanliness enough to use them.
Holmes’s fingers twitched as the alcohol touched the bullet wound’s ragged edges, and he clenched his jaw so tightly that Zoe wouldn’t have been surprised to hear his teeth crack.
Zoe let out an exasperated breath. “You’re allowed to make noise. I know it hurts.”
“That will not be necessary.”
“Of course not.” She should have known better than to suggest such a thing. “What about telling me how you came to be in Egypt?”
“What is it that you wish to know?”
It was an old technique of Sherlock’s, answering a question with one of his own—refusing to confide, not because there was any particular reason to conceal information, just because his habit of reticence was so ingrained as to be second nature to him.
Zoe stopped what she was doing and looked him square in the face, gritting her own teeth and spacing the words out. “You’re trying to distract yourself from the pain. A few moments ago, you were playing mental chess openings—your fingers kept moving as if to track patterns of the pieces on the board. Now, you can either move on to translating Shakespeare into Hindustani or whatever other mental gymnastics you care to come up with. Or you can talk to me. Begin with Dr. Watson and Lucy. Are they all right?”
She held her breath as she waited for him to answer the question, even though she knew that if anything had happened to Lucy, he would have told her already.
Wouldn’t he?
“They are both safe. So far as I know,” Holmes amended. “They travelled straight to Aswan, where I assume they are now.”
Zoe felt a knot of anxiety in her relax, at least a fraction. “Good. Now, what is Sonnebourne planning? Do you know?”
“I’ve an inkling, yes. His ultimate goal—even beyond his work for the Kaiser—is to destabilise Britain’s rule in Egypt. But as to how he plans to accomplish it—”
Holmes sucked in a sharp breath as Zoe wiped blood away from his wound with a clean edge of the scarf.
“I’m sorry,” Zoe said. “I wish Dr. Watson were here to do this instead.”
“You need not apologise. Discomfort is a necessary part of the process.”
Holmes picked up the second jar of beer, though, and downed half of it in a single gulp. The pain must be even worse than Zoe had thought.
“Do you think it’s wise for you to be drinking anything alcoholic?”
“Possibly not. But it most likely carries less risk than imbibing the local drinking water.” Holmes set the jar down. The local brew must have indeed been strong, because the line of his mouth relaxed slightly. Then he asked, “Sonnebourne confided nothing to you that might hint of his plans?” he asked.
“Nothing except his extreme dislike—one might even say hatred—of you,” Zoe said. She tried to ignore the cold that crawled through her at the memory of Sonnebourne’s voice as he spoke Holmes’s name. “He will kill you if he gets the chance.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual.” Holmes’s gaze was fixed on the lighted lamp, and the muscles under Zoe’s fingers were as hard as stone. “As to the second part of your statement, I do not intend to give him that chance. The village head man has a horse—his prize possession, but one he is willing to sell for the generous sum I have offered. The animal will carry only two of us, but our host knows of a man in a nearby village with a camel which he may be willing to sell. He has gone to make the necessary negotiations and will return before dawn, so that we may be away from here at first light.”
Zoe nodded. Unless Sonnebourne or his men caught up with them first. She didn’t say it, but the words hung unspoken in the smoke-tinged air.
“It will be all right.” Holmes spoke no less stiffly than before, but the words were meant for an attempt at reassurance—one he probably wouldn’t have made without the effects of the beer he’d drunk. She should probably accept them as such.
Zoe finished cleaning the bullet wound and, since there was nothing better at hand, re-wrapped the scarf around it.
“How does that feel?” she asked.
Holmes had relaxed a little, leaning his head against the mud-brick wall behind him, his eyes half-closed. The lamplight picked out the hard intelligence of his features, the way a trickle of perspiration had streaked his brow and bare throat.
“Have you fallen asleep?” Zoe asked when he didn’t answer.
“I’m merely contemplating how to reply,” Holmes regarded her from under half-lowered lids. “The last time I attempted to give you a report on my physical condition, you threatened me with grievous bodily harm if not murder.”
Zoe laughed before she could stop herself. Holmes was smiling, as well—actually smiling, and her heart contracted with a pang that was half pleasure, half pain.
She had almost never seen him as he was now, laughing and unguarded. Something else he would never have permitted himself to be, if not for the combined effects of pain, alcohol, and blood loss. But this Sherlock Holmes was far harder to cope with—and far more dangerous to her peace of mind—than the coldly rational thinking machine.
Before Zoe could answer, the door to the hut burst open, and one of the village men appeared, panting and speaking in a flood of desperate-sounding Arabic.
Cold lodged in Zoe’s heart like a knife-sharp shard of ice, and she knew even before Holmes turned to her to translate what he was about to say.
“The headman assigned this man and some others to keep watch on the riverbank, and they’ve just spotted a large boat—a dahabeeyah of the kind hired by Englezi—heading this way, clearly intending to drop anchor and come ashore.”
CHAPTER 29: FLYNN
Mr. Mycroft was on a bed—handcuffed to it, Flynn could see—with one arm all done up in bandages.
The German was standing over him, but he’d been so shocked by Flynn’s entrance that he’d straightened up.
He was still holding a wickedly sharp-looking scalpel, though, and he had a gun on the table nearby, too. Still staring at Flynn, he made a grab for the gun.
Flynn jumped back, almost crashing into Becky, who was standing in the doorway with her face gone completely white, staring at him as if he’d gone completely off his head.
He couldn’t blame her. Usually he was the one trying to stop her from jumping straight into danger without thinking. He couldn’t have just st
ayed outside and let the German blighter hurt Mr. Mycroft, but he had to admit he hadn’t any ideas for how to stop him, either. Right now, staring into the barrel of the German’s gun, his head felt like a big, empty cupboard, bare of anything but cobwebs inside.
Becky was the first to find her voice. “You might as well give up,” she said. “The police are right downstairs, they’ll be here to arrest you any minute.”
It was a good effort, but the German didn’t look like he believed it any more than Flynn did. His lip curled.
And then, from behind Becky, a whole flood of policemen in blue uniforms came streaming into the room.
Flynn was so stunned he couldn’t even count them all, but some of them tackled the German, knocking the gun out of his hand and pinning him to the ground. Another one took care of freeing Mr. Mycroft from the handcuffs on the bed.
And another one picked Becky up in a hug.
“Jack! You got our message!”
“I certainly did.” Jack looked a bit grim around the mouth.
“Is Constable Polk all right?”
“He’s got a concussion from the blow to the head he took, but he’ll recover. Becky—”
Becky cut off what was probably going to be a lecture about the dangers of them having gone off in the first place.
“I know, we should never have left and I’m sorry, but Jack, listen! Farooq and the Sons of Ra? They’re planning to bomb Parliament! Flynn and Selim found the ingredients for making nitro-glycerin, but we don’t know where they’re keeping the bomb—”
“I believe that I may be able to help with that.”
The voice was Mycroft’s, speaking for the first time. He looked a bit off-colour, and the bullet wound had to be hurting him, but he spoke quite calmly. He was Mr. Holmes’s brother, Flynn thought, and it took more than being shot and kidnapped to rattle Mr. Holmes. Either Mr. Holmes.
“Fortunately, our German friend here had not yet got around to making a search of my pockets.” He nodded to the blond man, who was now wearing the handcuffs they’d taken off Mycroft, and looking daggers at the policemen holding him. “A careless oversight, but it means that I am able to give you the message I received this morning from Sherlock.”
He drew a folded paper out of his inner waistcoat pocket, opened it, and read aloud.
“Strongly suspect Sonnebourne’s organisation is using the townhome belonging to Paul Archer, number 26 Park Crescent.”
CHAPTER 30: ZOE
Safiya sat up, her face blanched with terror, her eyes still dazed.
“What is it? What is happening?”
Holmes answered, his tone surprisingly gentle. “Safiya, I am afraid that we must assume Lord Sonnebourne is aware of your true identity. Or rather, your father’s true identity.”
“True identity?” Zoe repeated. “What do you mean? Didn’t you tell me back in London that she came from an Egyptian village near Cairo, where her father was—”
Holmes shook his head. “That may be true, but it is not the whole truth.” He turned to Safiya, and continued, “Is it.”
He didn’t make the words sound like a question, but Safiya bowed her head in acquiescence.
“It was the story our father told us—my brother and me—to give anyone in England who might ask where we came from. Although not many asked.” Her mouth quirked briefly. “To most English persons, one foreigner is like another. But my father feared that we—and he—might be in danger if the truth were known. There are always unscrupulous men who would try to trade on my father’s affection for us, to try to influence him—”
“Men such as Lord Sonnebourne.” Holmes expression hardened.
“I don’t understand,” Zoe said. “Who is her father?”
“I had already reached the conclusion that she must have some sort of political value,” Holmes said. “Otherwise, Sonnebourne’s taking the trouble to bring her all this way into Egypt would be illogical in the extreme. However, it was not until this morning, when I received the telegram I mentioned before from Becky and Flynn, that I was able to prove my theory correct.” He looked at Safiya and said, still speaking with uncharacteristic gentleness. “The message contained a name. That of Ahmed ʻUrabi.”
Safiya sat with her head still bowed, and was silent so long that at first Zoe thought she wasn’t going to answer. But then she said, her voice soft, “He was—is—my father’s greatest friend. They joined the army together.”
“Then Ahmed ʻUrabi rose to the rank of colonel,” Holmes said. “Due to his humble roots, he came to be viewed by many as the authentic voice of people of Egypt. He represented a peasant population who had grown resentful of being ruled by tax-exempt foreigners and wealthy local landlords. ʻUrabi commanded the respect and support of not only the populace at large, but also a large portion of the Egyptian army as well. Revolts led by ‘Urabi’s army spread across Egypt. Britain feared that if he succeeded in winning independence for his nation, ʻUrabi would default on Egypt’s massive debt and that he might try to gain control of the Suez Canal. He was ultimately defeated, captured, and exiled to Ceylon. But I would imagine that he remains a popular name amongst the native Egyptian members of the Egyptian army, who all too often are given their orders by British officers who consider them inherently inferior.”
Safiya nodded acknowledgment, her lips tightly compressed.
“I would also imagine”—Holmes went on—“that your father, as a close personal friend of ‘Urabi’s, is also a popular figure, commanding a huge degree of respect among the men?”
“My father also has risen to the rank of colonel.” Safiya’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper. “He even hopes one day that he might win ‘Urabi’s freedom, bring enough pressure to bear on Khedive Abbas II that he might allow ‘Urabi to return to Egypt.”
“A worthy goal,” Holmes said. “However, what is more to the point is the fact that Sonnebourne evidently views you as an effective bargaining chip. He planned to hold you as hostage to your father’s compliance with his schemes—threatening your life unless your father agrees to lead the army in a revolt against their British officers. An act which, however justified, would result in an extreme loss of life—and would ultimately place the entire force of the Egyptian army under Sonnebourne’s control, with your father as a puppet commander only.”
Safiya looked desperately frightened, but she clasped her hands tightly together and nodded.
“You must get her away from here,” Zoe said. In her mind’s eye, she was calculating the amount of time it would take Sonnebourne’s boat to navigate the rocks around the island, find a place to drop anchor, and come ashore. Surely not long enough.
“It’s the only way we have of stopping Sonnebourne’s plan,” she said. “The village head man’s horse—”
“Will carry only two people,” Holmes said.
“I know. So you said. And failing the miraculous arrival of the head man with the camel he promised, I can see only one option: you take Safiya—”
“No.”
Zoe ignored the interruption. “It’s our best chance—”
“I refuse to leave you behind.”
Holmes looked desperately exhausted, with lines of strain bracketing his mouth and his eyes dulled by pain or alcohol or both. But his voice was curt, and he was giving her the kind of coldly furious look that usually made even strong men wilt and women start to cry.
Zoe glared back at him. “We haven’t the time to argue!” she snapped. “You’re the one who’s always speaking of logic and reason. You’re in no condition to fight, therefore we can’t stay here. Therefore, the only logical course of action is for you and Safiya to go on horseback—”
“I said no!”
Zoe stared. She’d seldom seen Holmes’s iron control slip, but he sounded as close to losing his temper as she could remember.
“On what grounds?” she demanded. “I can’t go with Safiya. I don’t speak any Arabic, and two women travelling alone would stand out. We’d be seen a
nd recaptured before we’d gone more than a mile. You do speak Arabic; in disguise you can blend in—pass Safiya off as your daughter, especially if she borrows one of those black robes and veils from one of the village women. Her life is worth more than mine—”
“Not to me!” Holmes voice was a ragged shout.
Then he stopped, breathing hard, looking as though he were half-relieved, half-appalled by the words that had just come from his mouth.
That made two of them.
“I … thank you,” she stammered. Impossible man. He would choose now to speak, when there was every chance that she might never see him again. Zoe pressed her eyes shut against a sting of tears, then forced herself to smile.
“I will remember that,” she said softly. “Go now, with Safiya. I’ll be all right. I’m sure the villagers will be willing to hide me, especially if you give them another generous payment for services rendered. All I have to do is crouch in the shadows, disguised as one of the village women, while they swear that no Englezi have come anywhere near here.”
If he hadn’t been exhausted, weakened from blood loss, and in pain, Holmes probably wouldn’t have thought that it could possibly work out as Zoe had said. But as it was, she managed to see him and Safiya—well-wrapped in a borrowed robe and veil—loaded onto the back of the newly purchased horse, which they had led to the edge of the village.
Once at the far end of the island, a ferry would take them across to the West Bank of the Nile.
A narrow strip of rosy-pearl dawn was just breaking at the edge of the horizon, turning the eastern mountains lavender-purple when they rode away. Holmes turned just once to look at her over his shoulder. He raised his hand in farewell, then rode away.
Zoe let out her breath and turned back to the village, hurrying along the narrow dirt lane back towards the head man’s hut.
She was halfway there when she heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.
“That was a warning!” She recognised the voice as Morgan’s, though it was so choked with fury that the words were scarcely intelligible. “Tell me where the woman is, or I will shoot your people, one by one. Starting with this disgusting child here!”