by Anna Lord
His voice wavered erratically from practically inaudible to a high-pitched squawk. The beginnings of some sentences were plagued by a paralysing stammer. His hands shook so much he dropped his fork, knocked over the glass of water and managed to spill half his lunch down the front of his already badly-stained shirt. If he hadn’t recently suffered a nervous breakdown, he was about to.
They did not mention the top secret investigation they were undertaking. They did not even touch on the Boer War. They did, however, discuss the Lower Aswan Dam and it was clear it was the root cause of much of his worry.
“I have the Foreign Office breathing down my neck,” he ranted, sweating profusely despite the coolness of the dining room. “I get telegrams everyday about possible acts of sabotage by Russian agents, German spies, and Dutch collaborators. This morning I got a telegram to let me know Mr Cassel’s advocate on Eastern affairs is arriving in Cairo later this evening. I’ve been ordered to I give the man my full co-operation and support. They must think I’m a tour guide! Or a nanny! This damned dam project has taken over my life. It anything goes wrong with it I bet Mr Gideon Longshanks will blame me.”
“Is that the name of the advocate? I’m sure he won’t blame you,” reassured the Countess in dulcet tones. “You cannot possibly be held to account for the success or failure of the dam.”
“That’s what I tell myself but then I get another telegram and a new set of urgent tasks to see to. Do this. Do that. Don’t forget the other. Check this. Look into that. Follow up on you know what. I’ve got six weeks to go before my replacement arrives. He’s coming from Shanghai on the slow boat. The chap before me was a disaster – ran off with the cousin of the Pasha of Tripoli. The Tripolitanians were all for declaring war. The girl was returned unharmed and the Hon. Rex Bootham joined the French Foreign Legion. War was averted but it means the Foreign Office is sensitive to further stuff ups. I had no idea what I was getting myself in for when I agreed to this posting. I needed the money, you see. A few bad investments have eaten into my retirement income. If I don’t see this business through I may have to sell the place in Reigate. It’s been in the family for generations. I don’t want to be the chap that draws a red line under the history of the Hayters.” Red wine dribbled down his chin as his bottom lip trembled.
“Well?” said Dr Watson with surly emphasis when Colonel Hayter shuffled off in a shower of sweat, knocking into an empty chair, rebounding backwards, and bouncing off the wall like a wayward billiard ball. They ordered a second cup of coffee to get over the experience. “What did you think? Was I right in my assessment? I hate to say it but Hayter reminds me of Poe’s story about the-man-who-was-all-used-up.”
“I concede you were correct. Your ex-army chum is on the verge of nervous exhaustion. He is way out of his depth as Acting High Commissioner. If he lasts six weeks I’ll be amazed. I’m afraid we will have to look elsewhere for help if we need it. Asking the colonel for assistance may seriously jeopardise the entire investigation. He will blab out state secrets to anyone who will listen to his litany of woes. Moving right along, you will recognise Mr Gideon Longshanks when you meet him tonight.”
Feeling vindicated, Dr Watson shook his head emphatically; further buoyed by the fact she had readily conceded the point – which didn’t happen often enough as far as he was concerned. He might not possess the deductive skills of Sherlock, the innate genius of Mycroft, or the intuitive ratiocination of his companionable sleuth, but when it came to medical matters he knew what he was talking about. “Gideon Longshanks? Hmm, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”
She waited for the waiter to serve coffee then lowered her tone. “Mr Gideon Longshanks is Major Inigo Nash. He was our calash driver today. He thinks there will be an attempt to sabotage the dam. He plans to travel to Aswan with us on the Sekhmet. He has a letter of introduction to Mr Lee. And the reason Mycroft didn’t include a photograph of Colonel Moran was because he didn’t expect the colonel to be in Cairo. He thought Moran was in Rhodesia. He sent Major Nash to warn us.”
That evening, Mr Jefferson Lee presided over the same large table in his harem. The three engineers were conspicuous by absence. Mr Gideon Longshanks, sporting a blond beard that seemed to add to his masculine appeal, was already a welcome member of the party. He allowed the cattle king to handle introductions and everyone played along.
Professor Mallisham arrived late as usual and seemed put-out to find the seat to the right of Miss Hypatia Lee occupied by a sickeningly good-looking newcomer and the seat to the right of the Countess occupied by her travelling companion. He was forced to sit between Miss Clooney and Mrs Baxter, the shy non-entity and the lowly secretary, neither of whom was rich, scintillating or worth cultivating.
Mr Gideon Longshanks was a born raconteur who was apparently au courant when it came to things Egyptian, Persian and interesting. He had travelled the length and breadth of the Middle East. No one doubted why Mr Cassel had hired him in the capacity of advocate on Eastern affairs.
“So you’ll be sailing with us to the first cataract of the Nile?” quizzed the professor when he caught up with the latest arrangements, adding somewhat contentiously, “I suppose Cassel wants to make sure he is getting good value on his investment?”
“And that the project is on track,” replied Mr Longshanks, sensing hostility.
“Cassel probably wants the dam to go higher. Get one set of engineering plans approved and then push for that bit more; that bit extra – fifteen feet extra! - is that why he sent you out?”
“I have no authority to alter any plans.”
“Go higher?” Dr Watson trumpeted out a note of incredulity. “The structure is massive and enormously risky as is! No one has ever attempted a gravity masonry buttress dam on such a scale! To go fifteen more feet would be the height of folly!”
Professor Mallisham nodded curtly; glad to have a supporter. “Not to mention the height of destructiveness. It will swallow the island of Philae and the beauty of the place will be lost for all time. Another Atlantis to mourn!”
Everyone looked back at the advocate who managed to maintain his sang-froid under provocation. “I can only repeat I have no such objective. Mr Cassel is interested only in his investment as it stands.”
“He cannot lose,” reasoned the big American, admiring the way the advocate handled the ornery sand-grubber. “He lends money to the Bank of England who bankroll the project. Success or failure, he gets repaid with interest. Who wouldn’t like an investment like that! If you find yourself at a loose end when this project comes to an end, Mr Longshanks, I could use someone of your talents back home. You come and see me, young man.”
Miss Hypatia Lee, who had been enjoying the verbal sparring between her current heart throb and the dashing advocate, knew what was likely to happen when her daddy started talking money; she had seen eyes glaze over and yawns become contagious more often than not. “Speaking of folly, didn’t one of the Fatimid Caliph’s go mad trying to build a dam in the same place?”
Professor Mallisham pipped his rival. “That was in the eleventh century, Miss Lee, and the man in question was not a Caliph.”
“Alhazen,” expounded the advocate, “was a polymath.”
“Also known as Ibn al-Haythem,” added the professor.
“He studied the viability of constructing a dam at the first cataract and decided to feign madness when he realized the project was doomed to failure,” continued the advocate.
“For how long did he feign madness?” asked Miss Lee sweetly, looking from one man to the other and wondering who to have first.
“Ten years,” supplied both men simultaneously.
Dr Watson broached a new topic when dessert arrived. “Has there been any fresh news regarding the missing Cambridge scholar?”
“Are you referring to Rossiter?” quizzed the professor. “The chap who disappeared from the souk last night?”
“If he is the Cambridge scholar who was returning a fake artifact – then yes.”
> “Stick to reputable dealers,” warned the big American portentously. “The rest are crooks and shysters.”
“Oh, Daddy!” chastised Miss Lee, noting that her daddy was looking frightfully red-faced, an indication he had consumed more red wine than was good for him.
“Your father is quite right,” added the professor sternly. “Stick with that chap I recommended - Ali Pasha.”
The Countess, who had been happy to allow the colloquy to unfold without her intervention for most of the evening, feigned ignorance. “Is he the man in the green fez?”
Miss Clooney shuddered. “He looks like Sobek.”
Miss Lee came to the rescue of her cousin who blushed when all eyes turned her way and she looked lost for words. “It’s the green fez and green waistcoat,” she explained. “Sobek the crocodile god is always depicted with a green face.”
“Plus he has sharp teeth,” added Mrs Baxter with a visible tremor. “Ali Pasha, I mean. When he smiles he reminds me of that crocodile we saw the other day swimming amongst the reeds in the Nile.”
“Nothing to be frightened of,” reassured the professor, “Crocodiles have inhabited the Nile since the dawn of time. Besides, Sobek is a protective deity from the Old and Middle Kingdom. He is associated with fertility. The name may be a derivation of: to impregnate. He is Lord of the Semen.”
“He who has pointed teeth. He who loves robbery. He who eats while he mates,” added Miss Lee thrillingly, recalling with a seductive shiver a few lines verbatim from the professor’s work in Kom Ombo where the worship of Sobek rose to cult status.
“Whoa there, young lady,” warned the munificent fire-eater. “I will not have language like that at my dinner table.”
“I was only quoting some research, Daddy.”
“I believe Sobek is an apotropaic deity,” added the Countess, having the last word. “In other words, he is an averter of evil.”
4
The Souk
An early start was called for. By midday the temperature would surpass double digits. By mid-afternoon it would surpass bearable. Traipsing up and down the alleys of the grand souk which was mostly en plein air would then be reserved for mad dogs and Englishmen…
Bursting with vivid colour and awash with honeyed light, a visit to the Khan el-Khalili bazaar in Old Cairo town was a must-see. Originally a mausoleum called Turbat az-za’faran, the vaulted roofs and gateways of the old ‘Saffron Tomb’ somehow still managed to retain their gorgeous apricot glow, perhaps even more sublimely than in 970 AD when a Fatimid Caliph deigned to found a kingdom and build a palace.
Five hundred years later a Mamluk Sultan decided the area was better served as a caravanserai. He dismantled the palace and the tomb, chucked the old Fatimid bones on a scrapheap, and set up a mecca for merchants where trade flourished. Workshops sprang up between the ruins where craftsmen sold gold and silver jewellery featuring precious gemstones, ivory ornaments, intricately carved wooden boxes, leatherwork, and filigreed oil lamps that might have housed a magic genie or an evil djinn. There were Turkey rugs and Persian carpets that one could easily believe might fly; silk and damask by the mile, the ancient Egyptian fabric known as assuit, and of course every aromatic spice known to man since the day a woman first decided to add a bit of colour to her watery grey stew.
To stroll along the avenue known as the qasaba one might even be forgiven for yearning for a glimpse of the olden days when female slaves were paraded naked and sold to randy old men who already had a dozen wives. “I imagine Scythian slaves would have made up a goodly measure of the human cargo,” commented Dr Watson, picturing them lithe and blonde.
“I imagine so,” agreed the Countess dryly, noting the proliferation of coffee houses where men gathered to smoke shisha, and wooden overhangs with iron grilles at the windows most likely continued to hide girls who were quietly raped to death.
Flurries of grit and sand blew down the open-air corridors, though somehow the glittering wares remained miraculously shiny, glinting in the sun, beckoning the buyer to part with pieces of silver.
“It’s easy to see why most of the women favour the burqa,” said Dr Watson, transferring dust from his sweaty brow to his white handkerchief. His taupe suit was morphing from pale grey to that shade known as filthy dirty. “I say, isn’t that Miss Lee and Miss Clooney coming out of that coffee house?”
Sure enough two young ladies, one blonde and one brunette, emerged from a maqha about twenty yards ahead of them and began walking briskly, arm in arm, toward the Bab al-Ghuri gate. Dr Watson was about to suggest they catch up but the Americans hoisted their parasols and were soon swallowed up by the crowd, so he suggested they stop for coffee instead. Arabic coffee was not exactly a thirst-quencher but the shady maqha provided a brief respite from flurries of dust that tickled his nose hairs and threatened to make him sneeze.
They sat among the shisha smokers, sipped thick black brew, and through the wide-open shutter watched the passing parade of jellabiyas, burqas and foreigners.
“There’s that German chap,” said the Countess, indicating a portly man in a Panama hat pausing to buy a sticky pastry from a street vendor who had set up a cart at the base of the steps of the soaring ruin called the Bab al-Ghuri gate. “His female companion doesn’t appear to be with him.”
Dr Watson harrumphed and looked in the opposite direction. “I say, here comes Professor Mallisham. He’s stopping to buy a pastry too.”
“It looks like the two men know each other. I wonder if the German is also an archaeologist. They’re having a heated discussion about something.”
“Probably arguing over the pastries.”
“Bartering, you mean?”
“No, arguing. Academics are all conceited hotheads, especially archaeologists – my pyramid is bigger than your pyramid! One pastry is probably a fraction larger than the other and they both want to lay claim to the bigger one.”
“The German just handed the professor something in a paper wrapper; probably a peace offering by way of that big pastry.”
“Hmph! I don’t think he’s the type to make peace offerings!”
Nevertheless, the professor accepted, and off he went in the same direction he came.
“Aaatchoo!” sneezed the doctor as they emerged from the coffee house into bright sunshine. “Damned dust! Aaatchoo! It gets into every…aaatchoo!”
The German - looking pleased with himself – hurried away, chewing on a pastry.
They passed under the old gate and spotted Mrs Baxter in a souvenir shop selling silk scarves, pretty trinkets and tacky wooden statuettes by the score. Head scarves were de rigeur for women who intended to visit a mosque. The Countess popped into the shop to say hello and have a browse, leaving Dr Watson to nurse his Germanic grievance in private and puff on a cigarette because he had run out of tobacco for his pipe. He loitered grumpily in the open-air corridor between gateways.
“Gorgeous colours!” said the Countess. “Good-morning, Mrs Baxter. I saw you in here. Are you planning a visit to a mosque later today?”
Startled, Mrs Baxter whirled round and the fuchsia scarf she was admiring slipped through her fingers. It created a vivid puddle on the dirty stone floor. “Good-morning, Countess Volodymyrovna. Yes, yes, Miss Lee and Miss Clooney went yesterday to the Citadel and told me I simply must pay a visit before we leave Cairo.”
The vendor darted around the counter, scooped up the silk scarf and gave it a shake. If Ali Pasha was Sobek, then the scarf vendor was Horus. He had the curved beak of a bird of prey, sharp beady eyes, and a thick plume of blue-black hair that swept back from a round forehead. Whenever he moved his head, the plumage moved with him. There didn’t appear to be any neck.
Mrs Baxter took the fuchsia scarf he proffered and contrasted it against a daffodil yellow one which had been laid out on the counter. It was decorated with turquoise cartouches and a smattering of hieroglyphs. The fuchsia scarf was decorated with beautiful Arabic calligraphy – a verse by an ancient Sufi poet, said the
vendor.
Mrs Baxter looked from one scarf to another. “It’s difficult to choose when one has hair the colour of a ripe tomato. I should probably go for something in green or blue. What do you recommend?”
“Oh, I would definitely go for the fuchsia. Pink and red bring out the best in each other. There’s a mirror over here on this wall. You will see what I mean. Better still take them both.”
The Countess chose three headscarves – eau de nil, royal purple and acid yellow. They were decorated respectively with hand-painted scenes of the Sphinx, the Pyramids, and the Citadel. She paid for her purchases, including enough to cover Mrs Baxter’s scarves, then re-joined her companion who was now looking slightly ill. She hoped it wasn’t that huge couscous omelette he’d consumed at breakfast two days running.
“Over there,” he croaked cryptically with a curt nod of his head.
Over there was Colonel Moran, sucking on a cigarette while leaning bonelessly against the wall of the soaring vaulted arch of the Bab al-Ghuri gate. It seemed an odd place to stop because people were forced to step around him just before going up or down a short flight of steps. A man carrying a cage full of birds cursed savagely. A woman wearing a burqa paused momentarily and appeared to lose her footing. The colonel reached out as if to catch her but she brushed him off. A small object fell from her hand as she stumbled, flashing a slender ankle strapped into a lovely leather sandal. He scooped up the item while she regained her balance. She grabbed it and ran off without looking back.
“Damned fool! What an idiotic place to stop! Did you see that?”
“Yes,” said the Countess severely. “That could have ended in a nasty fall. Lucky it’s only five steps.”
“I think he pushed that woman deliberately.”
The Countess conceded the colonel was an idiot. “I thought he tried to stop her falling, though I admit it was a half-hearted effort. Plus it’s disrespectful for a foreign male to lay an arm on a Muslim lady. I think she was greatly offended.”