The Khamsin Curse

by Anna Lord

  “She has her own room on the floor above this one.”

  “And your manservant?”

  “The same.” She sat up and tucked the bed sheet under her arms.

  Slowly, an intermingling of dark and light imprinted itself on the furnishings and she began to distinguish between various shadows that gradually gained definitiveness and brought the comfort of familiarity. Ivory inlays glimmered and several oriental looking-glasses reflected silvery moonlight. Her midnight visitor had finished scanning the room and was now scrutinizing her.

  “Do you always sleep naked?”

  “Is that what you came to ask?” Her voice lashed him like a whip-cord and he felt the sting.

  “I just wondered.”

  She maintained the whip-sharp tone. “What’s so important it couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out three pieces of paper. “Don’t light a candle or turn on a gas lamp,” he warned. “Here are three train tickets - first class for you and second class for your maid and manservant. The train is leaving at half past seven tomorrow morning. Make sure you don’t miss it.”

  She picked up on the urgent empressement. “Where is it going?”

  “Suez.”

  “Why isn’t Dr Watson coming?”

  “He’s going to Philae; you’re going to Suez.”

  “What’s happening in Suez?”

  “Nothing – that’s why you’re going.”

  Maybe she was still in the grip of disturbed impulses; she seemed to be missing something vital. “I don’t understand.”

  “You need to get out of Cairo. I’ve already telegraphed Mycroft Holmes. He agrees with my assessment.”

  “I’m sorry. I seem to be lagging behind whatever is afoot. Assessment?”

  “This business is getting dangerous. It’s not safe for you to stay.”

  “Oh, I see…and Dr Watson?”

  “He’s ex-army. He can handle himself.”

  “You mean like that Cambridge chap?”

  “No, er, yes.” It nettled him that she was questioning his judgment. “No, that’s not what I meant but since you brought it up then yes - I don’t want you to end up like Rossiter. The people we’re dealing with won’t care that you’re female, they won’t care that you’re an amateur, they won’t care that you have money or a title or friends in high places!”

  “Now who’s shouting?”

  He kicked himself, heaved an exasperated breath and aimed a fearful glance at the door. There was an all-night gasolier burning in the corridor. A crevice of golden light showed under the gap of the door where a shadow moved as if someone was loitering outside, listening. He put his finger to his lips then pointed at the door. A few moments later the shadow moved away.

  “Look,” he said gruffly as he planted himself at the side of the bed. “This isn’t a game.”

  “I never thought it was.”

  “Take those tickets and leave…please.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Because of Dr Watson?”

  “And because I want to stay and see this through. Does Colonel Hayter know that Gideon Longshanks is really Major Inigo Nash, ADC to Mycroft Holmes?”

  “What?” Her pertinacity forced him to re-focus. “No, when I work undercover I prefer as few people as possible to know who I am. You think he might be a traitor?”

  “It’s possible. What about the three engineers? Do they know who you really are?”

  He shook his head and moved on. “What do you think of Miss Ursula Graf?”

  She recalled the phrase: ‘handy in the spying game’. “She seems genuinely interested in archaeology. Being proficient in a number of languages is an asset in that field. It’s not unusual. Do you think she might be a German spy?”

  “It’s possible. Tonight as I was walking with her in the garden she said: ‘British takeover’ and she sounded bitter.”

  “But the Germans have nothing to do with the Boer War.”

  “Not yet, but there is a feeling in the government that if the Germans were to become allies of the Boers it would alter the course of the war dramatically. What’s the story with her father? He spent a lot of time in Egypt but then he was involved in some sort of scandal back home, is that right?”

  She recounted the story of Rhinehart Graf’s suicide and the fake artifacts that ended up in German museums. “The interesting thing about that story was that Professor Mallisham was scathing of Jurgen Graf, the older brother. If there is a market for fake artifacts he is likely to be involved. He sells Egyptian treasures to wealthy clients who don’t ask any questions because they don’t know what to ask.”

  “Or they don’t want to ask because the treasures are in fact genuine, possibly stolen from sites and smuggled out of Egypt. There’s more money to be made selling authentic treasures to private collectors than to museums. He could be picking up where his brother left off. ”

  “Mmm, yes, I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  “By the way, I think I know why Herr Graf was bribing Colonel Hayter. Miss Graf reminded me that foreigners need a permit to work on archaeological sites. They get the permits from the office of the British High Commissioner. Hayter may be taking bribes and personally handing out permits that bypass official channels. That ties in with stolen artifacts getting smuggled out. Another thing, when I was walking with Miss Graf we came across Miss Lee by the lion fountain. She was waiting to meet someone. She seemed tightly strung. Near the terrace was a man smoking a cigarette. Not unusual, except he was hiding in the bushes. I couldn’t see who it was. Did you see anyone else in the garden after I left?”

  “When I was walking with Professor Mallisham I saw someone darting in the direction of the fountain. I could have sworn it was Colonel Moran.”

  He seemed surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “Fairly sure, why?”

  He stroked his blond beard. “It just seems an odd tryst. I thought he was keen on Mrs Lorna Baxter, and Hypatia Lee was keen on the professor.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a tryst. They could have been meeting for some other reason.”

  “Such as? And don’t say espionage. We’ve had people watching Colonel Moran for the last three months.”

  “Dam sabotage.”

  “The Americans? No!”

  “Shhh! Mr Cassel gets the interest paid on his money whether the dam is finished or not but what about the Bank of England? If you wanted to put a strain on England’s finances, blowing up the dam might just do the trick. There is suddenly less money available for the war effort. Where does England go in the event they need to borrow funds? The Americans?”

  He raked his hands through a rich backsweep of blond hair and pondered the question. Even when frowning he was ridiculously good-looking, and his cheekbones were freakishly well-defined even in the dark. “That’s a whole new kettle of fish.”

  “Have you considered that the dam saboteur and our double agent are one and the same?” She tore up the tickets and dropped the bits of paper on the bedside table at the foot of Anubis. “I’m going to Philae, Major Nash. Notwithstanding this assignment, I actually want to visit the island and see the temple of Philae which is regarded as one of the loveliest in Egypt.”

  Not many people would place an image of the god of the dead on their bedside table and expect to sleep soundly. Hard and glossy, burnished black, Anubis glistened darkly, and he could have sworn he saw her shudder when her hand brushed the jackal-headed god.

  On the opposite bedside table was Sekhmet the lioness goddess, carved from stone, gleaming with an unnatural lustre, giving off a strange mineralizing light that seemed to glow in the dark. “An odd choice,” he remarked, indicating the two gods.

  “One for courage and one for fear.”

  “Fear?”

  “Anubis frightens me.”

  “Then why not just get rid of it?”

  “If I do that then sacred terror triumphs.”

  �
�Sacred terror?”

  “Irrational fear – a person in the grip of irrational fear loses perspective of reality, they cease thinking rationally. They become a prisoner of superstition, religion and manipulation.”

  He was too tired to comprehend what she was blathering on about and it was way too late in the night for abstract philosophical debate. “I better let you get back to sleep,” he said quietly, moving stealthily in the direction of the balcony.

  “Wait,” she whispered, “Don’t you want to see if whoever was in the corridor is still there?”

  “No,” he replied. “I want to get going. I’ve still got a few things to do. Goodnight.”

  Major Nash was about to hoist himself onto an architectural pediment framing an adjacent window that would allow him to swing down to a persimmon tree when he spotted several figures patrolling the garden. He pressed himself into the shadow of a stone column and waited until they passed but a couple of heartbeats later two more came along. A few moments more and another two appeared - seven men in all. He didn’t feel like explaining why he was leaving the bedroom of a female guest via the balcony at midnight. Moreover, he wasn’t entirely convinced the men in the garden were hotel security. They seemed to be loitering rather than patrolling the grounds in an orderly fashion. They were now lighting up cigarettes.

  When they failed to move on, he began to grow restless. The corridor was looking like the better option. Aided and abetted by moonlight, he managed to avoid banging into the furniture as he tiptoed across the room. He was almost to the door when he heard a whisper in the dark.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “There are seven men down in the garden. I’m going to check the corridor. If it’s clear, I’ll go this way. The door is self-locking so don’t worry.”

  “Wait,” she said. “It will look less suspicious if I poke my head out. Turn around while I throw on a peignoir.”

  He was tempted to watch via the cheval glass but decided to preserve her modesty. A few moments later he noticed that she had also located the silky slip that had been lying on the floor at the foot of the bed, which was just as well because the peignoir was diaphanous.

  She raked some fingers through the luxurious baroque mane tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. “Do you have any cigarettes?”

  He tapped the pocket of his dinner jacket. “Yes.”

  “Light one for me.”

  Her plique-a-jour Faberge cigarette case with her own brand of Egyptian cigarettes was resting beside her reticule on the coffee table next to where he was standing but he didn’t have the energy to argue. When he passed her a lighted cigarette she was spraying on French perfume from an atomizer on the dressing table. “What are you doing now?”

  “Spraying on some perfume.”

  “Yes,” he managed to articulate through gritted teeth as he passed her the lighted cigarette, “I can see that but the man in the corridor doesn’t care whether you smell like French lilies and if it’s for my benefit you can stop right there.”

  “Muguet.”

  “What?”

  “It’s lily of the valley, not lilies.”

  He was tempted to tell her men didn’t care about distinctions like that, especially when it was the wrong side of midnight. “Look, it’s not that I don’t find you desirable but I’ve been averaging two hours sleep for the last week, I’m spent, plus I’ve still got a few things to take care of before I hit the sack.”

  She took a soignee puff of the cigarette and handed it back to him. “Here, this is for you.”

  He heaved a weighty breath. “You’re the one who asked for a cigarette, remember?”

  “Yes, but it was for you that I asked. A lover sneaking out of the bedroom of a lady in the middle of the night needs to look as if he is floating on a cloud of post-coital bliss. How can you do that if you are not smoking?” She passed him the cigarette, mussed up his hair and undid his bow-tie. “That’s better. Now let’s step into the corridor clinging passionately to each other. You can kiss me goodnight. And try to look as if you are ecstatically exhausted rather than merely spent.”

  This was the sort of undercover work he liked best. He unlocked the door, swept her off her feet and delivered the sort of post-coital bliss most women could only dream about.

  As he swung her round and round in heady, giddy, breathless circles, the Nubian leaning against the wall, half-asleep, quickly roused himself and darted for cover.

  7

  Sekhmet

  “Mistress of Dread. Lady of Slaughter. She who Mauls. One who is Powerful. One before whom Evil Trembles.”

  Professor Mallisham was entertaining the passengers with an impromptu lecture on the goddess Sekhmet during lunch which was served on the aft deck under a striped canopy beneath an unchanging stretch of cerulean blue.

  “Her breath created the desert,” added Miss Lee, hanging off his every word.

  The professor smiled indulgently, as one does at an adoring acolyte or a precocious child eager to impress. “Quite right, Hypatia.”

  Everyone noted that he used Miss Lee’s first name. The cattle king scowled at the familiarity and the liberties the louche seemed to be taking since they boarded the river steamer. He was starting to regret this birthday trip and dreaded what might happen once he returned to Texas and left his only daughter to the designs of the sandgrubber. He was considering offering Mr Longshanks a generous stipend to ditch the employ of Mr Cassel and work for him instead. The English chap could keep an eye on his daughter, act as private body-guard, and thwart the intentions of the gold-digger.

  Miss Clooney seemed to have undergone a change of personality since they boarded too; she had come out of her shell. Instead of hiding away in her cabin, she mingled with everyone on the promenade deck. The cool breezes blowing off the water probably agreed with her. “Sekhmet wears a red tunic – that’s unusual isn’t it, professor? In the drawings, I mean friezes that I’ve seen painted on the walls and in books, well, most of the figures are wearing white.”

  “Quite right, Daisy, well observed.” Praise caused the wallflower to turn pink. “Sekhmet wears a red tunic to symbolize the blood-red waters of the Nile during the time of the annual flood when silt from the upper reaches pours over the delta. Sekhmet is said to swallow the overflow.”

  “Oh, I thought it might be because she is the goddess who led the Pharaohs in war. Blood and slaughter, you see.”

  “Well, yes,” said the professor, impressed by the analogy, “there is that side of it too.”

  Miss Lee was not one to sit in the shadow of her poor mousy cousin. “Sekhmet has two helpers, doesn’t she, professor?”

  He turned his knowledgeable gaze her way and smiled. “Hathor and Bast – cow and cat. Light and Dark.”

  The ship’s complement had dropped from eleven to eight. The three British engineers had decided to take the early train instead, citing the need to get back to Aswan as soon as possible. The decision had been made late last night when they discovered the Sekhmet planned to stop for two days in Luxor and Karnak to take in the sights, and then another day in Kom Ombo.

  “No great loss,” announced Professor Mallisham, though everyone else secretly wondered if the trio of engineers didn’t express the same sentiment in private.

  As the mooring ropes were being freed they heard a desperate cry.

  “Ahoy there!”

  It was the man-who-was-all-used-up. He requested to come aboard and sail with them to Aswan. Mr Lee could hardly refuse since the Acting High Commissioner claimed to be on official business, looking out for Mr Cassel’s advocate on Eastern affairs. Besides, the favour might one day be returned by the rich Jew and the British government.

  In the end, they were a party of nine.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” asked the Countess when she found Miss Daisy Clooney on the starboard side of the paddle-steamer, seated on a deck chair flicking through a travel book. Unopened, on the chair lay a larger tome: The Book of the Dead. />
  “Not at all.” Miss Clooney closed the travel guide in anticipation of some inevitable conversation. It didn’t take long.

  “Have you done much travelling?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the poor cousin, much to the Countess’s surprise. “I accompanied Hypatia last year when she did the grand tour of Europe for her twentieth birthday. We had a chaperone of course. Miss Wilhemina Hirsch – a spinster aunt of Uncle Jefferson’s lawyer. She wasn’t as stiff as we imagined. She actually encouraged us to pursue activities we really liked. We attended loads of lectures on ancient civilizations – Roman, Etruscan, Venetian. It was in Berlin that Hypatia fell in love with ancient Egypt. The Berlin Museum was utterly brilliant for lectures on Egyptology. We stayed for two months. That’s where we met Professor Mallisham for the first time. Oh, don’t let on to Hypatia that I said that. She will be annoyed with me. Uncle Jefferson has no idea Hypatia planned this sojourn while we were in Berlin. The professor was lecturing on Philae, trying to drum up financial support for his pet project.

  Mrs Baxter travelled with us too. It was her job to see to all the travel arrangements. She had previously travelled quite a bit with her late husband. That’s why she was hired. When we returned to America she stayed on and became a sort of personal secretary, but really she is without par when it comes to finding decent hotels. She was instrumental in planning this trip to Egypt for Hypatia’s twenty-first birthday party. In fact, without Mrs Baxter’s expertise and say-so I doubt Hypatia would have been able to convince Uncle Jefferson to agree to it despite all her wheedling and cajoling.

  It was because Mrs Baxter had been to Egypt before that she was able to convince Uncle Jefferson the place was perfectly safe for women and that a visit to all the ancient sites would be a perfect birthday present for a daughter crazy about Egyptology. The surprise party on Philae will be the icing on the cake. That was Mrs Baxter’s idea too. It acted as the clincher. Hypatia knows all about it but she will act surprised to please her pa. Do you know about the surprise party?”