by Anna Lord
Ali Pasha grappled for the dagger strapped to his ankle and managed to stab one of the crocodiles through the snout before it ripped into the dainty foot of Daisy Clooney. Jefferson Lee retrieved a Smith & Wesson from beneath his Atef crown and shot indiscriminately at anything that moved.
Their saviour appeared in the form of Colonel Sebastian Moran. The big game hunter and crack-shot, with the aid of his repeating rifle, dispatched five of the biggest and most threatening of the creatures, one after the other, until the trigger jammed and he was forced to leap onto a block of stone to avoid being cut off at the knees permanently.
Dr Watson managed to kill four reptiles and Gideon Longshanks nailed six more.
The sound of gunfire and demented screams brought a second saviour in the shape of a soldier wearing a smart red and black military uniform. He appeared in the open doorway between the stone walls with his weapon cocked, ready to fire, and could hardly believe his eyes when confronted by fantastical images of men with animal heads – ram, beetle, jackal, falcon and more. Several live crocodiles rushed him. He killed the first two and kicked the third with his boot, sending it airborne across the up-ended tables toward the falcon, which was caught by surprise and flipped backwards, landing with a jarring thud.
The largest and most vicious of the crocodiles had fortunately been dispatched, but two babies, lurking under the divan, bellied forth for one last sally. Colonel Moran shot one and Jefferson Lee shot the second. The unknown soldier shot the one he had kicked which was still on its back, legs in the air, writhing and hissing at the man-falcon lying flat-out on the ground, stunned and helpless.
The terror was over.
No one spoke. No one moved. Fear continued to hold them in paralyzing thrall. The horror was disturbing. They were surrounded by a sea of vile dead reptiles, and yet the scene was also appallingly tragic. Most of the crocodiles were mere babies. Even the largest had not yet reached maturity. The carnage was sickening.
Hypatia fainted. Professor Mallisham managed to catch her as she fell and laid her out on a velvet divan. Several people hurried to her side, including her father, Lorna Baxter and Dr Watson. Colonel Hayter spied an unbroken bottle of gin among the bloody debris, cracked it open and began drinking straight from the bottle. Ali Pasha, who normally forsook alcohol, grabbed the bottle from his hand and took several long gulps then began the search for his dagger. He found it stuck in the snout of the crocodile. The creature was still alive. It gave him a shock and he jumped back in fright. Someone shot it. It was the Countess. She had finally managed to retrieve her Derringer. Ali Pasha thanked her with a single grateful look, cleaned up his dagger with a scrap of silk and rehoused it. Gideon Longshanks, likewise, searched for his weapon. Ursula Graf stepped off the divan into a prickly sea of hideous reptiles and appeared to swoon. Gideon helped her to steady. Daisy came to the rescue and led the fraulein to another divan. Herr Graf was being physically sick in a corner. Gideon continued to search for his weapon. Colonel Moran took a swig of brandy from his flask as he walked among the reptiles, kicking them to make sure they were well and truly dead. One or two that had survived were soon put out of their misery.
Colonel James Isambard Moriarty took the Countess by the hand and led her into the darkness…
While the crokodilian horror was unfolding, the Khamsin was growing ever more powerful. By the time everyone rallied, the world had turned a sickly shade of apocalyptic orange. Waves of sand and grit stung their faces as soon as they ventured beyond the mighty walls of the pit of Hell and into the path of Destruction.
Blindly, the men tried to lead the ladies but it didn’t take long to become disoriented. The Khamsin was the equivalent of a blizzard from Hell. They had no idea where they were going. No idea of the direction of the jetty. No idea who was leading and who was following.
As soon as they stepped outside the godless circle of flaming torches they were slapped and rolled by stinging sand that felt like iron filings from a fire. The moment they let go hands they were on their own. Cry as they might, human voices were drowned out by the supernatural storm.
Stumbling in the darkness, blind and deaf, and coming straight after what had already taken place they were unnerved, panicky, prone to fears and wild imaginings; hearts thrashing and legs shaking; adrenal glands in overdrive.
Jim tore off his red military jacket and covered her head and shoulders. He had scouted the island the day before the arrival of the Sekhmet when he met up with his brother’s old cadre, Sebastian Moran. The two Irishmen had walked the perimeter of the island and reminisced. They had stopped for a cigarette here and there, and he had taken the time to memorize the orientation of every temple. He had acted as scout numerous times for the army. He had a good sense of direction and a good eye for reconnoitering the things that mattered. He was currently heading due west toward an outer courtyard lined both sides by the sort of royal colonnade he had only ever seen in books. Surely, gods not men had built such structures.
What a wind! He knew it was coming from the east, spitting fire like metal sparks from a furnace, and as long as the hot metallic grit pounded them in the back they were still heading in the right direction.
The Temple of Hathor – that’s what Moran called it - was due north, much closer, but it was en route back to the Sekhmet and they might have company. He wanted privacy from prying eyes.
Above all, the eye of Ra…
God-fearing scraps torn from the day of destruction echoed inside the Countess’s discordant prayer-box as the wind pounded her ears and her head spun out of control. Every footfall sang a different song…feather of fear…sky serpent of creation…river of no return…swallow the red waters…pit of death...wings of war…sacred avatar…god of chaos…the last gasp…breath of ka…lead me into darkness…amen…and so it went.
Black and hot. The tiny chamber was darker than a grave and hotter than the fires of Hades. Every inhalation burnt their throat and lungs as they struggled for breath. They burned from inside-out as they collapsed against a stone wall, out of the punishing wind, the whoosh still vibrating inside their ears. She fell against him and they clung to each other wondering if they had entered that mythical tomb-like place called the Afterlife.
He was the first to rein in his breath as he sat with his back to the wall and cradled her with an arm around her shoulder. “Who the hell decided to hold a party in a pit full of crocodiles?” The shock had not yet abated and his voice vibrated with anger.
Her voice trembled not only from shock and anger but fear. The words came in breathless bursts. “There were no crocodiles when we arrived. None during the party. Someone must have released them. They were all babies. It was planned to put the fear of god into us. It was meant to cause serious injury rather than death.”
“But who?”
Rationality was returning, albeit slowly. “Someone who wants to scare us off. Someone who doesn’t want us to stay on the island. Where were the servants? That’s what I want to know.”
“I’m guessing they were the people departing hastily in boats just after I arrived. I pulled my boat up on a sandy bank and hid it among the reeds. I was about to light up a gasper when a large group of locals decided to leave. I presumed they had been dismissed from their duties.”
“No! The party was still going. They must have been paid off or threatened. Did you see anyone else lurking about?”
“There were two men in jellabiyas.”
“Jellabiyas or burqas?”
“Hard to tell in the dark.”
“Did you get a look at their faces?”
“No, like I said, it was dark. They were fiddling with something on the riverbank.”
“Something in the water?”
“No, on the bank. Once this storm passes you’ll probably find dozens of empty cages.”
She gave a shudder. It would be years before she reconciled herself to the hideous sight of so many dead reptiles and the terror they instilled not only in the women but the men t
oo.
“I don’t know what we would have done without you. If you come to the Sekhmet tomorrow, Mr Jefferson Lee will no doubt be extremely grateful, if not immediately, then in the near future. I think Colonel Moran will be in for a nice bonus too.”
“Playing the hero doesn’t sit well with me and I’m glad you’re not about to suggest Moran had anything to do with what happened.”
“I might have considered it, but when he arrived on the scene the look on his face was one of genuine shock. He killed at least five of the biggest crocodiles in rapid succession before his gun jammed. If he hadn’t leapt onto the stone block the rest of the creatures would have made mincemeat of him. Congratulations, by the way, on your commission.”
“Nash told you?”
“Yes.”
“I think Mycroft might have had something to do with it.” He managed that modestly, though his cheeks were glowing with pride in the pitch darkness. Yes, he was proud, dammit! “What’s Nash doing here? I couldn’t believe it when I saw him parading around the construction site in a suit that looked like it had been cobbled together from unwashed dishrags, not quite the dapper dress code as pertains to the hallowed halls of the Diogenes Club, although the three British engineers were still kow-towing as if he was some sort of Grand Vizier.”
“You didn’t give the game away?” She was alarmed that Gideon Longshanks had had his cover blown wide open.
“Don’t worry, I figured he was up to something top secret with the Foreign Office or maybe the War Office. Which one is it?”
“Foreign Office,” she said a little too quickly. “Someone may try to sabotage the dam. He’s posing as a bean-counter for Mr Ernest Cassel.”
He laughed out loud and the risible strains were magnified in the confines of the tiny chamber. For a moment he found it funny that Nash was still playing at paper-shuffling while he was leading the first Irish Guards regiment to war. The two of them had always been ambitious and it felt good to get one over his old rival. But then it dawned on him that he was likely to get killed and Nash would get the girl. It cut short the laugh. “And you?”
“Me?”
“What are you doing here in Egypt? Before we even set up camp in Aswan I heard that Dr Watson and a rich foreign countess were travelling to Philae with an American millionaire to join some archaeological project run by Max Mallisham. I didn’t buy it for a minute. Are you checking into the sabotage too? Is that why you said someone might be trying to scare you off the island?”
Major Nash must have been keeping tabs on Jim from day one. In fact, he may even have been feeding him information, or, perhaps, misinformation. “Dr Watson and I are working with Major Nash. It’s top secret. You cannot breathe a word. Our lives may be compromised. Major Nash believes his cover has already been blown. Someone tried to kill him in Kom Ombo. By the way, he’s going by the name Gideon Longshanks. It may be wise to use that name from now on.”
“Hmm, Gideon Longshanks, the poncy name suits him.” He took her hand and locked it into place between his legs before she knew what he was doing. Time was galloping away from him and he was conscious that he only had this night. “Don’t panic,” he snapped, when she jerked back. “No one’s coming this way any time soon and I’m not about to force myself on you. Relax. We’re going to be here for a while and I want to know where you are. If I fall asleep, don’t wander off.”
Whoever released those crocodiles had done him a favour. He expected to spend an hour or two in her company and then bid her a polite goodbye. Instead, he had managed to get her away from Nash and all to himself for the entire night, and best of all, nobody would be disturbing them. But nerves were tightly strung and they both needed to unwind. She must have realized it too. She stopped fighting him and her hand began to soften.
“How is Ballyfolly coming along?”
She was referring to the matrilineal family seat – a castle in Country Antrim, Ireland. He had made it his life’s mission to restore the ruin to its former strength if not splendour.
“Another year and it should be done. Things have slowed down. I’ve run out of money and now I’m off to the Transvaal. I’ve left the farm manager in charge. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. He knows what needs doing and I’ll send him my pay.”
“Splendid! You can have a party when you get back - a combination of welcome home party and house warming party.”
“I’m not very good at parties. By that I mean: hosting them. I’ve attended plenty of parties but I’ve never actually thrown one. I’ll probably send out invitations only to find they are all declined. No one wants to come to the windiest and wettest spot in Ireland where you have the Atlantic blowing in your face day and night.”
“I can organize the party for you. I’m good at parties. I’ll send out the invitations. I know just who to invite. Everyone will come. No one cares about the weather when the company is good. I think ten or twelve people would be best. A stay of about two weeks, perhaps a month.”
“A month!”
“You remind me of Jack. He used to say that in that same tone of voice.”
He knew she was referring to her late husband – a true-blue Australian rogue and the luckiest bastard who ever lived, twenty years her senior; he became crippled after a horse-riding accident and shot himself, leaving her a very rich widow. “I bet being married to him was the most thrilling time of your life.”
“It was thrilling at the start,” she sighed wistfully, “but it was the sort of thrill that burns up quickly.” Her head came to rest comfortably on his shoulder.
“Get some sleep,” he said softly. “We’ll be safe here till morning.”
It just occurred to her that he had led her straight here, wherever here was, despite the blinding storm. “What is this place?”
“A small chamber or temple. Outside is the colonnade. You’ll see it in the morning providing the sandstorm clears.”
She remembered the spectacular colonnade from her own visit earlier in the day. “How did you know this chamber would be here?”
“I visited the island yesterday.”
“You came to see Moran?”
He swallowed hard. “Yes,” he admitted; knowing that a lie would spoil the intimacy that was helping to forge a bond between them. “He’s like family. I don’t see him often but when I see him we can just pick up where we left off. And before you start lecturing me about keeping bad company – I actually respect the man. Say what you like, but I like him. Maybe Moran and I have more in common than just being Irish. Speak your mind and then get some sleep.”
“You sound just like Jack.”
If only! He’d give anything to step into the shoes of her late husband but in two days he’d be off to the Transvaal. He’d always wanted to lead his own regiment and he was so proud of the Irish Guards he could burst – Quis Separabit - but war often changed men, and not for the best. Not that they could lose this bloody war. The Boers were South African farmers. They had no trained soldiers, no permanent army, no hope of winning. But individual battles still took their toll; every skirmish was hard-fought and demanded its pound of flesh. And if the Germans decided to get involved it would be another story altogether. The Boers would suddenly have proper soldiers and more weapons and the war could drag on for years.
“Get some sleep,” he repeated softly.
“Thanks for turning up tonight,” she whispered.
As if he could stay away! His lips found hers in the melting darkness…and everything outside the chamber ceased to exist.
Gideon Longshanks continued to search fruitlessly for his Webley. When he back-flipped off the divan the gun flew from his hand and he had no idea where it landed. He had waited patiently for everyone to leave the Kiosk before checking underneath every dead crocodile - to no avail. Either someone had picked up his gun or one of the reptiles had swallowed it. He thought that last bit unlikely since only two or three of the smaller crocs had survived up to that stage. That meant somebody had pocketed i
t. He hoped it was Dr Watson but a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach told him otherwise.
So, here he was in Aswan with no weapon. Colonel Hayter was likewise minus a gun. He wondered if Jefferson Lee had a gun cupboard aboard the Sekhmet, though he was loath to seem too eager to borrow a weapon. Most bean-counters didn’t go about with loaded Webleys. Of course, that was before the surprise party. Surprise! That was an understatement. The alternative was to speak to Jim. He would be sure to have a spare Webley or two in the arsenal.
Jim! He had spied the Irishman taking the love of his life by the hand. He just hoped the wily bastard led her safely back to the ship. In fact, if he was forced to admit it, Jim was the next best man for getting her there in one piece. Whoever released those crocodiles wasn’t messing around. There were easier and quicker ways to kill a party of revellers but for creating fear and panic it was up there with the most imaginative. If not for Moran and Moriarty, they would have all been dead meat by morning.
He thought at first the crocodile stunt might be Ali Pasha’s doing – Sobek and all that - but the antiquities trader looked genuinely terrified. So did Herr Graf. Sick with fear, he vomited afterwards. Fraulein Graf ended up escorting her uncle back to the ship instead of the other way around. Daisy Clooney volunteered to go with them to make sure Ursula could cope with her sickly uncle. Hayter, looking ever more bereft, trailed hopelessly after them. Dr Watson did his best to look out for his old chum without making it seem obvious. Ali Pasha, having nowhere else to go, joined the doctor. Jefferson Lee and Mallisham both escorted Hypatia with one arm under each of her elbows. She could barely walk. Colonel Moran left with Lorna Baxter. No surprises there. He probably led her straight to his lair. She would no doubt sneak back onto the ship at first light.