The Case of the Golden Greeks

by Sean McLachlan

  “Wait, you have a family?”

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  Faisal shook his head.

  “So what did you do before you started working for that Englishman?” Ahmed asked.

  Faisal shrugged. “I lived on the street.”

  Ahmed fell silent. Faisal tugged at his hair. The soap had made it really slippery but it wasn’t helping him untangle all the knots.

  “That’s terrible,” Ahmed said at last. “Our farm was poor but at least I had a place to sleep.”

  “I can’t believe you left.”

  “Oh, there was nothing for me there. Like I said, my big brothers were getting all the land. I’d have had to find a job sooner or later.”

  Faisal shook his head again, the soap suds getting into his eyes and stinging.

  “If I had a family, I’d never leave them. Not ever.”

  “I miss them a lot, but Claud is like family to me now.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. He’s like a big brother or an uncle or something. He’s always showing me how to do things like change the oil or play football. I have a lot of work to do around the house and with the car, but I’m learning things too. And he pays me.”

  Faisal rinsed his hair and thought for a minute. That sounded really great. Ahmed was the luckiest boy ever.

  Ahmed grabbed the djellabas and threw them in the water. They scrubbed them down, Ahmed having to show Faisal how to clean his clothes properly, and then they hung them on a nearby bush and luxuriated in the warm pool until their clothing dried and their fingers were all wrinkly from the water.

  By the time they returned to the house of the beardless Englishman, the sun had sunk low in the western sky. The others were sitting in the garden under the shade of some palm trees. Faisal’s Englishman was there too, although he looked very sleepy, with his eyes only half open. Moustafa was giving him angry looks as if he was mad about the Englishman taking a nap. Moustafa got mad at everything.

  “Who are you?” the Englishman asked Faisal as they arrived.

  “I’m Faisal, you silly Englishman.”

  The Englishman smiled. That surprised Faisal even more. The Englishman didn’t smile much.

  “You must be a different Faisal. The Faisal I know is all dirty. This Faisal is almost presentable.”

  Ahmed nudged him and winked.

  Claud stood. “We only have a couple of more hours of daylight left. I would like to invite you all up to dinner at my house. You can stay the night. I daresay after your journey you’d all appreciate a hot meal and a roof over your heads.”

  “You gentlemen go without me,” the beardless Englishman said. “I have quite a lot of notes to write up.”

  “You just want to get out of that bumpy ride,” Claud said with a laugh. “Never mind. We’ll have you up again soon.”

  Everyone gathered their things and went to the motorcar. Faisal gleefully jumped into the back with the Englishman and Moustafa. He loved riding in motorcars. Claud got behind the wheel and Ahmed got in beside him.

  “Let me show them!” Ahmed pleaded.

  “We’ve only just met them,” Claud chuckled. “We don’t want to frighten them off.”

  Ahmed pushed on Claud’s shoulder, shaking him. “Come on!”

  “Oh all right, you little devil.” Claud shifted to the other seat while Ahmed let out a whoop and clambered over him to get behind the wheel.

  Moustafa gripped the seat. “He’s not going to—”

  Ahmed revved the engine and the machine shot forward, weaving between the palm trees. Faisal cheered.

  Ahmed looked over his shoulder at him and grinned. “And you think I’d stay in the Fayoum when I can to do this?”

  “Look where you’re going, Ahmed,” Claud said. But he was smiling as he said it.

  They zipped out of the oasis and into an area of black rock. Little rocks were scattered all over the ground, and large boulders and low hills rose up all around them. Ahmed swerved between them as Faisal bounced in the back seat laughing and clapping.

  “You like that, little brother?” Ahmed said. “Claud, we should teach Faisal to drive.”

  “Can I?” Faisal perked up. “CanIcanIcanIcanIcanIcanI?”

  “Certainly not!” Moustafa barked.

  But Faisal wasn’t asking him, he was asking the Englishman sitting next to him.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” the Englishman said, still smiling his serene smile. Faisal had never seen him in such a good mood. Maybe he’d say yes if Faisal asked enough.

  “Oh, please,” he asked, shaking his shoulder like Ahmed shoved Claud. “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease.”

  Moustafa slapped him upside the head. “Behave!”

  Faisal stuck his tongue out at him, but he couldn’t stay in a bad mood for long. The ride was too much fun. After speeding through the hills and boulders, they came to a narrow path climbing up the side of a mountain of black stone. Claud made Ahmed give up the wheel, which he did without too much complaining.

  “You know this part is too dangerous for you,” Claud said.

  It sure did look dangerous. They wound up a narrow path with a steep slope to one side that at times fell off into a sheer drop. The path was covered with lots of loose tiny stones like bits of coal that made the tires swerve and spin, and deep ruts that bounced them the entire way. Even so, Claud handled the motorcar like an expert and they got to the summit of the mountain and drove along a wide ridge. To one side, the oasis lay spread out beneath them, with a glittering lake and empty desert beyond. To the other side lay only desert as far as the eye could see.

  “Why do you live all the way up here?” Faisal asked. The palm groves were a lot nicer than all this stone. The sun was strong up here too, even though it had almost set.

  “I’m a lookout for the army,” Claud explained. “I can watch anyone approaching the oasis from miles away. I spotted your caravan yesterday. During the war the Germans riled up the Senussi from Libya to invade. They took Bahariya and several other oases. Then we pushed them out and I’ve been here ever since, watching to make sure they don’t come back.”

  “Must be lonely up here.”

  “I’d go insane if I didn’t have Ahmed to talk to. Having visitors is a rare treat.”

  They trundled along the ridge. At the far end Faisal could see a large house made of the same black stone as the mountain. Claud parked the motorcar beside it.

  “Ahmed, get dinner ready,” he said.

  “I’ll help!” Faisal volunteered.

  “All right,” the Englishman said. He was still sitting in the back seat with a happy smile on the half of his face visible outside his mask. “Just don’t eat all the food before we get a chance to get some, eh?”

  “And take your time,” Claud said, suddenly serious. “The adults have some important things to discuss.”

  As he said this, he glanced at the letter that the Englishman had brought him all the way from Cairo. Faisal had been wondering about that letter. He’d only seen it once. The Englishman had guarded it closely on the entire trip across the desert.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Captain Williams’ house may have been remote, but it was spacious and reasonably well appointed. There was an entrance hall, a large living room, a bedroom, a kitchen, a dining room, a room with a drafting table where the captain was working on some maps, and a room for a wireless set. A few prints and native blankets had been hung on the wall, and the living room had a decent sized bookshelf. Captain Williams excused himself for a moment and went onto the roof, motioning for Augustus to follow. The roof had an observation platform that gave a splendid view of the surrounding area for many miles in each direction. A heliograph stood at one end, and the antenna for the wireless at the other. Captain Williams took a slow look all around with a powerful set of binoculars.

  Augustus watched it all with a serene sense of detachment, as if through a warm, comforting fog. Everything was all right now. Th
at angel in trousers, that Florence Nightingale of the desert, had given him an entire bottle of tincture of opium. A couple of drops had taken all his pains away.

  Limiting himself to only a couple had been the most difficult thing he had done in a long time. He had talked himself into it by promising himself that he’d take four more drops tonight to ensure a long, restful sleep. Then three drops every evening would carry him until they got back.

  Nothing could bother him now, not even the cross looks Moustafa kept giving him.

  After Captain Williams checked that there was no enemy in sight, he went downstairs, entered some notes in a log book, powered up the wireless, and tapped out a signal in Morse code to a station in the Fayoum. After that they settled in the living room. The benches were low and of native manufacture, covered with hard, heavy cushions. Ahmed brought in tea.

  “We need to get some sugar,” the teenager said.

  “We just bought some sugar,” Claud replied.

  Ahmed glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “There was an … accident.”

  “Oh all right, we’ll get some the next time we go to the village.”

  “Thanks, Claud.”

  “Captain Williams,” Moustafa corrected. “You should call him Captain Williams, or sir.”

  Captain Williams laughed. “We’re much too far off the beaten track for such formalities.”

  He smiled at Ahmed as the boy went back in the kitchen. Then he grew serious, turning to Augustus and holding up the letter.

  “While you were convalescing, I read this letter Orhan Bey sent. It contains some rather disturbing rumors. As you no doubt know, the Senussi are still giving the Italians trouble in Cyrenaica. Many use Siwa Oasis on our side of the border as a refuge, and the Italian army is left on the border fuming and helpless. Of course we try to help out the dagos when we can. The trouble is the local people shelter them. There’s quite a lot of sympathy for the Senussi in all the oases. There’s even a Senussi mosque and religious school in the village of Biwati. We didn’t have the nerve to shut it down. Would cause more trouble than it would prevent.”

  “I’m not terribly familiar with the Senussi,” Augustus admitted. “It’s a Sufi order, is it not?”

  Captain Williams nodded. “And not a terribly bad one. It’s not as libertine as some of the Sufi sects, and not as dour and strict as the Wahhabis. Sort of a middle path. The only problem with them is they’re violently anticolonial. Think they can run the show better than we can. Under that banner they’ve managed to unite many of the Bedouin tribes, even drawing in Tuareg from as far as Algeria. Orhan Bey has a few connections in the group. Nothing official, mind you, but his grandfather was a bit of a holy man and he gets invited to all the big affairs. It turns out that there are some rumblings in the desert on the Libyan side.”

  “What sort of rumblings?”

  “He wasn’t quite clear. All he heard was that their defeat in the last war left the Senussi divided. The previous Sayyid sued for peace, as you know, and got replaced by Sayyid Mohammed Idris, who is now playing ball as the Emir of Cyrenaica. He’s no trouble for the Italians or us as long as he’s watched. Unfortunately, the stiffer element never surrendered, and have gone off to fight the Italians on their own.”

  “They haven’t made much headway, from what I’ve heard,” Moustafa said.

  “No, they’re small and disorganized enough that they’re not even a match for the Italians, which is saying something. But one of the sheiks has come up with the bright idea of making raids into Egyptian territory, hoping to draw a response from the British that would galvanize the tribes and start the entire show all over again.”

  “They’d only get another thrashing,” Augustus said.

  “Yes, but they’d cause no end of trouble in the meantime. So far the raids have been minor. Attacks on caravans, that sort of thing. The reason you haven’t heard anything in the press is that we’ve been calling them bandit raids, and there are so many of those that the papers don’t bother reporting on them unless a white man gets killed. Orhan Bey thinks they might be planning something bigger, though, something we can’t cover up.”

  “Did he have any details?” Augustus asked. The seriousness of the situation was beginning to cut through his mental fog.

  “No. It’s all straw in the wind. He must think it’s serious if he trusted a civilian to carry such news to me. I’ll have to make a full report once I’ve investigated.”

  Augustus took a drag of his cigarette, wondering how much he should reveal of his reason for being here. Upon their first meeting at Mrs. Montjoy’s house he had told the captain that he planned to do some excavations. At least that was what he thought he had told him. His mind had been quite hazy from the tincture and now he couldn’t entirely recollect what had been said.

  “Perhaps I’ve come at the wrong time to hunt for antiquities?” Augustus asked, fishing.

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s any immediate danger. I’m sort of a last line of defense. There are armored car patrols ranging far out into the desert, plus we have paid informants among the Bedouin on both sides of the line. If there were any large movements of tribals, I suspect we would have heard of it by now. Mostly we’re on the lookout for smugglers.”

  “Is there much smuggling?”

  “Yes indeed. The Bedouin smuggle in everything you can imagine—guns, tobacco, hashish … just last month we intercepted a shipment of several barrels of hydrochloric acid. We have a warehouse on base full of confiscated goods.”

  “What in the world were the Bedouin doing with hydrochloric acid?”

  “It’s used in the manufacture of cocaine. The drug is quite popular in Cairo, from what I’ve heard.”

  “The chief of police tells me the same thing. How many men are stationed here?”

  Captain Williams paused for the briefest of moments. “Enough to stave off a raid or civil disturbances.”

  “But not a major force?”

  Another pause. “No.”

  Augustus decided to change tack. “Ah well, I suspect you are correct. If the Senussi were foolish enough to launch another invasion, you’d have caught wind of it by now. Did you meet an archaeologist named Professor Harrell? He gave a most interesting lecture on his discoveries here upon his return to Cairo.”

  “Professor Harrell? Is he a friend of yours?”

  “No. I never got to meet the man personally.”

  “Well then I can speak plainly. He has got to be the rudest man I have ever met.”

  “Really? He seemed gracious enough at the Geographical Association.”

  “Perhaps because he was playing the crowd, or angling for more funds. He treated me like a squaddie.”

  “Really?”

  “I went to visit him like I went to visit you. He was at the southern edge of the oasis with a small crew. Only half a dozen Egyptians. No foreman, which struck me as unusual. Every archaeologist hires a more advanced native to keep the rest in line. When I went to visit him he brushed me off, saying he was too busy to accept my invitation. When I tried to suggest another date, he told me bluntly to get off his excavation and not to bother him again. The nerve!”

  Augustus and Moustafa exchanged a glance.

  “That does seem odd,” Augustus said.

  “Indeed,” Captain Williams said, lighting another cigarette. “Anyone this far from civilization is happy for a bit of company, no matter how busy they might be.”

  “And what about Mrs. Montjoy?” Moustafa asked.

  “Mad as a hatter. Good company, though. I’ve had her up to dinner here on a couple of occasions, and she’s returned the hospitality. Ahmed can’t make head nor tail of her.”

  “Faisal thinks she’s a man,” Moustafa said.

  Captain Williams chuckled. “Best not to enlighten him. But what you’re really wondering is if she’s any sort of security risk. As far as I can tell she is not. The Foreign Office did some checking. She is quite well traveled and the author of two volumes,
one on the Arctic regions and another on Central Europe. Coming through the Senussi area does raise a red flag, though. I’m keeping an eye on her by keeping her close.”

  “I doubt that any hostile powers would send her as a spy. She sticks out too much,” Augustus said.

  “Or perhaps having her stick out makes her less suspect,” Captain Williams replied. “My gut instinct is that she’s a good egg, although a cracked one.”

  “Are there any other foreigners in the oasis?”

  “None.”

  Ahmed and Faisal ran into the room. Ahmed had a football tucked under his arm.

  “Can I teach Faisal how to play football?”

  “Surely you haven’t cooked dinner already?” Captain Williams.

  “I’ve prepared everything. All I need to do is put it on the fire. There’s not much daylight left. Please?”

  Their host turned to his guests.

  “It’s still a bit early for dinner,” Augustus said.

  Captain Williams gave the boys a dismissive wave. “Go on with you.”

  The boys rushed out of the house.

  “You shouldn’t be so lax with him,” Moustafa chided. “He’ll end up slothful and greedy.”

  “He’s all right,” Captain Williams said. “It’s good to see him have a bit of a childhood. Most of these boys don’t get one. When I met Ahmed he was stuck on three feddans of land that were somehow supposed to support a family of eight. He was just skin and bones. Sharp, though. The lads at base would teach him a word in English and quiz him the next day and he’d always remember. Some tried to catch him out with words like ‘aorta’ or ‘tungsten,’ but he’d rattle them off as easy as you please.”

  “He certainly handles that motorcar well enough,” Augustus said, getting up. He moved to the window, which overlooked a broad swale on the side of the mountain that created a flat area the size of a couple of football pitches. Little cairns had been set up to mark the goals. In the darkening light, he saw Ahmed and Faisal running down the slope to it, Ahmed kicking the ball ahead of him and Faisal trying to catch up.