The Case of the Golden Greeks

by Sean McLachlan

  “I wasn’t spying. I was sketching the temples and fell asleep. When I awoke I—”

  The cocking of his interrogator’s revolver told him that his story was not going to be accepted.

  “You are a spy in the pay of the English. Just this afternoon your master went to the army base.”

  “He is not my master,” Moustafa growled.

  All three of his captors laughed.

  “He is as much your master as if he bought you in the slave market in Dongola,” the man with the lantern said. “You speak to him in English and say ‘Yes sir’ and ‘No sir’ and take his pay to draw these filthy pagan pictures. You gave up your heritage and your religion in order to drive in motorcars and eat pork in European restaurants.”

  “You wouldn’t speak to me like that if we were alone,” Moustafa seethed.

  “And you will not listen no matter what I say. Now tell me what you are doing here. Who told you we were here?”

  Then Moustafa understood. He had suspected before but now he was certain. He had fallen into the hands of the Senussi. They were obviously here trying to foment an insurrection against the British, but how did that fit in with Professor Harrell’s discoveries? And what was that hidden underground chamber near the tomb?

  His interrogator raised his pistol.

  “Speak.”

  “We are here on an archaeological excavation. I was—”

  “Lie again and you’re a dead man.”

  Silence hung in the air between them.

  “You won’t shoot me. Others will hear,” Moustafa said with a confidence that he didn’t feel.

  His captor nodded.

  “You are right, Nubian. We are close to a village where they have rejected the true path. So we will gag you and gut you like a lamb. And we will do it slowly until you tell us all we want to know. Hold him!”

  This last was said to the two men with rifles. They slung their weapons and approached. Moustafa waited until the last moment and then lashed out with his foot, planting a hard kick in one man’s stomach. He grunted and doubled over. The second man dodged back before Moustafa could regain his balance and kick again, so Moustafa charged him.

  The plan was to ram into him with his shoulder, knock him over, and make a break for the open door.

  That was not how it worked out.

  The man with the lantern swung his pistol down, the end of the barrel striking Moustafa in the temple. Moustafa saw a flare of light, then hit the ground.

  He struggled to rise, but a kick to the ribs stopped him.

  Cursing, the two men with the rifles picked him up, gave him another couple of punches, and slammed him so hard into the central pillar that several palm fronds fell from the roof. They pinioned his bound arms behind him, making him hiss in pain as his arms were almost wrenched from their sockets.

  The man with the lantern holstered his revolver, placed the lantern on the dirt floor, and gave him a wicked grin as he drew a curved Bedouin dagger.

  “Now then, let’s find out what you have to say.”

  Moustafa sent up a quick prayer to God to protect his wife and children.

  A barked command from outside made the interrogator stop. He turned toward the door, then glanced back at Moustafa with obvious disappointment.

  They let him go. One of the riflemen gave him a final punch in the stomach and they all left, barring the door behind them. Moustafa sank to the ground, his whole body aching.

  There was a hushed conversation outside followed by receding footsteps. As the sound of their talk faded, Moustafa could pick up another conversation, one that sounded further away.

  He perked up his ears. The language was not Arabic.

  The words were so faint that it took him some time to figure out what he was hearing.

  Turkish.

  Moustafa struggled to his feet, walked over to the wall, and placed his ear against the thin barrier of palm fronds. He could hear more clearly now. It was definitely two men speaking to each other in Turkish. He had heard enough Turkish on the streets of Cairo to recognize the language.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t speak it.

  Ainsley Fielding had a coded message written in Turkish. Since the war, it was doubtful any Turks would be allowed to remain in a sensitive border area such as this one. So what were they doing here? And how did that fit into Fielding’s criminal operations? How did that fit into Harrell’s murder?

  After a while the conversation stopped. He heard nothing else except the occasional sound of movement or a cough outside his hut, no doubt from the guards. Moustafa tried to squirm out of his bonds and got nowhere. Sighing with resignation, he lay down on the floor and tried to sleep.

  He did not know how long he lay there, the night growing cold around him and keeping him awake, but a muffled cry outside made him sit up. A moment later it was followed by another.

  Moustafa had just managed to get to his feet when the door opened.

  “Shh,” whispered a dark figure, barely visible in the gloom. “Are you tied up?”

  The man spoke in Arabic.

  “My hands are tied behind my back,” Moustafa whispered in reply.

  Unseen hands fumbled around until they found his wrists, then a knife cut away the ropes. Moustafa gasped in relief and flexed his fingers.

  “Come, Nubian,” whispered his savior. “And be quiet about it.”

  He stepped outside. The crescent moon was behind a palm tree and there was not much more light outside the hut than inside. All he could see was a few dark figures clustered near the hut, and two bodies stretched out in the dirt.

  Without a word, the newcomers led him along a path.

  They had not gotten more than a hundred yards when there was a shout from their right, followed by a gunshot.

  Everyone hit the ground. Moustafa peered through the almost pitch black undergrowth and could not see who had fired.

  “Anyone hurt?” the man who had freed him asked. He sounded like the leader.

  Several people replied in the negative.

  It didn’t matter. The sentry had done his duty.

  There were shouts behind them. Several lights bobbed in the distance.

  “Let’s go,” the leader said.

  The sentry fired again. The shot went wide. Moustafa guessed the man had heard them but didn’t know their exact location.

  They crept along the path, keeping low and trying to keep silent.

  Their pursuers didn’t have to and moved faster. The lights began to draw closer.

  “How are you with a gun, Nubian?” someone whispered.

  “A good shot.”

  The man put a rifle in his hands.

  “A spare from one of your guards,” the shadowy figure explained. “We will hang back a little and fire on them to allow our friends to escape.”

  “Fair enough, considering you helped me escape,” Moustafa whispered back.

  His companion gave him a handful of cartridges, which Moustafa put in his pocket. He felt around the rifle, which he could barely see, and could tell it was a single-shot bolt action. He couldn’t tell what make. Mr. Wall probably could. There was nothing about weapons that lunatic didn’t know.

  The man who had given him the rifle whispered something to the others and they departed. Then he tapped Moustafa on the shoulder and moved to the side of the path. As quietly as they could, they found a good position to lie down in the brush, rifles trained on the path. Moustafa nodded, impressed. This man was more than just a farmer. He knew how to fight. He supposed all the oasis people did. They were of Bedouin stock, after all, and for millennia had to ward off raids from their cousins who had remained in the desert.

  Moustafa didn’t have long to wait. The Senussi, thinking the men who had freed him were in headlong flight, rushed down the path to catch up.

  He and his companion saw the flitting shadows at the same time. Both fired. In the brief flash of light Moustafa saw a man twist and fall.

  Moustafa racked the bolt an
d placed another cartridge in the chamber. When he aimed again he didn’t see anything. The Senussi had gone to ground.

  He lowered his aim and fired in the general direction where they had been. He had no idea if he hit anything or not.

  For a moment there was no response, and then it came from all over.

  The Senussi had spread out to their front and flank and poured a steady fire of rifle and pistol shots at them. Moustafa and his companion pressed themselves flat against the earth.

  “Come, Nubian,” the man screamed in his ear. “We have delayed them as much as we can.”

  When the fire slackened, they crawled in the direction their friends had fled. Stray shots snapped through the palm grove, searching for them. Moustafa wished he had one of those flash grenades his boss had made. That would even things up a bit.

  They made it about fifty yards without being hit. From the sound of the guns and the muzzle flashes, he could tell the Senussi were slowly following. Moustafa and his companion got behind a log and fired several more times in rapid succession.

  “Let’s go before they flank us again,” the man said.

  They sprang up and ran hunched over, barely seeing the palm trees in time to avoid running into them. After a moment the Senussi started firing again, but they aimed at the log and none of their bullets came close.

  Within a minute Moustafa and his companion caught up to the others and together they ran down the path, across some fields, and through another palm grove. At last, after another couple of miles of running, they felt safe enough to stop.

  They stood at the edge of a hamlet, perhaps ten or twelve buildings within sight of each other, their walls pale in the faint moonlight.

  “This is a friendly settlement,” the leader said, barely winded from the long run. “It will be safe to rest here for a while.”

  “Who are you?” Moustafa asked. “What’s going on?”

  The man approached him, pulling the keffiyeh away to reveal his face. Moustafa couldn’t see him clearly, but he looked Bedouin, although all the people he had seen in the oasis appeared to be of Bedouin stock.

  “Nubian, you have stepped into a fight you do not understand,” the man said. “And your friends are in far greater danger than what we saved you from.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Faisal hated having to get up to pee in the middle of the night. The hours of darkness were when the djinn flitted around the countryside, seeking lone travelers to curse or possess. In Cairo, you also had to watch out for the human jackals that prowled the streets at night.

  There was that danger here as well. Moustafa was still missing, and earlier in the evening they had heard the distant crackle of gunfire.

  The Englishman had grown worried and moved all their animals and things to the beardless Englishman’s house. Jocelyn didn’t think there was any danger, but they had a talk in English and finally the three of them bunked down in the little house, barring the door and all the windows. The animals they left hobbled outside. The Bedouin left. Faisal didn’t think they’d see them again. They sure wouldn’t be any help if people started shooting at each other around here.

  The beardless Englishman slept in the bedroom, while Faisal and his Englishman lay down on the floor with their blankets.

  That had gone fine until Faisal had woken up in the dead of night. He had drunk too much of that wonderfully sweet Bedouin tea after dinner and now he had to go.

  But where? He couldn’t do it inside, and he didn’t want to do it outside.

  The hearth? No, that would stink. Out the window? The table and chairs weren’t tall enough to stand on. Maybe there was an empty bottle or something that he could go in and then pour it out the window? He didn’t see any.

  He had no choice. He had to go outside.

  The Englishman was sleeping soundly. He had left his mask on, which he never did when sleeping. Faisal guessed he was embarrassed to show his face in front of that other Englishman.

  Faisal tiptoed across the room and, quietly as he could, eased the bar off the door. He spat on the hinges so they wouldn’t creak when he opened it.

  All this caution was to keep the beardless Englishman from waking up. His Englishman could sleep through anything.

  Everything was quiet outside. The crescent moon hung low in the west and only gave a hint of light. The dark shadows of the palm trees towered over the house like huge monsters. The camels stood nearby, not looking worried at all. But of course camels wouldn’t be worried. Djinn didn’t go after camels and neither did bullies or bandits or those Senussi people the Englishman had been talking about. The only time camels had to worry was when there was a rich man’s wedding and one got cooked on a spit.

  Faisal hesitated at the door, peering into the night. He was tempted to do his business right there and hurry back inside, but one of the Englishmen might notice in the morning and get mad.

  Plucking up his courage, he tiptoed away from the house to where some bushes grew not far off.

  “Ahh, that’s better,” he whispered, trying to hurry.

  “Psst. Faisal.”

  “GAH!”

  “Quiet, you lice-ridden little fool!”

  “Moustafa!” Faisal said, too loudly. He dropped to a whisper. “Moustafa. You’re alive. Wait, don’t look. I’m peeing.”

  “I know. You almost hit me.”

  “Sorry, but you shouldn’t hide in the closest bush to the house. Where else am I supposed to go? OK, now I’m done.”

  Moustafa came around the bush, followed by several other figures.

  “What happened? I found blood at that temple place and later we heard shooting.”

  “The Senussi captured me. These men live here and are against them. It looks like we have stepped into the middle of a tribal feud, Little Infidel. Where’s Mr. Wall?”

  “Asleep inside. When we heard the shooting we decided to move in with the other Englishman.”

  “That’s what I figured. We went to the camp first but found it abandoned.”

  “The Bedouin left?”

  “Yes, and that makes me nervous. They must know something is about to happen. Let’s get inside and wake Mr. Wall, if we can.”

  “He sure does sleep soundly,” Faisal agreed.

  “Too soundly,” Moustafa grumbled.

  They left the farmers outside and entered the house. Faisal lit a lamp and knocked on the door of the beardless Englishman’s bedroom to wake him up while Moustafa shook his Englishman.

  To Faisal’s surprise, Moustafa was actually successful.

  “Ugh, what’s going on?” the Englishman said groggily.

  Moustafa repeated to him what had happened.

  The Englishman sat up and checked his pistol. “We heard the firing and I feared something like this. Good thing I only took one tonight.”

  “One what?” Faisal asked.

  “Um, nothing.”

  Jocelyn came out of the bedroom and Moustafa called in one of the farmers.

  “This is Waheeb,” Moustafa said. “He’s the leader of a group of farmers and Bedouin merchants resisting the Senussi.”

  “Some of our men accompanied you to the base yesterday,” Waheeb said. “We have spies among the Senussi and we got word that they had captured a Nubian. Immediately we knew he was one of your group. The village where he was kept is only four miles away. If they’re going to strike, they’ll be coming soon.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” Jocelyn said.

  “We need to leave,” Moustafa said.

  The beardless Englishman stopped. “Leave my home? I think not. If we go out into the open, we’ll get cut down. They know the land better than we do.”

  “We can offer you shelter,” Waheeb said.

  “And endanger your wives and children? No. We’ll make a stand here. These walls are thick and will stop bullets.” Jocelyn went back into the bedroom and emerged with a hunting rifle and a pistol. “I’ve never killed anything more than a gazelle, but I won’t hesitate to
use these.”

  The other men looked shocked. Faisal was confused. Why would they be so surprised that Jocelyn would be willing to fight?

  The two Englishmen got into a long argument in English, waving their arms and stamping their feet. The beardless Englishman won. The conversation switched back to Arabic.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” Jocelyn said while preparing tea. “We’ll put out the lamp and lie in wait. They’ll try to creep up to the house and we’ll get the drop on them. Waheeb, you hide your men nearby, and once the firing starts, come at them from the rear.”

  Waheeb, for some reason, stared at him in wonder. Faisal scratched his head. It sounded like a good plan. Why was Waheeb so surprised that the beardless Englishman had come up with it? Sure, he was too young to grow a beard, but Faisal was even younger and he came up with good plans all the time.

  After a bit more of the pointless talking adults like to do, Waheeb and his men disappeared into the night. Moustafa and the Englishman got their guns ready, loading them all and setting them where they could reach them quickly. Faisal saw enough guns that each could have three or four. The Englishman also pulled out some food tins and set them near one of the windows.

  “Are we going to have a meal too?” Faisal asked, picking one up.

  “Don’t touch that!” the Englishman cried.

  He grabbed both of Faisal’s hands, then gently took the tin from him.

  “What’s the matter?” Faisal asked.

  “This is a bomb.”

  “The food blows up? If you eat at Omar’s roast chicken stand your stomach will feel like it’s blowing up. Don’t go there.”

  “Keep quiet and stay out of the way, Little Infidel!” Moustafa shouted.

  “Quiet, we’re supposed to surprise them,” the Englishman said. “But do keep your hands off everything, Faisal.”

  Faisal went and sat in a corner. They would need him sooner or later.

  They doused the lamp and sipped tea in the dark, the three adults each at a window with the shutters open a crack. The moon had set. Faisal could only see them because the starlight made the outside just a little bit brighter than the inside and he could see their silhouettes against the night.