The Case of the Golden Greeks

by Sean McLachlan

  “I heard something,” Moustafa said in a faint whisper.

  The Englishman crept over to Moustafa’s window and looked out for a moment.

  Suddenly he opened the window and tossed something out of it. He slammed the shutter closed an instant later. There was a loud bang outside and a bright flare around the edges of the shutter, so bright they left thin lines of light in Faisal’s eyes.

  Then Moustafa and the other two opened their shutters again and started firing out.

  Faisal hid under the table.

  It had happened again. Another fight. Why did the Englishman bring violence wherever he went?

  The gunshots jabbed at his ears. He covered them with his hands but that didn’t keep all the sound out. He could hear the thump of the bullets hitting the mud brick walls.

  But not against the wall where the Englishman and Moustafa were firing out of. Had they killed all those Senussi?

  The bullets hammered on the front wall, one punching a hole through the front door and making Faisal yelp. The wall where Jocelyn stood was taking a lot of hits too, but he stood his ground, taking care with each shot.

  Faisal’s Englishman ran over to help, while Moustafa ran to the front door.

  The firing increased. The Englishman shouted something and Faisal closed his eyes, afraid of another one of those bombs. He still had lights flashing in front of his eyes from the last one.

  A boom and a flash of red light through his eyelids told him he had guessed right.

  Faisal opened his eyes to see both Englishmen standing side by side and pouring fire out the window. His Englishman was shouting something in English. It sounded strange, different than his normal speech, and Faisal knew he had gone away in his head again.

  That was all right. He fought better when he was away in his head.

  Moustafa tossed aside a rifle and grabbed a pair of pistols he had left on the table. He ran back to the window and fired both at the same time, not even flinching as a Senussi bullet tore a chunk out of the windowsill. Another two holes appeared in the door. One of the bullets smacked into the tabletop.

  Faisal crawled out from under the table and headed for the bedroom on his hands and knees. The front room wasn’t safe anymore.

  The bedroom was dark, which normally would scare him but there was so much racket in the front room that any djinn hiding in the shadows would have flown away with their fingers in their ears.

  But all that noise wasn’t so loud that he couldn’t hear someone smashing through the bedroom window.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Germans had headquarters surrounded. How they got so far behind the lines was a mystery. It must be a platoon of Sturmtruppen. Strange they didn’t attack with grenades or flamethrowers. Maybe they used up all their heavy weaponry getting here. There was enough small arms fire to keep the defenders occupied, though.

  The subaltern, a lad too young to grow a beard, was holding well, taking his time and aiming his shots. Damn the generals for sending someone so young out here. The native was doing well too. Why he was here was a mystery as well. Perhaps he was from one of the labor battalions.

  No time to think. Fight or die. The only two options now.

  He could only see the enemy by their muzzle flares, and damn there were enough of them.

  The subaltern crouched down to reload his rifle and a pistol he had laid on the floor. He himself had only a few shots left in the captured German submachine gun. He had already sent a few bursts through the brush the enemy was hiding in.

  A cluster of three muzzle flares to his right caught his eye. He ignored the bullets as they flaked off chunks of the wall and directed a burst in their direction. The next time they fired he was happy to see only two muzzle flares.

  Some shouting behind him made him duck and turn.

  A child poked his head around the corner and said something in a foreign language, pointing into the next room.

  What the Devil was a child doing in HQ? None of this made any sense.

  A crash and the flare of livid yellow light was clear enough. The Germans had found a back way and were trying to smoke them out.

  He ran to the doorway, almost stumbling over the boy, and sprang into the room, leading with his gun, its muzzle already spitting bullets.

  But there was nothing to shoot at.

  The room looked strange. The flames took up one corner under a small window. The walls looked like they were made of some sort of mud brick. No, it must be a dugout and that was soil. So why was there a window?

  And what of these furnishings? A crude bed, now aflame, plus various steamer trunks, pictures on the walls, a vase with flowers. The place looked almost feminine. No maps, no kit, no weapons. This didn’t look like a military base at all.

  What was happening?

  A lungful of smoke made him cough through his confusion and take action.

  “We have to make a break through the front door!”

  The subaltern and the native had already realized that. They stood side by side at the front window, pouring fire at the Germans outside.

  Just as he ran for the door, the native let out a cheer and turned to him.

  “Boss, the farmers have driven them off!”

  Farmers?

  He noticed he had a spare magazine for the submachine gun stuck in his belt. He snapped it in place. His belt didn’t look regulation. Neither did his clothes. Why was his dressed as a civilian?

  No, he was in uniform and the battle was still on.

  As the native rushed to the back room, announcing he’d put out the fire, he strode to the door, submachine gun at the ready.

  The boy stopped him, shouting something in a foreign language.

  “Stay out of the line of fire!” he told the child, pushing him to one side.

  The boy would not be moved. He got in front of him again and grabbed him by the ears, actually grabbed him by both ears, pulled his head down, and shouted at him in that same foreign language.

  Arabic.

  Arabic?

  “The fight is over, you silly Englishman! We won!”

  “Who are you? What is this place?”

  “You’re in …”

  Faisal’s voice trailed off as Augustus staggered back, hitting his legs against the low table and ending up sitting down hard on it. An empty magazine clattered to the floor.

  Reality came crashing in on him.

  They were all staring—Faisal, Moustafa, and (oh God!) Jocelyn.

  “I … I am quite all right,” he said, rubbing his eyes. His face was drenched in sweat. The skin around his mask itched horribly, but he didn’t dare lift it to scratch the irritated skin.

  Jocelyn approached him.

  “Augustus, what’s the matter?”

  Faisal got between them and started pushing Jocelyn toward the door.

  “He’s fine now. Leave him alone. He’s embarrassed.”

  “But—”

  “Go make sure the Senussi are gone.”

  Jocelyn hesitated, then walked out the door with a final concerned glance over her shoulder.

  Augustus coughed. Smoke hung in the room as a thick haze. Faisal picked up one of the blankets and flapped it, trying to get the smoke out the door. Without rising, Augustus turned to look into the bedroom. Moustafa had emptied several water jars on the bed, dousing the flames, but the smoke remained heavy in there and he came out, coughing and wiping his eyes.

  “Let’s get out of here, boss.”

  “You … go ahead. Check on the others.”

  Moustafa reloaded a pistol and hurried out.

  “Come on, Englishman,” Faisal said, coughing as he continued to flap the blanket. “It stinks in here.”

  “You go out too, Faisal,” Augustus said, still sitting on the table.

  Faisal came over and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Englishman.”

  Augustus looked at the floor and shook his head. “She must think I’m a complete nutter.”

&nbs
p; Faisal looked confused. “Who?”

  “Um, Jocelyn. He. He must think I’m a complete nutter.”

  He coughed, waving his hand in front of his face. The smoke was still thick. Faisal tugged at him.

  “Come on.”

  Reluctantly Augustus put a fresh magazine in his submachine gun and headed out the door.

  He couldn’t see anything. The glare of the fire and the flash of so many gunshots had left him all but blind. He ducked back inside, grabbed an electric torch, and flicked it on.

  A quick check of the surroundings revealed corpses all around the house. He estimated at least a score of them, more than half clustered in the area where he had blinded them with a flash bomb and slaughtered them while they staggered around out in the open. The camels were gone, either stolen by the Senussi or taken as payment by the farmers for services rendered, he was not sure.

  A cry from behind a palm tree made him spin around, leveling his submachine gun. Faisal yelped and hit the dirt. He hadn’t realized the boy had followed him.

  A man came out from behind the palm, his hands raised. One of them held a bloody knife.

  “Don’t shoot. I’m with you,” the man said.

  Augustus recognized him as one of the farmers.

  “What happened?” Augustus asked.

  “A Senussi lay wounded behind that tree,” the farmer said. “I finished him off.”

  “You killed a wounded man?”

  The farmer wiped his knife in the sand. “Of course. He might have been able to identify us.”

  “Don’t do that again.”

  The farmer looked up, confused. “They are a danger.”

  “I want to question them.”

  “Too late. That was the last.”

  “Boss! Over here,” Moustafa called from the other side of the house.

  Augustus passed through a collection of corpses, from which two farmers were gathering weapons and checking pockets, and found Waheeb, Moustafa, and Jocelyn crouched near a thicket. They were speaking in low tones.

  He tried not to look at Jocelyn as he came up to them.

  Luckily it was Waheeb who addressed him.

  “Most of my men are pursuing the remaining Senussi. The soldiers will be here soon. We will gather the Senussi weapons and go. I will come tomorrow and we will talk.”

  Augustus nodded. “How many did you lose?”

  “Three killed. Five more injured but not badly. God willing, they will recover.”

  “I’ll treat them,” Jocelyn said, standing up. “Let me get my medical kit.”

  “No. We have already taken them away. We must not be here when the soldiers come or there will be questions. Now I must go.”

  “Send for me tomorrow and I will treat your wounded,” Jocelyn said. “In this darkness the soldiers might not know where to go. I’ll get their attention.”

  She hurried back into the house and a minute later emerged with a flare gun. The farmers were already leaving, heading in the opposite direction of the military base. Snapping a cartridge into the breach, she waited a couple of minutes to give the farmers a head start then raised it to the sky and fired. A long sputtering arc lit up the night, and the flare burst into a brilliant red star. Augustus looked away and shuddered, an image of mud flickering briefly over the sand.

  By the time the soldiers arrived, with two lorries full of troops being led by an armored car, the Senussi and the farmers were long gone. Major Belgrave had come out personally. The portly man, a gun strapped to his belt and a scowl on his face, surveyed the scene in the headlights of the lorries as his men spread out to search the surrounding area.

  Augustus gave him a brief account of the fight, leaving out Moustafa’s capture.

  “And then some other natives came out of the bushes and attacked these chaps,” he concluded. “They saved us.”

  The major looked around again.

  “Where are all their guns?”

  “The other chaps took them.”

  Major Belgrave frowned. “And you let them?”

  “It hardly seemed polite to stop them after what they did for us. Besides, we barely survived the first siege. I was in no haste to start another.”

  The major studied him for a moment, brow furrowed. Then looked away and said in an off-manner tone, “This oasis is awash in illegal arms. It would have been nice to get those out of circulation.”

  With that, he walked over to where the flash grenade had left a burn mark on the ground. A few fragments of the jam tin lay about. The major bent over and studied them. Giving Augustus a sharp look, he said, “You had better gather your things and come to the base.”

  “Very well.” While Augustus wasn’t pleased with this turn of events, he saw no way to avoid it.

  Jocelyn was given a ride in the front of the lorry with the major. The rest of them got in back with the soldiers. Faisal tried to speak to them in Arabic, but none of them spoke the language and Augustus was in no mood to translate. At last the boy fell quiet, giving him and Moustafa a moment to confer.

  “The good major recognized the flash bomb,” Augustus told his assistant in Arabic. “He’s not going to be terribly accepting of our archaeologist story anymore.”

  “Surely he can be relied upon to help in a murder investigation.” Moustafa kept his tone neutral, as if they were talking about routine matters. Good man.

  “Except we have no authority and this is now a warzone. He might see us as pests and send us packing.”

  Moustafa thought for a moment.

  “Did he see that German machine gun of yours, boss?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Then here is what we do. Stick to the archaeology story. After he finishes questioning you I will find a good moment to take him aside and tell him that because of the war you always go about heavily armed. I will say you made those flash bombs. He knows you did anyway, and an admission from me might smooth things over.”

  “Won’t an admission from me smooth things over more?”

  “I will say the war affected you badly, boss. That you have become obsessed with weapons but are harmless enough if unprovoked.”

  “Well, that’s hardly flattering.”

  “And yet true. And it is only an eccentricity. The English are very accepting of eccentricities. Tomorrow, if we are allowed to leave camp, I suggest another look around the temple area to find that trapdoor I saw.”

  “Won’t that arouse suspicion? These oasis people are all eyes.”

  “I won’t go during the daylight,” Moustafa said. “As far as the Senussi know, I have disappeared. In the darkness of the gun battle I doubt anyone could have recognized me. If you find anything interesting I can join you at night.”

  “All right. I was showing interest in the temple anyway. I’ll go back and see what I can see.”

  To his surprise, the interview with Major Belgrave was a short one. The officer questioned him again about the attack on the camp, and asked about the remains of the flash bomb. Augustus explained that he had been in the trenches and so of course knew how to make one. Major Belgrave did not ask why he would be toting one around the Western Desert.

  Just as he was drifting off the sleep in an unused corner of the barracks, Moustafa tiptoed up to him.

  “Boss, I spoke to the major.”

  “And?”

  Moustafa glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping men in their orderly row of cots.

  “He said he suspected as much and asked that I keep an eye on you.”

  “Wonderful,” Augustus grumbled, turning over and putting his back to Moustafa.

  Now everyone thought he was mad—his assistant, the major, and worst of all Jocelyn.

  Plus, he was stuck in a barracks, a place he had sworn he would never sleep again in his life. Everything—the uniforms hanging on pegs, the pieces of kit stowed away on the shelves, the smell of boot polish and gun oil—it all reminded him of the war.

  And yet none of that bothered him too much. The thre
e drops of opium he had taken before going to bed were beginning to work their magic.

  The next morning, Major Belgrave sent out a large force to scour the oasis. One squad escorted Augustus and Faisal to their old camp and to Jocelyn’s house so they could gather anything they had left behind. Jocelyn was on strict instructions not to leave base.

  “I cannot be responsible for a woman’s safety in such conditions,” the major told her.

  Her response had not been pleasant.

  Augustus and Faisal found the house had not been looted as they feared.

  “People probably thought some soldiers stayed here last night as a trap,” Faisal said.

  “Hm, good luck for us,” Augustus said, loading the back of a lorry with their baggage. “Now we need to give these chaps the slip. But how?”

  “Give me a match and some bullets,” Faisal said.

  “Boys shouldn’t play with matches and bullets.”

  “The boys who spend time with you should.”

  “Good Lord. Here you go.”

  “Wait here, and be ready to run for the temple.”

  Faisal disappeared, unnoticed by the soldiers standing guard. Once again Augustus was struck at how invisible the little tyke could be. Everyone overlooked him, even soldiers on duty. Augustus pretended to be looking for something in his baggage, telling the driver they would leave shortly.

  Just as his excuse was wearing thin, several shots snapped though the palm grove to the east.

  “Everyone down!” the sergeant in command barked. His troops didn’t need to be told. Veterans to a man, they had dropped at the first shot, eyes roving the tree line, searching for the attackers.

  Augustus ducked around Jocelyn’s cottage and was gone.

  He hadn’t made it half a mile before Faisal popped out of a bush and joined him.

  “What did you do?” Augustus asked.

  The boy jumped into the air and spun around. “I made a little fire out of some dried palm fronds, and then threw the bullets into it.”

  “That’s very dangerous.”

  “Well, I didn’t stand by and watch, you silly Englishman.”

  An hour later they were crouching behind the remains of a pylon in the temple of Alexander. Augustus took out his binoculars.