“Good thing you got these back for me,” he said. Faisal grinned.
He scanned the desert in the direction Moustafa had told him. Back in the trenches he had done this every day, with either binoculars from the support trenches or a periscope at the front line. For hours, months, he had scanned the enemy line, looking for the slightest change.
Once, in the winter of 1916, he had shivered in a freezing Flanders drizzle as he studied the enemy positions from an observation post set between the front trench and the support trench. It was a miserable heap of bricks that had once been a house. Sappers had burrowed into it, shored it up, and made a space inside just big enough for a man to lie down, with a space between two bricks no bigger than the palm of his hand to look out.
The sappers had done all this without disturbing the profile of the brick pile. As far as the Germans could see, no one had touched it.
They hadn’t managed to make it waterproof, however, and the rain percolated through the pile to run down his neck and create a chilly pool in which he lay.
For hours he’d lie there—shivering, watching.
Like in peacetime, in war patience is rewarded.
About twenty yards in front of the German line stood the shattered remains of a tree, stripped long ago of its leaves and branches. Now all that remained was a stump about two feet tall.
It had been there for as long as he could remember, except that it was different now.
It took him two hours to notice the change. The trunk was pockmarked with bullet holes. Three of them made an almost straight line at a diagonal a little to the right of center.
Now the center one was a bit off from the other two.
He stared, trying to convince himself he was wrong, then he reported it to his commanding officer.
A trench mortar revealed the truth. His officer gave the crew the coordinates and they hit it on the first try. Instead of splintering, the tree trunk cracked open. Blood spurted everywhere as the man inside was torn apart.
It was a hollow steel observation point, no doubt connected to the German trench by a tunnel. Some clever German artist had studied the tree trunk and then under cover of darkness switched it with an exact duplicate.
Or almost an exact duplicate.
An eye for detail often meant the difference between life and death.
And it might now.
There.
In the middle distance, perhaps a hundred yards from the temple, he spotted a scattering of small objects shining white in the sun, brighter and paler than the surrounding desert sand.
He focused in. The sources of the reflection were too small to make out at first, but after a minute he realized what they were.
Chips of white limestone.
There were no outcroppings of limestone within sight. Why would they be there?
He scanned further with the binoculars, seeing no footprints or obvious marks where they had been wiped clean, and he saw no trapdoor.
“They cover their tracks well,” he muttered.
“It was windy last night,” Faisal said.
Augustus nodded.
“Now why do you think there would be chips of stone near the trapdoor Moustafa told us about?” he asked the boy.
“They are digging underground, looking for tombs so they can sell the treasure?”
“Perhaps,” Augustus said, putting away the binoculars. “Or perhaps they are digging for something else.”
Faisal peered around. “There’s no way we can check until after dark.”
“No there isn’t. Let’s go back.”
Faisal looked concerned. “You’re going to make me go down there, aren’t you?”
“It won’t be as dangerous as throwing bullets into a campfire.”
“That’s what you think.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
That night Moustafa could finally rejoin the others at Mrs. Montjoy’s house, which still bore numerous pockmarks from bullets and scorching around the bedroom. At least the bodies and blood had all been cleared away. Mr. Wall had decided to stay there since it was a “defensible position.” Of course, the military base was much more defensible, but was too safe for Mr. Wall’s taste.
Now instead of worrying about the Senussi, they had to avoid the British sentries that had been set up in a cordon around Biwati. While the soldiers could not stand at every path, they did cover every road and major lane, the one to the temple included.
The distant sound of a motor gave them a possible solution. Faisal perked up, bouncing from one foot to the other and then jumping into the air and spinning around as Captain Williams and Ahmed came into view riding in the Model T. They drove up to the cottage and screeched to a halt, sending a cloud of dust into their faces.
Captain Williams got out and shook Mr. Wall’s hand. The boys ran off.
“I’m glad to see you,” Mr. Wall said in a low voice. “I was wondering if you could give us a lift through the cordon.”
The soldier laughed. “Want to take another look at that temple, eh? Have you gotten any leads?”
Mr. Wall told them all that had happened the previous night.
Claud grew serious. “The wireless operator at the base sent me a message. The major is requesting that I send an enquiry to the Cairo police about you.”
“When was this?” Mr. Wall asked.
“Never fear. My transmitter suddenly developed some trouble.”
“How very thoughtful of it,” Mr. Wall commented, lighting a cigarette and offering one to the captain.
“Thank you,” Captain Williams said, taking it. “I’ll have to send the request soon, however, or it will be my head.”
Mr. Wall lit the captain’s cigarette for him.
“Are you certain he didn’t send the message himself from the station at the base?”
“That wireless would have trouble reaching. Mine is more powerful and is on top of a mountain, so it’s mine that we use to speak with Cairo.”
What a wonderful invention, Moustafa thought. I must ask him to suggest a book on this.
Claud went on. “You’ve been having quite the adventure. This is certainly a more complete story than what I heard on the wireless. Yes, I’ll keep mum about your farmer friends, and not just because they helped you. I have reason to suspect there’s a turncoat at base.”
“A turncoat? One of the soldiers?” Moustafa couldn’t believe it.
Claud nodded, his face stony. “It must be one of Belgrave’s men. None of the natives are allowed to enter. Ahmed comes and goes, of course, and your servant, but whoever is giving out information knows far more than they could ever learn.”
“Such as?”
“Information about our patrols and supply convoys. There were a few attacks over the winter. A prisoner we captured told us they were the Senussi. We questioned him about who gave them information about our movements, but he either wouldn’t tell or didn’t know. He was just a common fighter, so more likely the latter.”
“I’ve read nothing in the papers about this,” Moustafa said.
“Actually you have. We reported them as bandit attacks. We didn’t want to give the Senussi any free publicity. Might stir things up, which is what they want.”
“Do you have any suspects?” Mr. Wall asked.
Captain Williams shook his head. “None, I’m afraid. And it’s not for lack of trying.”
“Does Major Belgrave have any suspects?”
“I haven’t spoken to him about it, because I didn’t want the culprit to catch wind of it and know I’m looking for him. I’m sure the major has his suspicions. The old warhorse isn’t stupid. As far as I can tell, whatever investigation he’s conducting is being done on the sly.”
“We shouldn’t go back to the base,” Moustafa said.
“The major will insist, but no you should not,” Captain Williams said.
“Do you think Jocelyn is safe?” Mr. Wall asked, a note of worry creeping into his voice.
“She’s not a th
reat to the Senussi as long as she’s at the base, so I think she’ll be safe enough. Whoever is leaking information wouldn’t want to show his hand so obviously.”
“We need an excuse not to stay there,” Moustafa said. “Could you invite us to stay at your house again?”
“Certainly, and I’ll tell them you stayed at my house last night too. ‘Very sorry, sir, I should have mentioned it. Unforgiveable oversight,’” the officer said with a smile. “But I suspect you’ll be creeping around the desert and oasis all night.”
“That we will,” Mr. Wall said.
“We should set out, then. I’ll loop around near the temple and drop you off, and then drive back to the mountain. I can’t stay away from my post for too long, not with things as unsettled as this.”
Moustafa looked around. “Where is the Little Infidel?”
“Perhaps he is bathing in the spring,” Mr. Wall said.
“Bathing?” Moustafa had never associated that word with the gutter rat.
“He asked me for soap.”
Moustafa blinked. Could that little thief be taking the first cautious steps toward civilization?
“Oh, there they are,” Claud said, pointing.
Faisal and Ahmed were almost out of sight on the other side of the grove and just beyond the tree line. They were sitting on a log, with their feet on a smaller log. Ahmed was going through motions with his hands and feet while Faisal imitated them.
“What the devil are they doing?” Mr. Wall asked.
“Up to no good, I’m sure,” Moustafa said. “You two, get over here!”
The boys came running up.
“Ahmed was teaching me how to drive,” Faisal said.
“A log is the only thing you’ll ever drive,” Moustafa growled. “Stay close. We have work to do.”
Faisal gulped. “You’re going to make me go into a tomb again, aren’t you?”
Ahmed put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll come along too.”
Claud looked concerned. “I don’t think it would be safe for you to stay down here tonight.”
“But I want to be with Faisal,” Ahmed whined, suddenly sounding a lot younger.
“And I want you out of the line of fire.”
Ahmed groaned. “You never let me go on patrol either!”
“Of course not, I—”
Moustafa cut off what sounded to him like a longstanding argument. “We should get going.”
They spent the next hour driving around the desert, looking for signs of the Senussi and finding none.
“They’re a tricky lot,” Captain Williams told them. “Good at hiding their tracks. I’ll drop you off in the desert just out of sight of the oasis and away from any caravan route. You can stay hidden until nightfall and then creep back in and reconnoiter the area.”
They did that, spending a dull, hot afternoon in the desert under the shade of a tarpaulin the captain lent them. Faisal whined about Ahmed being made to return to the mountain, adding to the dreariness of the day. Why did his boss have to bring the Little Infidel along on every case?
When the sun finally set, they returned to the temple and lay in wait for two hours. No one came into sight. It appeared that whatever the Senussi had been doing beneath that trapdoor, they had decided to suspend their activities after the fight.
Moustafa didn’t try to fool himself. They may have taken heavy losses, but they were not the kind of men who would give up just because of that. They were like the Dervishes who fought the British down in the Soudan. Fired up with the righteousness of Allah, they had been convinced their cause was just.
Their cause had been just, but they had not been righteous. The leaders of the Dervishes didn’t care for the common people like the Koran says good leaders should. When famine in the Soudan left entire villages starving, did the Khalifa distribute zakat? No, he scoured every farm for the smallest crumb to feed his armies. From what that farmer said, the Senussi had done something similar in Bahariya.
He had never had a proper conversation with any Senussi, but he had met many veterans from the army of the Mahdi and Khalifa. The rank and file were good enough men, but they believed too much in their leaders and when their blood ran hot they were utterly fearless. He remembered how his uncle’s eyes lit up as he recalled the battles of twenty years before.
It did not take long to find the trapdoor. Moustafa still had a general idea where it was, and Mr. Wall had spotted those stones he thought had come from beneath the ground. After only a few minutes of feeling around the sand, Moustafa’s fingers curled around a length of buried rope.
He pulled, and the trapdoor came up with a loud creak, revealing a square opening and a ladder leading down into Stygian darkness.
“Shh,” Faisal said. “You’ll wake every Senussi from here to Libya.”
Moustafa cuffed him, making sure to do it quietly, and took an electric torch out of his pocket. He cupped his hand around it to reduce the light as he flicked it on.
Beneath they saw a tomb much like the one that Professor Harrell had discovered. It was stripped bare, the shelves containing only a few scraps of linen. This one had paintings on the walls, but it was another detail that caught his eye—heaps of rock spoil on the floor.
Poking his head further in, he shone the light around. At the far corner was a crudely hacked tunnel leading into darkness.
Moustafa handed the torch to Faisal, drew his revolver, and went down the ladder. After some coaxing from Mr. Wall, the boy followed. His boss took up the rear.
“Savages!” Moustafa growled. They had dug the tunnel right through a beautiful painting of the journey of the boat of the sun god through the sky. Now all that was visible was the tip of the prow and a few inches of the stern.
The paintings on the other walls were destroyed too. The Senussi had hacked away the faces of every figure—the gods and goddesses, the pharaoh and the ka of the dead people who had been laid to rest here. A perfectly preserved example of Late Period tomb art had been wrecked.
They hadn’t even been digging any tunnels into the other walls. This had been simple vandalism.
He spotted more vandalism in the mummy niches. Several mummies lay there, smashed and defaced, the gilding that had once covered them having been ripped away.
Faisal shone the light down the tunnel. It ran about thirty yards before ending in a rough wall. Several picks and shovels leaned against it.
“There’s not enough spoil here,” Mr. Wall said, indicating the heaps of stone. “They must be disposing of it somewhere in the desert at night. I wonder what they’re doing?”
“Searching for other tombs, I suppose,” Moustafa said.
“Can we go now?” Faisal asked, studying the mummies like they were going to rise up and grab him.
“Quiet, Faisal,” Mr. Wall said before turning back to Moustafa. “Wouldn’t it be easier to check from the top? Professor Harrell said the roof was very thin. And we saw that ourselves. I would think it easier to drive a rod into the ground at various spots, hoping to break through into a tomb.”
“That’s true, boss, but maybe they wanted to do it in secret.”
“Oh! Oh! I know what they’re doing!” Faisal said.
“The troops hardly patrol this area,” Mr. Wall said.
“I think they are doing it to avoid competition from other robbers,” Moustafa said.
“I know what they’re doing,” Faisal repeated.
“I thought these affairs were all worked out among the fellahin. Isn’t it usually that one or two families run the show and have to give the headman and the ulema their bit?”
“That’s true along the Nile, sir, but who knows way out here?”
“I KNOW WHAT THEY’RE DOING!”
Mr. Wall and Moustafa turned to him.
“They’re trying to get into the aqueducts,” Faisal said like he was explaining it to a pair of halfwits.
“What aqueducts?” Moustafa asked.
“The ones that feed the wa
ter everywhere.”
“Those little channels? Why would they do that? Be quiet and let us figure this out.”
“No, the old tunnels! They were what the Romans and all those people used. Ahmed showed me. They go all over. Most got lost under bushes and dirt and things.”
Mr. Wall rubbed his jaw. “Interesting, but why would there be one of those at the edge of the desert?”
He and Moustafa got the answer at the same time. They turned to each other.
“The temple!” they said in unison.
“Notice how this tunnel is at an angle, like it’s meant to intersect a line between the oasis and the temple,” Moustafa said.
Mr. Wall smacked his fist into his palm. “Yes, and once they find the tunnel, they can find the entrance into the temple. It provides enough cover to get in and out for someone approaching from the desert. They need never go into the oasis and chance being spotted.”
Moustafa turned to Faisal. “Did Ahmed say they are all connected?”
“Um, I think so. They go for miles.”
“A perfect way to get troops to key positions within the oasis,” Mr. Wall said.
“But they can’t get large numbers of troops to the oasis, not with Captain Williams watching. He said there are patrols out in the desert too.”
“No, but remember he told us they can’t check all lone travelers or small parties? I bet they’ve been filtering in for some time.”
“They can’t bring enough in to attack the base. We stood them off and there were only two of us.”
“Three,” Faisal said.
“I didn’t see you helping!” Moustafa growled. “At least you kept out of the way for once.”
“The other Englishman helped.”
Moustafa and his boss exchanged glances.
“How silly of me,” Mr. Wall said to please the child. “Of course there were three. But even so, the Senussi put in a pretty poor showing.”
“We knew they were coming, boss. With this tunnel, the men at the base won’t have it so easy.”
“We still have the manpower problem. They can’t get the numbers anywhere near the oasis without Claud seeing them. And of those already here, we must have bled them dry.”
The Case of the Golden Greeks Page 24