“Ok,” Peavey said, coming around the desk, barely leashed excitement in his voice. “What have we got here?”
“The Pylon of Isis,” Willi said. “Just as we had hoped.” He sat down in one of the visitor chairs, leaving Jerry and Peavey to bend over the map.
“The Pylon of Isis is here,” Jerry said, pointing to the city map. “We’ve found the street that ran immediately north of it, and its north face. You can see how that works on the grid of city streets here.” He gestured to the other map, the one drawn from the descriptions of Strabo, the Roman traveler.
Peavey nodded. “So it looks like the suppositions were correct.”
“So far,” Jerry said. He could feel the sweat popping out beneath his undershirt, but Peavey had closed the windows. He was out on a ledge here, making the biggest pitch of his career. “Taking into account the medallion, and the location of these three points,” he said, gesturing to the map, “the fourth building should be more or less here.”
“The Soma.” Peavey chewed on the stem of his pipe, his eyes never leaving the map, the penciled lines that triangulated the position, first on the Strabo map, and then lightly drawn over the city streets.
“Yes,” Jerry said.
Peavey took a deep breath. “It’s still a big area. Several blocks. West of the Mosque Nabi Daniel and south of the Silsileh Peninsula… That’s a nice neighborhood. It’s going to be difficult to get anyone to let us dig. And we don’t know exactly where.”
“We know as much as we can without getting underground,” Jerry said. “We’ve got the location down to a few hundred yards. It doesn’t get any better than this.”
Peavey nodded. “True enough. And we don’t necessarily have to tear houses down to put in some test trenches. Gardens, basements…everybody’s got a basement that’s built on top of something. Dig down in somebody’s basement and you’re in Roman ruins or cisterns or something. We might be able to pay some of these folks to let us put a test trench in their basement. I’ll start making some discreet inquiries.” He looked up at Jerry and Willi. “Discreet. Which means you two don’t say a word to anybody.”
“We would not,” Willi said. “We know that there are other interests.”
“Every museum in the world would like to get wind of this,” Peavey said. “But the Met’s got dibs, and I intend to keep it that way.”
“We’ll continue on with the Pylon of Isis then,” Jerry said. “Do a textbook job. And then when you have the other dig lined up…”
“…if I have it lined up,” Peavey said. “I’ve got to get the people who own these houses to agree, and just waving money isn’t going to do it. This is a nice neighborhood. A lot of people aren’t going to want the bother. So just sit tight and let me see what I can do.” He looked at the map again, then up at Jerry. “Show me your top three locations and I’ll start with those.”
A bead of sweat made its way down the small of Jerry’s back. He bent over the map. This might be the defining moment. This might be the single most important decision of his career. Three or four blocks. Thirty or forty possible dig sites. A single building, albeit a large one, a single target… He had examined the map a thousand times, but it could only tell him so much. The medallion could only tell him so much, and if he were off by twenty or thirty feet they would find nothing. Even twenty or thirty feet would be too great an error — the street, the garden, the trees that had once stood behind the Soma… No one could know. There was nothing that could give anyone that information.
“There,” Jerry said, pointing at what on the modern city map looked like a large house with a walled garden. “Or there.” Next door, another house. “Or on the other side.” A narrow street, a park beyond, a tidy patch of greenspace in the modern city. There was nothing special about it, nothing exact. But standing at that corner, where the Salah Moustafa curved slightly southward he thought he could see the line of the old Bruscheum wall which had once enclosed the Royal Quarter. There was something that looked right, something familiar. “It’s as good a choice as any other.”
“Ok,” Peavey said. “We’ll give it a try. Remember, mum’s the word.” He looked at Willi meaningfully.
“I am on the Met’s payroll,” Willi said. “Not the Neues Museum’s.” He smiled. “All is fair in love, war and archaeology!”
“That’s the spirit,” Peavey said.
“Then we’ll cross our fingers and wait for you to let us know where we’re digging next,” Jerry said. He took a deep breath. It was out of his hands once again. If the people who owned those houses allowed it, in a few days he would know if everything he had worked for would pay off.
Club Top Hat was on a houseboat in Lake Mareotis, one of several lined up on the shore beyond the rows of warehouses and the seaplane terminal. Iskinder raised an eyebrow. No one had thought to mention that when he arranged the rendezvous, saying merely that the club was well-known and safe for all sorts of transactions. In the twilight, strands of electric lights outlined each of the boats, draped across the deckhouses and the rails, brighter than the stars, and as he’d hoped the streets were crowded. One more man in faded peasant clothing would not attract attention.
On the other hand, he would have to shed the outer layers of his disguise before he could get anywhere near a fashionable club like the Top Hat. A long metal pier stretched out to the boat moored a hundred feet out in the dark, brackish water of the lake, and two men lounged in deck chairs at the shoreward end — taking tickets, he assumed, or at least enforcing a “members only” policy. From what he could see, the Top Hat’s clientele looked distinctly masculine and certainly did not include anyone wearing a gallibaya. Iskinder took a deep breath. In all likelihood the Top Hat featured a strip show, decidedly illegal in Alexandria, which accounted for the house boat. If vice cops showed up, the boat could simply push back from the dock and cease to be in Alexandria! Once out in Lake Mareotis they were both literally and figuratively beyond the reach of the law. He would have to take off his disguise if he wanted to go in.
He took a step sideways, bringing himself into the shadow of a closed shop, saw no one paying attention, and took two more steps into the shelter of a dark alley. He stripped off his gallibaya, bundling the pale fabric to dispose of it in the shadows, only to freeze as he realized there was another man watching. On second glance, it was less alarming: an old man, raggedly bearded, crouched in the doubtful shelter of an empty packing case. One of the city’s beggars, Iskinder guessed, and put a finger to his mouth. The man stared back at him, but made no sound. Iskinder held out the gallibaya, saying softly, “It’s yours if you forget where you found it.”
The old man blinked and then made a rusty noise that might have been laughter. “I forget most things these days.”
“Good enough,” Iskinder said, and tossed the garment into his lap. He heard the man laugh again, and turned back toward the alley’s mouth, adjusting the jacket of the suit he had borrowed from Jerry. It was not a good fit, but it would have to do. He straightened his spine, remembering what it was to be Ras Iskinder, and strode through the crowd to the men at the foot of the pier, reaching into his pocket for the card Claudet’s man had given him. “Gentlemen.”
“Evening, sir,” the older of the guards said. At least Jerry’s suit had bought that much respectability. “I’m afraid this is a private club.”
“I have an invitation,” Iskinder answered, and handed the card across.
The guard took it, examining the printing and the scrawled signature with the care of a man who did not read well, then nodded and handed it back. “Of course, sir. Welcome aboard.”
Iskinder started down the pier, his steps loud on the metal decking. He was painfully visible, vulnerable, and for a moment his skin crawled with the certainty that he was being watched. There would never be a better chance to shoot him down, to end this adventure before it had really begun, and a part of him wanted to break into a run. But that would be even more conspicuous, bring on the attention
he needed to avoid. Still, he was sweating by the time he reached the end of the pier, where a tuxedoed youth swung open the deckhouse door to greet him.
“Welcome aboard, sir. How may we serve you?”
“I’m meeting someone,” Iskinder said, and felt himself relax as the boy closed the door behind them. “Mr. Claudet.”
“Yes, sir.” The youth beckoned to a waiter, who tucked his tray under his arm and came over bowing. “He’s in the card room. Paul will take you.”
“Thank you,” Iskinder said, glad that Jerry had insisted on giving him coins for just this eventuality, and followed the waiter through the main room, past the bar and the empty bandstand, and into the card room toward the stern. It was more crowded there, with half a dozen tables in the center under the hanging electric lights, and a dozen more smaller tables arranged around the edge. The central tables were for the actual card players, Iskinder realized — and they were already nearly full, while another group waited by the smaller bar for a chance to join the games — with the smaller, shadowed tables reserved for other business.
“Mr. Claudet,” the waiter said, nodding toward a stocky, graying man who sat alone at one of the corner tables.
“Thank you,” Iskinder said, slipping the man a coin, and moved toward the table. “M. Claudet?”
The graying man looked up, frowning. “And who’s asking?”
“My name is Iskinder. I believe you’re expecting me.”
Claudet pushed a chair away from the table, and waved for the nearest waiter. Iskinder seated himself, declined wine in favor of whiskey, and waited while they were served.
“You’ll forgive me,” he said, as the waiter walked away, “but you have a cargo for me, and the matter is somewhat… pressing.”
“Yes.” Claudet looked down at his glass. “But before we go any further, I would wish to see some proof that you are the authorized party in this.”
Iskinder reached into the breast pocket of Jerry’s suit, pulled out the much-folded sheaf of documents he had carried with him from Addis Ababa, and slid them across the table. “That is our copy of the invoice from Fusil Darne, and from our Minister to you authorizing you to receive the goods. And a letter authorizing me to arrange their further shipment.”
Claudet examined each one closely, squinting in the dim light beyond the card players’ charmed circle. “And how am I to know that you are in fact Ras Iskinder?”
A cold finger touched the base of Iskinder’s spine, and it took an effort to keep his voice steady. “I ask you who else I am likely to be. Why are you stalling, M. Claudet? What has happened to our cargo?”
Claudet flinched. “The cargo is fine. It’s in my warehouse, God help me, and likely to stay there. How long have you been on the road, Ras Iskinder?”
“Long enough.” Iskinder had no desire to betray how he’d gotten himself to Alexandria. “And if our cargo is fine, I fail to understand why it’s likely to stay with you.”
“Because I will not fly it south,” Claudet said. “And I don’t know anyone else who’d be willing to take the risk. The Italians have made it very clear that they frown on aid to Ethiopia.”
“Yet this is Egypt,” Iskinder said, in spite of himself.
“Not to hear the Italians tell it,” Claudet said sourly. “I don’t know when you left, but in the last month, the Italians have taken every decent airfield near the front. They have bases in Eritrea that cover all the south-bound routes, and they’ve made it clear that they’re not letting any cargos into the country. They’ve said that they’ll shoot down anyone who tries, and I believe them. And before you say anything, I’ve only been paid to receive the shipment and hold it.”
“I’m prepared to pay extra for the hazard,” Iskinder said, but Claudet didn’t sound like a man jockeying for a bigger fee. He wasn’t surprised when Claudet shook his head.
“No, Ras Iskinder, there’s not enough money in the world to take on this one.”
“I would pay you the value of your airplane.” Iskinder felt the sweat start again under his jacket. If he couldn’t get the guns south, his entire mission had been a failure.
“You cannot pay me what my life is worth,” Claudet said, “or my son’s. And money is no good to me dead.”
“We had a bargain.”
“I am sorry.” Claudet shook his head firmly. “I will hold your cargo while you find someone else — if you can find someone else, which I doubt — but I will not make this delivery.”
Palermo, Italy
December 30, 1935
The last day of the air show dawned still and cold, with a thin high screen of clouds stretching across the sky. The sun was rising red beneath its edge as Lewis caught a taxi to the field at Boccadifalco, and he eyed it warily. Red sky at morning… Well, they’d had remarkably good weather for the entire show, their luck was bound to run out sometime. He felt a prickle of unease as he paid off the driver, muttering grazie in what he suspected was an execrable accent, and stood for a moment testing the air, leaving time for any new thought to appear. For no reason at all, the Five of Wands rose in his mind, five gaudily-dressed young men brandishing huge sticks, just on the verge of striking each other. Disagreement, competition, strife: the moment just before the actual fight breaks out.
He snorted, the moment passing. That could apply to everything from the immediate competition of the air show to the general political situation in Europe — not exactly helpful, or at least not specific. He slipped his hand into his pants pocket, running his thumb over the carnelian seal he had found at Lake Nemi, after he had returned the demon to its bonds. A long oval, chipped on one edge, with a running hound incised in the center along the long axis: Diana’s token, outward sign of her inward mark. As always, touching it was calming, and he glanced from the eastern sky to the windsocks hanging limp from their poles beside the tower and along the runway. Today’s weather would be good enough, and probably most of tomorrow’s, and after that, it wouldn’t matter.
Henry was waiting at the hangar, along with a pair of Italian Air Force officers and Ernst Udet, rumpled and grinning, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Lewis had expected the Italians — Henry had set up the early meeting so that they could climb over the Dart in relative privacy, and have plenty of time to ask questions without anyone else interrupting. But Udet had not been part of the package, and Lewis couldn’t help shooting Henry a quick and questioning glance. Henry gave a tiny shrug, his shoulders barely moving, and smiled at the young woman who came bustling over with a thermos of coffee.
“Thank you, Lena. Now, gentlemen, if you’d like to follow me…”
There was no chance to ask questions. They crossed the hangar to the section where the Dart was parked, surrounded by a velvet rope like something in a movie house. The Italians circled it as Henry pointed out the main features, and Carson opened the engine cowlings to show the spotless workings of the inverted-gee engine. Lewis slid into place at Henry’s side. “How’s Charlie feeling?”
“Still can’t get far from the toilet. He’s getting better, though.” Henry gave him a sidelong glance. “Trying to get out of this?”
Lewis shook his head. “I’m enjoying flying her. What’s Udet doing here?”
“Checking out the plane.” Henry shrugged. “Not that I think he’s going to want to buy one, but he’s going to look.”
One of the Italians turned back to face them, calling a question about fuel weight and cannons, and Lewis relaxed into what was becoming a familiar routine. It wasn’t his business who wanted to buy the Dart, or any of the other sleek, dangerous fighters that were being shown here. Though he thought, watching Henry talk to the group, that the other man wasn’t immune to the same doubts Lewis was feeling.
The meeting with the Italians took almost two hours, waking around and around the plane as captain and major quizzed Henry about the specs and Lewis about the handling, then turned on Carson to go over the engines again. By the time they were done, another group appeared. The
y were Spaniards, representatives of the still-new Republican government, and Henry swore under his breath.
“Not that they can afford even one of these, from what I’ve heard.”
“You never know.”
“I know,” Henry said, darkly, but gave a toothy smile as they approached. “Gentlemen!”
The rest of the morning passed in a blur as one group of potential customers succeeded another. There were more civilians than Lewis would have expected, though he guessed that most of them were aviation experts or, like Udet, members of the government not on active duty. He was half hoping some of them would be Swedes, on the theory that he might be able to get in a question about von Rosen, but the closest thing was a group of Norwegians. As the last group of Poles moved away, he took a step backward, hoping he could grab a quick break. His mouth was bitter from too many cups of Italian coffee, and he definitely needed to pee. He took another step, moving carefully out of Henry’s line of sight, and managed to break away.
He found the men’s room with relief, and emerged to look around cautiously, wondering if he dared grab a sandwich. It felt as though it had been a year since his hurried breakfast. Before he could make up his mind, someone grabbed his elbow. He turned quickly to find Udet grinning at him.
“Segura! I’m glad I found you. How’d you like to play hooky for a little?” Udet had changed from his suit into flying gear, battered moleskin pants and a heavy jacket, and Lewis lifted his head.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Want a ride?” Udet’s grin was blinding. “I’m taking the Stuka up for another demo. Want to ride along?”
“Oh, yes.” Henry was forgotten — Henry would forgive him for taking the chance. “I’ll just need to change.”
In the back of Henry’s borrowed office, Lewis scrambled out of his own good suit and into flying clothes, then rejoined Udet as he made his way across the hangar. “No one’s going to object to you taking me up?”
Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air Page 10