Herring on the Nile

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘The original plan, as you seem to know, was to blow up the Khedive. Security’s tight these days, so we weren’t going to risk bringing the explosive on board with us and keeping it in our cabin. Our role was to suss out where the explosive would go – and to make sure that our friends got on board with the goods. Then we hit a problem. The boat was going too slowly to make the rendezvous. Mahmoud also thought that Purbright was onto the plan and that we simply didn’t have time to delay everything by the day or so that was needed. He was ready to abandon the whole operation, but then Purbright was shot.’

  ‘And that meant you were free to act?’ I asked.

  ‘It meant that there was probably somebody else on board who was on our side – though we couldn’t be sure which organization they came from. We had no wish to blow up one of our own people. So there was a change of plan, while we tried to contact other groups and see whether they had operatives in the area.’

  ‘But,’ I said, ‘up to that point, Majid, you were intending to simply go along with Plan A, which entailed blowing us all up. Couldn’t you and Purbright have simply overcome Mahmoud?’

  ‘Not without destroying my cover. There’s much more at stake here than just the Khedive. In any case, the boat would have been safe. It would have been my job to set the timer. That’s my field of expertise. This time, the bomb would have unaccountably failed to detonate. These things happen.’

  ‘And the change of plan?’

  ‘Kidnap was always Plan B. And we had discovered that we had a celebrity on board.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Your agent told us. You are a very famous writer. Mahmoud decided you would make the best hostage. Grainy footage of your death, filmed in some anonymous location, would have quite an impact.’

  ‘So, I’m about to be beheaded on camera because my agent’s attempts at PR finally worked?’

  ‘Not necessarily. That, as I say, was Mahmoud’s idea. The group as a whole is still divided on the best way to exploit this opportunity. Others see your fame as a good reason for keeping you alive. If you could be persuaded as to the rightness of their cause, you could be valuable to us. Let’s say for the moment that the majority view is that you are too important to allow you to be blown up or shot . . . or beheaded. Let’s say that they have a role that somebody like you might play and, while that is the preferred option, there is a good reason for keeping you alive and unharmed.’

  ‘And this role is dependent on my fame as a writer?’

  ‘Oh yes. Think about it. We could execute anyone and it would still be news. But the other plan depends on your being somebody the public will listen to.’

  ‘And if I were, say, perhaps slightly less famous than my agent has been claiming . . . ?’

  ‘It might tip the balance in favour of Mahmoud’s plan.’

  I considered this question from a number of angles, including what they might do if they felt it necessary to check out my sales figures.

  ‘Do you think the group reads a lot of fiction?’ I asked.

  ‘Not that much,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Just tell them I taught Dan Brown all he knows.’

  Nineteen

  At two o’clock Captain Bashir returned to say that he had been able to speak to each of the crew members. All could be accounted for at the time the shot had been heard. Those in the engine room had been working desperately to save the boat, and had no time to go wandering round. The waiters and cooks had mostly been together, putting everything away after dinner – some had gone to the bridge to find out what was happening. Short of assuming a conspiracy by the crew as a whole, none of them could have fired the gun.

  ‘So, it comes back to it being one of us,’ said Tom. ‘One of us must have killed Purbright.’

  ‘Raffles,’ said Proctor.

  ‘If the dead gentleman in a white dinner jacket is Raffles, we do at least have a fairly clear motive for murder,’ said Tom.

  ‘And if he isn’t?’ asked Campion.

  ‘In that case, I guess we’ll end up coming to the wrong conclusion, which might be dangerous for all of us, if the killer is still here.’

  Sky Benson looked distinctly uneasy at this and Campion shot her a disapproving glance.

  ‘Did you want to say something, Sky?’ asked Tom.

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ snapped Campion. ‘Leave the poor girl alone.’

  We all looked at Sky, but she just shook her head.

  ‘OK,’ said Tom, turning back to the rest of us, ‘so let’s say somebody here shot Raffles, having followed him out here from England for exactly that reason.’

  Nobody wanted to do anything as high-profile as denying this, but nobody seemed up for admitting it either.

  ‘Of course,’ said Proctor, ‘you’d have to be pretty crazy to try shooting anyone on a boat from which you couldn’t make an escape. Unless you were thinking like a suicide bomber.’

  Slowly, one by one, we remembered an earlier conversation. Eventually Lizzi Hull broke the silence.

  ‘Why are you all looking at me?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, you did say that you could understand why somebody would be a suicide bomber,’ said Tom.

  ‘You may not have noticed,’ said Lizzi, ‘but nobody has been blown up. Anyway, I said I could understand why somebody would do it, not that I had similar plans myself.’

  ‘So where were you when the shot was fired?’ asked Proctor.

  ‘Like most other people, I was in my cabin.’

  ‘Had you heard of the Raffles case?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Sky said it was very well reported,’ said Lizzi.

  ‘And did you think he was guilty?’

  ‘The case sort of collapsed,’ said Lizzi. ‘I can’t remember why. The papers had to be careful what they said, but the Internet chat rooms were full of people saying it had to be him. They never arrested anyone else, did they?’

  ‘But you’re not saying what you thought,’ said Tom.

  ‘I’m not sure I thought anything,’ said Lizzi. ‘I was probably in Juba or Ramallah or somewhere at the time, so I’d have missed a lot of the coverage. He seemed a pretty unpleasant sort of person. I’d have felt sorry for his wife, whether he killed her or not. And for the children, as Sky said. If that is Raffles out there on the deck, I couldn’t say I was unhappy about it.’

  ‘That’s a point – where is the body now, anyway?’ asked Proctor.

  It was a thought that had occurred to me once or twice. Presumably the local police would want the crime scene left untouched and he was still lying where he fell.

  The captain, who had been listening to much of this in silence, rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘They take it,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’ asked Proctor.

  ‘The policemen. Inspector Mahmoud tells the others: “Put it in the boat.” He says they will make examination at the police station.’

  I’m no expert, but I thought back to the various manuscripts of crime novels, publishable and crap, that I had been obliged to read over the years. Not even in the most improbable of them had the police grabbed the body after a cursory glance and carted it off with them as a keepsake. There were spatter patterns and fingerprints and shoe prints and cartridge cases and . . .

  ‘That can’t be right,’ I said.

  ‘Go look yourself,’ said Captain Bashir.

  ‘So, there’s just an empty pool of blood now?’ I asked.

  ‘They say I can hose the deck down.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the captain. That was the Khedive for you: nicely coiled ropes, starched linen, clean decks.

  ‘The Egyptian police probably just do things differently,’ said Campion.

  Proctor nodded, but the others looked doubtful.

  ‘So – whoever they are – they’ve got Ethelred and Purbright,’ said Tom.

  ‘Ethelred and Raffles,’ said Proctor.

  ‘Wherever they’ve taken them,’ I said.


  I looked out of the window at the Nile. There was a lot of it and, at the moment, it was mainly very, very dark.

  Twenty

  Q: Do you make use of your personal experiences when writing your books?

  A: No, but I may in future.

  Q: What’s the funniest thing to have happened to you this week?

  A: Yesterday somebody tried to kill me by dropping a rock on my head. It’s all gone downhill a bit since then, though.

  Q: What do you do when you get stuck and can’t see where the plot will take you next?

  A: I usually send one of my characters on a road trip of some sort. They head off in search of clues. You never know what a change of scenery will throw up. Where I have two main characters this can create problems, of course – for example, having sent one off somewhere, how on earth do I get them back together again?

  ‘Still writing, Ethelred?’

  ‘I have little else to do, Inspector Mahmoud.’

  ‘I think you may dispense now with the title of “Inspector”. Plain “Mahmoud” is fine. Titles are unnecessary between friends.’

  ‘So we’re friends, are we? I got the impression we were on opposite sides. Hence my being imprisoned in a hut in the desert.’

  ‘That does not mean we cannot observe the usual courtesies. When Richard the First was ill, Saladin sent him ice from the mountains to cool his drinks. I am not sure that Richard the First ever returned the compliment, but that is perhaps irrelevant in this context. While you are our guest, you will be treated with proper consideration.’

  ‘I’d prefer to continue to call you “Inspector” but to be released. Preferably with my head still on my shoulders.’

  ‘I have good news for you then. We may be about to grant your wish,’ said Mahmoud. ‘I said we still had a number of options, and one is to return you to the Khedive.’

  This was not an option mentioned by Majid. There had clearly been further discussion.

  ‘And what have you decided to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Just that – you are to be returned.’

  ‘Still writing, Ethelred?’

  ‘No, Majid. I’ve done all I can. Mahmoud says I am to be returned to the Khedive in one piece. I don’t understand. I thought my fame as a writer was all that was keeping me alive.’

  ‘How good exactly is an Amazon ranking of 15,239?’ asked Majid. ‘That is by the way the best ranking of any of your books – paperback or hardback.’

  I tried not to show too much pleasure that there were only 15,238 books that were selling better than mine.

  Majid looked at me slightly pityingly. ‘Dan Brown’s best seller is, conversely, listed as number three. You have clearly taught him well, Ethelred, but sadly you must at the same time have neglected your own work.’

  ‘The sales of my German translations are much better,’ I said.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Majid, ‘they checked those too.’

  ‘American?’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘We also looked at your recent reviews. The most complimentary we could find read: “People who enjoyed this author’s previous novels will enjoy this one.”’

  ‘The Times?’ I asked.

  ‘Sunderland Herald.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said.

  ‘Hence the change of plan. As a hostage, your value is virtually zero. But we are a democratic body, and the majority decision is that your death is of virtually no value either. Mahmoud is not very happy with this, but then he is not very happy about the mission in general. Our inquiries have failed to reveal the operatives of any friendly organization on board the Khedive. He therefore regrets not leaving at least a token amount of explosive behind when we took you away. He also feels that your agent was less than truthful. You won’t be surprised to hear that Mahmoud’s vote was for disposing of you in much the same way that Purbright was disposed of.’

  ‘How was he disposed of?’

  ‘Mahmoud decided that his body should not be left on the Khedive lest it should provide clues as to who the killer was – he still thought at that point that there was a friend on board. The body is therefore now somewhere at the bottom of the river. But you will be freed unharmed. And as a gesture of goodwill, we shall take you back to the Khedive ourselves.’

  ‘To the Khedive? You won’t just leave me at the nearest town?’

  ‘Mahmoud sees himself as a latter-day Saladin,’ said Majid. ‘Since he has no choice but to return you, he’d like it to be seen as a bold and chivalrous act. He’ll sweep in under the noses of his enemies and sweep out again unharmed.’

  ‘But that’s crazy,’ I said. ‘The security services – British and Egyptian – will be there by now. Forget sweeping in and sweeping out. You won’t make it within fifty yards before we’re all gunned down.’

  ‘Not if the people on the Khedive know that you are with us and that we are trying to return you. Anyway, I have my own reasons for indulging Mahmoud. I have to get some papers to MI6 in London. Your people know who I am and that I am working undercover.’

  ‘Then they knew you were on board?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t able to tell them that. Nor could I risk making any sort of contact with Purbright – Mahmoud was watching me all the time. But these papers are important. I need you to carry them onto the boat for me.’

  ‘Won’t I be searched before I’m allowed to leave here?’

  ‘I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. I just need you to confirm things are OK at the other end.’

  ‘I could phone Elsie,’ I said. ‘No, hold on – you took all of the phones.’

  ‘Can you alert your people in any other way?’

  I thought about this for a moment. ‘Yes, I have a number I can phone. If you let me have my mobile back.’ I gave him a brief description that would narrow it down to two of the phones in his possession.

  ‘Good,’ said Majid. ‘I’ll arrange for that. You’ll need to choose your words with care – Mahmoud will be listening to everything you say.’

  ‘You’re sure he isn’t now? Could this room be bugged?’

  ‘I don’t think so. This is just a temporary base. The group doesn’t stay anywhere longer than it has to.’

  ‘But if they have overheard . . . Mahmoud, you say, still wants me dead. If the others knew what we were saying now, surely that would give him his excuse to shoot me and dump me in the river?’

  ‘Probably. I have to admit, he would still prefer you didn’t make it to the Khedive intact. So, I’ll be watching your back all the way.’

  ‘Fine. Well, you’d better give me those papers now. I can stuff them into my pocket. If I ditch the interviews, they won’t notice anything different. I’ll still have a pocketful of A4.’

  ‘It would be a bit obvious if you tried to stuff what I plan to give you in your pocket. It is a whole briefcaseful.’

  ‘You’re kidding? A briefcase? I can’t see how that can be done.’

  ‘I shall take the briefcase in the boat with us. As you transfer to the Khedive, I shall throw it to you. Once on board, just hand the case over to them. They’re expecting it – just not by this route.’

  ‘But isn’t there a danger – indeed, isn’t there a stone-cold certainty – that Mahmoud will see you do it? Even if I manage to get safely on board with it, that’s your cover blown for good.’

  ‘That will not be a problem,’ said Majid. ‘It will be fine if they see me. My intention in fact is that Mahmoud should see me.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I’m going to tell him that there is a bomb in the briefcase,’ said Majid.

  Twenty-one

  At about three o’clock a truce of sorts was declared on board the Khedive. Proctor and Campion had largely run out of snide comments to direct at each other. Tom had conceded, reluctantly, that Majid might have misheard him – though he still did not seem entirely convinced himself. Any offence that Lizzi might have taken at being accused of suicide bombing had been forgotten or at least put to one side
. But nobody felt quite safe enough to return to his or her own cabin. By mutual agreement, we decided to sleep, as best we could, in the saloon. Herbie’s annexation of the most comfortable chair now revealed itself to have been not merely the slimiest but also the wisest move of the whole evening. The rest of us were left to compete for the seventh- or eighth-best sleeping places. Annabelle had used her dubious charms to get Professor Campion to give up his spot on the sofa, and was currently curled up, covered by her shawl.

  The waiters, released from suspicion, now bustled about serving coffee, tea and biscuits to those who needed sustenance to get them through the night. They alone seemed cheerful.

  Tom, however, showed no inclination to rest. He winked at me, and we went quietly out on deck.

  ‘Sorry. It gives me the creeps to know I’m in there with a murderer,’ said Tom.

  ‘It’s not that much better out here,’ I said. ‘There’s nowhere much to get away on a boat like this.’

  ‘That’s what makes the whole thing so odd. It’s not what a normal person would do, unless they really didn’t care about being found out. Maybe we still have a terrorist here on the boat. Or somebody who had wanted to kill this Purbright or Raffles so much and for so long that they were prepared to risk it.’

  ‘Nobody seems to fit either of those categories,’ I said. ‘The fact that Lizzi Hull says she could understand why somebody would be a suicide bomber doesn’t make her one. Sky Benson is worried about something but I’m not sure her hand is steady enough for murder. Campion is desperate to get the gun back for some reason but doesn’t strike me as a cold-blooded killer. Of course there’s still Annabelle. Maybe she should be locked in the bilges or the lee scuppers or whatever the nastiest bit of the boat is, just until we’ve worked out who did it.’

  ‘Well, somebody certainly fired the gun,’ said Tom, ignoring my very good suggestion.

  ‘Do you think it’s still there in the cabin?’ I asked.

  ‘I doubt that Majid and Mahmoud had time to collect it. Captain Bashir has bigger problems on his mind . . .’