Herring on the Nile

by L. C. Tyler

  I looked at Tom and he looked at me.

  ‘Why don’t we go check?’ he said. ‘Just in case.’

  It was a short, artificially nonchalant stroll round to the cabin next to the dining room. Tom tried the cabin door and it opened. The gun was indeed still there in the middle of the bed, half wrapped in a white hand towel. Tom leaned over and inspected it.

  ‘Baikal Margo,’ he said, being careful not to add his fingerprints to available evidence. ‘Russian. Semi-automatic. Nice and accurate, and this is the version with the shortened barrel – easier to conceal. Maybe not what you would expect a terrorist to use – it’s a bit old and only carries five rounds. Interesting choice of murder weapon. I still don’t understand why anyone would just dump it in the cabin though. Why not try to get rid of it properly? And, thinking about it, here’s another odd thing: no silencer. If you were planning to kill somebody on a boat like this, you’d pack a silencer in your suitcase, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Maybe they threw the silencer overboard?’ I suggested.

  ‘Then why not throw the gun too? But the shot was heard from some way off – so clearly no silencer was used. It would seem that whoever used this was not worried about guns being noisy. After all, they had no way of knowing that the engines would blow just as the shots were being fired. And we had two policemen on board.’

  ‘You’re back to their being policemen?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘No, not really. It’s true they didn’t act like terrorists. They didn’t plant explosive on the boat before saying goodbye. But they didn’t act much like policemen either. And they have gone off and left us all stranded. Actually, taking Ethelred like that doesn’t make much sense whatever they are. Nor does taking the body. Maybe taking Ethelred away is some sort of elaborate ploy? The real killer relaxes his guard, Majid and Mahmoud come back, and this time they catch the right guy.’

  ‘That’s a bit far-fetched,’ I said. ‘Why would they think that would work?’

  ‘Yeah. I guess I’ll believe that was the plan only when they return with Ethelred,’ said Tom. ‘Kidnappers who did that would either be stupid or very devious indeed.’

  Twenty-two

  I dialled the number that Purbright had given me earlier. Once again the call was answered immediately with a simple ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Ethelred Tressider.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Ethelred. Keep your head down. Our people are close to the boat. They should be with you in ten minutes or so. If you have a view of the river, you might be able to see them.’

  ‘I’m not on the boat any more,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been taken to somewhere out in the desert. Mahmoud and Majid are with me.’

  ‘Are you a hostage?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘They let you keep your mobile?’

  ‘They’ve returned it to me so I can make this call.’

  ‘They know you are phoning us? I’m not sure I like this. What are they up to? Are they in a position to track where you are calling to?’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought – but there doesn’t seem to be any high-tech equipment out here.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean there isn’t any. You should assume you’re being listened to at all times, as a matter of course.’

  ‘Two of them are standing beside me.’

  ‘Then we’ll keep this very short, please. What do they want?’

  ‘They want to return me to the Khedive. I’m not such a useful hostage as they thought. I have to pass on the message to you that your men should not fire at us as we approach.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘They want to speak to you.’

  ‘OK, but make it quick.’

  I looked at Majid and Mahmoud.

  ‘I will speak to them,’ said Mahmoud.

  ‘No, leave it to me,’ said Majid, intercepting the phone.

  For a moment Majid and Mahmoud glared at each other and, with a sinking feeling, I realized that Mahmoud might already be onto Majid. He wasn’t going to be allowed to pass on any coded messages – or he would have to be very clever if he did.

  ‘Hello,’ said Majid. He listened for a moment and then said: ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  Mahmoud was clearly still unhappy, but Majid shook his head and turned away from him.

  ‘We have a Mr Tressider in our possession,’ said Majid into the phone. ‘We’re going to let you have him back, as a gesture of goodwill. I need your word that you will allow us to approach the boat without undue let or hindrance. It’s cold out on the river at this time of year and he would wish to come in as speedily as possible, as I might too under the circumstances. We will approach quickly, drop him off and then depart as rapidly as we can.’

  Majid listened again and eventually said: ‘You have understood me precisely. Given those kind assurances, we shall set out now. My colleagues will be trusting you to keep to your side of the bargain. You should be aware that they will be well armed, just in case there is anyone who thinks it would be a good plan to fire on our boat before or after the handover.’ He terminated the call abruptly and handed me back my phone. ‘Sorted,’ he said.

  ‘We are almost ready,’ said Mahmoud. ‘Please do not leave anything of value behind. You will not be coming back here, ever, and it may be difficult for us to forward items to you.’

  It was perhaps ten minutes later. The small group that had brought me out had been reassembled to take me back. I was to be blindfolded again for the first part of the trip.

  Mahmoud had been sent – or had elected to come – to fetch me. Again I got the impression that he suspected Majid and was trying to keep me away from him until we were on the boat.

  It was odd. At first, the two of them had seemed, both to Elsie and to me, almost interchangeable. Only gradually had I got to know them. Mahmoud was not only the taller, but also the suaver, more urbane of the two. But behind the courteous exterior was a hardened and utterly ruthless terrorist. Majid conversely was more taciturn, slightly diffident, with a pleasant, almost shy, smile. Underneath there was steely resolve here too, but I could detect none of the cruelty that I was now sure Mahmoud was capable of. It was reassuring that I had Majid on my side. I would not have trusted Mahmoud, whatever he had told me. It amused me to think that, once back on the Khedive, I would be able to give M16 a very good description of Mahmoud – one that would ensure that he could not operate openly again in Egypt or the UK.

  ‘Do you think you are really going to get away with this?’ I asked.

  ‘In the short term, you had better hope we do,’ said Mahmoud. ‘For the next hour or so, your safety and ours depend on much the same factors. Later perhaps not, but later we must all look after ourselves.’

  ‘Just in case neither of us makes it, I’m mildly curious to know: Did you shoot Purbright?’

  ‘No,’ said Mahmoud. ‘We did not shoot Purbright. Any other final questions?’

  ‘Also just curiosity, really: What made you get mixed up with terrorists?’ I asked.

  Mahmoud gave me a smile that might have meant anything. ‘I wish I could remember,’ he said eventually. ‘It must have seemed like a good idea at the time. Still, on the plus side, you don’t need to buy many ties.’

  Twenty-three

  ‘So, this is where you all are!’ Miss Watson, brandy glass in hand and slightly unsteady, in spite of the lack of any motion at all on the part of the Khedive, approached the spot that Tom and I had located for continuing our confidential chat. We had left the gun where it was, but were still speculating on who might have had the skill to use it.

  ‘Good evening, Jane,’ said Tom, with his usual politeness. He and I might have been discussing Keats for all he gave away.

  ‘Bloody awful evening,’ she said and leaned against the rail.

  ‘They’re serving brandy now, are they?’

  ‘You know what the crew are like. It would take more than a murder
to disrupt normal service. They’ll probably whip you up some scrambled egg if you’re feeling peckish.’

  Tom yawned and rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s getting pretty chilly out here,’ he said. ‘I’m going in to get some coffee. Are you going to join me, Elsie?’

  I was about to agree that coffee would be good, when Jane Watson put her hand on my arm and said: ‘You go ahead, Tom. We girls will stay here and chat a bit more.’

  When Tom had gone, I said to her: ‘So what do we girls chat about then?’

  Jane Watson tried to take another gulp of brandy, but discovered it had all gone. ‘They talk about what bastards men are,’ she said. ‘There are other things, but that’s generally a good start. Don’t get involved with them.’

  Most of the men I meet on a regular basis are authors, so I am not subjected to a great deal of temptation in that respect. Still, I wasn’t planning to disagree with what was basically good advice.

  ‘Tom seems nice enough,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. He’s gay,’ she said.

  I hadn’t thought too much about it, but (now I did) I had to admit he probably took too much interest in classic Broadway musicals.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  ‘And, just because he’s gay, it doesn’t mean you can trust him. He’s still a man.’

  ‘I feel safe enough with him,’ I said.

  ‘Really? Isn’t Tom’s father supposed to be a New York mobster – a bit like this Raffles guy?’

  ‘John says so – but it’s only a joke, surely?’

  ‘Tom says John’s father was a Nixon aide – that’s true, or there was a Nixon aide with that surname. It’s not all joking with those two.’

  ‘You’re not saying they were mixed up in the shooting?’

  ‘You know where I was when the shot was fired, and I know where you were, but can we trust anyone else on this boat?’

  ‘But Tom’s so nice,’ I pointed out.

  ‘The most devious people are,’ said Miss Watson.

  I thought again of Annabelle, there in the saloon slumbering the sleep of the undetected. I was wondering whether to tell my new buddy Jane all about it when she pointed to a dark spot in the middle of the river that was heading towards us at some speed.

  ‘It looks like the good guys are finally coming to rescue us,’ she said.

  Or the bad guys were coming back to finish us off, of course. That too was a distinct possibility.

  Twenty-four

  I had, as I say, been blindfolded for the journey from the hut to the boat. This time the trip had been short, suggesting that our arrival had been by a deliberately circuitous route, either to avoid police surveillance or simply to add confusion as to where I had been. Since one bit of desert looked much like another, the subterfuge appeared redundant – at least to me.

  Seven of us were now squeezed into the boat, all heavily armed, except for one crime writer. Majid nonchalantly lowered an old attaché case into the boat at the last minute. Mahmoud’s attention was at that moment on the Nile and the first tinge of dawn on the horizon. But it seemed impossible to me that the case would be unnoticed for the whole trip or, even if it was, that it could be passed to me without everyone seeing clearly what was being done. This game of bluff and counter-bluff was complex. What had Mahmoud already been told? What was really in the case? I thought I could trust Majid. But if I couldn’t, then I was pretty much dead anyway. I simply had to trust him.

  Majid said something to Mahmoud in Arabic and got a short and acerbic response. One of the other men laughed at the exchange, but the rest looked grim. Mahmoud cast off and pushed the boat away from the bank. The boat’s engine again roared into life and we were away.

  Travelling downstream now we made much faster time than we had before and the Khedive was in sight very quickly, still wedged sideways on in the middle of the river. We slowed when about half a mile away to allow Mahmoud to scan the decks with his binoculars.

  ‘We do indeed have company,’ he said. ‘There seems to be a boat tied up alongside the Khedive. But otherwise there is no sign of life. I have no wish to get gunned down doing a good deed. I want you to phone the number you had again and make sure that our deal remains valid.’

  As before my call was answered quickly and briefly.

  ‘It’s Ethelred,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Within sight of the Khedive.’

  ‘Good. We assumed that was you out there. Can you talk freely?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘OK, I understand.’

  ‘But if you can see us, that means you are already on board the Khedive?’

  ‘Yes. Tell your friends to approach slowly and tie up against our own boat, then transfer you across. After that, they have three minutes to get out of range before we open fire. We don’t trust them hanging around the Khedive.’

  ‘I’ll pass that on.’

  ‘Just you, Ethelred, and the clothes you stand up in. Nobody and nothing else? Got that? I said: Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve got that.’

  The sky was beginning to glow red on our right-hand side as we covered the last few hundred yards. All over Egypt tourists would be getting up for early-morning starts to view temples or be carried by balloons over the desert. They would be getting breakfast. They would know that the bags they were carrying contained only a guidebook, water bottle and floppy hat.

  From the motorboat, the decks of the Khedive appeared deserted. On the lowest deck at the stern of the boat, where the crew had their quarters, some greyish washing flapped briefly, then wrapped itself damply round the iron rail. Even more briefly, a window on one of the upper decks caught the redness of the rising sun, then darkened again. Our guys were giving little or nothing away. Half the Egyptian police force might have been on board with machine guns and grenades, or it might just have been the man I had spoken to. The passengers and crew had been told to keep out of sight. The bulk of the ship, of no nameable colour in this half-light, slowly rose above us as we drifted into its cold shadow and tied up. I briefly had a chance to admire the ornate ironwork from a new angle.

  I was aware of the stillness of a morning that had only just emerged from being night. The loudest sound was the water slapping rhythmically against the hull of the Khedive, and the other boat chafing at its mooring. From a long way away I could also hear the inevitable sound of a donkey braying and a dog’s bark in response. Then there was silence from the bank and once again just the lapping of the Nile, held up momentarily on its long, fluid journey northwards.

  There was still no sign of anyone, but the transfer from our boat, across the one already tied up there and through the door ordinarily used for boarding passengers, looked simple. In a moment I would know whether it actually was simple or whether it involved me getting a bullet in the back.

  ‘OK, Ethelred,’ said Mahmoud. ‘You are free to go. We have enjoyed your company, even if you have not perhaps enjoyed ours. We have also kept our side of the bargain. I hope you will urge your friends to keep to theirs.’

  I stood up and worked my way carefully down the boat. Every movement seemed to make it rock one way or the other, and I had no wish to fall into the Nile and drown just as safety was in sight. Majid was standing at the point where I had to climb over the edge, as if to assist me. I placed one foot on the side and stepped up, balancing for an instant before dropping down into the slightly smaller motorboat that I had to cross. As I landed, I turned and found the firm angular shape of an attaché case thrust into my hands. I looked at Mahmoud, but once again his attention was diverted at the critical moment. Clutching the case to my chest I nervously skipped two steps across the boat and sprang through the open door of the Khedive to be met by a tall guy in a white linen suit. Behind me I heard an engine cough into life and a shouted farewell from Majid.

  The guy in the suit looked at me. ‘What the hell is that bloody thing in your hands?’ he demanded.
>
  ‘The case? It’s OK. Your man Majid gave it to me to deliver,’ I said.

  ‘We don’t have a man Majid,’ said the guy in the suit.

  I looked at him and he looked at me, but I said it first.

  ‘Shit,’ I said.

  Twenty-five

  The arrival of the first boat had been the only bit of good news for some time. The arrival of Ethelred and the second boat was a bit of a downer by comparison, but that still lay in the future when the security service boat drew alongside, at a time when dawn was still the merest smudge of pink across the horizon.

  There were six of them in the little rubber boat – two British, four Egyptian – and they went about their business checking the Khedive for explosives and reassuring everyone that it was almost over.

  ‘We’re expecting the terrorists to return at any moment with Mr Tressider,’ said Masterman, the senior of the two Brits, and therefore the person tasked with saying reassuring things to us in a condescending manner. ‘When they do, we shall arrange for his transfer to this boat with the minimum of fuss or formality, and hopefully without resort to weapons of any kind.’ Masterman bore only a passing resemblance to Purbright. Both had the sort of confidence that you presumably need for a life in espionage. He was however taller and distinctly heavier; if they’d been to the same parties, then he’d been tucking into his main course while Purbright was still toying with cocktails and working out whether thirty minutes was enough time to seduce both the hostess and the hostess’s daughter. Masterman had missed his true vocation, running an empire, by some fifty years. But he was quite at home in a crisp linen suit, organizing the defences of an old paddle steamer stranded in the middle of the Nile. Kitchener would have been proud of him. Had he received slightly different advice at the careers office, one could have equally imagined him ending up as the headmaster of some rural prep school, adored by the parents, but giving no quarter to those who handed in their work late or to a wayward shirt tail or an undone shoelace.