Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 03 - Cairo Caper

by Barbara Silkstone

  Dorkovsky’s cold, colorless eyes weren’t focused on Fiona or me. They were focused on Roger like he was sizing him up, perhaps for a sarcophagus.

  Doctor Jolley eyeballed him back with an I-need-to-scrape-this-off-the sole-of-my-shoe stare.

  My clothes were askew. I gave up on gathering my skirt and settled for adjusting my top, fixing my scarf, and collecting my dignity before I announced, “Fiona and I were attacked in the loo.”

  Roger stepped closer and tried to hug me.

  I pulled away. “And it’s your fault for leaving me out here. I’m too shaken to slap you. Bash your face against my palm.”

  Sir Sydney snapped his fingers. Two security guards appeared out of thin air. I described the ladies room confrontation then asked, “Do you keep any cats in here? For rodent control or whatever?”

  The wrinkle in Sir Sydney’s nose deepened. “Of course not. Animals aren’t welcome here, unless they’re more than several thousand years old.” He smiled at his lame joke.

  Hmmm, no cats and no Gravel Voice.

  Sir Sydney showed his impatience by clapping his hands. “Now on to the business at hand. Please describe this alleged attacker.”

  That crack got my dander up. The pompous ass didn’t believe us. I narrowed my eyes and hissed, “There’s no alleged to the attacker. I didn’t see him but he sounded like an Arabic Louis Armstrong and he must be hung like a horse.”

  Roger wrung his face.

  Sir Sydney looked puzzled. “A horse?”

  “If it fit under the door… it would—”

  Roger cut me off. “Sir Sydney’s made arrangements for us to get out of Cairo.”

  “Who are these people?” Dorkovsky held his hand in front of Roger like a cop stopping traffic.

  Sydney stood his ground against the Russian ape. “Visitors. They were just leaving.” He made a shooing motion. “Mister Dische will guide you. Now off you go!” He tugged the brim of his fedora and slipped a winky-winky at Roger. What had my guy gotten me into?

  I jerked my head around at the sound of glass smashing. The mob was forcing their way in. Movement at the tippy-top of the ceiling caught my eye. A dozen men dressed ninja-like in black from head to toe had broken through the skylight. They zipped down to the second floor mezzanine on cables unreeling from their belts. Holy Batman. These weren’t ordinary looters or even demonstrators. They were pros, some kind of special ops or something.

  “This way. Hurry!” Dische said, pointing to a door labeled Cafeteria Employees only.

  “We can’t leave Fiona to that mob,” I barked.

  Petri Dische grasped Fiona’s hand and pulled her behind him. She struggled to get her feet under her, stepped on her safari skirt, tripped and rolled like a hedgehog.

  “Stop!” I yelled.

  Dische slammed to a halt and Fiona wrapped herself around his linen-suited legs. She climbed him hand-over-hand until she was on her feet then jumped behind me. Her pith helmet hit the back of my neck. Her tiny hands squeezed my right arm.

  An alarm wailed. Six more armed guards appeared at Sir Sydney’s side. With weapons leveled, they advanced on the special ops intruders. The hall was filled with priceless antiquities. Gunfire would be a disaster.

  “Hold your fire!” Sir Sydney commanded.

  Petri scooted us along like a protective mother hen. I looked over my shoulder to see Sir Sydney and Dorkovsky scrambling into the Royal Mummy Room covered by two armed guards.

  Roger, Fiona, and I followed Petri Dische through the cafeteria kitchen. A gaggle of cooks and dishwashers huddled in an open pantry, their eyes the size of ostrich eggs.

  Dische opened the door to the outside dining patio. We stepped into a boiling sea of angry humanity. I covered my head with my hands. Fiona’s grip on my upper arm was cutting off my circulation. I peeked from under my elbow. A chain of local citizens, young and old, were locked arm in arm to block the hooligan crowd struggling to get into the Museum. The mob could have only one goal. Looting.

  A Land Rover with a driver was parked under a sign marked “Director.” It was just inside the circle of volunteers who were battling to protect their heritage. The car must have been Sir Sydney’s personal wheels. Fiona, Roger, and I dove into the backseat. Petri Dische jumped into the front and screamed “Hit it!” We rolled through the crowd with their fists pounding the windows.

  “Wait!” Fiona said with panic on her face. “My hotel’s back the other way.”

  I patted her hand. “You’re with us now. We can’t leave you in the middle of this mob.” What’s one more souvenir from the Cairo Museum?

  The charioteer made a New York City cabbie look like a Sunday driver. Roger swiveled his head from the front of the car to the back biting his bottom lip. Had we picked up another hitman? I closed my eyes, gripped the seatbelt, and prayed.

  I peeked when the Land Rover stopped two minutes later. We were at a dock on the Nile.

  Dische motioned to the driver. They both got out, pulled their guns, and stood legs apart, in a ready-to-shoot posture.

  As soon as I got my shaky legs on terra firma, I felt cat fur brush my ankles. I lifted my skirt and jumped around in a demented jig. I saw nothing. No cats, no bugs, no snakes, nothing.

  “Mister Dische?” I tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Call me Petri, please. And before you ask, yes, we are traveling by boat. You will have the pleasure of sailing on a dahabiya, something for which tourists pay dearly. We will move at a leisurely pace powered by the wind. No one will suspect we have a mission other than pleasure.”

  Petri holstered his gun and started up a creaky narrow gangplank. Roger fell in behind him. I followed suit and Fiona perilously clung to my arm. I had visions of her dragging us into the nasty oily water and being consumed by a pollution monster living on the river bottom.

  The unstable planking led to a beautifully crafted wooden boat about one hundred feet long and twenty feet wide bobbing in the water. Nile Asp was stenciled in Egyptian Arabic and English on the bow. The afternoon sun cast an orange glow through double-masted triangular sails. The only thing missing was Agatha Christie.

  I wondered exactly where we were headed and what the special key to finding Cleopatra’s tomb was. Roger hadn’t shared the details of his meeting with Sir Sydney. I yanked his collar. “What happened with Sir Sydney?”

  He glanced past my shoulder to Fiona. “Wait until we’re alone.”

  “Okay, but she’s harmless. She writes erotica. Well, she’s trying to write erotica.”

  Roger gave me a raised eyebrow.

  Petri led us onto the boat then through a salon with faded oriental carpets, red velvet armchairs, and two mahogany sideboards with silver trays and crystal decanters. It was a poor man’s version of Arabian Nights.

  “Dahabiyas have been around in one form or another for over a thousand years. This one is not quite that old,” he said. “There are six cabins toward the front of the boat. We are the only passengers.” He opened the door to a cabin on the left and smiled at Fiona. “This is for you, my dear.”

  Despite being spirited away by strangers, Fiona was coping fairly well. She blushed and stepped into the cabin pulling me with her. “Oh Wendy, look!” It was a mini-suite fit for an erotica author, complete with private bathroom and a sybaritic Roman tub. Two large windows faced the Nile. All Fiona needed was a guy to nuzzle her.

  She continued to cling to me as Petri guided us to a cabin at the end of the passageway. He opened the door with a theatrical flourish. “This is for the honeymoon couple.” He stood aside so Roger and I could enter.

  Tugging my arm free from Fiona, I joined my sorta-husband in the cabin, which appeared to take up the entire stern of the boat.

  The bed was a tad small but we’d manage. The headboard was bolted to the cabin wall. The spread was a red paisley print and probably hid decades of DNA. I shuddered.

  There was a porthole high up on both the port and starboard sides. French doors hung open exposing a sm
all private balcony.

  Pinching Roger’s butt for the fun of it, I nudged past him and cautiously peeked around the French doors with a hand on one of my mummy ashtrays. No assassins lurking out there. A vast improvement over our last balcony and a better way to embark on our secret quest for the most mysterious tomb in the world. I stepped outside, took a deep breath, choked on diesel fumes and staggered back in.

  Petri opened a small closet and pointed to a couple of shabby white cotton robes. “For your comfort.” He clicked his heels, and bowed from the waist. “I will excuse myself now,” and left.

  I aimed a woman-glare at Fiona in the hope of getting her to scram so I could hear about Roger’s meeting with Sir Sydney. She hung on the lip of the cabin door, her knuckles white. Her face had grown more pale.

  Roger flumped on the bed and pulled one of his left shoes off his right foot with a moan. He massaged his toes and signaled with a nod for me to exit. Maybe he had a shoe-phone and needed to call HQ.

  I left with Fiona firmly re-attached to me. We clomped down the passageway toward the bow where we found a charming salon with two large French windows on each side. Air-conditioning grumbled in a sorry attempt to cool the space.

  Men in tunics and flapping pants released the lines and pushed the Asp away from the dock. We chugged along under motor-power until we went under the bridges to Gezirah Island and left the pollution of Cairo to the coughing pigeons. The deckhands raised the sails to half-mast and the motor shut down.

  Even from inside the salon, I could hear the chatter of humanity along the banks. The river remained the lifeline for countless people. Generations of families lived and died along the history-rich Nile. Two men in muddy clothes washed an angry sheep and a throng of children played in the unclean water while clusters of women washed their pots and men drove their livestock to drink.

  I, with Fiona firmly attached of course, climbed the staircases to the partially shaded top deck, complete with inviting rattan deck chairs and oriental seating areas with colorful cushions and carpets. This would be a great place to sit and sip cocktails and stargaze if this were a true honeymoon.

  Chapter Six

  I pried Fiona’s fingers loose and gently shoved her into a deck chair. Again I felt something rubbing against my legs. I lifted my skirt. No cats, no dogs and thank goodness, no snakes. The only strange creature around was wearing a pith helmet and frantically jotting notes in a journal. With a sigh, I collapsed into the seat next to her then scanned the terrain on both sides of the Nile.

  Not a pyramid in sight. So much for the lyrics to the classic You Belong to Me. A herd of knuckle-kneed camels were the only symbol of early Egypt. They galumphed along the west side of the river keeping pace with our dahabiya as they’d been doing since I first spotted them at the dock in Cairo. They were speedy devils.

  I knew we were heading north to Alexandria but that was about it. I sat there and stewed about being cut out of the meeting with Sir Sydney. Roger had better share what was going on as soon as I got him alone or I was going to rent one of those fast-track camels and head to the Cairo airport.

  I was about to hunt for Roger when he ambled toward us with Petri on his heels. My faux-husband settled at the foot of my deck chair. “We need to talk.”

  Exactly what I wanted but there was a more urgent matter. “First you should know there’s been a pack of camels following us since we left the dock.”

  “There’s a lot of trash in the river. Nothing we can do about it,” Roger said.

  “Not a pack of cigarettes, you dolt. Look at the shore.”

  Petri nodded. “That is unusual. No one travels by camel anymore. The ships of the desert, as they are sometimes called, are only found around the pyramids giving rides to tourists. Bedouins continue to use them deep in the desert but not near the Nile. Those herders are up to no good, perhaps. I shall ask the captain to increase the sails to speed our journey.” He strode toward the pilothouse.

  Ten gangly camels, seven short dudes in white cloaks, and one big son-of-a-gun in a flowing striped robe, possibly Wide Stripe and the Seven Dwarfs stared at me. The sun glinted off what could be rifles. I scooched down in my chair, closed my eyes, and waited for the bullets to fly.

  Within a few seconds I felt pretty silly and opened my eyes. Roger was watching me. I nonchalantly examined my nails then sneaked a peek at him. He rolled his eyes and said, “I’ll be with Petri. I need to meet the captain.”

  Fiona, oblivious to the surveillance by dromedary and my paranoia, took a flat box from her courier bag. She pulled the lid and handed me a dozen sheets of paper. “This is the outline for my book Erotica for Dummies. I want your honest opinion.”

  When someone asks me for an honest opinion, I know that’s the last thing they want. Consequently, that’s usually the last thing they’ll get from me. Reluctantly, I looked at the top page, fearing I wouldn’t be able to unread this opus.

  “I’m here to study the Kama Sutra. I think I can write an updated version.”

  Update the Kama Sutra? Fiona? I figured Mother Teresa was more qualified than Fiona to write about it. And how do you update it? I’ve never read it but from what I’ve heard it’s pretty complete. And why come to Egypt to study it?

  I had to ask. “You’ve had a lot of… field experience?”

  She blushed. “Not exactly. I was raised by Catholic nuns who explained the facts of life when I was twelve. You know the bit about boys having their intestines in a bag between their legs and if girls touch it they get pregnant?”

  I held the papers to my face as if reading intently and bit the inside of my cheek.

  “I was so grossed out I didn’t want to think about sex and the whole wiggly bits thing. When I studied art history in college I saw those nude paintings and statues with penises and… testicles but I couldn’t overcome my fear. I’ve spent my life hiding from live testicles.”

  A look of determination, maybe evangelism, appeared on her face. “But no more. Now I’m finally ready to tackle the unmentionables.”

  She had me there. What did this have to do with panties and bras? “Are you referring to undies?”

  She puffed out her chest. “No, dicks and balls!”

  I was glad I didn’t have a mouth full of liquid. I would have spewed like an orca clearing his blowhole. Fiona was a sad case but I had to admire her spunk and determination to overcome a scarring education. I was at a loss for words so I thumbed through her outline. Seduction Made Easy, What Goes Where, Sex for One. Oh boy.

  “So why come to Egypt to study the Kama Sutra?”

  Fiona pushed her pith helmet back on her head. Her honey-brown hair was plastered to her sweaty brow. “Cleopatra wrote the Kama Sutra. I figured I could get the essence of sexuality here at the source. Then I’d re-word it for contemporary life.”

  “Who told you Cleopatra wrote it?”

  “I saw it on the Discovery Channel.”

  This woman was definitely not safe on her own. I continued flipping through the pages. The header on the last sheet read Cleopatra’s Sexual Secrets. I choked on a laugh. “Sorry, swallowed a bug.”

  The next lines dealt with embraces, caresses, and kisses. I heard a gulp. It was me. The subtitles read - Biting and Marking with Teeth and Nails. Further down on the page were pencil sketches of sexual positions. The figures had stick bodies, round bellies, googlie eyes, and slinky hair. I fought to keep my expression neutral. The last picture was two Gumbies tied in a pretzel and tagged Slapping by Hand and Corresponding Moaning.

  I looked at the puppy-dog eyes waiting for my comments. “It’s very inspiring.”

  “Do you find it stimulating? Are you turned on? I do so want to be on the right track.”

  My mouth was dry as I gritted my teeth. Her train was so far off track I didn’t know where to begin getting back on the rails. I hesitated. It was time to make some gentle suggestions. “The Kama Sutra was written in India over a period of many years. Not written in Egypt, and not by Cleopatra.�
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  Her head snapped back as if I’d hit her. “Not Egypt?” She cut me a look that said I was wrong. “That’s not funny. I’m here to learn all I can about erotic sex. This isn’t a joke to me. This is my calling.” She grabbed the papers from me and brushed her eye with the heel of her palm.

  The wind caught the sheets and whipped them out of her hands. Fiona ran after the breeze-borne papers forgetting she was on a boat. She tripped over a pile of rope and tangled her boots in the coils.

  Growling, she fought with the rope and freed first one foot and then the other. She jumped to her feet and in a poorly thought out hop landed on the rail. Gravity grabbed her and she plunged over the side with a shriek. Her little hands grasped the edge of the deck.

  I bolted to her side, and seized her sweat slippery wrist. She wasn’t heavy but I couldn’t hold on.

  She hit the water with a quiet sploosh then went under. She surfaced waving her pith helmet above her head. “I’m okay,” she spit, doggie-paddled, and reached up. Her safari outfit was soaking up the dirty river water. It was only a matter of minutes before she was sucked under.

  Chapter Seven

  I dangled both feet over the railing ready to dive. The thought of a wet face prompted me to howl, “Woman overboard! Help!”

  Thank goodness Roger came running. Lifeguarding is not one of my talents. I pointed at the floundering Fiona who was now ten feet from the boat. Roger tugged off his brown shoes and threw his jacket at me. He leaped into the river and swam to the drifting damsel in distress.

  The boat sailed on, the captain and crew unmindful of the calamity on the starboard side.

  Roger was a strong swimmer. He reached Fiona in seconds. Although she was panicking she managed to plop her helmet on her head freeing her hands sufficiently to drag him under.

  How to distract her? “Look out! He’s a sex-addict!” I screamed. She paused long enough to gape at Roger. I took the opportunity to throw her a life preserver. I held on to the free end of the rope attached to it.