by Overton, Max
Dr Shubak led Nick through the museum corridor. He tapped on Director Nasrallah's door and opened it when told to. "Director, this is Mr Nicholas Evans, the reporter."
"Thank you Shubak. You may safely leave him in my care. Come in, Mr Evans."
Director Nasrallah rose from behind his desk and gestured to a chair close to his desk. "Please be seated, Mr Evans. I am Jamal Nasrallah, Director of the Museum, and this is Dr Karim Zewali of the Luxor Museum."
Nick looked around, having been unaware of anyone else in the room, and spied a short, thin man in spectacles and business suit, standing near the window.
"Good morning Director...Dr Zewali," Nick said. He turned back to face Nasrallah. "Thank you for seeing me. I understand you are busy, so I'll keep it short. I asked Dr Shubak about King Smenkhkare and a person called Scarab, but he couldn't tell me much. He seemed to think you might know more."
"Before I answer, Mr Evans, may I ask where you heard those names? Very few people know much about the first, and even fewer about the second."
"You understand I'm a journalist? I write for a living, and I keep my ears and eyes open for a good story. Well, I follow up on hints and rumours to see if there is anything buried beneath them..."
"You came to the right place if you are looking for buried things, Mr Evans," Zewali said with a smile. "Who do you work for? Who is your editor?"
"I'm freelance. I decide if there's a story worth writing."
"What have you written before, Mr Evans? Anything we might have seen?"
"Possibly. I recently wrote a piece in 'History Today' on the excavations of the Bronze Age civilisation on Dilmun..."
"I've read it," Zewali exclaimed. "It was a well researched and very balanced piece--evocative yet not sensationalist."
Nick grinned with pleasure. "Thank you."
"You see, we are concerned that you are a responsible journalist, Mr Evans," Nasrallah said.
Nick smiled faintly. "Well, I could assure you I am, but you'd just have my word for it."
"I am satisfied," Zewali said.
Nasrallah regarded his companion for a few moments and then grimaced. "Time will tell. Go on, Mr Evans, you were about to tell us where you heard these names."
"Midland University in England sent an archaeological expedition to Syria, in the course of which they discovered a chamber with an account of an undiscovered tomb in Egypt--that of Smenkhkare--and possibly one of Princess Beketaten, sometimes called Scarab. Minister Bashir of Syria threw them out of the country, charging them with scientific improprieties, and has come down to Egypt to find the tomb. I talked to some expedition members in England and they think Bashir intends to loot the tombs if he finds them."
"Smenkhkare's tomb is already known and was probably looted in antiquity," Nasrallah said. "It is in the Valley of the Kings. However, that of Beketaten is unknown. She is a minor personage, barely mentioned by history, but we would very much like to know if her tomb actually exists."
"You say Smenkhkare's tomb has been discovered though? That's certain?"
"There is an element of doubt," Nasrallah conceded, "But it is likely."
"Then that possibly leaves only the tomb of Scarab."
"If it exists."
"Bashir seems to think it does. He believes it rivals King Tut's tomb. I'm told he is in Cairo and presumably looking for it. It's possible he may even come here looking for information."
"He already has," Nasrallah said.
"And again in Luxor," Zewali added. "Bashir spoke to my deputy, Dr Maroun, yesterday afternoon. He is concerned that a shaft found in the cliffs near Esna is the prize he seeks."
"My God. Is it?"
"Who can say? The shaft has not yet been excavated."
"What of the British expedition members? Have they come here too? Dr Hanser, Dr Andrews, and Dr Rhys-Williams."
"I have no knowledge of them."
"Then perhaps they know more than Bashir and don't need to come here." Nick got to his feet. "Thanks for the information, Director...doctor. I'd better get down to Luxor and find this Bashir or the others before they find the tomb."
"How will you do that, Mr Evans?"
"I don't know. Probably just ask awkward questions until someone reveals something of interest." Nick smiled. "I'm a journalist--it's what I do."
"Perhaps we could help you," Nasrallah murmured.
"How? And why would you?"
"You understand the concept of one hand washing the other? There is one thing you could do for us," Zewali said quietly. "If Minister Bashir, or these British scientists for that matter, seeks to despoil an archaeological site in Egypt, we'd appreciate knowing about it. We take a very dim view of foreigners coming into the country and removing its treasures. Quite enough of that happened in colonial days."
Nick sat down again and looked at the two men quizzically. "Why would you trust me to do that? I'm a journalist, remember. I could just get the story and publish."
"You could," Zewali agreed, "But if you're the same man who wrote the Dilmun article, I think you'll want to get at the truth."
"I could still get that and then scarper."
"The Department of Antiquities could help you. You need to get close to Bashir, maybe find these British scientists. We can facilitate matters."
"How? Bashir's not part of your crowd."
"Dr Hosni Maroun is my deputy at Luxor. He has already been approached by Bashir with a request to let him see the shaft. Presumably so he can determine if it's what he seeks. So far, Maroun has not given him an answer, but if I say so, he will let Bashir see the shaft. I could make sure you are in the party that does so. You get close to Bashir and see what you can find out. Quiz him. Ask him what he intends to do. If his intentions are honourable, he will be open with you. If not, I dare say you will be able to tell. Either way, you tell us of his intentions and you also get your story. Interested?"
Nick thought hard. "Sole rights to the story?"
"What do you mean?"
"That I'm the only member of the press allowed to report on this. I get exclusive rights--the backing of the Department of Antiquities."
Zewali looked at Nasrallah. The Director nodded.
"All right, then," Nick said with a grin. "You've hired yourself an investigator."
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Chapter Fifteen
Dani's cries were quite convincing, and Alif and Tahir ceased their talking to listen. Muammar also listened, hiding a smile
"She says she has a pain in her belly," Muammar said.
"Tell the woman to be quiet," Alif growled. "She disturbs our rest."
"It might be serious. What if she needs medicine?"
"We have none," Tahir said. "Just ignore her."
"Zufir told us to keep them in good health. Do you want to be the one to tell her she died and you did nothing?"
Tahir grumbled but told Alif and Muammar to investigate. They crossed to the hut and entered it, looking down at the three foreigners bound hand and foot. Muammar knelt beside Dani and pretended to examine her while whispering in her ear.
"Keep groaning." He cut the bonds around her wrists with a knife.
"What are you doing?" Alif cried.
"I have seen this before," Muammar said. "It is a weakness many foreign women have. She needs to roll onto her stomach and stretch out her arms." He helped Dani roll over and murmured to her as he did so. "When he comes close, scream and grasp his ankles." To the badaw�, he said, "Alif, put your rifle aside and help me."
The tribesman cursed but did as he was told, propping his firearm against the wall of the hut and moving close to Dani's head. As he did so, Dani lunged forward and grabbed his ankles, screaming as she did so. Alif automatically tried to step back, tripped and fell to the ground. Muammar threw himself onto the man and hit him hard on the side of his head, stunning him.
Muammar cursed and rolled off Alif, rubbing his right hand. "That hurt me as much as it did him, the illegi
timate son of a camel."
"Stop complaining and free us," Daffyd said. "Your other friend may arrive any moment."
Muammar's knife sawed through the bonds and soon all three were rubbing their wrists and ankles.
"What now?" Dani asked.
"We get out of here before he wakes up or Tahir wonders where we are."
"I say we kill that bugger on the floor and shoot the other one," Marc snarled. "It's no more than they deserve."
"Marc, no," Dani cried.
"Over the top, lad," Daffyd murmured.
"We will do no such thing, Dr Andrews. These men are of my tribe. I will not see them harmed unnecessarily." Muammar went to the door of the hut and peered out. The late afternoon sunlight threw the shadow of the huts straight toward Tahir, who sat under a date palm facing them. The sun would be in the Bedouin's eyes, but they could not rely on that to escape being seen.
"Out the back way."
"What back way?" Marc asked. "There's only one door."
"Then we must make another." Muammar stepped over to the back wall and pressed against the boards, gauging their strength. He found a loose one and pushed. With a squeal of protesting nails, it gave way and clattered to the ground. Another followed, and a third.
Daffyd hissed a warning from his watching position by the door. "I think he heard something. He's standing up...and coming over."
"Quickly then," Muammar said. "It'll have to do." He squeezed through the narrow opening, and then reached back to help Dani through. Marc followed, and then Daffyd. Muammar led them away quickly, but as quietly as possible, keeping the bulk of the hut between them and Tahir.
They heard a shout, and a few moments later a sharp report and a waspish whine as a bullet zipped by in their general vicinity. They stumbled across a ploughed field, crouching low. A drainage ditch appeared at their feet and they jumped down into the muddy bottom of it and, bent double, ran along it as quickly as they could.
"Are we being followed?" Marc gasped.
Daffyd ventured a glance above the lip of the ditch. "I don't see...yes, they're both there and following our trail."
"I should have brought the rifle," Marc said. "Then we could have fought back."
"This way, quickly." Muammar pointed. Together, they bent low and ran, not directly away from the approaching men but angling across their path. Together, the four of them ran for the scrub bordering the fields and hid in a small dry watercourse overgrown with briars and vines. They heard the angry voices of their pursuers approach the scrub, and then fade as they moved away along the edge of the tangled growth.
"What do we do now?"
"We need to get to Edfu," Dani said.
"That's a good idea," Marc agreed. "We'd lose them in a city, even if they bothered to come looking."
Daffyd considered the idea. "Might work, but there are a couple of problems. First, we have to escape two men out there hunting us with guns, and second, we have to find somewhere to hide in the city. I won't go into minor problems like food and shelter and how we pay for those without any money." He saw Dani's expression and smiled reassuringly. "Sorry, Dani, I don't mean to be a wet blanket. It's the best plan we've got, so let's take it one step at a time. Escape first, refine the details later."
"I may be able to help there too," Muammar said. "I have a second cousin, Mohammad ibn Sukrah, in Edfu. We are not close, but if we need help he may aid us."
Tahir and Alif came back, having found no trace of the fugitives and deciding they had overrun them, and were now searching the undergrowth more thoroughly. The two men walked past the dry watercourse and back into the scrub. Marc, Muammar, Dani and Daffyd wriggled out through the vines and briars on the other side and, bending low again, crept away in the opposite direction. After a while, they straightened up and ran.
Half an hour brought them to the edge of the scrub where pastures spread out before them and herds of cattle grazed on lush grass. Beyond the pastures, they could see a village and other fields in the land that sloped down to the distant river. They crouched in the last of the bushes, just outside a rickety boundary fence and considered their next move.
"Is that the village Zufir rented the huts from?" Dani asked.
Muammar nodded. "I think so."
"Then it's probably too dangerous going there."
"I can't see we have much choice," Muammar said. "If we try to reach another village we'll be spotted in the open land."
"We could stay in this scrub," Marc said. "We managed to hide from them before."
"That's true," Daffyd replied. "We sat in an old dry watercourse amidst briars and brambles for half an hour. I don't fancy spending days there; quite apart from the fact we have no food or water. Besides, those Bedouin could stumble over us at any time if they come in this direction."
"What do you think, Muammar?" Dani asked.
"I say we go...now. Tahir and Alif will search a lot more thoroughly than they did before but they still won't take long to get here. We must be across these open fields before they do."
"Sounds like a plan," Daffyd said. "Let's go."
They climbed the swaying fence and walked quickly toward the village. The grass was lush and springy beneath their feet and the numerous cakes and streaks of cow dung attracted swarms of flies that busily investigated the human intruders. A herd of cattle watched them from afar, heads raised, and then as they got closer, trotted over and surrounded them.
Marc stopped and eyed the cattle with distrust. "I really don't like cows," he muttered.
"Don't worry," Dani said with a grin. "They're not cows; they're bulls--or steers."
"Great."
"Just keep walking," Muammar said. "Do you not have cattle in England?"
"Not personally," Marc grumbled.
Under Muammar's leadership they started forward toward one segment of the ring of cattle, and as they came within twenty or thirty feet, the cattle balked and ran, kicking their hind legs in the air and tossing their heads. After a few tens of yards they turned and stared at the approaching humans again, until proximity drove them away once more. They continued this routine until they came to the far fence where they formed a semicircle and watched the humans climb over into the next field.
There was a dirt road on the far side of the field, stretching away in one direction toward the river, and in the other to a dusty village. They moved in that direction at a brisk walk, and soon found they shared the road with workers coming off the vegetable plots on the other side and villagers moving about their own business. The people were all men and boys who stopped to look at the foreigners with guarded interest.
"Keep walking," Muammar said. "Avoid eye contact and follow my lead."
"Where are all the women?"
"Indoors probably. Maybe fetching water or fuel. This is a male oriented society and women are expected to know their place."
"Shouldn't Dani be walking three paces behind us then?" Marc asked, grinning.
"Please be sensible, Dr Andrews," Muammar said. "Now keep quiet and if anyone addresses us, let me do the talking."
"Er, we have a problem," Dani said. "Look behind us, in the cattle field."
The others turned and saw that the two Bedouin were running across the fields toward them. They were still a few hundred yards away, but would likely catch up within a few minutes.
"What the hell do we do?" Marc asked.
"Run." Muammar turned and sprinted down the road, followed quickly by Marc, Dani and Daffyd. They raced into the village, dust spurting up from their feet and ducked down a side street and then another. Villagers stared at them and one or two called out but Muammar ignored them.
"If we stay in the street, they'll find us," he said. "We'll have to go into one of the houses."
"What? They'll just let us walk in? Or do we break in?"
"Neither. Do you have any money at all? A watch, perhaps? A ring? Quickly."
Dani frowned and unbuttoned the lower part of her shirt, slowly and reluctantly. Mar
c shook his head, but Daffyd slipped a wristwatch off his wrist. Muammar examined it.
"It'll have to do." He looked around at the houses and walked toward a larger mud brick one. Dani paused with a hand beneath her shirt, waiting to see what would happen.
"Hang on," Marc said. "There are a lot of people around. Won't they just tell them where we are?"
"Maybe, but I'm counting on them not liking armed Bedouin. Anyway, what choice do we have?"
Muammar hammered on the door of the house, and when it was opened by a startled looking man, he started talking fast, gesturing to the three people standing behind him. Then he held out the watch.
The man refused the watch, waving his arms and looking angry, and then he bobbed his head, stepping aside and ushering them into his house. As the door closed behind them, Marc glanced back and glimpsed Alif turn the corner of the street, his rifle at the ready. Moments later, feet pounded past the house. Dani rebuttoned her shirt, and tidied herself.
The man spoke, bowing his head to Dani and limply shaking Daffyd's and Marc's hand, but all they could understand was the word 'effendi'.
Muammar translated. "His name is Aswad ibn Ahud. He welcomes the English Lords and Lady into his humble home. I told him that your boat had tipped over on the river, to explain your bedraggled appearance. He offers hospitality, so please smile and nod your heads politely. Oh, and please remove your shoes."
They hurried to comply, and Marc added a few remarks in his poshest English accent about how grateful they were to be able to be the man's guests. The man plainly did not understand, but beamed and ushered them further into his house, offering them seats on a beautifully patterned rug. He called out and a woman, hurriedly adjusting a scarf over her hair, appeared in a doorway. Aswad spoke and the woman nodded, smiled uncertainly, and disappeared back into what must have been the kitchen. They heard the clatter of dishes.