by Jack Higgins
The Greek removed his cheroot and groaned. “Mother of Christ, but it’s hot. How about joining me in a drink?”
For a moment Kane was about to refuse and then he changed his mind. Very little happened in Dahrein that Skiros didn’t know about. He nodded and moved forward. “Come to think of it, I could use one, if you make it long and cool.”
Skiros turned back into the room, wiping his face with his handkerchief. He sagged down into a large wicker chair by the window and gestured toward a table on which stood several bottles and a pitcher of ice water. “You mix the drinks, my friend,” he said. “I haven’t enough energy to lift the bottle.”
Kane closed the door and went over to the table. He quickly mixed two large gin-slings and handed one to the Greek. Skiros swallowed half of it and grunted, “Christ, that was good. At the beginning of each year I tell myself it will be my last in this accursed hole. I swear on the grave of my mother that I will go home to Greece, but . . .” He sighed deeply and shrugged his shoulders.
“Why don’t you?” Kane said.
Skiros grinned, exposing a row of decaying teeth. “Because I am greedy. Because I can make so much money so very easily here.” He sipped some more of his drink and went on. “But I might ask you the same thing. What can be the attraction of a place like Dahrein for a man like you?” He grinned and his eyes sparkled. “Could it be the admirable Mademoiselle Perret?”
Kane shrugged calmly. “Women mean nothing to me, Skiros. I’m in Dahrein for the same reason you are. I can make money here—very easily and tax free. There aren’t many places left where one can do that these days.”
Skiros chuckled. “And avoid Europe, the war.”
“You think it will come?” Kane asked.
“Of course. Everything Hitler wanted he’s got. Why should Poland be different?”
“Not my affair,” Kane said.
“Nor mine.” Skiros drained his glass. “And what of the beautiful Mrs. Cunningham? It isn’t every day we get so charming a visitor in Dahrein.”
Kane helped himself to a cigarette from an ivory box on the table. “Didn’t she tell you why she’s here?”
Skiros shook his head. “She came straight to the hotel from the boat. After she’d booked in, she asked for you at once. She didn’t give a reason. I assumed at first that you must be old friends. To be frank, I thought that perhaps your past was catching up to you.”
Kane walked across to the window. He stood looking out over the harbor and spoke without turning round. “She’s looking for her husband. Apparently he ran out on her. The last she heard, he was making for here.”
Skiros grunted in surprise. “But why would he come here?”
Kane turned to face him and shrugged. “He’s a lecturer in Archaeology at one of the English universities. Apparently he wanted to visit the ruins at Shabwa.”
Skiros frowned. “But only that crazy American, Jordan, manages to survive up there.”
Kane nodded. “That’s true, but what about Professor Muller? He’s been hunting for rock inscriptions in that area for months now. He’s managed to survive somehow.”
Skiros snorted. “Bah, the German swine.” He spat on the floor and then rubbed it into the carpet with the toe of one shoe. “He is protected by the devil, but one day he will go too far. One day they will find him with a bullet in the head.”
Kane shrugged. “Is he in town at the moment?”
Skiros nodded. “Yes, he came in last night by road. He drove past the hotel about eleven o’clock just as I was having someone kicked out.”
Kane went to the table and helped himself to another drink. “You don’t know anything about this guy Cunningham, then?”
Skiros shrugged his great shoulders. “I’m afraid not. When was he supposed to arrive here?” When Kane told him, he frowned for a moment and then shook his head. “No, I can’t remember him.”
Kane swallowed his drink and walked to the door. “I think I’ll go and see Muller. He might have run across him.”
He opened the door and Skiros said, “But why should you go to all this trouble, my friend? I confess I am puzzled.”
Kane turned and grinned. He held up one hand and rubbed his thumb across his fingers in the universal gesture that is readily understood in every corner of the world. “For money,” he said. “What else?”
When he emerged from the hotel into the street, it was still quiet and deserted, but the sun enveloped him in an invisible cloak that caused the sweat to spring from every pore, soaking through his shirt and pants. He walked slowly along the shady side of the street toward Muller’s house, frowning slightly as he considered his conversation with Skiros.
If Cunningham had landed in Dahrein, it was strange Skiros didn’t know of it. It was a small town and not much escaped him. But perhaps Cunningham had never reached Dahrein? Perhaps he’d changed his mind? After all, there was only the letter to his wife to go on. On the other hand, that theory didn’t hold water. He’d left Aden on the mail boat—the British Consul had confirmed that. He must have landed in Dahrein. Perhaps he’d already made arrangements to go up-country and hadn’t bothered booking in at the hotel. From what his wife had said, he couldn’t have had a great deal of money.
Muller’s house was in a narrow alley at the north side of the harbor. The entrance was set in a high wall, and Kane pulled on an ancient bell chain several times. As he waited for a response, he thought about the German. Muller had arrived in Dahrein the first time about a year previously. A stiff, perfectly mannered Prussian, he was interested in graffiti—the ancient rock inscriptions which were to be found throughout the mountains. He constantly made long expeditions by truck, penetrating deep into some of the wildest country on the border. He seldom took more than two or three Arabs with him and carried no weapons. He was considered by the Musabein to be mad, and this probably accounted for his continued existence. No true believer would dare eternal hell, by laying hands on one of the afflicted of Allah.
The door opened and an Arab servant in clean white robes stood to one side, bowing deeply as Kane entered. He moved into a pleasant courtyard in the center of which a fountain sparkled in the sun. Above his head a balcony jutted out from one of the first-floor windows and Muller appeared and looked down at him. A pleased smile appeared on his face and he waved cheerfully. “Ah, Kane, my good friend. The very man. Come up—come up at once!”
Kane followed the servant inside the house. He led the way upstairs to a narrow corridor, opened a door and stood to one side, motioning Kane through.
Muller was standing beside a large table in his shirtsleeves. When he bowed he almost clicked his heels. He smiled. “I have something that will interest you. I’ve taken a latex squeeze of an inscription I found in a gorge near Shabwa. Give me your opinion on it.”
Kane examined the long strip of rubber. The Professor was using a new method of copying his inscriptions. A latex solution brushed onto the rock hardened quickly in the sun and peeled away in a long strip, carrying with it a perfect copy.
Kane examined the inscription with interest. After a moment he looked up. “Quatabanian, isn’t it?”
The German nodded. “Yes, I found it on a rock face not far from an ancient camel trail. I haven’t had time to translate it properly, but it seems to refer to a war with the Kingdom of Sheba some time during the seventh century B.C.”
Kane sat on the edge of the table. “You know, that’s the third time you’ve been in the Shabwa area to my knowledge during the past four months. Don’t you think you’re asking for trouble?”
Muller snorted. “I have no interest in who runs the country so long as I am left alone. The tribesmen know it and don’t bother me.”
Kane shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Tell me, have you run across any Europeans in the Shabwa area during the past couple of months?”
Muller looked at him in surprise. “Only Jordan, that crazy fellow-countryman of yours. Why do you ask?”
“There’s a wom
an in town looking for her husband,” Kane told him. “An archaeologist called Cunningham. He’s supposed to have gone up-country to Shabwa about two months ago. No one’s heard of him since.”
The German threw back his head and laughed harshly. “Nor are they likely to, if he went alone. But what did he want at Shabwa?”
Kane shrugged. “I understand he was looking for graffiti, like you.”
“I can do without the competition, thank you.” Muller got to his feet and walked across to the window, a frown on his face. “No, I’m afraid I haven’t come across this man.” He shook his head. “It’s rather strange. I’m sure I would have heard if there was another European in the mountains.”
Kane nodded. “Yes, that’s what I can’t understand. Even Skiros hasn’t heard of him, and that’s saying something.”
Muller shrugged. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“That’s all right,” Kane said. “I’m beginning to think the guy never arrived here in the first place.”
The German nodded. “It certainly looks like it.”
Kane went back downstairs and the servant appeared at once from the cool darkness of a rear corridor and escorted him to the door. When it had closed behind him, he stood for a moment in the hot street, thinking about his next move. There was really only one thing left to do for the moment. He could check with Captain Gonzalez. He would certainly remember if a European named Cunningham had landed from the mail boat during the past two months.
He walked back through the town the way he had come, passed the hotel, and continued along the waterfront toward the north jetty. The Spaniard’s house was next to it and looked down over the beach. Kane knocked at the door and it was opened almost immediately by a heavily veiled woman.
She showed him into a cool, inner courtyard where he found Gonzalez stretched comfortably on a divan, a can of beer in one hand, the contents of which he was pouring into a tall glass.
He looked up and said cheerfully, “See, you have caught me in the act. Already I am becoming a slave to your American habits. Will you join me?”
Kane shook his head. “Not this time if you don’t mind.”
He sat on the end of the divan, pushing his cap to the back of his head, and Gonzalez said, “It is not often you honor my humble house with a visit, Captain Kane. Presumably you are in need of my assistance.”
Kane grinned. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
An expression of complacency appeared on the Spaniard’s face, and he leaned back against the cushions with a sigh. “Ah, sooner or later everyone comes to me. I trust you will not accuse me of pride if I tell you that few things happen in Dahrein that I do not get to know about sooner or later.”
Kane nodded. “I know, and that’s why I’m here. There’s a woman in town—a Mrs. Cunningham.”
Gonzalez nodded. “This is so. She got off the mail boat from Aden today.”
“She’s looking for her husband. He wrote to her two months ago telling her he was coming to Dahrein. He intended to go up-country to Shabwa. She hasn’t heard from him since.”
The Spaniard frowned. “What was this man’s name—Cunningham, you say?” He shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid she must have made a mistake. No one by that name has landed in Dahrein.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?” Kane demanded.
Gonzalez shrugged. “How could I be mistaken? Do I not meet every boat?”
For a moment Kane was going to argue, but he decided it wasn’t worth it. That the Spaniard didn’t check half the boats he should was common knowledge in Dahrein. Getting him to admit that fact was something else entirely. He pulled his cap down over his eyes and sighed. “Thanks anyway. It looks as if Mrs. Cunningham made a mistake.”
Gonzalez nodded wisely. “It is a thing women commonly do.”
Kane stood outside the house as the door closed behind him and looked out across the harbor to the launch. He could see Piroo squatting against the stern rail and knew that the Hindu would be watching him.
He felt tired—really tired. He slipped a hand into his hip pocket and pulled out the envelope Ruth Cunningham had given to him. He looked at it thoughtfully and came to a sudden decision. There was only one other person in Dahrein who might have some information about the elusive John Cunningham. That was Marie Perret. He had to see her anyway, but his visit could wait until the evening when it was cooler.
He walked along to the end of the jetty, and Piroo tumbled over the stern into the dinghy and sculled it toward him. Kane dropped down into the little boat and the Hindu started to pull back toward the launch. “Any visitors while I’ve been away?”
Piroo shook his head. “All is quiet, sahib. It is too hot for any but a fool to be abroad.”
Kane grinned and the little Hindu’s face clouded with dismay. “I am sorry, sahib,” he said. “I have a foolish tongue.”
Kane shook his head and pulled himself up over the rail of the launch. “No, I think you’ve hit the nail on the head this time, Piroo. I’m dead tired. I’m going below for a sleep. Wake me around eight, will you?”
Piroo nodded and Kane went below into the coolness of his cabin. He mixed a drink, stripped the clothes from his body, and went and lay on the bunk, the envelope Ruth Cunningham had given him in his hand.
He took out the typed translation of the manuscript and started to read. It was an absorbing story and he read steadily for an hour until he had finished it. For a little while he lay staring at the roof of the cabin and thinking about Alexias. A well-defined personality had emerged from the pages to stand before him. It was that of a brave and aggressive, physically tough man, highly intelligent and a natural leader.
There had been a touch of the dreamer in him also. Kane reread the portion of the manuscript in which Alexias described his feelings on first setting out into the desert in search of the temple. The man’s character emerged strongly in the light of his own words. A born adventurer, always restless, always gazing beyond the next hill, always searching for something and never finding it.
Had he been looking for Sheba’s Temple or had he really been searching for something else? His own true self, perhaps? The self that most men went through life without ever meeting. He turned to the last page of the manuscript and read again the final sentence.
So, I, Alexias, Senior Centurion of the Tenth Legion, Commander at BeerSheba, end this account. Lest other men should be tempted to follow the seven pillars to Sheba’s Temple, a word of warning. For my poor comrades those seven pillars led only to death.
Kane stared up at the roof, watching the dust dancing in the sunshine that streamed through the porthole above his head, and thought about the Greek’s words. There was an Ethiopian proverb which said something about the road to Hell being marked by seven pillars, and the Ethiopians had conquered Southern Arabia for a while. For a brief moment, he wondered whether there could possibly be a connection but dismissed the notion as improbable. The Ethiopian conquest had come much later. He was still thinking about it as he drifted into sleep.
He came awake suddenly and lay staring into the darkness. Some special sense, deep in his subconscious, had sounded an alarm, and he lay on the bunk, fingers curled tightly, wary as any animal who knows the hunter is near.
He became aware of the smell first—stale and faintly rancid. Olive oil or perhaps a grease of some sort. And then he heard the breathing, and there was a faint curse as someone stumbled against the table. He waited, hardly daring to breathe, and stared up through half-closed eyelids at the bright beam of moonlight which streamed in through the porthole.
And then the breathing was very close, and he saw the upraised knife gleam in the moonlight. He twisted and lifted his knee sideways. It connected with his assailant’s stomach and there was a subdued grunt. His right hand fastened about the man’s wrist and he twisted sharply. There was a cry and the knife fell to the floor.
Kane scrambled from the bunk, hands reaching for his assassin’s body, but the man’s t
orso was slippery with oil and Kane’s hands failed to secure a grip. The man twisted like an eel and dashed for the entrance. As he came out on deck, Piroo jumped to bar his way. There was a grunt of pain from the little Hindu as their bodies collided and the killer ducked under his arm and dived over the rail.
Kane stood listening intently but could hear no sound. He turned slowly. “Are you all right?”
The little Hindu was almost weeping. “Sahib, I am shamed. This man boarded the launch and almost killed you while I slept.”
Kane patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t be damned silly. He was probably a professional. They’re the only ones who oil their bodies before going on a job. Don’t worry about it. Get the dinghy ready and we’ll pay a call on our friend Selim.”
He went below and dressed quickly, and when he came back on deck he was carrying the Colt automatic in his jacket pocket. It was time someone cut Selim down to size, he decided, as they crossed the harbor and rowed between the fishing boats toward the Farah.
The dinghy bumped against the side of the great dhow and he told Piroo to wait, mounted a rope ladder quickly, and climbed over the rail. The deck was deserted. Underneath the stern deck, a door opened into the captain’s cabin, and he approached cautiously. For a moment he hesitated outside, listening, and then he kicked open the door and went in, the Colt ready in his right hand.
Two Arabs were sitting cross-legged on cushions beside a low table, which contained a coffee pot and several tiny cups. They glanced up in alarm and he held the gun steady on them.
“Where is Selim?” he demanded in Arabic.
One of them shrugged. “He left this afternoon. I think he went up-country to visit friends.”
For a moment Kane gazed at them suspiciously. As he lowered the Colt and started to move away, he became aware of a familiar odor. It was the stale, rancid smell of olive oil.
He turned slowly and faced the men. “Take off your robes!” They looked at each other in alarm, and the one who had spoken started to protest. Kane moved forward quickly, a savage look on his face. “Do as I say.”