by C J Turner
Shocked and frightened to hear the unconcealed fear in the voice of the older woman, she had set off immediately, taking a local flight to Luxor, a ferry to the West Bank and then hiring a car to take her to the village near the fabled Valley of the Kings where her Aunt lived.
Amunet’s parents had been killed in a terrorist bomb attack when she was twelve and she had gone to live with her mother’s elder sister Hameeda, and her husband and their little daughter Ghalida. The couple had about given up on the hope of having a child of their own and when the longed for baby arrived, they were not a whit discouraged that it was a girl. There was a strong tradition of respect for the females in Hameeda’s family and she herself was held in high esteem. The couple provided a warm and loving home for their orphaned niece and Amunet was devoted to her substitute family.
Hameeda was one of the few people who was aware of the true nature of her niece’s work. All most people knew was that she worked for an obscure government department and if they assumed that she was one of the secretaries, so much the better. In reality, Amunet was an agent for the S.C.A., The Supreme Council of Antiquities that specialized, amongst other things, in the tracking down of smuggled antiquities. It was sheer chance that she was on leave when her Aunt called, having only just returned from the States where she and her colleagues had successfully wound up the criminal activities of an unscrupulous dealer of illegal artifacts.
She was acquiring quite a reputation for a certain kind of undercover work, many a malefactor discovering too late that beneath the charmingly delicate outward appearance, she was actually about as fragile as tempered steel. Her training had been arduous, but she had worked hard and developed lightening reflexes. So often, sheer astonishment on the side of the other party had enabled her to gain the upper hand in a confrontation - that momentary advantage was usually all she needed.
It was natural therefore, that on receiving the ransom note, Hameeda immediately telephoned her niece; she had been warned against contacting the police on pain of her daughter’s life, which would also be forfeit if the old lady did not hand over what they wanted.
‘But do you know what they want?’ Amunet asked, naturally perplexed. Her Aunt was comfortable by village standards but not rich and she certainly did not have collections of rare antiquities.
Hameeda’s eyes fell to her lap and she was silent for a moment before replying. They were sitting in her living room, the glowing colours of the rugs on the simple white walls were muted now in the dim light, the shutters closed against the hot Egyptian sun. Outside the empty streets were deserted and quiet during the heat of the afternoon, except for a dog barking somewhere and the laughter of children playing by the well. Normal, familiar sounds but here inside, the stuff of nightmare.
‘Yes, I think so,’ she said at last, reluctantly. ‘I will have to tell you the whole, child, it is only fair that you know what this is all about. About ten or twelve years ago, when your Uncle Naa’il was still alive, there was a flash flood up in the hills that caused a rock fall just to the north of here. There was talk of an exposed tomb and your uncle and a group of the village men went up to take a look, but there was nothing there of any interest, just some old empty chambers and part of a ruined passage, and the area was unstable and dangerous. But later, he went back by himself to make a closer examination and he discovered a small, sealed chamber which was still intact.’
Amunet gave a slight gasp, her eyes like saucers.
‘He managed to find a way in but there were only some old bones in a wooden coffin on a stone slab. But under the slab, your uncle found a wonderful golden dagger,’ her Aunt smiled sadly at her niece and patted the girl’s knee. ‘You did not know your uncle very well, he died not long after you came to live with us, but he took the dagger to keep it safe, certainly not to sell it. At that time, there was a bad man called Ahmed Rassim, who was the Mayor of the village, and he became suspicious of Naa’il. I never found out why exactly, but he believed that Naa’il had discovered the whereabouts of an intact tomb, not the poor little chamber where Naa’il had found the dagger, but a proper tomb belonging to some important official, which Ahmed hoped would still contain a great treasure. One night there was an accident and your uncle was injured; Ahmed found him and tried to torture Naa’il into relinquishing the location of the tomb’.
Hameeda’s voice quavered and Amunet patted her hand reassuringly, willing her to go on.
‘You will probably not remember, but there were some English archaeologists camped in the valley that year, and we had become very friendly with some of them, in particular a young man called Blake Gasgoine. It was Blake who rescued Naa’il and testified against Rassim. Later, Ahmed Rassim was jailed for fifteen years. I knew nothing about the dagger until the day when Naa’il, knowing he had not long to live, tried to tell me what he had done. I could not understand much of what he said, he was rambling, upset and confused. He seemed obsessed by the dagger, saying it was bad luck and cursing the day he had removed it from the tomb. I can tell you, he frightened me. He made me swear I would try to put it back but he did not know what he was saying, I had no idea of the location of the tomb. After he was gone, I did not know what to do but I was afraid, not so much for myself but for you two young ones, so I hid it. It is over there under the shrine, I thought this would protect us from its evil.
I did not think that Ghalida knew anything about this, she was just a child at the time. But Ahmed’s nephew, Mustaf Rassim has been making up to her lately, I had forbidden her to see him but she fancies herself in love with him. Anyway, he asked her to search our house for any artifacts she could find and bring them to him, he just wanted to see them he told her – and the silly girl believed him. You know him, he is a vicious young thug, but good looking and she was flattered by his interest. Two days ago, she found the dagger and I was only just in time to stop her from taking it to him. But she did not return home last night and then this note appeared this morning. I have found out that Ahmed was released this year, early for good behavior, can you believe - and has wasted no time it seems, to take up his search again, using Mustaf to seduce my daughter, my little Ghalida for their own filthy ends.’
She turned her anxious face to the younger woman, her eyes brimming with tears and Amunet hugged her.
‘We will get her back, we will - I promise you. Don’t give up, just tell me where I have to go, they surely won’t hurt her if we give them this thing that they want so badly.’
Hameeda wiped her eyes and looked bleakly into the anxious little face of her niece, so heartbreakingly alike to her daughter. Amunet looked younger than her twenty-seven years, too young to be thrust into such a dangerous situation, but Ghalida was even younger and despite their wholly different natures, the cousins were very close. She sighed and rising to her feet walked a little unsteadily over to the family shrine in the corner of the room. Pulling out a small oblong box, she brought it over to where Amunet sat watching. Opening the lid, she removed the crumpled linen resting on top, to reveal a slim leaf shaped golden dagger with a magnificent tapered hilt intricately wrought with jewelled bands of lapis, turquoise and carnelian and finished with the ‘wadjet’- the all seeing Eye of Ra, in glistening enamel work. It was a superb piece of craftsmanship and for a few moments, the two women sat looking at it in awed silence.
A sob suddenly escaped her Aunt, who seemed to have aged several years since Amunet had seen her last, only a month or two ago.
‘Here, take the accursed thing, Naa’il was right, it has brought nothing but death and disaster to my family. Take it and bring my daughter back to me.’
Thrusting the box at her niece, Hameeda pulled her head veil further over her face and covered her eyes with her hands, unable to bear the sight of the object that she blamed for the ruination of her family, and Amunet hurriedly closed the lid.
She had been unable to rescue her cousin.
Tragically, Ghalida was already dead at the hands of her kidnappers; she had neither th
e strength of her cousin nor the fortitude of her mother and her young life had slipped away even as Hameeda was reading the ransom note.
Amunet had approached the designated hand-over spot from an entirely different direction than the kidnappers would have expected, by climbing perilously high up into the sheer cliffs. Her intention was to assess the situation before making her next move as she knew, none better, how slim were the chances of the two girls getting out of the valley alive after she had handed the dagger over. Her plans had been carefully laid, but before she could put them into action, by a horrific twist of fate, she had discovered her cousin’s dead body, thrown casually down the tumble of rocks like a broken doll.
Ghalida’s injuries had made Amunet retch, but she had managed to wrap the girl’s body in her own jacket and carry it some distance away before she was able to conceal it amongst the rocks and go for help.
Breaking the news to Hameeda was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. Her Aunt was heart-broken and convinced that the dagger was responsible for the tragedy. Her husband’s dying words preyed on her mind; because of the dagger she had lost her husband and now her daughter, and she was determined that somehow the dagger must be restored to the place where it had been discovered.
There was now nothing to lose by telling the police what had happened, but Hameeda did not mention the dagger. Her daughter’s body was recovered but Mustaf Rassim had vanished, and they guessed that he and his uncle had gone into hiding. However, neither women believed it would end there, the Rassims were still very dangerously at large, deeply committed and wanted for murder; it was not likely that they would give up now.
It was Hameeda herself who came up with the idea of enlisting the aid of the English Professor who had been such a good friend to her husband. He had been there at the time of the discovery and may know where Naa’il had found the tomb. The matter was hardly one they could explain in a letter out of the blue, and of too much importance for a telephone call, so it was decided that Amunet would go to England to speak to him in person, and she should take the dagger with her.
It went rather against the grain for Amunet to agree to take the precious artifact out of the country but she was not about to let her scruples put her Aunt at risk, and of course she had every intention of bringing it back again. Privately, she hoped to draw the gang out of hiding so they would follow her and leave her Aunt alone, but she made no mention of this to Hameeda.
After the funeral, Hameeda took Amunet to one side and showed her an antique pendant in the shape of a beautiful winged scarab.
Hameeda’s stern expression softening as she looked down at the amulet cradled in her hand.
‘I remember well the day when my mother gave this to me. It is very old and very precious; my grandmother told my mother that it has been in our family’s possession for many generations, passed always to the female line. Now, my little Ghalida is gone and so I give it to you, dear as my own daughter. Take good care of it.’
The two women embraced in shared grief and Hameeda had slipped the gold chain over the girl’s head. As the richly enamelled pendant slipped down over her skin and Amunet felt the cold metal nestle between the warmth of her breasts for the first time, she felt a slight shock ripple through her whole body, making her gasp in surprise.
Her Aunt looked up, ‘What is wrong?’ she asked, startled.
‘Nothing, just a little cold, I guess!’ Amunet had tried to laugh it off but Hameeda had thrown her niece a suddenly keen look.
On the day Amunet was due to leave for England, Hameeda brought out the dagger from its hiding place and reluctantly handed it to her niece. As Amunet prepared to wrap it carefully in tissue paper, the heavy hilt slipped and the blade fell across her palm raising a fine beading of crimson droplets. Hameeda exclaimed in horror and went immediately to fetch antiseptic and plasters but Amunet stared perplexed at the bright liquid dripping from her hand. Who would have thought that the dagger could still retain such a sharp edge? Slowly, she clenched her hand and silently swore an oath on her own blood that she would revenge her cousin’s death.
When her Aunt returned, she was shocked to see the hard and implacable expression on the face of her niece. For an uncanny moment, she had looked just like one of the statues of the ancient Goddesses of Egypt, remote, enigmatic and merciless.
But her anxiety would have turned to superstitious terror if she had known what was happening just a few miles away.
There, high on a desolate cliff in the forbidden valley, an eddy of dust conjured up by the rising wind swirled forlornly over a heap of rags lying by the side of the path.
At the precise moment the dagger bit into Amunet’s soft flesh, the rags stirred and a recumbent figure wrapped in tattered robes abruptly sat up.
And old crusted eyes suddenly opened, agleam with unholy triumph.
Chapter 6
To their neighbours in the village, Amunet made no secret of the fact that she was going to England on her Aunt’s business, deliberately hoping in this way to draw the gang away from Hameeda.
On arrival at the airport, she decided that now she was in England, it would be safe to send the parcel by registered post to the Professor. Then, even if anything happened to her, the gang would not also get the artifact. She slipped in a brief formal note entrusting the dagger to his safekeeping and explaining that she would be calling on him in a day or two on behalf of an acquaintance of his, the Sitt Hameeda Safwan, and would make the matter clear at that time. Only when she had handed the brown paper parcel over at the mail counter, did she allow herself to breathe a great sign of relief. Feeling almost light hearted, she left the airport and hailed a taxi to take her to her hotel – for the first time since she had known of its existence, Amunet felt reasonably confident that the dagger, and her Aunt, were out of harm’s way.
Tomorrow she would go to the Museum where, if their information was correct, Blake Gasgoine was currently lecturing. If she was being watched, she did not want to go directly to his house, nor did she wish to try to explain this complex matter to him over the telephone. Passing for just another foreign student, she should have no trouble gaining access to him and she could then describe in person what had happened and enlist his help. Her hearted thudded a little harder at the thought, but the cause was not entirely due to the imminent shedding of a heavy responsibility. Filled with anticipation, Amunet arrived at her hotel and entered her room, looking forward to a leisurely bath, a sleep and a good meal. The first time she had felt the stirrings of an appetite for days.
Unfortunately, trouble had booked in before her.
After dinner that evening, unable to resist taking a stroll around the still bustling London streets before turning in for the night, she had been stopped by a heavily veiled figure dressed in a burqa, who in a timid whisper had asked her for directions to the nearest tube station. The enveloping black robes covered the woman from head to toe, leaving only a narrow slit to see through which was covered in this case by a piece of gauze. They were not an unusual sight in tourist teeming, multi-cultural London and relief had made Amunet careless. Light-heartedly she greeted the familiar figure in her own language. As a black car pulled up beside them, side door already swinging open, she was taken completely off guard when the veiled figure pushed her roughly into the back seat and swiftly jumped in beside her.
As she fell into the car, the figure sitting on the far side, immediately rammed a gun nozzle painfully into her side. He muttered something to the man in front, and the car leapt forward as the driver trod hard on the accelerator.
The decoy pulled the veil from his head and grinned evilly at Amunet from a garishly made up mask. The remnants of youthful good looks were already showing unmistakable signs of depravity, made even more macabre by the kohl outlined eyes and reddened lips that only served to emphasise the vice in the faintly pockmarked face. In contrast, the man on her other side was much older and had a colourless, sallow face, which had an unpleasant bleached look, a
s if he had spent the last few years under a stone somewhere.
He gestured to her with the nozzle of the gun to raise her hands. At any moment, she knew they would try to either knock her out or drug her, and then she would be at their mercy, as helpless as poor Ghalida had been.
As the car accelerated away, the man with the gun was thrown back slightly in his seat, and she did not hesitate. Her arms were already raised, and she brought them back down again lightening fast, slamming an elbow into the ribs of the man on either side of her. As they buckled, she grabbed a handful of hair from each and crashed their heads together in a jarring collision that made their teeth rattle. The gun dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers and fell on the floor by Amunet’s feet.
The car swerved dangerously, as the driver tried desperately to look over his shoulder to see what was happening behind him, whilst still driving at break-neck speed through the poorly lit streets. In seconds, they had screeched to a halt in a side alley under a dark bridge. It was late and there was no one about in this seedy part of London, consisting mainly of derelict old warehouses and half-finished new buildings; a world removed from the bright lights and busyness that was happening only a mile or two away.
Before the engine had died, Amunet was reaching over her stunned companions to fling open the door, snatching up the gun as she went. The first bullet hit the driver as he jumped out of the car, the second took the older man in the shoulder before the third, and deadliest member, rammed into her, knocking the gun out of her hand. She kicked it away into the darkness out of his reach, and he turned back to her with a snarl of rage. But she had already pulled the sturdy leather belt from about her waist and was wrapping one end of it around the knuckles of her right hand, the heavy silver buckle with the wickedly sharp prong swinging dangerously free.