by John Wilcox
‘What does that mean when it’s at ’ome?’
‘React to circumstances as they occur, but the basic plan is this. I will follow their instructions and give myself up, so to speak. I am sure it is me they want, so I will try and buy Alice’s freedom. I estimate that this will take about ten minutes. Follow me to wherever I go, taking care not to be seen, and then hide outside for ten minutes. If Alice is not released within that time, it means that my negotiations have failed and we must use force, although,’ he frowned and shook his head, ‘I hate taking that risk, with Alice in their hands.’
‘What sort of force? Just blast in?’
‘Not quite. You, 352, see if there is a back entrance. If, as Fatima says, this place is in the native district, then it won’t be a grand stone edifice, so you should be able to get round the back. Ahmed, give 352 three minutes to do this – do you have a watch?’
Ahmed, his eyes bright, nodded.
‘Good. Give him three minutes and then make a hell of a row at the front, knocking hard at the door and shouting in Arabic that you are the police. Take one of the Colts – you have the other, 352 – and if the door is not opened right away, shoot the lock away, but do not enter. Do you understand: do not enter.’
‘Understand. Do not enter. Hold back, yes?’
‘Exactly. Because they might shoot you as you go in. Wait until you hear Jenkins firing and creating a diversion. Then, once you are in, start shooting and create all hell. But Ahmed, be careful when you fire that pistol. I don’t want Alice hurt. Now, 352, if you have not been able to get into this place quietly by the time you hear the commotion at the front, then you shoot your way in at the back, through a door or a window. Once in, shoot to kill. Understood?’
‘An’ what will you be doin’ all this time, without a gun to your name?’
Simon gave a weary grin. ‘To be honest, I don’t bloody well know. But I won’t be completely unarmed. I can’t take a revolver because they will undoubtedly search me, but give me that knife that you’re so good with and I will tuck it inside the top of my boot and hope they don’t find it in the search. With you two coming in from different directions, there should be enough noise and confusion for me to grab Alice, at least, and put her out of harm’s way.’
There was a moment’s silence as the other two considered the plan. Ahmed’s eyes showed that he considered it an excellent idea, but Jenkins’s face was gloomy. ‘What if we lose you some’ow? ’Ow will we know where they’ve taken you to?’
‘I’ve thought of that. I’ll take a couple of pocketfuls of rice and try and leave a trail. Just watch for it.’
Jenkins sniffed. ‘All right, bach sir. But, with great respect, I ’ave to say I don’t think it’s one of your better ideas.’
‘I agree, but can you think of a better one?’
‘No, but that’s not my department, you know that.’ Then he grinned slowly. ‘But, bach, by God we’ll do it. We’ll get that lass out of there. Don’t you worry.’
They spent the remaining hours in their various ways. Jenkins showed Ahmed how to load the Colt and pull back the hammer with his thumb, and then he sharpened his fearsome knife. The little Egyptian similarly honed his sword, from which he would not be parted. Simon wrote a letter for General Wolseley, explaining all that had happened, and asked Fatima to have it delivered to the Admiral if he did not return. He also penned a very short letter to his parents and left that too in Fatima’s care. Then he studied a rudimentary map that Ahmed had procured and found that Ismail Street was only some twenty minutes’ walk away. He memorised his route there. Jenkins and he then changed into Arab dress and Simon carefully tucked the Welshman’s long knife down into his riding boot.
‘Now you remember,’ said Jenkins, ‘if you do get into a knife fight . . .’
‘I know. Watch his eyes.’
‘Absolutely. Don’t watch his knife, watch ’is eyes. They will almost certainly tell you what ’e’s goin’ to do.’
‘Very good, sir.’
They grinned at each other, gripped each other’s shoulders and shook hands. Then Simon set out alone, through the darkened streets, his fingers nervously sifting through the rice in the pockets of his burnous. It was the longest, most frightening walk of his life.
He found 23a Ismail Street well enough. It was not a residence, just a small shed next door to a wooden house that seemed to be unoccupied. As he half expected, there was a note pinned to the door:Dear Sir, (what ridiculous formality!)
Walk further along Ismail Street and take first right into Abdullah Row. Knock on number 17. Bring this note with you. Your every move is being watched.
G. George.
Simon made a great show of pocketing the note and took advantage of the action to grab a handful of rice. He looked around him. There was no one, absolutely no one to be seen. The ‘teemings of peoples’ that Ahmed had talked about were either a figment of Fatima’s imagination or else everyone was indoors, watching him. He turned around to scan the street the way he had come but there was no sign of Jenkins or Ahmed. He began walking slowly along Ismail Street, dribbling the grains of rice as he went, his heart in his mouth. It was not so much the obvious presence of danger that made his heart beat faster and his mouth taste of sandpaper. It was the eerie emptiness and silence that hung over the street, like a blanket of humidity, a cloak of evil.
He turned into Abdullah Row. It was a repeat of Ismail Street: the same empty wooden houses, the same smell of drains and stale spices, the same pregnant silence, as though the world was waiting for an explosion. Was Pompeii like this before the eruption?
Number 17 was a little larger than the other houses, although, like them, it was single storeyed. Built of timber, it boasted a small veranda, and up a side passage, he glimpsed what was presumably a small patch of garden. Simon drew in his breath. Good, that meant a rear entrance. The windows were boarded up, but he thought he could detect a chink of light through one of the cracks. He looked around him. Nobody, of course. Making sure that his rice trail showed exactly where he had turned off, he approached the door, half expecting to see further directions pinned to it. But there was nothing. Taking a deep breath, he knocked.
Immediately a key turned in the lock and the door was flung open. The gratuitious violence that ensued shocked him. Two pairs of hands grabbed him, hauled him inside and threw him to the floor. He was kicked heavily in the ribs and a blow on the shoulder set his head singing. Then a slippered foot was placed on his cheek, pressing his face to the floor, so that all he could see was a wooden wall and a small table on which two candles were guttering. The smell of unwashed feet was overpowering. He lay like that for perhaps thirty seconds, his arms spread-eagled and other feet standing on his wrists so that he could not suppress a whimper of pain. He could hear also a muffled sound, as though someone was attempting to cry out but could not.
Then a dry voice spoke in Arabic and he was hauled to his feet as roughly as he had been thrown down. Hands ran over his body to ensure that he was unarmed. He blinked in the candlelight and then bellowed in anger and anguish at what he saw.
Immediately in front of him, on a low table, stood Alice. Her legs were bound around the ankles, her hands were tied behind her back and the fresh green silk scarf that had so beguilingly tied back her hair was now thrust into her mouth and secured behind her head with a cord. Around her neck was a noose of coarse rope, which was tied to a beam above her, so tightly that her head was tilted to one side and she was forced to stand on tiptoe. Her face was bruised and one eye was almost closed, but the other glared defiance, and the noise he had heard was that of her muffled voice.
Mr George sat in front of her in a small cane chair. His cotton suit was heavily creased, as though he had been sleeping in it, and his small round glasses gleamed in the candlelight. Incongruously, however, he seemed to be wearing a new celluloid collar.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming. I knew you would.’
Simon loo
ked quickly around the room. Two tall Egyptians – those who had hauled him inside – stood one on either side of him. They seemed to be unarmed but they were too big to grapple with. One other man, in Arab dress, stood to the side, a long jerzail crooked in his arm, the muzzle pointed at Simon. But there was more. The room was a bizarre storage chamber. Artefacts of all kinds lined the walls and were set atop wooden crates: canopic jars; gold scarabs and amulets, glinting in the yellow light; vases and jugs of porcelain and alabaster set down in a jumble on a succession of tables; necklaces of amber and gold, looped from nails driven into the walls; several long, narrow boxes bearing ancient inscriptions that Simon presumed were mummy cases; funerary figures in plaster and wood – the room was clearly a repository for the pickings of dozens of ancient graves along the Nile. Sawdust and wood shavings on the floor showed how the objects had been protected on their long journey in wooden cases from the south.
But Simon had little time or care for these treasures. How long had Alice been forced to stand like that – on tiptoe, with a rope cutting into her throat? He struggled to keep his voice level. ‘I will say not a word to you, George,’ he said, ‘unless that rope is slackened and she is allowed to stand properly.’
‘No, sir,’ said the little man. ‘Not George. Mister George, if you please. Let us retain the courtesies.’
‘Mr George, relax that rope, or you will hear nothing at all from me from now on.’
George shrugged. ‘I don’t particularly want to hear anything from you, sir, and it doesn’t matter to me if the bitch remains in discomfort until she dies, but just to indulge you for a moment, we can relax the rope, although it remains around her neck – to save time, you understand.’ He spoke in fluent Arabic to the man on Simon’s right, who immediately stood on the table and eased the knot around the beam, so that Alice’s heels were allowed to touch the tabletop. He then fondled her breasts for a moment and dug a finger between her thighs before stepping down.
Simon felt an icy calm descend on him. He must stay cool. George and his henchmen were not rational employees of Arabi. They were clearly some kind of psychopaths intent on . . . intent on what? He did not know. But he must play for time until Jenkins arrived. His brain raced. How long had he been in here? Perhaps three minutes. Jenkins and Ahmed were three minutes behind him, say five. If they managed to follow the rice trail, they would be here in two or three minutes. Then they would allow ten minutes . . . ah, in the event, far too long! So, if everything went according to plan – which it never did – he had to keep them talking for thirteen minutes.
Simon swallowed. ‘Now, Mr George,’ he said, ‘I presume I have information that you want from me. I am quite prepared to divulge that information if you let Miss Griffith – Mrs Covington – go free.’
A muffled snort came from behind Alice’s gag. George removed his spectacles and polished them. He looked genuinely puzzled. ‘Information, sir? What sort of information would I want from you, then?’
It was Simon’s turn to look puzzled. ‘Why, details of General Wolseley’s plans for invasion, of course. I am privy to his plans, you know, and they will be extremely valuable to your master.’
‘My master? Who is my master?’
‘Colonel Arabi, of course.’
‘Pah! I do not work for Arabi.’
Simon’s eyes wandered round the room. The two candles on the table he had first seen were perched just above a pile of wood shavings on the floor. If he could only . . . The silence of the room was suddenly broken by the sound of gunfire. It carried from some distance away but was near enough to be distinguished as six separate shots.
George took a silver hunter from his pocket and clicked it open. ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘On time. That will be the end of the two friends who have been following you since you left Nashwa Fatima’s hotel. My people lay in wait for them and have shot them. It was planned.’
Simon felt his heart lurch again. Jenkins and Ahmed dead! His only real hope was gone. He shot a quick look at Alice. Her one open eye was staring at him in anguish. He had to keep talking.
‘If you are not working for Arabi, how did you manage to travel from Cairo to Alex so quickly? The railway was closed.’
‘Not to me.’ The man’s voice was now a purr and his conceit was obvious. ‘You see, sir, I am not some cheap little spy. I am a businessman, and a very good one. Many people are in my employ, and they include the military who run the railway. I can come and go as I wish. I bribe, you see.’ He waved his hand. ‘This is my business. I smuggle priceless artefacts from the burial sites out to my friends, mainly in Greece. Working at the travel company provides an excellent base. But you knew that, of course . . .’
Involuntarily, Simon shook his head.
‘Ah, then I overestimated you. When you saw me emptying that house after the bombardment, you probably thought I was taking part in the looting, but I was not. I own that house – or what is left of it now that the damned British have half destroyed it – and I was moving my possessions here, to a much safer storage place. You see, I am also known here as Ahmed Kamul.’
Simon frowned and took half a step forward. Immediately, two large hands gripped him by the upper arms. Keep talking . . . ‘But your connection with Sir Garnet Wolseley? I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t have any connection with the General, except that, as a clerk at Cook’s, I handle an account for him there. It is company business, not mine. Ah, old Roberts up here has some sort of sentimental attachment to the man, but I do not. Of course,’ his voice resumed its self-satisfied note, ‘I doctor the accounts, and you will be on record as having received far more of Wolseley’s money than you actually took. That, of course, is just good business.’
‘Of course.’ Simon felt the Egyptians’ hands on his arms slacken slightly and he made a deliberate attempt to relax his muscles. They must not think he was tensing to break away. ‘But why have you captured Mrs Covington and now me? What harm have we done you? We pose no threat to you.’
George’s lip curled. ‘You toffs take us working-class blokes for fools, don’t you? Just little clerks there to serve you.’ He hunched his shoulders and rubbed his hands together in a Fagin-like parody. ‘ “Will that be all, sir? Would you like a copy of The Times, sir?” Well, I’m no fool. I am a businessman. When, after we met twice in the streets here, it was reported to me that your whore was asking at the town hall about my property, and also enquiring about me at the hotel where we both stayed, and then when you followed up with more questions at the company, I thought you were on to me. Maybe I was wrong, but I think not. I don’t usually make mistakes. Anyway, it makes no difference. You know now about my affairs, and I am not going to have the very good business I have built up over the years ruined by you. I am a rich man, but I want to be richer, and you will not prevent me. I shall hang you both now.’ He gestured with a nod of his head to where Alice stood behind him. ‘I have been keeping her alive long enough so that I could see you both strung up and kicking together.’
‘No,’ said Simon. His voice quickened as he began his last ploy. ‘Look, I can pay you. There is plenty of money in the Cook account for me here that I will sign over to you if you let her go. And I have brought one hundred pounds with me, here in my boot. Look.’
He held up his hand in supplication, and George nodded to the guards. Slowly Simon bent down and drew up his right trouser leg with his left hand. He held it up quite high for a moment, so that his elbow was bent, and straightened his fingers, holding up the trouser leg with his bent thumb. At the same moment, he slowly inserted his right hand into the top of his riding boot, as though searching for the money. Then, in one swift, flowing movement, he withdrew the knife, swung his left hand up and round, and caught the guard on his left just under the chin. At the same time, he ducked down round and low, breaking the grip of the man on the right and plunging the knife into his stomach.
‘Shoot!’ screamed George, and the jerzail boomed within the confined space. The m
usket ball, however, shattered the head of the first guard, who, clutching at his throat, had staggered directly into the line of fire. Simon sprang to the table bearing the candles and swept them on to the wood shavings piled at its base. Flames leapt high immediately and crackled along the line of shavings and sawdust that fringed the wall. He heard a shriek of anger or terror from George, and swung round towards Alice only to see George kick away the low table on which she perched, so that she swung from the neck, her legs jerking.
‘No,’ shrieked Simon. He ran to Alice and caught her around the knees, taking her weight. Holding her with one arm, his knife hand extended in a hopeless act of defence, he faced the two men. George was desperately trying to stamp out the flames, but the Egyptian with the jerzail was calmly pouring powder into his pan and then ramming home a ball down the long muzzle. Simon tried to cut the rope around Alice’s neck, but he could not quite reach without loosening his grip around her legs. He was powerless as he stood watching the Arab calmly cock the hammer on the ancient weapon and begin walking forward to make certain of the easy target before him. The choice before Simon now was desperate: release Alice so that she would die of strangulation – if she had not done so already, for her body felt inert – and rush at the Egyptian; or stay as a sitting target.
It was then that a thunderous hammering sounded on the front door and Ahmed’s high-pitched voice began shrieking something quite unintelligible from outside. Simon saw the man with the gun look questioningly at George, who had given up his attempt at putting out the flames and was now trying to pick up as many of the precious amulets as he could.
‘Kill him!’ shrieked the clerk. He repeated it in Arabic, and gestured angrily towards Simon.
The killing was quickly undertaken, but not by the Egyptian. As he raised his musket, Jenkins’s bullet took him squarely in the chest, spinning him round until he sank slowly to the ground, his jerzail falling away with a clatter.