The gunman squinted at him. “You sure that’s the right decision?”
“Possibly the last one I’ll ever make.”
Danston studied him a long minute before giving a respectful nod. “I’ll make a full report.”
Then it was just him, the mountain, and the crystal. He took out the stone and stared into its depths at the faceless, inhuman presence burning there.
“So, you wanted a new vessel and you’ve got one. Problem is, I’ve already abandoned one god.” He re-pocketed the crystal and walked into the night. “Let’s see if I can abandon another.”
AMID THE SANDS OF DEEPEST TIME
By Jason Brick
CAIRO made Abel Roxa nervous. In the years of the second Great War, he’d grown accustomed to blackouts at night. London, Berlin, even San Francisco, were dark as the bottom of a coal mine once the sun went down. But Cairo…even with the tanks of four nations within miles of her, the City of the Pharaohs was fully lit all night long. People still moved about in packed crowds, potential witnesses.
It was like that in Rio, where he had grown up, and in Argentina where he had misspent much of his youth. The lights and crowds should not have bothered him so. He had pulled countless heists in those towns, plenty of jobs before the war brought dark nights and preoccupied marks.
How quickly we grow accustomed to luxury, he thought. These days, boosting stuff with the streetlights on felt like unnecessary hardship.
But hey, hadn’t you heard? There was a war on.
A growling engine broke Abel from his reverie: Devon, starting up the truck. The load of fresh bread inside would be worth a lot of money. The teeming throngs of Cairo might go about their business in the middle of the war, but they were on thin rations. Even local government functionaries were feeling the pinch. The bread would fetch a pretty pound on the black market, maybe more than they would get for the truck.
The engine stuttered and died. Devon cursed in his Australian accent. Abel had met him in Cairo during a poker game where they had both been cleaned out by a Syrian card shark. When the knives came out, both men had fled in the same direction carrying just less than half the money each. It had made them laugh together, then drink together, then spend the next few years as business partners.
Together they robbed stores, graves, tombs, soldiers, and civilians from both sides of the war. Equal opportunity opportunists, Devon would say.
Not that Devon said much. In a year of working together, Abel had learned his first name, that he had at least five brothers, that he was probably from Australia and that he was definitely a deserter. They worked together, drank together and shared a one-room apartment in the city’s worst slum, but when it came to talking, Abel worked mostly alone.
The truck sputtered back to life, then died in a series of rolling belches. Devon cursed louder, in two languages Abel recognized and one he didn’t. In the quiet that followed, Abel heard a sharp, rhythmic clicking. In Cairo, only one thing sounded like that: the hard-soled shoes of the shorta, the Egyptian police. No civilian could afford them, and all the soldiers wore boots. He gave a short warning whistle that echoed off the stone walls of the alley.
The shorta rounded the corner just as Devon got to the cobblestone street beside Abel. He took in the pair, kept to a safe distance and said “Good evening.”
“Good morning, officer,” Abel responded, glancing up at the moon. Judging by its position amongst the stars, the time was well past midnight.
“So it is. So it is. Can I ask what you’re doing out and about at this time?”
“Mostly being drunk, sir,” Devon mumbled. He staggered closer and leaned on Abel for support.
“On what?” the shorta looked them over carefully, and Abel saw him notice that neither he nor Devon carried any kind of bottle or flask.
“A gentleman never tells,” Abel responded, slurring his voice.
“Then the likes of you won’t mind telling me all I want to know,” the shorta’s face was a remote mask.
Devon hiccupped and leaned closer into Abel. From outside, they looked like two drunks holding on to one another for support, but in reality their feet were planted firmly. Both were ready to move at an instant’s opportunity.
“I only know I want some more wine. Officer, can you help us find more wine?” Abel asked. He punctuated the sentence with a rolling belch.
The shorta scanned the open truck, then his eyes darted to Devon’s grease-stained hands. The eyes were set in a young face, but one already wise to the narrow streets of Egypt’s greatest and most criminal city.
“How about you share some of your wine with me? Or perhaps enough coin to buy some of my own?”
“It’s like that, is it?” Abel asked. He didn’t really need to, but he wanted to make the shorta answer.
“Boy, tell me when it was any other way,” the man’s accent was deeply, richly Egyptian but his English was as familiar and weary as a London pickpocket’s.
Neither of them carried any cash on a job, but Abel reached into his hip pocket as he shouldered Devon to the side. The shorta relaxed visibly, ready to receive his payoff. Devon stumbled forward, caught himself on the wall with one hand, and doubled over. He began to make heaving, retching noises. When the shorta leapt back to avoid the coming splatter, both Abel and Devon ran for it.
Devon dodged past the shorta and into the main street, while Abel ran back toward the bread truck and the labyrinth of narrow passages behind. They always split up when they ran, since most police would hesitate for precious seconds deciding which of them to chase.
As he sprinted deeper into the alleys, Abel heard the running footsteps of the shorta’s hard-soled shoes. If he had hesitated, it had not been for long.
“Why do they always follow me?” Abel muttered to nobody in particular as he leapt to catch the top of a low building. He ran across the rooftops with the shorta closer than he’d like, then tried to lose his pursuer by balancing along a narrow wall and leaping mid-stride to the top of a parked car.
But the shorta stayed right behind. He was young, and strong, and filled with a holy indignation at having been denied the bribe which was rightfully his.
Abel ran along the car, then leapt to the canvas top of a troop truck with American markings. It was either empty or full of soldiers tired beyond caring, because the hue and cry such an act would normally cause was completely absent. The shorta stayed on the ancient road, gaining as he paced Abel along the more reliable surface. As Abel leapt to the ground and sprinted into a small city garden, the shorta made a final rush and grabbed him by the collar.
Capoeira is the national martial art of Brazil, originally developed by slaves in chains brought across the Atlantic from Africa. It relies on deception. A practitioner moves his body to the right only to strike from the left. He appears to advance only to retreat, then reverses again to deliver a killing blow when the enemy begins to chase. Capoeira had been illegal to teach or practice in Brazil for over a century, but when the National Socialist Party took power they began looking for something uniquely Brazilian to be proud of as a nation. They found capoeira, and they liked it.
Suddenly capoeira schools were everywhere. Abel didn’t have much use for National Socialists, or for any kind of nation or socialist, but he did have use for a martial art based on tricking people into making mistakes. He found a teacher, a mestre, named Bimba, and had studied until circumstances required he leave Brazil abruptly.
When the shorta grabbed his collar, Abel bent backward at the waist and planted his hands on the ground. He twisted his body so his legs whipped around and scythed the shorta’s feet out from under him. One barrel roll later Abel was up and the shorta was down, his journey to the ground interrupted by a nasty crack of his head against a nearby date palm.
Abel ran through the garden, and stepped into a souk bustling even in the middle of the night. He saw alligator-skin shoes, indigo linens and racks of dried fish, smelled sweat and spice and camel droppings, as he breathed
the air of sweet freedom into his heaving lungs. As his breath returned to normal, he allowed himself a smile. Few things invigorated him like a foot race against the local constabulary.
So long as he won.
An hour of random wandering through alley and market convinced Abel he was being followed by neither legitimate authority nor ambitious local robber. He meandered at last to El Khef, a coffee bar open all hours where he found Devon sitting at a tile-topped table, sipping from a tiny cup.
He took in Devon’s unruffled white shirt and perfectly creased brown dungaree pants, his face devoid of sweat. “Why do they always chase me?”
His partner shrugged in response, and paid the cheque. The two walked through good neighbourhoods to poor neighbourhoods and into the winding slums of Cairo, taking a winding route designed to lead anyone but themselves away from the flophouse they called home.
Devon said nothing on the trip back. As a partner, he talked little and asked less. Abel wished he would ask something, if only so he could tell the story of his chase across the truck roof and his defeat of the police officer, but a criminal partner who talked too little was far preferable to a criminal partner who talked too much. Abel was satisfied, if not always entirely happy.
They climbed a flight of narrow stairs barely attached to the outside of the building where they kept their one-room apartment. Every tread creaked, and for the top half they had to keep close to the building less the entire structure come unmoored from the wall. It was a terrible, unsafe arrangement but provided an excellent warning should police or rival criminals attempt a stealthy approach.
At the top of the steps, Abel paused to examine the layer of dusty sand he had spread on the wood. There was nothing to indicate the passage of unwanted visitors. Next he checked the length of hair he had affixed to the top of the door, bridging the gap between portal and wall. It was still in position.
Satisfied, Abel produced his key and opened the door. Devon slipped inside. Abel followed, closing and latching the door behind him. As it clicked shut, a match flared inside the tiny apartment. Its glow showed a man sitting in Abel’s favourite chair. As he put the match to an oil lamp, the man spoke in a tone that was half-warning, half-chiding.
“Think carefully, gents. A man who could navigate those stairs and bypass your telltales without leaving a sign is probably a man who could reach his weapon faster than you could…but I’d prefer you didn’t find out.”
“Who? How?” Abel sputtered. Even Devon grunted in surprise.
“None of that matters, but as to who, you can call me Springbok. If you look at the table beside you — nice table by the way. Early 16th century? Should be worth a thousand pounds or more to the right buyer. But that’s not important. What’s important is what’s there on the table.”
Abel didn’t like it, but he knew when he was beaten. The art of capoeira and life as a criminal both taught the same lesson. Go with the flow until there’s a chance to divert the stream.
He looked at the table, and the manila folder Springbok had indicated. He opened it to find a dozen enlarged photographs. Photos of Abel stealing supplies from a truck with British markings, photos of Devon driving a German army Kübelwagen. A copy of the AWOL notice on Devon from a post in Singapore. They were high-quality photos, some of the best Abel had seen. Shortas didn’t have the budget for work that good, and independent criminals rarely had the equipment. Whoever Springbok was, he worked for the military or in intelligence.
For which side, he couldn’t tell. The man’s accent sounded German, but could just as easily been Jewish. He could work for one side, or neither, or both, but that didn’t really matter at the moment.
“Blackmail, then?” Abel said, though it wasn’t really a question.
“Got it in one, chum. Devon Braithwaite, contemptible deserter though you are, at least you keep smart company.”
Devon just stared.
Abel said, “We don’t have any money.”
“That’s a lie. Even if it wasn’t, I rather fancy your table. But I don’t want money.”
Abel took a page from Devon’s book and waited. He had met men like Springbok before. They always wanted to control the conversation, let the mark know who was in charge. If he kept interrupting, the man would never get to the point. Abel could play along and wait for his opportunity. If it didn’t come during this conversation, there would be others. There were always others.
“You are going to steal some supplies for me, and a truck. You don’t really need the truck, but it will make the theft easier.”
“Whose supplies?” Abel asked.
“The Allies, friend, though you don’t mind stealing from anyone, I see,” Springbok gestured to the folder on the antique table.
“What supplies?”
The man produced a second folder and slid it along the carpeted floor. Devon picked it up and began scanning the contents.
Springbok said, “The details are in there. Truck number, approximate weight, and a general description of the cargo. You’ll find it in the rear camp at the coordinates on that map. It’s nothing you haven’t done before, sport, only now you’re doing it for me.”
“Will we get paid?”
“Ten percent of value, on delivery.”
“Ten percent?!”
“You are being blackmailed. Do try to understand your role in proceedings.”
Abel looked at Devon. Devon gave a shrug, the one that meant he didn’t like a situation but saw no alternative but to see it through.
“Okay,” Abel said. “But we want the money and the negatives on delivery.”
“That’s all I ever wanted to hear, sport. I will leave you now. Big day tomorrow, best you get some sleep.”
Springbok stood and walked between Abel and Devon, all three felt the briefest moment of tension as he brushed past the two criminals. Springbok might be at their mercy now, but they knew he was not working alone. The moment passed and Springbok exited, making not the slightest sound as he went down the stairs.
* * *
Sleep came easily enough, but at some point in the deep of the night, Devon woke with a start and a gasp that roused Abel. He tossed and mumbled and turned as if gripped by a violent nightmare, an unusual departure from his usual dreamless repose. After what felt like many hours, Abel covered his ears with his pillow and managed to doze again. It felt like seconds before the light and noise of the wakening city woke him again. When he opened his eyes, Devon was sitting at the table staring at a week-old newspaper.
Abel groaned and stumbled the four steps to their shared kitchen. He rinsed his face in their washbowl, then made himself a breakfast of coffee and dates. He sat across from his friend at their thousand-pound, 16th-century table.
“So,” Devon said, “what’s the plan?”
Abel stared. Devon knew the plan. This wasn’t the first time they’d stolen supplies from one of the armies scattered haphazardly across the North African desert. Armies were good targets. They had all the good stuff, and in such quantities that weeks might pass before somebody noticed it was missing.
More than that, Devon had spoken, had used up his usual allotment of words in the first few moments of the morning. Abel expected silence for the rest of the day, but that expectation was not forthcoming.
When they stole a car, Devon made Abel break open and hotwire the ignition even though Devon was by far the better car thief. He asked questions the entire time, questions he knew the answer to, like he was quizzing Abel for some sort of qualification.
When they scammed fuel from a depot using requisition coupons Devon had forged, he looked at them as if for the first time. He seemed ready to ask questions, but Abel gave him such a glare when the quartermaster walked toward them that he shut his mouth and instead stared at the Pyramids like some kind of tourist.
Abel drove them along the packed-dirt highway toward the back end of the front line. As the morning progressed, the harsh sun stopped spearing his eyes and began to beat down o
n the top of the truck, baking them in an oven on four wheels. From the passenger seat, Devon asked so many questions about the war and the desert that Abel pulled to a stop.
He looked Devon over. His rough Aussie face showed nothing but the raw-boned handsomeness that gave him a distinct advantage when it came time to scam a woman. His eyes were different somehow, deeper and very old, like the man had made some kind of hallucinogenic discovery during his troubled dreams.
“Did you smoke hashish last night? It must have been some really potent stuff. It’s like I don’t even know you today. It’s like you don’t even know you.”
“Hashish?”
“Are you serious?”
“What is hashish?”
“Whatever. If you don’t want to share, don’t share. Just try not to get killed, and if one of us is chased today, make sure it’s you.”
Devon nodded, though Abel couldn’t tell if he was agreeing or just giving up the argument. Still, when Abel pulled back onto the road, he asked no more questions.
It was two hours after dusk when they reached the camp. Abel knew the sort of place well, though he had never operated in this particular one before: a cluster of tents and temporary shops packed with people trying to scam a buck or a baby out of soldiers temporarily relieved of their front line duties.
They left the car parked at the side of the road, far enough off not to disrupt traffic but not so far that every thief in the camp wouldn’t know it before the top of the hour. Somebody would steal it soon enough, which was fine by Abel. They would soon have a truck to get them back to Cairo. They wandered through the hookers, bootblacks, food stands, fixers and black marketeers, blending in like they always did in that kind of neighbourhood. It was just like the souk in Cairo, the favela in Bahia, the Tenderloin in San Francisco. This kind of neighbourhood was timeless, and the same everywhere in the world. It was where the dispossessed went to live and die. Abel was home.
Devon was not so much at home. He gazed with frank, open interest at every person and everything that crossed their path. Four prostitutes mistook his scrutiny for interest before Abel wrapped an arm around him and snarled into his ear.
Dark Tales From the Secret War Page 25