“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Lazarus. “It is true that we entered the premises of Bayoumi Shipping Inc. looking for antiquities, but we wished only to identify the culprits in this black market in order to help you with your case.”
At this the police chief smiled, clearly not believing a word of it. “How very generous of you.”
Lazarus continued. “Bayoumi is certainly the man you’re after. He all but admitted that he had items to sell. He uses his contacts to ship them out of the country. After interviewing us he tried to have us killed. We escaped and fled taking one of his boats with us.”
“Yes, a boat waiting for you all loaded up with its cargo,” came the reply. “Very convenient.”
“If you like an abundance of carpets,” said Lazarus.
“An abundance of carpets containing thousands of pounds worth of antiquities.”
“What?” both Lazarus and Petrie exclaimed in unison, gaping at him.
“We have unfurled every carpet found on board. Cheap, local junk mostly, but the perfect disguise for your true cargo. In the centre of each roll was a trinket—necklaces, ushabtis, armbands, statuettes—enough to please Mr. Maspero and assure him that we are winning the war over those who wish to rob this country blind of its heritage.”
Lazarus and Petrie were speechless. The evidence against them was staggering and they could see no way out. Lazarus spoke at last. “Look, sir, I know my rights to requests are somewhat limited at present but I ask you only one thing. Put in a call to the British Agent. Tell Baring that you have one of Morton’s men in your custody. That’s all I ask, a simple telephone call.”
“Your British Agent can’t help you now,” said the police chief. “He’s far too busy meddling in our customs and extorting our Khedive to care for a couple of fellow thieves from his homeland. Now, I am a realistic man, I know that as British citizens I will eventually be forced to turn you over to the military or perhaps the secret police, but in the meantime I intend to learn all I can from you using all the methods at my fingertips.” He let the silence hang as a threat.
Lazarus knew all too well the brutalities inflicted on suspects in the bowels of the Cairo police station in order to get a confession, and decided that it was best to remain silent for the time being.
They were taken away and returned to their cell, which was of the communal variety and contained twelve other prisoners, mostly Arabs. There was a single bucket for urine and feces which succeeded in filling the small cell with an unholy stink. It was crowded, hot, dark and ugly and served to increase the desperation of anybody on the wrong side of its heavy, bolted door.
“This is monstrous!” exclaimed Petrie as somebody jolted the bucket of feces for the second time in under five minutes. “What on earth will become of us? Our careers, our reputations, not to mention our very lives! Will they execute us, do you think?”
“Calm yourself, Petrie,” said Lazarus. “They can’t do anything to us but keep us here for the night. As British subjects we do not fall under their jurisdiction. They must hand us over to the consulate in the morning, where I can make the arrangements for all this to be cleared up. But for the time being we must be patient.”
This seemed to fortify the Egyptologist somewhat but he did not stop his weak protestations. “I’ll never live this down!” he kept saying under his breath. “Me! One of England’s leading Egyptologists spending a night in the clink!”
Several hours passed and Lazarus and Petrie began to wonder if it was possible to get any sleep standing upright. Suddenly a key grated in the lock and the door to the cell swung open, eliciting cries of hope from everybody within. The sound was pitiful, like hearing cries of the damned from some dark pit in Hell. The muzzle of a rifle poked into the cell and orders barked in Arabic warned the prisoners to hold back. Lazarus and Petrie’s names were called out and they stepped forward cautiously, hoping against all the odds that they were being released, or at least transferred early. But at the back of their minds lurked the dread of interrogation.
They were led up to the chief’s office where they found Hassanein wearing an even deeper frown than the one he had had on earlier. He extended a hand to the two chairs in front of his desk and they sat down, gasping with relief at the easing of their leg muscles.
“It appears that you have friends in high places,” said Hassanein. “Or at least you are something more than the common thieves I took you for, even if you are as stupid.”
Lazarus remained silent, not wishing to ruin whatever godsend this was with an impertinent wisecrack.
“Whatever your interest in Bayoumi Shipping was no longer concerns me,” the captain went on. “What I am interested in is all you know of the black market in antiquities. What led you to Mr. Bayoumi?”
Lazarus cleared his throat. He was not about to let slip more than he had to to this incompetent and most likely corrupt tool of the Khedivate. “Are we to be released?”
“Under my severest protestations,” Captain Hassanein answered.
“Then we are under no obligation to tell you anything. I presume you did as I requested and contacted Major Baring?”
“No, I did not.”
“Then how…?”
“Because somebody had to step in and save your hide once again,” came a female voice from behind them.
Lazarus and Petrie jumped in their seats and swiveled around to see a woman lounging like a panther in an armchair that had been screened by the door when they had come in. Her hair was black and bound up high. She was smoking a cigarette held in a long holder, gripped lightly between ivory fingers.
“Katarina!” gasped Lazarus.
“Longman,” she purred with a smile.
“Miss Mikolavna from the Russian intelligence services has been helping us with our case against the black marketers,” said Hassanein.
“Sounds a tad trivial for the Okhrana,” said Lazarus, knowing that his use of the word would irritate Katarina who denied the existence of such an agency.
“Come now, Longman,” she said, “Am I supposed to believe that your superiors sent you here to catch sellers of mummified hands and stone beetles? I have my mission and you have yours. This black market business clearly signals some overlap in our pursuits.”
“And as the representative of the police here in Cairo,” said the captain, “I am naturally the last to know anything.”
Lazarus could not suppress a smile. Somebody had certainly let the hot-air out of the poor police captain. In just a few hours he had gone from being the man holding all the cards to a mere eavesdropper on the activities of people in far higher positions than him.
Lazarus rose and Petrie joined him. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I would like to go back to my hotel and freshen up. I’ve had a most educational tour of the Cairo Police headquarters, but I don’t wish to take up any more of your time, Captain. Good day!”
“Hold it right there,” said the captain in a voice that sounded like he was desperately trying to claw back some authority as his only lead in his case was about to walk out through his door. “We need some information from you. How did you know about Bayoumi Shipping? Who sent you there?”
“Sorry, Captain,” said Lazarus with a smile. “I don’t reveal my sources in case I wish to use them again. And as you have no charges against either my associate or I, we are under no obligation to aid you in your investigation. Katarina, thank you for your intervention. We are much obliged.”
The captain rose and slammed his hand down on his desk as they walked out of the door. “You might be a free man today, Englishman! But if I find out that you are in any way connected to the selling of antiquities, I will have you back in my cells so quick your head will be spinning! And you won’t have this Russian woman to help you a second time!”
Lazarus and Petrie ignored him as they left his office and headed downstairs to the street, where the bustle of morning was beginning to thrum. Lazarus’s head was feverish but it had nothing
to do with the steadily increasing heat or his night in the pestilent cells. Katarina Mikolavna! He had not dared himself to imagine that he would ever see her again, to hear her soft eastern tones or inhale her beautiful scent. She was just as acidic, just as spiteful and just as wonderful as she had been a year ago. To think what the fates were planning by having their paths cross once more!
Petrie also seemed bowled over by the Russian agent’s sudden appearance. “Who the devil was that, Lazarus?” he demanded as they crossed the street. “You obviously know each other.”
“That, my dear friend, was Katarina Mikolavna. The Russian I met in America last year.”
Petrie’s eyes goggled at him. “The enemy agent who helped you out? You never said it was a woman!”
True enough, Lazarus had kept the gender of his Russian comrade vague when he had related his adventures to Petrie. For some reason he felt that it was almost as secret as the fact that they really did find the seven golden cities of Cibola. Also it made the tale of his trip to New York and Boston in the stolen airship—the Santa Bella—easier to explain.
Petrie seemed to remember that particular tale at just that moment and his eyes widened even more. “You and she shared a balloon together? One of those little ones with bunks?”
Lazarus smiled and nodded.
“My God, man! That woman! That hair! Those lips! And, oh! That accent! You must have a constitution of steel to see such a voyage through without losing your mind and throwing yourself upon her!”
“Who is to say I didn’t?” said Lazarus with a smile.
That shut Petrie up and they continued in silence, the glow on the Egyptologist’s cheeks speaking enough for both of them.
They headed back to their respective hotels and, once in his room, Lazarus stripped off, shaved and drew himself a hot bath. He retrieved the bottle of gin from his portmanteau and poured himself a generous measure before slipping into the almost painfully hot water with a great sigh. As the heat penetrated his bones, he sipped his drink and enjoyed the stinging taste of London’s streets; a pleasant memory here amidst the dirt, dust and heat of the Egyptian capital.
That afternoon Lazarus found a message had been left for him at reception.
LONGMAN
MEET ME AT THE CAFE ON EL MAGHRABI TWO O CLOCK. WE NEED TO DISCUSS THINGS
KATARINA
Lazarus knew the café. He didn’t go inside, but instead hung around beneath the arches where a water seller was doing good business. After a while he spotted Katarina, her pale face shielded by a black parasol and her skirts hemmed just right so that they wouldn’t trail in the dust. She had seen him, and came over to the shade of the arches.
“Won’t you come inside for a coffee?” she asked him.
“Coffee? Yes, well it would be lovely to catch up, but I didn’t suppose that was why you wanted to see me. Besides, it wouldn’t be proper for an unmarried couple to sit in a café together.”
She stared at him. “Amazing. Two weeks together in a balloon, a shared secret about cities of gold that we can never tell anybody and you still have your damned English attitude towards conventions. Very well, I’ll say what I have to say to you here under these arches. I have just come from the police station. Our friend, Captain Hassanein sent his men round to Bayoumi Shipping this morning after you left and found the place deserted. Bayoumi must have panicked at your arrest and has shut up shop.”
“Doesn’t surprise me really,” said Lazarus. “Will you go looking for him?”
She shook her head. “No point. There are a hundred such businessmen who export antiquities out of this country. Squashing one won’t make a jot of difference. We need to go after the men who sell the items to the dealers; the ones who steal them from their original locations.”
Lazarus sighed. “Isn’t it about time you dropped the act now?”
She frowned. “How do you mean?”
“I mean I would have to be a man with a turnip for a brain if I were to believe that you had been sent here from Moscow to chase around black market dealers.”
“And what do you know of my orders?”
“I can make a fair stab in the dark. Your orders are to find Dr. Rutherford Lindholm and drag him back to your country so your government can pry open his brain and learn his secrets. You found out, as I did, that the only trail to him was through the black market, only you don’t have any contacts in that world and so the trail for you ran cold. Now you need my help in finding it again.”
“Well, what of it?” she said coldly. “It wouldn’t be the first time that we have worked together.”
“No. And it wouldn’t be the first time that we have sought the same man for our respective governments. Why do we always end up on opposite sides of the fence?”
“That’s the way of the world, Longman. Maybe if your government would give up its support for the blasted C.S.A. we might become friends.”
“Britain will never support the Union,” said Lazarus. “It’s not financially sound.”
“As always, the great decisions of the world come down to money. Enough of politics. Will you help me?”
“If I do then it must be on my terms.”
“As you say.”
“I know a man. My loyalty to him has run out as I have a feeling that it was he who led my friend and I into a trap at Bayoumi’s. Nevertheless, I don’t want him in the hands of the police. I can do without the reputation as a snitch for the likes of Captain Hassanein.”
“How can this man help us if we do not interrogate him?”
“I can interrogate him myself. Or follow him. I’ve an idea that with Bayoumi gone he will go running to his sources to tell them that he needs time to find another customer. They’ll be fellahs most likely, perhaps working on a dig somewhere, hopefully for Lindholm. We just need to keep our distance and see where he leads us. Where are you staying?”
“The Grand.”
“Good. So is Petrie. I will find out what I can and get word to you when the time is right.”
“All right. I must be getting along. It’s a shame we didn’t have that coffee. It’s been a long time.”
“Yes,” agreed Lazarus as she walked away. She turned and looked at him from beneath the frills of her parasol. He thought she was going to say that it was good to see him again for something similar was on the tip of his own tongue.
“Longman?”
“Yes?”
“No tricks this time.”
Chapter Five
In which a significantly longer voyage is undertaken
The house where Murad was staying was reflective of the whole area. It was a crumbling tenement with pokey, dark windows from which washing dangled. The sturdy-looking door was the only thing that looked solid about the whole structure.
Lazarus had been given the address by the proprietor of the café they had met Murad in two nights ago. He had slipped the man a couple of piastres to keep his mouth shut and not let on to Murad that he was looking for him.
Dawn was breaking over the rooftops of Cairo, and Lazarus rubbed his eyes. He had been standing on the street corner for over an hour, dressed in the shabby clothes of a European on his uppers to deter the Cairenes from asking him for baksheesh. He kept a good supply of outfits for various occasions in his hotel room and found they invariably came in useful for situations such as these.
At last, the door to the house opened and Murad slipped out, like a rat emerging from its hole. Murad was not a Cairene, and relied upon the generosity of friends and the vulnerability of women to sleep soundly whenever he was in the city. This made him a hard man to track, but Lazarus knew the right people and his hour of standing in the cold had paid off.
Resisting the urge to creep up on the villain and throttle him from behind, Lazarus followed Murad down endless streets and passageways where vendors were beginning to set up shop for the day. Cafes were starting to open, the scent of their freshly brewed coffee allowed to drift out and draw in the first customers of the day.
They drew near to the docks and Lazarus’s hopes rose. He had imagined the dealer would need passage on a vessel heading south to wherever his contacts dwelled, and he had hoped that Murad would make his move this morning. The chaos of Port Bulaq was no less at any time of day. Soon Lazarus found he had a job keeping up with his quarry as he was jostled from side to side by lost travelers, fellahs importing goods, urchins and pickpockets. He managed to keep one eye on the back of Murad’s tarboosh as it ducked down a side street.
He followed after, pushing his way past a man struggling with a cart load of tomatoes, diving into the ally where beggars held out their hands in a permanent state of helplessness. To his dismay, Lazarus could no longer see Murad. He broke into a jog.
The alley emerged onto a wharf where several transport agencies had set up business. Any one of them might offer the young Egyptian passage on a steamer or a dahabeah, but Lazarus guessed that Murad would choose one of the more run-down looking ones, partly because he was not a wealthy foreigner and partly because he would wish to remain inconspicuous.
He headed for the most slapdash looking outfit, which had its name painted freehand in both Arabic and miss-spelt English on the side of its rough wall, and went indoors. The man at the desk looked up from his ledger as if he had just finished penning something in.
“Do you have any vessels heading up the Nile today or tomorrow?” Lazarus asked the man.
“Assuredly, effendi,” said the clerk, eyeing Lazarus’s clothes as if he was evaluating whether the term of respect was warranted in this case. “How far do you wish to go?”
“Oh, we haven’t made up our minds yet, I, my wife and my friend, that is. Luxor at least. Perhaps as far as Abu Simbel. My wife wants to see those headless pharaohs or whatever they are.”
The clerk nearly rolled his eyes but saved himself just in time. He was clearly disgusted by this shabby European who didn’t even have enough coin to his name to be a Cook’s tourist, but not so disgusted that he would turn away his custom. “The Nefertiti leaves tomorrow morning at eight of the clock. Is that too early for you?”
Silver Tomb (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 2) Page 4