Herring on the Nile (21 page)

‘I’ll pass that on.’

‘Just you, Ethelred, and the clothes you stand up in. Nobody and nothing else? Got that? I said: Have you got that?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve got that.’

From the motorboat, the decks of the
Khedive
appeared deserted. On the lowest deck at the stern of the boat, where the crew had their quarters, some greyish washing flapped briefly, then
wrapped itself damply round the iron rail. Even more briefly, a window on one of the upper decks caught the redness of the rising sun, then darkened again. Our guys were giving little or nothing
away. Half the Egyptian police force might have been on board with machine guns and grenades, or it might just have been the man I had spoken to. The passengers and crew had been told to keep out
of sight. The bulk of the ship, of no nameable colour in this half-light, slowly rose above us as we drifted into its cold shadow and tied up. I briefly had a chance to admire the ornate ironwork
from a new angle.

I was aware of the stillness of a morning that had only just emerged from being night. The loudest sound was the water slapping rhythmically against the hull of the
Khedive
, and the other
boat chafing at its mooring. From a long way away I could also hear the inevitable sound of a donkey braying and a dog’s bark in response. Then there was silence from the bank and once again
just the lapping of the Nile, held up momentarily on its long, fluid journey northwards.

There was still no sign of anyone, but the transfer from our boat, across the one already tied up there and through the door ordinarily used for boarding passengers, looked simple. In a moment I
would know whether it actually was simple or whether it involved me getting a bullet in the back.

‘OK, Ethelred,’ said Mahmoud. ‘You are free to go. We have enjoyed your company, even if you have not perhaps enjoyed ours. We have also kept our side of the bargain. I hope
you will urge your friends to keep to theirs.’

I stood up and worked my way carefully down the boat. Every movement seemed to make it rock one way or the other, and I had no wish to fall into the Nile and drown just as safety was in sight.
Majid was standing at the point where I had to climb over the edge, as if to assist me. I placed one foot on the side and stepped up, balancing for an instant before dropping down into the slightly
smaller motorboat that I had to cross. As I landed, I turned and found the firm angular shape of an attaché case thrust into my hands. I looked at Mahmoud, but once again his attention was
diverted at the critical moment. Clutching the case to my chest I nervously skipped two steps across the boat and sprang through the open door of the
Khedive
to be met by a tall guy in a
white linen suit. Behind me I heard an engine cough into life and a shouted farewell from Majid.

The guy in the suit looked at me. ‘What the hell is that bloody thing in your hands?’ he demanded.

‘The case? It’s OK. Your man Majid gave it to me to deliver,’ I said.

‘We don’t
have
a man Majid,’ said the guy in the suit.

I looked at him and he looked at me, but I said it first.

‘Shit,’ I said.

Twenty-five

The arrival of the first boat had been the only bit of good news for some time. The arrival of Ethelred and the second boat was a bit of a downer by comparison, but that still
lay in the future when the security service boat drew alongside, at a time when dawn was still the merest smudge of pink across the horizon.

There were six of them in the little rubber boat – two British, four Egyptian – and they went about their business checking the
Khedive
for explosives and reassuring everyone
that it was almost over.

‘We’re expecting the terrorists to return at any moment with Mr Tressider,’ said Masterman, the senior of the two Brits, and therefore the person tasked with saying reassuring
things to us in a condescending manner. ‘When they do, we shall arrange for his transfer to this boat with the minimum of fuss or formality, and hopefully without resort to weapons of any
kind.’ Masterman bore only a passing resemblance to Purbright. Both had the sort of confidence that you presumably need for a life in espionage. He was however taller and distinctly heavier;
if they’d been to the same parties, then he’d been tucking into his main course while Purbright was still toying with cocktails and working out whether thirty minutes was enough time to
seduce both the hostess and the hostess’s daughter. Masterman had missed his true vocation, running an empire, by some fifty years. But he was quite at home in a crisp linen suit, organizing
the defences of an old paddle steamer stranded in the middle of the Nile. Kitchener would have been proud of him. Had he received slightly different advice at the careers office, one could have
equally imagined him ending up as the headmaster of some rural prep school, adored by the parents, but giving no quarter to those who handed in their work late or to a wayward shirt tail or an
undone shoelace.

The group now gathered around him in the saloon viewed the situation with varying degrees of trepidation, but few of us doubted we now had the man for the job. He spoke in generalities, giving
no more than hints as to which organization we were up against or who he reported to in London. His Egyptian counterpart, a genial man with a carefully clipped moustache and well-pressed army
uniform, was happy to confirm that we had firepower on board to stop any number of terrorists. He seemed to harbour a secret hope that Masterman was wrong about not having to resort to violence,
but otherwise they were pretty much of one mind. His short speech concluded, the two of them nodded to each other, then turned again to us.

‘Questions?’ asked Masterman, in the manner of one who believes they have covered everything well enough. The cough from Herbie Proctor’s direction would probably therefore
have come as an unwelcome surprise.

‘If they’re on their way,’ said Proctor, his nasal whine more than usually pronounced, ‘why not get us off the boat first using that rubber dinghy thing you arrived in?
The nearest town would be good but, if not, that bit of bank over there looks safe enough.’

‘Nearest town is miles off,’ said Masterman, with studied patience. ‘I can’t afford for us to be stranded here ourselves while we wait for our boat to return. We
don’t know for certain what the terrorists will do, and we need all our options open, I’m afraid. As for putting you ashore right here – which we could do – I don’t
mind personally, but the next town’s as far away by road as it is by river. It’s a long walk in the dark and we can’t offer you any protection while you attempt it. For all I
know, there may well be some bad hats already stationed on the bank to cover an escape. Don’t worry. We’re as sure as we can be that there’s no explosive on the boat. If
there’s shooting later – and there shouldn’t be – just keep your heads down. They’ll be aiming at us, not at you.’ A patronizing little smile accompanied the
last sentence.

‘It’s not
their
bullets I’m worried about,’ said Tom. ‘Purbright’s killer is still on board. Mahmoud and Majid were both with Captain Bashir when the
shot was fired.’

‘Is that right?’ asked Masterman.

‘Yes,’ said Jane Watson. ‘We heard it.’

‘Many things can be mistaken as shots,’ said Masterman, ‘at least by the inexperienced.’ Having put the gym mistress in her place, he turned as if to talk to the Egyptian
officer.

‘So, you’re saying I’m wrong?’ demanded Jane Watson.

‘That would seem the most likely explanation, wouldn’t it?’ said Masterman with studied politeness.

‘You are the second most arrogant man I have ever met.’

Masterman did not regard this as breaking news. ‘That does not mean I am in any way mistaken,’ he said.

Jane Watson lapsed into silence. Annabelle flashed her a sympathetic smile. If they had had a gun between them, Masterman would have needed to watch his back.

‘Thank you all for your patience,’ said the Egyptian officer, stroking his moustache. ‘If there are no other questions, I must ask you, please, to remain here until you are
told otherwise.’

‘Well, aren’t we having an exciting evening?’ said Miss Watson drily.

‘The Cairo bit of your trip was certainly a lot quieter,’ said Tom.

‘Cairo?’ asked Miss Watson. Her mind still seemed for a moment to be elsewhere – possibly in a place where people like Masterman could be legally strangled and dumped into the
nearest river.

‘We met you and your friend in the museum, remember?’ said Tom in clarification. ‘In case you can’t recall him, he had a big moustache and an army uniform.’

‘Sorry, I keep forgetting that we met you there. Ofcourse – Ahmed and I went to the museum. We saw you there. You said hello.’

‘I don’t think your friend liked us much,’ said Tom.

‘You’d just interrupted a conversation. That’s all. He was giving me some advice.’

‘Local knowledge is always good,’ said Tom.

‘Yes, isn’t it? Ahmed told me where to go and what to do when I got there.’

‘Including this boat?’

‘Yes, he told me about the boat. Of course, he wasn’t to know how things would turn out. I’ve known Ahmed for ages. We both competed in the same Olympics, way back. We’ve
stayed in touch – met up from time to time. He’s divorced now, a bit like me – well, he’s divorced, I’m separated. We had a lot to talk about this time.’

‘He looked like a tough cookie.’

‘Yes, he is a bit. But beneath all that . . .’ Miss Watson looked at the empty brandy glass she was still clutching. ‘He’s a good friend. If his information about this
trip missed out one or two vital points, that wasn’t his fault. He certainly wasn’t to know we would all end up here on a sandbank.’

‘I still say they should evacuate this scrapheap and take us in their boat to Kom Ombo,’ said Proctor testily. ‘Unless the professor wishes to manhandle the ship’s tender
off those bushes for us.’

Campion, who had perhaps now had a chance to examine the ship’s stern and the small boat hanging diagonally from it, decided to ignore the latter option. ‘They couldn’t do it
in one trip,’ he pointed out. ‘There are too many of us.’

‘They could get some of us away,’ said Proctor.

‘Who?’

‘We could draw lots for who goes first,’ said Proctor.

‘Not women and children then?’ asked Miss Watson.

‘I don’t see that many children,’ said Proctor. ‘The grown-ups should draw lots equally. Fair’s fair.’

‘I’m happy to let the ladies go first,’ said Tom. ‘I just don’t think we’re going to be given that option for all of the reasons we’ve already heard.
And I don’t think we should split up with a killer in our midst. Always a mistake – check out almost any B horror movie if you don’t believe me.’

‘But Masterman said it was Mahmoud or Majid,’ said Proctor. He still wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but he was coming round to the idea that the loss of a client by
terrorist action might be excusable.

‘Only if you don’t believe Jane’s version of events,’ said Tom.

‘He doesn’t think that girls know anything about firearms,’ said Miss Watson. ‘Maybe he’s right. I’m obviously confusing a pistol with a rolling pin. Silly
me.’

‘You heard the shot too, Herbie,’ said Tom.

‘Yes,’ said Proctor. ‘That’s right. I heard the shot.’

‘And you, Elsie?’ asked Tom.

‘Actually, I might confuse a pistol and a rolling pin,’ I admitted. ‘I never cook anything that won’t fit into the microwave. But I’d trust Jane on this.’

‘Well, that’s at least two people who were here against one who was miles away,’ said Tom.

‘At least,’ said Campion, ‘you now know that Mahmoud and Majid were not policemen.’

He implied that he had known this all along, which wasn’t the way I remembered it. Of course, it also meant Ethelred had been right, which was a serious flaw to any theory. I also still
had a reasonable doubt that I wished to introduce.

‘I don’t want to throw in further complications,’ I said. ‘But how do we know what Masterman is saying is true? How do we even know that Masterman is actually from
MI6?’

‘But he’s a colleague of Purbright’s,’ said Campion.

‘Except Purbright is really Raffles,’ said Proctor, who was now beginning to have doubts about his doubts. Without some fixed point on which to tether our theories we were going to
drift around indefinitely.

It struck me that in a perfect world the good guys would arrive in white boats and the bad guys in black boats – that way you’d be certain what you were getting. As it was, we were
probably with the good guys and the bad guys were probably out there . . .

‘So,’ said John, ‘you mean maybe we should all try to rush these guys when they least expect it and wait for the real police to return . . .’

This was getting too complicated for most of us. Somebody had to throw us a lifeline. That person proved to be Sky Benson.

‘He’s not Raffles,’ she said. ‘Purbright is really Purbright. Masterman is therefore really Masterman. And I’d rather you didn’t try rushing anybody who might
start shooting anywhere near me.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Tom.

‘Yes. One hundred per cent. Purbright looks nothing like Raffles. There’s no chance of it being Raffles who was shot.’

‘So you know what Raffles looks like?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well, it would have helped if you’d said that earlier,’ said Tom. ‘But at least we now know.’

‘Hold on,’ said Proctor. ‘Raffles was my client, but
I
didn’t know what he looked like. And it wasn’t through want of trying. There was nothing on the
Internet. At the trial they imposed reporting restrictions because they didn’t want the children identified. You can’t get a picture of Raffles anywhere.’