The Khamsin Curse (4 page)

“Right on both accounts,”
confirmed Dr Watson briskly. “But it will be the Pyramids first
since they are closer and then the Sphinx and we want to do it
before it gets too hot.”

“Yes, yes, quite right! Get in
before the heat. We did it the other way around. Sphinx and
Pyramids, I mean. Can’t think why? But when my daughter gets an
idea in her head as she did that day, well, I just go along with
it. Though I suspect that sand-grubber had something to do with it.
He was at the Sphinx, you see. The distance is the same either way,
I told myself. This trip is her birthday present so I am indulging
her a bit. She will be twenty-one years old the day we reach
Philae. That is not a hint to buy a birthday gift, mind you. She
will be most aggrieved to find I have mentioned it. You will have
to pretend you have no idea what is happening when a birthday cake
with twenty-one candles appears at dinner that evening. I’m
planning a surprise party on the island. Well, I am off to
breakfast and then I shall pay a visit to the floating ranch to see
how things are coming along. I am delighted you are sailing with
us. Good day to you both.”

Mr Lee was big not only in
stature but in heart, generous to a fault though it was not a trait
shared by all tycoons; some were frightful misers, stingy with
their loot. Dr Watson felt awful for giving the big American short
shrift.

“Sand-grubber?” he said
quizzically.

“I assume he was referring to
Professor Mallisham,” supplied the Countess. “I think the idea of
an archaeologist for a son-in-law is not a prospect pleasing to the
King of Texas.”

They crossed the foyer and
reached the entrance doors when they bumped into the antiquities
trader known as Ali Pasha, though it was possible he had positioned
himself in the doorway so as to deliberately waylay them. He
inclined his head by way of greeting, introduced himself and
procured two business cards, seamlessly slipping them into their
hands before they knew what he was up to.

“If you are wanting to acquire
genuine treasures of the Pharaohs please to make visit to Khan
el-Khalili Bazaar, Bab al-Badistan gate,” he said, smiling
unpleasantly to reveal a row of razor-sharp teeth. “All things in
shop of Ali Pasha are genuine. Statue of Horus, Ra, Sobek, and many
more. All the gods you want. Ebony, ivory, gold – you will
see.”

“Do you have any mummies?”
asked Dr Watson, glancing down at the card and momentarily
forgetting he was in a hurry.

“Yes, yes, many mummies to
choose. I can get for you what you want. Old Kingdom, Middle
Kingdom. Third dynasty, twelfth, male, female, dog, cat, crocodile
– what you wish, that I can get. Please to visit Ali Pasha.”

“Thank you, Mr Pasha,” said the
Countess firmly, “we will keep that in mind.”

This time they made it all the
way to the iron gates of the hotel where a queue of calashes
awaited them on the dusty road. Drivers jostled for attention,
calling out prices in an effort to undercut each other, but then,
strangely, they seemed to back off, as if intimidated by the
heavily-bearded, broad-shouldered driver who pushed his way to the
front. He was wearing a jellabiya, but not in cool summery white
like the others. His caftan was striped grey and black. Around his
head was wrapped the traditional cloth headdress known as an
ammama, also in black. Having no choice, our two sleuths clambered
into his calash and the horse trotted up the gentle slope to the
Giza Plateau.

They had every intention of
climbing up to the top of the Pyramid but when they found
themselves standing at the base of the ancient tomb they conceded
the awesomeness of every individual block of stone and changed
their mind.

“Man fears Time,” repeated Dr
Watson, gazing skyward, “and Time fears the Pyramids.”

For a nominal fee the calash
driver offered to guide them inside the Pyramid of Khufu and into
the burial chamber of the Pharaoh. To have tons of stone hanging
above one’s head held up by gravity and the marvel of man’s
engineering ingenuity was an existential terror hard to describe.
Suffice to say, it was easy to see why people believed in gods.

The burial chamber was empty
save for a stone slab on which had rested the sarcophagus of the
dead Pharaoh but the experience was nonetheless extraordinary and
once again the ‘sacred terror’ of the place was palpable - though
this time it was the gods who held their breath and the stillness
and silence spoke volumes about the power to inspire.

When they staggered back into
broad daylight and stood under the burning sun where Dr Watson gave
out three hail Mary’s in the form of sneezes and they gave thanks
for being back in the land of the living, they proceeded to the
next wonder of the ancient world, even older than the Pyramids, the
date put at anything between 10000 BC and 2000 BC.

The Sphinx had more myths
surrounding it than grains of sand.

There was not even a consensus
on whether it was male or female. All agreed it was a lion couchant
built from mummulitic limestone approximately 240 feet long, 63
feet wide and 66 feet high but that’s where it ended. Was its name
an aberration of Sphingo: answer this riddle or I will strangle
you? Or was it a loose translation of The Terrifying One or Father
of Dread? Was it built for the pharaoh who built the second
pyramid? Or was it a mythological relic from an earlier time? A
symbol of eternal vigilance? Or eternal loneliness?

“Who shot off its nose?” Dr
Watson gazed up at the missing chunk. “Napoleon or the British or
the Mamluks?”

“Never let facts get in the way
of a good myth,
mon ami
, it was a muslim iconoclast in the
fifteenth century. Imagine seeing a giant head poking out of the
desert. That’s all you could see until 1878 when an archaeologist
partially excavated some giant paws. Then came the body. So how
many centuries of shifting sand did it take to cover it?”

“Fascinating question. I’m
going to take a walk around the perimeter. Care to come?”

She shook her head as she moved
out of the burning sun into the shadow of the hybrid beast. “I
studied it in detail from all sides when I visited Egypt with my
step-aunt. You go ahead. I’ll wait here.” She sat down in the shade
and began to fan her face.

“Man fears Time,” said a husky
male voice from somewhere close; a voice that sounded strangely
familiar, “Time fears the Sphinx.”

The calash driver had crept up
on her, but there was something strangely familiar about him too,
especially the pale blue eyes incongruously framed by a thick black
beard, furry eyebrows and a nuggety face.

“Major Nash!”

Innate handsomeness shone
through the heavy disguise. There was no masking those demigod
looks which always managed to set the female heart beating that
little bit faster. Though she managed to pretend it was because he
had taken her by surprise.

“Shhh! Keep your voice down.
Mycroft wanted me to warn you that Colonel Sebastian Moran is in
Cairo. We had it on good authority that he was in Rhodesia but he
returned to Cairo a week ago.”

“We saw him in the hotel
yesterday. He was talking to Professor Mallisham.”

“Do you know what they were
talking about?”

“No, but the colonel didn’t
look happy. Did Mycroft send you all the way to Egypt to alert us
to Colonel Moran?” That would explain why a photograph of the
colonel hadn’t been included in the faces to look out for. It
hadn’t been a conspiracy to keep the doctor in the dark.

“Several men are looking our
way. We’re standing too close together. Look annoyed. Put your
hands on your hips, wave your parasol around, berate me then storm
off toward the calash. I’ll follow sheepishly a few paces behind
you. While I pretend to check the harness we can talk further.”

A few moments later she was
seated in the calash with the hood up, fanning her face in an
agitated manner.

“I’m here on another matter,”
he addressed her way without meeting her gaze. “There’s a strong
rumour someone may try to sabotage the Aswan Dam. It’s an important
project for the British Empire. Failure isn’t an option. As soon as
I ditch this disguise I’ll arrive at the hotel under the guise of
Mr Ernest Cassel’s advocate on Eastern affairs.”

“So you’ll be travelling to the
construction site at the earliest opportunity?”

“Yes, I have a formal letter of
introduction to Mr Jefferson Lee. He has a river steamer going that
way the day after tomorrow. I’m going to hitch a berth.”

That bit of news caused a brief
but welcome frisson. “Dr Watson and I will also be hitching a berth
along with the three engineers overseeing the construction of the
dam – Willcocks, Aird and Baker.”

How on earth did she manage to
score an invitation when she’d only just arrived in Cairo the
previous evening? His invitation had been weeks in the planning. He
still hadn’t figured out what her relationship to Mycroft Holmes
was and it bothered him no end. He fiddled with the carriage
harness then strolled around to the opposite side to do more of the
same.

“Are you acquainted with Mr
Lee?”

“No, we met last night at
dinner. We’re going to check what Professor Mallisham is up to on
the island of Philae. Do you know what Moran’s connection is to
Mallisham?”

“Ostensibly, he’s a gun for
hire. He’s providing security at the site Mallisham is working on
which I presume is the island you just mentioned.”

“I recall Dr Watson describing
him in one of his chronicles as the second most dangerous man in
England - I presume he was quoting Sherlock – and now that
Professor Moriarty is out of the picture that must make Moran the
most dangerous?”

“He would have that honour if
he actually spent any time in England, but he prefers Africa. He
wasn’t interested in taking over Moriarty’s criminal empire, even
though he would have given the Yard a run for its money.”

“What’s your theory? Why didn’t
he return from Reichenbach and take over the empire?”

Sharp blue eyes winnowed the
fellaheen from the foreign tourists, noting any that didn’t quite
fit the grain. “I suspect he’s a man of action. He prefers to be in
the thick of it rather than give the orders. That’s what made him
such a perfect soldier. He could have been promoted to top rank but
for his devil-may-care attitude. He rubbed too many people up the
wrong way.”

“Was he dishonourably
discharged?”

Major Nash waved away a couple
of flies to disguise the fact he forgot himself and shook his head.
“No. There was a scandal and he chose to retire.”

“Not a question of avoiding a
court martial?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Not a lack of bravery?”

“Never! He was mentioned in
despatches after the battle of Char Asiab. Should have been awarded
a Victoria Cross more than once but he was always overlooked.”

“What was the scandal?”

“Take your pick: Deflowering
the unmarried daughter of a superior officer. Starting a fist fight
at a Vice-regal dinner. Cheating at cards at the Bangalore Club.
Getting drunk at the Maharajah’s annual ball and insulting the
Maharani. All of the above have been documented but the straw that
broke the camel’s back is unknown. Enough about Moran. Steer clear
of him. Who else will be on board the Lady Constance?”

“Miss Hypatia Lee, Miss Daisy
Clooney and Mrs Lorna Baxter; respectively, daughter, niece and
personal secretary of Mr Jefferson Lee. By the bye, the Lady
Constance is morphing into the goddess Sekhmet.”

He caught sight of a figure
wading through the sand toward them. “Here comes Dr Watson. He must
have decided not to go all the way around the Sphinx. You better
tell him what we discussed so he doesn’t let the cat out of the bag
when he sees me at the hotel later this evening. But don’t do it
yet. Several men have been keeping an eye on us since we left the
hotel. I can’t figure out if they’re watching you or me.”

“Your shoulders are too
broad.”

“What?”

“You don’t look like a calash
driver – your shoulders are too broad and your back is too
straight.”

He tried not to laugh as he
hoisted himself up and remembered to slump wearily on his perch.
One glance at Dr Watson’s face alerted him to the fact something
was gravely wrong. The doctor looked distressed. Major Nash
wondered if the doctor had just had a nasty encounter with Colonel
Moran, but he dared not turn around and was forced to
eavesdrop.

The Countess couldn’t fail to
note the doctor’s stricken state and wasted no time getting to the
bottom of it. “You look as if you’ve just crawled out of a pit full
of death adders.”

He removed his Panama hat and
mopped his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his
sandy-hued-sort-of-lilac linen jacket. “I just bumped into Colonel
Hayter.”

She wondered if he got the two
colonels confused. “You mean Colonel Moran?”

“I know who I mean,” he
snapped. “Gerald Hayter was on the other side of the Sphinx
interviewing a group of Englishmen who’d made a complaint about
their dragoman luring them to a shop which sold fake
artifacts.”

“Caveat emptor! That’s half the
shops in Cairo. The rule is to only buy from reputable dealers who
have been recommended by someone like Mallisham.”

“Yes, yes, that’s not the
point. This group was from Cambridge, all scholars, they know a
fake when they see one, anyway, these fakes were rather good, so
one of their members returned to the shop last night to confront
the dealer and the Cambridge chap hasn’t been seen since.”

“Oh, I see, they are all
worried about him.”

“Of course, they’re worried
about him. It looks like foul play. But that’s not the point of the
story either. The point is that Gerald Hayter looks dreadful.”

“You may need to
elaborate.”