The Khamsin Curse (5 page)

“He looks seriously ill. He has
shed half his body weight. He is skin and bone. What’s more, he
didn’t even recognize me. I had to prompt him with my own name. I
was shocked.”

“You know better than anyone
how tropical climates can affect delicate English constitutions and
cause loss of weight and temporary mental confusion.”

“Gerald Hayter spent years in
the Hindu Kush. He has the constitution of an ox. Enteric fever and
dysentery regularly struck down entire platoons while he remained
immune. And what does temporary mental confusion actually mean?” he
challenged, still in shock at seeing his old comrade vastly changed
and not for the best.

“A mental lapse, a brief
forgetfulness; we all get them when we are distracted. Even I had
one once. And you’ve probably changed quite a bit since he last saw
you. You’re fuller in the face. You have a few, er, grey hairs. And
he had a lot on his mind with the missing Cambridge chap. His mind
was elsewhere.”

“Look,” he said severely. “I’m
not going to argue with you but I have a doctor’s instinct when it
comes to these things. There’s something seriously wrong with my
old friend but I cannot put my finger on it. I invited him to join
us for lunch. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not. I’m delighted
you did. You will be able to observe him in a more relaxed setting.
You will laugh at your fears by the time lunch is over.”

Colonel Hayter was waiting for
them in the foyer of The Mena House, and he looked every bit as
dreadful as the doctor described.

Feeble framed, painfully thin,
distrait, nervy, incoherent and forgetful. Twice in the space of
ten minutes he forgot the Countess’s name, and although many might
find the name difficult to pronounce, few could actually forget it
in its entirety.

His voice wavered erratically
from practically inaudible to a high-pitched squawk. The beginnings
of some sentences were plagued by a paralysing stammer. His hands
shook so much he dropped his fork, knocked over the glass of water
and managed to spill half his lunch down the front of his already
badly-stained shirt. If he hadn’t recently suffered a nervous
breakdown, he was about to.

They did not mention the top
secret investigation they were undertaking. They did not even touch
on the Boer War. They did, however, discuss the Lower Aswan Dam and
it was clear it was the root cause of much of his worry.

“I have the Foreign Office
breathing down my neck,” he ranted, sweating profusely despite the
coolness of the dining room. “I get telegrams everyday about
possible acts of sabotage by Russian agents, German spies, and
Dutch collaborators. This morning I got a telegram to let me know
Mr Cassel’s advocate on Eastern affairs is arriving in Cairo later
this evening. I’ve been ordered to I give the man my full
co-operation and support. They must think I’m a tour guide! Or a
nanny! This damned dam project has taken over my life. It anything
goes wrong with it I bet Mr Gideon Longshanks will blame me.”

“Is that the name of the
advocate? I’m sure he won’t blame you,” reassured the Countess in
dulcet tones. “You cannot possibly be held to account for the
success or failure of the dam.”

“That’s what I tell myself but
then I get another telegram and a new set of urgent tasks to see
to. Do this. Do that. Don’t forget the other. Check this. Look into
that. Follow up on you know what. I’ve got six weeks to go before
my replacement arrives. He’s coming from Shanghai on the slow boat.
The chap before me was a disaster – ran off with the cousin of the
Pasha of Tripoli. The Tripolitanians were all for declaring war.
The girl was returned unharmed and the Hon. Rex Bootham joined the
French Foreign Legion. War was averted but it means the Foreign
Office is sensitive to further stuff ups. I had no idea what I was
getting myself in for when I agreed to this posting. I needed the
money, you see. A few bad investments have eaten into my retirement
income. If I don’t see this business through I may have to sell the
place in Reigate. It’s been in the family for generations. I don’t
want to be the chap that draws a red line under the history of the
Hayters.” Red wine dribbled down his chin as his bottom lip
trembled.

“Well?” said Dr Watson with
surly emphasis when Colonel Hayter shuffled off in a shower of
sweat, knocking into an empty chair, rebounding backwards, and
bouncing off the wall like a wayward billiard ball. They ordered a
second cup of coffee to get over the experience. “What did you
think? Was I right in my assessment? I hate to say it but Hayter
reminds me of Poe’s story about the-man-who-was-all-used-up.”

“I concede you were correct.
Your ex-army chum is on the verge of nervous exhaustion. He is way
out of his depth as Acting High Commissioner. If he lasts six weeks
I’ll be amazed. I’m afraid we will have to look elsewhere for help
if we need it. Asking the colonel for assistance may seriously
jeopardise the entire investigation. He will blab out state secrets
to anyone who will listen to his litany of woes. Moving right
along, you will recognise Mr Gideon Longshanks when you meet him
tonight.”

Feeling vindicated, Dr Watson
shook his head emphatically; further buoyed by the fact she had
readily conceded the point – which didn’t happen often enough as
far as he was concerned. He might not possess the deductive skills
of Sherlock, the innate genius of Mycroft, or the intuitive
ratiocination of his companionable sleuth, but when it came to
medical matters he knew what he was talking about. “Gideon
Longshanks? Hmm, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

She waited for the waiter to
serve coffee then lowered her tone. “Mr Gideon Longshanks is Major
Inigo Nash. He was our calash driver today. He thinks there will be
an attempt to sabotage the dam. He plans to travel to Aswan with us
on the Sekhmet. He has a letter of introduction to Mr Lee. And the
reason Mycroft didn’t include a photograph of Colonel Moran was
because he didn’t expect the colonel to be in Cairo. He thought
Moran was in Rhodesia. He sent Major Nash to warn us.”

That evening, Mr Jefferson Lee
presided over the same large table in his harem. The three
engineers were conspicuous by absence. Mr Gideon Longshanks,
sporting a blond beard that seemed to add to his masculine appeal,
was already a welcome member of the party. He allowed the cattle
king to handle introductions and everyone played along.

Professor Mallisham arrived
late as usual and seemed put-out to find the seat to the right of
Miss Hypatia Lee occupied by a sickeningly good-looking newcomer
and the seat to the right of the Countess occupied by her
travelling companion. He was forced to sit between Miss Clooney and
Mrs Baxter, the shy non-entity and the lowly secretary, neither of
whom was rich, scintillating or worth cultivating.

Mr Gideon Longshanks was a born
raconteur who was apparently
au courant
when it came to
things Egyptian, Persian and interesting. He had travelled the
length and breadth of the Middle East. No one doubted why Mr Cassel
had hired him in the capacity of advocate on Eastern affairs.

“So you’ll be sailing with us
to the first cataract of the Nile?” quizzed the professor when he
caught up with the latest arrangements, adding somewhat
contentiously, “I suppose Cassel wants to make sure he is getting
good value on his investment?”

“And that the project is on
track,” replied Mr Longshanks, sensing hostility.

“Cassel probably wants the dam
to go higher. Get one set of engineering plans approved and then
push for that bit more; that bit extra – fifteen feet extra! - is
that why he sent you out?”

“I have no authority to alter
any plans.”

“Go higher?” Dr Watson
trumpeted out a note of incredulity. “The structure is massive and
enormously risky as is! No one has ever attempted a gravity masonry
buttress dam on such a scale! To go fifteen more feet would be the
height of folly!”

Professor Mallisham nodded
curtly; glad to have a supporter. “Not to mention the height of
destructiveness. It will swallow the island of Philae and the
beauty of the place will be lost for all time. Another Atlantis to
mourn!”

Everyone looked back at the
advocate who managed to maintain his sang-froid under provocation.
“I can only repeat I have no such objective. Mr Cassel is
interested only in his investment as it stands.”

“He cannot lose,” reasoned the
big American, admiring the way the advocate handled the ornery
sand-grubber. “He lends money to the Bank of England who bankroll
the project. Success or failure, he gets repaid with interest. Who
wouldn’t like an investment like that! If you find yourself at a
loose end when this project comes to an end, Mr Longshanks, I could
use someone of your talents back home. You come and see me, young
man.”

Miss Hypatia Lee, who had been
enjoying the verbal sparring between her current heart throb and
the dashing advocate, knew what was likely to happen when her daddy
started talking money; she had seen eyes glaze over and yawns
become contagious more often than not. “Speaking of folly, didn’t
one of the Fatimid Caliph’s go mad trying to build a dam in the
same place?”

Professor Mallisham pipped his
rival. “That was in the eleventh century, Miss Lee, and the man in
question was not a Caliph.”

“Alhazen,” expounded the
advocate, “was a polymath.”

“Also known as Ibn al-Haythem,”
added the professor.

“He studied the viability of
constructing a dam at the first cataract and decided to feign
madness when he realized the project was doomed to failure,”
continued the advocate.

“For how long did he feign
madness?” asked Miss Lee sweetly, looking from one man to the other
and wondering who to have first.

“Ten years,” supplied both men
simultaneously.

Dr Watson broached a new topic
when dessert arrived. “Has there been any fresh news regarding the
missing Cambridge scholar?”

“Are you referring to
Rossiter?” quizzed the professor. “The chap who disappeared from
the souk last night?”

“If he is the Cambridge scholar
who was returning a fake artifact – then yes.”

“Stick to reputable dealers,”
warned the big American portentously. “The rest are crooks and
shysters.”

“Oh, Daddy!” chastised Miss
Lee, noting that her daddy was looking frightfully red-faced, an
indication he had consumed more red wine than was good for him.

“Your father is quite right,”
added the professor sternly. “Stick with that chap I recommended -
Ali Pasha.”

The Countess, who had been
happy to allow the colloquy to unfold without her intervention for
most of the evening, feigned ignorance. “Is he the man in the green
fez?”

Miss Clooney shuddered. “He
looks like Sobek.”

Miss Lee came to the rescue of
her cousin who blushed when all eyes turned her way and she looked
lost for words. “It’s the green fez and green waistcoat,” she
explained. “Sobek the crocodile god is always depicted with a green
face.”

“Plus he has sharp teeth,”
added Mrs Baxter with a visible tremor. “Ali Pasha, I mean. When he
smiles he reminds me of that crocodile we saw the other day
swimming amongst the reeds in the Nile.”

“Nothing to be frightened of,”
reassured the professor, “Crocodiles have inhabited the Nile since
the dawn of time. Besides, Sobek is a protective deity from the Old
and Middle Kingdom. He is associated with fertility. The name may
be a derivation of: to impregnate. He is Lord of the Semen.”

“He who has pointed teeth. He
who loves robbery. He who eats while he mates,” added Miss Lee
thrillingly, recalling with a seductive shiver a few lines verbatim
from the professor’s work in Kom Ombo where the worship of Sobek
rose to cult status.

“Whoa there, young lady,”
warned the munificent fire-eater. “I will not have language like
that at my dinner table.”

“I was only quoting some
research, Daddy.”

“I believe Sobek is an
apotropaic deity,” added the Countess, having the last word. “In
other words, he is an averter of evil.”

4

An early start was called for.
By midday the temperature would surpass double digits. By
mid-afternoon it would surpass bearable. Traipsing up and down the
alleys of the grand souk which was mostly
en plein air
would
then be reserved for mad dogs and Englishmen…

Bursting with vivid colour and
awash with honeyed light, a visit to the Khan el-Khalili bazaar in
Old Cairo town was a must-see. Originally a mausoleum called Turbat
az-za’faran, the vaulted roofs and gateways of the old ‘Saffron
Tomb’ somehow still managed to retain their gorgeous apricot glow,
perhaps even more sublimely than in 970 AD when a Fatimid Caliph
deigned to found a kingdom and build a palace.

Five hundred years later a
Mamluk Sultan decided the area was better served as a caravanserai.
He dismantled the palace and the tomb, chucked the old Fatimid
bones on a scrapheap, and set up a mecca for merchants where trade
flourished. Workshops sprang up between the ruins where craftsmen
sold gold and silver jewellery featuring precious gemstones, ivory
ornaments, intricately carved wooden boxes, leatherwork, and
filigreed oil lamps that might have housed a magic genie or an evil
djinn. There were Turkey rugs and Persian carpets that one could
easily believe might fly; silk and damask by the mile, the ancient
Egyptian fabric known as assuit, and of course every aromatic spice
known to man since the day a woman first decided to add a bit of
colour to her watery grey stew.

To stroll along the avenue
known as the qasaba one might even be forgiven for yearning for a
glimpse of the olden days when female slaves were paraded naked and
sold to randy old men who already had a dozen wives. “I imagine
Scythian slaves would have made up a goodly measure of the human
cargo,” commented Dr Watson, picturing them lithe and blonde.