Death of a Pharaoh (21 page)

Hassan sat immobile, perched in the small wooden saddle padded with
only his thin blanket. An hour ago, he’d hooked the end of his switch on a
corner of his robe and held it aloft to provide a small patch of shade against
the merciless mid-day sun. His camel was content to chew her cud quietly and he
was certain that they could have remained in the same position until nightfall
as they both had all they needed.

Hassan was a
Guardian, a member of an ancient clan of the Habiru sworn to protect the hidden
tomb of the True Pharaohs. No gravedigger had ever defiled the secret entrance
known only to the elders of his tribe. Those who had the misfortune to come too
close died with their blood staining the unforgiving desert sand. Legend says
that a Guardian was so silent and so quick with the blade of his dagger that no
intruder had ever even seen death coming.

He had been
watching the European since early morning. Before dawn, he discovered the
tracks of the small truck that left the man the day before along with about 500
kilos of equipment, judging by the lighter imprints when the vehicle drove
back. He heard the small generator long before the trail led him to the camp
not far from an ancient well that belonged to his people.

A generation ago,
he could have slit the man’s throat just for drinking his water without
permission. Sadly, in modern Egypt no one respected the ancient laws of the
desert. Besides, killing a foreigner would only bring the attention of the
police and his people preferred minimum contact with the authorities. It had
been that way for centuries. So much so that just to get a passport when the
Falcon Foundation sent him to America for military training five years earlier,
had been a bureaucratic nightmare. He was the first and only member of his
family to fly on an airplane. He came back six months ago, just after his
twenty-second birthday. On his return, they made him what the Americans would
call a Captain in charge of an elite squad of trackers and marksmen that
included his younger brother, Gamal. His father was very proud of both of them.

The first of the
Europeans arrived four years ago while he was away. They were the advance team
for a Swiss based NGO that provided desert tribes, like his, with training and
funds for small-scale irrigation projects and the tapping of ancient streams
and aquifers far below the desert sands. At first, they welcomed them; water
was the most precious commodity for his people.

Before long, their
numbers grew to more than a hundred and the Tribal Council became worried. They
soon built a small village complete with storage sheds, barracks, a
recreational center and two high capacity diesel generators deposited by
military helicopters. Obviously, they enjoyed excellent relations at the
highest levels of the government. All of them were men, not out of the ordinary
for a rural project in a Muslim country, and even though they wore civilian
clothes, they looked and acted like military personnel. Among them were two
priests and they celebrated what Catholics called mass every morning.
Attendance was almost 100% according to their spies outside the camp and Hassan
knew that such devotion was not normal for soldiers.

A few months ago,
the Europeans began to send teams farther and farther from their headquarters.
It soon became evident that they were methodically surveying the entire area
and within weeks they would be operating much too close to the forbidden zone.
When a group of elders visited to express their concerns, the foreigners explained
to them that they were merely mapping the tributaries of a complex underground
river system. Someday their efforts would be of great benefit to the tribe they
assured them.

It was enough to
warrant a consultation with the Chief of Security of the Falcon Foundation and
his advice to them was to try to get some evidence of the true nature of their
explorations. Until yesterday, the Swiss always sent out teams in small groups
of two or three. This was the first time that any of them made camp alone. It
was an opportunity. Hassan wasn’t certain how he would accomplish it but knew
he had to get inside that tent and maybe even a laptop.

The seed of a plan
began to form in his mind during the long hours in the saddle on the edge of
the sand dune. He imagined that a hundred men alone in the desert might begin
to miss the pleasures of the flesh. Since there were no women, he was certain
that more than a few of them turned to each other for relief. It was only
normal. As a young teenager living in a conservative society with no
possibility of relations with a woman until marriage, he too had practiced
furtive sex with his friends. They never discussed it openly but no one thought
anything of it.

In America, it had
been so easy to find women. He soon discovered that his name suited him well:
Hassan, the beautiful! He was strong and tall with dark curly hair, bronzed
skin, deep brown eyes and a smile that caused the girls in the shops to blush
and fumble his change. When he walked down the streets of Houston, heads would
turn and they weren’t always just on the shoulders of women. One of his
cousins, who found work with the Swiss, noticed that a few of the men were very
friendly to him. He was young, and nearly as good-looking as Hassan. When he
worked without a shirt, he felt many admiring eyes on his strong back. The next
day Hassan would bait the trap.

The well was in a
depression about two hundred yards from the European’s tent. The man could see
the approach from every direction but he would need to climb a small dune to
watch anyone at the trough. Hassan knew he had been seen as soon as he arrived
on his camel. He dismounted and stood with his back to the tent while his camel
drank. It was early but already hot and Hassan took off his robe to refresh
himself with the water. He slowly poured the contents of the bag over his head
and down his chest. When he bent to refill the skin, he noticed the glint of a
pair of binoculars. He pretended not to have seen while he nonchalantly untied
the string of his trousers and took a long leisurely piss. When he finished,
the binoculars had only moved slightly downward. He smiled to himself. That
afternoon he made camp not far from the well but not close enough to invite a
visit. Before dark, he went back to the well and again he bathed in the cool
water but this time he was naked from head to toe and his prey was back to
watch the show.

Under cover of
night, he snuck within a few yards of the tent. There was a lantern hung inside
on the far wall. The man had his back to Hassan working at a small desk. He
waited patiently. After two hours, the European got up and removed his clothes.
He heard the creak of the cot when he lay down. There was only silence for a
moment but soon Hassan could see the unmistakable movements that assured him
his intuition had been right. Tomorrow he would take it to the next level.

He returned in the
morning to bathe at the well. This time he took a small bottle of soap and as
often happens with men the act of lathering his crotch made him erect. He knew
he was being watched and in a strange way, it made it more exciting. Hassan was
certain they both enjoyed his performance. That afternoon he suddenly appeared
at the door of the tent. The man was working on a laptop and didn’t even hear
Hassan. He was startled but quickly recovered. He came toward him wary but
smiling. He wore a shirt with the buttons open and khaki shorts. He was in his
late twenties, maybe thirty with blond hair, blue eyes and a muscular build.
His skin was ruddy from too much sun.

“Sprechen sie
deutsch?” he asked.

“Ingleesh?” Hassan
pleaded in the worst accent possible.

“I speak English
too,” he replied. “My name is Franz,” he told him while he pointed to his
chest.

“Me, Hassan,” he
grunted feeling like some B movie Tarzan.

“My pleasure.”

“Me too.”

They eyed each
other with caution for a moment until the foreigner finally spoke again.

“Would you like
some tea?”

“Thank you,”
Hassan was at pains not to let him know he spoke fluently.

The man offered a
chair but Hassan indicated he was more comfortable on the ground. Franz busied
himself lighting a gas burner that looked to be military issue. While he waited
for the water to boil, he dug into a cooler and brought out two granola bars
like those Hassan had enjoyed in the United States. He was obviously aware of
the importance of hospitality.

“I am a surveyor,”
he announced while he poured the tea into metal cups.

“What is
sirbeyur?”

“I make maps, do
you understand ‘map’?”

“Yes, Bedouin do
not need maps.”

“I am Swiss. We
need maps,” he chuckled. It was a pleasant laugh.

Hassan smiled.
“Are you here long time?” he asked.

“Another week,” he
replied.

Hassan thought it
would be enough. He finished his tea and abruptly stood up.

He came back later
that afternoon.

“I bathe at well,”
he announced then pointed to his new friend. “Wash back, help Hassan?”

He was certain the
man almost choked he swallowed so hard.

Franz coughed to
clear his throat then said, “Of course!”

He dutifully
followed the Bedouin to the trough. Hassan removed his clothes without even a
hint of shyness then poured a bucket of water over his head.

“Shampoo,” he announced
then handed Franz the small plastic bottle.

Hassan lowered his
dripping head and Franz obliged by massaging in the liquid. He was gentle.
Hassan raised his eyes slightly and noticed the man was getting hard. He
reached for the water to rinse his head then stripped off his pants and turned
his back to Franz. He handed him the soap over his left shoulder.

Franz slowly began
to wash his broad shoulders. He took his time then began to move down stopping
at the small of his back. Hassan noticed his hesitation so he reached behind
and guided Franz’ hand lower. He could feel him trembling with excitement as he
soaped his buttocks, venturing timidly between his strong thighs. After a
moment, Hassan turned to face him wearing nothing but a broad smile and an even
bigger erection.

“You help Hassan
again, yes?”

Franz fell to his
knees in a flash.

Hassan had never
experienced oral sex from a man. It felt wonderful. He was certain that it
wasn’t Franz’ first time. How else could he be so good at it?

When he finished,
he casually sloshed his crotch with water then gathered up his clothes.

“Good bath,” he
pronounced then turned and climbed up the dune. He was certain that he now had
the man exactly where he needed him.

That evening he
waited for Franz to retire. He quietly slipped through the flap of the tent.
Franz stared at his shadow with a mixture of fear and desire. Hassan removed
his robe and let it fall in a heap at his feet. He was naked underneath. Franz
crouched to repeat his earlier triumph but Hassan put his hands on his
shoulders and twisted indicting that he wanted something else. Franz reached
over to open a small drawer in the bedside table and brought out a tube of
lotion. He removed his boxers and rolled over.

Twenty minutes
later Hassan collapsed on Franz’ back utterly exhausted; unable and unwilling
to move for fear the magic would end. He tilted his head and listened to his
newfound lover’s heart racing and his eyes became misty with tears of joy. It
was at least a minute before he could speak.

“You like?” he
asked shyly.

“Richtig!” Franz
answered in German.

Hassan assumed
that was good. The cot protested when they both shifted posture. Hassan rolled
on his back while Franz snuggled beside him, his head resting on his chest.
Hassan ran his fingers through his soft hair marveling at how the texture was
so different from his own. Neither of them spoke, words seemed inadequate and
within twenty minutes, Franz was asleep.

His trust deeply
moved Hassan. Only a day earlier they had been potential enemies. He watched
mesmerized as Franz’ head rose and fell in rhythm to his own breathing. He was
convinced he could now get any information he wanted but at the same time the
powerful feelings he had just experienced confused him. He had been with
several women in the United States but it had never felt like this. It didn’t
bother him that he might be attracted to a man. He was much too confident of
his own masculinity to worry about something as trivial as plumbing. Rather, he
was concerned that it might complicate his mission. He was a Guardian. It meant
more than life itself, more than great sex and even more than love.

He extracted
himself from under Franz and gently lowered his head to the pillow. He stirred
slightly but didn’t wake. Hassan dressed then with one last look at the
sleeping face, he slipped out of the tent and returned to his encampment.

Hassan lay on his
blanket but sleep evaded his mind. He stared at the stars above him. They were
what he missed more than anything else when he was in America. There you could
barely see the stars with all the light pollution, as they called it. In the
desert the sky was ablaze with twinkling lights, you felt you could reach out
and touch them.