Oasis of Night (20 page)

“Captain Halim is out of the country.” He flicked through my wallet with palpable disdain. “You are not to go around Cairo asking questions about Captain Halim, is that clear?”

“Now, wait just a minute—” I started up out of my chair, and before I could blink, I was pinned against the wall, his arm across my throat. We stood there like that, just staring at each other in the silence, and somewhere outside that little room there were other noises: phones ringing and people talking and footsteps walking up and down. He smelled like clean linen and incense, and he gave off a radiant heat. His eyelashes were long and thick and very black, and there was a tiny scar at the corner of his mouth. His gaze played over my face, and he slowly dropped his arm in favor of pinning me to the wall with his chest. It was suddenly hard to breathe, but not for the reasons you might think. We were lined up and pressed together, and I was painfully aware of him not merely as a police officer, but as a man. His gaze flickered over my face, committing my features to memory, and his hands moved to clasp my elbows. His tongue slid out to wet his lower lip, and I nearly groaned out loud. Dammit, I thought feverishly,
I
need to get laid.

“You will not ask about Captain Halim. If I find that you have done so, I will not hesitate to arrest you.” His fingers tightened on my elbows. “Resist, and I will have no choice but to take you. By force.” If this were any other situation, and he was any other guy, I'd be convinced that he was teasing me, flirting with me, trying to get me hot and bothered. It wasn't real hard to imagine, except I had a hard time picturing this guy letting his guard down long enough to get horizontal. He was wound as tight as a cheap watch. “Do you understand?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

He stepped back and handed me my wallet. “You may go.”

Shiva was napping in his taxi, head back and mouth open, when I rapped on his window. He snapped instantly awake and turned the key in the ignition. “Where does the effendi Stoyles wish to go now?”

“The Egyptian Museum.” It was time I returned the diorite bowl. Maybe somebody there could shed some light on this business.

 

 

T
HE
MAIN
entrance to the Egyptian Museum was big and red and arched, and reminded me of the Newfoundland Museum in these respects, although the latter was on a much smaller scale. The main hall was an enormous, vaulted space, set about with precious artifacts from Egypt's long and illustrious history. The curator in charge of antiquities, Mr. Hassan, was one of the most imposing men I'd ever seen. Well over six feet tall, he dominated the museum's main hall like some great, ancient colossus come to life. He was maybe fifty years old, with graying hair and piercing green eyes. When he took my hand to shake it, I felt as if half my arm were being enfolded in a bear's paw. When he told me to step into his office, I obeyed.

I unwrapped the little diorite bowl from the nest of cotton that I'd packed it in and explained how it had been entrusted to me by the mysterious Mr. Blount on behalf of the Newfoundland Museum. I was glad to have the opportunity to return so rare an artifact to its original home.

Hassan listened politely as I related my tale, but when I tried to hand the bowl over to him, he refused. “Mr. Stoyles, I fear you have been misled. This bowl is very beautiful and, at first glance, I am inclined to say it is genuine. I regret to say, however, that it does not belong to us.”

“It doesn't belong to you.” Maybe the long overseas flight was still wearing on me, but for a moment I thought he was joking. “This bowl doesn't belong to you.”

“It does not.” He smiled. “It is the law in Egypt that any ancient artifacts must be immediately turned over to the government. We pay fair market value for them, and the artifact in question becomes part of our permanent exhibit.” He ran a careful finger around the bowl's rim. “This is lovely, and as I said, on first glance I would say it is genuine, but alas, it is not.” He shrugged. “It would seem you have been… misled.”

“Not your bowl, huh?” I pressed my fingers to my eyes and made a mental note to find a good Turkish bath. Maybe a soak and steam, followed by a good hard pummeling, would clear my head. “Mr. Hassan, I'm very sorry.”

“Not at all.” He took a key out of his desk drawer and stood up. “Come with me.” We went down a wide, open hallway to where a series of glass cases were set into the wall. Hassan stopped in front of a display of stone vessels and unlocked the cabinet. He took out a small, pink bowl and handed it to me. “This is a diorite bowl, recently unearthed at Giza. It is consistent with a style of stone carving that dates to the Old Kingdom. You can see it is identical to the bowl you hold in your hand.” He smiled indulgently. “Perhaps a little too identical.”

“Yeah.” The little bowl was smooth and pleasantly cool to the touch. “Yeah, too identical.” I shook my head. “Mr. Hassan, I don't know what's going on. I'm sorry to have wasted your time.” I handed him back the museum's small bowl, feeling slightly foolish and more than a little irritated. Maybe Blount figured it would be a fine joke to send me halfway around the world, but I didn't think it was funny.

“You haven't wasted my time, Mr. Stoyles. Any time I have an opportunity to share our nation's culture with a visitor, that is time well spent.” He walked me back to the main door and shook my hand. “If you have any further questions, I am at your disposal.”

Shiva tucked his newspaper away between the seats. “No luck, effendi?”

“No luck, Shiva. You might as well take me back to the hotel.”

We eased out into the traffic, and I laid my head back on the seat and closed my eyes. I was bone weary, and the arousal I'd felt earlier with Sergeant Samir had dissolved, leaving nothing behind except faint irritation. What the hell was I doing here? I must be out of my mind, traipsing the world on what amounted to some imaginary goodwill mission. Maybe Sam Halim didn't want to be found; maybe Mrs. Halim had no business asking me to help her find him. Maybe I should have stayed in Newfoundland, running my cafe and minding my own business.

“The effendi is weary?” Shiva's dark eyes sought mine in the rearview mirror. His tone was kind, and his expression said he was willing to listen if I wanted to talk.

“Shiva, you have no idea.” It was barely three o'clock in the afternoon, but I was bushed. Somehow, in the midst of all my running around Cairo, I'd forgotten to eat, my body's internal rhythms still messed up from the long overseas flight. I felt headachy and thirsty, out of sorts.

“Might I make a suggestion, effendi Stoyles?”

“Sure, suggest away.”

“A cleansing bath, followed by a massage, often works wonders for the body and the spirit.”

For a moment I wondered if he was offering me his services. Maybe he wasn't just a cab driver? “Uh-huh.”

“There is a very fine masseur at the Shepheard Hotel. He is an American from Texas. If you ring the front desk and ask for Nick, you will not be disappointed.”

Shiva dropped me at the hotel, and I decided to do as he suggested. After a long, cool shower, I called down to the front desk and got Tania, the same girl who had checked me in the day before. I felt a little foolish even asking, but she was all business. “I'd like a massage. Uh, I heard you have an American working here, a man named Nick?”

There was the sound of papers rustling. “Of course, Mr. Stoyles. Nick is a favorite with our guests. Shall I send him up to your room straight away?”

“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.” I waited in my white hotel bathrobe, feeling a bit ridiculous and wondering if all this luxury was really necessary. Out there in the world, a war was raging, and the Nazis were doing their level best to capture North Africa, while somewhere, Sam Halim was caught up in it. Was this why I'd come to Egypt, so I could enjoy myself, sitting here in this fine hotel and soaking up the lush life? I didn't have time to contemplate further because there was a polite tapping at my door, and I opened it to find six feet of lean, redheaded Texan gazing back at me. He had the well-developed arms and chest of a swimmer, and a swimmer's narrow waist. His coppery hair was vaguely crew cut, but disheveled in a way that suggested somebody'd had their fingers in it recently. As soon as he saw me, he put down the portable massage table and reached to shake my hand.

His accent was pure San Antonio. “Mr. Stoyles, it sure is good to meet another American. How's about I come in and get set up?”

“Sure, Nick.”

“Most people call me Tex.” He grinned, the kind of smile that made me think some pretty dangerous thoughts. “Ain't nobody but my grandma ever calls me Nick.”

I stood back as he snapped open the massage bed and spread clean towels on it. A couple of minutes later, he was inviting me to strip off and lie down.

If you've never had a real massage performed by a professional, let me be the first to recommend it. And if the idea of a perfect stranger rubbing and stroking you seems a bit much, trust me, you don't know what you're missing. Within ten minutes, I was relaxed to within an inch of my life. Within twenty, I was almost melting off the table as his strong, capable hands kneaded every ounce of tension out of my back and shoulders.

The more relaxed I got, the more I found myself thinking of Sam and wondering where he was. The telephone call I'd received from him, back home in Newfoundland, confused me.
Something curious has happened to me, Jack. I'm afraid I don't remember anything. I don't remember how I got here, or why I came.
What did that mean? Was somebody messing with his memory? I understood why everybody was so tight-lipped. If Sam really was out of the country on secret wartime business, a misdirected word in the wrong quarters could get him killed. Then there was Sergeant Samir, a guy I was pretty sure had hated me on sight; I couldn't figure it, since he didn't know me from a bucket of rocks. Why the antagonism? Maybe he hadn't liked me asking about Sam, or maybe Sam had entrusted him with secret information. That would tend to make him a bit twitchy. And that whole scene in the police station, pinning me to the wall like that. It wasn't just my imagination. Something had passed between us, something that had nothing to do with police work.

“You wanna turn over, Mr. Stoyles, and I'll do your arms and legs?” Tex tapped the bottom of my foot, and I did as he requested. I figured he'd offer me a towel or something, but he didn't, and then I wondered if maybe I wasn't making too big a thing of it. I'd been naked in front of other men before. In high school, I'd run track, and played some baseball in college. I'd seen my share of locker rooms and what went on in them. You'd think I wouldn't care one way or another, except Tex was really gorgeous, and he was looking me over now with frank appreciation. “You keep yourself in good shape, Mr. Stoyles.”

“Everybody calls me Jack.”

“You keep yourself in good shape, Jack.” He took my right hand in his and rubbed oil into my palm, gently squeezing and pressing. At first it hurt a little, but he kept it up and pretty soon it started to feel real good. “Most people hold a lot of tension in their hands. Nobody ever realizes how much time they spend clenching their fists.” He rubbed the tight web of flesh between my index finger and thumb, gently distributing the oil until warmth spread up my arm, dispersing into my chest. “Don't mind if I chat, do you?”

“No, go ahead.”

“It's just that I don't get much of a chance these days to talk to another American.” His grin did wonderful things to that gorgeous face. “I miss it.”

“I see what you mean.” I grunted as his fingers dug into the tight muscles of my forearm. “How long you been in Cairo?”

“Since before the war, but I bummed around quite a bit before that. You here on vacation?”

“Something like that.”

“Where you from?”

“I'm living in Newfoundland now, but I'm originally from Philly.”

“Philly, huh? My sister moved to Philly a few years back.” He started in on the other arm. “She was engaged to a guy there, but it didn't work out.” He swept his thumbs in broad circles from my wrist to my elbow and back again.

“Where is she now?”

“She's dead.” His hands stopped moving and my guts twisted into a knot. “Yeah, she uh….” He went very still and very quiet, and when next he spoke, his voice was full of sorrow. “She wrote my mother she was coming home, and then we didn't hear anything from her. It was kind of weird, because Judy—that's what we called her; her name was Judith but she hated that name—Judy was real good about keeping her promises.” He leaned over me and began playing his hands down my torso in long, sweeping strokes. “That wasn't too long ago… last year, in fact.” Something must have shown in my face, because all of a sudden, he was looking at me intently. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give you my whole life story.”

“It's okay.” I sounded like my throat was stuffed with cotton. “Was she… in an accident?”

He shook his head. “No. She went to see one of these doctors. She was gonna have a baby, and I guess maybe she didn't want that.” He smoothed warm circles into my hipbones. “Turns out he wasn't really a doctor at all… not anymore.”

“Jesus.” I'd driven Judy there that day and waited for her outside in my car. I offered to go in with her, but she didn't want that. Maybe he'd been a doctor once, before the state medical board took away his license. Now he couldn't even write a prescription, let alone perform abortions on women scared and desperate enough to go to him. Christ, I remembered it like it was yesterday, every sordid detail, and thinking about it now was making me sick. It was some kind of screwy odds that I'd ended up meeting Judy's brother in a place like this, or maybe what they say about running from your past is true. No matter where you go, there you are. Yeah, maybe that was it.