Silver Tomb (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 2) (4 page)

The Egyptian hefted the Colt thoughtfully. “A Colt Starblazer?” he said, impressed. “Very new and very expensive. An excellent weapon. Although an odd accessory for an Egyptologist.”

“One never knows what rogues one might run into,” said Lazarus through a thin smile.

Bayoumi rifled through their wallets, reading cards, examining documents and, of course, ignoring the money. At last satisfied, he handed the wallets to one of his men to be returned to their rightful owners. He kept the gun and the knife.

“I can see at least that you do not belong to any agency of any great importance,” said Bayoumi. “No spy would have such untidy wallets filled with so much useless paper. No, I think you are perhaps private detectives working in conjunction with the police, and that gives me a feeling of great relief. The Cairo police are such bunglers that they couldn’t find a lost button, let alone a pair of inquisitive fools as you two. The Nile simply swallows up fools.”

“Sir, I must warn you that this will be reported to the British Agent!” said Petrie.

Bayoumi smiled. “I think not.” He looked to his men once more and spoke to them in Arabic. Lazarus was prepared this time and jumped out of his chair before Ahmed could put his hands on him once more. He drove the back of his skull into Ahmed’s face. He felt something crunch satisfyingly and then was on his feet, swinging out with a right hook at the first man to come at him.

His fist connected with a jawbone, but he didn’t have time to counter the savage blow with a blackjack that came whistling towards the left side of his head. Seeing stars, he reeled away, feeling his legs tripped by somebody and hearing the ringing laughter of Bayoumi as he went down.

The blow was not strong enough to knock him unconscious. He pressed the palms of his hands onto the dusty floor in an effort to gain his feet, but he was seized and hauled upright. He saw Petrie held in a similar position and was glad the Egyptologist had not put up a foolish fight as he had done.

They were dragged out through a different door than the one they had come in through. The warm air and the stink of the river greeted them. They found themselves on the top of a flight of steps that led down to the jetties on the other side of the building. Smaller boats were moored there and their captors seemed intent on taking them down to one of them, no doubt intending to carry them out onto a quiet patch of water and do away with them.

As they made to descend the stone steps, Lazarus twisted in his captor’s grip and let his balance go. They tumbled headfirst down the steps, the Mohammedan’s body beneath his, down, down, to crash sprawling at the bottom.

Lazarus felt the grip on his arms slacken. He scrambled to his feet, not bothering to check if the man beneath him was unconscious or permanently silenced due to a broken neck. At the top of the steps, Petrie, inspired by Lazarus’s courageous plunge, was attempting the same thing and succeeded in shaking himself loose from his captor’s grip; the Mohammedan reluctant to hold onto him after seeing the tumble his companion had taken.

Petrie and the Mohammedan faced each other on the steps. Petrie lifted up the toe of his shoe and jabbed it viciously into the groin of his foe. The man cried out and fell forward, one hand clutching for a grip and the other grasping the point of agony between his legs. Lazarus stood aside to let him roll past to join his companion at the foot of the steps.

“Come on, more will be coming!” Lazarus warned Petrie and together they took off, leaping over the forms of their former captors.

They headed for the jetties. There was no other accessible place at the rear of the building without clambering over a high wall. Moving back through the warehouse was out of the question. Already three of Bayoumi’s men were descending the steps, alarmed by the cries of their comrades.

“We might be able to lose them if we pinch one of their boats,” said Lazarus as they pounded along the jetty, the boards groaning in protest at their passing.

They made for the one that was furthest out on the jetty and thus the farthest from land. It was a small, sad thing, little more than a rowing boat, although it did have a short mast and a sail furled up in the hull on top of what looked like a cargo of rugs.

They leaped into it and began fumbling at the mooring rope. Lazarus wished he had his Bowie knife with him, and his revolver too for that matter, as the three Mohammedans were nearly upon them. All he had to hand was an oar, and so he shoved off from the jetty, holding the oar out ready to clobber any of them that got too close.

They drifted out into Bulaq Harbor, waving at their pursuers. There was plenty of traffic on the Nile.
Dahabeahs
and smaller vessels weaved in and out, while heavy steamers drifted sluggishly past in the wider water.

“How the hell do you steer this bloody thing?” yelled Petrie, tugging at ropes as they headed straight into the line of traffic.

“Christ, watch out!” Lazarus shouted, leaping down into the bilge and seizing the rudder. They narrowly missed the tail end of a
dahabeah
, ignoring the curses of its captain and the amused stares of its European passengers, and ploughed deeper into the confusing array of vessels.

“Raise the sail!” said Lazarus. “We’re hopelessly adrift without it!”

Not much of a sailor, Petrie eventually managed to hoist the triangular sail according to Lazarus’s shouted and increasingly impatient instructions. As the wind filled it, Lazarus tacked and cut a path through the traffic.

They emerged in the wider lane occupied by steamers of various sizes, loaded with tourists and cargoes headed to Alexandria and Stamboul. “For God’s sake don’t hit anything!” Petrie wailed.

“I’ll do my best,” Lazarus replied through gritted teeth.

They passed within five yards of a steamer and found themselves bobbing up and down like a cork in its wake. The bow of the vessel dipped alarmingly, and they took on water as a wave crashed over the gunwale.

“Get bailing!” Lazarus shouted. “Find a bucket!”

Petrie began to search between the rolled-up rugs for a bucket as the boom swept over his head. They had lost the wind in the hard tack to avoid the collision and Lazarus was desperately trying to find it again. A horn blared out a warning as another steamer came towards them. Lazarus panicked and tacked again, but the steamer’s captain was already changing his course to avoid hitting them. The huge white side of the steamer with its wheel-like paddles thundering water drifted towards them like the white cliffs of Dover. Lazarus let the rudder slip from his fingers. There was no avoiding this one. They would collide; their puny vessel against several hundred tons of paddle steamer.

Petrie poked his head up out of the hold, waving a bucket about, his face beaming. “Look!” he cried. “I’ve found one!”

Chapter Four

In which an old acquaintance appears in the nick of time

“The theft of a boat,” said the police captain as he went over the report in his hand. “Violence, vandalism and disruption of traffic in the harbor. Not to mention nearly sinking a steamer carrying over two hundred passengers, and I haven’t got to the real juicy part yet.”

“Oh?” said Lazarus.

They were in a small, untidy office. The nametag on the desk read ‘Captain Hassanein’. The man behind that nametag was a portly fellow with a brick-shaped face sporting a few day’s grey stubble.

Their handcuffs had been removed only because there were two police men guarding standing guard in the corridor outside. Miraculously, their stolen vessel had not been smashed into thousands of pieces upon contact with the steamer. It had been wrecked for sure and set to bob about like driftwood, its mast snapped and its sail covering its dazed crew. By the time they had managed to pull the canvas off their faces, they found themselves looking up into the eyes of a dozen police men who had been dispatched in a similar vessel to apprehend the two hooligans who were causing so much trouble.

“We have been trying to break the ring of black market antiquities dealers for some years now,” went on Captain Hassanein. “I can honestly say that I am surprised that two Englishmen were so deeply involved. Of course, it was to be expected that the English had some hand in it—natural thieves as they are, plundering the treasures of other countries like common pirates. And you sir, an Egyptologist,” he looked at Petrie. “A thief masquerading as a man of learning in order to steal from our country. Disgraceful.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Petrie protested. “What’s all this about stolen antiquities?”

The police captain ignored him and continued. “Clearly you were hoping to ship the items north and then transfer them to a vessel heading to Europe. Frankly, I don’t care about the details. What I want to know is where you got the items. One could suggest that you discovered the tomb from which they came and told no one, but I think it unlikely. If your skills as archaeologists are anything like your skills as sailors then I doubt either one of you could find a beetle under a rock. I must assume that you know persons who themselves have kept this hidden tomb a secret for many years, and sell off bits at a time to avoid detection.” He smiled. “That plan would seem to have failed in their association with you two.”

“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Lazarus. “It is true that we entered the premises of Bayoumi Shipping Inc. looking for antiquities, but we wished only to identify the culprits in this black market in order to help you with your case.”

At this the police chief smiled, clearly not believing a word of it. “How very generous of you.”

Lazarus continued. “Bayoumi is certainly the man you’re after. He all but admitted that he had items to sell. He uses his contacts to ship them out of the country. After interviewing us he tried to have us killed. We escaped and fled taking one of his boats with us.”

“Yes, a boat waiting for you all loaded up with its cargo,” came the reply. “Very convenient.”

“If you like an abundance of carpets,” said Lazarus.

“An abundance of carpets containing thousands of pounds worth of antiquities.”

“What?” both Lazarus and Petrie exclaimed in unison, gaping at him.

“We have unfurled every carpet found on board. Cheap, local junk mostly, but the perfect disguise for your true cargo. In the centre of each roll was a trinket—necklaces, ushabtis, armbands, statuettes—enough to please Mr. Maspero and assure him that we are winning the war over those who wish to rob this country blind of its heritage.”

Lazarus and Petrie were speechless. The evidence against them was staggering and they could see no way out. Lazarus spoke at last. “Look, sir, I know my rights to requests are somewhat limited at present but I ask you only one thing. Put in a call to the British Agent. Tell Baring that you have one of Morton’s men in your custody. That’s all I ask, a simple telephone call.”

“Your British Agent can’t help you now,” said the police chief. “He’s far too busy meddling in our customs and extorting our Khedive to care for a couple of fellow thieves from his homeland. Now, I am a realistic man, I know that as British citizens I will eventually be forced to turn you over to the military or perhaps the secret police, but in the meantime I intend to learn all I can from you using all the methods at my fingertips.” He let the silence hang as a threat.

Lazarus knew all too well the brutalities inflicted on suspects in the bowels of the Cairo police station in order to get a confession, and decided that it was best to remain silent for the time being.

They were taken away and returned to their cell, which was of the communal variety and contained twelve other prisoners, mostly Arabs. There was a single bucket for urine and feces which succeeded in filling the small cell with an unholy stink. It was crowded, hot, dark and ugly and served to increase the desperation of anybody on the wrong side of its heavy, bolted door.

“This is monstrous!” exclaimed Petrie as somebody jolted the bucket of feces for the second time in under five minutes. “What on earth will become of us? Our careers, our reputations, not to mention our very lives! Will they execute us, do you think?”

“Calm yourself, Petrie,” said Lazarus. “They can’t do anything to us but keep us here for the night. As British subjects we do not fall under their jurisdiction. They must hand us over to the consulate in the morning, where I can make the arrangements for all this to be cleared up. But for the time being we must be patient.”

This seemed to fortify the Egyptologist somewhat but he did not stop his weak protestations. “I’ll never live this down!” he kept saying under his breath. “Me! One of England’s leading Egyptologists spending a night in the clink!”

Several hours passed and Lazarus and Petrie began to wonder if it was possible to get any sleep standing upright. Suddenly a key grated in the lock and the door to the cell swung open, eliciting cries of hope from everybody within. The sound was pitiful, like hearing cries of the damned from some dark pit in Hell. The muzzle of a rifle poked into the cell and orders barked in Arabic warned the prisoners to hold back. Lazarus and Petrie’s names were called out and they stepped forward cautiously, hoping against all the odds that they were being released, or at least transferred early. But at the back of their minds lurked the dread of interrogation.

They were led up to the chief’s office where they found Hassanein wearing an even deeper frown than the one he had had on earlier. He extended a hand to the two chairs in front of his desk and they sat down, gasping with relief at the easing of their leg muscles.

“It appears that you have friends in high places,” said Hassanein. “Or at least you are something more than the common thieves I took you for, even if you are as stupid.”

Lazarus remained silent, not wishing to ruin whatever godsend this was with an impertinent wisecrack.

“Whatever your interest in Bayoumi Shipping was no longer concerns me,” the captain went on. “What I am interested in is all you know of the black market in antiquities. What led you to Mr. Bayoumi?”

Lazarus cleared his throat. He was not about to let slip more than he had to to this incompetent and most likely corrupt tool of the Khedivate. “Are we to be released?”

“Under my severest protestations,” Captain Hassanein answered.

“Then we are under no obligation to tell you anything. I presume you did as I requested and contacted Major Baring?”

“No, I did not.”

“Then how…?”

“Because somebody had to step in and save your hide once again,” came a female voice from behind them.

Lazarus and Petrie jumped in their seats and swiveled around to see a woman lounging like a panther in an armchair that had been screened by the door when they had come in. Her hair was black and bound up high. She was smoking a cigarette held in a long holder, gripped lightly between ivory fingers.

“Katarina!” gasped Lazarus.

“Longman,” she purred with a smile.

“Miss Mikolavna from the Russian intelligence services has been helping us with our case against the black marketers,” said Hassanein.

“Sounds a tad trivial for the Okhrana,” said Lazarus, knowing that his use of the word would irritate Katarina who denied the existence of such an agency.

“Come now, Longman,” she said, “Am I supposed to believe that your superiors sent you here to catch sellers of mummified hands and stone beetles? I have my mission and you have yours. This black market business clearly signals some overlap in our pursuits.”

“And as the representative of the police here in Cairo,” said the captain, “I am naturally the last to know anything.”

Lazarus could not suppress a smile. Somebody had certainly let the hot-air out of the poor police captain. In just a few hours he had gone from being the man holding all the cards to a mere eavesdropper on the activities of people in far higher positions than him.

Lazarus rose and Petrie joined him. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I would like to go back to my hotel and freshen up. I’ve had a most educational tour of the Cairo Police headquarters, but I don’t wish to take up any more of your time, Captain. Good day!”

“Hold it right there,” said the captain in a voice that sounded like he was desperately trying to claw back some authority as his only lead in his case was about to walk out through his door. “We need some information from you. How did you know about Bayoumi Shipping? Who sent you there?”

“Sorry, Captain,” said Lazarus with a smile. “I don’t reveal my sources in case I wish to use them again. And as you have no charges against either my associate or I, we are under no obligation to aid you in your investigation. Katarina, thank you for your intervention. We are much obliged.”

The captain rose and slammed his hand down on his desk as they walked out of the door. “You might be a free man today, Englishman! But if I find out that you are in any way connected to the selling of antiquities, I will have you back in my cells so quick your head will be spinning! And you won’t have this Russian woman to help you a second time!”

Lazarus and Petrie ignored him as they left his office and headed downstairs to the street, where the bustle of morning was beginning to thrum. Lazarus’s head was feverish but it had nothing to do with the steadily increasing heat or his night in the pestilent cells.
Katarina Mikolavna
! He had not dared himself to imagine that he would ever see her again, to hear her soft eastern tones or inhale her beautiful scent. She was just as acidic, just as spiteful and just as wonderful as she had been a year ago. To think what the fates were planning by having their paths cross once more!

Petrie also seemed bowled over by the Russian agent’s sudden appearance. “Who the devil was that, Lazarus?” he demanded as they crossed the street. “You obviously know each other.”

“That, my dear friend, was Katarina Mikolavna. The Russian I met in America last year.”

Petrie’s eyes goggled at him. “The enemy agent who helped you out? You never said it was a woman!”

True enough, Lazarus had kept the gender of his Russian comrade vague when he had related his adventures to Petrie. For some reason he felt that it was almost as secret as the fact that they really did find the seven golden cities of Cibola. Also it made the tale of his trip to New York and Boston in the stolen airship—the
Santa Bella—
easier to explain.

Petrie seemed to remember that particular tale at just that moment and his eyes widened even more. “You and she shared a balloon together? One of those little ones with bunks?”

Lazarus smiled and nodded.

“My God, man! That woman! That hair! Those lips! And, oh! That accent! You must have a constitution of steel to see such a voyage through without losing your mind and throwing yourself upon her!”

“Who is to say I didn’t?” said Lazarus with a smile.

That shut Petrie up and they continued in silence, the glow on the Egyptologist’s cheeks speaking enough for both of them.

They headed back to their respective hotels and, once in his room, Lazarus stripped off, shaved and drew himself a hot bath. He retrieved the bottle of gin from his portmanteau and poured himself a generous measure before slipping into the almost painfully hot water with a great sigh. As the heat penetrated his bones, he sipped his drink and enjoyed the stinging taste of London’s streets; a pleasant memory here amidst the dirt, dust and heat of the Egyptian capital.

That afternoon Lazarus found a message had been left for him at reception.

LONGMAN

MEET ME AT THE CAFE ON EL MAGHRABI TWO O CLOCK. WE NEED TO DISCUSS THINGS

KATARINA

Lazarus knew the café. He didn’t go inside, but instead hung around beneath the arches where a water seller was doing good business. After a while he spotted Katarina, her pale face shielded by a black parasol and her skirts hemmed just right so that they wouldn’t trail in the dust. She had seen him, and came over to the shade of the arches.

“Won’t you come inside for a coffee?” she asked him.