The Eye of the Serpent (9 page)

IT WASN'T A
huge distance by automobile but Alec knew that they would have been totally exhausted if they'd attempted to walk through the blazing heat of the afternoon.

After some thirty minutes' drive they came upon an unusual sight. A large grey biplane was parked on a small area of flat land beside the road. There didn't seem to be anybody with it. Mohammed slowed the Ford to a halt so his passengers could step down and take a closer look. Llewellyn declined to get out of the car, saying that it would be too much effort.

‘Any idea who this belongs to?' Ethan
asked Mohammed as he approached the plane.

‘No, Mr Wade. I've never seen it before.'

‘Hmm.' Ethan walked around the plane and reached up a hand to stroke its fuselage. ‘Not a model I recognize,' he said. ‘Foreign, I'd say. I used to fly these things during the war,' he told Alec. ‘Spotter planes, mostly. My job was to go out over the enemy trenches and take photographs of their positions.'

‘That sounds dangerous,' said Alec.

‘It could be,' admitted Ethan. ‘Came close to being shot down a couple of times, but I guess my luck held. Say, maybe you and me should take this bird up for a quick spin!'

‘Really? Could we?' Alec was delighted at the notion but Ethan just grinned and shook his head.

‘I'm only pulling your leg,' he said. ‘You can't just up and take somebody's plane without permission. Where I come from, that's called theft.' He tilted his stetson back a little and gazed up at the sky. ‘Maybe that dust storm forced the plane down,' he said. Alec didn't say anything but it was already beginning to feel as though they had imagined the whole thing. ‘Come on,' said Ethan after a short silence. ‘Let's get going.'

The two of them strolled back to the Ford and resumed their places on the running boards.

‘Fancy just leaving a plane standing there,' said Alec. ‘What d'you suppose happened to the pilot?'

Ethan shrugged. ‘Beats me,' he said. ‘Maybe it's something to do with Tutankhamun. There's all kinds visiting the site these days. Maybe some Hollywood movie star dropped by to get photographed with Howard Carter. OK, Mohammed, let's drive on.'

They continued on their way and after another half-mile they crested a rise and Alec saw the familiar limestone hills of the eastern Valley of the Kings below him, dominated by the high peak of Al-Qurn, the distinctive pyramid-shaped hill that many historians believed was the chief reason why this valley had been chosen as the burial place for so many Egyptian kings and nobles. Alec knew that there were over sixty tombs in this valley alone, with Tutankhamun's the most recently discovered, and the only one that had survived with most of its artefacts intact – at least, until Uncle Will and Tom Hinton had opened the new tomb. But that was still a secret.

Mohammed took the car slowly down the
tricky winding road. The steep stone cliffs rose up on either side of them, shielding them from the full glare of the sun. The ramshackle car moved with difficulty across the rough terrain travelling at little more than walking speed. They passed a few people on the way – guides from a nearby village escorting tourists around the tombs, some of them mounted on camels, others on donkeys. Alec knew that since the discovery of Tut's tomb the previous year, this site had become the most popular destination on the tourist routes: visitors from all around the world came to watch (and in many cases hamper) the work that was still going on there.

‘Luckily, very few tourists make it up to our end of the valley,' said Ethan. ‘They get to Tut's tomb and that's as far as they go.'

Sure enough, they soon saw a crowd of people standing at the roadside ahead of them and knew that they were approaching the site of the tomb. A large throng was watching intently as yet another antiquity was brought up the steps from the entrance, the men perspiring in suits and pith helmets, the women dressed in heavy skirts and jackets, shading themselves with dainty parasols. The onlookers ranged from well-to-do tourists to
curious locals, with more than a sprinkling of journalists and photographers, eager to be the first to snap and write about each new discovery as it was brought out into the daylight. Alec caught sight of the slight figure of Howard Carter by the tomb entrance, issuing instructions to the two assistants who were carefully emerging with what looked like a large statue of the young pharaoh himself.

As the Ford moved past, Carter glanced up and squinted into the sun; then he smiled and lifted a hand to wave to Alec. He looked tired, Alec thought, and seemed to have aged alarmingly in the single year since Alec had last seen him. Currently the most famous archaeologist in the world, he would probably have given anything to have all those onlookers removed, so he could get on with his work in peace.

‘Poor Howard,' said Ethan. ‘He looks pooped. But in a way, I'm grateful.'

Alec looked at him, puzzled by the remark. ‘What do you mean?' he said.

‘He's taking all the heat off us. So far, we haven't had a single tourist coming after us and that's just the way I aim to keep it.' He gave Alec a sly wink. ‘Last thing we want is this situation.'
He gestured at the crowd. ‘Look at them, standing around like they're watching a matinée at the theatre. I'm surprised they're not selling popcorn.'

‘They're selling curios though,' said Alec, pointing to small groups of natives who were moving through the crowd, offering their bogus artefacts. Some of them even seemed to be making the odd sale.

‘There's a sucker born every minute,' muttered Ethan.

As the vehicle edged slowly past the crowd, a figure stepped out to greet it, raising a hand to Mohammed to stop.

‘Oh, perfect,' muttered Ethan. He leaned forward to whisper, ‘Watch what you say to this guy, he's a reporter.' He glanced at Llewellyn. ‘A
real
one,' he added.

‘Hey, Wade,' said the newcomer. ‘Whatever happened to your fancy English automobile?' Another American, Alec decided, a thin, weasel-faced man with a pencil moustache and a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth, making him crinkle his eyes down to slits. Despite the heat, he was dressed in a formal white shirt and tie and a grey fedora. Though he
had rolled up his sleeves in an attempt to cool off, there were large yellow sweat stains under his armpits.

‘Had a little engine trouble back aways,' explained Ethan. ‘Mohammed happened by and gave us a lift.'

Mohammed bowed politely. ‘Good day, Mr Corcoran,' he said. ‘I trust the whiskey was to your taste.'

The man looked annoyed by the remark. ‘Er . . . yeah, great thanks.'

‘Fine Irish whiskey. Just let me know if you need any more.'

‘Oh, that's all right, Mohammed. It was just medicinal. I had a bit of a head cold, that was all.'

‘As you wish, Mr Corcoran. And I understand that, with prohibition, you are not able to get hold of such . . .
medicine
in your own country.' Mohammed bowed again as another figure emerged from the crowd. ‘Ah, good day, Miss Connors.'

Alec saw that a petite young woman was approaching them. Her blonde hair was cut in a shockingly short bob and her lips were painted a violent shade of red. She wore a khaki shirt, slacks and a pair of heavy walking boots. She was
chewing gum like her life depended on it and looked extremely bored, as though visiting the Valley of the Kings was the dullest thing ever. In case there was any doubt about her reason for being here, she was carrying a large, expensive-looking camera.

‘Hi, Mohammed,' she said. ‘How's business?'

‘Business is good,' he assured her. ‘I must say that is a splendid-looking camera. I would very much like to get my hands on one.'

‘Yeah, well, you can keep your hands off
this
one, buster. It's a Linhof Satzplasmat and it cost me a packet!'

Alec was just wondering how the woman had managed to pronounce Linhof Satzplasmat through a mouthful of gum when he noticed that Corcoran was appraising him as though he didn't much care for what he saw.

‘Who's the kid?' Corcoran enquired.

‘This is Alec,' said Ethan. ‘He's just come to help out on the dig.'

‘Yeah?' The man didn't seem interested in the answer, but then apparently had second thoughts. ‘Just a minute! Alec . . . Doesn't Sir William have a nephew called Alec?'

Ethan nodded. ‘That's right,' he said. ‘He
comes here to help every summer.'

The man was suddenly much more animated. He reached across the automobile to shake hands with Alec. ‘Biff Corcoran,
Saturday Evening Post
,' he announced. ‘Charlie, get a shot of the kid, will ya?'

The woman stepped obediently forward but still managed to make it look as though it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do.

‘Say Gorgonzola,' she said tonelessly, and then snapped a shot before Alec could say anything at all.

‘Cut that out,' said Ethan irritably. ‘Alec only just got here – you trying to scare him away?'

Biff leaned in, a distinctly unconvincing expression of sympathy on his face. ‘Say, real sorry to hear about your uncle, kid – tough break. Our readers are all so interested to hear how he's doing. You, er . . . seen him lately, have ya?'

‘Er . . .' Alec hesitated, glanced at Ethan, then looked away again. ‘No, I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to visit him yet,' he said. ‘Only just arrived.'

‘But . . . you know what happened to him, don't you?'

Alec frowned and Charlie snapped another picture.

‘He, er . . . I believe he was just working too hard. Needed a bit of a rest.'

Biff looked decidedly unconvinced by this. ‘That's not what I heard. Somebody told me he's fit for nothing but the booby hatch.' He glanced at Alec apologetically. ‘No offence, kid.'

‘None taken,' said Alec coldly; but he thought to himself that Biff was one of the rudest men he'd ever met.

‘So . . . where is your uncle exactly?'

‘Oh now, come on,' interrupted Ethan. ‘I told you before, that's not for public consumption. Will needs peace and quiet and he sure isn't going to get it with you two poking around.' He pointed across the heads of the crowd to the entrance of Tut's tomb. ‘There's your story, Biff. The greatest archaeological find in history and you're missing it. I only wish we'd made a discovery like that.'

But Biff was shaking his head. ‘No, Ethan, I'm looking for the human angle in all this ancient Egyptian malarkey. Oh sure, this stuff is popular – they even built an Egyptian-style movie theatre in Hollywood last year. But my readers wouldn't know a sarcophagus from a duck-billed platypus. Ancient curses now, that's the stuff that sells papers.'

Ethan snorted derisively. ‘Oh, please! You
should know better. That's a bunch of hooey! Some dame back in America writes a pot-boiler about an ancient tomb and everybody gets themselves into a flap about it. It's just a new bandwagon to jump on.'

‘Maybe you're right.' Biff took the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a cloud of acrid smoke. ‘But who cares, if it's what the public wants? And you got to admit, it sounds kind of fishy. First Lord Carnarvon heads for the great museum in the sky. Then Sir William – no offence, kid – loses his marbles and winds up nutty as a fruitcake. What gives?'

Ethan sighed. ‘Nothing
gives
, Biff. Lord Carnarvon was fifty-five years old and in poor health. William's no spring chicken either and he hasn't had a holiday in years. The man just needs rest and I'm starting to know how he feels.'

‘Relax, will ya? I'm not here to give anybody a hard time.' Now Biff had turned his attention to the fourth occupant of the car. ‘Hey, Fats, what's happening?' he asked.

Llewellyn glared at him. ‘Are you by any chance addressing me, sir?' he cried.

‘Take it easy, mister. I was just saying hello in my own inimitable style.'

‘Damned impertinent style, if you ask me!'

‘Well, excuse me all over the place.' Corcoran looked at Ethan as though seeking an explanation.

‘Biff, this is Professor Llewellyn from . . . the British Museum in London,' said Ethan quickly. ‘He's an expert on . . . on dating pottery shards.'

It was a brilliant stroke. The interest went out of Biff's face almost as though somebody had thrown a switch.

‘Pottery, huh?' he grunted. ‘Well, yippee-doodle-day.'

‘You want me to take a photograph of him too?' asked Charlie.

Biff shook his head. ‘Nah. Go see if you can do the impossible and get a picture of Howard Carter smiling,' he suggested. ‘Just for the novelty value.' He glanced up at Ethan. ‘How's it going at that dig of yours?' he asked half-heartedly. ‘Anything I should know about?'

‘Oh, we're doing pretty good. You know, we found a ushabti the other day.'

‘A what?'

‘A ushabti,' said Alec. ‘A small clay figurine.'

‘You don't say,' muttered Biff.

‘We
do
say!' insisted Ethan. ‘Eighteenth
dynasty, for sure. Tell you the truth, we only found a few pieces of it but there's enough to get an idea of what it might have looked like. Say, maybe you'd like to come on over and do a piece on it?'

Biff was already walking back to the crowd. ‘Let me know when you find something more interesting,' he called over his shoulder. ‘Like a mummy or a . . .'

‘A duck-billed platypus,' said Charlie, going after him.

Ethan grinned and gave Alec a sly wink. Mohammed started up the automobile and they were on their way again.

‘What a perfectly disagreeable fellow,' observed Llewellyn. ‘He had the temerity to call me Fats!'

‘Er . . . yeah, Biff isn't the most tactful person on the planet, that's for sure.'