The Khamsin Curse (14 page)

“We cannot wait any longer,”
said Mr Lee tetchily, thinking about that surprise birthday party
for Hypatia; there was no point arriving in Philae the day
after
her birthday, everything had been organized –
musicians, food, extra servants, costumes. “Mr Longshanks will have
to make his own way to Aswan.”

They were building up steam,
ready to weigh anchor, when two people appeared on the dock. It was
Herr Graf and his niece. The chap they had hired to ferry them from
Luxor to Aswan in his felucca had taken their money and
disappeared. The train had departed hours ago and the next one
wasn’t due until tomorrow afternoon. There was mounting fear the
Khamsin was on its way and they begged to come aboard just as the
gangway was about to be raised. They offered to pay whatever fee
was asked.

“You cannot leave them
stranded, Daddy,” beseeched Miss Lee earnestly, taking pity on
Ursula Graf who looked quite vulnerable among the gangs of dirty
fellaheen and shifty calash drivers hanging about the wharf.

“That’s their problem,”
asserted Mr Lee frankly. “This isn’t a ferry service. It has
nothing to do with money. I have my guests to think about.” He had
heard the story of Herr Graf’s rudeness on the Queen of Cairo and
he wasn’t thrilled about welcoming aboard a man who might upset the
status quo. He was just starting to relax and enjoy everyone’s
company.

Lunch had finished a short time
age and everyone had returned to their cabins to rest. It was the
hottest part of the day and the morning’s excursion had tired them
out. When voices were heard, several of them stepped out to check
what was happening. One of them was Professor Mallisham.

“I can vouch for Jurgen Graf,”
he said. “I’ve known him for years. He’s one of those amateur
archaeologists who sources treasures for private European clients
and German museums. The young lady is his niece. Her father was the
renowned Egyptologist, Rhinehart Graf.”

“I can vouch for him too,” said
Colonel Hayter, albeit reluctantly, stepping up to the hand-rail to
see what was adding to the delay of their departure. “And I don’t
like the idea of leaving an attractive young lady at the mercy of
unscrupulous inn-keepers, not with the Khamsin on its way. It can
be a nasty business for anyone who hasn’t organized a
bolt-hole.”

Dr Watson and his companion
were also standing at the hand-rail. They were pretending to enjoy
an
apres-dejeuner
cigarette whilst scanning for any sign of
Gideon Longshanks. But since it was the hottest part of the day,
there was hardly any movement anywhere. Calashes stood empty and
donkeys’ heads drooped wearily. Street traders were closing up
their stalls ahead of the ominous Khamsin. A handful of fellaheen
still hanging about the wharf were dozing off; the rest had
disappeared.

One half of the doctor was
secretly hoping Herr Graf would not be invited to join them, but
the other half conceded that to leave the German pair stranded in
Luxor for twenty-four hours at the mercy of the Khamsin would be an
act of unnecessary bastardry. They had two spare cabins and it was
no skin off Mr Lee’s nose to fill them. Money was not an issue. He
actually felt relieved when their host relented and gave the nod
for the Germans to come aboard.

“Look,” whispered the Countess,
indicating with a discrete nod of her head a man on a horse
watching the ship. The horse was standing in the shade of a palm
tree on the riverbank and further along was a small herd of about
six or seven more horses having a drink from the river. They were
being minded by a group of camel herders who had also stopped to
give their animals a drink. “Isn’t that Colonel Moran?”

As soon as she gave voice to
the ominous name a terrible feeling of foreboding clutched her
throat and she was filled with a sense of dread. Where was Major
Nash? Why hadn’t he returned to the Sekhmet? Was he safe or was his
life in peril? Was he being held somewhere against his will? Or was
he already dead?

She had always dismissed her
feelings for Major Inigo Nash as superficial physical attraction.
She attributed the sensual frisson in her belly to his
extraordinary handsomeness. But in the blink of an eye she knew it
was more and she felt terrified. Terrified that she might have
fallen in love without knowing it. Terrified that it might be too
late.

“Yes,” whispered the doctor
portentously, “that’s Moran all right. I’d recognize him anywhere.
Mallisham told me Moran is taking a fresh herd of horses to Aswan
to sell. He plans to be there the day before the Sekhmet arrives. I
imagine he does most of his travelling when darkness falls and the
temperature is cooler. Probably navigates by the stars.” He glanced
back the other way and even scanned the opposite bank. “I’m getting
worried about Major, er, Mr Longshanks.”

She felt sick with worry too.
Sick at the thought of him being tortured. Sick at the thought of
him languishing at the bottom of a well full of scorpions. Once the
Sekhmet pulled anchor it would be too late to launch a rescue
mission. She heard the roar and whoosh of the giant paddles, felt
the deck shift beneath her feet, and knew it was already too
late.

When Dr Watson made a move to
greet the Germans to prove there were no hard feelings, she went to
her cabin to lie down and contemplate the best course of
action.

Luxor was a large, sprawling,
desert city and beyond it sat Karnak. Where would she start looking
and who could she trust? She felt conflicted, helpless, and sick to
the stomach.

Not far from here lay Edfu and
further along was Kom Ombo. Professor Mallisham was familiar with
the region, having spent years researching the crocodile temple of
Sobek. He probably had numerous Egyptian friends he could call on
to assist in any search. But once again, who could she trust?

It was Mallisham that Major
Nash had chased after in the first place. Did the professor lead
him to the workshop that produced the fake papyri? Did foul play
follow? And what did Mrs Baxter get up to when she returned early
to the Sekhmet? Did she stay on board or did she rush off to meet
Colonel Moran in secret? Were they part of the espionage circle?
And who else was in on it? What about the two Germans who had
managed to inveigle themselves aboard the paddle-steamer? Was their
plight a coincidence or carefully contrived?

9

God sent the east wind to blow
across the desert and part the waters that allowed the Israelites
to escape from Egypt on their way to the Promised Land.

That was the earliest reference
to the Khamsin.

Literally, it meant fifty
because it lasted fifty days. Fortunately it did not blow
continually but came in sporadic bursts that allowed people and
animals to gasp for breath between onslaughts, for it was more than
a wind, it was a huge oppressive wave of heat laden with
suffocating particles of dust and sand that choked the life out of
anything that stood in its path.

That evening they had their
first taste of it.

Windows were closed, wooden
shutters tightly secured, curtains drawn, and everyone stayed
indoors. There was no more promenading on the deck or dining under
the striped canopy. They hurried from their cabins wrapped in
shawls or blankets and congregated in the main saloon where a
dining table presided at one end and overhead fans whirred in
ever-spinning circles in an effort to move hot, dry, stuffy air
from one end of the room to the other.

The crew used the bottom half
of their ammamas to cover their nose and mouth, while their eyes,
full of sand and grit, were cut to ribbons.

Bundled up in a silk shawl, the
Countess dashed from her cabin to the saloon for dinner while her
thoughts flew to Major Nash. Even if he had survived torture, a
fall down a well and the poisonous bite of scorpions, there was no
way he could survive the Khamsin.

As soon as she entered the
saloon and her eyes took in the curious group of travellers, she
realized she had an important job to do with or without the help of
Major Nash. He would have expected nothing less.

Their host waited for her to
shake off the shawl and savour an aperitif before taking the floor.
“I apologise once again to those of my guests who expected to visit
Karnak this afternoon, but I had it on good authority from Azrafel
that the Khamsin was about to hit. It was imperative to get
underway as soon as possible and try to sail upriver out of the way
of the beast. As it turns out, the man was on the money. For anyone
who wishes to sail back to Cairo next month on the Sekhmet, I
promise to visit the places we were forced to miss today.”

Hypatia Lee was now forever
fiddling, fingering and straightening her peacock feather. “Will we
be able to visit Kom Ombo tomorrow, Daddy?”

“That depends,” intervened
Professor Mallisham, speaking for the nabob, “if the Khamsin is
still blowing.”

“Here, here,” said Dr Watson.
“No point going sightseeing in this infernal wind.”

“It is more than a wind,” added
Herr Graf. “It is a blinding sandstorm. To set foot outside is not
only uncomfortable and unwise but a deathwish.” He raised his
glass. “I would like to thank Mr Lee for his generosity. If not for
his extraordinary kindness, my niece and I would be cowering in a
hovel somewhere in Karnak at the mercy of this evil plague.”

Everyone felt the truth of
those words as sand and grit scratched on the glass like cat’s
claws.

“I wonder where Mr Longshanks
is?” mused Daisy grimly, putting into words what several other
people were also thinking.

“I’m sure he can take care of
himself,” assured Mr Lee. “He seemed a level-headed chap. I just
wonder where he got to. He knew we were meeting back here for lunch
and he didn’t mention any other plans before we left for
Luxor.”

Professor Mallisham refreshed
his whiskey glass from the drinks trolley without being invited to
help himself. “If he really is as well-travelled as he claims then
he would know exactly what the Khamsin means. What do you say,
Colonel Hayter?”

The colonel tried not to spill
his G&T when he looked up quickly. “What? Right-ho, yes,
certainly, any man who has spent any time travelling in these parts
would know what to expect at this time of year. March to May means
the Khamsin.”

Dr Watson was mindful to look
at neither his embarrassing ex-army chum nor his worried
counterpart; he knew she would be upset about the major. “Didn’t
Napoleon encounter the Khamsin when he tried to conquer Egypt?”

“Yes,” confirmed Herr Graf. “It
almost wiped out his army.”

“But they prevailed and went on
to great success,” added the professor. “Without that success and
the resultant translation of the Rosetta Stone we wouldn’t be able
to read hieroglyphics.”

“I remember a sad story my
father told me when I was a little girl,” said Fraulein Graf
wistfully, “about a woman who was going to be stoned to death, and
a dog dying of thirst and Saladin. It was during the time of the
Khamsin.”

Herr Graf smiled encouragingly
at his niece. “Why don’t you tell it, Ursula? Some people may not
have heard it. It is quite a touching tale.”

She was thinking how to begin
when the food from the kitchens was brought up via the dumbwaiter
and they hustled to the table for dinner. The conversation shifted
to what they had seen at Luxor and the tale was forgotten.

The Khamsin continued to blow
throughout the night and all the next day. The world outside the
Sekhmet was swallowed up in a sulphurous orange-yellow haze. The
heat intensified and everyone felt lethargic. They stayed in their
cabins most of the time and took cold baths to try and wash away
the grit that found its way through every crack and crevice and
coated their sweaty bodies with layers of sand and dust.

When they reached Kom Ombo they
were at the tail end of the poisonous windstorm and could feel the
respite in the air. Not everyone felt it equally. Colonel Hayter
and Herr Graf opted to remain in their cabins. Mr Lee emerged to
sit on the deck out of the wind but he failed to muster the energy
for an excursion. The rest of the party decided to go ashore and
explore the twin temples of Sobek and Horus.

Dr Watson once again leapt into
the carriage with Mrs Baxter. She appeared flattered by the
persistent gentlemanly attention. The three young ladies easily fit
into one calash. That left Countess V and Professor Mallisham to
travel together. She had opted to wear a hijab because it kept the
wind off her hair and stopped sand flying down the back of her
neck, plus it would have been impossible to keep a hat on her head
or try to hang onto a parasol. The wind had abated but it was still
fierce.

“Did you remember to get an
archaeological permit before you left Cairo?” The professor put the
question to her as soon as they set off up the dusty road that
climbed the steep sandstone banks to the temple plateau which at
first glance was not unlike the Parthenon atop the Acropolis.
“You’ll need one if you want to do any research work once we reach
Philae.”

“I didn’t realize I needed one.
Do you have one I could use?”

He shook his head. “You’ll have
to speak to Colonel Hayter. I’m sure he could arrange something in
a hurry. It might cost extra.”

Kom Ombo was the original City
of Gold, a trade route from Nubia to the Nile Valley, but first and
foremost a garrison for the Egyptians, the Romans, and all the
subsequent conquerors who came after them. It had been half buried
in sand until Jacques de Morgan cleared the site in 1893 and
resurrected the splendour of the double temple. Hundreds of
mummified crocodiles had been unearthed and the hieroglyphs were
magnificent.

They congregated in the
hypostyle hall and enjoyed a brief lecture by the professor who
pointed out the many images of Sobek carved into the stone and a
beautiful image of Cleopatra VII. When Mrs Baxter wandered off, Dr
Watson became her shadow. Professor Mallisham had acquired a third
acolyte in the form of Ursula Graf, so the Countess decided to go
her own way. She was studying what appeared to be an ancient
calendar when a man in a filthy grey jellabiya materialized
furtively from the sickly orange cloud that snaked around the
massive structure. His sudden appearance gave her a fright. His
voice was a low grainy growl.