Silver Tomb (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 2) Page 3

  “Still haunting this shit-hole, Murad?” Lazarus said to the man.

  Murad froze as he saw Lazarus. His eyes darted to the door as if calculating his chances of making it out onto the street before somebody should put their hands on him. “Effendi! It has been many years! What brings you back to Cairo?”

  “Come and sit with us and we’ll tell you.”

  The man threw more nervous glances about and decided that he was safe enough for the time being, and sat down.

  “I hope you are still in the antiquities business or our trip has been wasted,” Lazarus told the man while motioning for more coffee to be brought.

  “I… ah… yes,” said Murad, not knowing what was the wisest answer to give. “You wish to buy again? I remember you as a very hard bargainer. I’m not sure my purse could take another of your beatings. Daylight robbery, really.”

  “Luckily for you it’s nighttime,” Lazarus reminded him. “And this time I’m looking for something extra special. If you don’t have it, I’d appreciate your telling me where else I might look.”

  Murad leaned in closer, his greedy eyes alight at the prospect of a customer’s desperation. “What is it this time?”

  “Silver items dating from the eighteenth dynasty, particularly from the reign of Akhenaten.”

  Murad’s eyes narrowed and a look of worry creased his brow. “Unheard of,” he said, simply.

  “We’ve heard of them,” said Lazarus. “They would be very new to the market. In the last year or so. They come from a new dig, the whereabouts of which is uncertain.”

  Murad’s face remained grave and he said nothing.

  “These are priceless items,” Lazarus went on. “They signify an aspect of the Aten worship that we know nothing about. Their value to the antiquarian society far outweighs their material value. Whoever could lead us to them would be rewarded handsomely.”

  Murad seemed to reconsider his stance. “Ah, the Aten worship, of course. You must forgive me, sirs, I am not as well educated in my own country’s history as you are. Yes, I know a man who has come by some of these items of silver. But he is himself a collector and I do not think he would be willing to part with them for their mere street value.”

  “Just tell us where we can find him and leave the bargaining to us,” Lazarus said.

  Murad made a show of looking around the cellar with caution. “He owns a shipping company on the docks. The name is Bayoumi. It’s a big place. Ask around and you’ll find it but for the love of Allah, don’t tell anybody I sent you. The police are making things hard enough for me as it is and I don’t want to endanger my business relationship with Mr. Bayoumi.”

  “Very well,” said Lazarus. “You have been most helpful. Thank you.”

  Murad nodded and scurried off, having suddenly decided that he was tired and needed no further entertainment for the evening.

  The following morning they found the Bulaq docks more than living up to their reputed state of filth, bustle and decay. Gulls wheeled over the wharves, swooping down to snatch fish from the boats and off the carts taking them to market. Rats scurried along the gutters and up the mooring lines of the dahabeahs. It was well known that those spacious vessels were riddled with rats and insects, despite their popularity in previous years with European tourists wishing to venture up the Nile. Since the steamers had begun to churn the waters, the dahabeah business had fallen into disrepair along with the majority of their vessels, several of which could be seen rotting at their moorings.

  “Lord, I couldn’t sleep a wink,” said Petrie as he approached Lazarus at their arranged meeting point. He was ten minutes late and looked pale and ill. “Too much bloody coffee for one evening.”

  Lazarus smiled. Despite the Egyptologist’s complaints, he seemed as ready as ever to embark on their second round of detective work. The excitement of digging holes in the desert and reading in dusty libraries must be wearing thin on the young scholar, he thought.

  They began asking around and were eventually directed to a large building with Arabic lettering painted on one side. Lazarus, whose Arabic was better than Petrie’s, read it aloud; “Bayoumi Shipping Inc. or something to that effect.”

  It was an old building made from sandstone with crumbling and worn edges. Several scarred piers poked out into the harbor like gnarled fingers at which hulking steamers were moored, their sides grimy with rust. Inside the office, they found the manager leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desk as he went through paperwork. He was a fat man with a scarred face.

  “Good morning,” said Lazarus.

  The only parts of the man that moved in response were his eyes as they looked up at them from his papers.

  “We are looking to buy one of your company’s steamers. Is it possible to speak with Mr. Bayoumi?”

  “Steamers not for sale,” said the manager.

  “We represent a very wealthy businessman, sir,” said Lazarus. “And I believe that Mr. Bayoumi would be very interested in talking to us.”

  The man continued to stare at them as if sizing them up. “Very well.” The man’s legs came down to rest on the floor, along with the front two legs of his chair. “I shall see if he is available. Wait here please.”

  They stood around in the pokey office, littered with untidy piles of documentation and smelling of stale coffee and sweat. Once or twice a heavy set Egyptian came in to add a fresh bundle to the piles, eyeing the two strangers suspiciously. Eventually the manager returned.

  “Come with me.”

  He stood back to let them go through the door first and they proceeded in that awkward stumbling manner one follows when asked to lead the way through their host’s property. They wound up on the spacious floor of the warehouse. Several hulls were under repair and piles of crates, sails, timbers and other nautical detritus were piled up all around. Three chairs had been set up in the centre of the room, and other than a large man in a European business suit and a scarlet tarboosh the place was deserted. Lazarus had caught sight of the last of the workers departing on their way in, refusing to make eye contact with them. He looked at the vacant chairs and at the two thick-set laborers who had suddenly materialized on either side of the manager and decided that he did not like this situation at all.

  “Gentlemen,” said the big, suited man. “I am Mr. Bayoumi. Please, sit down and I can have some refreshments brought.”

  Lazarus did not like the idea of sitting down with heavies all about them but saw no polite way to refuse. They sat down. So did Mr. Bayoumi.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” He was smiling as if he was in on a secret they knew nothing about. “Ahmed tells me that you are interested in buying a boat. I have to say that I do not usually sell my vessels.”

  “And I have to say that we are not really interested in buying a boat,” said Lazarus.

  The smile continued. Mr. Bayoumi did not look at all surprised.

  “We have come on a more delicate matter,” Lazarus continued. He eyed the toughs that stood nearby. “Perhaps you might like to discuss it more privately.”

  “Not at all,” Bayoumi replied. “These are my most trusted employees.”

  “Very well. We are very interested in acquiring some ancient Egyptian artifacts. In particular, items fashioned in silver dating from the reign of Akhenaten. We were told that you were the man to speak with.”

  “Indeed? I must say that I am surprised by your request. The items you speak of are incredibly rare. So rare that only a handful know of their existence. I wonder, how is it that you two come to know of them?”

  At this, Petrie couldn’t resist getting involved in the exchange. “We are Egyptologists, sir. Items from the reign of the Heretic Pharaoh are noticeably scant. Naturally we seek such artifacts to fill in the gaps in our knowledge of the eighteenth dynasty.”

  “And yet you knew enough to know that they are made of silver. I wonder something else. If I were to call up the Antiquities Service, I would be able to speak with somebody who coul
d verify your positions and your credentials? If I were to drop your names in conversation with Gaston Maspero he would be able to tell me something about you both?”

  “Of course,” replied Lazarus. “We are very well known in our fields.”

  Bayoumi’s eyes flitted to Ahmed, who stood behind them. He said something in Arabic which Lazarus translated in his head too late. He knew the order to search them had been conveyed just as Ahmed’s hands grasped his shoulders and one of the laborers came forward to check the pockets of his jacket.

  “Sir! I must protest at this!” cried Petrie who was being held in a similar vice-like grip and was wriggling like a landed fish as his pockets were turned out.

  Lazarus remained rigid, burning with rage, barely suppressed by the knowledge that it would be useless to put up a fight. They were dealing with gangsters—that was clear now—and to resist would only result in a beating, or worse.

  Their captors finished turning them over and handed their wallets along with Lazarus’s gun and Bowie knife to Bayoumi.

  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.”