Chapter 18
Egyptian Museum, Cairo
William Sloan strolled, guidebook in hand, among the sphinx-headed statues.
For a moment, he stopped to casually inspect the effigy of Auguste Mariette, then
wandered over to peruse the funerary inscription on Mariette's tomb. Today, he was
simply another bored academic passing a warm April afternoon wandering the halls of
Mariette's creation, Cairo's Egyptian Museum.
As he seemed to make a notation on his book's flyleaf, he glanced over the rim
of the reading glasses perched at the end of his sharp nose. Slowly scanning the
sculpture garden, he sought the most nondescript man there. Someone who might be
described as anywhere between twenty-five and fifty, tall or medium, thin or medium,
with hair that could be blond to dishwater to brown, and eyes that could be blue or
green or gray, depending on the color of shirt he wore, but they would be eyes that
would have the softness of flint.
"Hullo, Sloan," came a familiar voice from behind... a voice with a cultured
Oxbridge veneer overlaying a Liverpudlian brogue.
The precept turned to face the man for whom he had been waiting. "Kincaid,"
he said coldly.
"Where's Boyle?" asked the khaki clad Englishman.
"Busy," replied Sloan, his eyes returning ice for ice.
"Riding herd on your boy?" Kincaid asked with a half-smile. "Or soaking himself in a bottle of Bourbon?... I'm surprised
you'd get your hands dirty."
"Hadn't planned on it, but...." Sloan shrugged. "You have what we're paying
for?"
"Of course." He handed the American a leather briefcase. "Passports, visas, and
whatnot for Boyle and Rayne.
"Boyle's easy... he stays himself, Robert Boyle, special forces gone bad... with
a little doctoring to cover the past few years. Rayne's ID was dicier... had to give him
the identity of a known arms dealer, Piers Myndertsen, known to ibn Aziz... now
serving twenty-five at Her Majesty's pleasure... but the scam should hold for a day or
so. It would have been better if they'd entered the country on these... just in case the
opposition has someone in Egyptian customs... but they should be OK as long as any
checks remain superficial. Weapons' specs are in there, too... make sure your boy
knows them inside out. These blokes know their business, and they play for keeps...
some are mere fanatics, others are bloomin' lunatics. Keys are in the inside pocket...
and a map. If you follow the map's directions, you'll find a warehouse. There'll be two
lorries filled with all you'll need, including firepower, as well as two Land Rovers and
a Jeep.
"I've located a couple of reliable drivers, familiar with the route. They'll be
there tomorrow morning around four. They're local tribesmen, Padwig, with no love
for outsiders, whether Italian, British, or the Libyan military, who've repeatedly raped
their oases and drawn meaningless lines in the sand. They're tough and know how to
fight. They're like the Bedouin. You have my cash?"
Sloan used his straw hat to conceal the envelope he passed. "One bearer bond,"
he said. "You should find the amount more than sufficient."
"I'm certain I shall," Kincaid said confidently. "I'll arrange for a chopper with
extra supplies to meet you at the rendezvous site in five days.... Oh, and tell Boyle that
the briefcase is rigged. He'll know what to look for and can show Rayne how it
works," he added, "...and there's an extra surprise inside."
Sloan nodded, dealing with Ian Kincaid always made him feel the way he
thought a prostitute must feel after a particularly unsavory liaison. He turned to leave.
"Sloan... I hope what you're after's worth it. I know Boyle can carry off his
end... hell, all he has to do is play himself... but can Rayne?" Kincaid asked. "Is he
anything like his father?"
"Some," replied Sloan. "He's stronger... more unpredictable."
"Are the rumors true?"
"Listen to me you bloody-handed son-of-a-bitch, you stay away from Derek
Rayne, and tell your employers the same. Do you understand me?" said Sloan quietly,
but in a tone as hard as diamond. "I don't want you within fifty miles of him, and if I
ever find out that you've so much as looked cross-eyed at him, I'll kill you."
"I'm certain you'd try, but, first... dear boy... I think you'd better worry about
getting him in and out of that snake pit in one piece... and, don't forget... certain people
will want to know everything they see." The Brit tucked the small envelope into his
jacket pocket and walked off toward the museum's entrance.
< < + > >
Hulwan
Darkness had fallen on Cairo's old industrial suburb of Hulwan, leaving its
narrow, deserted streets to the dog packs and a yowling cat or two. The only sign of
human life was a pale light that shone through the broken window of a ramshackle
warehouse. Inside, a radio was tuned to the local news.
William Sloan raised his head from the papers he had been studying.
"Kymberlee," he called. "What did the radio just say about Dakhla?" He pushed his
reading glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and searched through the clutter of
papers strewn on the table before him. He set aside the passports and visas, ordinance
files, dossiers, and satellite photos until he found what he wanted... a detailed map of
southwestern Egypt. Unfolding the chart, he lifted it toward the dim light bulb that
hung suspended by its wire from the ceiling.
"I wasn't really listening," Kym replied as she leaned from the back of an
ancient US Army truck. "I think he said they'd been having some bandit troubles
between the oases at Kharga and Dakhla... something about some German tourists
being robbed at the Temple of Hibis."
She hated to admit that her Arabic was rusty. She had learned it as a child while
her father had been engaged in an archaeological dig at Aswan. Bruce Gardner had
spent more than a year in Egypt, consulting on the placement of the delightful Philae
Temples, before they had been moved to neighboring Aglika Island to prevent their
submergence when the monumental Aswan High Dam created Lake Nasser.
Unfortunately, Arabic was not a language Kym had had much opportunity to practice
since. Why, she wondered, couldn't Derek have gotten a case in Europe or Latin
America, where she could have felt confidently fluent and truly useful?
"Honey," she said, looking down at Derek, "how many flashlights were there
supposed to be?"
Her husband searched through the sheets on his clipboard. "A dozen," he
replied, smothering a yawn. Jet lag and way too little sleep was beginning to take its
toll on all of them. Tomorrow, once on the road, they could pair up, take turns driving,
and catch up a bit, but it wouldn't be enough.
"Good... there's ten regular ones there and two of the really big kind," his wife
said, "...and four kerosene lamps... three lanterns that look like they can be run off the
generators, and three, including the one William's got, that are battery powered. Oh...
and I found the first aid kit... it's a big sucker," she added, experiencing a flashback
of Derek bleeding in Roman catacomb and of hearing William complain about the first
aid kit. Suddenly, she was glad it was so big.
"Can you shove it out?" Derek asked. "Johnny can check through it...."
"Son-of-a-bitch," came a gruff voice from under the hood of the other truck, a
vintage Mercedes. "Couldn't that English bastard have found us some place with more
than a goddamned twenty watt bulb?" Balanced on the bumper, Boyle had his head deep in the
truck's mechanical innards.
"...if he ever finishes playing mechanic," Derek added.
The preparations for tomorrow's departure were coming along nicely, but it was
getting late and everyone was hot, tired, and dirty. The former major had finished his
maintenance checks of the three passenger vehicles with a minimum of bruised
knuckles and cussing, but this monster was proving somewhat more intractable.
"Johnny," called Derek as he lifted the large, white, metal box down from the
truck's bed. "Why don't you take a rest? Come check the medical kit."
"No, I'm fine. I just need four hands in a place that doesn't even have room for
one."
Derek again flipped through the pages on his clipboard. "Your friend, Kincaid,
made good on his word. So far, everything we wanted is here... and then some...
everything but the kitchen sink."
"I don't care about the kitchen sink," said Kym, "but I wish he could have
included a shower... I can't hardly stand to smell myself." She raised her arm to sniff
her light blue denim shirt. "...hate to think what you guys must smell like," she
laughed. "Especially since men sweat more than women... it's a proven fact."
"Derek... where's my pocket knife?" asked Sloan, searching the cluttered table
top and ignoring Kym's joke.
"How should I know?" the precept replied over his shoulder. "I gave it back to
you an hour ago... when we got the lantern out for you."
"No... you didn't," said William, with a slight hint of accusation in his tone. "I
don't have it."
Derek didn't have the patience left to hear about a misplaced anything. "I put
it on the table right in front of you," he stated tersely. "I'll swear... you either need new
glasses or a memory transplant. Look in your pockets."
Sloan straightened and looked over the top of his glasses at his friend. Fine... if
Derek Rayne wanted a battle, he could have one. "Now why didn't I think of that?"
William quipped, purposely allowing the sarcasm to creep through. "Tell me... is it true
that the Dutch tend to go senile earlier than any other nationality? You never gave it
back."
Exasperated, Derek struggled to keep his voice even and calm. "Did you check
Kincaid's briefcase? How about your jacket pockets?"
"Of course I did," replied the older man. "I do not have it," he repeated
succinctly.
By this time both Kym and Major Boyle had caught the aggravated tones
coming from both precepts. Kym thought it might be the right time to count the
sleeping bags and blankets deep in the back of the truck, while Johnny made an effort
to lose himself underneath its chassis.
"William, I gave it back to you," Derek retorted in a rising voice. "I don't have
time for this," he added and pointedly turned his attention back to his clipboard.
"And I do?" Sloan countered. "Stop playing around and think where you last
had it."
Derek mumbled something in Dutch under his breath... no one needed to
understand to know exactly what it meant. "I last put it on the table under your nose."
He searched through his trouser pockets and pulled out a fat, red Swiss Army knife.
"Here's mine," he said as he tossed it onto the table, where it landed with a thud. "I'll
put a string on it and you can hang it around your neck. Now will you shut up about
the damned knife and let me finish this inventory."
"Watch your language... there's a lady present," William said factiously. "And
yours isn't the same."
Kym decided it was time play peacemaker to put an end to the squabble.
"Derek, honey, I'm sure it's around here somewhere," she said, jumping from the back
of the truck. "...and do watch your language," she added with a giggle, having no idea
what her husband had said. She knew she was getting giddy from pure exhaustion.
"My language is my own business," Derek responded brusquely, "...and only
William drives me to it."
Johnny pulled himself out from beneath the truck. "Kym," he said, looking up,
"stay out of it... it won't do any good."
She looked down at the former soldier. She could no longer like the man, but he
had known both Derek and William Sloan much longer than she had. "You're
probably right," she murmured. She wasn't in the mood to deal with two quarreling
boys anyway. She had given that up when she had left New York and her brothers
behind.
"Liefje
"No need to snap at her, Derek," Sloan commented in an infuriatingly casual tone. "She's doing more than her fair share."
"Butt out, William."
Sloan drew himself up to his full height and fixed Derek with a hawkish gaze. Enough was enough. "Derek," he said in his most authoritarian tone, "empty you pockets... on the table."
"What?" said the younger man, slightly taken aback. "You must be joking. I don't have your damned knife.... If you don't want mine, give it back before you lose it too."
William smiled inwardly, pleased that he had given his friend an unpleasant surprise. "Just do it," he ordered.
The furrow in Derek's brow deepened. "I will not."
"This is insane! Grow up... both of you," Kym shouted, appalled at the foolishness. Here were two grown men, both Legacy precepts, acting like a couple of bickering two-year-olds. She honestly expected one of them to stomp his foot and shout, "Mine!"
Much to her surprise, and, yet... not, all three men turned on her. "Stay out of it," they said in unison.
Sloan rounded on Derek again. "This is not a request," he said coldly. "It is an order. Empty your pockets."
Derek's left eyebrow climbed in indignation. He sent the clipboard sailing past Kym's ear into the back of the truck. She jumped, but the young Dutch precept didn't even notice. Papers scattered in every direction. "An order?" he said with contempt as he spun back to face William. "Guess what you can do with your order."
Sloan was not about to back down. "As ranking precept, I order you to turn out your pockets... now."
Expressionless, Johnny watched the two men. Though he had never seen them come to blows, he sensed that it was not an impossibility. He knew that Sloan would not yield, but he saw Derek waver and, perhaps, consider decking the older man. He held his breath, waiting for the Mexican stand-off to falter.
Finally, Derek, his back as stiff as any drill sergeant that the major had ever seen, stepped over to the table and emptied his pockets to every last thread and lint ball. "Satisfied?" he asked the Precept-at-large.
Kym seethed at her husband's humiliation and was embarrassed to be a witness. How could his friend treat him like a forgetful, recalcitrant child? What kind of friend was William Sloan?
William slowly browsed through the items as though he was inspecting rotten fruit. He then looked straight into Derek's eyes, which had turned from their usual hazel to an angry green. "What about your inside jacket pocket?" he asked flippantly. "You didn't think I'd overlook that one, did you?"
Derek ripped off his linen blazer. "Fine!" he shouted. "Search it for yourself," he said, throwing it in Sloan's face, "...and since my knife doesn't suit you, I'd like it back, if you don't mind." As Derek's temper swelled, his Dutch accent thickened.
"I think I'll hold on to it," said William, running his hands over the wrinkled fabric. "Let's just say it's collateral."
"Of all the...." Furious, Derek was speechless. He quickly shoved his wallet and other odds and ends back into his pockets, then turned and headed toward the door. "I'm going for a walk," he told Kym as he passed.
"Here... don't forget your jacket," yelled Sloan, giving it an overhand toss in Derek's direction.
Derek snatched it out of the air and was gone with a slam of the door behind him.
"Why did you do that?" Kym hissed. Livid, she turned to follow her husband.
"Don't...," said Boyle.
"Do what?" William asked peevishly. He turned back toward his littered, makeshift desk. "Derek lost my knife."
"Kym... leave it alone," the major said, climbing to his feet. He wiped his hands on a rag and nodded his head toward the front of the truck. "You won't help matters," he counseled.
Kym glanced toward the door, then back at Sloan, who looked as though he'd eaten a persimmon. Her defiant streak, for which she could thank her father's blood, rankled at complying with anything that might come out of Johnny Boyle's mouth. She had to follow him and admit, "I don't understand. Why are they being so horrid to each other? They're supposed to be friends."
Boyle studied the small woman before him. He wasn't sure she was mature enough to understand, let alone figure out the game. He pushed open the hood of the army truck, then explained, "It happens every now and again... usually once or twice a year... a couple of bulls butting heads. They probably won't be speaking to each other for a while." He continued with a chuckle, "Sloan just sort of has to remind Derek of the pecking order."
"Does William really need to boost his ego like that?" she asked incredulously.
Johnny unscrewed the radiator cap. "Not really," he said. "It's more like pricking Derek's bubble... plus, they're tense and tired. It's been going on like this for a lot of years... usually over something inconsequential that's blown all out of proportion. Sometimes," he added as he checked the water, "when it gets hot and heavy, you just want to take a vacation."
Kym sighed and gave her head a slight shake. "...and Derek told me to grow up," she murmured under her breath.
The former soldier overheard her quiet comment. It surprised him that Derek had unknowingly seconded his own concern about Kym's temperament. He wondered what had occasioned such a remark to her face.
"How long will this go on?"
Boyle twisted the cap back on, then reached down to give the fan belt a tug. "If nothing more is said, I give it two days. If the knife is found, and either one misplaced it... three days," he speculated. "If Sloan decides to keep harping, you and I might want to consider the next flight home.
"You might as well get back to your checklist... your husband won't be back for a while," Johnny added without jot of compassion.
* * *
Kym checked her watch... eleven... and no Derek. She still couldn't figure out what had caused the whole blow-up. First she had been furious with Sloan, then with her husband, when he still hadn't returned after two hours. Now anger was giving way to worry... again she walked to the door to look down the dark street... nothing.
She pulled the clip from her hair, bent over, shook the red mass, and flung it back. Holding the clip in her teeth, she quickly braided her hair, pulled it up off her neck and reclipped it. Now she was ready for the last of the supply check. She plucked a particularly large screwdriver from the tool kit and inserted it along the top of a large wooden crate. Quickly, she popped open the lid. Inside, wrapped in oiled paper, lay more than two dozen assorted firearms, along with boxes of ammunition.
"Do you need help?" asked Boyle.
"No... I'm fine," Kym replied. "I can tell a nine millimeter from a forty-five."
"You can?" said Johnny in a surprised, but, nevertheless, condescending tone.
She unwrapped one of the oily packages. "Um....humm... here's your Ingram," she said as she tossed the weapon to the former soldier. "Planning a war, are we? Talk about overkill... a sub-machine gun."
"Pays to be prepared," he said. "Did he send the shoulder holster?"
"It's here," she replied.
Truly curious, he asked, "How did you learn about guns?" Somehow, he hadn't expected Kym to have such a gritty facet to her background. He had always taken her for the type to know the difference between lavender and lilac.
"My father made sure all us kids knew which end the bullet comes out. Besides, I've got three brothers who are cops," Kym added, "Kevin, Aaron, and Quentin. With the right rifle and scope, I can take the eye out of a potato at better than two hundred yards," she boasted. "By the way, your Mr. Kincaid sent three scopes... not on the list... one really good one and two that are adequate."
"Smart man... your dad... so, he's nothing like me?" the major said with an acerbic tinge to his voice. "I hope you can shoot more than potatoes."
"What are these shells for?" Kym asked, holding up a cardboard box. "They're for a .475 Magnum."
"The Wildey .475 in the attache case Kincaid rigged for Derek," he responded. "It's small, but it packs a punch."
The thought that her husband might need a gun like that made Kym nervous. She glanced toward the door. "I wish he'd get back," she said, checking her watch again. "It's getting so late."
"Let Derek cool off... he'll be fine," said Johnny. "So... your dad wasn't preparing you for survival?"
Recalling their Christmas "discussion," Kym was not about to take the bait... she was concerned about her husband, not whether Bruce Gardner and Major R.J. Boyle were cut from the same cloth. "Sure," she said, "and next time we're east I'll let Derek wander around the Bronx at two a.m." She allowed her New Yorker's cynicism to seep into her voice.
"Before our drivers arrive, you might want to put a scarf over that red mop of yours," said Johnny, "...and roll your sleeves down and button your collar... and watch what you say."
"What?" asked Kym. "Why?" He had worded it like a joke, but the tone completely lacked humor.
"We're going into rural Egypt," the major explained. "Till we know the lay of the land, remember... you are a woman in an Islamic country."
She wanted to explode at the arrogance of the man, but, even though she knew he was using it to put her in her place, she knew he was right. When in Rome....
* * *
William Sloan paced under the dusty twenty watt bulb. By all appearances, he seemed to study the topographical map in his hand, but with careful casualness he snatched a look at his watch... three a.m.... then glanced over his glasses at Kym, who was truly beginning to irritate him.
He watched her repeat her pattern, the same pattern she had repeated every ten minutes for the past three hours. Sit on the army truck's running board with feet tapping or with legs crossed and foot bouncing... chew gum like a cud, then snap it... file fingernails, the most grating sound he ever hoped to hear... get up... walk to the squeaky door... push it open... look in each dark direction... sigh... say, "Dammit! Where are you Derek?"... let the door slam shut... pace three minutes... sit on the running board and start all over. He was nearing the point of violence.
"Kymberlee!" he snapped. "Will you, please, go lay down... or do something."
"I am doing something," she replied.
"Yes," he admitted. "You are... driving me insane."
"I don't think I'm the one who did that," Kym retorted.
"No, you're quite right. That honor goes to your husband. But, so help me... if you don't settle down...." William paused, then continued in a more congenial tone, "Tomorrow's going to be a long day... go get some rest... please."
In the rear of the army truck, Johnny, stretched out on a pile of blankets and tarps, pulled one over his head.
"I'm not tired," the young woman replied, truly she wasn't. "But you look exhausted," she added.
At times like these Sloan felt middle-age beginning to settle in. Even the thought sent his mind spinning into open revolt. "I am not exhausted. I am annoyed... at your husband... but right now my annoyance extends to you, Madam. Get some rest... in the truck... now!"
Kym bristled... "Madam, indeed!"... she was not her grandmother. "You cannot order me to sleep, Mr. Sloan," she countered acidly. "I am not a four-year-old."
William sighed in exasperation. "I may not be able to order you to sleep, but I can order you to rest." His voice assumed the hardness of command. "If you wish to remain a part of this expedition you will do as I say... otherwise... you are on the first plane out of Cairo."
Oh! Legacy precepts... she could throttle them all... mini-Napoleons... every one. "I'm not leaving without Derek," she said, pushing herself to her feet. "And he won't let you send me away," Kym added smugly, "if simply for the fact that you want to."
Slowly, the precept controlled the flushing of his face and quelled his urge to turn this conceited child-woman over his knee. "Madam," he said tightly, "you don't know your husband. He's the one who wanted to do this alone. He'd happily go on without any of us." He sucked in a deep calming breath. "Now... have some sense... go lay down. He'll turn up before it's time to leave... unless, of course, he's chosen to go his own way."
"Would he?" she asked with a quick glance toward the door. The pretense of anything but concern evaporated.
Sloan paused, more for effect than thought. "No... I doubt it," he confessed. "Derek agreed to this.... He'll stand by his agreement." He walked over to look down at Kym, who had returned to her seat on the running board. "I'll make you a proposal," he said softly. "You go lay down, and I shall do the same.
"Derek's like a bad penny... he'll turn up... I promise... but it will be at the last possible moment... just to aggravate me."
Kym yielded. "All right," she said with a sigh and another look toward the door.
| CHAPTER 19 |
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