Silver Tomb (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 2) (7 page)

Katarina did not acknowledge him. “Where is Murad, Captain?”

“Is that his name?” Hassanein said. “I must thank your friends for handing me this lead. I shall make my appreciation known to both of your governments.”

“Drop the small talk, Hassanein,” said Lazarus. “Where is he?”

“He wandered into that village up ahead. It is called Qurna and is one of three such flea-pits in this locality. No doubt he meets his contacts here. This part of the country is swarming with tomb robbers.”

“So why have you stopped here on the outskirts?”

“You do not realize the situation in our country, Mr. Longman. The difference between city and countryside is even more vast than in England. Many such villages as these do not even consider themselves under the Khedive’s rule. Some voiced support for the Mahdist cause in the Soudan. They do not like us city people, the police in particular.”

“They’re practically savages,” said Brugsch. “They’ve been isolated from the urban centers and been beyond the reach of authority for so long that they’re more or less independent out here.”

“In short, you’re scared,” said Lazarus.

The captain snorted. “I have a boatload of reinforcements en route. When they arrive, we shall enter the village and begin interrogations.”

“And in the meantime Murad may slip away, along with anybody else of value to us.”

“I advise against entering the village, if that’s what you are intending, Mr. Longman. If I would be putting myself in danger by entering, then it would be near suicide for three Europeans to do so.”

“Now see here,” said Petrie. “I’ve entered many such villages in the course of my excavations and although I must admit that there is little to recommend them, I found the people to be generally willing to help in any matter so long as they are dealt with fairly and with respect.”

“Yes, but in your expeditions you were always accompanied by guides and hired guards,” said Brugsch.

“We do not require armed thugs,” said Lazarus. “Isn’t that right, Flinders?”

“What? Ah! Oh, yes…”

“Well are we going in or not?” Katarina asked.

“Gentlemen!” exclaimed Brugsch. “I must protest at the suggestion of bringing a lady into such a disease and poverty-stricken hell hole!”

“Are you going to accompany me or stop me, sir?” asked Katarina, her eyes daring the German to pick one of the two.

He lapsed into an embarrassed silence. Katarina turned to face the village. Lazarus led the way and the trio plodded off towards the cluster of mud brick hovels and cone-shaped grain silos that lay partly shaded by sprouting palms.

Chapter Seven

In which a village fights for its independence

A ‘disease and poverty-stricken hell hole’ was an apt term for the village. Children that looked like they had never had a bath in their lives capered about in the gutters, some of them with nasty eye infections which drew buzzing hordes of small flies. Haggard men, little more than skeletons, worked away in the irrigated fields and women in their black gowns plastered the houses and washed clothes out on the street. There were none of the water vendors, coffee sellers or shoeshine boys one saw in Cairo; a city that catered and profited from the needs of wealthy travelers. Here, all were engaged in a daily struggle for existence and the mere presence of travelers seemed to be a rare and unwelcome occasion.

“You’ve noticed that we’re being followed?” Petrie asked Lazarus. “Yes? That’s good.”

Lazarus had indeed become aware of the three young men who had been trailing behind them ever since they entered the village. They seemed to be carrying clubs of some sort.

A woman poked her head out from a nearby window and they saw her eyes widen as she noticed them. She shouted out something in Arabic, but Lazarus wasn’t quick enough to make out what she said or if it was directed at them. Somewhere else a window shutter slammed closed and there was the sound of bolts being drawn on the heavy wooden door. It had gone eerily quiet, and Lazarus hadn’t even noticed when all the children had vanished. He halted suddenly and muttered under his breath, “To hell with this,” and spun around to face the three men following them, his hand passing underneath the left breast of his jacket.

“Is there something we can do for you three?” he asked in Arabic.

They grinned at him and one of them spoke. “We wish to ask you the same question.”

“Why have you come to our village?” asked another.

“We’re looking for a man,” Lazarus explained. “Murad Yasin.”

“There is nobody here in Qurna by that name,” said the first man.

“He’s not from this village but he arrived here moments before we did. We wish to speak with this man.”

This seemed to confuse the three men. “Come with us,” said one of them.

They were led to one of the larger houses in the village. Most consisted of two rooms; one with a fireplace where the inhabitants shared space with their animals, and one for entertaining guests. This house had several rooms. They were plain and unfurnished, but the mere size of the dwelling hinted that its owners might be slightly better off than their neighbors. Inside, a woman was squatting on the floor kneading bread. A girl of five or six years sat watching her. Somewhere in the rear of the house they could hear the clucking of chickens.

“Sit, please,” said one of the men.

They sat down with the three men squatting near the door.

“My husband will not be home for some time,” said the woman through her veil. “Would you care for some water?”

“Yes, please,” answered Lazarus.

The woman ordered the girl to fetch it. She returned, struggling with a jug and three cups. They drank the water and watched the woman kneading her bread. The woman eyed them suspiciously, paying special attention to Katarina. When she had finished, she took the bread into the adjoining room and set it to rise by the fire.

“Who is the master of this house?” Lazarus asked one of the three men.

“My cousin, Ahmed,” replied one.

“And who is Ahmed?”

“He is a man who commands great respect in Qurna as well as the other villages nearby.”

“Like a chief?”

“Yes, like a chief.”

“Why are we here?”

“Because you entered his village.”

“Does he know Murad Yasin?”

There was no reply to this.

“I say, Lazarus,” said Petrie. “I don’t much like the look of this. Those three are sitting pretty close to the door. It’s almost as if we were being held under guard.”

“I think that’s exactly what’s happening,” Lazarus replied.

Darkness had fallen outside. The door opened and two men entered. Their khalats were dusty, as if they had been out in the desert all day. They eyed Lazarus and his companions carefully.

“What’s all this?” asked the older bearded one. Lazarus guessed this to be Ahmed.

His cousin explained the situation to him.

“I am Ahmed el-Rasoul,” said the bearded man, not extending his hand. “This is my brother Mohamed. You three are trespassers here.”

“We have no wish to trespass,” said Lazarus. “We are seeking a man, Murad Yasin. He came here only hours ago.”

“Why are you seeking this man?”

Lazarus chose his next words very carefully. “We wish to purchase items from him. Antiquities.”

“There are a hundred antiquity sellers in the streets of Cairo.”

“Ah, but these items are, shall we say, a little special.”

“Lies. You are working with the police and have been sent here to trick us.”

“We’re really not working with the police,” Lazarus assured him.

“And why would the police be interested in you anyway?” asked Katarina in faulty but coherent Arabic, showing that she had been following the conversation well enough. “Got something to hide?”

“Who is this woman who thinks she can talk to me?” Ahmed asked. “We do not like city people here. And we like tourists even less. And you three stink of wealth and corruption.”

He beckoned his brother to follow him into the next room, leaving Lazarus and his companions to sit and stare into the grins of the three youths who guarded the door. Lazarus clicked the joints in the fingers and the wrist of his right hand, his mind on the revolver beneath his breast pocket. If they were going to have to fight their way out of here, he was going to have to draw fast.

There came the sound of arguing from the next room. Ahmed was shouting his brother down, who had apparently stepped out of line.

“Suppose that fellow means to kill us?” Petrie whispered to Lazarus. “And his brother dared to question him? It’s nice to have a vote of confidence in a situation like this but I don’t fancy his chances of winning the argument. Or ours of getting out of here in one piece.”

“Let’s not get carried away, Flinders,” said Lazarus. “They haven’t drawn knives on us yet. And we’re all armed, aren’t we?”

“What, even Miss Mikolavna?”

“I wouldn’t be much of an agent if I only carried a parasol to defend myself with now, would I?” Katarina said.

There came the sound of shouting, but from outside the house this time and from female throats. Ahmed and Mohamed rushed into the room and peered out into the street. Ahmed turned, his face livid in the lamplight.

“Lying dogs! Did I not say you were lying? Now your police friends are going from door to door, bullying my people and threatening to ransack their homes!”

“Oh, that foolish oaf!” Lazarus hissed. “Couldn’t he have waited until we reported back to him?”

Ahmed was shouting orders to the male members of his family who were dragging chests out into the center of the room and flipping the lids open. Martini Henry carbines were produced, and Colt revolvers. The family was turning out to be a regular militia. They filed out into the street and shots were instantly fired. Ahmed slung the six barreled hunk of a Gatling gun over one shoulder and shoved its tripod under the other arm before heading to the steps that led up onto the roof.

“Bloody hell!” Petrie exclaimed.

“That was a Gatling Jericho gun,” Lazarus remarked. “And those Colts—American gear.”

“No mystery who they got them from,” said Katarina. “We’re in the right village, at least.”

“But at decidedly the wrong time,” said Lazarus as the ‘boom-boom-boom’ of Ahmed’s rounds sounded out from the rooftop. “Come on, let’s make a break for it.”

One of Ahmed’s cousins stood in the entrance, blocking their way onto the street, a carbine held across his chest. Mohamed cried out to him, “Let them pass, in the name of Allah! What use are they to us?”

“Shut up and take that chest of ammunition up to your brother, Mohamed!” said the man in the doorway.

Mohamed, cowed once again, did as he was told. An explosion rocked the building and they were thrown off their feet as dust and fragments of shattered mud brick filled the air.

“They’re using grenades in a civilian area, the mad bastards!” said Lazarus, coughing on the dust.

He was on his feet before their opponent and drew his revolver in one fluid motion. The man tried to level his rifle at him, but Lazarus sent a bullet into his forehead that knocked him backwards, spilling out a long stream of blood. There were cries from the men in the street who had seen what he had done. Several bullets ricocheted off the wall, forcing Lazarus and his companions to duck. Another explosion lit up the sky as a grenade bounced off the roof of a neighboring building, sending the men in the street hurrying for cover.

“Now’s our chance!” said Lazarus, and the three of them were on their feet and hurrying across the debris-strewn street towards the darkness of the palms, while the crackle of gunfire sounded out behind them.

Captain Hassanein’s men had been forced to retreat during the night, beaten back by the force of the el-Rasoul family’s firepower. They sat now in the morning sun by the banks of the Nile, licking their wounds. Lazarus was livid with the police captain, and had told him in no uncertain terms what he thought of a man who stormed a village in the middle of the night without warning and began tossing grenades around.

“And yet you saw the firepower they owned,” was the captain’s defense. “You see what I have to deal with in my country? Peasants armed with military grade weapons. And who sold them these arms? The British, the French and your American friends.”

“Well what are you planning to do now that your police investigation has turned into a war?” asked Katarina. “You’ve shot to hell any chance of finding the source of the antiquities.”

“Not at all,” replied Hassanein. “I only need to break their resolve. Once I have worn down their defenses, we shall take the village and every last member of that family shall be bastinadoed until they tell us everything we want to know.”

“Well, it looks like they’re the ones holding the cane at the moment,” said Lazarus.

“Oh, they manage an impressive display of force in street battles,” said Hassanein. “But we have the river on our side.”

“What do you mean?”

“No number of rifles and Gatling guns can stand up to shell bombardment.”

Lazarus glanced over the tips of the tents at the military steamer the reinforcements had arrived on last night. Several men on board were uncovering four deck-mounted breechloaders.

“You’re not serious,” said Lazarus. “You can’t blow the place to smithereens and then pick what you want out of the ruins! There’s innocents there… women and children!”

“You have seen how innocent they are!” snapped the captain. “Three of my men are dead; men with wives and children! The only answer for villages like these is swift and direct action.”

“But at least give them an ultimatum!” Lazarus cried. “Give them a chance to give up what they know before you shell them into oblivion!”

“And risk more of my men’s lives by carrying useless messages into that rats’ nest?”

“Then I’ll go,” Lazarus said with determination. “I’ll go and speak with this Ahmed el-Rasoul.”

“Have you forgotten that you shot and killed one of his cousins?” Katarina asked him. “They’ll string you up from the highest palm tree.”

“Then I’ll go,” said Petrie.

They all turned to look at him.

“I’m serious,” he said. “They have no reason to despise me. And besides, I have some experience with dealing with villagers like these.”

“Good God, man these aren’t cheerful fellahs looking for work,” broke in Brugsch. “These are desperate rebels with nothing to lose.”

“And that is precisely why they might be bargained with,” Petrie replied. “They have no other option but to cooperate to avoid being wiped off the map, if indeed this collection of mud huts exists on any map at all.”

“I don’t like this, Flinders,” said Lazarus. “You’re an archeologist and a scholar. It should be an agent like Katarina or myself, someone trained in these situations…”

“Let a woman go in alone while an army of men stand by?” exclaimed Petrie incredulously. “Never, sir!”

Lazarus expected Katarina to put up a fight, not only against Petrie’s chivalry but against the whole situation—but she did not. He supposed that even she knew she hadn’t a chance of persuading four men to let her wander into the village alone, even if she wanted to.

“Are you sure you can handle this, Flinders?” she said.

“I’m not sure, no,” said Petrie. “But I’m the only one here who has a chance of getting everybody out of this situation without any more bloodshed, so I’m bloody well going to try.”

They had to agree, and even Captain Hassanein was brought round to the idea, but, he stated, if the scholar did not return by sunset, the bombardment of the village would begin, with him in it if necessary.