NIKOS MOVED FORWARD AND let the knife fall to the ground. It clattered, glittering in the moonlight.
“All right. Now turn, slowly.”
Nikos turned.
The man he faced was tall and lean, wearing a striped robe and cowl that hid his features. In his hands was an old rifle, pointed directly at Nikos.
“That one there,” said the man, nodding toward the boy. “My brother. You are very strong with children.”
“He was in the way.”
“That was his job,” the man said softly.
There was a pause. The boats along the shore rocked and creaked in the gentle breeze.
“You came for a boat?”
Nikos shrugged, said nothing.
“Last month, another came for a boat. We also caught him. The police never knew. This man stole for the wood. Would you like to know how he died?”
Nikos waited.
“They cut off his arm,” said the man, “at the shoulder. The knife was not very sharp…And then, we watched while he bled to death. It took an hour.”
Nikos hesitated. “I have money.”
The man shook his head. “A man with money does not steal.”
“I have something better than money.” Nikos looked at the gun, measuring the distance, judging the accuracy, the man’s reflexes.
“My brother will be in the hospital for weeks.”
“I have something very valuable,” Nikos insisted.
The man paused, but did not lower the gun. “Gold?”
“Something better. A jewel. Very old, very valuable.”
“What kind of jewel?”
“A scarab beetle.”
The man laughed and shook his head. “The others will arrive soon. They will decide the manner of your death.”
“This one is real,” Nikos said.
“They are all real,” said the man, with another laugh.
“No, I swear it. This is real, pure lapis lazuli, from Luxor.”
Still laughing: “Where could you get a real scarab?”
“I…I killed a man.”
The man with the gun became quiet. He nodded slowly. “Let me see it.”
“It is here, in my pocket.”
“Bring it out. Carefully. Very carefully.”
Nikos reached into his robe and withdrew the stone. He held it forward in the palm of his hand. Even in the moonlight, the superior quality of the gem and the masterful workmanship were evident.
The man looked and reached.
Nikos sprang. His hands closed on the rifle barrel, swinging upward. He raised the gun and brought the stock down hard on the man’s neck. He gave a heavy grunt and lost his balance, falling to his knees.
Nikos raised the gun and brought it down again. The wood struck bone. The man groaned and lay still. He dropped the gun.
Now where was that scarab?
It had fallen in the scramble. Nikos got down on his hands and knees, searching for it. He could not find it anywhere. Nearby, the man groaned. Nikos searched frantically. He had to get it back. He had to.
Above, on the road, he heard shouts.
No time.
He picked up his knife and ran, leaping into the first boat, cutting it free, pushing it away from shore. He saw a half dozen men scrambling down the hillside toward him. He picked up a paddle and used it to push farther out into deeper water. The men were shouting and waving their hands. When he was twenty yards into the river, drifting with the current, he began to raise the sail.
The shots began. The first bullet ripped through the sail; the second struck the wood of the mast. Others splattered into the water. He ducked down, allowing the ship to drift. The shooting continued. He wondered how soon they would attract the police and whether the police had a motorboat. As the boat moved farther from the shore, he crawled up again and finished hoisting the sail. The wind caught, and he took the tiller. He gathered speed.
The boat passed between Aswan and Elephantine. There were no more shots; the night was deathly silent. A fish jumped in the water, and he heard the creaking of the rigging. Otherwise, nothing.
All around him were rocks awash; he was kept busy for the next fifteen minutes. He struck one, but it was so smooth the boat slid off. Luck, he thought, wiping his forehead. Plain, simple luck.
Soon he passed around the slow bend approaching the town of Kattara. The river broadened and became deeper. He passed a paddle steamer tied up on the east bank, brightly lit as tourists drank and sang long into the night.
He waited to hear the sound of a motorboat in pursuit, but the sound never came. He was alone on the wide, placid river, slipping quietly past the reddish mountains with desert on both sides. It was a scene of eerie beauty.
He rummaged through the sack of plain food he had purchased in Aswan for the trip, found an orange, and peeled away the skin with his teeth. He dropped a piece of skin overboard and timed it as it drifted past the stern.
He figured the speed in his head; he was making roughly five kilometers; it was about 225 kilometers to Luxor. That meant forty-five hours sailing, if the wind held. It was from the northeast now, perfect for him, but if it shifted due north, he would have to let the current carry him. In any event, it was at least three days to Luxor. They should be pleasant enough if the police did not catch up with him.
And, he thought grimly, if the scarab were not found.
“You shouldn’t have left so early,” Pierce said. “We found out some interesting things.”
Lisa wrinkled her nose.
“Did you know, for instance, that the Egyptians worshiped the Nile as a young god who took physical possession of his mistress, the land, each spring when it flooded?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I just thought I’d tell you,” he said.
Dawn. In a cloudless, dry sky, the sun rose abruptly, without preamble. One moment it was gray, and the next, pale light flooded the sky, casting deep shadows. Nikos was slumped over in his boat, relaxed, half asleep, drifting downstream. Soon he would pass Komombo; if he were lucky, he would reach Edfu by night.
He looked out at the shore. This is the way to see Egypt, he thought. The real Egypt, the country totally dependent on the Nile, the strip-civilization where life could not be sustained more than a mile from its banks. He was not surprised that the ancient Egyptians had revered the Nile; even to a modern man, it was a source of wonder.
The Nile: the longest, most varied, most powerful river in the world. It covered a distance of more than four thousand miles, greater than one-tenth the world’s circumference. Its basin, the broad valley, was a third the size of the United States, more than a million square miles. Forty million people in Egypt, the Sudan, and Uganda depended upon it for their livelihood.
Yes, the Nile could be worshiped. He understood it and felt the mystery of it. A map, statistics, facts and figures could dispel the mystery.
From the damp, rainy mountains of Ethiopia, the river came, past smoky volcanoes, descending through swamps so vast they were almost beyond human comprehension. Past the highlands of the Sudd, where Nilotic tribes lived in conical mud huts. Past crocodiles, herds of elephants, zebras, and cranes. Past herders and farmers, warriors and tribesmen, until it reached the flat desert—two streams, the Blue and White Nile, uniting in Khartoum and flowing straight to the Mediterranean.
A marvel. A source of mystery. And the great provider, the Mother Nile, which spawned one of the first great civilizations in the history of man.
Lisa screamed.
Then the sound of a gun once, twice, and a third time. Pierce had been refilling the Land Rover’s gas tank. He ran over to the supply tent.
Smoke billowed out. Lisa was standing there, rigid with fright, and Conway held the gun.
“Man,” he said, “you’d better be glad I brought this thing.”
Writhing on the floor were two cobras.
“You must be a good shot,” Pierce said. Lisa buried her head in his shirt, and began to shake uncontrollably.
“I must be,” he said.
“How did they get in here?” she asked. “I pushed open the flap, and came inside, and…”
“Who was the last person in the tent last night?” Pierce asked.
“I was,” Conway said.
They watched the cobras twist and coil upon themselves.
“You zip it shut when you left?”
“Of course. I always do.”
“It was open this morning,” Lisa said, “when I came in. I was going to make breakfast.” She shuddered again.
Pierce frowned: “Who left it open?”
“Maybe Grover,” Conway said.
“Didn’t stir all night,” Lord Grover said, coming up in his pyjamas. He looked at the snakes. “Nasty buggers, I must say.”
“What about Barnaby?” Pierce asked.
“He was with me,” Conway said. “He slept like a log. In fact, I got up to make myself a drink because I couldn’t sleep. He snores.”
“Then who left the tent open?”
The question hung in the air. They all shook their heads.
The German girl with Lord Grover came running up in her nightgown. She took one look at the cobras and fainted on the spot, never uttering a word.
“And how is the Mr. Nikos?” Iskander asked.
“Well, thank you,” Barnaby said.
“I see him?”
“He is working now. Up in the tombs.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
Hamid Iskander had arrived at noon in the black Land Rover. As usual, he displayed his own peculiar variety of polite suspicion. Barnaby had tried to divert him, showing him the two dead cobras.
“They did not taste you?” Iskander asked, his face grave.
“No.”
“Very nice.”
He hesitated then, and seemed embarrassed. Finally, he said, “I will take.”
“The cobras?” Barnaby was surprised.
“Yes please.”
“Be my guest. But why do you want them?” Again, Iskander hesitated. “Some peoples will like them.”
“But who?”
“In the bazaar.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They are…some things.”
Curiosity overcame Barnaby. Although he knew Iskander was proud of his English, he said, “Explain in Arabic.”
Iskander, looking both hurt and relieved, explained that apothecaries ground up certain parts of the cobra, particularly the fangs and the eyes, and sold them. They supposedly cured infertility and impotence.
“Makes you strong,” he said, indicating graphically. “You can last all night, and all day, and all night. Ten women, twenty women, it does not matter.”
“Remarkable.”
Hamid Iskander now looked rather embarrassed. “Mafeesh keteer fuloos,” he explained. He did not have much money.
“You cannot pay,” Barnaby said, bowing slightly. “It is our gift to you.”
“Mutta shakker.”
“It is our pleasure.”
“My humble thanks.”
Barnaby had thought that the gift of cobras would put Iskander off his guard, but he was wrong. The Arab made a complete inspection of the camp and noticed that Nikos was not there.
“He comes back soon, for the lunch?”
“Probably,” Barnaby said.
“Yes.”
At that moment, Lisa came up and dutifully extended her hand for his sloppy kiss.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Are you very beautiful on today?”
Lisa looked startled. “Yes.”
“Yes. Thank you. I too am pleased.”
He stood smiling, hopping back and forth, doing a private nervous dance. “It is to see you so well again.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes?”
Oh my God, Lisa thought.
The most remarkable thing about the countryside was its monotony. It never changed. Each village was like the last; each water wheel, driven by a patient buffalo, was like every other. The colors, the dusty brown and green and pale reds of the cliffs, never changed. And the sunlight was overpowering.
Nikos kept a hood over his head and tried to sit in the shadow of the sail. The sun was merciless. He had passed Komombo at midday, a silent town, the people huddled away from the heat. There were few boats on the river at this time of day; heat shimmered up from the surface of the water, distorting the image of the single white sail farther downstream.
For him, this was a dangerous time. The Nile shifted its course almost daily. The only way to avoid sandbars was to follow the local traffic, which knew where the water was shallow. Now, virtually alone on the river, with nobody to go forward and check depths with a dipstick, he felt vulnerable. Often, he felt the boat scrape bottom, but thus far, he had never run aground. He was very lucky.
Earlier in the day, along the water’s edge, he saw women in black coming down to draw water and carry it back in balanced jugs to their villages. Skinny donkeys, ribs protruding, also carried jugs. They were driven by shouting young boys. An occasional camel was brought to the shore to drink.
But now, everybody was home, resting, waiting for the sun to begin to drop.
He listened as the bow rippled through the water.
In another day, he would arrive in Luxor. He reached into his pocket and felt the small blue square he would pin to the sail and raise when he came within sight of the Theban hills. That way, people in the camp would know he had made the trip safely.
A very Greek signal, he thought.
“Hey,” Pierce said. “Watch your hands.”
Lisa was looking through the Polaroid pictures they had taken of the tomb. Several rolls had been shot, in color and black-and-white.
“Why?”
“You shouldn’t touch those without gloves.”
“Oh.”
He took a cloth and wiped the prints she had handled. “Hate to see you in jail,” he said.
“Why Robert that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day.”
She was smiling. He kissed her nose. “Nice nose,” he said. “Nice eyes, nice mouth.”
Giggling: “Robert.”
He stepped back and reached into his pocket. “Okay, I’ll buy you. Good teeth? Let’s see.”
She opened her mouth but shut it quickly, teasing him.
“Not bad. Good housekeeper, strong. How much do you cost?”
“I’m very reasonable.”
“Oh, I know that. But how much do you cost?”
“Ten million dollars.”
He frowned. His share of the money. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about that.”
“All right, let’s not. When is Nikos coming?”
“Probably tomorrow, if all goes well.”
Iskander left that afternoon, dragging his cobras after him. They worked hard in the tomb during the night. The chests of jewels and solid gold artifacts were packed carefully in cardboard boxes and loaded into the Land Rover. They chose well. “Probably five million dollars of stuff right here,” Pierce said.
“More,” Barnaby said. “Much, much more.”
Pierce was irritated. “Sorry you decided to get involved?”
“No,” Barnaby said, “of course not. It’s just—”
“You can think about your reluctance,” Pierce said, “when you’re sitting by the pool of your new home, in the mountains somewhere, in some country, surrounded by adoring women. You can think it all over then. You’ll have time, because you’ll be rich.”
“All right,” Barnaby said.
Pierce picked up a gilt wood cane. The handle was carved in the shape of a man, an Assyrian, to judge from the features and the squared-off beard. He looked at it and tried to imagine the power of the king, the strength of his armies, the wealth of his treasures—the tomb could only be a sample.
He held the cane in his hand and leaned on it. After three hundred centuries, it held firmly.
And then, abruptly, it snapped.