Astonished, Hattie quickly lowered her gaze as Dimitry stepped back. He was dressed in the native gallibaya and sported a neatly trimmed beard which, coupled with the tarboosh headdress, obscured his appearance. Nearly light-headed with relief, Hattie awaited events.
Hafez returned, and announced that it would be best to conclude their business as quickly as possible before the crowd was stirred into action. “They are unhappy with what they perceive to be a grave insult.”
“Very well,” replied the Frenchman with a wary glance toward the doorway. “Let us go, then.”
Once again, Hattie was loaded onto the cart while the native bystanders watched and muttered in an ugly undertone, rising in volume so that those who served Hafez and the baron were forced to wave their weapons in a threatening manner so that they stayed back. She noted that the crowd had increased, and wondered if she should struggle against her captors so as to incite a possible riot—the circumstances seemed ripe for it. Watching Dimitry from the corner of her eye, she decided she’d best not attempt any heroics for fear he had a plan that would be disrupted—but on the other hand, it may be to the greater good to disrupt Dimitry’s plan, depending on his allegiances. On the horns of this particular dilemma, she finally decided to hold her powder—a melee might jeopardize his plan and it did seem more and more likely that he was working against the enemy, hence the disguise.
Thus, as evening fell she began the slow journey to the tomb of the god-king’s daughter, keeping her chin raised and refusing to look at anyone although she could feel the scrutiny of many watching eyes as they passed through the narrow streets. The donkeys trod methodically and the wooden wheels churned on the rough gravel as they made their way into the sacred Valley of the Kings, the cliffs around them as indifferent to the schemings of men as they had been forty centuries ago. Hattie flexed her hands, which were beginning to go numb; I suppose this is what it felt like to be riding in a tumbrel, she thought, and then quickly banished the comparison from her mind.
Upon sighting their approach, the British guards at the tomb drew their muskets and waited at the ready while Hafez approached them. Hattie watched while the minister made gestures and discussed the situation—it was unclear what possible explanation would be proffered for her own state of capture, and it seemed to Hattie the guards remained uneasy as they lowered their weapons and allowed them to pass.
Once again, Hattie climbed the wooden steps at the entrance to the tomb—only on this occasion she was bound and gagged, with Hafez’s men firmly holding her arms on either side with their pistols trained upon her. Despite her perilous situation, she tried to puzzle out where the secret chamber should be and frowned, realizing it made little sense—the chamber should open off from the entry hall, but she remembered no door or other opening along the stark walls in the entry hall.
Several of the men lit lanterns and as the party ducked into the entryway, Hafez began to negotiate with the baron about how many men were to accompany them inside. This seemed understandable; Hattie easily surmised that if it weren’t for the fact that Hafez was holding her as hostage, his life wouldn’t be worth much once the secret chamber was revealed—the baron and his cohorts had proved to be ruthless killers in pursuit of this particular goal. In the end, Hafez brought two men into the tomb to guard Hattie while the baron brought only one—Dimitry—and he was allowed in only after he had relinquished his pistol. Her relief at this arrangement was short-lived, however; Hattie saw the baron give her husband a significant look in the dim light—one that indicated a covert plan. With a sinking heart, Hattie realized that Dimitry appeared to be aligned with the despicable baron—even though this was hard to imagine. She then reassured herself by remembering that whatever his motives or allegiances, Dimitry could not be pleased with the other man’s actions toward her—he who had raged when Robbie negligently touched her hand; she could only hope he was playing a deep game, and wait to see what developed.
At a location nearly halfway down the slanting floor of the entry hall, Hafez paused and spoke in Arabic to the vendor who escorted Hattie. The man stepped forward to thrust a staff into the dirt at the base of the stone wall, and grasping the staff with both hands, he began to apply leverage on the length of wood, working it back and forth into the hard-packed dirt until it could be heard to scrape against a plate of some kind, approximately a foot beneath the surface. The man leapt up to apply his full weight to the staff, and with a groaning noise, a portion of the wall began to move. As they watched, the contours of a door were revealed where some of the seams between the bricks became more pronounced. Pressing his hands against the left upper corner of the hidden door, the servant slid it back on oiled hinges, and a dark recess could be seen within.
Despite herself, Hattie was fascinated and stepped forward with no coaxing from the men at her sides to enter the secret chamber. The flickering light of the lanterns revealed muskets—hundreds of them—stacked up against the walls, and other treasures carefully lined up on lengths of burlap—golden figures, decorated jars and caskets; mainly small items, which she imagined could easily be smuggled out. Hattie reviewed them in silence, no longer intrigued; this was no treasure hunt—instead it was a means to war.
The baron stepped in and took a careful review of the items assembled. “And where is the Glory of Kings—the Shefrh Lelmelwek? I do not see it.”
Hafez scanned the interior himself, which was not difficult, as it was perhaps fifteen feet by twenty. “It must be here—I have seen it myself; perhaps it was moved.”
“You assured me it was here.” The baron’s voice held a hint of accusation.
Hafez stepped through the length of the chamber and scrutinized the assembled items with increasing desperation, searching through the dully glimmering gold. “It was here—as late as last week; I swear it.”
In two strides, the Frenchman took Hafez by the shoulders and shoved the heavy man with some force against the wall, causing several muskets to clatter to the stone floor. “You hope to gain leverage to protect yourself; you know the emperor desires the sword.”
“No,” Hafez insisted in a strangled voice, his breath coming in rasps. “Take your hands off me or she will suffer for it.” His face mottled, Hafez’s eyes rolled toward Hattie, and in response the nervous vendor drew the hammer back on the pistol beside her ear. God in heaven, she thought, and struggled to remain calm.
The baron looked toward Hattie and loosened his grip but did not release the minister, instead warning in a voice filled with menace, “You have one minute to tell me where the sword is; the emperor wishes to have it when he returns in triumph and I will not disappoint him.” The minister was roughly shaken to emphasize the last few words.
“I don’t know, I tell you—it was here—I swear it.”
While the assembled men stood in a tense standoff, Hattie heard a whizzing sound near her ear, and the vendor beside her first grunted, then made a horrendous gurgling sound as a plume of blood sprayed across her face. She gasped as the man sank to the ground, a familiar thin blade lodged in his throat.
Almost before she could process this development, Dimitry was upon her other guard, twisting his arm behind him with a quick movement so as to grasp his pistol, and then holding the man before them like a shield, the pistol to his head.
Hafez stared at the fallen man in horror, the pool of blood widening at his feet. “Let us start afresh, shall we?” said the baron coolly, as though nothing untoward had occurred. “Where is the sword?”
Hafez swallowed, aware that he no longer had any leverage. “I will find it, I swear—”
“Unfortunately there is no time and I have little patience.”
Desperate, Hafez suddenly shoved at the baron and broke for the door, but with an almost causal air, the Frenchman drew his own weapon and shot him in the back, the large man collapsing in the doorway as he desperately clawed at the ancient stones for a moment, then lay still. Almost immediately, Dimitry discharged the pistol he held on his own man, who slumped to the floor. In the ensuing silence, acrid smoke drifted in the glow of the lanterns as Dimitry bent to retrieve his blade from the fallen vendor’s throat and Hattie stood in shock, contemplating the carnage around her.
“Hafez? Monsieur le Baron? What goes forward—I heard a shot.” Within moments, Drummond’s associate appeared in the entry hall outside the room, and dispassionately reviewed the bodies on the stone floor for a moment. His gaze then rested on Hattie, and with a sound of dismay, he stepped over the body of the minister to pull out his handkerchief and wipe the blood from her face. “Good God—what is the meaning of this? Unbind her immediately.”
“I regret to say it was necessary—she was inciting a response among the natives.” Hattie noted with surprise that the baron was apologetic; it was clear he deferred to the other man.
The associate produced a knife and cut her bindings himself. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Blackhouse.”
But the associate’s deferential attitude had given Hattie an idea—after all, there was no point in having the blood of a ruthless conqueror in your veins unless you put it to good use. As soon as her gag was removed, she rubbed life back into her wrists and announced coldly, “When my father hears of this, there will be no corner in hell for any of you to hide.” With a deliberate movement, she lifted her skirts to step over the fallen minister and exit the tomb.
They all stared at her in dismay, but the associate reluctantly stepped before her to block her retreat. While she glowered up at him from beneath her brows he said in a placating tone, “I assure you, madam, that you will suffer no further indignities. However, I’m afraid I cannot allow you to leave just yet—there are some questions I am compelled to ask.”
Hattie raised her chin and crossed her arms, her gaze on the stone wall. “I will answer no questions; I demand that I be let go immediately.”
“I believe you mentioned your marriage, madam.”
“What?” exclaimed the baron, astonished. “Married to who?”
The associate turned his head to regard the Frenchman. “You did not know of this?”
“C’est pas vrai—it is nonsense,” the other insisted. “She has no husband; perhaps she seeks to throw dust in your eyes.”
“She claims to have married Count Leczinska.”
There was a long, silent pause while the baron considered this revelation. Hattie was impressed; the man’s gaze never traveled to Dimitry, standing silently behind her. “Impossible,” he finally pronounced. “Perhaps it was a ploy to take her to his bed.”
The associate shrugged. “Perhaps—but it is inconceivable either way; he would never marry her without the emperor’s consent and he would never be mad enough to seduce her.”
The two men turned to consider Hattie, who stared at the wall, stone-faced, and wished she was anywhere else or at least that she knew her lines—she would have given anything to have a quick conference with Dimitry.
“Perhaps,” suggested the associate, “you could explain yourself a bit further, madam; it is possible—although I am loathe to suggest it—that you have been ill-served by the count.”
“I have been ill-served by no one but yourselves,” Hattie retorted, her low voice echoing off the walls, “—and by heaven, my father will hear of it.”
“We shall say no more,” the baron hastily assured her. Then, to the associate, “Better that we discuss the matter with Leczinska at a later time, perhaps.”
But the associate was not so certain and regarded the other with a grave expression. “I wonder,” he mused in a somber tone, “—if the count is who he says he is.”