Edward Whittemore - Nile Shadows

Joe cleared his sticky lungs, his mind still a blur. Liffy snorted.

Of course we are, Joe, don't argue. Adventure is everything to men like us. It's in our very blood, along with chicken fat and the sour residue of Rommel's wine. Just consider my clandestine orders, the real secret orders I was given in London when I was being sent out here as a spy. Didn't I tell, you what they said?

No, muttered Joe. What?

Head east, my child, ever east.

They did?

Precisely. And after that general introduction, they got down to specifics.

A. Yes, my child, a leisurely journey is what we have in mind for you, so stop look and listen.

B. Mingle, eat the local mush.

C. Tarry in caves and open spaces and mark well the local aphorisms.

D. Even graze a goat or two, if there's time.

E. But above all head ever east, for these are your orders in life, my child. For now anyway.

F. Good luck.

G. Have a nice trip.

Liffy laughed.

A trifle vague perhaps, but no more so than most things having to do with intelligence. In fact it wouldn't surprise me if your orders were secretly the same, so come along then. Come.

Liffy helped Joe to his feet and removed his hat. Gently he steered Joe toward the door, murmuring in a soothing voice all the while.

Fresh air, yes, I know how you feel. . you need to escape from this room and from the Hotel Babylon in general, which unfortunately has changed very little from the time when a detachment of Napoleon's camel corps was bivouacked here. . Ahmad tells the story. Apparently there used to be a plaque in the lobby commemorating the event. . Napoleon's camels slept here. With their eyes open . . Of course, Joe, it's that kind of place. Come along now. .

Liffy locked the door behind them.

Easy does it, he whispered. In this quarter the darkness has ears, and as spies, we must lurk without a sound.

They tiptoed down the stairs and the pianola on the ground floor came into view. Ahmad was asleep at the counter, sitting on his high stool with his head resting on an open newspaper. Next to his elbow were several large round sesame wafers, apparently left over from a midnight snack. Liffy scooped them up.

Survival rations for the dawn patrol, he whispered. The home front has all the luck. But have you ever noticed that all the spies in Cairo always read newspapers while waiting for their next clandestine strike?

While he whispered, Liffy was making a show of leaning over the counter to hang up Joe's key. But at one point he suddenly reached under the counter and grabbed for something, which he then hid behind his back. And a none too skillful maneuver at that, thought Joe.

They tiptoed toward the door.

I thought everybody in Cairo always did nothing but read newspapers? whispered Joe.

That's true, they do, but that's only because everybody in Cairo is a spy. Out here a man has no choice.

Spy and be spied upon — it's the real secret of the pyramids.

They tiptoed through the open door into the darkness and made their way up the rue Clapsius.

What we obviously need this morning, whispered Liffy, is a dramatic breakthrough. Now I'm going to fetch the van while you turn left at the next corner and follow your nose to a little square where there's a fragment of a Roman fountain, a pained marble face with an alarmed mouth spouting water. You can't miss it and it's also a chance for a quick wash-up. I'll meet you there.

Liffy trotted off, a long cylindrical leather case and a bundle of what looked like laundry tucked under his arm.

He must have left those things under Ahmad's counter when he arrived last night, thought Joe, wondering why Liffy had bothered to hide them behind his back in such a halfhearted way.

***

In an upstairs window at the end of the alley, in the dilapidated building owned by the former belly dancer who now roasted chickens for a living, a young man laid aside his newspaper and dialed a telephone number.

They've left the hotel, he whispered. Just the two of them.

Most of the young man's fingers were missing. He listened carefully.

All right, he whispered. Yes. . I'll be here.

He hung up the phone and smiled.

And now for a real old-fashioned English breakfast, he thought, banging twice on the floor so the woman downstairs would hear him.

***

Joe found the little square and washed his face and hands, still unable to shake off the blurred feeling in his mind. He was standing in front of the small Roman fountain, gazing numbly down at the worn marble face and wondering what could be keeping Liffy, when suddenly a chilling shriek exploded behind him.

He whirled.

A huge horse and pale rider were wildly thundering out of the shadows and bearing down on the little square, the rider a fierce bedouin straight from the interminable depths of the desert, his great sword of Allah raised high as he charged headlong through the dim alley toward Joe. The hooded bedouin crouched low as the animal leapt and smashed its hooves into the cobblestones, rearing out of control in the half-light, enormous and fiery beneath the crackling robes of the horseman.

God help us, thought Joe, huddling in the little square and not daring to take his eyes off the monstrous vision, lest he be trampled or cut in half by the demon's slashing sword. The beast reared and charged anew, plunging recklessly back and forth as the bedouin whipped his mount into an ever greater frenzy, hair streaming and sparks flying, horse and rider hurtling skyward and filling the air with a stench of cold sweat.

Joe threw himself to the side as a blast of damp breath shot by his head. He slipped and went crashing down on one knee, catching himself at the last moment and spinning toward a wall, limping and stumbling, running, the awful vision of the horseman's face towering over him.

. . gaunt stony features and a ghastly pallor in the eerie light. A hawk's beak and sunken glittering eyes and cruel twisted lips. A crazed primitive face from some lost wilderness.

Death, thought Joe, the image flashing through his mind despite himself.

Death's the rider and there's no escape.

He was pressed against a wall and moving sideways, frantically groping for a doorway, shelter, anything.

He felt a cavity in the wall and slipped into it, shrinking backward, pushing against the stone with all his strength.

But as soon as Joe had slipped into the safety of the doorway, he began to notice things.

For one, the huge sleek stallion seemed to have curiously knobby knees. And its stomach sagged and it was swaybacked, and there were thick clumps of matted hair spreading down over its hooves.

For another, the huge beast wore a heavy wooden halter of the kind used to weigh down common workhorses. And there were strands of old rope trailing from the halter that looked as if they might have been attached to a wagon not too long ago.

Joe stared.

Instead of the fierce bedouin who had come thundering out of the shadows, he now saw a frightened figure desperately hanging on to his tired mount as best he could, a man who was all elbows and knees and terrified squeals as he crashed around on top of the old horse, his perch so precarious he was clinging to the horse's head and squashing an old rag over the poor animal's nostrils.

Even the long powerful sword was no longer what it had appeared to be. In fact it wasn't a sword at all but a long cylinder of dull metal thrashing harmlessly this way and that, obviously wielded more for balance than anything else.

In any case the spectacle was abruptly over, the strange illusion gone as quickly as it had come in the shadows of the little square. With a groan the exhausted workhorse heaved itself into the air a final time and came tumbling down on the cobblestones, its bones cracking ponderously in the stillness and its legs nearly buckling under the impact, the old creature shuddering once before becoming instantly immobile, its head hanging, a vision of worn-out flesh weary beyond belief.