‘Us being you and John? Boy, talk about broken reeds!’
I never did find out why so many Egyptians have such pretty thick lashes. Feisal’s were as fuzzy as a toothbrush. They fell, concealing his eyes, and he said, ‘He got me into this. He promised he’d get me out.’
‘Oh, you poor, dear trusting man,’ I said, with sympathy.
Feisal stopped trying to be cool. He scowled at me. ‘You really are an extremely irritating woman. I’m trying to save your life, at the risk of my own. If my part in this were discovered I would die a slow and horrible death.’
‘Where’s Schmidt?’ I demanded, ignoring this melodramatic remark. It might or might not be true, but at the moment I didn’t give a damn.
‘He’s safe.’
I figured it was now or never. Granny’s vigilance would be relaxed now that there was a big strong man in the house, and at least one of the three doors was unlocked. Under the same illusion of macho superiority, Feisal might have neglected to lock the others. I sighed, smiled, shrugged, leaned back in the chair, hooked both feet under the rung of Feisal’s chair and pulled.
The chair and Feisal combined made a very satisfying crash. As I had hoped and counted upon, the back of his head came into emphatic contact with the bare boards. I was already out of the door when I heard him shout. The words were Arabic, but the tone was unquestionably profane.
I spun in an agitated circle, not knowing which way to go. There was a door at either end of the short corridor. I had a fifty-fifty chance of hitting the right one, so I went left.
Wrong choice. The door didn’t lead to the street but to the kitchen. I found that out when it opened, to display a stove, a table, a sink, and Granny.
I should have such reflexes when I’m a hundred years old. Snarling toothlessly at me, she hopped back, reaching for something on the table. There were several things on the table: a pot, a bunch of onions, and a long knife. I didn’t wait to see which one she wanted. I pushed her, as gently as circumstances allowed, and headed for the other door, followed by screams and curses. The latter came from Feisal, whose footsteps I could hear in the corridor.
Door number three wasn’t locked either. My exultation received a rude check when I found myself, not on the street but in a walled enclosure. It was unpaved. Weeds, or maybe they were onions, stuck up from the dirt and there were a few chickens pecking disinterestedly at the ground. They scattered, squawking irritably, as I dashed for the gate. He hadn’t bolted that either, the egotistical thing.
I didn’t bother closing it behind me, nor did I stop to consider which way to go. Any way was better than where I was. I turned right this time and ran like hell, followed by renewed protests from the chickens and a lot of bad language from Feisal.
Back home they’d have called it an alley. It was narrow and unpaved and bounded by high walls – the backs of other such courtyards, I assumed. There was nobody around, not even a chicken, but not far ahead I could see people and cars and other hopeful signs.
I don’t know how far behind he was when I burst out of the alley onto the street. He didn’t follow me. I hadn’t thought he would. He wouldn’t dare drag me back fighting and yelling with all those people around.
I had no idea where I was. It had to be Luxor, but it didn’t resemble the part of the city with which I was familiar. It looked more like one of the country towns we had passed through on our shore tours – one-storey shops, street stalls, uneven sidewalks littered with debris. I walked on, ignoring the curious glances I got from passersby. This was definitely not one of the popular tourist spots. I was the only foreigner in sight.
I went on for another block or two, till my breathing slowed to normal speed. Still no sign of the river. The sun was no help; it was high overhead. I’d have to ask someone for directions. Luxor was a good-sized town, I could go on wandering in circles for hours, and I was in a hurry. Finally I saw what appeared to be a gas station, or rather two gas pumps and a shack roofed with rusty tin. A few men wearing T-shirts and jeans were lounging against the pumps.
I sidled up to them. ‘Corniche de Nil?’ I said hopefully.
I got a pointing finger and a spate of Arabic, including what sounded like an improper suggestion. I said ‘Thank you,’ and turned down the street the finger had indicated. I had to ask twice more before I saw an open space and a gleam of water ahead.
I had found the river and the corniche and, a short distance away, a familiar tumble of pylons and columns – Karnak. But I was still a long way from my destination; I was tired and thirsty and I didn’t have a piastre in my pocket.
I accosted the first tourists I met – a middle-aged couple strung with cameras, binoculars, and the other unmistakeable stigma of the breed. He was wearing walking shorts and a shirt printed with sphinxes and palm trees; she was reading from her Baedeker.
There is no better way of getting money from people than by appealing to their prejudices. Tourists in Third World countries expect to be mugged, though from what I had heard that was more likely to happen in New York and Washington than in Cairo, not to mention Luxor. My appearance certainly substantiated the pathetic story I told.
They wanted me to go to the police. I applied the handkerchief the kindly lady had given me to my eyes. ‘No, no, I can’t face it! I’ve got to get back to the hotel right away, my husband will be worried sick, I was supposed to meet him an hour ago, he warned me not to go off alone . . . There was a man . . .’
I got into the cab with ten pounds and the guy’s business card. I had every intention of paying him back, and I would have too, if I hadn’t lost the card.
The driver let me out some distance from the house. After I had paid him I was broke again; I suspected he had overcharged me, but I didn’t feel like arguing with him. The river glittered in the sunlight and the sky was a pale clear blue. I walked slowly, trying to figure out my next move.
Had they carried or enticed Schmidt off to a ‘safe place’ too? If he wasn’t at the house I had no idea where to start looking for him, but there was reason to hope they would consider him harmless and not bother to imprison him. No doubt they had concocted a convincing explanation for my failure to return the night before. My escape had changed the picture, though. Feisal had had plenty of time to report it, and they would certainly expect me to turn up. John knew I wouldn’t leave Schmidt in the lurch.
It all made sense to me at the time. So, I wasn’t thinking too clearly. I was tired and hungry and thirsty and worried sick about Schmidt. And even if I had known what I was soon to discover, I don’t know what I could have done about it. Getting Schmidt out would still have been my first priority.
I had considered somewhat vaguely the minor problem of how I was going to get past the gate or over the wall. It would have to be the gate – I hadn’t the time or the equipment for climbing a wall topped with broken glass and barbed wire – and I didn’t suppose for a moment that I could enter without identifying myself. My plan, if it could be called that, was simple: get inside. After that . . . I had not the slightest idea what I was going to do after that. Oh, well, I thought. Fortune favours the brave and the meek shall inherit the earth, and, more to the point, there was a nice little gun in my bag. I might even have to use the damned thing – if it was still in the wardrobe where I had left it, and if I could get to it before I was caught.
When I reached the entrance I had my first piece of luck – and high time, too. Two large vans and a pickup truck were waiting outside the gate. The vans were closed, but the back of the pickup was open. It was also full – of men, locals by their clothing. Some were sitting down, others leaned against the sides of the truck.
They were delighted to see me and not inclined to ask unimportant questions. Or maybe they did ask questions. They certainly didn’t get any answers. I grinned ingratiatingly and held up my hands. A dozen brawny brown arms assisted me over the tailgate and a couple of the lads obligingly made room for me when I indicated my intention of sitting down. How true it is that language is no barrier to friendship! By the time the truck reached the house we were close buddies. Very close. I had to detach quite a few friendly arms before I could get out, but they accepted my departure with grins and shrugs and affectionate farewells.
With what I hoped was an insouciant smile, I strolled past the packers and entered the house. Once inside, I stopped being insouciant and ran along the corridor and up the first flight of stairs. My only hope, if there was hope, lay in speed. The servants probably weren’t in on the deal, but if one of the others caught sight of me I was dead meat.
I reached Schmidt’s door unobserved – I hoped – and turned the knob. The door wouldn’t open. My brain wasn’t working at top efficiency. All I could think was that they’d locked him in, that he was a prisoner. It took
