SEVENTH SCROLL

By: Wilber Smith

Synopsis:

A fading papyrus, nearly four thousand years old. Within it lie the

clues to a fabulous treasure from an almost forgotten time. ... a riddle

that becomes a savage battle across the unforgiving terain of North

Africa. When her husband is brutally murdered , Beautiful half-English,

half-Egyptian Royan Al Simmu is forced to seek refuge in England. With

eminent archaeologist Nicholas Quenton-Harper she can pick up the pieces

of her shattered life and find the courage to return to Ethiopia. For

Duraid. For the long dead slave Taita. And for the dreams of an ancient

Pharaoh ... Because others will stop at nothing to claim the prize as

their own.

This edition published 1996 by Pan Books

ISBN 0 330 34415 3

Copyright ( Wilbur Smith 1995

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Once more this book is for my wife Danielle.

Despite all the happy loving years we have spent together I feel that we

are only just beginning.

There is so much more to come.

The dusk crept in from the desert, and shaded the dunes with purple.

Like a thick velvet cloak it muted all sounds, so that the evening was

tranquil and hushed.

From where they stood on the crest of the dune they looked out over the

oasis and the complex of small villages that surrounded it. The

buildings were white with flat roofs and the date palms stood higher

than any of them except the Islamic mosque and the Coptic Christian

church.

These bastions of faith opposed each other across the lake.

The waters of the lake were sparkling. A flight of duck slanted down on

quick wings to land with a small splash of white close in against the

reed banks.

The man and the woman made a disparate couple. He was tall, though

slightly bowed, his silvering hair catching the last of the sunlight.

She was young, in her early thirties, slim, alert and vibrant. Her hair

was thick and curling, restrained now by a thong at the nape of her

neck.

"Time to go down now. Alia will be waiting." He smiled down at her

fondly. She was his second wife. When his first wife died he thought

that she had taken the sunlight with her. He had not expected this last

period of happiness in his life. Now he had her and his work. He was a

man happy and contented.

Suddenly she broke away from him, and pulled the thong from her hair.

She shook it out, dense and dark, and she laughed. It was a pretty

sound. Then she plunged down the steep slip-face of the dune, her long

skirts billowing around her flying legs. They were shapely and brown.

She kept her balance until halfway down, when gravity overwhelmed her

and she tumbled.

From the top he smiled down on her indulgently.

Sometimes she was still a child. At others she was a grave and dignified

woman. He was not certain which he preferred, but he loved her in both

moods. She rolled to a halt at the bottom of the dune and sat up, still

laughing, shaking the sand out of her hair. "Your turn!" she called up

at him. He followed her down sedately, moving with the slight stiffness

of advancing age, keeping his balance until he reached the bottom.

He lifted her to her feet. He did not kiss her, although the temptation

to do so was strong. It was not the Arab way to show public affection,

even to a beloved wife.

She "straightened her clothing and retied her hair before they set off

towards the village. They skirted the reed beds of the oasis, crossing

the rickety bridges over the irrigation canals. As they passed, the

peasants returning from the fields greeted him with deep respect.

"Salaam aleikum, Doktari! Peace be with you, doctor." They honoured all

men of learning, but him especially for his kindness to them and their

families over the years.

Many of them had worked for his father before him. It mattered little

that most of them were Moslem, while he was a Christian.

When they reached the villa, Alia, the old housekeeper, greeted them

with mumbles and scowls. "You are late. You are always late. Why do you

not keep regular hours, like decent folk? We have a position to

maintain."

"Old mother, you are always right," he teased her gently. "What would we

do without you to care for us?" He sent her away, still scowling to

cover her love and concern for him.

They ate the simple meat on the terrace together, dates and olives and

unleavened bread and goat's milk cheese. It was dark when they finished,

but the desert stars were bright as candles.

"Royan, -my flower." He reached across the table and touched her hand.

"It is time to begin work." He stood up from the table and led the way

to his study that opened out on to the terrace.

Royan Al Simma went directly to the tall steel safe against the far wall

and tumbled the combination. The safe was out of place in this room,

amongst the old books and scrolls, amongst the ancient statues and

artefacts and grave goods that were the collection of his lifetime.

When the heavy steel door swung open, Royan stood back for a moment. She

always felt this prickle of awe whenever she first looked upon this

relic of the ages, even after an interval of only a few short hours.

"The seventh scroll," she whispered, and steeled herself to touch it. It

was nearly four thousand years old, written by a genius out of time with

history, a man who had been dust for all these millennia, but whom she

had come to know and respect as she did her own husband. His words were

eternal, and they spoke to her clearly from beyond the grave, from the

fields of paradise, from the presence of the great trinity, Osiris and

Isis and Horus, in whom he had believed so devoutly. As devoutly as she

believed in another more recent Trinity.

She carried the scroll to the long table at which Duraid, her husband,

was already at work. He looked up as she laid it on the tabletop before

him, and for a moment she saw the same mystical mood in his eyes that

had affected her. He always wanted the scroll there on the table, even

when there was no real call for it. He had the photographs and the

microfilm to work with. It was as though he needed the unseen presence

of the ancient author close to him as he studied the texts.

Then he threw off the mood and was the dispassionate scientist once

more. "Your eyes are better than mine, my flower," he said. "What do you

make of this character?"

She leaned over his shoulder and studied the hieroglyph on the

photograph of the scroll that he pointed out to her. She puzzled over

the character for a moment before she took the magnifying glass from

Duraid's hand and peered through it again.

"It looks as though Taita has thrown in another cryptogram of his own

creation just to bedevil us." She spoke of the ancient author as though

he were a dear, but sometimes exasperating, friend who still lived and

breathed, and played tricks upon them.

"We'll just have to puzzle it out, then," Duraid declared with obvious

relish. He loved the ancient game. It was his life's work.

The two of them laboured on into the cool of the night. This was when

they did their best work. Sometimes they spoke Arabic and sometimes

English; for them the two languages were as one. Less often they used

French, which was their third common language. They had both received

their education at universities in England and the United States, so far

from this very Egypt of theirs. Royan loved the expression "This very

Egypt' that Taita used so often in the scrolls.

She felt a peculiar affinity in so many ways with this ancient Egyptian.

After all, she was his direct descendant.

She was a Coptic Christian, not of the Arab line that had so recently

conquered Egypt, less than fourteen centuries ago. The Arabs were

newcomers in this very Egypt of hers, while her own blood line ran back

to the time of the pharaohs and the great pyramids.

At ten 'clock Royan made coffee for them, heating it on the charcoal

stove that Alia had prepared for them before she went off to her own

family in the villa . They drank the 9 sweet, strong brew from thin cups

that were half-filled with the heavy grounds. While they sipped, they

talked as old friends.

.. For Royan that was their relationship, old friends. She had known

Duraid ever since she had returned from England with her doctorate in

archaeology and won her job with the Department of Antiquities, of which

he was the director.

She had been his assistant when he had opened the tomb in the Valley of

the Nobles, the tomb of Queen Lostris, the tomb that dated from about

1780 BC.

She had shared his disappointment when they had discovered that the tomb

had been robbed in ancient times and all its treasures plundered. All

that remained were the marvelous murals that covered the walls and the

ceilings of the tomb.

It was Royan herself who had been working at the wall behind the plinth

on which the sarcophagus had once stood, photographing the murals, when

a section of the plaster had fallen away to reveal in their niche the

ten alabaster jars. Each of the jars had contained a papyrus scroll.

Every one of them had been written and placed there by Taita, the stave

of the queen.

Since then their lives, Duraid's and her own, seemed to have revolved

around those scraps of papyrus. Although there was some damage and

deterioration, in the main they had survived nearly four thousand years

remarkably intact.

What a fascinating story they contained, of a nation attacked by a

superior enemy, armed with horse and chariot that were still alien to

the Egyptians of that time. Crushed by the Hyksos hordes, the people of

the Nile were forced to flee. Led by their queen, Lostris of the tomb,

they followed the great river southwards almost to its source amongst

the brutal mountains of the Ethiopian highlands.

Here amongst those forbidding mountains, Lostris had entombed the

mummified body of her husband, the Pharaoh Mamose, who had been slain in

battle against the Hyksos.

Long afterwards Queen Lostris had led her people back northwards to this

very Egypt. Armed now with their own horses and chariots, forged into

hard warriors in the African wilderness, they had come storming back

down the cataracts of the great river to challenge once more the Hyksos

invader, and in the end to triumph over him and wrest the double crown

of upper and lower Egypt from his grasp.

It was a story that appealed to every fibre of her being, and that had

fascinated her as they had unravelled each hieroglyph that the old slave

had penned on the papyrus'

It had taken them all these years, working at night here in the villa on

the oasis after their daily routine work at the museum in Cairo was

done, but at last the ten scrolls had been deciphered - all except the

seventh scroll. This was the one that was the enigma, the one which the

author had cloaked in layers of esoteric shorthand and allusions so

obscure that they were unfathomable at this remove of time. Some of the

symbols he used had never figured before in all the thousands of texts

that they had studied in their combined working lives. It was obvious to

them both that Taita had not intended that the scrolls should be read by

any eyes other than those of his beloved queen. These were his last gift

for her to take with her beyond the grave.

It had taken all their combined skills, all their imagination and

ingenuity, but at last they were approaching the conclusion of the task.

There were still many gaps in the translation and many areas where they

were uncertain whether or not they had captured the true meaning, but

they had laid out the bones of the manuscript in such order that they

were able to discern the outline of the creature it represented.

Now Duraid sipped his coffee and shook his head as he had done so often

before. "It frightens me," he said. "The responsibility. What to do with

this knowledge we have gleaned. If it should fall into the wrong hands

He sipped and sighed before he spoke again. "Even if we take it to the

right people, will they believe this material that is nearly four

thousand years old?"

"Why must we bring in others?" Royan asked with an edge of exasperation

in her voice. "Why can we not do alone what has to be done?" At times

like these the differences between them were most apparent. His was the

caution of age, while hers was the impetuosity of youth.

"You do not understand," he said. It always annoyed her when he said

that, when he treated her as the Arabs treated their women in a totally

masculine world. She had known the other world where women demanded and

received the right to be treated as equals. She was a creature caught

between those worlds, the Western world and the Arab world.

Royan's mother was an English woman who had worked at the British

Embassy in Cairo in the troubled times after World War II. She had met

and married Royan's father, who had been a young Egyptian officer on the

staff of Colonel Nasser. It was an unlikely union and had not persisted

into Royan's adolescence.

Her mother had insisted upon returning to England, to her home town of

York, for Royan's birth. She wanted her child to have British

citizenship. After her parents had separated, Royan, again at her

mother's insistence, had been sent back to England for her schooling,

but all her holidays had been spent with her father in Cairo. Her

father's career had prospered exceedingly, and in the end he had

attained ministerial rank in the Mubarak government. Through her love

for him she came to look upon herself as more Egyptian than English.

It was her father who had arranged her marriage to Duraid Al Simma. It

was the last thing that he had done for her before his death. She had

known he was dying at the time, and she had not found it in her heart to

defy him. All her modern training made her want to resist the

old-fashioned Coptic tradition of the arranged marriage, but her

breeding and her family and her Church were against her. She had

acquiesced.

Her marriage to Duraid had not proved as insufferable as she had dreaded

it might be. It might even have been entirely comfortable and satisfying

if she had never been introduced to romantic love. However, there had

been her liaison with David while she was up at university. He had swept

her up in the hurly-burly, in the heady delirium, and, in the end, the

heartache, when he had left her to marry a blonde English rose approved

of by his parents.

She respected and liked Duraid, but sometimes in the night she still

burned for the feel of a body as firm and young as her own on top of

hers.

Duraid was still speaking and she had not been listening to him. She

gave him her full attention once more. "I have spoken to the minister

again, but I do not think he believes in me. I think that Nahoot has

convinced him that I am a little mad." He smiled sadly. Nahoot Guddabi

was his ambitious and well-connected deputy. "At any rate the minister

says that there are no government funds available, and that I will have

to seek outside finance.

So, I have been over the list of possible sponsors again, and have

narrowed it down to four. There is the Getty Museum of course, but I

never like to work with a big impersonal institution. I prefer to have a

single man to answer to.

Decisions are always easier to reach."None of this was new to her, but

she listened dutifully.

"Then there is Herr von Schiller. He has the money and the interest in

the subject, but I do not know him well enough to trust him entirely."

He paused, and Royan had listened to these musings so often before that

she could anticipate him.

"What about the American? He is a famous collector," she forestalled

him.

"Peter Walsh is a difficult man to work with. His passion to accumulate

makes him unscrupulous. He frightens me a little."

"So who does that leave?" she asked.

He did not reply, for they both knew the answer to her question.

Instead, he turned his attention back to the material that littered the

work table.

"It looks so innocent, so mundane. An old papyrus scroll, a few

photographs and notebooks, a computer printout. It is difficult to

believe how dangerous these might be in the wrong hands." He sighed

again. "You might almost say that they are deadly dangerous."

Then he laughed. "I am being fanciful. Perhaps it is the late hour.

Shall we get back to work? We can worry about these other matters once

we have worked out all the conundrums set for us by this old rogue,

Taita, and completed the translation."

He picked up the top photograph from the pile in front of him. It was an

extract from the central section of the scroll. "It is the worst luck

that the damaged piece of papyrus falls where it does." He picked up his

reading glasses and placed them on his nose before he read aloud.

"'There are many steps to ascend on the staircase to the abode of Hapi.

With much hardship and endeavour we reached the second step and

proceeded no further, for it was here that the prince received a divine

revelation. In a dream his father, the dead god pharaoh, visited him and

commanded him, "I have travelled far and I am grown weary. It is here

that I will rest for all eternity."" Duraid removed his glasses and

looked across at Royan, "'The second step". It is a very precise

description for once. Taita is not being his usual devious self."

"Let's go back to the satellite. photographs," Royan suggested, and drew

the glossy sheet towards her. Duraid came around the table to stand

behind her.

"To me it seems most logical that the natural feature that would

obstruct them in the gorge would be something like a set of rapids or a

waterfall. If it were the second waterfall, that would put them here-'

Royan placed her finger on a spot on the satellite photograph where the

narrow snake of the river threaded itself through the dark massifs of

the mountains on either hand.

At that moment she was distracted and she lifted her head. "Listen!" Her

voice changed, sharpening with alarm.

"What is it?" Duraid looked up also.

"The dog," she answered.

"That damn mongrel," he agreed. "It is always making the night hideous

with its yapping. I have promised myself to get rid of him."

At that moment the lights went out.

They froze with surprise in the darkness. The soft thudding of the

decrepit diesel generator in its shed at the back of the palm grove had

ceased. It was so much a part of the oasis night that they noticed it

only when it was silent.

Their eyes adjusted to the faint starlight that came in through the

terrace doors. Duraid crossed the room and took the oil lamp down from

the shelf beside the door where it waited for just such a contingency.

He lit it, and looked across at Royan with an expression of comical

resignation.

"I will have to go down-'

Duraid," she interrupted him, "the dog!'

He listened for a moment, and his expression changed to mild concern.

The dog was silent out there in the night.

"I am sure it is nothing to be alarmed about." He went to the door, and

for no good reason she suddenly called after him.

"Duraid, be careful!" He shrugged dismissively and stepped out on to the

terrace.

She thought for an instant that it was the shadow of the vine over the

trellis moving in the night breeze off the desert, but the night was

still. Then she realized that it was a human figure crossing the

flagstones silently and swiftly, coming in behind Duraid as he skirted

the fishpond in the centre of the paved terrace.

"Duraid!" She screamed a warning and he spun round, lifting the lamp

high.

"Who are you?" he shouted. "What do you want here?" The intruder closed

with him silently. The traditional full-length dishdasha robe swirled

around his legs, and the white ghutrah headcloth covered his head. In

the light of the lamp Duraid saw that he had drawn the corner of the

headcloth over his face to mask his features.

The intruder's back was turned towards her so Royan did not see the

knife in his right hand, but she could not mistake the upward stabbing

motion that he aimed at Duraid's stomach. Duraid grunted with pain and

doubled up at the blow, and his attacker drew the blade free and stabbed

again, but this time Duraid dropped the lamp and seized the knife arm.

The flame of the fallen oil lamp was guttering and flaring. The two men

struggled in the gloom, but Royan saw a dark stain spreading over her

husband's white shirt front.

"Run!" he bellowed at her. "Go! Fetch help! I cannot hold him!" The

Duraid she knew was a gentle person, a soft man of books and learning.

She could see that he was outmatched by his assailant.

"Go! Please! Save yourself, my flower!" She could hear by his tone that

he was weakening, but he still clung desperately to his attacker's knife

arm.

She had been paralysed with shock and indecision these few fatal

seconds, but now she broke free of the spell and ran to the door.

Spurred by her terror and her need to bring help to Duraid she crossed

the terrace, swift as a cat, and he held the intruder from blocking her

way.

She vaulted over the low stone wall into the grove, and almost into the

arms of the second man. She screamed and twisted away from him as his

outstretched fingers raked across her face, and almost broke free, but

his fingers hooked in the thin cotton stuff of her blouse.

This time she saw the knife in his hand, a long silvery flash in the

starlight, and it goaded her to fresh effort. The cotton tore in his

grip and she was free, but not quickly enough to escape the blade. She

felt the sting of it across her upper arm, and she kicked out at him

with all the strength of panic and her hard young body behind it. She

felt her foot slam into the softness of his lower body with a shock that

jarred her knee and ankle, and her attacker cried out and fell to his

knees.

Then she was away and running through the palm grove. At first she ran

without purpose or direction. She ran simply to get as far from them as

her flying legs would carry her. Then gradually she brought her panic

under control. She glanced back, but saw nobody following her.

As she reached the edge of the lake she slowed her run to conserve her

strength, and she became aware of the warm trickle of her own blood down

her arm and then dripping from her finger-tips.

She stopped.and rested her back against the rough hole of one of the

palms while she tore a strip of cloth from her ripped blouse and

hurriedly bound up her arm. She was shaking so much from shock and

exertion that even her uninjured hand was fumbling and clumsy. She

knotted the crude bandage with her teeth and left hand, and the bleeding

slowed.

She was uncertain of which way to run, and then she saw the dim

lamplight. in the window of Alia's shack across the nearest irrigation

canal. She pushed herself away from the palm trunk and started towards

it. She had covered less than a hundred paces when a voice called from

the grove behind her, speaking in Arabic, "Yusuf, has the woman come

your way?"

immediately an electric torch flashed from the darkness ahead of her and

another voice called back, "No, I have not seen her."

Another few seconds and Royan would have run full into him. She crouched

down and looked around her desperately. There was another torch coming

through the grove behind her, following the path she had taken. It must

be the man she had kicked, but she could tell by the motion of the torch

beam that he had recovered and was moving swiftly and easily again.

She was blocked on two sides, so she turned back along the edge of the

trail. The road lay that way. She might be able to meet a late vehicle

travelling on it. She lost her footing on the rough ground and went

down, bruising and scraping her knees, but she jumped up again and

hurried on. The second time she stumbled, her outthrust left hand landed

on a round, smooth stone the size of an orange. When she went on she

carried the stone with her; as a weapon it gave her a glimmer of

comfort.

Her wounded arm was beginning to hurt, and she was driven by worry for

Duraid. She knew he was badly wounded, for she had seen the direction

and force of the knife thrust. She had to find help for him. Behind her

the two men with torches were sweeping the grove and she could not keep

her lead ahead of them. They were gaining on her - she could hear them

calling to each other.

She reached the road at last, and with a small whimper of relief climbed

out of the drainage ditch on to the pale gravel surface. Her legs were

shaking under her so that they could hardly carry her weight, but she

turned in the direction of the village.

She had not reached the first bend before she saw a set of headlights

coming slowly towards her, flickering through the palm trees. She broke

into a run down the centre of the road.

"Help me!" she screamed in Arabic. "Please help me!'

The car came through the bend and before the headlights dazzled her she

saw that it was a small, darkcoloured Fiat. She stood in the centre of

the road waving her arms to halt the driver, lit by the headlights as

though she were on a theatre stage. The Fiat stopped in front of her,

and she ran round to the driver's door and tugged at the handle.

"Please, you must help me."

The door was opened from within, and then was thrown back with such

force that she staggered off-balance.

The driver leapt out into the roadway and caught her by the wrist of the

injured arm. He dragged her to the Fiat and pulled open the back door.

"Yusuf! Bacheed' he shouted into the dark grove. "I have her." And she

heard the answering cries and saw the torches turn in their direction.

The driver was forcing her head down and trying to push her into the

back seat, but she realized then that she still had the stone in her

good hand. She turned slightly and braced herself, and then swung her

fist with the stone still clenched in it against the side of his head.

It caught him squarely on the temple.

Without another sound he dropped to the gravel surface and lay

motionless.

Royan dropped the stone and pelted away down the road, but she found

that she was running straight down the path of the headlights, and they

lit her every movement.

The two men in the grove shouted again and came up on to the gravel

roadway behind her, almost shoulder to shoulder.

Glancing back, she saw them gaining on her swiftly, and she realized

that her only chance was to get off the road and back into the darkness.

She turned and plunged down the bank. Immediately she found herself

waist-deep in the waters of the lake.

In the darkness and the confusion she had become disorientated. She had

not realized that she had reached the point where the road skirted the

embankment at the water's edge. She knew that she did not have time to

climb back on to the road, and she knew also that there were thick

clumps of papyrus and reeds ahead of her, that might give her shelter.

She waded out until the bottom sloped away steeply under her feet, and

she found herself forced to swim. She broke into an awkward

breast-stroke, hampered by her skirts and her injured arm. However, her

slow and stealthy movements created almost no disturbance on the

surface, and before the men on the road had reached the point where she

had descended the bank, she reached a dense stand of reeds.

. She eased her way into the thick of them and let herself sink. Before

the water covered her nostrils she felt her toes touch the soft ooze of

the lake bottom. She stood there quietly, with just the top of her head

above the surface and her face turned away from the bank. She knew her

dark hair would not reflect the light of a probing torch.

Though the water covered her ears, she could make out the excited voices

of the men on the road. They had turned their torches down towards the

water and were shining them into the reeds, searching for her. For a

moment one of the beams played full on her head, and she drew a deep

breath ready to submerge, but the beam moved on and she realized that

they had not picked her out.

The fact that she had not been seen even in the direct torchlight

emboldened her to raise her head slightly until one ear was clear and

she could make out their voices.

They were speaking Arabic, and she recognized the voice of the one named

Bacheet. He appeared to be the leader, for he was giving the orders.

"Go in there, Yusuf, and bring the whore out."

She heard Yusuf slipping and sliding down the bank and the splash as he

hit the water.

"Further out," Bacheet ordered him. "In those reeds there, where I am

shining the torch."

"It is too deep. You know well I cannot swim. It will be over my head."

"There! Right in front of you. In those reeds. I can see her head."

Bacheet encouraged him, and Royan dreaded that they had spotted her. She

sank down as far as she could below the surface.

Yusuf splashed around heavily, moving towards where she cowered in the

reeds, when suddenly there was a thunderous commotion that startled even

Yusuf, so that he shouted aloud, "Djinns! God protect meV as the flock

of roosting duck exploded from the water and launched into the dark sky

on noisy wings.

Yusuf started back to the bank and not any of Bacheet's threats could

persuade him to continue the hunt.

"The woman is not as important as the scroll," he protested, as he

climbed back on to the roadway. "Without the scroll there will be no

money. We always know where to find her later."

Turning her head slightly, Royan saw the torches move back down the road

towards the parked Fiat whose headlights still burned. She heard the

doors of the car slam, and then the engine revved and pulled away

towards the villa.

She was too shaken and terrified to make any attempt to leave her

hiding-place. She feared that they had left one of their number on the

road to wait for her to show herself.

She stood on tiptoe with the water lapping her lips, shivering more with

shock than with cold, determined to wait for the safety of the sunrise

before she moved.

It was only much later when she saw the glow of the fire lighting the

sky, and the flames flickering through the trunks of the palm trees,

that she forgot her own safety and dragged herself back to the bank.

She knelt in the mud at the water's edge, shuddering and shaking and

gasping, weak with loss of blood and shock and the reaction from fear,

and peered at the flames through the veil of her wet hair -and the lake

water that streamed into her eyes.

"The villa! she whispered. "Duraid! Oh please God, no! No!

She pushed herself to her feet and began to stagger towards her burning

home.

acheet switched off both the headlights and the engine of the Fiat

before they reached the turning into the driveway of the villa and let

the car coast down and stop below the terrace.

All three of them left the Fiat and climbed the stone steps to the

flagged terrace. Duraid's body still lay where Bacheet had left it

beside the fishpond. They passed him without a glance and went into the

dark study.

Bacheet placed the cheap nylon tote bag he carried on the tabletop.

"We have wasted too much time already. We must work quickly now."

"It is Yusuf's fault," protested the driver of the Fiat. "He let the

woman escape."

"You had a chance on the road," Yusuf snarled at him, "and you did no

better."

"Enough!" Bacheet told them both. "If you want to get paid, then there

had better be no more mistakes."

With the torch beam Bacheet picked out the scroll that still lay on the

tabletop. "That is the one." He was certain, for he had been shown a

photograph of it so that there would be no mistake. "They want

everything - the maps and photographs. Also the books and papers,

everything on the table that they were using in their work.

Leave nothing."

Quickly they bundled everything into the tote bag and Bacheet zipped it

closed.

"Now the Doktari. Bring him in here."

The other two went out on to the terrace and stooped over the body. Each

of them seized an ankle and dragged Duraid back across the terrace and

into the study. The back of Duraid's head bounced loosely on the stone

step at the threshold and his blood painted a long wet skid mark across

the tiles that glistened in the torchlight.

"Get the lamp!" Bacheet ordered, and Yusuf went back to the terrace and

fetched the oil lamp from where Duraid had dropped it. The flame was

extinguished. Bacheet held the lamp to his ear and shook it.

"Full," he said with satisfaction, and unscrewed the filler cap. "All

right," he told the other two, take the bag out to the car."

As they hurried out Bacheet sprinkled paraffin from the lamp over

Duraid's shirt and trousers, and then he went to the shelves and

splashed the remainder of the fuel over the books and manuscripts that

crowded them.

He dropped the empty lamp and reached under the skirts of his dishdasha

for a box of matches. He struck one of them and held it to the wet run

of paraffin oil down the bookcase. It caught immediately, and flames

spread upwards and curled and blackened the edges of the manuscripts. He

turned away and went back to where Duraid lay. He struck another match

and dropped it on to his blood- and paraffindrenched shirt.

A mantle of blue flames danced over Duraid's chest.

The flames changed colour as they burned into the cotton material and

the flesh beneath it. They turned orange, and sooty smoke spiralled up

from their flickering crests.

Bacheet ran to the door, across the terrace and down the steps. As he

clambered into the rear seat of the Fiat, the driver gunned the engine

and pulled away down the driveway.

Durid drifted. He groaned. The first thing he was aware of as he

regained consciousness was the smell of his own flesh burning, and then

the agony struck him with full force. A violent tremor shook his whole

body and he opened his eyes and looked down at himself.

His clothing was blackening and smouldering, and the pain was as nothing

he had ever experienced in his entire life. He realized in a vague way

that the room was on fire all around him. Smoke and waves of heat washed

over him so that he could barely make out the shape of the doorway

through them.

The pain was so terrible that he wanted it to end. He wanted to die then

and not to have to endure it further.

Then he remembered Royan. He tried to say her name through his scorched

and blackened lips, but no sound came. Only the thought of her gave him

the strength to move. He rolled over once, and the heat attacked his

back that up until that moment had been shielded. He groaned aloud and

rolled again, just a little nearer to the doorway.

Each movement was a mighty effort and evoked fresh paroxysms of agony,

but when he rolled on to his back again he realized that a gale of fresh

air was being sucked through the open doorway to feed the flames. A

lungful Of the sweet desert air revived him and gave him just sufficient

strength to lunge down the step on to the cool stones of the terrace.

His clothes and his body were still on fire. He beat feebly at his chest

to try to extinguish the flames, but his hands were black burning claws.

Then he remembered the fishpond. The thought of plunging his tortured

body into that cold water spurred him he pain roused Duraid. It had to

be that intense to bring him back from that far place on the very edge

of life to which he had to one last effort, and he wriggled and wormed

his way across the flags like a snake with a crushed spine.

The pungent smoke from his still cremating flesh choked him and he

coughed weakly, but kept doggedly on.

He left slabs of his own grilled skin on the stone coping as he rolled

across it and flopped into the pond. There was a hiss of steam, and a

pale cloud of it obscured his vision so that for a moment he thought he

was blinded. The agony of cold water on his raw burned flesh was so

intense that he slid back over the edge of consciousness.

When he came back to reality through the dark clouds he raised his

dripping head and saw a figure staggering up the steps at the far end of

the terrace, coming from the garden.

For a moment he thought it was a phantom of his agony, but when the

light of the burning villa fell full upon her, he recognized Royan. Her

wet hair hung in tangled disarray over her face, and her clothing was

torn and running with lake water and stained with mud and green algae.

Her right arm was wrapped in muddy rags and her blood oozed through,

diluted pink by the dirty water.

She did not see him. She stopped in the centre of the terrace and stared

in horror into the burning room. Was Duraid in there? She started

forward, but the heat was like a solid wall and it stopped her dead. At

that moment the roof collapsed, sending a roaring column of sparks and

flames high into the night sky. She backed away from it, shielding her

face with a raised arm.

Duraid tried to call to her, but no sound issued from his smoke-scorched

throat. Royan turned away and started down the steps. He realized that

she must be going to call for help. Duraid made a supreme effort and a

crow-like croak came out between his black and blistered lips.

Royan spun round and stared at him, and then she screamed. His head was

not human. His hair was gone, frizzled away, and his skin hung in

tatters from his cheeks and chin. Patches of raw meat showed through the

black crusted mask. She backed away from him as though he were some

hideous monster.

"Royan," he croaked, and his voice was just recognizable. He lifted one

hand towards her in appeal, and she ran to the pond and seized the

outstretched hand.

"In the name of the Virgin, what have they done to you?" she sobbed, but

when she tried to pull him from the pond the skin of his hand came away

in hers in a single piece, like some horrible surgical rubber glove,

leaving the bleeding claw naked and raw.

Royan fell on her knees beside the coping and leaned over the pond to

take him in her arms. She knew that she did not have the strength to

lift him out without doing him further dreadful injury. All she could do

was hold him and try to comfort him. She realized that he was dying no

man could survive such fearsome injury.

"They will come soon to help us," she whispered to him in Arabic.

"Someone must see the flames. Be brave, my husband, help will come very

soon."

He was twitching and convulsing in her arms, tortured by his mortal

injuries and racked by the effort to speak.

"The scroll?" His voice was barely intelligible. Royan looked up at the

holocaust that enveloped their home, and she shook her head.

"It's gone," she said. "Burned or stolen."

"Don't give it up," he mumbled. "All our work-'

"It's gone," she repeated. "No one will believe us without-'

"No!" His voice was faint but fierce. "For me, my last---2 "Don't say

that," she pleaded. "You will be all right."

"Promise," he demanded. "Promise me!"

"We have no sponsor. I am alone. I cannot do it alone."

"Harper!" he said. Royan leaned closer so that her ear touched his

fire-ravaged lips. "Harper," he repeated. "Strong hard - clever man-'

and she understood then. Harper, Of course, was the fourth and last name

on the list of sponsors that he had drawn up. Although he was the last

on the list, somehow she had always known that Duraid's order of

preference was inverted. Nicholas Quenton Harper was his first choice.

He had spoken so often of this man with respect and warmth, and

sometimes even with awe.

"But what do I tell him? He does not know me. How will I convince him?

The seventh scroll is gone."

"Trust him," he whispered. "Good man. Trust him-' There was a terrible

appeal in his "Promise me!'

Then she remembered the notebook in their flat at Giza in the Cairo

suburbs, and the Taita material on the hard drive on her PC. Not

everything was gone. "Yes," she agreed, "I promise you, my husband, I

promise you."

Though those mutilated features could show no human expression there was

a faint echo of satisfaction in his voice as he whispered, "My flower!"

Then his head dropped forward, and he died in her arms.

The peasants from the village found Royan still kneeling beside the

pond, holding him, whispering to him. By that time the flames were

abating, and the faint light of dawn was stronger than their fading

glow.

The staff from the museum and the Antiquities were at the funeral the

church of the oasis. Even Atalan Abou Sin, the Minister of Culture and

Tourism and Duraid's superior, had come out from Cairo in his official

black air-conditioned Mercedes.

He stood behind Royan and, though he was a Moslem, joined in the

responses. Nahoot Guddabi stood beside his uncle. Nahoot's mother was

the minister's youngest sister, which, as Duraid had sarcastically

pointed out, fully made up for the nephew's lack of qualifications and

experience in archaeology anj for his ineptitude as an administrator.

The day was sweltering. Outside, the temperature stood at over thirty

degrees, and even in the dim cloisters of the Coptic church it was

oppressive. In the thick clouds of incense smoke and the drone of the

black-clad priest intoning the ancient order of service Royan felt

herself suffocating. The stitches in her right arm pulled and burned,

and every time she looked at the long black coffin that stood in front

of the ornate and gilded altar, the dreadful vision of Duraid's bald and

scorched head rose before her eyes and she swayed'in her seat and had to

catch herself before she fell.

At last it was over and she could escape into the open air and the

desert sunlight. Even then her duties were not at an end. As principal

mourner, her place was directly behind the coffin as they walked in

procession to the cemetery amongst the palm groves, where Duraid's

relatives awaited him in the family mausoleum.

Before he returned to Cairo, Atalan Abou Sin came to shake her hand and

offer her a few words of condolence.

"What a terrible business, Royan. I have personally spoken to the

Minister of the Interior. They will catch the animals responsible for

this outrage, believe me. Please take as long as you need before you

return to the museum," he told her.

"I will be in my office again on Monday," she replied, and he drew a

pocket diary from inside the jacket of his dark double-breasted suit. He

consulted it and made a note, before he looked up at her again.

"Then come to see me at the Ministry in the afternoon.

Four 'clock," he told her. He went to the waiting Mercedes, while Nahoot

Guddabi came forward to shake hands. Though his skin was sallow and

there were coffeecoloured stains beneath his dark eyes, he was tall and

elegant with thick wavy hair and very white teeth. His suit was

impeccably tailored and he smelt faintly of an expensive cologne. His

expression was grave and sad.

"He was a good man. I held Duraid in the highest esteem," he told Royan,

and she nodded without replying to this blatant untruth. There had been

little affection between Duraid and his deputy. He had never allowed

Nahoot to work on the Taita scrolls; in particular he had never given

him access to the seventh scroll, and this had been a point of bitter

antagonism between them.

"I hope you will be applying for the post of director, Royan," he told

her. "You are well qualified for the job."

"Thank you, Nahoot, you are very kind. I haven't had a chance to think

about the future yet, but won't you be applying?"

"Of course," he nodded. "But that doesn't mean that no one else should.

Perhaps you will take the job out from in front of my nose." His smile

was complacent. She was a woman in an Arab world, and he was the nephew

of the minister. Nahoot knew just how heavily the odds favoured him.

"Friendly rivals?"he asked.

Royan smiled sadly. "Friends, at least. I will need all of those I can

find in the future."

"You know you have many friends. Everyone in the department likes you,

Royan." That at least was true, she supposed. He went on smoothly, "May

I offer you a lift back to Cairo? I am certain my uncle will not

object."

"Thank you, Nahoot, but I have my own car here, and I must stay over at

the oasis tonight to see to some of Duraid's affairs."This was not true.

Royan planned to travel back to the flat in Giza that evening but, for

reasons that she was not very sure of herself, she did not want Nahoot

to know of her plans.

"Then we shall see you at the museum on Monday." Royan left the oasis as

soon as she was able to escape from the relations and family friends and

peasants, so many of whom had worked for Duraid's family most of their

lives.

She felt numbed and isolated, so that all their condolences and

exhortations were meaningless and Without comfort.

Even at this late hour the tarmac road back through the desert was busy,

with files of vehicles moving steadily in both directions, for tomorrow

was Friday and the sabbath. She slipped her injured right arm out of the

sling, and it did not hamper her driving too much. She was able to make

reasonably good time. Nevertheless, it was after five in the afternoon

when she made out the green line against the tawny desolation of the

desert that marked the start of the narrow strip of irrigated and

cultivated land along the Nile which was the great artery of Egypt.

As always the traffic became denser the nearer she came to the capital,

and it was almost fully dark by the time she reached the apartment block

in Giza that overlooked both the river and those great monuments of

stone which stood so tall and massive against the evening sky, and which

for her epitomized the heart and history of her land.

She left Duraid's old green Renault in the underground garage of the

building and rode up in the elevator to the top floor.

She let herself into the flat and then froze in the doorway. The sitting

room had been ransacked - even the rugs had been pulled up and the

paintings ripped from the walls. In a daze she picked her way through

the litter of broken furniture and smashed ornaments. She glanced into

the bedroom as she went down the passage, and saw that it had not

escaped. Her clothes and those of Duraid were strewn over the floor, and

the doors of the cupboards stood ajar. One of these was smashed off its

hinges. The bed was overturned, and the sheets and bolsters had been

flung about.

She could smell the reek of broken cosmetic and perfume bottles from the

bathroom, but she could not yet bring herself to go in there. She knew

what she would find.

Instead she continued down the passage to the large room that they had

used as a study and workshop.

In the chaos the first thing that she noticed and mourried was the

antique chess set that Duraid had given her as a wedding present. The

board of jet and ivory squares was broken in half and the pieces had

been thrown about the room with vindictive and unnecessary violence. She

stooped and picked up the white queen. Her head had been snapped off.

Holding the queen in her good hand she moved like a sleepwalker to her

desk below the window. Her PC was wrecked. They had shattered the screen

and hacked the mainframe with what must have been an axe. She could tell

at a glance that there was no information left on the hard drive; it was

beyond repair.

She glanced down at the drawer in which she kept her floppy disks. That

and all the other drawers had been pulled out and thrown on the floor.

They were empty, of course; along with the disks, all her notebooks and

photographs were missing. Her last connections with the seventh scroll

were lost. After three years of work, gone was� the proof that it had

ever existed.

She stumped down on the floor, feeling beaten and exhausted. Her arm

started to ache again, and she was alone and vulnerable as she had never

been in her life before. She had never thought that she would miss

Duraid so desperately. Her shoulders began to shake and she felt the

tears welling up from deep within her. She tried to hold them back, but

they scalded her eyelids and she let them flow. She sat amongst the

wreckage of her life and wept until there was nothing more left within

her, and then she curled up on the littered carpet and fell, into the

sleep of exhaustion and despair.

�the Monday morning she had managed to restore some order into her life.

The police had come to the flat and taken her statement, and she had

tidied up most of the disarray. She had even glued the head back on her

white queen. When she left the flat and climbed into the green Renault

her arm was feeling easier, and, if not cheerful, she was at least a

great deal more optimistic, and sure of what she had to do.

When she reached the museum she went first to Duraid's office and was

annoyed to find that Nahoot was there before her. He was supervising two

of the security guards as they cleared out all Duraid's personal

effects.

"You might have had the consideration to let me do that," she told him

coldly, and he gave her his most winning smile.

"I am sorry, Royan. I thought I would help." He was smoking one of his

fat Turkish cigarettes. She loathed the heavy, musky odour.

She crossed to Duraid's desk, and opened the top right hand drawer. "My

husband's day book was in here. It's gone now. Have you seen it?"

"No, there was nothing in that drawer."Nahoot looked at the two guards

for confirmation, and they shuffled their feet and shook their heads. It

did not really matter, she thought. The book had not contained much of

vital interest. Duraid had always relied on her to record and store all

data of importance, and most of it had been on her PC.

"Thank you, Nahoot," she dismissed him. "I will do whatever remains to

be done. I don't want to keep you from your work."

"Any help you need, Royan, please let me know." He bowed slightly as he

left her.

It did not take her long to finish in Duraid's office. She had the

guards take the boxes of his possessions down the corridor to her own

office and pile them against the wall.

She worked through the lunch-hour tidying up all her own affairs, and

when she had finished there was still an hour until her appointment with

Atalan Abou Sin.

If she was to make good her promise to Duraid, then she was going to be

absent for some time. Wanting to take leave of all her favoUrite

treasures, she went down into the public section of the huge building.

Monday was a busy day, and the exhibition halls of the museum were

thronged with groups of tourists. They flocked behind their guides,

sheep following the shepherd.

They crowded around the most famous of the displays.

They listened to the guides reciting their well-rehearsed spiels in all

the tongues of Babel.

Those rooms on the second floor that contained the treasures of

Tutankhamen were so crowded that she spent little time there. She

managed to reach the display cabinet that contained the great golden

death'mask of the child pharaoh. As always, the splendour and the

romance of it quickened her breathing and made her heart beat faster.

Yet as she stood before it, jostled by a pair of big-busted and sweaty

middle-aged female tourists, she pondered, as she had so often before,

that if an insignificant weakling king could have gone to his tomb with

such a miraculous creation covering his mummified features, in what

state must the great Ramessids have lain in their funeral temples.

Ramesses II, the greatest of them all, had reigned sixty-seven years and

had spent those decades accumulating his funerary treasure from all the

vast territories that he had conquered.

Royan went next to pay her respects to the old king.

After thirty centuries Ramesses II slept on with a rapt and serene

expression on his gaunt features. His skin had a light, marble-like

sheen to it. The sparse strands of his hair were blond and dyed with

henna. His hands, dyed with the same stuff, were long and thin and

elegant. However, he was clad only in a rag of linen. The grave robbers

had even unwrapped his mummy to reach the amulets and scarabs beneath

the linen bandages, so that his body was almost naked. When these

remains had been discovered in 1881 in the cache of royal mummies in the

cliff cave at Deir El Bahari, only a scrap of papyrus parchment attached

to his breast had proclaimed his lineage.

There was a moral in that, she supposed, but as she stood before these

pathetic remains she wondered again, as she and Duraid had done so often

before, whether Taita the scribe had told the truth, whether somewhere

in the far-off, savage mountains of Africa another great pharaoh slept

on undisturbed with all his treasures intact about him.

The very thought of it made her shiver with excitement, and goose

pimples prickled her skin and raised the fine dark hair at the nape of

her neck.

"I have given you my promise, my husband," she whispered in Arabic.

"This will be for you and your memory, for it was you who led the way."

She glanced at her "Wrist-watch as she went down the main staircase. She

had fifteen minutes before she must leave for her appointment with the

minister, and she knew, exactly how she would spend that time. What she

was going to visit was in one of the less-frequented side halls.

The tour guides very seldom led their charges this way, except as a

short-cut to see the statue of Amenhotep.

Royan stopped in front of the glass-fronted display case that reached

from floor to ceiling of the narrow room. It was packed with small

artefacts, tools and weapons, amulets and vessels and utensils, the

latest of them dating from the twentieth dynasty of the New Kingdom,

1100 BC, whilst the oldest survived from the dim ages of the Old Kingdom

almost five thousand years ago. The cataloguing of this accumulation was

only rudimentary. Many of the items were not described.

At the furthest end, on the bottom shelf, was a display of jewellery and

finger rings and seals. Beside each of the seals was a wax impression

made from it.

Royan went down on her knees to examine one of these artefacts more

closely. The tiny blue seal of lapis lazuli in the centre of the display

was beautifully carved.

Lapis was a rare and precious material for the ancients, as it had not

occurred naturally in the Egyptian Empire. The wax imprint cut from it

depicted a hawk with a broken wing, and the simple legend beneath it was

clear for Royan to read: "TAITA, THE SCRIBE OF THE GREAT QUEEN'.

She knew it was the same man, for he had used the maimed hawk as his

autograph in the scrolls. She wondered who had found this trifle and

where. Perhaps some peasant had plundered it from the lost tomb of the

old slave and scribe, but she would never know.

"Are you teasing me, Taita? Is it all some elaborate hoax? Are you

laughing at me even now from your tomb, wherever it may be?" She leaned

even closer, until her forehead touched the cool glass. "Are you my

friend, Taita, or are you my implacable adversary?" She stood up and

dusted off the front of her skirt. "We shall see. I will-play the game

with you, and we shall see who outwits whom," she promised.

The minister kept her waiting only a few minutes before his male

secretary ushered her into his presence. Atalan Abou Sin wore a dark,

shiny silk suit and sat at his desk, although Royan knew that he

preferred a more comfortable robe and a cushion on the rugs of the

floor. He noticed her glance and smiled deprecatingly. "I have a meeting

with some Americans this afternoon." .. She liked him. He had always

been kind to her, and she owed him her job at the museum. Most other men

in his position would have refused. Duraid's request for a female

assistant, especially his own wife.

He asked after her health and she showed him her bandaged arm. "The

stitches will come out in ten days."

They chatted for a while in a polite manner. Only Westerners would have

the gaucherie to come -directly to the main business to be discussed.

However, to save him embarrassment Royan took the first opportunity he

gave her to tell him, "I feel that I need some time to myself. I need to

recover from my loss and to decide what I am to do with the rest of my

life, now that I am a widow. I would be grateful if you would consider

my request for at least six months' unpaid leave of absence. I want to

go to stay with my mother in England."

Atalan showed real concern and urged her, "Please do not leave us for

too long. The work you have done has been invaluable. We need you to

help carry on from where Duraid left off." But he could not entirely

conceal his relief She knew that he had expected her to put before him

her application for the directorship. He must have discussed it with his

nephew. However, he was too kind a man to relish having to tell her that

she would not be selected for the job. Things in Egypt were changing,

women were emerging from their traditional roles, but not that much or

that swiftly. They both knew that the directorship must go to Nahoot

Ouddabi.

Atalan walked with her to the door of his office and shook her hand in

parting, and as she rode down in the lift she felt a sense of release

and freedom.

She had left the Renault standing in the sun in the Ministry car park.

When she opened the door the interior was hot enough to bake bread. She

opened all the windows and fanned the driver's door to force out the

heated air, but still the surface of the driver's seat burned the backs

of her thighs when she slid in behind the wheel.

As soon as she drove through the gates she was engulfed in the swarm of

Cairo traffic. She crawled along behind an overloaded bus that belched a

steady blue cloud of diesel fumes over the Renault. The traffic problem

was one that seemed to have no solution. There was so little parking

available that vehicles lined the verge of the road three and four

deep," choking the flow in the centre to a trickle.

As the bus in front of her braked and forced her to a halt, Royan smiled

as she recalled the old joke that some drivers who had parked at the

kerb had to abandon their cars there, for they were never able to

extricate them from the tangle. Perhaps there was a little truth in

this, for some of those vehicles she could see had not been moved for

weeks. Their windscreens were completely obscured with dust and many of

them had flat tyres.

She glanced in the rear-view mirror. There was a taxi stopped only

inches from her back bumper, and behind that the traffic was backed up

solidly. Only the motorcyclists had freedom of movement. As she watched

in the mirror, one of these came weaving through the congestion with

suicidal abandon. It was a battered red 200 cc Honda so covered with

dust that the colour was hardly recognizable. There was a passenger

perched on the pillion, and both he and the driver had covered the lower

half of their faces with the corners of their white headcloths as

protection against the exhaust fumes and dust.

Passing on the wrong side, the Honda skimmed through the narrow gap

between the taxi and the cars parked at the kerb with nothing to spare

on either side.

The taxi-driver made an obscene gesture with thumb and forefinger, and

called on Allah to witness that the driver was both mad and stupid.

The Honda slowed slightly as it drew level with Royan's Renault, and

the' pillion passenger leaned out and dropped something through the open

window on to the passenger seat beside her, Immediately the driver

accelerated so abruptly that for a moment the front wheel was lifted off

the ground. He put the motorcycle over into a tight turn and sped away

down the narrow alleyway that opened off the main thoroughfare, narrowly

avoiding hitting an old woman in his path.

As the pillion passenger looked back at her the wind blew the fold of ck

she recognized the man she had last seen in the headlights of the Fiat

on the road beside the oasis.

"Yusuf!" As the Honda disappeared she looked down at the object that he

had dropped on to the seat beside her.

It was egg-shaped and the segmented metallic surface was painted

military green. She had seen the same thing so often on old TV war

movies that she recognized it instantly as a fragmentation grenade, and

at the same moment she realized that the priming handle had flown off

and the weapon was set to explode within seconds.

Without thinking, she grabbed the door handle beside her and flung all

her weight against the door. It burst open and she tumbled out in the

road. Her foot slipped off the clutch and the Renault bounded forward

and crashed into the back of the stationary bus.

As Royan sprawled in the road under the wheels of the following taxi,

the grenade exploded. Through the open driver's door blew a sheet of

flame and smoke and debris. The back window burst outwards and sprayed

her with diamond chips of glass, and the detonation drove painfully into

her eardrums.

A stunned silence followed the shock of the explosion, broken only by

the tinkle of falling glass shards, and then immediately there was a

hubbub of groans and screams.

Royan sat up and clasped her injured arm to her chest. She had fallen

heavily upon it and the stitches were agony.

The Renault was wrecked, but she saw that her leather sling bag had been

blown out of the door and lay in the street close at hand. She pushed

herself unsteadily to her feet and hobbled over to pick it up. All

around her was confusion. A few of the passengers in the bus had been

injured, and a piece of shrapnel or wreckage had wounded a little girl

on the sidewalk. Her mother was screaming and mopping at the child's

bloody face with her scarf The girl struggled in her mother's grip,

wailing pitifully.

Nobody was taking any notice of Royan, but she knew the police would

arrive within minutes. They were geared up to respond swiftly to

fundamentalist terror attacks. She knew that if they found her here she

would be tied up in days of interrogation. She slung the bag over her

shoulder and walked as swiftly as her bruised leg would allow her to the

alleyway down which the Honda had disappeared.

At the end of the street was a public lavatory. She locked herself in

one of the cubicles and leaned against the door with her eyes closed,

trying to recover from the shock and to get her confused thoughts in

order.

In the horror and desolation of Duraid's murder she had not until now

considered her own safety. The realization of danger had been forced

upon her in the most savage manner. She remembered the words of one of

the assassins spoken in the darkness beside the oasis "We always know

where to find her later!'

The attempt on her life had failed only narrowly. She had to believe

that there would be another.

I can't go back to the flat," she realized. "The villa is gone, and

anyway they would look for me there."

Despite the unsavoury atmosphere she remained locked in the cubicle for

over an hour while she thought out her next movements. At last she left

the toilet and went to the row of stained and cracked washbasins. She

splashed her face under the tap. Then in the mirror she combed her hair,

touched up her make-up, and straightened and tidied her clothing as best

she was able.

She walked a few blocks, doubling back on her tracks and watching behind

her to make sure she -was not being followed, before she hailed a taxi

in the street.

She made the driver drop her in the street behind her bank, and walked

the rest of the way. It was only minutes before closing time when she

was " shown into the cubicle office of one of the sub-accountants. She

withdrew what money was in her account, which amounted to less than five

thousand Egyptian pounds. It was not a great sum, but she had a little

more in her Lloyds Bank account in York, and then she had her

Mastercard.

"You should have given us notice to withdraw an article from safe

deposit," the bank official told her severely.

She apologized meekly and played the helpless little-girllost so

convincingly that he relented. He handed over to her the package that

contained her British passport and her Lloyds banking papers.

Duraid had numerous relatives and friends who would have been pleased to

have her to stay with them, but she wanted to remain out of sight, away

from her usual haunts.

She chose one of the two-star tourist hotels away from the river where

she hoped she could remain anonymous amongst the multitudes of the tour

groups. At this type of hotel there was a high turnover of guests, for

most of them stayed only for a few nights before moving on up to Luxor

and Aswan to view the monuments.

As soon as she was alone in her single room she phoned British Airways

reservations. There was a flight to Heathrow the following morning at

ten 'clock. She booked a one-way economy seat and gave them the number

of her Mastercard.

It was after six 'clock by then, but the time difference between Egypt

and the UK meant that it would still be office hours there. She looked

up the number in her notebook. Leeds University was where she had

completed her studies. Her call was answered on the third ring.

"Archaeology Department. Professor Dixon's office," said a prim English

schoolmarm voice.

:Is that you, Miss Higgins?"

Yes, it is. To whom am I speaking?"

"It's Royan. Royan Al Simma, who used to be Royan Said :, Royan! We

haven't heard from you for an absolute age. How are your They chatted

for a short while, but Royan was aware of the cost of the call. "Is the

Prof in?" she cut it short.

Professor Percival Dixon was over seventy and should have retired years

ago. "Royan, is it really you? My favourite student." She smiled. Even

at his age he was still the randy old goat. All the pretty ones were his

favourite students.

"This is an international call, Prof. I just want to know if the offer

is still open."

"My goodness, I thought you said that you couldn't fit us in, whatr

"Change of circumstances. I'll tell you about it when I see you, if I

see you."

"Of course, we' love to have you come and talk to us.

When can you manage to get awayr

"I'll be in England tomorrow."

'my goodness, that's a bit sudden. Don't know if we can arrange it that

quickly."

"I will be staying with my mother near York. Put me back to Miss Higgins

and I will give her the telephone number." He was one of the most

brilliant men she knew, but she didn't trust him to write down a

telephone number correctly. "I'll call you in a few days' time."

She hung up and lay back on the bed. She was exhausted and her arm was

still hurting, but she tried to lay her plans to cover all

eventualities.

Two months ago Prof Dixon had invited her to lecture on the discovery

and excavation of the tomb of Queen Lostris,. and the discovery of the

scrolls. It was that book, of course, and more especially the footnote

at the end of it, that had alerted him. Its publication had caused a

great deal of interest. They had received enquiries from Egyptologists,

both amateur and professional, all around the world, some from as far

afield as Tokyo and Nairobi, all of them questioning the authenticity of

the novel and the factual basis behind it.

At the time she had opposed letting a writer of fiction have access to

the transcriptions, especially as they had not been completed. She felt

that the whole thing had reduced what should have been an important and

serious academic subject to the level of popular entertainment, rather

like what Spielberg had done to palaeontology with his park full of

dinosaurs.

In the end her voice had been over-ruled. Even Duraid had sided against

her. It had been the money, of course. The department was always short

of funds to conduct its less spectacular work. When it came to some

grandiose scheme like moving the entire Temple of Abu Simbel to a new

site above the flood waters of the Aswan High Dam, then the nations of

the world had poured in tens of millions of dollars. However, the

day-to'day operational expenses of the department attracted no such

support.

Their half share of the royalties from River God, for that was the

book's title, had financed almost a year of research and exploration,

but that was not enough to allay Royan's personal misgivings. The author

had taken too many liberties with the facts contained in the scrolls,

and had embroidered historical characters with personalities and foibles

for which there was not the least evidence. In particular she felt he

had portrayed Taita, the ancient scribe, as a braggart and a

vainglorious poseur. She resented that.

in fairness she was forced to concede that the author's brief had been

to make the facts as palatable and readable as possible to a wide lay

public, and she reluctantly agreed that he had succeeded in doing so.

However, all her scientific training revolted against such a

popularization of something so unique and wonderful.

But she sighed and put these thoughts out of her head.

The damage was done, and thinking about it only served to irritate her.

She turned her thoughts to more pressing problems. If she was to do the

lecture that the Prof had invited her to deliver, then she would need

her slides and these were still at her office in the museum. While she

was still working out the best way to get hold of them without fetching

them in Person, exhaustion overtook her and she fell asleep, still fully

clothed, on top of the bed.

�the end the solution to her problem was simplicity itself. She merely

phoned the administration office and arranged for them to collect the

box of slides from her office and send it out to the airport in a taxi

with one of the secretaries.

When the secretary handed them over to her at the British Airways

check'in desk, he told her, "The police were at the Museum when we

opened this morning. They wanted to speak to you, Doctor."

Obviously they had traced the registration of the wrecked Renault. She

was pleased that she had her British Passport. If she had tried to leave

the country with her Egyptian papers she might have run into delays: the

police would probably have placed a restriction order on all passport

control points. As it was, she passed through the checkpoint with no

difficulty and, once she was in.the final departure lounge, she went to

the news-stand and studied the array of newspapers.

All the local newspapers carried the story of the bombing of her car,

and most of them had resurrected the story of Duraid's murder and linked

the two events. One of them hinted at fundamentalist religious

involvement. El Arab had a front-page photograph of herself and Duraid,

which had been taken the previous month at a reception for a group of

visiting French tour operators.

It gave her a pang to see the photograph of her husband looking so

handsome and distinguished, with herself on his arm smiling up at him.

She purchased copies of all the papers and took them on board the

British Airways flight.

During the flight she passed the time by writing down in her notebook

everything she could remember from what Duraid had told her of the man

that she was going to find..

She headed the page: "Sir Nicholas Quenton-Harper (Bart)." Duraid had

told her that Nicholas's great-grand, father had been awarded the title

of baronet for his work as a career officer in the British colonial

service. For three generations the family had maintained the strongest

of ties with Africa, and especially with the British colonies and

spheres of influence in North Africa: Egypt and the Sudan, Uganda and

Kenya.

According to Duraid, Sir Nicholas himself had served in Africa and the

Gulf States with the British army. He was a fluent Arabic and Swahili

speaker and a noted amateur archaeologist and zoologist. Like his

father, grandfather and great-grandfather before him, he had made

numerous expeditions to North Africa to collect specimens and to explore

the more remote regions. He had written a number of articles for various

scientific journals and had even lectured at the Royal Geographical

Society.

When his elder brother died childless, Sir Nicholas had inherited the

title and the family estate at Quenton Park. He had resigned from the

army to run the estate, but more especially to supervise the family

museum that had been started in 1885 by his great-grandfather, the first

baronet. It housed one of the largest collections of African fauna in

private hands, and its ancient Egyptian and Middle Eastern collection of

artefacts was equally famous.

However, from Duraid's accounts she concluded that there must be a wild,

and even lawless, streak in Sir Nicholas's nature. It was obvious that

he was not afraid to take some extraordinary risks to add to the

collection at Quenton Park.

Duraid had first met him a number of years previously, when Sir Nicholas

had recruited him to act as an intelligence officer for an illicit

expedition to "liberate' a number of Punic bronze castings from

Gadaffi's Libya. Sir Nicholas had sold some of these to defray the

expenses of the expedition, but had kept the best of them for his

private collection.

More recently there had been another expedition, this time involving an

illegal crossing of the Iraqi border to bring out a pair of stone

has-relief friezes from under Saddam Hussein's nose. Duraid had told her

that Sir Nicholas had sold one of the pair for a huge amount of money;

he had mentioned the sum of five million US dollars. Duraid said that he

had used the money for the running of the museum, but that the second

frieze, the finest of the pair, was still in Sir Nicholas's possession.

Both these expeditions had taken place years before Royan had met

Duraid, and she wondered idly at Duraid's readiness to commit himself to

the Englishman in this way.

Sir Nicholas must have had unique powers of persuasion, for if they had

been apprehended in the act there was no doubt that it would have meant

summary execution for both of them.

As Duraid had explained to her, on each occasion it was only Nicholas's

resourcefulness and his network of friends and admirers across the

Middle East and North Africa, which he had been able to call on for

help, that had seen them through.

"He is a bit of a devil," Duraid had shaken his head with evident

nostalgia at the memory, "but the man to have with you when things are

tough. Those days were all very exciting, but when I look back on it now

I shudder at the risks we took."

She had often pondered on the risks that a true inthe-blood collector

was prepared to take to slake his passion. The risk seemed to be out of

proportion to the reward, when it came to adding to his accumulations;

and then she smiled at her own pious sentiments. The venture that she

hoped to lead Sir Nicholas into was not exactly without risk, and she

supposed that a circumlocution of lawyers might debate the legality of

it endlessly.

Still smiling, she fell asleep, for the strain of these last few days

had taken their toll. The air hostess woke her with an admonition to

fasten her seat-belt for the landing at Heathrow.

an phoned her mother from the airport.

ello, Mummy. It's me."

"Yes, I know that. Where are you, love?" Her mother sounded as

unflappable as ever. -'At Heathrow. I am coming up to stay with you for

a while. Is that all right?"

"Lumley's� and ," her mother chuckled. "I'll go and make your bed. What

train will you be coming up on?"

"I had a look at the timetable. There is one from King's Cross that will

get me into York at seven this evening."

"I'll meet you at the station. What happened? Did you and Duraid have a

tiff? Old enough to be your father. I said it wouldn't work."

Royan was silent for a moment. This was hardly the time for

explanations. "I'll tell you all about it when I see you this evening."

Georgina Lumley, her mother, was waiting on the platform in the gloom

and cold of the November evening, bulky and solid in her old green

Barbour coat with Magic, her cocker spaniel, sitting obediently at her

feet. The two of them made an inseparable pair, even when they were not

winning field trials cups. For Royan they painted a comforting and

familiar picture of the English side of her lineage.

Georgina kissed Royan's cheek in a perfunctory manner. "Never was one

for all that sentimental fiddle, faddle," she often said with

satisfaction, and she took one of Royan's bags and led the way to the

old mud-splattered Land Rover in the car park.

Magic sniffed Royan's hand and wagged his tail in recognition. Then in a

dignified and condescending manner he allowed her to pat his head, but

like his mistress he was no great sentimentalist either.

. They drove in silence for a while and Georgina lit a cigarette. "So

what happened to Duraid, then?"

For a minute Royan could not reply, and then the floodgates within her

burst and she let it all come pouring out. It was a twenty-minute drive

north of York to the little village of Brandsbury, and Royan talked all

the way.

Her mother made only small sounds of encouragement and comfort, and when

Royan wept as she related the details of Duraid's death and funeral,

Georgina reached across and patted her daughter's hand.

It was all over by the time they reached her mother's cottage in the

village. Royan had cried it out and was dryeyed and rational again as

they ate the dinner that her mother had prepared and left in the oven

for them. Royan could not remember when last she had tasted steak and

kidney pie.

"So what are you going to do now?" Georgina asked as she poured what

remained in the black bottle of Guinness into her own glass.

"To tell the truth, I don't know." As she said it, Royan wondered

ruefully why so many people used that particular phrase to introduce a

lie. "I have six months' leave from the museum, and Prof Dixon has

arranged for me to give a lecture at the university. That is as far as

it goes for the moment."

"Well," said Georgina as she stood up, "there is a hotwater bottle in

your bed and your room is there for as long as you wish to stay." From

her that was as good as a passionate declaration of maternal love.

Over the next few days Royan arranged her slides and notes for the

lectures, and each afternoon she accompanied Georgina and Magic on their

long walks over the surrounding countryside.

"Do you know Quenton Park?" she asked her mother during one of these

rambles.

"Rather," Georgina replied enthusiastically. "Magic and I pick up there

four or five times a season. First-class shoot. Some of the best

pheasant and woodcock in Yorkshire. One drive there called the High

Larches which is notorious. Birds so high they baffle the best shots in

England."

"Do you know the owner, Sir Nicholas Quenton Harper?" Royan asked.

"Seen him at the shoots. Don't know him. Good shot, though," Georgina

replied. "Knew his papa in the old days before I married your father."

She smiled in a suggestive way that startled Royan. "Good dancer. We

danced a few jigs together, not only on the dance floor."

"Mummy, you are outrageous!'Royan laughed.

"Used to be," Georgina agreed readily. "Don't get many opportunities

these days."

"When are you and Magic going to Quenton Park again?"

"Two weeks' time."

"May I come with you?"

"Of course - the keeper is always looking for beaters.

Twenty quid and lunch with a bottle of beer for the day." She stopped

and looked at her daughter quizzically. "What is all this about, then?"

"I hear there is a private museum on the estate. They have a

world-renowned Egyptian collection. I wanted to get a look at it."

"Not open to the public any more. Invitation only. Sir Nicholas is an

odd chap, secretive and all that."

"Couldn't you get an invitation for me?" Royan asked, but Georgina shook

her head.

"Why don't you ask Prof Dixon? He is often one of the guns at Quenton

Park. Great chum of Quenton-Harper."

It was ten days before Prof Dixon was ready for her. She borrowed her

mother's Land Rover and drove to Leeds. The Prof folded her in a bear

hug and then took her through to his office for tea.

It was nostalgic of her days as a student to be back in the cluttered

room filled with books and papers and ancient artefacts. Royan told him

about Duraid's murder, and Dixon was shocked and distressed, but she

quickly changed the subject to the slides that she had prepared for the

lecture. He was fascinated by'everything she had to show him.

It was almost time for her to leave before she had an opportunity to

broach the subject of the Quenton Park museum, but he responded

immediately.

"I am amazed that you never visited it while you were a student here.

It's a very impressive collection. The family has been at it for over a

hundred years. As a matter of fact, I am shooting on the estate next

Thursday. I'll have a word with Nicholas. However, the poor chap isn't

up to much at the moment. Last year he suffered a terrible "personal

tragedy. Lost his wife and two little girls in a motor accident on the

MU He shook his head. "Awful business. Nicholas was driving. I think he

blames himself' He walked her out to the Land Rover.

"So we will see you on the twenty-third," he told Royan as they parted.

"I expect that you will have an audience of at least a hundred, and I

have even had a reporter from the Yorkshire Post on to me. They have

heard about your lectures and they want to do an interview with you.

jolly good publicity for the department. You'll do it, of course. Could

you come a couple of hours early to speak to them?"

"Actually I will probably see you before the twenty-third," she told

him. "Mummy and her dog are picking up at Quenton Park on Thursday, and

she has got me a job as a beater for the day."

"I'll keep an eye open for you," he promised, and waved to her as she

pulled away in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

The wind was searing cold out of the north.

The clouds tumbled over each other, heavy 6- and blue and grey, so close

to earth that they brushed the crests of the hills as they hurried ahead

of the gale.

Royan wore three layers of clothing under the old green Barbour jacket

that Georgina had lent her, but still she shivered as they came up over

the brow of the hills in the line of beaters. Her blood had thinned in

the heat of the Nile valley. Two pairs of fisherman's socks were not

enough to save her toes from turning numb.

For this drive, the last of the day, the head keeper had moved Georgina

from her usual position behind the line of guns, where she and Magic

were expected to pick up the crippled birds that came through to them,

into the line of beaters.

Keeping the best for last, they were beating the High Larches. The

keeper needed every man and woman he could get into the line to bring in

the pheasant from the huge piece of ground on top of the hills and to

push them off the brow, out over the valley where the guns waited at

their pegs far below.

It seemed to Royan a supreme piece of illogical behaviour to rear and

nurture the pheasants from chicks I and then, when they were mature, go

to such lengths to make them as difficult to shoot as the keeper could

devise.

However, Georgina had explained to her that the higher and harder to hit

the birds passed over the guns, the more pleased the Sportsmen were, and

the more they were willing to pay for the privilege of firing at them.

"You cannot believe what they will pay for a day's shooting,, Georgina

had told her. "Today will bring in almost 14,000 to the estate. They

will shoot twenty days this season. Work that out and you will see that

the shoot is a major part of the estate's income. Quite apart from the

fun of working the dogs and beating, it gives a lot of us local people a

very useful bit of extra money."

At this stage of the day, Royan was not too certain just how much fun

there was to he had from the job of beating. The walking was difficult

in the thick brambles, and Royan had slipped more than once. There was

mud on her knees and elbows. The ditch ahead of her was half filled with

water and there was a thin skin of ice across the surface. She

approached it gingerly, using her walking-stick to balance herself. She

was tired, for there had already been five drives, all as onerous as

this one. She glanced across at her mother and marvelled at how she

seemed to be enjoying this torture. Georgina strode along happily,

controlling Magic with her whistle and hand signals.

She grinned at Royan now, "Last lap, over." love.� early Royan was

humiliated that her distress had-been so obvious, and she used her stick

to help her vault the muddy ditch. However, she miscalculated the width

and fell short of the far bank. She landed knee-deep in the frozen water

and it poured in over the top of her Wellington boots.

Georgina laughed at her and offered her the end of her Own stick to pull

her out of the glutinous mud. Royan could not hold up the line by

stopping to empty her flooded boots, so she went on, squelching loudly

with each pace.

"Steady on the left! the order from the head keeper was relayed over the

walkie-talkie radio, and the line halted obediently.

The art and skill of the keeper was to flush the birds from the tangled

undergrowth, not in one massed covey, but in a steady trickle that would

pass over the waiting guns in singles and pairs, giving them the chance,

after they had fired two barrels, to take their second gun from the

loader and be ready for the next bird to appear in the sky high above

them. The size of the keeper's tip and his reputation depended on the

way he "showed' the birds to the waiting guns.

During this respite Royan was able to regain her breath, and to look

around her. Through a break in the branches that gave the drive its

name, she could see down into the valley.

There was an open meadow at the foot of the hills, the expanse of smooth

green grass broken up by patches of dirty grey snow from the previous

week's fall. Down this meadow the keeper had set a line of numbered

pegs. At the beginning of the day's sport the guns had drawn lots to

decide the peg number from which each of them would shoot.

Now each man stood "at his allotted peg, with his loader holding his

second gun ready behind him, ready to pass it over when the first gun

was empty. They were all looking up expectantly to the high ground from

which the pheasant would appear.

"Which is Sir Nicholas?" Royan called to her mother, and Georgina

pointed to the far end of the line of guns.

"The tall one," she said, and at that moment the keeper's voice on the

radio ordered, "Gently on the left.

Start tapping again." Obediently the beaters tapped their sticks. There

was no shouting or hallooing in this delicate and strictly controlled

operation.

"Forward slowly. Halt to the flush of birds."

A step at a time the line moved ahead, and in the brambles and bracken

in front of her Royan could hear the stealthy scuffle of a number of

pheasants moving forward, reluctant to take to the air until they were

forced to do so.

There was another ditch in their path, this one choked with an almost

impenetrable, thicket of brambles. Some of the larger dogs, like the

Labradors, balked at entering such a thorny barrier. Georgina whistled

sharply and Magic's ears went up. He was soaked and his coat was a

matted mess of mud and buffs and thorns. His pink tongue lolled from the

corner of his grinning mouth and the sodden stump of his tail was

wagging merrily. At that moment he was the happiest dog in England. He

was doing the work that he had been bred for.

"Come on, Magic," Georgina ordered. "Get in there.

Get them out."

Magic dived into the thickest and thorniest patch, and disappeared

completely from view. There was a minute of snuffling and rooting around

in the depths of the ditch, and then a fierce cackle and flurry of

wings.

A pair of birds exploded out of the bushes. The hen led the way. She was

a drab, nondescript creature the size� of a domestic fowl, but the cock

bird that followed her closely was magnificent. His head was capped with

iridescent green and his cheeks and wattles were scarlet. His tail,

barred in cinnamon and black, was almost as long again as his body and

the rest of his plumage was a riot of gorgeous colour.

As he climbed he sparkled against the lowering grey sky like a priceless

jewel thrown from an emperor's hand.

Royan gasped with the beauty of the sight.

"Just look at them go!'Georgina's voice was thick with excitement. "What

a pair of crackerjacks. The best pair today. My bet is that not one of

the guns will touch a feather on either of them."

Up, and then on up, the two birds climbed, the hen drawing the cock

after her, until suddenly the wind boiling over the hills like

overheated milk caught them both and flung them away, out over the

valley.

The line of beaters enjoyed the moment. They had worked hard for it.

Their voices were tiny and faint on the wind as they urged the birds on.

They loved to see a pheasant so high and fast that it could beat the

guns.

"Forward!" they exulted. "over! and this time the line came

involuntarily to a halt as they followed the flight of the pair that

were twisting away on the wind.

In the valley bottom the faces of the guns were turned upwards, pale

specks against the green background. Their trepidation was almost

palpable as they watched the pheasant reach their maximum speed, so that

they could no longer beat their wings, but locked them into a back-swept

profile as they began to drop down into the valley.

This was the most difficult shot that any gun would face. A high pair of

pheasant with a half gale quartering from behind, dropping into the shot

at their terminal rate of flight, set to pass over the line at the

extreme effective range of a twelve-bore shotgun. For the men below it

was a calculation of speed "and lead in all three dimensions of space.

The best of shots might hope to take one of them, but who would dare to

think of both?

"A pound on it!" Georgina called. "A pound that they both get through."

But none of the beaters who heard her accepted the wager.

The wind was pushing the birds gently sideways. They started off aimed

at the centre of the line, but they were drifting towards the far end.

As the angle changed, Royan could see the men at the pegs below her

brace themselves in turn as the birds appeared to be heading straight

for them, and then relax as the wind moved them on. Their relief was

evident as, one after the other, each of them was absolved from the

challenge of having to make such an impossible shot with all eyes

fastened upon him.

In the end only the tall figure at the extreme end of the line stood in

their flight path.

"Your bird, sir," one of the other guns called mockingly, and Royan

found that instinctively she was holding her breath with anticipation.

Nicholas Quenton-Harper seemed unaware of the approach of the pair of

pheasant. He stood completely relaxed, his tall frame slouching

slightly, his shotgun tucked under his right arm with the muzzles

pointing at the ground.

At the moment that the leading hen bird reached a point in the sky sixty

degrees� ut ahead of him he moved for the first time. With casual grace

he swung the shotgun up in a sweeping arc. At the instant that the butt

touched I I his cheek and shoulder he fired, but the gun never stopped

moving and went on to describe the rest of the arc.

The distance delayed the sound of the shot reaching I Royan. She saw the

barrels kick with the recoil, and a pale spurt of blue smoke from the

muzzle. Then Nicholas lowered the gun as the hen suddenly threw back her

head and closed her wings. There was no burst of feathers from her body,

for she had been hit cleanly in the head and killed instantly. As she

began the long plummet to earth Royan heard the thud of the shot.

By then the cock was high over Nicholas's head. This time as he mounted

the gun in that casual sweeping gesture he arched his back to point

upwards, his long frame bending from the waist like a drawn bow. Once

again at the apex of the swing the weapon kicked in his grasp.

"He has missed!" Royan thought with a mixture of satisfaction and

disappointment, as the cock sailed on seemingly unscathed. Part of her

wanted the beautiful bird to escape, while part of her wanted the man to

succeed.

Gradually the profile of the high cock altered as the wings folded back

and it rolled over in flight. Royan had no way of knowing that his heart

had been struck through, until seconds later he died in mid-air and the

locked wings lost their rigid set.

As the cock tumbled to earth, a spontaneous chorus of� heers ran down

the line of beaters, faint but enthusiastic on the icy north wind. Even

the other guns added their voices with cries of, "Oh, good shot, sir!'

Royan did not join in the cheering, but for the moment her fatigue and

cold were forgotten. She could only vaguely appreciate the skill that

those two shots had called for, but she was impressed, even a little

awed. Her very first glimpse of the man had fulfilled all the

expectations that Duraid's stories about him had raised in her.

By the time the last drive ended it was almost dark.

An old army truck came mbling down the track through ru the forest along

which the tired beaters and their dogs waited. As it slowed they

scrambled up into the back.

Georgina gave Royan a boost from behind before she and Magic followed

her up. They settled thankfully on one of the long hard benches, and

Georgina lit a cigarette as she joined, in the chat and banter of the

under-keepers and beaters around her.

Royan sat silently at the end of the bench, enjoying the sense of

achievement at having come through such a strenuous day. She felt tired

and relaxed, and strangely contented. For one whole day she had not

thought either of the theft of the scroll or of Duraid's murder and the

unknown and unseen enemy who threatened her with aviolent death.

The truck ground down the hill and slowed as it reached the bottom,

pulling in to the verge to let a green Range Rover pass. As the two

vehicles drew level, Royan turned her head and looked down into the open

driver's window of the expensive estate car, and into the eyes of

Nicholas Quenton Harper at the wheel.

This was the first time she had been close enough to him to see his

features. She was surprised at how young he was. She had expected him to

be a man of Duraid's age.

She saw now that he was no older than forty, for there were only the

first strands of silver in the wings of his thick, rumpled hair. His

features were tanned and weatherbeaten, those of an outdoors man. His

eyes were green and penetrating under dark, beetling brows. His mouth

was wide and expressive, and he was smiling now at some witticism that

the driver of the truck called to him in a thick Yorkshire accent, but

there was a sense of sadness and tragedy in the eyes. Royan remembered

what the Prof had told her of his recent bereavement, and she felt her

heart go out to him. She was not alone in her loss and her mourning.

He looked directly into her eyes and she saw his expression change. She

was an attractive woman, and she could tell when a man recognized that.

She had made an impression on him, but she did not enjoy the fact. Her

sorrow for Duraid was still too raw and painful. She looked away and the

Range Rover drove on.

Her lecture at the university went off extremely well. Royan was a good

speaker and she knew her subject intimately. She held them fascinated

with her account of the opening of the tomb_of Queen Lostris and of the

subsequent discovery of the scrolls. Many of her audience had read the

book, and during question time they pestered her to know how much of it

was the truth. She had to tread very carefully here, so as not to deal

too harshly with the author.

Afterwards Prof Dixon took Royan and Georgina to dinner. He was

delighted with her success, and ordered the most expensive bottle of

claret on the wine list to celebrate.

He was only mildly disconcerted when she refused a glass of it.

"Oh, dear me, I forgot that you were a Moslem," he apologized.

"A Copt," she corrected him, "and it's not on religious grounds. I just

don't like the taste."

"Don't worry," Georgina counselled him, "I don't have the same odd

compulsion to masochism as my daughter.

She must get it from her father's side. I'll give you a hand to finish

the good stuff."

Under the benign influence of the claret the Prof became expansive, and

entertained them with the accounts of the archaeological digs he had

been on over the decades.

It was only over the coffee that he turned to Royan.

"Goodness me, I almost forgot to tell you. I have arranged for you to

visit the museum at Quenton Park any afternoon this week. just ring Mrs.

Street the day before, and she will be waiting to let you in. She is

Nicholas's PA."

Ryan remembered the way to Quenton Park� when Georgina had driven them

to the shoot, but now she was alone in the Land Rover. The massive main

gates to the estate were made of ornate cast iron. A little further on,

the road divided and a cluster of road signs pointed the way to the

various destinations: "Quenton Hall, Private', "Estate Office' and

"Museum'.

The road to the museum curved through the deer park where herds of

fallow deer grazed under the winter'bare oaks. Through the misty

landscape she had glimpses of the big house. According to the guidebook

that the Prof had given her, Sir Christopher Wren had designed the house

in 1693, and the master landscapist, Capability Brown, had created the

gardens sixty years later. The results were perfection.

The museum was set in a grove of copper beech trees half a mile beyond

the house. It was a sprawling building that had obviously been added to

more than once over the years. Mrs. Street was waiting for her at the

side door, and introduced herself as she let Royan in. She was middle

aged, grey-haired and self-assured. "I was at your lecture on Monday

evening. Fascinating! I have a guidebook for you, but you will find the

exhibits well catalogued and described.

I have spent almost twenty years at the job. There are no other visitors

today. You will have the place to yourself.

You must just wander around and please yourself. I shall not leave until

five this evening, so you have all afternoon.

If I can help you in any way my office is at the end of the passage.

Please don't hesitate."

From the first moment that Royan walked into the display of African

mammals she was enthralled. The primate room housed a complete

collection of every single species of ape and monkey from that

continent: from the great ilver-backed male gorilla to the delicate

colobus in his long flowing mantle of black and white fur, they were all

represented.

Although some of the exhibits were over a hundred years old, they were

beautifully preserved and presented, set in painted dioramas of their

natural habitat. It was obvious that the museum must employ a staff of

skilled artists and taxidermists. She could guess what this must have

cost. Wryly she decided that the five million'dollars from the sale of

the plundered treasure had been well spent.

She went through to the antelope room and stared around her in wonder at

the magnificent beasts preserved here. She stopped before a diorama of a

family group of the giant sable antelope of the now extinct Angolan

variety, Hippotragus niger variant. While she admired the jet black and

snowy-chested bull with his long, back-swept horns, she mourned his

death at the hand of one of the Quenton, Harper family. Then she checked

herself. Without the strange dedication and passion of the

hunter-collector who had killed him, future generations might never have

been able to look upon this regal presence.

She passed on into the next hall which was given over to displays of the

African elephant, and paused in the centre of the room before a pair of

ivory tusks so large that she could not believe they had ever been

carried by a living animal. They seemed more like the marble columns of

some Hellenic temple to Diana, the goddess of the chase.

She stooped to read the printed catalogue card:

Tusks of the African Elephant, Loxodonta africana.

Shot in the Lado Enclave in 1899 by Sir Jonathan Quenton-Harper. Left

tusk 289 lb. Right tusk 301 lb. Length of larger tusk 11' 4'. Girth 32".

The largest pair of tusks ever taken by a European hunter.

They stood twice as high as she was tall, and they were half as thick

again as her waist. As she passed on into the Egyptian room

she-marvelled at the size and strength of the creature that had carried

them.

She came up short as her eyes fell upon the figure in the centre of the

room. It was a fifteen-foot-high figure of Rarnesses 11, depicted as the

god Osiris in polished red granite. The god-emperor strode out on

muscular legs, wearing only sandals on his feet and a short kilt. In his

left hand he carried the remains of a warlbow, with both the upper and

lower limbs of the weapon broken off. This was the only damage that the

statue had suffered in all those thousands of years. The rest of it was

perfect - the plinth even bore the marks of the mason's chisel. In his

right fist Pharaoh carried a seal embossed with his royal cartouche.

Upon his majestic head he wore the tall double crown of the upper and

lower kingdoms. His expression was calm and enigmatic.

Royan recognized the statue instantly, for its twin i stood in the grand

hall of the Cairo museum. She passed it every day on her way to her

office.

She felt anger rising in her. This was one of the major treasures of her

very Egypt. It had been plundered and stolen from one of her country's

sacred sites. It did not belong here. It belonged on the banks of the

great river Nile. She felt herself shaking with the strength of her

emotion as she went forward to examine the statue more closely and to

read the hieroglyphic inscription on the base.

The royal cartouche stood out in the centre of the arrogant warning: "I

am the divine Ramesses, master of ten thousand chariots - Fear me, of ye

enemies of Egypt."

Royan had not read the translation aloud; it was a soft, deep voice

close behind her that spoke, startling her. She had not heard anyone

approaching. She spun round to find him standing close enough to touch.

His hands were thrust into the pockets of a shapeless blue cardigan.

There was a hole in one elbow. He wore faded denim jeans over well'worn

but monogrammed velvet carpet slippers - the type of genteel shabbiness

that certain Englishmen often cultivate, for it would never do to seem

too concerned with one's appearance.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you," He smiled eazy.

'le of apology, and his teeth were very white but slightly "t smi

crooked. Suddenly his expression changed as he recognized her.

"Oh, it's you." She should have been flattered that he remembered her

from so fleeting a contact, but there was that flash of something in his

eyes again that offended her.

Nevertheless, she could not refuse the hand he offered her.

"Nick Quenton-Harper," he introduced himself. "You must be Percival

Dixon's old student. I think I saw you at the shoot last Thursday.

Weren't you beating for us?"

His manner was friendly and forthright, so she felt her hackles

subsiding as she responded, "Yes. I am Royan Al Simma. I think you knew

my husband, Duraid Al Simma."

"Duraid! Of course, I know him. Grand old fellow. We spent a lot of time

in the desert together. One of the very best. How is he?"

"He's dead." She had not meant it to sound so bald and heartless, but

then there was no other reply she could think of.

"I am so terribly sorry. I didn't know. When and how did it happen?"

"Very recently, three weeks ago. He was murdered.

"Oh, my God." She saw the sympathy in his eyes, and she remembered that

he also had suffered. "I telephoned him in Cairo not more than four

months ago. He was his old charming self Have they found the person who

did it?"

She shook her head and looked around the hall to avoid having to -face

him and let him see that her eyes were wet. "You have an extraordinary

collection here."

He accepted the change of subject at once. Thanks mostly to my

grandfather. He was on the staff of Evelyn Baring - Over Bearing, as his

numerous enemies called him. He was the British man in . Cairo during-'

She cut him short. "Yes, I have heard of Evelyn Baring, the first Earl

of Cromer, British Consul-General of Egypt from 1883 to 1907. With his

plenipotentiary powers he was the unchallenged dictator of my country

for all that period. Numerous enemies, as you say."

Nicholas's eyes narrowed slightly. "Percival warned me you were one of

his best students. He didn't, however, warn me of your strong

nationalistic feelings. It is clear that you didn't need me to translate

the Ramesses inscription for you."

"My own father was on the staff of Gama! Abdel Nasser," she murmured.

Nasser was the man who had toppled the puppet King Farouk and finally

broken the British power in Egypt. As president he had nationalized the

Suez Canal in the face of British outrage.

"HaV he chuckled. "Different sides of the track. But things have

changed. I hope we don't have to be enemies?"

"Not at all," she agreed. "Duraid held you in the highest esteem."

"As I did him." He changed the subject again. "We ar very proud of our

collection of royal ushabd Examples from the tomb of every pharaoh from

the old Kingdom onwards, right up to the last of the Ptolemys. Please

let me show it to you." She followed him to the huge display case that

occupied one complete wall of the hall. It was lined with shelf after

shelf of the doll-like figures which had been placed in the tombs to act

as servants and slaves for the dead kings in the shadow world.

With his own key Nicholas opened the glazed doors of the case and

reached up to bring down the most interesting of the exhibits. "This is

the ushabd of Maya who served under three pharaohs, Tutankhamen, Ay and

Horemheb.

It is from the -tomb of Ay who died in 1343 Bc."

He handed the doll to her and she read aloud the three thousand-year-old

hieroglyphics as easily as though they had been the headlines of that

morning's newspaper.

"I am Maya, Treasurer of the two Kingdoms. I will answer for the divine

Pharaoh Ay. May he live for ever!" She spoke in Arabic to test him, and

his reply in the same language was fluent and colloquial, "It seems that

Percival Dixon told me the truth. You must have been an exceptional

student."

Engrossed now in their common interest, speaking alternately Arabic and

English, the initial sharp prickles.of antagonism between them were

dulled. They moved slowly round the hall, lingering before each display

case to handle and examine minutely each object that it contained.

It was as though they were transported back over the millennia. Hours

and days seemed of no consequence in the face of such antiquity, and so

it startled both of them when Mrs. Street returned to interrupt them, "I

am off now, Sir Nicholas. Can I leave it to you to lock up and set the

alarm? The security guards are on duty already."

"What time is it?"Nicholas answered his own question by glancing at the

stainless steel Rolex Submariner on his wrist. "Five-forty already, what

on earth happened to the day?" He sighed theatrically. "Off you go, Mrs.

Street. Sorry we kept you so long."

"Don't forget to set the alarm," she warned him, and then to Royan, "He

can be so absent-minded when he is off on one of his hobby-horses." Her

fondness towards her employer was obviously that of an indulgent aunt.

"You've given me enough orders for one day. Off you go," Nicholas

grinned, as he turned back to Royan. "Can't let you go without showing

you something that Duraid."was in on with me. Can you stay for a few

minutes longer?" She nodded and he reached out as if to take her arm,

and then dropped his hand. In the Arab world it is insulting to touch a

woman, even in such a casual manner. She was aware of the courtesy, and

she warmed to his good manners and easy style a little more.

He led her out of the exhibition halls through a door marked "Private.

Staff Only', and down a long corridor to the room at the end.

The inner sanctum." He ushered her in. "Excuse the mess'. I must really

get around to tidying up in here one of these years. My wife used to-'

He broke off abruptly, and he glanced at the silver-framed photograph of

a family group on his desk. Nicholas and a beautiful dark-haired woman

sat on a picnic rug under the spreading branches of an oak. There were

two little girls with them and the family resemblance to the mother was

strong in both of them. The youngest child sat on Nicholas's lap while

the elder girl stood behind them, holding the reins of her Shetland

pony. Royan glanced sideways at him and saw the devastating sorrow in

his eyes.

So as not to embarrass him she looked around the rest of the room, which

was obviously his study and workshop.

It was spacious and comfortable, a man's room, but it illustrated the

contradictions of his character - the bookish scholar set against the

man of action. Amongst the muddle of books and museum specimens lay

fishing reels and a Hardy split cane salmon rod. On a row of wall hooks

hung a Barbour jacket, a canvas shotgun slip and a leather cartridge bag

embossed with the initials ..-.

She recognized some of the framed pictures on the walls. They were

original nineteenth-century watercolours by the Scottish traveller David

Roberts, and others by Vivant Denon who had accompanied Napoleon's

L'armie de I'Orient to Egypt. They were fascinating views of the

monuments drawn before the excavations and restorations of more modern

times.

Nicholas went to the fireplace and threw a log on the fading coals. He

kicked it until it flared up brightly and then beckoned her to stand in

front of the floor-to-ceiling curtains that covered half of one wall.

With a conjuror's flourish he pulled the tasselled cord that opened the

curtains and exclaimed with satisfaction, "

"What do you make of that, then?"

She studied the magnificent has-relief frieze that was mounted on the

wall. The detail was beautiful and the rendition magnificent, but she

did not let her admiration show. Instead she gave her opinion in offhand

tones.

"Sixth King of the Amorite dynasty, Hammurabi, about 1780 Bc," she said,

pretending to study the finely chiselled features of the ancient monarch

before she went on, "Yes, probably from his palace site south-west of

the ziggurat at Ashur. There should have been a pair of these friezes.

They are worth in the region of five million US dollars each. My guess

is that they were stolen from the saintly ruler of modern Mesopotamia,

Saddam Hussein, by two unprincipled rogues. I hear that the other one of

the pair is at present in the collection of a certain Mr Peter Walsh in

Texas."

He stared at her in astonishment, and then burst out laughing. "Damn it!

I swore'Duraid to secrecy but he must have told you about our naughty

little escapade." It was the first time she had heard him laugh. It

seemed to come naturally to his lips and she -liked the sound of it,

hearty and unaffected.

"You are right about the present owner of the second frieze," he told

her, still laughing. "But the price was six million, not five."

"Duraid also told me about your visit to the Tibesti Massif in Chad and

southern Libya," she remarked, and he shook his head in mock contrition.

'it seems I have no secrets from you." He went to a tall armoire against

the opposite wall. It was a magnificent piece of marquetry furniture,

probably seventeenth-century French. He opened the double doors and

said, "This is what Duraid and I brought back from Libya, without the

consent of Colonel Muammar al Gadaffi."He took down one of the exquisite

little bronzes and handed it to her. It was the figure of a mother

nursing her infant, and it had a green patina of age.

"Hannibal, son of Hamilcar Barca," he said, "about 203 BC. These were

found by a band of Tuareg at one of his old camps on the Bagradas river

in North Africa.

Hannibal must have cached them there before his defeat by the Roman

general Scipio. There were over two hundred bronzes in the hoard, and I

still have fifty of the best of them."

"You sold the rest of them?" she asked, as she admired the statuette.

There was disapproval in her tone as she went on, "How could you bear to

part with something so beautiful?"

He sighed unhappily, "Had to, I am afraid. Very sad, but the expedition

to retrieve them cost me a fortune. Had to cover expenses by selling

some of the booty."

He went to his desk and brought out a bottle of Laphroaig malt whisky

from the bottom drawer. He placed the bottle on the desk top and set two

glasses beside it.

"Can I tempt you?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"Don't blame you. Even the Scots themselves admit that this brew should

only be drunk in sub-zeiro weather on The Hill, in a forty-knot gale,

after stalking and shooting a ten-point stag. May I offer you something

a little more ladylike?"

Do you have a Coke?" she suggested.

Yes, but that is really bad for you, even worse than Laphroaig. It's all

that sugar. Absolute poison."

She took the glass he brought to her and returned his toast with it.

"To life!" she agreed, and then she went on, "You are right. Duraid did

tell me about these." She replaced the Punic bronze in the armoire, then

came to face him at the desk. "It was also Duraid who sent me to see

you. It was his dying instruction to me."

"Aha! So none of this is coincidence then. It seems I am the unwitting

pawn in some deep and nefarious plot." He pointed to the chair facing

his desk. "Sit!" he ordered "Tell!'

He perched above her on the corner of the desk, with the whisky glass in

his right hand and with one long, denim-clad leg swinging lazily as the

tail of a resting leopard. Though he was smiling quizzically, he watched

her face with a penetrating green gaze. She thought that it would be

difficult to lie to this man.

She took a deep breath, "Have you heard of an ancient Egyptian queen

called Lostris, of the second intermediate period, coexistent with the

first Hyksos invasions?"

He laughed a little derisively and stood up, "Oh! Now we are talking

about the book River God, are we?" He went to the bookcase and brought

down a copy. Although well thumbed, it was still in its dust-jacket, and

the cover illustration was a dreamy surrealistic view in pastel shades

of green and rose purple of the pyramids seen over water.

He dropped it on the desk in front of her.

"Have you read it?" she asked.

"Yes," he nodded. "I read most of Wilbur Smith's stuff.

He amuses me. He has shot here at Quenton Park a couple of times."

"You like lots of sex and violence in your reading, obviously?" She

pulled a face. "What did you think of this particular book?"

"I must admit that he had me fooled. Whilst I was reading it, I sort of

wished that it might be based on fact.

That was why I phoned Duraid." Nicholas picked up the book again and

flipped to the end of it. "The author's note was convincing, but what I

couldn't get out of my mind was the last sentence." He read it aloud.

"'Sanwwhere in the Abyssinian mountains near the source of the Blue

Nile, the mummy of Tenus still lies in the unviolated tomb of Pharaoh

Mamose.

Almost angrily Nicholas threw the book down on the desk. "My God! You

will never know how much I wanted it to be true. You will never know how

much I wanted a shot at Pharaoh Mamose's tomb. I had to speak to Duraid.

When he assured me it was all a load of bunkum, I felt cheated. I had

built up my expectations so high that I was bitterly disappointed."

"It's not bunkum," she contradicted him, and then corrected herself

quickly, "well, at least not all of it."

"I see. Duraid was lying to me, was he?"

"Not lying," she defended him hotly. "Just delaying the truth a little.

He wasn't ready to tell you the whole story then. He didn't have the

answers to all the questions that he knew you would ask. He was going to

come to you when he was ready. Your name was at the top of the list of

potential sponsors that he had drawn up."

"Duraid did not have the answers, but I suppose you do?" He was smiling

sceptically.� was caught once. I am not likely to fall for the same cock

and bull a second time."

"The scrolls exist. Nine of them are still in the, vaults at the Cairo

museum. I was the one who discovered them in the tomb of Queen Lostris."

Royan opened her leather sling bag and rummaged around in it until she

brought out a thin sheaf of glossy 6� 4 colour photographs. She selected

one and passed it to him. That is a shot of the rear wall of the tomb.

You can just make out the alabaster jars in the niche. That was taken

before we removed them."

"Nice picture, but it could have been taken anywhere." She ignored the

remark and passed him another photograph. The ten scrolls in Duraid's

workroom at the museum. You recognize the two men standing behind the

bench?"

He nodded. "Duraid and Wilbur Smith." His sceptical expression had

turned to one of doubt and bemusement.

"What the hell are you trying to tell me?"

"What the hell I am trying to tell you is that, apart from a wide poetic

licence that the author took unto himself, all that he- wrote in the

book has at least some foundation in the truth. However, the scroll that

most concerns us is the seventh, the one that was stolen by the men who

murdered my husband."

Nicholas stood up and went to the fireplace. He threw on another log and

bashed it viciously with the poker, as if to give release to his

emotions. He spoke without "turning "What was the significance of that

particular scroll around, as opposed to the other nine?"

"It was the one that contained the account of Pharaoh Mamose's burial

and, we believe, directions that might enable us to find the site of the

tomb."

"You believe, but you aren't certain?" He swung around to face her with

the poker gripped like a weapon. In this mood he was frightening. His

mouth was set in a tight hard line and his eyes glittered.

"Large parts of the seventh scroll are written in some sort of code, a

series of cryptic verses. Duraid and I were in the process of

deciphering these when-' she broke off and drew a long breath, "when he

was murdered."

"You must have a copy of something so valuable?" He glared at her, so

that she felt intimidated. She shook her head.

"All the microfilm, all our notes, all of it was stolen along with the

original scroll. Then whoever killed Duraid went back to our flat in

Cairo and destroyed my PC on to which I had transposed all our

research."

He threw the poker into the coal scuttle with a clatter, and came back

to the desk. "So you have no evidence at all? Nothing to prove that any

of this is true?"

"Nothing," she agreed, "except what I have here." With a long slim

forefinger she tapped her forehead. "I have a good memory."

He frowned and ran his fingers through his thick curling hair. "And so

why did you come to me?"

"I have come to give you a shot at the tomb of Pharaoh Mamose, she told

him simply. "Do you want it?"

Suddenly his mood changed. He grinned like a naughty schoolboy. "At this

moment I cannot think of anything I want more."

Then you and I will have to draw up some sort of working agreement," she

told him, and she leaned forward in a businesslike manner. "First, let

me tell you what I want, and then you can do the same."

It was hard bargaining, and it was one in the morning when Royan

admitted her exhaustion. "I can't think straight any more. Can we start

again tomorrow morning?" They still had not reached an agreement.

"It's tomorrow morning already," he told her. "But you are right.

Thoughtless of me. You can sleep here. After all, we do have

twenty-seven bedrooms here."

"No, thanks." She stood up. "I'll go on home."

"The road will be icy," he warned her. Then he saw her determined

expression and held up his hands in capitulation. "All right, I won't

insist. What time tomorrow? I have a meeting with my lawyers at ten, but

we should be finished by noon. Why don't you and I have a working lunch

here? I was supposed to be shooting at Ganton in the afternoon, but I

will cancel that. That way I will have the afternoon and evening clear

for you."

Nicholas's meeting with the lawyers took place the next morning in the

library of Quenton Park. It was not an easy nor a pleasant session, but

then he never expected it to be. This had been the year in which his

world began to fall to pieces around his head. He gritted his teeth as

he remembered how the year had opened with that fatal moment of fatigue

and inattention at midnight on the icy motorway, and the blinding

headlights of the truck bearing down on them.

He had not recovered from that before the next brutal blow had fallen.

This was the financial report of the Lloyd's insurance syndicate on

which Nicholas, like his father and grandfather before him, was a

"Name'. For half a century the family had enjoyed a regular and

substantial income from their share of the syndicate profits. Of

course,'Nicholas had been aware that liability for his share of any

losses that the syndicate suffered was unlimited. The enormity of that

responsibility had weighed lightly; for there had never been serious

losses to account for, not for fifty years, not until this year.

With the California earthquake and environmental pollution claims

awarded against one of the multinational chemical companies, the

syndicate's losses had amounted to over twenty-six million pounds

sterling. Nicholas's share of that loss was two and a half million

pounds - some of which had been settled, but the rest was due for

payment in a little over eight months' time - together with whatever

nasty surprises next year might hold.

Almost immediately after that the Quenton Park estate's crop of sugar

beet, almost a thousand acres in total, had been hit by rhizomania, the

mad root disease. They had lost the lot.

"We will need to find at least two and a half million," said one of the

lawyers. "That should be no problem - the Hall is filled with valuable

items, and what about the museum? What could we reasonably expect from

the sale of some of the exhibits?"

Nicholas winced at the thought of selling the Ramesses statue, the

bronzes, the Hammurabi frieze or any item of his cherished collection at

the Hall or the museum. He acknowledged that their sale would cover his

debts, but he doubted that he could live without them. Almost anything

was preferable to parting with them.

"Hell, no," Nicholas cut in, and the lawyer looked across at him coldly.

"Well, let's see what else we've got," he continued remorselessly.

"There's the dairy herd."

"That will bring in a hundred thousand, if we are lucky," Nicholas

grunted. "Leaves only two point four million to find."

"And your racing stud," the accountant came into the conversation.

"I have only six horses in training. Another two hundred grand."

Nicholas smiled without humour, "Brings us down to two point two. We are

getting there slowly."

"The yacht," suggested the youngest lawyer.

"It's older than I am," Nicholas shook his head, "belonged to my father,

for heaven's sake. You probably wouldn't be able to give it away.

Sentimental is the only value it has. My shotguns would be worth more."

Both lawyers bent their heads over their lists, "Ah, yes!

We have those. A pair of Purdey sidelock ejectors in good condition.

Estimate forty thousand."

"I also have some secondhand socks and underpants," Nicholas admitted.

'%why don't you list those also?"

They ignored the jibe. "men there is the London house," the elder lawyer

went on unperturbed, inured to human suffering. "Good address. Value one

point five million."

"Not in this financial climate, Nicholas contradicted him. "A million is

more realistic." The lawyer made a note in the margin of his document

before going on, "Of course we want to avoid, if at all possible,

putting the entire estate up for sale."

It was a hard and difficult meeting which ended with nothing definitely

decided, and Nicholas feeling angry and frustrated.

He saw the lawyers off, and then went up to the family quarters to take

a quick shower and change his shirt. As an afterthought, and for no

good'reason, he shaved and splashed aftershave on his cheeks.

He drove across the park and left the Range Rover in the museum car

park. The snow had turned to sleet, and I his bare head was sprinkled

with cold droplets by the time he had crossed the car park.

Royan was waiting in Mrs. Street's office. The two of them seemed to be

getting along well together. He stopped outside the door to listen to

her laughter. It made him feel a little better.

The cook had sent across a hot lunch from the main house. She seemed to

believe that a substantial meal would keep this foul weather at bay.

There was a tureen of thick, rich minestrone and a Lancashire hotpot,

with a half bottle of red Burgundy for him and a jug of freshly squeezed

orange juice for her. They ate in front of the fire, while the rain

whipped against the windowpanes.

While they ate he asked her to give him the details of Duraid's murder.

She left out nothing, including her own injuries and drew back her

sleeve to show him the dressing over the knife wound. He listened

intently as she told him of the second attempt on her life in the

streets of Cairo.

"Any suspicions?" he asked, when she had finished.

"Anybody you can think of who might be responsible?" But she shook her

head.

"There was no warning of any kind, she said.

They finished the meal in silence, each of them thinking their own

thoughts. Over the coffee he suggested, "All right, then. -What about

our agreement?"

They argued back and forth for nearly an hour.

"It's difficult to agree on your share of the booty, until I know just

what your contribution is going to be,'Nicholas protested as he topped

up their coffee cups. "After all, I am going to be called on to finance

and conduct the expedition-'

"You will just have to trust that my contribution will be worthwhile,

otherwise there will simply be no booty, as you call it. Anyway you can

be certain I am not going to tell you one thing more until we have -an

agreement, and have shaken hands on it."

"A bit harsh?" he asked, and she gave him a wicked smile.

"If you don't like my terms, there are three other names on Duraid's

list of possible sponsors," she threatened.

"All right," he cut in with a contrived look of martyrdom, "I agree to

your proposal, But how do we calculate equal shares?"

"I shall choose the first item of any archaeological artefacts we are

able to retrieve, and you the next, and so on, turn about."

"How about I choose first?" He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Let's spin for it," she suggested, and he fished a pound coin from his

pocket.

"Call!" He flipped the coin, and while it was in the air she called,

"Heads."

"Damn!" he exclaimed, as he retrieved the coin and shoved it back into

his pocket. "So, you get first choice of the booty, if there ever is

any." He held out his hand across the lunch table. "It will be yours to

do exactly what you want to do with it. You can even donate it to the

Cairo museum, if that is still your particular aberration. Deal?" he

asked, and. she took his hand.

"Deal," she agreed, and then added, Partner."

"Now let's get down to it. No more secrets between us Tell me every

detail that you have been holding back."

"Bring that book," she pointed to the copy of River God, and while he

fetched it she pushed the dirty dishes aside. "The first thing we should

go over is the sections of the book that Duraid edited." She turned to

the last pages.

"Here. This is where Duraid's obfuscation begins."

"Good word,'Nicholas smiled, "but let's keep it simple.

You have obfuscated me enough already."

She did not even smile. "You know the story to this point. Queen Lostris

and her people are driven out of Egypt by the Hyksos and their superior

chariots. They journey south up the Nile until they reach the confluence

of the White and Blue Niles. In other words, present-day Khartoum. All

this is reasonably faithful to the scrolls."

"I recall. Go on."

"In the holds of their river galleys they are carrying the mummified

body of Queen Lostris's husband, Pharaoh Mamose the Eighth. Twelve years

previously she has sworn to him as he lay dying of a Hyksos arrow

through his lung that she would find a secure burial site for him, and

that she would lay him in it with all his vast treasure. When they reach

Khartoum she determines that the time has at last come for her to make

good her promise to him. She sends out her son, the fourteen-year-old

Prince Memnon, with a squadron of chariots to find the burial site.

Memnon is accompanied by his mentor, the narrator of the history, the

indefatigable Taita."

"Okay, I remember this section. Memnon and Taita consult the black

Shilluk slaves they have captured, and on their advice decide to follow

the left-hand fork of the rivet, or what we know as the Blue Nile."

Royan nodded and continued the story. "They travelled eastwards and were

confronted by formidable mountains, so high that they were described as

a blue rampart.

So far what you read in the book is a fairly faithful rendition of the

scrolls, but at this point," she tapped the open page, we come to

Duraid's red herring. In his description of the foothills-'

Before she could continue, Nicholas interjected, "I remember thinking

when I originally read it that it didn't accurately describe the area

where the Blue Nile emerges from the Ethiopian highlands. There are no

foothills. There is only the sheer western escarpment of the massif. The

river comes out of it like a snake out of its hole. Whoever wrote that

description doesn't know the course of the Blue Nile."

"Do you know the area?" Royan asked, and he laughed and nodded.

"Alhen I was younger and even more stupid than I am now, I conceived the

grandiose plan of boating the Abbay gorge from Lake Tana down to the dam

at Roseires in the Sudan. The Abbay is the Ethiopian name for the Blue

Nile., "Why did you want to do that?"

"Because it had never been done before. Major Cheesman, the British

consul, had a shot at it in 1932, and nearly drowned himself. I thought

I could make a film, and write a book about the voyage and earn myself a

fortune , from the royalties. I talked my father into financing the

expedition. It was the kind of mad escapade that appealed to him. He

even wanted to join the expedition. I studied the whole course of the

Abbay river, not only on maps. I also bought myself an old Cessna 180

and flew down the gorge, five hundred miles from Lake Tana to the dam.

As I said, I was twenty-one years old and crazy."

"What happened?" She was fascinated. Duraid had never told her about

this, but it was the type of adventure that she would have expected this

man to launch into.

"I recruited eight of my friends from Sandhurst, and we devoted our

Christmas holidays to the attempt. It was a fiasco. We lasted two days

on those wild waters. The gorge is the most hellish corner of this earth

that I know of It's almost twice as deep and as rugged as the Grand

Canyon of the Colorado river in Arizona. It smashed up our kayaks before

we had covered twenty miles out of the five hundred.

We had to abandon all our equipment and climb the walls of the gorge to

reach civilization again."

He looked serious for a moment, "I lost two members of our party. Bobby

Palmer was drowned, and Tim Marshall fell on the cliffs. We were not

even able to recover their bodies. They are still down there somewhere.

I had to tell their parents-' he broke off as he remembered the agony of

it.

"Has anybody ever succeeded in navigating the Blue Nile gorge?"-she

asked, to distract him.

"Yes. I went back a few years later. This time not as leader, but as a

very junior member of the official British Armed Forces Expedition. It

took the army, the navy and the air force to beat that river."

She stared at him with a feeling of awe. He had actually rafted the

Abbay. It was as though she had been led to him by some strange fate.

Duraid was right. There bably no man in the world better qualified for

the was pro work in hand.

"So you know as much as anybody about the real the gorge. I will try to

give you a general nature of indication of what Taita actually set down

in the seventh scroll. Unfortunately this section of the scroll had

suffered some damage and Duraid and I were obliged to extrapolate from

parts of the text. You will have to tell me how this agrees with your

own knowledge of the terrain."

"Go ahead, he invited her.

"Taita described the escarpment very much the -way you did, as a sheer

wall from which the river emerged.

They were forced to leave their chariots, which were unable to cover the

steep and rugged terrain of the canyon. They were forced to go forward

on foot, leading the pack horses.

Soon the gorge grew so steep and dangerous that they lost, which fell

from the wild goat tracks some of these animal they were following and

plunged into the river far below.

This did not deter them and they pressed on at the orders of Prince

Memnon."

"I can see it exactly as he describes it. It's a fearsome bit of

countryside."

"Taita then describes coming to a series of obstacles, which he

describes as "steps". Duraid and I could not decide with certainty what

these were. But our best guess was that they were waterfalls."

"No shortage of those in the Abbay gorge, either," Nicholas nodded.

"This is the important part of his testimony. Taita tells us that after

twenty days' travel up the gorge they came upon the "second step". It

was here that the prince received a fortuitous message from his dead

father, in the form of a dream, in which he chose this as the site of

his own tomb.

Taita tells us that they travelled no further. If we are able to

determine what it was that stopped them, that would give us an accurate

measurement of just how far into the gorge they penetrated."

"Before we can go any further we will need maps and satellite

photographs of the mountains, and I will have to go over my expedition

notes and diary," Nicholas decided "I try to keep my reference library

up-to-date, and so we should have satellite photographs and the most

recent maps on file here in the museum. If they are Mrs. Street is the

one to find them."

He stood up and stretched, "I will dig out my diaries this evening and

read over them. My great-grandfather also hunted and collected in

Ethiopia in the last century. I know he crossed the Blue Nile near Debra

Markos in 1890something. I'll get out his notes as well. They are

preserved in our archives. The old boy may have written something there

that could help us."

He walked with her to the old green Land Rover in the car park, and as

she started the engine he told her through the open window, "I still

think that you should stay over here at the Hall. It must be an

hour-and-a-half's drive across to Brandsbury - each way that's three

hours a day. We are going to have a lot of work to do before we can even

think of leaving for Africa."

"What would people think?" she asked, as she let out the clutch.

"I have never given a damn about people," he called after her. "What

time will I see you tomorrow?"

I have to stop off to see the doctor in York. He is going to take the

stitches out of my arm. I won't be here before eleven," she stuck her

head out of the window to yell back at him.

The wind tossed her dark hair around her face. His fancy had always run

towards dark-haired women. Rosalind had had that mysterious Eastern

look. He felt guilty and disloyal making the comparison, but the memory

of Royan was hard to shake off.

She was the first woman who had interested him since Rosalind had gone.

The admixture of her blood drew him.

She was exotic enough to pique his taste for. the oriental, but English

enough to speak his language and understand his sense of humour. She was

educated and knowledgeable about those things that interested him, and

he admired her spirit. Usually Eastern women were trained from birth to

be self-effacing and compliant. This one was different.

eorgina had phoned her doctor in York to make an appointment to have the

stitches removed from Royan's arm. They left after breakfast from the

cottage in Brandsbury. Georgina was driving and Magic sat between them

on the bench seat.

As they turned into the village street, Royan noticed a large MAN truck

parked down near the post office, but she thought no more about it.

Once they were out in the countryside they found there were patches of

heavy fog that in places reduced visibility to thirty yards, but

Georgina made no concessions to the weather, and sent the Land Rover

rattling and whining through it at the top of its speed, which Royan

reflected thankfully was on the right side of sixty miles an hour.

She glanced over her shoulder to check the road behind them, and saw

that the MAN truck was following them, Only the cab rose above the sea

of low mist that surrounded it like the conning tower of a submarine.

Even as she watched it, a bank of fog intervened and swallowed it up.

She turned back to listen to her mother.

"This government is a troop of incompetent nincompoops." Georgina

squinted her eyes against the smoke from the cigarette that dangled from

her lips. She drove singlehanded, stroking Magic's flowing silken ear

with her free hand, "I don't mind ministers boiling themselves into a

stupor, but when they start fiddling around with my pension I get really

mad." Her mother's pension from the foreign service was her sole source

of income, and it wasn't much.

"You don't truly want a Labour government, now tell the truth, Mummy,'

Royan teased her. Her mother had always been the arch Conservative.

Georgina wavered, and then avoided the choice, "All I say is, bring back

Maggie."

Royan turned slightly in her seat and glanced through the dirty rear

window again. The truck was still behind them, looming out of the fog

and the trail of blue exhaust smoke that Georgina was laying behind her

like the vapour trail of a jet aircraft. Up until now it had hung back,

but suddenly it accelerated up behind them.

"I think he wants to pass you," Royan told Georgina mildly.

The massive bonnet of the truck was only twenty feet from their rear

bumper. The radiator was emblazoned with the chrome logo "MAN' and stood

taller than the cab of the Land Rover, so that she could not see the

face of the driver from where she sat.

"Everybody wants to pass me," lamented Georgina.

"Story of my life." She held the centre of the narrow road doggedly.

Royan glanced back again, and saw that the truck was creeping still

closer. It filled the rear window completely.

The driver declutched and revved the gigantic engine menacingly.

"You' better give over. I think he means business."

"Let him wait,' Georgina grunted around her cigarette butt. "Patience is

a virtue. Anyway, can't let him through here. There is a narrow stone

bridge ahead of us. Know this stretch of road like the way to my own

bathroom."

At that moment the truck-driver sounded his klaxon so close that it was

deafening. Magic jumped up on the rear seat and barked in outrage.

"Stupid bastard," Georgina swore bitterly. "What does he think he is

playing at? Write down his number plate. I am going to report him to the

York police."

"His plates are covered with mud. Can't make it out, but it looks like a

continental registration. German, I think."

As if the driver had heard her protest he slowed slightly and fell back

until a gap of twenty yards opened between the two vehicles. Royan had

swivelled right round in the seat to watch him.

"That's better," Georgina said smugly. "Ruddy Hun learning some

manners." She peered ahead through the fog, "There is the bridge For the

first time Royan was able to see up into the driver's cab of the truck.

The driver wore a balactava helmet that covered all but his eyes and

nose with dark blue wool. It gave him a sinister and evil aspect.

"Look outV Royan screamed suddenly. "He is coming straight at us!" The

engine beat of the great truck rose to a bellow that engulfed them like

the sound of a gale-driven sea. For a moment Royan saw'nothing but

glittering steel and then the front of the truck smashed into them from

behind.

She was thrown half over the back of her seat by the impact. She dragged

herself up and saw that the truck had picked them up like a fox with a

bird in its jaws. It carried the Land Rover forward on the steel bull

bars that protected the shining chromed radiator.

Georgina wrestled with the wheel, trying to maintain control, but the

effort was futile. "Can't hold her. The bridge! Try and get clear-'

Royan hit the quick-release buckle on her safety-belt and reached for

the door handle. The stone walls of the bridge were racing towards them

at a terrifying pace. The Land Rover was slewing across the road,

completely out of control.

The door burst open in Royan's grip, but she could not push it all the

way before the Land Rover was flung into the solid stonework columns

that guarded the approaches PI to the bridge, The two women screamed in

unison as the vehicle crumpled, and the impact hurled them forward. The

windscreen shattered as they bounced off the stone columns, and the body

of the Land Rover flipped over as it went down the embankment and began

to roll.

Royan was catapulted through the open door and flung clear. The slope of

the bank broke her fall, but it knocked the wind out of her. She bounced

and rolled down the incline and then dropped into the icy waters of the

stream below the bridge.

Just before her head went under, she found herself looking up at the sky

and the bridge above her. She caught one last glimpse of the truck

before it roared away. It was towing two huge cargo trailers. The tall

bodywork of the trailers stood higher than the guard rail of the bridge.

Both of the trailers were covered by a heav green� nylon tarpaulin roped

down to the lugs on the body. She had only a subliminal glimpse of a

large red trademark and company name painted on the side of the nearest

trailer, but before she could register the name she was plunged below

the surface of the stream and the cold and the force of her fall drove

the air from her lungs.

She fought her way to the surface of the river, and found she had been

washed some way downstream.

Impeded by her sodden clothing, she floundered to the bank and used the

branch of a tree to haul herself out.

She knelt in the mud, coughing up the water she had swallowed and trying

to assess what injury she had suffered in the collision. Then her own

plight was forgotten as she heard the terrible sounds of her mother's

agony from the overturned wreck of the Land Rover.

In frantic haste she clawed herself to her feet and stumbled through the

wet and frosted grass to where the Land Rover lay on its back at the

foot of the embankment.

The bodywork was crumpled and torn, and the bright silver aluminium

metal shone through where the dark green paint had been stripped away.

The engine had stalled, and the front wheels were still spinning

aimlessly as she reached it.

"Mummy! Where are you?" she cried, and the terrible sounds never

checked. She used the metal body of the vehicle to steady herself as she

dragged herself towards the sound, dreading what she might find.

Georgina sat on the wet earth with her back against the side of the car.

Her legs were thrust out straight ahead of her. The left one was twisted

so that the toe of the booted foot was pointed down into the mud at an

unnatural angle. The leg was obviously broken at the knee or very close

to it.

This was not the cause of Georgina's distress. She held Magic in her

lap, and was bowed over him in an attitude of abandoned grief; the sound

of it bubbled up unchecked from deep inside her. The spaniel's chest had

been crushed between metal and earth. His tongue lolled from the corner

of his mouth in his last smile, but the blood dripped steadily from the

pink tip and Georgina was using her scarf to wipe it away.

Royan sank down beside her mother and placed one arm around her

shoulders. She had never before seen her mother weep. She hugged her

hard and tried by main strength to quell the sound of her sorrow, but it

went on and on. , She never knew how long they sat together like that.

But at last the sight of her mother's maimed leg, and an awakening fear

that the driver of the truck might return to finish the job, roused her.

She crawled up the bank and tottered into the centre of the road to stop

the next car that arrived on the scene.

Not until Royan was two hours late for their meeting did Nicholas become

sufficiently worried to phone the police in York. Fortunately he had

noticed the licence plate of the Land Rover.

It was an easy one for him to remember. The registration number was his

mother's initials combined with an unlucky 13.

There was a delay while the woman constable checked her computer, and

then she came back. "I am sorry to have to tell you, sir, that Land

Rover was involved in an accident this morning."

"What happened to the driver? Nicholas demanded brusquely.

"The driver and one passenger have been taken to the York Minster

Hospital."

"Are they all right?"

"I am sorry, sir. I don't have that information." It took Nicholas forty

minutes to reach the hospital and almost as long again to trace Royan.

She was in the women's surgical ward, sitting beside her mother's bed.

Her mother had not yet come round from the anaesthetic.

She looked up when Nicholas stood over her. "Are you all right? What the

hell happened?"

"My mother - her leg is badly smashed up. The surgeon had to put a pin

in her thigh - the femur.

"How are you?"

"A few bruises and scrapes. Nothing serious., "How did it happen?"

"A truck - it pushed us off the road."

"Not deliberate?" Nicholas felt something inside him quail as he

remembered another truck on another road on another night.

I think so. The driver wore a mask, a balaclava. He crashed into us from

behind. It must have been deliberate."

"Did you tell the police?"

She nodded. "Apparently the truck was reported stolen early this

morning, long before the accident, while the driver was stopped at one

of those Little Chef cafes. He is German. Speaks no English."

"That is the third time they have tried to kill you," Nicholas told her

grimly. "So I am taking over now."

He went out into the hospital waiting room and used the telephone there.

The chief constable of the county was a personal friend, as was the

hospital administrator.

By the time he returned, Georgina had come round from the anaesthetic.

Although still woozy she was comfortable as they wheeled her off to the

private ward that Nicholas, had arranged. The - orthopaedic surgeon

arrived a few minutes later.

"Hello, Nick, what are you doing here?" he greeted Nicholas. Royan was

surprised how many people knew him.

Then he turned his attention to Georgina. "How are you feeling? We have

got ourselves a nice little compound fracture. Looks like confetti in

there. We've managed to put it all together again, but you're going to

be with us for ten days at the very least."

"Right you are, young lady," Nicholas told Royan as they left Georgina

sleeping. "What more do you need to convince you? My housekeeper has

made up a room for you at the Hall. I am not letting you wander around

on your own any more. Otherwise, next time they try to cull you they may

have a little more luck."

She was still too shaken and upset to argue, and she climbed meekly into

the front seat of the Range Rover and let him drive her first to have

her stitches removed and then back to Quenton Park. As soon as they

arrived, he sent her up to her bedroom.

"The cook will send dinner up to you. Make sure you take the sleeping

pill that the doc gave you. Somebody will fetch your gear from 's

cottage to Mrs. Street. In the meantime my housekeeper has set out some

nightclothes and a toothbrush in your room for you. I don't want to hear

from you again before tomorrow morning."

It was good to have him take control of her life. For the first time

since that terrible night at the oasis she felt secure and safe. Still,

she made one last gesture of independence and self-reliance; she flushed

the Mogadon sleeping tablet down the toilet.

The nightdress that was laid on her pillow was full, length sheer silk

with finest Cambrai lace at the cuffs and It. . A robe. She had never

worn anything so luxurious and sensual against her skin before. She

realized that it must have belonged to his wife, and the knowledge

stirred mixed emotions in her. She climbed up into the four-poster bed,

but even that lonely expanse of over'soft mattress and her unfamiliar

surroundings did not keep her too long from sleep.

� the morning a young housemaid woke her with a� copy of The Times and a

pot of Earl Grey tea, then returned a few minutes later with her

holdall.

"Sir Nicholas would like you to take breakfast with him in the dining

room at eight-thirty., While she showered Royan inspected her naked body

in the full-length mirror that covered one wall of -the bathroom. Apart

from the knife wound on her -arm, which was still livid and only

partially healed, there was a dark bruise on her thigh and another down

her left flank and buttock, legacies of the car crash. Her shin was

scraped raw, and gingerly she pulled a pair of socks over the injury.

She limped a little as she went down the main staircase to find the

dining room.

"Please help yourself." Nicholas looked up from his newspaper to greet

her as she hesitated in the doorway. He waved at the display of

breakfast dishes on the sideboard.

As she spooned scrambled eggs on to her plate, she recognized the

landscape on the wall in front of her as a Constable.

"Did you sleep well?" He didn't wait for an answer, but went on, "I have

heard from the police. They found the MAN truck abandoned in a lay-by

near Harrogate. They are going over it now but they don't expect to find

much.

We seem to be dealing with someone who knows what he is doing."

"I must phone the hospital," she said.

"I have already done so. Your mother had an easy night. I left a message

that you would visit her this evening."

"This evening?" She looked around sharply. "Why so late?"

"I intend to keep you busy until then. I want to get my money's worth

out of you."

He stood as she came to the table, and drew back her chair to seat her.

She found the courtesy made her feel slightly uncomfortable, but she

made no comment.

"The first attack on you and Duraid at your villa in the oasis - we can

draw no conclusions from that" apart from the fact that the assassins

knew exactly what they were after, and where to look for it." She found

the abrupt change of subject disconcerting. "However, let's give some

thought to the second attempt in Cairo. The hand grenade.

Who knew you were going to the Ministry that afternoon, apart from the

minister himself?"

She reflected as she chewed and swallowed a mouthful of egg. "I am not

sure. I think I told Duraid's secretary, maybe one of the other research

assistants."

He frowned and shook his head. "So half the museum staff knew about your

appointment?"

"That is about it, yes. Sorry."

He pondered a moment, "All right. Who knew you were leaving Cairo? Who

knew you were staying at your mother's cottage?"

"One of the clerks from administration brought my slides out to the

airport."

"Did you tell him what flight you were leaving on?"

"No, definitely not."

"Did you tell anybody at all?"

"No. That is.-'she hesitated.

"Yes?"

"I told the minister himself during our interview, when I asked for

leave of absence. Not him surely not?" her expression. reflected her

horror at the thought.

Nicholas shrugged, "Some funny things happen. Of course, the minister

knew all about the work that you and Duraid were doing on the seventh

scroll?"

"Not all the details, but - yes - in general terms he knew what we were

up to.

"All right. Next question, tea or coffee?" He poured coffee into her

cup, and then went on, "You said that nso Duraid had a list of possible

sponsors for an expedition.

Might give us some ideas as to a short-list of suspects?"

"The Getty Museum," she said, and he' smiled.

"Cross one from the list. They don't go around tossing grenades in the

streets of Cairo. Who else was there on the list?, "Gotthold Ernst von

Schiller."

"Hamburg. Heavy industry. Metal and alloy refineries.

Base mineral production."Nicholas nodded. "Who was the third name on the

list?"

"Peter Walsh," she said. "The Texan."

"That's the one," he nodded. "Lives in Fort Worth.

Fast-food'franchising. Mail order retail." There were very few

collectors with the substance to compete with the major institutions

when it came to making significant of antiquities or to financing

archaeological acquisitions exploration. Nicholas knew them all, for it

was a mutually antagonistic circle of no more than a couple of dozen

men.

He had competed with each of them at one time or ano& on the auction

floors of Sotheby's and Christie's, not to mention other less salubrious

venues where "fresh' antiquities were sold. The adjective "fresh' was

used in the context of "fresh out of the ground'.

"Those are two beady-eyed bandits. They would probably eat their own

children if they felt peckish. What would they do if they thought you

stood in their way to the tomb of Mamose? Do you know if either of them

contacted Duraid after the book was published, the way I did?"

"I don't know. They may have."

"I cannot imagine that either of those beauties would have missed such

an easy trick. We must believe that they both know that Duraid had

something going on. We will put their names on our list of suspects."

Then he inspected her plate. "Enough? Another spoonful of egg? No? Very

well, let's go down to the museum and see what Mrs. Street has found for

us to work on."

When they walked into his study, she was impressed by the amount of

organization that he had accomplished in such a short time. He must have

been busy at it all last night, turning the room into a military-type

headquarters.

In the centre of the room stood a large easel and blackboard which were

pinned a set of overlapping satellite photographs. She went across to

study them, and then glanced at the other material pinned on the board.

Along with a large-scale map covering the same area of southwestern

Ethiopia as the satellite photographs there were lists of names and

addresses, lists of equipment and stores which he had obviously used on

previous African expeditions, sheets of calculations of distance and

what looked like a preliminary financial budget. At the top of the board

was a schedule headed "Ethiopia - General Information'. There were five

closely typed sheets, so she did not read through the entire schedule,

but she was impressed by his thoroughness in preparation.

Royan determined to study all this material at the earliest opportunity,

but now she crossed to one of the two chairs he had set up at a table

facing the board. He stood at the board and picked up a silver-topped

swagger stick from the table, brandishing it like a schoolmaster's

pointer.

"Class will come to order." He rapped on the board.

"The first thing you have to do is convince me that we will be able to

pick up the spoor of Taita again after it has had several thousand years

to cool. Let us first consider the geographical features of the Abbay

gorge."

Nicholas described the course of the river on the satellite photograph

with his pointer. "Along this section the river has cut its way through

the flood basalt plateaux.

In places the cliff of the sub-gorge are sheer, as high as four or five

hundred feet on each side. Where there are intrusive strata of harder

igneous schists the river has not been able to erode them. They form a

series of gigantic steps in the course of the river. I think you are

correct in your assumption that Taita's "steps" are actually waterp

falls."

He came to the table and picked out a photograph from amongst the

bundles of papers that covered it. "I took this in the gorge during the

Armed Forces Expedition in 1976. It will give you an idea of what some

of those falls are like."

He passed her a black and white riverscape of towering cliffs on either

hand and a cascade of water that seemed to fall from the heavens to

dwarf the tiny figures of half-naked men and boats in the foreground.

"I had no idea it was. like thad' She stared at it in awe.

"Doesn't do justice to the splendid desolation down he told her. "From a

photographer's there in the gorge, gra point of view there. is no place

to stand from which you can get it all into perspective. But at least

you can see how that waterfall would halt a party of Egyptians coming

upriver on foot, or at least with pack horses. There is usually some

sort of path alongside the cataracts made by elephant and other wild

game over the ages. However, there is simply no way to bypass waterfalls

such as this one, and to get around those cliffs."

She nodded, and he went on, "Even coming downstream we had to lower the

boats and all our equipment down each set of waterfalls on ropes. It

wasn't easy."

"Let us agree that it was a waterfall that stopped them going further -

the second waterfall from the westerly approaches," she conceded.

Nicholas picked up the swagger stick and on the satellite photograph

traced the course of the river up from the dark wedge shape of the

Roseires dam in central Sudan.

"The escarpment, rises on the Ethiopian side of the border, that is

where the gorge proper begins. No roads or towns in there, and only two

bridges far upstream. Nothing for five hundred miles except racing Nile

waters and savage black basalt rock." He paused to let that sink in.

"It is one of the last true wildernesses on earth, with an evil

reputation as the haunt of wild animals and even wilder men. I have

marked the main falls that show in the gut of the gorge here on the

satellite photo." With the pointer he picked them out, each circled

neatly in red marker pen.

"Here is waterfall number two, about a hundred and twenty miles upstream

from the Sudanese border. However, there are a number of factors we have

to consider, not least the fact that the river may have altered its

course during the last four thousand years since our friend, "Taita,

visited it."

"Surely it could not have escaped from such a deep canyon, four thousand

feet," she protested. "Even the Nile must be held captive by that?"

"Yes, but it would certainly have altered the existing bed. In the flood

season the volume and force of the river exceeds my ability to describe

it to you. The river rises twenty metres up the side walls and bores

through at speeds 3; of ten knots or more."

"You navigated that?" she asked doubtfully.

"Not in the flood season. Nothing could survive that.

They both stared at the photograph in silence for a minute, imagining

the terrors of that mighty stretch of water in its fury.

Then she reminded him, "The second waterfall?

"Here it is, where one of the tributary rivers enters the main flow of

the Abbay. The tributary is the Dandera river and it rises at twelve

thousand feet altitude, below the peak of Sancai Mountain in the Choke

range, here about a hundred miles north of the gorge."

"Do you remember the spot where it joins the Abbay from when you were

there?"

"It was over twenty years ago, and even then we had been almost a month

down there in the gorge, so it all seemed to merge into a single

nightmare. The memory bluffed with the monotonous surroundings of the

cliffs and the dense Jungle of the walls, and our senses were dulled by

the heat and the insects and the roar of water and the repetitive,

unremitting toil at the oars i But, strangely, I do remember the

confluence of the Dandera and the Abbay for two reasons."

"Yes?" She sat forward eagerly, but he shook his head.

"We lost a man there. The only casualty on the second expedition. Rope

parted and he fell a hundred feet. Landed on his back across a spur of

rock."

i am sorry. But what was the other reason you remember the spot."

"There is a Coptic Christian monastery there, built into the rock face

about four hundred feet above the surface of the river."

"Down the re in the depths of the gorge?" She sounded incredulous. "Why

would they build a monastery there?"

"Ethiopia is one of the oldest Christian countries on earth. It has over

nine thousand churches and monasteries, a great many of them in

similarly remote and almost inaccessible places in the mountains. This

one at the Dandera river is the reputed burial site of St. Frumentius,

the saint who introduced Christianity to Ethiopia from the Byzantine

Empire in Constantinople in the early third century. Legend has it that

he was shipwrecked on the Red Sea shore and taken to Aksum, where he

converted the Emperor Ezana."

"Did you visit the monastery?"

"Hell, no!" he laughed. "We were too busy just surviving, too eager to

escape from the hell of the gorge to have any time for sightseeing. We

descended the falls and kept on down river. All I remember of the

monastery are the excavations in the cliff face high above the pool of

the river, and the distant figures of the troglodytic monks in their

white robes lining the parapet of the caves to watch impassively as we

passed. Some of us waved up to them) and felt quite rebuffed when they

made no response."

"How would we ever reach that spot again, without a full-scale river

expedition?" she wondered aloud, staring disconsolately at the board.

"Discouraged already?" He grinned at her. "Wait until you meet some of

the mosquitoes that live down there.

They pick you up and fly with you to their lairs before they eat you."

"Be serious," she entreated him. "How would we ever get down there?"

"The monks are fed by the villagers who live up on the highlands above

the gorge. Apparently, there is a goat track down the wall. They told us

that it takes three days to get down that track into the gut of the

gorge from the rim."

"Could you find your way down?"

"No, but I have a few ideas on the subject. We will come to that later.

Firstly, we must decide what we expect to find down there after four

thousand years." He looked at her expectantly. "Your turn now. Convince

me." He handed her the silver-headed pointer, dropped into the chair

beside her and folded his arms.

"First you have to go back to the book." She exchanged the pointer for

the copy of River God. "You remember the character of Tanus from the

story?"

"Of course. He was the commander of the Egyptian armies under Queen

Lostris, with the title of Great Lion of Egypt. He led the exodus from

Egypt, when they were driven out by the Hyksos."

"He was also the Queen's secret lover and, if we are to believe Taita,

the father of Prince Memnon, her eldest son," she agreed.

Tanus was killed during a punitive expedition against an Ethiopian chief

named Arkoun in the high mountains, and his body was mummified and

brought back to the Queen by Taita,'Nicholas expanded the story.

Precisely." She nodded. This leads me on to the other clue that Duraid

and I winkled out."

"From the seventh scroll?" He unfolded his arms and sat forward in his

seat.

"No, not from the scrolls, but from the inscriptions in the tomb of

Queen Lostris." She reached into her bag and brought out another

photograph. This is an enlargement of a section of the murals from the

burial chamber, that part of the wall that later fell away and was lost

when the alabaster jars were revealed. Duraid and I believe that the

fact that Taita placed this inscription in the place of honour, over the

hiding-place of the scrolls, was significant." She passed the photograph

to him, and he picked up a magnifying glass from the table to study it.

While he puzzled over the hieroglyphics Royan went on, "You will recall

from the book how Taita loved riddles and word games, how he boasts so

often that he is the greatest of all boa players?"

Nicholas looked up from the magnifying glass, "I remember that. I go

along with the theory that bao was the forerunner of the game of chess.

I have a dozen or so boards in the museum collection, some from Egypt

and others from further south in Africa."

"Yes, I would also subscribe to that theory. Both games have many of the

same objects and rules, but bao is a more rudimentary form of the game.

It is played with coloured stones of different rank, instead of chess

men. Well, I believe that Taita was not able to resist the temptation to

display his riddling skills and his cleverness to posterity. I believe

that he was so conceited that he deliberately left clues to the location

of the Pharaoh's tomb, both in the scrolls and amongst the murals that

he tells us he painted with his own hands in the tomb of his beloved

Queen."

"You think that this is one of those clues?" Nicholas tapped the

photograph with the glass.

"Read it," she instructed him. "It's in classical hieroglyphics - not

too difficult compared to his cryptic codes."

"'The father of the prince who is not the father, the giver of the blue

that killed him,"' he translated haltingly, "'guards eternally hand in

hand with Hapi the stone testament of the pathway to the father of the

prince who is not the father, the giver of blood and ashes."'

Nicholas shook his head, "No, it doesn't make sense," he protested, you

must have made an error in the translation."

"Don't despair. You are making your first acquaintance with Taita, the

champion bao, player and consummate riddler. Duraid and I puzzled over

it for weeks," she reassured him. "To work it out, let's go back to the

book.

Tanus was not the father of Prince Memnon in name, but, as the Queen's

lover, was his biological father. On his deathbed, he gave Memnon the

blue sword that had inflicted his own mortal wound during the battle

with the native Ethiopian chief There is a full description of the

battle in the book."

"Yes, when I first read that section, I remember thinking that the blue

sword was probably one of the very earliest iron weapons, and in an age

of bronze would have been a marvel of the armourer's art. A gift fit for

a prince," Nicholas mused, and went on, "So "the father of the prince

who is not the father" is Tanus?" He sighed with resignation.

"For the moment I accept your interpretation."

"Thank you for your trust and confidence in me," she said sarcastically.

"But to proceed with Taita's riddle Pharaoh Mamose was Memnon's father

in name only, but not his blood father. Again the father who was not the

father. Mamose passed down to the prince the double crown of Egypt, the

red and white crowns of Upper and Lower Kingdoms - the blood and the

ashes.

"I am able to swallow that more easily. What about the rest of the

inscription?"Nicholas was clearly intrigued.

"The expression "hand in hand" is ambiguous in ancient Egyptian. It

could just as well mean very close to, or within sight of, something."

"Go on. At last you have me sitting up and taking notice,'Nicholas

encouraged her.

"Hapi is the hermaphroditic god or goddess of the Nile, depending on the

gender he or she adopts at any particular moment. Throughout the scrolls

Taita uses Hapi as an alternative name for the river."

"So if we put the seventh scroll and the "inscription from the Queen's

tomb together, what then is your full interpretation?" he insisted.

"Simply this: Tanus is buried within sight of, or very close to, the

river at the second waterfall. There is a stone monument or inscription

on, or in, his tomb that points the way to the tomb of Pharaoh."

He exhaled through his teeth. "I am exhausted from all this jumping to

conclusions. What other clues have you ferreted out for me?"

"That's it," she said, and he looked at her with disbelief.

"That's it? Nothing else?" he demanded, and she shook her head.

"Just suppose that you are correct so far. Let us suppose that the river

is recognizably the same in shape and configuration as it was nearly

four thousand years ago. Let us further suppose that Taita was indeed

pointing us towards the second waterfall at the Dandera river. just what

do we look for when we get there? If there is a rock inscription, will

it still be intact or will it be eroded away by weather and the action

of the river?"

"Howard Carter had an equally slender lead to the tomb of Tutankhamen,'

she pointed out mildly. "A single piece of papyrus, of dubious

authenticity."

"Howard Carter had only the area of the Valley of the Kings to search.

It still took him ten years," he replied. "You have given me Ethiopia, a

country twice the size of France.

How long will that take us, do you think?"

She stood up abruptly, "Excuse me, I think I should go and visit my

mother in hospital. It's fairly obvious that I am wasting my time here."

"It is not yet visiting hours," he told her.

"She has a private room." Royan made for the door.

"I will drive you to the hospital," he offered.

"Don't bother. I will call a taxi," she replied in a tone that crackled

with ice.

"A taxi will take an hour to get here," he warned, and she relented just

enough to let him lead her to the Range Rover. They drove in silence for

fifteen minutes, before he spoke.

"I am not very good at apologies. Not much practice, I am afraid, but I

am sorry. I was abrupt. I didn't mean to be.

Carried away by the excitement of the moment She did not reply, and

after a minute added,'You will have to talk to me, unless we are to

correspond only by note. It will be a bit awkward down in the Abbay

gorge."

"I had the distinct impression that you were no longer interested in

going down there." She stared ahead through the windscreen.

am a brute," he agreedi and she glanced sideways at him. It was her

undoing. His grin was irresistible, and she laughed.

"I Suppose I will just have to come to terms with that fact. You are a

brute."

"Still partners?" he asked.

"At the moment you are the only brute I have.

suppose that I am stuck with you."

He dropped her off at the main hospital entrance. "I will pick you up

here at three 'clock," he told her and drove on into the centre of York.

From his university days Nicholas had kept a small flat in one of the

narrow alleys behind York Minster. The entire building was registered in

the name of a Cayman Island company, and the unlisted telephone there

did not route through an internal switchboard. No ownership could be

traced to him personally. Before he had met Rosalind the flat had played

an important part in his social life. But nowadays Nicholas only used it

for confidential and clandestine business. Both the Libyan and the Iraqi

expeditions had been planned and organized from here.

He hadn't used the flat for months, and it was cold and musty-smelling

and uninviting. He put a match to the gas fire in the grate and filled

the kettle. With a mug of steaming tea in front of him he placed a call

to a bank in� Jersey, followed immediately by another to a bank in the

Cayman Islands.

"A wise rat has more than one exit from its burrow."

This was a family maxim, passed down through the generations. He was

going to need funds for the expedition, and the lawyers had most of

those locked up already.

He gave the passwords and account numbers to each of the bank managers,

and instructed them to make certain transfers. It always amazed him how

easily matters could be rranged, as long as you had money.

He checked his watch. It was still early morning in Florida, but Alison

picked up the phone on the second ring. She was the blonde feminine

dynamo who ran Global Safaris, a company that arranged hunting and

fishing expeditions to remote areas around the world.

"Hello, Nick. We haven't heard from you in over a year. We thought you

didn't love us any more."

"I have been out of it for a while," he admitted. How do you tell people

that your wife and two little girls had died?

"Ethiopia?" She did not sound at all disconcerted by the request. "When

did you want to go?"

"How about next week?"

"You have to be joking. We only work with one hunter there, Nassous

Roussos, and he is booked two years in advance."

"Is there nobody else?" he insisted. "I have to be in and out again

before the big rains."

"What trophies are you after? she hedged. "Mountain nyala? Menelik's

bushbuck?"

"I am planning a collecting trip for the museum, down the Abbay river."

It was as much as he was prepared to tell her.

She hedged a little longer and then told him reluctantly, This is

without our recommendation, do you understand. There is only one hunter

who may take You on at such short notice, but I don't even know if he

has a camp on the Blue Nile. He is a Russian, and we have had mixed

reports about him. Some people say he is ex-KGB an was one of Mengistu's

bunch of thugs."

Mengistu was the "Black Stalin' who had deposed an� then murdered the

old Emperor Haile Selassie, and in sixteen years of despotic Marxist

rule had driven Ethiopia to its knees. When his sponsor, the Soviet

Empire, had collapsed, Mengistu had been overthrown and fled the

country.

"I am desperate enough to go to bed with the devil," he told her. "I

promise I won't come back to you with any complaints."

"Okay, then, no comebacks-' and she gave him a name and a telephone

number in Addis Ababa.

"I love you, Alison darling Nicholas told her.

"I wish," she said, and hung up on him.

He didn't expect that it would be easy to telephone Addis, and he wasn't

disappointed in his expectations. But at last he got through. A woman

with a sweet lisping of Ethiopian accent answered and switched to fluent

English when he asked for Boris Brusilov.

"He is out on safari at present," she told him. "I am Woizero Tessay,

his wife." In Ethiopia a wife did not take on her husband's name.

Nicholas remembered enough of the language to know that the name meant

Lady Sun, a pretty name.

"But if it is in connection with safari business I can help you," said

Lady Sun.

Nicholas picked Royan up outside the hospital entrance.

"How is your mother?"

"Her leg is doing well, but she's still distraught about is Magic -

about her dog."

You will have to get her a puppy. One of my keepers breeds first-class

springers. I can arrange it." He paused and then asked delicately, "Will

you be able to leave your mother? I mean, if we are going out to

Africa?"

"I spoke to her about that. There is a woman from her church group who

will stay with her until she is well enough to fend for herself again."

Royan turned fully around in her seat to examine his face. "You have

been up to something since I last saw you," she accused him. "I can see

it in your face."

He made the Arabic sign against the evil eye, "Allah save me from

witches!'

"Come on!" He could make her laugh so readily, she was not sure if that

was a good thing or not. "Tell me what you have up your sleeve."

"Wait until we get back to the museum." He would not be moved, and she

had to bridle her impatience.

As soon as they entered the building he led her through the Egyptian

room to the hall of African mammals, and then stopped her in front of a

diorama of mounted antelope. These were some of the smaller and

mediumsized varieties - impala, Thompson's and Grant's gazelle, gerenuk

and the like.

"Madoqua harperii." He pointed to a tiny creature in one corner of the

display. "Harper's dik-dik, also known as the striped dik-dik."

It was a nondescript little animal, not much bigger than a large hare.

The brown pelt was striped in chocolate over the shoulders and back, and

the nose was elongated into a prehensile proboscis.

"A bit tatty," she gave her opinion carefully, unwilling to bend, yet

knowing he was inordinately Proud of this Specimen. "Is there something

special about it?, "Special?" he asked with wonder in his voice. The

Woman asks if it is special." He rolled his eyes heavenward and she had

to laugh again at his histrionics. "It is the only known specimen in

existence.

creatures on earth. So rare that It is One of the rarest now. So rare it

is probably extinct by that many zoologists believe that apocryphal,

that it never really existed. They think it is� that my sainted

great-grandfather, after whom it is named, actually invented it. One

learned reference hinted that he may have taken the skin of the striped

mongoose and stretched it over the form of a common dik-dik. Can you

imagine a more heinous accusation?)

"I am truly appalled by such injustice,'she laughed.

"Darned right, You should be. Because we are going to Africa to hunt for

another specimen of Madoqua harpent, to vindicate the honour of the

family., "I don't understand."

"Come with me and all will be explained."He led her back to his study,

and from the jumble on the tabletop Picked out a notebook bound in red

Morocco leather. The cover was faded and stained with water marks and

tropical sun light, while the corners and the spine were frayed and

battered.

"Old Sir Jonathan's game book,) he explained, and opened it. Pressed

between the pages were faded wild flowers and leaves that must have been

there for almost a century. The text was illuminated by line drawings in

faded Yellow ink of men and animals and wild landscapes.

Nicholas read the date at the top of one page.

2nd of February 1902.

A In camp on the Abbay river.

11 day following the spoor of two large bull ele Phants- Unable to come

up with the . Heat ve,�� intense- MY Men Played out Abandoned the chase

small antelope grazing on the river-bank which I and returned to camp.

On the return march lied a brought down with one shot from the little

Rigby "and- On close examination it proved to be a member of the genus

Madoqa. However, it was of a species that I had never seen before,

larger than the common dik-dik and Possessing a striped body. I believe

that this specimen may be new to science.

He looked up from the diary. "Old great-grandpa Jonathan has given us

the perfect excuse for going down into the Abbay gorge." He closed the

book, and went on, "As you pointed out, to cater for our own expedition

would require months of planning and organization, not to mention the

expense. It would mean having to obtain approval and permission from the

Ethiopian government. In Africa that can take months, if not Years."

"I don't imagine that the Ethiopian government would be too cooperative

if they suspected our real intentions," she agreed.

"On the other hand, there are a number of legitimate hunting safari

companies operating throughout the country. They have all the necessary

permits, governmental contacts, vehicles, camping equipment and logistic

back, up necessary to travel and stay in even the remotest areas.

The authorities are quite accustomed to foreign hunters arriving and

leaving with these companies, whereas a couple of ferengi nosing around

on their own would have the local military and everybody else down on

them like a herd of angry buffalo., ( So we are going to travel as a

pair of dik-dik hunters?"

"I have already made the booking with a safari operator in Addis Ababa,

the capital. MY Plan is to look upon the whole of our project in three

distinct and separate stages.

The first stage will be this reconnaissance. If we find the lead we are

hoping for, then we will go back again with our own men and equipment.

That will be stage two. Stage three, of course, will be getting the

booty out of Ethiopia, and that I assure you from past experience will

not be the easiest part of the operation."

"How will you do that-' she began, but he held up his hands.

"Don't ask, because at this stage I don't have even the vaguest idea how

we will do it. One stage at a time."

"When do we leave?"

"Before I tell you when, let me ask you one more question. Your

interpretation of the Taita riddle - did you explain that in the notes

that were stolen from you at the oasis?"

"Yes, everything was either in those notes or on the microfilm. I am

sorry."

So the uglies will have it all neatly laid out for them, just the way

you laid it out for me."

"I am afraid they will, yes."

"Then to reply to your question as to when, the answer is tout de suite,

and the tooter the sweeter! We must get into the Abbay gorge before the

competition beats us to it.

They have had your conclusions and suppositions for almost a month. For

all we know they are on their way already!

"When?" she repeated eagerly.

"I have booked two seats on the British Airways flight to Nairobi this

Saturday - that is, in two days' time. We will connect there with an Air

Kenya flight to Addis that will get us in on Monday at around midday. We

will drive down to London this evening and stay over at my digs there.

Are your yellow fever and hepatitis shots up to date?"

"Yes, but I have no equipment and hardly any clothing with me., I left

Cairo in rather a hurry."

We will. see to that in London. Trouble with Ethiopia is it's cold

enough to emasculate a brass monkey in the highlands, and like a sauna

bath down in the gorge."

He crossed to the board and began to check off the items on his list.

"We will both start malarial prophylactics immediately. We are going

into an area of chloroquineresistant . falciparum mosquitoes, so I will

put you on Mefloquine "He worked swiftly through the list.

"Of course all your travel documents are in order, or you wouldn't be

here. We will both need visas for Ethiopia, but I have a contact who can

arrange that in twenty-four hours."

As soon as he completed the list he sent her up to her room to pack the

few personal items she had brought with her from Cairo.

By the time they were ready to leave Quenton Hall it was dark outside,

but still he stopped for an hour at the York Minster Hospital to allow

her to say goodbye to her mother. He waited in the Red Lion pub across

the road, and he smelt of Theakston's Old Peculier when she climbed back

into the Range Rover beside him. It was a Pleasant, yeasty aroma, and

she felt so much at ease in his company that she lay back in the seat

and fell asleep.

His London house was in Knightsbridge, but despite the fashionable

address it was much less grand than Quenton Hall, and she felt IF more

at home there, even if it was only for two days.

During that time she saw little of Nicholas, for he was busy with all

the last-minute arrangements, which included a number of visits to

government offices in Whitehall. He returned with wads of letters -of

introduction to high officials and British Embassies and High

Commissions throughout East Africa.

"Ask any Englishman," she smiled to herself "There is no such thing as

upper-class privilege any longer, nor is there an old-boy network that

runs the country."

While he was away, she went off with the shopping list he had given her.

Even walking the streets of the safest Capital city in the world she

found herself looking back over her shoulder, and ducking in and out of

ladies' rooms and tube stations to make certain that she was not being

followed.

"You are acting like a terrified child without its daddy," she scolded

herself.

However, she felt a quite disproportionate sense of relief each evening

when she heard his key in the street door of the empty house where she

waited, and she had to control herself so as not to rush down the stairs

to welcome him.

On Saturday morning, when a taxi cab deposited them at the departures

level of Heathrow MNIJ Terminal Four, Nicholas surveyed their combined

luggage with approval. She had only a single soft canvas bag, no larger

than his, and her sling bag over her shoulder. His hunting rifle was

cased in travel-worn leather, with his initials embossed on the lid. A

hundred rounds of ammunition was packed in a separate brass'bound

magazine and he carried a leather briefcase that looked like a Victorian

antique.

"Travelling light is one of the great virtues. Lord save us from women

with mountains of luggage,5 he told her, refusing the services of a

porter and throwing it all on to a trolley, which he pushed himself.

She had to step out to keep up with him as he strode through the crowded

departures hall. Miraculously the throng opened before him. He tilted

the brim of his panama hat over one eye and grinned at the girl at the

check'in counter, so that she came over all girlish and flustered.

It was the same once they were aboard the aircraft.

The two stewardesses giggled at everything he said, plied him with

champagne and fussed over him outrageously, to the obvious irritation of

the other passengers, including Royan herself. But she ignored him and

them and settled back to enjoy the unaccustomed luxury of the reclining

first-class seat and her own miniature video screen. She tried to

concentrate on the screen images of Richard Gere, but found her

attention wandering to other images of wild canyons and ancient stelae.

Only when Nicholas nudged her did she look around at him a little

haughtily. He had set up a tiny travelling chessboard on the arm of the

seat between them, and now he lifted an eyebrow at her and inclined his

head in invitation.

When they landed at Jomo Kenyatta airport in Kenya they were still

locked in combat. They were level at two games each, but she was a

bishop and two pawns up in the final deciding game. She felt quite

pleased with herself.

At the Norfolk Hotel in Nairobi he had booked a pair of garden

bungalows, one for each of them. Within ten minutes of her flopping down

on the bed, he called her from next door on the house phone.

"We are going to dinner with the British High Commissioner tonight. He

is an old chum. Dress informal. Can you be ready at eight?"

One did not have to rough it too onerously when travelling around the

world in this man's company, she thought.

It was a relatively short haul from Nairobi up to Addis Ababa, and the

landscape below them unfolded in fascinating sequences that kept her

glued to the cabin window of the Air Kenya flight. The hoary summit of

Mount Kenya was for once free of cloud, and the snow-clad double peaks

glistened in the high sunlight.

The bleak brown deserts of the Northern Frontier District were relieved

only by the green hills that surrounded the oasis of Marsabit and, far

out on the port side, the dashing waters of Lake Turkana, formerly Lake

Rudolf.

The desert finally gave way to the highlands of the great central

plateau of the ancient land of Ethiopia.

"In Africa only the Egyptians go back further than this civilization,'

Nicholas remarked as they watched it together. "They were a cultured

race when we peoples of northern climes were still dressing in untanned

skins and living in caves. They were Christians when Europeans were

still pagans, worshipping the old gods, Pan and Diana."

"They were a civilized people when Taita passed this way nearly four

thousand years ago," she agreed. "In his Scrolls he writes of them as

almost his cultural equals which was rare for him. He disparaged all the

other nations of the old world as his inferiors in every way."

From the air Addis was like so many other African cities, a mixture of

the old and the new, of traditional and exotic architectural styles,

thatched roofs alongside galvanized iron and baked tiles. The rounded

walls of the old tukuls built with mud and wattle contrasted with the

rectangular shapes and geometrical planes of the brick built

multi-storeyed buildings, the blocks of flats and the villas of the

affluent, the government buildings and the grandiose, flag-bedecked

headquarters of the Organization of African Unity.

The distinguishing features of the surrounding countryside were the

plantations of tall eucalyptus trees, the ubiquitous blue gums that

provided firewood. It was the only fuel available to so many in this

poor and war-torn land, which over the centuries had been ravaged by

marauding armies and, more recently, by alien political doctrines.

After Nairobi the high-altitude air was cool and sweet when Royan and

Nicholas left the aircraft and walked across the tarmac to the terminal

building. As they entered, before they had even approached the row of

waiting immigration officers someone called his name.

"Sir Nicholas!" They both turned to the tall young woman who glided

towards them with all the grace of a features lit by a welcoming dancer,

her dark and delicate smile. She wore full'length tradition al skirts

which enhanced her movements.

"Welcome to my country of Ethiopia. I am Woizero Tessay." She looked at

Royan with interest, "And you must be Woizero Royan." She held out her

hand to her and liked each other Nicholas saw that the two women

immediately.

I will see to the "If you will let me have your passports. There is a

formalities while you relax in the VIP lounge.

from your British Embassy waiting there to greet you, man Sir Nicholas.

I don't know how he knew that you were arriving."

�the VIP lounge.

There was only one person waiting i He was dressed in a well-cut

tropical suit and wore the orange, yellow and blue diagonally striped

old Sandhurst tie. He stood up and came to greet Nicholas immediately,

Nor, ? it's good to see you again Must be all

"Nicky, how are yo of twelve years, isn't it?"

"Hello, Geoffrey. I had no idea they had stuck you out here."

"Military attache. His Excellency sent me down to meet you as soon as he

heard that you and I had been at Sandhurst together." Geoffrey looked at

Royan with marked interest, and with a resigned air Nicholas introduced

them.

"Geoffrey Tennant. Be careful of him. Biggest ram I safe within half a

mile of north of the equator. No girl him."

"I say,. steady on,, Geoffrey protested, looking pleased with the

reference that Nicholas had given him. "Please don't believe a word the

man says, Dr Al Simma. Notorious prevaricator."

Geoffrey drew Nicholas aside and quickly gave him a r6sum6 of conditions

in the country, particularly in the outlying areas. "HE is a little

worried. He doesn't like the idea of you swarming around out there on

your own. Lots of nasty men down there in the Goiam. I told him that you

knew how to look after yourself.)

In a remarkably short time Woizero Tessay was back.

"I have cleared all your luggage, including the firearm and ammunition.

This is your temporary permit. You must keep it with you at all times

whilst you are in Ethiopia. Here are your passports - the visas are

stamped and in order. Our flight to Lake Tana leaves in an hour, so we

have plenty of time to check in."

"Any time you need a job, come and see me,'Nicholas commended her

efficiency.

Geoffrey Tennant walked with them as far as the departures gate, where

he shook hands, "Anything I can do, it goes without saying. "Serve to

Lead", Nicky."

"'Serve to lead"T Royan asked, as they walked out to the waiting

aircraft.

"Sandhurst's motto the explained.

"How nice, Nicky, she murmered.

"I have always considered Nicholas to be more dignified and

appropriate he said.

"Yes, but Nicky is so sweet."

�the high, thin air the Twin Otter aircraft that took them on the last,

northern, leg pitched and yawed in the updraughts; from the mountains

below.

Although they were at fifteen thousand feet above sea level, the ground

was close enough for them to make out� the, villages and the sparse areas

of cultivation around them. Subjected for so many centuries to primitive

agricultural methods and to the uncontrolled grazing of domestic herds,

the land had a thin, impoverished look, and the bones of rock showed

through the thin red fleshing of earth.

Abruptly ahead of them the plateau over which they were flying was rent

through by a monstrous chasm. It was as though the earth had received a

mighty sword-stroke that struck through to her very bowels.

"The Abbay river!" Tessay leaned forward in her seat to tap Royan's

shoulder.

The rim of the gorge was Clear-cut, and then the slope dropped away at

an angle of over thirty degrees. The bare plains of the plateau gave way

immediately to the heavily forested walls of the gorge. They could make

out the candelabra shapes of giant euphorbia rising above the dense

jungle. In places the walls had collapsed in scree slopes of loose rock,

and in others they were up-thrust into bluffs and needles that erosion

had sculpted with a monstrous artistry into the figures of towering

humanoids and other fantastic creatures of stone.

Down and down it plunged, and they winged out over the void until they

could look directly down, a mile and more, on to the glittering snake of

the river in the depths.

The funnel shape of the upper walls formed a secondary rim as they

reached the sheer cliffs of the sub-gorge five hundred feet above the

Nile water. Deep down there between its terrible cliffs the river gouged

dark pools and long slithering runs through the red sandstone. In places

the gorge was forty miles across, in others it narrowed to under ten,

but through all its length the grandeur and the desolation were infinite

and eternal. Man had made no impression upon it.

"You will soon be down there," Tessay told them in a voice so awed that

it was almost a whisper, and they were both silent. Words seemed

superfluous in the face of such raw and savage nature.

.. Almost with relief they watched the northern wall rise to meet them,

and the high mountains of the Choke range stood up against the tall blue

African sky, higher than their fragile little craft was flying.

The aircraft banked into its descent and Tessay pointed over the

starboard wingtip.

"Lake Tana," she told them. It was a wide and lovely body of water, over

fifty miles long, studded with islands on each of which stood a

monastery or an ancient church. As they dropped in over the water on the

final approach, they could make out the white-robed priests plying

between the islands on their traditional little boats made from bundles

of papyrus.

The Otter touched down on the dirt strip beside the lake and rolled out

in a long trailing cloud of dust. It swung in -and stopped engines

beside the run-down terminal building of thatch and daub.

The sunlight was so bright that Nicholas pulled a pair of sunglasses

from the breast pocket of his khaki jacket and placed them on his nose

as he stood at the top of the boarding ladder. He took in the pock-marks

of bullets and shrapnel on the dirty white walls of the terminal, and

the burnt'out hull of a Russian T35 battle tank standing in the grass on

the verge of the runway. The' barrel of its turret gun pointed

earthwards, and grass had grown up between the rusted tracks.

The other passengers pushed forward impatiently behind him, jostling him

and jabbering with excitement as they saw friends and relatives waiting

to greet them under the eucalyptus trees that shaded the building. There

was only one vehicle parked out there, a sand-coloured Toyota Land

Cruiser. The roundel on the driver's do6r had at its centre the painted

head of a mountain nyala, with long corkscrew horns, and in a ribbon

below it the title "Wild Chase Safaris'. A white man lounged behind the

wheel.

As Nicholas came down the ladder behind the two women, the driver

slipped out of the truck and strode out on to the strip to meet them. He

was dressed in a faded khaki bush suit, and he was tall and lean and

walked with a spring to his step.

"Fortyish," Nicholas judged his age from the grizzling in his short

beard. "One of the hard men," Nicholas thought.

His ginger hair was cropped short, his eyes were pale killer blue. There

was a puckered white scar that ran across one cheek and up to twist and

deform his nose.

Tessay introduced `Royan to him first, and he made a short, choppy bow

as he shook her hand. "Enchant6, he told her in an execrable French

accent and then looked at Nicholas.

"This is my husband, Alto Boris," Tessay introduced him. "Boris, this is

Alto Nicholas."

"My English is bad," Boris said. "My French is better."

"Not much to choose between them," Nicholas thought, but he smiled

easily and said, "So we will speak French then. Bonjour, Monsieur

Brusilov. I am delighted to make your acquaintance." He offered the

Russian his hand.

Boris's grip was hard - too hard. He was making a contest out of the

greeting, but Nicholas had expected it He knew this type of old, and he

had taken a deep grip so Boris could not crush his fingers. Nicholas

held him without allowing any strain or effort to show on his lazy

smile. Boris was the first to break the handshake, and there was just

the trace of respect in those pale eyes.

"So you have come for a dikdik?" he asked, just short of a sneer. Most

of my clients come for big elephant, or at least for mountain nyala."

"Bit rich for my nerves," Nicholas grinned, "all that big stuff. Dik-dik

will suit me fine."

"Have you ever been down in the gorge?" Boris demanded. His Russian

accent overpowered the French words and made them difficult to follow.

"Sir Nicholas was one of the leaders of the 1976 river expedition,'

Royan intervened sweetly, and Nicholas was amused by her unexpected

intervention. She had picked up the antagonism between them very

quickly, and come to his rescue.

Boris grunted, and turned to his wife. "Have you got all the stores I

ordered?" he demanded.

"Yes, Boris," she answered meekly. "They are all on board the aircraft."

She is afraid of him, Nicholas decided, probably with good reason.

"Let's get loaded up, then. We have a long journey ahead of us."

The two men rode in the front seats of the Toyota, and the women sat

behind them with many of the packages of stores packed in around them.

Good African protocol, Nicholas smiled to himself: men first, women fend

for themselves.

"You don't want to do the tourist run, do you?" Boris made it sound like

a threat.

"The tourist run?"

"The outlet from the lake, and the power station," he explained. "The

Portuguese bridge over the gorge and the point where the Blue Nile

begins," he added. But before they could accept he warned them, "If you

do, we won't get into camp until long -after dark."

"Thanks for the suggestion,) Nicholas told him politely, "but I have

seen it all before."

"Good." Boris made his approval evident. "Let's get out of here."

The road swung away into the west, below the high mountains. This was

the Goiam, the land of the aloof mountaineers. It was well-populated

country, and they passed many tall, thin men along the roadside as they

strode along behind their herds of goats and sheep, with their long

staffs held crossways over their shoulders. Both men and women wore

shammas, woollen shawls, and baggy white jodhpur pants, with their feet

in open sandals.

They were people with proud and handsome features, their hair dressed

out into thick, bushy halos, and their eyes fierce as those of eagles.

Some of the younger women in the villages they passed through were truly

beautiful.

Most of the men were heavily armed. They carried twohanded swords in

chased silver scabbards, and AK-47 assault rifles.

"Makes them feel like big men," Boris chuckled. "Very brave, very

macho."

The huts in the villages were circular walled tukuls, surrounded by

plantations of eucalyptus and spiky-headed sisal.

Bruised purple storm clouds boiled over the high peaks of the Choke and

swept them with squalls of rain. Like silver coins, the huge drops

rattled against the windscreen of the Land Cruiser and turned the road

to a running river of mud under their wheels.

The condition of the road surface was appalling; in places it

deteriorated into a rocky gully which even the four-wheel drive Toyota

could not negotiate, and Boris was forced to make his own track across

the rocky hillside.

Often reduced to walking speed, they were nevertheless tossed about in

their seats as the wheels bounced over the rough terrain.

"These damn blacks don't even think to repair the roads," Boris grunted.

"They are happy to live like animals." None of them replied, but

Nicholas glanced up into the rear-view mirror at the faces of the two

women. They were closed and neutral, hiding any hurt that either of them

might have felt at the remark.

As they went on, the road, bad as it had been originally, became even

worse. From here onwards the soft the fire. The two women sat a little

to one side, talking quietly, and Boris had his feet propped on the low

table as he leaned back in his chair with a glass in one hand.

He indicated the vodka bottle on the table, as Nicholas stepped into the

circle of firelight, "Get yourself a drink Ice in the bucket."

"I prefer a beer," Nicholas told him. "Thirsty drive." Boris shrugged

and bellowed for his camp butler to bring a brown bottle from the

portable gas refrigerator.

"Let me tell you something, a little secret." He grinned at Nicholas as

he poured himself another vodka. "There is no such animal as a striped

dik-dik these days, even if there ever was one. You are wasting your

time and your money."

"Fine," Nicholas agreed mildly. "It's my time and my money."

"Just because some old fart shot one back in the Dark Ages, doesn't mean

you are going to find another now. We could go up into the tea

plantations for elephant. I saw three bulls there only ten days ago. All

with tusks over a hundred pounds a side."

As they argued, the level in Boris's vodka bottle fell like the Nile at

the end of the inundation. When Tessay told them that the meal was

ready, Boris carried the bottle with him; he stumbled on his way to the

table. During the meal his only contribution to the conversation was to

snarl at Tessay.

"The lamb is raw. Why don't you see to it that the cook does it

properly? Damn monkeys, you have to watch everything they do."

"Is your lamb under-cooked, Alto Nicholas?" Tessay asked without looking

at her husband. "I can have them cook it longer."

"It's perfect he assured her. "I like mine pink."

Si By the end of dinner the vodka bottle at Boris elbow was empty, and

his face was flushed and swollen. He got up from the table without a

word and disappeared into the darkness in the direction of his tent,

swaying on his feet and occasionally catching his balance with a

two-step jig.

"I apologize," essay told them quietly. "It is only in the evenings. In

the day he is fine. It is a Russian tradition, the vodka." She smiled

brightly; only her eyes stayed sad.

"It is a lovely night, and too early yet for bed. Would you like to walk

up to the church? It is very old and famous.

I will have one of the servants bring a lantern, so that you may admire

the murals."

The servant walked ahead of them, lighting their way, and an ancient

priest waited to welcome them on the portico of the circular building.

He was thin and so very black that only his teeth flashed in the gloom.

He carried a magnificent Coptic cross in massive native silver, set with

carnelians and other semi-precious stones.

Both Royan and Tessay dropped on their knees in front of him to ask for

his blessing. He slapped their cheeks lightly with the cross and

genuflected over them, mumbling his benediction in Amharic. Then he

ushered them into the interior.

The walls were covered with a magnificent display of paintings in

brilliant primary colours. In the lantern light they blazed like

gemstones. There was a strong Byzantine flavour to the style: the

saints' eyes were huge and slanted, with great golden halos over their

heads. Above the altar, with its tinsel and brass furnishing, the Virgin

cradled her infant while the three wise men and a host of angels knelt

in adoration. Nicholas slipped his Polaroid camera from the pocket of

his jacket and adjusted the flash. He wandered around the church

photographing these murals, while Tessay and Royan knelt before the

altar side by side.

Once he had finished his photography Nicholas found a seat on the

hand-hewn wooden pews and sat quietly watching their intent faces which

the candlelight touched with golden highlights, and he was moved by the

beauty of the moment.

"I wish I had that kind of faith," he thought, as he had so often

before. "It must be a comfort in the hard times. I wish I were able to

pray like that for Rosalind and the girls." He could not stay longer,

and he went out and sat on the church portico where he watched the night

sky.

In these high altitudes, in the thin unpolluted air, the stars were such

a dazzling blaze that it was difficult to pick out the individual

constellations. After a while his sadness abated. It was good to be back

in Africa.

When the two women emerged at last from the dark interior, Nicholas gave

the old priest a one hundred birr note and a Polaroid photograph of

himself which the old man clearly valued above the money. Then the three

of them walked back down the hill together in companionable silence.

icky!" Royan shook him awake. When he sat up and switched on his torch,

he saw that she had thrown the woollen shawl over a pair of men's

striped pyjamas before she had come into his tent.

"What is it?" he asked, but before she could answer he heard the sound

of a hoarse and angry voice shouting invective in the night, and then

the unmistakable thud of a clenched fist striking flesh and bone.

"He's beating her." Royan's voice was tight with out-' rage. "You have

to make him stop."

There was a cry of pain after the blow, and then sobs.

Nicholas hesitated. Only a fool interferes between a man and his wife,

and his reward usually is to have them unite and turn savagely upon him.

"You must do something, Nicky, please., Reluctantly he swung his legs

out of the cot and stood up. He slept in'boxer shorts, and he did not

bother to find his shoes. She followed him, also on bare feet, to the

end of the grove where Boris's tent stood beyond the dining tent.

There was a lantern still burning within, and it threw magnified shadows

on the canvas walls. He saw that Boris had his wife "by the hair and was

dragging her across the floor, roaring at her in Russian.

"Boris!" Nicholas had to shout his name three times to get his

attention, and then they saw the shadow play on the canvas as he dropped

Tessay and flung open the tent flap.

He was dressed only in a pair of underpants. His torso was lean and

muscular, the chest flat and hard-looking, covered with coppery curls.

On the floor behind him Tessay lay face down, sobbing into her cupped

hands. She was naked, and the planes of her body were sleek as those of

a panther.

"What the hell is going on here?" Nicholas demanded, his anger only just

beginning to stir as he witnessed the gracious, gentle woman's distress

and humiliation.

"I am giving this black whore a lesson in good manners," Boris gloated,

his face still swollen and flushed with drink and passion. "It's none of

your business, English, unless you want to pay some money and have a bit

of pork for yourself." He laughed, an ugly sound.

"Are you all right, Woizero Tessay?" Nicholas looked directly into

Boris's face, sparing the woman the further humiliation of another man's

eyes on her nudity.

Tessay sat up, lifted her knees against her chest, and hugged them with

both arms to cover her body.

"It's all right, Alto Nicholas. Please go away before there is real

trouble." Blood was trickling from one nostril into her mouth, and

dyeing her teeth pink.

"You heard'my wife, English bastard. Go away! Mind your own business. Go

away, before I give you a little lesson in good manners also."

Boris staggered forward and thrust his open hand against Nicholas's

chest. Nicholas moved as smoothly and as effortlessly as a matador

avoiding the first wild charge of the bull. He swayed to one side, and

used Boris's own momentum to send him on in the direction in which he

was already committed. Completely off balance, the Russian reeled across

the open ground in front of the tent until he collided with one of the

camp chairs and went down in a sprawling heap.

"Royan, take Tessay to your tent!" he ordered softly.

Royan ran into the tent and pulled a sheet from the nearest cot. She

spread it over Tessay's shoulders and lifted her to her feet.

"Please, don't do this," Tessay sobbed. "You don't know him when he gets

like this. He will hurt somebody."

Royan dragged her, still protesting and weeping, out of the tent, but by

now Boris was on his feet again. He bellowed with rage and picked up the

camp chair that had tripped him. With a single jerk he tore off one of

the legs and hefted it in his bunched fist.

"You want to play games, English? All right, we play!" He rushed at

Nicholas, swinging the chair leg like a Ninja baton, so that it hissed

with the force with which he aimed it at his head. As Nicholas ducked

under it Boris reversed the swing, going for the side of his chest,

under his upraised arm. It would have staved in his ribs if it had

landed, but again Nicholas twisted away.

They circled each other warily, and then Boris charged again. If it had

not been for the effect of the vodka on the Russian's reflexes Nicholas

would never have taken a chance with an adversary of this calibre, but

Boris was just loose enough in his control to allow him to duck in under

the swinging chair leg. He straightened, with all his weight rolling

into the punch, and his fist slogged into the pit Of Boris's belly just

under the sternum. The Russian's breath was driven out of him in a great

gusty belch.

The chair leg flew from his grip, and he doubled over and collapsed.

Clasping his middle, and heaving and wheezing for breath, Boris lay

curled in the dust. Nicholas stooped over him and told him softly in

English, "This sort of behaviour simply isn't good enough, old chap. We

don't bully-girls. Please don't let it happen again."

He straightened up and spoke to Royan, "Get her to your tent and keep

her there." He combed his hair back from his face with his fingers. "And

now, if you have no serious objections, may we get a little sleep?"

It rained again during the early hours. The heavy drops drummed down on

the canvas and the lightning lit the interior of the tents with an eerie

brilliance. However, by the time that Nicholas went through to the

dining tent for breakfast the next morning, the clouds had cleared and

the sunshine was bright and cheering. The sweet mountain air smelt of

wet earth and mushrooms.

Boris greeted Nicholas with hearty good fellowship.

"Good morning, English. We had some fun last night. I still laugh to

remember it. Very good jokes. One day soon we will have some more vodka,

then we will makesome more good jokes." And he bellowed through to the

kitchen tent, "Hey! Lady Sun, bring your new boyfriend something to eat.

He is hungry from all the sport last night."

Tessay was quiet and withdrawn as she supervised the' servants handing

round breakfast. One eye was swollen almost closed, and her lip was cut.

She did not look at Nicholas once during the meal.

"We will go on ahead," Boris explained jovially as they drank coffee.

"My servants will break camp, and follow us in my big truck. With luck,

we will be able to camp tonight on the rim above the gorge, and tomorrow

we will begin the descent."

As they were climbing into the truck, Tessay was able to speak to him

softly for a moment, without danger of Boris overhearing her. "Thank

you, Alto Nicholas. But it was not wise. You don't know him. You must be

careful now. He does not forget, not does he forgive."

From the village of Debra Maryarn Boris took a branch road that ran

alongside the Dandera river directly south, wards. The road they had

followed the previous day from Lake Tana was shown on the map as a major

highway. It had been bad enough. But this track that they were now on

was marked as a secondary road "not passable in all weather'. To

compound matters, it seemed that most of the heavy traffic that had torn

up the main road had followed this same track. They came to a place

where some huge vehicle had become bogged down in the rain-saturated

earth, and the efforts to free it had left areas of ploughed land and an

excavation like a bomb crater that resembled an old photograph of the

battlefields of First World War Flanders.

Twice during the day the Toyota too became stuck in this foul ground.

Each time this happened, the big truck that was following them came up

and all the servants swarmed down from the cargo body to push and heave

the Toyota through. Even Nicholas stripped to the waist to work with

them in the mud to free it.

"If you had only listened to my advice," Boris grumbled, "we would not

be here. There is no game where you want to go, and there are no roads

worth the name either."

In the early afternoon they stopped beside the river for an alfresco

lunch. Nicholas went down to the pool beside the road to wash off the

mud and filth of the morning's labours. He had been in the forefront of

the efforts to keep the truck moving. Royan followed him down the slope

and perched on a rock above the pool while he stripped off his shirt and

knelt, at the verge to splash himself with the cold mountain water. The

river was muddy yellow and swollen from the rainstorms.

"I don't think Boris believes your story about the striped dik-dik," she

warned him. "Tessay tells me that he is suspicious of what we are up

to." She watched with interest as he sluiced his chest and upper arms.

'"ere the sun had not touched it, his skin was very white and

unblemished.

His chest hair was thick and dark. She decided that his body was good to

look at.

"He is the type that would go through our luggage if he gets a chance,'

Nicholas agreed. "You didn't bring anything with you that has any clues

for him? No papers or notes?"

"Only the satellite photograph, and my notebooks are all in my own

shorthand. He won't be able to make anything of them."

"Be very careful of what you discuss with Tessay."

"She is a dear. There is nothing underhand about her." Heatedly Royan

came to the defence of her new friend.

"She may be all right, but she's married to my chum Boris. Her first

allegiance lies there. No matter what your feelings towards her, don't

trust either of them." He dried himself on his shirt, slipped it on and

then buttoned it over his chest. "Let's go and get something to eat."

Back at the parked truck Boris was pulling the cork from a bottle of

South African white wine. He poured a tumbler full for Nicholas. Chilled

in the river, it was crisp and fruity. Tessay offered them cold roast

chicken and injera bread, the flat, thin sheets of stone-ground

unleavened bread of the country. The trials and labours of the morning's

travels faded into insignificance as Royan lay beside Nicholas in the

grass and they watched a bearded vulture sailing high against the blue.

It saw them and drifted overhead curiously, twisting its head to look

down at them. Its eyes were masked in black like those of a highwayman,

and the distinctive wedge-shaped tail feathers flirted with the wind the

way the fingers of a concert pianist would stroke the ivories of the

keyboard.

When it was time to go on, Nicholas gave her his hand to lift her to her

feet. It was one of their rare moments of physical contact, and she held

on to his fingers for just a second or two longer than was strictly

necessary.

There was no improvement in the surface of the trac as they drew nearer

to the rim of the gorge, and the hours passed in this bone-jarring,

teeth-rattling progress. The track snaked over a rise and then

dog-legged down the far slope. Halfway down Boris swore in Russian as

they came round the hairpin bend of a high earthen bank to find a huge

diesel truck slewed across the track, almost blocking it.

Even though they had been following the tracks of this convoy of

vehicles since the previous day, this was the first of them that they

had encountered, and it took Boris by surprise. He hit his brakes so

suddenly that his passengers were almost catapulted from their seats,

but on the steep incline in the mud the brakes did not bring them to a

complete halt. Boris was forced to change down into his lowest gear and

steer for the narrow gap between the bank and the truck.

From the back seat Royan looked out of the window I beside her, up the

high side of the diesel truck. There was a company name and logo

emblazoned in scarlet on the green background.

A strong feeling of du vu overcame her as she stared at the image. She

had seen this sign recently, but her memory cheated her: she could not

recall the time or the place. She only knew that it was of vital

importance that she should remember.

The side of the Toyota scraped against the metal of the truck, and then

they were past it. Boris leaned out of his window and shook his fist at

the driver of the larger vehicle.

He was a local man, probably recruited in Addis by the owner of the

truck. Grinning at Boris's antics, he leaned out of his own cab to

return the clenched fist salute, adding a nice little touch by jerking a

raised forefinger upwards.

"Dungeater!" Boris roared with outrage at being bested in the exchange,

but he did not stop. "No use even talking to them. What do they know?

Black chimps!'

For the rest of the wearisome journey Royan remained silent and

withdrawn, shaken and troubled by the conviction that she had seen the

trademark of the winged red horse before, with, set above it in a

pennant, the name of the company: "PEGASUS EXPLORATION'.

As they approached the end of the day's journey at last they passed a

signpost beside the track. The supporting legs of the sign were solidly

set in concrete, and the artwork was of such high quality that it could

only have been that of a professional signwriter.

Across the top of the board an arrow indicated a newly bulldozed road

that headed off to the right, and the directions read:

PEGASUS EXPLORATION

BASE CAMP - ONE KILOMETRE

PRIVATE ROAD

NO ENTRY TO UNAUTHORIZED TRAFFIC

The scarlet horse reared in the centre of the board with its wings

spread wide, on the point of flight.

Now she gasped aloud as the elusive memory came upon her with stunning

clarity. She remembered where she had last seen the flying red horse. In

an instant she was transported back into the icy waters of an English

salmon river, flung from the rolling body of the Land Rover, the huge

MAN truck roaring over the bridge above her, and, for a subliminal pulse

of time, the prancing red horse upon its side.

she almost shouted aloud, but controlled herself. The terror of the

moment returned to her with full force, and she found herself breathing

hard and her heart racing as though she had run a long way.

"It cannot be a coincidence," she assured herself silently, "and I am

not mistaken. It is the same company.

Pegasus Exploration."

She was withdrawn and distracted for the last few miles of the journey,

until the track they were following ended abruptly on the brink of the

sheer cliffs of the escarpment, Here Boris pulled on to the grassy verge

and stopped the engine.

"This is as far as we ride. We camp here tonight. My big truck is not

far behind. They will make camp as so on as they arrive. Tomorrow we

will go down into the gorge on foot."

As they dismounted, Royan tugged at Nicholas's arm, "I must speak to

you," she whispered urgently, and she followed him as he led her along

the bank of the river.

He found a place for them to sit side by side, with their legs dangling

over the drop. Beside them the swollen yellow river seemed to sense what

lay ahead of it. The cold mountain waters speeded up, swirled amongst

the rocks, and gathered themselves for that dizzying leap out into empty

space. The cliff below them was a sheer wall of rock almost a thousand

feet deep. It was so high that in the evening light the abyss far below

was a dark, mysterious place, its bottom hidden from them by shadow and

spray from the falls. As Royan looked down into it her sense of balance

swirled with vertigo. She cringed back from the edge and found herself

instinctively leaning against Nicholas's shoulder to steady herself.

Only when they touched did she realize what she was doing, and she

pulled away from him self-consciously.

The muddied waters of the Dandera. river leaped from the brink, and were

miraculously transformed into curtains of ethereal lacework as they

fell. Like the skirts of waltzing bride they shimmered and swirled, and

rainbows of light played through them as though from an embroidery of

seed pearls. Still falling, the columns of white spray twisted and

changed into lovely but ephemeral shapes, until they struck the lower

ledges of glistening black rock and exploded outwards into fresh clouds

of white that at last screened the dark depths of the abyss with " an

opalescent veil.

It was with a conscious effort that Royan pulled her mind away from the

awe-inspiring scene and back to the troubled present.

"Nicky, do you remember I told you about the truck that forced my mother

and me over the bridge in the Land Rover?"

"Of course." His expression was mystified as he studied her face. "You

are upset. "What is it, Royan?"

"The truck had signwriting down the sides of the trailers that it was

towing."

"You told me, yes. Green and red. You told me that you didn't get a good

enough look to read the sign."

"It was the same as the truck we passed this afternoon.

I saw the sign at the same angle as before and it came back to me. The

red Pegasus, the flying horse."

He studied her face for a while, "Are you absolutely certain?"

"Absolutely!" She nodded vehemently.

Nicholas stared out over the magnificent panorama of the gorge spread

below them. It was forty miles to the far wall of the canyon, but in the

brilliant rain-washed air it seemed so close that he could reach across

and touch it.

"A coincidence?"he wondered at last.

"Do you think so? A very strange and wonderful coincidence, then.

Pegasus in both Yorkshire and Gojam?

Do you accept that?"

"It doesn't make sense. The truck that hit you was stolen-'

"Was it?" she demanded. "Are we sure of that?"

"If it wasn't, then let's hear your ideas."

"If you were planning an assassination, would you rely on stealing a

truck conveniently left at a Little Chef for you?"

He shook his head, "Go on."

"Suppose you arranged for your own truck to be placed there for you, and

for your driver to report it stolen only after you had a good head start

on the police."

"It's possible," he agreed without enthusiasm.

"Whoever murdered Duraid, and made two further attempts to kill me,

obviously has considerable resources at his disposal. He is able to make

arrangements in Egypt and England. On top of that, he has the seventh

scroll in his possession. He has our notes and all our workings and

translations which point him clearly to this spot on the Abbay river.

Just suppose that he has control of a company like Pegasus - is there

any reason why he can't be here in Ethiopia, just as we are, right at

this moment?"

Nicholas was silent for a while. He picked up a stone from the ledge

beside him and tossed it out over the cliff.

They both watched it drop away, dwindling in size until it vanished in

the veils of spray far below where they sat.

Abruptly Nicholas stood up and reached for her hand to pull her to her

feet beside him. "Come on," he said.

"Where are we going?"

"Pegasus base camp. Let's go and have a chat to the site foreman."

Boris protested angrily and hurried to intervene when Nicholas climbed

into the Toyota and started the engine, "Where the hell do you think you

are going?, "Sight-seeing." Nicholas let in the clutch. "Back in an

hour."

"Hey, English, my truck!" He ran to catch up with them, but Nicholas

accelerated away.

"Charge me for the hire." fie grinned back at Boris in the rear-view

mirror. -off and followed the They reached the signposted turn side

track over the ridge. The Pegasus camp lay on the far side. Nicholas

braked to a halt on the crest of the rise and they studied it in

silence.

An area of about ten acres had been cleared and levelled. It was

surrounded by a barbed-wire security fence, with a single closed gate.

Three of the massive diesel trucks in their green and red livery were

parked in a rank inside the fence. There were also several smaller

vehicles and a tall mobile drilling rig in the line. The rest of the

yard was filled with prospecting equipment and stores. There were stacks

of drilling rods and steel core boxes, wooden crates of spares, and

several hundred forty-four-gallon drums of diesel and oil and drilling

mud. The drums and the stores were stacked with a neatness and sense of

good order that was startling in this wild and rocky landscape. just

inside the gate stood a small village of a dozen buildings made of

corrugated sheet sections, of the Quonset type. They too were set out in

a street of military precision.

"A big, well-organized outfit," Nicholas commented.

"Let's go down and see who is in charge."

There were two armed guards on the gate, dressed in the camouflage

uniform of the Ethiopian army. They were clearly surprised by the

arrival at the gate of the strange Land Cruiser, and when Nicholas

sounded his horn one of them came forward suspiciously with his AK,47

rifle at the ready.

"I want to speak to the manager here," Nicholas told him in Arabic, with

enough haughty authority to make the entry uncertain and uneasy.

The soldier grunted, went back and consulted his colleague, then lifted

the handset of the two-way radio and spoke earnestly into the

mouthpiece. There was a five minute delay after he finished speaking,

and then the door of the nearest Quonset building opened and a white man

came out.

He was dressed in khaki coveralls and a soft bush cap.

His eyes, covered by mirrored sunglasses, were set in a deeply tanned,

leathery face. His physique was short and chunky, and his sleeves were

rolled up over hairy, work thickened arms. After speaking a few words to

the guards at the gate he came out to the Toyota

"Yeah? What's going down here?" he demanded in Texan drawl, speaking

around the stub of an unlit cigar.

"The name is Quenton-Harper." Nicholas dismounted from the truck to

greet him, and held out his hand.

"Nicholas Quenton-Harper. How do you do?"

The American hesitated, and then took the hand as though he had been

offered an electric eel to squeeze.

"Helm," he said. "Jake Helm, from Abilene, Texas. I am the foreman

here." His hand was that of an artisan, with calloused palms and lumpy

scar tissue over the knuckles, and half moons of black grease under the

fingernails.

"Terribly sorry to worry you. I am having some trouble with my truck. I

wondered if you had a mechanic who could have a look at it for

me."Nicholas smiled winningly, but received no encouragement from the

man.

"Not company policy." He shook his head.

"I am prepared to pay for any-'

"Listen, buddy, I said no." Jake removed the cigar from his mouth and

examined it minutely.

"Your company - Pegasus. Can you tell me where your head office is

situated? Who is your managing director?"

"I am a busy man. You are wasting my time." Helm ,,returned the cigar to

his mouth and began to turn away.

"I will be hunting in this area over the next few weeks.

I would not like to endanger any of your employees with a stray shot.

Can you give me some idea of where you will be working?"

outfit here, mister. I don't

"I am running a prospecting give out news flashes on my movements. Beat

id'

He turned and walked to the gate and gave brusque orders to the guards

before marching back to his office building.

"Satellite disc on the roof," Nicholas remarked. "I wonder who our lad

Jake is speaking to at this very moment."

"Somebody in Texas?" Royan hazarded.

"Doesn't follow, necessarily, Nicholas demurred. Tega, is probably a

multinational. Just because Jake is one, doesn't mean his boss is Texan

also. Not a very instructive conversation, I am afraid." He started the

engine and Uturned the Toyota. "But if someone at Pegasus is the ugly

mixed up in this, he will recognize my name. We have given them notice

of our arrival. Let's see what we have flushed out of the bushes."

When they got back to the Dandera river falls, they found that Boris's

truck had arrived, the tents had been erected, and the chef had brewed

tea for them. Boris was less welcoming than his chef, and maintained a

sullen silence while Nicholas tried to placate him for commandeering his

truck.

It was only after his first vodka of the evening that he mellowed

sufficiently to speak again.

"The mules were supposed to be waiting for us here.

Time means nothing to these people. We cannot start down into the gorge

until they arrive."

"Well, at least while we are waiting for them I will have a chance to

sight in my rifle,'Nicholas remarked with resignation. "In Africa it

never pays to be in a hurry. Too wearing on the nerves."

After a leisurely breakfast the next morning, when there was still no

sign of the mules, Nicholas fetched his rifle case.

When Nicholas lifted the weapon out of its nest of green baize, Boris

took it from him and examined it minutely.

"An old rifle?"

"Made in 1926,'Nicholas nodded. "My grandfather had it made for

himself."

"They knew how to make them in those days. Not like the mass-produced

crap they turn out today." Boris pursed his lips critically. "Short

Mauser Oberndorf double square, bridge action, beautiful! But it has

been rebarrelled, no?

The original barrel was shot out. I had it replaced with a Shilen match

barrel. It will shoot the wings off a mosquito at a hundred paces."

"Calibre 7� 57, is it?" Boris asked.

'275 Rigby, as a matter of fact," Nicholas corrected him, but Boris

snorted.

"It is exactly the same cartridge - just your English bloodiness must

call it something else." He grinned. "It wilt push a 150 grain bullet

out there at 2800 feet per second.

It is a good rifle, one of the best."

"You will never know, my dear fellow, how much your approval means to

me,'Nicholas murmured in English, and Boris chuckled as he handed the

rifle back to him.

"English jokes! I love your English jokes."

When Nicholas left camp carrying the little rifle in its slip case,

Royan followed him down to the river and helped him fill two small

canvas bags with white river sand. He laid them on top of a convenient

rock and they formed a firm but malleable rest for the rifle as he

settled it over them.

Using the open hillside as a safe back'stop, he "stepped out two hundred

yards and at that range set up a cardboard carton on which he had taped

a Bisley'type target. He came back to where Royan waited and then

settled down behind the rock on which the weapon lay.

Royan was unprepared for the report of the first shot from the dainty,

almost feminine-looking rifle. She jumped involuntarily, and her ears

sang.

"What a horrible, vicious thing!" she exclaimed. "How can you bring

yourself to kill lovely animals with a highpowered gun like that?" she

demanded.

"Rifle," he corrected her, as he noted the strike of the shot through

his binoculars. "Would it make you feel better if I used a low-powered

rifle, or beat them to death with a stick?"

The shot had struck three inches right and two inches low. As he

adjusted the telescopic sight he attempted to explain. "An ethical

hunter does everything in his power to kill as swiftly and as cleanly as

is possible, and that means stalking in as close as he is able to do,

using a weapon of adequate power and sighting it the best way he knows

how."

His next shot struck exactly on line but only an inch above the

bull's-eye. He wanted it to shoot three inches high at that range. He

worked on the sight again.

"Gun or rifle, but I don't understand why you would want to deliberately

kill any of God's creatures," she protested.

"That I can never explain to you." He aimed deliberately and fired once.

Even through the lower magnification of the sight lens he could see that

the bullet had struck exactly three inches high.

"It is something to do with an atavistic urge that few men, no matter

how Cultured and civilized they deem themselves, can deny completely."

He fired a second time.

"Some of them work it out in the board room, others on the golf course

or the tennis court, and some of us on a salmon river, in the ocean

deeps or in the hunting field."

He fired a third shot, merely to confirm the previous two, and then went

on, "As for God's creatures, he gave them to us. You are the believer.

Quote me Acts 10, verses 12 and 13."

"Sorry." She shook her head. "You tell me.

... all manner Of fourfooted beasts of the earth, and wild beasts, and

creeping things, and fowL of the air,"'

Nicholas obliged her. "'And there came a voice to him, Rise, Peter;

kill, and eat., "You should have been a lawyer," she moaned in mock

despair.

"Or a priest," he suggested, and went forward to retrieve the target. He

found that his last three shots had punched a tiny symmetrical rosette

three inches above the bull, all three bullet holes just touching each

other.

He patted the butt stock of the little rifle, "That's my lovely darling,

Lucrezia Borgia." He had named the rifle for her beauty and for her

murderous potential.

He slid the rifle back into its leather slip case and they walked back

together. As they came in sight of the camp, Nicholas pulled up short.

"Visitors," he said, and raised his binoculars. "Aha! We have flushed

something out of the undergrowth. That is a Pegasus truck parked there

and, unless I am much mistaken, one of our visitors is the charming

laddie from Abilene.

Let's go down and find out what is going on."

As they drew closer to camp, they realized that there were a dozen or

more heavily armed, uniformed soldiers clustered around the red and

green Pegasus truck, and that Jake Helm and an Ethiopian army officer

were seated under the awning of the dining tent in serious and intent

conversation with Boris, A

s soon as Nicholas entered the tent, Boris introduced him to the

bespectacled Ethiopian officer. "This is Colonel Tuma Nogo, the military

commander of the southern Goiam region."

"How do you do?" Nicholas greeted him, but the colonel ignored the

pleasantry.

"I want to see your passport, and your firearms licence, he ordered

arrogantly, while Jake Helm chewed complacently on the evil-smelling

butt of an extinguished cigar.

"Yes, of course," Nicholas agreed, and went to his own tent to fetch his

briefcase. He opened it on the dining table, and smiled at the officer.

"I am sure you will also want to see my letter of introduction from the

British Foreign Secretary in London, and this one from the British

Ambassador in Addis Ababa. Here is another from the Ethiopian Ambassador

to the Court of St. James, and this is from your own Minister of

Defence, General Abraha."

The colonel stared in consternation at this fruit salad of ornate

official letterheads and scarlet beribboned seals.

Behind the gold-rimmed glasses his eyes were bemused and confused.

"Sir!" He jumped to his feet and saluted. "You are a friend of General

Abraha? I did not know. Nobody informed me. I beg your pardon for this

intrusion."

He saluted again, and his embarrassment made him awkward and ungainly.

"I came to warn you only that the Pegasus Company is conducting drilling

and blasting operations. There may be some danger. Please be alert. Also

there are many bandits and outlaws, shufta, operating in this area."

Colonel Nogo was flustered and barely coherent.

He stopped and drew a deep breath to steady himself. "You see, I have

been ordered to provide an escort for the employees of the Pegasus

Company. If you yourself experience any trouble while you are here, or

if you need assistance for any reason you have only to call on me, sir."

"That is extremely civil of you, colonel."

"I will detain you no longer, sir." He saluted a third time and backed

off towards the Pegasus truck, taking the Texan foreman along with him.

Jake Helm'had not uttered a word since their arrival, and now he left

without a farewell.

Colonel Nogo gave Nicholas his fourth and final salute through the cab

window as the truck pulled away.

Deuce!" Nicholas told Royan, as he acknowledged the salute with a

nonchalant wave. "I think that point was definitely ours. Now at least

we know that, for whatever reason, Mr Pegasus definitely does not want

us in his hair. I think we can expect his next service fairly promptly.,

They walked back to where Boris sat in the dining tent and Nicholas told

him, "All we need now are your mules."

"I have sent three of my men to the village to find them. They should

have been here yesterday." The mules arrived early the next morning, six

big sturdy animals, each accompanied by a driver dressed in the

ubiquitous-jodhpurs and shawl. By midmorning they were loaded and ready

to begin the descent into the gorge.

Boris paused at the head of the pathway, and looked out over that

valley. For once even he -seemed to be subdued and awed by the immensity

of the drop and the rugged splendour of the gorge.

"You will be Passing into another land in another age," he warned them

in an uncharacteristically philosophical mood. "They say that this trail

is two thousand years old, as old as Christ." He spread his hands in a

deprecating gesture.

"The old black priest in the church at Debra Maryam will tell you that

the Virgin Mary passed this way when she fled from Israel after the

crucifixion." He shook his head. "But then these people will believe

anything." And he "stepped out on to the pathway.

It clung to the cliff, descending at such an angle that each pace was

down a rock step so deep that it stretched the-tendons and the sinews in

their groins and knees, and jarred their spines. They were forced to use

their hands to scramble the rougher and steeper sections, where it was

almost as though they were descending a ladder.

It seemed impossible that the mules under their heavy packs could follow

them down. The plucky beasts lunged down each of the rock steps, landing

heavily on their forelegs, then gathered themselves for the next drop.

The trail was so narrow that the bulky packs scraped against the rock

wall on one hand, while on the other hand the drop sucked at them

giddily.

When the path dog-legged and changed direction, the mules could not make

the turn in one attempt. They were forced to back and fill, edging their

way round the narrow trail, sweating with terror and their eyes rolling

until the whites flashed. The drivers urged them on with wild cries and

busy whips.

At places the pathway entered the body of the mountain, passing behind

butts and needles of rock that time and erosion had prised away from the

cliff face. These rocky gateways were so narrow that the mules had to be

unloaded and the packs carried through by the drivers, and then the

mules were reloaded on the far side.

Look!" Royan cried in astonishment and pointed out into the void. A

black vulture rose up out of the depths on widespread pinions and

floated past them almost within arm's length, turning its gruesome naked

head of pink lappeted skin to stare at them with inscrutable black eyes

before sailing away.

"He is using the thermals of heated air from the valley for lift,'

Nicholas explained to her. He pointed out along the cliff to an

overhanging buttress on the same level as themselves. "There is one of

their nests." It was a shaggy mound of sticks piled on an inaccessible

ledge. The excrement of the birds that had inhabited it over the ages

had painted the cliff face below with streaks of brilliant white, and

even at this distance they could catch whiffs of rotting offal and

decaying flesh.

All that day they clung to the precipitous track as they eased their way

down that terrible wall. It was late afternoon, and they were only

halfway down, when the trail turned back upon itself once more and they

heard� the rumble of the falls ahead. The sound grew louder and became a

thunderous roar as they moved around the corner of another buttress and

came in full sight of the falls.

The wind created by the torrent tugged at them and forced them to clutch

for handholds. The spray blew around them and wetted their upturned

faces, but the i: Ethiopian guide led them straight on until it seemed

that they must be washed away into the valley still hundreds of feet

below.

Then, miraculously, the waters parted and they stepped behind the great

translucent curtain into a deep recess of moss-covered and gleaming wet

rock, carved from the cliff by the force of water over the aeons. The

only light in this gloomy place was filtered through the waterfall,

green and mysterious like some undersea cavern.

"This is where we sleep tonight," Boris announced, obviously enjoying

their astonishment. He pointed to bundles of firewood piled at the rear

of the cave, and the smoke-blackened wall above the stone hearth. The

muleteers carrying food and supplies down to the priests in the

monastery have used this place for centuries."

As they moved deeper into the cavern, the sound of falling water became

muted to a dull background rumble and the rock underfoot was dry. Once

the servants had lit the fire, it became -a warm and comfortable, not to

say romantic, lodging.

With an old soldier's eye for the most comfortable spot, Nicholas laid

out his sleeping bag in a corner at the back of the cave, and quite

naturally Royan unrolled hers beside his. They were both tired out by

the unusual exertion of climbing down the cliff wall, and after supper

they stretched out in their sleeping bags in companionable silence and

watched the firelight playing on the roof of the cave.

"Just think!" Royan whispered. "Tomorrow we will be retracing the

footsteps of old Taita himself."

"To say nothing of the Virgin Mary,'Nicholas smiled.

"You are a horrid old cynic," she sighed. "And what is more, you

probably snore."

"You are about to find out the hard way," he told her, but she was

asleep before him. Her breathing was gentle and even, and he could just

hear it above the sound of the water. It was a long time since he had

had a lovely woman lying at his side. When he was sure she was deeply

under, he reached across and touched her cheek gently.

"Pleasant dreams, little one," he whispered tenderly.

"You have had a busy day." That was the way he had often bid his younger

daughter sleep.

The muleteers were stirring long before the dawn, and the whole party

was on the path, way again as soon as the light was strong enough to

reveal their footing. When the early sun struck the upper walls of the

cliff face, they were still high enough above the valley floor to have

an aerial view of the terrain.

Nicholas drew Royan aside and they let the rest of the caravan go on

down ahead of them.

He found a place to sit and unrolled the satellite photograph between

them. Picking out the major peaks and features of the scene, they

orientated themselves and began to make some order out of the

cataclysmic landscape that rioted below them.

"We can't see the Abbay river from here," Nicholas pointed out. "It's

still deep in the sub-gorge. We will probably only get our first glimpse

of it from almost directly above."

"If we have identified our present position accurately, then the river

will make two ox'bow bends around that bluff over there."

"Yes, and the confluence of the Dandera river with the Abbay is over

there, below those cliffs." He used his thumb knuckle as a rough scale

measure. "About fifteen miles from here."

"It looks as though the Dandera has changed its course many times over

the centuries.-I can see at least two gullies that look like ancient

river beds." She pointed down: "Mere, and there. They are all choked

with jungle now." She looked crestfallen, "Oh, Nicholas, it is such a

huge and confused area. How are we ever going to find the single

entrance to a tomb hidden in all that?"

"Tomb? What tomb is this?" Boris demanded with interest. He had come

back up the trail to find them. They had not heard his approach, and now

he stood over them.

"What tomb are you talking about?, "Why, the tomb of St. Frumentius, of

course," Nicholas told him smoothly, showing no concern at having been

overheard.

"Isn't the monastery dedicated to the saint?" Royan asked as smoothly,

as she rolled up the photograph.

"Da." He nodded, looking disappointed, as though he expected something

of more interest. "Yes, St. Frumentius.

But they will not let you visit the tomb. They will not let you into the

inner part of the monastery. Only the priests are allowed in there."

He removed his cap and scratched the short, stiff bristles that covered

his scalp. They rasped like wire under his fingernails. "This week is

the ceremony of Timkat, the Blessing of the Tabot. There will be a great

deal of excitement down there. You will find it very interesting, but

you will not be able to enter the Holy of Holies, nor will you be able

to see the actual tomb. I have never met any white man who has seen it."

He squinted up at the sun. "We must get on. It looks close, but it will

take us two more days to reach the Abbay.

It is bad ground down there. A long march, even for a famous dik-dik

hunter." He laughed delightedly at his own joke, and turned away down

the path.

As they approached the bottom of the cliff, the gradient of the trail

smoothed out and the steps became shallower and further apart. The going

became easier and their progress swifter, but the air had changed in

quality and taste. It was no longer cool, bracing mountain air but the

languid, enervating air of the equator, with the smell and taste of the

encroaching jungle.

"Hod' said Royan, shrugging out of the woollen shawl.

"Ten degrees hotter, at least," Nicholas agreed. He pulled his old army

jersey over his head, leaving.his hair in curly disarray. "And we can

expect it to get hotter before we reach the Abbay. We still have to

descend another three thousand feet."

Now the path followed the Dandera river for a while.

Sometimes they were several hundred feet above it, and shortly

afterwards they splashed waist-deep through a ford, hanging on to the

panniers of the mules to keep themselves from being swept away on the

flood.

Then the gorge of the Dandera river was too deep and steep to follow any

longer, as sheer cliffs dropped into dark pools. So they left the river

and followed the track that squirmed like a dying snake amongst eroded

hills and tall red stone bluffs.

A mile or two further downstream they rejoined the river in a different

mood as it rippled through dense forest.

The dangling lianas swept the surface and tree moss brushed their heads

as they passed, straggling and unkempt as the beard of the old priest at

Debra Maryam. Vervet monkeys chattered at them from the treetops and

ducked their heads in wide-eyed outrage at the human intrusion into

these secret places. Once a large animal crashed away through the

undergrowth, and Nicholas glanced across at Boris.

The Russian shook his head, laughing. "No, English, not dik-dik. Only

kudu."

On the hillside above them the kudu paused to look back. He was a large

bull with full twists to his wide corkscrew horns, a magnificent beast

with a maned dewlap and pricked ears shaped like trumpets. He stared at

them with huge, startled eyes. Boris whistled softly and his attitude

changed abruptly.

"Those horns are over fifty inches. They would get a place right at the

top of Rowland Ward." He was referring to the register of big game which

was the Bible of the trophy hunter. "Don't you want to take him,

English?" He ran to the nearest mule and pulled the Rigby rifle from its

slip case, then ran back and offered it to Nicholas.

"Let him go." Nicholas shook his head. "Only dik-dik for me."

With a flirt of his white powder-puff tail, the bull was gone over the

ridge. Boris shook his head disgustedly and spat into the river.

"Why did he try to insist that you kill it?" Royan demanded as they went

on.

"A photograph of a record pair of horns like that would look good on his

advertising brochure. Suck in them clients."

All day they followed the winding trail, and in the late afternoon they

camped in a clearing above the river where it was evident that other

caravans had camped many times before them. It seemed obvious that this

road was divided into time-honoured stages: every traveller took three

full days from the top of the falls to reach the monastery, and they all

camped at the same sites.

"Sorry. No shower here," Boris told his clients. "If you want to wash,

there is a safe pool around the first bend upstream."

Royan looked appealingly at Nicholas, "I am so tired and sweaty. Please

won't you stand guard for me, where you can hear me call if I need you?"

So he lay on the mossy bank just below the bend, out of sight but close

enough to hear her splash and squeal at the cold embrace of the water.

Once when he turned his head he realized that the current must have

drifted her downstream, for through the trees he caught a flash of a

naked back, and the curve of a buttock, creamy and glistening wet with

water. He looked away again guiltily, but he was startled by the

intensity of his physical arousal brought on by that brief glimpse of

lambent skin dappled with the late sunlight through the trees.

When she came downstream along the bank, singing softly, towelling her

wet hair, she called to him, "Your turn.

Do you want me to stand guard for you?"

"I am a big boy now." He shook his head, but as she passed him he

noticed the saucy glint in her eye, and he ly if she had been fully

aware of just how wondered sudden far downstream she had swum, and how

much he had seen.

He was titillated by the thought.

He went upstream to the pool alone, and as he stripped he looked down at

himself and felt guilty when he saw how she had moved him- Since

Rosalind, no other woman had had this effect on him.

"A nice cold plunge won't do you any harm, my lad." He threw his jeans

over a bush, and dived into the pool.

sat at the campfire after the evening meal, olas looked up suddenly and

cocked his

"Am I hearing things?" he wondered.

"No," Tessay laughed. "That is singing you hear. The priests from the

monastery are coming to welcome us."

They saw the torches then, winding up the hillside in procession,

flickering through the trees as they approached the camp. The muleteers

and the servants crowded forward, singing and clapping rhythmically to

greet the deputation from the monastery.

The deep male voices soared and then dropped away, almost to a whisper,

then rose again in descant, haunting and beautiful, the sound of Africa

in the night. It drove icy thrills down Nicholas's spine, so that he

shivered involuntarily.

Then they saw the white robes of the priests, flitting like moths in the

torchlight as they wound along the trail The camp servants fell on their

knees as the first of the holy men entered the perimeter of the camp.

They were young acolytes, bare-headed and barefooted. They were followed

by the monks, wearing long robes and tall turbans.

Their ranks wheeled aside and opened up, an honour guard for the phalanx

of deacons and fully ordained priests in their gaudy embroidered robes

and vestments.

Each of them carried a heavy Coptic cross, set on a tall staff and

intricately chased and worked innative silver.

They in turn opened into two ranks, still chanting, and allowed the

canopied palanquin to be carried forward by four hefty young acolytes

and placed in the centre of the camp. The crimson and yellow silk

curtains shimmered in the light of the camp lanterns and the torches of

the procession.

"We must go forward to welcome the abbot," Boris told Nicholas in a

stage whisper. "His name is Jali Hora." As they stepped up to the

litter, the curtains were drawn dramatically aside and a tall figure

stepped down to earth.

Both Tessay and Royan sank to their knees respectfully, and clasped

their hands at the breast. However, Nicholas and Boris remained on their

feet, and Nicholas inspected the abbot with interest.

jali Hora was skeletally thin. Beneath the skirts of his robe his legs

were like sticks of cured tobacco, tar'black and twisted, with

desiccated sinew and stringy muscle. His robe was green and gold, worked

with gold thread that glittered in the firelight. On his head he wore a

tall hat with a flat top embroidered with a pattern of crosses and

stars.

The abbot's face -was dead sooty black, the skin wrinkled and riven with

the deep etchings of age. There were few teeth behind his puckered lips,

and even those were yellowed and askew. His beard was startling silver

white, breaking like storm surf on the old bones of his jaw.

One eye was opaque blue and blinded with tropical ophthalmia, but the

other eye glistened like that of a hunting leopard.

He began to speak in a high, quavering voice. "A blessing," Boris warned

Nicholas, and they both bowed their heads respectfully. The assembled

priests came in with the chanted response each time the old man paused.

When at last he had finished giving his blessing jali Hora made the sign

of the cross in four directions, rotating slowly towards each point of

the compass, while two altar boys swung their silver censers vigorously,

deluging the night with pungent clouds of incense smoke.

After the blessing the two women came forward to kneel before the abbot.

He stooped over them and struck them lightly on each cheek with his

silver cross, chanting a falsetto blessing over them.

"They say the old man is over a hundred years old," Boris whispered to

Nicholas.

Two white-robed debteras brought forward a stool of African ebony, so

beautifully carved that Nicholas eyed it acquisitively. He guessed that

it was probably centuries old, and would have made a handsome addition

to the museum collection. The two debteras took Jah Hora's elbows and

gently seated him on the stool. Then the rest of the company sank to the

earth in a congregation around him, their black faces lifted towards him

attentively.

Tessay sat at his feet, and when her husband spoke she translated

quietly for him into Amharic. "It is a great pleasure and an honour for

me to greet you again, Holy Father."

The old man nodded, and Boris went on, "I have brought an English

nobleman of royal blood to, visit the monastery of St. Frumentius."

"I say, steady on, old boy!, Nicholas protested, but all the

congregation studied him with expectant interest.

"What do I do now?" he asked Boris out of the corner of his mouth.

"What do You think he came all this way for?" Boris grinned maliciously.

"He wants a gift. Money,'

"Maria Theresa dollars?" he enquired, referring to the centuries-old

traditional currency of Ethiopia, "Not necessarily. Times have changed.

jali Hora will be happy to take Yankee green-backs."

"How much?"

"You are a nobleman of royal blood. You will be hunting in his valley.

Five hundred dollars at least."

Nicholas winced and went to fetch his bag from one of the mule panniers.

When he came back he bowed to the abbot and placed the sheaf of currency

in his outstretched, pink-palmed claw. The abbot smiled, exposing the

yellow stumps of his teeth, and spoke briefly.

Tessay translated for him, "He says, "Welcome to the monastery of St.

Frumentius and the season of Timkat." He wishes you good hunting on the

banks of the Abbay river."

Immediately the solemn mood of the devout company changed. They broke

out in smiles and laughter, and the abbot looked expectantly at Boris.

"The holy abbot says it has been a thirsty journey," Tessay translated.

"The old devil loves his brandy," Boris explained, and shouted to the

camp butler. With some ceremony a bottle of brandy was brought and

placed on the camp table in front of the abbot, shoulder to shoulder

with the bottle of vodka in front of Boris. They toasted each other, and

the abbot tossed back a dram that made his good eye weep with tears, and

his voice husky as he directed a question at Royan.

"He asks you, Woizero Royan, where do you come from, daughter, that you

follow the true path of Christ the Saviour of man?"

"I am an Egyptian, of the old religion," Royan replied.

The abbot and all his priests nodded and beamed with approval.

"We are all brothers and sisters in Christ, the Egyptians and the

Ethiopians," the abbot told her. "Even the word Coptic derives from the

Greek for Egyptian. For over sixteen hundred years the Abuna, the

bishop, of Ethiopia was always appointed by the Patriarch in Cairo. Only

the Emperor Haile Selassie changed that in 1959, but we still follow the

true road to Christ. You are welcome, my daughter."

His debtera poured another dram of brandy and the old man swallowed it

at a gulp. Even Boris looked impressed, "Where does the skinny old black

tortoise put it?" he wondered aloud. Tessay did not translate, but she

lowered her eyes and the hurt she felt for the insult to the holy man

showed on her madonna features.

Jah Hora turned to Nicholas. "He wants to know what animals you have

come to hunt here in his valley," Tessay told him.

Nicholas steeled himself and then replied carefully.

There was a long moment of disbelief, then the abbot cackled happily and

the assembled priests shouted with incredulous mirth.

"A dik-dik! You have come to hunt a dikdik! But there is no meat on an

animal that size."

Nicholas let them get over the first shock, and then produced a

photograph of the mounted specimen of Moquoda harPerU from the museum.

He placed it on the table in front of Jah Hora.

"This is no ordinary dik-dik. It is a holy dik-dik," he told them in

portentous tones, nodding at Tessay for the translation. "Let me recount

the legend." They were silenced by the prospect of a good story with

religious overtones. Even the abbot arrested the glass on its way to his

lips and replaced it on the table. His one eye swivelled from the

photograph to Nicholas's face.

"When John the Baptist was dying of starvation in the desert," Nicholas

began, and a few of the priests crossed themselves at the mention of the

saint's name, "he had been thirty days and thirty nights without a

morsel passing his lips-' Nicholas spun out the yarn for a while,

dwellin on the extremities of hunger endured by the saint, details

savoured by his audience who liked their holy men to suffer in the name

of righteousness.

"In the end the Lord took mercy on his servant and placed a small

antelope in a thicket of acacia, held fast by the thorns. He said unto

the saint: "I have prepared a meal for you that you shall not die. Take

of this meat and eat."

Where John the Baptist touched the small creature, the marks of his

thumb and fingers were imprinted upon its back for all time, and all

generations to come." They were silent and impressed.

Nicholas passed the photograph to the abbot. "See the prints of the

saint's fingers upon it."

The old man studied the print avidly, holding it up to his single eye,

and at last he exclaimed, "It is true. The marks of the saint's fingers

are clear to see."

He passed it to his deacons. Encouraged by the abbot's endorsement, they

exclaimed and wondered over the picture of the insignificant creature in

its coat of striped fur'.

"Have any of your men ever laid eyes upon one of these animals?"

Nicholas demanded, and one after the other they shook their heads. The

photograph completed the circle and was passed to the rank of squatting

acolytes.

Suddenly one of them leaped to his feet prancing, brandishing the

photograph and gibbering with excitement.

"I have seen this holy creature! With my very own eyes, I have seen it."

He was a young boy, barely adolescent.

There were cries of derision and disbelief from the others. One of them

snatched the print from the boy's grasp and waved it out of his reach,

taunting him with it.

"The child is soft in the head, and often possessed by demons and

fits,'Jali Hora explained sorrowfully. "Take no notice of him, poor

Tamre!'

Tamre's eyes were wild as he ran down the rank of acolytes, trying

desperately to recapture the photograph.

But they passed it back and forth, keeping it just out of his reach,

teasing him and jeering at his antics.

Nicholas rose to his feet to intervene. He found this taunting of a

weak'minded lad offensive, but at that moment something tripped in the

boy's mind, and he fell to the ground as though struck down by a club.

His back arched and his limbs twitched and jerked uncontrollably, his

eyes rolled back into his skull until only the whites showed, and white

froth creamed on his lips that were drawn back in a grinning rictus.

Before Nicholas could go to him, four of his peers picked him up bodily

and carried him away. Their laughter dwindled into the night. The others

acted as though this was nothing out of the ordinary, and Jali Hora

nodded to his debtera to refill his glass.

it was late when at last Jah Hora took his leave and was helped into the

palanquin by his deacons. He took the remains of the brandy with him,

clutching the halfempty bottle in one clawed hand and tossing out

benedictions with the other.

"You made a good impression, Milord English," Boris told him. "He liked

your story of John the Baptist, but he liked your money even more."

When they set out the next morning, the path followed the river for a

while. But within a mile the waters quickened their pace, and then raced

through the narrow opening between high red cliffs and plunged over

another waterfall.

Nicholas left the welltrodden trail and went down to the brink of the

falls. He looked down two hundred feet into a deep cleft in the rock,

only just wide enough to allow the angry river to squeeze through. He

could have thrown a stone across the gap. There was no path nor foothold

in that chasm, and he turned back and rejoined the rest of the caravan

as it detoured away from the river and into another thickly wooded

valley.

"This was probably once the course of the Dandera river, before it cut a

fresh bed for itself through the chasm." Royan pointed to the high

ground on each side of the path, and then to the water-worn boulders

that littered the trail.

"I think you are right," Nicholas agreed. These cliffs seem to be an

intrusion of limestone through the basalt and sandstone. The whole area

has been severely faulted and cut up by erosion and the ever-changing

river. You can be certain that those limestone cliffs are riddled with

caves and springs."

Now the trail descended rapidly towards the Blue Nile, falling away

almost fifteen hundred feet in altitude' in the last few miles. The

sides of the valley were heavily covered with vegetation and at many

places small springs of water oozed from the limestone and trickled down

the old river bed.

The heat built up steadily as they went down, and soon even Royan's

khaki shirt was stained with dark patches of sweat between her shoulder

blades.

At one stage a freshet of clear water gushed from an area of dense bush

high up the hillside and swelled the stream into a small river. Then

they turned a corner of the valley and found that they and the stream

had rejoined the main flow of the Dandera river. Looking back up the

gorge, they could see where the river had emerged from the chasm through

a narrow archway in the cliff. The rock surrounding the cleft was a

peculiar pink in colour, smooth and polished, folded back upon itself,

so that it resembled the mucous membrane on the inside of a pair of

human lips.

The rock -was of such an unusual colour and texture that they were both

struck by it. They turned aside to study it while the mules went on

downwards, the clatter of their receding hoofbeats and the voices of the

men echoing and reverberating weirdly in this confined and unearthly

place.

"It looks like some monstrous gargoyle, gushing water through its

mouth," Royan whispered, looking up at the cleft and at those strange

rock formations. "I can imagine how the ancient Egyptians, led by Taita

and Prince Memnon, would have been moved if they had ever reached this

place. &at mystical connotations would they have attributed to such a

natural phenomenon!'

Nicholas was silent, studying her face. Her eyes were dark with awe, and

her expression solemn. In this setting she reminded him strongly of a

portrait that he had in his collection at Quenton Park, It was a

fragment of a fresco from the Valley of the Kings, depicting a

Ramessidian princess.

Why should that surprise you?" he asked himself. "The very same blood

runs in her veins."

She turned to face him, "Give me hope, Nicky. Tell me that I have not

dreamed all this. Tell me that we are going to find what we are looking

for, and that we are going to vindicate Duraid's death."

Her face was upturned to his, and it seemed to glow under the light dew

of perspiration and the strength of her commitment. He was seized by an

almost overwhelming urge to take her up in his arms and kiss those

moistly parted lips, but instead he turned away and started down the

trail.

He dared not look back at her until he had himself fully under control.

After a while he heard her quick, light tread on the rock behind him.

They went on down in silence, and he was so preoccupied that he was

unprepared for the sudden stunning vista that opened abruptly before

them.

They stood high on a ledge above the sub-gorge of the Nile. Below them

was a mighty cauldron of red rock five hundred feet deep. The main flow

of the legendary river plunged in a green torrent into the shadowy

abyss. It was so deep that the sunlight did not reach down into it.

Beside them the sparser waters of the Dandera river took the same leap,

falling white as an egret's feather, twisting and blowing in the false

wind of the gorge. In the depths the waters mingled, churning and

roiling together in a welter of foam, turning upon themselves like a

great wheel, weighty and viscous as oil, until at last they found the

exit gorge and tore away down it with irresistible force and power.

"You sailed through that in a boat?"Royan asked, with awe in her voice.

"We were young and foolish, then,'Nicholas said with a sad little smile

that was haunted by old memories.

They were silent for a long while. Then RQyan said softly, "One can see

how this would have stopped Taita and his prince as they came upstream."

She looked about her, and then pointed down the gorge towards the west.

"They certainly could never have come up the sub-gorge itself. They must

have followed the line of the top of the cliffs, right along here where

we are standing." Her voice took on an edge of excitement at the

thought.

"Unless they came up the other side of the river," Nicholas suggested to

tease her, and her face fell.

"I hadn't thought of that. Of course it's possible. How would we ever

cross over, if we find no evidence on this side?

"Let's consider that only when it's forced upon us. We have enough to

contend with as it is, without looking for more hardships."

Again they were silent, both of them considering the magnitude and

uncertainty of the task that they had taken on. Then Royan roused

herself.

"Where is the monastery? I can see no sign of it."

"It's in the cliff right under our feet."

"Will we camp down there?"

"I doubt it. Let's catch up with Boris and find out what he intends to

do."

They followed the trail along the edge of the cauldron, and came up with

the mule caravan at a spot where the track forked. One branch turned

away from the river into a wooded depression, while the other still

hugged the rimrock.

Boris was waiting for them, and he indicated the track that led away

from the river. "There is a good campsite up there in the trees where I

stayed last time I hunted down here."

There were several tall wild fig trees throwing shade across this glade,

and a spring of fresh water at the head.

To minimize the loads, Boris had not carried tents down into the gorge.

So as soon as the mules were unloaded he set his men to building three

small thatched huts for their accommodation, and to digging a pit

latrine well away from the spring.

While this work was going on, Nicholas beckoned to Royan and Tessay, and

the three of them set off to explore the monastery. Where the trail

forked, Tessay led them along the path that skirted the cliff top, and

soon they came to a broad rock staircase that descended the cliff face.

There was a party of white-robed monks coming UP the stone stairway, and

Tessay stopped briefly to chat to them. As they went on she told

Nicholas and Royan, "Today is Katera, the eve of the festival of Timkat,

which begins tomorrow. They are very excited. It is one of the major

events of the religious year."

"What does the festival celebrate?" Royan asked. "It is not part of the

Church calendar in Egypt."

"It's the Ethiopian Epiphany, celebrating the baptis� of Christ,' Tessay

explained. "During the ceremony the tabot will be taken down to the

river to be rededicated and revitalized, and the acolytes will receive

baptism, as did Jesus Christ at the hand of the Baptist."

They followed the staircase down the sheer cliff face.

The treads of the steps had been dished by the passage of bare feet over

the centuries. Down they went, with the great cauldron of the Nile

boiling and hissing and steaming with spray hundreds of feet below them.

Suddenly they came out on to a wide terrace that had been hewn by man's

hand from the living rock. The red rock overhung it, forming a roof to

the cloister with arches of stone left in place by the ancient builders

to support it.

The interior wall of the long covered terrace was riddled with the

entrances to the catacombs beyond. Over the ages the cliff face had been

mined and burrowed to form the halls and cells, the vestibules, churches

and shrines of the monastic community which had inhabited them for well

over a thousand years.

There were groups of monks seated along the length of the terrace. Some

of them were listening to one of the deacons reading aloud from an

illuminated copy of the scriptures.

"So many of them are illiterate," Tessay sighed. "The Bible must be read

and explained to even the monks, for most of them are unable to read it

for themselves."

"This was what the Church of Constantine was like, the Church of

Byzantium," Nicholas pointed out quietly.

"It remains the Church of cross and book, of elaborate and sumptuous

ritual in a predominantly illiterate world today." As they wandered

slowly down the cloister they passed other seated groups who, under the

direction of a precentor, were chanting and singing the Amharic psalms

and hymns.

>From the interior of the cells and caves there came the IC hum of

voices raised in prayer or supplication, and the air was thick with the

smell of human occupation that had taken place over hundreds of years.

It was the smell of wood smoke and incense, of stale food and excrement,

of sweat and piety, of suffering and of sickness. Amongst the groups of

monks were the pilgrims who had made the journey, or been carried by

their relatives, down into the gorge to make petition to the saint, or

to seek from him a cure for their disease and suffering.

There were blind children weeping in their mothers' arms, and lepers

with the flesh rotting and falling from their bones, and still others in

the coma of sleeping sickness or some other terrible tropical

affliction. Their whines and moans of agony blended with the chanting of

the monks, and with the distant clamour of the Nile as it cascaded into

the cauldron.

They came at last to the entrance to the cavern cathedral of St.

Frumentius. It was a circular opening like the mouth of a fish, but the

surrounds of the portals were painted with a dense border of stars and

crosses, and of saintly heads. The portraits were primitive, and

rendered in ochre and soft earthy tones that were all the more appealing

for their childlike simplicity. The eyes of the saints were huge and

outlined in charcoal, their expressions tranquil and benign.

A deacon in a grubby green velvet robe guarded the entrance, but when

Tessay spoke to him he smiled and nodded and gestured for them to enter.

The lintel was low and Nicholas had to duck his head to pass under it,

but on the far side he raised it again to look about him in amazement.

The roof of the cavern was so high that it was lost in the gloom. The

rock walls -were covered with murals, a celestial host of angels and

archangels who flickered and wavered in the light of the candles and oil

lamps. They were partially obscured by the long tapestry banners that

hung down the walls, grimy with incense soot, their fringes frayed and

tattered. On one of these St. Michael rode a prancing white horse, on

another the Virgin knelt at the foot of the cross, while above her the

pate body of Christ bled from the wound of the Roman spear in his side.

This was the outer nave of the church. In the far wall ". the doorway to

the middle chamber was guarded by a massive pair of wooden doors that

stood open. The three of them crossed the stone floor, picking their way

between the kneeling petitioners and pilgrims in their rags and tatters,

in their misery and their religious ecstasy. In the feeble light of the

lamps and the blue haze of incense smoke they seemed lost souls

languishing eternally in the outer darkness of purgatory.

The visitors reached the set of three stone steps that led up to the

inner doors, but their way was blocked at the threshold by two robed

deacons in tall, flat-topped hats.

One of these addressed Tessay sternly.

"They will not even let us enter the qiddist, the middle chamber,'

Tessay told them regretfully. "Beyond that lies the maqdas, the Holy of

Holies." A

They peered past the guards, and in the gloom of the qiddist could just

make out the door to the inner sanctum.

"Only the ordained priests are allowed to enter the maqdas, for it

contains the tabot and the entrance to the tomb of the saint."

Disappointed and frustrated, they made their way out of the cavern and

back along the terrace. They ate their dinner under a sky full of stars.

The air was still stiflingly hot, and clouds of mosquitoes hovered just

out of range of the repellents with which they had all smeared their

exposed skin.

"And so, English, I have got you where you wanted to be. Now, how are

you going to find this animal that you have come so far to hunt?" The

vodka was making Boris belligerent again.

"At first light I want you to send out your trackers to work the country

downstream from here," Nicholas told him. "Dik-dik are usually active in

the early morning, and again late in the afternoon."

"You are teaching your grandpapa to skin a cat," said Boris,� angling

the metaphor. He poured himself another vodka.

"Tell them to check for spoor." Nicholas deliberately laboured his

point. "I imagine that the tracks of the striped variety will look very

similar to those of the common dikdik. If they find indications, then

they must sit quietly along the edge of the thickest patches of bush and

watch for any movement of the animals. Dik-dik are very territorial.

They won't stray far from their own turf."

"Da! Da! I will tell them. But what will you do? Will you spend the day

in camp with the ladies, English?" He grinned slyly. "If you are lucky,

you may soon not need separate huts?" He guffawed at his own wit,.and

Tessay , looked distressed and stood up with the excuse that she was

going to the kitchen hut to supervise the chef.

Nicholas ignored the boorish pleasantry. "Royan and I will work the

river in bush along the banks of the Dandera river. It looked very

promising habitat for dik-dik. Warn your people to keep clear of the

river. I don't want the game disturbed."

They left camp the next morning in the glimmer of the dawn. Nicholas

carried the Rigby rifle and a light day pack, and led Royan along the

bank of the Dandera. They moved slowly, stopping every dozen paces to

look and listen. The thickets were alive with the sounds and movements

of the small mammals and birds.

"The Ethiopians do not have a hunting tradition, and I imagine the monks

never disturb the wildlife here in the gorge." He pointed to the tracks

of a small antelope in the moist earth of the bank. "Bushbuck," he told

her. "Menelik's bushbuck. Unique to this part of the world. A much

sought-after trophy."

"Do you really expect to find your great-grandfather's dik-dik?" she

asked. "You seemed so determined when you discussed it with Boris."

"Of course not," he grinned. "I think the old man made it up. It should

rather have been named Harper's chimera.

It probably was the skin of a striped mongoose that he used after all.

We Harpers didn't get on in the world by always sticking to the literal

truth."

They paused to watch a Tacazze suribird fluttering over a bunch of

yellow blossoms high above them� in the canopy of the river in forest.

The tiny bird's plumage sparkled like a tiara of emeralds.

"Still, it gives us a wonderful excuse to fossick about in the bushes."

He glanced back to make certain that they were well clear of the camp,

and then gestured for her to sit beside him on a fallen treetrunk. "So,

let's get it clear in our minds what we are looking for. You tell me."

"We are looking for the remains of a funerary temple, or the ruins of

the necropolis where the workers lived while they were excavating

Pharaoh Mamose's tomb."

"Any sort of masonry or stonework," he agreed, especially Ily some sort

of column or monument."

Taita's stone testament," se noc "It's engraved or chiselled with

hieroglyphics. Probably badly weathered, fallen over, covered with

vegetation - I don't know. Anything at all. We are fishing blind in dark

waters."

"Well, why are we still sitting here? Let's start fishing." In the

middle of the morning Nicholas found the tracks of a dik-dik along the

river bank. They took up a position against the hole of one of the big

trees and sat quietly for a while in the shadows of the forest, until at

last they were rewarded by a glimpse of one of the tiny creatures. It

passed close to where they sat, wriggling its trunklike proboscis,

stepping daintily on its fill hooves, nipping a leaf from a low-hanging

branch, and munching it busily. However, its coat was a uniform drab

grey, unrelieved by stripes of any kind.

When it disappeared into the undergrowth, Nicholas stood up. "No luck.

Common variety," he whispered. "Let's get on."

A little after noon they reached the spot where the river issued from

between the pink flesh-coloured cliffs of the chasm. They explored these

as far as they were able before their way was blocked by the cliffs. The

rock fell straight into the flood, and there was no foothold at the

water's edge that would allow them to penetrate further.

They retreated downstream, and crossed to the far bank over a primitive

suspension bridge of lianas and hairy flax rope that Nicholas guessed

had been built by the monks from the monastery. Once again they tried to

push on into the chasm. Nicholas even attempted to wade around of pink

rock that barred the way, around the first bus but the current was too

strong and threatened to sweep him off his feet. He was forced to

abandon the attempt.

"If we can't get through there, then it's highly unlikely that Taita and

his workmen would have done so."

They went back as far as the hanging bridge and found a shady place

close to the water to eat the lunch that Tessay had packed for them. The

heat in the middle of the day was stupefying. Royan wet her cotton

neckerchief in the river and dabbed at her face as she lay beside him.

Nicholas lay on his back and studied every inch of the pink cliffs

through his binoculars. He was looking for any cleft or opening in their

smooth polished surfaces.

He spoke without lowering the binoculars. "Reading River God, it looks

as if Taita actually enlisted help to switch the bodies of Tanus, Great

Lion of Egypt, and the Pharaoh himself." He lowered the glasses and

looked at Royan. "I find that puzzling, for it would have been an

outrageous thing to do in terms of his period and belief Is that a fair

translation of the scrolls? Did Taita truly switch the bodies?"

She laughed and rolled over to face him. "Your old chum Wilbur has an

overheated imagination. The only basis for that whole bit of

story-telling is a single line in the scrolls. "To me he was more a king

than ever Pharaoh� been."' She rolled on to her back again. "That is a

good example of my objection to the book. He mixes fact and fantasy into

an inextricable stew. As far as I know and believe, Tanus rests in his

own tomb and the Pharaoh in his., "Pity!" Nicholas sighed and stuffed

the book back in his pack. "It was a romantic little touch that I

enjoyed." He glanced at his wrist-watch and stood up. "Come on, I want

to do a recon down the other spur of the valley. I spotted some

interesting ground up there whilst we were on the approach march

yesterday."

It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the camp, and Tessay

hurried out of her kitchen hut to greet them.

"I have been waiting for you to return. We have had an interesting

invitation from Jali Hora, the abbot. He has invited us to a banquet in

the monastery to celebrate Kateral the eve of Timkat. The servants have

set up your, shower, and the water is hot. There is just time for you to

change before we go down to the monastery."

The abbot sent a party of young acolytes to escort them to the

banqueting hall. These IMC_ , young men arrived in the short African

twilight, carrying torches to light the way.

Royan recognized one of these as Tamre, the epileptic boy. When she

singled him out for her warmest smile, he came forward shyly and offered

her a bouquet of wild flowers that he had picked from beside the river.

She was unprepared for this courtesy, and without thinking she thanked

him in Arabic.

"Shukran."

"Taffa"," the boy replied immediately, using the correct gender of the

response, and in an accent that told her instantly that he was fluent in

her language.

"How do you speak Arabic so well?" she asked, intrigued.

The boy hung his head with embarrassment and mumbled, "My mother is from

Massawa, on the Red Sea. It is the language of my childhood., When they

set off for the monastery, the boy monk followed Royan like a puppy.

Once more they descended the stairway down the cliff and came out on to

the torchlit terrace. The narrow cloisters were packed with humanity,

and as they made their way through the press, with the honour guard of

acolytes clearing a way for them, black faces called Amharic greetings

and black hands reached out to touch them.

They stooped through the low entrance to the outer nave of the

cathedral. The chamber was lit with oil lamps an torches, so that the

murals of saints and angels danced in the uncertain light. The stone

floor was covered with a carpet of freshly cut reeds and rushes, their

sweet herbal perfume leavening the heavy, smoky air. It seemed that the

entire brotherhood of monks were seated cross-legged on this spongy

carpet. They greeted the entrance of the little party of ferengi with

cries of welcome and shouts of benediction. Beside each seated figure

stood a flask of tej, the honey mead of the country. It was clear from

the happy, sweaty faces that the flasks had already done good service.

The visitors were led forward to a spot that had been left clear for

them directly in front of the wooden doors to the qkUst, the middle

chamber. Their escort urged them to sit and make themselves comfortable

in this space. As soon as they were settled, another party of acolytes

came in from the terrace bearing flasks of tej, and knelt to place a

separate pottery flask in front of each of them.

Tessay leaned across to whisper, "Better you let me sample this tej

before you try it. The strength and colour and taste vary in every place

that it is served, and some of it is ferocious." She raised her flask

and drank directly from the elongated neck. When she lowered the flask

she smiled, "This is a good brew. If you are careful, you will be all

right with it., The monks seated around them were urging them to drink,

and Nicholas raised his flask. The monks clapped and laughed as he

tasted the liquor. It was light and pleasant, with a strong bouquet of

wild honey. "Not bad!" he gave his opinion, but Tessay warned him,

"Later they will almost certainly offer you katikala. Be very careful of

that! It is distilled from fermented grain and it will take your head

off at the shoulders."

The monks were concentrating their hospitality on Royan now. The fac t

that she was a Coptic Christian, a true believer, had impressed them. It

was obvious also that her beauty had not gone entirely unremarked by

this company of holy and celibate men.

Nicholas leaned close to her, and whispered, "You will have to fake it

for their benefit. Hold it up to your lips and pretend to swallow, or

they will not leave you in peace."

As she lifted the&ask the monks hooted with delight and saluted her with

their own upraised flasks. She lowered the flask again, and whispered to

Nicholas.

"It's delicious. It tastes of honey."

"You broke your vow of abstinence!" he chided her laughing. "Did you?"

"Just a drop," she admitted, "and anyway I never made any vows."

The acolytes knelt in turn in front of each guest, offering them a bowl

of hot water in which to wash their right hands in preparation for the

feast.

Suddenly there was the sound of music and drums, and a band of musicians

filed through the open doors of the qiddist. They took up their

positions along the side walls of the chamber, while the congregation

craned expectantly to peer into its dim interior.

At last Jali Hora, the ancient abbot, appeared at the head of the steps.

He wore a full-length robe of crimson satin, with a gold

thread-embroidered stole around his shoulders. On his head was a massive

crown. Though it glittered like gold, Nicholas knew that it was gilt

brass, and the multi'coloured stones with- which it was set were just as

certainly glass and paste.

JahbHora raised his crook, which was surmounted by an ornate silver

cross, and a weighty silence fell upon the company.

"Now he will say the grace," Tessay told them, and bowedh'er head.

JahHora's grace was fervent and lengthy, his reedy falsetto punctuated

by devout responses from the monks.

When at last he came to the end, two splendidly robed debteras helped

Jali Hora down the stairs and seated him on his carved jimmera stool at

the head of the circle of senior deacons and priests.

The religious mood of the monks changed to one of festive bonhomie as a

procession of acolytes entered from the terrace, each of them bearing

upon his head a flat woven reed basket the size of a wagon wheel. They

placed one of these in the centre of each circle of guests.

Then at a signal from JahHora, acting in unison they whipped the lid off

each basket. A jovial cheer went up from the monks, for each basket

contained a shallow brass bowl that was filled from rim to rim with

round sheets of the flat grey unleavened iniera bread.

Two acolytes staggered in from the terrace, barely able to carry between

them a steaming brass pot filled with gallons of wat, a spicy stew of

fat mutton. Over each of the bowls of injera bread they tipped the great

pot and slopped gouts of the runny red-brown wat, the surface glistening

with hot grease.

The assembly fell on the food voraciously. They tore off wads of injera

and scooped up the mess of wat with it, and then stuffed the parcel into

their open mouths, which remained open as they chewed. They washed it

down with long swallows from the flasks, before wrapping themselves

another parcel of running wat. Soon every one of them was greasy to the

elbow and their chins were smeared thickly, as they chewed and drank and

shouted with laughter.

The serving acolytes dumped thick cakes of another type of injera beside

each guest. These were stiffer and less yeasty in taste, friable and

crumbling, unlike the latex rubber consistency of the thin grey sheets

of the first kind.

Nicholas and Royan tried to show their appreciation of the food without

coating themselves with layers of it as the oth _rs were doing. Despite

its appearance the wat was� really rather tasty, and the dry yellow

injera helped to cut the grease.

The communal brass bowls were emptied in remarkably short order. Only

the churned up mess of bread and grease remained when the acolytes came

tottering in under the weight of another set of pots, this time filled

to overflowing with curried chicken wat. This was splashed into the

bowls on top of the remains of the mutton, and again the monks had at

it.

While they gobbled up the chicken, the tej flasks were replenished and

the monks became more raucous.

"I don't think I can take much more of this," Royan told Nicholas

queasily.

"Close your eyes and think of England," he advised her.

"You are the star of the evening. They aren't going to let you escape."

As soon as the chicken was eaten, the servers were back with fresh pots,

this time brimming with fiery beef wat. They dumped this on the remnants

of both the mutton and the chicken.

The monk in the circle opposite Royan emptied his flask, and when an

acolyte tried to refill it, he waved the lad away with a shout of,

"Katikala!'

The -cry was taken up by the other monks. "Katikala!

Katikalar The acolytes hurried out and returned with dozens of bottles

of the gin-clear liquor and brass bowls the size of tea cups.

"This is the stuff to be careful of," Tessay told them.

Surreptitiously both Nicholas and Royan were able to dribble the

contents of their bowls into the mat of reeds on which they were

sitting, but the monks guzzled theirs down greedily.

"Boris is getting his share," Nicholas remarked to Royan. The Russian

was red-faced and sweating, grinnin 9 like an idiot as he downed another

bowlful.

Enlivened by the katikala the monks started playing a game. One of them

would wrap a packet of beef wat with a sheet of injera, and then, as it

dripped fat from his poised right hand, he would turn to the monk

beside. The victim would open his mouth until his jaws were at full

stretch, and the packet would be stuffed into it by his considerate

neighbour. The morsel was, of course, as large as a human gape could

possibly accommodate, and in order to engulf it the victim had to risk

death by asphyxiation.

The rules of the game seemed to be that he was not allowed to use his

hands to get it into his own mouth, neither should he dribble down the

front of his robe, nor splutter gravy over those seated near to him. His

contortions, together with his gulping and choking and gasping for air,

were the source of uncontrollable hilarity. When at last he succeeded in

getting it down, a brass bowl of katikala was held to his lips as a

reward. He was expected to send the contents in the same direction as

the parcel of injera.

Jali Hora, by now warmed with tej and kadkala, lurched to his feet. In

his right hand he held aloft a streaming parcel of injera. As he began

an unsteady progress across the chamber, with his shiny crown awry, they

did not at first realize his intentions. The entire company'watched him

with interest.

Then suddenly Royan stiffened and whispered with horror, "No! Please,

no. Save me, Nicky. Don't let this happen to me."

"This is the price you pay for being the leading lady," he told her.

Jali Hora was making his rather erratic way towards where she sat. The

gravy from the morsel he carried for her was trickling down his forearm

and dripping from his elbow.

The band standing along the side wall struck up a lively air. As the

abbot came to a halt in front of Royan, rocking on his suspension like

an ancien " carriage, they fiddled and fifed and the drummers broke out

in a frenzy.

The abbot presented his gift, and with one last despairing glance at

Nicholas Royan faced the inevitable. She closed her eyes and opened her

mouth.

To roars of encouragement and the urgings of LIFE and drum, she

struggled and chewed. Her face turned rosy and her eyes watered. At one

point Nicholas thought she would admit defeat and spit it out on to the

reed-covered have to floor. But slowly and courageously, a bit at a

time, she forced it down and then fell back exhausted.

Her audience, clapping and hooting loved every moment of it. The abbot

sank stiffly to his knees in front of her and embraced her, almost

losing his crown in the ess. Then without relinquishing his embrace proc

he made himself a place beside her.

"It looks as though you have made another conquest," Nicholas told her

dryly. "I think he will be on your lap at moment, if you don't duck and

run." any Royan reacted swiftly. She reached across and grabbed a bottle

of kadkala, and a bowl which she filled to the brim.

"Drink it up, Pops!" she told him, and held the bowl to his lips. Jab

Hora accepted the challenge, but he had to release her to drink from her

hand.

Suddenly Royan started so violently that she spilled what was left in

the bowl down the old man's robe. The blood drained from her face and

she began to tremble as though in a high fever as she stared at Jab

Hora's crown, which had slipped forward over his eyes.

What is it?" Nicholas demanded quietly but urgently, and he reached

across to steady her with a hand on her arm. Nobody else in the chamber

had noticed her distress, but he was fully attuned to her moods by now.

Still staring ashen-faced at the crown, she dropped the bowl and reached

down and grasped his wrist. He was startled by her strength. Her grip

was painful,,and he saw that she had driven her nails into his flesh so

hard that she had broken the skin.

"Look at his crown! The jewel! The blue jewel!" she gasped.

He saw it then, amongst the gaudy shards of glass and pebbles of

semi-precious garnets and rock crystal. The size of a silver dollar, it

was a seal of blue ceramic, perfectly round, and baked to a hard,

impervious finish. In the centre of the disc was an etching of an

Egyptian war chariot, and above it the distinctive and unmistakable

outline of the hawk with the broken wing. Around the circumference was a

legend engraved in hieroglyphics. It took him only a few moments to read

it to himself:

I COMMAND TEN THOUSAND CHARIOTS.

I AM TAITA, MASTER OF THE ROYAL HORSE.

Royan desperately wanted to escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the

cavern. The parcel of wat that the abbot had forced upon her had mixed

heavily with the few mouthfuls of tej she had swallowed, and this

feeling in Turn was aggravated by the smell of the dirty food bowls

thick with congealing grease and the fumes of raw katikala.

if Already some of the monks were puking drunk, and the smell of vomit

added to the cloying miasma of incense smoke within the chamber.

However, she was still the centre of the abbot's attention. He sat

beside her stroking her bare arm and reciting garbled extracts from the

Amharic scriptures; Tessay had long ago given up translating for her.

Royan looked hopefully at Nicholas but he was withdrawn and silent,

seeming oblivious of his surroundings. She knew that he was thinking

about the ceramic seal in the abbot's� crown, for his eyes kept

returning thoughtfully to it.

She wanted to be alone with him to discuss this extraordinary discovery.

Her excitement outweighed the distress of her overloaded stomach. She

felt her cheeks flushed with it. Every time she looked up at the old

man's crown her heart fluttered, and she had to make an effort to stop

herself reaching up, seizing the shiny blue seal and ripping it from its

setting to examine it more closely.

She knew how unwise it was to draw attention to the scrap of ceramic,

but when she glanced across the circle she saw that Boris was far past

noticing anything other than the bowl of kadkala in his hand. In the end

it was who gave her the excuse for which she had been Boris seeking. He

tried to get to his feet, but his legs collapsed under him. He sagged

forward quite gracefully, and his face dropped into the bowl of

grease-sodden injera bread.

He lay there snoring noisily, and Tessay appealed to Nicholas.

"Alto Nicholas, what am I to do?"

Nicholas considered the unlovely spectacle of the rate hunter. There

were scraps of bread and beef stew prost sticking like confetti in his

cropped ginger hair.

"I rather suspect Prince Charming has had enough for one night the

murmured.

stood up, stooped over Boris and gripped one wrist.

He With a sudden jerk he lifted him into a sitting position, nd then

heaved him upright and over his shoulder in a a fireman's lift.

"Good night, all!" he told the assembled monks, very few of whom were in

any condition to respond. Then he carried Boris away, draped over his

shoulders with head and feet dangling. The two women had to hurry to

keep up with Nicholas as he strode down the terrace and then up the

stone stairway without a pause.

"I did not realize Alto Nicholas was so strong," Tessay panted, for the

stairs were steep and the pace was hard.

didn't either," Royan admitted. She experienced a ridiculous proprietary

pride in his feat, and smiled at herself in the darkness as they

approached the camp.

"Don't be silly," she admonished herself. "He isn't yours to boast

about." Nicholas threw his burden down on Boris's own bed in thatched

hut and stood back panting heavily, the sweat trickling down his cheeks.

"That's a pretty good recipe for a heart attack," he gasped.

Boris groaned, rolled over and vomited copiously over his pillows and

bedlinen.

"On that pleasant note I will bid you all goodnight and sweet dreams,'

Nicholas told Tessay, stepping out of the hut into the warm African

night.

He breathed in the smell of the forest and the river with relief, and

then turned to Royan as she gripped his arm.

"Did you see-' she burst out excitedly, but he laid his fingers on her

lips to silence her, and with a cautionary frown in the direction of

Boris's hut led her away to her own hut.

"Did you see it?" she demanded, unable to contain herself longer. "Could

you read it?"

"'I command ten thousand chariots,"' he recited.

"'I am Taita, master of the royal horse,"' she completed it for him. "He

was here. Oh, Nicky! He was here. Taita was here. That's the proof we

wanted. Now we know that we are not wasting our time."

She flopped down on her camp bed and hugged herself ecstatically. "Do

you think the abbot will let us examine the sealT

He shook his head, "My guess is no. The crown is one of the monastery

treasures. Even for you, his favourite lady, I don't think he would do

it. Anyway, it would not be wise to show any great interest in it. Jali

Hora obviously does not have any idea of its significance. Apart from

that, we don't want to alert Boris."

suppose you are right." She moved over on the bed to make room for him.

"Sit down."

He sat down beside her, and she asked, "Where do you suppose the seal

came from? Who found it? Where, and when?"

"Steady on, dear girl. That's four questions in one, and I don't have an

answer to any of them."

"Guess!" she invited him. "Speculate! Throw some ideas around!'

"Very well," he agreed. "The seal was manufactured in Hong Kong. There

is a little factory there that turns them out by the thousands. Jali

Hora bought it from a souvenir store in Luxor when he was on holiday in

Egypt last month."

She punched his arm, hard. "Be serious," she ordered.

�can do better," he invited her, rubbing

"Let's hear if yo his arm.

"Okay, here I go. Taita dropped the seal here in the gorge while he was

working on the construction of Pharaoh's tomb. Three thousand years

later an old monk, one of the very first to live here at the monastery,

picked it up. Of course, he could not read the hieroglyphics. He -took

it to the abbot, who declared it to be a relic of St. Frumentius, and

had it set in the crown."

"And they all lived happily ever after," Nicholas agreed.

"Not a bad shot."

ny holes?" she demanded, and he shook Can you find a head. "Then you

agree that this proves that Taita really his was here, and that it

proves our theories are correct?" -Proves" is too strong a word. Let's

just say that it points in that direction," he demurred.

She wriggled around on the bed to face him squarely.

"Oh, Nicky, I am so excited. I swear I will not be able to sleep a wink

tonight. I just can't wait for tomorrow, to get out there and start

searching again."

Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks flushed a warm rosy brown. Her lips

were parted, and he could see the pink tip of her tongue between them.

This time he could not stop himself. He leaned very slowly towards her,

treating her gently, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she

wished to avoid him. She did not move, but her shining expression turned

slowly to one of apprehension. She stared into his eyes, as if seeking

something, some reassurance.

When their lips were an inch apart, Nicholas stopped, and it was she who

made the last movement. She brought their mouths together.

At first it was soft, just a light mingling of their breath, and then it

became harsher, more urgent. For a long, heartstopping moment they

devoured each other, and her mouth tasted soft and sweet as ripe fruit.

Then suddenly she whimpered, and with a huge effort of will tore herself

out of his arms. They stared at each other, both of them shaken and

confused.

"No," she whispered. "Please, Nicky, not yet. I am not ready yet."

He picked up her hand and turned it between his palms. Then lightly he

kissed the tips of her fingers, savouring the smell and the taste of her

skin.

"I'll see you in the morning." He dropped her hand and stood up. "Early.

Be ready!the said, and stooped out through the doorway of the hut.

was dressing the next morning he heard her moving a round in her hut,

and when he whistled softly at her door she stepped out to meet him,

dressed and eager to start.

"Boris is not awake yet,'Tessay told them as she served their breakfast.

"Now that is a great surprise to me," Nicholas said, without looking up

from his plate. He and Royan were still slightly awkward in each other's

presence, remembering the circumstances in which they had parted the

previous evening. However, as Nicholas slung the rifle and the pack 0

ver his shoulder and they set off up the valley, their mood changed to

one of anticipation.

They had been going for an hour when Nicholas glanced over his shoulder

and then cautioned her with a frown. "We are being followed."

Taking her wrist, he drew her behind a slab of sandstone. He flattened

himself against the rock and stured at her to do the same. Then he

poised himself, ge an� suddenly leaped forward to seize the lanky figure

in a dirty white shamnw who was sneaking up the valley behind them. With

a howl the creature fell to his knees, and began gibbering with terror.

Nicholas hauled him to his feet. "Tamre! What are you doing following

us? Who sent you?" he demanded in Arabic.

The boy rolled his eyes towards Royan. "No, please, effendi, do not hurt

me. I meant no harm."

"Leave the child, Nicky. You will precipitate another fit," Royan

intervened. Tamre scurried behind her and clung to her hand for

protection, peering out around her shoulder at Nicholas as though his

life were in danger.

"Peace, Tamre," Nicholas soothed him. "I will not hurt you, unless you

lie to me. If you do, then I will thrash you until there is no skin on

your back. Who sent you to follow us?"

"I came alone. Nobody sent me," blubbered the boy. "I came to show you

where I saw the holy animal with the fingermarks -of the Baptist on his

skin."

Nicholas stared at him for a moment, before he began to laugh softly.

"I'll be damned if the boy doesn't really believe he saw

great-grandfather's dik-dik." Then he scowled ferociously. "Remember

what will happen to you, if you are lying."

"It is true, effendi," Tamre sobbed, and Royan came to his defence.

Don't badger him. He is harmless. Leave the poor ,� A hild."

"All right, Tamre. I will give you a chance. Take us to where you saw

the holy animal."

Tamre would not relinquish his grip on Royan's hand.

He clung to it as he danced beside her, leading her along, and within a

hundred yards his terror had faded and he was smiling and giggling at

her shyly.

For an hour he led them away from the Dandera rier� and up over the high

ground above the valley, into an area of thick scrub and up-thrust

ridges of weathered limestone.

The thorny branches of the bush were densely intertwined, and grew so

close to the ground that there seemed to be no way through them.

However, Tamre led them on to a narrow twisting path, just wide enough

for them to avoid the red-tipped hook thorns on each side of them. Then

abruptly he stopped and pulled Royan to a halt beside him.

He pointed down, almost at his own toes.

"The riverPhe announced importantly. Nicholas came up beside them and

whistled softly with surprise. Tamre had led them around in a wide

circle to the west, and then brought them back to the Dandera river at a

point where it still ran in the bed of the deep ravine.

Now they stood on the very edge of the chasm. He saw at once that,

although the top of the rocky ravine was less than a hundred feet wide,

the chasm opened out below the rim. From the surface of the water far

below, the rock wall belled out in the shape of one of the pottery tej

flasks.

It narrowed again as it neared the top where they stood.

�saw the holy thing over there."Tamre pointed to the far side of the

chasm where a small feeder spring meandered out of the thorny bush.

Streamers of bright green moss, nourished by the spring, hung from the

lip of the concave rock wall, and the water trickled down them and

dripped from the tips into the river two hundred feet below.

"If you saw it there, why did you bring us to this side of the

river?"Nicholas demanded.

Tamre looked as though he were on the point of tears.

This side is easier. There is no path through the bush on the other

side. The thorns would hurt Woizero Royan."

"Don't be a bully," Royan told him, and put her arm around the boy's

shoulder.

Nicholas shrugged, "It looks like the two of you are ganging up on me.

Well, seeing that we are here, we might as well sit a while and see if

great-grandpa's dik-dik puts in an appearance."

He picked out a spot in the shade of one of the stunted trees that hung

on the lip of the chasm, and with his hat swept the ground clear of

fallen thorns until there was a place for them to sit. He placed his

back against the trunk of the thorn tree and laid the Rigby rifle across

his lap.

By this time it was past noon, and the heat was stifling.

He passed the water bottle to Royan and, while she drank, glanced at

Tamre and suggested to her in English, "This might be a good time to

find out what, if anything, the lad knows about the Taita ceramic in the

crown. He is besotted with you. He will tell you anything you want to

know.

Question him."

She began gently, chatting softly to the boy. Occasionally she stroked

his head and petted him as though he were a puppy- She spoke to him of

the previous night's banquet, the beauty of the underground church, and

the antiquity of the murals and the tapestries, and then at last

mentioned the abbot's crown.

"Yes. Yes. That is the stone of the saint," he agreed readily. "The blue

stone of St. Frumentius."

"Where did it come from?" she asked. "Do you know?" The boy looked

embarrassed, "I do not know. It is very old, perhaps as old as Christ

the Saviour. That is what the priests say."

"You do not know where it was found?"

He shook his head, but then, eager to please her, he suggested, "Perhaps

it fell from heaven."

"Perhaps." Royan glanced at Nicholas, who rolled his eyes upwards and

then pushed his hat forward to cover his face.

"Perhaps St.. Frumentius gave it to the first abbot when he died." Tamre

warmed to the subject. "Or perhaps it was in his coffin with him when he

was placed in his tomb."

"All these things are possible, Tamre,' Royan agreed.

"Have you seen the tomb of St. Frumentius?"

He looked around him guiltily. "Only the ordained priests are allowed

into the tnaqdas, the Holy of Holies," he hung his head and whispered.

"You have seen it, Tamre," she accused him gently, stroking his head.

She was intrigued by the boy's guilt. "You can tell me. I will not tell

the priests."

"Only once," he admitted. "The other boys. They sent me to touch the

tabot stone. They would have beaten me if I had not. All the new

acolytes are made to do this." He began to babble with the horror of the

memory of his initiation ordeal. "I was alone. I was very afraid. It was

after midnight when the priests were asleep. Dark. The maqdas is haunted

by the ghost of the saint. They told me that if I was unworthy the saint

would strike me down with lightning."

Nicholas removed the hat from his face and straightened up slowly. "My

word, the child is telling the truth," he said softly. "He has been into

the Holy of Holies-'Then he looked across at Royan, "Keep questioning

him. He may just give us something useful. Ask him about the tomb of St.

Frumentius."

"Did you see the tomb of the saint?" she asked, and the boy nodded

vigorously. "Did you go into the tomb?" This time he shook his head.

"No. There are bars across the entrance. Only the abbot is allowed into

the tomb, on the birthday of the saint."

"Did you look through the bars?"

"Yes, but it is very dark. I saw the coffin of the saint. It is wood and

there is painting on it, the face of the saint."

"Is he a black man?"

"No - a white man with a red beard. The painting is very old. The

picture is faded, and the wood of the coffin is rotting and crumbling."

"Is it lying on the floor of the tomb?" Tamre screwed up his face in

thought, then after careful consideration shook his head. "No, it is on

a shelf of stone in the wall."

"Is there anything else you remember about the tomb of the saint?" Royan

tried to prod his memory, but Tamre shook his head.

"It was very dark, and the opening in the bars is small, he apologized.

"It does not matter. Is the tomb in the back wall of the rrtmdu?"

."Yes, it is behind the altar and the tabot stone."

"What is the altar made of - stone?"

"No. It is wood, cedarwood. There are candies, and a big cross, and the

many crowns of the abbot, and the chalice and staff."

"Is it painted?"

"No, it is carved with pictures. But they are different from the

pictures inside the tomb of the saint."

"What is different? Tell me, Tamre."

"I don't know. The faces are funny. They wear different clothes. There

are horses." He looked puzzled. "They are different."

Royan tried for a while to get a clearer description from him, but he

became more and more confused and contradictorywhen she pushed him, so

she changed tack.

"Tell me about the tabot," she suggested, but Nicholas forestalled her.

"No, you tell me about the tabot," he demanded of her.

"Is it similar to the Jewish Tabernacle?"

"Yes, at least in the Egypti She turned to him, an Church it is. It is

usually kept in a jewelled box and wrapped in an embroidered cloth of

gold. The only difference is that the Jewish Tabernacle is carved with

the ten commandments, but in our Church it is carved with the words of

dedication of the particular church that houses it.

It is the living heart of the Church."

"What is the tabot stone?" Nicholas frowned with concentration.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Our Church does not have a tabot stone."

"Ask him!

"Tell me about the tabot stone, Tamre."

"It is so high, and so square." He indicated a height of a little above

his own shoulder, and the width of his spread hands.

"And the tabot stands on top of this stone?" Royan guessed.

Tamre nodded.

"Why did they send you to touch the stone and not the tabot itself?"

Nicholas demanded, but Royan shook her head to silence him.

"Let me do the talking. You are too harsh with him. She turned back to

the boy. "Why the stone, rather than the Ark of the tabot that stands on

top of it?"

Tamre shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. They just did."

"What does the stone look like? Are there paintings on it also?"

"I don't know." He looked distraught at not being able to satisfy her.

He wanted desperately to please her.� don't know. The stone is wrapped

with cloth."

Nicholas and Royan exchanged startled glances, and then Royan turned

back to the boy.

"Covered?" Royan leaned closer to him. "The stone is covered?, "They say

that it is only uncovered by the abbot on the birthday of St..

Frumentius."

Again Nicholas and Royan stared at each other, and then he smiled

thoughtfully. "I would rather like to have a look at the tomb of the

saint, and the tabot stone - in its uncovered state."

"You' have to wait for the saint's birthday," she said, she broke and

have yourself ordained. Only the priests off and stared at him again.

"You aren't thinking of - no, you wouldn't, would you?"

"Who, me?" he grinned. "Perish the thought."

"If they caught you in the maqdas, they would tear you to little

pieces."

"The answer, then, would be not to let them catch me."

"If you go, I am going with you. How are we going to manage it?"

"Throttle back, dear girl. The thought only occurred to me ten seconds

ago. Even on my good days, I need at least ten minutes to come up wit a

brilliant plan of action."

They both stared out across the chasm in silence, until Royan whispered

softly, "The covered stone. Taita's stone testament?"

"Don't say it aloud," he pleaded, and made the sign against the evil

eye. "Don't even think it aloud. The Devil is listening."

They were silent again, both of them thinking furiously. Then Royan

started, "Nicky, what if-' she broke off. "No, that won't. work." She

relapsed into frowning silence again.

Tamre broke the quiet with a sudden squeak of excitement, "There it is.

Look!'

They were both startled by the interruption. "What is it?" Royan turned

to him.

Tamre seized her arm and shook it. He was trembling with emotion. "There

it is. I told you." With his other hand he was pointing out across the

river, "There at the edge of the thorn bushes. Can't you see it?"

"What is it? What can you see?"

"The animal of John the Baptist. The holy marked creature."

Following the direction of his outflung arm, she picked out a soft,

brownish blur of movement at the edge of the thicket on the far bank. "I

don't know. It is too far-'

Nicholas scrabbled in his pack and brought out his binoculars. He lifted

and focused them, and then he began to chuckle.

"Hallelujah! Great-grandpa's reputation is safe at last." He passed the

binoculars to Royan. She focused them and found the little creature in

the field. It was three hundred yards away, but through the ten-power

lens she could make it out in detail.

It was almost half as large again as the common dikdik that they had

seen the previous day, and instead of drab grey its coat was a rich red

brown. Its most striking feature, however, was the distinct dark bars of

chocolate colour across its shoulders and back - five evenly spaced

markings that did indeed look like the imprint of fingers and thumb.

"Madoqua harperii, no less," Nicholas whispered to her.

"Sorry, great-grandfather, for doubting you."

The dik-dik stood half in shadow, wriggling its nose as it snuffled the

air. Its head was held high, suspicious and alert. The soft breeze was

quartering between them and the animal, but every so often a wayward

eddy gave it the faint whiff of humanity that had alarmed it.

Royan heard the snick of the rifle action as Nicholas worked the bolt

and chambered a round. Hurriedly she lowered the glasses, and glanced at

him. "You aren't going to shoot it?" she demanded.

"No, not at that range. Over three hundred yards, and a small target.

I'll wait for it to get closer."

"How can you bring yourself to do it?"

"How can I not? That's what I came here to do, amongst other things."

"But it's so beautiful."

"I take it, then, that it would be perfectly all right to whack it if it

were ugly?"

She said nothing, but raised the binoculars again. The eddy of the wind

must have changed, for the dik-dik lowered its head to nibble at a tuft

of coarse brown grass.

Then lifted its head again and came on down the clearing in the Thorn

scrub, stepping daintily, pausing every few paces to feed again.

"Go back. She tried to will it into safety, but it kept on coming,

meandering towards the edge of the chasm.

Nicholas rolled on to his stomach and settled himself behind the trunk

of the tree. He screwed up his hat into a soft pad on which to rest the

rifle.

"Two hundred yards," he muttered to himself "That's a fair shot. No

further." Resting the cushioned rifle on the twisted root, he aimed

through the telescopic sight. Then he lifted his head, waiting to let it

come within certain range.

Abruptly the dik-dik lifted its head again and came to a halt, quivering

with tension.

"Something he doesn't like. Dammit all, wind must have changed again,'

Nicholas growled. At that moment the little antelope bolted. It streaked

across the clearing, back the way it had come, and disappeared into the

thorn scrub.

"Go, dik-dik, go!" said Royan smugly, and Nicholas sat up and grunted

with disgust.

"I can't make out what frightened him." Then his expression changed and

he cocked his head. There was an alien sound on the air growing each

second - a harsh, rising clatter and a shrill, whining whistle.

"Chopper! What the hell!" Nicholas recognized the sound immediately. He

took the binoculars from Royan's hand and turned them to the sky,

sweeping the cloudless blue emptiness above the tops of the escarpment.

"There it is," he said grimly, adding, "Bell Jet Ranger," as he

recognized the profile. "Coming this way, by the looks of it. No point

in drawing attention to ourselves. Let's get under cover."

He shepherded Royan and the boy under the spread branches of the thorn

tree. "Sit tight," he told her. "No chance they will spot us under

here."

He watched the. approaching helicopter through the binoculars. "Probably

Ethiopian air force," he said softly.

"Anti-shufta patrol, most likely. Both Boris and Colonel Nogo warned us

that there are a lot of rebels and bandits operating down here in the

gorge-' he broke off abruptly.

"No. Hold on. That's not military. Green and red fuselage, and the red

horse emblem. None other than your old friends from Pegasus

Exploration."

The sound of the rotors crescendoed, and now with her naked eye Royan

could make out the flying horse on the fuselage of the helicopter as it

flew low across their front, half a mile out, headed down towards the

Nile.

Neither of them paid any attention to Tamre as he crouched behind Royan,

trying to hide behind her body.

His teeth were chattering with terror and his eyes rolled until the

whites showed.

"It looks as if our friend Jake Helm has got himself some fancy

transport. If Pegasus is in any way connected with Duraid's murder and

the other attempts on your life, then we can expect them to be breathing

heavily down our necks from now on. They are now in a position to

overlook us at will." Nicholas was still watching the aircraft through

the binoculars.

"When your enemy is up in the air, it gives you a helpless feeling."

Royan edged instinctively closer to him, staring up.

The green and scarlet machine disappeared over the hump of the subgorge,

down towards the monastery.

"Unless he's just on a joy-ride, he's probably looking for our camp,'

Nicholas guessed. "Under orders from the main man to keep tabs on us."

"He will have no trouble finding it. Boris made no attempt to conceal

the huts," Royan said uneasily. "Let's get out of here, then." She stood

up.

"Good plan." Nicholas was about to follow her, when suddenly he caught

her hand and drew her down again.

"Hold it. They are coming back this way."

The engine beat was rising again. Then they caught a glimpse of the

helicopter through the canopy of leaves and thorn branches overhead.

"Now he is following the river. Still searching for something, by the

looks of it."

"Us?"Royan asked nervously.

"If they are under orders from the head man, could be," Nicholas agreed.

The machine was very close now, and the shrill whine of the engine was

deafening.

At that moment Tamre's nerve broke. He let out a wail of terror, "It is

the Devil, come to take me; Save me, Jesus Christ the Saviour, save me!'

Nicholas put out a hand to restrain him, but he was not quick enough.

Tamre broke free and leaped to his feet.

Still howling with fear of the pit and the flames of hell, he darted

away down the path into the Thorn scrub, the skirts of his shamma

swirling about his skinny legs and his shiny black face swivelled back

over his shoulder to watch the approaching machine.

The pilot spotted him immediately, and the nose of the helicopter sank

in their direction. It came directly towards them, slowing as it

approached the lip of the chasm. They could make out the heads of the

two occupants behind the windscreen of the forward cabin. Still

decelerating, the aircraft hung suspended over the river, pivoting on

the spinning disc of its rotor, while Royan and Nicholas crouched down

in the scrub, trying to avoid detection.

"That's the American from the prospecting camp." Royan recognized Jake

Helm, despite the bulky radio earphones and the mirrored dark glasses.

He and the black pilot were craning their necks to search the river

banks.

"They haven't spotted us-' But even as Nicholas said it, Jake Helm

looked directly at them across the open void.

Although his expression did not change, he tapped the pilot's shoulder

and pointed down at them.

The pilot let the helicopter sink lower until it hovered in the opening

of the chasm, almost on the same level as they were. Only a hundred feet

separated them now. No longer making any attempt at concealment,

Nicholas leaned back against the hole of the Thorn tree. He tipped his

Panama hat forward over one eye and gave Jake Helm a laconic wave.

The foreman made no response to the greeting. He regarded Nicholas with

a flat, baleful stare, then struck a match and held the flame to the tip

of the half-smoked cigar between his lips. He flipped the dead match

away and blew a feather of smoke in Nicholas's direction. Still without

change of expression, he said something to the pilot out of the corner

of his mouth.

Immediately the helicopter rose vertically and banked away to the north,

heading back directly towards the wall of the escarpment and the base

camp on its summit.

"Mission accomplished. He found what he was looking for."Royan sat up.

"Us!'

"And he must have spotted the camp. He knows where to find us

again,'Nicholas agreed.

Royan shivered and hugged herself briefly. "He gives me the creeps, that

one. He looks like a toad."

"Oh, come on!" Nicholas chided her. "What have you got against toads?"

He stood up. "I don't think we are going to see great-grandfather's

dik-dik again today. He has been thoroughly shaken up by the chopper.

I'll come back for another try tomorrow."

"We should go and look for Tamre. He has probably had another fit, the

poor little fellow."

She was wrong. They found the boy beside the path.

He was still shivering and weeping, but had not suffered another

seizure. He calmed down quickly when Royan soothed him, and followed

them back towards the camp.

However, when they neared the grove he slipped away in the direction of

the monastery.

That evening, while it was still light, Nicholas took Royan back to the

monastery.

"I believe that the criminal fraternity refer to a reconnaissance of

this nature as "casing the joint"," he remarked, as they stooped through

the entrance of the rock cathedral and joined the throng of worshippers

in the outer chamber.

"From what Tamre says, it sounds as though the novices wait until they

know that the priests on duty are ones that will nod off during their

watch," Royan told him softly, as they paused to gaze through the doors

into the middle chamber.

"We don't have that sort of insider knowledge," Nicholas pointed out.

There were priests passing backwards and forwards through the doors as

they watched.

"There doesn't seem to be any sort of procedure," Nicholas noted. "No

password or ritual to allow them through."

"On the other hand, they greeted the guards at the door by name. It's a

small community. They must all know each other intimately."

"There doesn't seem any chance at all that I could dress up like a monk

and brazen my way through,'Nicholas agreed-A wonder what they do to

intruders in the sacred areas?"

"Throw them off the terrace to the crocodiles in the cauldron of the

Nile?" she suggested maliciously. "Anyway, you are not going in there

without me."

This was not the time to argue, he decided, and instead he tried to see

as much as possible through the open doors of the qiddist. The middle

chamber seemed much smaller than the outer chamber in which they stood.

He could just make out the shadowy murals that covered the portions of

the inner walls that he could see. In the facing wall was another

doorway. From Tamre's description, he realized that this must be the

entrance to the maqdas. The opening was barred by a heavy grille gate of

dark wooden beams, the joints of the cross-pieces reinforced with

gussets of hand hammered native iron.

On each side of the doorway, from rock ceiling to floor, hung long

embroidered tapestries depicting scenes from the life of St. Frumentius.

In one he was preaching to a kneeling congregation, with the Bible in

one hand and his right hand raised in benediction. In the other tapestry

he was baptizing an emperor. The king wore a high golden crown like that

of Jali Hora, and the saint's head was surrounded by a halo. The saint's

face was white, while the emperor's was black.

"Politically correct?" Nicholas asked himself, with a smile.

"What is amusing you?" Royan asked. "Have you thought of a way of

getting in there?"

"No, I was thinking of dinner. Let's go!

At dinner Boris showed no ill effects from the previous night's debauch.

During the day he had taken out his shotgun and shot a bunch of green

pigeons. Tessay had marinated these and barbecued them over the coals.

"Tell me, English, how was the hunting today? Did you get attacked by

the deadly striped dik-dik? Hey? Hey?" He bellowed with laughter.

"Did your trackers have any success?" Nicholas asked mildly.

."Da! Da! They found kudu and hushbuck and buffalo.

They even found dik-dik, but no stripes. Sorry, no stripes."

Royan leaned forward and opened her mouth to intervene, but Nicholas

cautioned her with a shake of the head. She shut her mouth again and

looked down at her plate, slicing a morsel from the breast of a pigeon.

"We don't really need company tomorrow," Nicholas explained mildly in

Arabic. "If he knew, he would insist on coming with us."

"Did your Mummy never teach you no manners, English? It's rude to talk

in a language that others can't understand. Have a vodka."

"You have my share," Nicholas invited him. "I know when I am

outclassed."

During the rest of the meal Tessay replied only in low monosyllables

when Royan tried to draw her into the conversation. She looked tragic

and defeated. She never looked at her husband, even when he was at his

loudest and most overbearing. When the meal ended, they left her sitting

with Boris at the fire. Boris had a fresh bottle of vodka on the table

beside him.

"The way he is pumping the liquor, it looks as if I might be called out

on another midnight rescue mission," Nicholas remarked as they made

their way to their own huts.

"Tessay has been in camp all day with him. There has been more trouble

between them. She told me that as soon as they get back to Addis Ababa

she is going to leave him.

She can't take any more of this."

"The only thing I find surprising is that she ever got mixed up with an

animal like Boris in the first place. She is a lovely woman. She could

pick and choose."

"Some women are drawn to animals," Royan shrugged.

"I suppose it must be the thrill of danger. Anyway, Tessay has asked me

if she can come with us tomorrow. She cannot stand another day in camp

with Boris on her own.

I think she is really afraid of him now. She says that she has never

seen him drink like this before."

"Tell her to come along, Nicholas said resignedly. "The more of us the

merrier. Perhaps we will be able to frighten the dik-dik to death by

sheer weight of numbers. Save me wasting ammunition."

It was still dark when the three of them left camp the next morning.

There was no sign of Boris and, when Nicholas asked about him, Tessay

said simply, "After you went to bed last night he finished the bottle.

He won't be out of his hut before noon. He won't miss me."

Carrying the Rigby, Nicholas led them tip into the weathered limestone

hills, retracing the path along which Tamre had taken them the previous

day. As they walked, Nicholas heard the two women talking behind him.

Royan was explaining to Tessay how they had sighted the striped dik-dik,

and what they planned.

The sun was well up by the time they again reached the spot under the

thorn tree on the lip of the chasm, and settled down to wait in ambush.

"How will you retrieve the carcass, if you do manage to shoot the poor

little creature?" Royan asked.

"I made certain of that before we left camp," he explained. "I spoke to

the head tracker. If he hears a shot he will bring up the ropes and help

me get across to the other side."

"I wouldn't like to make the journey across there." Tessay eyed the drop

below them.

"They teach you some useful things in the army, along with all the

rubbish," Nicholas replied. He made himself comfortable against the

thorn tree, the rifle ready in his lap.

The women lay close by him, talking together softly.

It was unlikely that the sound of their low voices would carry across

the ravine, Nicholas decided, so he did not try to hush them.

He expected that if it came at all, the dik-dik would show itself early.

But he was wrong. By noon there was still no sign of it. The valley

sweltered in the midday sun. The distant wall of the escarpment, veiled

in the blue heat haze, looked like jagged blue glass, and the mirage

danced across the rocky ridges and shimmered like the waters of a silver

lake above the tops of the thorn thickets.

The women had long ago given up talking, and they lay somnolent in the

heat. The whole world was silent and heat-struck. Only a bush dove broke

the silence with its mournful lament, "My wife is dead, my children are

dead, Oh, me! Oh, my! Oh, me!'Nicholas found his own eyelids becoming

leaden. His head nodded involuntarily, and he jerked it up only to have

it flop forward again. On the very edge of sleep he heard a sound, close

by in the thorn scrub behind him.

It was a tiny sound, but one that he knew so well. A sound that

whiplashed across his nerve endings and jerked him back to full

consciousness, with his pulse racing and the coppery taste of fear in

the back of his throat. It was the metallic sound of the safety-catch on

an AK-47 assault rifle being slipped forward into the "Fire' position.

In one fluid movement he lifted the rifle out of his lap and rolled

twice, twisting his body to cover the two women who lay beside him. At

the same time he brought the Rigby into his shoulder, aimed into the

scrub behind him from where the sound had come.

"Down!" he hissed at his companions. "Keep your heads down!'

His finger was on the trigger and, even though it was a puny weapon with

which to take on a Kalashnikov, he was ready to return fire. He picked

up his target immediately, and swung on to it.

There was a man crouched twenty paces away, the assault rifle he carried

aimed into Nicholas's face. He was black, dressed in worn and tattered

camouflage fatigues and a soft cap of the same material. His webbing

held a bush-knife and grenades, water bottle' and all the other

accoutrements of a guerrilla fighter.

"Shufta!" thought Nicholas. "A real pro. Don't take chances with this

one." Yet at the same time he realized that if the intention had been to

kill him, then he would be dead already.

He aimed the Rigby an inch over the muzzle of the assault rifle, into

the bloodshot right eye of the shufta behind it. The man acknowledged

the stand-off with a narrowing of his eyes, and then gave an order in

Arabic.

"Salim, cover the women. Shoot them if he moves.

Nicholas heard movement on his flank and glanced in that direction,

still keeping the shufta in his peripheral vision.

Another guerrilla stepped out of the scrub. He was all: similarly

dressed, but he carried a Soviet RPD light machine gun on his hip. The

barrel was sawn off short to make the weapon more handy for bush

fighting, and there was a loop of ammunition belt draped around his

neck. He came forward carefully, the RPD aimed point-blank at the two

women. Nicholas knew that, with a touch on the trigger, he could chop

them both to mincemeat.

There were other stealthy rustling sounds in the bush all around them.

These two were not the only ones, Nicholas realized. This was a large

war party. He might be able to get off one shot with the Rigby, but by

then Royan and Tessay would be dead. And he would not be far behind

them.

Very slowly and deliberately he lowered the muzzle of the rifle until it

was pointing at the ground. Then he laid the weapon down and raised his

hands.

"Get your hands up," he told the women. "Do exactly what they tell you."

The guerrilla leader acknowledged his surrender by coming to his full

height and speaking rapidly to his men, still in Arabic.

"Get the rifle and his pack."

"We are British subjects," Nicholas told him loudly, and the guerrilla

looked surprised by his use of Arabic. "We are simple tourists. We are

not military. We are not government people."

Be quiet. Shut your face!" he ordered, as the rest of the guerrilla

patrol emerged from cover. Nicholas counted five of them all told,

though he knew there were probably others who had not come forward. They

were very professional as they rounded up their prisoners. They never

blocked each other's field of fire, nor offered an opportunity of

escape. Quickly they searched them for weapons, then closed in around

them and hustled them on to the path.

"Where are you taking us?"Nicholas demanded.

"No questions!" The butt of an AK-47 smashed between his shoulder blades

and almost knocked him off his feet.

"Steady on, chaps," he murmured mildly in English.

"That wasn't really called for."

They were forced to keep marching through the heat of the afternoon.

Nicholas kept a check on the position of the sun and the distant

glimpses of the escarpment wall.

He realized that they were heading westwards, following the course of

the Nile towards the Sudanese border. It was late afternoon, and

Nicholas estimated that they had covered some ten miles, before they

came upon a side shoot of the main valley. The slopes were heavily

wooded, and the three prisoners were herded into a patch of this forest.

They were actually within the perimeter of the guerrilla camp before

they were aware of its existence. Cunningly camouflaged, it consisted

merely of a few crude lean, to shelters and a ring of weapons

emplacements. The sentries were well placed, and all the light machine

guns in the foxholes were manned.

They were led to one of the shelters in the centre of the camp, where

three men were squatting around a map spread on a low camp table. These

were obviously officers, and there was no mistaking which of the three

was the commander. The leader of the patrol which had captured them went

to this man, saluted him deferentially and then spoke to him urgently,

pointing at his captives.

The guerrilla commander straightened up from the table, and came out

into the sunlight. He was of medium height, but was imbued with such an

air of authority that he seemed taller. His shoulders were broad and his

body square and chunky, with the beginning of a dignified spread around

the waist. He wore a short curly beard which contained a few strands of

grey, and his features were refined and handsome. His skin tones were

amber and copper. His dark eyes were intelligent, his gaze quick and

restless.

"My men tell me that you speak Arabic," he said to -Nicholas.

"Better than you do, Mek Nimmur,'Nicholas told him.

"So now you are the leader of a bunch of bandits and kidnappers? I

always told you that you would never get to heaven, you old reprobate."

Mek Nimmur stared at him in astonishment, and then began to smile.

"Nicholas! I did not recognize you. You are older. Look at the grey on

your head!'

He opened his arms wide and folded Nicholas into a bear hug.

"Nicholas! Nicholas!" He kissed him once on each cheek. Then he held him

at arm's length and looked at the two women, who were standing amazed.

"He saved my life," he explained to them.

"You make me blush, Mek." Mek kissed him again' "He saved my life

twice."

"Once," Nicholas contradicted him. "The second time was a mistake. I

should have let them shoot you."

Mek laughed delightedly. "How long ago was it, Nicholas?"

"It doesn't bear thinking about."

"Fifteen years ago at least,'.Mek said. "Are you still in the British

army? What is your rank? You must be a general by now!'

"Reserves only," Nicholas shook his head. "I have been back in civvy

street a long time now."

Still hugging Nicholas, Mek Nimmur looked at the women with interest.

"Nicholas taught me most of what I know about soldiering," he told them.

His eyes flicked from Royan to Tessay, and then stayed on the Ethiopian

girl's dark and lovely face.

"I know you," he said. "I saw you in Addis, years ago.

You were a young girl then. Your father was Alto Zemen, a great and good

man. He was murdered by the tyrant Mengistu."

"I know you also, Alto Mek. My father held you in high esteem. There are

many of us who believe that you should be the president of this Ethiopia

of ours, in place of that other one." She dropped him a graceful little

curtsey, hanging her head in a shy but appealing gesture of respect.

"I am flattered by your opinion of me." He took her hand and lifted her

to her full height. Then he turned back to Nicholas, "I am sorry for the

rough welcome, Some of my men are over-enthusiastic. I knew that there

were ferengi asking questions at the monastery. But enough, you are with

friends here. I bid you welcome."

Mek Nimmur led them to his shelter, where one of his men brought a

soot-blackened kettle from the fire and poured viscous black coffee into

mugs for them.

He and Nicholas plunged into reminiscences of the days prior to the

Falklands war when they had fought side by side, Nicholas as a covert

military adviser, and Mek as a young freedom fighter opposing the

tyranny of Mengistu.

"But the war is over now, Mek, Nicholas remonstrated at last. "The

battle is won. Why are you still out in the bush with your men? Why

aren't you getting rich and fat in Addis, like all the others?"

"In the interim government in Addis there are enemies Of mine, men like

Mengistu. When we have got rid of them, then I will come out of the

bush."

He and Nicholas embarked into a spirited discussion of African politics,

so deep and complicated that Royan knew very few of the personalities

whom they were discussing. Nor could she follow the nuances and the

subtlety of religious and tribal prejudices and intolerance that had

persisted for a thousand years. She was, however, impressed by

Nicholas's knowledge and understanding of the situation, and the way in

which a man like Mek Nimmur asked his opinion and listened to his

advice.

In the end Nicholas asked him, "So now you have carried the war beyond

the borders of Ethiopia itself? You are operating in Sudan, as well?"

"The war in the Sudan has been raging for twenty years," Mek confirmed.

"The Christians in the south fighting against the persecution of the

Moslem nor the-"

"I am well aware of that, Mek. But that is not Ethiopia.

It's not your war."

"They are Christians, and they suffer injustice. I am a soldier and a

Christian. Of course it is my war." Tessay had ty to every word that Mek

spoke, and been listening avid now she nodded her head in agreement, her

eyes dark and solemn with hero worship.

"Alto Mek is a crusader for Christ and the rights of the common

man,'Tessa told Nicholas in awed tones.

"And he dearly loves a good fight," Nicholas laughed, punching his

shoulder affectionately. It was a familiar gesture which could easily

have given offence, but Mek accepted it readily and laughed back at him.

"What are you doing here yourself, Nicholas, if you are no longer a

soldier? There was a time when you also loved a good fight."

"I am completely reformed. No more fighting. I have come to the Abbay

gorge to hunt dik-dik."

"Dik-dik?l Mek Nimmur stared at him with disbelief, and then he roared

with laughter. "I don't believe it. Not you. Not dik-dik. You are up to

something."

"It is the truth."

"You are lying, Nicholas. You never could lie to me. I know you too

well. You are up to something. You will tell me about it when you need

my help."

"And you will still give me your help?"

"Of course. You saved my life twice."

"Once,'said Nicholas.

"Even once is enough," said Mek Nimmur.

while they talked, the sun slanted down the sky.

"You are my guests for tonight," Mek Nimmur told them formally. "In the

morning I will escort you back to your camp at the monastery of St..

Frumentius.

That is also my destination. My men and I are going to the monastery to

celebrate the festival of Timkat- The abbot, Jali Hora, is a friend and

an ally."

"And the monastery is probably your deep cover base.

You use it and the monks for resupply and intelligence.

Am I right?"

"You know me too well, Nicholas."Mek Nimmur shook his head ruefully.

"You taught me much of what I know, so why should you not be able to

guess my strategy? The monastery makes a perfect base of operations.

It's close enough to the border-' he broke off, smiling. "But there is

no need to explain it to you, of all people."

Mek had his men build a night shelter for Nicholas and Royan, and cut a

mattress of grass to cushion their sleep. They lay close together under

the flimsy roof. The night was sultry, and they did not miss their

blankets.

Nicholas had a tube of insect repellent in his pack to keep the

mosquitoes at bay After they had settled down on the grass mattress,

their heads were close enough together to allow them to converse in

quiet tones. When he turned his head Nicholas could see the dark

silhouettes of Mek Nimmur and Tessay still sitting close together by the

fire.

"Ethiopian girls are different from the Arabs, and from most other

African women." Royan too was watching the other couple. "No Arab girl

would dare be alone with a man like that. Especially if she were a

married woman."

"Any way you cut it, they make a damned fine pair," he gave his opinion.

"Good luck to them. Tessay hasn't had much of that lately - she is

overdue."

He turned his head and looked into her face, "What about you, Royan,

what are you? Are you a decorous, submissive Arab, or an independent,

assertive Western girl?"

"It's both a little early and much too late for intimate questions of

that nature," she told him, and turned over, presenting him with her

back.

"Ah, we are standing on ceremony this evening!

Goodnight, Woizero Royan."

"Goodnight, Alto Nicholas," she replied, keeping her face turned away

from him so that he could not see her smile.

The gorilla column moved out before dawn the next morning. They marched

in full battle order, with scouts moving ahead and flankers covering

each side of the path.

"The army come down here into the gorge very seldom, but we are always

ready for them when they do come," Mek Nimmur explained. "We try to give

them a hearty welcome."

Tessay was watching Mek Nimmur as he spoke; indeed, she had seldom taken

her eyes off him that morning. Now she murmured to Royan, "He is a truly

great man, a man who could unite our land, perhaps for the first time in

a thousand years. I feel humble in his presence, and yet I also feel

like a young girl again, filled with joy and hope."

The march back to the monastery took the entire morning. When they came

in sight of the Dandera. river, Mek Nimmur drew his men back off the

path into thick bush, while sending only one scout forward. After an

hour's wait, a party of acolytes came up from the monastery, each

carrying a large bundle balanced upon his head.

They greeted Mek with deep reverence, and handed over their bundles to

his men before returning down the pathway into the gorge of the Abbay.

The bundles contained priestly shammas, headcloths and sandals. Mek's

men changed out of their camouflage fatigues into these garments, all of

which were well worn and unwashed for the sake of authenticity. They

wore only their sidearms under the robes. All their other weapons and

equipment they cached in one of the caves in the limestone Cliffs, and

left a detachment to guard them.

Now as a party of monks they covered the last few miles to the

monastery, to be welcomed joyously by the community there. Here Nicholas

and the women left Mek, and climbed the steep path up into the grove of

wild fig trees. Boris was waiting for them, pacing about the camp, angry

and frustrated.

"Where the hell have you been, woman?" he snarled at Tessay. "Been

whoring around all night, have you?"

"We lost our way yesterday evening." Nicholas fed him the cover story

that they had agreed with Mek Nimmur, to maintain his security. Boris

was hardly the man to trust.

"And we were picked up by a party of monks from the monastery this

morning. They brought us back."

"You are the big hunter and tracker, are you?" Boris sneered at him.

"You didn't need me to guide you, hey? You got yourself lost, did you,

English? I see now why you want only to shoot dik-dik." He guffawed

without humour, and looked at Tessay with those pale dead eyes. "I will

talk to you later, woman. Go and see to the food."

Despite the heat, both Nicholas and Royan were hungry. In short order,

Tessay was able to serve a tasty cold lunch under the shady branches of

the fig trees. Nicholas refused the wine that Boris offered him.

want to go out hunting again this afternoon. I have lost almost a whole

day."

"You want me to hold your hand this time, English?

Make sure you don't lose yourself again?"

"Thanks, old chap, but I think I can manage without you."

While they ate Nicholas nudged Royan and told her, "Your admirer has

arrived."

He jerked his head at the lanky, ungainly figure of Tamre, who had

sneaked up quietly and was now sitting near the kitchen hut, As soon as

Royan looked at him his face split into a doting idiotic grin, and he

bobbed his head and squirmed with ecstatic shyness.

"I will not come with you this afternoon," Royan told Nicholas quietly,

when Boris was not listening. "I think there is going to be trouble

between him and Tessay. I want to stay here with her. Take Tamre with

you."

"My word, what an attractive alternative. All my life I have waited for

this moment." But when he had picked up his rifle and pack, he beckoned

the boy to follow him.

Tamre looked around eagerly for Royan, but she was in her hut. At last,

dragging his feet, he followed Nicholas up the valley.

"Take me to the other side of the river," he told the boy. "Show me how

to reach the side where the holy creature lives." Tamre perked up at the

prospect, and broke into a shambling trot as he led Nicholas over the

suspension bridge below the pink cliffs.

For an hour they followed the path, but gradually it petered out until

it ended in bad and broken ground amongst the erosion'carved hills.

Undeterred, Tamre plunged into the thorny scrub, and for another two

hours they scrambled over rocky ridges and through thorn-choked valleys.

"I can see why you didn't want to bring Royan this way here. You will

not move. You will not speak. You will even breathe very, very quietly,

until I come back to fetch you.

If you utter even one little prayer before I return, I will personally

start you on your journey to meet St.. Peter at the gates of heaven. Do

you understand me?"

He went forward alone, but the little antelope was thoroughly alarmed by

now Nicholas saw it twice more, but he only had fleeting glimpses of

ruddy brown movement almost entirely screened by bush. He stood

directing bitter imprecations towards the boy monk and listening to the

tick of small hooves on dry earth as it raced away, deeper into the

thickets. In the end he was forced to give up the hunt for that day.

It was after dark when he and Tamre got back to camp.

As soon as Nicholas stepped into the circle of firelight, Royan came to

meet him.

"What happened?" she asked. "Did you see the dik-dik again?"

"Don't ask me. Ask your accomplice. He scared it off.

It is probably still running."

"Tamre,'you are a fine young man, and I am very proud of you," she told

him. The boy wriggled like a puppy, giggling and hugging himself with

the joy of her approval as he scurried away down the path to the

monastery.

Royan was so pleased with the outcome of the hunt that she poured

Nicholas a whisky with her own hand and brought it to him as he sagged

wearily by the fire.

He tasted it and shuddered, "Never let a teetotaller pour for you. With

a heavy hand like that you should take UP tossing the caber or

blacksmithing." Despite the complaint, he took another tentative sip.

She sat close to him, fidgeting with excitement, but it was a while

before he became aware of her agitation.

"What is it? Something is eating you alive."

She threw a cautionary glance in the direction of where Boris sat on the

opposite side of the fire, and then dropped her voice, leaned close to

him and spoke in Arabic.

"Tessay and I went down to the monastery this afternoon to see Mek

Nimmur. Tessay asked me to go with her, just in case Boris - well, you

know what I mean."

"I have a vague idea. You were playing chaperone." Nicholas took another

sip of the whisky and gasped. He exhaled sharply and his voice was

husky. "Go on," he invited her.

"At one stage, before I left them alone together, we were discussing the

festival of Timkat. On the fifth day the abbot takes the tabot down to

the Abbay. Mek tells us there is a path down the cLiff to the water's

edge."

"Yes, we know that."

"This is the interesting part - this you didn't know.

Everybody joins the procession down to the river. Everybody. The abbot,

all the priests, the acolytes, every true believer, even Mek and all his

men, they all go down to the river and stay there overnight. For one

whole day and night the monastery is deserted. Empty. Nobody there at

all."

He stared at her over the rim of his glass, and then slowly he began to

smile, "Now that is very interesting indeed," he admitted.

"Don't forget, I am coming with you," she told him severely. "Don't you

dare to even think of leaving me behind."

Nicholas went to her hut again that evening after dinner. This was the

only place in camp where they could be sure of privacy, and where they

were safe from eavesdropping. However, this time he did not make the

mistake of sitting on her bed.

While she perched on the end of it, he took the stool opposite her.

"Before we start planning this thing, let me ask you one question. Have

you considered the possible consequences?"

"You mean, what happens if the monks catch us at it?" Royan asked.

"At the very least we can expect them to run us out of the valley. The

abbot has a tremendous amount of power.

At the worst we can be physically attacked," Nicholas told her. "This is

one of the most sacred sites in their religion, and don't underestimate

that fact. There is a great deal of danger involved. It could go as far

as a knife between the ribs, or something nasty in our food."

"We would also alienate Tessay. She is a deeply religious woman,'Royan

added.

"Even more importantly, we would probably outrage Mek Nimmur as well."

Nicholas looked distressed at the thought. "I don't know what he would

do, but I don't think our friendship would stand the test."

They were both quiet for a while, considering the cost that they might

have to pay. Nicholas broke the silence.

"Then again, have you considered your own position?

After all, it is your own Church that we will be desecrating.

You are a committed Christian. Can you justify this to yourself?"

"I have thought about it, she admitted. "And I am not altogether happy

about it, but it isn't really my Church. It's a different branch of the

Coptic Church."

"Splitting hairs, aren't we?"

"The Egyptian Church does not deny anyone access to even the most sacred

precincts of its church building. I do not feel myself bound by the

abbot's prohibition. I feel that as a believing Christian I have the

right to enter any part of the cathedral that I wish."

He whistled softly, "And you are the one who once said that I should

have been a lawyer."

"Please don't, Nicky. It's not something you should joke about. All I

know is that, no matter what, I have to go in there. Even if I die to do

it."

"You could let me do it for you," he suggested. "After all, I am an old

heathen. It would not spoil my chances of salvation. I don't have any."

"No." She shook her head firmly. "If there is an inscription or

something of that nature, I need to see it.

You read hieroglyphics quite well, but not as well as I do, and you

don't know the hieratic script. I am the expert you are just a gifted

amateur. You need me. I am going in there with you."

"All right. That is settled, then," he said with finality.

"Let's start planning. We had better draw up a list of equipment that we

may need. Flashlight, knife, Polaroid camera, spare film-'

"Art paper and soft pencils to lift an impression of any inscriptions,'

she added to the list.

"Hell!" He snapped his fingers with chagrin. "I didn't think to bring

any."

"See what I mean? Amateur. I did."

They talked on until late, and at last Nicholas glanced at his

wrist-watch and stood up.

"Long after midnight. I am scheduled to turn into a pumpkin at any

moment. Goodnight."

"There are still two days of the festival before the tabot is taken down

to the river. Nothing we can do until then.

What are your plans

"Tomorrow I am going back after that damned little Bambi. It has made a

fool of me twice already."

"I am coming with you," she said firmly, and that simple declaration

gave him a disproportionate amount of pleasure.

"Just as long as you leave Tamre at home," he warned her as he stooped

out through the door.

The tiny antelope stepped out from the deep shadow of the thorn thicket,

and the early morning sunlight gleamed on the silky pelt, It kept

walking steadily across the narrow clearing.

Nicholas's breathing quickened with excitement as he followed it with

the telescopic sight. It was ridiculous that he should feel so wrought

up with the hunting of such a humble little animal, but his previous

failures had sharpened his anticipation. Added to that was the peculiar

passion that drives the true collector. Since he had lost Rosalind and

the girls, he had thrown all his energy into the building up of the

collection at Quenton Park. Now, suddenly, procuring this specimen for

it had become a matter of supreme importance to him.

His forefinger rested lightly on the side of the trigger guard. He would

not fire until the dik-dik came to a standstill. Even that walking pace

would make the shot uncertain. He had to place his bullet precisely, to

kill swiftly but at the same time to inflict the least possible damage

to the skin.

To this end he had loaded the Rigby with full metal jacket bullets -

ones that would not expand on impact and open a wide wound channel, nor

rip out a gaping hole in the coat as they exited. These solid bullets

would punch a tiny hole the size of a pencil that the taxidermist at the

museum would be able to repair invisibly.

He felt his nerves screwing up as he realized that the dik-dik was not

going to stop in the open. It made steadily for the thick scrub on the

far side of the clearing. This might be his last chance. He fought the

temptation to take the shot at the moving target, and it required an

effort of will to lift his finger off the trigger again.

The antelope reached the wall of thorn scrub -and, the moment before it

disappeared, stopped abruptly and thrust its tiny head into the depths

of one of the low bushes.

Standing broadside to Nicholas, it began to nibble at the pate green

tufts of new leaves. The head was screened, so he had to abandon his

intention of going for that shot.

However, the shoulder was exposed. He could make out the clear outline

of the blade beneath the glossy red-brown skin. The dik-dik was angled

slightly away from him, in the perfect position for the heart shot,

tucked in low behind the shoulder.

Unhurriedly he settled the reticule of the scope on the precise spot,

and squeezed the trigger.

The shot whip-cracked in the heavy heated air and the tiny antelope

bounded high, coming down to touch the earth already at a full run. Like

a rapier rather than a cutlass, the solid bullet had not struck with

sufficient shock to knock the dik-dik over. Head down, the dik-dik

dashed away in the typical frantic reaction to a bullet through the

heart. It was dead already, running only on the last dregs of oxygen in

its bloodstream.

"Oh, no! Not that way," Nicholas cried as he jumped to his feet. The

tiny creature was racing straight towards the lip of the cliff. Blindly

leaped out into empty space and flipped into a somersault as it fell,

dropping from their sight, down almost two hundred feet into the chasm

of the Dandera river.

"That was a filthy bit of luck." Nicholas jumped over the bush that had

hidden them and ran to the rim of the chasm. Royan followed him and the

two of them stood peering down into the giddy void.

"There it is!" She pointed, and he nodded. "Yes, I can see it."

The carcass lay directly below them, caught on an islet of rock in the

middle of the stream.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I'll have to go down and get it." He straightened up and stepped back

from the brink. "Fortunately it's still early.

We have plenty of time to get the job done before dark.

I'll have to go back to camp to fetch the rope and to get some help."

It was afternoon before they returned, panied by Boris, both his

trackers and two of the skinners. They brought with them four coils of

nylon rope.

Nicholas leaned out over the cliff and grunted with relief "Well, the

carcass is still down there. I had visions of it being washed away." He

supervised the trackers as they uncoiled the rope and laid it out down

the length of the clearing.

"We will need two coils of it to get down to the bottom he estimated

and joined them, painstakingly tying and checking the knot himself. Then

he plumbed the drop, lowering the end of the rope down the cliff until

it touch the surface of the water, and then hauling it back� and

measuring it between the spread of his arms.

"Thirty fathoms. One hundred and eighty feet. I won't be able to climb

back that high," he told Boris. "You and your gang will have to haul me

back up."

He anchored the rope end with a bowline to the hole of one of the wiry

thorn trees. Then he again tested it meticulously, getting all four of

the trackers and skinners to heave on it with their combined weight.

"That should do it," he gave his opinion as he stripped to his shirt and

khaki shorts and pulled off his chukka boots. On the tip of the cliff he

leaned out backwards with the rope draped over his shoulder and the tail

brought back between his legs in the classic. absed style.

"Coming in on a wing and a prayerP he said, and jumped out backwards

into the chasm. He controlled his fall by allowing the rope to pay out

over his shoulder, braking with the turn over his thigh, swinging like a

pendulum and kicking himself off the rock wall with both feet. He went

down swiftly until his feet dangled into the rush of water, and the

current pushed him into a spin on the end of the rope. He was a few

yards short of the spur of rock on which the dead dik-dik lay, and he,

was forced to let himself drop into the river. With the end of the rope

held between his teeth he swam the last short distance with a furious

overarm crawl, just beating the current's attempt to sweep him away

downstream.

He dragged himself up on to the island and took a few moments to catch

his breath, before he could admire the beautiful little creature he had

killed. He felt the familiar melancholy and guilt as he stroked the

glossy hide and examined the perfect head with the extraordinary

proboscis. However, there was no time now for regrets, nor for the

searching of his hunter's conscience.

He trussed up the dik-dik, tying all four of its legs together securely,

then he stepped back and looked up. He could see Boris's face peering

down at him.

"Haul it up!" he shouted, and gave three yanks on the rope as the agreed

signal. The trackers were hidden from his view, but the slack in the

rope was taken up and then the dik-dik lifted clear of the island and

rose jerkily up the wall of the chasm. Nicholas watched it anxiously.

There was a moment when the rope seemed to snag when the carcass was

two-thirds of the way to the top, but then it freed itself and snaked on

up the cliff.

Eventually the dik-dik disappeared from his sight, and there was a long

delay until the rope end dropped back over the tip. Boris had been

sensible enough to weight it with a round stone the size of a man's

head, and he was hanging over the top of the cliff, watching its

progress and signalling to his men to control the descent.

When the end of the weighted line touched the surface of the water it

was just out of Nicholas's reach. From the top of the cliff Boris began

to swing the line until the end of it pendulumed close enough for

Nicholas to grab it.

With a bowline knot Nicholas tied a loop in the end of the line and

slipped it under his armpits. Then he looked up at Boris.

"Heave away!" he yelled, and tugged the dangling rope three times. The

slack tightened and then he was lifted off his feet. He began to ascend

in a series of spiralling jerks and heaves. As he rose, the belled wall

of the chasm arched in to meet him, until he could fend off from the

rock with his bare feet and stop himself spiralling at the end of the

rope. He was fifty feet from the top of the cliff when suddenly he

stopped abruptly, dangling helplessly against the rock face.

"What's going on?" he shouted up at Boris.

"Bloody rope has jammed," Boris yelled back. "Can you see where it is

stuck?"

Nicholas peered up and realized that the rope had rolled into a vertical

crack in the face, probably the same one that had almost stopped the

dik-dik reaching the top.

However, his own weight was almost five times that of the little

antelope, and had forced the rope much more deeply into the crack.

He was suspended high in the air, with a drop of almost a hundred feet

under him.

"Try and swing yourself loose! Boris shouted down at him. Obediently,

Nicholas kicked himself back and twisted on the rope to try and roll it

clear. He worked until the sweat streamed down into his eyes and the

rope had rubbed him raw under the arms.

"No use," he shouted back at Boris. "Try to haul it out with brute

force!

There was a pause, and then he saw the rope above the crack tighten like

a bar of iron as five strong men hauled on the top end with all their

strength. He could hear the trackers chanting their working chorus as

they threw all their combined weight on the line.

His end of the line did not budge. It was a solid jam, and he knew then

that they were not going to clear it. He looked down. The surface of the

water seemed much further than a hundred feet below.

"The terminal velocity of the human body is one hundred and fifty miles

an hour," he reminded himself. At that speed the water would be like

concrete. "I won't be going that fast when I hit, will I? he tried to

reassure himself.

He looked up again. The men on the top of the cliff were still hauling

with all their weight and strength. At that moment one of the strands of

the nylon rope sheared against the cutting edge of the rock crack, and

began to uncurl like a long green worm.

"Stop pulling!" Nicholas screamed. "Vast heaving!" But Boris was no

longer in sight. He was helping his trackers, adding his weight to the

pull.

The second strand of the rope parted and unravelled.

There was only a single strand holding him now.

It was going to go at any moment, he realized. "Boris, you ham-fisted

bastard, stop pulling!" But his voice never reached the Russian, and

with a pop like a champagne cork the third and final strand of the rope

parted.

He plunged downwards, with the loose end of the severed rope fluttering

above his head. Flinging both arms straight upwards over his head to

stabilize his flight, he straightened his legs, arrowing his body to hit

feet first.

He thought about the island under him. Would he miss its red rock fangs

or would he smash into it and shatter every bone in his lower body? He

dared not look down to judge it in case he destabilized - his fall and

tumbled in midair. If he hit the water flat it would crush his ribs or

snap his spine.

His guts seemed to be forced into his throat by the speed of his fall,

and he drew one last breath as he hit the surface feet first. The force

of it was stunning. It was transmitted up his spine into the back of his

skull, so that his teeth cracked against each other and bright lights

starred his vision. The river swallowed him under. He went down deep,

but he was still moving so fast when he hit the rocky bottom that his

legs were jarred to the hips. He felt his knees buckle under the strain,

and he thought that both his legs had been broken.

The impact drove the air out of his lungs, and it was only when he

kicked off the bottom, desperate for air, that -he realized with a rush

of relief that both his legs were still intact. He broke out through the

surface, wheezing an coughing, and realized that he must have missed the

island by only the length of his body. However, by now the current had

carried him well clear of it.

He trod water on the racing stream, shook the water from his eyes and

looked around him swiftly. The walls of the chasm were streaming past

him, and he estimated his speed at around ten knots - fast enough to

break bone if he hit a rock. As he thought it, another small island

flashed past him almost close enough to touch. He rolled on to his back

and thrust both feet out ahead of him, ready to fend off should he be

thrown on to another outcrop.

"You are in for the whole ride, he told himself grimly.

"There is only one way out, and that is to ride it to the bottom."

He was trying to calculate how far he was above the point where the

river debauched from the chasm through the pink stone archway, how far

he still had to swim.

"Three or four miles, at the least, and the river falls almost a

thousand feet. There are bound to be rapids and probably waterfalls

ahead," he decided. "From here it does not look good. I' say the betting

is three to one against getting through without leaving some skin and

meat on the rocks behind you."

He looked up. The walls canted in from each side, so that at places they

almost met directly over his head. There was only a narrow strip of blue

sky showing, and the depths were gloomy and dank. Over the ages the

river had scoured the rock as it cut its way through.

"Damned lucky this is the dry season. What is it like down in here in

the rainy season?" he wondered. He looked up at the high-water mark

etched on the rock fifteen or twenty feet above his head.

Shuddering at the image he looked down again, concentrating on the river

ahead. He had his breath back by now, and he checked his body for any

damage. With relief he decided that, apart from some bruising and what

felt like a sprained knee, he was unhurt. All his limbs were responding,

and when he swam a few strokes to one side to avoid another spur of

rock, even the sore knee worked well enough to get him out of trouble.

Gradually he became aware of a new sound in the canyon. It was a dull

roar, growing stronger as he sped onward� down The walls of the chasm

converged upon each other, the gut of rock narrowed and the flood seemed

to accelerate as it was squeezed in and confined. The sound of water

built up rapidly into a thunder that reverberated in the canyon.

Nicholas rolled over and swam with all his strength across the current

until he reached the nearest rock wall.

He tried to find a handhold, a place where he could anchor himself, but

the rock was polished smooth by the river. It slipped past under his

desperately grasping hands, and the river bellowed in his head. He saw

the surface around him flatten out and smooth like solid glass. Like a

horse laying back its ears as it gathers itself for a jump, the river

had sensed what lay ahead.

Nicholas pushed himself away from the rock wall to try and give himself

room in which to manoeuvre, and pointed his feet once more down river.

Abruptly the air opened under him and he was launched out into space.

All around him white spurning water filled the air, and he was swirled

off balance and tossed like a leaf in the torrent The drop seemed to

last for ever, and his stomach swooped against his ribs. Then once more

he struck with all his weight and was driven far below the surface.

He fought his way up and abruptly burst out through the surface with his

breathing whistling up his throat.

Through streaming eyes he saw that he was caught up in the bowl of

swirling water below the falls. The waters revolved and eddied, turning

in a stately minuet upon themselves.

As he turned, he saw first the high sheet of white water of the falls

down which he had tumbled, and then still turning, the narrow exit from

the basin through which the river resumed its mad career downstream. But

for the moment he was safe and quiet here in the back-eddy below the

falls. The current pushed him against the side of the basin, close in

beneath the chute of the falls. He reached out and found a handhold on a

clump of mossy fern growing out of a crack in the wall.

Here, at last, he had a chance to rest and consider his position. It did

not take him long, however, to realize that his only way out of the

chasm was to follow the course of the river and to take his chances with

whatever lay downstream. He could expect rapids, if not another set of

falls like this one that thundered away close beside him.

If only there were some way up the wall! He looked up, but his spirits

quailed as he considered the overhang that formed a cathedral roof high

above him.

While he still stared upwards, something caught his eye. Something too

regular and regimented to be natural.

There was a double row of dark marks running vertically up the wall of

rock, beginning at the surface of the water and climbing up the wall to

the rim almost two hundred feet overhead. He relinquished his hold on

the clump of fern and dog-paddled slowly down to where these marks

reached the water.

As he reached them he realized that they were niches, cut about four

inches square into the wall. The two rows were twice the spread of his

arms apart, and the niche in one row lined up in the horizontal plane

exactly with its neighbour in the second row.

Thrusting his hand into the nearest opening, he found that it was deep

enough to accommodate his arm to the elbow. This opening, being below

the flood level of the waters, was smoothed and worn, but when he looked

to those higher up the wall, above the water mark, he saw that they had

retained their shape much more clearly. The edges were sharp and square.

"My word, how old are they to have been worn like that?" he marvelled.

"And how the hell did anybody get down here to cut them?"

He hung on to the niche nearest him and studied the pattern in the cliff

face. "Why would anybody go to all that amount of trouble?" He could

think of no reason nor purpose. "Who did this work? What would they want

down here?" It was an intriguing mystery.

Then suddenly something else caught his eye. It was a circular

indentation in the rock, precisely between the two rows of niches and

above the high-water mark. From so far below it looked to be perfectly

round - another shape that was not natural.

He paddled further around, trying to reach a position from which he

would have a clearer view of it. It seemed to be some sort of rock

engraving, a plaque that reminded him strongly of those marks in the

black boulders that flank the Nile below the first cataract at Aswan,

placed there in antiquity to measure the flood levels of the river

waters. But the light was too poor and the angle too acute for him to be

certain that it was man-made, let alone to recognize or read any script

or lettering that might have been incorporated in the design.

Hoping to devise some way of climbing closer, he tried to use the stone

niches as aids. With a great deal of effort, usin them as foot- and

hand-holds, he managed to lift himself out of the water. But the

distances between holds were too great and he fell back with a splash,

swallowing more water.

"Take it easy, my lad - you still have to swim out of here. No profit in

exhausting yourself. You will just have to come back another day to get

a closer look at whatever it is up there."

Only then did he realize how close he was to total exhaustion. This

water coming down from the Choke mountains was still cold with the

memories of the high snows. He was shivering until his teeth chattered.

"Not far from hypothermia. Have to get out of here now, while you still

have the strength."

Reluctantly he pushed himself away from the wall of rock and paddled

towards the narrow opening through which the Dandera river resumed the

headlong rush to join her mother Nile. He felt the current pick him up

and bear him forward, and he stopped swimming and let it take him.

"The Devil's roller-coaster!" he told himself. "Down and down she goes,

and where she stops nobody knows."

The first set of rapids battered him. They seemed endless, but at last

he was spewed out into the run of slower water below them. He floated on

his back, taking full advantage of this respite, and looked upwards.

There was very little light showing above him, for the rock almost met

overhead. The air was dank and dark and stank of bats. However, there

was little time to examine his surroundings, for once again the river

began to roar ahead of him. He braced himself rilentally for the assault

of turbulent waters, and went cascading down the next steep slide.

After a while he lost track of how far he had been carried, and how many

cataracts he had survived. It was a constant battle against the cold and

the pain of sodden lungs and strained muscle and overtaxed sinew. The

river mauled him.

Suddenly the light changed. After the gloom at the bottom of the high

cliffs it was as though a searchlight had been shone directly into his

eyes, and he felt the force and ferocity of the river abating. He

squinted up into bright sunlight, and then looked back and saw that he

had passed out below the archway of pink rock into that familiar part of

the river which he had explored with Royan. Coming up ahead of him was

the rope suspension bridge, and he had just sufficient strength

remaining to paddle feebly towards the small beach of white sand below

it.

One of the hairy tattered ropes dangled to the surface of the water, and

he managed to catch hold of it as he drifted past and swing himself in

towards the beach. He tried to crawl fully ashore, but he collapsed with

his face in the sand and vomited out the water he had swallowed. It felt

so good just to be able to lie without effort and rest.

His lower body still hung into the river, but he had neither the

strength nor the inclination to drag himself fully ashore.

"I am alive," he marvelled, and fell into a state halfway between sleep

and unconsciousness.

� never knew how long he had been lying like that, but when he felt a

hand shaking his shoulder, and a voice calling softly to him, he was

annoyed that his rest had been disturbed.

"Effendi, wake up! They seek you. The beautiful Woizero seeks you."

With a huge effort Nicholas roused himself and sat up slowly. Tamre

knelt over him, grinning and waggling his head.

(Please, effendi, come with me. The Woizero is searching the river bank

on the far side. She is weeping and calling your name,' Tamre told him.

He was the only person Nicholas had ever met who contrived to look

worried and to grin at the same time. Nicholas looked beyond him and saw

that it must be late afternoon, for the sun sat fat and red on the lip

of the escarpment.

While still sitting in the sand Nicholas checked his body, making an

inventory of his injuries. He ached in every muscle, and his legs and

arms were scraped and bruised, but he could detect no broken bones. And

although there was a tender lump on'the side of his he ad where he had

glanced off a rock, his mind was clear.

"Help me upP he ordered Tamre. The boy put his shoulder under Nicholas's

armpit, where the. rope had burnt him, and hoisted him to his feet. The

two of them struggled up to the bank and on to the path, and then.

hobbled slowly across the swinging bridge.

He had hardly reached the other bank when there was a joyous shout from

close at hand.

"Nicky! Oh, dear God! You are safe." Royan ran down the path and threw

her arms around him. "I have been frantic. I thought that-' she broke

off, and held him at arms length to look at him. "Are you all right? I

was expecting to find your broken bodym---'

"You know me," he grinned at her and tried not to i limp. "Ten'feet tall

and-bullet-proof You don't get rid of Me that easily. I only did it just

to get a hug from you."

She released him hurriedly. "Don't read anything into that. I am kind to

all beaten puppies, and other dumb animals." But her smile belied the

words. "Nevertheless, it's good to have you back in one piece, Nicky."

"Where is Boris?"he asked.

"He and the trackers are searching the banks lower down the river. I

think he is looking forward to finding your corpse."

"What has he done with my dik-dik?"

ainly nothing too much the matter with

"There is cert you if you can worry about that. The skinners have taken

it down to the camp."

"Damn it to hell! I must supervise the skinning and tion of the trophy

myself. They will ruin id' He put prepara his arm around Tamre's

shoulder. "Come on, my lad! Let's see if I can break into a trot."

las knew that in this heat the carcass of icho the little antelope would

decompose swiftly, and the hair would slough from the hide if it were

not treated immediately. It was imperative to skin it out immediately.

Already it had been left too long, and the preparation of a hide for a

full body mount was a skilled and painstaking procedure.

it was already dark as they limped into the camp.

Nicholas shouted for the skinners in Arabic.

"Ya, Kif! Ya, SalinP and when they came running from living huts he

asked anxiously, "Have you begun?" their

"Not yet, effendi. We were having our dinner first."

"For once gluttony is a virtue. Do not touch the creature until I come.

While you are waiting for me, fetch one of the gas lights!" He limped to

his own hut as fast as his aches would allow. There he stripped and

anointed all his visible scrapes and abrasions with Mercurochrome, flung

on fresh dry clothes, rummaged in his bag until he found the canvas roll

which contained his knives, and hurried down to the skinning hut.

By the brilliant white glare of the butane gas lantern he had only just

completed the initial skin incisions down the inside of the dik-dik's

legs and belly when Boris pushed open the door of the hut.

"Did you have a good swim, English?"

"Bracing, thank you." Nicholas smiled. "I don't expect you want to eat

your words about my striped dik-dik, do you?" he asked mildly. "No such

bloody animal, I think you said., "It is like a rat. A true hunter would

not bother himself with such rubbish," Boris replied haughtily. "Now

that you have your rat, perhaps we can go back to Addis, English?"

"I paid you for three weeks. It is my safari. We go when I say

so,'Nicholas told him. Boris grunted and backed out of the hut.

Nicholas worked swiftly. His knives were of a special design to

facilitate the fine work, and he stropped them at regular intervals on a

ceramic sharpening rod until he could shave the hairs from his forearm

with just the lightest touch.

The legs had to be skinned out with the tiny hooves still attached.

Before he had completed this part of the work, another figure stooped

into the hut. He was dressed in a priest's shamma and headcloth, and

until he spoke Nicholas did not recognize Mek Nimmur.

"I hear that you have been looking for trouble again, Nicholas. I came

to make sure that you were still alive.

There was a rumour at the monastery that you had drowned yourself,

though I knew it was not possible. You will not die so easily."

"I hope you are right, Mek," Nicholas laughed at him.

Mek squatted opposite him. "Give me one of your knives and I will finish

the hooves. It will go quicker if I help you."

Without comment Nicholas passed him one of the knives. He knew that Mek

could skin out the hooves, for years before he had taught him the art.

With two of them working on the pelt, it would go that much faster. The

sooner the skin was off, the less chance there would be of

deterioration.

He turned his attention to the head. This was the most delicate part of

the process. The skin had to be peeled off like a glove, and the eyelids

and lips and nostrils must be worked from the inside. The ears were

perhaps the most difficult to lift away from the gristle in one piece.

They worked in companionable silence for a while, which Mek broke at

last.

"How well do you know your Russian, Boris Brusilov?" he asked.

"I met him for the first time when I stepped off the plane. He was

recommended by a friend."

"Not a very good friend." Mek looked up at him and his expression was

grim. "I came to warn you about him, Nicholas."

"I a� listening," said Nicholas quietly.

"In "85 I was captured by Mengistu's thugs. They kept me in the Karl

Marx prison camp near Addis. Brusilov was one of the interrogators

there. He was KGB in those days.

His favourite trick was to stick the pressure hose from a compressor up

the anus of the man or woman he was questioning and turn on the tap.

They blew up like a balloon, until the gut burst." He stopped speaking

while he moved around to work on the other hoof of the antelope.

"I escaped before he got around to questioning me. He retired when

Mengistu fled, and went hunting. I don't know how he persuaded Tessay to

marry him, ut knowing what I do of the man, I expect she did not have

much choice in the matter."

"Of course, I had my suspicions about him," Nicholas admitted.

They were quiet after that until Mek whispered, "I came to tell you that

I may have to kill him."

Neither of them spoke again until Mek had finished working on all four

hooves. Then he stood up. "These days, life is uncertain, Nicholas. If I

have to leave here in a hurry, and I do not have a chance to say goodbye

to you, then there is somebody in Addis who will pass a message to me if

you ever need me. His name is Colonel Maryam Kidane in the Ministry of

Defence. He is a friend. My code name is the Swallow. He will know who

you are talking about."

They embraced briefly. "Go with GodV said Mek, and left the hut quietly.

The night swallowed his robed figure and Nicholas stood for a long time

at the door, until at last he turned back to finish the work.

It was late by the time he had rubbed every inch of the skin with a

mixture of rock salt and Kabra dip to cure it and protect it from the

ravages of the bacon beetle and other insects and bacteria. At last he

laid it out on the floor of the hut with the wet side uppermost and

packed more rock salt on the raw areas.

The walls of the hut were reinforced with mesh netting to keep out

hyenas. One of these foul creatures could gobble down the pelt in a few

seconds. He made certain the door was wired shut before he carried the

lantern up to the dining hut. The others had all eaten and gone to bed

hours earlier, but Tessay had left his dinner in the charge of the

Ethiopian chef. He had not realized how hungry he was until he smelt it.

The next morning Nicholas was so stiff that he hobbled down to the

skinning hut like an old� man. First he checked the pelt and poured

fresh salt over it, then he ordered Kif and Satin to bury the skull of

the dik-dik in an ant heap to allow the insects to remove the surplus

flesh and scour the brain pan. He preferred this method to boiling the

skull.

Satisfied that the trophy was in good condition, he went on down to the

dining hut, where Boris greeted him jovially.

"And so, English. We leave for Addis now, da?� "thing more to do here."

"We will stay to photograph the ceremony of Timkat at the

monastery,'Nicholas told him. "And after that I may want to hunt a

Menelik's bushbuck. Who knows? I've told you before. We go when I say

so."

Boris looked disgruntled. "You are crazy, English. Why do you want to

stay in this heat to watch these people and their mumbo'jumbo?"

"Today I will go fishing, and tomorrow we will watch Timkat."

"You do not have a fishing rod," Boris protested, but pened the small

canvas roll no larger than a Nicholas� woman's handbag and showed him

the four-piece Hardy Smuggler rod nestling in it.

He looked across the table at Royan, "Are you coming along to ghillie

for me?" he asked.

They went upstream to the suspension bridge where Nicholas set up the

rodand tied a fly on to his leader.

"Royal Coachm " He held it up for her appraisal.

an.

"Fish love them anywhere in the world, from Patagonia to Alaska. We

shall soon find out if they are as popular here in Ethiopia, as well."

She watched from the top of the bank as he shot out line, rolling it

upon itself in flight, sailing the weightless fly out to midstream, and

then laying it gently on the surface of the water so that it floated

lightly on the ripples. On his second cast there was a swirl under the

fly. The rod tip arced over sharply, the reel whined and Nicholas let

out a whoop.

"Gotcha, my beauty!'

�watched him indulgently from the top of the bank.

Sh In his excitement and enthusiasm he was like a small boy.

She smiled when she noticed how his injuries had miraculously healed

themselves, and how he no longer limped as he ran back and forth along

the water's edge, playing the fish. Ten minutes later he slid it,

gleaming like a bar of freshly minted gold as long as his arm, sopping

and flapping up on to the beach.

"Yellow fish," he told her triumphantly. "Scrumptious.

Breakfast for tomorrow morning."

He came up the bank and dropped down in the grass beside her. "The

fishing was really just an excuse to get away from Boris. I brought you

here to tell you about what I found up there yesterday." He pointed up

through the archway of pink stone above the bridge. She came up on her

elbow and watched him with her full attention.

"Of course, I have no way of telling if it has anything to do with our

search, but somebody has been working in there." He described the niches

that he had found carved into the canyon wall. "They reach from the lip

right down to the water's edge. Those below the high-water mark have

been severely eroded by the floods. I could not reach those higher up,

but from what I could see they have been protected from wind and rain by

the dished shape of the Cliff., it has formed a veranda roof over them.

They appear to be in pristine condition, very much in contrast to those

lower down."

"What do we deduce from that?" she asked.

"That they are very old," he answered. "Certainly the basalt is pretty

hard. It has taken a long, long time for water to wear it down the way

it has."

"What do you think was the purpose of those holes?"

�am not sure he admitted.

"Could it be that they were the anchor points for some sort of

scaffolding? she asked, and he looked impressed.

"Good thinking. They could be, he agreed.

"What other ideas occur to you?"

"Ritual designs," he suggested. "A religious motif." He smiled as he saw

her expression of doubt. "Not very convincing, I agree."

"All right, let's consider the idea of scaffolding. Why would anybody

want to erect scaffolding in a place like that?" She lay back in the

grass and picked a straw which she nibbled reflectively.

He shrugged. "To anchor a1adder or a gantry, to gain access to the

bottom of the chasm?"

"What other reason?"

"I can't think of any other."

After a while she shook her head. "Nor can� She spat out the piece of

grass. "If that is the motive, then they were fairly committed to the

project. From your description it must have been a substantial

structure, designed to support the weight of a, lot of men or heavy

material."

"In North America the Red Indians built fishing platforms over

waterfalls like that from which they netted the salmon."

"Have there ever been great runs of fish through these waters?" she

asked, and he shrugged again.

"Nobody can answer that. Perhaps long ago who knows."

"Was that all you saw down there?"

"High up the wall, aligned with mathematical precision between the two

lines of stone niches, there was something that looked like a has-relief

carving."

She sat up with a jerk and stared at him avidly. "Could it clearly? Was

it script, or was it a design? What you see was the style of the

carving?"

"No such luck. It was too high, and the light is very poor down there. I

am not even certain that it wasn't'a natural flaw in the rock."

Her disappointment was palpable, but after a pause she asked,

"Was there anything else?"

"Yes," he grinned. "Lots and lots of water moving very very fast."

"What are we going to do about this putative has-relief of yours?" she

asked.

"I don't like the idea in the least, but I will have to go back in there

and have another look."

"When?"

"tomorrow. Our one chance to get into the maqdas of the cathedral. After

that we will make a plan to explore the gorge."

"We are running out of time, Nicky, just when things are getting really

interesting."

"You can say that again!'. he murmured. She felt his breath on her lips,

for their faces were as close together as those of conspirators or of

lovers, and she realized the double meaning of her own words. She jumped

to her feet and slapped the dust and loose straw from her jodhpurs.

"You only'have one fish to feed the multitude. Either you have a very

high opinion of yourself, or you had better get fishing."

wo debteras who had been detailed by the bishop to escort them tried to

force a way for them through the crowds. However, they had not reached

the foot of the staircase before the escort itself was swallowed up and

lost. Nicholas and Royan became separated from the other couple.

"Keep close," Nicholas told Royan, and maintained a firm grip on her

upper arm as he used his shoulder to open a path for them. He drew her

along with him. Naturally, he had deliberately contrived to lose Boris

and Tessay in the crush, and it had worked out nicely the way he had

planned it.

At last they reached a position where Nicholas could set his back firmly

against one of the stone columns of the terrace, to prevent the crowd

jostling him. He also had a good view of the entrance to the cavern

cathedral. Royan was not tall enough to see over the heads of the men in

front of her, so Nicholas lifted her up on to the balustrade of the

staircase and anchored her firmly against the column.

She clung to his shoulder for support, for the drop into the Nile opened

behind her, The worshippers kept up a low monotonous chant, while a

dozen separate bands of musicians tapped their drums and rattled their

sistrums. Each band surrounded its own patron, a chieftain in splendid

robes, sheltering under a huge gaudy umbrella.

There was an air of excitement and expectation almost as fierce as the

heat and the stink. It built up steadily and, as the reased in pitch and

volume, the crowd singing inc began to sway and undulate like a single

organism, some grotesque amoeba, pulsing with life.

Suddenly from within the precincts of the cathedral there came the

chiming of brass bells, and immediately a hundred horns and trumpets

answered. From the head of the stairway there was a fusillade of gunfire

as the bodyguards of the chieftains fired their weapons in the air.

Some of them were armed with automatic rifles, and the clatter of AK-47

fire blended with the thunder of ancient black powder muzzle-loaders.

Clouds of blue gunsmoke blew over the congregation, and bullets

ricocheted from the cliff and sang away over the gorge. Women shrieked

and utulated, an eerie, blood-chilling sound. The men's faces were

alight with the fires of religious fervour.

They fell to their knees and lifted their hands high in adoration,

chanting and crying out to God for blessing.

The women held their infants aloft, and tears of religious frenzy

streaked their dark cheeks.

From the gateway of the underground church emerged a procession of

priests and monks. First came the debteras in long white robes, and then

the acolytes who were to be baptized at the riverside. Royan recognized

Tamre, his long gangling frame standing a head above the boys around

him.

She waved over the crowd and he saw her and grinned shyly before he

followed the debteras on to the pathway to the river.

By this time night was falling. The depths of the cauldron were obscured

by shadows, and hanging over it the sky was a purple canopy pricked by

the first bright stars.

At the head of the pathway burned a brass brazier. As each of the

priests passed it he thrust his unlit torch into the flames and, as soon

as it flared, he held it aloft.

Like a stream of molten lava the torchlit procession began to uncoil

down the cliff face, the priests chanting dolefully and the drums

booming and echoing from the cliffs across the river.

Following the baptism candidates through the stone gateway came the

ordained priests in their tawdry robes, bearing the processional crosses

of silver and glittering brass, and the banners of embroidered silk,

with their depictions of the saints in the agony of martyrdom and the

ecstasy of adoration. They clanged their bells and blew their fifes, and

sweated and chanted until their eyes rolled white in dark faces.

Behind them, home by two priests in the most sumptuous robes and tall,

jewel-encrusted head-dresses, came the tabot. The Ark of the Tabernacle

was covered with a crimson cloth that hung to the ground, for it was too

holy to be desecrated by the gaze of the profane.

The worshippers threw themselves down upon the ground in fresh paroxysms

of adoration. Even the chiefs prostrated themselves upon the soiled

pavement of the terrace, and some of them wept with the fervour of their

belief.

Last in the procession came Jali Hora, wearing not the crown with the

blue stone, but another even more splendid creation, the Epiphany crown,

a mass of gleaming metal and flashing faux jewels which seemed too heavy

for his ancient scrawny neck to support. Two debteras held his elbows

and guided his uncertain footsteps on to the stairway that led down to

the Nile.

As the procession descended, so those worshippers nearest to the head of

the stairs rose to their feet, lit their torches at the brazier and

followed the abbot down. There was a general movement along the terrace

to join the flow, and as it began to empty, Nicholas lifted Royan down

from her perch on the balustrade.

"We must get into the church while "there are still enough people around

to cover us," he whispered. Leading her by the hand, with his other hand

hanging on to the strap of his camera bag, he joined the movement down

the terrace. He allowed them to be carried forward, but all the time he

was edging across the stream of humanity towards the entrance to the

church. He saw Boris and Tessay in the crush ahead of him, but they had

not seen him, and he crouched lower so as to screen himself from them.

As he and Royan reached the gateway to the outer the eased them out of

the throng of chamber of the church, humanity and drew her gently

through the low entrance into the dim, deserted interior. With a quick

glance he made certain that they were alone, and that the guards were no

longer at their stations beside the inner gates.

Then he moved quickly along the side wall, to where one of the

soot'grimed tapestries hung from the ceiling to the stone floor. He

lifted the folds of heavy woven wool and drew Royan behind them, letting

them fall back into place, concealing them both.

They were only just in time, for hardly had they flattened their backs

against the wall and let the tapestry settle when they heard footsteps

approaching from the qiddist. Nicholas peeked around the corner of the

tapestry and saw four white-robed priests cross the outer chamber and

swing the main doors closed as they left the church.

There was a weighty thud from outside as they dropped the locking beam

into place, and then a profound silence pervaded the cavern.

"I didn't reckon on that," Nicholas whispered. "They have locked us in

for the night."

"At least it means that we won't be disturbed," Royan replied briskly.

"We can get to work right away."

Stealthily they emerged from their hiding-place, and moved across the

outer chamber to the doorway of the qiddist. Here Nicholas paused and

cautioned her with a hand on her arm. "From here on we are in forbidden

territory. Better let me go ahead and scout the lie of the land."

She shook her head firmly. "You are not leaving me here. I am coming

with you all the way." He knew better than to argue.

"Come on, then." He led her up the steps and into the middle chamber.

It was smaller and lower than the room they had left.

The wall hangings were richer and in a better state of repair. The floor

was bare, except for a pyramid-shaped framework of hand-hewn native

timber upon which stood rows of brass lamps, each with the wick floating

in a puddle of melted oil. The meagre light they provided was all that

there was, and it left the ceiling and the recesses of the chamber in

shadow.

As they crossed the floor towards the gates that closed off the maqdas,

Nicholas took two electric torches from his camera bag and handed one to

her. "New batteries," he told her, "but don't waste them. We may be here

all night."

They stopped in front of the doors to the Holy Of Holies. Quickly

Nicholas examined them. There were A, engravings of St.. Frumentius on

each panel, his head enclosed in a nimbus of celestial radiance and his

right hand lifted in the act of benediction.

"Primitive lock," he murmured, "must be hundreds of years old. You could

throw your hat through the gap between the hasp and the tongue." He

slipped his hand into the bag and brought out a Leatherman tool.

"Clever little job, this is. With it you do anything from digging the

stones out of a horse's hoof, to opening the lock on a chastity belt."

He knelt in front of the massive iron lock and unfolded one of the

multiple blades of the tool. She watched anxiously as he worked, and

then gave a little start as with satisfying clunk the tongue of the lock

slid back.

a Mis-spent youth?" she asked. "Burglary amongst your many talents?"

"You don't really want to know." He stood up and put his shoulder to one

leaf of the door. It gave with a groan of unlubricated hinges, and he

pushed it open only just wide enough for them to squeeze through, then

immediately shut it behind them.

They stood side by side on the threshold of the maqdas and gazed about

them in silent awe.

The Holy of Holies was a small chamber, much smaller than either of them

had expected. Nicholas could have crossed it in a dozen strides. The

vaulted roof was so low that by standing on tiptoe he could have touched

it with his outstretched fingertips.

or upwards the walls were lined with From the flo shelves upon which

stood the gifts and offerings of the faithful, icons of the Trinity and

the Virgin rendered in Byzantine style, framed in ornate silver. There

were ranks of statuettes of saints and emperors, medallions and wreaths

made of polished metal, pots and bowls and jewelled boxes, candelabra

with many branches, on each of which the votive candles burned providing

an uncertain wavering light. It was an extraordinary collection of junk

and treasures, of objects of virtue and garish bric-A-brac, offered as

articles of faith by the emperors and chieftains of Ethiopia over the

centuries.

In the centre of the floor stood the altar of cedarwood, the panels

carved with visionary, scenes of revelation and creation, of the

temptation and the fall from Eden, and of the Last judgement. The altar

cloth was crocheted raw silk, and the cross and the chalice were in

massive worked silver. The abbot's crown gleamed in the candlelight,

with the blue ceramic seal of Taita in the centre of its brow.

Royan crossed the floor and knelt in front of the altar.

She bowed her head in prayer. Nicholas waited respectfully at the

threshold until she rose to her feet again, and then he went to join

her.

"The tabot stoneV He pointed beyond the altar, and they went forward

side by side. At the back of the maqdas stood an object covered with a

heavy damask cloth encrusted with embroidered thread of silver and gold.

From the outline beneath the covering they could see that it was of

elegant and pleasing proportions, as tall as a man, but slender with a

pedestal topping.

They both circled it, studying the cloaked shape avidly, but reluctant

to touch it or to uncover it, fearful that their expectations might

prove unwarranted, and that their ..hopes would be dashed like the

turbulent river waters plunging into the cauldron of the Nile. Nicholas

broke the tension that gripped them by turning away from the tabot stone

to the barred gate in the back wall of the sanctuary.

"The tomb of St. Frumentius!" he said, and went to the grille. She came

to his side, and together they peered through the square openings in the

woodwork that was black with age. The interior was in darkness. Nicholas

prodded his torch through one of the openings and pressed the switch.

The tomb lit up in a rainbow of colour so bright in the beam of the

torch that their eyes took a few moments to adjust and then Royan gasped

aloud.

"Oh, sweet heaven!" She began to tremble as if in high fever, and her

face went creamy pale as all the blood drained from it.

The coffin was set into a stone shelf in the rear wall of the cell-like

tomb. On the exterior was painted the likeness of the man within.

Although it was badly faded and most of the paint had flaked away, the

pale face and reddish beard of the dead man were still discernible.

This was not the only reason for Royan's amazement.

She was staring at the walls above and on either side of the shelf on

which the coffin lay. They were a riot of colour, every inch of them

covered with the most intricate and elaborate paintings that had

miraculously weathered the passage of the millennia.

Nicholas played his torch beam over them in awestruck silence, and Royan

clung to his arm as if to save herself from falling. She dug her sharp

nails into his flesh, but he was heedless of the pain.

There were scenes of great battles, fighting galleys locked in terrible

combat upon the blue eternal waters of the river. There were scenes of

the hunt, the pursuit of the river horse and of great elephants with

long tusks of gleaming ivory. There were battle scenes of regiments

plumed and armoured, raging in their fury and blood lust.

Squadrons of chariots wheeled and charged each other across these narrow

walls, half obscured by the dust of their own mad career.

The foreground of each mural was dominated by the same tall heroic

figure. In one scene he drew the bow to full stretch, in another he

swung high the blade of bronze.

His enemies quailed before him, he trod them underfoot or gathered

together their severed heads like a bouquet of flowers.

Nicholas played the beam over all this splendid array of art, and

brought it to a stop upon the central panel that covered the entire main

wall above the shelf on which the rotting coffin lay. Here the same

godlike figure rode the footplate of his chariot. In one hand he held

the bow and in the other a bundle of javelins. His head was bare of any

helmet, and his hair flowed out behind him in the wind of his passage, a

thick golden braid like the tail of a lion. His features were noble and

proud, his gaze direct and indomitable.

Below him was a legen� in classical Egyptian hieroglyphics. In a

sepulchral whisper Royan translated them aloud:

Great Lion of Egypt.

Best of One Hundred Thousand Holder of the Gold of Valour Pharaoh's Sole

Companion Warrior of all the Gods May you live for ever!

Her hand shook upon his arm, and her voice choked and died away, stifled

with emotion. She gave a little sob, and then shook herself as she

brought herself back under control.

"I know this artist," she said softly. "I have spent five years studying

his work. I would know it anywhere." She drew a breath. "I know with

utter certainty that nearly four thousand years ago Taita the slave

decorated these walls and designed this tomb."

She pointed to the name of the dead man carved into the stone above the

shelf on which his coffin lay.

"This is not the tomb of a Christian saint. Centuries ago some old

priest must have stumbled upon it and, in his ignorance, usurped it for

his own religion." She drew another shaky breath. "Look there! That is

the seal of Tanus, Lord Harreb, the commander of all the armies of

Egypt, lover of Queen Lostris and the natural father of Prince Memnon,

who became the Pharaoh Tamose."

They were both silent then, lost in the wonder of their discovery.

Nicholas broke the silence at last.

"It's all true, then. The secrets of the seventh scroll are all here for

us, if we can find the key to them."

"Yes," she said softly. "The key. Taita's stone testament." She turned

back towards the tabot stone and approached it slowly, almost fearfully.

"I can't bring myself to look, Nicky. I am terrified that it's not what

we hope it is. You do itV

He went directly to the column, and with a magician's flourish jerked

away the damask cloth that covered it. They stared at the pillar of pink

mottled granite that he had revealed. It was about six feet high and a

foot square at the base, tapering up to half that width at the flat

pedestal of the summit. The granite had been polished, and then

engraved.

Royan stepped forward and touched the cold stone, running her fingers

lingeringly over the hieroglyphic'script in the way a blind man reads

Braille.

"Taita's letter to us," she whispered, picking out the symbol of the

hawk with a broken wing from the mass of close-chiselled script, tracing

the outline with a long, slim forefinger that trembled softly. "Written

almost four thousand years ago, waiting all these ages for us to read

and understand it. See how he has signed it." Slowly she circled the

granite pillar, studying each of the four sides in turn, smiling and

nodding, frowning and shaking her head, then smiling again as if it were

a love letter.

"Read it to me," Nicholas invited. "It's too complicated for me - I

understand the characters, but I cannot follow the sense or the meaning.

Explain it to me."

"It's pure Taita." She laughed, her awe and wonder at last giving way to

excitement. "He is being his usual obscure and capricious self." It was

as though she were talking of a beloved but infuriating old friend.

"It's all in verse and is probably some esoteric code of his own." She

picked out a line of hieroglyphics, and followed them with her finger as

she read aloud, "'The vulture rises on mighty pinions to greet the sun.

The jackal howls and turns upon his tail. The river flows towards the

earth. Beware, you violators of the sacred places, lest the wrath of all

the gods descend upon you!"'

"It's nonsense jargon. It does not make sense," he pretested.

"Oh, yes, it makes sense all right. Taita always makes sense, once you

follow the way his oblique mind is working." She turned to face him

squarely. "Don't look so glum, Nicky. You can't expect to read Taita

like an editorial in The Times. He has set us a riddle that may take

weeks and months of work to unravel."

"Well, one thing is certain. We can't stay here in the maqdas for weeks

and months while, we puzzle it out. Let's get to work."

"Photographs first." She became brisk and businesslike.

"Then we can lift impressions from the stone."

He set down the camera bag and knelt over it to open the flap. "I will

shoot two rolls of colour first, and then use the Polaroid. That will

give us something to work on until we can have the colour developed."

She stood out of his way as he circled the pillar on his knees, keeping

the angle correct so as not to distort the perspective. He took a series

of shots of each of the four sides, using different shutter speeds and

exposures.

"Don't use up all your film," she warned him. "We need some shots of the

walls of the tomb itself."

Obediently he went to the grille gates and studied the locking system.

"This is a bit more complicated than the outer gate. If I try to get in

here, I might do some damage.

I don't think it will be worth the risk of being discovered."

"All right," she agreed. "Work through the openings in the grille."

He filmed as best he was able, extending the camera through the openings

at the full stretch of his arms, and estimating his focus.

"That's the lot," he told her at last. "Now for the Polaroids."

"He changed cameras and repeated the entire process, but this time Royan

held a small tape measure against the pillar to give the scale.

As he exposed each plate he handed it to her to check the development.

Once or twice when the flash setting on the camera had either

overexposed or rendered the subject too dull, or for some other reason

she was not satisfied, she asked him to repeat the shot.

After almost two hours' work they had a complete set Of Polaroids, and

Nicholas packed his cameras away and brought out the roll of art paper.

Working together, they stretched it over one face of the pillar and

secured it in place with masking tape. Then he started at the top and

she at the bottom. Each with a black art crayon, they rubbed the precise

shape and form of the engravings on to the sheet of blank paper.

"I have learned how important this is when dealing with Taita. If you

are not able to work with the original, then you must have an exact

copy. Sometimes the most minute detail of the engraving may change the

entire sense and meaning of the script. He layers everything with hidden

depths. You have read in River God how he cons' ers himself to be the

riddler and punster par excellence id and the greatest exponent of the

game of bao that ever lived. Well, that much of the book is accurate.

Wherever he is now, he knows the game is on and he is revelling in every

move we make. I can just imagine him giggling and gether with glee."

rubbing his hands to

"Bit fanciful, dear girl." He settled back to work. "But I know what you

mean."

The task of transferring the outline of the designs on to the blank

sheets of art paper was painstaking and monotonous, and the hours passed

as they laboured on hands and knees or crouched over the granite pillar.

At last Nicholas stepped back and massaged his aching back.

"That does it, then. All finished."

a She stood up beside him. "What time is it?" she asked, and he checked

his wristwatch.

"Four in the morning. We had better tidy up in here.

Make certain we leave no sign of our visit."

"One last thing," Royan said, tearing a corner off one of the sheets of

art paper. With it she went to the altar where the abbot's crown lay.

Quickly she taped the scrap of paper over the blue ceramic seal in the

centre of the crown, and filled it with a rubbing of the design of the

hawk with a broken wing.

Just for luck," she explained to him, as she came back to help him fold

the long sheets of paper and pack them back in the bag. Then they

gathered up the shreds of discarded masking tape and the empty film

wrappers that he had strewn on the stone slabs.

Before they covered the granite stele with the damask cloth, Royan

caressed the stone panels of script as if to take leave of them for

ever. Then she nodded at Nicholas.

He spread the cloth over the pillar and they adjusted the folds to hang

as they had found them. From the threshold of the brass-bound door they

surveyed the maqdas for the last time, then he opened the door a rack

"Let's go!" She squeezed through and he followed her out into the

qiddist of the church. It took him only a few minutes to slide the

tongue of the lock back into place.

"How will we get out through the main doors?" she asked.

"I don't think that will be necessary. The priests obviously have

another entrance from their quarters directly into the qiddist. You very

seldom see them using the main gates." He stood in the centre of the

floor, and looked around carefully. "It must be on this side if it leads

directly into the monks' living quarters-' he broke off with a grunt of

satisfaction. "Aha! You can see where all their feet have actually worn

a pathway over the centuries." He pointed out a smooth area of dished

and worn stone near the side wall. "And look at the marks of grubby

fingers on the tapestry over there." He crossed quickly to the hanging

and drew a fold aside. "I thought as much." There was a narrow doorway

concealed behind the hanging.

"Follow me."

They found themselves in a dark passageway through the living rock.

Nicholas flashed his torch down its length, ? A

but he masked the bulb with his hand to show only as ,much light as they

needed. "This way."

The passage turned at right-angles and ahead they could make out a dull

illumination. Nicholas switched off the torch and led her on.

Now there was the smell of stale food and humanity, and they passed the

doorless entrance to a monk's rock cell. Nicholas flashed his torch into

it. It was deserted and bare. A wooden cross hung on the wall with a

truckle bed below it. There were no other furnishings. They went on past

a dozen others which were almost identical.

At the next turning of the passage Nicholas paused.

He felt a tiny draught on his cheek, and the taste of fresh air on his

tongue. "This way he whispered.

They hurried on, until suddenly Royan grabbed his shoulder from behind

and forced him to stop.

"What-' he began, but she squeezed his shoulder to silence him. He heard

it then, the sound of a human voice, echoing eerily through the

labyrinth of passageways.

Then came a weird haunting cry, that of a soul in agony, wailing and

sobbing. They crept forward, trying to make their escape before they

were discovered, but the sounds grew stronger as they went on.

"Dead ahead," Nicholas warned her in a whisper. "We are going to have to

sneak past."

Now they saw soft yellow lamplight spilling from the doorway of one of

the cells into the passage. There came another heart-rending female cry

that echoed down the passage and froze them in their tracks.

"That's a woman's voice. What is happening?" Royan breathed,� ut he

shook his head for silence and led her on.

They had to pass the open door of the lit cell. Nicholas edged towards

it with his back flattened to the opposite wall. She followed him,

keeping close and clinging to his arm for comfort.

As they looked into the cell the woman cried out again, but this time

her voice blended with that of a man.

It was a duet without words, but racked with all the feral agony of a

passion too fierce to be borne in silence.

In their full view a couple lay naked upon the truckle bed. The woman

lay spread-eagled, holding the man's hips between her uplifted knees.

Her arms wound hard around his back, upon which each separate muscle

stood out proudly and gleamed with sweat. He thrust down into her

savagely, his buttocks bunching and pounding with the force of a great

black battering ram.

She rolled her head from side to side as another incoherent cry was torn

from her straining throat. It seemed too much for the man above her to

bear, and he reared back like a flaring cobra, his pelvis still locked

to hers, but his back arched like a war bow. Spasm after spasm gripped

him. The sinews in the back of his legs were stretched to snapping

point, and the muscles in his back fluttered and jumped like separate

living creatures.

The woman opened her eyes and looked directly at them as they stood

transfixed in the doorway, but she was blinded with the strength of her

passion. Her eyes were sightless, as she cried aloud to the man above

her.

Nicholas drew Royan away, and they slipped down the passageway and out

on to the deserted terrace. They stopped at the foot of the staircase,

and breathed the sweet cool night air that was perfumed by the waters of

the Nile.

"Tessay has gone to him,'Royan whispered softly.

"For tonight at least,'Nicholas agreed.

"No," Royan denied. "You saw her face, Nicky. She belongs to Mek Nimmur

now."

The dawn was flushing the serrated crests of the escarpment to the

colours; of port wine and roses when they reached camp and separated at

the door to Royan's hut.

"I am bushed," she told Nicholas. The excitement has been too much for

me. You won't see me again before noon."

"Good thinking! Sleep as long as you wish. I want you scintillating and

perceptive when we start going over the material which we gathered last

night."

It was long before noon, however, when Nicholas was woken from a deep

sleep by the harsh and intrusive bellows of Boris as he stormed into the

hut.

"English, wake up! I must talk to you. Wake up, man, wake up."

Nicholas rolled over and thrust one arm out from under the mosquito net

as he groped for his wrist-watch.

"Damn you, Brusilov! What the hell do you want?"

"My wife! Have you seen my wife?"

"Now what has your wife got to do with me?"

"She has gone! I have not seen her since last night."

"The way you treat her, that comes as no stunning surprise. Now go away

and leave me to sleep."

"The whore has run off with that black bastard, Mek Nimmur. I know all

about them. Don't try and protect her, English. I know everything that

goes on around here. You are trying to cover for her - admit it!'

"Get out of here, Boris. Don't try an involve me in your sordid private

life." saw you and that shufta bastard talking in the skinning hut the

other night. Don't try to deny it, English.

You are in this thing with them."

Nicholas flung back the mosquito net and jumped out of his bed. "Kindly

moderate your language when you talk to me, you great oaf'

Boris backed off towards the door. "I know that she has run away with

him. I searched for them all last night at the river. They have gone,

and most of his men with them."

"Good for Tessay.- She is showing some taste in men for a change."

"You think I will let the whore get away with this? You are wrong, very

wrong. I am going to follow them and kill them both. I know which way

they are headed. You think I am a fool. I know all about Mek Nimmur. I

was head of intelligence-' He broke off as he realized what he had said.

"I will shoot him in the belly and let that whore Tessay watch him die."

"If you are going after Mek Nimmur,.then my bet is that you won't be

coming back."

"You don't know me, English. You beat me up one night when I had a

bottle of vodka in my belly, so you think I am easy, da? Well, Mek

Nimmur will see now how easy I am."

Boris dung out of the hut. Nicholas pulled on a shirt over his shorts

and followed him.

Back in his own hut, Boris had flung a few essential items into a light

pack. Now he was stuffing cartridges into the magazine of his 30/06

hunting rifle.

"Let them go, Boris," Nicholas advised him in a more reasonable tone of

voice "Mek is a tough lad - they don't come tougher - and he has a war

party of fifty men with him. You are old enough to know that you can

never hold on to a woman by force. Let her go!

"I do not want to hold on to her. I want to kill her.

The safari is over, English." He flung a pair of keys on a. leather tag

on the floor at Nicholas's feet. "There are the keys of the Land

Cruiser. You can make your own way back to Addis from here. I will leave

four of my best men to look after you, and hold your hand. Leave the big

truck for me to use. When you get to Addis, leave the keys of the Land

Cruiser with my tracker, Aly. I will know where to find him later. I

will send you the money I owe you for cancellation. Don't worry - I am a

man of principles."

"How could I ever doubt it?" Nicholas smiled. "Good bye, old chum. I

wish you luck. You'll need plenty of that if you are going up against

Mek Nimmur."

Boris was several hours behind his quarry, and as soon as he had left

the camp he broke into a jog trot that carried him down the pathway to

join the main track to the west, towards the Sudanese border. He ran

like a scout, with an easy swinging gait that ate up the ground.

"Looks as though he is still in good shape, even with the vodka."

Despite himself Nicholas was impressed as he watched him go. "But I

wonder how long he will be able to keep up that pace?"

He turned back to'his own quarters to get a little more sleep, but as he

passed her hut Royan popped her head out.

"What was all the shouting about? I thought that you and Boris were

having another little difference of opinion."

"Tessay has done a bunk. Boris has guessed that she has gone off with

Mek, and he is chasing after them."

"Oh,� icky! Can't we warn them?

"No chance of that, but unless Mek has gone soft he will be expecting

Boris to come after him. In fact, now that I come to think of it, he is

probably hoping for just that chance to even the score. No, Mek doesn't

need any more help from us. Go back to sleep!

"I can't possibly sleep now. I am so worked up. I have been looking at

the Polaroids that we took last night. Taita has given us an overflowing

cup. Come and have a look at this."

"Just one hour's sleep moreP He made a mock plea.

"Immediately, if not sooner."She laughed at him.

In her hut she had the Polaroids and the rubbings spread out on the camp

table, and she beckoned him to take the seat beside her.

"While you were snoring your head off, I made some progress." She laid

four Polaroids side by side, and placed her large magnifying glass over

them. It was a professional land surveyor's model on folding legs, and

under it every detail of the photographs was revealed. "Taita has headed

each of the sides of the stele with the name of one of the seasons of

the year - spring, summer, autumn and winter.

What do you think he was getting at?"

"Page numbers?"

"Exactly my own thought," she agreed. "The Egyptians considered spring

as the beginning of all new life. He is telling us in which order to

read the panels. This one is spring." She selected one of the

photographs.

"It starts with four standard quotations from the Book of the Dead." She

quoted the first few lines of the opening section: "'I am the first

breeze blowing softly over the dark ocean of eternity. I am the first

sunrise. The first glimmer of light. A white feather blowing in the dawn

wind. I am Ra. I am the beginning of all things. I will live for ever. I

shall never perish."' Still holding the glass poised, she looked up at

him. "As far as I can see, they do not differ "Substantially from the

original. My instinct is to set these aside for the time being. We can

always come back to them later."

"Let's go with your instinct," he suggested. "Read the next section."

She held the glass to the Polaroid. "I am not going to look at you while

I read this. Taita. can be as earthy as Rabelais when he is in the mood.

Anyway, here goes. "The daughter of the goddess pines for her dam. She

roars like a lioness as she hurries to meet her. She leaps from the

mountain, and her fangs are white. She is the harlot of all the world.

Her vagina pisseth out great torrents. Her vagina has swallowed an army

of men. Her sex eateth up the masons and the workers of stone. Her

vagina is an octopus that has swallowed up a king."'

"Whoa there!" Nicholas chuckled. "Pretty fruity stuff, don't you think?"

He leaned forward to study her face, for it was still turned away from

him. "Och, lassie, you have roses in your bonny cheeks. Not a blush,

surely not?"

"Your Scots accent is not in the least convincing," she told him coldly,

still not looking at him. "When you have finished being clever at my

expense, what do you think of what I have just read?"

"Apart from the obvious, I have't any idea."

"I want to show you something." She stood up and packed the photographs

and the rolls of art paper back into the haversack. "You'll need to get

your boots on. I am taking you on a little walk."

An hour later they stood in the centre of the suspension bridge, swaying

gently high above the swift waters of the Dandera river.

"Hapi is the goddess of the Nile. Is this river not then her daughter,

pining to meet her, leaping from the mountain top, roaring like a

lioness, her fangs white with spume?" she asked him.

They stared in silence at the archway of pink stone through which the

river poured, and suddenly Nicholas grinned lasciviously. "I think that

I know what you are going to say next. That's what I first thought of

when I looked at that cleft. You said it was like a gargoyle's mouth,

but I had another image."

"All I can say is that you must have some extraordinary lady friends,'

she said, and then covered her mouth. "Ooops!

I didn't mean to say that. I am being as disgusting as either you or

Taita."

"The workmen swallowed up in there!" His voice became more excite& "The

masons and the workers in stone!'

"Pharaoh Mamose was a god. The river has swallowed up a god with her -

with her stone archway." She was equally excited. "I must admit that I

would not have made the association if you hadn't explored the interior

of the cavern, and found those niches in the wall." She shook his arm.

"Nicky, we have to get in there again. We have to get a clearer look at

that has-relief you found on the cavern wall."

"It will take some preparation," he said dubiously. "I will have to

splice the ropes and make some sort of pulley system, and I will have to

drill Aly and the other men to avoid a repetition of my last little

fiasco. We won't be ready to make the attempt until tomorrow morning at

the very earliest."

"You get on with it. I will have plenty to keep me occupied with the

translation of the stele." Then she stopped and looked up at the sky.

"Listen!" she whispered.

He cocked his head and above the sound of the river, heard the whining

flutter of rotors in the air.

"Dammit!" he snapped. "I thought we had lost the Pegasus presence. Come

on!" He grabbed her arm and hustled her off the bridge. When they

reached the land he jumped down on to the beach, and she followed him.

The two of them crept under the hanging eaves of the bridge.

They sat quietly on the white sandy beach and listened to the Jet Ranger

helicopter approaching swiftly, and then circling back over the hills

beyond the pink cliffs. This time the pilot had not spotted them, for he

turned away and began to patrol up and down the line of the chasm.

Suddenly the engine-beat changed dramatically as the pitch altered and

the pilot pulled up the collective.

"Sounds as if he is going in for a landing up there in the hills,,

Nicholas said as he crawled out from under the bridge. "I would feel a

lot easier without them snooping around."

"I don't think we have too much to worry about," Royan disagreed. "Even

if they are connected with Duraid's killers, we are still way out ahead

of them. Obviously they have not tumbled to the importance of the

monastery, and the stele."

"I hope you are right. Let's get back to camp. We must not let them see

us in the vicinity of the chasm again. It will be too much of a

coincidence for them to find us hanging around here every time they come

this way."

while Royan went to her hut and pored over her photographs and etchings,

Nicholas worked with the trackers and skinners. He spliced the

unravelled end of the nylon rope to the second Thank, to make a single

length five hundred feet long. Then he cannibalized the canvas fly of

the cooking hut, cutting it up and whipping the raw edges to make a

sling seat. He fashioned the ends of the rope into a harness which he

spliced into the four corners of the canvas seat.

He had no block and tackle, so he put together a crude gantry of poles

which could be extended out over the cliff edge to keep the rope clear

of the rock. The rope would run through the groove that he drilled in

the end of the central beam with a red-hot iron. He lubricated it with

cooking lard.

It was the middle of the afternoon by the time he had completed his

preparations. Then, leaving Royan in camp, he led his men, burdened with

the coils of rope and the pole sections of the gantry, back up the

pathway to the spot where he had abseiled down into the ravine to

retrieve the carcass of the dik-dik. From there they worked their way

downstream, following the rim of the cliff. It was heavy going for Thorn

scrub grew right up to the edge, and in many places they were forced to

use their-machetes to hack their way through.

The sound of the waterfall guided him. As they moved down river it grew

louder, until the rock seemed to quiver under his feet with the roar of

falling waters. Finally, by leaning out over the edge and peering

downwards, Nicholas could make out the flash of spray in the depths

below.

This is the spot." He grunted with satisfaction, and explained to Aly in

Arabic what he wanted done.

In order to determine the exact position in which to set up the gantry,

Nicholas climbed into the canvas sling seat and had them lower him

twenty feet down the cliff face, just as far as the beginning of the

overhang. Up to that point he was able to keep the nylon rope from

abrading on the rock, but he was also able to see around the bulge of

the face.

Hanging backwards over the falls and the rocky bowl of the river one

hundred and fifty feet below him, he was able at last to see the double

row of niches in the rock face.

However, the has-relief engraving was still hidden from view by the

tumblehome of the cliff. He gave Aly the signal and they hauled him up.

"We must set up the gantry a little further down," he told him, and

directed them as they hacked away the dense shrubbery that choked the

rim. Then suddenly he exclaimed, "I'll be damned!" He went down on one

knee to examine the rim rock that the thorns had concealed.

"There are more excavations here."

Exposed to the elements, unlike those works further down that had been

protected by the overhang, these were badly eroded. There were just

vague traces remaining in the rim rock, but he was certain that these

indentations were the upper anchor points for the ancient scaffoldin

9They set up their own gantry on the same levelled area, and extended

the long pole out over the drop. Then they rigged and secured it with a

crude cantilever system of ropes and lighter poles.

When they were finished, Nicholas crawled out to the end to test the

structure and to run the end of the rope through the slot he had

prepared for it. The whole structure seemed solid and firm.

Nevertheless, it was with relief that he crawled back to solid ground.

He stood up and looked over the tops of the thorn scrub to where the

lowering sun was fuming red and angry on the horizon.

"Enough for one day," he decided. "The rest can wait for-tomorrow."

The next morning Nicholas and Royan were both up and drinking coffee at

the campfire while it was still dark. Aly and his men were squatting at

their own fire near by, talking quietly and coughing over the first

cigarettes of the day. The project seemed to have caught their

imagination. They had no inkling of the reason for this second descent

into the chasm, but the enthusiasm of the two ferengi was infectious.

As soon as it was light enough to see the path, Nicholas led them back

up into the hills. The men chatted cheerfully amongst themselves in

Amharic as they hurried through the thorn scrub, and they came out on

the rim rock just as the sun broke out over the eastern escarpment of

the valley. Nicholas had drilled the men the previous day, and he and

Royan had sat half the night going over the plans, so each of them knew

their part and they lost little time in setting themselves up for the

descent.

Nicholas had stripped to shorts and tennis shoes, but this time he had

brought along an old Barbarians rugby jersey for warmth. While he pulled

this over his head he pointed out to Royan the platform that had been

dug out from the solid rock.

She examined it carefully. "It's very hard to be sure, but I think you

are right. This probably is man-made."

"When you get further down you will have no doubts.

There is very little weathering of the face under the overhang, and the

niches are almost perfectly preserved until they reach the high-water

mark, that is," he told her, as he took his seat in the sling and swung

out over the cliff.

Dangling from the end of the gantry he gave Aly the sign, and the men

lowered him down into the gorge. The rope ran smoothly through the

lubricated slot.

He saw at once that he had judged it correctly, and that he was

descending in line with the double row of -niches. He came level with

the enigmatic circle on the cliff face, but it was fifty feet from him,

and a growth of gaudy Coloured lichens had streaked and discotoured the

rock, partially obscuring the details, so that he still could not be

certain that. it was not a natural flaw. He passed it and went on down

as Aly and his team paid out the rope from above.

When he reached the surface of the water he slipped out of the sling and

dropped in. The water was very cold.

He trod water, gasping, until his body became acclimatized.

Then he gave Aly three tugs on the signal rope. While the canvas seat

was hauled up he swam to the side of the pool and held on to one of the

carved stone niches for support.

He had forgotten how gloomy and cold and lonely it was here in the

bottom of the chasm.

After a long delay he craned his head backwards and watched Royan come

into sight around the bulge of the overhang, dangling in the sling seat

and revolving slowly at the end of the nylon rope. She looked down and

waved at him cheerfully.

"Full marks to that girl," he grinned. "Not much puts the wind up her."

He wanted to shout encouragement, but he knew it was futile because the

thunder of the falls smothered all other sound. So he contented himself

with returning her wave.

Halfway down he saw her tugging frantically on the signal rope. Aly had

been warned to expect this, and her i4 descent was hatted immediately..

Then she leaned back in the sling, hanging on with only her left hand,

as she groped for Nicholas's binoculars which hung from their strap on

to her chest. She was twisted at an awkward angle as she held the

glasses to her eyes and tried to manipulate the focus wheel with one

hand. He saw that she was obviously having difficulty picking up the

round mark on the wall and keeping it in the field of the lens, for the

sling was swinging from side to side and at the same time revolving

slowly.

She struggled at the end of the rope for what seemed to Nicholas a very

long time, but probably was no more than a few minutes. Then abruptly

she dropped the binoculars on to her chest, threw back her head and let

out a scream that, despite the roar of falling water, carried clearly to

Nicholas a hundred feet beneath her. She was kicking her legs joyfully

and waving her free hand at him, wild with excitement, as Aly began

paying out the rope once more. Still screaming incoherently, she was

looking down at him with a face that seemed to light up the cathedral

gloom of the gorge.

"I can't hear you," he yelled back, but the falls defeated both their

efforts to communicate.

Royan was wriggling about in her seat, shouting and gesticulating

wildly, and now she let go the harness with her other hand and leaned

further out to keep him in sight as the sling revolved. She was still

twenty feet above the water when she almost lost her balance entirely,

and very nearly toppled backwards out of the sling.

"Careful there," he yelled up at her. "Those glasses are Zeiss. Two

thousand quid at the Zurich duty-free!'

IC

This time his vo'� must have carried, for she stuck her tongue out at

him in a schoolgirlish gesture. But her movements became more

circumspect. When her feet were almost touching the water she signalled

on the rope to stop her descent and hung there, fifty feet across the

pool from him.

"What did you find?" he shouted across.

"You were right, you wonderful man!'

"Is it man-made? Is it an inscription? Could you read it?, "Yes, yes and

yes to all three of your questions! She grinned triumphantly as she

teased him.

"Don't be infuriating. Tell me."

"Taita's ego got the better of him once again. He couldn't resist

signing his work." She laughed. "He has left us his autograph - the hawk

with a broken wing!'

"Marvellous! Plain bloody marvelous!the exalted.

"Proof that Taita was here, Nicky. To carve that cartouche, he must have

been standing on a scaffolding.

Our first guess was right. That niche you are holding on to is part of

his ladder to the bottom of the gorge."

"Yes, but why, Royan?" he yelled back at her. "Why was Taita down here?

There is no evidence of any excavation or building work."

They both looked around the gloomy cavern. Apart from the tiny rows of

niches, the walls were unbroken, smooth and inscrutable until they

plunged into the dark water.

Under the falls?" she shouted across. "Is there a cutback in the rock?

Can you get across there?"

He pushed off from the cliff, and swam towards the thundering chute of

water. Halfway across, the current caught him and he had to swim with

all his strength to make any headway against it. Thrashing the water

with flailing arms and kicking out strongly, he managed to reach a spur

of polished, algae-stick rock at the nearest end of the falls.

The water crashed over his head, but he edged his way along under the

rock step into the heart of the cascade.

Halfway across, the water overwhelmed him. It tore him off his

precarious perch, hurled him back into the basin below and swirled him

end over end. He surfaced in the middle of the pool, and once again had

to Swim with all his strength to break free of the grip of the current

and to reach the slack water below the wall again. He clung to his

handhold in the stone niche, and panted like a bellows.

"Nothing?" she called.

He shook his head, unable to answer until he had finally regained his

breath. Finally he managed: "Nothing.

It's a solid rock wall behind the falls." He gasped another breath, and

then invited sarcastically, "Next bright idea, madam?"

She was silent and he was glad of the respite. Then she called again,

"Nicky, how far do those niches go down?"

"You can see," he told her, "right to the one I am holding on to."

"What about below the surface?"

"Don't be silly, woman." He was getting cold and irritable. "How the

hell could there be cuttings below the surface?"

"Try!" she yelled almost as iff itably. He shook his head pityingly, and

drew a deep breath. Still clinging to his handhold, he extended his

limbs and body to their full stretch. Then his head went under the dark

surface as he groped down as far as he could reach with his toes.

Suddenly he shot back, snorting for air with a startled look on his

face. "By Jove!" he shouted. "You are right!

There is another niche down there!'

"I hate to say I told you so." Even at that range he could see the smug

expression on her face.

"What are you? Some kind of witch?" Then he broke off and rolled his

eyes heavenward in despair. "I know what you are going to ask me to do

next."

"How far do the niches go down?" she called in honeyed tones. "Will you

dive down for me, dear Nicky?"

"That's it," he said. "I knew it. I am going to speak to my shop

steward. This is slave labour. From now onwards I am on strike."

"Please, Nicky!'

He hung in the water'pumping air in and out of his lungs,

hyperventilating, flushing his . bloodstream with oxygen to increase his

underwater endurance to its limits.

In the end he expelled the contents of his lungs completely, squeezing

out the last breath until his chest ached with the effort, and then he

sucked in again, filling his lungs to their capacity with fresh air.

Finally, with his chest fully expanded, he duck-dived, standing on his

head with his legs high out of the water and letting their weight drive

him under.

Sliding head-first down the submerged wall, he reached down, groping for

the next niche below the surface. He found it, and used it to accelerate

his dive, pulling himself on downwards.

He found the second niche below that, and pulled himself on downwards.

The niches were about six feet apart - a nautical fathom. Using them as

a measure, he was able to calculate his progress accurately.

Swimming on downwards, he found another niche, then another. Four rows

of niches, twenty-four feet below the surface. His ears were popping and

squeaking as the pressure squeezed the air out of his Eustachian tubes.

He kept on downwards and found the fifth row of niches. Now the air in

his lungs was compressing to almost half its surface volume, and as his

buoyancy decreased so his descent became easier and more rapid.

His eyes were wide open, but the waters below him were dark and turbid.

He could make out only the surface of the wall directly in front of his

face. He saw the sixth niche appear ahead of him and he grasped it, then

hesitated.

"Thirty-six feet of depth already, and no sign yet of bottom he

thought. There had been a time, when he was spearfishing competitively

with the army team, that he could free-dive to sixty feet and stay at

that depth for a full minute. But he had been younger then and in peak

physical condition.

"Just one more niche," he promised himself, "and then back up to the

surface." His chest was beginning to throb and burn with the need to

breathe, but he pulled hard on his handhold and shot down. He saw the

vague shape of the seventh niche appear out of the murk below him'

"They go right to the bottom," he realized with amazeMent. "How on'earth

did Taita do it? They had no diving equipment." He grasped the niche and

hovered there for a moment, undecided if he should risk going further.

He knew he was almost at his physical limit. Already he was hunting for

air, his chest beginning to convulse involuntarily.

"What about one more for the hell of it!" He was beginning to feel

light-headed, and a strange glow of euphoria came over him. He

recognized the danger signs, and looked down at his own body. Through

the murk he saw that his skin was wrinkled and folded by the pressure of

water. There were over two atmospheres'weight bearing down upon him,

crushing in his chest. His brain was becoming starved of oxygen, and he

felt reckless and invulnerable.

"Once more into the breach, dear friends," he thought drunkenly, and

went on down.

"Number eight, and the doctor's at the gate." He felt the eighth niche

under his fingers. He was thinking in gibberish now: "Number eight, and

I'll have her on a plate." He turned to go up again, and his feet

touched bottom. -Fifty feet deep," he realized even through his fuddled

state.

"I have left it too late. Got to get back. Got to breathe." He was

bracing himself to push off from the bottom when something grabbed his

legs and dragged him hard against the rock wall.

ctopus!" he thought, remembering the line from Taita's stele, "Her

vagina is an octopus that has swallowed up a king."

He tried to kick out, but his legs were bound as if by the arms of a sea

monster; some cold, insidious embrace held him captive. "Taita's

octopus. My oath! He meant it literally. It's got me."

He was pinned against the wall, crushed, helpless.

Terror seized him, and the rush of it through his blood flushed away the

hallucinations of his oxygen-impoverished brain. He realized what had

happened to him.

"No octopus. This is water pressure." He had experienced the same

phenomenon once before. On an army training exercise, while diving near

the inlet to the turbines of the generators in Loch Arran, his buddy

diver who was roped to him had drifted into their terrible suction. His

companion had been sucked against the grille of the intake and his body

had been crushed so that the splinters of his ribs had been driven

through the flesh of his chest and had come out through the black

neoprene rubber of his suit like daggers.

Nicholas had narrowly escaped the same fate. The fact that he was a few

feet to one side of his buddy had meant that he escaped the full brunt

of the rush of water into the turbine intake. Nevertheless, one of his

legs was broken, and it had taken the strength of two other army divers

to prise him out of the grip of the current.

This time he was at the limit of his air, and there was no other diver

to assist him. He was being sucked into a narrow opening in the rock,

the mouth of an underwater tunnel, a subaqueous shaft that bored into

the rock wall.

His upper body was free of the baleful influence of the rushing flood,

but his legs were being drawn inexorably into it. He was aware that the

surrounds of the opening were sharply demarcated, as straight and as

square as a lintel hewn by a mason. He was being dragged over and around

this lintel. Spreading out his arms, he resisted with all his strength,

but his hooked fingers slid over the polished, slimy surface of the

rock.

"This is the big one," he thought. "This is the one punch that you can't

duck." He hooked his fingers, and felt his nails tear and break as they

rasped against the rock.

Then suddenly they locked into the last niche in the wall above the

sink-hole which was sucking him under.

Now at least he had an anchor point. With both hands he clung to the

niche, and fought the pull of the water. He fought it with all his

remaining strength and all his heart, but he was near the end of his

store of both. He strained until he felt the muscles in both arms

popping, until the sinews in his neck stood out in steely cords and he

felt something in his head must burst. But he had halted the insidious

slide of his body into the sink-hole.

"One more," he thought. "Just one more try." And he knew that was all he

had left within him. His air was all used up, and so were his courage

and his resolve. His mind swirled, and dark shapes clouded his vision.

From somewhere deep inside himself he drew out the last reserves, and

pulled until the darkness in his head exploded in sheets of bright

colours, shooting stars and Catherine wheels that dazzled him. But he

kept on pulling.

He felt his legs coming out of it, the grip of the waters weakening, and

he pulled once more with strength that he had never realized he

possessed.

Then suddenly he was free and shooting towards the surface, but it was

too late. The darkness filled his head and in his ears was a sound like

the roaring of the waterfall in the abyss. He was drowning. He was all

used up. He had no knowledge of where he was, how much further he had to

go to the surface, but he knew only that he was not going to make it. He

was finished.

When he came out through the surface, he did not know that he had done

so, and he did not have enough strength left to lift his face out of the

water and to breathe.

He wallowed the're like a waterlogged carcass, face down and dying. Then

he felt Royan's fingers lock into the hair in the back of his head, and

the cold air on his face as she lifted it clear.

"Nicky!" she screamed at him. "Breathe, "Nicky, breathe!'

He opened his mouth and let out a spray of water and saliva and stale

air, and then gagged and gasped.

"You're still alive! Oh, thank God. You were down for so long. I thought

you had drowned."

As he coughed and fought for air and his senses returned, he realized in

a vague way that she must have dropped out of the sting seat and come to

his aid.

"You were under for so long. I could not believe it." She held his head

up, clinging with her free hand to the niche in the wall. "You are going

to be all right now. I have got you. just take it easy for a while. It's

going to be all right." It was amazing how much her voice encouraged

him.

The air tasted good and sweet and he felt his strength slowly returning.

"We have to get you up," she told him. "A few minutes more to get

yourself together, and then I will help you into the sling."

She swam with him across to the dangling sling and signalled to the men

at the top of the cliff to lower it into the water. Then she held the

folds of canvas open so that he could slip his legs into them.

"Are you all right, Nicky?" she demanded anxiously.

"Hang on until you get to the top." She placed his hands on the side

ropes of the harness. "Hold tight!'

"Can't leave you down here," he blurted groggily.

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "Just have Aly send the seat down again

for me."

When he was halfway up he looked down and saw her head bobbing in the

dark waters. She looked very small and lonely, and her face pate and

pathetic.

"Guts!" His voice was so weak and hoarse that he did not recognize it.

"You've got real guts." But already he was too high for the words to

carry down to her.

When they had got Royan safely up out of the ravine, Nicholas ordered

Aly to dismantle the gantry and hide the sections in the thorn scrub.

From the helicopter it would be highly visible and he did not wish to

stir Jake Helm's curiosity.

He was in no shape to give the men a hand, but lay in the shade of one

of the Thorn trees with Royan tending to him. He was dismayed to find

how much his near-drowning had taken out of him. He had a blinding

headache, caused by oxygen starvation. His chest was very painful and

stabbed him every time he breathed: in his struggles he must have torn

or sprained something.

He was impressed with Royan's forbearance. She made no attempt to

question him about his discoveries in the bottom of the gorge, and

seemed genuinely more concerned with his well being than with the

progress of their exploration.

When she helped him to his feet and they started back towards camp, he

moved like an old man, lame and stiff. Every muscle and sinew in his

body ached. He knew that the lactic acid and nitrogen that had built up

in his tissues would take some time to be reabsorbed and dispersed.

Once they reached camp Royan led him to his hut and fussed over him as

she settled him under the mosquito net.

By this time he was feeling a lot better, but he neglected to inform her

of this fact. It was pleasant to have a woman caring for him again. She

brought him a couple of aspirin tablets and a steaming mug of tea, stiff

with sugar. He was putting it on a little when he asked weakly for a

second mugful.

Sitting beside his bed, she solicitously watched him drink it. "Better?"

she asked, when he had finished.

"The odds are two to one that I Will survive," he told her, and she

smiled.

"I can see that you are better. Your cheek is showing again. You gave me

an awful scare, you know."

"Anything to get your attention."

"Now that we have decided that you will live, tell me what happened.

What sort of trouble did you run into down there in the pool?"

"What you really want to know is what I found down there. Am I correct?"

"That too, she admitted.

Then he told her everything that he had discovered and how he had been

caught in the inflow of the underwater sink-hole. She listened without

interruption, and even when he had finished speaking she said nothing

for a while, but frowned with concentrated thought.

At last she looked up at him. "You mean that Taita was able to take

those stone niches right down to the very bottom of the pool, fifty feet

below the surface? and when he nodded, she was silent again. Then she

said, "How on earth did he accomplish that? What are your thoughts on

the subject?" -Tour thousand years ago the water level may have been

lower. There may have been a drought year when the river dried up, and

enabled him to get in there. How am I doing?"

"Not a bad try," she admitted, "but then why go to all the trouble of

building a scaffold? Why not just use the dry river bed as an access?

Then again, surely the attraction of the spot for Taita was the river.

If it was dry, then it would be just like a thousand other places in

this gorge.

No, I have a feeling that the fact that it was so inaccessible was the

main, if not the only, reason he chose to wo there."

"I suspect that you are correct," he agreed.

"So if the river was running, even at itS lowest level as it is now, how

on earth did he manage to carve those niches below the surface? And what

would be the point in having scaffolding under water?"

"Beats me. I have no idea he admitted.

"All right, let's leave that for the moment. Now lets go over your

description of the sink-hole that almost sucked you in. Did you form any

estimate of the size of the opening?"

He shook his head. "It is almost totally dark down there. I could not

see more than two or three feet in front of me."

"Was the entrance directly between the two tows of niches?"

"No, not directly," he said thoughtfully. "It was slightly to one side.

I hit the bottom of the pool with my feet, and was just about to push

off when it grabbed me."

"So it must be at the very bottom of the pool, and slightly downstream

from the scaffolding. You say that the entrance seemed to have a square

coping?"

"I am not absolutely sure of that - remember that I could see very

little. But that was the impression I received."

"It may have been another man-made structure, then perhaps some type of

adit shaft driven into the side of the pool?"

"It's possible," he agreed reluctantly. "But on the other hand it could

just as easily be a natural fault in the strata that the river is

draining into."

She stood up to leave, and he demanded, "Where are you going?"

"I won't be long. I am going to my hut to fetch my notes, and the

material from the stele. Back in a moment."

When she returned she sat on the floor beside his bed, with her legs

drawn up under her in that double-jointed feminine fashion. As she

spread her papers around her, he pulled up the edge of the mosquito net

and looked down at what she was doing.

"Yesterday, while you were busy building the gantry, I was able to

decipher most of the rest of the "spring" face of the stele." She moved

her notebook so that he was able to overlook the pages she had opened.

"These are my preliminary notes. You will see where I have inserted a

number of question marks - here and here, for instance. That is where I

am uncertain of the translation, or where Taita has used a new and

strange symbol. I will have to give more time and consideration to those

later."

I follow you," he said, and she went on.

"These sections that I have highlighted with green are quotations from

the standard version of the Book of the Dead. Take this one here: "The

universe is drawn in circles, the disc of the sun- god, Ra. The life of

man is a circle that begins in the womb and ends in the tomb. The circle

of the chariot wheel foreshadows the death of the serpent that it

crushes beneath its rim. "Yes, I recognize the quotation," he said.

"On the other hand, these parts of the text that I have highlighted in

yellow are original Taita writings, or at least are not quotations from

the Book of the Dead or any other source that I am aware of This

paragraph here in particular is the one that I wanted to bring to your

attention."

She traced a section with her forefinger as she read it aloud, "'The

daughter of the goddess has conceived. She has been impregnated by the

one who is without seed. She has begotten her own twin sister. The fetus

lies forever -coiled in her own womb. Her twin shall never be born. She

will never see the light of day. She will five for ever in the darkness.

In the womb of the sister her bridegroom claims her in eternal marriage.

The unborn twin becomes the bride of the god, who was a man Their

destinies are intertwined. They shall live for ever. They Sul not

perish."'

She looked up from the notebook. "When I first read it, I was satisfied

that the daughter of the goddess was the Dandera river, as we had

already agreed. I was also pretty sure that the god that was once a man

must be Pharaoh.

Mamose was only deified on his ascension to the throne of Egypt. Before

that he was a man."

Nicholas nodded. !The seedless one is obviously Taita himself. He makes

repeated references to the fact that he was a eunuch. But now,' he

suggested, "if you have some new ideas about the mysterious twin sister,

let's hear them."

The twin of the river would most likely be a branch, or a fork of the

stream, wouldn't it?"

"Ah, I see what you are driving at, You are suggesting that the

sink-hole is the twin. Down there in the gorge it will never see the

Llight of day. Taita, the seedless one, claims paternity, So he is

telling us that he is the architect."

"Exactly, and he has married the twin of the river to Pharaoh Mamose for

all eternity. Putting that all together, I have come to the conclusion

that we will never find the location of Pharaoh Mamose's tomb until we

explore thoroughly that sink-hole that nearly drowned you."

"How do you suggest we do that?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"I am not the engineer, Nicky. I leave that to you to arrange. All I

know is that Taita devised some way of doing it - not only of getting

there but of working down there. If our interpretation of the stele is

correct, then he carried out extensive mining operations at the bottom

of the pool.

If he could do it, then there is no reason why you can't do it also."

"Ah!" he dernurred. "Taita was a genius. He says so repeatedly. I am

just an old plodder."

"I have got all my bets on you, Nicky. You won't let me down, will you?"

There was no call for intensive bushcraft to follow this spoor. His

quarry had taken very few anti-tracking precautions. Quite openly they

were following the main trail down the Abbay gorge, heading directly

westwards towards the Sudanese border.

Mek Nimmur was on his way back to his own stronghold.

Boris estimated that he had between fifteen and twenty men with him. It

was difficult to be certain, for the tracks on the pathway overlapped

each other, and of course he would have scouts on the'point ahead of him

and sweeping his flanks. There would also be a rear guard dragging the

trail behind him.

They were making good time, but such a large party would not be able to

outpace a single pursuer. He was sure he was gaining on them. He

reckoned that he had started four hours behind them, but judging by

recent signs he was now less than two hours adrift.

Without breaking his trot, he stooped to pick thing up from the path. As

he ran on he examined it. It was a twig, the soft tip shoot of a

kusagga-sagga plant that grew beside the track. One of the men ahead of

him had brushed against it as he passed, and snapped it off the main

branch. It gave Boris a fairly accurate gauge of how far he was behind.

Even in the heat of the gorge, the tender shoot had barely begun to

wilt. He was even closer than he had estimated.

He slowed down., a little as he considered his next move. He knew this

part of the valley fairly well. The previous year he had hunted over

much of this terrain with an American client, who had been looking for a

trophy Walia ibex. They had spent almost a month combing these same

gullies and wooded ravines before they had brought down a huge old ram,

black with age and carrying a pair of curled, back-sweeping horns that

ranked as the tenth largest ever in the Rowland Ward record book.

He knew that two or three miles ahead the Nile began another oxbow loop

out to the south, and that it then doubled back upon itself. The main

trail followed the river, because a series of sheer and formidable

cliffs guarded the high groupd in the centre of the loop of the river.

It was, however, possible to cut the corner. Boris had'done it before,

while following the wounded ibex.

The American hunter had not killed cleanly his bullet had struck the ram

too far back, missing the heartlung cavity and piercing the gut. The

stricken wild goat had taken to the high ground, following one of its

secret paths up amongst the crags. Boris and the American had followed

it up and over the mountain. Boris remembered how dangerous and

treacherous the path had been, but when it descended the far side of the

mountain it had cut off nearly ten miles.

If he could find the beginning of the goat path again, there was every

chance that he would be able to get ahead of Mek Nimmur and be lying in

wait for him on the far side. That would give him an enormous advantage.

The guerrilla leader would be expecting pursuit, not ambush.

He would be covering his back trail, and it was highly unlikely that

Boris would be able to slip past the rear guard without alerting his

intended victims. On the other hand, once he was ahead of them he would

be in control. Then he could choose his own killing ground.

As the trail and the main flow of the Nile started to turn away towards

the south, he kept watching the high ground above it, seeking a familiar

landmark. He had not gone another half-mile before he found it. Here

there was a break in the line of dark cliffs, a heavily forested

reentrant, that cut into the wall of basalt.

He stopped and mopped the sweat from his face and neck. "Too much

vodka," he grunted, "you are getting soft." His shirt was as sodden as

though he had plunged in the river.

He changed the slin of the rifle to his other shoulder,� lifted his

binoculars and swept the sides of the wooded gully. They appeared sheer

and unscalable, but then he picked out the stunted shape of a small tree

that grew out of a narrow crack in the face. It looked like a Japanese

bonsai, with a twisted, malformed trunk and tortured branches.

The Walia ibex had been standing on the ledge just above that tree when

the American had fired. In his mind's eye Boris could still see the way

in which the wild goat had hunched its back as the bullet struck, and

then spun around and raced away up the cliff. He panned the glasses

upwards gently, and could just make out the inclination of the narrow

ledge as it angled up the face.

"Da, da. This is the spot." He was thinking in his mother tongue again.

It was a relief after these last days of having to struggle in French

and English.

Before he began the climb, he left the trail and scrambled down the

boulder-strewn slope to the river. He knelt at the edge of the Nile and

splashed double handfuls over himself, soaking his cropped head and

sluicing the sweat from his face and neck. He drained and refilled his

water bottle, then drank until his belly was painfully full.

Then he rinsed out the bottle and refilled it. There was no water on the

mountain. Finally he dipped his bush hat in the river and placed it back

on his head, sodden and streaming water down his neck and face.

He climbed back to the main trail and followed it for another hundred

paces, moving slowly and studying the "ground. At one place there was a

rock boulder almost blocking the path. The men ahead of him had been

forced to step over this obstruction, on to a patch of talcum-fine dust

beyond it. They had left perfect impressions of their footprints for him

to read.

Most of the men were wearing Israeli-style para boots with a

zigzag-patterned sole, and those coming up from behind had overtrodden

the spoor of the leaders. He had to go down on one knee to examine the

signs minutely before he could pick out the imprint of a much smaller

and more delicately formed foot, a lighter, unmistakably feminine tread.

It was partially obliterated by other larger masculine footprints, but

the outline of the toe was clear, and the pattern was that of a smooth

rubber-soled Bata tennis shoe. He would have recognized it from ten

thousand others.

He was relieved to find that Tessay was still with the group, and that

she and her lover had not left and taken another path. Mek Nimmur was a

sly one, and cunning.

He had escaped from Boris's clutches once before. But not this time! The

Russian shook his head vehemently: not this time.

He gave his full attention to the female footprint once again. It gave

him a pang to look at it. His anger returned in full force. He did not

consider his feelings for the woman. Love and desire did not enter into

the equation.

She was his chattel, and she had been stolen from him. It was only the

insult that had significance for him. She had rejected and humiliated

him, and for that she was going to die.

He felt the old thrill run through his blood at the thought of the kill.

Killing had always been his trade and his vocation, but no matter how

often he exercised his craft the thrill was never blunted, the pleasure

never satiated. Perhaps it was the only true pleasure left to him, pure

and unjaded - not even the vodka could weaken and dilute it as it had

the physical act of copulation. He would enjoy killing her even more

than he had once enjoyed coupling with her.

These past few years he had hunted only the lower animals, but he had

never forgotten what it was like to hunt down and to kill a human being,

more especially a woman. He wanted Mek Nimmur, but he wanted the woman

more.

In the days of President Mengistu, when he had been the head of

counter-intelligence, -his men had known his tastes and had picked the

pretty ones for him. He had only one regret now, and that was that this

time he would have to do it swiftly. There could be no question of

drawing it i out and savouring the pleasure. Not like some of the other

experiences, which had lasted for hours, sometimes for days.

"Bitch," he mouthed, and kicked at the dust, stamping on the faint

outline of her footprint, obliterating it just as he would do to her.

"Black fomicating bitch."

He ran now with fresh strength and determination as he left the trail

and climbed up towards the deformed tree and the beginning of the goat

track up, the cliff.

Exactly where he expected it, he found the start of the track and

followed it upwards. The higher he climbed, the steeper it became. Often

he had to use both hands to haul himself up a gradient, or to work his

way along a narrow traverse.

The first time he had climbed this mountain he had been following the

blood spoor of the wounded ibex, but now he did not have those

splattered droplets to guide him, and twice he missed the path and found

himself in a dead end on the cliff face. He was forced to edge back from

the drop and retrace his footsteps until he found the correct urning.

Each time he did so he was aware that he was losing time, and that Mek

Nimmur might pass before he was able to intercept him.

Once he startled a small troop of wild goats which were lying on a ledge

halfway up the cliff. They went bounding away up the rock face, more

like birds than animals bound by the laws of gravity. They were led by a

huge male with a streaming beard and long spiral horns, which in its

flight showed Boris a direct route to the top of the cliff.

He tore the skin off his fingertips dragging himself up the last steep

pitch, but finally he reached the top and wormed his way over the

skyline, never lifting his head. A i human form silhouetted against the

clear, eggshell-blue sky would be visible from miles around. He moved

along behind the crest until he found a small clump of sanseveria to

give him cover, and used the erect, spiny leaves to break up the outline

of his head as he surveyed the valley a thousand feet below through the

binoculars.

From this height the Nile was a broad, glittering serpent uncoiling into

the first bend of the oxbow, its surface ruffled by rapids and rocky

reefs. The high ground on either bank formed standing waves of up-thrust

basalt, turbulent and chopped into confusion like a storm sea in a

tropical typhoon. The whole danced and shimmered in the heat and the sun

beat down with the blows of an executioner's axe, pounding this universe

of red rock into heat exhausted submission.

Though the air danced and trembled with the mirage in the tenses of his

binoculars, Boris traced out the rough trail beside the rier, and

followed it down the valley to the point where it was hidden by the

bend. It was deserted, with no sign of human presence, and he knew that

his quarry had moved on out of sight. He had no way of telling how far

down the trail they had travelled - he knew only that he must hurry on

if he were to cut them off on the far side of the mountain.

For the first time since he had left the'river, he drank sparingly from

the water bottle. He realized how the heat and the exertion of the climb

had dehydrated him. In these conditions a man without water might be

dead in hours. It was not in the least surprising that there was so

little permanent human habitation down here in the gorge.

When he backed off the skyline he felt rejuvenated, and set out to cross

the saddle of the mountain. It was less than a mile across, and without

warning he came out on the top of the cliffs on the far side. One more

unwary pace and he would have stepped off into space and plunged down a

thousand feet. Once again he moved along the crest until he found a

concealed vantage point from which to spy the terrain below.

The river was the same - a wide and confused expanse of white-ruffled

rapids, running back towards him as it turned through the leg of the

oxbow. The trail followed the near bank, except where it was forced to

detour inland by the rugged bluffs and stone needles which rose out of

the Nile waters.

In the great desolation of the gorge he could pick out no movement other

than the run of wild waters and the ceaseless dance of the heat mirage.

He knew it was not possible that Mek Nimmur had moved fast enough to

have passed completely ahead of him; therefore he must still be coming

around the bend of the oxbow.

He drank again, and rested for almost half an hour.

At the end of that time he felt strong and fully recovered.

He debated with himself whether to descend immediately and stake out an

ambush on the' trail, but in the end decided to keep to the high ground

until he had his quarry in sight.

He checked his rifle carefully, making sure that the telescopic sight

had not been bumped out of alignment during the climb, and then emptied

the magazine and examined the five cartridges. The brass case of one of

them was dented and discoloured, so he discarded it and reloaded with

another from his belt. He chambered a round and setthe safety-catch.

He set the weapon aside while he changed his sweat, dampened socks with

a fresh dry pair from his pack and retied his bootlaces with care. Only

a novice would risk blistered feet in these conditions, for within hours

they would be infected and festering.

He drank once more, and then stood up and stung the 30/06 on his

shoulder. Ready now for anything that the goddess of the chase could

send his way, he moved off along the crest to intercept the war party.

From every vantage point along the rim he glassed the valley below, each

time without spying his quarry, and the afternoon passed "swiftly. He

was just beginning to worry that Mek Nimmur had somehow managed to slip

past him unseen, that he had crossed the river at some secret ford or

taken another path through a hidden valley, when there came a plaintive

and querulous cry on the heat-hushed air.

He looked up. A pair of kites were circling over one particular clump of

Thorn scrub on the river bank.

The yellow'billed kite is one of the most ubiquitous scavengers in

Africa. It exists in close symbiotic association with man, feeding off

his rubbish, picking up his leavings, soaring and circling over his

villages or his temporary campsites, watching for his scraps or waiting

patiently for him to squat in the bushes and then dropping down

immediately he has finished his private business, acting as a universal

sewage disposal agent.

Boris studied this pair of birds through his binoculars as they sailed

idly in the heated air, always circling directly over that same patch of

river in bush. They had a distinctive manner of steering with their long

bifurcated tails, twisting them from side to side as they flirted with

the breeze. Their bright yellow beaks showed clearly as they turned

their heads to look down at something in the scrub.

He smiled coldly to himself. "Da! Nimmur has gone into camp early.

Perhaps the heat and the pace are too fierce for his new woman, or

perhaps he has stopped to play with her a little."

He moved on along the rim until he could look down directly into the

patch of bush. He studied it through the binoculars, but without picking

out any signs of human presence. After almost two hours he was becoming

uncertain of his original assumption. The only thing that retained his

attention was the pair of kites, which had settled in a treetop

overlooking the patch of scrub. He had to trust that they were watching

the men hidden in the scrub.

He glanced at the sun anxiously. It was sliding down towards the horizon

at last and losing its furious heat. Then he looked down into the valley

again.

Directly below the patch of bush was an indentation in the river bank

that formed a backwater, almost a small lagoon, When the river was in

flood it would be inundated, but now there was a small strip of gravel

bank exposed. On this bank stood a number of boulders that had tumbled

down from the cliff above. Some of them were lying on the beach, while

others had rolled into the river and were half, submerged. The largest

was the size of a cottage, a great round mass of dark rock.

As he watched, a man emerged unexpectedly from the scrub. Boris's pulse

quickened as he watched him scramble down on to one of the smaller

boulders and jump from there on to the gravel bank. He knelt at the

water's edge and filled a canvas bucket -with water, then climbed back

and disappeared into the bush again.

"Ah! The heat is too much even for them. They must drink, and that gives

them away. If it had not been for the birds I would never have known

that they were there." He clucked softly with reluctant admiration.

"Nimmur is a careful man. No wonder he has survived so long. He keeps

tight control. But even he must have water."

Boris kept watching through the glasses as he tried to guess what Mek

Nimmur would do next. "He has lost much time here by sheltering from the

heat. He will march again as soon as it is cooler. He will make a night

march," he decided, as he looked at the sun again. "Three hours until

dark. I must make my move before then. Once it is dark it will be

difficult to pick my targets."

Before he stood up he wriggled back from the skyline.

He retraced his steps back along the Mountainside until a bluff shielded

him from the eyes of Mek Nimmur's sentries.

Then he started down. There was no goat track here and he had to make

his own going, but after a few false starts he discovered an inclined

rock shelf that afforded him a fairly easy path down the face. When he

reached the bottom of the gorge, he took careful stock of the lie and

run of the . stratum so as to be able to find it again in an emergency.

It was a good escape route, and he knew that he might soon be under

pursuit and duress.

It had taken him over an hour to negotiate the descent, and he knew that

he was running out of time. He reached the trail at the water's edge,

and started back along it towards Mek Nimmur's camp. He was in a hurry

now, but even then he was careful to take anti-tracking precautions. He

walked on the edge of the trail, stepping only on the stony ground,

careful to leave no sign of his passing.

But despite his caution, he nearly walked right into them.

He had not covered the first two hundred metres when in the back of his

mind he registered the low, mournful whistle of a pale-winged starting,

and almost ignored it until alarm bells sounded in his mind. The timing

was all wrong. The starling only gave that particular call at dawn when

it left its nesting site high up in the cliffs. This was late afternoon

down in the heated depths of the gorge. He guessed that it was a signal

from one of the scouts coming up the trail towards him. Mek Nimmur's

party was on the move.

Boris reacted instantly. He slipped off the trail, and ran back the way

he had come until he reathed the beginning of the pathway along which he

had descended the cliff. He climbed just high enough to be able to

overlook the trail. However, he realized that he had lost Much of the

advantage that he had built up by cutting across the mountain. This was

not the ideal ambush position, and his escape route was exposed to enemy

fire from below - he would be lucky to make it to the top. But the .

idea of abandoning his vengeance never occurred to him. As soon as his

targets were in'his sights, he would shoot from this stance.

However, he acknowledged to himself that Mek Nimmur had taken him by

surprise. Boris had not anticipated that he would move before the sun

had set. He had expected to be able to take up a position above the camp

in the thorn patch and to be able to get off two careful, well-aimed

shots before he was forced to run.

It was also part of his calculations that, once he had dropped Mek

Nimmur, his men would not be eager to follow up with too much despatch.

Boris planned to make a running retreat, stopping at every defensible

strong point to fire a few shots, knock down one or two of them, and

keep the pursuit circumspect and cautious until they eventually lost

their taste for the game and let him go.

However, all that had now changed. He would have to take the first

opportunity that presented itself - almost certainly a moving target -

and as soon as he had fired he would be exposed on the path up the cliff

face. His one advantage here was that his hunting rifle was a superbly

accurate piece, whereas Mek Nimmur's men were all armed with AK-47

assault rifles, rapid-firing but notoriously wild at longer range, and

more especially in the hands of these shufta. With proper training, the

fighting tribesmen of Africa made some of the finest troops in the

world. They possessed all the necessary skills, with one exception -

they were notoriously poor marksmen.

He lay flat on the ledge, and the rock under him was so hot from the

direct sunlight that it burned painfully even through his clothin - He

pulled the pack from his 9 back and set it up in front of him, settling

the forestock of the, rifle over it to give himself a dead rest. He

peered through the telescope, wriggling into a comfortable position,

sighting on a small rock beside the main trail and then swinging the

barrel from side to side to make certain that he had a clear arc of

fire.

Satisfied that this was the best stance he could find in the short time

left to him, -he set the rifle aside and picked up a handful of dirt. He

rubbed this gently into his face, and the sweat turned it to mud that

coated his pate skin and dulled the shine that an alert scout might pick

out at long range. His last concern was to check the angle of the sun,

and to satisfy himself that it was not reflecting off the lens of his

scope or off any of the metal parts of the rifle.

He reached over and pulled at the branch of the shrub beside him so that

it cast its shadow over the weapon.

At last he settled down behind the rifle and cuddled the butt into his

shoulder, regulating his breathing to a deep slow rhythm, dropping his

pulse rate and steadying his hands. He did not have long to wait. He

heard the bird-call again, but this time much nearer at hand. It was

answered immediately from the far side of the trail, down closer to the

river bank.

"The flankers will be having difficulty maintaining station over this

terrain." He grinned without hurriour, a death's-head grimace. They will

be bunching and straggling." As he thought it, a man came into view

around the bend of the trail, about five hundred metres, dead ahead.

Boris picked him up in the magni�� of ens.

He was a typical African guerrilla, a shufta dressed in a tattered and

faded motley of camouflage and civilian clothing, festooned with pack

and water bottle, ammunition and grenades, carrying his AK at high port.

He hatted the moment he came through the turn, and crouched into cover

behind a boulder at the side of the trail.

For a long minute he surveyed the lie of the land ahead of him, his head

turning slowly from side to side. At one point he seemed to be staring

directly at Boris, who held his breath and lay as still as the rock

beside him. But finally the shufta straightened up and gave a hand

signal to those out of sight behind him. Then he came on down the trail

at a trot. When he had covered fifty metres the rest of the party began

to appear, keeping their intervals as precisely as beads on a string. It

would not be possible to enfilade this line even with an RPD from a

prepared position.

"Good!" Boris approved. "These are crack troops. Mek must have

hand-picked them." He watched them through the lens, examining the

features of each man as he came into view, searching for Mek Nimmur.

There were seven of them spread out down the trail now, but still no

sign of their leader. The man on the point drew level with Boris's

position and then went on past him. A pair of flankers passed directly

beneath where he lay, rustling softly by in the scrub not more than a

dozen paces from him. He lay like a stone and let them go. The rest of

them passed his position, well spaced and moving swiftly. For some

minutes after the last of them had gone, the gorge seemed deserted and

devoid of all human presence. Then there was another stealthy movement

out there.

"The rear guard," Boris grunted softly. "Mek is keeping the woman at the

rear. His new plaything."He is taking great care of her."

He slipped the safety-catch on the rifle gently, making certain that no

alien metallic sound fell on the heated and hushed air.

"Now let them come," he breathed. "I will take Mek first. Nothing fancy,

no head shots. Squarely in the centre of the chest. The woman will

freeze when he goes down.

She does not have the reflexes of a warrior. She will give me a second

unhurried shot. At this range there will be no question of a miss. Right

between those pretty little black tits of hers." He became sexually

charged by the image of blood and violent death set opposite Tessay's

loveliness and grace. "I might even have a chance to get one of the

others. But I can't bank on that. These men are good.

More likely that they will dive into cover before I have even had time

to kill the woman."

He watched the faces of the rear guard as, one at a time, carefully

spaced, they came into view. Each time he felt his heart trip with

disappointment. In the end there were three of them on the path, moving

past him at a steady, businesslike jog-trot. But no sign of Mek and the

woman. The rear guard disappeared down the path, and the small sounds of

their progress dwindled into silence. Boris lay alone on the ledge, his

heart thumping and the sour taste of disappointment in the back of his

throat.

"Where are they?" he thought bitterly. "Where the hell is MeV And the

obvious answer to his own question occurred to him immediately. They had

taken a different trail. Mek had used this patrol as a decoy to lure him

away.

He lay quietly for a measured five minutes by his wristwatch, just in

case there might be more men coming up the trail. His mind was racing.

His last definite placin of 9 Tessay had been the glimpse of her

footprint on the trail at the far bend of the oxbow.

That was several hours ago, and if she and Mek had given him the slip

they could be anywhere by now. Mek might have won himself a start of a

full day or more - it might take Boris that long to work the spoor

through.

Feeling waves of anger overwhelm him, he had to close his eyes and fight

it off in order to keep his sense of reason from being swamped. He had

to think clearly now, not go rushing at the problem like a wounded