Author's note: [chapter revised in 2019] Hi, everybody! How're you doing? My wonderful beta-reader has just sent me back the 6th chapter, so I thought I'd be nice and post it :o) Thanks, sweetie! Once again, a little cliffhanger at the end… and I hope that you lot won't be mad at me (much).
The title comes from a rather fast instrumental song by Django Reinhardt. And kudos to whosoever spots the reference to The Blues Brothers (yes, you read right!) in this chapter. Hope you like! :o)
Disclaimer: Stephen Sommers owns and developed The Mummy and The Mummy Returns; the characters, places, some situations are his creation. Some things I did make up, but every character here is fictitious, and doesn't have anything to do with any person, living, dead, or in-between. Who knows.
FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM
Chapter 6: I've Had My Moments
There were many ways to begin an interview with a British Consulate official. One of them could be "Good afternoon to you, sir, what it is that you want from me?" Another one – depending upon your degree of familiarity with the person you addressed, of course – would be "What ho, old thing, heard you wanted a word!" But "Sorry I'm late, I was being savaged by a wild camel" was definitely not the smartest option.
Yet it was one that Jonathan was starting to consider seriously as the hairy – could he call it a snout, or a muzzle? – thing kept sending its foul breath into his face. Another minute and viscous drool was going to drip down on him. He resisted the urge to yelp for someone to get him the hell out of here. The beast would surely not react nicely to sudden noise and movement.
Urgh.
Nasty, smelly bugger.
"I am so very sorry, sir," he heard the girl say, and from the corner of his eye he saw her pulling on the camel's bit with all her might. "He's normally very calm – my father trained him well, I think he's only trying to play…"
"That's all right," Jonathan managed to say, trying to remain calm and sound offhand, however hard it was when you were being pinned down by a smelly camel's snouty muzzle thing. "Stuff like this has happened before. I'm not quite fond of these beasts, and it appears it's mutual."
Trying to play… Right. He had just been walking down the street to the British Consulate, and as this blasted camel passed him by, it had escaped its owner's grasp and nuzzled into his chest till he fell over. Not content with this victory, it had showed big chunks of yellow teeth each time Jonathan attempted to get up. Jonathan had found himself pinned to the ground, unable to move, as the Egyptian girl the camel belonged to pulled and pulled at the animal's reins, all the while apologising profusely.
Finally, a sympathetic passer-by came to lend the girl a hand with the stubborn beast, and Jonathan was soon on his feet, dusting himself off energetically. Up close, the girl looked near tears.
"Really, sir, I'm so sorry – can I help you with anything? Just…"
"Don't worry, miss, everything's fine. I just hope that your camel doesn't throw itself at everyone else in the street, that's all." The girl looked upset enough, and he didn't have the heart to get angry. The blush on her cheeks took off the last remnants of his irritation. Besides, it had been directed at the camel, which now stood a few feet away, peacefully munching on something the Good Samaritan had stuffed into its mouth as a distraction.
The girl slowly pushed her tangled hair out of her face and he had the pleasure of seeing a tiny smile. It was timid, still a bit fearful, but a smile all the same. "Thank you, bāša. Djem does that sometimes; it is his way to tell people he likes them. I try to stop him, because those he annoys get quite angry at us."
"Well, although I'm flattered, I would certainly like – Djem – best if he stayed away from me," answered Jonathan with a smile, finishing checking his clothes for traces of dust that would not do in front of Tommy's boss. Then he raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'angry at us'?"
"I am responsible for my camel's behaviour," stated the girl. "So if Djem misbehaves, I am the one to blame." She hesitated a bit before adding, "Last time, he went after a European woman. She hit him and slapped me."
Jonathan shook his head in disgust. People who thought nothing of hitting a kid in the street were sadly too common, especially when they were white and the child was not. That blasted woman had absolutely no right to do that, but what could the girl do when everything conspired to push her and her camel to the bottom of the societal ladder?
"What's your name?" he asked in mostly decent Arabic. He'd been able to hold entire conversations with his mother as a boy, but his vocabulary and pronunciation had suffered from lack of practice since her death.
The girl's dark eyebrows shot up behind her curtain of hair.
"Satiah, sir."
"Satiah, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. She should never have done that."
She blinked, and actually smiled. Whether that was in acknowledgement or because she found his attempt at Arabic funny, Jonathan couldn't tell. Both suited him just fine, so he answered with a smile of his own.
"Anyway," he added in English, noticing the time – good thing he had left home early! "I'm sorry to cut off, but I have an appointment I can't afford to miss. Have a good day, and take good care of your Djem. He seems a good fellow, for all that he likes to kiss people without permission." That said with a smile, to avoid misunderstandings.
"A good day to you as well, bāša," said young Satiah in her lilting, fluty voice. "May Sopdet smile upon you!"
As Jonathan walked away, quickening his pace to make up for lost time, the Egyptian girl's last words seemed to hang in the air for a few seconds. The encounter puzzled him. 'Satiah' was not an Egyptian name – or rather, it was, just three millennia out of date. And she had called upon the goddess Sopdet for her blessings. It had been a long time since he had heard someone call the star Sirius by its Ancient Egyptian name, and it was even more startling coming from an unassuming slip of a girl who didn't look more than fifteen.
Undoubtedly, Egypt had been and would always remain a very strange place, Jonathan mused as he came near the British Consulate, the tune of a fast Django Reinhardt song making its way round his brain.
He had yet to remember its title when he knocked on Tommy's office door.
"C'min!"
"Don't you ever ask who's behind that door before inviting people in?" Jonathan grinned as he crossed the threshold. "You could get some unpleasant surprises."
"Who would bother to knock at that door if they didn't have good intentions?" retorted Tommy, rising from behind his desk to shake his hand. The room looked tidier than it had done the other day. There were still a large number of boxes on the ground, but a spot had been cleared on the desk, the files piled up in heaps along the edges, making it look like a re-enactment of the Red Sea parting before Moses. This time he did not have a lot of time to gaze around as Tommy picked up his jacket and headed for the door.
"Hamilton's office's just round that corner, but he's such a stickler for rules and manners that he doesn't like it when people come to his office unannounced. Blimey, you're actually on time!" the Liverpudlian remarked suddenly, sounding surprised, as his eyes caught the clock.
"You didn't think I'd make it, did you?" Jonathan smirked. "O thee of little faith."
Tommy only snorted at that as he stopped to knock on an imposing door. They waited a little, then a low-pitched voice answered from inside, "Come in."
Tommy opened the door, and Jonathan had a view of a very neat, tidy room, with lots of files and books lying on shelves, which seemed to be classified a lot more methodically than in Tommy's office. The light was dim, filtering from under the shutters pulled over the windows to shelter the room from the heat outside. It was rather successful, and the coolness in the office was very welcome.
However, as his gaze lowered from the windows to the desk, and the man behind it, Jonathan couldn't help a peculiar sort of feeling, as if he had suddenly walked into something devoid of any warmth at all. And what was more peculiar, this feeling seemed to emanate from the occupant of the office. Everything about this fellow appeared to be grey: his hair, his skin – odd, considering that the bright Egyptian sun spared no one – and his eyes. Especially his eyes. Even the curator of the Museum of Antiquities had flashes of warmth in his eyes, at least when he looked at Evy, or one of his colleagues.
Otherwise, Charles Hamilton looked in every respect like the portrait Tommy had made of him – square jaw, square shoulders, back straight as if he'd had an umbrella stuck up his backside. Just a little boring. The only thing that stood out about him was the impression of a very clean man. His light grey suit was deceptively perfect, with absolutely no creases despite the heat. He stared very calmly at the newcomer from behind half-moon spectacles, his fingers crossed in front of him.
"Jonathan Carnahan, sir," said Tommy from behind Jonathan, and Hamilton nodded.
"Thank you, Ferguson."
A last encouraging glance, and Tommy closed the door, leaving his friend alone with the vampire.
"You are exactly on time, Mr Carnahan. Please, do take a seat."
Jonathan did take a seat, unconsciously straightening his back as he would when, as a child, he'd have to sit somewhere and endure some lecture or other unpleasant stuff.
Unless the person who gave the lecture was Evy, of course. Then he'd make a point of slouching in the chair and looking foppish, offhand, and undeterred.
For the sake of his dignity, he tried to look a little more relaxed. But the steel in the bloke's eyes and voice made it impossible. Unsettle the opponent while keeping on a mask. The perfect poker attitude.
"Listen to me well, Mr Carnahan," Hamilton said, his armchair moaning slightly as he leant to put his elbows on the desk. "The reason you are here is very simple, and I'm sure you will understand why I required your presence."
That was it – to think of him as an opponent at a poker game. Jonathan tried to imagine him behind a deck of cards, and his unease vanished as soon as the picture was precise enough. He was in his element.
"As you probably know, my name is Charles Hamilton, and I am one of the chief agents in the British Antique Research Department in Cairo. Although this city holds many priceless archaeological items, our main focus for two years has been one object in particular which you know very well. I think you can guess which treasure I am talking about."
"The diamond taken from Ahm Shere."
"Exactly." He had a slight Essex accent, but that failed to add any life to his voice. Every word fell weirdly flat. "I believe you were incidental in this… taking. According to records, you were the one who sold it to the Museum."
"Indeed." That particular point seemed to be widely known, but good Lord, what didn't they keep a record of?
"Would you be so kind as to tell me of the circumstances of this acquisition?"
Something tightened slightly in Jonathan's stomach. Due to the very personal nature of some what had happened, most of what he had told Tommy last Tuesday had been strictly off the record. What was exactly the extent of that Department's knowledge about the events of Ahm Shere? There were so many secrets involved… What did they know about the Book of the Dead? The role of the Medjai, and the former curator of the British Museum? Did they know that Alex had been the one who'd led everyone there? Did they know that Rick had killed the Scorpion King?
Did this fellow, who sat calmly behind his desk, know that his baby sister had actually died, back there?
Years of poker playing and the – oh, occasional – lying served Jonathan well and he didn't let any muscle of his face twitch. Instead, he gave a smile of his own, bordering on a smirk.
"By all means I will, although my memory's not quite what it used to be. I think you should ask Dr Hakim for the details of the purchase –"
"No, no, Mr Carnahan, I appear to have expressed myself badly," said Hamilton, his grey eyes still fixed on Jonathan's face. "By 'acquisition', I meant how the diamond came to fall into your hands."
"My mistake, sir." Should he continue to stall, or come clean straight away? "Don't you already know the story?"
A small smile stretched the thin lips. "What I am interested in is a short version of your story. The reports I have read shed definite light on these shady events, but hearing a person who was actually there can change one's perception of such events."
Hmm. Right. Let's go for the abridged version, then.
Jonathan's description of the events of Ahm Shere was definitely shorter; without knowing why, he did not feel like telling this man everything he had told Tommy – maybe it was a matter of trust. He told Hamilton of the Bracelet, the mad race across the desert to get Alex back, the reunion at Ahm Shere, about Rick's slaying of the Scorpion King and how he had managed to grab the diamond before the pyramid sank into the sand. Of the Book of the Dead, the Medjai, Imhotep and his wench, and their murder of Evy, he said nothing. First, he didn't feel like talking about something so fiercely private, let alone to this living tin man. Also, the Medjai were a wild card, one that he didn't have any intention of laying down just yet. Finally, some things were just too important to just share with a total stranger.
After he had finished, Hamilton, who had been listening silently throughout the story, leaned back in his armchair, his hand resting thoughtfully against his mouth. "I see. That is indeed quite a story, Mr Carnahan. The taste for hazardous archaeological expeditions continues to run in the family, or so it would appear."
The ambiguous phrasing surprised Jonathan, who narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth; but before he could say anything, Hamilton leant forward again to pick up a fountain pen and a piece of paper, and said, "Well, you probably imagine that I did not summon you to hear something I already know. My principal interest is, of course, your take on what happened last Wednesday – events of which you and my subordinate Thomas Ferguson were the unfortunate casualties."
Still puzzled about the Department official's previous remark, Jonathan told him about what had happened three days ago – this account was just as short as the one he'd given Alex, maybe even shorter. Hamilton occasionally scribbled something down on his paper as his guest talked.
"…And when I woke up, the diamond was stolen, and the assistant no longer there. Dr Hakim seems to think that he was in fact a mole, and so far the events – or lack thereof – have proven him right."
"He has not reappeared, has he?"
Jonathan shook his head. "No, and if I may venture an opinion… I don't think he will." Evy had also said as much, adding that Jamal Hassan's job was done, and that it would probably be dangerous for him if he showed up again.
Hamilton nodded gravely, and put his pen on the desk before crossing his fingers in front of him again. "Well, thank you. This meeting has been very enlightening, and the information you gave me will be filed up and kept preciously." He rose to make his guest know that the interview was over, and Jonathan stood up as well, despite the numerous questions that boggled his mind. "I'm afraid I'll have to make this short, I have some appointments that cannot be delayed – I am a busy man. It has been a pleasure, Mr Carnahan. I look forward to our next encounter."
"Pleasure meeting you as well, sir," answered Jonathan, shaking the offered hand. Then Hamilton's last words caught up with him and he paused, puzzled. "Not to be rude or anything, but… what makes you think there will be a next encounter?"
The grey-haired man gave a small smile. "As I take it, you are friends with Thomas Ferguson, aren't you? I might have the luck of seeing you in the corridors some time."
"Of course." Jonathan nodded, and turned to walk to the door. Before going out, he threw a last glance at Hamilton, who was again sitting behind his desk, his pen back in his hand. The strange man caught his gaze and gave him that peculiar smile of his that didn't quite reach his eyes.
It was not without a hint of relief that Jonathan closed the door behind him. Curiously enough, the temperature seemed to rise up again, as if he'd just walked out of a cold room.
"So…" said a laughing but quiet voice, and the cheerful tone in it was very welcome. "Nosferatu didn' eat you alive, did he?"
Tommy was standing in the corridor, casually leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a goofy grin on his face. He motioned Jonathan away from the door, and when they were far enough, Jonathan ran a hand through his hair and grinned back at his friend.
"Didn't try to, anyway. But don't worry – I've teeth, too."
"You stayed a long time in there," said Tommy, more seriously. "What'd he ask you?"
"Oh, stuff about Ahm Shere and my 'account' of what happened the day before yesterday, obviously. This bloke is creepier than some mummies I encountered." Jonathan paused, then, ignoring the little voice in his head that called him a complete fool, asked a little uncertainly, "That fellow, he's been working in here for a long time?"
"Yeah, I know, he doesn't look like he sees the light of day that much," Tommy laughed, then stopped as Jonathan shook his head.
"I mean – how long's he been working here for – in the Department?"
"I dunno…" His friend looked thoughtful as he tapped his forefinger against his chin. "Ages. He was already working here when I arrived… Why d'you ask me that?"
"Because…" Jonathan hesitated a moment before finally answering, "He mentioned my family, and I thought he might've known my parents, you know?" Tommy gave him a peculiar look, something between surprise and sympathy. Jonathan waved it off, feeling his cheeks grow hot. "Bah, forget it. I'll just ask him one of those days – it's not like it's important."
"Jon, this is important," Tommy protested, and Jonathan cursed himself for having brought up the subject in the first place. "This is about your parents, dammit – if you don't want to ask him, I could –"
"No. Please. Forget it," Jonathan interrupted him in a definite tone, not wanting his friend to get maudlin about it. "Besides, it's more than likely that he's just heard some story or other about them. In their time, they were quite famous in their line of work, after all."
Tommy was silent for a minute, looking uncomfortable, and Jonathan had the time to feel his cheeks cool down to a more normal state. What had Alex said, the other time? 'We're lads, you know how it goes.'
Yes, he knew.
"C'mon," Tommy finally said, clapping his friend's shoulder energetically, "it's all right – you've the right to be pig-headed about personal stuff. Now let's get you someplace cheery. What about that Sultan's Casbah?"
Jonathan couldn't help a smile. After having recovered from the bear-like clap that had driven all air from his lungs, that is.
Cairo was always changing.
When Rick used to live there, from 1910 to 1921, the city already had many faces: from Downtown Cairo with its imposing European-style buildings and gleaming cars to the little desert towns on the outskirts where the main means of transportation had been camels and horses – with a preference for the first, because of their never-ending endurance and resistance to the harsh conditions of the desert.
The part of town he'd called his was definitely the latter rather than the former. There had been no real streets, only more or less broad paths of earth, dotted with shit and detritus. The fort and the biggest buildings were already there as they were now, and some houses too, but they stood like white oases lost in swathes of dirty yellow sand. If you climbed onto a rooftop, you could see the heart of the city in the distance, with its light stone buildings, its tall bridges, and its broad streets well-lit with gas street lights.
Not so now.
In place of most of the once-familiar bumpy earth roads now lay tarred streets on which cars were slowly replacing camels. On the pavements, lit by a growing number of electric street lamps, walked almost as many Cairo residents as foreigners, tourists or adventure-seekers, and the contrast was stark between the flashy ladies' suits, the colourful, but simpler djellabas of the men, and the darker, soberer clothes of the Egyptian women, most of whom wore veils.
And it wasn't as if the Egyptian metropolis was the only place that was different from what he remembered. London was now officially the place where he had lived the longest, and he could actually witness the changes taking place day by day. On top of the usual smog, the city was growing darker with all the gas escaping from cars' exhaust pipes. While a few years ago the wireless had been a luxury which only a handful of rich folks could afford, pretty much everybody owned a set these days, even if the news from the world they received through it did not always sound cheerful. There was war raging on in Spain, and rumour had it that Italy and Germany were about to get involved in the slaughter as well. Germany's chancellor had annexed and rearmed the Rhineland, and though he did appear as a rather harmless eccentric, he was still an eccentric who had slowly but surely gotten a ragged post-war Germany back on its feet… according to his fans, anyway, which he had a lot of even in England. Since those were also the kind to foam at the mouth about Jewish people or Jesse Owens winning so much gold in the last Olympics, the last thing Rick wanted was to waste time talking to them.
The American stopped his musings to look up at the sky. It was about five in the afternoon, and it had turned from a wide, blinding stretch of white to a wide, blinding stretch of light blue. In a few hours, the blue would gradually deepen, before growing ink-black and sprinkled with small but bright stars. He had so often slept under them that he had found it unsettling to be unable to see them on his first nights in London, but they remained visible in Cairo, as long as you were in the right neighbourhood.
The stars were not his major concern right now. Evy had taken Alex to the Museum for the afternoon, and Rick, left to his own devices and faced with the prospect of an afternoon of boredom, had decided to roam the town in search for a good time. A reasonable good time, of course, as Evelyn and her principles had somewhat changed his definition of a 'good time'.
It was good to be back on Cairo's streets, just another face in the crowd, no matter how he might look. It was just not the same thing in London. You didn't get the same faces – some people here had mugs you just couldn't find anywhere else. Winston Havlock, for instance, or the warden who'd tagged along with them to Hamunaptra.
Rick turned round a corner and chuckled inwardly. He had been unconsciously heading for the Sultan's Casbah. Maybe that was why Winston had seemed to pop up into his mind for no apparent reason. As for Warden Hassan, he had no idea why he had thought of that poor bastard.
The Casbah was still as dingy and dark as he had known it, but now thrill-seeking tourists could be seen mingling with the rougher, shadier regulars.
It looked like the whole world was definitely changing.
"Rick O'Connell, I presume."
Rick gave a small laugh. He'd know that British accent anywhere.
He turned, and sure enough, was met with a pair of slightly slanted blue eyes and a smirk.
"Fancy seeing you here, old boy, of all places."
"It's five in the afternoon, Jonathan," the American said, his voice quietly mocking. "Bit early to go looking for trouble in a bar, even for you."
"Tut-tut, my good son. What makes you think I go looking for trouble?"
"'Cause trouble usually finds ya." Rick looked from Jonathan to Ferguson. "Sorry, didn't see you there. Ferguson, is it?"
"Aye, Tom Ferguson," said the guy, holding out a hand which Rick shook. "I don't know Cairo that much, so Jon here was showing me around – typical sights and all that." He grinned, and Rick got the impression that he and Jonathan shared the same sense of humour. Lord have mercy.
"Come on, instead of talking nonsense, come and have a drink with us!" Jonathan suggested enthusiastically. "I could use a little bit of cheering up, to tell the truth – I've just met Nosferatu."
"Nos who now?" The name was not entirely unfamiliar to Rick, who searched his memory. "Oh, right, that old creep from the moving pictures. Did you bump into the actor or something?"
"No, his boss –" Jonathan pointed to Tommy "– wanted to see me about what happened at the Museum. Seems that the Research Department was keeping an eye on the diamond."
"And this guy looked like a vampire?"
"The closest to the real thing I've ever seen." His brother-in-law's eyes shifted from Rick to a large camel led by a small Egyptian girl. An amused smile replaced the previous smirk, and he gave a little friendly wave. Rick arched an eyebrow, surprised.
"You know that girl?"
"Her camel, mostly. Knowing you, I bet you'd find the story very funny."
"I'm not sure I wanna know," Rick said, before looking at Ferguson, who shrugged to show he didn't know what his friend was talking about either. After a second's thinking, though, he turned back to Jonathan, frowning slightly.
"Actually I'd like to know. What did you –?"
"Gentlemen? Would you come with us, if you please?"
The voice was low-pitched and sharp, and as Rick turned round, he saw that it matched its owner perfectly. The guy who had just gotten out of the black Lincoln parked a few feet away wore a dark suit and felt hat, and small glasses; his face was, for the lack of a better word, blank. The two others standing on either side of him, wearing similar suits and fedoras completed a picture that was very odd, and not a little bit spooky.
Tommy's blond eyebrow shot up as Jonathan's blue eyes narrowed. "Uh, to where?" Rick asked, his instinct awakening in his guts. "You lost or something?"
"No, we're not," said Oddball Number Two, on the left of Oddball Number One. "Please be so kind as to follow us."
"We didn't do it, whatever it is," Jonathan, his voice a little more high-pitched than ordinary – maybe it was the idea of these strange guys asking for him, or else Rick was perhaps not the only one with instincts. Unless it was just Jonathan being Jonathan. "What do you think we did, by the way?"
His question was met with a smile. It seemed like a term adequate enough to describe it, although Rick had once seen a rather similar expression flicker over Imhotep's face. His regenerated face, of course.
"You will be informed in due time. Please follow us – now."
"Rick…" muttered Jonathan, low enough to prevent the Oddball Gang from hearing the words, "I don't like this. I don't like this at all."
"Think I do?" Rick retorted between clenched teeth, before willing his lips into a smile, which turned out to be just as grim as Oddball Number Three's. "You know what? I don't like it much when people order me around for absolutely no reason. So, you have two options. One, you tell us where the hell you want to take us, and why. Or you keep your mouth shut and you walk away from us. Pick one."
Something changed very slightly on Number One's face, and as the doors of the black Lincoln opened again, three more dark-clad men getting out, Rick realised that a real, intentional smirk was in fact pulling at his mouth. The rear guard Oddballs went to stand behind the original three, their hands in their trouser pockets so that the gun holsters showed under their jackets.
He heard Jonathan beside him gulp uneasily.
"Now listen here, chaps – we don't want any sort of trouble," the Englishman said, and Rick, who knew him well, could discern a rising note of fear in his voice. He wasn't sure anyone else had spotted that as well, though. The man was a better actor than his sister when he wanted to. "So let's stay calm, and converse like civilised people. I'm sure there's got to be an error somewhere –"
Jonathan's voice trailed off as Oddballs Two and Three took out their own guns and pointed them directly at him.
"There is no 'error', Mr Carnahan," stated Number One coolly, very calmly. "This is simply an invite for you to join us. We don't want any trouble either."
None of them moved, and the situation seemed to settle as a stalemate. Rick called himself every name he could think of for having gone out without a gun, even a small one. His gut feeling was now screaming at him not to follow these guys. And there had not been a single occasion when he had listened to his instinct and done the wrong thing.
Okay, maybe just once or twice.
To his left, he could see Jonathan's face growing paler, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. Aside from these, he showed no other signs of fear, and stood firmly his ground. Were it not for the circumstances, Rick would have allowed a smile. The world was changing, but so were a few people around him, it seemed.
'Yes, yes, it's obviously very fine heroics, O'Connell,' Jonathan had said on occasion when past events were discussed. Rick could easily recall the sarcastic look in his brother-in-law's eyes and the matching note in the English-accented voice. 'But there are times when backing down really is the smartest option, you know.' Thinking back on it, Rick realised that it was one of the rare occurrences where Jonathan's view had matched Ardeth Bay's. Live today, fight tomorrow.
Where was that doggone Medjai when you needed him?
From the corner of his eye, Rick looked past Jonathan over to the streets, half-wishing Ardeth to materialise out of the blue to help them, like he sometimes did. Time was not stopping for them, as he saw that almost nobody had noticed what was going on in that shaded alley… Almost nobody.
For there was somebody. The young Egyptian girl he'd seen earlier, her right hand clutching at the reins of her camel, was standing near a wall, her eyes fixed on them. From where he stood, Rick couldn't see her very well, but the expression on her face half-hidden by long, tangled hair was clearly fear. It slowly shifted to nervous determination as their eyes met, and she nodded.
The American couldn't see what was coming, but he knew something was coming. He looked back toward Number One, who was saying, his voice grating like steel against steel, "…starting to become preposterous. This is not an invite, this is an order! We are armed, you are not, the wisest choice for you would be to come quietly, don't you –"
Number One's head snapped toward the main street at Rick's left as a camel came galloping in their direction, bawling like he'd just escaped hell. The Egyptian girl was running behind the stray beast, appearing to try to catch it and not doing a very good job of it. As the camel tumbled into the Oddball rear guard, causing much confusion among the ranks, Rick lost no time and ran like a maniac, grabbing Ferguson, who had stood frozen the entire time, by the collar of his jacket, Jonathan on his heels.
A split second's look behind them was enough to understand that the Oddball gang had no intention of abandoning the pursuit. In fact, three were getting back into the Lincoln, and the other three were already after them on foot.
The situation was getting a little desperate. This was almost the outskirts of the city, which meant a clear enough path for the car, and there was very little chance the Gang would not catch up with them.
That's when Rick noticed that Jonathan wasn't with them anymore.
"Shit!"
Before he could ask Ferguson about it, say anything at all, or even decide between fury or concern for his brother-in-law, a loud horn pierced the din, and both Ferguson and the American whirl to find a brown, curly-haired head emerging from a convertible idling nearby. The motor was roaring.
"C'mon, get in! We haven't got all day, for cripes' sake!"
Not sense wasting time in asking where this car came from, or even how Jonathan had managed to get it running without keys. Rick, followed by Ferguson, leaped over the door as the car shot off at top speed, its tyres screeching. Familiar with Jonathan's 'emergency' driving, Rick clung at whatever he could grasp, and saw Ferguson, looking kind of pale, do the same as he yelled, "PUT YOUR FOOT DOWN, JON!"
Never a good adventure without a good scare on the road, thought Rick, looking behind to see the three remaining Oddballs rush into the Lincoln and after them. This was the third time he was forced to escape in a car, or at least a motored vehicle. At least, the two first times they'd had weapons to defend themselves, and Ardeth on their side, which had been a considerable advantage, to use one of those understatements Brits were so fond of. The first time, their opponents had been a large, crazed mob of zombies possessed by Imhotep. The second, it had been four decaying mummy warriors woken up by Imhotep.
Now, this time, they were being pursued by six men, all-human, non-mummy regular guys. But it looked as if the difference was slim, as these men seemed to be vying for their blood as well.
While every bump and pothole in the road brought the car closer to flying, Rick wondered whether their old mummy buddy had a part in all of this. If he did, then things didn't look so bad – they were kind of used to the end of the world, after all, and Rick had at least the promise of some serious mummy ass kicking before the end. That was already something.
Ferguson glanced behind, and yelled, "They're gettin' closer, Jon! Where are you driving to exactly?"
"I have no bloody idea!" yelled back Jonathan, his hands clasping the wheel so tight that his knuckles were white. Rick had to carefully keep to his side of the car, as far as possible from the driver, who kept turning the wheel so sharply his elbows sometimes missed Rick's face by inches. Alex would probably have found his uncle's antics hilarious. Thank God he's not here.
He turned from the black car still following them to the landscape ahead of them. A landscape which he knew quite well, for having followed Evy down there countless of times.
"Jonathan!" Rick shouted, trying to point to the direction without letting go too much – the car's jerks would have thrown him out easily. "Next street to the left leads to Giza – take it!"
"What's that you said?"
"GIZA! On your LEFT! Take the NEXT STREET to Giza!"
"Right-ho, partner!"
Just as he said those words, Jonathan gave a deadly turn of the wheel, and had Rick and Ferguson not been holding on for dear life, that would have been their last ride. It would be a sheer miracle if all of Rick's organs were still in the right place, because his insides sure felt all mixed up.
Still, it worked.
The Lincoln roared past the street in a flash, and the three of them cheered as the road to Giza stretched ahead of them, across the Nile. The top of the Great Pyramid was already in sight, and it seldom had been such a welcome one. Sure, it would take the Gang little time to slow down and make a U-turn, but that little stunt had at least bought them some time. Rick allowed himself to relax slightly, and he saw Ferguson sag a bit in the back seat. The Englishman looked a little green around the edges. Hell, Rick felt slightly sick to the stomach himself. At least, the other two times, he'd had something to keep busy with, like zombies and mummies, and afterwards he couldn't tell the bruises he'd got from them from the ones he'd got from Jonathan's driving.
Now, being forced to actually pay attention to the road, Rick had to admit that he definitely wasn't feeling quite comfortable when his brother-in-law was driving on such extreme occasions. Even if this was their only lifesaver.
A weird noise coming from the inside of the automobile interrupted his line of thought and he stared worriedly at a point somewhere near his ankle. "Something wrong?"
Jonathan opened his mouth to answer, but was cut by Ferguson's cry of "Hey! They're back!"
They were. The shiny black Lincoln was racing again behind them, the sight even stranger on this almost desert road, under that sun. It reminded Rick of a black bug in the middle of the desert.
And the noise in the engine wasn't stopping. On the contrary.
"What's the matter with this car?" yelled Rick, his guts churning. Jonathan shook his head, looking desperate, his face white under the sweat and the dust.
"I don't know!" His eyes widened, and he stole a bemused, almost angry glance at the American. "How the hell would I know, anyway? This car isn't mine!"
Rick rolled his eyes. They were doomed.
The Lincoln was now half a mile behind them, and to their horrified surprise, the motor gave a sputter and the car started to slow down.
Two voices rose in the same time.
"Step on the gas, Jon!"
"Do something, goddammit!"
Jonathan fumbled with the gearbox and the cords sticking out from under the glove compartment, but it didn't seem to stop the car from slowing down. Looking at a complete loss, he looked up to the skies, his face ashen, his jaw clenched. "Our Lady of the Blessed Acceleration, don't fail me now…"
Rick fought back a fit of nervous laughter that threatened to burst out. He'd have to remember that one.
Either Jonathan's bizarre prayer was heard or one of his attempts was successful. The engine started up again and the car picked up speed. Rick released the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding.
But it was still a little bit early for rejoicing, it seemed. The Lincoln was now less than a quarter of a mile behind them and gaining more ground.
The Nile divided into two branches where they crossed it, so fast that the great river whooshed past them in the blink of an eye, at over sixty miles an hour. Now the bases of the three pyramids were visible, and the gigantic statue of the Sphinx stood seemingly right in front of them. The road was perfectly straight for two miles, and they were the only two cars, except for a big truck they could see a couple of hundred yards away behind the Lincoln.
"Boy, are we in trouble," he heard Ferguson mutter behind him.
We're in big trouble, his mind echoed as two Oddballs leaned out the windows, and pointed their guns at them.
"GET DOWN!" Rick shouted, as one, then two gunshots cracked through the roar of the engine. The three of them sank at once in their respective seats, Jonathan just peering from over the wheel.
"Maniacs!" he yelled, making Rick jump a little and look at him bemusedly. "Bloody bunch of completely cracked lunatics!"
His face looked halfway between equally intense terror and fury, and it seemed that the second had taken over the first. Rick actually grinned in spite of the gunshots.
However, this feeling was short-lived. As they arrived at a fork in the road, the first camels, horses and tents of an archaeological party drawing into view, another shot cracked through the air, and the car gave a great swerve. Jonathan shouted something that made Rick himself wince. Evy would have undoubtedly either fainted right away had she heard that or, more likely, bitten his head off.
The car left the road, and the three men clung onto whatever they could to avoid being thrown out.
"Think they've hit a tyre!" cried Ferguson, looking down over the door to his left.
"Ya think!?" retorted Rick as he turned briefly to him. "Now what?" he asked Jonathan, who struggled hard to keep the wheel from jerking violently.
"The car, it's – I can't – HANG ON!" he shouted suddenly, his eyes wide with terror. Rick took one look ahead, and his heart seemed to stop beating for a second. The car had been zigzagging among the tents and was now heading at top speed toward an overhang that looked about six feet high.
No, not heading. They were already on it. Rick dived in his seat.
There was an eerie second during which the car seemed to fly in absolute silence and grace. Then, as all good things eventually come to an end, there was a mighty crashing noise and what felt like a violent earthquake to the occupants in the car, followed by various metallic sounds indicating that the brave, finally beaten car was falling apart. Finally, a high cloud of thick dust enveloped everything in brownish yellow silence.
Rick slowly opened one wary eye, then, as nothing happened, opened the other. He was still curled up in his seat, a bit bruised, sure, but alive. Just as slowly, he sat up, grasping the door of the car for support. Dust was everywhere, and he couldn't see a damn thing. "Everyone all right?" he croaked, shaking sand off his hair.
"'M right 'ere," mumbled a shaky voice behind him, and a hand grasped the back of his seat. "Jesus bloody Christ, what a ride… Can't believe I survived Cambrai for this…"
So Ferguson was okay. Good.
"Jonathan?"
No reply.
"Jonathan, are you here?"
The dust was settling, and as the cloud dispersed, Rick could see that Jonathan was still sitting beside him, staring right in front of him with wide eyes, his back straight, stiff as a board. The wheel was still clutched in his hands, except that it was no longer attached to the car.
The picture would have been hilarious in other circumstances.
"Hey, Jonathan," said Rick, somewhat concerned, "you okay?"
Still no reply. His brother-in-law looked like somebody struck by lightning, except that he was covered in dust and sand, not roasted on the spot. Puzzled, Rick reached out to poke his shoulder. "Hey, time to wake up n—whoa!" Jonathan had jumped a foot in the air, as if Rick's hand had sent electricity through his body. He blinked once, very slowly, then turned blue eyes that had recovered most of their usual character to his brother-in-law.
"Don't do that."
Oh, yeah. That shoulder still gave him grief sometimes. "Sorry," said Rick with a grin, happier than he'd thought he'd be to have him back. "You almost had me worried for a minute. You sure you're not hurt at all?"
"No, I'm fine. Just a little bit shaken, I guess. Tommy?"
"I'm all right, Jon," answered Ferguson's still shaken voice. "Just remind me not to get in a car when you're driving next time, mate."
"No problem."
They scrambled out of the car, Rick kicking the mangled door open. It fell on the ground with a grim-sounding thud. "Jonathan, who was the owner of that car?"
"A very unfortunate person," deadpanned Jonathan, leaning against the radiator grill, his knees wobbling. Rick rolled his eyes.
"Well, we'll soon be far more 'unfortunate' if we don't scram right now!" Peeking over the overhang, he saw that the Gang had left the Lincoln and was now searching for them among the tents. "We gotta get out of here."
Jonathan didn't move. He was staring at a tent a few feet away with a glint in his eyes. "I say, why don't we just put on some of their large robes and wait till these guys are gone? No need for ugly confrontations, is there?"
Rick thought about it, rejected the idea, then looked over the promontory again.
Okay, so maybe they really had no other choice after all.
But as he turned from the cliff to the beaten, dusty car, he heard a quiet voice say, "I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Jon."
Rick turned. What he saw made his heart leap in his throat. Ferguson was standing near the car, a wretched expression on his face, and a gun in his hand, aimed directly at Jonathan.
To say Rick was shocked was a little far from the truth. In fact, he couldn't have said what he felt at that point. Shocked, yes, stunned, probably, furious, definitely – most likely a combination of the three, plus a few other feelings he didn't bother to break down. For one second, he was tempted to be furious at Jonathan's credulity and misguided trust… But his anger abated when he took one look at his brother-in-law's face. Rick felt a nasty pang in the guts at his expression. It was pretty understated for a betrayal of this magnitude: just open-mouthed shock and the promise of a gut-wrenching pain when it settled.
Neither Englishman moved, and this silent stillness seemed to root Rick to the spot as well. His guts were screaming for him to run, and he could have, if he had wanted. But coming back to Evelyn to tell her that her brother had been taken by weirdos in black suits and hats after being backstabbed by a friend? Better face whatever was in store for them.
The Oddball gang caught up with them, the six guys in suits walking as silently as shadows. Each footstep lifted a tiny cloud of dust. Before it came down, the men were standing around them, each revolver pointed at them.
"Well, well, well," said Number One, raising an eyebrow at the scene. "After all the trouble you have caused us and this entertaining chase, it would eventually seem that you have done all of this for nothing. How unfortunate."
Rick had very rarely felt a stronger impulse to deck a guy. He suppressed a growl, and shot a deadly glare at the smaller man.
"Oh, you can stare at me, Mr O'Connell, for all the good it will do," smirked Number One, his voice insufferably smug. "But look at the facts: the odds are against you, and there is no camel to save you this time." One wave of his hand, and three guns were aimed at his chest from less than four feet away. "If you truly wish to try some heroics, you are welcome to do so. However, know that we have orders to take the two of you alive, if possible."
Okay. So these guys didn't give a damn if they died, but it'd be more convenient that they didn't. Rick was sorely tempted to send them all to hell, but he had one reason not to. He'd never see Evy and Alex again if he did. This particular reason had far more weight than any other excuse to go nuts and do something stupid.
He willed his tense muscles into relaxing slightly, and even allowed himself the luxury of a smile. "I wouldn't give you this pleasure, you little piece of shit."
Number One's eyes narrowed and he scrunched up his nose. "Falling back on verbal violence when physical assault is impossible. This is so crass and so very American that I'm not in the least surprised, Mr O'Connell."
The screeching noise of big tyres stopping on a rough road came from the trail, a little far behind, and Number One unveiled his eye-teeth in a smile again. "It seems our friends have arrived. Gentlemen, with your permission, we'll be your escort."
"So we don't get lost? Great. Didn't know we were so popular." The sensation of one Oddball's gun being pressed between his shoulder blades silenced Rick for a little while. He took the opportunity to look around.
He and Jonathan were being led to a truck, the very same truck he'd seen earlier behind the Lincoln. The back of the truck opened, and Rick was ordered to get in. As he climbed deftly onto the floor, he looked behind him to see Number One holding Jonathan back for a minute.
"If this is of any comfort to you, Mr Carnahan," he said in that smug voice of his, "I'll let you know that Mr Ferguson had very little choice."
Rick couldn't see Jonathan's eyes. He kept his gaze to the ground. Behind the rest of the Gang, a few feet away, Ferguson's face was downcast as well.
"That means he did have a choice, then, didn't he." It hardly sounded like a question at all. Something twisted Rick's insides at the sound of Jonathan's voice. In almost a dozen years, he had never heard his brother-in-law sound so thoroughly defeated.
Number One gave a very small smile, one not unlike Imhotep's when he had advanced toward Rick for the killing blow. "I don't deny that."
This time, Rick all but leaped from his spot on the floor of the truck to punch the bastard into the ground.
Jonathan climbed into the truck in turn, and went to sit a few feet away from his brother-in-law, still looking down.
Rick was wondering whether or not he should try to catch his gaze when the Oddball standing near him seized his revolver by the barrel and brought it down.
Everything went black.
Don't kill me. But I hope you had come to actually like Tom. I know, authors are cruel. And it's not even the worst thing I planned since I begun taking notes because a plot mummy was gnawing at my toes.
Notes/Translations:
bāša (باشا): "sir", "mister" in Egyptian Arabic.
The Blues Brothers reference was the sentence "Our Lady of the Blessed Acceleration, don't fail me now". I almost took it down in the rewrites, but couldn't. It's too awesome :3
The Battle of Cambrai (also called the Second Battle of Cambrai) was fought between English and German forces in October 2018.