*

*

3 Days Later

Bowing so low his great belly touched his knees, Azim Fahrer shepherded the wealthy Canadian tourist out of his shop, snapping his fingers impatiently. The wiry boy he employed for heavy tasks scurried out of the back room, a lumpily packed bundle in his arms. Scolding the child, a vicious stream of Arabic curses, he beamed toothily at his customer.

"Achmed will come with you to your hotel, sir – strong as an ox, he is. Your lady wife will be pleased with your purchase, sir, no doubt! Salaam!"

Echoing the salutation, the customer, who had no idea his statuette was a mere twenty years old instead of a thousand, ducked under the beaded curtain and away into the fuzzy twilight. Rubbing at his ample stomach, a cat with a golden saucer of cream, he stroked the waxed moustache he affected and ambled over to the ornate metal box serving as a till. Drawing a theatrically large iron key from the folds of his shalwar kameeze, he opened it, the mechanism clunk-clicking, and counted in the money. He loved the feel of money in his hands, of the crisp or crinkled notes and shiny coins that jingled satisfyingly in his pocket. He loved the smell more.

Fastidiously tapping the notes into neat stacks, he locked the box and replaced the key on its chain at his waist. Tucking the box beneath his arm, he waddled towards the back room and the squat iron safe. Nobody but Azim knew the combination, he was so suspicious of his family and employees. The mahogany bead curtain rattled suddenly, strands dark against the turquoise gloom of late evening.

"I'm closed! Come back tomorrow!" he called, first in Arabic, then in English for good measure.

Jangling like dried bones, the curtain swayed back and forth, stilling as the breeze changed direction. Squinting through the gathering darkness, he could see nobody at the door. Feeling foolish, Azim shook his head irritably, wondering when the wind had picked up to such an extent. Cairo had baked like a mud brick beneath Ra's scorching gaze, the wind from the desert failing to penetrate the streets, súks and alleyways. Reaching the back room and his beloved safe, the antiques dealer shuffled around a truncated statue of Bast and threw back the threadbare green rug covering it. Huffing, he bent and twiddled the dial to the correct combination. The door swung open, hinges oiled to soundless perfection, and he placed in the day's takings.

Closing the weighty door, making sure all three deadbolts shot into place, he spun the dial and replaced the rug. Thinking of a glass of steaming tea to soothe his patter-dried throat, he sidled back around the headless representation of Bast to the door. Pulling it shut behind him, he selected another key from his jangling chain and locked it, rattling the handle to make sure it was secure. Fahrer had reached the scratched teak table where he conducted business, frowning as he spotted a fresh dent in the scrolled leg, when he realised he could not hear the subtle woody percussion of the bead curtain. Looking up, he saw that the outer door to the shop was closed and barred from within.

Fear welling slowly in his throat, he slid around the edge of the table, surprisingly quietly for a man of his girth. Two Med-Jai warriors had visited him earlier in the day, almost indistinguishable from each other in black, sun-seamed faces dotted with glyph tattoos. After the incident with the terrifying white woman, he had shut up shop and hurried off to see his brother in Luxor for a week. When he returned, he had found the Med-Jai waiting for him. A coward to the core, he had told them everything he knew. Impassively, they had absorbed his frantic babble. The elder of the pair, his beard streaked with grey, had asked the questions, while the younger man toyed nonchalantly with his scimitar.

Telling himself the Med-Jai were not in the habit of making people disappear, he peered around the dimly lit shop interior.

"Achmed?" he called, wincing as his voice quavered. "Is that you, boy?"

Lit only where the gentle luminance of bell-domed oil lamps reached, great sections of the shop were lost in pools of shadow. Hugging the edge of the table, Azim strained his eyes, cursing under his breath as his fez slipped down over his forehead. He could not see anyone. The silence was absolute. He could even hear his heart fluttering, rapid and frightened like the caged finches sold in the súk.

"If that's you, I'll whip you for frightening me like that! Think of my old heart!"

Gingerly stepping away from the imagined sanctuary of the table, he tiptoed into the centre of the room. Heart pounding loud in his ears, he spotted a huddled figure in the corner of the room. Fear transmuting into indignant fury, he stomped over.

"ACHMED!" he screeched, pressing his palm to his chest. "I'll thrash you to within an inch of your miserable life!!"

Reaching down, his hand encountered a white cotton drape covering a section of a temple pillar. Angled shadows had made it appear like a crouching child. Throwing the drape down, he stamped on it and cursed with relief. Primal instinct running insect feet over the nape of his neck, he turned around and looked up, then up again. Something black towered over him. Hands flying up protectively before his face, mouth a stricken black square, Azim Fahrer drew breath for a scream that was not given opportunity to pass his lips.

*