Favoured Friends
Part 21/?
Summary: An invitation to the National Egyptology Conference quickly becomes deadly race for the mythic Ichriem against an old rival of Sydney's - the assassin known only as 'the Viper'.
Note: This is a round robin originally posted at the Relic Hunter Yahoo Group. Although I'm posting it, I did not write the entire thing. This part was written by LeiLani ( dawnleilani@yahoo.com )
Also, I have Support Services. That means that, if you want, you can put me on Author Alert and receive notice when other stories of mine are posted, even if you haven't paid yourself.
Posted: Sunday, May 4, 2003
Fun wasn't what Nigel would have chosen to describe the trip. Hellish, brutal, inhuman - but in no way could it be construed as fun. His body felt like it was aflame from both inside and out. The Viper warned against escape, and Nigel obeyed, though not from any imminent threat of death or injury. The teaching assistant simply was too ill to attempt more than the most rudimentary functions. He didn't speak, didn't react when spoken to, didn't argue with any directives.
The merciless sun of the Sahara beat down from the bleached sky. The Viper knew this desert, knew the means of traversing it, and knew what it could do to a human being. They moved in tandem with the greater caravan, some hundred fifty nomads who were accustomed to this mode of travel.
Nigel's slender frame was never designed to ride a camel, nor to endure the weather extremes of Northern Africa. In brief flashes of cognizance, he saw concern flit over his captor's face. Heat stroke was a deadly possibility, the more so to a man unaccustomed to the oppressive temperatures. Serves him right if I die, the Englishman thought, overtaken by such profound misery that he honestly lost all interest in living. Apparently timing made all the difference. Despite his threats, the Viper plied Nigel with water and food, even going so far as to assign one of the children to keep tabs on him. Nigel wondered absently if his enemy realized that he spoke the child's language.
Not that he was capable of speech right now. And even if he were, he was an Englishman in an Arab world. Egypt as a country was more or less friendly with the UK and the US. Individual Arabs were another matter. There was, sadly, all too much friction between the cultures, and matters spiraled even further since the horrors of the World Trade Center. Emotions were raw on both sides of the proverbial wall. The English-speaking world was understandably horrified at the unprovoked attack, while peaceful Arabs, Muslim or not, were forced into a defensive posture against presumptions of guilt. The entire world was in turmoil.
In comparison, Nigel supposed his own imminent demise didn't amount to much. He wondered if anyone would miss him. His brother, already separated by thousands of kilometers and years of emotional distance, would likely mourn briefly before resuming his life. Claudia would be saddened for a while, so long as it didn't interfere with the new fashions from Paris. Sydney… She was a friend, if no more. Yes, Sydney would miss him. He hoped she would remember him with fondness.
He let his eyes close and his body slumped forward. He didn't hear the Viper's string of curses, nor did he feel himself being lifted and carried to the relative coolness of a hastily-erected tent.
The next thing he remembered was waking inside something vaguely familiar, his body thrumming in time to a mechanical rhythm.
"Open your eyes." The command was direct, terse, and tinged with worry.
"Dammit, Bailey, open your eyes! I won't have my eleven million dollar prize die on me in the middle of the desert. I spent a small fortune hiring this flying taxi. I don't mind the money, I'll make that back. But I don't like the security risk. Any flight poses a risk, especially a chartered flight from the middle of nowhere. We'll take this as far as Sid Ifni, but no further. I won't risk giving any more away. Sydney has the note from Reynold's assistant. Ms. Fox is a smart girl. She'll figure it out sooner or later."
Nigel's mind whirled. "The note…" he whispered. "10:30… It's off the coast of Morocco, in the middle of the bloody ocean! I still don't understand what MT means, but the numbers are latitude and longitude, aren't they? If you're looking for Ichriem there, why the hell were we in Cairo? And I don't think Sydney would give eleven million dollars for me, even if she had it. Oh, you really are in a muddle. You're crazy."
The older man leaned over and hissed into Nigel's ear, "You don't even know, do you? Your inheritance, my boy. On your brother's birthday he received just under seven and a half million pounds, which comes out to eleven million American dollars on current markets. And MT is Mer de Tueur It's the name of the tiny island that is our destination. It's not on any map, mind you. The diversion to Cairo was a necessary evil, I'm afraid. My buyer is there at the moment and wanted assurances that all is moving as planned. He has a little surprise planned for Sydney and her government friend when they arrive."
Nigel's mouth wrapped around the French phrase, his linguistic abilities providing instantaneous translation. de Tueur… killer sea.
End Part Twenty-One