bus.
‘These will take you to Tahta. From there you can get a train.’
The police car drove off. The light-skinned Egyptian looked nervously around, then immediately climbed on board the minibus.
Ryan was about to follow when the woman spoke, very quietly. ‘You’re Ryan Harper. The Egyptologist. You knew Sassoon.’
He paused, almost frightened. She continued.
‘I’ve seen you in photos. With him. I know a lot about Victor Sassoon.’ Her English was perfect but she had a definite accent: Dutch, or German. A blonde European woman in Nazlet who knew who he was: what the hell?
Now she lifted two stiff fingers to her mouth like a boy pretending to blow smoke from the muzzle of a gun. As if to say:
Wait, be quiet, listen, say nothing.
He said nothing. She spoke again. ‘You came looking for something, didn’t you?’
The wind whirled across the sandy square. The place was deserted, apart from a stooped old woman in black shrouds, walking in the shadows towards a little shop. Ryan nodded and replied, very quietly, ‘Yes.’
The young woman’s face was expressionless. She seemed to be assessing him. ‘I have something you need to see, later. We can talk later. In the town.’
He climbed on the minibus, and calmed himself as best he could.
The journey was staccato and uncomfortable. The road to Tahta passed endless little villages identical in their poverty: the repetition was like an hallucination, as if Egypt had hired a handful of extras on the cheap to appear in every scene. There was the wall-eyed man sitting on a stool smoking
shisha
outside a tea-house, there was the dog with three legs dragging itself towards a reeking heap of rubbish. And there they were again.
Through it all the European woman texted messages from her phone. Occasionally she made, or took, furtive calls, whispering and inaudible. Glancing at Ryan as if she was deciding something.
What did this woman have? What was going on?
‘
Tahta!
’
The minibus had drawn to a halt in a nondescript square with a perimeter of tea-houses with
shishas
, and a blue Co-op gas station, trailing a queue of rusty taxis. Everyone climbed off, dragging their bags. Ryan looked around. The sun was going down, turning the eastern cliffs, fifteen kilometres away, to mauve. The city of Tahta was straggled along the Nile valley.
The light-skinned Egyptian disappeared at once. The other passengers dispersed. Soon it was just him and the woman.
Abruptly, she extended a hand. ‘Helen Fassbinder.’
Perplexed, Ryan shook her hand.
For the first time, she allowed herself a small and anxious smile. ‘You must have questions.’
‘Just a few million. Nothing too demanding.’
‘Come. Let us have tea.’
The Dutch or German accent was definitely there: come –
komm.
Brusque and forthright.
His curiosity
burned.
Ryan followed as Helen led them to the dirtiest possible tea-house at the corner of the square. Despite its impoverished exterior, it was busy with men smoking
nargilehs
, sipping thick sweet coffee from small dirty cups, playing
sheshbesh
, arguing. Some of them glanced at the Western couple, then returned to their games and caffeinated debates. Obviously Tahta still got a few tourists, thanks to its train station: tourists heading south for Abydos and Luxor, or north to Coptic sites, like the Monastery of the Bones.
Helen ordered tea for them both in clumsy Arabic, the tea-boy looking almost paralytically fascinated at the idea of a woman ordering for a man. Or maybe it was her hair that astonished him. The boy kept looking at her unveiled blonde hair. Stealing glances at it, rapt with repressed desire.
Helen was apparently either oblivious, or very accustomed, to the effect she was having on the boy. ‘Let me tell you my story. Yes?’
Ryan disguised his urgent curiosity. He nodded calmly.
Between brief and rapid sips of tea, she told him she was a German film-maker, freelance; she lived in London, or sometimes Berlin. Or sometimes she
‘These will take you to Tahta. From there you can get a train.’
The police car drove off. The light-skinned Egyptian looked nervously around, then immediately climbed on board the minibus.
Ryan was about to follow when the woman spoke, very quietly. ‘You’re Ryan Harper. The Egyptologist. You knew Sassoon.’
He paused, almost frightened. She continued.
‘I’ve seen you in photos. With him. I know a lot about Victor Sassoon.’ Her English was perfect but she had a definite accent: Dutch, or German. A blonde European woman in Nazlet who knew who he was: what the hell?
Now she lifted two stiff fingers to her mouth like a boy pretending to blow smoke from the muzzle of a gun. As if to say:
Wait, be quiet, listen, say nothing.
He said nothing. She spoke again. ‘You came looking for something, didn’t you?’
The wind whirled across the sandy square. The place was deserted, apart from a stooped old woman in black shrouds, walking in the shadows towards a little shop. Ryan nodded and replied, very quietly, ‘Yes.’
The young woman’s face was expressionless. She seemed to be assessing him. ‘I have something you need to see, later. We can talk later. In the town.’
He climbed on the minibus, and calmed himself as best he could.
The journey was staccato and uncomfortable. The road to Tahta passed endless little villages identical in their poverty: the repetition was like an hallucination, as if Egypt had hired a handful of extras on the cheap to appear in every scene. There was the wall-eyed man sitting on a stool smoking
shisha
outside a tea-house, there was the dog with three legs dragging itself towards a reeking heap of rubbish. And there they were again.
Through it all the European woman texted messages from her phone. Occasionally she made, or took, furtive calls, whispering and inaudible. Glancing at Ryan as if she was deciding something.
What did this woman have? What was going on?
‘
Tahta!
’
The minibus had drawn to a halt in a nondescript square with a perimeter of tea-houses with
shishas
, and a blue Co-op gas station, trailing a queue of rusty taxis. Everyone climbed off, dragging their bags. Ryan looked around. The sun was going down, turning the eastern cliffs, fifteen kilometres away, to mauve. The city of Tahta was straggled along the Nile valley.
The light-skinned Egyptian disappeared at once. The other passengers dispersed. Soon it was just him and the woman.
Abruptly, she extended a hand. ‘Helen Fassbinder.’
Perplexed, Ryan shook her hand.
For the first time, she allowed herself a small and anxious smile. ‘You must have questions.’
‘Just a few million. Nothing too demanding.’
‘Come. Let us have tea.’
The Dutch or German accent was definitely there: come –
komm.
Brusque and forthright.
His curiosity
burned.
Ryan followed as Helen led them to the dirtiest possible tea-house at the corner of the square. Despite its impoverished exterior, it was busy with men smoking
nargilehs
, sipping thick sweet coffee from small dirty cups, playing
sheshbesh
, arguing. Some of them glanced at the Western couple, then returned to their games and caffeinated debates. Obviously Tahta still got a few tourists, thanks to its train station: tourists heading south for Abydos and Luxor, or north to Coptic sites, like the Monastery of the Bones.
Helen ordered tea for them both in clumsy Arabic, the tea-boy looking almost paralytically fascinated at the idea of a woman ordering for a man. Or maybe it was her hair that astonished him. The boy kept looking at her unveiled blonde hair. Stealing glances at it, rapt with repressed desire.
Helen was apparently either oblivious, or very accustomed, to the effect she was having on the boy. ‘Let me tell you my story. Yes?’
Ryan disguised his urgent curiosity. He nodded calmly.
Between brief and rapid sips of tea, she told him she was a German film-maker, freelance; she lived in London, or sometimes Berlin. Or sometimes she
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