The Eye of the Serpent Page 2

  Alec’s father, Hugh, was a diplomat, working at the British embassy in Cairo. His busy schedule left little free time to spend with his son; and Alec’s mother, Hannah, had been dead more than six months now. During term time Alec attended an English boarding school in Cairo, but holidays had always been a problem; at least until Uncle Will had started inviting him down to help out on his archaeological digs.

  It had started when Alec was thirteen. A letter had arrived from Uncle Will (Alec could somehow never bring himself to call him ‘Sir William’) inviting Alec to go and make himself useful. Alec’s father had thought it a capital idea, but his mother had been less impressed.

  ‘He’s too young,’ she’d argued. ‘That’s a lawless part of the world. He could get into all kinds of trouble.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ his father had answered. ‘It’ll make a man of him . . . and it’s better than having him mooching around the house, bored out of his mind. Look, if you’re so worried, we’ll send Coates with him – he’ll make sure he doesn’t get into any scrapes.’

  Coates was the family valet. He had been around for as long as Alec could remember, a big, shambling fellow with brilliantined black hair and a face like a slab of granite. Though he seemed tough, Alec knew from experience that he could bend Coates around his little finger if he needed to: taking him along shouldn’t be a problem.

  So for the past two years Alec had made this trip down to Luxor to work alongside his favourite uncle, and in the process had become totally absorbed in the study of Egyptology. Uncle Will was a brilliant teacher, and consequently Alec knew more about the subject than any other child his age. Everything about it fascinated him: the tombs, the relics, the incredible history of a race of people who had built fabulous temples and monuments when the rest of the human race was still scuttling around in rags. And nothing – absolutely nothing in the world – could ever rival the thrill of finding something that had lain hidden from human eyes for thousands of years.

  The previous winter, two things had happened that had changed Alec’s life for ever. The first was the death of his mother. He’d been back at school in Cairo, working through some history revision, when he’d been summoned to the headmaster’s office. He was initially delighted to find his father waiting for him. But the look on his face had told him very quickly that this wasn’t to be good news.

  Alec’s mother was dead.

  She had been bitten by a mosquito, his father said, as Alec listened incredulously. Mosquito bites were nothing – people suffered them on an almost daily basis in this part of the world – but something must have been different about this particular bite, because it had turned septic. She had fallen into a raging fever and within a few hours she was gone. Alec couldn’t believe it. A mosquito bite! How could such a silly, innocuous thing be the death of the person he had thought would live for ever?

  ‘It’s all right if you want to cry,’ Father had told him, but Alec couldn’t. He felt like screaming; he felt like smashing the headmaster’s office to bits, but try as he might, he could not shed a tear for the mother he had loved all his life.

  He had travelled back to the house on Kasr al-Dubara with his father and had gone through the ritual of the burial – the prayers, the hymns, the readings – and he had just felt numb, as though this was happening to somebody else and he was watching it from a distance.

  Back at school, he threw himself into his lessons, thinking that at least he had the summer holidays to look forward to, a chance to immerse himself in the subject he enjoyed so much.

  But then a letter had arrived from his father, telling him that something bad had happened over at the dig. Nobody was sure exactly what had transpired, but it appeared that Uncle Will had suffered a complete nervous breakdown and had been taken to a sanatorium. It looked as though archaeology was off the agenda.

  And then Alec did find some tears. This was the last straw. It seemed to him that everything was lost and he resigned himself to waiting until his schooling was finished before he could devote his life to the subject that so fascinated him.

  But then, only a few weeks before the end of term, a revelation! Another letter from his father had arrived, telling him that the dig seemed to be back on the cards. Uncle Will’s most trusted American friend, a man called Ethan Wade, had stepped in to take over directorship of the site; and he had extended a personal invitation to Alec to come out and resume his former duties.

  So now here he stood at the rail of the Sudan, gazing out at a small herd of camels on the far bank, dipping their heads to drink from the blue waters of the Nile. Alec was asking himself how much longer it would be before he could step off this great floating tub and get his hands into some good Egyptian sand. Coates, a plain-speaking Yorkshireman, who had always seemed able to read Alec’s mind, gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

  ‘Fear not, Master Alec. We’ll be at Luxor tomorrow afternoon and, all being well, Mr Wade should be at the quayside to meet us.’

  Alec glanced at his valet. It always seemed odd to see the big man clad in the unfamiliar garb of a khaki safari suit and pith helmet, rather than his usual black tailcoat.

  ‘I’ve asked you before, please don’t call me that,’ he murmured. ‘A simple Alec will be fine.’

  ‘Yes, Master Alec,’ said Coates, without a trace of irony. ‘I shall try to remember that.’

  A short distance from the steamer, a large crocodile surfaced briefly, snorted a little water from its nostrils and then sank again, leaving barely a ripple in its wake.

  ‘What do we know about this Ethan Wade?’ asked Alec.

  ‘Only that he is a friend of Sir William’s and that your father met him some years ago and was, by all accounts, rather impressed with him. I believe Mr Wade was working on an earlier dig alongside your uncle at the time. But he’d moved on by the time you started helping your uncle out.’

  ‘He’s an archaeologist, then?’

  ‘No. I understand he is what the Americans like to call “a soldier of fortune”.’

  Alec frowned. ‘What’s that exactly?’

  ‘I believe it describes a man who is willing to go anywhere in the world where there is action and adventure. I’ve heard some reports of exploits in Mexico and Africa . . .’ Coates sniffed. ‘But of course, if your father thinks he’s made of the right stuff, who am I to quibble?’

  Alec was impressed. ‘Sounds like an interesting fellow,’ he said.

  Coates allowed himself the faintest look of disdain. ‘That’s the Americans for you,’ he said. ‘Probably watched far too many motion pictures. I believe that’s what they call them.’

  Alec smiled. ‘Movies, Coates. That’s the American word. And if Father trusts him and Uncle Will trusts him, then he’ll do for me.’ He paused. ‘It’s going to seem odd, Uncle Will not being at the dig. I wish we knew more about what happened to him.’

  Coates sighed. ‘Perhaps we’ll learn more in due course,’ he said. ‘All I do know is that he’s not in his right mind and—’

  ‘Excuse me. I trust you will excuse my boldness . . .’

  Alec and Coates turned in surprise. They had been approached by a complete stranger. He was a hugely obese man, dressed in a white safari suit and a wide-brimmed fedora. Beneath the brim of his hat, his face resembled a great pink blob of blancmange, beneath which a couple of chins wobbled alarmingly. He was sweating profusely and mopping at his neck with a red kerchief.

  ‘I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,’ said the man, who spoke with a distinct Welsh accent. ‘Wilfred Llewellyn, from the Cairo Herald.’ Llewellyn extended a meaty hand and Alec shook it politely. It felt unpleasantly sticky and he had to make an effort not to wipe his palm on his trousers. ‘I’m on my way down to the Valley of the Kings to do a story and I heard you mention a dig and an “Uncle Will” . . . You couldn’t possibly have been referring to Sir William Devlin, could you?’

  Alec and Coates exchanged glances.

  ‘Umm . . . yes, I’m his
nephew,’ said Alec cautiously.

  ‘Astonishing! And your name would be . . .?’

  ‘Alec. Alec Devlin.’

  ‘Of course, Sir William has a brother, Hugh. Your father. That makes sense.’ Llewellyn reached into his jacket and pulled out a small notebook and pen. ‘I trust, dear boy, you won’t object if I make a few notes. For the record.’

  Coates frowned. ‘What’s this all about?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh, just gathering details, my good friend – nothing to be concerned about. We . . . journalists tend to pull in every little thing, so that later we can . . . sift through for the nuggets.’ Llewellyn had a soft, syrupy voice that Alec found distinctly irritating. ‘So you are on your way to see your uncle?’

  ‘No, we’re going to the dig. I’ve worked up there twice before.’

  ‘Oh, capital, absolutely capital! And if I may say so, how inspiring to meet a young man willing to work in such a dangerous environment.’

  ‘Dangerous?’ Coates raised his eyebrows. ‘How so?’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m no expert of course, but I would have thought out in the open like that, there must be all sorts of things that could happen. Dust storms . . . wild animals . . . bandits . . .’

  Alec grinned. ‘Judging from what’s happened before, I’d say it’s not much worse than camping out with the scouts,’ he said. ‘And besides, I’ve got Coates to look after me.’

  ‘Coats?’ Llewellyn scribbled a note in his little book. ‘Some kind of protective clothing you wear?’

  Alec tried not to laugh.

  ‘I’m Coates,’ said Coates, with an air of menace.

  ‘Oh, I see! The family retainer, I suppose?’

  ‘I prefer the word “valet”.’

  ‘Hmm, yes, of course. And you would have a first name, Mr Coates?’

  ‘Oh, most certainly,’ said Coates unhelpfully. ‘Look, which paper did you say you work for?’

  ‘Er . . . the Herald.’

  ‘It’s strange. I’ve lived in Cairo for many years now and I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.’

  ‘Oh, well . . . we’re quite new. But doing very nicely, thank you.’ Llewellyn fixed Alec with a look. ‘So you’re Sir William’s nephew. A terrible thing that happened to him, is it not?’

  Alec frowned. ‘We don’t really know much about it,’ he said. ‘Only that he had some kind of breakdown.’

  ‘Oh, is that what they told you?’ Llewellyn said slyly. ‘And did anybody mention anything about a Mr Hinton?’

  Alec raised his eyebrows. ‘Tom Hinton?’ he asked. He knew Tom well enough; had met him on the two previous occasions when he’d helped out on digs and had found him to be a most agreeable fellow. ‘Nobody said anything about Tom. Why?’

  Llewellyn leaned closer and Alec wrinkled his nostrils as they caught a curious smell: the odour of cheap lavender water mingled with the sharp tang of sweat.

  ‘I thought it was common knowledge. Mr Hinton disappeared the same night your uncle suffered his . . . breakdown. Nobody has seen hide nor hair of him since.’

  ‘Disappeared?’ Alec was shocked. ‘How could such a thing happen?’

  Llewellyn shrugged. ‘People are talking about a curse,’ he said.

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘I think Master Alec has answered enough questions for now,’ said Coates.

  ‘Oh, but if I might be permitted to . . .’

  Coates put a big slab of a hand against Llewellyn’s chest and pushed, gently but firmly, making the man lurch backward several steps.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said Coates, an edge of threat in his voice. ‘We were enjoying the solitude.’

  ‘Yes, well, of course, if that’s what you wish. Far be it from me to outstay my welcome.’ Llewellyn was quite clearly furious, but strove to disguise it with an unconvincing smile. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other at the dig, anyway. Perhaps we will have the opportunity to speak again.’ He touched the brim of his fedora. ‘Master Devlin,’ he said. He looked briefly at Coates. ‘Mr Coates.’ He turned and waddled away across the deck, mopping his sweating face as he went.

  Alec looked at Coates. ‘What was that about?’ he murmured.

  ‘I can’t imagine,’ his valet replied. ‘But if that fellow is a journalist, I’ll eat my pith helmet.’

  ‘Then what is he, d’you suppose?’

  ‘Somebody too fond of asking questions.’ Coates frowned and hunched his massive shoulders. ‘And something tells me we haven’t seen the last of him.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Tall American

  THE SUDAN MADE dock at Luxor early the following morning. Alec and Coates looked down at the eager press of people on the jetty below them, a mixture of frantically shouting natives, dockworkers in grubby overalls and smartly dressed tourists from just about every part of the globe. Since the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb a year earlier, Egypt had become an essential addition to every holidaymaker’s ‘to do’ list and it was said that Howard Carter and his team were finding it hard to make any progress whatsoever when they had to deal with a daily influx of British and American visitors demanding that they be allowed to see ‘the treasures’.

  ‘I hadn’t expected it to be quite so packed,’ said an oily voice; and Alec turned his head to see the huge, sweating shape of Llewellyn standing beside him. His heart sank. Since he had introduced himself the previous day, Llewellyn seemed to be following Alec and Coates around like an oversized puppy dog. ‘Are you being met by somebody?’ he asked.

  Alec opened his mouth to speak, but Coates put a hand on his arm to still him.

  ‘We are indeed, Mr Llewellyn,’ he said. ‘And what about yourself? I’m sure a newspaper reporter of your undoubted calibre will have a fine limousine awaiting his arrival.’

  Llewellyn smiled. ‘Ah, that’s not how I operate, Mr Coates. I believe in slipping in under everybody’s guard. That way, I get the real story, not something that’s been carefully prepared beforehand. The French have a word for it. Vérité.’

  Coates sniffed. ‘I have a word for it too, Mr Llewellyn, but mine’s a good old Anglo-Saxon one, which I shouldn’t care to repeat in mixed company.’

  If Llewellyn understood the remark, he chose to ignore it. Instead he leaned a little closer as if to confide a secret. ‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘if you might be able to give me a lift down to the dig.’

  Coates stared at the man. ‘But, Mr Llewellyn, I wouldn’t insult you by offering. I’m sure that what with wanting to get the real story, you’d prefer to travel by authentic transport.’ He pointed down to where a man in a striped galabiya was leading several donkeys by their bridles.

  At that moment the chains across the gangway were unfastened and the passengers began to descend in an eager stream to the quayside. Coates pushed Alec forward and the two of them moved away, leaving Llewellyn staring down open-mouthed at the donkeys. They reached the weathered boards of the jetty and stood for a moment, gazing around. Neither of them had ever met Ethan Wade before and had not the slightest idea what he might look like; but then a man came striding purposefully towards them and Alec knew instantly that this had to be the man they were looking for.

  He must have been six foot tall, broad shouldered but narrow hipped, and he was wearing what Alec would have called a cowboy hat, but which he knew was more accurately termed a stetson. He had dark eyes, a sunburned complexion and a red bandana handkerchief tied loosely around his neck. His white teeth were currently displayed in a welcoming grin. Alec couldn’t help but notice that the man had a cowboy-style holster around his hips, complete with a six-shooter. To complete the image he wore long, intricately tooled leather boots.

  ‘This must be Mr Wade now,’ announced Alec brightly.

  ‘However did you guess?’ murmured Coates, rolling his eyes; but he stood up straight and bowed his head respectfully as the big man approached.

  ‘You must be Alec!’ said the man, as though Alec wasn’t
actually aware of the fact. ‘I can see the resemblance to your father – and of course your uncle told me all about you.’

  ‘Uncle Will’s better?’ cried Alec excitedly.

  ‘Uh, no, sorry, this was before he was taken ill. But he often sent me letters and he usually mentioned you in them.’ He held out a big hand and Alec shook it, trying not to wince at a grip that almost crushed his fingers. Ethan lifted his gaze. ‘And I guess you must be Goats,’ he added.

  ‘That’s Coates, sir, if you’ll pardon me correcting you. A goat is a bleating sort of creature that will eat anything, whereas we Coateses rarely speak and are a tad more particular about our food. Very pleased to meet you, Mr Wade, I’m sure.’

  Alec had to suppress a grin, because he could tell that Coates hadn’t taken too kindly to the mistake, but was doing his best not to show it.

  Ethan Wade just looked bemused by the reply he’d received. ‘Oh no, call me Ethan, please! We really don’t go in for ceremony around here.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Wade. As you wish.’

  Ethan looked momentarily puzzled by this.

  ‘Oh, he always does that,’ Alec assured the American. ‘He’s very proper about these things. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to him.’

  ‘If you say so.’ He looked at Coates doubtfully. ‘You can stand at ease,’ he told him.

  ‘Oh, I am, Mr Wade, I can assure you.’

  Ethan looked around for a moment, and lifting his fingers to his lips, let out a whistle of such volume that Alec almost jumped out of his skin. A couple of young Arab boys came running out from the crowd and Ethan pointed up the quayside to where the passengers’ trunks were being unloaded. ‘Go and sort out the bags, boys. They’ll be labelled Master Devlin and Mr Goats . . . er, Coates! Hurry on now!’

  The two boys raced off and Ethan gestured to his guests.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you out of this three-ring circus. I swear this place gets busier every time I come here.’ He led the way through a packed waiting room and out to the port entrance. On a strip of dust road, two fine-looking convertible automobiles were waiting. Alec recognized the driver of one of them.