The Deadly Delivery
AMIDST THE HUSTLE and bustle of the docks, Heinrich Nadir strode down the gangplank of the Silver Swan with determined haste. He scurried from the port exit and across the street, weaving in and out of pedestrians, horses and camels. His beige cotton suit was marred by sweat stains emanating from under the armpits and striping his back, and he wore a hat low on his furrowed brow as he clutched a large, sack-covered item tight against his chest. Hailing one of the many horse-drawn carts that were lined up outside the port exit, he handed a crumpled piece of notepaper to the driver.
'And be quick about it!' he added, and the cart was soon on its way.
Less than half an hour later, Nadir arrived in Al Fekesh. Approaching a tavern, he stared up at the flaky painted sign above the door. This was the place. With one last glance at the dusty street around him, he entered the tavern. The morning sunlight had taken its time to bleach through the slatted blinds at the windows, and a lone bartender stood in the shadows at the empty bar. The German raised his hand to catch the man's attention – a pointless effort, for Nadir had ensnared that the second he had entered the tavern.
'Good morning, sir,' greeted the bartender. 'And how are you this fine day?'
'Miserable! I have spent a long journey with fools,' said Nadir, scathingly.
'Perhaps a drink will ease your troubles, eh?' the Egyptian asked, wiping the towel he used to clean the glasses over his sweat-soaked forehead.
'Ja…a large rum,' Nadir muttered, nestling his buttocks firmly into a stool.
The bartender nodded. 'In my cellar I have many quality rums. I am sure you will find something down there that you seek, Mr…?'
Nadir looked blank, as if his name were a closely guarded secret.
'Nadir…Heinrich Nadir,' he said, shifting his eyes around him, scouring the empty bar. 'And I would very much like to inspect your cellar, danke.'
The bartender's dark eyes glanced at the package that the German had placed upon the bar. 'It might be sensible to bring your belongings with you, sir. We do sometimes get an undesirable element in these parts.'
Lifting a trapdoor set into the wooden floor, he ushered Nadir down the steps into the enveloping darkness. Nadir hovered at the bottom, fear rooting his feet to the spot. He was just about to take a step forwards, when he heard a noise from the far end of the cellar.
'Hello? Is…is someone there?' Nadir called out.
'Come closer,' said a gruff voice.
The German shuffled forwards as if his shoelaces were tied together.
'Where are you? I…I cannot see you!' he said, more shakily than he had planned.
A match was struck, and Nadir gasped as a dark-skinned, greasy face peered out at him through the darkness. The face was long and muscular, with a firm jaw sporting an unkempt goatee beard. As the light of the match waned, the fingers that held it beckoned Nadir closer.
'Is that the delivery?' asked the Egyptian, his voice all gristle and brutality.
'Ja,' Nadir answered. 'But I have specific orders not to hand it over until I am satisfied that you are the correct recipient. Show me your identity.'
The Egyptian struck another match and Nadir's eyes darted to the tattoo of a scarab beetle etched onto the back of the man's right hand.
'My name is Aksak Faroud, leader of the Clan Scarabs,' said the owner of the tattoo, more as a statement of fact than an introduction. He snatched a lantern from the cellar wall and lit it. 'You will open the box now.'
'As you wish, Herr Faroud,' said Nadir, as he lifted the wooden casket from the sack, and placed it on the cellar floor.
Aksak Faroud crouched down to inspect it, and Nadir saw the entirety of the man for the first time. He was in his early forties, wearing a long, ragged robe from head to toe. Clothes of function, not fashion. The garb of a desert rider. His eyes were tainted by grey shadow, and his fingernails were dirty, as if the man had just crawled out of his own grave. Faroud held the lantern over the box and ran his fingers across the engraved pattern of a sideways-tilted figure of eight – the mathematical symbol for 'infinity'. Lifting the lid, he saw twelve inlaid grooves, nine of which contained cylindrical glass vials, whereas three pockets were empty. He reached inside the box and pulled out one of the vials. It was roughly the size of his index finger, with decorative, ascending ivy etched into the glass.
'Mr Joyce will be most pleased,' Faroud said.
'I am sure that he will. But if he is pleased by that, then he will be positively ecstatic when he hears what else I can offer him,' said Nadir.
Faroud raised an eyebrow. 'Explain.'
'There was a woman onboard the ship. A Frenchwoman by the name of Madame Destine. Now, I have proof that she is possessed of a fantastic gift…and one that would suit a man like Herr Joyce's needs most spectacularly,' explained Nadir.
Faroud's stony expression did not budge for a second. 'And what makes you believe that this woman would be of interest to Mr Joyce?'
'She is able to see the future!' Nadir saw the look of distrust flicker in the Egyptian's eyes and spoke quickly to seal his words. 'I am serious, Herr Faroud. She travelled here with an Englander…the very same man that I was ordered to kill, yet he evaded my best efforts to do so.'
'An Englander?' Faroud's dark eyes narrowed into slits. 'How frequently they have come to desecrate my country! I have killed many who have tried.'
'Good for you,' chirped Nadir. 'And would Mr Joyce not profit greatly from a woman who could predict the future at his merest whim?'
Faroud pondered for a moment. 'This was not part of my agreement. I am merely supposed to collect this casket and deliver it to the British Embassy. However, your words give me pause. I will take you to Mr Joyce. If you can convince him of this woman's worth, perhaps he will let you live.' Faroud offered a tentative smile towards the German. 'Perhaps.'