Curse of the Pharaoh: A Brock Stone Adventure

20 The Guide

They arrived in Luxor the following morning and checked into the famed Winter Palace Hotel. Stone and Alex then went out in search of a guide while the ladies remained behind to enjoy the amenities.

After asking around about a guide and meeting with no success, Stone eventually paid a young man named Dakari a pound to show him to a place where he could find a guide. The farther they walked, the shabbier their surroundings grew. Finally, they stopped in front of a small building. A hand-painted sign, bleached out by the sun, read “Ammit Pub.” Beneath the name was the image of a bizarre creature with the head of a crocodile, the front legs and chest of a lion, and the hindquarters of a hippo.

“You will find a guide in there,” Dakari said.

“How about camels and supplies for a journey?” Alex asked.

“Your guide can help you.”

As they turned to leave, Stone saw a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye. His monastery training kicked in. He whipped around and seized Dakari by the wrist before the young man could snatch the cash in his pocket. Dakari was too surprised to be frightened.

“You are fast,” the young man said.

“Glad you noticed,” Stone said dryly. “I’m also vindictive.” He took back one of the pound notes he had given to Dakari. “Get out of here before I take the other back, too.” He watched the young man go, then turned and led the way into the bar.

Nervous-looking men cast side-eyed glances at the pair of newcomers as they entered. Someone muttered something about lost tourists under his breath and the others at his table laughed. Stone and Alex moved to the bar, where Alex ordered two Stellas — the beer that had dominated Egypt for more than a decade. The bartender smirked, his shoulders quaked in silent mirth. Finally, he gave a shake of his head and went to get their drinks.

“What’s his problem?” Alex said.

“Places like this mostly serve hard liquor, or turpentine masquerading as liquor,” Stone said. “Beer tends to be favored by genteel folk.”

“Genteel is a name I’ve never been called.”

“Compared to everyone else in here, you’re a Rockefeller.”

“If only I had the bank account to match.”

The bartender brought their beers and held up four fingers. Stone handed him the bills and the man turned and walked away.

“Friendly chap.” Alex scanned the room. “No one seems to like us very much.”

“Let’s hope they like money.”

Stone seized the bull by the horns, approached the nearest table, and asked if anyone could recommend a guide. None of the men looked up. All shook their heads. He asked the men at the next table. An emaciated man with crooked teeth looked up at him.

“I don’t speak English,” he said.

“Neither do I,” said the man seated across the table from him. Both men laughed.

“This is not going well,” Stone said.

“What about that fellow over there?” Alex tilted his head in the direction of an old man drinking alone in the corner. They approached him and were pleased he didn’t scowl at them.

“Pardon me, but we are looking for a guide to take us into the Western Desert,” Stone said.

The old man smirked but did not answer.

“Do you speak English?” Alex asked loudly.

“Saying it slower and louder won’t teach him a new language,” Stone said.

“I speak your language,” the old man said. “But my mouth is dry.”

Alex bought a round for the three of them, this time ordering bourbon. Stone was surprised to find it was quite good — sweet with notes of vanilla and caramel. The old man took a sip, smiled, and smacked his lips.

“Very nice.” He introduced himself as Moises.

“Sounds like Moses,” Alex said.

“Same name, different spelling,” Moises said.

“That might be a problem.” Alex grinned. “Remember what happened the last time a guy named Moses led people into the desert?”

Moises laughed. He took another sip, set his glass on the table, and flashed the first smile they had seen since leaving their hotel. “Where do you wish to go? The Valley of the Kings?”

“Deeper into the desert than that,” Stone said.

“The desert is dangerous — cobras, jackals, giant scorpions, quicksand…”

“Quicksand in the desert?” Alex said.

“Loosely packed sand that can’t support a man’s weight. You might call it a sandpit.”

“We will take care,” Stone said.

“Why would you want to go into such a barren wasteland?”

“Research,” Stone said.

Moises shrugged as if absolving himself of responsibility for whatever trouble the two men got themselves into. “I only know of one man who might take you there. He likes to play cards, so he is always in need of money.”

“Sounds perfect. Where can we find him?” Stone asked.

“Back room. Look for the man with long, black hair. People call him Hawk.”

They thanked Moises and made their way to a door in the back corner. Stone opened it and peered through. Men played poker around several small tables. All looked Egyptian save for one.

He was a big man with high cheekbones, a bent nose, and reddish-brown skin. A folded red bandana held back his long, black hair. He wore safari-style khaki shirt and trousers, and cowboy boots. A knife and a tomahawk hung from his belt.

“An Indian!” Alex said. “Who would have thunk it?”

“You are cheating, Hawk!” The man seated opposite Hawk sprang to his feet, upending his chair. “You’ve got cards hidden up your sleeve.”

“I’m disappointed, Mostafa. I thought we were amigos. But since I can’t have my reputation sullied by false accusations…” The man called Hawk smiled, took his time pushing up his sleeves. “See? Nothing. Just like your money pouch after that last hand.”

Mostafa was not mollified. He muttered something under his breath.

“Sit down and play another hand. I’ll even spot you a few pounds since you’re on such a bad run of luck.” Hawk pushed a few bills across the table.

“I think not. I do not like you. Besides, it is beginning to stink in here.”

“Funny, your wife loves my company.”

Mostafa drew a revolver, but Hawk was faster. There was a blur of movement and Mostafa froze in place, his weapon only halfway raised. A tomahawk jutted out of his forehead.

The room went silent.

Hawk sprang to his feet and upended the table. He hurried over to Mostafa’s body and pulled his tomahawk free. All the gamblers were on their feet. Some held knives but no one wanted to be the first to confront the big Indian with the tomahawk.

“You all saw it,” Hawk said. “He drew his weapon first. He was just too slow.”

“You spoke of his wife in a disrespectful manner,” someone said.

“And he impugned my honor by accusing me of cheating.” Hawk paused, frowned. “I think impugned is the right word.”

“You can explain it to the authorities,” someone said.

“That is where you are wrong.” Hawk made a run for it, not in the direction of the door where Stone and Alex stood, but out the back door.

“What are we going to do now?” Alex asked.

“The only thing we can do,” Stone said. “We follow him.”