The Seventh Scroll

His forefinger rested lightly on the side of the trigger guard. He would

not fire until the dik-dik came to a standstill. Even that walking pace

would make the shot uncertain. He had to place his bullet precisely, to

kill swiftly but at the same time to inflict the least possible damage

to the skin.

To this end he had loaded the Rigby with full metal jacket bullets -

ones that would not expand on impact and open a wide wound channel, nor

rip out a gaping hole in the coat as they exited. These solid bullets

would punch a tiny hole the size of a pencil that the taxidermist at the

museum would be able to repair invisibly.

He felt his nerves screwing up as he realized that the dik-dik was not

going to stop in the open. It made steadily for the thick scrub on the

far side of the clearing. This might be his last chance. He fought the

temptation to take the shot at the moving target, and it required an

effort of will to lift his finger off the trigger again.

The antelope reached the wall of thorn scrub -and, the moment before it

disappeared, stopped abruptly and thrust its tiny head into the depths

of one of the low bushes.

Standing broadside to Nicholas, it began to nibble at the pate green

tufts of new leaves. The head was screened, so he had to abandon his

intention of going for that shot.

However, the shoulder was exposed. He could make out the clear outline

of the blade beneath the glossy red-brown skin. The dik-dik was angled

slightly away from him, in the perfect position for the heart shot,

tucked in low behind the shoulder.

Unhurriedly he settled the reticule of the scope on the precise spot,

and squeezed the trigger.

The shot whip-cracked in the heavy heated air and the tiny antelope

bounded high, coming down to touch the earth already at a full run. Like

a rapier rather than a cutlass, the solid bullet had not struck with

sufficient shock to knock the dik-dik over. Head down, the dik-dik

dashed away in the typical frantic reaction to a bullet through the

heart. It was dead already, running only on the last dregs of oxygen in

its bloodstream.

"Oh, no! Not that way," Nicholas cried as he jumped to his feet. The

tiny creature was racing straight towards the lip of the cliff. Blindly

leaped out into empty space and flipped into a somersault as it fell,

dropping from their sight, down almost two hundred feet into the chasm

of the Dandera river.

"That was a filthy bit of luck." Nicholas jumped over the bush that had

hidden them and ran to the rim of the chasm. Royan followed him and the

two of them stood peering down into the giddy void.

"There it is!" She pointed, and he nodded. "Yes, I can see it."

The carcass lay directly below them, caught on an islet of rock in the

middle of the stream.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I'll have to go down and get it." He straightened up and stepped back

from the brink. "Fortunately it's still early.

We have plenty of time to get the job done before dark.

I'll have to go back to camp to fetch the rope and to get some help."

It was afternoon before they returned, panied by Boris, both his

trackers and two of the skinners. They brought with them four coils of

nylon rope.

Nicholas leaned out over the cliff and grunted with relief "Well, the

carcass is still down there. I had visions of it being washed away." He

supervised the trackers as they uncoiled the rope and laid it out down

the length of the clearing.

"We will need two coils of it to get down to the bottom he estimated

and joined them, painstakingly tying and checking the knot himself. Then

he plumbed the drop, lowering the end of the rope down the cliff until

it touch the surface of the water, and then hauling it back and

measuring it between the spread of his arms.

"Thirty fathoms. One hundred and eighty feet. I won't be able to climb

back that high," he told Boris. "You and your gang will have to haul me

back up."

He anchored the rope end with a bowline to the hole of one of the wiry

thorn trees. Then he again tested it meticulously, getting all four of

the trackers and skinners to heave on it with their combined weight.

"That should do it," he gave his opinion as he stripped to his shirt and

khaki shorts and pulled off his chukka boots. On the tip of the cliff he

leaned out backwards with the rope draped over his shoulder and the tail

brought back between his legs in the classic. absed style.

"Coming in on a wing and a prayerP he said, and jumped out backwards

into the chasm. He controlled his fall by allowing the rope to pay out

over his shoulder, braking with the turn over his thigh, swinging like a

pendulum and kicking himself off the rock wall with both feet. He went

down swiftly until his feet dangled into the rush of water, and the

current pushed him into a spin on the end of the rope. He was a few

yards short of the spur of rock on which the dead dik-dik lay, and he,

was forced to let himself drop into the river. With the end of the rope

held between his teeth he swam the last short distance with a furious

overarm crawl, just beating the current's attempt to sweep him away

downstream.

He dragged himself up on to the island and took a few moments to catch

his breath, before he could admire the beautiful little creature he had

killed. He felt the familiar melancholy and guilt as he stroked the

glossy hide and examined the perfect head with the extraordinary

proboscis. However, there was no time now for regrets, nor for the

searching of his hunter's conscience.

He trussed up the dik-dik, tying all four of its legs together securely,

then he stepped back and looked up. He could see Boris's face peering

down at him.

"Haul it up!" he shouted, and gave three yanks on the rope as the agreed

signal. The trackers were hidden from his view, but the slack in the

rope was taken up and then the dik-dik lifted clear of the island and

rose jerkily up the wall of the chasm. Nicholas watched it anxiously.

There was a moment when the rope seemed to snag when the carcass was

two-thirds of the way to the top, but then it freed itself and snaked on

up the cliff.

Eventually the dik-dik disappeared from his sight, and there was a long

delay until the rope end dropped back over the tip. Boris had been

sensible enough to weight it with a round stone the size of a man's

head, and he was hanging over the top of the cliff, watching its

progress and signalling to his men to control the descent.

When the end of the weighted line touched the surface of the water it

was just out of Nicholas's reach. From the top of the cliff Boris began

to swing the line until the end of it pendulumed close enough for

Nicholas to grab it.

With a bowline knot Nicholas tied a loop in the end of the line and

slipped it under his armpits. Then he looked up at Boris.

"Heave away!" he yelled, and tugged the dangling rope three times. The

slack tightened and then he was lifted off his feet. He began to ascend

in a series of spiralling jerks and heaves. As he rose, the belled wall

of the chasm arched in to meet him, until he could fend off from the

rock with his bare feet and stop himself spiralling at the end of the

rope. He was fifty feet from the top of the cliff when suddenly he

stopped abruptly, dangling helplessly against the rock face.

"What's going on?" he shouted up at Boris.

"Bloody rope has jammed," Boris yelled back. "Can you see where it is

stuck?"

Nicholas peered up and realized that the rope had rolled into a vertical

crack in the face, probably the same one that had almost stopped the

dik-dik reaching the top.

However, his own weight was almost five times that of the little

antelope, and had forced the rope much more deeply into the crack.

He was suspended high in the air, with a drop of almost a hundred feet

under him.

"Try and swing yourself loose! Boris shouted down at him. Obediently,

Nicholas kicked himself back and twisted on the rope to try and roll it

clear. He worked until the sweat streamed down into his eyes and the

rope had rubbed him raw under the arms.

"No use," he shouted back at Boris. "Try to haul it out with brute

force!

There was a pause, and then he saw the rope above the crack tighten like

a bar of iron as five strong men hauled on the top end with all their

strength. He could hear the trackers chanting their working chorus as

they threw all their combined weight on the line.

His end of the line did not budge. It was a solid jam, and he knew then

that they were not going to clear it. He looked down. The surface of the

water seemed much further than a hundred feet below.

"The terminal velocity of the human body is one hundred and fifty miles

an hour," he reminded himself. At that speed the water would be like

concrete. "I won't be going that fast when I hit, will I? he tried to

reassure himself.

He looked up again. The men on the top of the cliff were still hauling

with all their weight and strength. At that moment one of the strands of

the nylon rope sheared against the cutting edge of the rock crack, and

began to uncurl like a long green worm.

"Stop pulling!" Nicholas screamed. "Vast heaving!" But Boris was no

longer in sight. He was helping his trackers, adding his weight to the

pull.

The second strand of the rope parted and unravelled.

There was only a single strand holding him now.

It was going to go at any moment, he realized. "Boris, you ham-fisted

bastard, stop pulling!" But his voice never reached the Russian, and

with a pop like a champagne cork the third and final strand of the rope

parted.

He plunged downwards, with the loose end of the severed rope fluttering

above his head. Flinging both arms straight upwards over his head to

stabilize his flight, he straightened his legs, arrowing his body to hit

feet first.

He thought about the island under him. Would he miss its red rock fangs

or would he smash into it and shatter every bone in his lower body? He

dared not look down to judge it in case he destabilized - his fall and

tumbled in midair. If he hit the water flat it would crush his ribs or

snap his spine.

His guts seemed to be forced into his throat by the speed of his fall,

and he drew one last breath as he hit the surface feet first. The force

of it was stunning. It was transmitted up his spine into the back of his

skull, so that his teeth cracked against each other and bright lights

starred his vision. The river swallowed him under. He went down deep,

but he was still moving so fast when he hit the rocky bottom that his

legs were jarred to the hips. He felt his knees buckle under the strain,

and he thought that both his legs had been broken.

The impact drove the air out of his lungs, and it was only when he

kicked off the bottom, desperate for air, that -he realized with a rush

of relief that both his legs were still intact. He broke out through the

surface, wheezing an coughing, and realized that he must have missed the

island by only the length of his body. However, by now the current had

carried him well clear of it.

He trod water on the racing stream, shook the water from his eyes and

looked around him swiftly. The walls of the chasm were streaming past

him, and he estimated his speed at around ten knots - fast enough to

break bone if he hit a rock. As he thought it, another small island

flashed past him almost close enough to touch. He rolled on to his back

and thrust both feet out ahead of him, ready to fend off should he be

thrown on to another outcrop.

"You are in for the whole ride, he told himself grimly.

"There is only one way out, and that is to ride it to the bottom."

He was trying to calculate how far he was above the point where the

river debauched from the chasm through the pink stone archway, how far

he still had to swim.

"Three or four miles, at the least, and the river falls almost a

thousand feet. There are bound to be rapids and probably waterfalls

ahead," he decided. "From here it does not look good. I' say the betting

is three to one against getting through without leaving some skin and

meat on the rocks behind you."

He looked up. The walls canted in from each side, so that at places they

almost met directly over his head. There was only a narrow strip of blue

sky showing, and the depths were gloomy and dank. Over the ages the

river had scoured the rock as it cut its way through.

"Damned lucky this is the dry season. What is it like down in here in

the rainy season?" he wondered. He looked up at the high-water mark

etched on the rock fifteen or twenty feet above his head.

Shuddering at the image he looked down again, concentrating on the river

ahead. He had his breath back by now, and he checked his body for any

damage. With relief he decided that, apart from some bruising and what

felt like a sprained knee, he was unhurt. All his limbs were responding,

and when he swam a few strokes to one side to avoid another spur of

rock, even the sore knee worked well enough to get him out of trouble.

Gradually he became aware of a new sound in the canyon. It was a dull

roar, growing stronger as he sped onward down The walls of the chasm

converged upon each other, the gut of rock narrowed and the flood seemed

to accelerate as it was squeezed in and confined. The sound of water

built up rapidly into a thunder that reverberated in the canyon.

Nicholas rolled over and swam with all his strength across the current

until he reached the nearest rock wall.

He tried to find a handhold, a place where he could anchor himself, but

the rock was polished smooth by the river. It slipped past under his

desperately grasping hands, and the river bellowed in his head. He saw

the surface around him flatten out and smooth like solid glass. Like a

horse laying back its ears as it gathers itself for a jump, the river

had sensed what lay ahead.

Nicholas pushed himself away from the rock wall to try and give himself

room in which to manoeuvre, and pointed his feet once more down river.

Abruptly the air opened under him and he was launched out into space.

All around him white spurning water filled the air, and he was swirled

off balance and tossed like a leaf in the torrent The drop seemed to

last for ever, and his stomach swooped against his ribs. Then once more

he struck with all his weight and was driven far below the surface.

He fought his way up and abruptly burst out through the surface with his

breathing whistling up his throat.

Through streaming eyes he saw that he was caught up in the bowl of

swirling water below the falls. The waters revolved and eddied, turning

in a stately minuet upon themselves.

As he turned, he saw first the high sheet of white water of the falls

down which he had tumbled, and then still turning, the narrow exit from

the basin through which the river resumed its mad career downstream. But

for the moment he was safe and quiet here in the back-eddy below the

falls. The current pushed him against the side of the basin, close in

beneath the chute of the falls. He reached out and found a handhold on a

clump of mossy fern growing out of a crack in the wall.

Here, at last, he had a chance to rest and consider his position. It did

not take him long, however, to realize that his only way out of the

chasm was to follow the course of the river and to take his chances with

whatever lay downstream. He could expect rapids, if not another set of

falls like this one that thundered away close beside him.

If only there were some way up the wall! He looked up, but his spirits

quailed as he considered the overhang that formed a cathedral roof high

above him.

While he still stared upwards, something caught his eye. Something too

regular and regimented to be natural.

There was a double row of dark marks running vertically up the wall of

rock, beginning at the surface of the water and climbing up the wall to

the rim almost two hundred feet overhead. He relinquished his hold on

the clump of fern and dog-paddled slowly down to where these marks

reached the water.

As he reached them he realized that they were niches, cut about four

inches square into the wall. The two rows were twice the spread of his

arms apart, and the niche in one row lined up in the horizontal plane

exactly with its neighbour in the second row.

Thrusting his hand into the nearest opening, he found that it was deep

enough to accommodate his arm to the elbow. This opening, being below

the flood level of the waters, was smoothed and worn, but when he looked

to those higher up the wall, above the water mark, he saw that they had

retained their shape much more clearly. The edges were sharp and square.

"My word, how old are they to have been worn like that?" he marvelled.

"And how the hell did anybody get down here to cut them?"

He hung on to the niche nearest him and studied the pattern in the cliff

face. "Why would anybody go to all that amount of trouble?" He could

think of no reason nor purpose. "Who did this work? What would they want

down here?" It was an intriguing mystery.

Then suddenly something else caught his eye. It was a circular

indentation in the rock, precisely between the two rows of niches and

above the high-water mark. From so far below it looked to be perfectly

round - another shape that was not natural.

He paddled further around, trying to reach a position from which he

would have a clearer view of it. It seemed to be some sort of rock

engraving, a plaque that reminded him strongly of those marks in the

black boulders that flank the Nile below the first cataract at Aswan,

placed there in antiquity to measure the flood levels of the river

waters. But the light was too poor and the angle too acute for him to be

certain that it was man-made, let alone to recognize or read any script

or lettering that might have been incorporated in the design.

Hoping to devise some way of climbing closer, he tried to use the stone

niches as aids. With a great deal of effort, usin them as foot- and

hand-holds, he managed to lift himself out of the water. But the

distances between holds were too great and he fell back with a splash,

swallowing more water.

"Take it easy, my lad - you still have to swim out of here. No profit in

exhausting yourself. You will just have to come back another day to get

a closer look at whatever it is up there."

Only then did he realize how close he was to total exhaustion. This

water coming down from the Choke mountains was still cold with the

memories of the high snows. He was shivering until his teeth chattered.

"Not far from hypothermia. Have to get out of here now, while you still

have the strength."

Reluctantly he pushed himself away from the wall of rock and paddled

towards the narrow opening through which the Dandera river resumed the

headlong rush to join her mother Nile. He felt the current pick him up

and bear him forward, and he stopped swimming and let it take him.

"The Devil's roller-coaster!" he told himself. "Down and down she goes,

and where she stops nobody knows."

The first set of rapids battered him. They seemed endless, but at last

he was spewed out into the run of slower water below them. He floated on

his back, taking full advantage of this respite, and looked upwards.

There was very little light showing above him, for the rock almost met

overhead. The air was dank and dark and stank of bats. However, there

was little time to examine his surroundings, for once again the river

began to roar ahead of him. He braced himself rilentally for the assault

of turbulent waters, and went cascading down the next steep slide.

After a while he lost track of how far he had been carried, and how many

cataracts he had survived. It was a constant battle against the cold and

the pain of sodden lungs and strained muscle and overtaxed sinew. The

river mauled him.

Suddenly the light changed. After the gloom at the bottom of the high

cliffs it was as though a searchlight had been shone directly into his

eyes, and he felt the force and ferocity of the river abating. He

squinted up into bright sunlight, and then looked back and saw that he

had passed out below the archway of pink rock into that familiar part of

the river which he had explored with Royan. Coming up ahead of him was

the rope suspension bridge, and he had just sufficient strength

remaining to paddle feebly towards the small beach of white sand below

it.

One of the hairy tattered ropes dangled to the surface of the water, and

he managed to catch hold of it as he drifted past and swing himself in

towards the beach. He tried to crawl fully ashore, but he collapsed with

his face in the sand and vomited out the water he had swallowed. It felt

so good just to be able to lie without effort and rest.

His lower body still hung into the river, but he had neither the

strength nor the inclination to drag himself fully ashore.

"I am alive," he marvelled, and fell into a state halfway between sleep

and unconsciousness.

never knew how long he had been lying like that, but when he felt a

hand shaking his shoulder, and a voice calling softly to him, he was

annoyed that his rest had been disturbed.

"Effendi, wake up! They seek you. The beautiful Woizero seeks you."

With a huge effort Nicholas roused himself and sat up slowly. Tamre

knelt over him, grinning and waggling his head.

(Please, effendi, come with me. The Woizero is searching the river bank

on the far side. She is weeping and calling your name,' Tamre told him.

He was the only person Nicholas had ever met who contrived to look

worried and to grin at the same time. Nicholas looked beyond him and saw

that it must be late afternoon, for the sun sat fat and red on the lip

of the escarpment.

While still sitting in the sand Nicholas checked his body, making an

inventory of his injuries. He ached in every muscle, and his legs and

arms were scraped and bruised, but he could detect no broken bones. And

although there was a tender lump on'the side of his he ad where he had

glanced off a rock, his mind was clear.

"Help me upP he ordered Tamre. The boy put his shoulder under Nicholas's

armpit, where the. rope had burnt him, and hoisted him to his feet. The

two of them struggled up to the bank and on to the path, and then.

hobbled slowly across the swinging bridge.

He had hardly reached the other bank when there was a joyous shout from

close at hand.

"Nicky! Oh, dear God! You are safe." Royan ran down the path and threw

her arms around him. "I have been frantic. I thought that-' she broke

off, and held him at arms length to look at him. "Are you all right? I

was expecting to find your broken bodym---'

"You know me," he grinned at her and tried not to i limp. "Ten'feet tall

and-bullet-proof You don't get rid of Me that easily. I only did it just

to get a hug from you."

She released him hurriedly. "Don't read anything into that. I am kind to

all beaten puppies, and other dumb animals." But her smile belied the

words. "Nevertheless, it's good to have you back in one piece, Nicky."

"Where is Boris?"he asked.

"He and the trackers are searching the banks lower down the river. I

think he is looking forward to finding your corpse."

"What has he done with my dik-dik?"

ainly nothing too much the matter with

"There is cert you if you can worry about that. The skinners have taken

it down to the camp."

"Damn it to hell! I must supervise the skinning and tion of the trophy

myself. They will ruin id' He put prepara his arm around Tamre's

shoulder. "Come on, my lad! Let's see if I can break into a trot."

las knew that in this heat the carcass of icho the little antelope would

decompose swiftly, and the hair would slough from the hide if it were

not treated immediately. It was imperative to skin it out immediately.

Already it had been left too long, and the preparation of a hide for a

full body mount was a skilled and painstaking procedure.

it was already dark as they limped into the camp.

Nicholas shouted for the skinners in Arabic.

"Ya, Kif! Ya, SalinP and when they came running from living huts he

asked anxiously, "Have you begun?" their

"Not yet, effendi. We were having our dinner first."

"For once gluttony is a virtue. Do not touch the creature until I come.

While you are waiting for me, fetch one of the gas lights!" He limped to

his own hut as fast as his aches would allow. There he stripped and

anointed all his visible scrapes and abrasions with Mercurochrome, flung

on fresh dry clothes, rummaged in his bag until he found the canvas roll

which contained his knives, and hurried down to the skinning hut.

By the brilliant white glare of the butane gas lantern he had only just

completed the initial skin incisions down the inside of the dik-dik's

legs and belly when Boris pushed open the door of the hut.

"Did you have a good swim, English?"

"Bracing, thank you." Nicholas smiled. "I don't expect you want to eat

your words about my striped dik-dik, do you?" he asked mildly. "No such

bloody animal, I think you said., "It is like a rat. A true hunter would

not bother himself with such rubbish," Boris replied haughtily. "Now

that you have your rat, perhaps we can go back to Addis, English?"

"I paid you for three weeks. It is my safari. We go when I say

so,'Nicholas told him. Boris grunted and backed out of the hut.

Nicholas worked swiftly. His knives were of a special design to

facilitate the fine work, and he stropped them at regular intervals on a

ceramic sharpening rod until he could shave the hairs from his forearm

with just the lightest touch.

The legs had to be skinned out with the tiny hooves still attached.

Before he had completed this part of the work, another figure stooped

into the hut. He was dressed in a priest's shamma and headcloth, and

until he spoke Nicholas did not recognize Mek Nimmur.

"I hear that you have been looking for trouble again, Nicholas. I came

to make sure that you were still alive.

There was a rumour at the monastery that you had drowned yourself,

though I knew it was not possible. You will not die so easily."

"I hope you are right, Mek," Nicholas laughed at him.

Mek squatted opposite him. "Give me one of your knives and I will finish

the hooves. It will go quicker if I help you."

Without comment Nicholas passed him one of the knives. He knew that Mek

could skin out the hooves, for years before he had taught him the art.

With two of them working on the pelt, it would go that much faster. The

sooner the skin was off, the less chance there would be of

deterioration.

He turned his attention to the head. This was the most delicate part of

the process. The skin had to be peeled off like a glove, and the eyelids

and lips and nostrils must be worked from the inside. The ears were

perhaps the most difficult to lift away from the gristle in one piece.

They worked in companionable silence for a while, which Mek broke at

last.

"How well do you know your Russian, Boris Brusilov?" he asked.

"I met him for the first time when I stepped off the plane. He was

recommended by a friend."

"Not a very good friend." Mek looked up at him and his expression was

grim. "I came to warn you about him, Nicholas."

"I a listening," said Nicholas quietly.

"In "85 I was captured by Mengistu's thugs. They kept me in the Karl

Marx prison camp near Addis. Brusilov was one of the interrogators

there. He was KGB in those days.

His favourite trick was to stick the pressure hose from a compressor up

the anus of the man or woman he was questioning and turn on the tap.

They blew up like a balloon, until the gut burst." He stopped speaking

while he moved around to work on the other hoof of the antelope.

"I escaped before he got around to questioning me. He retired when

Mengistu fled, and went hunting. I don't know how he persuaded Tessay to

marry him, ut knowing what I do of the man, I expect she did not have

much choice in the matter."

"Of course, I had my suspicions about him," Nicholas admitted.

They were quiet after that until Mek whispered, "I came to tell you that

I may have to kill him."

Neither of them spoke again until Mek had finished working on all four

hooves. Then he stood up. "These days, life is uncertain, Nicholas. If I

have to leave here in a hurry, and I do not have a chance to say goodbye

to you, then there is somebody in Addis who will pass a message to me if

you ever need me. His name is Colonel Maryam Kidane in the Ministry of

Defence. He is a friend. My code name is the Swallow. He will know who

you are talking about."

They embraced briefly. "Go with GodV said Mek, and left the hut quietly.

The night swallowed his robed figure and Nicholas stood for a long time

at the door, until at last he turned back to finish the work.

It was late by the time he had rubbed every inch of the skin with a

mixture of rock salt and Kabra dip to cure it and protect it from the

ravages of the bacon beetle and other insects and bacteria. At last he

laid it out on the floor of the hut with the wet side uppermost and

packed more rock salt on the raw areas.

The walls of the hut were reinforced with mesh netting to keep out

hyenas. One of these foul creatures could gobble down the pelt in a few

seconds. He made certain the door was wired shut before he carried the

lantern up to the dining hut. The others had all eaten and gone to bed

hours earlier, but Tessay had left his dinner in the charge of the

Ethiopian chef. He had not realized how hungry he was until he smelt it.

The next morning Nicholas was so stiff that he hobbled down to the

skinning hut like an old man. First he checked the pelt and poured

fresh salt over it, then he ordered Kif and Satin to bury the skull of

the dik-dik in an ant heap to allow the insects to remove the surplus

flesh and scour the brain pan. He preferred this method to boiling the

skull.

Satisfied that the trophy was in good condition, he went on down to the

dining hut, where Boris greeted him jovially.

"And so, English. We leave for Addis now, da? "thing more to do here."

"We will stay to photograph the ceremony of Timkat at the

monastery,'Nicholas told him. "And after that I may want to hunt a

Menelik's bushbuck. Who knows? I've told you before. We go when I say

so."

Boris looked disgruntled. "You are crazy, English. Why do you want to

stay in this heat to watch these people and their mumbo'jumbo?"

"Today I will go fishing, and tomorrow we will watch Timkat."

"You do not have a fishing rod," Boris protested, but pened the small

canvas roll no larger than a Nicholas woman's handbag and showed him

the four-piece Hardy Smuggler rod nestling in it.

He looked across the table at Royan, "Are you coming along to ghillie

for me?" he asked.

They went upstream to the suspension bridge where Nicholas set up the

rodand tied a fly on to his leader.

"Royal Coachm " He held it up for her appraisal.

an.

"Fish love them anywhere in the world, from Patagonia to Alaska. We

shall soon find out if they are as popular here in Ethiopia, as well."

She watched from the top of the bank as he shot out line, rolling it

upon itself in flight, sailing the weightless fly out to midstream, and

then laying it gently on the surface of the water so that it floated

lightly on the ripples. On his second cast there was a swirl under the

fly. The rod tip arced over sharply, the reel whined and Nicholas let

out a whoop.

"Gotcha, my beauty!'

watched him indulgently from the top of the bank.

Sh In his excitement and enthusiasm he was like a small boy.

She smiled when she noticed how his injuries had miraculously healed

themselves, and how he no longer limped as he ran back and forth along

the water's edge, playing the fish. Ten minutes later he slid it,

gleaming like a bar of freshly minted gold as long as his arm, sopping

and flapping up on to the beach.

"Yellow fish," he told her triumphantly. "Scrumptious.

Breakfast for tomorrow morning."

He came up the bank and dropped down in the grass beside her. "The

fishing was really just an excuse to get away from Boris. I brought you

here to tell you about what I found up there yesterday." He pointed up

through the archway of pink stone above the bridge. She came up on her

elbow and watched him with her full attention.

"Of course, I have no way of telling if it has anything to do with our

search, but somebody has been working in there." He described the niches

that he had found carved into the canyon wall. "They reach from the lip

right down to the water's edge. Those below the high-water mark have

been severely eroded by the floods. I could not reach those higher up,

but from what I could see they have been protected from wind and rain by

the dished shape of the Cliff., it has formed a veranda roof over them.

They appear to be in pristine condition, very much in contrast to those

lower down."

"What do we deduce from that?" she asked.

"That they are very old," he answered. "Certainly the basalt is pretty

hard. It has taken a long, long time for water to wear it down the way

it has."

"What do you think was the purpose of those holes?"

am not sure he admitted.

"Could it be that they were the anchor points for some sort of

scaffolding? she asked, and he looked impressed.

"Good thinking. They could be, he agreed.

"What other ideas occur to you?"

"Ritual designs," he suggested. "A religious motif." He smiled as he saw

her expression of doubt. "Not very convincing, I agree."

"All right, let's consider the idea of scaffolding. Why would anybody

want to erect scaffolding in a place like that?" She lay back in the

grass and picked a straw which she nibbled reflectively.

He shrugged. "To anchor a1adder or a gantry, to gain access to the

bottom of the chasm?"

"What other reason?"

"I can't think of any other."

After a while she shook her head. "Nor can She spat out the piece of

grass. "If that is the motive, then they were fairly committed to the

project. From your description it must have been a substantial

structure, designed to support the weight of a, lot of men or heavy

material."

"In North America the Red Indians built fishing platforms over

waterfalls like that from which they netted the salmon."

"Have there ever been great runs of fish through these waters?" she

asked, and he shrugged again.

"Nobody can answer that. Perhaps long ago who knows."

"Was that all you saw down there?"

"High up the wall, aligned with mathematical precision between the two

lines of stone niches, there was something that looked like a has-relief

carving."

She sat up with a jerk and stared at him avidly. "Could it clearly? Was

it script, or was it a design? What you see was the style of the

carving?"

"No such luck. It was too high, and the light is very poor down there. I

am not even certain that it wasn't'a natural flaw in the rock."

Her disappointment was palpable, but after a pause she asked,

"Was there anything else?"

"Yes," he grinned. "Lots and lots of water moving very very fast."

"What are we going to do about this putative has-relief of yours?" she

asked.

"I don't like the idea in the least, but I will have to go back in there

and have another look."

"When?"

"tomorrow. Our one chance to get into the maqdas of the cathedral. After

that we will make a plan to explore the gorge."

"We are running out of time, Nicky, just when things are getting really

interesting."

"You can say that again!'. he murmured. She felt his breath on her lips,

for their faces were as close together as those of conspirators or of

lovers, and she realized the double meaning of her own words. She jumped

to her feet and slapped the dust and loose straw from her jodhpurs.

"You only'have one fish to feed the multitude. Either you have a very

high opinion of yourself, or you had better get fishing."

wo debteras who had been detailed by the bishop to escort them tried to

force a way for them through the crowds. However, they had not reached

the foot of the staircase before the escort itself was swallowed up and

lost. Nicholas and Royan became separated from the other couple.

"Keep close," Nicholas told Royan, and maintained a firm grip on her

upper arm as he used his shoulder to open a path for them. He drew her

along with him. Naturally, he had deliberately contrived to lose Boris

and Tessay in the crush, and it had worked out nicely the way he had

planned it.

At last they reached a position where Nicholas could set his back firmly

against one of the stone columns of the terrace, to prevent the crowd

jostling him. He also had a good view of the entrance to the cavern

cathedral. Royan was not tall enough to see over the heads of the men in

front of her, so Nicholas lifted her up on to the balustrade of the

staircase and anchored her firmly against the column.

She clung to his shoulder for support, for the drop into the Nile opened

behind her, The worshippers kept up a low monotonous chant, while a

dozen separate bands of musicians tapped their drums and rattled their

sistrums. Each band surrounded its own patron, a chieftain in splendid

robes, sheltering under a huge gaudy umbrella.

There was an air of excitement and expectation almost as fierce as the

heat and the stink. It built up steadily and, as the reased in pitch and

volume, the crowd singing inc began to sway and undulate like a single

organism, some grotesque amoeba, pulsing with life.

Suddenly from within the precincts of the cathedral there came the

chiming of brass bells, and immediately a hundred horns and trumpets

answered. From the head of the stairway there was a fusillade of gunfire

as the bodyguards of the chieftains fired their weapons in the air.

Some of them were armed with automatic rifles, and the clatter of AK-47

fire blended with the thunder of ancient black powder muzzle-loaders.

Clouds of blue gunsmoke blew over the congregation, and bullets

ricocheted from the cliff and sang away over the gorge. Women shrieked

and utulated, an eerie, blood-chilling sound. The men's faces were

alight with the fires of religious fervour.

They fell to their knees and lifted their hands high in adoration,

chanting and crying out to God for blessing.

The women held their infants aloft, and tears of religious frenzy

streaked their dark cheeks.

From the gateway of the underground church emerged a procession of

priests and monks. First came the debteras in long white robes, and then

the acolytes who were to be baptized at the riverside. Royan recognized

Tamre, his long gangling frame standing a head above the boys around

him.

She waved over the crowd and he saw her and grinned shyly before he

followed the debteras on to the pathway to the river.

By this time night was falling. The depths of the cauldron were obscured

by shadows, and hanging over it the sky was a purple canopy pricked by

the first bright stars.

At the head of the pathway burned a brass brazier. As each of the

priests passed it he thrust his unlit torch into the flames and, as soon

as it flared, he held it aloft.

Like a stream of molten lava the torchlit procession began to uncoil

down the cliff face, the priests chanting dolefully and the drums

booming and echoing from the cliffs across the river.

Following the baptism candidates through the stone gateway came the

ordained priests in their tawdry robes, bearing the processional crosses

of silver and glittering brass, and the banners of embroidered silk,

with their depictions of the saints in the agony of martyrdom and the

ecstasy of adoration. They clanged their bells and blew their fifes, and

sweated and chanted until their eyes rolled white in dark faces.

Behind them, home by two priests in the most sumptuous robes and tall,

jewel-encrusted head-dresses, came the tabot. The Ark of the Tabernacle

was covered with a crimson cloth that hung to the ground, for it was too

holy to be desecrated by the gaze of the profane.

The worshippers threw themselves down upon the ground in fresh paroxysms

of adoration. Even the chiefs prostrated themselves upon the soiled

pavement of the terrace, and some of them wept with the fervour of their

belief.

Last in the procession came Jali Hora, wearing not the crown with the

blue stone, but another even more splendid creation, the Epiphany crown,

a mass of gleaming metal and flashing faux jewels which seemed too heavy

for his ancient scrawny neck to support. Two debteras held his elbows

and guided his uncertain footsteps on to the stairway that led down to

the Nile.

As the procession descended, so those worshippers nearest to the head of

the stairs rose to their feet, lit their torches at the brazier and

followed the abbot down. There was a general movement along the terrace

to join the flow, and as it began to empty, Nicholas lifted Royan down

from her perch on the balustrade.

"We must get into the church while "there are still enough people around

to cover us," he whispered. Leading her by the hand, with his other hand

hanging on to the strap of his camera bag, he joined the movement down

the terrace. He allowed them to be carried forward, but all the time he

was edging across the stream of humanity towards the entrance to the

church. He saw Boris and Tessay in the crush ahead of him, but they had

not seen him, and he crouched lower so as to screen himself from them.

As he and Royan reached the gateway to the outer the eased them out of

the throng of chamber of the church, humanity and drew her gently

through the low entrance into the dim, deserted interior. With a quick

glance he made certain that they were alone, and that the guards were no

longer at their stations beside the inner gates.

Then he moved quickly along the side wall, to where one of the

soot'grimed tapestries hung from the ceiling to the stone floor. He

lifted the folds of heavy woven wool and drew Royan behind them, letting

them fall back into place, concealing them both.

They were only just in time, for hardly had they flattened their backs

against the wall and let the tapestry settle when they heard footsteps

approaching from the qiddist. Nicholas peeked around the corner of the

tapestry and saw four white-robed priests cross the outer chamber and

swing the main doors closed as they left the church.

There was a weighty thud from outside as they dropped the locking beam

into place, and then a profound silence pervaded the cavern.

"I didn't reckon on that," Nicholas whispered. "They have locked us in

for the night."

"At least it means that we won't be disturbed," Royan replied briskly.

"We can get to work right away."

Stealthily they emerged from their hiding-place, and moved across the

outer chamber to the doorway of the qiddist. Here Nicholas paused and

cautioned her with a hand on her arm. "From here on we are in forbidden

territory. Better let me go ahead and scout the lie of the land."

She shook her head firmly. "You are not leaving me here. I am coming

with you all the way." He knew better than to argue.

"Come on, then." He led her up the steps and into the middle chamber.

It was smaller and lower than the room they had left.

The wall hangings were richer and in a better state of repair. The floor

was bare, except for a pyramid-shaped framework of hand-hewn native

timber upon which stood rows of brass lamps, each with the wick floating

in a puddle of melted oil. The meagre light they provided was all that

there was, and it left the ceiling and the recesses of the chamber in

shadow.

As they crossed the floor towards the gates that closed off the maqdas,

Nicholas took two electric torches from his camera bag and handed one to

her. "New batteries," he told her, "but don't waste them. We may be here

all night."

They stopped in front of the doors to the Holy Of Holies. Quickly

Nicholas examined them. There were A, engravings of St.. Frumentius on

each panel, his head enclosed in a nimbus of celestial radiance and his

right hand lifted in the act of benediction.

"Primitive lock," he murmured, "must be hundreds of years old. You could

throw your hat through the gap between the hasp and the tongue." He

slipped his hand into the bag and brought out a Leatherman tool.

"Clever little job, this is. With it you do anything from digging the

stones out of a horse's hoof, to opening the lock on a chastity belt."

He knelt in front of the massive iron lock and unfolded one of the

multiple blades of the tool. She watched anxiously as he worked, and

then gave a little start as with satisfying clunk the tongue of the lock

slid back.

a Mis-spent youth?" she asked. "Burglary amongst your many talents?"

"You don't really want to know." He stood up and put his shoulder to one

leaf of the door. It gave with a groan of unlubricated hinges, and he

pushed it open only just wide enough for them to squeeze through, then

immediately shut it behind them.

They stood side by side on the threshold of the maqdas and gazed about

them in silent awe.

The Holy of Holies was a small chamber, much smaller than either of them

had expected. Nicholas could have crossed it in a dozen strides. The

vaulted roof was so low that by standing on tiptoe he could have touched

it with his outstretched fingertips.

or upwards the walls were lined with From the flo shelves upon which

stood the gifts and offerings of the faithful, icons of the Trinity and

the Virgin rendered in Byzantine style, framed in ornate silver. There

were ranks of statuettes of saints and emperors, medallions and wreaths

made of polished metal, pots and bowls and jewelled boxes, candelabra

with many branches, on each of which the votive candles burned providing

an uncertain wavering light. It was an extraordinary collection of junk

and treasures, of objects of virtue and garish bric-A-brac, offered as

articles of faith by the emperors and chieftains of Ethiopia over the

centuries.

In the centre of the floor stood the altar of cedarwood, the panels

carved with visionary, scenes of revelation and creation, of the

temptation and the fall from Eden, and of the Last judgement. The altar

cloth was crocheted raw silk, and the cross and the chalice were in

massive worked silver. The abbot's crown gleamed in the candlelight,

with the blue ceramic seal of Taita in the centre of its brow.

Royan crossed the floor and knelt in front of the altar.

She bowed her head in prayer. Nicholas waited respectfully at the

threshold until she rose to her feet again, and then he went to join

her.

"The tabot stoneV He pointed beyond the altar, and they went forward

side by side. At the back of the maqdas stood an object covered with a

heavy damask cloth encrusted with embroidered thread of silver and gold.

From the outline beneath the covering they could see that it was of

elegant and pleasing proportions, as tall as a man, but slender with a

pedestal topping.

They both circled it, studying the cloaked shape avidly, but reluctant

to touch it or to uncover it, fearful that their expectations might

prove unwarranted, and that their ..hopes would be dashed like the

turbulent river waters plunging into the cauldron of the Nile. Nicholas

broke the tension that gripped them by turning away from the tabot stone

to the barred gate in the back wall of the sanctuary.

"The tomb of St. Frumentius!" he said, and went to the grille. She came

to his side, and together they peered through the square openings in the

woodwork that was black with age. The interior was in darkness. Nicholas

prodded his torch through one of the openings and pressed the switch.

The tomb lit up in a rainbow of colour so bright in the beam of the

torch that their eyes took a few moments to adjust and then Royan gasped

aloud.

"Oh, sweet heaven!" She began to tremble as if in high fever, and her

face went creamy pale as all the blood drained from it.

The coffin was set into a stone shelf in the rear wall of the cell-like

tomb. On the exterior was painted the likeness of the man within.

Although it was badly faded and most of the paint had flaked away, the

pale face and reddish beard of the dead man were still discernible.

This was not the only reason for Royan's amazement.

She was staring at the walls above and on either side of the shelf on

which the coffin lay. They were a riot of colour, every inch of them

covered with the most intricate and elaborate paintings that had

miraculously weathered the passage of the millennia.

Nicholas played his torch beam over them in awestruck silence, and Royan

clung to his arm as if to save herself from falling. She dug her sharp

nails into his flesh, but he was heedless of the pain.

There were scenes of great battles, fighting galleys locked in terrible

combat upon the blue eternal waters of the river. There were scenes of

the hunt, the pursuit of the river horse and of great elephants with

long tusks of gleaming ivory. There were battle scenes of regiments

plumed and armoured, raging in their fury and blood lust.

Squadrons of chariots wheeled and charged each other across these narrow

walls, half obscured by the dust of their own mad career.

The foreground of each mural was dominated by the same tall heroic

figure. In one scene he drew the bow to full stretch, in another he

swung high the blade of bronze.

His enemies quailed before him, he trod them underfoot or gathered

together their severed heads like a bouquet of flowers.

Nicholas played the beam over all this splendid array of art, and

brought it to a stop upon the central panel that covered the entire main

wall above the shelf on which the rotting coffin lay. Here the same

godlike figure rode the footplate of his chariot. In one hand he held

the bow and in the other a bundle of javelins. His head was bare of any

helmet, and his hair flowed out behind him in the wind of his passage, a

thick golden braid like the tail of a lion. His features were noble and

proud, his gaze direct and indomitable.

Below him was a legen in classical Egyptian hieroglyphics. In a

sepulchral whisper Royan translated them aloud:

Great Lion of Egypt.

Best of One Hundred Thousand Holder of the Gold of Valour Pharaoh's Sole

Companion Warrior of all the Gods May you live for ever!

Her hand shook upon his arm, and her voice choked and died away, stifled

with emotion. She gave a little sob, and then shook herself as she

brought herself back under control.

"I know this artist," she said softly. "I have spent five years studying

his work. I would know it anywhere." She drew a breath. "I know with

utter certainty that nearly four thousand years ago Taita the slave

decorated these walls and designed this tomb."

She pointed to the name of the dead man carved into the stone above the

shelf on which his coffin lay.

"This is not the tomb of a Christian saint. Centuries ago some old

priest must have stumbled upon it and, in his ignorance, usurped it for

his own religion." She drew another shaky breath. "Look there! That is

the seal of Tanus, Lord Harreb, the commander of all the armies of

Egypt, lover of Queen Lostris and the natural father of Prince Memnon,

who became the Pharaoh Tamose."

They were both silent then, lost in the wonder of their discovery.

Nicholas broke the silence at last.

"It's all true, then. The secrets of the seventh scroll are all here for

us, if we can find the key to them."

"Yes," she said softly. "The key. Taita's stone testament." She turned

back towards the tabot stone and approached it slowly, almost fearfully.

"I can't bring myself to look, Nicky. I am terrified that it's not what

we hope it is. You do itV

He went directly to the column, and with a magician's flourish jerked

away the damask cloth that covered it. They stared at the pillar of pink

mottled granite that he had revealed. It was about six feet high and a

foot square at the base, tapering up to half that width at the flat

pedestal of the summit. The granite had been polished, and then

engraved.

Royan stepped forward and touched the cold stone, running her fingers

lingeringly over the hieroglyphic'script in the way a blind man reads

Braille.

"Taita's letter to us," she whispered, picking out the symbol of the

hawk with a broken wing from the mass of close-chiselled script, tracing

the outline with a long, slim forefinger that trembled softly. "Written

almost four thousand years ago, waiting all these ages for us to read

and understand it. See how he has signed it." Slowly she circled the

granite pillar, studying each of the four sides in turn, smiling and

nodding, frowning and shaking her head, then smiling again as if it were

a love letter.

"Read it to me," Nicholas invited. "It's too complicated for me - I

understand the characters, but I cannot follow the sense or the meaning.

Explain it to me."

"It's pure Taita." She laughed, her awe and wonder at last giving way to

excitement. "He is being his usual obscure and capricious self." It was

as though she were talking of a beloved but infuriating old friend.

"It's all in verse and is probably some esoteric code of his own." She

picked out a line of hieroglyphics, and followed them with her finger as

she read aloud, "'The vulture rises on mighty pinions to greet the sun.

The jackal howls and turns upon his tail. The river flows towards the

earth. Beware, you violators of the sacred places, lest the wrath of all

the gods descend upon you!"'

"It's nonsense jargon. It does not make sense," he pretested.

"Oh, yes, it makes sense all right. Taita always makes sense, once you

follow the way his oblique mind is working." She turned to face him

squarely. "Don't look so glum, Nicky. You can't expect to read Taita

like an editorial in The Times. He has set us a riddle that may take

weeks and months of work to unravel."

"Well, one thing is certain. We can't stay here in the maqdas for weeks

and months while, we puzzle it out. Let's get to work."

"Photographs first." She became brisk and businesslike.

"Then we can lift impressions from the stone."

He set down the camera bag and knelt over it to open the flap. "I will

shoot two rolls of colour first, and then use the Polaroid. That will

give us something to work on until we can have the colour developed."

She stood out of his way as he circled the pillar on his knees, keeping

the angle correct so as not to distort the perspective. He took a series

of shots of each of the four sides, using different shutter speeds and

exposures.

"Don't use up all your film," she warned him. "We need some shots of the

walls of the tomb itself."

Obediently he went to the grille gates and studied the locking system.

"This is a bit more complicated than the outer gate. If I try to get in

here, I might do some damage.

I don't think it will be worth the risk of being discovered."

"All right," she agreed. "Work through the openings in the grille."

He filmed as best he was able, extending the camera through the openings

at the full stretch of his arms, and estimating his focus.

"That's the lot," he told her at last. "Now for the Polaroids."

"He changed cameras and repeated the entire process, but this time Royan

held a small tape measure against the pillar to give the scale.

As he exposed each plate he handed it to her to check the development.

Once or twice when the flash setting on the camera had either

overexposed or rendered the subject too dull, or for some other reason

she was not satisfied, she asked him to repeat the shot.

After almost two hours' work they had a complete set Of Polaroids, and

Nicholas packed his cameras away and brought out the roll of art paper.

Working together, they stretched it over one face of the pillar and

secured it in place with masking tape. Then he started at the top and

she at the bottom. Each with a black art crayon, they rubbed the precise

shape and form of the engravings on to the sheet of blank paper.

"I have learned how important this is when dealing with Taita. If you

are not able to work with the original, then you must have an exact

copy. Sometimes the most minute detail of the engraving may change the

entire sense and meaning of the script. He layers everything with hidden

depths. You have read in River God how he cons' ers himself to be the

riddler and punster par excellence id and the greatest exponent of the

game of bao that ever lived. Well, that much of the book is accurate.

Wherever he is now, he knows the game is on and he is revelling in every

move we make. I can just imagine him giggling and gether with glee."

rubbing his hands to

"Bit fanciful, dear girl." He settled back to work. "But I know what you

mean."

The task of transferring the outline of the designs on to the blank

sheets of art paper was painstaking and monotonous, and the hours passed

as they laboured on hands and knees or crouched over the granite pillar.

At last Nicholas stepped back and massaged his aching back.

"That does it, then. All finished."

a She stood up beside him. "What time is it?" she asked, and he checked

his wristwatch.

"Four in the morning. We had better tidy up in here.

Make certain we leave no sign of our visit."

"One last thing," Royan said, tearing a corner off one of the sheets of

art paper. With it she went to the altar where the abbot's crown lay.

Quickly she taped the scrap of paper over the blue ceramic seal in the

centre of the crown, and filled it with a rubbing of the design of the

hawk with a broken wing.

Just for luck," she explained to him, as she came back to help him fold

the long sheets of paper and pack them back in the bag. Then they

gathered up the shreds of discarded masking tape and the empty film

wrappers that he had strewn on the stone slabs.

Before they covered the granite stele with the damask cloth, Royan

caressed the stone panels of script as if to take leave of them for

ever. Then she nodded at Nicholas.

He spread the cloth over the pillar and they adjusted the folds to hang

as they had found them. From the threshold of the brass-bound door they

surveyed the maqdas for the last time, then he opened the door a rack

"Let's go!" She squeezed through and he followed her out into the

qiddist of the church. It took him only a few minutes to slide the

tongue of the lock back into place.

"How will we get out through the main doors?" she asked.

"I don't think that will be necessary. The priests obviously have

another entrance from their quarters directly into the qiddist. You very

seldom see them using the main gates." He stood in the centre of the

floor, and looked around carefully. "It must be on this side if it leads

directly into the monks' living quarters-' he broke off with a grunt of

satisfaction. "Aha! You can see where all their feet have actually worn

a pathway over the centuries." He pointed out a smooth area of dished

and worn stone near the side wall. "And look at the marks of grubby

fingers on the tapestry over there." He crossed quickly to the hanging

and drew a fold aside. "I thought as much." There was a narrow doorway

concealed behind the hanging.

"Follow me."

They found themselves in a dark passageway through the living rock.

Nicholas flashed his torch down its length, ? A

but he masked the bulb with his hand to show only as ,much light as they

needed. "This way."

The passage turned at right-angles and ahead they could make out a dull

illumination. Nicholas switched off the torch and led her on.

Now there was the smell of stale food and humanity, and they passed the

doorless entrance to a monk's rock cell. Nicholas flashed his torch into

it. It was deserted and bare. A wooden cross hung on the wall with a

truckle bed below it. There were no other furnishings. They went on past

a dozen others which were almost identical.

At the next turning of the passage Nicholas paused.

He felt a tiny draught on his cheek, and the taste of fresh air on his

tongue. "This way he whispered.

They hurried on, until suddenly Royan grabbed his shoulder from behind

and forced him to stop.

"What-' he began, but she squeezed his shoulder to silence him. He heard

it then, the sound of a human voice, echoing eerily through the

labyrinth of passageways.

Then came a weird haunting cry, that of a soul in agony, wailing and

sobbing. They crept forward, trying to make their escape before they

were discovered, but the sounds grew stronger as they went on.

"Dead ahead," Nicholas warned her in a whisper. "We are going to have to

sneak past."

Now they saw soft yellow lamplight spilling from the doorway of one of

the cells into the passage. There came another heart-rending female cry

that echoed down the passage and froze them in their tracks.

"That's a woman's voice. What is happening?" Royan breathed, ut he

shook his head for silence and led her on.

They had to pass the open door of the lit cell. Nicholas edged towards

it with his back flattened to the opposite wall. She followed him,

keeping close and clinging to his arm for comfort.

As they looked into the cell the woman cried out again, but this time

her voice blended with that of a man.

It was a duet without words, but racked with all the feral agony of a

passion too fierce to be borne in silence.

In their full view a couple lay naked upon the truckle bed. The woman

lay spread-eagled, holding the man's hips between her uplifted knees.

Her arms wound hard around his back, upon which each separate muscle

stood out proudly and gleamed with sweat. He thrust down into her

savagely, his buttocks bunching and pounding with the force of a great

black battering ram.

She rolled her head from side to side as another incoherent cry was torn

from her straining throat. It seemed too much for the man above her to

bear, and he reared back like a flaring cobra, his pelvis still locked

to hers, but his back arched like a war bow. Spasm after spasm gripped

him. The sinews in the back of his legs were stretched to snapping

point, and the muscles in his back fluttered and jumped like separate

living creatures.

The woman opened her eyes and looked directly at them as they stood

transfixed in the doorway, but she was blinded with the strength of her

passion. Her eyes were sightless, as she cried aloud to the man above

her.

Nicholas drew Royan away, and they slipped down the passageway and out

on to the deserted terrace. They stopped at the foot of the staircase,

and breathed the sweet cool night air that was perfumed by the waters of

the Nile.

"Tessay has gone to him,'Royan whispered softly.

"For tonight at least,'Nicholas agreed.

"No," Royan denied. "You saw her face, Nicky. She belongs to Mek Nimmur

now."

The dawn was flushing the serrated crests of the escarpment to the

colours; of port wine and roses when they reached camp and separated at

the door to Royan's hut.

"I am bushed," she told Nicholas. The excitement has been too much for

me. You won't see me again before noon."

"Good thinking! Sleep as long as you wish. I want you scintillating and

perceptive when we start going over the material which we gathered last

night."

It was long before noon, however, when Nicholas was woken from a deep

sleep by the harsh and intrusive bellows of Boris as he stormed into the

hut.

"English, wake up! I must talk to you. Wake up, man, wake up."

Nicholas rolled over and thrust one arm out from under the mosquito net

as he groped for his wrist-watch.

"Damn you, Brusilov! What the hell do you want?"

"My wife! Have you seen my wife?"

"Now what has your wife got to do with me?"

"She has gone! I have not seen her since last night."

"The way you treat her, that comes as no stunning surprise. Now go away

and leave me to sleep."

"The whore has run off with that black bastard, Mek Nimmur. I know all

about them. Don't try and protect her, English. I know everything that

goes on around here. You are trying to cover for her - admit it!'

"Get out of here, Boris. Don't try an involve me in your sordid private

life." saw you and that shufta bastard talking in the skinning hut the

other night. Don't try to deny it, English.

You are in this thing with them."

Nicholas flung back the mosquito net and jumped out of his bed. "Kindly

moderate your language when you talk to me, you great oaf'

Boris backed off towards the door. "I know that she has run away with

him. I searched for them all last night at the river. They have gone,

and most of his men with them."

"Good for Tessay.- She is showing some taste in men for a change."

"You think I will let the whore get away with this? You are wrong, very

wrong. I am going to follow them and kill them both. I know which way

they are headed. You think I am a fool. I know all about Mek Nimmur. I

was head of intelligence-' He broke off as he realized what he had said.

"I will shoot him in the belly and let that whore Tessay watch him die."

"If you are going after Mek Nimmur,.then my bet is that you won't be

coming back."

"You don't know me, English. You beat me up one night when I had a

bottle of vodka in my belly, so you think I am easy, da? Well, Mek

Nimmur will see now how easy I am."

Boris dung out of the hut. Nicholas pulled on a shirt over his shorts

and followed him.

Back in his own hut, Boris had flung a few essential items into a light

pack. Now he was stuffing cartridges into the magazine of his 30/06

hunting rifle.

"Let them go, Boris," Nicholas advised him in a more reasonable tone of

voice "Mek is a tough lad - they don't come tougher - and he has a war

party of fifty men with him. You are old enough to know that you can

never hold on to a woman by force. Let her go!

"I do not want to hold on to her. I want to kill her.

The safari is over, English." He flung a pair of keys on a. leather tag

on the floor at Nicholas's feet. "There are the keys of the Land

Cruiser. You can make your own way back to Addis from here. I will leave

four of my best men to look after you, and hold your hand. Leave the big

truck for me to use. When you get to Addis, leave the keys of the Land

Cruiser with my tracker, Aly. I will know where to find him later. I

will send you the money I owe you for cancellation. Don't worry - I am a

man of principles."

"How could I ever doubt it?" Nicholas smiled. "Good bye, old chum. I

wish you luck. You'll need plenty of that if you are going up against

Mek Nimmur."

Boris was several hours behind his quarry, and as soon as he had left

the camp he broke into a jog trot that carried him down the pathway to

join the main track to the west, towards the Sudanese border. He ran

like a scout, with an easy swinging gait that ate up the ground.

"Looks as though he is still in good shape, even with the vodka."

Despite himself Nicholas was impressed as he watched him go. "But I

wonder how long he will be able to keep up that pace?"

He turned back to'his own quarters to get a little more sleep, but as he

passed her hut Royan popped her head out.

"What was all the shouting about? I thought that you and Boris were

having another little difference of opinion."

"Tessay has done a bunk. Boris has guessed that she has gone off with

Mek, and he is chasing after them."

"Oh, icky! Can't we warn them?

"No chance of that, but unless Mek has gone soft he will be expecting

Boris to come after him. In fact, now that I come to think of it, he is

probably hoping for just that chance to even the score. No, Mek doesn't

need any more help from us. Go back to sleep!

"I can't possibly sleep now. I am so worked up. I have been looking at

the Polaroids that we took last night. Taita has given us an overflowing

cup. Come and have a look at this."

"Just one hour's sleep moreP He made a mock plea.

"Immediately, if not sooner."She laughed at him.

In her hut she had the Polaroids and the rubbings spread out on the camp

table, and she beckoned him to take the seat beside her.

"While you were snoring your head off, I made some progress." She laid

four Polaroids side by side, and placed her large magnifying glass over

them. It was a professional land surveyor's model on folding legs, and

under it every detail of the photographs was revealed. "Taita has headed

each of the sides of the stele with the name of one of the seasons of

the year - spring, summer, autumn and winter.

What do you think he was getting at?"

"Page numbers?"

"Exactly my own thought," she agreed. "The Egyptians considered spring

as the beginning of all new life. He is telling us in which order to

read the panels. This one is spring." She selected one of the

photographs.

"It starts with four standard quotations from the Book of the Dead." She

quoted the first few lines of the opening section: "'I am the first

breeze blowing softly over the dark ocean of eternity. I am the first

sunrise. The first glimmer of light. A white feather blowing in the dawn

wind. I am Ra. I am the beginning of all things. I will live for ever. I

shall never perish."' Still holding the glass poised, she looked up at

him. "As far as I can see, they do not differ "Substantially from the

original. My instinct is to set these aside for the time being. We can

always come back to them later."

"Let's go with your instinct," he suggested. "Read the next section."

She held the glass to the Polaroid. "I am not going to look at you while

I read this. Taita. can be as earthy as Rabelais when he is in the mood.

Anyway, here goes. "The daughter of the goddess pines for her dam. She

roars like a lioness as she hurries to meet her. She leaps from the

mountain, and her fangs are white. She is the harlot of all the world.

Her vagina pisseth out great torrents. Her vagina has swallowed an army

of men. Her sex eateth up the masons and the workers of stone. Her

vagina is an octopus that has swallowed up a king."'

"Whoa there!" Nicholas chuckled. "Pretty fruity stuff, don't you think?"

He leaned forward to study her face, for it was still turned away from

him. "Och, lassie, you have roses in your bonny cheeks. Not a blush,

surely not?"

"Your Scots accent is not in the least convincing," she told him coldly,

still not looking at him. "When you have finished being clever at my

expense, what do you think of what I have just read?"

"Apart from the obvious, I have't any idea."

"I want to show you something." She stood up and packed the photographs

and the rolls of art paper back into the haversack. "You'll need to get

your boots on. I am taking you on a little walk."

An hour later they stood in the centre of the suspension bridge, swaying

gently high above the swift waters of the Dandera river.

"Hapi is the goddess of the Nile. Is this river not then her daughter,

pining to meet her, leaping from the mountain top, roaring like a

lioness, her fangs white with spume?" she asked him.

They stared in silence at the archway of pink stone through which the

river poured, and suddenly Nicholas grinned lasciviously. "I think that

I know what you are going to say next. That's what I first thought of

when I looked at that cleft. You said it was like a gargoyle's mouth,

but I had another image."

"All I can say is that you must have some extraordinary lady friends,'

she said, and then covered her mouth. "Ooops!

I didn't mean to say that. I am being as disgusting as either you or

Taita."

"The workmen swallowed up in there!" His voice became more excite& "The

masons and the workers in stone!'

"Pharaoh Mamose was a god. The river has swallowed up a god with her -

with her stone archway." She was equally excited. "I must admit that I

would not have made the association if you hadn't explored the interior

of the cavern, and found those niches in the wall." She shook his arm.

"Nicky, we have to get in there again. We have to get a clearer look at

that has-relief you found on the cavern wall."

"It will take some preparation," he said dubiously. "I will have to

splice the ropes and make some sort of pulley system, and I will have to

drill Aly and the other men to avoid a repetition of my last little

fiasco. We won't be ready to make the attempt until tomorrow morning at

the very earliest."

"You get on with it. I will have plenty to keep me occupied with the

translation of the stele." Then she stopped and looked up at the sky.

"Listen!" she whispered.

He cocked his head and above the sound of the river, heard the whining

flutter of rotors in the air.

"Dammit!" he snapped. "I thought we had lost the Pegasus presence. Come

on!" He grabbed her arm and hustled her off the bridge. When they

reached the land he jumped down on to the beach, and she followed him.

The two of them crept under the hanging eaves of the bridge.

They sat quietly on the white sandy beach and listened to the Jet Ranger

helicopter approaching swiftly, and then circling back over the hills

beyond the pink cliffs. This time the pilot had not spotted them, for he

turned away and began to patrol up and down the line of the chasm.

Suddenly the engine-beat changed dramatically as the pitch altered and

the pilot pulled up the collective.

"Sounds as if he is going in for a landing up there in the hills,,

Nicholas said as he crawled out from under the bridge. "I would feel a

lot easier without them snooping around."

"I don't think we have too much to worry about," Royan disagreed. "Even

if they are connected with Duraid's killers, we are still way out ahead

of them. Obviously they have not tumbled to the importance of the

monastery, and the stele."

"I hope you are right. Let's get back to camp. We must not let them see

us in the vicinity of the chasm again. It will be too much of a

coincidence for them to find us hanging around here every time they come

this way."

while Royan went to her hut and pored over her photographs and etchings,

Nicholas worked with the trackers and skinners. He spliced the

unravelled end of the nylon rope to the second Thank, to make a single

length five hundred feet long. Then he cannibalized the canvas fly of

the cooking hut, cutting it up and whipping the raw edges to make a

sling seat. He fashioned the ends of the rope into a harness which he

spliced into the four corners of the canvas seat.

He had no block and tackle, so he put together a crude gantry of poles

which could be extended out over the cliff edge to keep the rope clear

of the rock. The rope would run through the groove that he drilled in

the end of the central beam with a red-hot iron. He lubricated it with

cooking lard.

It was the middle of the afternoon by the time he had completed his

preparations. Then, leaving Royan in camp, he led his men, burdened with

the coils of rope and the pole sections of the gantry, back up the

pathway to the spot where he had abseiled down into the ravine to

retrieve the carcass of the dik-dik. From there they worked their way

downstream, following the rim of the cliff. It was heavy going for Thorn

scrub grew right up to the edge, and in many places they were forced to

use their-machetes to hack their way through.

The sound of the waterfall guided him. As they moved down river it grew

louder, until the rock seemed to quiver under his feet with the roar of

falling waters. Finally, by leaning out over the edge and peering

downwards, Nicholas could make out the flash of spray in the depths

below.

This is the spot." He grunted with satisfaction, and explained to Aly in

Arabic what he wanted done.

In order to determine the exact position in which to set up the gantry,

Nicholas climbed into the canvas sling seat and had them lower him

twenty feet down the cliff face, just as far as the beginning of the

overhang. Up to that point he was able to keep the nylon rope from

abrading on the rock, but he was also able to see around the bulge of

the face.

Hanging backwards over the falls and the rocky bowl of the river one

hundred and fifty feet below him, he was able at last to see the double

row of niches in the rock face.

However, the has-relief engraving was still hidden from view by the

tumblehome of the cliff. He gave Aly the signal and they hauled him up.

"We must set up the gantry a little further down," he told him, and

directed them as they hacked away the dense shrubbery that choked the

rim. Then suddenly he exclaimed, "I'll be damned!" He went down on one

knee to examine the rim rock that the thorns had concealed.

"There are more excavations here."

Exposed to the elements, unlike those works further down that had been

protected by the overhang, these were badly eroded. There were just

vague traces remaining in the rim rock, but he was certain that these

indentations were the upper anchor points for the ancient scaffoldin

9They set up their own gantry on the same levelled area, and extended

the long pole out over the drop. Then they rigged and secured it with a

crude cantilever system of ropes and lighter poles.

When they were finished, Nicholas crawled out to the end to test the

structure and to run the end of the rope through the slot he had

prepared for it. The whole structure seemed solid and firm.

Nevertheless, it was with relief that he crawled back to solid ground.

He stood up and looked over the tops of the thorn scrub to where the

lowering sun was fuming red and angry on the horizon.

"Enough for one day," he decided. "The rest can wait for-tomorrow."

The next morning Nicholas and Royan were both up and drinking coffee at

the campfire while it was still dark. Aly and his men were squatting at

their own fire near by, talking quietly and coughing over the first

cigarettes of the day. The project seemed to have caught their

imagination. They had no inkling of the reason for this second descent

into the chasm, but the enthusiasm of the two ferengi was infectious.

As soon as it was light enough to see the path, Nicholas led them back

up into the hills. The men chatted cheerfully amongst themselves in

Amharic as they hurried through the thorn scrub, and they came out on

the rim rock just as the sun broke out over the eastern escarpment of

the valley. Nicholas had drilled the men the previous day, and he and

Royan had sat half the night going over the plans, so each of them knew

their part and they lost little time in setting themselves up for the

descent.

Nicholas had stripped to shorts and tennis shoes, but this time he had

brought along an old Barbarians rugby jersey for warmth. While he pulled

this over his head he pointed out to Royan the platform that had been

dug out from the solid rock.

She examined it carefully. "It's very hard to be sure, but I think you

are right. This probably is man-made."

"When you get further down you will have no doubts.

There is very little weathering of the face under the overhang, and the

niches are almost perfectly preserved until they reach the high-water

mark, that is," he told her, as he took his seat in the sling and swung

out over the cliff.

Dangling from the end of the gantry he gave Aly the sign, and the men

lowered him down into the gorge. The rope ran smoothly through the

lubricated slot.

He saw at once that he had judged it correctly, and that he was

descending in line with the double row of -niches. He came level with

the enigmatic circle on the cliff face, but it was fifty feet from him,

and a growth of gaudy Coloured lichens had streaked and discotoured the

rock, partially obscuring the details, so that he still could not be

certain that. it was not a natural flaw. He passed it and went on down

as Aly and his team paid out the rope from above.

When he reached the surface of the water he slipped out of the sling and

dropped in. The water was very cold.

He trod water, gasping, until his body became acclimatized.

Then he gave Aly three tugs on the signal rope. While the canvas seat

was hauled up he swam to the side of the pool and held on to one of the

carved stone niches for support.

He had forgotten how gloomy and cold and lonely it was here in the

bottom of the chasm.

After a long delay he craned his head backwards and watched Royan come

into sight around the bulge of the overhang, dangling in the sling seat

and revolving slowly at the end of the nylon rope. She looked down and

waved at him cheerfully.

"Full marks to that girl," he grinned. "Not much puts the wind up her."

He wanted to shout encouragement, but he knew it was futile because the

thunder of the falls smothered all other sound. So he contented himself

with returning her wave.

Halfway down he saw her tugging frantically on the signal rope. Aly had

been warned to expect this, and her i4 descent was hatted immediately..

Then she leaned back in the sling, hanging on with only her left hand,

as she groped for Nicholas's binoculars which hung from their strap on

to her chest. She was twisted at an awkward angle as she held the

glasses to her eyes and tried to manipulate the focus wheel with one

hand. He saw that she was obviously having difficulty picking up the

round mark on the wall and keeping it in the field of the lens, for the

sling was swinging from side to side and at the same time revolving

slowly.

She struggled at the end of the rope for what seemed to Nicholas a very

long time, but probably was no more than a few minutes. Then abruptly

she dropped the binoculars on to her chest, threw back her head and let

out a scream that, despite the roar of falling water, carried clearly to

Nicholas a hundred feet beneath her. She was kicking her legs joyfully

and waving her free hand at him, wild with excitement, as Aly began

paying out the rope once more. Still screaming incoherently, she was

looking down at him with a face that seemed to light up the cathedral

gloom of the gorge.

"I can't hear you," he yelled back, but the falls defeated both their

efforts to communicate.

Royan was wriggling about in her seat, shouting and gesticulating

wildly, and now she let go the harness with her other hand and leaned

further out to keep him in sight as the sling revolved. She was still

twenty feet above the water when she almost lost her balance entirely,

and very nearly toppled backwards out of the sling.

"Careful there," he yelled up at her. "Those glasses are Zeiss. Two

thousand quid at the Zurich duty-free!'

IC

This time his vo' must have carried, for she stuck her tongue out at

him in a schoolgirlish gesture. But her movements became more

circumspect. When her feet were almost touching the water she signalled

on the rope to stop her descent and hung there, fifty feet across the

pool from him.

"What did you find?" he shouted across.

"You were right, you wonderful man!'

"Is it man-made? Is it an inscription? Could you read it?, "Yes, yes and

yes to all three of your questions! She grinned triumphantly as she

teased him.

"Don't be infuriating. Tell me."

"Taita's ego got the better of him once again. He couldn't resist

signing his work." She laughed. "He has left us his autograph - the hawk

with a broken wing!'

"Marvellous! Plain bloody marvelous!the exalted.

"Proof that Taita was here, Nicky. To carve that cartouche, he must have

been standing on a scaffolding.

Our first guess was right. That niche you are holding on to is part of

his ladder to the bottom of the gorge."

"Yes, but why, Royan?" he yelled back at her. "Why was Taita down here?

There is no evidence of any excavation or building work."

They both looked around the gloomy cavern. Apart from the tiny rows of

niches, the walls were unbroken, smooth and inscrutable until they

plunged into the dark water.

Under the falls?" she shouted across. "Is there a cutback in the rock?

Can you get across there?"

He pushed off from the cliff, and swam towards the thundering chute of

water. Halfway across, the current caught him and he had to swim with

all his strength to make any headway against it. Thrashing the water

with flailing arms and kicking out strongly, he managed to reach a spur

of polished, algae-stick rock at the nearest end of the falls.

The water crashed over his head, but he edged his way along under the

rock step into the heart of the cascade.

Halfway across, the water overwhelmed him. It tore him off his

precarious perch, hurled him back into the basin below and swirled him

end over end. He surfaced in the middle of the pool, and once again had

to Swim with all his strength to break free of the grip of the current

and to reach the slack water below the wall again. He clung to his

handhold in the stone niche, and panted like a bellows.

"Nothing?" she called.

He shook his head, unable to answer until he had finally regained his

breath. Finally he managed: "Nothing.

It's a solid rock wall behind the falls." He gasped another breath, and

then invited sarcastically, "Next bright idea, madam?"

She was silent and he was glad of the respite. Then she called again,

"Nicky, how far do those niches go down?"

"You can see," he told her, "right to the one I am holding on to."

"What about below the surface?"

"Don't be silly, woman." He was getting cold and irritable. "How the

hell could there be cuttings below the surface?"

"Try!" she yelled almost as iff itably. He shook his head pityingly, and

drew a deep breath. Still clinging to his handhold, he extended his

limbs and body to their full stretch. Then his head went under the dark

surface as he groped down as far as he could reach with his toes.

Suddenly he shot back, snorting for air with a startled look on his

face. "By Jove!" he shouted. "You are right!

There is another niche down there!'

"I hate to say I told you so." Even at that range he could see the smug

expression on her face.

"What are you? Some kind of witch?" Then he broke off and rolled his

eyes heavenward in despair. "I know what you are going to ask me to do

next."

"How far do the niches go down?" she called in honeyed tones. "Will you

dive down for me, dear Nicky?"

"That's it," he said. "I knew it. I am going to speak to my shop

steward. This is slave labour. From now onwards I am on strike."

"Please, Nicky!'

He hung in the water'pumping air in and out of his lungs,

hyperventilating, flushing his . bloodstream with oxygen to increase his

underwater endurance to its limits.

In the end he expelled the contents of his lungs completely, squeezing

out the last breath until his chest ached with the effort, and then he

sucked in again, filling his lungs to their capacity with fresh air.

Finally, with his chest fully expanded, he duck-dived, standing on his

head with his legs high out of the water and letting their weight drive

him under.

Sliding head-first down the submerged wall, he reached down, groping for

the next niche below the surface. He found it, and used it to accelerate

his dive, pulling himself on downwards.

He found the second niche below that, and pulled himself on downwards.

The niches were about six feet apart - a nautical fathom. Using them as

a measure, he was able to calculate his progress accurately.

Swimming on downwards, he found another niche, then another. Four rows

of niches, twenty-four feet below the surface. His ears were popping and

squeaking as the pressure squeezed the air out of his Eustachian tubes.

He kept on downwards and found the fifth row of niches. Now the air in

his lungs was compressing to almost half its surface volume, and as his

buoyancy decreased so his descent became easier and more rapid.

His eyes were wide open, but the waters below him were dark and turbid.

He could make out only the surface of the wall directly in front of his

face. He saw the sixth niche appear ahead of him and he grasped it, then

hesitated.

"Thirty-six feet of depth already, and no sign yet of bottom he

thought. There had been a time, when he was spearfishing competitively

with the army team, that he could free-dive to sixty feet and stay at

that depth for a full minute. But he had been younger then and in peak

physical condition.

"Just one more niche," he promised himself, "and then back up to the

surface." His chest was beginning to throb and burn with the need to

breathe, but he pulled hard on his handhold and shot down. He saw the

vague shape of the seventh niche appear out of the murk below him'

"They go right to the bottom," he realized with amazeMent. "How on'earth

did Taita do it? They had no diving equipment." He grasped the niche and

hovered there for a moment, undecided if he should risk going further.

He knew he was almost at his physical limit. Already he was hunting for

air, his chest beginning to convulse involuntarily.

"What about one more for the hell of it!" He was beginning to feel

light-headed, and a strange glow of euphoria came over him. He

recognized the danger signs, and looked down at his own body. Through

the murk he saw that his skin was wrinkled and folded by the pressure of

water. There were over two atmospheres'weight bearing down upon him,

crushing in his chest. His brain was becoming starved of oxygen, and he

felt reckless and invulnerable.

"Once more into the breach, dear friends," he thought drunkenly, and

went on down.

"Number eight, and the doctor's at the gate." He felt the eighth niche

under his fingers. He was thinking in gibberish now: "Number eight, and

I'll have her on a plate." He turned to go up again, and his feet

touched bottom. -Fifty feet deep," he realized even through his fuddled

state.

"I have left it too late. Got to get back. Got to breathe." He was

bracing himself to push off from the bottom when something grabbed his

legs and dragged him hard against the rock wall.

ctopus!" he thought, remembering the line from Taita's stele, "Her

vagina is an octopus that has swallowed up a king."

He tried to kick out, but his legs were bound as if by the arms of a sea

monster; some cold, insidious embrace held him captive. "Taita's

octopus. My oath! He meant it literally. It's got me."

He was pinned against the wall, crushed, helpless.

Terror seized him, and the rush of it through his blood flushed away the

hallucinations of his oxygen-impoverished brain. He realized what had

happened to him.

"No octopus. This is water pressure." He had experienced the same

phenomenon once before. On an army training exercise, while diving near

the inlet to the turbines of the generators in Loch Arran, his buddy

diver who was roped to him had drifted into their terrible suction. His

companion had been sucked against the grille of the intake and his body

had been crushed so that the splinters of his ribs had been driven

through the flesh of his chest and had come out through the black

neoprene rubber of his suit like daggers.

Nicholas had narrowly escaped the same fate. The fact that he was a few

feet to one side of his buddy had meant that he escaped the full brunt

of the rush of water into the turbine intake. Nevertheless, one of his

legs was broken, and it had taken the strength of two other army divers

to prise him out of the grip of the current.

This time he was at the limit of his air, and there was no other diver

to assist him. He was being sucked into a narrow opening in the rock,

the mouth of an underwater tunnel, a subaqueous shaft that bored into

the rock wall.

His upper body was free of the baleful influence of the rushing flood,

but his legs were being drawn inexorably into it. He was aware that the

surrounds of the opening were sharply demarcated, as straight and as

square as a lintel hewn by a mason. He was being dragged over and around

this lintel. Spreading out his arms, he resisted with all his strength,

but his hooked fingers slid over the polished, slimy surface of the

rock.

"This is the big one," he thought. "This is the one punch that you can't

duck." He hooked his fingers, and felt his nails tear and break as they

rasped against the rock.

Then suddenly they locked into the last niche in the wall above the

sink-hole which was sucking him under.

Now at least he had an anchor point. With both hands he clung to the

niche, and fought the pull of the water. He fought it with all his

remaining strength and all his heart, but he was near the end of his

store of both. He strained until he felt the muscles in both arms

popping, until the sinews in his neck stood out in steely cords and he

felt something in his head must burst. But he had halted the insidious

slide of his body into the sink-hole.

"One more," he thought. "Just one more try." And he knew that was all he

had left within him. His air was all used up, and so were his courage

and his resolve. His mind swirled, and dark shapes clouded his vision.

From somewhere deep inside himself he drew out the last reserves, and

pulled until the darkness in his head exploded in sheets of bright

colours, shooting stars and Catherine wheels that dazzled him. But he

kept on pulling.

He felt his legs coming out of it, the grip of the waters weakening, and

he pulled once more with strength that he had never realized he

possessed.

Then suddenly he was free and shooting towards the surface, but it was

too late. The darkness filled his head and in his ears was a sound like

the roaring of the waterfall in the abyss. He was drowning. He was all

used up. He had no knowledge of where he was, how much further he had to

go to the surface, but he knew only that he was not going to make it. He

was finished.

When he came out through the surface, he did not know that he had done

so, and he did not have enough strength left to lift his face out of the

water and to breathe.

He wallowed the're like a waterlogged carcass, face down and dying. Then

he felt Royan's fingers lock into the hair in the back of his head, and

the cold air on his face as she lifted it clear.

"Nicky!" she screamed at him. "Breathe, "Nicky, breathe!'

He opened his mouth and let out a spray of water and saliva and stale

air, and then gagged and gasped.

"You're still alive! Oh, thank God. You were down for so long. I thought

you had drowned."

As he coughed and fought for air and his senses returned, he realized in

a vague way that she must have dropped out of the sting seat and come to

his aid.

"You were under for so long. I could not believe it." She held his head

up, clinging with her free hand to the niche in the wall. "You are going

to be all right now. I have got you. just take it easy for a while. It's

going to be all right." It was amazing how much her voice encouraged

him.

The air tasted good and sweet and he felt his strength slowly returning.

"We have to get you up," she told him. "A few minutes more to get

yourself together, and then I will help you into the sling."

She swam with him across to the dangling sling and signalled to the men

at the top of the cliff to lower it into the water. Then she held the

folds of canvas open so that he could slip his legs into them.

"Are you all right, Nicky?" she demanded anxiously.

"Hang on until you get to the top." She placed his hands on the side

ropes of the harness. "Hold tight!'

"Can't leave you down here," he blurted groggily.

"I'll be fine," she assured him. "Just have Aly send the seat down again

for me."

When he was halfway up he looked down and saw her head bobbing in the

dark waters. She looked very small and lonely, and her face pate and

pathetic.

"Guts!" His voice was so weak and hoarse that he did not recognize it.

"You've got real guts." But already he was too high for the words to

carry down to her.

When they had got Royan safely up out of the ravine, Nicholas ordered

Aly to dismantle the gantry and hide the sections in the thorn scrub.

From the helicopter it would be highly visible and he did not wish to

stir Jake Helm's curiosity.

He was in no shape to give the men a hand, but lay in the shade of one

of the Thorn trees with Royan tending to him. He was dismayed to find

how much his near-drowning had taken out of him. He had a blinding

headache, caused by oxygen starvation. His chest was very painful and

stabbed him every time he breathed: in his struggles he must have torn

or sprained something.

He was impressed with Royan's forbearance. She made no attempt to

question him about his discoveries in the bottom of the gorge, and

seemed genuinely more concerned with his well being than with the

progress of their exploration.

When she helped him to his feet and they started back towards camp, he

moved like an old man, lame and stiff. Every muscle and sinew in his

body ached. He knew that the lactic acid and nitrogen that had built up

in his tissues would take some time to be reabsorbed and dispersed.

Once they reached camp Royan led him to his hut and fussed over him as

she settled him under the mosquito net.

By this time he was feeling a lot better, but he neglected to inform her

of this fact. It was pleasant to have a woman caring for him again. She

brought him a couple of aspirin tablets and a steaming mug of tea, stiff

with sugar. He was putting it on a little when he asked weakly for a

second mugful.

Sitting beside his bed, she solicitously watched him drink it. "Better?"

she asked, when he had finished.

"The odds are two to one that I Will survive," he told her, and she

smiled.

"I can see that you are better. Your cheek is showing again. You gave me

an awful scare, you know."

"Anything to get your attention."

"Now that we have decided that you will live, tell me what happened.

What sort of trouble did you run into down there in the pool?"

"What you really want to know is what I found down there. Am I correct?"

"That too, she admitted.

Then he told her everything that he had discovered and how he had been

caught in the inflow of the underwater sink-hole. She listened without

interruption, and even when he had finished speaking she said nothing

for a while, but frowned with concentrated thought.

At last she looked up at him. "You mean that Taita was able to take

those stone niches right down to the very bottom of the pool, fifty feet

below the surface? and when he nodded, she was silent again. Then she

said, "How on earth did he accomplish that? What are your thoughts on

the subject?" -Tour thousand years ago the water level may have been

lower. There may have been a drought year when the river dried up, and

enabled him to get in there. How am I doing?"

"Not a bad try," she admitted, "but then why go to all the trouble of

building a scaffold? Why not just use the dry river bed as an access?

Then again, surely the attraction of the spot for Taita was the river.

If it was dry, then it would be just like a thousand other places in

this gorge.

No, I have a feeling that the fact that it was so inaccessible was the

main, if not the only, reason he chose to wo there."

"I suspect that you are correct," he agreed.

"So if the river was running, even at itS lowest level as it is now, how

on earth did he manage to carve those niches below the surface? And what

would be the point in having scaffolding under water?"

"Beats me. I have no idea he admitted.

"All right, let's leave that for the moment. Now lets go over your

description of the sink-hole that almost sucked you in. Did you form any

estimate of the size of the opening?"

He shook his head. "It is almost totally dark down there. I could not

see more than two or three feet in front of me."

"Was the entrance directly between the two tows of niches?"

"No, not directly," he said thoughtfully. "It was slightly to one side.

I hit the bottom of the pool with my feet, and was just about to push

off when it grabbed me."

"So it must be at the very bottom of the pool, and slightly downstream

from the scaffolding. You say that the entrance seemed to have a square

coping?"

"I am not absolutely sure of that - remember that I could see very

little. But that was the impression I received."

"It may have been another man-made structure, then perhaps some type of

adit shaft driven into the side of the pool?"

"It's possible," he agreed reluctantly. "But on the other hand it could

just as easily be a natural fault in the strata that the river is

draining into."

She stood up to leave, and he demanded, "Where are you going?"

"I won't be long. I am going to my hut to fetch my notes, and the

material from the stele. Back in a moment."

When she returned she sat on the floor beside his bed, with her legs

drawn up under her in that double-jointed feminine fashion. As she

spread her papers around her, he pulled up the edge of the mosquito net

and looked down at what she was doing.

"Yesterday, while you were busy building the gantry, I was able to

decipher most of the rest of the "spring" face of the stele." She moved

her notebook so that he was able to overlook the pages she had opened.

"These are my preliminary notes. You will see where I have inserted a

number of question marks - here and here, for instance. That is where I

am uncertain of the translation, or where Taita has used a new and

strange symbol. I will have to give more time and consideration to those

later."

I follow you," he said, and she went on.

"These sections that I have highlighted with green are quotations from

the standard version of the Book of the Dead. Take this one here: "The

universe is drawn in circles, the disc of the sun- god, Ra. The life of

man is a circle that begins in the womb and ends in the tomb. The circle

of the chariot wheel foreshadows the death of the serpent that it

crushes beneath its rim. "Yes, I recognize the quotation," he said.

"On the other hand, these parts of the text that I have highlighted in

yellow are original Taita writings, or at least are not quotations from

the Book of the Dead or any other source that I am aware of This

paragraph here in particular is the one that I wanted to bring to your

attention."

She traced a section with her forefinger as she read it aloud, "'The

daughter of the goddess has conceived. She has been impregnated by the

one who is without seed. She has begotten her own twin sister. The fetus

lies forever -coiled in her own womb. Her twin shall never be born. She

will never see the light of day. She will five for ever in the darkness.

In the womb of the sister her bridegroom claims her in eternal marriage.

The unborn twin becomes the bride of the god, who was a man Their

destinies are intertwined. They shall live for ever. They Sul not

perish."'

She looked up from the notebook. "When I first read it, I was satisfied

that the daughter of the goddess was the Dandera river, as we had

already agreed. I was also pretty sure that the god that was once a man

must be Pharaoh.

Mamose was only deified on his ascension to the throne of Egypt. Before

that he was a man."

Nicholas nodded. !The seedless one is obviously Taita himself. He makes

repeated references to the fact that he was a eunuch. But now,' he

suggested, "if you have some new ideas about the mysterious twin sister,

let's hear them."

The twin of the river would most likely be a branch, or a fork of the

stream, wouldn't it?"

"Ah, I see what you are driving at, You are suggesting that the

sink-hole is the twin. Down there in the gorge it will never see the

Llight of day. Taita, the seedless one, claims paternity, So he is

telling us that he is the architect."

"Exactly, and he has married the twin of the river to Pharaoh Mamose for

all eternity. Putting that all together, I have come to the conclusion

that we will never find the location of Pharaoh Mamose's tomb until we

explore thoroughly that sink-hole that nearly drowned you."

"How do you suggest we do that?" he asked, and she shrugged.

"I am not the engineer, Nicky. I leave that to you to arrange. All I

know is that Taita devised some way of doing it - not only of getting

there but of working down there. If our interpretation of the stele is

correct, then he carried out extensive mining operations at the bottom

of the pool.

If he could do it, then there is no reason why you can't do it also."

"Ah!" he dernurred. "Taita was a genius. He says so repeatedly. I am

just an old plodder."

"I have got all my bets on you, Nicky. You won't let me down, will you?"

There was no call for intensive bushcraft to follow this spoor. His

quarry had taken very few anti-tracking precautions. Quite openly they

were following the main trail down the Abbay gorge, heading directly

westwards towards the Sudanese border.

Mek Nimmur was on his way back to his own stronghold.

Boris estimated that he had between fifteen and twenty men with him. It

was difficult to be certain, for the tracks on the pathway overlapped

each other, and of course he would have scouts on the'point ahead of him

and sweeping his flanks. There would also be a rear guard dragging the

trail behind him.

They were making good time, but such a large party would not be able to

outpace a single pursuer. He was sure he was gaining on them. He

reckoned that he had started four hours behind them, but judging by

recent signs he was now less than two hours adrift.

Without breaking his trot, he stooped to pick thing up from the path. As

he ran on he examined it. It was a twig, the soft tip shoot of a

kusagga-sagga plant that grew beside the track. One of the men ahead of

him had brushed against it as he passed, and snapped it off the main

branch. It gave Boris a fairly accurate gauge of how far he was behind.

Even in the heat of the gorge, the tender shoot had barely begun to

wilt. He was even closer than he had estimated.

He slowed down., a little as he considered his next move. He knew this

part of the valley fairly well. The previous year he had hunted over

much of this terrain with an American client, who had been looking for a

trophy Walia ibex. They had spent almost a month combing these same

gullies and wooded ravines before they had brought down a huge old ram,

black with age and carrying a pair of curled, back-sweeping horns that

ranked as the tenth largest ever in the Rowland Ward record book.

He knew that two or three miles ahead the Nile began another oxbow loop

out to the south, and that it then doubled back upon itself. The main

trail followed the river, because a series of sheer and formidable

cliffs guarded the high groupd in the centre of the loop of the river.

It was, however, possible to cut the corner. Boris had'done it before,

while following the wounded ibex.

The American hunter had not killed cleanly his bullet had struck the ram

too far back, missing the heartlung cavity and piercing the gut. The

stricken wild goat had taken to the high ground, following one of its

secret paths up amongst the crags. Boris and the American had followed

it up and over the mountain. Boris remembered how dangerous and

treacherous the path had been, but when it descended the far side of the

mountain it had cut off nearly ten miles.

If he could find the beginning of the goat path again, there was every

chance that he would be able to get ahead of Mek Nimmur and be lying in

wait for him on the far side. That would give him an enormous advantage.

The guerrilla leader would be expecting pursuit, not ambush.

He would be covering his back trail, and it was highly unlikely that

Boris would be able to slip past the rear guard without alerting his

intended victims. On the other hand, once he was ahead of them he would

be in control. Then he could choose his own killing ground.

As the trail and the main flow of the Nile started to turn away towards

the south, he kept watching the high ground above it, seeking a familiar

landmark. He had not gone another half-mile before he found it. Here

there was a break in the line of dark cliffs, a heavily forested

reentrant, that cut into the wall of basalt.

He stopped and mopped the sweat from his face and neck. "Too much

vodka," he grunted, "you are getting soft." His shirt was as sodden as

though he had plunged in the river.

He changed the slin of the rifle to his other shoulder, lifted his

binoculars and swept the sides of the wooded gully. They appeared sheer

and unscalable, but then he picked out the stunted shape of a small tree

that grew out of a narrow crack in the face. It looked like a Japanese

bonsai, with a twisted, malformed trunk and tortured branches.

The Walia ibex had been standing on the ledge just above that tree when

the American had fired. In his mind's eye Boris could still see the way

in which the wild goat had hunched its back as the bullet struck, and

then spun around and raced away up the cliff. He panned the glasses

upwards gently, and could just make out the inclination of the narrow

ledge as it angled up the face.

"Da, da. This is the spot." He was thinking in his mother tongue again.

It was a relief after these last days of having to struggle in French

and English.

Before he began the climb, he left the trail and scrambled down the

boulder-strewn slope to the river. He knelt at the edge of the Nile and

splashed double handfuls over himself, soaking his cropped head and

sluicing the sweat from his face and neck. He drained and refilled his

water bottle, then drank until his belly was painfully full.

Then he rinsed out the bottle and refilled it. There was no water on the

mountain. Finally he dipped his bush hat in the river and placed it back

on his head, sodden and streaming water down his neck and face.

He climbed back to the main trail and followed it for another hundred

paces, moving slowly and studying the "ground. At one place there was a

rock boulder almost blocking the path. The men ahead of him had been

forced to step over this obstruction, on to a patch of talcum-fine dust

beyond it. They had left perfect impressions of their footprints for him

to read.

Most of the men were wearing Israeli-style para boots with a

zigzag-patterned sole, and those coming up from behind had overtrodden

the spoor of the leaders. He had to go down on one knee to examine the

signs minutely before he could pick out the imprint of a much smaller

and more delicately formed foot, a lighter, unmistakably feminine tread.

It was partially obliterated by other larger masculine footprints, but

the outline of the toe was clear, and the pattern was that of a smooth

rubber-soled Bata tennis shoe. He would have recognized it from ten

thousand others.

He was relieved to find that Tessay was still with the group, and that

she and her lover had not left and taken another path. Mek Nimmur was a

sly one, and cunning.

He had escaped from Boris's clutches once before. But not this time! The

Russian shook his head vehemently: not this time.

He gave his full attention to the female footprint once again. It gave

him a pang to look at it. His anger returned in full force. He did not

consider his feelings for the woman. Love and desire did not enter into

the equation.

She was his chattel, and she had been stolen from him. It was only the

insult that had significance for him. She had rejected and humiliated

him, and for that she was going to die.

He felt the old thrill run through his blood at the thought of the kill.

Killing had always been his trade and his vocation, but no matter how

often he exercised his craft the thrill was never blunted, the pleasure

never satiated. Perhaps it was the only true pleasure left to him, pure

and unjaded - not even the vodka could weaken and dilute it as it had

the physical act of copulation. He would enjoy killing her even more

than he had once enjoyed coupling with her.

These past few years he had hunted only the lower animals, but he had

never forgotten what it was like to hunt down and to kill a human being,

more especially a woman. He wanted Mek Nimmur, but he wanted the woman

more.

In the days of President Mengistu, when he had been the head of

counter-intelligence, -his men had known his tastes and had picked the

pretty ones for him. He had only one regret now, and that was that this

time he would have to do it swiftly. There could be no question of

drawing it i out and savouring the pleasure. Not like some of the other

experiences, which had lasted for hours, sometimes for days.

"Bitch," he mouthed, and kicked at the dust, stamping on the faint

outline of her footprint, obliterating it just as he would do to her.

"Black fomicating bitch."

He ran now with fresh strength and determination as he left the trail

and climbed up towards the deformed tree and the beginning of the goat

track up, the cliff.

Exactly where he expected it, he found the start of the track and

followed it upwards. The higher he climbed, the steeper it became. Often

he had to use both hands to haul himself up a gradient, or to work his

way along a narrow traverse.

The first time he had climbed this mountain he had been following the

blood spoor of the wounded ibex, but now he did not have those

splattered droplets to guide him, and twice he missed the path and found

himself in a dead end on the cliff face. He was forced to edge back from

the drop and retrace his footsteps until he found the correct urning.

Each time he did so he was aware that he was losing time, and that Mek

Nimmur might pass before he was able to intercept him.

Once he startled a small troop of wild goats which were lying on a ledge

halfway up the cliff. They went bounding away up the rock face, more

like birds than animals bound by the laws of gravity. They were led by a

huge male with a streaming beard and long spiral horns, which in its

flight showed Boris a direct route to the top of the cliff.

He tore the skin off his fingertips dragging himself up the last steep

pitch, but finally he reached the top and wormed his way over the

skyline, never lifting his head. A i human form silhouetted against the

clear, eggshell-blue sky would be visible from miles around. He moved

along behind the crest until he found a small clump of sanseveria to

give him cover, and used the erect, spiny leaves to break up the outline

of his head as he surveyed the valley a thousand feet below through the

binoculars.

From this height the Nile was a broad, glittering serpent uncoiling into

the first bend of the oxbow, its surface ruffled by rapids and rocky

reefs. The high ground on either bank formed standing waves of up-thrust

basalt, turbulent and chopped into confusion like a storm sea in a

tropical typhoon. The whole danced and shimmered in the heat and the sun

beat down with the blows of an executioner's axe, pounding this universe

of red rock into heat exhausted submission.

Though the air danced and trembled with the mirage in the tenses of his

binoculars, Boris traced out the rough trail beside the rier, and

followed it down the valley to the point where it was hidden by the

bend. It was deserted, with no sign of human presence, and he knew that

his quarry had moved on out of sight. He had no way of telling how far

down the trail they had travelled - he knew only that he must hurry on

if he were to cut them off on the far side of the mountain.

For the first time since he had left the'river, he drank sparingly from

the water bottle. He realized how the heat and the exertion of the climb

had dehydrated him. In these conditions a man without water might be

dead in hours. It was not in the least surprising that there was so

little permanent human habitation down here in the gorge.

When he backed off the skyline he felt rejuvenated, and set out to cross

the saddle of the mountain. It was less than a mile across, and without

warning he came out on the top of the cliffs on the far side. One more

unwary pace and he would have stepped off into space and plunged down a

thousand feet. Once again he moved along the crest until he found a

concealed vantage point from which to spy the terrain below.

The river was the same - a wide and confused expanse of white-ruffled

rapids, running back towards him as it turned through the leg of the

oxbow. The trail followed the near bank, except where it was forced to

detour inland by the rugged bluffs and stone needles which rose out of

the Nile waters.

In the great desolation of the gorge he could pick out no movement other

than the run of wild waters and the ceaseless dance of the heat mirage.

He knew it was not possible that Mek Nimmur had moved fast enough to

have passed completely ahead of him; therefore he must still be coming

around the bend of the oxbow.

He drank again, and rested for almost half an hour.

At the end of that time he felt strong and fully recovered.

He debated with himself whether to descend immediately and stake out an

ambush on the' trail, but in the end decided to keep to the high ground

until he had his quarry in sight.

He checked his rifle carefully, making sure that the telescopic sight

had not been bumped out of alignment during the climb, and then emptied

the magazine and examined the five cartridges. The brass case of one of

them was dented and discoloured, so he discarded it and reloaded with

another from his belt. He chambered a round and setthe safety-catch.

He set the weapon aside while he changed his sweat, dampened socks with

a fresh dry pair from his pack and retied his bootlaces with care. Only

a novice would risk blistered feet in these conditions, for within hours

they would be infected and festering.

He drank once more, and then stood up and stung the 30/06 on his

shoulder. Ready now for anything that the goddess of the chase could

send his way, he moved off along the crest to intercept the war party.

From every vantage point along the rim he glassed the valley below, each

time without spying his quarry, and the afternoon passed "swiftly. He

was just beginning to worry that Mek Nimmur had somehow managed to slip

past him unseen, that he had crossed the river at some secret ford or

taken another path through a hidden valley, when there came a plaintive

and querulous cry on the heat-hushed air.

He looked up. A pair of kites were circling over one particular clump of

Thorn scrub on the river bank.

The yellow'billed kite is one of the most ubiquitous scavengers in

Africa. It exists in close symbiotic association with man, feeding off

his rubbish, picking up his leavings, soaring and circling over his

villages or his temporary campsites, watching for his scraps or waiting

patiently for him to squat in the bushes and then dropping down

immediately he has finished his private business, acting as a universal

sewage disposal agent.

Boris studied this pair of birds through his binoculars as they sailed

idly in the heated air, always circling directly over that same patch of

river in bush. They had a distinctive manner of steering with their long

bifurcated tails, twisting them from side to side as they flirted with

the breeze. Their bright yellow beaks showed clearly as they turned

their heads to look down at something in the scrub.

He smiled coldly to himself. "Da! Nimmur has gone into camp early.

Perhaps the heat and the pace are too fierce for his new woman, or

perhaps he has stopped to play with her a little."

He moved on along the rim until he could look down directly into the

patch of bush. He studied it through the binoculars, but without picking

out any signs of human presence. After almost two hours he was becoming

uncertain of his original assumption. The only thing that retained his

attention was the pair of kites, which had settled in a treetop

overlooking the patch of scrub. He had to trust that they were watching

the men hidden in the scrub.

He glanced at the sun anxiously. It was sliding down towards the horizon

at last and losing its furious heat. Then he looked down into the valley

again.

Directly below the patch of bush was an indentation in the river bank

that formed a backwater, almost a small lagoon, When the river was in

flood it would be inundated, but now there was a small strip of gravel

bank exposed. On this bank stood a number of boulders that had tumbled

down from the cliff above. Some of them were lying on the beach, while

others had rolled into the river and were half, submerged. The largest

was the size of a cottage, a great round mass of dark rock.

As he watched, a man emerged unexpectedly from the scrub. Boris's pulse

quickened as he watched him scramble down on to one of the smaller

boulders and jump from there on to the gravel bank. He knelt at the

water's edge and filled a canvas bucket -with water, then climbed back

and disappeared into the bush again.

"Ah! The heat is too much even for them. They must drink, and that gives

them away. If it had not been for the birds I would never have known

that they were there." He clucked softly with reluctant admiration.

"Nimmur is a careful man. No wonder he has survived so long. He keeps

tight control. But even he must have water."

Boris kept watching through the glasses as he tried to guess what Mek

Nimmur would do next. "He has lost much time here by sheltering from the

heat. He will march again as soon as it is cooler. He will make a night

march," he decided, as he looked at the sun again. "Three hours until

dark. I must make my move before then. Once it is dark it will be

difficult to pick my targets."

Before he stood up he wriggled back from the skyline.

He retraced his steps back along the Mountainside until a bluff shielded

him from the eyes of Mek Nimmur's sentries.

Then he started down. There was no goat track here and he had to make

his own going, but after a few false starts he discovered an inclined

rock shelf that afforded him a fairly easy path down the face. When he

reached the bottom of the gorge, he took careful stock of the lie and

run of the . stratum so as to be able to find it again in an emergency.

It was a good escape route, and he knew that he might soon be under

pursuit and duress.

It had taken him over an hour to negotiate the descent, and he knew that

he was running out of time. He reached the trail at the water's edge,

and started back along it towards Mek Nimmur's camp. He was in a hurry

now, but even then he was careful to take anti-tracking precautions. He

walked on the edge of the trail, stepping only on the stony ground,

careful to leave no sign of his passing.

But despite his caution, he nearly walked right into them.

He had not covered the first two hundred metres when in the back of his

mind he registered the low, mournful whistle of a pale-winged starting,

and almost ignored it until alarm bells sounded in his mind. The timing

was all wrong. The starling only gave that particular call at dawn when

it left its nesting site high up in the cliffs. This was late afternoon

down in the heated depths of the gorge. He guessed that it was a signal

from one of the scouts coming up the trail towards him. Mek Nimmur's

party was on the move.

Boris reacted instantly. He slipped off the trail, and ran back the way

he had come until he reathed the beginning of the pathway along which he

had descended the cliff. He climbed just high enough to be able to

overlook the trail. However, he realized that he had lost Much of the

advantage that he had built up by cutting across the mountain. This was

not the ideal ambush position, and his escape route was exposed to enemy

fire from below - he would be lucky to make it to the top. But the .

idea of abandoning his vengeance never occurred to him. As soon as his

targets were in'his sights, he would shoot from this stance.

However, he acknowledged to himself that Mek Nimmur had taken him by

surprise. Boris had not anticipated that he would move before the sun

had set. He had expected to be able to take up a position above the camp

in the thorn patch and to be able to get off two careful, well-aimed

shots before he was forced to run.

It was also part of his calculations that, once he had dropped Mek

Nimmur, his men would not be eager to follow up with too much despatch.

Boris planned to make a running retreat, stopping at every defensible

strong point to fire a few shots, knock down one or two of them, and

keep the pursuit circumspect and cautious until they eventually lost

their taste for the game and let him go.

However, all that had now changed. He would have to take the first

opportunity that presented itself - almost certainly a moving target -

and as soon as he had fired he would be exposed on the path up the cliff

face. His one advantage here was that his hunting rifle was a superbly

accurate piece, whereas Mek Nimmur's men were all armed with AK-47

assault rifles, rapid-firing but notoriously wild at longer range, and

more especially in the hands of these shufta. With proper training, the

fighting tribesmen of Africa made some of the finest troops in the

world. They possessed all the necessary skills, with one exception -

they were notoriously poor marksmen.

He lay flat on the ledge, and the rock under him was so hot from the

direct sunlight that it burned painfully even through his clothin - He

pulled the pack from his 9 back and set it up in front of him, settling

the forestock of the, rifle over it to give himself a dead rest. He

peered through the telescope, wriggling into a comfortable position,

sighting on a small rock beside the main trail and then swinging the

barrel from side to side to make certain that he had a clear arc of

fire.

Satisfied that this was the best stance he could find in the short time

left to him, -he set the rifle aside and picked up a handful of dirt. He

rubbed this gently into his face, and the sweat turned it to mud that

coated his pate skin and dulled the shine that an alert scout might pick

out at long range. His last concern was to check the angle of the sun,

and to satisfy himself that it was not reflecting off the lens of his

scope or off any of the metal parts of the rifle.

He reached over and pulled at the branch of the shrub beside him so that

it cast its shadow over the weapon.

At last he settled down behind the rifle and cuddled the butt into his

shoulder, regulating his breathing to a deep slow rhythm, dropping his

pulse rate and steadying his hands. He did not have long to wait. He

heard the bird-call again, but this time much nearer at hand. It was

answered immediately from the far side of the trail, down closer to the

river bank.

"The flankers will be having difficulty maintaining station over this

terrain." He grinned without hurriour, a death's-head grimace. They will

be bunching and straggling." As he thought it, a man came into view

around the bend of the trail, about five hundred metres, dead ahead.

Boris picked him up in the magni of ens.

He was a typical African guerrilla, a shufta dressed in a tattered and

faded motley of camouflage and civilian clothing, festooned with pack

and water bottle, ammunition and grenades, carrying his AK at high port.

He hatted the moment he came through the turn, and crouched into cover

behind a boulder at the side of the trail.

For a long minute he surveyed the lie of the land ahead of him, his head

turning slowly from side to side. At one point he seemed to be staring

directly at Boris, who held his breath and lay as still as the rock

beside him. But finally the shufta straightened up and gave a hand

signal to those out of sight behind him. Then he came on down the trail

at a trot. When he had covered fifty metres the rest of the party began

to appear, keeping their intervals as precisely as beads on a string. It

would not be possible to enfilade this line even with an RPD from a

prepared position.

"Good!" Boris approved. "These are crack troops. Mek must have

hand-picked them." He watched them through the lens, examining the

features of each man as he came into view, searching for Mek Nimmur.

There were seven of them spread out down the trail now, but still no

sign of their leader. The man on the point drew level with Boris's

position and then went on past him. A pair of flankers passed directly

beneath where he lay, rustling softly by in the scrub not more than a

dozen paces from him. He lay like a stone and let them go. The rest of

them passed his position, well spaced and moving swiftly. For some

minutes after the last of them had gone, the gorge seemed deserted and

devoid of all human presence. Then there was another stealthy movement

out there.

"The rear guard," Boris grunted softly. "Mek is keeping the woman at the

rear. His new plaything."He is taking great care of her."

He slipped the safety-catch on the rifle gently, making certain that no

alien metallic sound fell on the heated and hushed air.

"Now let them come," he breathed. "I will take Mek first. Nothing fancy,

no head shots. Squarely in the centre of the chest. The woman will

freeze when he goes down.

She does not have the reflexes of a warrior. She will give me a second

unhurried shot. At this range there will be no question of a miss. Right

between those pretty little black tits of hers." He became sexually

charged by the image of blood and violent death set opposite Tessay's

loveliness and grace. "I might even have a chance to get one of the

others. But I can't bank on that. These men are good.

More likely that they will dive into cover before I have even had time

to kill the woman."

He watched the faces of the rear guard as, one at a time, carefully

spaced, they came into view. Each time he felt his heart trip with

disappointment. In the end there were three of them on the path, moving

past him at a steady, businesslike jog-trot. But no sign of Mek and the

woman. The rear guard disappeared down the path, and the small sounds of

their progress dwindled into silence. Boris lay alone on the ledge, his

heart thumping and the sour taste of disappointment in the back of his

throat.

"Where are they?" he thought bitterly. "Where the hell is MeV And the

obvious answer to his own question occurred to him immediately. They had

taken a different trail. Mek had used this patrol as a decoy to lure him

away.

He lay quietly for a measured five minutes by his wristwatch, just in

case there might be more men coming up the trail. His mind was racing.

His last definite placin of 9 Tessay had been the glimpse of her

footprint on the trail at the far bend of the oxbow.

That was several hours ago, and if she and Mek had given him the slip

they could be anywhere by now. Mek might have won himself a start of a

full day or more - it might take Boris that long to work the spoor

through.

Feeling waves of anger overwhelm him, he had to close his eyes and fight

it off in order to keep his sense of reason from being swamped. He had

to think clearly now, not go rushing at the problem like a wounded

buffalo. He knew that this was one of his weaknesses: he had to keep

tight control of himself.

When he opened his eyes again, his anger had become cold and functional.

He knew precisely what he had to do and the order in which he must do

it. The very first task was t& sweep and check the back trail. He had to

establish the point at which Mek had left the main detachment of shufta.

He slipped down off the ledge and through the scrub to the open trail.

Still anti-tracking, but moving swiftly, he made his way upstream, back

towards the patch of Thorn scrub where the party of shufta had lain up

in the heat of the day. The first thing he noticed was that the pair of

kites had gone. But he did not take this as proof that the bush was

deserted! and began to circle it carefully. First he worked the incoming

trail on the far side of the patch of bush. Although several hours old

now, it was still clear enough to read.

Suddenly he stopped in the centre of the trail and felt the hair rise on

his forearms and down the back of his neck as he stared at the sign in

the dust of the path. He realized that he had walked into Mek's trap.

There lay the distinctive imprint of a Bata tennis shoe.

Mek and the woman had gone into the patch of scrub and had not come out

again. They were still in there, and Boris was seized by the strong

premonition that Mek was watching him even at that moment, over the open

sights of his AK. While he was out in the open like this, stooped over

the spoor, Boris was completely vulnerable.

Hurling himself sideways off the path, he landed like a cat in the wire

grass beside it, with the rifle at the ready. It took many minutes for

his heartbeats to return to normal, and then he rose again into a

stealthy crouch and began circling the patch of scrub very cautiously.

His nerves were as taut as guitar strings, and his pale eyes darted from

side to side. His finger lay upon the trigger of the 30/06 and he kept

the muzzle weaving slowly, like the head of a cobra ready to strike in

any direction.

He moved down towards the bank of the river, where A the noise of the

rapids would mask any sound he might make. But when he had almost

reached the shelter of the house -sized boulder that he had noticed from

the mountain crest he froze again. He had heard a sound that carried

over the sound of Nile waters - a sound so incongnious in this place and

at this time that for a moment he doubted his own hearing. It was the

sound of a woman's laughter, sweet and clear as the tinkle of a crystal

chandelier swinging in the breeze.

The sound came from below him, from the river bank beyond the tumbled

boulder. He crept towards the boulder, determined to use it for cover

and as a vantage point from which he could cover the bank beyond it. But

before he reached it he heard the splash of some heavy object striking

the surfac& of the river, and an excited female squeal, both playful and

provocative.

Reaching the side of the boulder, and keeping close in under its

protective bulk, he stole towards the corner, from which he could

overlook the gravel bank beyond. Then, peeping cautiously around the

angle of the boulder, he stared in amazement. He could barely believe

what he was seeing. He could not credit this kind of stupidity from a

man like Mek Nimmur. This was the hard man, the seasoned warrior and

survivor of twenty years of bloody bush war acting like a love-sick

teenage booby.

Mek Nimmur had sent his men away so that he could be alone to frolic

with his new paramour. Boris took time to make absolutely certain that

this was not some elaborate trap that had been set for him. It seemed

too fortuitous, too heaven-sent to be really true. He searched every

inch of the bank in both directions for hidden gunmen before he smiled

his cold little smile.

"Of course they are alone. Mek would never let one of his men see Tessay

naked like this." His smile grew broader as he recognized the full

extent of his luck. "He must have gone crazy. Did he not realize that I

would follow him? Did he think he was far enough ahead to be able to

indulge tu himself like this? Is there anything in this world as pid and

as shortsighted as a standing prick?" Boris was gloating delightedly

now.

uple had stripped off their clothes and left them The coin a pile on the

beach of grey basalt gravel in the shade of AL

the tall boulder. They were splashing together in the slack water of the

river at the edge of the main current. Both Of them were stark

mother-naked. Mek Nimmur was broadshouldered, with a heavily muscled

back and hard, tight buttocks. Beside him Tessay was slim as a river

reed, her waist tiny and her hips narrow. Her skin was the colour of

wild honey. They were completely absorbed in each other, without eyes or

ears for anything else in this world.

"He must have left men guarding his back trail." Boris gave Mek the

benefit of some sense. "He never expected me to be ahead of him on the

trail. He thinks they are completely secure. Look at the fool," he

gloated, as Mek chased the girl and she let herself be caught. They fell

into the shallow water locked in each other's embrace, mouths seeking

each other as they surfaced again, laughing as the water streamed down

their darkly beautiful faces, the epitome of handsome masculinity and

lovely womanhood, the image of an African Adam and Eve captured for a

moment in their own little carefree paradise.

Boris tore his eyes from them, and looked to where their clothing had

been abandoned on the gravel bar.

Mek's AK rifle lay carelessly on top of his camouflage jacket, within a

few paces of where Boris stood. He crossed the open gravel bar with a

few quick strides, picked up the AK, unclipped the curved magazine and

dropped it into his pocket, ejected the round from the chamber and let

it fly away into the gravel, replaced the unloaded rifle on the jacket,

and rapidly returned to the tee of the boulder. Both Mek and Tessay

remained utterly oblivious to what had happened.

Boris stood there quietly in the shadow of the rock, watching them at

play in the river. They were almost childlike in their love and their

complete preoccupation with each other.

Tessay at last broke from Mek's embrace and left the water. She came up

the gravel bar, running long-legged and coltish, her wet silken breasts

swinging and jostling each other at each stride as she looked back at

him over her shoulder in open invitation. Mek followed her out, the

water glistening in the dense curls of his barrel chest, his genitals

weighty and puissant.

He caught her before she could reach her clothing and she struggled

playfully for a while in his arms, until his mouth clamped down over

hers. Then she gave herself up to him completely. While he kissed her

his hands ran down her back and over her wet glistening buttocks.

Pressing herself against him she moved her feet apart and spread her

thighs, inviting him to explore the secrets of her body. She groaned

with desire as his hand cupped her sex gently.

Boris felt his anger mingle with the perverse voyeuristic thrill of

watching his own wife being taken by another man. A devil's brew of

emotions bubbled up inside him.

He felt his loins engorging and stiffening almost painfully with

excitement, but at the same time his rage shook him like the branch of a

tree in a gale of wind.

The lovers sank down on to their knees. Still locked together, Tessay

fell backwards and pulled him over on top of herself.

Boris called out loudly, "By God, Mek Nimmur, you will never know how

ridiculous you look with your bare backside in the air like that."

Mek reacted as swiftly as a leopard surprised on his kill. With a blur

of movement he flipped over and reached for the AK-47. Although Boris

was ready for him, covering him with the 30/06, aiming at the back of

his neck when he shouted to him, Mek was so quick that he had swept up

the AK from where it lay and had it pointed at Boris's belly before he

could move. Mek pressed the trigger in the same instant as the muzzle

came to bear.

The firing-pin fell on the empty chamber with a futile click, and the

two men stared at each other across the gravel beach, both with their

weapons levelled. Tessay was curled naked where Mek had left her, her

dark eyes liquid with pain and horror as she watched her husband and

realized that Mek was about to die.

Boris chuckled softly, throatily. "Where do you want it, Mek? How about

I shoot the head off that filthy black tool of yours, while it is still

standing up in the air like that?"

Mek Nimmur's eyes darted away from his adversary's face, back towards

the mountain, and Boris realized that his guess had been correct. Mek

had some of his men up there, but they were keeping out of view of the

beach while their commander indulged himself.

"Don't worry about them. You will both be dead long before your chimps

can get down here to save you." Boris chuckled again. "I am enjoying

this. You and I had an appointment once before, but you broke it. Never

mind this is going to be even more fun." He knew that it was not wise to

delay with a man like this. Mek had made one mistake, and it was highly

unlikely that he would make another. He should blow his head off now,

and that would give him a few minutes more to deal with Tessay. But the

temptation to gloat over him was too strong.

"I have good news for you, Mek. You will live a few seconds longer. I am

going to kill the whore first, and I am going to let you watch. I hope

you enjoy it as much as I am going to." He sidled away from the shelter

of the boulder, edging towards where Tessay lay curled on the gravel

beach. She was turned half away from him, trying to cover her breasts

and her pubic area with hands too small and delicate for the job. Even

as he approached the woman, Boris was watching Mek with his full

attention. Mek was the danger, and he never took his eyes off him. It

was a mistake. He had underestimated the woman.

While pretending to turn away from him modestly, Tessay had reached down

between her thighs and found a round, water-worn stone that fitted

neatly into her small fist. Suddenly she uncoiled her lithe body and

used all the strength of it to hurl the stone at his head. Boris caught

the movement from the corner of his eye and flung up his arm to shield

his head.

The stone, flying with surprising force at close range, never struck its

target. Instead it caught the point of Boris's upraised elbow. His

sleeves were rolled up high around his biceps, and there was no padding

to cushion the impact of the stone; his arm was bent and flexed, the

thin covering of skin drawn tightly over the bone of the joint. The head

of the ulna cracked like glass, and Boris howled at the excruciating

agony. His hand opened involuntarily, and his forefinger jerked away

from the trigger without the strength to fire the shot he was aiming at

Mek's belly.

Mek rolled to his feet, and before Boris could change the rifle to his

other hand he disappeared behind the angle of the giant boulder.

With his left hand Boris swung the butt of the rifle at Tessay's head,

knocking her backwards into the sand. Then he thrust the muzzle into her

throat, pinning her there while he shouted angrily. "I am going to kill

her, you black bastard! If you want your whore, you' better come fetch

her!" The pain of the shattered elbow rendered his voice hoarse and

brutish.

From somewhere behind the boulder Mek Nimmur's voice fang out strongly

and clearly, calling a single word in Amharic that echoed along the

cliffs. Then he spoke in English, "My men will be here in a moment.

Leave the woman and I will spare you. Harm her and I will make you plead

for death."

Boris stooped over Tessay and dragged her to her feet with his good arm

locked around her throat. He held the rifle in the same hand, pointing

it over her shoulder. The hand of his injured arm had recovered

sufficiently from the first shock to be able to hold the pistol grip and

to manipulate the trigger.

"She will be dead long before your men get here," he shouted back as he

started to drag her away from the boulder. "Come and get her yourself,

Mek. She is here if you want her."

He tightened his lock around her throat, choking her until she struggled

and gasped, tearing at his arm with her nails and leaving long red welts

across the tanned skin.

"Listen to her! I am crushing this pretty neck. Listen to her choking."

He tightened his grip, forcing the sounds of distress out of her.

Boris was watching the corner of the boulder where Mek had disappeared.

At the same time he was backing away from it, giving himself space in

which to work. His mind was racing, for he knew that he could not

escape. His right arm was barely usable, and there were too many of

Mek's shufta companions. He had the woman, but he wanted the man as

well. That was the best trade that he could hope for - both of them, he

had to have both of them.

He heard a shout, a strange voice from higher up the slope. Mek's men

were on their way. He was desperate now. Mek was not going to be drawn;

he had not heard him speak or move for almost two minutes. He had lost

him - by this time he could be anywhere.

"Too late," Boris realized. "I am not going to get him.

Only the woman. But I must do it now." He forced her to her knees and

stooped over her, shifting the lock of his arm around her throat.

"Goodbye, Tessay," he grated in her ear. He tightened his arm muscles

and felt the vertebrae in her neck arched to breaking point. It needed

only an ounce more pressure.

"It's all over for you," he whispered, and began the final pressure. He

knew from long experience the sound, that the vertebrae would make as

they gave, and he tensed himself for it, poised for that crackle like

the breaking of a green branch, and the stack weight of her corpse in

his grip.

Then something crashed into his back with a force that seemed to drive

in his backbone and crush his ribs.

Both the strength and the direction were entirely unexpected. It did not

seem possible that Mek Nimmur could have moved so far and so swiftly. He

must have left the shelter of the boulder and circled out through the

scrub.

Now he had come at Boris from behind.

His attack was so savage that the arm that Boris had wound around

Tessay's neck opened.- She drew in a wheezing, strangled breath and

twisted out of his grip. Boris tried to turn and swing the rifle around,

but Mek was on him again, seizing the rifle and trying to wrest it from

Boris's hands.

The Russian's finger was still on the trigger, and a shot went off white

the muzzle was level with Mek's face. The detonation stunned him for an

instant, and he released the rifle and staggered backwards with his ears

ringing.

Boris backed away from him, struggling with the weapon, trying to open

the bolt and crank another cartridge into the chamber, but his crippled

right arm'made his movements clumsy and awkward. Mek gathered himself

and charged head down across the gravel beach. He drove into Boris with

all his weight, and the rifle flew out of the Russian's hands. Locked

chest to chest the two of them spun around in a macabre waltz, trying to

throw each other, wrestling for the advantage, until they tripped and

went over backwards into the river.

They came to the surface still grappling and rolling over each other,

first one on top and then the other, a fearful parody of the lovemaking

which Boris had watched a few minutes earlier. Punching and straining

and tripping each other, they struggled in the shallows. But every time

they fell back into the water the slope of the bank beneath their feet

forced them further out, until, when they were waist-deep, the main

current of the Nile suddenly picked them up and swept them away

downstream. They were still locked together, their heads bobbing in the

tumble of waters, their arms thrashing the water white around them,

bellowing at each other in primeval rage.

Tessay heard the men that Mek had called coming down through the scrub

at the run. She snatched up her shamnw and pulled it over her head as

she ran to meet them. As the first of them burst on to the gravel bar

with his AK cocked, she shouted to him in Amharic.

"There! Mek is in the water. He is fighting the Russian.

Help him!" She ran with them along the bank. As they drew level with the

two men in midstream one of the men stopped and levelled his AK, but

Tessay rushed at him and struck up the barrel.

"You fool!" she shouted angrily. "You will hit Mek." Jumping to the top

of one of the riverside boulders, she shaded her eyes against the

dazzling reflection of the low sun off the water. With a sick feeling in

the pit of her stomach she saw that Boris had managed to get behind Mek

and had a half nelson hold around his throat. He was forcing Mek's head

under the surface. Mek was struggling like a hooked salmon in his grip

as they were swept into a long chute of white water.

Tessay jumped down from the rock and ran on down the bank to the next

point, from which she could only watch helplessly.

Boris was still holding Mek's head under water as they were home

together into the head of the chute. Fangs of black rock flashed by them

on each side as they gathered speed. Mek was a powerful man and Boris

had to exert every last ounce of his own strength to hold him, and he

knew he could not do so much longer. Suddenly Mek reared back, and for a

moment his head came out. He sucked a quick breath of air before Boris

could force him under again, but that breath seemed to have renewed his

strength.

Desperately Boris looked ahead to the tail of the chute as they sped

towards it. There were more rocks there. Boris picked out one great

black slab over which the waters poured in a standing wave three feet

high. He steered for it, kicking and hauling Mek's body around with the

last of his strength.

They flew down the slope of racing water with the rock slab waiting for

them at the end like a lurking seamonster. Boris continued to wrestle

with Mek, until he had turned him into a position ahead of him. He

planned to steer him into a head-on collision with the rock and use

Mek's body to cushion his own impact.

At the very last moment before they struck Mek dragged his head out from

the surface, and as he grabbed a precious lungful of air he saw the rock

and realized the danger. With a single violent effort he ducked forward

below the surface again and rolle over head-first. It was so powerful

and unexpected that Boris was unable to resist.

Instinctively he maintained his lock around Mek's neck and was carried

forward over his back until their positions were reversed. Now Mek had

managed to interpose Boris between himself and the rock, so that when

they slammed into it it was the Russian who bore the full brunt of the

impact.

Boris's right shoulder crunched like a walnut in the jaws of a steel

cracker. Although his head was still under water he screamed at the

brutal agony of it, and his lungs filled with water. He relinquished his

grip and was flung clear of Mek. When he came to the surface he was

floundering like a drowned insect, his tight arm shattered in two

places, his good arm flailing weakly, and his sodden lungs wheezing and

pumping.

Mek exploded through the surface only a few yards behind him. Looking

around quickly as he strained for air, he spotted Boris's bobbing head

almost immediately and with a few powerful overarm strokes came up

behind him.

Boris was so far gone that he was not aware of Mek's intentions until he

seized his shirt collar from behind and twisted it like a strangler's

garotte. With his other hand, below the surface, Mek secured a grip on

the back of Boris's wide leather belt and used it like the helm of a

rudder to steer him towards the next reef of rocks that was boiling the

water ahead of them.

Through his waterlogged lungs Boris was trying to shout invective at

him. "Bastard! Black swine! Filthy-' But his voice was barely audible

above the rush of the waters and the growl of the rocky spur that lay

across their path. Mek rode him head-first into the rock and he felt the

impact transferred through Boris's skull to jolt the straining muscles

of his forearms. Instantly Boris went slack in his grip, his head lolled

and his limbs became as limp and soft as strands of kelp washing in the

surf.

As they tumbled into the next run of open water, Mek used his grip on

the back of Boris's collar to lift the Russian's face above the surface.

For a moment even he was struck with horror at the injury that he had

inflicted.

Boris's forehead was staved in. The skin was unbroken, but there was a

deep indentation in his skull into which Mek could have thrust his

thumb. And Boris's eyes bulged, pushed out of their sockets like those

of a battered doll.

Mek swung the inert carcass around in the water, and stared at the

broken head from a distance of only a few inches. He reached up and

touched the depressed area of the skull with his fingertips, and felt

the shards of splintered , bone grate and give beneath the skin.

Once again he thrust the shattered head below the surface and held it

there, while he crabbed sideways across the current towards the bank.

There was no resistance from Boris, but Mek kept his head submerged for

the rest of that long tortuous swim across the Nile.

"How do you kill a monster?" he thought grimly. "I should bury him at a

crossroads with a stake through his heart." But instead he drowned him

fifty times over, and at the next bend of the river they were washed

into the bank.

Mek's men were waiting for him there. They supported him when his legs

sagged under him, and they helped him up the bank. When they started to

drag Boris's corpse out of the river, Mek stopped them abruptly.

him for the crocodiles. After what he has done

"Leave to our country and our people, he deserves nothing better." But

even in his anger and his hatred he did not want Tessay to have to look

at that mutilated head. She had been unable to keep pace with the men,

but she was coming along the bank towards him now.

One of his men pushed Boris's corpse back into the current, and as it

floated away he unstung his AK rifle from his shoulder and let off a

burst of automatic fire. The bullets chopped up the surface around

Boris's head, and socked heavily into his back. They tore holes in his

wet shirt and kicked out lumps of raw flesh. The other men on the bank

shouted with laughter and joined in the fusillade, emptying their

magazines into the lifeless body. Mek did them. Some of their close

relatives not attempt to prevent had died most horribly under the

Russian's care. The corpse rolled over in a pink cloud of its own blood,

and for a moment Boris's pate bulging eyes stared at the sky. Then he

sank away beneath the surface.

Mek stood up slowly and went to meet Tessay. He took her in his arms,

and as he held her to his chest he whispered to her softly.

"It's all right. He won't ever hurt you again. It's all over. You are my

woman now - for ever!'

Since -Boris and Tessay had left the camp there was no longer any reason

to maintain security, and Nicholas -and Royan were no longer obliged to

skulk in Royan's hut when they discussed their search for the tomb.

Nicholas transferred their headquarters into the dining hut, and had the

camp staff build another large table on which they could spread the

satellite photographs and all the other maps and material that they had

accumulated.

The chef sent a steady supply of coffee from the kitchen, while they

pored over the papers and discussed their discoveries in Taita's pool

and every theory that either of them dreamed up, no matter how

far-fetched.

"We will never be certain if that shaft was made by Taita, or whether it

was a natural sink-hole, until we can get back in there with the right

equipment."

"What type of equipment are you talking about?" she wanted to know.

"Scuba, not oxygen rebreathers. Although the navy rebreathing outfits

are much lighter and more compact, you cannot use them below a'depth of

thirty-three feet, the equivalent of one atmosphere of water. After that

pure oxygen becomes lethal. Have you ever used an aqualung?"

She nodded. "When Dutaid and I were on honeymoon at a resort on the Red

Sea. I had a few lessons and made three or four open-water dives, but

let me hasten to add that I am no expert."

"I promise not to send you down there," he smiled, "but I think we can

safely say that we have found enough evidence both in Tanus's tomb and

Taita's pool to make it imperative that we mount the second phase of

this operation."

She nodded agreement. "We will have to return with a much more extensive

range of equipment, and some expert help. But you are not going to be

able to pose as a- tourist Sportsman next time around. What possible

excuse are we going to find for returning that will not set off all the

alarm bells in the minds of Ethiopian bureaucracy?"

"You are speaking to the man who has paid unofficial and uninvited

visits to both those charming lads Gadaffi and Saddam. Ethiopia should

be a Sunday-school picnic in comparison."

"When do the big rains start up in the mountains?" she asked suddenly.

"Yes!" His expression became serious. That is the jackpot question. You

only have to look at the high-water mark on the walls of Taita's pool to

have some idea what it must be like in there when the river is in full

flood." He flipped over the pages of his pocket diary. "Luckily, we

still have a bit of time - not a great deal, but'enough. We will need to

move pretty smartly. We have to get back home before I can start work on

planning phase two."

"We should pack up right away, then."

"Yes, we should. But it seems a damned shame not to take full advantage

of every moment we are here, having come all this way. I think we can

spare just a few more days to sound out some ideas that I have about

Taita's pool and the sink-hole, to try to arrive at some sort of

informed guess about what we will need when we return."

"You are the boss."

"My word, how pleasant to hear a lady say that." She smiled sweetly.

"Enjoy the moment," she counselled him, "it may never happen again." And

then she became serious again. "What are these ideas that you have?

"What goes up must come down, what goes in must come out," he said

mysteriously. "The water going into the sink'hole under such pressure

must be going somewhere.

Unless it joins a subterranean water system and makes its way into the

Nile that way, then it should come to the surface where we can find it."

"Go on," she invited.

40the thing is certain. Nobody is going to get into the sink-hole from

the pool. The pressure is lethal. But if we can find the outlet, we may

be able to explore it from the other end."

"That's a fascinating possibility." She looked impressed, and turned to

the satellite photograph. Nicholas had identified the monastery and

ringed it on the photograph.

He had marked in the approximate course of the river through the chasm,

although the gorge itself was too narrow and covered with bush to show

up on the smallscale picture, even under the high-powered magnifying

lens.

"Here is the point where the river enters the chasm." She pointed it out

to him. "And here is the side valley down which the trail detours.

Okay?"

"Okay," he nodded. "What are you driving at?"

"On our approach march, we remarked that this valley might at one time

have been the original course of the Dandera river, and that it seemed

to have cut a new bed for itself through the chasm."

"That's right,'Nicholas agreed. "I am still listening."

"The fall of the land towards the Nile is very steep at this point,

isn't it? Well, do you recall we crossed another smaller, but still

pretty substantial, stream on our way down the dry valley? That stream

seemed to emerge from somewhere on the eastern side of the valley."

All right, I am with you now. You are suggesting that this may be the

overflow from the sinkholes Clever little devil, aren't you?"

"Just capitalizing on your genius." She cast down her eyes modestly, and

looked up at him from under her lashes.

She was clowning, but her lashes were long and dense and curling, and

her eyes were the colour of burnt honey with tiny golden highlights in

their depths. At this close range he found them disturbing.

He stood up and suggested, "Why don't we go and take a look?"

Nicholas went to fetch his camera bag and the light day'pack from his

hut, and when he returned he found Royan ready to go. But she was not

alone.

I see that you are bringing your chaperon with you," he remarked with

resignation.

"Unless you are tough enough to send him away." Royan smiled

encouragement at Tamre who stood at her side, grinning and bobbing and

hugging his shoulders in the ecstasy of being in the presence of his

idol.

"Oh, very well." Nicholas gave in without a struggle.

"Let the little devil come along."

Tamre lolloped away up the path ahead of them, his grubby shamma

flapping around his long skinny legs, chanting the repetitive chorus of

an Amharic psalm, and every few minutes looking back to make certain

that Royan was still following him. It was a hard pull up the valley,

and the noonday heat was debilitating. Although Tamre seemed totally

unaffected, the other two were both sweating in dark patches through

their shirts by the time they reached the point where the stream

debauched into the valley. Gratefully, they sought the shade of a patch

of acacia trees, and while they rested Nicholas glassed the side of the

valley through his binoculars.

"How are they after the dunking I gave them?" she asked.

"Waterproof," he grunted, "full marks to Herr Zeiss."

"What do you see up there?"

"Not much. The bush is too thick. We will have to foot'slog up the side.

Sorry."

They left the shade and made their way up the side of the valley in the

direct burning sunlight. The stream tumbled down a series of cascades,

each with a pool at its foot. The bush crowded the banks, lush and green

where the roots had been able to reach the water. Clouds of black and

yellow butterflies danced over the Pools, and a black and white wagtail

patrolled the moss-green rocks along the edge, its long tail gyrating

back and forth like the needle of a metronome.

Halfway up the slope they paused beside one of the pools to rest, and

Nicholas used his hat like a fly-swatter to stun a brown and yellow

grasshopper. He tossed the insect on to the surface of the pool, and as

it kicked weakly and floated towards the exit a long dark shadow rose

from the bottom. There was a swirl and a mirrorlike flash of a scaly

silver belly, and the grasshopper disappeared.

"Ten'pounder,'Nicholas lamented. "Why didn't I bring my rod?"

Tamre was crouched near Nicholas on the pool bank, and suddenly he

lifted his hand and held it out. Almost at once one of the circling

butterflies settled upon his finger.

It perched there with its velvety black and yellow wings fanning gently.

They stared at him in astonishment, for it was as though the insect had

come to his bidding. Tamre giggled and offered the butterfly to Royan.

When she held out her hand, he gently transferred the gorgeous insect to

her palm.

"Thank you, Tamre. That is a wonderful gift. Now my gift to you is to

set it free again." She pursed her lips and blew it softly into flight.

They watched the butterfly climb high above the pool, and Tamre clapped

his hands and laughed with delight.

"Strange," Nicholas murmured. "He seems to have a special empathy with

all the creatures of the wilderness. I think that Jali Hora, the abbot,

does not try to control him, but lets him do very much as his simple

fancy dictates.

Special treatment for a fey soul, one that hears a different tune and

dances to it. I must admit that, despite myself, I am becoming quite

fond of the lad."

It was only another fifty feet higher that they came to the source.

There was a low cliff of red sandstone, from a grotto at whose foot the

stream gushed. The entrance was screened by a heavy growth of ferns, and

Nicholas went down on his knees to pull them aside and peer into the low

opening.

"What can you see?" Royan demanded behind him.

"Not much. It's dark in there, but it seems to go in for quite some

way."

"You are too big to get in there. You had better let me go in."

"Good place for water cobra," he remarked. "Lots of frogs for them to

eat. Are you sure you want to go?"

"I never said that I wanted to." She sat on the bank while she unlaced

her shoes, then lowered herself into the stream. It came halfway up her

thighs, and she waded forward against the flow with difficulty.

She was forced to bend almost double to creep under the overhanging roof

of the grotto. As she moved deeper in, her voice came back to him.

"The roof gets lower."

"Be careful, dear girl. Don't take any chances."

"I do wish you wouldn't call me "dear girl"." Her voice resonated

strangely from the cave entrance.

"Well, you are both those things, a girl and dear. How about if I call

you "young lady?

"Not that either. My name is Royan."There was silence for a while, then

she called again. "This is as far as I can go. It all narrows down into

a shaft of some sort."

"A shaft?" he demanded.

"Well, at least a roughly rectangular opening."

"Do you think it is the work of humans?"

"Impossible to tell. The water is coming out of it like the spout of a

bath tap. A solid jet."

"No evidence of any excavation? No marks of tools on the rock?"

"Nothing. It's slick and water-worn, covered with moss and algae."

"Could a man get into the opening, I mean if it were not for the water

pressure?"

"If he was a pygmy or a dwarf."

"Or a childT he suggested.

"Or a child," she agreed. "But who would send a child in there?"

"The ancients often used child-slaves. Taita might have done the same."

"Don't suggest it. You are destroying my high opinion of Taita," she

told him as she backed out of the entrance of the grotto. There were

pieces of fern and moss in her hair, and she was soaked from the waist

downwards. He gave her a hand and boosted her back on to the bank. The

curve of her bottom was clearly visible through her wet trousers. He

forced himself not to dwell upon the view.

"So we have to conclude that the shaft is a natural flaw in the

limestone, and not a man-made tunnel?"

"I didn't say that. No. I said that I couldn't be sure.

You might be correct. Children might have been used to dig it. After

all, they were used in the coalmines during the industrial revolution."

"But there is no way that we would be able to explore the tunnel from

this end?"

"Impossible." She was vehement. "The water is pouring out under enormous

pressure. I tried to push my arrn up the shaft, but I did not have the

strength."

"Pity! I was hoping for some more irrefutable evidence, or at least

another lead." He sat down beside her on the bank, and ferreted in his

pack. She looked at him quizzically when he brought out a small black

anodized instrument and opened the lid.

"Aneroid barometer," he explained. "Every good navigator should have

one." He studied it for a moment and then made a note of the reading.

"Explain," she invited.

"I want to know if this spring is below the level of the entrance to the

sink-hole in Taita's pool. If it is not, then we can cross it off our

list of possibilities."

He stood up. "If you are ready, we can move on."

"Where to?"

"Why, Taita's pool, of course. We need a reading up there to establish

the difference in altitude between the two points."

nce Tamre knew where they were headed he showed them a shortcuts so it

took them just under two hours from the fountain head to the top of the

cliff face above Taita's pool.

While they rested, Royan remarked, "Tamre seems to spend most of his

days wandering around in the bush. He knows every path and game trail.

He is an excellent guide."

"Better than Boris, at least," Nicholas agreed, as he fished out his

barometer and took another reading.

"You look particularly pleased with yourself." Royan watched his face as

he studied the instrument.

"Every reason to be," he told her. "Allowing one hundred and eighty feet

for the height of the cliff below us, and another fifty feet for the

depth of the pool, the entrance to the sink-hole is still over a hundred

feet higher than your outlet through the fern grotto on the other side

of the ridge."

"Which means?"

"Which means that there is a distinct possibility that the streams are

one and the same. The inflow is here in Taita's pool and the outflow is

from your grotto."

"How on earth did Taita do it?" she puzzled. "How did he get to the

bottom of the pool? You are the engineering marvel. Tell me how you

would do it."

He shrugged, but she persisted. "I mean, there must be some established

way of doing things like that, of working under water. How do they build

the piers of a bridge, or the foundations of a dam, or - or - or how did

Taita himself build the shaft below the level of the Nile to measure the

flow of the river? You remember the description that he gives of his

hydrograph in River God?"

"The accepted technique is to build a coffer dam " Nicholas said

casually, and then broke off and stared at her. "My oath, you really are

a corker. A dam! What if that old ruffian, Taita, dammed the whole

flipping river!"

"Would that have been possible?"

"I am beginning to believe that with Taita anything is possible. He

certainly had unlimited manpower at his disposal, and if he could build

the hydrograph on the Nile at Aswan, then he understood very clearly the

principles of hydrodynamics. After all, the old Egyptians' lives were

completely bound up with the seasonal inundations of the river and the

management of the floods. From what we have gathered about the old man,

it certainly seems Possible."

"How could we prove it?"

"By finding the remains of his dam. It had to be a hell of a work to

hold the Dandera river. There is a good chance that some evidence of it

remains."

"Where would he have built the dam?" she asked excitedly. "Or let me put

it another way, where would you site the dam if you had to do it?,

"There is one natural place for it," he answered promptly. "The spot

where the trail leaves the river and detours down the valley, and the

river falls into the chasm.

They both turned their heads in unison and looked upstream.

"What are we waiting for?" she asked, and sprang to her feet. "Let's go

look-see!

Their excitement was infectious, and Tamre giggled and danced ahead of

them along the trail through the thorns and then up the valley to the

point where it rejoined the river. The sun had lost the worst of its

heat by the time they stood once again above the falls where the

Dandera. river plunged into the mouth of the chasm, and began its last

lap in the race to join the Nile.

"If Taita. had thrown a dam across here - " Nicholas made a sweep of his

arms across the mouth of the gorge, he could have diverted the river

down the side valley here."

"It looks possible," she laughed. Tamre giggled in sympathy, not

understanding a word of what they were saying, but enjoying himself

immensely.

"I would need a dumpy level to take some shots of the actual fall of the

land. It can be very deceptive, but with the naked eye it does look

possible, as you say." He shaded his eyes and looked up the bluffs on

each side of the waterfall. They formed two craggy portals of limestone,

between which the river roared as it plunged over the lip.

"I would like to climb up there to get a clearer picture of the layout

of the terrain. Are you game?"

"Try and stop me,', she challenged him, and led the climb. It was a

heavy scramble, and in some places the limestone was rotten and

crumbling dangerously. However, when they came out on the summit of the

eastern portal they were rewarded with a splendid overall view of the

ground below.

Directly to the north, the escarpment rose like a sheer wall with its

battlements crenellated and serrated. Above and beyond it there was a

dream of further mountains, the high peaks of the Choke, blue as a

heron's plumage against the clearer distant blue of the African sky.

All around them were the badlands of the gorge, a vast confusion of

ridges and spines and reefs of rock of fifty different hues, some

ash-grey and white, others black as the hide of a bull buffalo, or red

as his heart blood. The river in bush was green, the poisonous vivid

green of the mamba in the treetop, while further from the water the

scrub was grey and sear, and along the spines of the broken kopjes stood

the stark outlines of ancient drought-struck trees, their tortured limbs

twisted and black against the sky.

"The picture of devastation," Royan whispered as she looked around her,

'untamed and untaniable. No wonder Taita chose this place. It repels all

intruders."

They were both silent for a while, awed by the wild grandeur of the

scene, but as soon as they had recovered from the exertion of the climb

their enthusiasm resurfaced.

"Now you can get a good picture of it." Nicholas pointed down into the

valley below them. "There is a clear divide at the fork of the valley.

You can see the natural fall of the ground. There, from that side of the

gorge to that point below us, is the narrowest part. It is a neck where

the river squeezes through - the natural site for a dam." He swivelled

and pointed down to the left of where they sat.

'it would not take much to spill the river into the valley.

Once he had finished whatever he was up to in the chasm, it would taken

even less to break down the wall of the dam and let the river resume its

natural course again."

Tamre watched their faces eagerly, turning his head to each speaker in

turn, uncomprehending, but aping Royan's expression like a mirror. If

she nodded he nodded, when she frowned he did the same, and when she

smiled he giggled happily.

"It's a big river." Royan shook her head, while Tamre wagged his from

side to side in sympathy and looked wise.

"What method would he have used? An earthen dam?

Surely not?" i "The Egyptians used earthen canals and dams for a great

many of their irrigation works,'Nicholas mused. "On the other hand, when

they had rock available to work with ..", they used it extensively. They

were expert masons. You have stood in the quarries at Aswan."

"Not much topsoil here in the gorge," she pointed out.

"But on the other hand, there is plenty of rock. It's like a geological

museum. Every type of rock that you could wish for."

"I agree," he said. "Rather than an earthen wall, Taita would most

probably have used a masonry and rock fill.

That is the type of dam the ancients built in Egypt, long before his

time. If that is the case, there is a chance that traces of it have

survived."

"Okay. Let's work on that hypothesis. Taita built a dam of rock stabs,

and then he breached it again. Where would we find the remains of it?"

"We would have to start searching on the actual site," he answered.

"There at the neck of the gorge. Then we would have to search downstream

from there."

They scrambled down the slope again, with Tamre picking out the easiest

route for Royan, stopping to beckon her whenever she faltered or paused

for breath. They came out in the neck of the valley and stood on the

rocky bank of the river, looking about them.

"How high would the wall have been?" Royan asked.

"Not too high. Again, I can't give you a precise answer until I have

shot the levels." He climbed a little way up the side of the wall. There

he squatted and turned his head back and forth, looking first down the

length of the valley and then towards the lip of the waterfall that

dropped into the mouth of the chasm.

Three times he changed his position, on each occasion moving a few paces

higher up the slope. The cliff became steeper the higher he climbed. In

the end he was clinging precariously to the side of it, but he seemed

satisfied. Then he called down to her.

"I would say this is about it, where I am now. This would be the height

of the dam wall. It looks about fifteen feet high to me."

Royan was still standing on the bank, and now she turned and stared

across at the far bank of the river, estimating the distance to the

limestone cliff rising above it.

"Roughly a hundred feet across," she shouted up to him.

"About that," he agreed. "A lot of work, but not impossible."

"Taita. was never one to be daunted by size or difficulty." She cupped

her hands around her mouth to shout up to him. "While you are up there,

can you see any sign of works? Taita would have had to pin the dam wall

into the cliff."

He scrambled along the cliff, keeping to the same level, until he was

almost directly above the falls and could go no further. Then he slid

down to where Royan and Tamre waited.

"Nothing?" she anticipated, and he shook his head.

"No, but you can't really expect that there would be anything left after

nearly four thousand years. These cliffs have been exposed to wind and

weather for all that time. I think our best bet will be to look for any

surviving blocks from the dam wall that might have been carried away

when Taita. breached it to flood the chasm again."

They started down the valley, where Royan came upon a chunk of stone

that seemed to be of a different type from the surrounding country rock.

It was the size of an oldfashioned cabin trunk. Although it was

halfcovered by undergrowth, the uppermost end - the one that was exposed

- had a definite right-angled corner to it. She called Nicholas across

to her.

"Look at that." Royan patted it proudly. "What do you think of that?"

He climbed down beside herand ran his hands over the exposed surface of

the stab. "Possible," he repeated. "But to be certain we would have to

find the chisel marks where the "old masons started the fracture. As you

know, they chiselled a hole into the stone, and then wedged it open

until it split."

Both of them went over the exposed surface carefully, and although Royan

found an indentation that she declared was a weathered chisel mark,

Nicholas gave her only four out of ten on the scale of probability.

"We are running out of time," he said, enticing her away from her find,

'and we still have a lot of ground to cover."

They searched the valley floor for half a kilometer further, and then

Nicholas called it off. "Even in the heaviest flood it is unlikely that

any blocks would have been carried down this far. Let's go back and -see

if anything was washed over the falls into the mouth of the chasm."

They returned to the bank of the Dandera and worked their way down as

far as the falls. Nicholas peered over.

"It's not as deep here as it is further down," he estimated. "I would

guess that it is less than a hundred feet."

"Do you think you could get down there?" she asked dubiously. Spray blew

back out of the depths into their faces, and they had to shout at each

other to make themselves heard over the thunder of the waters.

"Not without a rope, and some muscle men to haul me back out of there."

He perched himself on the brink and focused the binoculars down into the

bowl. There was a jumble of loose rock down the - small, rounded

boulders, and one or two very much larger. Some of them were angular,

and some with a little imagination could be called rectangular. However,

their surfaces had been smoothed by the rushing waters, and were

gleaming wet. All of them seemed partially submerged or obscured by

spray.

"I don't think we can decide anything from up here, and to tell the

truth I don't fancy going down there - not this evening anyway."

Royan sat down beside him and hugged her knees to her chest. She was

dispirited. "So there is nothing we can be certain about. Did Taita dam

the river, or didn't he?" Quite naturally he placed his arm around her

shoulders to console her, and after a moment she relaxed and leaned

against him. They stared down into the chasm in silence.

At last she drew back from him gently, and stood up.

"I suppose we should start back to camp. How long will it take us?"