~Chapter Three~

 

Jonathan’s Story

 

Previously, The Pink Hippo

Imad ad-Din district, Cairo

 

   The Pink Hippo could well have been any nightclub in the Middle East.  The décor was a sort of generic Arabian with bits of Imperialistic Britain thrown in to make the British servicemen more comfortable while serving their country in kasbahs around the world.  Smoke was heavy in the air, and a distant jukebox was rather predictably playing As Time Goes By.  Uniformed officers, on leave from Fort Brydon, swayed with a few of the more lovely expatriates., and Jonathan ignored it all.  He was instead trying with limited success to retain his poker face.  He glanced around the card table in an effort to distract himself from his near unbelievable luck.

 

   Normally, that would raise his suspicions a trifle.  Not that he was a terrible card player – it was only that he wasn’t, as a rule, a terribly lucky one.  Tonight, however, he was in possession of the lion’s share of the pot, and his fellow players were beginning to get nervous. 

 

   Willy, the dealer for the evening, watched over them all with an eagle eye – although it was doubtful he was doing so in an effort to prevent dishonesty.  If the truth be known, Jonathan rather thought that Willy would only rat someone out if there was a chance that this would then result in some amount of blood-letting.   Willy was one of the more unsavory expatriates, but he was also one of the better dealers in the city.   Jonathan took the offered cards with a small nod of thanks, and continued looking around the table.

 

   Mohammed Fadil sat directly across from him, flanked on either side and to the rear by two men he had introduced as his younger brothers.  Jonathan was given very little time to ponder over the complete lack of resemblance the three seemed to share before his attention was diverted by the sizable wad of cash the large Arab removed from the pocket of his robe.  The stakes had been raised.  Fadil’s teeth made a brief appearance through the solid black mass of his beard, and then he, too, picked up his hand.

 

   The sight of the money was more than Corporal Reggie Fellingsworth could resist, although to Jonathan’s mind, he probably should have.  The man was well-known around Cairo for his fondness of the gaming table.  And for his inheritance, which he was slowly but surely whittling away during his extended holiday in Egypt.  Had Jonathan been a better man, he would have at least given young Reggie a word or two of advice, but….well, that would have been the pot calling the kettle black, wouldn’t it?  So instead, he sat at the table and watched Reggie’s chin quiver slightly whenever he lost yet another round.

 

   Sometimes he disgusted even himself, Jonathan reflected.  This, however, was not one of those days.  Not a single cheat, and not one person at this table was getting into something they were unaware of.  Despite the fact that they were eyeing him with distrust and just generally getting themselves in a lather over the fact that he now possessed most of their money, the two men who remained for this round were here to win back their money, or go out fighting.

 

   Resisting the urge to chuckle and rub his hands together, he settled for merely shuffling disinterestedly though his cards, and dropping some money in the pot.  The others followed suit.  He asked the dealer for a card.  The others did the same.  And so went the game.

 

   It didn’t take long for the cocktail-marinated young brain of Fellingsworth to realize that perhaps the stakes were getting a wee bit too high.  He folded, and retreated to the bar.  Fadil, on the other hand, decided to up the ante even further.  His black eyes were cold as he met the gaze of the remaining Englishman.  Jonathan nodded back and calmly, if a trifle unsteadily, took another sip of his whiskey.   He could help but wonder what inadvertent faux-pas he had committed to apparently provoke the bearded native into going for his throat.  The turbaned man flashed his teeth at him again – in a most alarming manner – and held his hand out towards one of his brothers.  The younger man placed a wrapped object in it.  Jonathan squinted at it curiously.  “Eh?” he cleverly inquired.

 

   “I grow tired of playing for worthless scraps,” Fadil announced sonorously in his accented baritone.  “To make this game more interesting, I suggest we both put something of value in the center.  Is this agreeable to you, Carnahan Effendi?”  

 

  Jonathan’s eyes remained riveted on the shrouded object throughout the speech.  He heard his name being spoken and blinked.  “Sorry, I – I beg your pardon?  Valuable, you say?”

 

   Fadil nodded and puffed on the cigar that protruded from his beard.  “Something of antiquity.  You reputation as a great archaeologist precedes you, Mister Carnahan.  I am certain you possess a suitably interesting prize.”

 

   No-one, not even his sister who loved him very dearly, had ever referred to his archaeological talent as “great”.  The fact that Fadil had alone should have alerted him to the oddness of the request.  But, as is the excuse for many a staggeringly stupid behavior, the four whiskeys he’d consumed throughout the evening were beginning to accumulate.  Jonathan thought for an alcohol-fogged moment before reaching into the breast pocket of his coat.  He held something up in the dim light of the nightclub.

 

   “Will this do, do you think?”

 

   It was beautiful – worth a tidy sum in the antiquities market, Jonathan wagered.  He’d picked it up earlier that day in one of the bazaars around town.  It was a phenomenally lucky catch, if he did say so himself.  The dealer he’d bought it from, Halim Haddad, had mentioned earlier that there was another buyer interested in the object.  He’d come in several times to haggle over the price.  And that buyer was Englizi.

 

   To Jonathan’s mind, the only people who comparison-shopped were the truly experienced foreign collectors and archaeologists.  And those people were invariably European.  Either way, this lovely little amulet was obviously important enough to warrant the rather extortionate price put upon it by Haddad.  Smiling, Jonathan had paid the man upfront and continued home to freshen up before leaving for the club.

 

   He’d left the amulet in his coat, however, as sort of a good-luck charm.  And now, even under the poor lighting of the club it shone with the richness of its materials.  The lotus-shaped gold disk was only slightly dented in places from its centuries of existence, and every piece of the finely inlayed lapis lazuli remained in place.  One of Fadil’s brothers made a pleased murmur as the amulet was set on the table, and after another nod from the merchant he then removed the cloth from the object being offered by their party. 

 

   Jonathan stared at it in surprise.  A papyrus scroll.  A papyrus scroll?  That was the “great antiquity” Fadil was offering to up the ante?  Why, the hills around Egypt were covered in papyri.  Natives practically used papyri scrolls to heat their homes when wood was scarce. 

 

   However, it was clearly very old and in very good condition.  Oh, well.  Perhaps Evie could get some use out of it.  Or Alex…yes.  That was it – the lad’s birthday was coming up, and Jonathan was certain he’d be delighted to have a genuine archaeological artifact to muck about with…Very well.   Jonathan smiled, and gestured for the game to continue.  Fadil put his cards on the table, his teeth glinting.  “Flush.”

 

   Jonathan blinked blearily again, and craned his neck to see.  Sure enough, Fadil had a very tidy little flush before him.  Nevertheless…

 

   The Englishman placed his cards on the table, and allowed a mischievous grin to cross his features for the first time that night.  “Royal Flush.”

 

   Fadil and his brothers gaped in silence at the hand.  Mohammed’s mouth actually opened and shut several times while Jonathan reached across the table to collect his winnings.  He folded the money into his bill-fold, deposited the coins in his pockets, dropped the amulet back into his coat – all in the time it took Fadil to raise hands to his shocked face.  After many years at the card table, Jonathan had learned that following large wins, it was best to take what you could and make a strategic retreat as speedily as possible.  “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, nodding courteously towards the Fadil brothers and Willy, tucking the papyrus under his arm, “And you, Mister Fadil.  Have a delightful evening.” 

 

   The Arab did not return his courtesy.  In fact, blatant violence flashed through his dark eyes, surprising Jonathan a great deal, as most of the merchants he associated were a tad better-tempered than that.  It was a fair game – even Willy had seen that.  So why, then, was one of the brothers shifting impatiently and…reaching for something in his robe?

 

   It slowly dawned on Jonathan that all was not as it appeared.  Oh, for God’s sake, when would he ever learn? he wondered, backing away and dashing across the crowded dance floor.  Once outside, he paused briefly to collect his thoughts.  Had he not been suddenly afflicted with that niggling fear between his shoulder-blades, he might have been tempted to stroll home and enjoy the evening.  However, self-preservation won out over aesthetic appreciation.  Leaving his hands ready by his sides, he followed the well-lit areas of traffic, stayed close to tourist areas, and jumped several fences.  It was nearly four in the morning before he collapsed, weary in body and anxious in spirit, on his own bed in the house he shared with his sister’s family.

 

   He was safe for now.  But he did not doubt that was merely a temporary state of affairs.

 

 

 

Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo

 

   Jonathan finished his tale, preparing for some sort of recrimination from his companion.  Perhaps something along the lines of, “It serves you right.”  He was certain the Miss Pennington was not accustomed to the sort of life he led, or to problems he currently found himself faced with.  She had freckles, for God’s sake – women with freckles did not belong anywhere near the seamier side of Cairo nightlife.

 

   Instead of looking towards Kate and being faced with the inevitable look of disappointment – not that she had any reason so far to form a favorable opinion of him, he thought morosely, remembering the tourist warning she had let slip – he turned towards the entrance of the foyer.  A colorful group of tourists were entering, noisy and cheerful, obviously dressed for dinner.  Ah – if only life could be so simple.

 

   Kate had listened intently to Carnahan’s story, her hands itching for her notebook.  It was there, burning a hole through her skirt pocket the entire time, but…it would probably be a dead giveaway, writing in that now.  Plus, it didn’t have much to do with the British Museum story.  Kate couldn’t allow herself to become distracted now, no matter how good a storyteller Jonathan was.  It wasn’t as if she had anyway of knowing if *anything* he said was true, at any rate.

 

   She knew his kind well – she’d dealt with them often enough while living in New York.  A big-time player pours his guts out to any sympathetic face, hoping for an easy make or some mothering. And while Kate wasn’t absolutely certain that was the case here, she figured that first and foremost, a girl’s got to look out for herself.  That included sorting out why someone mugged her that afternoon.  She needed to remember to cut through the gristle of Jonathan’s numerous troubles and stick to *that* point before anything else.

 

   Then she followed his line of sight and sighed.  Wouldn’t it figure – the one lead she had, the lead that had practically fallen in her lap – well, he was currently concentrating on a blonde entering in a tight, red sequined gown.  It forcefully reinforced the reputation of the man across from her, and discouraged her more than just a little.  It meant her secret weapon was well nigh useless in this situation.       

 

   Kate had an honest face, knew it, and used it frequently.  It was hard to lie to a girl who looked your first best friend or childhood crush.  Jonathan Carnahan, however, went for glamorous women with showgirl looks and apparently always had.  She’d seen the pictures – plunging necklines and lots of décolletage accompanied him to nearly every social event covered by newspapers.  It was disheartening.

 

   Not that she cared in the slightest what kind of girls Jonathan went with, she hastened to add to her internal monologue.  It was only discouraging in that she would have much greater difficulty in charming Jonathan into telling her anything about the events of last year.  Difficult, but not impossible. 

 

   “A royal flush, huh?”

 

   Jonathan looked back at Kate, surprised that *that* was the particular she’d picked up on.  She smiled at him.  “Pretty spiffy, Mr. Carnahan.”

 

   “Oh, it was nothing – nothing at all,” he replied, grinning delightedly at her.  “Luck was in my favor – that’s all.  It could have just as easily been Fadil who won the round, really.”

 

   “But, still…”

 

   Miss Pennington was looking at him, evidently quite impressed with something as trifling as winning a card game.  The idea was preposterous enough to raise his suspicions again, and he noticed that she was tapping the fingers of her right hand on the tabletop.  A nervous gesture?  Or an impatient one?  Just to be on the safe side, he looked quickly around the lobby to assure himself that there wasn’t someone there waiting in ambush for her to finish this conversation.  The lobby remained empty, save themselves and a scattering of people on their way towards the terrace dining room.  And none of that bunch looked particularly villainous.  Then again, you could never be too careful…

 

   “Yes, well…that’s essentially what’s happened so far, Miss Pennington,” he said, bringing himself back to the matter at hand.  “And I apologize again for inadvertently involving you – if there’s anything I can do—“

 

   “That’s not everything that’s happened so far,” Kate pointed out, interrupting him yet again mid-babble.  “It can’t have been.  It doesn’t add up.”

 

   “I beg your pardon?”

 

   “The story – so you won this papyrus in a poker game – that’s swell.  But what’s that got to do with that weedy guy who hauled me into the alley?  Or those big lugs from the Museum?  Or your broken ribs?”

 

   “They’re not broken!” he objected with a touch of offended manly pride.  “Bruised is all.  And as for the rest…I didn’t already mention the rest?” Jonathan asked hopefully.

 

   Katherine smiled crookedly.  “Sorry.”

 

   Jonathan took a deep breath, preparing to launch into another tale.  “Very well, then.  Let me begin at the beginning—“

 

   “How about we just stick to the pertinent facts, instead?” Miss Pennington suggested.  She raised the back of her hand to her mouth in a lady-like attempt to hide a yawn.  The enticing aroma of dinner that drifted through the hotel was reminding her of the late hour, and of the fact that she had been traveling for several days.  She was experienced in all-night parties and deadlines and such, but there had simply been too much happening in too short a period for her to take it all in. 

 

   “Er…certainly.”

   “Your ribs.  I’m guessing that wasn’t an accident.”

 

   Jonathan looked across the table at her where she sat, calm and collected, when any other woman of his acquaintance save his sister would probably be having a minor attack of hysterics – or fanning themselves at the very least.  Kate merely blinked sleepy golden-green eyes and waited for him to continue.

 

   “The ribs?  No. No, that wasn’t an accident.  Well, perhaps the first couple blows were accidents, but I feel fairly certain that the rest was calculated.”

 

   “Somebody beat you up?” Kate said incredulously, loosing that cool for a moment.  “Why would anybody…”  Jonathan simply looked at her expectantly.  She closed her mouth.  “Oh.  Fadil?”

 

   “That’s exactly what I thought, actually, Miss Pennington.  I saw murder in his eyes…but let’s not get poetic.  Up until last night, I believed Fadil was the most immediate person to wish me harm.  Until Abdul El-Bassim’s lad’s showed up at the nightclub and pulled me out back to chat.”

 

   “Not the Pink Hippo again!”

 

   “Oh, no – I thought it wise to steer clear of that rat-trap for a while – just until the dust settled.  I was at the Sand Bar last night.”

 

   “The Sand Bar?  Cute.”

 

   “The owner apparently thought so,” Jonathan agreed.  “And…where was I?  Ah, yes.  Naturally, I refused to accompany them to see their boss.”

 

   Kate nodded.  “Naturally.”

 

   “They violently expressed their disapproval over this before tossing me into a stack of crates.  I don’t remember much after that, but when I came to a bit later, they’d cleaned out my billfold.  The bloody cheek,” he added, disgusted.        

 

    The detachment with which he discussed it almost gave the impression that he was talking about someone else.  Except that he grimaced slightly when he crossed one leg over his knee.  “And you don’t know what they were after?” she asked.

 

   “Well, one of the fellows mentioned something about “prizes unfortunately lost”, but was rather vague about the particulars – as those types so often are.  I suppose garrulousness isn’t a trait favored in hire muscle…well, it’s not my fault El-Bassim bet more than he was willing to lose, is it?”

 

   Kate blinked twice, then swallowed hard before replying.  Surely he couldn’t possibly mean…”So you think they wanted that papyrus thing back?”

 

   Jonathan nodded.  “Yes.”

 

   “And you—but you – why—“ she sputtered off into incomprehensibility.  Jonathan looked slightly alarmed.

 

   “Miss Pennington?  Are you alright?  Can I get you something?  A drink of some—“

 

   “Why didn’t you just hand it over?!” she finally managed to choke out.  “If that’s what they want – just give it to them!  Save yourself a few beatings, and me a few muggings?  Why not?”

 

   The Englishman squirmed uncomfortably and scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish.  “Well, I didn’t exactly have it on me to just *hand over*.  And besides…”

 

   “Besides?”

 

   “Well – it’s the principle of the matter, isn’t it?  I won it, fair and square.  He should learn to be more careful about what he puts on the poker table, shouldn’t he?”

 

   She raised an eyebrow at his, and he had the grace to blush.  “Of all the men I’ve ever met, you really are the most…” she trailed off, shaking her head in amazement. 

 

   He grinned.  “Yes, well…”

 

   “How do you know your assailants were El-Bassim’s men?” Kate asked, changing the subject.

 

   “Black turbans – impractical in the heat, but terribly handy for ambushes.  Plus, they all wear his symbol on a pin just here –“ he gestured to a space three or four inches about his forehead, “—it’s a kind of swirly number with lines through it.  Hard to miss.  It was the only thing reflecting light in that alley,” he added, swallowing.

 

   “Oh.”

 

   Jonathan watched as she tried to hide another yawn.  “Miss Pennington?”

 

   “Hmm?”

 

   “I suppose…you’re probably wanting to rest now, eh?”

 

   “It’s been a long day,” she agreed.”

 

   “And with any luck, perhaps El-Bassim and his brutes have realized you haven’t got anything at all to do with this.”

 

   She smiled sleepily.  “I hope so.”

 

   Jonathan didn’t seem to hear; he was thinking hard.  “All the same…” he continued,  “don’t leave your room tonight.  And don’t leave in the morning until there are lots of people about.  And put a chair under your door as soon as you get there.”

 

   Despite the direness of the caution, she couldn’t help but quip, “Because that trick worked so well today, right?”

 

   “Please?  If not for yourself, do it for my peace of mind, Miss Pennington.”

 

   How could anyone refuse such a request?  “Hey – I’m no hero.  You can rest easy, Mr. Carnahan.”

 

   “Jonathan, please.  Mr. Carnahan has always been my father – and I’m *not* my father.”

 

   If Kate hadn’t known better, she would have thought he sounded slightly regretful.  Impulsively, she held out her hand.  “And I’m Kate.”

 

   They shook hand, very formally.  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Kate,” he replied, quirking another one of his grins.  She smiled back warmly.

 

   “Likewise…Jonathan.”

 

   They remained like that – hand-in-hand – until a very sun burnt and slightly tipsy couple bumped into them en route to the elevator, breaking the spell.  Jonathan cleared his throat, and Kate was suddenly aware of the amount of time she must have spent in the sun that day.  Her face felt very warm.

 

   “You’ll be…er…careful, then?  Don’t answer your door at all?”

 

   “I’m *always* careful.  Goodnight, Jonathan,” she said, and started up the stairs.

 

   Jonathan was so intrigued by her reply that her farewell completely failed to register in his mind until she was well out of hearing range.  He watched until she disappeared around a bend in the staircase.  “Goodnight, Kate.”

 

 

~*~

   For several minutes after bidding farewell to the pretty young American, Jonathan loitered about the lobby, irresolute.  Chivalry demanded he remain or at least ensure Kate’s safety by posting someone near-by.  However, he was uncertain as to what, exactly, was deemed acceptable gentlemanly behavior by modern feminists.  Not only that, but his body ached all over and the idea of a good long sleep was sounding more and more appealing.  Deciding to ruminate on it a bit further, he compromised.  Sort of.  A bellboy was sent to stand upstairs near Kate’s room, having been given several pounds as incentive.  Jonathan himself headed over to the recently-installed bar of Shepheard’s lounge, where he could relax a bit…just until he was certain it would remain a quiet evening.

 

   He sat down in one of the tall, swiveling chair and motioned for the bartender.  “I’ll have a whiskey, please.”

 

   The bartender nodded and moved along to fill his order.  Jonathan turned to face the room, keeping an eye out for any shady-looking characters.  This was a fairly tricky exercise because despite his extensive experience with such people, he was still somewhat at a loss when it came to actually picking them out of a crowd.  Oh, well, absolutely – it was a given that villains wore black.  Except when they wore red.  And they were always hideously ugly and deformed – except when they were actually stunningly beautiful.  The bartender delivered his drink and Jonathan picked it up, sighing.  Things were always so much easier in the movies.

 

   He was just about take a drink when the bellboy he had hired rushed in, panting for breath.  “Mister Carnahan!  Mister Carnahan!”

 

   “Yes?”

 

   “The Sitt – she has left her rooms!”

 

   Jonathan’s eyes widened in alarm.  “Has she?”

 

   “She has!  She is right—“

 

   “—here,” the lady in question answered.  Jonathan jumped out of his seat, narrowly avoiding spilling his drink.

 

   “Miss…er, Kate!” he exclaimed, vaguely embarrassed at having been caught still in the hotel.  “You’re here!  Is something wrong?”

 

   She climbed up onto one of the chairs and waved at the bartender eavesdropping on their conversation.  “I’ll have whatever he’s having,” she told the Egyptian, “but make it a double.”

 

   Once that was accomplished and the bellboy had melted away, she turned to Jonathan and sighed, looking very weary indeed.  “You know how we were thinking that maybe El-Bassim’s goons have realized I don’t have what they want?”

 

   Jonathan nodded, a feeling of dread rapidly spreading through him.

 

   “Well, we may have been wrong,” she continued shakily, “because someone ransacked my room today.”

 

  

 

End Chapter 3