Chapter Three: The Darkest Hour
When Michael came to, he was still being carried by the hands of more than one ruffian. The dulling of the sensitivity to his eyes told him that they had entered a darkened area—cool, and damp. The contrast with the dry heat of the Cairo streets, even at night, seemed incongruous to him unless, of course, they were somewhere near the banks of the Nile. He was being carried bumpily down stairs that he discerned were stone from the hollow sound of the flapping feet. He heard the sound of rusty metal grating on metal, he was laid, not too gently, down on a hard surface. Hands were pulling at cloth while he was being released from his bindings—and not just the rough cloth covering he'd been swathed in but his white suit and shirt and shoes and socks as well, down to his linen drawers. Nearly last to come off was the cloth over his head, and with a painful jerk, the binding over his mouth was ripped away. His eyes were having difficulty focusing. He felt the air current and the feet flapping of the withdrawing figures—and then the heavy slam of the door and the rasping of a bolt being shot home.
The light was dim, but bright enough that he caught no glimpse of his assailants before his eyes adjusted to the glare.
He found himself in a square stone-walled, stone-floored cell of dimensions of perhaps eighteen by eighteen feet. There was a single horizontal window opening high on the wall opposite the door. The opening was barred, and he could tell that day had broken because a beam of light, thick with dust particles almost too dense to see through, flooded into the room from the window and lit up a narrow cot placed against the wall to his right. His eyes then went immediately to the far corner of the room to the left, where he saw a square indent in the floor with a circular hole toward the back corner. Above this area was suspended a cistern with a heavy rope hanging down. He reasoned at once what the hole was for and also what the cistern was for. You pulled on the rope and the cistern tipped and water cascaded on anyone standing in the indenture. And the hole was large enough for other purposes as well.
Against the wall to the left was a crude wooden table with uneven legs and two squat stools, also with uneven legs. Above the level of the rude furnishings and set at intervals high on the walls all around the chamber were heavy black iron rings from which short chains ending in manacles dangled. Michael shuddered at the realization of what these were and what purpose this chamber must once have served—unless, of course, it still served that purpose.
Michael sat up on the floor, rubbed his chaffed wrists with his hands, and was unsuccessful in stifling a whimper.
"Ah, company. How nice. I was beginning to think I'd have to entertain myself."
Michael's head jerked up, seeking out the seemingly disembodied voice in what he initially had thought was, beyond him, an empty cell. The voice was a musical baritone, rich in texture, a touch of amusement completely out of place in these surroundings. The accent British, but a slight touch of something else too. But refined, carefully modulated.
He peered through the dust particles in the beam of light from the window and barely discerned movement there, from what he now could see was a second cot, set against the wall opposite the door.
The figure stirred, arose, and materialized through the dust particles. It was a man—a familiar man—an Egyptian. Of average stature and perhaps in his thirties, both of which surprised Michael, because the last time he had seen the man, he had appeared bigger than life and older—more mature.
And the last time Michael had seen him, descending the stairs at the Gentlemen's Dining Room at Shepheard's, commanding the attention of all those present, he also had been elegantly dressed in black silk evening clothes.
Now, like Michael, he was stripped down to linen drawers. And now he was more mysterious, more Egyptian, more feral than he had seemed before. He was dusky skinned and had magnificent musculature. Black curly hair—everywhere—from the crown of his head to his tightly clipped beard, down the line of his chest. And then on down, in a wide band running down his clavicle and ribs and flat belly and into the low-slung waistband of his drawers. His legs were hairiest of all. And what came to Michael's mind immediately were the images of satyrs he'd seen in books—so much so that his eyes descended to the man's feet, half expecting to see cloven hooves, but seeing instead long feet with long, plump, sensuous toes.
Michael shuddered and felt warm inside—without knowing why.
"Come, let me help you up," the man said as he moved to Michael.
Michael said nothing; he moaned and reflexively shrank away.
"Come. I won't harm you. We're both in the same pickle it would appear. And . . . don't I know you from somewhere? Have we met?"
"No. I've just arrived in Cairo," Michael said. It started in a croak, but then he realized that he was able to speak without his voice wavering. "I don't know anyone here," Michael continued. "I don't know why I'm here. It must be some sort of mistake."
"Everything in Cairo is a mistake," the man said somewhat wistfully. "But surely I've seen you."
"Last night. At Shepheard's. We were dining in the same room. My name's Michael. Michael Powell. American. I am just passing through. On my way to Karnak. The young pharaoh's tomb, you know. What's his name?"
"Tutankhamun, the boy pharaoh," the man said helpfully.
"Yes, that's him," Michael mumbled.
"Come, Mr. American Michael Powell. My name is Rushdy. Come let me help you up. I won't bite—at least not yet."
Michael gave him a sharp look, which Rushdy Abazar answered with a lopsided "I was just kidding" smile. Abazar reached his hand down, and Michael tentatively raised his and Abazar helped him rise to his feet.
"You can have whichever cot you want," Abazar said. "I only beat you in here by about an hour. I don't feel proprietary yet regarding any of these luxurious amenities."
Once again that smile, and Michael gave a tentative smile back, although it was through a haze of forming teardrops.
"Where are we? Why are we here? What's going to happen?" Michael had moved to the cot outlined by the beam of sunlight from the window opening high on the wall and collapsed on the thin mattress in despair.
"Such a lot of questions," Abazar said, retreating back to the other cot and sitting down. "I can answer one of them and perhaps make a good guess as to the rest. You have come to Cairo at a bad time, my lad. It's a pity you could not have come a few years ago. It's a glorious place, it really is. I would have enjoyed showing you around."
Abazar's words, given in a calm voice, clearly trying to soothe the young man, remained unremarked, so he continued. "As to where we are. In a prison cell, of course. Not the government's cells, to be sure. This is the virtual lap of luxury when set against those. This one is clear and doesn't smell of rot—at least yet. And as far as a location on earth, I am fairly certain we are somewhere in Heliopolis, a suburb of Cairo, along the Nile."
"How? How do you surmise this?" the youth asked, drawn in by the soothing, rich voice of the satyr, an image he just couldn't get out of his mind and that was assaulting him with mixed sensations of fear and interest.
"Look out of the window, high up on the horizon. What do you see?"
"A tower. Some sort of tower."
"That's a minaret, from which we Muslims are called to prayer. You will probably hear the call yourself soon enough—and then I will prostrate myself on the floor facing Mecca—assuming I can get my bearings and ascertain which direction Mecca is in. And it's not just any minaret. I recognize it. I live in Heliopolis myself. I can see this self same minaret from my home. That's the one answer to your questions I can provide with surety."
"And the others?" Michael asked in a soft voice, almost not wanting to hear the answers.
"Ah, the others. You are American and obviously wealthy—and I might add, achingly young and handsome and blond—although we will not get into that shall we? It's enough that you are American and wealthy. I would surmise that you are here as a matter of convenient snatching. You evidently placed yourself in a position to be kidnapped. No doubt in a few days, your family will have paid a handsome ransom and you will be back in their comforting arms—with luck, not much the worse for wear. Unless, of course. . . . But as I said, we won't get into negative thinking, shall we?"
Michael shuddered. He was beginning to think of the possibilities. Visions of the Nubian he had avoided only perhaps to fall into worse straits sprang to his mind.
"And you? Why you?"
"Alas, I left Shepheard's a little precipitously last night—without guards. There are other reasons why I would have been taken when vulnerable. These are volatile times in Cairo. And I am a public figure and was dining at the center of the European community here. I perhaps was a bit out of balance last evening on my loyalties. And just a little out of balance now can be fatal. No, no, I wager you'll be out and on your way up the Nile with a story to fascinate your friends back in America within a day or two," Abazar rushed on. "Whereas I may never be seen again, alas."
"How . . . how can you say that so cavalierly?" Michael asked.
"Life is precious, but it also is fleeting," Abazar answered. "Even in our most settled days, we live on the edge here in Egypt. One must be a fatalist about these things—and enjoy life to the fullest as we live it. Haven't you found that to be the case?"
