In the Eye of the Storm

  I knew there had to be something wrong! I knew it all along: these two voices whispering and crying in the dark - they couldn’t belong to us! Not to Mr Ambrose, and certainly not to me! Someone else had to be saying all those strange things.

  ‘Come here,’ I heard the him that sounded like Mr Ambrose say. ‘Let me hold you.’

  Bloody hell! Now I was two hundred and fifty per cent sure someone else had to be talking! That could not, under any circumstances, in this or in any other universe, have been Mr Rikkard Ambrose talking!

  ‘Yes! Please!’

  And that most certainly could not have been me answering! And yet, I felt myself being pressed against a lean, hard body in the dark, felt my face glide over cloth and sand, until my cheek was touching another face. An angular face it was, chiselled and hard in some places, soft in others. Like his lips, for example. His lips were soft. Familiar.

  But how could they be familiar? After all, this was not Mr Ambrose I was feeling against me, and this was not even me doing the feeling. Those were two phantoms in the dark who dared to say things we could never say, do things we would never do.

  ‘Rick?’

  ‘Yes, Lilly?’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  Not me. Not me talking.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, too.’

  Not him talking either.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well…’ A touch of sarcasm entered the voice of the phantom man. ‘Not glad that you’re here in the sandstorm, in imminent danger of suffocation, obviously. I meant here with me.’

  ‘Yes. I meant that, too.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A moment of silence. A moment of roaring storm winds.

  ‘Lilly?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If we don’t survive, I want you to know that I…’

  And the storm gave another bellow, cutting the phantom short. Maybe it was better that way. It really did sound entirely too much like Mr Ambrose.

  *~*~**~*~*

  When the darkness began to lighten and, by some strange coincidence, I found my face - not the face of a phantom or doppelganger, but my actual face - tucked against Mr Ambrose’s chest, I immediately flinched back from this suspiciously unfeminist position. He hurriedly opened his arms, which somehow had gotten tangled around me, and we slid back over the sand, eyeing each other cautiously, like a kitten and a dog caught in flagrante delicto.

  The roaring of the storm subsided somewhat.

  He cleared his throat, and sand landed in his open hand.

  ‘Ehem. Are you well?’

  ‘You mean apart from the fact that I’m bruised and parched and almost roasted? Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Adequate.’

  Now that was Mr Ambrose talking.

  The dark brown haze around us lightened again, and we could see the faint outline of a human-camel hybrid a few dozen yards away.

  ‘Youssef? Is that you?’

  The human detached himself from his camel. ‘Ambrose Effendi? You are alive?’

  ‘Of course!’ Mr Ambrose made a dismissive noise and waved his hand. ‘I told you, a little bit of sand couldn’t stand in my way.’

  Youssef’s eyes flicked from Mr Ambrose to me and back again. Underneath the sand-caped cloth covering his face, the Egyptian opened his mouth to say something - then closed it again, and bowed his head. ‘Yes, Effendi. As you say, Effendi.’

  Behind Mr Ambrose, I got to my feet and, pointing to him, rolled my eyes. Then I made a very expressive gesture involving my forefinger being energetically tapped against the side of my head. Youssef was still wearing a cloth over his face, but underneath, I thought I could see something twitch. The corners of a mouth, maybe.

  ‘Wait until the sandstorm has died down, then send out scouts to find the others.’

  ‘Yes, Effendi. They will not have gone far. They know that during a sandstorm, it is safest to stay put and seek shelter.’

  I might have imagined it, but I thought there was just the tiniest bit of emphasis on the ‘they’ in that sentence. Before Mr Ambrose had a chance to comment on it, Youssef turned and vanished around a dune.

  ‘And find that infernal camel of mine!’ Mr Ambrose shouted after him.

  It was only a quarter of an hour later that Youssef returned, all the men and camels in tow. They looked a little dusty, but none the worse for wear.

  ‘All present and correct, Effendi,’ he said, saluting. ‘And there’s one thing more.’

  Mr Ambrose halted in the process of checking the saddlebags of his errant camel. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We spotted a troop of soldiers from afar.’

  ‘Soldiers?’

  ‘Egyptians and English, Effendi. Although there may have been some French, too. It was difficult to make out from a distance.’

  English, French, and Egyptians?

  I froze. Could it be…? No, it couldn’t!

  But it has to be! It has to be him!

  So Captain Carter had set out into the desert after all. I didn’t say anything, and was careful not to make any sudden movements. After all, Mr Ambrose didn’t know anything about Captain Carter. And I didn’t think right now would be the right time to inform him. Neither would next week be. Or next year. Or ever, to tell the truth.

  Slowly, he turned towards Youssef. I only had to take one look at the cold glint in his eyes to know I had been right not to say a word.

  ‘What are they doing here?’

  Youssef shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say, Effendi.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘At least a hundred, Effendi. Probably more in the surrounding countryside. What I saw looked like one detachment of a larger force.’

  Without moving his head, Mr Ambrose threw a sideways look at Karim. ‘Your assessment?’

  The huge bodyguard reached up to tug thoughtfully at his beard - then grasped only air and scowled. ‘They’re here to take care of the bandits.’

  ‘Yes… and probably not in the way I wish it to be done. Youssef? How much chance do they have of catching up with us?’

  ‘None.’ The Arab smiled a brilliant white smile, sharp and crooked like an ivory sabre. ‘Some have camels, but most of the men are either on foot or on horseback, particularly the English. Those riders will soon be on foot, too, when their horses collapse from exhaustion and die.’

  Oops…

  I cleared my throat. ‘But, um… the riders themselves, the soldiers I mean… they won’t die, right?’

  ‘Well, probably not.’ Youssef shrugged. ‘They have a few people who seem to know what they’re doing, so some of them are probably going to survive.’

  Great. Just great.

  ‘The sun is already setting.’ Shielding his eyes with his hands, Mr Ambrose gazed towards the horizon. ‘We’ll wait until it is dark and the stars are visible, so we can calculate our exact position. Then we’ll go on. Hopefully, those soldiers will be roasted alive and won’t get in our way.’

  *~*~**~*~*

  We marched on. When one day, the shadow of a craggy mountain fell on me, I realized the landscape had changed a bit. Why hadn’t I noticed before?

  Because you’ve been watching Mr Ambrose instead of hills, dunes and mountains, that’s why!

  Well, so what if I was watching him and trying to catch every word he said? It wasn’t because I was interested in him in any way. Oh no, definitely not! There was a far better reason:

  We were coming close to the area where the bandits were operating. He knew that, and so did I. And he knew that I knew that he still hadn’t revealed even the hint of a plan of what he was going to do when the bandits attacked. Right from the beginning of our journey I had tried to worm information out of him and failed. That first time hadn’t been the last. Here’s how one of these conversations usually went.

  Me: ‘Dick?’

  Mr Ambrose: **Cold Silence**

  Me: ‘All right, all right. Rick!’

  Mr Ambrose: ‘Yes?’


  Me: ‘You know how you said you were going to let us be ambushed by the bandits?’

  Mr Ambrose: ‘Yes.’

  Me: ‘Well… What about it? I mean… you can’t really have meant that, can you?’

  Mr Ambrose: ‘No.’

  Me: ‘No as in “No, I can’t really have meant that”?’

  Mr Ambrose: ‘No. No as in “No, I can have meant it, and did mean it”.’

  Me: ‘But… we’ll all be slaughtered!’

  Mr Ambrose: ‘Indeed?’

  Me: ‘You can’t want us all to be slaughtered!’

  Mr Ambrose: ‘Indeed?’

  Me: ‘Tell me what your plan is!’

  Mr Ambrose: **Cold Silence**

  Me: ‘You do have a plan, don’t you?’

  Mr Ambrose: **Cold Silence**

  Me: ‘Bloody hell, will you open your mouth for once in your lifetime?’

  Mr Ambrose: **Even Colder Silence**

  Now, taking conversations like that into account, is it surprising that I had a tendency to glare at him, and that I tried to listen in on every single word he spoke? I’m not a very self-centred person as a rule, but I like my neck uncut, thank you very much. And I wasn’t about to let Mr Ambrose’s stubbornness stop me from keeping it that way.

  We were just riding through a shadowed valley between two bare hills when I decided to make another attempt at the fortress. Driving Ambrose closer to Mr Ambrose, I cleared my throat.

  Nothing happened.

  I cleared my throat again.

  ‘Do you have a cold?’ Mr Ambrose asked without looking at me.

  If I had, it would be from your voice and not the climate!

  ‘No!’ I glared at him. ‘I’m not putting up with this any longer! I’m not walking blindly into a trap! If you have got a plan, fine! Share! If you haven’t got one, then at least admit it! After what you did back in the sandstorm, I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought you could just march right through anything and anyone because you’re so high and mighty! But at least admit it! And if you do have a plan after all, I want to bloody know what it is! I want to know what you plan to do when we meet the-’

  ‘Bandits!’ Mr Ambrose growled.

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly it.’ I nodded. ‘So are you going to tell me?’

  But Mr Ambrose wasn’t paying any attention to me. He turned around, signalling to Youssef. ‘Bandits! There! Bandits!’

  Slowly, the realization sank in: he wasn’t talking to me anymore. Mr Ambrose raised his arm, and I followed it with my wide-eyed gaze. There, on top of the nearest hill, stood a figure, its silhouette sharply contrasting against the burning blue sky. My heart picked up the pace. More figures appeared, right and left, mounted and unmounted, until we were surrounded by a virtual forest of men.

  ‘Oh.’ I swallowed. ‘I guess our talk will have to wait.’

  Raising their sabres, the bandits gave a guttural war cry and charged down the hillside.

  Camelkaboom

  I expected Mr Ambrose to charge at the bandits single-handedly. I expected bullets to fly and gallons of blood to flow. I expected a terrifying battle. What I didn’t expect was Mr Ambrose sliding from his camel, falling to his knees and throwing his rifle away.

  ‘Please! Please don’t hurt us! We are just merchants! We mean nobody any harm. Please don’t hurt us!’

  I stared at him open-mouthed.

  The foremost bandit, the leader, to judge by the arrogant smirk on his face, pulled his camel to a halt in front of Mr Ambrose and spat on the ground.

  ‘English pig! So much for your famous “stiff upper lip”! Tell your men to throw their weapons away!’

  ‘Men!’ Mr Ambrose called, his voice trembling, yes, actually trembling with fear! ‘Throw your weapons away, immediately! These people won’t harm us if we don’t resist!’

  The bandit laughed.

  ‘I didn’t say anything about that, pig! Out of my way!’

  ‘But…’

  Mr Ambrose didn’t get any further. Driving his camel forward, the bandit leader rode directly at him, and Mr Ambrose had just enough time to throw himself out of the way. Riding directly into the centre of the valley, the leader raised his gun over his head and shot into the sky, silencing everyone.

  ‘All right, men!’ he hollered. ‘Gather up the weapons! Drive the camels to the east of the valley, and those English pigs to the west!’

  So far, I had watched the whole proceedings with mouth agape. But now my stunned brain jumped into action. I drove my camel forward and bent down to pick up Mr Ambrose’s fallen rifle from the ground.

  ‘Hey, you!’ A shot rang out over my head. ‘Stop that!’

  I was just about to right myself and return fire - if I could figure out how a rifle worked in three seconds, that is - when a hard hand grabbed my wrist and pulled me down from the camel. A moment later I was flat on the ground, encaged in Mr Ambrose’s arms.

  ‘Forgive my wife!’ he pleaded with the bandits. ‘She’s had a heatstroke. She’s not right in the head!’ And into my ear, he hissed in his usual, cold, commanding tone: ‘If you don’t keep still, I will knock you out, understand?’

  I froze. That didn’t sound like the voice of a defeated man. That sounded suspiciously like a man with a plan.

  ‘Your wife?’ The bandit barked a laugh. ‘You’ve got one woman among you all, and she’s the only one who is man enough to pick up a rifle! That is a good joke! So much for the famed courage of the English! Now, do as you’re told! Get over to the west of the valley, or I’ll shoot you down here and now!’

  Rising to his feet and pulling me up with him, Mr Ambrose led me over to the west side of the valley, all the while keeping a tight hold on me. Bandits rode around us and all the others in circles, herding everybody off to the west, shouting ‘Move! Do as we tell you, and you won’t get hurt!’. Nobody was fooled by the show they were putting on. I could see it in my companions’ faces: they knew what awaited them. All the previous caravans had been massacred. This one would be, too. The bandits were just dangling the possibility of life in front of us so we wouldn’t resist. And so far, it seemed to be working.

  Or was it?

  I caught a glimpse of the cold, calculating look in Mr Ambrose’s dark eyes, and suddenly wasn’t so sure anymore. But then the look was gone again, replaced by abject terror and whining submission.

  ‘Please!’ he begged the bandits. ‘Please don’t take everything! I invested all my whole fortune into this caravan! If you take everything, you’ll leave me a beggar! Please!’

  The bandits roared with laughter. Not content with that, one of them stepped up behind my dear employer and booted him soundly in the behind. Flying forward, he landed face-first in the dirt.

  My lips twitched. Well, now, even if I was going to die today, maybe it was worth it just for having seen this.

  ‘Please!’ Getting up again, he slipped through the row of bandits and hurried to one of the camels they had herded together. ‘Please, don’t take this one! Take all the others, but not this one!’

  The laughter subsided. Suddenly, anticipation crackled in the air. All eyes flew to the camel beside Mr Ambrose.

  ‘Why?’ Brows furrowed, the bandit leader drove his mount towards my employer, stopping only a yard or two away. ‘What’s so special about this particular camel?’

  ‘I… I… I don’t know! Just please! Leave me just this one. You can have all the others, but please…’

  ‘Is there a treasure in the saddlebags? Gold? Silver?’

  Fear flickered over Mr Ambrose’s face. ‘No! No, nothing at all! The saddlebags are empty! Please, don’t take it! Please, you can take all the others, but please…’

  ‘Out of my way, you snivelling worm!’ Sliding down from his camel, the bandit leader marched towards Mr Ambrose and shoved him out of the way. He was so intent on the saddlebags that he didn’t notice Mr Ambrose crawling away rather fast for someone who, just a moment ago, seemed to have been determined to protect this parti
cular camel. ‘Now, let’s see what’s in here.’

  Unfastening the buckles, the bandit leader opened the first saddlebag - and the camel exploded.

  *~*~**~*~*

  I must admit, it took me quite by surprise. I’m from Westminster. We don’t often meet exploding camels in our neighbourhood. But, here in this place, things seemed to be different. Apparently, one exploding camel wasn’t enough. The others wanted to join the fun, and the moment the fire of the first explosion reached the next bleating furry molehill on legs, it blew up too. In a few fiery seconds of chaos, the entire east side of the valley was blown to bits, including every bandit and camel in it.

  A moment later someone shoved me from behind, and I fell to the ground. Looking up, I saw Youssef standing protectively over me, a rifle suddenly in his hand. Where the hell had he gotten that? Other men of our party were pulling out rifles, too, and aiming. Had they had hidden weapons all along?

  ‘Attack!’ His ice-cold command drew my eyes back to Mr Ambrose. He was rolling over and pulling out a revolver from his tailcoat pocket.

  Bam!

  The first bullet caught the nearest bandit in the head and hurled him off his camel. ‘Attack! Get them, men! Kill them all!’

  Hs men seemed more than glad to follow that order. Bullets whizzed over my head like a swarm of deadly bees. Screams rang out, and moments later, the half dozen bandits that had been surrounding us fell dead to the ground. Taking up a formation like a professional regiment, our caravan started firing at the rest.

  Not that there were many left. Most of them, gathered around the camels when they blew up, had been ripped apart by the explosions. The few who were left didn’t run, though.

  ‘A trap!’ shouted someone over the racket of the gunfire. ‘It’s a trap! Kill the English pigs, or Radi will have your head!’

  I spat out sand and raised my head. ‘Radi? Who the hell is Radi?’

  Youssef grabbed me, shoved me down again and fired another shot at the bandits. ‘How should I know? The chief leader of the bandits, maybe! Stay down!’

  ‘Give me a gun, and I won’t have to stay down!’

  ‘The Effendi gave strict orders that you were not to be given a weapon under any circumstances.’