Free The Eleventh Plague by Darren Craske Page B

long, ragged robe from head to toe. Clothes of function, not fashion. The garb of a desert rider. His eyes were tainted by grey shadow, and his fingernails were dirty, as if the man had just crawled out of his own grave. Faroud held the lantern over the box and ran his fingers across the engraved pattern of a sideways-tilted figure of eight – the mathematical symbol for ‘infinity’. Lifting the lid, he saw twelve inlaid grooves, nine of which contained cylindrical glass vials, whereas threepockets were empty. He reached inside the box and pulled out one of the vials. It was roughly the size of his index finger, with decorative, ascending ivy etched into the glass.
    ‘Mr Joyce will be most pleased,’ Faroud said.
    ‘I am sure that he will. But if he is pleased by that, then he will be positively ecstatic when he hears what else I can offer him,’ said Nadir.
    Faroud raised an eyebrow. ‘Explain.’
    ‘There was a woman onboard the ship. A Frenchwoman by the name of Madame Destine. Now, I have proof that she is possessed of a fantastic gift…and one that would suit a man like Herr Joyce’s needs most spectacularly,’ explained Nadir.
    Faroud’s stony expression did not budge for a second. ‘And what makes you believe that this woman would be of interest to Mr Joyce?’
    ‘She is able to see the future!’ Nadir saw the look of distrust flicker in the Egyptian’s eyes and spoke quickly to seal his words. ‘I am serious, Herr Faroud. She travelled here with an Englander…the very same man that I was ordered to kill, yet he evaded my best efforts to do so.’
    ‘An Englander?’ Faroud’s dark eyes narrowed into slits. ‘How frequently they have come to desecrate my country! I have killed many who have tried.’
    ‘Good for you,’ chirped Nadir. ‘And would Mr Joyce not profit greatly from a woman who could predict the future at his merest whim?’
    Faroud pondered for a moment. ‘This was not part of my agreement. I am merely supposed to collect this casket and deliver it to the British Embassy. However, your words give me pause. I will take you to Mr Joyce. If you can convince him of this woman’s worth, perhaps he will let you live.’ Faroud offered a tentative smile towards the German. ‘Perhaps.’

CHAPTER XIV
The Two-Faced Man
    A T THE EMBASSY in Cairo, Godfrey Joyce was not a happy man. Far from joyous at the best of times, this morning he was possessed of a particularly foul distemper. He was facing pressure on all sides, and not all of it courtesy of the British government, for Mr Joyce was a duplicitous man. He had successfully juggled careers both as British attaché to Egypt and as a Hades Consortium spy for several years, feigning servitude to Her Majesty Queen Victoria whilst secretly plundering the Empire’s secrets. It was Joyce’s foremost desire to gain higher notoriety within the Hades Consortium’s inner circle, and he was fully prepared to sell his soul to achieve it. However, the urgent communiqué that he had just received was not sitting well on his portly stomach. His employers had requested his delivery of a certain casket, and with the Hades Consortium, a request was always construed as an order.
    A gentle knock on his office door disturbed his discomfort, and a plump young man entered. ‘Good morning, Mr Joyce,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It seems you have two gentlemen to see you this morning. Aksak Faroud, of your previous acquaintance, and one other gentleman. A rather unkempt individual, if I may be sobold, sir. They aren’t in the appointment book, so I thought I had better check with you.’
    ‘Faroud, eh? Oh, don’t you worry about that, Reginald. He’s got something of interest for me I hope,’ Joyce said. ‘Send him on in, lad.’
    Joyce twisted around a small mirror mounted on his desk, checking his appearance studiously. His russet-red hair was greased flat against his head, sweeping down his pale face into two mutton-chopped sideburns that formed a thin