1. Mummy Treasure
"Smell that air, Mohammed." Peter said while he stood
up, taking in deep breaths of the humid, almost putrid, air around the Nile
that had just overflowed leaving a slick mass of fertile debris on it's
banks. Peter turned around, his blond hair that needed a haircut followed
his movement for just a few seconds before it fell back again on his moist
forehead and neck.
Mohammed, his Egyptian employee stood huddled over a hole
in the ground, digging away with a small shovel. Though
the day was hot, the tanned, curly-haired Egyptian didn't show it. Well good
for him to be heat resistant. Although this job had in fact been arranged by
one of Mohammed's contacts.
"Yes, sir. It's very good air." Mohammed said in his typical singsong-like accent.
"We don't have this air in Brittain." Peter said, "The water particles in
the air bring out a completely different smell of decomposition. It's quite
Peter turned around again and tried to pinpoint the origin of the smell.
After all it was unusual that they'd smell it as far away from the Nile as
they were. Just the day before the air had smelled of nothing but sand. A
dry scent that easily irritated Peter's nose and throat. Although he did not
like the general climate in Egypt, it really had all the necessary
components to make a dried and perfectly preserved mummy out of a corpse.
"Even the lowliest can bring fort the grandest
achievements." he claimed and returned to dusting the looser sand from the
pit in front of him. The two of them were there to try to find one of the
remaining peasant, natural mummies that were hidden in the sand. They were
often in a questionable state, but museums still paid for them. And Peter
couldn't deny he needed money.
"Sir." Mohammed called, his voice as quiet and even as ever.
"What?" Peter asked.
"I found one."
Peter hurried through the sand as fast as he could, feeling the annoying
moistness of his clothes against his skin. He reached mohammed and saw his
worker carefully haul up one of the offerings that had accompagnied the
body. It was a string necklace with simple red and white clay beads.
"It seems to be one from the early egyptian empire." Peter analysed, "No
jars with organs, simple wrappings. She was just put in the ground."
"Or she was very poor." Mohammed dared note.
"No, no. Even the poor got a better burial than this during the peek of the
Egyptian empire." Peter shook.
Mohammed remained silent and started gently wiping the dust away from around
the mummy. Peter looked in closer, leaned on Mohammed and nearly squashed
the muslim when he put his hands on his back.
Mohammed ducked head first into the grave and didn't know how he managed to
keep from crushing the mummy. He scraped his hands on the stone walls and
caughed when the sturred up dust hit his nose.
"What are you doing?" Peter called out.
Mohammed got up, keeping his usual silence that irked Peter. All their work
would have been in vain if the mummy got hurt. Leave it to the locals to
mess up. Peter wished he'd found a British employee. Alas most British
workers had refused his offers for other, more lucrative deals.
"Get the mummy out and prep it for ntransport." Peter said, leaving Mohammed
alone and returning to the absolute cool of the car air conditioning.
2. A Desert
Mohammed placed the mummified remains in the truck, protected from harm by
layers of towels, bubblewrap and used shirts. He covered her gently and
bound the mummy in a tight package. The cloths around her were tied with
ropes to the truck, making her rest on a net about 20cm above the truck
base. Mohammed wasn't taking any chances on transporting the remains.
He looked back and felt satisfied with his work. the burial site was
restored to how they'd found it. For the Ka, the bird that was the
materialisation of the soul during half the day, he'd left behind some of
the mummy's hair. In such, the soul would still find it's way back to it's
grave. But would it be able to rest without it's body? Mohammed wasn't all
that religious, but he felt that he needed to honour some believes.
With a sigh, he left the comfortable evening temperatures and traded them
for the freezing cold in the truck. Peter, his boss, had not grown
accustomed to the desert climate of Egypt. During the day he sweated like a
horse. During the night he shivered like a waif.
"Is the mummy secure?" Peter asked.
"Yes it is, sir." Mohammed said.
After that he started the car and manoevred out between the sandy dunes.
This part of the desert was rather desolate. Roads didn't lead here and not
many locals wanted to even set foot in the lands of Seth. They were said to
be cursed. As if reading his mind, Peter said:
"A lot of people disappear here."
"Just last summer a man of Britisch descent vanished less than a mile from
here. I think they found his car, wrecked by a sand storm. There was no
trace of him."
"You need to know when to go here." Mohammed said.
"He had lived here from his childhood. Worked not far from there."
"Maybe he had bad luck."
"A lot of people disappeared here." Peter insisted, "The curse of the
Peter laughed. No doubt he didn't understand the potency curses had in this
country. With rational thought one could keep telling himself that there was
no curse, but as soon as the emotions took over things like ghosts and
curses became a lot more viable.
Mohammed's family had been cursed for generations. They'd been struck by a
string of misfortunes and bad luck. No-one but the firstborn in the family
survived. From the moment they beared children it was like signing a death
certificate. Mohammed wasn't superstitious, but some believes he felt needed
to be honoured.
His mother believed it and not a day went by that she didn't pray for his
life. His father had also not minded the curse. As soon as Mohammed was born,
his father died in a carcrash, on his way to the maternity. Rational thought
said that his dad had been less attentive on the road. Rational thought said
that Egyptian traffic made more victims than mysterious curses.
The rest of the way to one of the roads that could actually be called a road,
the two of them remained silent. Mohammed concentrated on the road while
Peter stared out of the window. They started to meet more cars and
pedestrians. Even a seldomly seen motorbike zoomed past them. Cairo rose up
before them. The off-white stucced buildings reflecting the rays of the red
setting sun. A mist of smog hang at the base of it, clearly visible in this
The truck stopped in front of the little building that housed both Peter's
house and business. The little sign that hung from the building was bright
blue with white letters spelling "Waldham Detective Agency." Though to call
his business a detective agency was a bit narrow. Peter took on any job he
found interesting. Or any job that would keep him making money, like today's
job. Because sadly, he couldn't live from just the interesting cases. Yet.
"Home Sweet Home." Peter said happily and entered his house, leaving the
mummy for Mohammed to unload. He didn't need to keep himself occupied with
the details. That was Mohammed's job. Peter was a man who stood a distance
away and watched. Analysing from a far, like the armchair antropologists he
had admired in his youth.
Peter went past the waiting room, which was never full and was only used to
give their few clients the idea that he was a busy man. Appearance was
everything. Every Brit knew that. He passed through his office, which was
filled with heavy books and pictures of himself with important people. On
his desk there were some pristine white papers and an old-fashioned quill
and a modern recording device.
A door at the back of his office led to the living area and kitchen. From
there a stair led to three small bedrooms and a bathroom. Peter stopped at
the bar and took out a bottle of whisky. He poored himself a glass and
settled down in the couch.
Mohammed appeared in the doorway with the mummy.
"Can you take her to your friends?" Peter asked.
"Then put her in one of the bedrooms." Peter said.
Peter watched as Mohammed disappeared up the stairs. His mind left the
dealings of the day in favor of the dilemma which take-out to order that
night. Decent English food was nowhere to be found in Cairo. The selection
of spicy foods that had the love of the common folk were not to the taste of
Peter. Then maybe he'd order pizza again. Though he was getting sick of it.
Mohammed returned and waited. Peter got annoyed for a moment before he
remembered that today was Tuesday, the day they stayed open until 10 pm. He
sighed and said,
"Put on the lights and I'll move to my desk."
Mohammed nodded and opened the door. Peter wondered what the point was
anyway. The real important cases were the ones where people could take the
day of to come to him. Those were the ones that mattered. But sadly a lot of
their business came from locals. People who needed to find a relative.
People who wanted him for labour or digging. People who wanted other people
Egypt really was a country that took adds literally. He said he'd do
anything, they thought he'd actually consider killing. Baffoons.
Mohammed entered and said, "There is a client, sir."
"Let him wait for 10 minutes and then show him in. Tell him I'm on the phone."
"As you wish."
Mohammed disappeared and Peter quickly gave his office a once-over.
Everything was in place, there were no untidy spots or carelessly left
laundry. He'd left his whisky in the living room. He casually leaned back,
took up the phone and started an animated, but fingated conversation
directed toward the British consul in Egypt.
A little under 10 minutes later, Mohammed led in a tall, dark man, dressed
in the flowy gowns that most arabs wore. He didn't seem to be Egyptian, but
Peter never had gotten the hang of identifying races and nationalities in
Middle-eastern people. They all looked the same with their olive skin,
beards and black hair.
"Mister Rachid Baitar is here to see you."
"Welcome mister Baitar. how may I help you?" Peter said, using his best
smile on the client.
4. Of Bulls
Mohammed closed the door and left Peter alone with Rachid Baitar. Unlike
usual he stayed at the door and listened. He had a bad feeling about the
client. There was just an air around him that made Mohammed think they had
to keep away from him. Mohammed had worked for the national police force for
5 years before he'd been given the order to keep his current boss out of
trouble. He knew he could still distinguish the baddies from the goodies.
Peter on the other hand was blind, deaf and gullible. Mohammed listened as
the trap was woven inside the office.
"How can i help you?" Peter asked.
"Sir, I come to you with a pressing, but delicate matter." Baitar answered,
"You see my family was given possession of a rare and powerful artefact
hundreds of years ago. We protected it as best we could, but alas."
"You lost it?"
"Lowly thieves seduced my grandmother into giving them the artefact. She was
blinded by love and thought the artefact would buy her and her lover the
freedom to be together. She didn't know the importance of the artefact."
"What kind of artefact is it?"
It is a golden necklace. The gold is old and has lost it's shine during the
ages, the precious stones in it are beautifully set, but they look like grey
rock. The girl thought it was a trinket that could only be sold to a museum.
She didn't know the wrong she was doing."
"What happened next?"
"The thief left her of course. He took the necklace and was never seen again."
"And you want me to find the necklace?"
"No. I want you to take it back. It has been brought to my attention that
the necklace has returned to Egypt. It's being held in the abode of a crime
lord. One of the men who rule Cairo from the shadows. I'm being watched, I
cannot hope to get it back myself. But you sir, you could do it."
"We're not an agency that goes against the law." Peter called, but Baitar
could hear that his resistance was only for show. The story, which sounded
like a movie plot, had grasped his attention.
"Sir it would not be stealing. It would be returning lost property to it's
rightful owner. A good dead. A bit like that English hero... Robin..."
"Hood." Peter said with enthusiasm.
"Exactly." Baitar smiled, "I have the documentations here that this necklace
was once in the possession of my family. I am it's rightful owner."
A rustling of papers indicated that Peter was going through the documents
Baitar had brought with him. Peter was easily fooled. The shuffling of
chairs as the two men got up alerted Mohammed to get ready to leave. As he
had feared the next words out of Peter's mouth were:
"I am terribly busy, but I have taken an interest in your case. I think me
and my employee will satisfy your request."
The following minutes Peter would explain their fees and successrate.
Nothing of interest would be said. Nothing Peter could say would get them
into deeper trouble. He crept away toward the living room where he waited
for Baitar to leave. There was no way Peter would listen to his objections.
Mohammed hoped his mother had been saying her prayers diligently. Bad luck
was something he'd best avoid during the following days.
Romance in Books
Peter had closed up shop after he'd taken the case of Baitar. The man had
seemed poor at best, maybe he came from a family of fallen nobility, but the
two of them had agreed on a price that wasn't unfair. It was a bit below his
usual fee though. But this case seemed to be really what he needed to make a
name for himself. He, the righteous Brit who'd steal back from the corrupt
and give back what was stolen. Maybe he should sell this story to the
Being very pleased with himself, Peter hadn't even waited to look up the
details for this case. A thing he usually did to keep up his busy image.
According to Baitar, the heirloom was called the storm sky choker. Pictures
of the choker he found in books were the same as the pictures Baitar had
shown. The choker was made of white gold, a single band that was to be worn
over the neck, fine gold threads hand down on the chest in semi-circles. On
certain points where some of those threads joint grey stones loomed lke dark
raindrops. To Peter the whole thing looked rather depressing. And why was it
called stormsky? He blamed it on the culture.
According to his books, the choker had been in the possesion of the faraos.
At the end of the empire it had been lost and then later resurfaced. From
there it switched hands, seemingly also associated with a curse. Why were it
always curses in this land? Then finally it had reamined several hundreds of
years in one family, passing from one generation to the next. The eldest
child was always the keeper be it a woman or a man.
The period of the past fifty years was rather murky when the choker was
concerned. The story about the thieves Baitar had told seemed to be
authentic. And again the loss was accorded to the curse. According to the
book the choker had been enchanted by priests to dispell the curse, but
after several centuries the magic has worn off and the curse had yet again
A small vague part was written about the curse which seemed to work like the
curse of the farao. Only the real descendants of the farao could keep the
curse from running. Everyone else met with despair and ruin. Ilnesses came.
People died. The choker vanished and then turned up again.
"At least it doesn't say anything about peopl who handle it during a short
time." Peter mumbled.
As a rational spirit he easily cast the curse aside as the mindless fantasy
it was. This Stormsky choker obviously was something very wanted. Peter was
convinced more than one person had been killed over it. In truth those
stones should have been bloodred.
Baitar's story appealed more to him. The story of the tragic love of a woman
who lost a precious family heirloom that possibly had caused the curse to
revive. The entire concept was so right for a movie or a novel. It could be
How awesome would the book be with a heroic British detective to rewrite the
ending. A detective to find the choker, take it back against several
perilous setbacks and then give it back to the rightful owner. In the book
of course the detective would console the poor duped woman, marry her and
take custody of the choker to keep it safe for the next generations. Maybe
they'd even migrate to England and live in a castle.
Within minutes Peter was lost in his daydream. The heroic detective
mysteriously resembled Peter. The duped woman was a truly beautiful Egyptian
girl. She had long black hair that just slightly curled. But her eyes were
blue and her teint was lighter than usual, giving her the look like she had
some foreign blood in her veins.
Dreaming he fell asleep.
Mohammed sat in his car and nibbled on some spicy meat on a stick. He also
had some crackers and a thermos of coffee to get him through the day. He'd
been there since he night before. Watching the house that Baitar had claimed
was where the artefact was.
The house in front of him was quite famous. It was indeed the home of one of
the men who controlled Egypt. And although the politician who lived there
was known to be involved in a corruption scandal or two, he was far from
being a crime lord.
Mohammed had serious doubts about the story Baitar had spun as well. It was
too complete, too prettily told. It was rehearsed. As if Baitar had told in
on numerous occasions. And just who was mister Baitar? Mohmmed had contacted
some of his old buddies and no-one knew of him. He didn't have a criminal
record, which was good. But the family name Baitar was Maroccan more than
Egyptian and there were few Baitars in Cairo. None of those were named
Rachid. Either Baitar led the existence of a hermit, or he wasn't a local.
Then why act like he was? It did not make sense. It was an unnecessary lie.
Which made Baitar even more suspicious in Mohammed's eyes.
Nipping his coffee, Mohammed watched as the congresman left with his
upper-price class car. His chaufeeur had put a selection of large bags into
the trunk. Apparently the man was leaving on a trip today. Most likely an
overnight trip. Which was very suspicious.
The bad feelings Mohammed had for this case multiplied by the minute,
reaching heights that seemed impossible even to him. This was all a set-up.
A trap. But why trap them? Peter was not known as being a great detective.
He tried but the two of them survived on finding lost pets and the odd job
digging for mummies while watching out for graverobbers. Though Peter didn't
know the real reason they dug in the desert.
The two of them struggled to keep the agency open. There was no need to
trick them into doing something illegal. On the other hand, maybe the more
successful detective agencies had realised that this job was fishy and
Baitar had had no choice but to turn to them. But if Baitar even knew when
the politician he claimed had taken possession of something that was
rightfully his was away on vacation...
Why didn't he just steal it back himself. Baitar obviously got some
advantage out of using a detective agency. A small low-key agency. Maybe
there wasn't much hussle when one of those disappeared. There'd also be
fewer people who'd know about the case. Easier to make them disappear
Mohammed felt his blood cool. Peter would be easy to get rid off. Though the
man was a hero-worshipper and felt he too belonged to that same category, he
didn't have an ounce of awareness to tell when things got dangerous. He'd be
shot once he delivered the choker. Possibly they'd throw him in the desert
for the police to find.
Mohammed heard the ringing of his celphone and answered.
"Mohammed?" he heard Peter ask, "Is that you?"
"How far are you on the case?"
"I've been staking out the adress Baitar gave you. The owner left with a set
of bags. He's most likely making an overnight trip."
"Wonderful. We'll get the choker tongiht."
"Sir... I really don't think..." he tried.
"Make sure you prepare everything."
Peter hung up and Mohammed was left with the cold feeling of defeat mixed
with a realistic fear for his life. Tonight he'd better not believe in
curses but be wary of their consequences. Bad luck was the last thing he
needed. He turned the ignition and heard nothing. A bad omen maybe?
Night had fallen. Peter had been picked up by Mohammed and together they'd
driven close to the target house. Peter felt excited. The two of them had
left their car in a quiet street to make sure as little people saw them.
Then they'd walked for ten minutes before they'd gotten close to the target.
Mohammed had helped Peter get in by jumping over the fence and then opening
They'd run across the yard, staying low to the ground and hurrying from tree
to statue to bush. During that time Mohammed had shown Peter a couple of the
cameras. Peter could only hope they'd avoided all of them.
When they'd reached the door everything had still been quiet. No-one yelled.
No sirens sounded. They'd gone undetected. So now they were at the back door
and Peter watched quietly as Mohammed tried to open the lock. Peter grew
more and more disappointed when he noticed the lock didn't pop open like it
did in novels or on tv.
"Let me try." he said, thinking it couldn't be that hard.
He pushed Mohammed out of the way, having him bump his leg painfully against
the wall. He turned and surprisingly the lock gave in.
"See, it isn't so hard."
Peter stepped inside without a single care in the world. They stepped into
what seemed to be a kitchen. The floor was tiled and cool. Cupboards and a
wide counter sepearted the room into three areas. One where there could be
cooked, one where people obviously ate and another area that functioned as a
hallway which led deeper into the house.
"Let's go to the bedrooms."
"Shouldn't we make sure nobody's home?" Mohammed asked.
"Pish posh. There is no-one." Peter dismissed the comment.
He strode through the kitchen and went through the doorway that led deeper
into the house. They entered a large living area with comfortable couches, a
wide-screen TV and a bar. Whomever the crime lord was, he had great taste.
Peter passed through quickly though, heading straight for the stairs. On TV
vaults were always kept in the master bedroom. Behind a painting.
Peter walked up the stairs like he owned the house and waited for Mohammed,
who'd looked in all the rooms he'd passed, to join him there. The upstairs
hallway was dark since most windows were obscured by curtains. One window
was slightly ajar and a cool breeze drifted in.
"We have to find the master bedroom." Peter said, "You take that side."
Peter left Mohammed to search the rooms to the right of the stairs while he
took the ones to the left. The first door he opened led to an office. A desk
with a computer, printer and fax stood neatly against the wall. One who'd
sit behind the desk would look out over the back yard. Nice. Against the
wall a number of cases contained books and files. There were no paintings
against the wall so Peter didn't even bother staying longer.
As he stepped into the next room he felt like he'd hit the jackpot. He
stepped into a room with a king-sized bed. The rest of the layout of the
room barely registered into Peter's mind as he headed for the painting above
the bed. He removed it from the wall, it's frame resting heavy in his hands.
But there was no vault.
8. Call of
Mohammed waited in the hallway, still trying to come up with a way to make
Peter leave without them having fulfilled the request. Suddenly Peter came
out of one of the doors and beckoned for Mohammed to enter. Dumbstruck,
Mohammed had no other option than to leave the hallway. He insisted on
leaving the door open so they might hear anyone come in.
Peter shrugged and then asked: "Do you see another painting here?"
"A painting for a vault. I've looked but the one painting that was here
didn't have a vault behind it."
"Who'd hide a vault behind a painting?"
"It's always a vault behind a painting in the movies." Peter pouted.
Mohammed meanwhile, opened the door that connected the master bedroom with
the office. His ionstincts told him they'd have a better chance of finding
the necklace here than in the bedroom. He looked around and soon found the
vault, hidden below a fake panel in one of the closets. Giving up on his
protest he opened the vault within seconds.
"Everyone can do it." Peter smiled smugly.
Mohammed was pushed out of the way and Peter looked inside. He took out a
typical jewelry box, covered in red velvet. Opening it, he saw the stormsky
"Easy as pie." he said.
"Let's leave." Mohammed insisted.
"Fine fine." Peter said, feeling like his fun had been thwarted.
The two of them exited the office and stalked down the stairs. Just as they
wanted to leave through the kitchen again, a creeping sound alerted Mohammed
that something was off. The sound was very familiar but it took him a while
to recognise it as the sound of a key being turned into an open lock.
"Someone's coming." he hissed.
Peter stood frozen for a moment, but Mohammed pulled him down, out of sight.
The two of them waited and heard the off-key whistle of someone walking
through the house. Mohammed instantly knew that they'd crossed the path of a
guard. The guard would most likely check the premises once every one or two
hours while it's owner was away. If they were lucky the guard would not do a
good job and leave quickly. But Mohammed didn't feel like trusting on luck.
"Follow me." he whispered to Peter when the guard had gone up the stairs.
The two of them tried to make their way through the living room. The light
of the guard had temporarily dimmed their night vision. To his horror
Mohammed suddenly felt his foot getting caught on something. That somthing
turned out to be a small table with a glass covering. He caught the table
before it hit the ground, but the glass shook loose from it's clasps and
shattered on the ground with a loud musical noise.
"Run." Mohammed called and instantly dashed toward the door.
Peter followed, but at a much slower pace. Mohammed dragged his boss through
the back door and down into the yard.
"Cover your face." he said and then ran through the farden, his arms up in
the air to obscure his features. Peter followed him, tripping on several
occasions but somehow manageing to keep upright. Mohammed opened the gate
while Peter approached and together they left the house. Mohammed noticed
that peter was still clutching the jewelry box to his chest.
Why did you take the box?" Mohammed asked, slowing down to a trot so they'd
look less suspicious.
Peter, happy with the slow in pace looked down and saw the box.
"Isn't that what we went there for?"
"You should have left it."
"You think they'd only chase us if we took it?"
"I mean it makes us stand out."
Peter covered the box with his sweater hoping it would cover up what they
were carrying. By the look on mohammed's face he could tell that it didn't
help much. But they had finished the case now, hadn't they? No-one seemed to
be coming after them. They'd worn gloves so their shouldn't be any
fingerprints. When they reached their car they'd be home free.
If Peter remembered correctly the car was only two more blocks away from
them. He felt a sense of triumph take over his body. He'd proven he was a
hero with this case. He'd braved dangers and had taken back something that
was stolen. But before he could brag about his success to Mohammed he felt a
sharp pain at the back of his head.
"Oww." he said and tried to bring his hand to his head. But somehow his
limbs didn't obey him like they usually did. The ground rushed toward him
and a deep blackness tugged at the edges of his vision. He felt a weight hit
him and soon realised it was Mohammed who'd fallen alongside him. Why had
Peter lost consciousness and woke up after an uncertain period of time from
acute discomfort. He felt bruised and battered all over. He felt like
someone was knocking inside his head while someone else was throwing his
body around. He moaned and suddenly felt someone grab his arm.
"Wha..." he said.
"Shh." Mohammed whispered as he crawled into vision.
"Mohammed... were are we?" Peter asked feeling the pounding in his head even
more as he tried to focus his eyes.
"We're in the car. I think they're driving us into the desert to kill us and
take the choker."
"Baitar." Mohammed said looking angrier than Peter had ever seen him.
"But... We were going to bring him the choker anyway..."
"I think the choker never got stolen." Mohammed sighed, "They used us to
take the risks and now they'll silence us to make sure no-one will ever know
they're behind it."
"Preposterous!" Peter called out, "Nobody is supposed to kill me. We have to
get out of here."
"This isn't a book." Mohammed said, "We can only hope for the best and wait
for an opening."
Soon after the car stopped and Peter was painfully removed from the place he
lay on. He was thrown on the sand and when he looked up he stared into the
eyes of Rachid Baitar. The man smiled at him with the same charming smile
he'd worn on the day he'd first come to the agency.
"Thank you for getting me my item back." he said, "Alas I won't be paying."
"If you kill us a friend of mine will tell the police about what happened."
"Oh dear. You're a fool and a lier." Baitar said, "Come on we both know you
did nothing of the sort."
Peter tried to get up and face his adversary with a proper attitude but he
was hit from behind again and was left whimpering in the sand.
"Face it mister Waldham, help is not coming."
and the Beast
Mohammed held himself as still as he could. If he played dead he might not
be guarded as heavily and then find a way to loosen the ropes around his
wrists. But trying to struggle free and not moving where two things that
didn't work well together. In the hour they'd been in the truck he'd barely
managed to loosen his bonds enough to hold his hands two centimetres from
each other. But it would have to be enough. Doggedly he continued his work
while Peter kept talking to Baitar.
"Are you so certain of that?"
"Mister Waldham, of course I'm certain." he laughed, "I heard from the chief
himself that there were no threats about the stormsky choker being stolen.
You see he and I are good friends."
Mohammed was surprised. But then he'd only gotten a name. how easy was it to
come up with fake papers if you were a friend of the chief of police? And it
was not like Peter was an expert in recognising fake documents. Far from it
"You are really stupid, aren't you, mister Waldham?"
"I beg your pard..."
"I was just stating a fact. After all you didn't even notice how shoddy that
story was. You leapt right in. The mighty Brit who'd save one of the lesser
folk." Baitar's face darkened, "I really despise you."
Peter remained silent. Mohammed hoped his boss would still distract the
others until he had freed up his hands. But luck was again not on his side
when Baitar turned to him and said
"And you, Dakairn. Give up your pathetic escape-effort. I know you're trying
to get your hands loose, but the moment you run, you'll be hit by five
bullets from my men."
Mohammed stopped contracting his muscles.
"How you have fallen. You were once one of the most promising new policeman
in the force. One step wrong and here you are, dropped into a dead-end
assignment. How does it feel to know you have to watch the back of a
chauvinistic swine like this for the rest of your life?"
Mohammed kept quiet.
Baitar laughed and then continued: "Of course you know what's going to
happen. Why won't you tell me?"
The barrel of a rifle dug painfully into Mohammed's back.
"You're going to kill us and dispose of our bodies."
"Well done. I see you are quite intelligent. I bet you even know I'm the one
who wanted to steal the choker. I bet you knew my story was fake the moment
you heard it. But oh yes, you aren't allowed to interfere with your boss'
life. You only watch. But I guess even you don't know I've repeated this
stunt over and over during the course of years. The choker has proven to be
quite profitable. And no-one can stop me."
Mohammed kept quiet, closed his eyes and just begged for help. Whomever it
was his mother prayed to. It was the last option he had. Even if he was a
man of little faith, he refused to give up. So he prayed.
"Are you... praying?" Baitar laughed.
He turned to Peter and added, "I think he's already reserving a spot in
heaven. Care to join him?"
Peter for once stayed silent. Mohammed opened his eyes and stared up to the
stars. Would he be going there? Would the curse on his family end now that
the first-born died before having children? Or was help still coming?
For a moment Mohammed thought God in the form of the stars winked at him. A
spark lit in the sky, barely noticeable, but it was there, high up in the
sky. Mohammed focused on it and saw that it grew larger. The light seemed to
be brighter than he'd think because the surrounding stars dimmed as it grew
On second thought, something obscured the stars. A strong wind blew up the
sand and Mohammed heard a scream to his right. A heavy object was dropped
and then he heard the running of feet. He stared up and just saw blackness.
The spark came into his view and then a woman moved before it.
"Are you ok?" she asked.
Her voice was soft and calm. She moved like she was not afraid of danger.
Was she Isis who'd come to take him to heaven?
"I might take you to the sky." the woman laughed, "But heaven is too soon
She reached out a hand and helped him up. Mohammed looked around and saw
Peter staring at the blackness in front of them. It seemed as if he could
see more for his eyes shone in a peculiar fashion. Mohammed tried to focus,
but only when he took a few steps back did he see what peter saw. The
dimensions of the beast were large. Wings sprouted from it's back and a long
tail lashed the air.
"My name is Rebecca." the woman said, "And this is my dragon, Aten."
"We have come with an invitation to Darkling Dawn."
blond hair, blue eyes, out of shape
description: Peter is a chauvinistic, impractical Brit. He is romantic in
nature and likes to dream of better times (when Great Brittain still ruled
most of the world)
black curly hair, tanned skin, dark brown eyes.
description: Mohammed is a
hard worker, prac-tical and logical. Though he works for Peter he pretty
much does his own thing. Because his family was cursed he's a bad luck
Read about their dragons seperately:
Peter - Mohammed
Peter and Mohammed hope to impress at Darkling Dawn
made with a picture found on google search engine