Moon Shadows

By Sherine Khalil

Stephen Campbell is a young Scottish art historian, who travels to Egypt, retracing his great-grandfathers footsteps in the East. With romantic notions he seeks to relive the magic he sees in his ancestors Orientalist paintings. Once in Cairo, he is swept by the energy of the city, and falls in love with beautiful Mira, an ambitious tourist guide. Little does Stephen know that his Egyptian goddess is involved in an illegal excavation of ancient Egyptian tombs. Entangled in a web of crime, and love, Stephen is trapped, questions the very essence of love, and is forced to make the ultimate sacrifice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496977335

Sherine Khalil

Sherine Khalil is a freelance writer, and Community Medicine specialist. She lives in Cairo with her son and daughter. Moon Shadows is her first novel.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Downtown London was quiet and grey as he hurried down Bond Street . Christie’s was only a few blocks away. The auction was at seven and he usually was ahead of time, but today it seemed that all circumstances were against him. Circumstances. How he hated that word they used all the time back in his country, the country he was so eager to flee from many years ago. There, every shortcoming or failure was blamed on circumstances, whether a football match or a health reform programme. His life in the States, however, showed him that there was no such thing as circumstance, everything was accounted for, and everyone could control their own destiny and shape it to their own will.

Yet today was one of those days the British called ‘waking up on the wrong side of the bed’. Everything seemed to be working against him. This auction was the last chance to redeem a day gone definitely wrong. Ramsey Bey felt unduly optimistic as he entered the world famous auction hall.

Welcome Ramsey Bey, a tall blonde Englishman met him in the main hall. Your seat is reserved, he said ushering him towards the seat in the front row.

Front row? Ramsey Bey’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

Of course, sir, the young man replied. "You are one of our most important customers, if not the most."

Ramsey Bey smiled in acknowledgement and was about to sit when the centerpiece on display caught his eye.

"Quelle beauté!" he exclaimed at the 4th dynasty Egyptian vase standing majestically on the auction stand.

Yes it is, isn’t it, Ryan the Public Relations manager said. It’s our most prized possession, for today that is, he added laughing. Good luck. And spotting a celebrity at the entrance, he left Ramsey Bey to his front row seat.

The auction hall was full. Europe’s elite, famous figures, movie stars and a few unknown faces, all sat down waiting for the bell. In the row before last sat a dark-skinned man who caught Ramsey Bey’s eye. As soon as Ramsey Bey sat himself, the middle-eastern-looking man stood up and headed towards the auctioneer. He produced a paper which the auctioneer read and took it to Mr. Iqbal the manager, whose face fell slowly as he read the document. He beckoned his assistant and a wave of agitation shot through the Christie’s staff. Whispers buzzed through the audience, and just as the hum gradually increased into a crescendo Mr. Iqbal approached the microphone and the hall fell into silence.

Ladies and Gentlemen, he announced. My apologies, but we have concluded our auction sales for this evening. We will resume tomorrow at our usual time.

Murmurs of dismay echoed through the hall as everyone prepared to leave.

Ramse Bey tried hard to conceal the frustrated look on his face, as the man who had sparked the whole situation was scrutinizing him triumphantly.

What on Earth is going on? Ramsey Bey shouted at Ryan, as he was passing hurriedly by. But the older man was too fast for him and he grabbed him by the sleeve of his Armani suit stopping young Ryan in his tracks.

This is serious, the Public relations manager said looking around him nervously, this is very serious.

Well tell me, damn it.

Ryan stooped down towards Ramsey Bey and lowered his voice, Do you see that man over there, the dark man in the brown suit? He is from the Superior Council for Egyptian antiquities, he became even more nervous as his voice lowered into a desperate hush, "he claims that the vase was transported from Egypt after 1982. Do you know what that means? His eyes were wide with panic. Why do these things always happen to me?" He threw his hand upward freeing himself from Ramsey Bey’s clutch, an Armani button nearly flying off the sleeve in the process.

Stolen? Ramsey Bey thought disbelievingly. Cursed Egyptian authorities, Ramsey Bey hissed under his breath. What was the world coming to? What with the Chinese on one side and the Egyptians on the other, what was a respectable antique dealer to do? Ever since the 1982 law, the Egyptian officials were popping up like mushrooms all over the auction halls of Europe and the States. And if that wasn’t enough, they’re claiming back antiquities from the museums as well.

The world isn’t a safe place anymore, Ramsey Bey muttered to himself as he made his way out of the auction room through the chaotic crowd. He looked back and saw the Egyptian official trying to follow him, but he slipped out of the door and into his car waiting outside.

Insufferable fools! he retorted.

Is everything all right, Ramsey Bey? his chauffeur asked.

It isn’t now Aly, but it will be soon, he answered determinedly.

Where to now, Bey? Aly the chauffeur asked.

Ramsey Bey looked out of his car window. The auction hall was closing up and a gentle drizzle was picking up quickly into a heavy downpour. The rain splashing against the car seemed to make up his mind for him. Ramsey Bey turned his head towards Aly and with resolution said,

Egypt.

PART I

Having drunk entire seas, we remain surprised that our lips are just as dry as the shore, and we continue to seek the sea to dip them there, without seeing that our lips are the shore and ourselves the sea.

Farid al-Din Attar

Persian mystic poet

Chapter 1

When Stephen closes his eyes he can see Scotland. Seas of green as far as his eyes can reach. It covers the hills and the moor. The purple of the heather intermingles with the grass as they fade together into the morning mist. He can even feel the crisp morning breeze nipping his cheeks as he draws in the fragrance of the heather covered by the early morning dew. He can hardly absorb the fact that it was merely a year ago when he stood in the glen for the last time.

He would wake up at dawn every morning to allow time for his favourite sport, walking. Well equipped with his mountain boots, jeans, his father’s woolen cable pull-over, and a light brown, suede leather jacket, to keep the early autumn chill at bay, he would walk past the row of Victorian houses that neighboured his own family home. Then, instead of continuing downhill towards the main road to take the bus to Edinburgh University where he taught art history, he would turn into a narrow path that cut through a cluster of trees, and that went uphill, until he reached the moor. Then he’d sit on the stone that jutted out of the hill, facing the East. Thus positioned, his soul would travel Eastward, to the far off destination he set his heart on.

His eyes still closed, the sun rises slowly and peeps at him through the thick layer of clouds that cover the Scottish moor. He can remember his state of mind, his eagerness to leave, to thrust himself into the unknown, and follow his great-grandfather’s path to the East. As he covered the Scottish terrain, Stephen would dream of the Orient, of Egypt. That exotic far away land that lured his great-grandfather, as a seductress lures her prey. He tried to convince his saddened mother that travel was different in the nineteenth century; a man would set off into the unknown forsaking his family and friends, just to fulfill a dream. But now, the distance between them was just a mere jump on a plane. If ever she asked him to return to Scotland.

A group of swallows soared and swooped around the meadow, never landing always in motion. Stephen wondered what they looked like stationary. He had never seen a swallow on the ground or on a tree, only in flight. They would dart through the corridors of an abandoned castle, their dark pointed wings spread out defiantly, like radar-equipped bats never bumping into the walls or each other. Their restlessness finally drew them to migrate across the seas.

Like the spirited swallows Stephen too flew south to warmer expectations. And Egypt was more than he had expected. He absorbed everything around him learning, analysing, like a child learning newly acquired skills -milestones to understanding the East. He wonders now if he had made the right choice. Or was it destiny? Was it planned that way from the very beginning? He had always believed that he could control his own destiny. That was easy to believe in Scotland. But here it was different. Amidst the chaos there was a force or rather an energy that set a pattern to events, and things always seemed to add up, eventually controlling him.

Stephen’s eyes are still shut. He dare not open them and shatter the illusion to face the reality of the three brick walls and iron door that surround him. He hears the guard approaching, his heavy boots shuffling along the floor, the sound of the keys jangling from his belt. It’s the final routine check before the lights are out. Abdel Hamid’s grotesque face appears at the porthole in the door.

Hey, Khawaga! he shouts.

Here, Stephen answers back.

That’s what they call him in prison, ‘khawaga’ the foreigner, as was his great- grandfather called a century and a half before, but under much different circumstances. The works of the renowned orientalist painter hang in the Edinburgh museum, whereas Stephen must close his eyes to survive.

The guard mutters some cynicism in Arabic and laughs at his own joke as his ugly face disappears. Yet Stephen bears Abdel Hamid no grudge, he realizes that the man is just carrying out orders. With four children and a wife clinging to his neck, the guard is bound by his own prison.

Stephen closes his eyes again, this time to sleep. He washed so many sheets and uniforms today that he is exhausted. But one more game before slumber sets in. He will go back to the first time he saw her, in the Nile Hilton bar. He had just arrived from the airport, hot and exhausted from battling with the Cairo traffic in the heat of a September noon. He entered the five-star hotel, grateful to escape from the scorching sun into the cool air-conditioned lobby. The dashing male receptionist called Ahmed graciously, yet reluctantly found him a room despite the fact that Stephen had failed to make any reservations. After that ordeal Stephen looked for a place to refresh himself with a beer.

He spotted a bar called ‘A Thousand and one Nights’.

That’s appropriate, he thought to himself as he stepped into the dark, dimly lit room. The barman asked him whether he wanted local or imported beer.

Local, was his answer, everything should be Egyptian. I wasn’t planning staying at a luxurious place like this. But it will have to do until I find my ropes around Cairo.

We are glad to have you here, said the pleasant barman with thin receding hair and a Hamdy nametag.

Stephen sipped the cool bitter beer, while he cast a random check around the room. The décor of the bar was very far from being exotic. Tiffany stained glass lamps hung over the tables, and the chairs were covered in burgundy velvet, even the music playing in the background was the tinkering of Richard Clayderman. In the corner a couple were holding hands their heads bent close together almost touching. Two Greek-looking elderly ladies sat chatting audibly over their Turkish coffee.

And then he saw her.

She was sitting alone at a table in front of a window covered by a wooden lattice screen. She was engrossed in some work and her head was bent down so that her face was barely visible. The sunlight pierced