Page 24 of Tomb of the Sun King

“At any rate,somethinghas clearly disrupted the tracks.” Constance’s eyes glittered with excitement. “My money is on sabotage!”

“It’s sand,” Mr. Mahjoud countered flatly, turning another page of his paper.

“Sand!” Constance protested, flashing him a glare.

“The tracks run up against the desert here,” Mr. Mahjoud elaborated blithely. “And sand is prone to moving about.”

“It isn’t sand.” Constance gave him a quelling look. “It’s the nationalists! Sabotaging the railway is exactly the sort of strategy they would use. There have been quite a few suspicious incidents along the lines over the last several months. Herds of stray cattle, unexpected washouts…”

Ellie considered Constance’s theory. Egypt’s most well-known dalliance with a nationalist movement had ended over a decade ago when the revolutionary leader Urabi Pasha had been overcome at Tell El Kabir. That uprising had led Britain to impose its Consul General as the de facto head of the Egyptian government.

While there were plenty of Egyptians who continued to advocate—carefully—for a more representative government, she hadn’t heard of any major organized opposition to British rule.

Of course, that didn’t mean that one didn’t exist.

“There was even one breakdown that almost certainly involved the use of explosives,” Constance added significantly.

Ellie perked up. “Explosives, did you say?”

Mr. Mahjoud stilled, flashing her an alarmed look over the top of his paper.

“Not that any of us have any interest in that sort of thing,” Ellie assured him.

With a sigh, Mr. Mahjoud crisply folded the paper. He set it down on the bench and placed his fez onto his head. The color perfectly matched his waistcoat and bow tie, the hat nearly brushing the ceiling of the compartment thanks to the dragoman’s exceptional height.

“If you would all do me the extreme kindness of staying where I have put you?” he suggested—punctuating it with a pointed look at Constance.

“Wherever would we go?” Constance returned, batting her eyes at him innocently.

“Antarctica, perhaps?” Mr. Mahjoud suggested. “Or off with the nearest circus?”

Ellie was quietly impressed by the perspicacity of his suggestions.

“There aren’t any circuses about,” Constance pointed out.

With a skeptical glare, he stepped from the compartment.

Constance waited for a breath, then darted to the door herself—only to pull it open and find Mr. Mahjoud standing before it.

“Please,” he added with exaggerated patience.

Constance rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She flopped back against her seat with dissatisfaction. “Sand!”

“Perhaps the nationalists shoveled it all there overnight?” Ellie suggested helpfully.

“You needn’t patronize me,” Constance returned haughtily.

Ellie glanced over at Adam. He had been uncharacteristically quiet about the interruption—and her passing mention of combustible materials. He still held his notebook in his hands but wasn’t writing anything in it. Instead, he frowned down at the carpet as though contemplating how to wrestle it.

The compartment door slid back open, revealing Mr. Mahjoud’s long and impeccably dressed frame. “It would seem that there is a great deal of sand on the tracks,” he reported with only the slightest note of triumph.

“Hmph.” Constance crossed her arms over her chest.

“It will take the railway staff several hours to clear it sufficiently for us to pass.” The dragoman sat down, neatly picking up his paper and shaking it out. “I do hope everyone brought something to read, as I suggested?”

Adam stood, startling everyone with the sudden movement. “I’m going to help.”

He shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it on the seat. Before Ellie could make any sort of comment, his shirt followed.

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