Read Online Pyramid: A Novel (Jack Howard Series Book 8) by David Gibbins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Gibbins
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embolism.”
Chaillé-Long snapped shut his cuff links. “And what might that be?”
“Your lungs rupture like an overfilled balloon.”
“Surely Monsieur Guerin would know of such things.”
“Monsieur Guerin is more an engineer than a diver, more a theoretician than a practitioner.”
“Elegantly put, Jones. You
are
an educated man, I find, more so than I might expect from the ruffians I have seen in the rank and file of your army.”
“Educated, but not a gentleman. A benefactor who visited my orphanage paid for me to go to the Bluecoat School in Bristol. But I was too rebellious and knew I’d never be polished enough to be admitted to the Royal Military Academy, so at sixteen I ran away from the school and joined my father’s old regiment, the sappersand miners. They gave me some skills, but the rest is self-taught. I’ve always enjoyed reading. Done a lot of that over the past eight years, since the war.”
Chaillé-Long tucked his cloak under him and sat down on the bench on the foredeck. He adjusted his top hat, produced two cheroots from his waistcoat pocket, offered one to Jones, who declined it, and then lit the other one with a silver lighter, drawing deeply on it and crossing his legs. “I’ve wanted to ask you about that, Jones, now that we have some time on our hands. About the last eight years. About the officer who pointed you in my direction, Major Mayne.”
Jones was looking at Guerin’s bubbles, straining to follow them in the darkness as they advanced toward the shoreline and then seemed to veer a dozen or so yards to the north. The bubbles would be pulled farther along by the current as they rose, giving a misleading impression of the position of the diver, but even so Guerin would soon be reaching the limit of the detonator cable. Jones watched anxiously, checking that the plunger box was still secure where he had nailed it to the deck, but then saw with relief that the bubbles were returning along the shore in the direction of the boat. They were no more than fifty feet away now. He perched on the gunwale, still keeping an eye on them, and glanced at Chaillé-Long.
“Major Mayne. Finest officer I ever knew. Without him, I wouldn’t be here. He was the one who mentioned your name as one of Gordon’s confidants, and when I came to need a partner for this enterprise, you were the only one I could find of those officers still in Egypt. I took a risk in revealing what I did to you, but I knew you had money, and without gold to pay for a boat and a diver I was going nowhere.”
“What were you doing with Mayne in the desert?”
Jones paused, looking at him shrewdly. “He was a reconnaissance officer, and we carried out forays behind enemy lines. I was his servant, his batman.”
“You mean he was an intelligence officer. A spy.”
Jones paused again. “Not exactly. I cleaned his rifle once. It was a Sharps 1873, 45-70 caliber, with a telescope sight and heavy octagonal barrel. One of your American sharpshooter rifles.”
“Sharps 45-70?” Chaillé-Long exhaled a lungful of smoke. “Saw a man take out a buffalo with one at a thousand yards.”
“Well, I saw Mayne shoot a dervish across the Nile at over five hundred yards, and that was with a service Martini-Henry rifle,” Jones replied. “It was the finest shot I’ve ever seen, so who knows what he was capable of with the Sharps.”
Chaillé-Long knit his brows. “So, Mayne goes with this rifle on a mission to Khartoum, and a few weeks later Gordon is dead and, apparently, Mayne too, having disappeared and never been seen since?”
“That’s what I told you when we first met.”
Chaillé-Long cocked an eye at him. “All the most reliable accounts of Gordon’s last moments have him on the balcony of the Governor’s Palace, surrounded by dervishes, in full view, as it happens, from the other bank of the Nile—let’s say five hundred, six hundred yards distant, beyond the dervish encampment and where a
Chaillé-Long snapped shut his cuff links. “And what might that be?”
“Your lungs rupture like an overfilled balloon.”
“Surely Monsieur Guerin would know of such things.”
“Monsieur Guerin is more an engineer than a diver, more a theoretician than a practitioner.”
“Elegantly put, Jones. You
are
an educated man, I find, more so than I might expect from the ruffians I have seen in the rank and file of your army.”
“Educated, but not a gentleman. A benefactor who visited my orphanage paid for me to go to the Bluecoat School in Bristol. But I was too rebellious and knew I’d never be polished enough to be admitted to the Royal Military Academy, so at sixteen I ran away from the school and joined my father’s old regiment, the sappersand miners. They gave me some skills, but the rest is self-taught. I’ve always enjoyed reading. Done a lot of that over the past eight years, since the war.”
Chaillé-Long tucked his cloak under him and sat down on the bench on the foredeck. He adjusted his top hat, produced two cheroots from his waistcoat pocket, offered one to Jones, who declined it, and then lit the other one with a silver lighter, drawing deeply on it and crossing his legs. “I’ve wanted to ask you about that, Jones, now that we have some time on our hands. About the last eight years. About the officer who pointed you in my direction, Major Mayne.”
Jones was looking at Guerin’s bubbles, straining to follow them in the darkness as they advanced toward the shoreline and then seemed to veer a dozen or so yards to the north. The bubbles would be pulled farther along by the current as they rose, giving a misleading impression of the position of the diver, but even so Guerin would soon be reaching the limit of the detonator cable. Jones watched anxiously, checking that the plunger box was still secure where he had nailed it to the deck, but then saw with relief that the bubbles were returning along the shore in the direction of the boat. They were no more than fifty feet away now. He perched on the gunwale, still keeping an eye on them, and glanced at Chaillé-Long.
“Major Mayne. Finest officer I ever knew. Without him, I wouldn’t be here. He was the one who mentioned your name as one of Gordon’s confidants, and when I came to need a partner for this enterprise, you were the only one I could find of those officers still in Egypt. I took a risk in revealing what I did to you, but I knew you had money, and without gold to pay for a boat and a diver I was going nowhere.”
“What were you doing with Mayne in the desert?”
Jones paused, looking at him shrewdly. “He was a reconnaissance officer, and we carried out forays behind enemy lines. I was his servant, his batman.”
“You mean he was an intelligence officer. A spy.”
Jones paused again. “Not exactly. I cleaned his rifle once. It was a Sharps 1873, 45-70 caliber, with a telescope sight and heavy octagonal barrel. One of your American sharpshooter rifles.”
“Sharps 45-70?” Chaillé-Long exhaled a lungful of smoke. “Saw a man take out a buffalo with one at a thousand yards.”
“Well, I saw Mayne shoot a dervish across the Nile at over five hundred yards, and that was with a service Martini-Henry rifle,” Jones replied. “It was the finest shot I’ve ever seen, so who knows what he was capable of with the Sharps.”
Chaillé-Long knit his brows. “So, Mayne goes with this rifle on a mission to Khartoum, and a few weeks later Gordon is dead and, apparently, Mayne too, having disappeared and never been seen since?”
“That’s what I told you when we first met.”
Chaillé-Long cocked an eye at him. “All the most reliable accounts of Gordon’s last moments have him on the balcony of the Governor’s Palace, surrounded by dervishes, in full view, as it happens, from the other bank of the Nile—let’s say five hundred, six hundred yards distant, beyond the dervish encampment and where a
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