The riders dismount. The daughter, brave and pretty, pleads with them. In Cairo they have many Muslim friends, she says. They have never done any harm to the people of Islam. The jackal with the rifle answers her. "You bow down to monsters accursed of Allah, and our Caliph's holy blood is on your hands." He swats at an insect buzzing round his head, a wasp that glimmers in the sun like an emerald with wings. "You would steal our lands from us, you and your demon gods. You think we do not see? We see. This is where you die. The sands will drink your joker blood."
The wasp stings him in the neck.
Cursing, he swats at it, but the insect is too quick. It lands upon the rump of the nearest horse, and stings again. The horse rears up kicking. A second wasp appears. They fly around the jackals, darting in and out, landing on one man's nose, another's arm, stinging. One of the riders catches a wasp in his hand and crushes it between his fingers. He wipes the remains off on his pants leg, grinning. Only then does he hear the motorbike.
From the south the knight appears, bouncing over stone and sand, a plume of smoke and dust rising up behind him. Like an answered prayer he comes, his armor flashing in the sunlight, white and bright as mountain snow. Swan wings adorn his warhelm. On his breastplate shines the Holy Grail that Arthur sought and never found. When he lifts his hand a broadsword springs forth from his fingers where no sword had been before, a blade so white and sharp that for a moment it outshines the bright Egyptian sun.
"Deus Volt!" the knight roars as he comes on, and his cry echoes across the bare and boundless sands. The jackals break before it, running for their mounts. Only the rifleman lingers long enough to wheel his horse and fire, but when the shot rings harmlessly off the knight's white armor, he lets the rifle tumble to the sand and races away after his companions.
The knight climbs off his motorbike. His sword and helm and armor melt away, dissolving as a morning mist dissolves before the rising sun. "No harm will come to you," he says, as he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to press against the old man's bloody cheek. "Come with me. Your gods are waiting for you."
The brave young girl plants a kiss upon his cheek. A wasp buzzes happily around them, and all is right in the red lands, on this day, for this one family . . . though, on the way south, they pass the corpses of others who were not so fortunate.
The shortcut is a mistake.
Klaus looked up from the screen. "It is good, Jonathan. It moved me, truly." Deus Volt, he thought. God wills it. Those had been the words the old crusaders cried when they marched out of the west to free Jerusalem. He did not remember shouting those words at the jackals, or any words at all, but perhaps he would shout them next time. "Will they read this in Germany, do you think?" It pleased him to think that his father might read about his feats. His little brothers, too.
"All over the world. You wouldn't believe how many hits I'm getting." Jonathan was seated on an orange crate with his laptop balanced on his thighs. "I need to find some place to buy a trenchcoat. The trenchcoat guys get all the prizes. I could win a Pulitzer for this, if I only had a trenchcoat. This is a big story, and no one's covering it but me." A wasp landed on his cheek and crawled up his left nostril. That would have vexed most people, but Jonathan Hive took no notice. "I'm bearing witness for the world. Just call me Edward R. Hive."
"Ja, only . . . I do not wish to spoil your prize, but that was not how it happened. You never stung the horse. There was no horse. They drove a four-wheel truck."
Jonathan waved off his objection. "Trucks are boring. Horses are romantic. Some of the asswipes ride horses, right? Or camels. Would camels be better, do you think?"
"No. There was no pretty daughter either. If a pretty girl had kissed me, I would know." Klaus tore a strip of peeling skin off his arm, frowning at the pinkness underneath. In Cairo he had slathered on sunblock whenever he ventured outside, prompting Jonathan to compare him to a housewife from a situation comedy, her face covered in cold cream. When sunblock became harder to find, he bought a straw hat off a peddler in a felluca, but his arms still burned and peeled. "And they had no grocery carts. How could they push grocery carts across the sand?"
"They were symbolic grocery carts. It's a poignant image of displacement. The devil's in the details, dude. Bottom line, these numbfucks wandered off into the desert and would have died if not for us. The rest is just some frosting for the strudel. Everyone likes frosting on their strudel. That, and sex. You have to have the pretty girl, she's what sells the whole thing."
Klaus peeled off the soiled T-shirt that he'd slept in, one of those Herr Berman had given him when he agreed to be a guest on American Hero. On the front was a picture of Diver, the dolphin woman. "You could just say the mother was pretty."
"The mother had a mustache." Jonathan closed his laptop. Both of his legs ended at the knee, and tiny green wasps were buzzing in and out of his ragged denim shorts. His sneakers, footless, had tumbled to the ground, acrawl with bugs—a few toes' worth, at least. Thousands more were spread out over the better part of twenty kilometers on both sides of the Nile, watching everything and everyone. Even when Jonathan was with you, he could be a hundred thousand other places, too. "And speaking of girls," he went on, "you were talking in your sleep last night. 'Lili, Lili, where are you, Lili?' Barf. I can't believe that you're still mooning over a one-night stand."
"She was more than that to me." Klaus grabbed his jeans and shook them. A scorpion tumbled from one cuff and scuttled off. "I dreamed I was at the Luxor, looking for her. Our suite went on and on. So many rooms, like a maze. I knew that she was lost, but still I searched, calling her sweet name."
"I was having a nice dream, too. I was eating flapjacks with Simoon and Curveball in the Valley of the Kings. The Living Gods were making them. You should have seen Horus flip that skillet."
"Flapjacks?" Klaus scratched at the stubble under his chin. He needed a shave. "What is flapjacks?"
"Pancakes."
"The gods do not serve pancakes."
"They would if they had some batter," said Jonathan. "You woke me up with all your Lili, Lili moaning. Dude, what happens in Vegas is supposed to stay in Vegas, didn't anyone tell you?"
"You would not say these things if you had met her." Klaus pulled on his jeans and zipped them up. "She was beautiful." He remembered the feel of her in his arms, the taste of red wine in her mouth when he kissed her. And her eyes. She had the most amazing eyes. "The smell of her hair . . . it fell all the way down her back, black as night—"
"Carpet matched the drapes, too, though mostly I was looking at her tits. You know, there are other girls."
"Lili was a woman." The first time Klaus had seen her, she had been standing under a hallway light fumbling for her room key, and something about it had reminded him of the girl beneath the lamplight in the old soldier's song, so he had asked her if her name was Lili Marlene, and she had smiled at him and said, "Close enough." That was all it took. He had made love to her three times that night, and when they were not kissing they were talking. Lili had been so easy to talk to, not like the other girls he had known. Klaus was sure they'd talked for hours, although the next day he could not seem to recall her telling him anything about herself, not even her real name. One moment she had been lying beside him, drinking wine from the minibar and laughing as he tried to teach her the lyrics to "Lili Marlene" in German, but then Jonathan had come stumbling into the suite, making noise and turning on the lights, and suddenly she was gone. Klaus had only taken his eyes off her for an instant, but . . .