The Golden One (22 page)

‘They can’t keep it up for long. This is going to get the American government riled up, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see us get into this business pretty soon. Anyhow,’
he added with a smile, ‘Egypt’s not such a bad place to be stuck for the duration. There’s plenty to see and do, and prices are cheap, with the tourist trade down. Do you suppose
there’s any chance of my doing a little digging, Mrs Emerson? Plenty of local men for hire, I believe.’

It was a common enough question; few visitors understood the regulations that governed excavation and many of them naively believed that all they had to do was dig to find a rich tomb. I was
sorry to disillusion Mr Lubancic, for he seemed a very pleasant fellow, but I felt obliged to explain.

‘One must have permission from the Department of Antiquities, and all excavations must be supervised by a trained archaeologist. At this particular time there aren’t many such
persons available.’

‘The Brits and French have got something else on their minds besides archaeology,’ said another gentleman. ‘The war on this front seems to be going well, though. The Senussi
are in retreat and the Turks have been driven out of the Sinai.’

‘But the British advance has stalled outside Gaza,’ Mr Lubancic objected.

‘It’s only a matter of time before we take Gaza,’ said a military officer, stroking his large moustache. ‘Johnny Turk isn’t much of a threat.’

His insignia identified him as a member of the staff, and his portly frame and flushed face suggested that he had fought the war from behind a desk in Cairo. Another, younger, officer gave him a
look of thinly veiled contempt. ‘Johnny Turk was a considerable threat at Rafah, and Gaza won’t be easy to take. The city is ringed round with trenches and they’ve got
fortifications along the ridges all the way from Gaza to Beersheba.’

The conversation turned to a discussion of strategy and I excused myself. The remote city of Gaza held no interest for me.

Jumana was with them, looking very pretty in a pale yellow frock that set off her brown skin and sleek black hair. Ramses wondered how she felt about gatherings like this one. Even her superb
self-confidence must be slightly daunted by so many strangers, many of whom, uncertain about her precise status, ignored or snubbed her. They wouldn’t dare be rude to another of Cyrus’s
guests, but she was obviously Egyptian and they were not accustomed to mingling socially with ‘natives’.

His eyes returned, as they had a habit of doing, to his wife. She saw him; one eyelid lowered in a discreet but unmistakable wink before she returned her attention to the woman with whom she was
conversing. She was tall and stately and glittering with jewels; when she turned her head, pointing out something or someone to Nefret, he knew he’d seen her somewhere, but couldn’t
remember where.

He was rather enjoying his role as detached observer when someone touched him on the shoulder and he turned. The face beaming up at him looked vaguely familiar, but he was unable to identify it
until the fellow spoke.

‘Albion. Joe Albion. We met on the boat coming over.’

Ramses did not contradict him. ‘I remember you, sir, of course,’ he said politely.

The little man burst out laughing. ‘No, you don’t, young fella. Tried to meet you folks, but you managed to avoid us. Did your ma and pa tell you we met the other day on the path to
the Valley of the Kings?’

‘Er – no, sir.’

‘I asked your pa if he’d introduce me to a few tomb robbers,’ Albion went on. ‘He said no. Seemed a little put out.’

‘Ma’ and ‘Pa’ had been bad enough; this bland statement made Ramses choke on his champagne. Albion smacked him on the back.

‘Shouldn’t try to talk and drink at the same time, young fella. Don’t need your advice anyhow; there’s plenty of the rascals hereabouts, especially in that village
– Gurneh. Talked to a couple of them the other day.’

‘Who?’ Ramses demanded.

‘Fella named Mohammed.’ Albion chortled. ‘Seems like everybody’s named Mohammed.’

Ramses had recovered himself, though he still couldn’t believe the man was serious. ‘I think I know which Mohammed you mean. You can get in serious trouble dealing with him and his
friends, Mr Albion.’

‘Just let me worry about that.’ The smile was as broad, but for an instant there was a look in the deep-set eyes that made Ramses wonder if Albion was as naive and harmless as he
seemed.

‘Come meet my son,’ the little man went on. His pudgy hand gripped Ramses’s arm with unexpected strength, and Ramses allowed himself to be towed towards a young man who stood
apart from the rest, slouching a little, a glass of champagne in his hand and an aloof expression on his face. Probably the same expression that is on my face, Ramses thought. Either young Mr
Albion found the other people present not worth his notice, or he was shy.

He straightened to his full height, a little under six feet, when his father came up with Ramses. His thin reserved face and eyeglasses were those of a scholar, but he looked to be in good
physical trim, except for being a bit thick around the middle. His sharply chiselled features warmed a trifle when his father introduced Ramses.

‘Figure you two young fellas have a lot in common,’ the older man went on breezily. ‘Get to know each other, right? Don’t stand on ceremony. Folks call you Ramses,
don’t they? Some sort of private joke, I guess. Ramses – Sebastian. Sebastian – Ramses.’ He chortled. ‘Never could understand the British sense of humour.’

He trotted off, and Sebastian said, ‘Glad to meet you. I glanced at your book on Egyptian grammar; seemed quite adequate, but I don’t pretend to be an expert on the language.
Egyptian art is my specialty.’

Not shy. ‘Where did you study?’ Ramses asked.

‘Harvard.’

Of course, Ramses thought. The accent was unmistakable, and completely different from his father’s. Albion was what his mother would call a ‘common little man.’ Ramses rather
liked ‘common’ people, but he wondered how the jolly, uninhibited Albion had produced such a supercilious, self-consciously intellectual prig. Sebastian didn’t seem to be
embarrassed by his father’s manners, which was one point in his favour.

Just about the only one. Young Albion went on. And on. He was not inclined to give America’s oldest university any credit for his present state of admitted erudition. ‘There’s
not much being done with Egyptian art qua art,’ he stated. ‘I had to work it out myself. I’ve pretty well exhausted what the Metropolitan Museum and the Boston Museum of Fine Arts
have to offer. A winter in Egypt seemed the logical next step.’

‘And a spot of tomb robbing?’ Ramses finally managed to get a word in. ‘I trust your father was joking about that. A number of people, including
my
father,
wouldn’t be amused.’

‘It goes on all the time, doesn’t it?’

‘To some extent; but – ’

‘Yes, yes,’ Sebastian said condescendingly. ‘I understand how people like you feel about it. Now my book – ’

Ramses caught Nefret’s eye again and grimaced. It was a distress signal, and she responded with a grin and a slight nod.

Sebastian rambled on. He would be writing a book, Ramses thought. One of those books – the kind that will never be finished, because the author keeps finding additional material. Ramses
had known a few scholars like that; he had always suspected their real reason for procrastinating was a reluctance to risk criticism. Sebastian declared that it was his intention to view every
piece of Egyptian art in the world. It would be the definitive book on Egyptian art – when he finished it.

‘What are you doing in Luxor, then?’ Ramses asked. ‘The Cairo Museum – ’

‘Yes, yes, I know. I will get to the Museum in due course, but I wanted to see the tomb painting in situ, as it were – take photographs, make sketches, and so on. I’m a
collector in a small way, and hoped to pick up a few good pieces here.’

Ramses realized that if he went on talking to Sebastian he would say something rude. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he began. ‘My wife – ’

‘That’s she, isn’t it?’ Sebastian’s head turned. ‘Lovely woman. Hope you don’t mind my saying so.’

Ramses did mind, but though Sebastian’s tone was mildly offensive, he could not take exception to the words themselves. Sebastian went on, ‘There’s a delicious little creature.
Is she available to anyone, or is Vandergelt keeping her for himself and Bertie?’

For one incredulous moment, Ramses thought the fellow was referring to Nefret. Then he realized that Sebastian was looking at Jumana.

Nefret had been on her way to join them when she saw Ramses’s face freeze. It wasn’t the old ‘stone pharaoh’ face that concealed his thoughts, but a sign of fury so
consuming it cancelled thought and reason and everything else except a primitive need to act. She crossed the remaining distance in two long steps, slipped her arm through that of her husband, and
caught hold of his hand. Under the pressure of her fingers his own fingers slowly uncurled. ‘You must be Mr Sebastian Albion,’ she said lightly. ‘I’ve just been talking with
your mother. I’m Nefret Emerson.’

‘How do you do.’ Albion hadn’t missed Ramses’s reaction. He took a step back.

‘Katherine wants to ask you something, Ramses,’ Nefret went on. ‘Will you excuse us, Mr Albion?’

‘Just a minute,’ Ramses said. ‘We need to get something straight, Albion. The lady to whom you referred is a protégée of Mrs Vandergelt’s and a member of
our family.’

‘Your family? But surely she is – ’

‘A member of our family,’ Ramses repeated. ‘And a young, respectable girl. Where the hell did you get the idea that an Egyptian woman is free to any man who wants her? In the
Cairo brothels?’

‘Ramses,’ Nefret murmured.

Albion had gone white. He mumbled something that might have been an apology, nodded at Nefret, and walked off.

‘What on earth did he say?’ Nefret asked. ‘You were going to hit him!’

‘I was, wasn’t I?’ His fingers twined with hers. ‘In a way I’m sorry you stopped me.’

‘It would have ruined Cyrus’s party,’ Nefret said practically. ‘I was watching you, and I could see it building up. Something about Jumana?’

‘You can probably guess what.’

‘Yes. Bastard,’ she added.

‘What were you talking about with his mother?’

‘Him. And his father. That’s all she can talk about! She refers to the old boy as “my husband, Mr Albion”. I thought women stopped doing that fifty years ago.’

Her amusement reduced the Albions to the eccentric nuisances they were and made Ramses ashamed he had let Sebastian rouse his temper. ‘What does she call the bastard?’

Nefret chuckled. ‘Well, I don’t think he is, literally. He is always “my son Sebastian”. The way she pronounces the words, they sound like a royal title.’

‘When can we go home?’

Nefret squeezed his hand. ‘Anytime, poor darling. You’ve been a very good boy and deserve a reward.’

He smiled and her heart skipped a beat, as it always did when he looked at her in a certain way. I’m hopeless, she thought. Hopeless, and glad of it.

Emerson wasn’t ready to leave. He still had a few things to explain to Bertie, and then he had to go over the whole thing again with Cyrus, who had joined the group.

‘Go on, if you like,’ he said amiably.

‘May I come with you?’ Jumana asked.

‘Of course,’ Nefret said, reproaching herself for having neglected the girl. In company like this she needed all the support she could get.

Ramses gallantly offered Jumana his arm, and didn’t even wince when she giggled and hung on to it. He was making it up to her for an insult she didn’t know she had received, and his
infatuated wife was reminded again of how utterly she adored him.

She took his other arm, and they made their way to the door. Then she felt the muscles under her hand harden. He would have hurried them on if Sebastian had not intercepted them.

‘I misunderstood,’ he mumbled. ‘I beg your pardon.’

Whose pardon? Nefret wondered. He had addressed Ramses, hadn’t even looked at her or Jumana.

Ramses nodded brusquely and led his ladies to the waiting carriage.

‘Who was that?’ Jumana asked curiously. ‘He was very polite.’

‘A tourist,’ Ramses answered. ‘Very boring, as Sennia would say.’

Jumana laughed, and began to chatter, repeating what Emerson had said about Deir el Medina. She had an excellent memory.

Nefret leaned back and let her talk. Young Albion had had to nerve himself for that encounter. Why had he taken the trouble? To ingratiate himself and his family with the Emersons? Ignoring
Jumana was probably the most sensible thing he could have done. He certainly couldn’t request an introduction to a girl he hoped to seduce from the man who had warned him off.