He Shall Thunder in the Sky (30 page)

     “It is as God pleases,” said Emerson, cutting him off. “We are here now, Bassam, so bring out the food. We are all hungry.”

     As it turned out, this was the one night Mr. Bassam had not prepared food in advance. He had quite given us up. After all, we had been in Cairo . . .

     “Anything you have, then,” Emerson said. “The sooner the better.”

     First a table had to be placed for us at the very front of the restaurant, near the door. This suited me very well. It also suited Mr. Bassam, who wanted such distinguished customers to be seen. He even dusted off the chairs with a towel. I hoped it was not the same one he used to wipe the dishes, but decided I would feel happier if I did not ask.

     “And what will she have?” he inquired, as Ramses put Seshat down on a chair.

     “She is omnivorous,” Nefret said gravely, in English.

     “Ah? Ah! Yes, I will prepare — uh — it at once.”

     “Don’t tease him, Nefret,” I scolded. Seshat sat up and inspected the top of the table. Finding nothing of interest there except a few crumbs, she jumped down onto the floor.

     “Put her on the lead, Ramses, and tell her she must stay on the chair,” I instructed. “I don’t want her going out on the street to eat vermin.”

     “She eats mice all the time,” said Emerson, as Ramses returned the cat to her chair and began searching his pockets — a token demonstration, as I well knew, for I had forgotten to mention the lead and he would never have thought of it himself. The collar was primarily for purposes of identification; it bore our name and Seshat’s.

     “They are
our
vermin,” I said.

     “Use this.” Nefret unwound the scarf from her neck and handed it to her brother.

     Seshat accepted the indignity without objection after Ramses had explained the situation to her. The other diners, who were watching us with the admiring interest our presence always provokes, looked on openmouthed.

     Mr. Bassam began heaping food, including a dish of spiced chicken, on the table. Seshat was not really omnivorous, but her tastes were more eclectic than those of many cats; she licked the seasoned coating off the chicken before devouring it, with more daintiness than certain of the other patrons displayed, and joined us in our dessert of melon and sherbet.

     By the time we finished, darkness was complete. Across the way the gateway of the Khan was hidden in the shadows, but there were lights beyond it, from the innumerable little shops and stalls. The shoppers and sightseers passing in and out of the entrance included a number of people in European dress and a few in uniform.

     “Nothing yet,” I whispered to Emerson, while Ramses and Nefret argued amiably over how much melon Seshat should be allowed to eat. “It isn’t that far away. We would hear a disturbance, wouldn’t we?”

     “Probably. Possibly. Cursed if I know.” Emerson’s curt and contradictory remarks told me he was as uneasy as I had become. Sitting on the sidelines is not something Emerson much enjoys. “Let’s go over there.”

     “Go where?” Nefret asked.

     “To the Khan,” I replied, with my customary quickness. “I suggested we stroll a bit before returning home. Have we all finished?”

     At one time the gates of the Khan were closed before the evening prayer. An increasing number of merchants were now “infidels” — Greeks or Levantines or Egyptian Christians — and the more mercantile-minded of the Moslem Cairenes had seen the advantage of longer hours, especially when the city was bursting with soldiers who wanted exotic gifts and mementos. (Some of them spent their pay in quite another quarter of the city and took home mementos that were not so harmless. But that is not a subject into which I care to enter.)

     The Khan el Khalili is not a single suk, but a sprawling collection of ramshackle shops and ruinous gateways and buildings. The old khans, the storehouses of the merchant princes of medieval Cairo, were architectural treasures, or would have been if they had been properly maintained. A few had been restored; most had not; mercantile establishments occupied the lower floors and huddled close to the flaking walls; but one might catch occasional glimpses of delicately arched windows and tiled doorframes behind the shops.

     The smells were no less remarkable. Charcoal fires, donkey and camel dung, unwashed human bodies, spices and perfumes, baking bread and broiling meat blended into an indescribable whole. One may list the individual components, but that gives the reader no sense of the composite aroma. It was much more enjoyable than one might assume, in fact, and no worse than the sort of thing one encounters in many old European towns. There were times, when the fresh breeze blew across the Kentish meadows carrying the scent of roses and honeysuckle, when I would gladly have exchanged it for a whiff of old Cairo.

     As we wandered along the winding lanes, past the tiny cubicles in which silks and slippers, copper vessels and silver ornaments were displayed, I knew that Russell had not yet made his move. The whole place would have been buzzing with gossip had the police descended on a shop anywhere in the Khan. Many of them were closing, the shutters drawn down and the lamps extinguished, for the hour was growing late and the buyers were leaving to return to hotels and barracks. My anxiety could no longer be contained, and I pushed ahead of the others, setting a straight course for Aslimi’s establishment. Had Russell been unable to make the necessary arrangements? Had he failed me? Curse it, I thought, I ought not have trusted him. I ought to have handled the matter myself — with a little assistance from Emerson.

     Then it occurred to me that Russell might be waiting until the crowds had thinned out. Strategically it was a sensible decision. The fewer people who were about, the less chance that a bystander might be injured or that Aslimi’s fellow merchants might be tempted to come to his aid. I hastened on, determined to be in at the kill. Then Emerson caught me up and I moderated my pace. Actually it was Emerson who moderated it for me, grasping my arm and holding it tightly.

     “Proceed slowly or you will ruin everything,” he hissed like a stage villain.

     “Why are you in such a hurry, Aunt Amelia?” Nefret asked.

     I turned. We were not far from Aslimi’s now; his place was around the next curve of the lane. My ears were pricked. So, I observed, were those of Seshat, perched on Ramses’s shoulder. Her eyes reflected the lamplight like great golden topazes. I forced a smile.

     “Why, my dear, what makes you suppose I am in a hurry? That is my normal walking pace.”

     Seshat’s tail began to switch and she leaned forward, sniffing the air. Her eyes had lost their luster; the lamp behind me had been extinguished. The shutter of the shop went down with a bang. The steel grille of the establishment next to it slammed into place. All along the lane, lights were going out and doors were closing.

     “What is happening?” Nefret demanded. She moved closer to Ramses and took hold of his sleeve. He detached her fingers, gently but quickly, and caught Seshat in time to prevent her from taking a flying leap off his shoulder. Lowering her to the ground, he handed Nefret the scarf. “Hold on to her.”

     “Damnation,” said Emerson under his breath. “They know. How do they know?”

     It did smack of witchcraft, that unspoken recognition of danger that runs like a lighted fuse through a group of people who live with uncertainty and fear of the law. The mere sight of a uniform, or even a too-familiar face, would be enough of a warning.

     “Know?” Nefret repeated. I could barely make out her features, it was so dark. “Know what?”

     “That trouble is brewing,” Emerson said calmly. A sudden outburst of noise, including a pistol shot, made him add, “Boiled over, rather. Follow me.”

     A lesser man might have ordered the rest of us to stay where we were. Emerson knew none of us would obey such an order anyhow, and until we had ascertained precisely what the situation was, it was safer to keep together. He switched on his electric torch and led the way along the lane.

     The only open door was that of Aslimi’s shop. As we hastened toward it, one of the men outside turned with an expletive and a raised weapon. Emerson struck it out of his hand.

     “Don’t be a fool. What is going on?”

     “Is it you, O Father of Curses?” the fellow exclaimed. “We have him cornered — Wardani — or one of his men — there is a fifty-pound reward!”

     I heard a gasp from Nefret, and then Ramses said, “Where is he?”

     “He went into the back room. The door is barred but we will soon have it down!”

     It certainly appeared that they would, and that they would smash every object in the shop during the process. Small loss, I thought, as an enthusiastic ax-wielder swept a row of fake pots off a shelf. But . . .

     “Hell and damnation!” said Emerson, retreating in such haste that I had to run to keep up with him.

     There are no alleyways or conventional back doors in the Khan el Khalili. Most of the shops are mere cubicles, open only at the front. We may have been among the few Europeans who knew that Aslimi’s establishment did have another entrance — or, in this case, exit. It opened onto a space between two adjoining structures that was so narrow a casual observer would not have taken it for a passageway, and even knowing its approximate location we would have missed it in the darkness without the aid of Emerson’s torch.

     “Turn off your torch,” Ramses said urgently.

     Emerson’s only answer was to thrust out his arm in a sweeping arc that flattened Ramses and Nefret against the adjoining wall. Standing square in the opening, he allowed the light to play for a moment on his face before he directed the beam into the passageway. Peering under his arm, I had a fleeting glimpse of a figure that halted for a moment before it disappeared.

     “He saw me, I think,” Emerson said in a satisfied voice. “After me, Peabody. Bring up the rear, Ramses, if you please.”

     “Shouldn’t we tell the police?” I asked.

     “No use now, they’d never track him in this maze.”

     “But we can!” Nefret exclaimed. She was panting with excitement.

     “We may not have to,” Emerson said.

     Emerson thought he was being enigmatic and mysterious, but of course I knew what he meant. I always know what Emerson means. He had deliberately made a target of himself so the fugitive would see him and, as Emerson hoped, be willing to deal with him. Honesty and integrity, as I have always said, have practical advantages. Every man in Cairo knew that when the Father of Curses gave his word he would keep it.

     As it turned out, Emerson’s hope was justified. After we had squeezed through the passageway, where Emerson and Ramses had to go sideways, we emerged into a wider way and saw a shadow slip into the darker shadows of what appeared to be a doorway but was, in fact, another narrow street.

     The Hoshasheyn district is a survival of medieval Cairo, and indeed most medieval cities must have been like it — dark, odorous, mazelike. Our quarry led us a merry dance, keeping close enough to be seen but not to be apprehended. Our progress was slightly impeded by Seshat, who in her eagerness to follow the fugitive (or possibly a rat) kept winding her lead round our limbs, until Ramses picked her up and returned her to his shoulder, gripping her collar with one hand. Emerson used his torch only when it was absolutely necessary. At last we came out into a small square. A fountain tinkled, like raindrops in the night.

     “There,” I cried, pointing to a door that stood ajar. Light showed through the opening.

     “Hmmm,” said Emerson, stroking his chin. “It has the look of a trap.”

     “It is,” Ramses said. “He’s there. By the door. He has a gun.”

     Farouk stepped into view. He did indeed have a gun. “So it is true, as they say of the Brother of Demons, that he can see in the dark. I was waiting for you.”

     “Why?” inquired Emerson.

     “I am willing to come to terms.”

     “Excellent,” I exclaimed. “Come with us, then, and we —”

     “No, no, Sitt Hakim, I am not such a fool as that.” He switched to English, as if he were demonstrating his intellectual abilities. “Come in. Close the door and bar it.”

     “What do you think?” Emerson inquired, looking at Ramses.

     “In my opinion,” I began.

     “I did not ask your opinion, Peabody.”

     Farouk was showing signs of strain. “Stop talking and do as I say! Do you want the information I can give you or not?”

     “Yes,” Nefret said. Before any of us could stop her she had entered the room. Farouk backed up a few steps. He kept the pistol leveled at her breast.

     The rest of us followed, naturally. The room was small and low ceilinged and very dirty. A single lamp cast a smoky light. Emerson closed the door and dropped the bar into place. “Make your proposal,” he said softly. “I lose patience very quickly when someone threatens my daughter.”

     “Do you suppose I don’t know that?” The light was dim, but I saw that Farouk’s face was shining with perspiration. “I would not be fool enough to harm her, or any of you, unless you force me to, nor am I fool enough to go on with a game that is becoming dangerous to me. Now listen. In exchange for what I can tell you I want two things: immunity and money. You will bring the money with you when we next meet. A thousand English pounds in gold.”

     “A large sum,” Emerson mused.

     “You will think it low when you hear what I have to say. She has it. Will you pay it, Nur Misur?”

     “Yes,” she said quickly.

     “Just a minute, Nefret,” Emerson said. “Before you agree to a bargain you had better make certain what it is you are paying for. The whereabouts of Kamil el-Wardani are not worth a thousand pounds to us or even to the police.”

     “I have a bigger fish than that to put on your hook. Wardani is a pike, but I will give you a shark.”

     “Well-read chap, isn’t he?” Emerson inquired of me.

     “Do you agree or not?” Farouk demanded. “If you are trying to keep me here until the police come —”