He Shall Thunder in the Sky (53 page)

     “No point in that, it will be light in an hour or two,” said my indefatigible spouse. “What about breakfast, eh, Peabody?”

     “It would be unkind to rouse Fatima at this hour, when she was so late getting to bed last night.”

     “Good Gad, no, I wouldn’t do that. I will just cook up some eggs and coffee and —”

     “No, you will not, you always burn the bottoms off the pans.”

     “I would offer,” said Ramses, “but —”

     “But you always burn them too.” The idea of breakfast had some merit. I wanted to hear how Emerson had carried out his task, and I knew he would be in a much better humor after he had been fed. The dents in the motorcar were bound to provoke some recriminatory remarks, and the missing lamp . . . “Oh, very well, I will see what’s in the larder.”

     There was quite a lot in the larder, and Emerson tucked into a roast chicken wing with a hearty appetite. Between bites he gave us a description of his adventures.

     “It went off without a hitch. What did you expect? After I had stowed the stuff away I drove the cart back to Kashlakat and left it outside the mosque.”

     “You walked off and left it?”

     “The donkeys weren’t going anywhere. As for walking, I concluded I would rather not.” He stopped chewing and gave me a reproachful look. “I had become very anxious about you, my dear. I expected to find you not far from where I had left you.”

     “Oh, you did, did you?”

     My interest in Emerson’s narrative had not prevented me from noticing that Ramses had put very little food on his plate and had eaten very little of that. He finished his cup of coffee and rose.

     “No,” I said. “Please, Ramses. Don’t go out again.”

     “Mother, I must. I ought to have taken care of it earlier, but I wanted to make certain Father got home all right. I should be back by daylight.”

     “The others will sleep late,” Emerson said. “But — er — don’t be any longer than you can help, my boy. Do you know who it was?”

     “What —” I began.

     Emerson waved me to silence, and Ramses said, “Not for certain, but Rashad is the most likely candidate. If he wakes to see me squatting on the foot of his bed, glowering like a gargoyle, he’ll be in a proper state for interrogation.”

     I said, “What —” and Ramses said, “Tell her, Father. I must hurry.”

     “You aren’t going on foot, I hope,” said Emerson.

     Ramses’s tight lips parted in a smile. “I’ll take the camel.”

     He was gone. I put my elbows on the table and my face in my hands.

     “Now, now, Peabody.” Emerson patted me on the shoulder.

     “How much longer is this going to continue?”

     “It can’t be much longer. If the last delivery has been made, der Tag must be imminent. Don’t you suppose he is as anxious as you are to get this over?”

     “I know he is. That is what frightens me. Desperation drives a man to recklessness. I take it Rashad is one of Wardani’s lieutenants? Not another of the same ilk as Farouk, I hope.”

     “Unlikely,” said Emerson, with infuriating calm. “Part of the cache was missing. Someone had got there before us. That means there are a hundred rifles and possibly a machine gun or two in unknown hands in an unknown location. Not enough to win a war, but enough to kill quite a number of people. The most likely suspect is this fellow Rashad, who has been exhibiting signs of insubordination, egged on, no doubt, by Farouk. That has been one of Ramses’s difficulties all along — keeping that lot of young radicals under control. I know their type — good Gad, I was one of them myself once upon a time! — naive and idealistic and itching to prove their manhood by rioting in the streets. Fists and rocks and clubs can do a limited amount of harm, but a gun is entirely different. It makes a weak man feel like a hero and a strong man feel as if he is immortal, and it removes the last inhibition a killer might feel. You don’t have to be close to a man to put a bullet into him. You don’t have to see his face.”

     “Were you a radical, Emerson?”

     “I am still, my dear. Ask anyone in Cairo.” Emerson’s grin faded. “Peabody, Ramses took on this assignment for one reason and one reason only: to keep people from being injured, even those young fools of revolutionaries. He won’t rest until he’s got those guns back. When he does, he will have accomplished what he set out to do, and this damned business will end, if I have to collect the damned weapons and the damned young fools myself. Are you trying not to cry? Let it out, my darling, let it out, you look dreadful with your face screwed up like that.”

     “I am trying not to sneeze.” I rubbed my nose. “Though your words moved me deeply. Emerson, you have given me new heart. I am ready to act when you are!”

     “We’ll give Russell time to act first. Not much time, though, curse it. Something is going to happen in the next two or three days. The Turks are within five miles of the Canal in some areas; they’ve begun digging themselves in east of Kantara and Kubri and el-Ferdan. In the meantime that lot of Clayton’s is drawing up maps and ‘examining broader questions of strategy,’ as they put it! What we need is detailed information: precisely where and when the attack will take place, how many men, what kind of armaments, and so on. Our defenses are dangerously undermanned, but if we knew that, we might be able to hold them.”

     “Might? Really, Emerson, you are not very encouraging.”

     “Not to worry, my dear.” Emerson’s handsome blue eyes took on a faraway look. “If the enemy takes Cairo we will retreat into the wadis and hold out until reinforcements arrive from England. The weapons I concealed at Fort Tura —”

     “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

     “I?” Emerson’s dreamy smile stiffened into a look of rigid disapproval. “I only want to get on with my excavations, Peabody. What do you take me for?”

     I went to him and put my arms round his shoulders. “The bravest man I know. One of them . . . Ow! Emerson, don’t you dare kiss me while you are wearing that beard!”

From Manuscript H

     Ramses knew where Rashad and the others lived; he kept track of changes of address, which were fairly frequent. This wouldn’t be the first time he had dropped in on one of them without warning. He preferred these epiphanies, not only for the sake of safety but because they added to his own mystique. Wardani knows all!

     Rashad, whose father was a wealthy landowner in Assiut, had a room to himself in a building near el-Azhar, where he was, in theory at least, a student. Whether from inertia or self-confidence or love of comfort, he hadn’t shifted quarters lately, and Ramses had decided the best approach was through the window, which gave onto a narrow street leading off the Sharia el-Tableta. The window was on the first floor with a blank wall under it, but the camel would help him with that little difficulty if he could force the balky beast into position.

     As he might have expected, the camel walked out from under him as soon as he got hold of the sill, and he had a bit of a scramble to get in. Fortunately, Rashad was a heavy sleeper. He was snoring peacefully when Ramses took up a position at the foot of his bed.

     The darkness paled with the approach of dawn, and Ramses decided irritably that he couldn’t wait for the lazy lout to have his sleepout. He had to be out of the room before it was light enough for Rashad to get a good look at him. The tweed coat and trousers were the ones he had worn before, and the hat shadowed his face, but he hadn’t had time to alter his features with makeup. He lowered his voice to the resonant pitch he had learned from Hakim the Seer of Mysteries (aka Alfred Jenkins), who did a mind-reading stunt at the London music halls.

     “Rashad!”

     The response would have been entertaining if Ramses had been in a mood for broad humor. Rashad thrashed and squawked and squirmed, fetching up in a sitting position with his back against the wall and his knees drawn up and the sheet clumsily arranged over his naked body.

     “Kamil! You! How —”

     “Where,” Ramses corrected. “Where did you take them?”

     There was no argument, but there were plenty of excuses. Ramses interrupted him. “The ruined mosque? You haven’t much imagination, have you? They must be moved. I’ll see to it myself. I will overlook your insubordination this time, Rashad, but if it happens again. . . .”

     He left the threat unspecified, knowing Rashad had enough imagination to picture a variety of ugly possibilities, and went to the door. Rashad had not only barred it but shoved a chair against it. As he removed these pathetic impediments, Rashad continued to squeal apologies. Ramses left without replying. He didn’t suppose Rashad would work up nerve enough to follow him, especially since he had taken the precaution of “borrowing” the galabeeyah Rashad had laid out across a chair, ready to put on in the morning.

     There was no sign of the camel. He didn’t waste time looking for it; it would not be lonely for long, and its original owner would be anonymously and generously reimbursed. In Ramses’s opinion he was lucky to be rid of the brute. It had the gait of a three-legged mule and it had tried to bite him on the leg.

     He quickened his steps, reaching the mosque as the call to morning prayer ended. After removing his shoes and hat, he went inside, pausing by the fountain to bathe face, hands, and arms. There were few worshipers, since most people preferred to pray at home; and as Ramses went through the prescribed positions, kneeling at last close to the left wall, he hoped what he was doing would not be regarded as profanation. He slipped his hand into the opening in the wall, and paper crackled under his fingers.

The train left him off at Giza Station. Since it was now broad daylight, he was as likely to be seen climbing up the trellis as walking in the front door, so he did the latter. The smell of frying bacon floated toward his appreciative nostrils and he followed it toward the breakfast room.

     The Vandergelts weren’t down yet, but Nefret had joined his parents at the table. They all turned to stare when he sauntered in.

     “Enjoy your walk?” his father inquired, giving him a cue he didn’t need.

     Nefret yawned prettily, covering her mouth with her hand. “Such energy! Early to bed and early to rise . . . I hope you are feeling wealthy and wise, because you don’t look especially healthy.”

     “Kind of you to say so.”

     “You’ve got those dark smudges under your eyes,” Nefret explained. “Very romantic-looking, but indicative, in my experience, of too little sleep. I thought you came home early last night.”

     “I also woke early. Couldn’t get back to sleep, so I went for a long walk.” Fatima put a plate of eggs in front of him. He thanked her and told himself to shut up. He was explaining too much.

     “You should have hoarded your strength,” said his father, with a wolfish smile. “I mean to get in a full day’s work, so hurry and finish breakfast.”

     Ramses nodded obediently. His mother had not spoken, but he hadn’t missed the signs of silent relief when he walked into the room. She always carried herself like a soldier, even when she was sitting down; it made him feel like a swine to see those straight shoulders sag and that controlled face lose a little of its color. What he was doing was unfair to David and Nefret, but it was brutal to his parents. Perhaps the news he brought would cheer them up.

     He had to wait until they were on their way to Giza before he had a chance to speak with his mother alone. His father had gone on ahead with Nefret, and Ramses held Risha to the plodding pace of his mother’s mare.

     “I know where he’s hidden them,” he said without preamble.

     “It was the man you suspected?”

     “Yes. He was only trying to be helpful! A feeble excuse, but he wasn’t in a state to think clearly.”

     His mother was. She was blind as a mole about some things, but every now and then she hit the nail square on the head. “The Turks are communicating directly with him. They must be, or he wouldn’t have known where the cache was located. You didn’t tell him, did you?”

     “No. You’re right, of course. They know where he lives, too. The message was pushed under his door.”

     “They’re having doubts of you — of Wardani.”

     “They always have had. Now that they’ve lost their agent, they are trying to undermine my control another way. I doubt it means anything more than that. Time is running out for them. I collected another little missive this morning.”

     She held out her hand. Ramses couldn’t help smiling. “I destroyed it. It said, ‘Be ready. Within two days.’ ”

     “Then you can confiscate the weapons and put an end to this. Now, today.” She yanked on the reins.

     Ramses halted Risha and reached for her hand, loosening her clenched fingers. In her present mood she was quite capable of galloping straight to Russell’s office and yelling orders at him across the desk.

     “Leave it to me, Mother. Russell is waiting for word; as soon as he gets it, he’ll act. It’s all been worked out. The worst is over; don’t lose your head now.”

     “I have your promise?”

     “Yes.”

     “Very well.” They started forward. After a moment he heard a loud sniff and a muffled, “I apologize.”

     “It’s all right, Mother. Oh, damnation, are you crying? What did I say?”

     There were only two tears, after all. She wiped them away with her fingers and squared her shoulders. “Hurry on, your father will be waxing impatient.”

     Ramses gave his father the same information shortly afterwards, while they were measuring the outer dimensions of the second burial shaft. He didn’t get off quite as easily this time. Emerson wanted to know where Rashad had put the guns, and how Ramses meant to inform Russell, and a number of other things that he was probably entitled to know. Just in case.

     Having been gracious enough to approve the arrangements, Emerson turned his attention to excavation. Ramses didn’t doubt his father fully intended to round up a few revolutionaries himself, and was looking forward to it, but he had a scholar’s ability to concentrate on the task at hand.