Lord of the Silent: A Novel of Suspense (38 page)

pain and fear, but she kept trying to talk as he carried her to the saloon. "He locked me in my room. I was not asleep. I heard the key turn. But I had another key, he had done it to me before, and when I opened the door I saw him going to the stables, and I thought, He has disobeyed the Sitt Hakim, he is going to the dahabeeyah without me and-ah!" "I'm sorry," Ramses said. He lowered her gently onto the divan. "Is her leg broken?" "Just a sprained ankle, I think," Nefret said. "Get me some water. And a napkin." "You must listen! I followed, I was angry. But he did not come here, he went to Naga el-Tod, to the hotel-" "Kuentz," Ramses said, handing Nefret the dampened napkin. "Yes, it was he. I saw them talk together and I knew I must tell you . . .What has he done? Has he done wrong?" Fresh tears slid over her dirty little face. "Did Jamil hit you?" Ramses asked. I'll strangle the young swine, he thought. "No. I ran away, and I was afraid they had seen me, so I ran very fast, and I fell and hit my head and I fainted and ..." "Get me my medical bag," Nefret said. "No time." Ramses lifted the girl and went down the gangplank at a run, with Nefret following. "Take the stallion," he said. "He'll carry two. You can hold her, can't you?" "Yes. But you-" "If Jamil told Kuentz what we've planned for tonight, he may decide to act now. There's no one at the house but women and children and poor old Yusuf." Nefret had scrambled into the saddle. Ramses handed Jumana up to her and began shortening the stirrups. "Go straight to the Castle. Don't let anyone or anything stop you. If they did catch a glimpse of her they may come here." "I understand." She gathered Jumana into a firm grip and smiled down at him. She did understand-not only what she must do and why, but how much it cost him to let her go off alone, encumbered with a half-conscious child. Events had conspired to force him into a decision he had not had the courage to make before. She was braver than he; she had not tried to dissuade him or told him to take care. All she said was," I'll join you at the house as soon as I can." "Yes," Ramses said, and saw her blue eyes flash with pride. "Send Mother and Father too, if you can find them. I may need all the help I can get." Ramses mounted the mare without bothering to adjust the stirrups and urged her into a trot. It was impossible to go faster, there were too many people, donkeys, camels, carts, carriages on the road. He hoped and prayed he was worrying unnecessarily, but Jamil had deliberately disobeyed orders and gone straight to their chief suspect. They had never suspected Jamil; the members of that family were above suspicion, almost by definition, but the clues were there. Hadn't Jumana boasted of her brother's knowledge of the west bank mountains? Looking for tombs was a popular amusement. If Jamil had found the tomb and Kuentz had caught him in the act and had proposed an alliance ... Once he left the main road he made better time. How long had Jumana been unconscious before she woke and dragged herself, with a sprained ankle and a possible concussion, to warn them? She'd get her chance, all right-and anything else she wanted, including Bertie. Yusuf's two youngest children were playing on the veranda. Ramses let out a long breath of relief. Nothing had happened. Yet. He left the mare standing and took the children into the sitting room where Yusuf was enthroned on the settee. Leaving Yusuf in the middle of one of his long-winded greetings, he ran along the corridor. Better safe than sorry, his mother would say. The older children and the women were in the courtyard, busy with domestic chores. He cut their greetings short too. "There may be trouble," he said, addressing Kadija. "Get everyone into the sitting room and keep them there." She didn't waste time asking questions, not Kadija. Herding Yusuf's assorted wives and descendants ahead of her, like a flock of bewildered sheep, she disappeared into the house. They came over the wall, agile as weasels-three of them. Only one of the faces was familiar, and it wasn't that of Kuentz or Mubashir. Ramses had seen the man somewhere, on the street in Luxor, or outside the hotel. The sight of him stopped them for a moment. They had expected only women and children. Then he realized that Kadija was behind him, silent and solid as a rock, holding a granite statue of a centaur by the neck, like a club. She had snatched up the first heavy object that came to hand. "Go in," he said urgently. "Stay with the children. Lock yourselves in." He pushed her into the house, slammed the door, and put his back against it. After a whispered conference, the three men drew apart, one on either side of the courtyard, the other in the center. Rudimentary tactics, but effective, considering the odds. One was as dark-skinned as a Nubian, the other two had the sharp features and long limbs of the Western Desert peoples. Their robes had been pulled up and tucked into their belts, and the blades of the knives they held were a good eight inches long. He drew his own knife. The shutters of the room on his right opened and his uncle climbed out the window. He had discarded his galabeeyah and was wearing only a pair of loose drawers-probably Yusuf's, since they were bunched up around his narrow waist. "Get back inside," Ramses ordered. "Can't let them in the house, can we? I don't suppose you had sense enough to accept that gun." "You gave it to Nefret, not me. Where did you get the knife?" "Kadija. Here they come. You weren't planning to fight fair, I hope." "No. We'll take the one on the right." That would put him between Sethos and the other two. He wasn't counting on much help from his uncle, whose lean body showed the debilitating effects of his illness, but he felt his spirits lift. Fighting side by side with a man of his own blood, as his mother might put it ... On the whole, a stranger with a pair of revolvers would have been preferable. "Now," he said. Faced with two opponents heading for him at a dead run, their quarry hesitated for a brief but vital second. Sethos slashed at his face, Ramses struck his arm up and plunged his own knife into the man's belly. Spurting blood weakened his grasp on the hilt and when the man fell, his weight pulled the knife out of Ramses's hand. He felt the tip of a blade slice across his back as he bent over, trying to free his knife. It was stuck, caught on a rib, and the hilt was slippery with blood. He snatched up the knife the dead man had dropped, rolled to his feet and kicked out, deflecting the blade that was aimed at Sethos's back. Sethos was on his knees, streaming blood from hands and face. Ramses parried a slash at his knife hand and chopped at an arm with the flat of his other hand. The explosion sounded like a charge of dynamite, freezing all four of them for an instant. Christ Almighty, Ramses thought, it must have been that antique Martini of Yusuf's. I hope it didn't blow up in his hands. He stood over his uncle, trying to watch both men at once. They had got over their momentary paralysis and were coming at him again, from different directions. Ramses's ears were still ringing, but he thought he heard .. . The back gate gave way with a crash almost as loud as that of the gun. Hands on his hips, black hair wildly windblown, Emerson took in the scene in a single glance. His lips curled back, baring his teeth. It was over in less than ten seconds. One of the two men was sprawled on the ground, with his neck bent at an impossible angle. Emerson had hit him in the throat. The other writhed in Ramses's grasp, his arm twisted painfully behind his back. "Thank you, Father," Ramses said. "Again." "Just saving you a little time," said Emerson with what his son could only regard as a wildly optimistic assessment of the situation. He wasn't even breathing hard. "Er-all right, are you?" It was his usual question, but Ramses knew it was not directed at him. Sethos, now sitting up, raised his head. "Just a few scratches. Nothing serious. Flesh wounds." "You aren't very good with a knife," Ramses said. He didn't want thanks, and he was pretty sure he was not going to get any. His uncle's blood-streaked face broadened in a grin. "I've always preferred to hire other people to do the fighting." "Except on certain occasions," said Emerson. "I still have a scar ... Well, well. Shall we tie that fellow up, or kill him?" "We might want to ask him a few questions before we kill him," Ramses remarked dryly. "Only one of my little jokes," Emerson said with a chuckle. He lifted the prisoner with one hand and held him on tiptoe. "Where is your Master?" Answers to his questions were quickly forthcoming but not as informative as they had hoped. "The Master" had had other urgent business that morning; no, he had not explained what it was, he had sent the trio to rid him of Sethos and was to have met them later to settle their accounts before he left Luxor. Now, the prisoner admitted with refreshing candor, he would as soon not keep that appointment. The Master did not accept excuses or tolerate failure. "He may be telling the truth," Emerson mused. "These lads are killers and criminals. Kuentz wouldn't tell them anything more than they needed to know. Damnation! He's probably looting the tomb at this very instant! We'll tie this fellow up and toss him into a shed. Kadija!" It had been Kadija who fired the gun. The recoil would have broken the shoulder of a normal person; Kadija admitted that hers felt a little sore. The others arrived before long, and while his mother was sorting things out in her usual brisk manner, Ramses asked, "Didn't Nefret come with you?" His mother was slapping bandages on Sethos. He'd been lucky, or very, very agile; none of the cuts were deep. "She felt obliged to stay with Jumana. The poor little thing had lost consciousness and Nefret is afraid of concussion. But do you run along, my dear; she will be worrying about you. We can take care of Mr. Kuentz and the tomb." Ramses knew she would be worrying and he was anxious to reassure her, but his mother's bland self-confidence was somewhat alarming. It was possible-probable, in fact-that Kuentz was already at work, frantically trying to clear the tomb, hoping his other men could keep them occupied. "Kuentz won't be alone," he warned. "The more the merrier," said his father, flexing his hands. "He may be armed." "So are we," said his mother. The implements hanging from her belt jangled as she stood up. He couldn't leave Nefret wondering and fretting. He'd done it too often. "Wait half an hour," he said urgently. "I'll meet you at Deir el Bahri." "No, no, my boy," Emerson said. "He'll be in a hurry. He may damage some of the artifacts." His eyes were shining. If there was anything he enjoyed more than a fight, it was a new find. He fully expected to get both. "I'll come as soon as I can," Ramses said. His mother's peremptory voice followed him as he hurried along the corridor. "Ramses, come back here this instant. You need-" The mare was where he had left her, browsing on the petunias in the flower boxes. He hadn't gone far when he heard hoofbeats behind him and glanced over his shoulder. He reined the mare in and waited for the other man to come up to him. "Why didn't you go with them? With luck you could have rescued Mother again." Sethos shook his head. "She'd have ended up rescuing me. In either case, Radcliffe wouldn't like it. I stole his horse. That should slow them down a bit." Ramses knew that if he asked any of the questions that bubbled in his brain they'd end up in one of those interminable discussions. It was a family failing. Without replying, he set the mare to a gallop. Sethos wasn't much good with a knife, but he rode well, guiding the big gelding with expert hands. God help Margaret, Ramses thought. When she sees him romantically bloody and bandaged ... Is that what he wants? What does he want? Why didn't he stay at the house? The gates of the Castle were open when they arrived, and Cyrus was in the courtyard, about to mount his placid mare. "Well, thank goodness," he exclaimed. "Everybody all right? Is this-" "Mr. Cyrus Vandergelt, allow me to introduce Sethos," Ramses said. "Alias quite a number of other people." "Including me," said Cyrus, his leathery cheeks wrinkling in a smile. "Come on in. You look as if you could use a drink." "I can't stay," Ramses said. "I only stopped long enough to tell Nefret .. .Where is she?" "She left--can't have been more than half an hour ago, maybe less. The little girl is going to be fine, so Nefret and Miss Minton went charging out of here, heading for the house. They wouldn't wait for me." His smile faded. "You didn't run into them?" "No." Ramses turned on his uncle. "You expected this!" "I was afraid of it. Your wife's impulsive habits are well known, and if Kuentz could get hold of a hostage he'd have us right where he wants us. He's obviously got more manpower than we thought. One of them must have been watching the dahabeeyah-" Ramses snatched the mare's reins from the groom and swung himself into the saddle. Tight-lipped and no longer loquacious, his uncle mounted the gelding. "Wait for me," Cyrus shouted. "No, you can't help with this. If you want action, go after Mother and Father. Somewhere along the cliff south of Deir el Bahri. Take a weapon." As he turned the mare toward the gate he saw Cyrus run back into the house. "Are we going to ride furiously off into the sunset, or have you any bright ideas about where to look for them?" Sethos inquired. "Goddamn you," Ramses said. "I expect He already has. Half an hour or less ... they must have been intercepted before they left the Valley. Plenty of cover near the entrance. There may be signs of a struggle." What there was was a dead horse and the motionless body of Margaret Minton and a puddle of blood that shone wetly in the sunlight. The place was only ten feet from the road, a miniature wadi walled in by boulders. There was no sign of Nefret or her horse. Sethos was out of his saddle before Ramses could move. Kneeling beside the body, he said, "Margaret," in a whisper with almost no breath behind it. He didn't touch her. There was no room in Ramses's mind for sympathy. He went to them and pushed his uncle roughly out of the way. "She's not dead. Get the canteen off my saddle." She stirred when he bathed her bruised face and then she tried to sit up. "Easy," Ramses said, bracing her shoulders. Her eyes opened. They passed uninterestedly over him and Sethos, and focused in a concentrated glare. "Nefret. He took her. I tried ... He killed my horse." "Who?" She rubbed her eyes. "The boy-Jamil. He called her, begging for help, and she went to him-you know Nefret-there was another man, hiding behind the rocks-ugly scarred face . .." He cut her short. How the business had been managed was unimportant now. "Any idea where they might have taken her?" "No. I'm sorry, Ramses, I tried-" "It's all