He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12

by Elizabeth Peters

  The gвteau au rhum which Miss Molly was devouring certainly fell into that category. Her enjoyment was so obvious I could not help smiling.

  “A little indulgence now and then does not hurt a child,” I said. Miss Molly, talking with her mouth full, did not hear this. Ramses did. He gave me a sidelong look.

  As Miss Molly chattered cheerfully on, I began to be a trifle uneasy about the time. Miss Nordstrom had declined a sweet but had accepted coffee. The dining salon was now full, and several acquaintances stopped by to say good evening on their way to or from their tables. One of these was Lord Edward.

  The son of Lord Salisbury, he was in birth and lineage the most distinguished of all the young men whom Kitchener had brought into the Egyptian civil service. He had had no training for his position in the Finance Ministry, but by all accounts he had done an excellent job and was high in the confidence of the Government. He also had a certain reputation as the wittiest man in Cairo . Making fun of other people is the easiest way to acquire such a reputation. What he and his set said about us behind our backs I could only imagine. They would never have had the audacity to say it to our faces.

  Gravely and deferentially he congratulated Emerson on the discovery of the statue, told me how well I looked, pinched Miss Molly’s cheek, and asked after Nefret. Miss Nordstrom got a condescending nod. Last of all he addressed Ramses.

  “I thought you might like to know that Simmons has been reprimanded and cautioned to behave himself in future.”

  “It wasn’t entirely his fault,” Ramses said.

  “No?” Lord Edward raised his eyebrows. “I will tell him you said so. Good evening.”

  “We must say good evening too,” Miss Nordstrom said, after the gentleman had sauntered away. “It is shockingly late.”

  Miss Molly looked rebellious. “I haven’t finished my gвteau.”

  I said briskly, “You have had quite as much as is good for you. Run along with Miss Nordstrom. Good night to you both.”

  “And do give our regards to the Major,” said Emerson.

  “She is becoming something of a nuisance,” I remarked, watching the young person being towed away by her governess. “What is the time?”

  Ramses took out his watch. “ Half past ten .”

  Emerson hailed the waiter by waving his serviette like a flag of truce.

  “Emerson, please don’t do that.”

  “You told me I mustn’t shout at the fellow. What else am I supposed to do to get his attention? Finish your coffee and don’t lecture.”

  I took a sip. “I must say the Savoy ’s cuisine does not live up to that of Shepheard’s. The coffee has quite a peculiar taste.”

  Emerson, occupied with the bill, ignored this complaint, but Ramses said, “Mine was all right. Are you sure you didn’t add salt instead of sugar?”

  “I don’t use sugar, as you ought to know.”

  “May I?” He took my cup and tasted the coffee. “Not nice at all,” he said, wiping his mouth with his serviette. “Would you like another cup?”

  “No time,” said Emerson, who had finished settling the account.

  He bustled us out of the hotel and into the motorcar. As we circled the Ezbekieh Gardens and headed north along the Boulevard Clos Bey, Ramses pulled a bundle from under the seat and began removing his outer garments. No wonder he had looked lumpy; he was wearing the traditional loose shirt and drawers under his evening clothes.

  While he completed the change of clothing I looked back, watching for signs of pursuit. Nothing except another motorcar or a cycle could have kept up with Emerson, and by the time we reached the Suq el-Khashir I felt certain we had not been followed. Turning to Ramses, I beheld a shadowy form swathed in flapping rags. The smell had already caught my attention. Pinching my nose, I said, “Why are your disguises so repulsive?”

  “Nefret asked me that once.” He adjusted a wig that looked like an untrimmed hedge. It appeared to be gray or white, and it smelled as bad as his clothes. “As I told her, filth keeps fastidious persons at a distance. I expect you and she would rather I rode romantically about in white silk robes, with a gold-braided agab holding my khafiya.”

  “I cannot see what useful purpose that would serve. The khafiya would become you well, though, with your dark eyes and hawklike features and—”

  “I’m sorry I brought it up,” said Ramses, his voice muted by laughter. “Good night, Mother.”

  He was gone before I could reply, jumping nimbly over the side of the car as it slowed. Emerson immediately picked up speed.

  After I had folded Ramses’s good evening suit into a neat bundle, I leaned forward to speak to Emerson.

  “How far has he to go?”

  “A little over three miles. He should be there in plenty of time.”

  From Manuscript H

  The Turk was late. Ramses, lying flat beside one of the monuments, had been there for some time before he heard the creak of wagon wheels. He waited until the slow-moving vehicle had passed before getting to his feet, and he was conscious of a cowardly reluctance to go on as he approached from an oblique angle, stepping carefully over fallen gravestones. Farouk and the others had already arrived, singly or in pairs as he had taught them.

  He watched the proceedings for a while through a break in the wall. The Turk was in a hurry, so much so that he actually took a hand in the unloading. He started and swore when Ramses slipped in.

  “Don’t bother inspecting the merchandise,” he growled. “It is all here.”

  “So you say.”

  “There is no time.” He heaved a canvas-wrapped bundle at Ramses, who caught it and passed it on to Farouk.

  “Shall I open it, sir?” Farouk asked.

  “No,” Ramses said curtly. “Get on with it.”

  He went to stand beside the Turk. “There has been trouble. Did Farouk tell you?”

  “I thought I should leave it to you, sir,” said Farouk, in a voice like honey dripping.

  Ramses moved back a step. “We cannot use Aslimi’s place again. It was raided by the police last night. Every merchant in the Khan el Khalili is talking about it.”

  The Turk emitted a string of obscenities in a mixture of languages. “Who betrayed us?”

  “Who else but Aslimi? He has been on the verge of cracking for weeks. How did you get away from them, Farouk?”

  “You were surprised to see me here?”

  “No. Every merchant in the Khan knows the police left without a prisoner. Were you warned in advance?”

  “No, I was only very clever.” He let out a grunt as the Turk passed a heavy box into his arms. “I know the alleys of the Hoshasheyn as a lover knows the body of his mistress. They came nowhere near me.”

  “They?” Ramses echoed the word.

  “The police. Who else would I mean? No one came near me.”

  That settles that, Ramses thought. If Farouk were loyal to Wardani he would have mentioned his meeting with the Emersons and bragged of his cleverness in duping the formidable Father of Curses out of a thousand pounds in gold. He might be vain enough to think he could get the money without giving anything in return.

  “Well done,” Ramses murmured. “Aslimi cannot tell the police very much, because we did not tell him very much, but we must arrange for another drop. Do you know the Mosque of Qasr el-Ain? It’s not much used except on Friday, when the dervishes whirl, and there is a small opening beside one of the marble slabs on the left wall as you go in. It’s the one just under the text of the Ayet el-Kursee. You know your Koran, of course?”

  “I will find the place. One more delivery. It will be the last.”

  “Is the time so close, then?”

  “Close enough.” The wagon was empty. The Turk got onto the seat and gathered the reins. “You will be told when to strike.”

  This time Ramses did not try to follow him. He stood watching—it would have been below Wardani’s dignity to assist with manual labor—while his men covered the loads with bundles of reeds.
>
  Asad edged up to him. “You have recovered, Kamil? You are well?”

  “As you see.” He put a friendly hand on the slighter man’s shoulder, and Asad stiffened with pride.

  “When will we see you again?”

  “I will find you. Maas salameh.”

  He waited, with his back against the wall, listening to the creak of the cart wheels. Then he heard another sound, the roll of a pebble under a careless foot. His knife was half out of the sheath before he recognized the dark outline. Too short for Farouk, too thin for any of the others: Asad. He stood uncertainly in the opening, his head moving from side to side, his weak eyes unable to penetrate the darkness.

  “Here,” Ramses said softly.

  “Kamil!” He tripped and staggered forward, his arms flailing. “I had to come back. I had to tell you—”

  “Slowly, slowly.” Ramses caught his arm and steadied him. What a conspirator, he thought wryly. Clumsy, half-blind, timid—and loyal. “Tell me what?”

  “What Mukhtar and Rashad are saying. They would not dare say it to your face. I told them they were fools, but they—”

  “What are they saying?”

  A great gulp escaped the other man. “That you should give out the guns now, to our people. That it is dangerous to keep them all in one place. That our people should learn how to use them, to practice shooting—”

  “Without attracting the attention of the police? It would be even more dangerous, and a waste of ammunition.”

  Damnation, Ramses thought, even as he calmed his agitated lieutenant. He’d been afraid some bright soul would think of that. He thought he knew who the bright soul was.

  “What did Farouk say?” he asked.

  “Farouk is loyal! He said you were the leader, that you knew best.”

  Oh, yes, right, Ramses thought. Aloud, he said, “I am glad you told me. Go now, my friend, and make sure the weapons get to the warehouse. I count on you.”

  Asad stumbled out. Ramses waited for another five minutes. When he left the mosque it was on hands and knees and in the deepest shadow he could find. The cemetery was not one of the groups of princely medieval tombs mentioned in the guidebook; it was still in use, and most of the monuments were small and poor. Crouching behind one of the larger tombs, he exchanged the old fakir’s tattered dilk and straggling gray hair for turban and robe, and wrapped the reeking ensemble in several tight layers of cloth that reduced the stench to endurable proportions. He had been tempted to abandon the garment and wig, but it had taken him a long time to get them suitably disgusting.

  He slung the bag over his shoulder in order to leave both hands free, buckled the belt that held his knife on over his robe, and started toward the road. Even though he had been half-expecting it, David’s appearance made him start back, his hand on the hilt of his knife.

  “A bit nervous, are we?” David inquired, his lip curling in the distorted smile of his disguise.

  “What happened to the gauzy pantaloons?”

  “I couldn’t find a pair that was long enough.”

  They went on in silence for a time, and then Ramses said, “I thought you were going to follow the Turk.”

  “I concluded it would be a waste of time. We need to know where he’s coming from, not where he goes after he has rid himself of his incriminating load. He probably hires a different team and wagon for each delivery, and I doubt he stays in the same place all the time.”

  “You’re protesting too much,” Ramses said with a faint smile. “But I don’t mind admitting I appreciate your standing guard. Farouk makes me extremely nervous.”

  “He affects me the same way. Especially after what happened at Aslimi’s.”

  “You heard?”

  “Yes. The story is all over the bazaars.” David’s voice was neutral, but Ramses was painfully aware of his friend’s disappointment.

  “It’s not over yet,” he said. “We caught up with Farouk and came to an agreement with him. He wants a thousand pounds in gold in exchange for what he called a bigger fish than Wardani. Father is to meet him tomorrow night.”

  “It could be a ruse.” David was trying not to let his hopes rise.

  “It could. But Farouk is an egotistical ass if he thinks he can trick an old hand like Father. He’ll keep his word, to hand over the money and give Farouk three days immunity from pursuit—but first the innocent lad will spend a little time in our custody, while we verify the information.”

  It was typical of David that he should think first of the danger to someone else. “The Professor mustn’t go alone. The fellow wouldn’t think twice about knifing him in the back, or shooting him. Where are they meeting and when? I’ll be there too.”

  “Not you, no.” Ramses went on to explain. “His choice of a rendezvous was no accident. I don’t know how much he knows, or how much he has told others, but if something goes wrong tomorrow night you must not be found near that house. I’m going with Father. Between the two of us we should be able to deal with Farouk. The little swine isn’t going to shoot anybody until he has made certain we have the money with us.”

  The area between the edge of the cemetery and the city gate was an open field, used in times of festivals, now deserted. Pale clouds of dust stirred around their feet as they walked under a sickle moon through patches of weeds and bare earth. There was no sign of life but the night was alive with sounds and movements—the sharp baying of pariah dogs, the scuttle of rats. A great winged shape of darkness swept low over their heads and a brief squeak heralded the demise of a mouse or shrew. He had grown up amid these sounds and rich, variegated smells—donkey dung, rotting vegetation—and he had walked paths like this one many times with David. He was reluctant to break the companionable silence, but ahead the glow of those parts of Cairo that never slept—the brothels and houses of pleasure—were growing brighter, and there was more to discuss before they parted.

  He gave David a brief account of what had transpired at the rendezvous, and David described his new abode, in the slums of Boulaq. “Biggest cockroaches I’ve ever seen. I’m thinking of making a collection.” Then David said, “What’s this I hear about a statue of solid gold?”

  Ramses laughed. “You ought to know how the rumor-mongers exaggerate. It is a treasure, though.” He described the statue and answered David’s questions; but after David’s initial excitement had passed, he said, “Strange place to find such a thing.”

  “I thought that would occur to you.”

  “But surely it must have occurred to the Professor as well. A royal Fourth Dynasty statue in the shaft of a private tomb? Even the most highly favored official would not possess such a thing; it must have been made to stand in a temple.”

  “Quite.” They passed between the massive towers of the Bab el-Nasr, one of the few remaining gates of the eleventh century fortifications, and were, suddenly, in the city. “It hadn’t been thrown in,” Ramses went on. “It was upright and undamaged, and not far from the surface. The sand around it was loose, and the purported thieves had left a conspicuous cavity that pinpointed its position.”

  David pondered for a moment, his head bent. “Are you suggesting it was placed there recently? That the diggers wanted you to find it? Why? It’s a unique work of art, worth a great deal of money in the antiquities market. Such benevolence on the part of a thief… Oh. Oh, good Lord! You don’t think it could have been—”

  “I think that’s what Father thinks. He sees the dread hand of Sethos everywhere, as Mother puts it, but in this case he could be right. I’ve been half expecting Sethos would turn up; such men gather like vultures in times of war or civil disorder. He’s been acquiring illegal antiquities for years, and according to Mother he keeps the finest for himself.”

  “But why would he plant one of his treasures in your tomb?” David emitted a gurgle of suppressed laughter. “A present for Aunt Amelia?”

  “A distraction, rather,” Ramses corrected. “Perhaps he’s hoping that a superb find will make her concentrate on
the excavation instead of looking for enemy agents.”

  “Has she been doing that?”

  “Well, I think she may be looking for him. That is a damned peculiar relationship, David; I don’t doubt she is devoted to Father, but she’s always had a weakness for the rascal.”

  “He has rescued her from danger on several occasions,” David pointed out.

  “Oh, yes, he knows precisely how to manipulate her. If she is telling the truth about their encounters he hasn’t made a single false move. She’s such a hopeless romantic!”

  “He may really care for her.”

  “You’re another damned romantic,” Ramses said sourly. “Never mind Sethos’s motives; in a way I hope I’m wrong about them, because I’d hate to believe my mind works along the same lines as his.”

  “He could be one of the busy little spies in our midst, then—perhaps even the man in charge. That isn’t a happy prospect.” David sounded worried. “He has contacts all over the Middle East , especially in the criminal underground of Cairo , and if he is as expert at disguise as you—”

  “He’s even better. He could be almost anyone.” Ramses added, in a studiously neutral voice, “Except Mrs. Fortescue.”

  “You’re certain?” The undercurrent of laughter was absent from David’s voice when he went on. “She could be one of his confederates. He had several women in his organization.”

  Ramses knew David was thinking of one woman in particular—the diabolical creature who had been responsible for his grandfather’s death. She was out of the picture, at any rate, struck down by a dozen vengeful hands.

  “Possibly,” he said.

  “What about that bizarre Frenchman who follows her about? Could he be Sethos?”

  Ramses shook his head. “Too obvious. Have you ever seen anyone who looked more like a villain? He’d be more likely to take on the identity of a well-known person—Clayton, or Woolley, or… Not Lawrence , he’s not tall enough.”

  They skirted the edge of the Red Blind district. A pair of men in uniform reeled toward them, arms entwined, voices raised in song. It was long past tattoo, and the lads were in for it when they returned to the barracks, but some of them were willing to endure punishment for the pleasures of the brothels and grog shops. Ramses and David stepped out of the way and as the men staggered past they heard a maudlin, off-key reference to someone’s dear old mother. David switched to Arabic.