He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12

by Elizabeth Peters

  Having got this effusive display of emotion out of his system, he accepted a cigarette from the tin Ramses offered and allowed him to light it.

  “What made you suspicious of Hamilton ?” Ramses asked.

  “ Hamilton ?” Emerson looked surprised. “No, no, my boy, you mistake me. I do not suspect him of anything except being a crashing bore.”

  “But the other night you implied you had identified Sethos. Don’t deny it, Father, you wouldn’t have been so certain Mother was on the wrong track if you hadn’t suspected someone else. I thought—”

  “Well, curse it, Hamilton ’s avoidance of us was suspicious, wasn’t it? I was mistaken. As soon as I set eyes on him I knew he wasn’t our man. I mentioned our destination to him as a precaution, so that if we did run into trouble someone would know where we were heading.”

  “Oh.”

  “A number of the officers overheard my conversation with Hamilton . One of them might have mentioned our intentions to other people. You see what that means, don’t you? We’re talking about a limited circle of people—all English, officers and gentlemen. One of them is working for the enemy. He had time to get out here before we arrived.”

  “Or send someone here to wait for us.”

  “Or reach someone by wireless.” Emerson shifted uncomfortably. He was obviously in pain, though he would rather have died than admit it.

  Ramses unbuckled the holster, took off his shirt, and began tearing it into strips. “Let me strap your shoulder. Nefret showed me how.”

  “You can’t do much worse than your mother,” said Emerson with a reminiscent grin. “It was her petticoat she tore up. Women used to wear dozens of them. Useful for bandages, but cursed inconvenient in other ways.”

  Astonishment made Ramses drop one end of the cloth he was holding. Had that been a mildly risquй double entendre? Nothing double about it, in fact, but to hear his father say such a thing about his mother…

  Greatly daring, he said, “I expect you managed, though.”

  Emerson chuckled. “Hmmm, yes. Thank you, my boy. That’s much better.”

  “Why don’t you try to get some sleep? We’ve nothing better to do.”

  “Wake me in four hours,” Emerson muttered. “We’ll take it in turn to keep watch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In four hours it would be dark and the moon would be up. It was a new moon, but there would be light from the brilliant stars. Ramses wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he had to do something. Desert nights were bitterly cold, and they had no blankets and very little water. Emerson had left his coat, canteen, weapon—everything except his precious pipe—on the saddle of the dead horse. Risha stood quietly, his proud head bent. He would have to go hungry and thirsty that night too. Ramses would have given him the last of the water, had he not wanted it for his father. Well, they would survive, all of them, and he’d have been willing to stick it out if the worst they had to fear was discomfort.

  Would the assassin give up when darkness fell? Bloody unlikely, Ramses thought. If I’d sent him, I’d want proof that he’d done the job. A grisly picture flashed through his mind: Egyptian soldiers after a battle piling up their trophies of victory. Sometimes they collected the hands of the enemy dead. Sometimes it was other body parts.

  Ramses began to unlace his boots.

  The sun had just set and a dusky twilight blurred the air when he heard the sound he had been expecting. It was only the faint rattle of a pebble rolling, but in the eerie silence of the desert it was clearly audible. He strained his ears, but heard nothing more. Not an animal, then. Only a man bent on mischief would take pains to move so quietly.

  He eased himself upright and moved cautiously along the wall, his bare feet sensitive to the slightest unevenness on the surface of the ground. The bastard knew where they were, of course, but a stumble or a slip would warn him that they were awake and on the alert. Then he heard another sound that literally paralyzed him with surprise.

  “Hullo! Is someone there?”

  A sudden glare of light framed the speaker—a British officer, in khaki drill jacket and short trousers, cap and puttees. He threw up his arm to shield his eyes.

  “I see someone is,” he said coolly. “Better switch that off, old boy. The fellow who was firing at you has probably taken to his heels, but one ought not take chances.”

  Emerson was on his feet. Injured, sick, or half-dead, he could move as silently as a snake, and he had obviously not been asleep.

  “Looking for us, were you?” he inquired.

  “Yes, sir. You are Professor Emerson? One of the Camel Corps chaps heard gunfire earlier and since you had not turned up, some of us went out looking for you.”

  “You aren’t alone?”

  “Three of my lads are waiting for me at the mouth of the wadi, where I left my horse. A spot of scouting seemed to be in order. Is your son with you?”

  Pressed against the wall, Ramses held himself still. He could see the man’s insignia now—a lieutenant’s paired stars and the patch of the Lancashire Forty-second. His hands were empty and the holster at his belt was fastened. The impersonation was almost perfect—but it was damned unlikely that the military would send a patrol at this hour of the night to search for mislaid travelers, and although his accent was irreproachable, the intonations were just a bit off. Ramses had to admire the man’s nerve. The ambush had failed and he was hoping to settle the business before daylight brought someone out looking for them.

  Emerson was rambling on, asking questions and answering them, like a man whose tongue has been loosened by relief. He kept the torch pointed straight at the newcomer’s eyes, though, and he had not answered the question about Ramses’s whereabouts.

  “Afraid I’ll have to ask the loan of one of your horses,” he said apologetically. “Banged myself up a bit, you see. If you could give me your arm…”

  For a second or two Ramses thought it was going to work. The officer nodded affably and took a step forward.

  The pistol wasn’t in his holster. He had stuck it through his belt, behind his back. Ramses had a quick, unpleasant glimpse of the barrel swinging in his direction, and aimed his own weapon, but before he could fire Emerson dropped the torch and launched himself at the German.

  They fell at Ramses’s feet. By some miracle the torch had not gone out; Ramses saw that the slighter man was pinned to the ground by Emerson’s weight, but his arms were free and he was trying to use both of them at once. His fist connected with Emerson’s jaw as Ramses kicked the gun out of his other hand. Emerson let out a yell of pure outrage and reached one-handed for the German’s throat. Ramses swung his foot again and the flailing body went limp.

  Emerson sat up, straddling the man’s thighs, and rubbed his jaw.

  “Sorry for being so slow, sir,” Ramses said.

  Emerson grinned and looked up. “Two good arms between the two of us. Not so bad, eh?”

  “You saved my life. Again.”

  “I’d say the score was even. I tried to blind him but his night vision must be almost as good as yours. He went for you first because he took me to be unarmed and incapacitated. Now what shall we do with him?”

  Ramses lowered himself to a sitting position, wondering if he would ever be able to match his father’s coolness. “Tie him up, I suppose. I’ll be damned if I know what with, though.”

  “Yards of good solid cloth in those puttees. Here—I think he’s waking up. Stick that pistol of yours in his ear. He’s a feisty lad, and I’d rather not have to argue with him again.”

  It struck Ramses as a good idea, so he complied. Emerson got the torch and positioned it more effectively before he began unwinding the strips of cloth from round the fellow’s legs. Ramses studied the man’s face curiously. It was a hard face, narrow across the forehead and broadening to a heavy jaw and protruding chin, but the mouth, relaxed in unconsciousness, was almost delicate in outline. He was younger than he had appeared. Hair, mustache, and scanty brows were fair, b
leached almost to whiteness by the sun. His lips moved, and his eyes opened. They were blue.

  “Sind Sie ruhig,” Ramses said. “Rьhren Sie sich und ich schiesse. Verstehen Sie?”

  “I understand.”

  “You prefer English?” inquired Emerson, wrapping strips of cloth round the booted ankles. “It’s no good, you know. You gave yourself away when you pulled that gun.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you alone?”

  The pale-blue eyes rolled toward Ramses and then looked down. Emerson had managed to knot the strip of cloth by holding one end between his teeth. With his lips drawn back, he looked like a wolf chewing on a victim’s torn garments. The German swallowed.

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Take you back to Cairo ,” Ramses said, since his father was still tying knots. “First we have a few questions. I strongly advise you to answer truthfully. My father is not a patient man and he is already rather annoyed with you.”

  “You torture prisoners?” The boy tried to sneer. He can’t be much over twenty, Ramses thought. Just the right age for a job like this—all afire to die for the Fatherland or the Motherland or some equally amorphous cause, but not really believing death can touch him. He must have attended school in England .

  “Good Gad, no,” Emerson said. “But I cannot guarantee what will happen to you in Cairo . You are in enemy uniform, my lad, and you know what that means. Cooperate with us and you may not have to face a firing squad. First I want your name and the name of the man who sent you here.”

  “My name…” He hesitated. “Heinrich Fechter. My father is a banker in Berlin .”

  “Very good,” Emerson said encouragingly. “I sincerely hope you may live to see him again one day. Who sent you?”

  “I…” He ran his tongue over his lips. “I see I must yield. You have won. I salute you.”

  He raised his left hand. Ramses saw it coming, but the split second it took him to comprehend the boy’s real intent was a split second too long. The muscles of his hand and arm had locked in anticipation of an attempt to seize the gun; before he could turn the weapon away the young German’s thumb found Ramses’s trigger finger and pressed it. The heavy-caliber bullet blew the top of his head off in a grisly cloud of blood and brains, splintered bone and hair.

  “Christ!” Ramses stumbled to his feet and turned away, dropping the pistol. The night air was cold, but not as cold as the icy horror that sent shivers running through his body.

  His father put Ramses’s coat over his bare shoulders and held it there, his hands firm and steadying. “All right now?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Never apologize for feeling regret and pity. Not to me. Well. Let’s get at it, shall we?”

  It was a vile, horrible task, but he was up to it now. The search produced a set of skillfully forged documents, including a tattered photograph of a sweet-faced gray-haired woman who was probably not the boy’s mother. Emerson pocketed them. “Shall we try to find his horse?”

  “We can’t leave it here to die of thirst.”

  “No, but to search this terrain in the dark is to risk a broken leg. We will send someone to look for it in the morning, and for his camp.”

  There was one more thing. Neither of them had to suggest it; they set to work in silent unanimity, deepening the shallow depression in the corner of the wall. Ramses wrapped his coat round the shattered head before they moved the body. A good hard push sent the remains of the wall tumbling down over the grave.

  “Do you remember his name?” Emerson asked.

  “Yes.” It was not likely he would ever forget it, or neglect the request implicit in that single answer to their questions. Someday the banker in Berlin would know that his son had died a hero, for whatever comfort that might give him.

  Another death, another dead end, Ramses thought. It appeared there was to be no easy way out.

  He got the canteen from the body of Emerson’s horse and gave Risha a drink before he addressed his father. “D’you want to go on ahead? You can make better time alone. I’ll be all right here.”

  “Good Gad, no. What if I fell off again? You go. I’ll wait here.”

  He knew exactly what his father had in mind, and now he had no hesitation in saying so. “You want to explore your bloody damned ruins, don’t you? If you think I am going to leave you stumbling round in the dark, without food or water or transport, you can think again. We’ll go together. You ride Risha, I’ll walk.”

  They had extinguished the torch, to save what was left of the failing batteries. He couldn’t make out Emerson’s expression, but he heard a soft chuckle. “Stubborn as a camel. Very well, my boy. Give me a hand up, will you? The sooner we get back, the better. God only knows what your mother has been up to.”

  Chapter 11

  The flat was in the fashionable Ismailiaya district. Waiting in the cab I had hired, I saw him enter the building at a few minutes past three. He had been lunching out.

  I do not lie unless it is absolutely necessary. In this case it had been absolutely necessary. If Emerson had known what I intended, he would not have let me out of his sight. If I had told Nefret the truth, she would have insisted on accompanying me. Neither would have been acceptable.

  I gave my quarry half an hour to settle down, and then inspected myself in the small hand mirror I carried. The disguise was perfect! I had never seen anyone who looked more like a lady bent on an illicit assignation. The only difficulty was my hat, which tended to tip, since the hat pins did not penetrate through the wig into my own hair. I pushed it back into position, adjusted the veil, and crossed the street. The doorkeeper was asleep. (They usually are.) I took the lift to the second floor and rang the bell. A servant answered it; his dark coloring and tarboosh were Egyptian, though he wore the neatly cut suit of a European butler. When he asked my name I put my finger to my lips and smiled meaningfully.

  “You need not announce me. I am expected.”

  Evidently the Count was accustomed to receive female visitors who did not care to give their names. The man bowed without speaking and led me through the foyer. Opening a door, he gestured me to enter.

  The room was a parlor or sitting room, quite small but elegantly furnished. A man sat writing at an escritoire near the windows, with his back to me. Apparently he agreed with Emerson that tight-fitting garments interfered with intellectual pursuits. He had removed his coat and waistcoat and rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow.

  I took a firmer grip on my parasol, readjusted my hat, and entered. The servant closed the door behind me—and then I heard a sound that made my breath catch.

  I flung myself at the door. Too late! It was locked.

  Slowly I turned to face the man who had risen to confront me, his hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. The black hair and mustache and the eyeglass were those of the Count de Sevigny. The lithe grace of his pose, the trim body, and the eyes, of an ambiguous shade between gray and brown, were those of someone else.

  “At last!” he exclaimed. “I have waited tea for you, my dear. Will you be good enough to pour?”

  An elegant silver tea service stood on the table he indicated, together with with a dumbwaiter spread with sandwiches and iced cakes.

  “Please take a chair so that I may do so,” said Sethos politely. “I believe you have a fondness for cucumber sandwiches?”

  “Cucumber sandwiches,” I said, regaining my self-possession, “do not appeal to me at this moment. Pray let us not stand on ceremony. Sit down and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  In a single long step he was at my side. “The wig does not become you,” he said, deftly whisking off the hat and the wig to which it was (somewhat precariously) attached. “And if you will permit me a word of criticism, that parasol does not match your frock.”

  The hand that rested on my shoulder fell away as I leaped back. He made no attempt to detain me. Instead he folded his arms and watched with infuriating amusem
ent as I tugged in vain at the handle of the parasol. The release button was still sticking. I would have a few words to say to that lazy rascal Jamal when I returned home!

  If I returned home.

  “May I be of assistance?” Sethos inquired. He held out his hand.

  The mocking smile, the contemptuous gesture gave me the additional strength I required. The button yielded. I whisked the blade out and brandished it.

  “Ha!” I cried. “Now we will see who gives the orders here! Sit in that chair.”

  He appeared quite unperturbed for a man who has a sharp point an inch from his jugular, but he obeyed the order. “An engaging little accoutrement,” he remarked. “Put it away, my dear. You won’t use it; you are incapable of cutting a man’s throat unless your passions are aroused, and I have no intention of arousing yours. Not that sort of passion, at any rate.”

  His gray—hazel—brown eyes sparkled wickedly. What color were they? I leaned closer. Sethos let out a little yelp. “Please, Amelia,” he said plaintively.

  A thin trickle of blood ran down his bared throat. “That was an accident,” I said in some confusion.

  “I know. I forgive you. Do sit down and give me a cup of tea. There is no need for this combative approach, you know. You have won. I yield.”

  “Have I? You do?”

  Sethos leaned back, his hands on the arms of the chair. “I presume you have left the usual message to be opened if you fail to return home, so I can’t keep you here indefinitely; your husband and son will not be back for some hours, but there are others who may be moved to come looking for you, including that charming little tigress, your daughter. She isn’t really your flesh and blood, though; sometimes, Amelia, I am filled with wonderment at how you can be so clever about so many things and miss others that are right under your nose.”

  “Confound it!” I cried in considerable confusion. “How do you know… What do you mean by… You are trying to get me off the subject. We were speaking of—”

  “My surrender.” Sethos smiled. “I apologize. Conversation with you has such charm, I am always moved to prolong it.”