Thank goodness, I thought. I could have invented a story to explain why Molly had come to us—or rather, I could have told that part of the truth that did not involve Ramses—but now I did not have to.
“So,” Miss Nordstrom continued, “it is just as well we are sailing tomorrow. She is a very willful young person and I cannot control her properly here. I shudder to think of what could happen to her in this wicked city!”
Not so wicked a city as London . I kept this thought to myself, since I did not wish to prolong the conversation.
My conscience being at ease about the child, I was able to concentrate on my uneasiness about Nefret. It was not unheard of for her to go riding, alone or with a friend, but the fact that she had not mentioned a name roused the direst of suspicions. Instead of going to my room I lingered in the hall, rearranging a vase of flowers, straightening a picture, and listening. I had not realized how worried I was until I heard a prolonged howl from the infernal dog. Relief actually weakened my frame. Nefret was the only one he greeted in that manner.
The door opened and she slipped in. Seeing me, she stopped short. “I thought you’d be changing,” she said. It sounded like an accusation.
I could only stare in consternation. Her loosened hair hung down below her shoulders, and her hands were gloveless. There was something odd about the fit of her tailored coat; it had been buttoned askew. I seized her by the shoulders and drew her into the light.
“Have you been crying?” I demanded. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Aunt Amelia, please don’t ask questions, just let me—”
She broke off with a gasp, and I turned to see what she was staring at.
“So you’re back,” Ramses said. “Is something wrong?”
He hadn’t changed, or even brushed his hair, which looked as if he had been tugging at it. As his eyes moved over Nefret’s disheveled form and dust-smeared face, a wave of burning red rose from her throat to her hairline.
“I’m late. I’m sorry. I’ll hurry.” Face averted, she ran for the stairs.
Though I despise social conventions in general, I would be the first to admit that there are sensible reasons behind certain of them. For example, the avoidance of controversial subjects and heated argument at the dinner table promotes digestion. Despite my best efforts I was unable to keep the conversation that night on a light pleasant note. Anna had been so late in arriving that there was not time for her to change before Fatima called us to dinner. I felt certain the girl had done it deliberately to annoy Katherine and perhaps make the rest of us feel like slackers. The dress she wore for her hospital duties was as severe as a proper nurse’s uniform.
I caught Katherine’s eye before she could speak and shook my head. “We must go in,” I said. “Or Mahmud will burn the soup.”
Disappointed in her hope of starting a row, Anna continued to be as provoking as possible. Many of the barbs she slipped into the conversation were aimed at Nefret.
In fact, I knew what had set her off. I had, by pure accident, overheard part of a dialogue between the two girls after luncheon. The first complete sentence was Nefret’s.
“It’s the uniform, don’t you see that? You want to be in love with a soldier, any soldier. I don’t care how many of them you pursue, but stay away from him. He—”
“You’re only saying that because you’re jealous! I saw you come in from the garden with him. You lured him out there. You want him yourself!”
“Lured?” Nefret gave a strange little laugh. “Perhaps I did. You are mistaken about the rest of it, however. Listen to me, Anna—”
“No! Leave me alone.” She went running off.
It had not required much effort to guess whom they were discussing. I had meant to warn Anna about Percy myself, but if she would not heed Nefret, there was little chance she would listen to me, and I did not believe there was any danger of a serious attachment, at least not on Percy’s part. Like the generous-hearted man he was, Cyrus had made testamentary provisions for his stepchildren, but Anna was not by any definition a wealthy heiress.
It may have been Anna’s sullen mood that infected the rest of us. There was certainly something in the air that night; it would be superstitious to speak of premonitions and forebodings, so I will not. Heaven knows there were sufficient reasons for concern in the events of those times. It was Cyrus who first mentioned the war. I was only surprised we had managed to keep off it so long.
“Heard anything more about an attack on the Canal?”
His question was directed at Emerson, who shook his head and replied somewhat evasively, “One hears a great deal. Rumors, most of them.”
Nefret looked up. “People are leaving Cairo . They say the steamers are completely booked.”
“The same ‘they’ who spread such rumors,” Emerson grunted. “One never knows who ‘they’ are.”
“But there will be an attack,” Anna said suddenly. “Won’t there?”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Nefret said. “The wounded would be sent to the military hospitals. Anyhow, most of the troops guarding the Canal are Indian—Punjabis and Gurkhas. Not romantic, in your terms.”
The venom in her voice was like a slap in the face, and Anna’s cheeks reddened as if from an actual blow.
“The Forty-second Lancashire is there,” Cyrus said obliviously. “And some Australian and New Zealand troops.”
“And the Egyptian artillery,” Ramses added. “They are well trained, and the Indian regulars are first-rate fighting men.”
He was trying to reassure Katherine—and me? From my conversations with Emerson, I knew the situation was not so comfortable as Ramses implied. The British Army of Occupation had been sent to France , and their replacements were raw and untrained. The safety of the Canal hung on the loyalty of the so-called “native” troops, most of whom were Moslem. Would they be swayed by the Sultan’s call for a jihad?
“They certainly are splendid-looking fellows,” Nefret said. “I’ve seen some of them in Cairo , on leave. On the street, that is. They are not allowed in the hotels or the clubs, are they? I don’t suppose any of the patriotic ladies of Cairo have gone to the trouble of providing them with a decent place to relax from their duties.”
“I don’t suppose so either,” I said. “There are not enough decent recreational facilities for any of the enlisted men. No wonder the poor lads resort to grog shops and cafйs and—er—other even less reputable places of—er—amusement! I will take steps to correct that. I beg your pardon, Ramses, did you speak?”
“No, Mother.” He looked down at his plate, but not so quickly that I failed to see the glint of amusement in his black eyes. What he had said, under his breath, was, “Tea and cucumber sandwiches.”
So it went, through three additional courses. Cyrus’s questioning of Emerson was a transparent request for reassurance; I did not doubt he had seriously considered sending Katherine home—or trying to. Anna and Nefret continued to snipe at one another, and Ramses contributed nothing useful to the converation. After dinner we retired to the parlor, where Katherine sank into a chair.
“If anyone else mentions the war, I will scream,” she declared. “Nefret, will you please play for us? Music is said to soothe a savage breast and mine is quite savage just now.”
Nefret looked a trifle sheepish. She had certainly done her bit to contribute to the unpleasantness. “Of course. What would you like to hear?
“Something cheerful and comic,” Cyrus suggested. “There are some pretty funny songs in that stack I brought with me.”
“Something soft and soothing and sweet,” Katherine corrected.
“Something we can all sing,” said Emerson hopefully.
Nefret, already seated at the piano, laughed and looked at Ramses. “Have you any requests?”
“So long as it isn’t one of those sentimental, saccharine ballads you favor. Or a stirring march.”
Her smile faded. “No marches. Not tonight.”
She played the o
ld songs that were Emerson’s favorites. At her request Ramses stood by to turn the pages for her, and if he found the songs too sentimental for his taste, he did not say so. I managed to prevent Emerson from singing by asking Nefret to do so. Her voice was untrained but very sweet and true, and Emerson loved to hear it.
Katherine put her head back and closed her eyes.
“That was charming, my dear,” she said softly. “Go on, if you are not too tired.”
Nefret sorted through the sheet music. “Here’s one of Cyrus’s new songs. Ramses, sing it with me.”
He had been watching her, but he must have been thinking of something else, for he started when she addressed him. I knew he was as keenly aware of the time as I was. Within an hour he must leave to meet Thomas Russell.
With a smile and a shrug he held out his hand. “Let me see the music.”
“If you are going to be that particular—”
“I only want to look through it first.” He had learned to read music, though he did not play. Once I had wondered why he bothered. After a quick perusal, he curled his lip. “It’s worse than saccharine, it’s precisely the sort of romantic propaganda I was talking about the other day.”
“Please, Ramses,” Katherine murmured. “This is so pleasant, and I haven’t heard you and Nefret sing together for a long time.”
Ramses’s cynical smile faded. “All right, Mrs. Vandergelt. If it will please you.”
It was the first time I had heard the song, which was to become very popular. It did not mention the War; but the wistful reference to “the long, long night of waiting” before the lovers could again walk together into the land of their dreams made its message particularly poignant in those days. Music may be a tool of the warmongers, but it can also bring solace to aching hearts.
They went through it twice, and the second chorus was nearing its final notes when Ramses’s smooth voice cracked. “Damn it, Nefret! What did you do that for?”
She was shaking with laughter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to kick you so hard. I just didn’t want you to spoil it by breaking into falsetto.”
“A scream of pain is preferable?” He rubbed his shin.
“I said I was sorry. Pax?”
She held out her hand. His lips quivered, and then he was laughing too, his hands enclosing hers.
The door opened. Fatima was there. She had neglected to veil her face, and in her hand she held a flimsy bit of folded paper.
“It is from Mr. Walter,” she said, holding out the paper as if it were burning her fingers.
How did she know? How did any of us know? Oh, there was a certain logic behind the instinctive expectation of bad news that brought us all to our feet. Telegrams and cables were used primarily for news of great joy or great sorrow, and after only a few months of war, English households had learned to dread the delivery of one of those flimsy bits of paper. But it was more than that, I think.
After a moment Katherine sank back into her chair with a look of unconcealed relief, and shame at that relief. News of her son would not come to her through Walter. Bertie was safe. But some other woman’s child was not.
It was my dear Emerson who went to Fatima and took the telegram from her. The lines in his face deepened as he read it.
“Which of them?” I asked evenly.
“Young John.” Emerson looked again at the paper. “A sniper. Killed instantly and without pain.”
Nefret turned to Ramses and hid her face against his shoulder. He put his arm around her in a gentle but almost perfunctory embrace. His face was as cold and remote as that of Khafre’s alabaster statue.
“Evelyn is bearing up well,” Emerson said. He kept looking at the telegram, as if he could not remember what it said.
“She would, of course,” said Ramses. “That’s part of our code, is it not? Part of the game we play, like the marches and the songs and the epigrams. Killed instantly and without pain. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.” He let the sheet of music fall to the floor. With the same detached gentleness he took Nefret’s hands and guided her to a chair. He left the room without speaking again.
From Manuscript H
He saddled Risha himself, waving aside the sleepy stableman’s offer of assistance. The great stallion was as sensitive as a human being to his master’s moods; as soon as they had left the stableyard Ramses let him out, and he ran like the wind, avoiding the occasional obstacle of donkey or camel without slackening speed. There was more traffic on the bridge and in the city streets, but by that time Ramses had himself under better control. He slowed Risha to a walk.
It was half past eleven when he reached the club. Too early for the rendezvous, but Russell would probably be there. Leaving Risha with one of the admiring doormen, he ran up the stairs and went in. Russell was in the hall. He was alone, reading or pretending to read a newspaper. He was watching the clock, though, and when he saw Ramses he dropped the newspaper and started to rise. Ramses waved him back into his chair and took another next to him.
“What are you doing here?” Russell demanded in a hoarse whisper. “I got the message. Has something gone wrong?”
“Nothing that affects our business. There’s been a slight change in plans, though. You can empty the arsenal whenever you like, but it must be done in absolute secrecy, and you mustn’t make any arrests. There’s another cache hidden in the ruined mosque near Burckhardt’s tomb.”
Russell’s eyes narrowed at the peremptory tone. He was accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. “Why?”
“Do you want the man who’s behind this?”
“You mean… Do you know who it is?”
“Yes.”
He laid it out with the cold precision of a formula, point by point, ignoring the skepticism that formed a stony mask over Russell’s face. Once a slight crack appeared in the mask, but Russell said nothing until he had finished.
“When he was in Alexandria we missed two deliveries. He was at the wrong place.”
“Then you believe me. You can convince General Maxwell—”
Slowly Russell shook his head. “It might have been pure incompetence. I thought it was. That’s why I relieved him and sent him back to Cairo . He’s one of Maxwell’s fair-haired boys, and Maxwell would resent my interference.”
Ramses knew he was right. Interservice jealousy was a damned nuisance and a fact of life. “Military intelligence hasn’t been able to get a line on him,” he argued. “At least give me a chance to find the proof.”
“How? Whether you’re right or wrong, the fellow hasn’t made a false move. There’s someone running the show here, even Maxwell admits that, but he’ll never believe it’s one of his pets. We’ve rounded up a few of the underlings, like that Fortescue woman, but none of them had ever spoken personally with him.”
“He must communicate directly with his paymasters, though. Probably by wireless. Obviously he can’t keep the equipment in his quarters. That means he’s got a private hideaway. I think I know where. He takes women there sometimes.”
Russell’s lips tightened. “Where did you get that? Your pederast friend?”
“My friend is more familiar with his habits than Maxwell or you. Your fine upstanding young officer is well known in el Was’a. Maxwell probably wouldn’t believe that either. Allow me to return to the point, please. There’s no use raiding the place, he wouldn’t keep anything there that would incriminate him. I’ll have to catch him in the act. No, don’t interrupt me. The uprising is set for tomorrow or the next day. He’s too fond of his precious skin to stay in Cairo during a riot, so he’ll head for a safe place—possibly the hideaway I mentioned. I’ll follow him.” He cut off Russell’s attempt to speak with a peremptory gesture. “That is why you mustn’t do anything to put him on his guard. You can’t arrest Wardani’s lot without his finding out about it, and then he’ll do something—God knows what—I can never predict what the bastard is likely to do. He might decide to sit tight and make no move at all. He might bolt. Or he might
take steps to protect himself by removing potential witnesses.”
“You really hate his guts, don’t you?” Russell said softly.
“My feelings don’t come into it. I’m asking a single favor from you, and I believe I have the right.”
Russell nodded grudgingly. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You’ve done your job.”
Ramses went on as if he had not spoken. “I’ll look for a communication tomorrow morning. If it’s there, I’ll ring you and leave the message about the camel. If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, you’ll know it will be the next day.” He rose to his feet. “We’ve talked long enough. Would you care to call me a few names or slap my face? People have been watching us.”
A reluctant, hastily hidden grin curved Russell’s lips. “I doubt anyone would believe, from our expressions, that this was a friendly conversation. Where is this hideaway?”
Ramses hesitated.
“I won’t move in until I hear from you,” Russell said. “Or until—I haven’t heard from you. In the latter case, I ought to know where to look.”
“For the body? You’ve got a point.”
He described the place and its location. Russell nodded. “Do me one favor. No, make that two.”
“What?”
“Don’t play hero. If he’s our man, we’ll get him sooner or later.”
“And the other favor?”
Russell wet his lips. “Don’t tell your mother!”
Ramses backed away, trying to appear angry and insulted. God forgive him, he had almost burst out laughing at the look of abject horror on Russell’s face.
After he had mounted, he turned Risha, not toward home, but toward the railroad station and the narrow lanes of Boulaq. There was one more appointment he had to keep. He dreaded it even more than he had the other.
The cafй was a favorite rendezous for a variety of shady characters, including some of the less reputable antiquities dealers and the thieves from whom they obtained their illegal merchandise. It had been a good choice; even if Ramses was recognized—which was more than likely, considering his wide circle of acquaintances in the antiquities game—the assumption would be that he had come on business.
He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12 Page 43
