Night Train to Memphis vbm-5

by Elizabeth Peters

  Johnny made his appearance at that point. ‘Anything else of interest?’ he inquired.

  ‘Not much. I didn’t want to ask questions about the kidnapped American tourist and nobody brought it up. You know villages; they’re more interested in local scandal than in issues of national importance. Turn on the radio, Kendrick, and let’s see if we can get a news broadcast.’

  We were eating dinner – Keith had also opened a couple of cans of beef stew – before the news came on. It was, of course, in Arabic, and I had to wait for a translation, but I could tell by Feisal’s lengthening face that it would not be good news for us.

  ‘They know we’ve changed vehicles,’ Feisal said, switching off the radio. ‘Amr reported the jeep stolen. Damn him!’

  ‘One can’t blame him for protecting himself,’ John said. ‘And his friends and family. So they know we’re on this side of the river?’

  ‘They seem to have lost track of us,’ Feisal admitted grudgingly. ‘We might have doubled back, getting through the checkpoints before they found out about the jeep, or struck out into the desert. But we can’t use the jeep any longer, they’ve got a description and the number.’

  ‘Can we buy another car?’ I asked

  John glanced at me. He didn’t say anything, but I knew that look, and I realized that once again he was one step ahead of me. If he had planned to leave the cruise here, he must have made arrangements for transport away from the site.

  After a brief pause – I give the guy credit, it was very brief – Keith cleared his throat. ‘You can take my Land Rover. I guess it’s the least I can do, since it was your money that paid the hire fee.’

  John’s faint smile faded and he said bluntly, ‘You’re too intelligent not to suspect by now that you’ve been set up, Kendrick. I didn’t expect matters to develop as they have and I’m sorry about taking advantage of you, but not sorry enough to let you off the hook. We’ve got to have that vehicle. I don’t think you’ll get in serious trouble over this. If anyone – police or otherwise – learns we were here, don’t try to be clever or heroic. Tell them we robbed you, lied to you, or held you up at gunpoint – any story you like. We’ll back you up.’

  ‘Let’s hope it won’t come to that,’ Keith said. ‘I don’t understand what the hell this is all about, but as my granny used to say, you’ve got to trust somebody sometime. You will let me know what happens, won’t you?’

  ‘You’ll hear it on the news broadcasts,’ John said. ‘One way or the other . . . All right then, we’ll be on our way in the morning. Feisal, you and Schmidt take the Land Rover. You’ll look very innocent with your dear old mum in the backseat. Vicky and I will wend our way to Minya and – ’

  Feisal shook his head. ‘It won’t wash, Johnny.’

  ‘There’s a greater chance . . .’ John began.

  ‘I agree. We’ll have to divide forces. But neither of you speaks Arabic. Schmidt does.’

  ‘Only enough to swear and tell dirty jokes,’ I said.

  Schmidt blushed. Feisal said, ‘That could be enough. No, Johnny, I’m sorry, but Vicky goes with me or with Schmidt. It had better be with me. That way there’ll be one able-bodied man in each party.’

  ‘Listen, you male chauvinist,’ I began.

  Schmidt was as indignant as I. ‘Ha! You think I cannot defend myself and protect Vicky? I, the finest swordsman in Europe?’

  I patted his hand and made appreciative noises, but I was watching John and I saw his face change as he met Feisal’s steady stare. ‘Feisal is right,’ he said slowly. ‘This is a better arrangement all round. He knows the roads, and if Vicky slumps down in the backseat she can wear one of those conveniently concealing female garments, and remain modestly silent. I hope that won’t be too great a strain, Vicky.’

  ‘Oh, go to hell,’ I said angrily. ‘If you think I don’t know why Feisal suggested this you are sadly mistaken. Women and children into the lifeboats first, right? They’ll be watching the railroad stations, and you’re the one Larry wants, and you aren’t able-bodied, and – ’

  Schmidt had taken my hand in his. He squeezed it and said gently but firmly, ‘They are in the right, Vicky. Think with your head instead of your heart and do not make this more difficult.’

  It wouldn’t be any easier for John or for Schmidt than for me, I knew that. They’d be as worried about me as I would be frantic with apprehension for them. But they were right, damn them. Larry would be just as pleased to have me as John. If they catch you, John had said, then I’ll come after you. So would Schmidt, the little hero.

  They took my silence for agreement. Feisal got to his feet. ‘The market is still open. What are we going to need?’

  Schmidt had cashed all his traveller’s checks, so we had money to burn. After Feisal had left, shopping list in hand, we settled down to wait. Keith declined my offer to help with the dishes so I joined John on the floor and Schmidt started singing to the dog.

  Don’t ask me why. I guess singing calmed Schmidt’s nerves. The dog loved it. So did John. ‘Let’s have “Detour on the Highway to Heaven” again, Schmidt,’ he suggested.

  The third verse – ‘If you ever get out of the fast lane – ’ fascinated Keith to such an extent that he squatted down on the rug next to the dog and requested an encore. Under cover of Schmidt’s (and the dog’s) howls, I said softly, ‘You rotten cheat. You already know those songs.’

  ‘I am acquainted with the entire spectrum of western music,’ John said modestly. He put his arm around me and I leaned against his shoulder.

  ‘Then why did you pretend you’d never heard them?’

  ‘I hadn’t. Not as Schmidt performed them. I have been waiting all my life to hear him sing “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky-tonk Angels.”’

  Schmidt was explaining to Keith about travelling melodies. ‘You will find the same tune used for many different songs. The one I have just sung to you is the same one used for that tender love song, “I Am Thinking Tonight of My Blue Eyes . . .”’

  ‘Don’t sing it, Schmidt,’ I begged.

  ‘No, not our song,’ John agreed. He was shaking with amusement. ‘How about “Great Speckled Bird” instead, Schmidt?’

  ‘Ach, ja, that is right. Do you know that one, Keith? The larged spotted bird is the church, you see. “The outer birds all flopped around her . . .”’

  John’s face took on a look of unholy glee. ‘I’m going to get him a guitar. No – a harmonica.’

  I hid my face against his shoulder. I was laughing. Laughing so hard I cried.

  Feisal and I left at dawn Schmidt and John would wait till late, when there were more people around, before they took the passenger ferry. Schmidt was the cutest little sheikh you ever saw. Since he had to do whatever talking might be necessary he had to wear male clothing, and since his accent was a trifle peculiar we had decided he had better be a tourist from some other Arab-speaking country. He was crying, of course. He held out his arms and I gave him a hearty hug.

  ‘See you in Cairo, Schmidt. Take care of yourself.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Schmidt straightened his shoulders and wiped his eyes. ‘Fear not, Vicky I will protect your lover with – ’

  ‘Shut up, Schmidt.’ I kissed him and turned to John.

  Schmidt’s dye wasn’t as sophisticated as the hair colouring my female friends use; it had left John’s hair flat and dull. His eyes were startingly blue in the tan of his face.

  We had not weakened John’s vital forces the night before; in fact I had hardly had a moment alone with him. There had been too much to do, and at Schmidt’s insistence he had taken something to make him sleep.

  ‘Take care,’ I said.

  ‘And you.’

  We shook hands. It was an absurd thing to do, I suppose. But with Feisal and Schmidt looking on, and the black garments muffling even my face, anything more demonstrative would have been still more absurd. Feisal grinned and shook his head and murmured something in Arabic. Schmidt blinked furiously.

  Since t
he section of the east-coast highway north of Amarna wasn’t finished, we had to take the car ferry acoss to the west bank. (Feisal had turned pale when John asked if there wasn’t a roundabout way, like the one we had taken to reach the site, and John had tactfully dropped the subject.) Once we reached Minya we would cross back to the east bank; there were fewer towns and less traffic on that side, and we could make better time.

  I huddled down in the backseat and tried to look senile, while Feisal got out to chat and smoke with the other early birds. The crossing took only five minutes, and nobody approached me.

  My thoughts weren’t good company. Had some potential danger been overlooked, some precaution forgotten? John’s temperature had been about normal that morning, as nearly as I could tell without a thermometer, but he was a long way from healthy and some of the deeper cuts weren’t healing the way they should. Since Schmidt was a sheikh, with all that oil money in his pocket, they could at least travel comfortably. John was supposed to be his secretary or companion or something (Schmidt had turned purple with embarrassment and fury when Feisal made a ribald comment about one alternative). John was wearing poor Keith’s one white shirt and best suit, and he would speak only German, at which he was fairly fluent.

  But theirs, as I had known, was the most dangerous route. Once they reached the opposite bank they would have to hire a car or a taxi to take them to Minya in order to catch the train, and there was a good chance the police would have the railroad station under surveillance. Given the best possible scenario – if they weren’t caught or delayed or forced to seek an alternative route – they couldn’t hope to reach Cairo before afternoon.

  Feisal had estimated it would take us at least six hours, even if none of the above disasters occurred. We were to meet the others at the central railroad station, where the giant statue of Ramses II marks the centre of the square; there was enough traffic, pedestrian and vehicular, to provide reasonable cover. Five p.m. was the hour designated for the first attempt at a rendezvous; we’d try again every two hours until we met, or . . . until something else happened.

  If either party reached the city earlier, it was not to wait for the other. John’s instructions on that point had been clear and forceful. ‘The sooner we notify the authorities, the safer everyone will be. Schmidt will get in touch with his friends in the EAO and the Ministry. Vicky – ’

  ‘I’ll put through a call to Karl Feder. He got me into this, damn him, and he can damn well get me out.’

  ‘All right. If you can’t reach him or if anything whatsoever goes wrong, head straight for the American Embassy.’

  Feisal and I hit our first little problem when we approached the bridge crossing to the east bank. Traffic was backed up for half a mile and as Feisal slowed I heard him cursing quietly and monotonously under his breath. I leaned forward and he interrupted his monologue long enough to mutter, ‘Shut up and cover your face. And pray.’

  He called out a question to a man standing in the back of a pickup ahead of us. I didn’t understand the answer (or the question) but I knew what it must have been. Traffic was moving, though very slowly; I could see the uniforms and the rifles up ahead.

  I turned myself into a black huddle, trying to look seven inches shorter. In my extremity the only prayer I could remember was ‘Now I lay me down to sleep,’ which was, I devoutly hoped, inappropriate. I bowed my head and concentrated on breathing.

  It took over twenty minutes to get through that half mile. I knew better than to look up, even when the car stopped and I felt rather than saw a man right next to me. After a moment, during which I didn’t breathe at all, and a brief exchange in Arabic, the Land Rover began to move.

  Feisal went on for another ten or fifteen miles and then pulled off the road. Turning, his arm over the back of the seat, he gave me a strained smile and said hoarsely, ‘How about something to drink?’

  I fumbled in the basket at my feet and got out a bottle of soda.

  ‘If we have to do that again I am going to die,’ I informed him.

  Feisal drained the bottle and tossed it out. ‘They’re still looking for the jeep, I think. They didn’t even ask for my papers. If they don’t find out we’ve changed vehicles we should be all right. Relax and enjoy the scenery.’

  ‘Ha,’ I said.

  One of these years I hope to travel that road again when I’m in a proper state of mind to appreciate the view. That day I wouldn’t have noticed the Great Pyramid of Giza unless it had been in the middle of the road. Feisal drove like a man fleeing justice, but then so did everybody else. I had to hold my voluminous garments with both hands to keep them from flapping in the breeze from the open windows. He was in front, I was in back; there was no possibility of conversation, so I clung to my veils and closed my eyes. Twice we were slowed to a crawl by construction, three times by accidents. All three appeared to be minor; what blocked the road were the crowds of gesticulating debaters discussing the incident.

  I hadn’t slept much the previous night. When I awoke after a nap I hadn’t meant to take we were on a wide street lined with shops and teeming with traffic. Straight ahead two slender, delicately carved towers rose into the sky.

  I leaned forward and poked Feisal. ‘Where are we? Is that a mosque up ahead?’

  ‘No. It’s one of the city gates. Dates from the eleventh century. I took a roundabout route.’ His voice cracked. ‘We made it. Praise be to God, we made it!’

  ‘Praise be to God,’ I agreed heartily. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half past twelve. Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘I want to get out of this tent,’ I grumbled. ‘I want a shower and a drink with ice in it and a change of clothes. But I’ll settle for being here in one piece.’

  ‘You may as well divest yourself of that ensemble if you can do it gracefully and inconspicuously,’ Feisal said. ‘You’ll be no more noticeable in Western clothes now. I’ll find a café and we’ll have a bite while we discuss our next move.’

  I was too stupefied by heat, drowsiness, and disbelief to argue, but by the time he stopped and I had – inconspicuously, I hoped – removed my tent and veil, I had had second thoughts. We were in the heart of the city by then and there were a number of young people around, including some foreigners. I cleverly deduced that Feisal had picked a spot in the university area.

  ‘We shouldn’t take time for this,’ I objected, as he helped me out. ‘I need to make that call to Karl Feder.’

  ‘Munich is in an earlier time zone, isn’t it? He’s probably out to lunch.’ Feisal led me through a doorway curtained with strings of beads and found a table. The place was hot and dark and noisy and full of flies; people were talking in a mixture of languages, and a radio was blaring Egyptian pop music in the background. ‘What do you want to eat?’

  ‘I don’t care. Anything. Something with ice in it.’

  ‘No ice, not here. It’s made of the local water.’

  He ordered in Arabic. Then he said, ‘I’m going to telephone my father.’

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

  ‘My mother will be out of her mind,’ Feisal said simply. ‘I have to let her know that I’m safe and innocent of the charges.’

  If he had presented any other argument I might have disagreed, but that one hit me where I lived. I knew what it was like to wait hour after hour and day after day for news of someone’s fate, fearing the worst. Boy, did I know.

  ‘Come to think of it, my mother is probably not very happy either,’ I said guiltily. ‘Does the whole world know I’ve been abducted?’

  ‘Count on it,’ Feisal said’ grimacing.

  ‘Yeah. It’s the kind of story reporters love. Damn! My dad’s probably on his way to Cairo right now. Well, they’ll have to wait a few more hours, I can’t put through an international call from a public phone.’

  The food arrived – chunks of meat and pieces of pepper and onion, on little wooden skewers.

  ‘It won’t take long,’ Feisal said. ‘I�
�ll be right back.’

  It was two o’clock. Three more hours to wait. At least three. If they weren’t there at 5 p.m. . . . I tried not to think about it.

  When Feisal came back he was smiling. I hadn’t realized how tired and old he had looked until I saw that smile.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he announced, settling into his chair. ‘He wants us to meet him.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘He started out ordering me to turn myself in. But when I explained, told him you were with me and that you’d confirm my story, he said he’d be willing to listen.’

  ‘Danm nice of him. Look, Feisal, I’m not sure – ’

  ‘It’s okay, I tell you. A friend of his is away on business, Father has the key to his apartment, which is not far from the train station. We can hole up there, use his telephone to call Munich and your parents and, if you like, the Embassy. That’s much safer than the central telegraph office. You can have that shower and maybe even a drink with ice in it.’

  ‘Where does he want us to meet him?’ I asked doubtfully.

  ‘Ezbekiya Gardens. It’s not far from his office. He didn’t want us to go there or to the house.’

  ‘The police have probably got both places staked out.’

  ‘He hinted as much. Have you finished?’

  I sat in front with Feisal this time. He was in a very happy mood, relaxed and smiling. He kept pointing out sights – mosques and museums and parks. The traffic was horrendous and parking seemed to be hit or miss. I wouldn’t have considered the place where Feisal stopped, in between a barrow piled with cauliflower and a little old lady who had apparently set up housekeeping on the kerb, as a legitimate spot, but he waved my comments aside.

  ‘God willing we won’t be coming back to the damned car anyhow. We’ve got a couple of blocks to walk.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Vicky.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just in case . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I’m sure it’s all right. But stay a couple of hundred feet behind me. I’ll talk to him, get the key to the apartment. Wait till I wave or call to you before you join us.’