Children of the Storm (13 page)

He had been waiting on the terrace for a quarter of an hour before David came, with a smiling apology. “Couldn’t get away from the affectionate arms of the family,” he explained.

“How is Uncle Walter?”

“Fully recovered and bursting with curiosity. He and the Professor are taking the children to the Museum. I wish them luck. I suggested leads, but was shouted down.”

“And the others?”

“The hospital with Nefret, except for Aunt Amelia. I believe she has decided to accompany the Museum party. She asked where I was going.”

“She would. What did you tell her?”

David’s black eyes widened in affected surprise. “The truth, of course. That you and I wanted some time to ourselves.” His contemptuous gaze swept the terrace, with its crowd of well-dressed tourists and Anglo-Egyptian officials and dark-faced waiters. “But not here, if you don’t mind. The place hasn’t changed a bit, has it?”

“No. Will it ever?”

“Oh, yes,” David said softly. “It will.”

Ramses turned to him, brows furrowed; he shook his head and smiled a little. “Let’s not talk politics. Where shall we go?”

They found a favorite coffeeshop, and David settled onto a bench with a sigh of contentment. “Just like old times. D’you remember the night we were here, you as Ali the Rat and me as your faithful henchman, and your father walked in? He looked straight at you, and you shouted, ‘Curse the unbeliever’?”

“ ‘Whimpered’ is more like it.” Ramses laughed, yielding to the mood of sentimental nostalgia. “I was so scared he’d recognize us, I almost fell off my chair.”

A waiter brought the coffee they had ordered, and a narghile for David. “We had some good times,” David said wistfully.

“In retrospect, perhaps. Some of them weren’t much fun at the time.”

David looked older, Ramses thought. He did too, he supposed. But some of the lines on his friend’s face were those of pain, deeply carved into the skin. He would never be entirely free of it, according to Nefret; the injury he had suffered in 1915 had damaged some of the nerves in his leg, though you’d never have known it from the way he moved. How much it cost him to maintain that even stride Ramses could only guess. He knew better than to ask or commiserate, but his awareness lent greater emphasis to his next statement.

“We’re old married men now, and fathers. It’s time we gave up the follies of our youth.”

David drew the smoke deep into his lungs and let it trickle out. “Not bloody likely we’ll be allowed to, with valuable antiquities disappearing from under Cyrus’s very nose and a lady who is obviously not what she seems. That’s the damnedest story I’ve ever heard—and I’ve heard quite a few.”

“And lived quite a few. You do believe it really happened, then?”

“Of course it happened.”

“Nefret thinks some, if not all, was a hallucination.”

“Would you recognize the woman if you saw her again?”

Ramses laughed wryly. “Nefret asked me the same thing. D’you know what I was fool enough to say? I didn’t stop to think, I just blurted it out: ‘Not her face.’ “

David grinned sympathetically. “Her face was veiled.”

“That was what I meant. I saw a good deal of the rest of her, but a shapely figure isn’t useful for purposes of identification. I was fool enough to say that too. Nefret made a number of blistering remarks.”

“She’s worried, that’s all. So am I. Tell me about Rashad.”

“It wasn’t he who sent the message.”

“How do you know? Do you still have the note?”

It was like old times—too much so. David had always been able to back him into a corner, and he wasn’t going to be put off now.

“No, I don’t have it,” Ramses admitted. “I must have dropped it somewhere along the way. What does it matter? The modus operandi was not typical of Rashad and his lot. He doesn’t care much for me, but I can’t believe he harbors enough animosity to go to all that trouble. And for what? To get his hands on you?”

“He doesn’t like me either,” David said. “But taking you hostage would be a damned roundabout way of getting at me. I had no idea he was in Cairo.”

“Is that the truth?”

David simply looked at him, his finely arched brows elevated. Ramses’s eyes fell. “I’m sorry, David. I know you wouldn’t lie to me. But there have been riots and strikes and bloody murder here, and that sort of violence irresistibly reminds me of our old friend Wardani. He’s still wanted by the police for collaborating with the enemy during the war, and God knows what he’s been up to since.”

“Not much,” David said calmly.

“Was he behind the rioting this past spring? They killed eight unarmed people in one incident alone, and—”

“That was a spontaneous demonstration protesting Zaghlul Pasha’s arrest and deportation.”

Ramses made a rude noise, and David said, “Yes, all right. It was murder, bloody and inexcusable, but there was no organized plot, just a lot of poor frustrated fools who were stirred up by a troublemaker. Wardani wasn’t involved, and neither were the Turks or the Germans, despite the hysterical accusations of certain officials. Stop lecturing me and listen, will you? Wardani did communicate with me a few months ago. And no, I don’t know where he is. Possibly Paris, lurking around the Peace Conference, in the hope that he can worm his way into the proceedings. It’s a forlorn hope; Zaghlul Pasha is the accepted leader of the independence movement and Wardani has no influence except with a few isolated radicals.”

“Like Rashad.”

“Rashad is no revolutionary,” David said contemptuously. “All he does is make speeches and then scuttle into hiding. Wardani is intelligent enough to know he has to play politics now, not foment riots. Oh, he lets people like Rashad spout sedition, but I would be very surprised to learn that Rashad is still part of Wardani’s organization.”

“Then you don’t intend to become involved?”

David threw out his hands. His forehead was furrowed. “Damnation, Ramses, I’m an artist—of sorts—not a fighter. I gave Lia my word I would stay away from Wardani. I told him the same thing. I haven’t heard from him since. Now can we forget about politics and concentrate on more imminent matters?”

He placed a few coins on the table and rose. “Come on. We’re going to look for your exotic prison.”

“It will be a waste of time,” Ramses warned. David hadn’t really answered his question. David wouldn’t lie, not to his friend, but he was holding something back, and until he was ready to talk freely, it would be pointless and disloyal to press him.

“One never knows. Let’s start with the—what was it?—the Sabil Khalaoun and try to retrace your steps.”

The coffeeshop was open and the tiny plaza was filled with people. Three streets, or alleyways, led into it. “Which one?” David asked, acknowledging the salutation of an old acquaintance sitting by the sabil.

They covered the area as methodically as the crooked streets and byways allowed. The tall old houses of Cairo turned the alleys into man-made canyons, dim with shadows, roofed by screened balconies. Women leaned out of windows, calling to passing sellers of food; donkeys jostled them and people brushed past on various errands. The bustling, busy streets were so different from the dark silence of his stumbling flight that they might have been in another city.

Finally David said in exasperation, “Can’t you remember a single landmark—a mosque, a shop?”

“I saw plenty of landmarks, including a pyramid and the sails of a felucca,” Ramses snapped. “Opium does that. I had just enough wits left to know I was imagining them, but I was too damned busy trying to keep ahead of the fellow who was chasing me to distinguish between reality and hallucination. And no, I didn’t mention them to the family. That would have confirmed their belief that the rest of it was also the product of my lurid imagination.”

“It wasn’t.”

“No . . . Hell, David, I’m no longer certain how much of it was real.”

“One thing is certain,” David said practically. “You were missing for hours and you weren’t at the place to which the note directed you. That spells abduction to me.” He ducked his head under a tray of bread, carried at shoulder height by a strolling vendor. “Well, it was worth a try. Let’s pay a visit to the suk.”

“If you plan to question the antika dealers about Cyrus’s jewelry, the parents have already done that, without result. They’re a good deal better at intimidation than either of us.”

“But we are much more charming.” David grinned and slapped him on the shoulder.

They went on in single file, under balconies draped with laundry, until they reached the square before the mosque of Hosein.

“What’s become of el-Gharbi?” David asked, without preamble.

“Who?” Ramses asked in surprise.

“That perfumed Nubian pimp who controlled the Red Blind district until the British stuck him in the prison camp at—”

“I know who he is,” Ramses interrupted. “Who could forget el-Gharbi? What made you think of him?”

“He had a hand in everything illegal that went on in Cairo, and he shared information with you on several occasions.”

El-Gharbi was indeed unforgettable: perfumed and jeweled and dressed in a woman’s white robes. One couldn’t like or admire a man who ran his kind of business, but he had been a kinder master than some. “Yes, he was useful, in his own fashion,” Ramses said. “Unfortunately he’s no longer in control here. Father got him out of the prison camp, in return for certain favors—it was always tit for tat with el-Gharbi—and he was exiled to his village in Upper Egypt. I suppose he’s still there, if he is alive.”

“Too bad.”

They made the rounds of the more prominent dealers. David explained that he wanted a bracelet for his wife, and ended up with several silver bangles, all of recent Bedouin workmanship. They were shown strings of faded faience “mummy beads,” any of which, the merchant explained, could be made into bracelets. He had recognized them and didn’t really suppose they would buy the wretched things, but it was worth a try. The Inglizi, even these, were unpredictable.

“I could have told you they wouldn’t offer us Cyrus’s bracelets,” Ramses said. “They know who we are.”

“I suppose we haven’t time to try our jolly old tourist disguises,” David said. He sounded regretful. Ramses laughed, but shook his head. “Put it out of your mind, David.”

“Ah, well. Let’s have lunch at Bassam’s.”

“He won’t be able to tell us anything.”

“But we will have an excellent meal. It will put me in a better frame of mind to spend the evening with Uncle Sethos.”

I EXPECT THE ONLY ONE who looked forward to that celebratory dinner was Sethos himself. I had prepared Walter as best I could, finding him fully recovered physically, if thoroughly bewildered. He took the news of his father’s infidelity better than I would have expected—possibly because he, too, had suffered from the coldness of his mother—but despite my assurances that Sethos had redeemed himself by his heroic services to his country and was now reformed, I could see Walter had reservations. (So did I, which may have weakened the effect of my assurances.)

It had been a rather tiring day, especially for those of us who took the children to the Museum. I had determined to accompany them, since I knew Emerson and Walter were likely to become absorbed in some antiquity or other and let the little ones wander off. I lost Davy twice, retrieving him on the second occasion from the interior of a huge granite sarcophagus. (I was tempted to leave him there for a while, since he could not get out of it, but Emerson would not let me.)

At my insistence, we all assumed our most elegant attire and tried to behave as if this were a conventional meeting of long-parted friends and relations. Faultlessly attired in white tie and tails, Sethos was waiting for us when we stepped out of the lift, and swept us into the private dining room he had booked. The table positively glittered with crystal and silver, and there were flowers along its length and at every lady’s place. Florid compliments bubbled from his lips; he insisted Emerson take the head of the table, and as soon as we were all seated, corks popped and champagne filled our glasses. Since it was obvious to the dullest wits that Emerson was not about to propose a toast, Sethos did so. “To the King and the loyal hearts who serve him; to love and friendship!” Even Emerson could not refuse to honor that.

As the meal progressed, through course after course, I found it increasingly difficult to stifle my laughter. It may have been the champagne. However, to see the effect of Sethos’s performance on various persons entertained me a great deal. He had set himself to win them over, and no one could do it better. Dear Evelyn, who would have forgiven Genghis Khan had he expressed repentance, succumbed at once to his charm, and Lia was visibly fascinated. He praised Walter’s philological work, citing examples to prove he was thoroughly conversant with it; he spoke admiringly of Emerson’s accomplishments—and mine—and paid tribute to the heroism of the younger generation.

“They are the children of the storm,” he declared. “The storm has passed, thanks to their sacrifice—not only the young men who risked, and gave, their lives, but the gallant women who suffered the even greater pain of waiting and of loss.”

Evelyn’s eyes filled with tears. Nothing could have been more graceful than the acknowledgment of the death of her son in battle. Even Emerson appeared moved. The only face that did not soften was that of Ramses, though the tribute had obviously been meant for him and David as well. He glanced at me, his eyebrows tilted skeptically.

Before long, Emerson began to fidget. It was impossible to carry on what he would have called a sensible discussion—that is, a discussion about Egyptology—at a dinner party, and I could see he was itching to interrogate Sethos about quite a number of things. However—thanks to my frowns and winks and piercing looks—he contained himself until the last course had been removed before remarking in a loud voice, “This has been very pleasant, no doubt, but let us get down to business. I want to know . . . Oh. Er. Amelia, did you happen to mention to Walter—”

“If you are referring to the theft of Cyrus’s artifacts, she did,” Walter said cheerfully. “A pity. But I daresay Amelia will solve the case soon.” He finished the last of his wine and gestured to the waiter.