He Shall Thunder in the Sky (33 page)

     “He can’t,” she said.

     “I hope,” said Ramses, “he is not suffering from an alimentary indisposition.”

     Molly giggled. “An upset stomach, you mean? No, that was —”

     “The Major was about to leave for a dinner engagement when your message arrived,” Miss Nordstrom said, turning pink. “He sends his regrets and hopes to see you another time.”

     “Ah,” said Emerson. If he was disappointed he hid it very well. In fact, if I had not known better, I would have thought he appeared pleased.

     Miss Molly took her time about ordering a sweet, asking everyone’s opinion in turn. She divided her attention between Emerson and Ramses — getting very little in the way of conversation out of the latter — which left me to entertain Miss Nordstrom. An uphill job it was, too. All she could talk about was how much she disliked Cairo and yearned to return home.

     “The food does not agree with me, Mrs. Emerson, and it is impossible to keep to a normal regimen with the child. At home, you know, one has complete control and a proper schedule for school hours, healthful exercise, and visits with parents. The Major’s hours are so erratic I never know when he will be here, and then he wants to be with Molly.”

     “Quite natural,” I said.

     “Oh, yes, no doubt, but it does not make for proper discipline.” She lowered her voice. “I assure you, I would not have allowed her to disturb you if he had not given in to her pleas. I do not hold with such late hours for children, or with such rich food.”

     The gâteau 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 gâteau.”

     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.”