He Shall Thunder in the Sky (7 page)

     “So you appreciate my little joke. Convincing, is it?”

     The voice was Wardani’s, the swagger with which he approached the table, the wolfish grin. He swept off his hat and bowed ironically to the Bedouin. “Salaam aleikhum. Don’t be so quick to go for the knife. There is nothing illegal about this little gathering. We are only five.”

     The bespectacled student let out a string of pious oaths and wiped his sweating palms on his skirt. “You have shaved your beard!”

     “How observant.” They continued to stare, and Wardani said impatiently, “A false beard is easily assumed. This widens the range of disguises available to me — not only a clean-shaven chin but a variety of facial decorations. I learned a number of such tricks from David, who had learned them from
his
friend.”

     “But — but you look exactly like
him
!”

     “No,” Wardani said. “Take a closer look.” He stooped so that the single lamp shone on his face. “At a distance I resemble the notorious Brother of Demons closely enough to pass unmolested by a police officer, but you, my band of heroes, should not be so easily deceived — or intimidated.”

     “I see the difference now, of course,” one of them said.

     A chorus of embarrassed murmurs seconded the statement. “He would intimidate me if he walked into this room,” the bespectacled student admitted. “They say he has friends in every street in Cairo, that he talks with afreets and the ghosts of the dead . . . Pure superstition, of course,” he added hastily.

     “Of course,” Wardani said. He straightened and remained standing, looking down at the others.

     The handsome boy cleared his throat. “Superstition, no doubt; but he is an enemy, and dangerous. The same is true of his family. Emerson Effendi and the Sitt Hakim were with Russell the other night. Perhaps we should take steps to render them harmless.”

     “Steps?” Wardani’s voice was very soft. With a sudden movement he swept the game from the table. The aged wood of the board split when it struck the floor, and pebbles rattled and rolled. Wardani planted both hands on the table. “You presume on your position, I believe. You are my chosen aides, for the present, but you do not give the orders. You take them — from me.”

     “I did not mean —”

     “You have the brains of a louse. Leave them strictly alone, do you understand? All of them! There is one true thing in the lies they tell about the Father of Curses. When his anger is aroused he is more dangerous than a wounded lion. He is not our friend, but he is no pawn of Thomas Russell’s either. Touch his wife or his daughter and he will hunt you down without mercy. And there is another thing.” Wardani lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. “They are friends of my friend. I could not look him in the face again if I had allowed any one of them to be harmed.”

     The silence was complete. Not a chair creaked, not a breath was drawn. Wardani studied the downcast faces of his allies, and his upper lip drew back in a smile.

     “So that is settled. Now to business, eh?”

     Only two of them took part in the conversation — Wardani and the gray-bearded man. Finally the latter said, in answer to a question from Wardani, “Two hundred, to start. With a hundred rounds of ammunition for each. More later, if you can find the men to use them.”

     “Hmmm.” Wardani scratched his chin. “How many others have you approached with this enticing offer?”

     “None.”

     “You lie.”

     The other man rose and reached for his knife. “You dare call me a liar?”

     “Sit down,” Wardani said contemptuously. “You made the same offer to Nuri al-Sa’id and to that scented sodomite el-Gharbi. Sa’id will sell the weapons to the highest bidder, and el-Gharbi will laugh himself sick and ship the guns to the Senussi. Do you think his women and his pretty boys will shoot at the British troops, who are their best customers? No!” He brought his fist down on the table, and fixed a furious glare on the Bedouin. “Be quiet and listen to me. I am the best and only hope of your masters, and I am willing to discuss the matter with them. With them, not with middlemen and underlings! You will inform your German friends that they have forty-eight hours to arrange a meeting. And don’t tell me that is not time enough; do you suppose I am unaware of the fact that they have agents here in the city? If you do as I ask, I won’t tell them about the others. Make your shady little arrangements and collect your dirty little baksheesh from them. Well?”

     Graybeard was quivering with rage and frustration. He called Wardani a vile name and strode toward the door.

     “The back way, you son of an Englishman,” Wardani said.

     The narrow panel at the back of the room looked like a door for an animal, not a man; the Bedouin had to bend his knees and bow his head to get through, which did not improve his temper. “I will kill you one day,” he promised.

     “Better men than you have tried,” said Wardani. “In the meantime — the Khan el Khalili, the shop of Aslimi Aziz, at this same hour the day after tomorrow. Someone will be there.”

     “You?”

     “One never knows.”

     The only one who dared speak was the man with the squint. He waited until the door had closed behind the Arab.

     “Was that wise, Kamil? He won’t come back.”

     “But yes, my friend.” Wardani now spoke French. “He will have to come back because his German masters will insist. They are clever persons, these Germans; they know I wield more power in Cairo than any other man, and that I hate the British as much as they do. I gave him a way out — a way to hide his dishonor and make his profit. That is how one deals with Turks.”

     “Turk?” The dark eyes widened. “He is an Arab and a brother.”

     Wardani gave his young friend a kindly look and shook his head. “You need to apply yourself to the study of languages, my dear. The accent was unmistakable. Well, we’ve been here long enough; we meet again two days from now.”

     “But you, sir,” the tall youth ventured. “Have you found a safe hiding place? How can we reach you if there is need?”

     “You cannot. Merde alors, if you are unable to keep out of trouble for two days, you need a nursemaid, not a leader.”

     He replaced his hat and went to the curtained entrance. Before he drew the hanging back, he turned and grinned at the others. “Ramses Emerson Effendi does not crawl through holes, but that is your way out, friends. One or two at a time.”

     He went through the front room and into the street, walking with long strides but without haste. After passing the convent mosque of Beybars he turned off the Gamalieh into a narrow lane and broke into a run. Many of the old houses that abutted on the lane had fallen into ruin, but a few were still occupied; a lantern by one door cast a feeble light. Pausing in front of a recessed doorway, Wardani bent his knees and sprang, catching hold of the top of the lintel and drawing himself up onto a carved ledge eight feet above the ground. An unnecessary precaution, perhaps, but he had not remained alive until now by neglecting unnecessary precautions.

     He did not have to wait long. The form that picked its way cautiously along the littered alley was unmistakable. Farouk was six inches taller than any of the others, and vain as a peacock; the shawl he had wrapped round his head and face was of fine muslin, and the light glinted off the silver ornament on his breast.

     Perched on the ledge, Wardani waited until his pursuer had passed out of sight around a curve in the winding lane. Then he waited a little longer before stripping off coat, waistcoat, and stiff collar and rolling them and the hat into an anonymous bundle. Shortly thereafter a stoop-shouldered, ragged old man shuffled out of the lane and proceeded along the Gamalieh. He stopped at the stall of a bean seller and counted out coins in exchange for a bowl of fuul medemes. Leaning against the wall, he ate without really tasting the food. He was thinking hard.

     He’d feared Farouk would be trouble. Despite his pretty face, he was several years older than the others, and a new recruit, and Wardani hadn’t missed the flash of anger in the black eyes when he forbade action against the Emersons. There was only one reason he could think of why Farouk would follow him, and it wasn’t concern for his safety.

     That was all he needed, an ambitious rival. He wondered how much longer he could keep this up. Just long enough, inshallah — long enough to get his hands on those weapons. . . . He returned the empty bowl to the merchant with a murmured blessing and shambled off.

From Letter Collection B

Dearest Lia,

Delighted to hear “the worst is over” and that you are eating properly again. I apologize for the euphemism, I know you despise them as much as I do, but I don’t want to shock the censor! I’m sure Sennia is tempting you with jam and biscuits and other good things, and I hope you are stuffing them down! She is a comfort to you, I know, and I am so glad. Greatly as we miss her, she is far better off with you.

We miss all of you too. That is a very flat expression of a very heartfelt sentiment, darling. I can’t confide in anyone as I do in you, and letters aren’t suitable for certain kinds of news. After all, we wouldn’t want to shock the censor.

It is wonderful that you finally heard from David, even if the letter was brief and stiff. His letters are
certainly
being read by the military, so you mustn’t expect him to pour his heart out. At least he is safe; that is the most important thing. The Professor hasn’t given up hope of gaining his release — if not immediately, at least before the baby comes. The dear man has been badgering Important Personages in Cairo, from General Maxwell on down. That he should take time from his beloved excavations to pursue this should prove, if proof were needed, how much he cares for David.

We haven’t got inside the tomb yet. You know the Professor; every square inch of sand has to be sifted first. The entrance . . .

(The editor has omitted the following description, since it is repeated by Mrs. Emerson.)

:

E
xcavation is, essentially, an act of destruction. To clear a site, tomb, temple or tell down to the lowest level means that all the upper levels are gone forever. For this reason it is absolutely essential to keep detailed records of what has been removed. My distinguished spouse was one of the first to establish the principles of modern excavation: precise measurements, accurate copies of all inscriptions and reliefs, innumerable photographs, and the thorough sifting of the debris. I could not quarrel with Emerson’s high standards, but I must admit that there were times when I wished he would stop fussing and get on with the job. I had made the mistake of saying something of the sort when we began digging that season. Emerson had rounded on me with bared teeth and an impressive scowl.

     “You, of all people, ought to know better! As soon as a monument is exposed it begins to deteriorate. Remember what happened to the mastabas Lepsius found sixty years ago. Many of the reliefs he copied have now disappeared, worn away by weather or vandalized by thieves, nor are the copies as accurate as one would wish. I will not uncover the walls of this tomb until I have taken all possible means to protect them, or go on to the next mastaba until Ramses has recorded every damned scratch on every damned wall! And furthermore —”

     I informed him that he had made his point.

     One morning a few days after the conversation on the rooftop I had allowed the others to go on before me, since I had to speak to Fatima about various domestic matters. I had completed this little chore and was in my room, checking my pockets and my belt to make certain I had with me all the useful implements I always carry, when there was a knock on the door.

     “Come in,” I said, as I continued the inventory. Pistol and knife, canteen, bottle of brandy, candle and matches in a waterproof box . . . “Oh, it is you, Kadija.”

     “May I speak to you, Sitt Hakim?”

     “Certainly. Just one moment while I make certain I have everything. Notebook and pencil, needle and thread, compass, scissors, first-aid kit. . . .”

     Her large dark face broke into a smile as she watched me. For some reason my accoutrements, as I called them, were a source of considerable amusement to my acquaintances. They were also a source of considerable aggravation to Emerson, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that on numerous occasions one or another of them had proved our salvation.

     “There,” I said, hooking to my belt a coil of stout cord (useful for tying up captured enemies). “What can I do for you, Kadija?”

     The members of our dear Abdullah’s extended family were friends as well as loyal workers, some of them on the dig, some at the house. Since Abdullah’s grandson had married our niece, one might say they were also related to us in some degree or other, though the precise relationships were sometimes difficult to define. Abdullah had been married at least four times and several of the other men had more than one wife; nieces, nephews, and cousins of varying degrees formed a large and closely knit clan.

     Kadija, the wife of Abdullah’s nephew Daoud, was a very large woman, taciturn, modest, and strong as a man. Painstakingly and formally she inquired about each member of the family in turn, including the ones she had seen within the past hours. It took her a while to get to Ramses.

     “He had a difference of opinion with someone,” I explained.

     “A difference of opinion,” Kadija repeated slowly. “It looked to me, Sitt Hakim, as if more than words were exchanged. Is he in trouble of some kind? What can we do to help?”

     “I don’t know, Kadija. You know how he is; he keeps his own counsel and does not confide even in his father. If David were here . . .” I broke off with a sigh.

     “If only he were.” Kadija sighed too.

     “Yes.” I realized I was about to sigh again, and stopped myself. Really, my own thoughts were gloomy enough without Kadija adding to them! I gave myself a little shake and said briskly, “There is no use wishing things were other than they are, Kadija. Cheer up!”