Lord of the Silent: A Novel of Suspense (39 page)

right." He couldn't reproach her, she had done her best. Fortunately there was another scapegoat close at hand. Sethos was still on his knees, motionless as a statue. "A hell of a lot of help you are," Ramses said. "Get her back to the Castle." Sethos edged closer. "What are you going to do?" "I can only think of one place. If she's not there . . ." He pushed Margaret at Sethos. He had to catch hold of her or let her fall, but it would have been hard to say who was supporting whom. Shock and loss of blood had drained the color from Sethos's unshaven face. Margaret glared at him. "Go with Ramses. He needs-" "No, he doesn't," Sethos said. He looked up at Ramses. The gray-green eyes were sunken but clear. "I'd only be in his way. Kuentz didn't blow up the German House. I did. You can guess why. Good luck." The War Office had nothing on Sethos when it came to dribbling out information only as it was needed. That bit of news strengthened Ramses's hopes. Kuentz had been using the German House as his base for antiquities dealing, and perhaps for other purposes. He couldn't have many hideaways left. Anyhow, secrecy was no longer an issue. With Nefret in his hands he could clear the tomb in broad daylight while they looked on, helpless to interfere. How had they got her away? She'd have fought them tooth and nail. Maybe the blood wasn't hers. Dead, she would be of no use to Kuentz. Mubashir wouldn't dare kill her. He could do other things, though. Remembering the distorted face he had glimpsed in the moonlight, Ramses felt his throat contract. He couldn't swallow, his mouth was too dry. At least he knew he was on the right track. Forcing himself to stop long enough to question a woman working in the fields, he heard of a rider carrying something before him on the saddle. He had been heading for the river. The run-down hotel appeared to be uninhabited. A few scrawny chickens scattered, flapping their wings and squawking, as he rode into the courtyard. The place had a disheveled sort of charm-picturesque, as Baedeker might say-with vines sprawling over the baked mud walls and partially veiling the famous bathtub. Apparently the chickens were the only creatures that hadn't had sense enough to run from a man with a knife and a prisoner. Ramses dismounted and forced himself to stand still while he got his breathing back to normal and considered his next move. He was unfamiliar with the layout of the hotel. The back of his hand was still bleeding. He wiped it on his shirt and eased his knife out of the sheath. He'd got most of the blood off, but he couldn't risk it sticking. Half a second might make all the difference. The vines along the wall rustled. Ramses spun round and saw a face, wide-eyed with terror, peering out from among the leaves. It was the proprietor, Hussein Ali. Ramses dragged him out by the collar and broke into his protestations of ignorance and innocence. "Where are they? Which room?" "He threatened me with his long knife. How was I to know he had offended the great and powerful-" "Which room?" It was at the back-the best room in the hotel, Hussein Ali explained. A suite, in fact! Two adjoining rooms, one for sleeping, the other- Obviously not for bathing. Ramses left him salaaming and explaining, and went to the door. It had once been quite beautiful, painted with bright designs like so many of the doors of Gurneh houses, before time and neglect had taken their toll. It stood ajar. There was no point in reconnoitering, he knew what places like this were like; the windows at the back would be high and narrow, to keep thieves out. The Syrian must know he was here. He hadn't bothered to lower his voice, and Hussein Ali had yelled even louder. He kicked the door back against the wall. No one there. The doors lining the narrow hallway were closed, except for one at the far end. The need to see her, to know she was alive, was so strong it pulled him like a cable, straight down the hall to the open door. Sunlight streamed in through the windows high under the eaves. It shone on her hair. She was lying on the filthy divan, her feet and hands bound. Her eyes were open, blue as cornflowers and limpid with relief. She had been afraid for him. Mubashir sat beside her. "Welcome, Brother of Demons," he said. "Come in and drop your knife." His own blade rested on her cheek. I cannot imagine how I could have been so careless as to let both of them get away from me. I had not seen the blood on the back of Ramses's shirt till he turned, but he pretended not to hear my call. When we found Sethos had slipped away too, and that he had taken Emerson's gelding, my indignation could not be restrained. "The foolish man is in no condition to ride," I exclaimed. "And if he were, he ought to have come with us and offered what assistance he can. After all we did for him-" "Get me a horse," said Emerson, as single-minded as Richard III. "Perhaps we don't require further assistance," I conceded, as Selim ran toward the stable. "Selim and Daoud and you and I should suffice. Supposing we find him, that is. We have disposed of three of his followers; he can't have many left." "The devil with the horses," said Emerson, who obviously had not heard a word I said. "We may as well go on foot." "Go where?" I demanded. "You don't know the precise location." Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. "It has to be somewhere between Deir el Bahri and Deir el Medina-probably less than a hundred yards beyond the place where the accident occurred. Kuentz was afraid they might notice something if they went any farther. It's less than half a mile as the crow flies." "We are not crows, and it's all up- and downhill! For pity's sake, Emerson, use your head. Ramses said he would meet us at Deir el Bahri. If we start there and follow the cliff south-" "Then where is my damned horse?" Emerson demanded. "Selim!" "Here, Father of Curses." Emerson's jaw dropped and Selim, anticipating his protest, explained, defensively, "There are no others." He was leading Yusuf's fat mare. "I can't ride that!" "If she can carry Yusuf she can bear your weight," I remarked. It was all to the good, really. Gripped by intense archaeological fever, Emerson would have outstripped the rest of us had he been properly mounted. Before he could propose a change of horses, I ordered Selim and Daoud to follow me. It took Emerson awhile to catch us up, though I expect the mare, encouraged by Emerson's pleas and curses, had not moved so quickly in years. We went on at as rapid a pace as the placid beast could manage. Even in the extremity of passion Emerson would never mistreat an animal, but he was livid with annoyance when we reached Deir el Bahri, and he started up the path toward the cliff without waiting for the rest of us. Ramses was not there. It had not been very long since he left, I told myself. Nevertheless I felt a faint quiver of uneasiness. Our best-laid plans had already gone agley (to quote Mr. Burns). Had some other unforeseen catastrophe occurred? Vague forebodings should not be a guide to action, I reminded myself. Ramses would come when he was able, and he was aware of the path we meant to follow. My first duty was to my impetuous spouse. We left the horses with one of the gaffirs and hastened after him. I had to stop occasionally to catch my breath, for it was all uphill and over rocky terrain. The hour was still early but the shadows were shortening and the morning chill had left the air. I had braced myself for a long exhausting walk-or climb, rather-with no promise of success at the end of it, but soon after we had passed the spot where the body had fallen, I heard voices and the sounds of activity ahead. "Hurry!" I cried, for one of the voices had been Emerson's, raised in a vehement curse. Scrambling over loose scree, we made our way around a rocky spur and stopped, thunderstruck at what we beheld. It was no wonder Kuentz had been reluctant to open the tomb. The place was within a few hundred yards of the busy bay of Deir el Bahri and only a short distance from one of the paths that crossed this part of the gebel. It lay in a shallow declivity; from where Kuentz stood, his rifle aimed at Emerson, he was protected on three sides. Behind him, half a dozen men were at work, furiously digging away a heap of stony debris. We had indeed underestimated his manpower. We had also been wrong about the location of the tomb. It was not high in the cliff, but at its base, like the royal cache. I was too short of breath to speak, so Emerson got in first. "Go back, Peabody." "I'm afraid I cannot allow that," Kuentz said jovially. "Come ahead, Mrs. Emerson, and stand by your husband. Daoud and Selim too." Daoud looked hopefully at me. I took hold of his arm. "We must do as he says, Daoud. He would kill Emerson first." "Ah." Daoud nodded sagely. "It is true. You will make a plan, Sitt, and tell us what to do." I sincerely hoped I could. At the moment nothing occurred to me. "You may as well make yourselves comfortable," Kuentz remarked as we joined Emerson. "This will take awhile. Sit down." Seated, we presented less of a threat. I was afraid I would have to lecture Emerson about the advisability of obeying the orders of a man with a rifle, but he had got over his annoyance and was watching Kuentz with cold calculation. Shakespeare notwithstanding, a lean and hungry-looking villain is no more dangerous than one who laughs too much. Kuentz's broad smile and easy stance aroused the direst of forebodings. The brown hair that covered his hands and forearms, and showed at the neckline of his shirt, gave him the look of a loup-garou halfway through the transformation. "You cannot hope to succeed in this endeavor, Mr. Kuentz," I said. "Reinforcements are on the way. Your rival lives, and the three men you sent to murder him are dead or prisoners." He was not as cool as he pretended. His smile lengthened into a snarl and the barrel of the rifle shifted toward me. Then he shrugged. "You are probably lying. Even if you are not, it is of no consequence. Your reinforcements, if they exist, wouldn't dare attack while I hold you at gunpoint." "No doubt, but how long can you do that?" I asked. "Clearing an entire tomb will take-" "Tomb?" Kuentz let out a guffaw. "You are in for a surprise, my friends." "Not a tomb? What is it, then?" I asked. Emerson gave me a sour look. He was also burning with curiosity, but he was too proud to ask questions. "Speculate." Kuentz chuckled. "It will help to pass the time." "Be quiet, Peabody," Emerson growled. "Don't give him the satisfaction." So we sat in silence. The temperature rose as the sun did the same, and the surface under me was hard as stone and lumpy with pebbles. The ambience was not conducive to ratiocination, but I do not allow physical discomfort to distract me. I had been correct in believing that the body (the most recent body, I should say) was that of an innocent bystander, whom Kuentz had cold-bloodedly murdered when the poor fellow came upon him while he was levering out a section of rock. Emerson's original theory had been incorrect (though I doubted he would ever admit it). He had suspected the great find lay concealed behind the nasty bits of mummy. Nonsense, of course; Kuentz must have known that a minor inconvenience of that sort would not prevent us from investigating. That there was such a tomb of Roman mummies seemed probable. Kuentz would not have admitted its existence had that fact not been generally known. Putting aside these now irrelevant facts, and my raging curiosity about Kuentz's discovery, I considered various options. There were not many. Ramses and Nefret would walk into the same trap, since we could not warn them. Kuentz could not let us go. Most probably he would force us to enter the hole in the ground once he had emptied it of its contents (what the devil could they be?) and shovel the debris back into place, sealing the entrance. I was about to ask our jolly adversary whether I might drink from my canteen when I heard the rattle of rock. Someone was coming. Surely not Ramses, he never moved so clumsily. Unless his injuries had been more severe than I believed them to be ... Emerson let out a muffled swearword when Cyrus came into view, puffing and sweating and-I beheld with considerable alarm- with a rifle slung over his shoulder. "Don't shoot, Cyrus," I shrieked. "He has the drop on us!" I had never admired my old friend more. A single glance informed him of the futility of resistance, and the danger of failing to respond instantly to my order. He let the gun slip to the ground, and raised his hands. Kuentz let out another of those infuriating guffaws. "So this is your reinforcement? You are a sensible man, Mr. Vandergelt. Go and sit by the others. We are getting to be quite a nice little party." Cyrus dropped heavily to the ground and passed his sleeve across his wet face. "Guess I better not risk reaching for a handkerchief," he remarked coolly. "What's going on?" "He says it isn't a tomb, Cyrus." "Well, right now I couldn't care less." But his eyes moved past Kuentz to the back of the little bay. We could see the opening now, black against the pallor of the rock. How deep was the shaft, and how much longer would it take to empty it? One of the diggers called out. I could not make out the words, but Kuentz's response made the question clear. "Coming. Wait." He was not laughing now. His eyes moved over us, one by one. We are within seconds of death, I thought. As it turned out, I was wrong. Seeing my hand move toward my pocket, Kuentz said, "Don't be foolish, Mrs. Emerson. There is an alternative to violence on either side. I have a card up my sleeve, you see. Nefret." Emerson went rigid. "What do you mean?" "Mubashir is holding her prisoner. You've heard of him, I expect. A very unpleasant man. If anyone except myself approaches, he will kill her. I would hate to have that happen." "You are bluffing," I said. "My little scheme may not have succeeded," Kuentz admitted. "But if it did, the charming lady is now with one of the most accomplished killers in Egypt. Are you willing to take the chance? Discuss it among yourselves," he added, grinning like an ape. "But don't move." He backed slowly away. The little bay was not deep; he could keep us in his sights even when he was at its far end. "Let me kill him, Sitt," Daoud begged. "He would kill you first," I said, watching Kuentz. "Wait. Cyrus, where is Ramses?" "I don't know." Cyrus's face was grim. "He's not bluffing, Amelia. I was on my way here when I met Margaret and your old pal Sethos coming back to the Castle. That young devil Jamil helped ambush the ladies; the other fellow knocked Margaret unconscious and carried Nefret off. Ramses has gone after them." "Alone?" I gasped. "Sethos wasn't in any condition to help him," Cyrus said heavily. "He fell out of the saddle as soon as we got to the Castle. Anyhow, if she's where Ramses thinks she is, he'll have to sneak