The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (21 page)

Yusuf lived only long enough to take the hand of his daughter (placed in his by me) and murmur a few unintelligible words. A sentimentalist might say he had died of a broken heart. In scientific terms he had succumbed to the same heart ailment from which Abdullah had suffered in his last years. We left Ramses to stand guard over Jamil, and Emerson carried Yusuf’s wasted body back to his house. I looked back as we walked away. The lovely shape of Abdullah’s tomb was outlined by moonlight and shadow. In the deeper shadows of the doorway, nothing moved. There was not much we could do for the afflicted family. Indeed, the angry looks directed at us by some of its members indicated that our best course was to leave them alone. The whole ghastly business had taken far less time than I had realized — less than half an hour from start to finish — but explanations and changes of clothing delayed the longed-for moment when we could settle down on the veranda. Ramses was the last to join us. Though the tightness of his mouth betrayed his distress, he was his usual phlegmatic self when he replied to our questions. “I left him with his cousins. They made it clear I was not wanted. Where is Sennia?” “I sent her to bed,” I replied, as Emerson pressed a glass of whiskey into his son’s hand. “She made quite a fuss, and Horus tried to bite me.” “Jumana?” was Ramses’s next question. “She finally broke down, but not until Fatima took her in a motherly embrace. Perhaps,” I mused, “I emphasized too strongly the virtue of a stiff upper lip.” “What a pity,” Nefret said softly. “The family was once so strong and proud and united.” “The greater pity,” said Ramses, “is Jamil. If he had turned his unique talent to archaeology he might have been happy and successful. How does one account for such men?” “Don’t start a philosophical discussion,” Emerson growled. “I cannot account for them and neither can your mother, though she will try if you give her half a chance. The family will get over this in time, and so will Jumana. Time heals . . .” Realizing he had been on the verge of committing an aphorism, he caught himself and went on, “Was he trying to tell us, at the end, where the tomb is located, or was he still taunting us? ‘In the hand of the god!’ ”

Yusuf’s funeral took place next day, as Moslem custom decreed. Naturally we all attended. When we saw the second shrouded body, Emerson muttered, “They wouldn’t have the audacity to put him in Abdullah’s tomb, would they? By Gad, the old fellow would rise up and forbid it.” I didn’t doubt that he would. Had he not said, “Leave him to me”? Call it fate, call it accident; yet vicious as the boy had been, I was glad he had not met his death at our hands. Selim had seen to the arrangements, as he told us later. Father and son were interred in another of the family sepulchres — an underground chamber where they could sit upright, awaiting the call of the angels of death. We took our departure before the opening was closed. Cyrus got all fired up, as he admitted in his quaint American slang, by Jamil’s last words. “It was there, before our eyes? In the Cemetery of the Monkeys? What hand of what god?” “One cannot place much credence in the words of a dying man,” I informed him. “Especially a man who spent his entire life trying to deceive.” So we went back to work at Deir el Medina — all of us except Jumana. The horrors of that night had been too much. She took to her bed, and refused to eat or respond to my attempts to reason with her. The only person who could rouse her was Sennia. She knew that Jumana had lost both brother and father, though of course we had spared her the dreadful details, and the good little creature spent hours reading to her and talking with her.

It was on the Tuesday, if memory serves, that we received a message from Howard Carter, asking us to join him for dinner that evening at the Winter Palace. “So he’s back in Luxor,” Emerson said. “We’ll go. I have a number of questions for him.” It was a diversion we all needed, and I must confess that my spirits lifted as I assumed my favorite crimson evening frock and fastened on my diamond earrings. The pleasure derived from dressing in one’s best may be a weakness of women; in my opinion men would be better off if they could indulge in it. No shadow of foreboding darkened my thoughts as the boat bore us smoothly across the shimmering water. It ought to have done. The first person we saw when we entered the elegant lobby of the hotel was the man we had known as “Smith” — the Honorable Bracegirdle-Boisdragon, who had tried on several occasions to get Ramses back into the intelligence services. There was no way of avoiding him without downright rudeness. This consideration might not have deterred Emerson but for the fact that “Smith” was accompanied by an attractive lady of a certain age, wearing elegant mourning. Smith introduced her as his sister, Mrs. Bayes, who was visiting Egypt for the first time, and she immediately burst into raptures about the country, the antiquities, and the great honor of making our acquaintance. She had heard so much about us. “Have you indeed?” I said, giving Smith a sharp look. “She is reading the Professor’s Historyand has reached Volume Three,” said Smith blandly. “It was Algie’s excitement about Egypt that induced me to come,” Mrs. Bayes explained. She gave her brother a sickeningly fond look. She is putting it on, I thought to myself; that cold fish of a man is incapable of inspiring such adoration. “It was courageous of you to risk the sea voyage at this time,” I said. The lady’s face took on an expression of gentle melancholy. “When one has lost that being who is all the world to one, one becomes resigned to whatever fate may offer.” Emerson let out a loud “Hmph,” turned it into a cough, and glanced at me. He objects to my “pompous aphorisms,” as he terms them, and this was certainly in the same category. I could have put it better, though. “I am very sorry,” I said. “Was it a recent loss?” “Fairly recent. But,” said Mrs. Bayes, smiling at her “brother,” who was patting her hand with a look of concern, “I promised Algie not to dwell on that. I am determined to enjoy these new experiences to the full, and they have been delightful. Algie has been a splendid guide. He knows the antiquities so well!” “A sister’s fondness exaggerates,” said Smith with a modest cough. “I may claim, however, to be exceedingly keen. My interest was aroused during my first visit to Luxor — perhaps you do me the honor of remembering our meeting at that time . . .” He transferred his gaze to Ramses and Nefret. “Very well,” said Ramses. Nefret, her lips forming a line almost as thin as Smith’s, said nothing. “We must not keep you from your dinner,” I said. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bayes. Enjoy the rest of your stay.” “Aren’t you dining here?” the lady asked innocently. “No,” I said, and took Emerson’s arm. “Good night.” I led our little party out of the hotel. “What about Carter?” Ramses asked. “I would be very much surprised to find that Howard is here. Smith sent the message.” “I wonder what he wants,” Nefret muttered. She had very tight hold of Ramses’s arm. “If he thinks he can —” “Not now, Nefret,” I said firmly. “Where are we going?” Emerson asked. “I want my dinner.” “The Luxor will suit, I believe. We must have a little chat before he tracks us down again.” Emerson waved away the carriages that sought our custom. It is only a short walk from the Winter Palace to the Luxor, and it was a lovely evening, the dark sky star-strewn and the air fresh. The scent of night-blooming jasmine tried (in vain) to counter the other scents of Luxor, but even these had a certain charm — the smell of cooking fires and camel dung; of unwashed donkeys, camels, and humans. We were greeted with pleasure and seated at one of the best tables in the dining saloon. After consulting with Ramses, Emerson ordered a bottle of wine and then shoved his plate aside and planted both elbows on the table, a habit of which I have given up trying to break him. “You think he will follow us here, do you?” he inquired. “Yes. What other reason could he have for being in Luxor?” “It may be a perfectly innocent reason,” Ramses said. “Do you suppose the lady is really his sister?” “Possibly,” I replied, studying the menu. “Men of his sort are not above using personal relationships for their own purposes. It was only her presence that prevented your father from being rude. I believe I will start with lentil soup. They make it very well here. Nefret?” “I don’t care. Mother, how can you think about food, when you know that bas — — that man is after Ramses again?” “He can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do,” Ramses said, somewhat sharply. “You are getting yourself into a rage about nothing, Nefret. There is no inducement they could offer that would make me change my mind.” “Damn right,” said Emerson. “Who’s he working for anyhow? I can’t get all these departments and bureaus and agencies straight in my mind. Not that I care to,” he added. “Nobody’s got them straight,” Ramses said with a wry smile. “At one time there were four separate intelligence groups, and the police. I believe they’ve been reorganized, but there is still a certain amount of infighting between the civilian branch, which reports to the high commissioner and the Foreign Office, and the military branches, who are under the C-in-C — that’s General Murray — in Cairo. The Admiralty has, or had, its own group. God knows where Smith fits in.” “I don’t give a damn where he fits in,” Nefret declared. “So long as you aren’t in it with him.” I was tempted to intervene, for her voice had risen and Ramses’s eyes had narrowed — sure signs, in both cases, of rising temper. Considering the scrapes we often got into — Nefret included — her almost hysterical fear of this particular danger might have seemed exaggerated, but I understood. In our other adventures we worked as a family. Well . . . most of the time. In these he was alone, with every man’s hand against him. I told myself to leave it to them. It was not my role to interfere — unless it became necessary. “The devil with Smith, eh?” said Emerson, whose fond paternal brow had furrowed. He is such a hopeless sentimentalist, he hates to see the children exchange hard words; whereas I, who understand the human heart better, knew that little disagreements are natural and healthy. On this occasion his remark had the desired effect. The lines of tension left Nefret’s face and she smiled affectionately at Emerson. “Quite right, Father. Let us drink to it: The devil with Mr. Smith!” He had at least enough courtesy to allow us to finish our dinner in peace. The waiter was hovering, waiting to remove our plates, when he approached us. The lady was not with him. “Will you allow me to offer you a liquor or a glass of brandy?” he asked. “I don’t want any damned brandy,” said Emerson, glowering. “Or a conversation with you.” “I think you had better, Professor.” Emerson’s face brightened. “Is that a threat?” he asked hopefully. I had once before observed in Smith the rudiments of a sense of humor. Amusement narrowed his eyes and he shook his head emphatically. “Good Lord, no. Threatening you, Professor Emerson, is tantamount to teasing a tiger. However, I am sure you will want to hear what I have to say, and if I am mistaken, you will — er — take whatever steps occur to you. May I sit down?” “Oh, I suppose so,” Emerson grumbled. “Just be quick about it. You want Ramses for some other filthy job, I suppose. He has already refused. What makes you suppose that you can change his mind?” “He is wanted,” Smith said quietly. “And I think he will change his mind.” Nefret caught hold of Ramses’s hand. Ramses gave her a quick glance from under lowered lids, and although his controlled countenance did not change, I knew he had misunderstood, and resented, the gesture. It was not one of possessiveness but of fear — the unreasoning panic of a child reaching out for comfort in a dark room. “He will,” Smith went on, “because he won’t want to see a close friend face a firing squad. Someone closer than a friend, in fact. A kinsman.” There was no doubt as to whom he meant. Nefret’s face turned pale, Emerson’s turned red. “Don’t speak, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “Don’t anyone speak until he has explained what he means.” “You know whoI mean,” Smith said, with that thin, satisfied smirk I remembered so well. “He has turned traitor. Gone over to the enemy.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Nefret had told herself there was no reason to be apprehensive. She had Ramses’s word, and he would not break it. But because she was so intensely aware of the emotions he succeeded in concealing from almost everyone but her, she had sensed his growing restlessness and feelings of guilt at going on with his work while friends and kin were fighting and dying. He wouldn’t fight, but his unique skills could be of use without violating his pacifist principles, and there was one appeal he would find impossible to resist: danger to her or his parents or a friend. It was difficult to classify the enigmatic, eccentric individual who was Emerson’s half brother, but whether he was friend or foe — over the years he had been both — they were indebted to him. Emerson’s sun-browned face was almost as expressionless as that of his son, and when he spoke, it was in a soft purring voice. “That’s a lie.” Smith leaned forward. “Then prove it.” “I thought it was Ramses you wanted,” said Emerson, in the same soft voice. “It is. May I explain?” “You had damned well better,” said Emerson. “Peabody, my dear, would you care for a whiskey and soda?” Nefret had never been certain precisely how her mother-in-law felt about the man who had pursued her so ardently all those years; obviously she cared enough about him to resent the accusation. Her gray eyes had a hard, almost metallic shine. “No,” she said. “Thank you. Mr. Smith, how did you find out?” “Find out what?” She was too clever to be tricked into an admission. “Whatever it is you know.” Smith gave her a nod of grudging admiration. “If you are referring to my knowledge of the — er — relationship between you and the individual in question, I — uh — Please, Mrs. Emerson, won’t you let me offer you something to drink?” “No. There were a good many people present the evening we ourselves learned of that relationship,” she went on thoughtfully. “Military persons. One of them overheard our conversation and reported it to you?” “Only a few words of the conversation, but they were enough to arouse his curiosity. Eventually the word got back to me, and aroused mycuriosity. It took my associate in England a while to find the proof — birth and death certificates, records of certain financial transactions — you know the procedure. I haven’t told anyone else, Mrs. Emerson.” “No, you hoard information like coins, paying it out only when you can gain something” was the furious response. “Do not expect thanks for your discretion from us.” “Never mind, Mother,” Ramses said. “That isn’t the issue now. He’s won the first round. Perhaps we should let him explain further.” It was a damning story. A few weeks earlier, a man calling himself Ismail Pasha had appeared in Constantinople. The word soon spread among the faithful: he had been an infidel, a high-ranking member of the British Secret Service, who had come over to the true religion and the right cause. He had been seen in public with German officers and also with Enver and the other members of the ruling triumvirate, richly dressed and clanking with jewels. He had prayed at the mosques, and on at least two occasions he had addressed the crowd with an eloquence that brought them to their knees. For surely no one could be so familiar with the words of the Prophet unless he himself was a holy man! Shortly thereafter, one of the local agents in British pay was caught and executed. It was pure luck that the others in the group got away. Sethos was one of the few who knew of that particular network; he had been sent to Constantinople to meet with its members. “That isn’t proof of anything,” Emerson declared. “No,” Smith agreed. “However, he has not been heard from since. Attempts to contact him through the usual channels have received no response. His assumed name is interesting, too, don’t you think?” “Ismail is a very common name,” Emerson said. “The name of the son of Abraham by his handmaiden Hagar, who was cast out into the wilderness, lest he challenge the position of Abraham’s legitimate son,” Smith said, his thin lips curving in a cynical smile. “ ‘His hand will be against every man and every man’s hand will be against him.’ ” “I believe I am better acquainted with Holy Writ than you,” Nefret’s mother-in-law said with a sniff. “God saved Ismael and blessed him and promised to make him — er — fruitful.” “Confound it, Peabody, will you stop talking about the Bible?” Emerson was trying not to shout; the words squeezed between his lips like rumbles of distant thunder. “Prove it, you say. How?” “That should be obvious.” Smith knew he had won. He leaned back in his chair. “Ismail Pasha is now in Gaza. Find him. You will know if he is the man we believe him to be — or that he is not. If he is that man, and you can bring back evidence that he is a prisoner or under duress, we will take steps to free him — unless you can do the job yourself.” “That’s rather a tall order,” said Emerson. “Even for us.” “You mistook my meaning, Professor. That’s the trouble with English, it is too imprecise about pronouns.” “So,” said Emerson, after a long moment. “You want Ramses to go after the fellow. Alone.” “It’s the only way, Professor. You surely don’t suppose that the four of you could cross enemy lines in disguise? Individually you are only too recognizable; as a group you are unmistakable. It’s a job for one man, and there is only one man who can maintain a convincing disguise long enough to do the job.” They were all looking at Ramses, waiting for him to speak; Emerson caught himself on the verge of a heated reply and remained silent, possibly because his wife had administered an admonitory kick under the table. Ramses turned his head and met Nefret’s eyes. They had been over this subject many times, with Nefret continuing to demand promises and reassurances and Ramses increasingly resentful of her refusal to accept his given word. There was no need for speech now; she knew what he wanted to do, what he felt he must do, and she knew that the decision was hers. She had the means to hold him. A few sentences, a few words . . . She released her grip on his hand. Her fingers had left white marks. “I’ve always felt that Ismail was unfairly treated,” she said, shaping the words with care so her voice wouldn’t tremble. “God won’t take a hand this time, so . . . so someone else must.”