He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12 Read online

  As the seconds passed, so did the numbness in his arm and shoulder. He drew his knife and then froze as footsteps approached his hiding place and an agitated voice called his name. He couldn’t tell which one of them it was; the voice was as high-pitched as a girl’s. Another, equally agitated voice answered. “Farouk! Come back, we must hurry.”

  “There was someone in that grove of trees—with a gun! I fired back—”

  “You missed, then. No one is there now.”

  “But I tell you, I saw him fall. If he is dead, or wounded—”

  “He would wish us to go on.” The speaker had come closer. It was Asad, sounding frightfully noble and pompous, but, thank God, sensible enough to follow orders. “Hurry, I say. Someone may have heard the shots.”

  Someone almost certainly did, Ramses thought, fighting the waves of faintness that came and went. He had to stop the bleeding and get the hell out of there, but he dared not move while Farouk was nearby. Farouk might or might not be telling the truth when he claimed some unknown party had fired first; in either case, Ramses knew he couldn’t risk being in the tender care of Wardani’s followers. Under close scrutiny there were a dozen ways in which he might betray himself.

  Finally the footsteps moved away. He slashed and tore at the fabric of his shirt and bound the uneven strips around his arm. The pain was rather bad by then, but he was able to pull himself to his feet.

  The rest of the journey was a blank, broken by brief intervals of consciousness; he must have kept moving, though, because whenever he became aware of his surroundings he was farther along—on the railroad platform at Kurreh, slumped in a third-class carriage, and finally, facedown in an irrigation ditch. That woke him, and he crawled up the muddy bank and examined his surroundings. He had crossed the bridge—he couldn’t remember how—and was on the west bank, less than a mile from the house. Still on hands and knees, he wiped the mud from his face and tried to think. He’d meant to head for Maadi, where David was waiting for him. No hope of getting there now, he’d be lucky to make it home.

  The cool water had revived him a little, and he managed to stay on his feet for the remainder of the distance. He covered the last few yards in a staggering run and leaned against the wall wondering how in God’s name he was going to get up to his room. The trellis with its climbing vine was as good as a ladder when he was in fit condition, but just now it looked as long and as steep as the Grand Gallery in the Great Pyramid.

  A soft sound from above made him look up. Poised on the edge of the balcony was Seshat. She stared at him for a moment, and then jumped onto the mass of entwined stems and descended, as surefooted as if she were on level ground. He had never known a cat who could do that; they were first-rate climbers, but once they got up they didn’t seem to know how to come down. Even his beloved Bastet…

  Teeth and claws sank into his bare ankle, and the pain jarred him back to full awareness. Having got his attention, Sheshat put her large head against his foot and shoved.

  One foot at a time, he thought hazily. Right.

  She climbed with him, muttering discontentedly and pushing at him when he stopped. Finally he hauled himself over the edge of the balcony and fell to hands and knees. Another shove from Seshat got him to his feet; he hung on to the window frame and looked into the room. It was dark and quiet, just as he’d left it; no trouble there, anyhow, thank God for small blessings. The bed looked as if it were a mile away. He couldn’t think beyond that—reaching the bed, lying down. He took three faltering steps and fell.

  When he came back to his senses he saw his mother bending over him, and his father, standing by. The cat was out of the bag now, or soon would be. He didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry.

  :

  My frame of mind was considerably improved next day. David had gone off to Zawaiet alone and Emerson took Nefret with him to Giza , so I was able to spend a little time with Ramses. When I removed the bandages I saw that someone, probably David, had smeared Kadija’s green salve all over the area. Whether it was that, or the mercury and zinc-cyanide paste I had applied, or Ramses’s own recuperative powers, the infection I had feared had not occurred. He was still fussing about Thomas Russell, however, so I told him to stop worrying, that I would deal with the matter. He appeared somewhat alarmed at the prospect.

  “I won’t scold him,” I promised. “But if you were to give me a few more details…”

  He really had no choice but to do so. By the time I left him I had obtained answers to most of my remaining questions, and as I proceeded along the Giza Road I pondered the information.

  After hearing his account of what had happened at the rendezvous and afterwards, I understood why he had been so insistent about carrying out his normal activities. The would-be assassin might have been the Turk, or Wardani’s ambitious lieutenant, or an unknown third party; whoever he was, and whatever his motive, he was probably aware of the fact that “Wardani” had suffered an injury of some sort. Ramses had also admitted, upon interrogation, that he had reason to believe his masquerade was suspected. He refused to elaborate, claiming it was more a sense of uneasiness than a specific fact—“like one of your famous forebodings, Mother.”

  I could not quarrel with that, for I knew how significant such feelings could be. There were a number of ways in which the truth about Wardani’s whereabouts might have come out. The peculiar nature of Anglo-Egyptian officialdom had become even more complicated after the formal annexation of the country. Kitchener had been replaced by Sir Henry MacMahon, with the new title of High Commissioner; General Sir John Maxwell was the Commander of the Army; the Cairo Police force was still under the command of Harvey Pasha, with Russell as his assistant and Philippides, the unsavory Levantine, as director of the political CID; the new intelligence department was headed by Gilbert Clayton, who was also the Cairo representative of the Sirdar of the Sudan; under Clayton was Mr. Newcombe and his little group of Oxbridge intellectuals, which included Leonard Woolley and Mr. Lawrence. At the beginning Ramses had dealt only with Russell, whose intelligence and integrity he trusted, as he did not trust some of the others; but it had been necessary to involve higher authorities in order to carry out the supposed deportation of David and the secret imprisonment of Wardani. In theory the only persons who knew of the impersonation were Kitchener himself, MacMahon, General Maxwell, and Thomas Russell.

  I didn’t believe it. Unnamed personages in the War Office in London must have been informed; General Maxwell might have confided in certain members of his staff and in Clayton. Men believe women are hopeless gossips, but women know men are. The poor creatures are worse than women in some ways, because they cannot admit to themselves that they are gossiping, or doubt the discretion of the individuals in whom they confide. “Strictly in confidence, old boy, just between you and me…”

  Yes, the word would spread, in private offices and in the clubs, and, if I may be permitted a slight vulgarity, in the boudoir. I did not doubt there were agents of the Central Powers in Cairo ; some might have penetrated the police and the intelligence departments. The longer the boys continued their perilous task, the greater the danger that the truth would reach the ears of the enemy. It might already have done so.

  The effect of this depressing conclusion was to inspire me with even greater determination. When I reached Giza , I found the others hard at work. I stopped for a moment to gloat over the painted reliefs, for they were really lovely. However, I would be the first to admit that my primary interest lay in the burial chamber, or chambers. There were two of them connected with the mastaba; we had located the tops of the deep shafts that led down to them, but Emerson did not intend to dig them out until after he had finished with the mastaba itself. The outer chamber, or chapel, had been cleared, but the doorway leading to a second room was still blocked with debris.

  Nefret was at the wall, electric torch in hand, comparing the drawings Ramses had made from her photographs with the originals and emending them when she found errors. This would ce
rtainly lead to an argument, for Ramses did not accept correction graciously and Nefret was not the most tactful of critics. An involuntary sigh escaped my lips when I thought of the days when David had been our copyist; no one had his touch, and even Ramses deferred to him when there was a disagreement. How foolish and how petty of me to regret such minor losses, I thought, and offered up a silent little prayer. Only let them finish their dangerous job alive and unharmed, and I would ask nothing more of the Power that guides our lives. Not until next season, anyhow.

  “Where is Emerson?” I asked.

  Selim, holding a reflector that cast additional light, only shook his head. Nefret glanced round. “He said he wanted to consult the records at Harvard Camp.”

  “What about?”

  “He did not condescend to inform me,” said Nefret. “Ramses has gone to Zawaiet. Daoud went with the Professor. Aunt Amelia, may I be excused for a few hours this afternoon? I want to go into Cairo to do some shopping.”

  “You had better ask Emerson.”

  “He said to ask you.”

  She looked and sounded rather sulky. Rapidly I weighed the advantages and disadvantages of acceding to her request. If she was out of the way when David returned, the transfer of identities would be much easier, but I did not really believe she wanted to shop. Could I follow her without being observed? Could I insist on accompanying her? Maternal affection exerted a powerful pull; I yearned to be with my son, caring for him, making certain he did precisely what I wanted him to do, which he would not unless I made him. And what of Emerson? It was not like him to absent himself from his work. Was he really consulting the records of Mr. Reisner, or had he gone off on some absurd errand of his own? Ramses had said Russell must be informed…

  These conflicting and confusing ideas passed through my mind with the rapidity that marks my cogitations. There was, I believe, scarcely a pause before I replied.

  “I have a few purchases to make too. I will go with you.”

  “If you like.”

  I could always change my mind after I had conferred with Emerson.

  He did not return for over an hour. I had given up all pretense of accomplishing any useful work, and was outside, watching for him.

  “What the devil are you doing, Peabody ?” he exclaimed. “Gawking at the pyramid again? You should be sifting debris.”

  The black scowl that accompanied his grumble did not disturb me for a moment. He was only trying to distract me.

  “I will not allow you to distract me, Emerson,” I informed him. “Where have you been?”

  “I wanted to consult—”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  One of the men emerged from the tomb entrance carrying a basket. I drew Emerson aside. “Where did you go?”

  “Back to the house. I wanted to use the telephone.”

  “To ring Russ—”

  He clapped a hand over my mouth—or, to be precise, the entire lower half of my face. Emerson has very large hands. I peeled his fingers off.

  “Really, Emerson, was that wise? I had intended to speak to him this afternoon, in private.”

  “I thought you would.” Emerson removed his pith helmet, dropped it onto the ground, and ran his hand through his hair. “That is why I determined to anticipate you. Don’t worry, I gave nothing away.”

  “You must have had to go through various secretaries and sergeants and—”

  “I disguised my voice,” Emerson said, with great satisfaction.

  “Not a Russian accent, Emerson!”

  Emerson wrapped a muscular arm round my waist and squeezed. “Never you mind, Peabody . The point is, I got through to him and was able to reassure him on certain points. So for God’s sake don’t go marching into his office this afternoon. Were you planning to accompany Nefret to Cairo or go alone?”

  “I was going with her. I may yet. Only…”

  “Only what?”

  “While you were at the house, did you happen to look in on Ramses?”

  Emerson’s face took on an expression of elaborate unconcern. “I thought so long as I was there, I might as well. He was sleeping.”

  “Oh. Are you certain he—”

  “Yes.” Emerson squeezed my ribs again. “ Peabody , not even you can be in two places at once. Get back to your rubbish heap.”

  “Two places! Three or four, rather. Zawaiet, the tomb here, the house—”

  “The suk with Nefret. Go with her, my dear, and keep her out of the way so we won’t have to repeat the wearying maneuvers we executed yesterday.”

  “Will David be there when we come back? I would like to see him once more.”

  “Don’t talk as if you were planning to bid him a final farewell,” Emerson growled. “We’ll put an end to this business soon, I promise you. As for tonight, I told him to go straight back to the house from Zawaiet; he won’t leave until after dark, so you will see him then. Run along now.”

  Several slightly interesting objects turned up in the fill that was being removed from the second chamber. The bits of bone and mummy wrappings and wooden fragments indicated that there had been a later burial above the mastaba. By the Twenty-Second Dynasty—to which period I tentatively assigned this secondary interment—the mastabas of Giza had been deserted for over a thousand years, and the sand must have lain deep upon their ruins. It had not been much of a burial, and even it showed signs of having been robbed.

  Emerson dismissed Nefret and me shortly after 2 P.M. and we returned to the house to change. I chattered loudly and cheerfully with Nefret as we walked along the corridor to our sleeping chambers. There was no sound from behind Ramses’s closed door.

  “What sort of experiment is he doing?” Nefret asked.

  “I believe he is hoping to develop a preservative that will protect wall paintings without darkening or damaging them.” I hurried her past. “It smells horrid, but then most of his experiments do.”

  I had hoped for an opportunity to peek in on him before we left, but I had not quite finished dressing before Nefret joined me to ask if I would button her up the back. Several of the younger women of Abdullah’s family would have been delighted to take on the position of lady’s maid, but like myself, Nefret scorned such idle attentions. So I obliged, and she did the same for me, and we went down together, to find Daoud waiting for us.

  “The Father of Curses said I should go with you,” he explained, his large, honest face beaming. “To guard you from harm.”

  We could not have had a more formidable escort. Daoud was even taller than my tall husband, and correspondingly broad. He was no longer a young man, but most of his bulk was solid muscle. He would have liked nothing better than to fight a dozen men in our defense.

  Smiling, Nefret took his arm. “We are only going to the Khan el Khalili, Daoud. I’m afraid nothing of interest will occur.”

  Normally shy and taciturn, Daoud was quite a conversationalist when he was with us. He demanded news of his absent friends, particularly Lia, to whom he was devoted. “She should be here,” he declared, his brow furrowing. “Where you and Kadija and Fatima and the Sitt Hakim could care for her.”

  I had earned my name of Lady Doctor in my early days in Egypt, when physicians were few and far between; some of our devoted men still preferred my attentions even to those of Nefret, who was far better qualified than I. Modestly I disclaimed any skill in obstetrics, adding, “She felt too unwell to risk the sea voyage, Daoud, and travel now would be unwise. She will have the best possible care, you may be certain.”

  When we reached the Khan el Khalili we left the carriage and proceeded on foot through the tortuous lanes, with Daoud so close on our heels, I felt as if we were being followed by a moving mountain. Nefret was in a merry mood, laughing and chattering; at several places—a goldsmith’s, a seller of fine fabrics—she made me go on with Daoud and wait at a distance. I assumed she wanted to surprise me with a gift, so I amiably agreed.

  “The Professor is always difficult,” she declared, after she ha
d made a number of purchases. “I know! Let’s see if Aslimi has any interesting antiquities.”

  “Huh,” said Daoud. “Stolen antiquities, you mean? Aslimi deals with thieves and tomb robbers.”

  “All the more reason to rescue the objects from him,” Nefret said.

  The setting sun cast slanting streaks of gold through the matting that roofed the narrow lanes. We passed the area devoted to dyers and fullers and finally reached Aslimi’s shop. It was larger than some of the others, which consisted only of a tiny cubicle with a mastaba bench where the customer sat while the proprietor showed him the merchandise. When we entered the showroom it appeared to be deserted. Nefret went to a shelf on which a row of painted pots was displayed and began examining them.

  “You won’t find anything here except fakes,” I said. “Aslimi keeps his better objects hidden. Where is the rascal?”

  The curtain at the back of the room was drawn aside; but the man who came through it was not Aslimi. He was tall and young and quite handsome, and when he spoke, it was in excellent English.

  “You honor my poor establishment, noble ladies. What can I show you?”

  “I had not heard that Aslimi had sold his shop,” I said, studying him curiously.

  The young man’s teeth flashed in a smile. “I spoke amiss, honored lady, taking you for a stranger. My cousin Aslimi is ill. I am managing the business for him until he recovers.”

  I doubted very much that he had been unaware of my identity. He had been watching us through the curtain for some time before he emerged, and we were known to everyone in Cairo . Certainly the combination of myself, Nefret, and Daoud was unmistakable.

  “I am sorry to hear of his illness,” I said politely. “What is the matter with him?”

  The youth placed his hands—smooth, long-fingered hands, adorned with several rings—on his flat stomach. “There is much pain when he eats. You are the Sitt Hakim—I know you now. You can tell me, no doubt, what medicines will relieve him.”