He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12 Page 22

  As I spoke—shouted, rather—I scanned the faces of the spectators. A number of the people I had invited had turned up, as well as a number of those I had not. I thought I caught a glimpse of Percy among the group of military persons who had come from the camp near Mena House, but I could not be certain; the individual in question was surrounded by tall Australians.

  I was beginning to be a bit anxious about Russell when finally I beheld him. Like several of the tourists, he was on camelback, but his easy pose and expert handling of the beast did not at all resemble the ineffectual performance of the amateurs. I looked round for Ramses, and found him at my elbow.

  “Father thought you might need some assistance in controlling the mob,” he explained.

  “I certainly do,” I replied, taking a firmer grip on my parasol and glaring at a stout American person who was trying to edge past me. He retreated in some alarm before Russell’s camel. All camels have evil tempers, and the large stained teeth of this one were bared by curling lips. It knelt, grumbling, and Russell dismounted and removed his hat.

  “Everyone in Cairo is talking of your discovery,” he said. “I could not resist having a look for myself.” He tossed Ramses the reins, as he would have done to a groom.

  “Come and have a closer look.” I took his arm and led him toward the shaft.

  “Not too close. I know the Professor’s temper.” He lowered his voice. “I presume it was Ramses who prompted your invitation. How can I get a word alone with him?”

  “That would be unwise as well as unnecessary,” I replied. “I can tell you what needs to be done.”

  We came to a stop some distance from the ropemen and an even greater distance from the watching tourists. I proceeded to explain the situation to Mr. Russell. He tried once or twice to interrupt me, but I never allow that sort of thing and finally he pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

  “What makes him believe Farouk is a spy?”

  “Goodness gracious,” I said impatiently. “I have already gone over his—our—reasoning on that subject. Let us not waste time, Mr. Russell. I want that man locked up. He has tried once to kill my son; I don’t intend to give him another chance. If you won’t deal with him, I will do it myself.”

  “I believe you would at that,” Russell muttered. “All right, Mrs. Emerson, your—er—reasoning has convinced me. It can’t do any harm and it might lead to something.”

  “How soon can you act?”

  Russell took out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face. “It will take a while to make the arrangements. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “That won’t do. It must be sooner.”

  Russell’s erect, military carriage slumped. “Mrs. Emerson, you don’t understand the difficulties. I have already been called on the carpet by my chief for failing to inform him of certain of my activities. I am trying to think of a way of doing what you want without informing him.”

  “And thereby, Mr. Philippides.”

  “Yes, he’s the rub, all right.” Russell’s lips tightened into a firm line. “I’ve got my eye on him, and someday I’ll catch the—er—fellow in flagrante. Until then, the less he knows, the better.”

  “Is that why you have not kept the shop under surveillance? It would seem to me—”

  “And to me, I assure you. It is a matter of manpower, Mrs. Emerson. I don’t have enough men I can trust to act on my orders and keep their mouths shut, and I gave Ramses my word I would not involve any of the other services.”

  “The General knows, does he not?”

  “Yes, of course; he had to be informed. It’s that motley lot of Clayton’s that concerns me; Clayton is a good man, none better, but he’s trying to cobble together a working organization out of a scrapbag of his former commands and that collection of intellectuals.”

  “Surely you don’t doubt the loyalty of men like Woolley and Lawrence?” I exclaimed.

  “None of them have any practical experience in criminal investigation. That’s what is wanted for effective counterintelligence, and the entire table of organization is in such disarray—”

  “Well, Mr. Russell, I am sorry about all that, but I really haven’t time to listen to your troubles. The raid must be tonight. Delay could be fatal. Come along now. The sooner you get to work on this, the sooner you can act.”

  Russell allowed himself to be led back toward his camel. He appeared a trifle dazed, but perhaps he was only thinking hard. After a moment he said, “Does the Professor know of this?”

  “Not yet. I do not like to distract him when he is engaged in important archaeological activities. But I feel certain he will wish to come with us.”

  Russell stopped and dug his heels into the sand. “Now just a damned minute, Mrs. Emerson! Confound it, I apologize for my language, but you are really the most—”

  “You are not the first person to tell me that,” I said with a smile. “Ah, here is your nice camel all ready and waiting.”

  Russell took the reins from Ramses and, for the first time, looked him squarely in the eyes. Ramses nodded. It was sufficient confirmation of what I had said, and in my opinion Russell ought not have risked further conversation, but he appeared a trifle confused. It might have been the hot sun.

  “She intends to be there,” he said in an agitated whisper. “Can you—”

  “I can try.” The corners of Ramses’s mouth twitched. “When?”

  Russell looked at me and mopped his forehead. “Tonight.”

  “Excellent,” I said audibly. “Now do run along, Mr. Russell; I must get back to work.”

  He obeyed, of course. Ramses squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and said, “Mother—”

  “I don’t intend to argue with you either,” I informed him. “We will discuss the logistical details later. I want to see what your father is doing.”

  We all gathered round to watch. Finally came the moment when the entire statue was exposed except for the base. Emerson, who had kept up a monotonous undercurrent of curses and exhortations, fell silent. Then he drew a deep breath. Turning to Daoud, who held one of the ropes, he gave him a slap on the back.

  “You know what to do, Daoud.”

  The giant gave him a broad smile and a nod. Emerson descended the ladder that leaned against the wall of the shaft. He was followed by Ibrahim, our carpenter. There was only room below for two men to work and I had known Emerson would be one of them.

  I had forgotten my duties as guard. I was vaguely aware that a circle of staring onlookers had gathered, but my full attention was focused on my spouse, who was kneeling and scooping out sand from under the base of the statue. As he removed it Ibrahim shoved the stout plank he had brought into the vacant space. The statue swayed and promptly steadied as Daoud called out directions to the men pulling on the ropes. Finally Emerson straightened and looked up.

  “So far so good,” he remarked.

  The front part of the statue now rested on a solid platform of wood. Emerson and Ibrahim repeated the process at the back of the base. The ropes tightened and loosened as the men followed Daoud’s orders. Then more planks, cut to measure, were lowered into the pit and Ibrahim deftly lashed them into place at right angles to the planks on which the statue rested.

  Sometimes a heavy weight of that sort could be raised by rocking it back and forth and inserting wedges under the raised side. The space was too narrow for that, however. The statue and its wooden base would have to be pulled up by sheer brute strength, while the ropemen steadied it. Emerson tied cables to the planks with his own hands and tossed the ends up. Twenty men seized each rope and began hauling on it.

  Selim, who had been hopping about like a grasshopper with sheer nerves, now stood still, his eyes fixed on his uncle Daoud. Daoud’s broad face was set. It was not the heat or the physical effort, but the sense of responsibility that caused the perspiration to pour down his face. My concern was for Emerson, who had sent Ibrahim back up the ladder but had remained below.

  “Come up out of
there,” I shouted, as the massive object began to rise.

  “Yes, yes,” said Emerson. “I only want to—”

  “Emerson!”

  It was probably not my exhortation but the knowledge that he could be of more use directing operations from above that finally prompted him to ascend. Cameras clicked as my spouse’s disheveled head appeared; the clicking rose to a perfect fusillade as the statue rose slowly and steadily upward. When the base was level with the ground the men inserted long planks under it, bridging the shaft and forming a platform onto which the statue settled as gently as a bird coming to rest on a bough.

  Emerson let out a long sigh and wiped the perspiration from his face with his shirtsleeve.

  “Well done, Daoud, and the rest of you,” he said.

  Ramses bent over and examined the base of the statue. “Nefret was right. It’s Khafre. ‘The Good God, Horus of Gold.’ ”

  Nefret did not say “I told you so,” but she looked rather smug. The face and form of the pharaoh did bear a certain resemblance to Ramses, in his stonier moods. He was looking quite affable now; smiles wreathed all our faces as we exchanged mutual congratulations. For once, however, archaeological fever did not entirely overcome my greater concern. Would Russell keep his word? Would the raid on Aslimi’s shop succeed? I had determined to do everything in my power to make certain it would.

  Chapter 7

  Our return to the house resembled a triumphal procession. Daoud would not hear of using mechanical transport; once the statue platform had been securely fastened to the lengthwise beams, forty men hoisted the entire structure onto their shoulders and set off across the plateau. When they turned onto the Pyramid Road they began to sing one of the traditional work songs, with Daoud shouting out the lines and the men echoing them in a reverberant chorus. Most of the way was downhill, but it was over two miles to the house, and Emerson made them stop frequently to rest and adjust the pads that protected their shoulders. When one man faltered, another sprang to take his place. As I watched, the centuries seemed to shrink, and I felt as if I had been privileged to behold a vision from the past. Just so must the workers of Pharaoh have transported the image of their god king to its original place, chanting as they went.

  To be sure, there was no actual depiction of this precise procedure in any of the tomb reliefs. However, it was a thrilling sight, and one I will never forget, nor, I believe, will those who lined the road to watch and cheer as we passed. The tourists got their fill of photographs for once.

  By the time we reached the house all the men except Daoud, who had taken his turn as carrier, were on the verge of collapse. Emerson led them through the courtyard to the closest room, which happened to be the parlor. I was too excited to object to this inconvenience, but as it turned out the platform would not go through the doorway, so Emerson directed the bearers to place it in the courtyard, between two pillars. Once the statue had come safely to rest, I had to deal with fifty male persons sprawled in various positions of exhaustion on the tiled floor. Forty-nine, I should say; Daoud, perspiring but undaunted, helped us minister to the fallen, splashing them with water and offering copious quantities of liquid. The sun was setting when we sent them home, with thanks and praise and promises of a fantasia of celebration in the near future.

  “I think we should celebrate too,” I announced. “Let us dine in Cairo . I told Fatima not to prepare anything for dinner since I was not certain how long the job would take. The triumph is yours, my dear Emerson, therefore I will allow you to choose the restaurant.”

  As a rule Emerson is pathetically easy to manipulate. He hated dining at the hotels. I knew what establishment he would suggest: a pleasantly unsanitary little place where the menu included his favorite Egyptian delicacies and the owner would have slaughtered an ostrich and cooked it up if Emerson had requested it. Suits and cravats, much less evening clothes, would have been out of place in that ambience—another strong point in its favor, as far as Emerson was concerned.

  It was located on the edge of the Khan el Khalili.

  Emerson hesitated for only a moment—that brief delay being occasioned by his reluctance to leave his precious statue—before responding precisely as I had planned. I glanced at Ramses, who was looking even blanker than usual. He opened his mouth and closed it without speaking.

  Turning to Nefret, I brushed the hair back from her forehead. “Perhaps you ought to stay here and rest,” I said. “You have a nasty lump as well as a cut.”

  “Nonsense, Aunt Amelia. I feel fine and I wouldn’t miss dining at Bassam’s for all the world.”

  She tripped away before I could respond. Meeting Ramses’s dark gaze, which seemed to me to convey a certain degree of criticism, I gave a little shrug. “Hurry and bathe and change,” I ordered. “We must not be late.”

  Ramses said, “Yes, Mother.” Clearly he would have liked to say more, but after a moment’s hesitation he started up the stairs.

  “All right, Peabody,” said my husband. “What are you up to now?”

  I had intended to tell him anyhow.

  He took the news more quietly than I had expected, though it certainly had the effect of hurrying him up. He was in and out of the bath chamber in a remarkably short period of time.

  “Well, well,” he remarked, throwing his towel onto the floor, where a puddle began to form around it. “So it occurred to you too that Farouk might have been sent to infiltrate Wardani’s organization?”

  “Now, Emerson, if you are going to claim you thought of it first—”

  “I would not claim to be the first. I did think of it, though.”

  “You always say that!”

  “So do you. I suppose this scheme is practicable, but I wish you had left it to me.”

  Stung by the criticism, I demanded hotly, “And what would you have done?”

  Emerson assumed his trousers. “Stop by Aslimi’s and collect the bastard myself. I had scheduled it for tomorrow.”

  He began to rummage through the drawers in search of a shirt. They are always in the same drawer, but Emerson, who can effortlessly call to mind the most intricate details of stratification and pottery sequences, can never remember which drawer. Watching the pull of muscle across his back and arms, I rather regretted having spoken with Russell. It would have been immensely satisfying to watch Emerson “collect” Farouk; he could have done it without the least effort, and then we (for of course I would have accompanied him) could have searched the shop for incriminating evidence and carried our captive back to the house in order to interrogate him.

  However, I had a feeling Ramses would not have liked it. He obviously did not like what I was doing now, but the other would have vexed him even more. Emerson is rather like a bull in a china shop when he is enraged, and this matter was somewhat delicate. I felt obliged to point this out to Emerson.

  “We must not be directly involved in an attack on Farouk, or the shop, Emerson; our active participation could increase the enemy’s suspicion of Ramses.”

  “So what is the point of our going there this evening?”

  “I only want to be there,” I replied, refolding the shirts he had tumbled into a pile. “Or rather, near by. Coincidentally. Casually. Just in case.”

  I turned and selected a light but becoming cotton frock from the wardrobe. Emerson came up behind me and put his arms round my waist.

  “It is important to you, isn’t it?”

  I dropped the frock onto the floor and turned into his arms. “Oh, Emerson, if we are right, this could be the end of the whole horrible business! I can’t stand much more of this. Every time he goes out I am afraid he will never come back. And David could just… disappear. They could throw his body into the river or bury it in the desert, and we would never know what had happened to him.”

  “Good Gad, my love, that extravagant imagination of yours is getting out of hand! Ramses has been in worse scrapes than this one, and David has generally been in them with him.”

  I started to deny it
but could not. A series of hideous images flashed through my mind: Ramses confronting the Master Criminal and demanding that that formidable gentleman return his treasure; Ramses dragged off to the lair of the vicious Riccetti, whom he had pursued accompanied only by David and the cat Bastet; Ramses strolling into a bandit camp, alone and unarmed… I did not doubt there were other incidents of which I had been happily unaware. Oh, yes, he had been in worse scrapes and had got out of them too, but his luck was bound to run out one day.

  I was not selfish enough to remind Emerson of that. I would not be one of those whining females who require constant reassurances and petting. Despair drains the strength, not only of the one who expresses it but of the one who is told of it.

  “I am sorry, Emerson,” I said, stiffening my spine literally as well as figuratively. “I will not give way again. And I have delayed us. We must hurry.”

  The garment I had intended to wear was now crumpled and covered by large wet footprints. I selected another, while Emerson dried his feet again and, at my request, mopped up the puddle of water on the floor.

  “What about Nefret?” he asked.

  “I would rather she did not come with us, but there is no way of preventing her. In fact, her presence will make this seem like one of our customary family outings. Behave normally and leave everything to me.”

  I feared I would have to go through the same thing with Ramses, who was lying in wait for me when I came down the stairs. “There is a button off your coat,” I said, hoping to forestall an argument. “I will get my sewing kit and—”

  “Stab yourself in the thumb,” Ramses said, his formidable frown relaxing into a half-smile. “You hate to sew, Mother, and with all respect, you do it very badly. Anyhow, I’ve lost the button. What the devil are you—”