He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12 Read online

  “You sound as if you hope it were.”

  “I’d love to meet Sethos,” Nefret said dreamily. “I know, Aunt Amelia, he’s a thief and a swindler and a villain, but you must admit he is frightfully romantic. And his hopeless passion for you—”

  “That is very silly,” I said severely. “I don’t expect ever to see Sethos again.”

  “You say that every time—just before he appears out of nowhere, in time to rescue you from some horrible danger.”

  She was teasing me, and I knew better than to respond with the acrimony the mention of Sethos always inspired. He had indeed come to my assistance on several occasions; he did profess a deep attachment to my humble self; he had never pressed his attentions… Well, hardly ever. The fact remained that he had been for many years our most formidable adversary, controlling the illegal-antiquities game and robbing museums, collectors and archaeologists with indiscriminate skill. Though we had sometimes foiled his schemes, truth compels me to admit that more often we had not. I had encountered him a number of times, under conditions that might reasonably be described as close, but not even I could have described his true appearance. His eyes were of an ambiguous shade between gray and brown, and his skill at the art of disguise enabled him to alter their color and almost every other physical characteristic.

  “For pity’s sake, don’t mention him to Emerson!” I exclaimed. “You know how he feels about Sethos. There is no reason whatever to suppose he is in Egypt .”

  “ Cairo is crawling with spies,” Nefret said. She leaned forward, clasping her hands. She was in dead earnest now. “The authorities claim all enemy aliens have been deported or interned, but the most dangerous of them, the professional foreign agents, will have eluded arrest because they aren’t suspected of being foreigners. Sethos is a master of disguise who has spent many years in Egypt . Wouldn’t a man like that be irresistibly drawn to espionage, his talents for sale to the highest bidder?”

  “No,” I said. “Sethos is an Englishman. He would not—”

  “You don’t know for certain that he is English. And even if he is, he would not be the first or the last to betray his country.”

  “Really, Nefret, I refuse to go on with this ridiculous discussion!”

  “I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

  “I am not angry! Why should I be—” I broke off. Fatima had come up with the tea tray. I motioned to her to put it on the table.

  “There’s no use pretending this is a normal season for us, Aunt Amelia,” Nefret said quietly. “How can it be, with a war going on, and the Canal less than a hundred miles from Cairo ? Sometimes I find myself looking at people I’ve known for years, and wondering if they are wearing masks—playing a part of some kind.”

  “Nonsense, my dear,” I said firmly. “You are letting war nerves get the better of you. As for Emerson, I assure you he is exactly what he seems. He cannot conceal his feelings from me.”

  “Hmmm,” said Nefret. “All the same, I think I will join you this evening, if I may.”

  When she proposed the scheme later, Emerson agreed so readily that Nefret was visibly cast down—reasoning, I suppose, that he would not have allowed her to come if he was “up to something.” She decided to come anyhow. Ramses declined. He said he had other plans, but might join us later if we were dining at Shepheard’s.

  From Manuscript H

  Ramses made a point of arriving early at the Club so that he could not be refused a table. The committee would have loved an excuse to bar him altogether, but he had carefully avoided committing the unforgivable sins, such as cheating at cards.

  From his vantage point in an obscure corner he watched the dining room fill up. Half the men were in uniform, the drab khaki of the British Army outshone and outnumbered by the gaudy red and gold of the British-led Egyptian Army. They were all officers; enlisted men weren’t allowed in the Turf Club. Neither were Egyptians of any rank or position.

  He had almost finished his meal before the table next to his was occupied by a party of four—two middle-aged officials escorting two ladies. One of the ladies was Mrs. Pettigrew, who had presented him with his latest white feather. She and her husband always reminded him of Tweedledum and Tweedledee; as some married couples do, they had come to resemble one another to an alarming degree. Both were short and stout and red-faced. Ramses rose with a polite bow, and was not at all surprised when Mrs. Pettigrew cut him dead. As soon as they were all seated they put their heads together and began a low-voiced conversation, glancing occasionally in his direction.

  Ramses didn’t doubt he was the subject of the conversation. Pettigrew was one of the most pompous asses in the Ministry of Public Works and one of the loudest patriots in Cairo . The other man was Ewan Hamilton, an engineer who had come to Egypt to advise on the Canal defenses. A quiet, inoffensive man by all accounts, his only affectation was the kilt ( Hamilton tartan, Ramses assumed) he often wore. That night he was resplendent in formal Scottish dress: a bottle-green velvet jacket with silver buttons, lace at his chin and cuffs. And, Ramses speculated, a skean dhu in his sock? Gray tarnished the once-blazing red of his hair and mustache, and he squinted in a way that suggested he ought to be wearing spectacles.

  Perhaps he had left them off in order to impress the handsome woman with him. Mrs. Fortescue had been in Cairo less than a month, but she was already something of a belle, if a widow could be called that. Gossip spread like wildfire in Anglo-Egyptian society; it was said that her husband had perished gallantly at the head of his regiment during one of the grisly August campaigns that had strewn the fields of France with dead. Meeting Ramses’s speculative, shamelessly curious gaze, she allowed her discreetly carmined lips to curve in a faint smile.

  As if to emphasize their disapproval of Ramses, the Pettigrews were extremely gracious to another group of diners. All three were in uniform; two were Egyptian Army, the other was a junior official of the Finance Ministry and a member of the hastily organized local militia known derisively as Pharaoh’s Foot. They met daily to parade solemnly up and down on the grounds of the Club, carrying fly whisks and sticks because there were not enough rifles for them. The situation looked promising. Ramses sat back and eavesdropped unabashedly.

  Once the Pettigrews had finished dissecting his history and character, their voices rose to normal pitch—quite piercing, in the case of Mrs. Pettigrew. She talked about everything under the sun, including the private sins of most members of the foreign community. Inevitably the conversation turned to the war. The younger woman expressed concern over the possibility of a Turkish attack, and Mrs. Pettigrew boomed out a hearty reassurance.

  “Nonsense, my dear! Not a chance of it! Everyone knows what wretched cowards the Arabs are—except, of course, when they are led by white officers—”

  “Such as General von Kressenstein,” said Ramses, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard over her strident tones. “One of Germany ’s finest military strategists. He is, I believe, adviser to the Syrian Army?”

  Pettigrew snorted and Hamilton gave him a hard look, but neither spoke. The response came from the adjoining table. Simmons, the Finance fire-eater, flushed angrily and snapped,

  “They’ll never get an army across the Sinai. It’s a desert, you know; there’s no water.”

  His smirk vanished when Ramses said, humbly but clearly, “Except in the old Roman wells and cisterns. The rains were unusually heavy last season. The wells are overflowing. Do you suppose the Turks don’t know that?”

  “If they didn’t, people like you would tell them.” Simmons stood up and stuck out his chin—what there was of it. “Why they allow rotten traitors in this Club—”

  “I was just trying to be helpful,” Ramses protested. “The lady was asking about the Turks.”

  One of his friends caught the irate member of Pharaoh’s Foot by the arm. “One mustn’t bore the ladies with military talk, Simmons. What do you say we go to the bar?”

  Simmons had already had a few br
andies. He glowered at Ramses as his friends led him away; Ramses waited a few minutes before following. He bowed politely to each of the four at the next table, and was magnificently ignored by three of them. Mrs. Fortescue’s response was discreet but unmistakable—a flash of dark eyes and a faint smile.

  The hall was crowded. After ordering a whiskey Ramses retired to a corner near a potted palm and located his quarry. Simmons was such easy prey, it was a shame to take advantage of him, but he did appear to be suitably worked up; he was gesticulating and ranting to a small group that included his friends and a third officer who was even better known to Ramses.

  Whenever he saw his cousin Percy, he was reminded of a story he had read, about a man who had struck an infernal bargain that allowed him to retain his youthful good looks despite a life of vice and crime. Instead, those sins marked the face of the portrait he kept concealed in his library, until it became that of a monster. Percy was average in every way—medium height and build, hair and mustache medium brown, features pleasant if unremarkable. Only a biased observer would have said that his eyes were a little too close together and his lips were too small, girlishly pink and pursed in the heavy frame of his jaw. Ramses would have been the first to admit he was not unbiased. There was no man on earth he hated more than he did Percy.

  Ramses had prepared several provocative speeches, but it wasn’t necessary to employ any of them. His glass was still half full when Simmons detached himself from his friends and strode up to Ramses, squaring his narrow shoulders.

  “A word with you,” he snapped.

  Ramses took out his watch. “I am due at Shepheard’s at half past ten .”

  “It won’t take long,” Simmons said, trying to sneer. “Come outside.”

  “Oh, I see. Very well, if you insist.”

  He hadn’t intended matters to go this far, but there was no way of retreating now.

  Unlike the Gezira Sporting Club, with its polo field and golf course and English-style gardens, the Turf Club was planted unattractively on one of the busiest streets in Cairo , with a Coptic school on one side and a Jewish synagogue on the other. In search of privacy, Ramses proceeded toward the rear of the clubhouse. The night air was cool and sweet and the moon was nearing the full, but there were dark areas, shaded by shrubbery. Ramses headed for one of them. He had not looked back; when he did so, he saw that Simmons’s two friends were with him.

  “How very unsporting,” he said critically. “Or have you two come to cheer Simmons on?”

  “It’s not unsporting to thrash a cowardly cad,” said Simmons. “Everyone knows you don’t fight like a gentleman.”

  “That might be called an oxymoron,” Ramses said. “Oh—sorry. Bad form to use long words. Look it up when you get home.”

  The poor devil didn’t know how to fight, like a gentleman or otherwise. He came at Ramses with his arms flailing and his chin irresistibly outthrust. Ramses knocked him down and turned to meet the rush of the others. He winded one of them with an elbow in the ribs and kicked the second in the knee, just above his elegant polished boot—and then damned himself for a fool as Simmons, thrashing ineptly around on the ground, abandoned the last shreds of the old school tie and landed a lucky blow that doubled Ramses up. Before he could get his breath back the other two were on him again. One was limping and the other was whooping, but he hadn’t damaged them any more than he could help. He regretted this kindly impulse as they twisted his arms behind him and turned him to face Simmons.

  “You might at least allow me to remove my coat,” he said breathlessly. “If it’s torn my mother will never let me hear the end of it.”

  Simmons was a dark, panting shape in the shadows. Ramses shifted his balance and waited for Simmons to move a step closer, but Simmons wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. He raised his arm. Ramses ducked his head and closed his eyes. He wasn’t quick enough to avoid the blow altogether; it cut across his cheek and jaw like a line of fire.

  “That’s enough!”

  The hands that gripped him let go. Reaching out blindly for some other means of support, he caught hold of a tree limb and steadied himself before he opened his eyes.

  Percy was standing between Ramses and Simmons, holding Simmons by the arm. Unexpected, that, Ramses thought; it would have been more in character for Percy to pitch in. The odds were the kind he liked, three or four to one.

  Then he saw the other man, his black-and-white evening clothes blending with the play of light and shadow, and recognized Lord Edward Cecil, the Financial Adviser, and Simmons’s chief. Cecil’s aristocratic features were rigid with disgust. He raked his subordinate with a scornful eye and then spoke to Percy.

  “Thank you for warning me about this, Captain. I don’t doubt your cousin appreciates it too.”

  “My cousin is entitled to his opinion, Lord Edward.” Percy drew himself up. “I do not agree with it, but I respect it—and him.”

  “Indeed?” Cecil drawled. “Your sentiments do you credit, Captain. Simmons, report to my office first thing tomorrow. You gentlemen—” his narrowed eyes inspected the flowers of the Egyptian Army, now wilting visibly—“will give me your names and the name of your commanding officer before you leave the club. Come with me.”

  “Do you need medical attention, Ramses?” Percy asked solicitously.

  “No.”

  As he followed Cecil and the others at a discreet distance, Ramses knew he had lost another round to his cousin. There was no doubt in his mind that Percy had prodded Simmons and the others into that “ungentlemanly” act. He was good at insinuating ideas into people’s heads; the poor fools probably didn’t realize even now that they had been manipulated into punishing someone Percy hated but was afraid to tackle himself.

  Ramses went round the clubhouse and stopped at the front entrance, wondering whether to go in. A glance at his watch informed him it was getting on for half past ten , and he decided he’d made a sufficient spectacle of himself already.

  He let the doorman get him a cab. Recognizing him, the driver laid his whip aside and greeted him enthusiastically. None of the Emersons allowed the horses to be whipped, but the size of the tip made up for that inconvenience. “What happened to you, Brother of Curses?” he inquired, employing Ramses’s Arabic soubriquet.

  Ramses put him off with an explanation that was extremely improper and obviously false, and got into the cab. He was still thinking about Percy.

  They had despised one another since their childhood days, but Ramses hadn’t realized how dangerous Percy could be until he’d tried to do his cousin a favor.

  It only went to prove the truth of his father’s cynical statement: no good deed ever goes unpunished. Wandering aimlessly through Palestine , Percy had been taken prisoner and held for ransom by one of the bandits who infested the area. When Ramses went into the camp to get him out, he found his cousin comfortably ensconced in Zaal’s best guest room, well supplied with brandy and other comforts and waiting complacently to be ransomed.

  He hadn’t recognized Ramses in his Bedouin disguise, and after watching Percy snivel and grovel and resist escape with the hysteria of a virgin fighting for her virtue, Ramses had realized it would be wiser not to enlighten him as to the identity of his rescuer. Percy had found out, though. Ramses had not underestimated his resentment, but he had not anticipated the malevolent fertility of Percy’s imagination. Accusing Ramses of fathering his carelessly begotten and callously abandoned child had been a masterstroke.

  Yet tonight Percy had defended him, physically and verbally. Spouting high-minded sentiments in front of Lord Edward Cecil was designed to raise that influential official’s opinion of Captain Percival Peabody, but there must be something more to it than that—something underhanded and unpleasant, if he knew Percy. What the devil was he planning now?

  :

  I looked forward with considerable curiosity to our meeting with Mr. Russell. I had known him for some years and esteemed him highly, in spite of his underhanded attempt
s to make Ramses into a policeman. Not that I have anything against policemen, but I did not consider it a suitable career for my son. Emerson had nothing against policemen either, but he was not fond of social encounters, and, like Nefret, I suspected he had an ulterior motive in proposing we dine with Russell.

  Russell was waiting for us in the Moorish Hall when we arrived. His sandy eyebrows went up at the sight of Nefret, and when Emerson said breezily, “Hope you don’t mind our bringing Miss Forth,” I realized that the invitation had been Russell’s, not Emerson’s.

  Nefret realized it at the same time, and gave me a conspiratorial smile as she offered Russell her gloved hand. Emerson never paid the least attention to social conventions, and Russell had no choice but to appear pleased.

  “Why, uh, yes, Professor—that is, I am delighted, of course, to see—uh—Miss—uh—Forth.”

  His confusion was understandable. Nefret had resumed her maiden name after the death of her husband, and Cairo society had found this hard to accept. They found a good many of Nefret’s acts hard to accept.

  We went at once to the dining salon and the table Mr. Russell had reserved. I thought he appeared a trifle uncomfortable, and my suspicions as to his reason for asking us to dine were confirmed. He wanted something from us. Assistance, perhaps, in rounding up some of the more dangerous foreign agents in Cairo ? Glancing round the room, I began to wonder if I too was beginning to succumb to war nerves. Officers and officials, matrons and maidens—all people I had known for years—suddenly looked sly and duplicitous. Were any of them in the pay of the enemy?

  At any rate, I told myself firmly, none of them was Sethos.

  Emerson has never been one to beat around the bush. He waited only until after we had ordered before he remarked, “Well, Russell, what’s on your mind, eh? If you want me to persuade Ramses to join the CID, you are wasting your time. His mother won’t hear of it.”

  “Neither will he,” Russell said with a wry smile. “There’s no use trying to deceive you, Professor, so if the ladies will excuse us for talking business—”