He Shall Thunder in the Sky taps-12 Read online

  Graybeard was quivering with rage and frustration. He called Wardani a vile name and strode toward the door.

  “The back way, you son of an Englishman,” Wardani said.

  The narrow panel at the back of the room looked like a door for an animal, not a man; the Bedouin had to bend his knees and bow his head to get through, which did not improve his temper. “I will kill you one day,” he promised.

  “Better men than you have tried,” said Wardani. “In the meantime—the Khan el Khalili, the shop of Aslimi Aziz, at this same hour the day after tomorrow. Someone will be there.”

  “You?”

  “One never knows.”

  The only one who dared speak was the man with the squint. He waited until the door had closed behind the Arab.

  “Was that wise, Kamil? He won’t come back.”

  “But yes, my friend.” Wardani now spoke French. “He will have to come back because his German masters will insist. They are clever persons, these Germans; they know I wield more power in Cairo than any other man, and that I hate the British as much as they do. I gave him a way out—a way to hide his dishonor and make his profit. That is how one deals with Turks.”

  “Turk?” The dark eyes widened. “He is an Arab and a brother.”

  Wardani gave his young friend a kindly look and shook his head. “You need to apply yourself to the study of languages, my dear. The accent was unmistakable. Well, we’ve been here long enough; we meet again two days from now.”

  “But you, sir,” the tall youth ventured. “Have you found a safe hiding place? How can we reach you if there is need?”

  “You cannot. Merde alors, if you are unable to keep out of trouble for two days, you need a nursemaid, not a leader.”

  He replaced his hat and went to the curtained entrance. Before he drew the hanging back, he turned and grinned at the others. “Ramses Emerson Effendi does not crawl through holes, but that is your way out, friends. One or two at a time.”

  He went through the front room and into the street, walking with long strides but without haste. After passing the convent mosque of Beybars he turned off the Gamalieh into a narrow lane and broke into a run. Many of the old houses that abutted on the lane had fallen into ruin, but a few were still occupied; a lantern by one door cast a feeble light. Pausing in front of a recessed doorway, Wardani bent his knees and sprang, catching hold of the top of the lintel and drawing himself up onto a carved ledge eight feet above the ground. An unnecessary precaution, perhaps, but he had not remained alive until now by neglecting unnecessary precautions.

  He did not have to wait long. The form that picked its way cautiously along the littered alley was unmistakable. Farouk was six inches taller than any of the others, and vain as a peacock; the shawl he had wrapped round his head and face was of fine muslin, and the light glinted off the silver ornament on his breast.

  Perched on the ledge, Wardani waited until his pursuer had passed out of sight around a curve in the winding lane. Then he waited a little longer before stripping off coat, waistcoat, and stiff collar and rolling them and the hat into an anonymous bundle. Shortly thereafter a stoop-shouldered, ragged old man shuffled out of the lane and proceeded along the Gamalieh. He stopped at the stall of a bean seller and counted out coins in exchange for a bowl of fuul medemes. Leaning against the wall, he ate without really tasting the food. He was thinking hard.

  He’d feared Farouk would be trouble. Despite his pretty face, he was several years older than the others, and a new recruit, and Wardani hadn’t missed the flash of anger in the black eyes when he forbade action against the Emersons. There was only one reason he could think of why Farouk would follow him, and it wasn’t concern for his safety.

  That was all he needed, an ambitious rival. He wondered how much longer he could keep this up. Just long enough, inshallah—long enough to get his hands on those weapons… He returned the empty bowl to the merchant with a murmured blessing and shambled off.

  From Letter Collection B

  Dearest Lia,

  Delighted to hear “the worst is over” and that you are eating properly again. I apologize for the euphemism, I know you despise them as much as I do, but I don’t want to shock the censor! I’m sure Sennia is tempting you with jam and biscuits and other good things, and I hope you are stuffing them down! She is a comfort to you, I know, and I am so glad. Greatly as we miss her, she is far better off with you.

  We miss all of you too. That is a very flat expression of a very heartfelt sentiment, darling. I can’t confide in anyone as I do in you, and letters aren’t suitable for certain kinds of news. After all, we wouldn’t want to shock the censor.

  It is wonderful that you finally heard from David, even if the letter was brief and stiff. His letters are certainly being read by the military, so you mustn’t expect him to pour his heart out. At least he is safe; that is the most important thing. The Professor hasn’t given up hope of gaining his release—if not immediately, at least before the baby comes. The dear man has been badgering Important Personages in Cairo , from General Maxwell on down. That he should take time from his beloved excavations to pursue this should prove, if proof were needed, how much he cares for David.

  We haven’t got inside the tomb yet. You know the Professor; every square inch of sand has to be sifted first. The entrance…

  (The editor has omitted the following description, since it is repeated by Mrs. Emerson.)

  * * *

  Excavation is, essentially, an act of destruction. To clear a site, tomb, temple or tell down to the lowest level means that all the upper levels are gone forever. For this reason it is absolutely essential to keep detailed records of what has been removed. My distinguished spouse was one of the first to establish the principles of modern excavation: precise measurements, accurate copies of all inscriptions and reliefs, innumerable photographs, and the thorough sifting of the debris. I could not quarrel with Emerson’s high standards, but I must admit that there were times when I wished he would stop fussing and get on with the job. I had made the mistake of saying something of the sort when we began digging that season. Emerson had rounded on me with bared teeth and an impressive scowl.

  “You, of all people, ought to know better! As soon as a monument is exposed it begins to deteriorate. Remember what happened to the mastabas Lepsius found sixty years ago. Many of the reliefs he copied have now disappeared, worn away by weather or vandalized by thieves, nor are the copies as accurate as one would wish. I will not uncover the walls of this tomb until I have taken all possible means to protect them, or go on to the next mastaba until Ramses has recorded every damned scratch on every damned wall! And furthermore—”

  I informed him that he had made his point.

  One morning a few days after the conversation on the rooftop I had allowed the others to go on before me, since I had to speak to Fatima about various domestic matters. I had completed this little chore and was in my room, checking my pockets and my belt to make certain I had with me all the useful implements I always carry, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” I said, as I continued the inventory. Pistol and knife, canteen, bottle of brandy, candle and matches in a waterproof box… “Oh, it is you, Kadija.”

  “May I speak to you, Sitt Hakim?”

  “Certainly. Just one moment while I make certain I have everything. Notebook and pencil, needle and thread, compass, scissors, first-aid kit…”

  Her large dark face broke into a smile as she watched me. For some reason my accoutrements, as I called them, were a source of considerable amusement to my acquaintances. They were also a source of considerable aggravation to Emerson, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that on numerous occasions one or another of them had proved our salvation.

  “There,” I said, hooking to my belt a coil of stout cord (useful for tying up captured enemies). “What can I do for you, Kadija?”

  The members of our dear Abdullah’s extended family were friends as well as loyal workers,
some of them on the dig, some at the house. Since Abdullah’s grandson had married our niece, one might say they were also related to us in some degree or other, though the precise relationships were sometimes difficult to define. Abdullah had been married at least four times and several of the other men had more than one wife; nieces, nephews, and cousins of varying degrees formed a large and closely knit clan.

  Kadija, the wife of Abdullah’s nephew Daoud, was a very large woman, taciturn, modest, and strong as a man. Painstakingly and formally she inquired about each member of the family in turn, including the ones she had seen within the past hours. It took her a while to get to Ramses.

  “He had a difference of opinion with someone,” I explained.

  “A difference of opinion,” Kadija repeated slowly. “It looked to me, Sitt Hakim, as if more than words were exchanged. Is he in trouble of some kind? What can we do to help?”

  “I don’t know, Kadija. You know how he is; he keeps his own counsel and does not confide even in his father. If David were here…” I broke off with a sigh.

  “If only he were.” Kadija sighed too.

  “Yes.” I realized I was about to sigh again, and stopped myself. Really, my own thoughts were gloomy enough without Kadija adding to them! I gave myself a little shake and said briskly, “There is no use wishing things were other than they are, Kadija. Cheer up!”

  “Yes, Sitt Hakim.” But she was not finished. She cleared her throat. “It is Nur Misur, Sitt.”

  “Nefret?” Curse it, I thought, I might have known. She and Nefret were very close; all the rest had been leading up to this. “What about her?”

  “She would be angry if she knew I had told you.”

  Now thoroughly alarmed—for it was not in Kadija’s nature to tell tales—I said, “And I will be angry if there is something wrong with Nefret and you do not tell me. Is she ill? Or—oh, dear!—involved with some unsuitable male person?”

  I could tell by the look on her broad honest face that my last surmise was the right one. People are always surprised when I hit on the truth; it is not magic, as some of the Egyptians secretly believe, but my profound understanding of human nature.

  I had to wring it out of Kadija, but I am good at doing that. When she finally mentioned a name, I was thunderstruck.

  “My nephew Percy? Impossible! She despises him. How do you know?”

  “I may be wrong,” Kadija muttered. “I hope, Sitt, that I am. It was a closed carriage waiting, on the other side of the road; she was going to the hospital, walking to the tram station, and when she came out of the house a man’s face appeared at the window of the carriage, and he called her name, and she crossed the road and stood talking to him. Oh, Sitt, I am ashamed—I do not spy, I only happened to go to the door—”

  “I am glad you did, Kadija. You didn’t hear what they said, I suppose.”

  “No. They did not talk long. Then she turned and walked away, and the carriage passed her and went on.”

  “You are not certain it was Captain Peabody?”

  “I could not swear an oath. But it looked like him. I had to tell you, Sitt, he is an evil man, but if she learned I had betrayed her—”

  “I won’t tell her. Nor ask you to spy on her. I will take care of that myself. Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone else, Kadija. You did the right thing. You can leave it to me now.”

  “Yes, Sitt.” Her face cleared. “You will know what to do.”

  I didn’t, though. After Kadija had taken her departure I tried to get my thoughts in order. Not for a moment did I doubt Kadija’s word, or her assessment of Percy. He had been a sly, unprincipled child and he had become a cunning, unprincipled man. He had proposed marriage to Nefret several times in the past. Perhaps he had not given up hope of winning her—her fortune, rather, since in my opinion he was incapable of honorable affection. She would have to meet him on the sly, since he would not dare come openly to the house…

  Oh, no, I thought, my imagination is running away with me. It is not possible. Nefret was passionate, hot-tempered and in some ways extremely innocent; it would not be the first time she had fallen in love with the wrong man, but surely she knew Percy’s character too well to succumb to his advances. The callous abandonment of the child he had fathered was only one of his many despicable acts. Nefret knew of that. She knew Percy had done his best to encourage the false assumption that Ramses was responsible. Kadija must have been mistaken. Perhaps the man had been a tourist, asking directions.

  I could not confront Nefret directly, but I knew I would never be at peace until I was certain. I would have to watch her and find out for myself.

  Spy on her, you mean, my conscience corrected me. I winced at the word, but did not flinch from the duty. If spying was necessary, spy I would. The worst of it was I could not count on anyone else, not even my dear Emerson, for help. Emerson has a forthright manner of dealing with annoyances, and Percy annoyed him a great deal. Punching Percy’s face and pitching him into the Nile would not improve matters. As for Ramses… I shuddered at the thought of his finding out. Neither of them must know. It was up to me, as usual.

  However, as I guided my amiable steed along the road to the pyramids, a strange foreboding came over me. It was not so strange, in fact, for I often have them. I knew what had caused this one. I had been thinking about it ever since the night we saw Wardani.

  Was Sethos in Cairo , up to his old tricks? I did not—could not—believe he would turn traitor, but the situation was ideal for the kind of skulduggery at which he excelled. Excavations had been cancelled, many archaeological sites were inadequately guarded or not guarded at all, the Services des Antiquitйs was in disorder with Maspero gone and his successor still in France engaged in war work, the police occupied with civil unrest. What an opportunity for a master thief! And with Sethos’s skill in the art of disguise he could assume any identity he chose. A series of wild surmises passed through my mind: Wardani? General Maxwell?

  Percy?

  As Emerson might have said, that idea was too bizarre even for my excellent imagination. I burst out laughing, and turned to happier thoughts. I never approached the pyramids without a thrill passing through me.

  To excavate in the cemeteries of Giza was the culmination of a lifetime’s dream, but sadness shadowed my pleasure, for we would not have been given permission to do so had not the stroke of a pen transformed friends into enemies and made former colleagues personae non gratae in the country where they had labored so long and effectively. Mr. Reisner, who held the concession for a large part of the Giza necropolis, was an American and would soon begin his winter season, but the German group under Herr Professor Junker would not return until the war was over.

  It had been Junker himself who asked Emerson to deputize for him.

  They say the war will be over by Christmas, [he had written]. But they are wrong. God alone knows when this horror will end, and how. Some might condemn me for being concerned about antiquities when so many lives are at hazard, but you, old friend, will understand; and you are one of the few men whom I trust to protect the monuments and carry out the work as I would do. I pray with all my heart that despite the strife between our two peoples the friendship between us will endure and that everyone in our field of science may be guided by the ancient maxim: in omnibus caritas.

  This touching epistle brought tears to my eyes. How sad it was that the violent passions of men could destroy reason, affection, and scientific accomplishment! Emerson himself had been deeply moved by Junker’s letter, though he concealed his emotion by cursing everybody he could think of, beginning with the Kaiser and ending with certain members of the British community in Cairo, in whose minds charity had little place. With the permission of the Antiquities Department he had taken up the torch thrown him by Junker, and I must admit that my own regrets were tempered by delight at finally coming to grips with a site that I had always yearned to excavate.

  Tourists who visit Giza today cannot possibly imagine what a sple
ndid sight it was four thousand years ago: the sides of the pyramids covered with a smooth coating of white limestone, their summits crowned with gold, their temples bright with painted columns; the mighty Sphinx with his nose and beard intact and his headcloth striped in red and gold; and, surrounding each pyramid, rank upon rank of low structures whose sides also gleamed with the soft luster of limestone. They were the tombs of princes and officials of the royal house, furnished with chapels and statues and funerary equipment that would nourish the soul of the man or woman whose body lay in the burial chamber, at the bottom of a deep shaft cut through the superstructure.

  One could only hope that immortality did not depend on the survival of the objects that had filled these tombs, or on the physical remains of their owners. Gone, all gone, alas, centuries before—the ornaments and jars of oil and boxes of fine linen into the hoards of tomb robbers, the bodies of the dead ripped apart in the search for valuables. Over the millennia, later tombs had been added, around and beside and sometimes on top of the Old Kingdom monuments, and the entire area had been buried by drifted sand; roofing stones had fallen, and walls had collapsed. Making sense of the resultant jumble was not at all easy, even for an experienced excavator, and before he could begin to do so he had to remove the accumulated debris of centuries, some of it several meters deep.

  Junker had located the walls of the tomb the previous year, but the sand had drifted over it again. Emerson had caused the soil to be removed to the top of the walls, and the men had begun clearing the interior. Some excavators simply discarded this fill without examining it, but that was not Emerson’s way. After discovering that the interior walls were covered with remarkably well-preserved painted reliefs, he had insisted on erecting a temporary roof over the chamber. Rainstorms are not unknown in Cairo , and even blowing sand could damage the fragile paint.