He Shall Thunder in the Sky (41 page)

     “Yes, you might. Well?”

     Emerson reached for the soap. “As you have no doubt realized, locating the supply lines would enable us to intercept and catch the people who are bringing the weapons to Cairo. I am fairly familiar with the Eastern Desert, and I have a theory as to the most likely route. I thought I might ride out that way and have a look round.”

     It was an idea that had not occurred to me. “When?”

     “Tomorrow.”

     “Yes,” I said slowly. “Hmmm. You cannot get all the way to Suez and back in a single day.”

     “I don’t plan to go all the way. It will mean an early start, though, and I may be late returning.”

     “You won’t go alone?”

     “Certainly not, my dear. I will take Ramses, if he chooses to come.”

     “Emerson, are you going to use that entire bar of soap?”

     Except for his head, the parts of him above water were white with soap bubbles. Emerson grinned. “Cleanliness is next to godliness, my dear. Here, catch.”

     The bar of soap slipped through my hands, and by the time I had retrieved it and replaced it in the proper receptacle, Emerson had submerged himself and was rising from the bath.

     “Now,” he said, reaching for a towel, “I have confided in you. It is your turn. You are up to something, Peabody, I can always tell. What is it?”

     I explained my plan. I expected objections. What I got was a whoop of laughter.

     “You think the Count is Sethos?”

     “I didn’t say that. I said —”

     “That he was a highly suspicious character. Most people strike you that way, but never mind. Nefret agreed to this preposterous — er — this interesting scheme?”

     I did not return his smile. “Her mind is not at ease, Emerson. I know the signs, and I know Nefret. We cannot take her wholly into our confidence, but we can provide her with a safe outlet for that restless energy of hers.”

     “Well, Peabody, you may be right.” Emerson’s broad chest expanded as he heaved a mighty sigh. “It is damned unpleasant, keeping things from Nefret. We will tell her the whole story after it’s over.”

     “Of course, my dear. So you agree with my plan?”

     “I accept it. I can do no more.”

From Manuscript H

     When Ramses got back to the house he found his father alone in the drawing room. Emerson looked up from the paper he was holding. “Well?”

     Ramses answered with another question. “Where are Mother and Nefret?”

     “Out. You can speak freely. How did it go?”

     “No one tried to kill me, which I suppose can be taken as a positive sign.” Ramses loosened his tie and dropped into a chair. “The lads aren’t very happy, though. Asad threw himself into my arms shrieking with relief and the others are demanding action. I had the devil of a time calming them down.”

     “They had heard about Farouk?”

     “Everybody in Cairo has heard about Farouk, and about his encounter with us.”

     “Ah,” said Emerson. “Well, one might have expected that piece of news would get about.”

     “Especially after your shouting match with Russell.” Ramses rubbed his forehead. “One of the actions Rashad suggested was assassinating you. He volunteered.”

     Emerson chuckled. “I hope you dissuaded him.”

     “I hope so too. That’s the trouble with these young firebrands. When they get excited they want to run about the streets attacking people. I bullied them into taking my orders this time, but I don’t know how much longer I can control them.”

     “And the last delivery?”

     “That’s another disturbing development. Asad picked up the message yesterday. He didn’t know what it said until I deciphered it — the code is pretty primitive, but I’m the only one who has the key. The ‘merchandise’ won’t be delivered directly to us, as before. It will be hidden somewhere and we’ll be told when and where to collect it.”

     “Damnation,” Emerson said mildly. “No idea when?”

     “No. I had a brief conversation with —” A soft tap at the door warned him to stop speaking. It was Fatima, offering coffee and food. He had to eat a slice of plum cake before she would leave.

     “With David?” Emerson asked.

     Ramses nodded. “We met on the train platform; he went one way and I the other. There wasn’t much to say.” He finished the slice of cake.

     “Where’s Mother got to?”

     “Following Nefret,” Emerson said. He chuckled. “In disguise.”

     “What!?”

     “Would you like a whiskey and soda?”

     “No, thank you, sir. I’ve drunk enough over the past few weeks to turn me into a teetotaler, even if most of it did go out the window or into a potted plant.”

     “Intoxication is a good excuse for many aberrations,” Emerson agreed. He sipped his own whiskey appreciatively. “As for your mother, she took it into her head to go spy-hunting. She persuaded Nefret to dine with one of her suspects.”

     “The Count?”

     “How did you know?”

     “It’s like Mother to fix on such a theatrically suspicious-looking character. I don’t believe he’s an enemy agent, but I wouldn’t trust him alone with a woman I cared about.”

     “They won’t be alone,” Emerson replied. “You don’t suppose your mother will let them out of her sight, do you?”

     Ramses’s alarm was replaced by a horrible fascination, of the sort his mother’s activities often inspired in him. “What’s she disguised as?” he asked. A series of bizarre images passed through his mind.

     “Well, she borrowed that yellow wig you used to wear, when you weren’t so tall and could still pass as a female. And eyeglasses, and a good deal of face paint . . .” Emerson’s reminiscent smile broadened into a grin. “Don’t worry, Selim is with her. I must say the tarboosh looked even more absurd on him than it does on most people, but he was tremendously pleased with himself.”

     “Oh, good Lord. What’s he supposed to be, one of those slimy terrassiers who prey on foreign women?”

     “There is a question,” said Emerson reflectively, “of who preys on whom. The ladies are under no compulsion. Anyhow, they will all enjoy themselves a great deal, and it served to get Nefret out of the way so that we can have a private conversation. Pull up a chair.”

     He opened the paper he had been looking at, and spread it out on the table. It was a map of the Sinai and the Eastern Desert.

     “If you could find out how the weapons are being brought in and catch the people who are bringing them, that would put an end to this business of yours, wouldn’t it?”

     “Possibly. It would take them a while to find alternate routes, but —”

     “They don’t have that much time.” Emerson took out his pipe. “There will be an attack on the Canal within a few weeks. There are reports of troop movements in Syria, toward Ajua and Kosseima on the Egyptian frontier. Those complacent idiots in Cairo have decided against defending the border; they think the Turks can’t cross the Sinai. I think they are wrong. The same complacent idiots have concentrated our forces on the west of the Canal; the few defense posts on the east bank could be taken by a determined goatherd.

     “Now, look here.” The stem of his pipe stabbed at the long dotted line that marked De Lesseps’s great achievement. “Our people have cut the Canal bank and flooded the desert to the north for almost twenty miles. That still leaves over sixty miles to be defended. Boats are patrolling the Bitter Lakes, but the rest of it is guarded by a few trenches and a bunch of Lancashire cotton farmers.”

     “There’s also the Egyptian artillery and two Indian infantry divisions.”

     “All of whom are Moslems. What if they respond to the call for jihad?”

     “They aren’t that keen on the Turks.”

     “Let us hope not. In any case, there aren’t enough of them. There are over a hundred thousand of the enemy based near Beersheba.”

     “I won’t ask how you found that out.”

     “It is common knowledge. Too common. I’d be willing to wager the Turkish High Command knows as much about our defenses as we do. Insofar as your little problem is concerned, transporting arms across the Sinai to the Canal or the Gulf of Suez would not present much difficulty. The question is: how are they getting the arms from there to Cairo? You know the terrain of the Eastern Desert. How well do you know it?”

     “Well enough to know that there are only a few practical routes between Cairo and the Canal.” Ramses leaned closer to the map. “The northern routes are the ones we use, and there is a good deal of traffic along them, by road and rail. Aside from the problem of crossing the Bitter Lakes with gunboats patrolling them, the terrain south of Ismailia is difficult for camels or carts. It’s not a sand desert, it’s hilly and rocky, broken by wadis. Some of the mountains are six thousand feet high.”

     “So?” Emerson inquired, like a patient teacher encouraging a slow child. At least that was how it sounded to his son.

     “So the most obvious route is this one.” He indicated a dotted line that ran straight from Cairo to Suez. “The old caravan and pilgrim trail to Mecca. It’s also the most direct route.”

     “I agree. Why don’t we go out tomorrow and have a look?”

     “Are you serious?”

     “Certainly.” The strong line of Emerson’s jaw hardened. “Sooner or later they will have to inform you of the precise date of their attack, so you can time your little revolution to coincide, but if they have the sense I give them credit for, they’ll wait until the last possible moment. I want you and David out of this, Ramses. It — er — it worries your mother.”

     “I’m not especially happy about it either,” Ramses said. “Your idea is worth a try, I suppose.”

     Ramses was even less enthusiastic than he had admitted; it seemed to him extremely unlikely that they would find anything. He understood his father’s motive for suggesting the search, though. Wardani’s crowd weren’t the only ones who were finding it hard to wait.

     After they had settled on the details, Emerson picked up a book and Ramses went to the window. The shadowy, starlit garden was a beautiful sight — or would have been to one who did not see prowlers in every shadow and hear surreptitious footsteps in every rustle of the foliage. He wondered morosely whether he would ever be able to enjoy a lovely view without thinking about such things. Knowing his family, the answer was probably no. Even when there wasn’t a war, his mother and father attracted enemies the way wasps were drawn to a bowl of sugar water.

     There were things he ought to be doing — going over the copies of the tomb inscriptions, checking them with Nefret’s photographs. His father ought to be working on his excavation diary. Ramses knew why Emerson was sitting there pretending to read; he hadn’t turned a page for five minutes. How much did it cost him to let his wife go off alone, looking for trouble and possibly finding it? Ramses knew the answer; he felt it too, like a dull headache that covered his entire body.

     It was almost midnight before they returned. For once his father’s hearing was keener than his; Emerson was out of his chair before Ramses heard the motorcar. They came in together, his mother and Selim, and Ramses sank back into the chair from which he had risen. Outraged laughter struggled with pure outrage. His mother was bad enough, but Selim . . .

     “Where did you get that suit of clothes?” he demanded.

     Selim whipped off his tarboosh and struck a pose. He had oiled his beard and slicked his hair down; the black coat was too tight across the chest and too long. It had lapels of gold brocade. Ramses turned his stricken gaze to his mother. The eyeglasses rode low on her nose. The flaxen blond wig had slipped down over her forehead, and what in heaven’s name had she done to her eyebrows?

     Catching his eye, she shoved the wig back onto the top of her head. “Selim was driving quite fast,” she explained.

     “Sit down and tell us all about it,” said Emerson, too relieved to be critical. “You too, Selim. I want to hear your version.”

     Nothing loath, Selim gallantly held a chair for his lady of the evening (and she looked like one too, Ramses thought).

     “It went very well,” Selim said with a broad, pleased smile. “No one knew us, did they, Sitt?”

     “Certainly not,” said Ramses’s mother. “We had a quiet dinner. Nefret was dining with the Count.”

     “He kissed her hand very often,” said Selim.

     “What did she do?” Emerson demanded.

     “She laughed.”

     Involuntarily Emerson glanced at the clock, and his wife said, “I did not think it advisable to wait and follow them. They were lingering over coffee when we left, but she should be here before long.”

     “What if she’s not?” Emerson’s voice rose.

     “Then I will have a few words with her.”

     “And I,” said Emerson, “will have a few words with the Count.”

     “There will be no need for that. Here she is now.”

     Nefret came in. Her face was flushed and her eyes sparkled. Ramses found himself in the grip of a severe attack of pure, primitive jealousy. If she had let that monocled swine kiss her . . .

     “Did that swine dare to embrace you in the cab?” Emerson demanded furiously.

     Nefret burst out laughing. “He tried, but he did not succeed. He’s really very entertaining. Aunt Amelia, what do you think?”

     “I was mistaken.”

     This admission stopped Emerson in mid-expletive. He stared openmouthed at his wife. “What did you say?”

     “I said I was mistaken. But it was good of you, Nefret, to make the effort.”

It was still dark when they left the house next morning, Ramses on Risha and his father on the big gelding he had hired for the season. They crossed the river on the bridges that spanned the Isle of Roda. The molten rim of the sun had just appeared over the hills when they reached the Abbasia quarter, on the edge of the desert. There wasn’t much there except a few hospitals, a lunatic asylum, and the Egyptian Army Military School and barracks. Emerson turned his horse toward the barracks.

     “The road’s that way,” Ramses said, and wished he hadn’t, when his father said patiently, “Yes, my boy, I know.”