He Shall Thunder in the Sky (56 page)

From Manuscript H

     He saddled Risha himself, waving aside the sleepy stableman’s offer of assistance. The great stallion was as sensitive as a human being to his master’s moods; as soon as they had left the stableyard Ramses let him out, and he ran like the wind, avoiding the occasional obstacle of donkey or camel without slackening speed. There was more traffic on the bridge and in the city streets, but by that time Ramses had himself under better control. He slowed Risha to a walk.

     It was half past eleven when he reached the club. Too early for the rendezvous, but Russell would probably be there. Leaving Risha with one of the admiring doormen, he ran up the stairs and went in. Russell was in the hall. He was alone, reading or pretending to read a newspaper. He was watching the clock, though, and when he saw Ramses he dropped the newspaper and started to rise. Ramses waved him back into his chair and took another next to him.

     “What are you doing here?” Russell demanded in a hoarse whisper. “I got the message. Has something gone wrong?”

     “Nothing that affects our business. There’s been a slight change in plans, though. You can empty the arsenal whenever you like, but it must be done in absolute secrecy, and you mustn’t make any arrests. There’s another cache hidden in the ruined mosque near Burckhardt’s tomb.”

     Russell’s eyes narrowed at the peremptory tone. He was accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. “Why?”

     “Do you want the man who’s behind this?”

     “You mean . . . Do you know who it is?”

     “Yes.”

     He laid it out with the cold precision of a formula, point by point, ignoring the skepticism that formed a stony mask over Russell’s face. Once a slight crack appeared in the mask, but Russell said nothing until he had finished.

     “When he was in Alexandria we missed two deliveries. He was at the wrong place.”

     “Then you believe me. You can convince General Maxwell —”

     Slowly Russell shook his head. “It might have been pure incompetence. I thought it was. That’s why I relieved him and sent him back to Cairo. He’s one of Maxwell’s fair-haired boys, and Maxwell would resent my interference.”

     Ramses knew he was right. Interservice jealousy was a damned nuisance and a fact of life. “Military intelligence hasn’t been able to get a line on him,” he argued. “At least give me a chance to find the proof.”

     “How? Whether you’re right or wrong, the fellow hasn’t made a false move. There’s someone running the show here, even Maxwell admits that, but he’ll never believe it’s one of his pets. We’ve rounded up a few of the underlings, like that Fortescue woman, but none of them had ever spoken personally with him.”

     “He must communicate directly with his paymasters, though. Probably by wireless. Obviously he can’t keep the equipment in his quarters. That means he’s got a private hideaway. I think I know where. He takes women there sometimes.”

     Russell’s lips tightened. “Where did you get that? Your pederast friend?”

     “My
friend
is more familiar with his habits than Maxwell or you. Your fine upstanding young officer is well known in el Was’a. Maxwell probably wouldn’t believe that either. Allow me to return to the point, please. There’s no use raiding the place, he wouldn’t keep anything there that would incriminate him. I’ll have to catch him in the act. No, don’t interrupt me. The uprising is set for tomorrow or the next day. He’s too fond of his precious skin to stay in Cairo during a riot, so he’ll head for a safe place — possibly the hideaway I mentioned. I’ll follow him.” He cut off Russell’s attempt to speak with a peremptory gesture. “That is why you mustn’t do anything to put him on his guard. You can’t arrest Wardani’s lot without his finding out about it, and then he’ll do something — God knows what — I can never predict what the bastard is likely to do. He might decide to sit tight and make no move at all. He might bolt. Or he might take steps to protect himself by removing potential witnesses.”

     “You really hate his guts, don’t you?” Russell said softly.

     “My feelings don’t come into it. I’m asking a single favor from you, and I believe I have the right.”

     Russell nodded grudgingly. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You’ve done your job.”

     Ramses went on as if he had not spoken. “I’ll look for a communication tomorrow morning. If it’s there, I’ll ring you and leave the message about the camel. If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, you’ll know it will be the next day.” He rose to his feet. “We’ve talked long enough. Would you care to call me a few names or slap my face? People have been watching us.”

     A reluctant, hastily hidden grin curved Russell’s lips. “I doubt anyone would believe, from our expressions, that this was a friendly conversation. Where is this hideaway?”

     Ramses hesitated.

     “I won’t move in until I hear from you,” Russell said. “Or until — I haven’t heard from you. In the latter case, I ought to know where to look.”

     “For the body? You’ve got a point.”

     He described the place and its location. Russell nodded. “Do me one favor. No, make that two.”

     “What?”

     “Don’t play hero. If he’s our man, we’ll get him sooner or later.”

     “And the other favor?”

     Russell wet his lips. “Don’t tell your mother!”

     Ramses backed away, trying to appear angry and insulted. God forgive him, he had almost burst out laughing at the look of abject horror on Russell’s face.

     After he had mounted, he turned Risha, not toward home, but toward the railroad station and the narrow lanes of Boulaq. There was one more appointment he had to keep. He dreaded it even more than he had the other.

     The café was a favorite rendezous for a variety of shady characters, including some of the less reputable antiquities dealers and the thieves from whom they obtained their illegal merchandise. It had been a good choice; even if Ramses was recognized — which was more than likely, considering his wide circle of acquaintances in the antiquities game — the assumption would be that he had come on business.

     David was there as promised, wearing a tarboosh and a cheap, badly fitting tweed suit and sitting alone at a table. He was unable to conceal a start of surprise when he saw Ramses, and when the latter joined him he said at once, “Mukhtan is here. He’s seen you.”

     “It doesn’t matter. You look very neat and respectable,” he added. “For a change.”

     “Tell me,” David said quietly.

     There was no putting it off; David knew he wouldn’t have risked coming there undisguised without a good reason. He got the news out in a single blunt sentence, before David could imagine even worse.

     David sat without moving for a time, his eyes downcast. Johnny had been his foster brother before he became his brother-in-law, but it was of Lia he was thinking now.

     “We’ll get you on a boat next week,” Ramses said, unable to bear the stoic silence any longer. “Somehow. I promise.”

     David raised his head. His eyes were dry and his face frighteningly composed. “Not until this is over and you’re in the clear.”

     “It’s over. I saw Russell before I came here and told him to go ahead. There’ll be no uprising.”

     “What about the Canal?”

     “That’s not our affair. I’m through. So are you.”

     “So you’re going to let Percy get away with it?”

     Ramses had always prided himself on schooling his features so as to give nothing away, but David could read him like a book. He started to speak. David spoke first.

     “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night — and what you didn’t say, because I didn’t give you the chance. I can put the pieces together too. The house in Maadi, Percy’s extraordinary interest in your activities — he’s afraid you’re after him, isn’t he?”

     “David —”

     “Don’t lie to me, Ramses. Not to me. When I think of him smug and safe in Cairo, preening himself on his cleverness, while men like Johnny are dying, I feel sick. You aren’t going to let him get away with it. If you don’t tell me what you’re planning to do, I’ll kill the bastard myself.”

     “Do you suppose Lia would thank you for risking yourself to avenge Johnny? Killing Percy won’t bring him back.”

     “But it would relieve my feelings considerably.” David’s smile made a chill run through Ramses. He had never seen that gentle face so hard.

     “I have a few ideas,” Ramses said reluctantly.

     “Somehow I thought you would.” The smile was just as chilling.

     It didn’t take long to explain his plan, such as it was. As he listened, David’s clenched hands loosened. There were tears in his eyes. He could grieve for Johnny now.

     Oddly enough, it wasn’t Johnny’s face that Ramses kept remembering. It was that of the young German.

From Letter Collection B

Dearest Lia,

At least a week will have passed before you receive this. What good is a letter? It’s all I can do. If I were with you I could put my arms round you and cry with you. There’s no use saying the pain will lessen and become, in time, endurable. What comfort is that to someone who is suffering here and now?

You were there to comfort me when I needed you — selfish, ungrateful, undeserving worm that I was — and now I can’t be with you when you need me. Believe one thing, Lia — hold on to it and don’t lose heart. Someday, someday soon, there will be joyous news. I can’t say any more in a letter. I shouldn’t be saying this much. Just remember that there is nothing I would not do to bring us all together again.

Fourteen

T
he Vandergelts left us immediately after breakfast next morning. They would have stayed had we asked them to, but I think Katherine understood we wanted to be alone with our grief. The worst of it was that we could do nothing for the loved ones who had suffered most. I had written, and Nefret had done the same; Emerson had cabled, and Ramses had taken the messages to the central post office in Cairo, so that they would arrive as soon as was humanly possible. It was little enough.

     Ramses came back in time to bid the Vandergelts farewell. He had left the house before daybreak, and I knew that before posting the letters he had looked for the message that would announce the final end of his mission. Meeting my anxious eyes he shook his head. Not today, then. It would be for tomorrow.

     Knowing he had eaten almost nothing before he left, I suggested we return to the breakfast room and give Fatima the pleasure of feeding us again. Her face brightened when I asked her for more toast and coffee.

     “Yes, Sitt Hakim, yes! You must keep up your strength. Will you go to Giza today? I told Selim you might not wish to.”

     “We could close down for the day,” Emerson said heavily. “It would be the proper thing to do.”

     “I doubt Johnny would care about the proper thing,” said Ramses. “But we might plan some sort of ceremony. Daoud and Selim would like it, and the others will want to show their affection and respect.”

     “Oh, yes, Sitt,” Fatima exclaimed. “They will all want to come. Those who did not know him have heard of him, of his laughter and his kindness.”

     “It is a nice thought,” I said, trying to conceal my emotion. “But not today. Perhaps in a day — or two — we will be able to bring stronger hearts to such a ceremony.”

     I was thinking of David. It would be infinitely comforting to have him with us again. How that part of the business was to be managed Ramses had not said, but if the authorities did not acknowledge his courage and sacrifice immediately, I would just have to have a few words with General Maxwell.

     “We may as well go to Giza for a while, then,” Emerson said. “Keep ourselves occupied, eh? We will stop at midday. I have other plans for this afternoon.”

     Ramses’s eyebrows shot up. “Father, may I have a word with you?”

     “You certainly may,” said his father with considerable emphasis. “Nefret, that frock is very becoming, but hadn’t you better change? If you are coming with us, that is.”

     It was not a frock, but one of her ruffled negligees. I had not reproached her for coming down to breakfast en déshabillé, for she did not look at all well, her eyes shadowed and her cheeks paler than usual. However, she was quick to express her intention of accompanying us, and hurried off to change.

     With a wink and a nod, Emerson led us out into the garden.

     “I am bloody damned tired of this sneaking and whispering,” he grumbled. “What is it now, Ramses? If you tell me the business has been put off I may lose my temper.”

     “God forbid,” Ramses said. “No, sir, it hasn’t been put off, but there has been a slight change in plan. Russell wants to wait another day or two before he rounds up the malcontents. If that is what you had in mind for this afternoon, you will have to put it off.”

     Emerson’s heavy brows drew together. “Why?”

     “Well, they are harmless enough, aren’t they? They are waiting for word, which they won’t get because I won’t give it, and without weapons there isn’t much they can do.”

     Emerson was obviously not convinced of the logic of this. He was itching to hit someone, or, if possible, a great number of people.

     “You weren’t thinking of warning certain of them, were you?” he demanded. “You seem to have a soft spot for that fellow Asad.”

     “I am thinking,” said Ramses, whose narrowed eyes and flushed cheeks indicated that he was close to losing his temper, “that you should leave this in my hands.”

     To my astonishment Emerson shuffled his feet and looked sheepish. “Er — yes. As you say, my boy.”

     “There’s Nefret. Let’s go.”

     Once we were mounted and on our way, Ramses took the lead, with Nefret not far behind. It was a gray, misty morning, and the gloomy skies reflected my unhappy mood.

     “Let them go on ahead,” I said to Emerson. “I want to talk to you.”