He Shall Thunder in the Sky (58 page)

     A door across the narrow hallway opened onto a more promising chamber. Percy certainly liked his comforts; Oriental rugs covered the floor and hung from the walls, and the furnishings included several comfortable chairs as well as a well-stocked liquor cabinet, several oil lamps, and a large brass vessel that had served as a brazier. For burning documents? If so, they had been completely consumed.

     Nothing in the room betrayed the identity of the man who sometimes occupied it. Acutely aware of the passage of time, Ramses searched the rest of the little building. A door at the end of the hall between bedroom and study opened onto a flight of stairs going down. The cellar was more extensive than the upper floor. There was nothing there now except rats and moldy straw and a few scraps of wood, but he suspected it had once contained the weapons sent on to Wardani — and elsewhere? One section had been subdivided into a series of small, cell-like rooms. All were empty except one. The sturdy wooden door creaked when he pushed it open.

     The narrow beam of light showed a floor of beaten earth and walls of mortared stone. The room was about ten feet by fifteen, and it contained two pieces of furniture — a chair and a rough wooden table. A large earthenware jug stood on the table; dead flies floated on the surface of the stagnant water. There was only one other object in the room, aside from several heavy hooks on the wall opposite the door. Coiled and sleek as a snake, it hung on one of the hooks. It had been wiped clean and oiled, but when he looked more closely he saw the dark stains that had soaked into the beaten earth and dried, and he knew, with a sick certainty, that this was where Farouk had died. One of the heavy hooks was about the right height from the floor.

     He went back up the stairs, thankful that David wasn’t with him. He was sweating and shaking like a timid old woman. Anger, at himself and at the man who had used the kurbash, stiffened him, and he went back to the makeshift office. Damn it, there had to be something, somewhere! Before he began a more intensive search he unbolted the shutters and opened one of them a few inches. It was always a good idea to have another exit handy, and with the window open he would more easily hear an approaching horseman. There was no certainty that Percy would come tonight; but if that letter of Nefret’s had been from Percy, he had canceled an engagement that would have kept him in Cairo that evening. Not proof of anything, but suggestive. David was waiting at the crossroads near Mit Ukbeh; Percy would have to pass him whether he came north on the Giza Road or crossed the river at Boulaq, and once Percy had got that far, his destination was certain. Mounted on Asfur, whom Ramses had delivered to David before coming on, David could easily outstrip Percy and arrive in time to give the signal that would warn Ramses his cousin was on the way.

     The hiding place wasn’t difficult to find after all. Behind one of the hangings was a largish niche, the plaster of its painted walls flaking. The wireless was there, and on a shelf under it a portfolio containing a mass of papers. Ramses picked one at random and examined it by the light of his torch. At first he couldn’t believe what he saw. It was a sketch map of the area around the Canal, from Ismailia to the Bitter Lakes. The drawing was crude, but all the landmarks were noted, the roads and the rail lines, and even the larger gebels.

     In mounting incredulity he sorted through the other papers. Only Percy would be fool enough to keep such documents: copies of the messages he had sent and received, in clear and in code, memoranda, even a list of names, with notations next to each. None of the names was familiar to Ramses, but he would not have been surprised to learn that certain of the code names referred to individuals he knew or had known. Three of them were crossed out.

     What the hell had prompted Percy to keep such incriminating evidence? Couldn’t he even remember the names of his own agents? Maybe he was planning to write his memoirs someday when he was old and senile. To do him justice, there wasn’t anything in the papers that incriminated
him
. The handwriting was rather clumsily disguised, but it would take more than the conflicting evidence of handwriting experts to convince a military court.

     He was about to close the portfolio when belated realization struck him. He extracted one of the papers and read it again. The notes were mere jottings, most of them numbers, without explanation or elaboration, but if that number was a date, and that a time, and the letters indicated the places he thought they stood for . . .

     The sound from beyond the hanging made his heart stop. It was the creak of a hinge. The door of the room had opened.

     His fingers found the switch of the torch, and blackness engulfed him. There was just time enough for him to damn himself for carelessness and overconfidence before he heard someone speak, and then he realized it wasn’t Percy. The voice was deeper and slower, and it had spoken in Turkish.

     “No one here. He’s late.”

     The response was in the same language, but Ramses could tell from the accent that it was not the speaker’s native tongue. “I do not like this place. He could have met us in Cairo.”

     “Our heroic leader does not take such risks.”

     The other man spat. “He is not my leader.”

     “We have the same masters, you and I and he. He passes the orders on. There will be orders for us tonight. Sit.”

     As they spoke, Ramses had closed the portfolio and replaced it, and slipped the torch into his pocket. When silence fell, he stood absolutely still, hoping his breathing wasn’t as loud as it sounded to him. He hadn’t missed David’s signal after all. This was a meeting, or perhaps a celebration; so far as the conspirators knew, their job was done. He thought he knew who one of them was. The Turk had been playing a part too. He was no illiterate hired driver; his Turkish was that of the court. Who was the other man? Ought he to risk lifting the rug a fraction of an inch?

     The strengthening glow of light round the sides of the hanging told him he ought not. There were only two things he could do: stay in concealment and pray no one would need to use the radio or consult the papers, or make a run for it and pray the element of surprise would give him a chance of getting away. He was not carrying a gun. He doubted he would ever use one again. It wouldn’t have done him much good anyhow; he’d got a lot more than he had bargained for that evening, and the odds against him were increasing.

     Remaining in hiding was probably the better of the two alternatives, at least for the time being. He adjusted the belt that held his knife so it was more accessible — and then the door opened again.

     For a moment no one spoke. Then the newcomer said, in English, “Not here yet, eh? Now, now, my friend, don’t point that rifle at me. I am not the one you await, but I am one of you.”

     “What proof have you?”

     “Do you carry papers identifying you as a Turkish agent? The fact that I know of this place should be proof enough. That’s the trouble with this profession,” he added in tones of mild vexation. “Not enough trust among allies. You two don’t indulge in alcohol, I suppose. Hope you don’t mind if I do.”

     Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossed the room and were followed by the click of glass against glass. Ramses stood motionless. Three of them now — and one, the latest to come, was someone else he knew. The Scots accent had been discarded, but the voice was the same. His father had been on the right track after all. Hamilton might not be Sethos, but he was in the pay of the enemy.

     The exchange had given Ramses another useful piece of information: It would not be a good idea to make a break for it while the Turk had a rifle in his hands.

     Hamilton had not bothered to close the door. Ramses heard the thump of booted feet. They came to a sudden halt, and Hamilton said coolly, “Finally. What kept you?”

     “What the devil are you doing here?” Percy demanded.

     “Delivering your new orders from Berlin,” was the smooth reply. “You don’t suppose the High Command let you in on all their little secrets, do you?”

     “But I thought I was —”

     “The top man in Cairo? How naive. You’ve done well so far; von Überwald is pleased with you.”

     The name meant nothing to Ramses, but Percy obviously recognized it. “You — you report to him?”

     “Directly to him. Will you join me in a brandy?”

     “Enough of this,” the Turk said suddenly. “Let us complete our business.”

     “There’s no hurry,” Percy said expansively. “In a few hours the streets of Cairo will be running with blood. Lord, it’s close in here. One of you open the shutters.”

     Ramses knew he was only moments away from discovery. The opened shutter would tell them there had been an intruder, and the niche was the first place they would look. He was already moving when the Turk exclaimed, “They have been opened. Who — there’s someone out there!”

     He’d meant to head straight for the door, but that exclamation changed his mind. Trapped behind the heavy hanging, Ramses could not have heard David’s imitation of an owl’s screech, but David must have got there before Percy; he might even have been on the spot in time to see the other three arrive. He would assume Ramses was still inside, possibly a prisoner, and he wouldn’t wait long before investigating, not David. . . .

     The Turk was at the window, the rifle at his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. There wasn’t time to do anything except throw himself, not at the Turk, but at the rifle. His hands were on it when it went off. The explosion almost deafened him and the recoil loosened his clumsy grip. He stumbled forward into a hard object that caught him square across the forehead.

When he came to, he was lying on the floor with his hands tied behind him. They had searched him, removing his coat and his knife. The useful items in the heels of his boots were undisturbed, but he couldn’t get to them while he was being watched. There were four feet within the range of his vision; one pair belonged to the Turk, he thought. The second set of feet was encased in elegant leather slippers. Presumably Hamilton and Percy were also among those present, but he couldn’t see them without turning his head. There were several excellent reasons for not doing that, including the fact that his head felt as if it would explode if he moved it. Someone was talking. Percy.

     “. . . get the wind up over nothing. Even if they know, they won’t have time to bother with us tonight.”

     “You fool.” That was Hamilton, caustic and curt. “Didn’t you recognize the man who got away?”

     “He won’t get far. He was hit. He could barely hang on.”

     With an effort, Ramses kept his breathing shallow and slow. Hamilton was quick to reply.

     “It was David Todros.”

     “Who? Impossible. He’s in —”

     “He’s not. I got a good look at him. Now think, if the effort isn’t too much for you. If Todros is here it’s because the British sent him here. He looks enough like your cousin to pass for him. They’ve pulled that stunt before. Why would they do it now, and why was it imperative that Todros’s presence here shouldn’t be known? And what about those rumors about the man in India?”

     There was no reply from Percy. “For God’s sake,” Hamilton said impatiently. “Isn’t it obvious? You told that miserable young thug we planted on Wardani to get rid of him. That was not a bad idea; I never trusted Wardani either, and if we had made a martyr of him his people would be raging for revenge against the British.”

     “That was part of the plan. It would have worked, too, if Farouk hadn’t been such a rotten shot. He only wounded the fellow.”

     “How badly?”

     “Well . . . Bad enough, I suppose, to judge from Farouk’s lurid description. He wasn’t seen for three days.”

     “Where was he during that time? Where was he the rest of the time? You knew where all the others lived, but you never found Wardani’s hideouts, did you? Neither did the police, and God knows they looked hard enough.”

     “Damn it, don’t patronize me!” Percy shouted. “I see what you’re getting at, but you’re wrong. Yes, I heard the rumors, and yes, I knew there was only one man who could have taken Wardani’s place. It wasn’t Ramses. I sent Fortescue to Giza to see if he was . . . If he . . . Oh, my God.”

     “Has the penny dropped at last? I wouldn’t count on your little revolution coming off tonight. Ten to one those weapons are already in the hands of the police.”

     Percy let out a string of obscenities. The toe of his boot caught Ramses in the ribs and rolled him onto his back. “Get him up,” Percy snapped. “On his feet.”

     Two of the hands that hauled him upright belonged to the Turk. The man who gripped his other arm wore the long white woolen haik wound round his body and over his head. The Senussi were religious reformers but not ascetics; this fellow’s caftan was of yellow silk trimmed with red braid, and his under-vest glittered with gold. Percy’s tone had been that of master to servant, the same tone he used to all non-Europeans, and although the two men had complied with his order, their scowling faces showed their resentment.

     Leaning negligently against the back of one of the chairs, a glass in his hand, Hamilton met Ramses’s curious gaze with smiling affability. He had abandoned his kilt that evening in favor of ordinary civilian clothes and boots, but that wasn’t the only difference in his appearance. The face was that of another man, harder and more alert.

     “How much did you hear?” Percy demanded.

     “Quite a lot,” Ramses said apologetically. “I know eavesdropping is rude, but —”

     Percy cut him off with a hard, open-handed slap across the mouth. “Was it you? It wasn’t, was it? It couldn’t have been!”

     He grabbed Ramses by the front of his shirt. Ramses stared back at him. He was not unwilling to prolong the discussion, but he couldn’t think of a response. It was such a simple-minded question. What did Percy expect him to say? Why didn’t he look for the unmistakable evidence that would verify Hamilton’s theory?

     Ramses knew the answer. Percy couldn’t admit the possibility that he had been outwitted, that all his brilliant plans had collapsed into ruin. He’d deny the truth until someone rubbed his nose in it.