The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (14 page)

At breakfast Emerson droned on and on about his plans. He had arranged to meet Cyrus and Bertie at Deir el Medina so he could go over the whole thing again with them. Nothing Ramses and I had said had had the slightest effect on the stubborn man, and when I realized he meant to go ahead with his ridiculous scheme, I had to take a firm grip on my temper. I had no intention of allowing him to do any such thing, but a loud argument at the breakfast table would have been ill-bred, especially with Sennia present. “If that is what you plan to do, you won’t need me,” I announced. “I am going to Luxor. Nefret, you had better come with me. Thanks to the selfish demands of certain persons, you haven’t had a chance to purchase anything you need for the house.” Instead of objecting to the oblique reference to him, Emerson looked relieved. He didn’t want to listen to a lecture from me any more than I wanted to listen to one from him. I had a brief discussion with Miss Sennia, who wanted to join the shopping expedition, but I finally got them all off. Nefret and I then went to her house so that I could make a few useful suggestions about necessities. Everything appeared to be in order. I knew it would be, since Fatima was in charge, but there was no harm in seeing for myself. Najia was already busy in the parlor, sweeping and dusting. The birthmark was not really disfiguring — only a reddish stain that covered most of one cheek — but she kept her face averted while we conversed. She had tried, clumsily, to conceal it with a layer of whitish paste, which in my opinion was more conspicuous than the birthmark. I reminded myself to ask Nefret if there was not some cosmetic that would do a better job. The other girl, Ghazela, was her cousin; they were all cousins to some degree. The name was not especially appropriate; she was no slender-limbed gazelle, but a round-cheeked sturdy young person of perhaps fourteen. She was delighted to have been chosen to work for Nefret and told me so at some length. Like most of the younger generation, even the girls, she had had some schooling. We were chatting about her plans and aspirations — and I was making a few small, tactful suggestions about cleaning the stove — when Nefret, who had gone to get her handbag and a more suitable hat, came in. “I thought I’d find you here, Mother. Is everything satisfactory?” “I see you have used the stove.” “Only for morning coffee. Najia makes it perfectly.” “So the girls suit, do they?” I inquired, after we had left the house. “Oh, yes. What are we looking for today?” “Don’t you have a list?” I whipped mine out. “It’s in my head,” Nefret said cheerfully. “Anyhow, half of the fun of shopping is to find something one didn’t know one wanted.” We went first to the shop of Abdul Hadi, since the sooner we got him started, the better. Nefret did have a list in her head; she ordered a number of things, chairs and tables and chests, and made rough sketches of each, including the dimensions. Abdul Hadi kept bobbing up and down, his knees creaking every time he bent them, and assured her that the honor of her patronage would spur him on to work day and night. We left him creaking and bowing, and Nefret said, “Two weeks.” “He said one week.” “That was just his usual habit. But I think I can get some of them in a fortnight, if I keep after him.” The merchants all knew us, and they brought out their best, including some lengths of beautifully handwoven fabric that Nefret intended to have made into cushions for the parlor. I consider myself an efficient buyer, but never had I been whisked in and out of shop and suk as quickly as I was that day. We ended up at a potter’s, where Nefret purchased a quantity of vessels of all shapes and sizes. “Some of them will do for the courtyard,” she declared. “I want hibiscus and lemon trees and roses, and bougainvillea.” “Then,” I said, and stopped to clear my throat. “Then . . . you do like the house? It is satisfactory?” “Yes, Mother, of course. Did you doubt it?” I hadn’t — not really — I had not given them much choice! But with two such strong-willed individuals one can never be certain. I knew now that I had them. A woman does not purchase new furnishings for a house unless she means to stay. We treated ourselves to luncheon at the Winter Palace, where we had a merry time. No one is a better companion than Emerson — when he is in a friendly state of mind — but it is impossible to discuss household arrangements when men are present. After we finished, I suggested we call on Mohassib. “Was that your real purpose in coming to Luxor?” Nefret asked, frowning slightly. “Not at all, my dear. It only just occurred to me. We have plenty of time, and Heaven knows when we will get to Luxor again, and I promised Cyrus I would have a chat with Mohassib about —” “Did you really?” “Promise him? Implicitly.” “I see. All right, Mother. But you aren’t fooling me. You are trying to track Jamil down.” “Someone must,” I declared. “Emerson has lost interest — I knew he would, as soon as he became involved with his work — and no one else takes the wretched boy seriously.” The clot of dragomen and guides that infested the steps of the hotel parted before us like the Red Sea. We strolled on, past the Temple of Luxor. I could never pass those magnificent columns without a sidelong glance, but for once Nefret did not appear to notice them. Striding along with her hands clasped behind her back and her head bowed, she said, “Has it occurred to you that it might have been Jamil from whom Aslimi got those artifacts you bought in Cairo?” “Certainly it occurred to me. The description fits. He secreted those particular items when they were clearing the tomb — they all do it, you know, cheating one another if they can — and used his share of the money to travel to Cairo. Jamil isn’t especially intelligent, but he has sense enough to know he could get better prices from Cairo dealers than from Mohassib.” “Yes, of course,” Nefret murmured. “You are terrifyingly single-minded when you go after something or someone, Mother.” “Not at all, my dear. I have no difficulty in thinking of several things at once.” Her brow cleared and the corners of her mouth turned up. “So long as you aren’t having one of your famous premonitions about Jamil.” To call the feeling a premonition or foreboding would not have been entirely accurate. It was, rather, based on expert knowledge of the criminal mind and a certain degree of informed cynicism. Criminals, in my experience, do not suddenly turn into honest men. Jamil was still in need of money and he was still resentful of us. Nothing had changed there, and the more often we frustrated his attempts to get what he wanted, the more resentful he would be. Mohassib was the best-known and most highly respected (by everyone except Emerson) antiquities dealer in Luxor. He had been dying for at least ten years, and was dying at that very moment, so the doorkeeper informed me. “Then he will wish to see me before he passes on,” I replied, handing over the expected baksheesh. He was in bed, propped up on pillows and looking like a biblical patriarch with his snowy beard and mustache; but he was not alone. I stopped short when I recognized the Albions. “I beg your pardon,” I said. “The doorkeeper did not tell me you had other visitors.” “That’s okay,” said Mr. Albion, who seemed to make a habit of answering remarks addressed to other persons. “We were about to leave anyhow. Good to see you, Mrs. Emerson — and Mrs. Emerson. Hope you didn’t come here to bid on any of Mohassib’s treasures. I’ve already made him an offer.” “Indeed?” I took a chair, indicating my intention of remaining. “I was under the impression that you meant to find yourself a tomb robber instead of buying from dealers.” Mrs. Albion’s lips parted, like a crack in a block of ice. “Mr. Albion was teasing, Mrs. Emerson. He has a marvelous sense of humor.” “That’s right,” said her husband merrily. “I’m quite a tease, Mrs. Emerson. Well, see you folks later.” The younger Mr. Albion, mute as usual, followed his parents out. After we had exchanged compliments and inquired after one another’s health, and Mohassib had ordered tea for us, he said, “Are they friends of yours, Sitt?” “Mere acquaintances.” “Good.” “Why do you say that?” I asked curiously. “They are strange people. I am a good judge of strange people, Sitt Hakim, and I would not trust that happy little man. He wants too much for too little.” “What did he want?” Nefret inquired. “Part of the princesses’ treasure? Or all of it?” “Treasure?” Mohassib repeated, widening his eyes. No saint could have looked more innocent. “Ah — you are referring to the rumors about a rich find in the Gabbanat el-Qirud. The men of Luxor are great liars, Nur Misur. Perhaps there was no treasure.” “Come now, Mohammed,” I said. “You know there was such a find and I know the thieves sold it to you, and you know I cannot prove that, and I know that even if I could there is little likelihood of your being charged with a crime. Why not speak freely to me, your old friend? Vandergelt Effendi would pay well for such objects, if they are as described.” We settled down, with mutual enjoyment, to the customary exchange of hints and innuendos, winks and nods and pursed lips and raised eyebrows. I rather prided myself on my ability to carry on this form of communication, which Emerson could not or would not do. Mohassib eventually remarked pensively that if he should hear of such objects he would be happy to do his friends a service. “Excellent,” I said, knowing that was as much as I could expect. Mohassib always played his little game of innocence and ignorance, but in this case the business had caused quite a stir, and I suspected he would not make any move to market the objects until things had died down. We parted in the friendliest manner. Eyes twinkling, Mohassib sent his respectful regards to Emerson, whose opinion of him he knew quite well. At the door, I stopped and turned, as if a new idea had struck me. In fact, the question I asked was the one I had had in mind all along. “Has Jamil been here?” Caught off-guard, believing the interview to be over, Mohassib burst into a fit of violent coughing. I knew the paroxysm was only a device to give him time to think, so I pressed on. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean. Jamil, Yusuf’s youngest son. Did he try to sell you artifacts from the princesses’ tomb?” Mohassib shook his head vigorously. “No,” he gasped. “No, Sitt Hakim. I thought he had left Luxor.” “I hope you are telling the truth, Mohassib. Two of the other men who robbed the tomb are dead, under suspicious circumstances, and Jamil holds a grudge against everyone involved in that business.” Mohassib abruptly stopped coughing. “Are you saying that Jamil killed them?” “I only repeat the latest gossip, old friend,” I replied. “Since you had nothing to do with the disposal of the artifacts, there is no reason for you to be alarmed, is there?” Mohassib grunted. He thought for a minute, and then he said, “Jamil brought me nothing from the tomb of the princesses. That is true, Sitt Hakim.” His lips closed so tightly they almost disappeared in the beard and mustache. Knowing that was all I was going to get out of the wily old fellow, I repeated my assurances of goodwill, and we left the house. “Do you think he was telling the truth?” Nefret asked, waving aside a carriage that had stopped. “About Jamil? The literal truth, yes. He did not deny he had seen the boy. My warning — for so it was meant, and so Mohassib took it — caught him by surprise, but it did not, as I had hoped, startle him into an indiscretion or worry him much. He is safe in his house, behind those stout walls, and well guarded. Ah, well, it was worth a try.” We strolled on, acknowledging the greetings of passersby, and I continued, “What I found interesting was his opinion of Mr. Albion. We keep running into them, don’t we? Do you think they are following us because they are up to no good?” Nefret laughed and slipped her arm through mine. “Don’t sound so hopeful, Mother. They are an oddly matched couple, though.” “What do you think of young Mr. Albion?” She answered with another question. “Did Ramses tell you what he said at Cyrus’s soiree — about Jumana?” “No.” She repeated the young man’s remark. I shook my head. “Disgusting, but not surprising. I trust Ramses put the young man in his place?” “Ramses almost put him on the carpet,” Nefret said. “You know that look of his — white around the mouth, and eyes almost closed? I made a leap for him and grabbed his arm, in time to stop him; but he uttered a few well-chosen words. Let’s take a felucca, shall we? It’s such a nice day.” “It has been a very pleasant day, my dear. I hope the others have had as nice a time as we.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

That’s got rid of her,” said Emerson in a satisfied voice, watching his wife and daughter-in-law walk away from the house. He and Ramses had been skulking — there was no other word for it — in a secluded corner of the garden. “We can get our gear together now.” He had sent Jumana on to Deir el Medina, telling her to warn the others that they might be late. Selim and Daoud were there; they could explain the site as well as he. Since Emerson did not believe anyone could do anything as well as he, Ramses knew his father was up to something. He didn’t need to ask what it was. As they loaded themselves with knapsacks and several heavy coils of rope, he said only, “We’re going on foot? It’s a long way to the Cemetery of the Monkeys.” “A brisk hour’s walk,” Emerson declared. “No point in taking the horses, we’d have to leave them somewhere along the way, and I don’t want the poor brutes standing round in the sun.” “You mean you don’t want to go near Deir el Medina for fear Cyrus will spot us and ask where we’re going. Father, what’s the point of this?” “I only want to make a preliminary survey.” The evasive tone would certainly have aroused his wife’s suspicions. Ramses said, “Preliminary to what? You don’t mean to give up Deir el Medina andMedinet Habu in favor of the western wadis, do you? And what about Cyrus? He isn’t going to settle for workmen’s houses while we’re looking for queens’ tombs.” Emerson’s face took on a look of noble self-righteousness. “Cyrus is not up to the kind of survey we’ll be doing. He might injure himself. Can’t have that.” “We’re doing him a kindness, really.” Emerson glanced at his solemn face and burst out laughing. “Glad you agree, my boy. I haven’t made up my mind yet where we will be working. I just want to have another look round. Without,” he added indignantly, “half a dozen people, including your mother, getting in my way.” Emerson moved at a rapid pace; he had insisted on carrying the heavier load, but it didn’t slow him in the slightest. Though he did not pause, he greeted everyone he met and responded cheerfully to their questions. Several passersby asked where they were going. Emerson told them. Matching his father’s long strides, Ramses realized Emerson didn’t really expect to find Jamil’s tomb by himself. He was hoping Jamil would show himself again. “Do you think he’ll be there?” he asked. “Who? Oh. Hmph. He has been. He’s bound to make a mistake sooner or later, and when he does we’ll be ready for him.” “You don’t know that the masked demon was he.” “Who else could it have been? The Gurnawis don’t play silly tricks like that.” “Mother will find out, you know — especially if Jamil succeeds in bashing one of us with a boulder.” “Unlikely in the extreme,” Emerson declared. “However . . . No one is a better companion than your mother — when she is in a friendly state of mind — but women do get in the way at times. Especially your mother.” Ramses grinned but saved his breath. He did not suffer from false modesty about his physical fitness, but keeping up with his father taxed even him. Emerson must have decided to take one of his famous “round-about-ways,” for they were already climbing, along a steep, winding path that would eventually lead them behind Deir el Medina and the Valley of the Queens. They had got a late start and Emerson was in a hurry. Once they had reached the highest part of the path they made good time over relatively level ground. Absorbed in thought, Ramses followed his father without speaking. He didn’t want to be here, or at Medinet Habu. If he’d had his way they would settle down for the season at Deir el Medina. He hadn’t explained himself very eloquently, and apparently his father’s fascination with temples prevented him from seeing what Ramses saw: a unique opportunity to learn about the lives of ordinary Egyptians, not pharaohs, not noblemen, but men who worked hard for a living, and their wives and children. The scraps of written material he had found contained work schedules and lists of supplies, and tantalizing hints of family relationships, friendly and not so friendly, extending over many generations. He was certain there were more papyri to be found; one of the men had mentioned coming across a similar cache some years earlier, near the place where this one had turned up. If his father would let him dig there . . . He didn’t want to be here, but he’d had no choice. Once Emerson got the bit in his teeth it was impossible to turn him aside, and wandering the western wadis alone was dangerous, even for an old hand like his father. Paths wound all over the place, marked in some places by tumbles of stone that marked the ruins of ancient huts, used by the necropolis guards or by workmen. Ramses could only marvel at his father’s encyclopedic memory of the terrain; he did not pause before turning into a track that led downhill, following the eastern ridge of a deep wadi. When he finally stopped, they were only twenty feet from the valley floor, and Ramses saw a flight of rough stone stairs going down. “Rest a bit,” Emerson said, unstrapping his knapsack. He removed his coat, tossed it onto the ground, sat on it, and took his pipe from his pocket. Ramses followed his example, except for the pipe. He took advantage of the lull while his father fussed with the pipe to look round and try to get his bearings. For the past half hour they had been going roughly southwest, and must now be near the mouth of one of the wadis that spread out northward from the plain. It wasn’t the one they had visited twice before; this configuration was quite different from that of the Cemetery of the Monkeys. There was ample evidence of ancient occupation: several deep pits, too obvious to have been overlooked by modern tomb robbers, and more remains of ancient stone huts. Once he had his pipe going, Emerson opened his knapsack and began fumbling in it. “Hmph,” he said, as if the idea had just struck him. “I suppose I ought to have thought of bringing some water. Are you thirsty, my boy?” “A little.” It was the understatement of the day; his mouth was so dry it felt like sand. He unstrapped his own knapsack. “I asked Fatima for a few bottles of water. And a packet of sandwiches.” “Good thinking. No, no —” Emerson waved the bottle away. “You first.” Ramses took a long pull and watched, with the admiring vexation his father continued to inspire, as Emerson went on rooting round in his knapsack. He had flung his pith helmet aside and the sun beat down on his bare black head. His pipe lay beside him; it was still glowing, and Ramses remembered a story his mother had once told him, about Emerson putting a lighted pipe in his pocket. She had thought it very amusing. “Ah,” said Emerson, removing a long roll of paper from his knapsack. “Here it is. Hold this end.” Once the paper was unrolled and held flat by rocks, Emerson said, “I did this some years ago. Very rough, as you can see.” It was a map of the area, annotated in Emerson’s decisive handwriting, and although it was obviously not to scale, it made the general layout of the wadis clear. They resembled the fingers of a hand that stretched out to the north, penetrating deep into the rising cliffs; below the flatter “palm” was a common entrance, very wide and fairly level, opening onto the plain below. Emerson had labeled the separate wadis with their Arabic names. “We’re here,” Emerson went on, jabbing at the paper with the stem of his pipe. “We’ll have a look at Wadi Siqqet e Zeide first. Hatshepsut’s tomb is at the far end of it.” “What are these x’s?” “Spots I thought worth investigating.” “You never got round to doing it?” “There isn’t enough time!” Emerson’s voice rose. “There never will be. If I had ten lifetimes I couldn’t do it all.” “Have a sandwich,” Ramses said sympathetically. “I know how you feel, Father. We must just do the best we can.” “Don’t talk like your mother,” Emerson growled. He accepted a sandwich, but instead of biting into it he stared at the ground and said rapidly, “I’ve come round to your way of thinking, you know. The most important aspect of our profession is recording. At the rate the monuments are deteriorating, there won’t be much left by the time your children are grown.” Considering that they aren’t born yet, that will be a long time, Ramses thought. The subject of children was one he and Nefret avoided, and so did everyone else in the family. Some of them, including his mother — and himself — knew that her failure to conceive again after the miscarriage she had suffered a few years earlier grieved her more than she would admit. He wanted a child, too, but his feelings weren’t important, compared with hers. His father appeared not to have noticed the gaffe, if it could be called that. He went on, in mounting passion, “But, confound it, leaving undiscovered tombs to the tender mercies of thieves is inviting further destruction. Finding them first is a variety of preservation, isn’t it?” “Yes, sir.” “Don’t agree with everything I say!” Emerson shouted. “No, sir.” “You do agree, though.” “Yes . . .” He cut off the “sir.” Emerson’s morose expression indicated that he was not in the mood for raillery. Ramses went on, “In this case we have an additional, equally defensible motive for exploring the area. One might even call it self-defense.” He hadn’t succeeded in cheering his father. Emerson’s brow darkened even more. “It’s ridiculous,” he grumbled. “I resent having to waste time tracking down a miserable little rat like Jamil.” Ramses understood how he felt. They had faced a number of formidable enemies in the past. To be defeated, even temporarily, by such a feeble adversary was what his father would call a damned insult. It is easier to trap a lion than a rat, though. He decided not to voice this comforting adage aloud. It sounded like something his mother might have said. “We’ll find him, Father,” he said. “Hmmh. Yes. Er . . .” His father patted him awkwardly on the arm. “You’ll get a chance at your chapels, my boy. I promise.” “But, Father, I don’t want —” “This way.” They located two pit tombs which had been ransacked in antiquity, many shards of pottery, and a number of hieratic inscriptions scratched onto the rock by necropolis inspectors who had visited the area in pharaonic times. Several of the names were known from similar graffiti in the Valley of the Kings. It was additional evidence that there were tombs, probably royal tombs, in the wadis. To Emerson’s extreme annoyance, they found modern graffiti next to many of them: the initials “H. C.” and the date “1916.” “Carter, curse him,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t hold it against him just because he got here before you,” Ramses said. “I was here thirty years ago,” Emerson retorted. “But I didn’t scratch my name all over the scenery.” “It is a courtesy, Father, telling any who may follow that he has copied these inscriptions. I presume he did?” “I would ask him if I could lay hands on him,” Emerson snarled. “He wasn’t in Cairo, he isn’t in Luxor. Where the devil is he?” “Off on some errand for the War Office, I presume. He said he was working for the intelligence department.” “Bah,” said Emerson. “Ramses, I want copies of these graffiti. Carter doesn’t understand the language. Yours are bound to be more accurate.” “You want me to do it now?” Ramses demanded. “No, there won’t be time. Another day.” Another day, another distraction, Ramses thought, concealing his annoyance. There was no man alive — or dead, for that matter — whom he admired more than his father, but sometimes Emerson’s obstinacy rasped on his nerves. I’ll try again to explain about Deir el Medina, he thought. Perhaps I didn’t try hard enough. Perhaps if I tell him . . . He was thinking how to put it when he heard a strange sound. Clear and high, it might have been a bird’s trill, but it was unusual to find a songbird this far from the cultivation. He got to his feet and turned slowly, raking the cliffs with narrowed eyes. The sun was high, reflecting off the barren rocks, dazzling the vision. “What —” Emerson began. “Listen.” This time Emerson heard it too. He jumped up. “There,” Ramses said, pointing. The figure was too far away and too high up to be distinct. Without taking his eyes off it, he knelt and got the binoculars out of his pack. “Jamil?” Emerson asked hopefully. “No.” The small figure jumped into focus. “Goddamn it! It’s Jumana. What the hell —” Emerson cupped his hands round his mouth and let out a bellow whose reverberations brought down a shower of rock from the cliff. “Did she hear me?” He picked up his coat and waved it like a flag. “The entire Western Desert heard you,” Ramses said. “She’s seen us. She’s coming. Good God, she’ll break her neck if she doesn’t slow down. Let’s go and meet her.” Leaving their belongings, they hurried up the path they had recently descended. She descended even faster, slipping and sliding, waving her arms to maintain her balance. When she was ten feet above them she glissaded down the last slope, straight into Emerson’s outstretched arms. “Hurry,” she gasped. “Quick. We must find him.” Her face glowed with heat and exertion. Scowling blackly, Emerson held her off at arm’s length, and Ramses saw that she was wearing a belt like that of his mother, hung all round with various hard, lumpy objects. The only one he could identify was a canteen. “Who?” he asked, since his father seemed incapable of speech. “Jamil?” “No.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I followed . . . I didn’t know . . . you were here . . .” Her breath gave out. “Curse it,” Emerson said. He swung her up into his arms and swore again as something — possibly the canteen — jabbed him in the ribs. He carried her back to the place where they had left their knapsacks, put her down on his coat, and offered her the water bottle. “I have this,” she said proudly, unhooking the canteen. “And other useful things. Like the Sitt Hakim.” “Wonderful,” said Emerson, rubbing his side. “Now tell us who you followed. Cyrus?” “Bertie.” She wiped her chin and hung the canteen back on her belt. “I don’t know how long he was gone before I realized. I asked one of the men; he said he saw Bertie walking very fast down the road away from Deir el Medina and —” “How do you know he wasn’t going home?” Emerson asked. “Without telling his father or Reis Abu? He stole away, like a thief!” “But why here?” “He had been talking
of how he wished he could find something wonderful for Mr. Vandergelt. When you did not come, we were wondering why, and Mr. Vandergelt said . . .” She stopped and thought, and when she went on, it was in Cyrus’s very words and in a fairly good imitation of his accent. “ ‘ . . . he’d durned well better not find out you had snuck off looking for queens’ tombs behind his back.’ He was joking, but —” “Hmph, yes,” Emerson said guiltily. “The damned young fool! You’ve seen no sign of him?” “No. I looked and I called him, over and over.” She stood up and straightened her skirt. “We must find him. He may have fallen. Hurry!” “Hold on a minute,” said Emerson abstractedly. “No sense in rushing off in all directions. What do you think, Ramses?” He didn’t have to tell them what he thought, they were as familiar with the terrain as he was. There were hundreds of square meters of broken country, around and above and below, split by crevices of all sizes and shapes. Locating one man in that wilderness would be hellishly difficult, especially if he had fallen and injured himself. “I don’t think he’d have gone over the gebel as Jumana did,” Ramses answered. “He’d have come the way we came the other day; it’s the only route he knows. He didn’t enter this arm of the wadi or we’d have seen him. Unless he arrived long before we did . . . Father, why don’t you sing out?” Emerson obliged. Not even a bird answered. Jumana was dancing up and down with impatience, but Emerson’s monumental calm kept her quiet. After calling twice more, without result, he said, “He’d have heard that if he were within earshot. All right, we can go on.” “The Cemetery of the Monkeys,” Ramses muttered. “Yes, that’s where he’d go. I could kick myself for making those clever remarks about missing queens. Which way? I can climb up and go across, while you —” “No,” Emerson said without hesitating. “You were right, he’d have gone the way we did before.” He hoisted the pack onto his shoulders and started down the rough steps. “You next, Jumana. Watch your footing.” Once down, they crossed the wide mouth of the wadi and started up the path that led into the next narrow finger. Jumana would have bounded ahead if Emerson had not kept hold of her. Every few minutes he stopped and shouted Bertie’s name. They had gone some distance, with the walls rising higher on either side, before there was a reply, faint and muffled, but unmistakably the sound of a human voice. “Thank God,” Ramses said sincerely. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Bertie, is that you? Keep calling out!” Bertie obeyed, but it took them a while to locate him. Sound echoed distractingly between the cliffs, and there wasn’t a sign of him, though they scanned the rock surface with binoculars as well as the naked eye. “He’s up there somewhere,” Emerson said, indicating a crevice that ran slantwise across the cliff face. “Yes — this is where he climbed.” The marks where booted feet had slipped and scraped were fresh, white against the weathered stone. He shouted again. The response was close now, and the words were distinct. “Foot’s caught. I can’t . . .” “All right, I’m coming,” Ramses called. He slipped off the knapsack, removed his coat, and picked up one of the coils of rope. “No, Jumana, you stay here. Hang on to her, Father.” “If she tries to follow you, I’ll tie her up with the rest of the rope,” Emerson said coolly. “Be careful.” Ramses nodded. It was an easy ascent, with lots of hand- and footholds, and a slight inward slope. The crevice narrowed and appeared to end about fifteen feet above him; he went on up, at an angle, till he reached a point where the opening was wide enough for him to swing himself into it. The floor of the cleft was almost horizontal here, and several feet deep, like a small natural platform. “Down here,” Bertie said. Ramses switched on his pocket torch and shone it down. All he could see was Bertie’s face. His body was jammed into the narrowest part of the crevice, like a cork in a bottle. “My God,” he said. “How did you do that?” Bertie’s face was smeared with dust and sweat and streaked with blood, but he summoned up a rueful grin. “I slipped. It wasn’t at all difficult; I could do it again anytime.” Ramses laughed. It wasn’t going to be easy getting Bertie out, but it was a relief to find him alive and relatively undamaged, and cool as ice. “If I lower a rope, can you grab hold of it?” “I’ve got one arm free,” Bertie said, raising it in a flippant wave. “The other one’s stuck. And one of my boots is caught.” “Let’s try this.” Ramses tied a loop in the end of the rope and let it down. Bertie slid his arm through the noose and Ramses pulled on the rope till the slipknot tightened. “Ready?” “Slacken the rope a bit so I can get hold of it. Here, wait a minute. Are you hanging on to something? If I come popping out of here you may lose your balance.” There was nothing he could hang on to, no protuberance round which to tie the rope. He looped a section round his waist and knotted it. “I’m fine. Here we go.” He’d had to put the torch back in his pocket to use both hands for the rope. He couldn’t see Bertie now, but he could hear his hard, difficult breathing. There was resistance at first, and a gasp of pain from the man below, but Ramses didn’t dare stop, he could feel upward movement. He transferred his grip farther along the rope and heaved. “That’s done it,” Bertie gasped. “Both hands out . . .” “Good,” Ramses said, recovering his balance. He’d almost fallen over, the release of resistance had been so sudden. Bertie’s hands came into view. He was trying to pull himself up. His knuckles and the back of one hand were scraped raw. Ramses helped him up onto the relatively level section and then leaned out. His father’s requests for information and reassurance were reaching an ear-splitting pitch. They harmonized with Jumana’s piercing soprano. “It’s all right. We’re coming down,” Ramses called. “Thanks,” Bertie said. “What for?” Bertie had unfastened the slipknot. He dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and passed it over his filthy face. “Well, for pulling me out. And for not saying something like ‘I’m about to lower the poor idiot down.’ ” “You aren’t that. But I am going to lower you, unless you have violent objections.” “No. I’ve played the bloody fool once today, I won’t do it again. How did you know I was here?” He wanted a little more time. Holding the end of the rope, Ramses decided he had better break it to him at once. “Jumana. She noticed you were missing and figured you’d come this way. Father and I heard her calling you, and we joined forces.” “Oh.” He added bitterly, “Kind of her to rush to my rescue.” “This could have happened to anyone,” Ramses said. “All right, let’s get it over.” “Wait a minute. I don’t want you to think I’m a complete fool. I wouldn’t have risked climbing alone — I know I’m not much good at it — if I hadn’t seen him. Just about here, leaning out and looking down at me. He didn’t push me,” Bertie added quickly, reading Ramses’s expression. “I wouldn’t want her to think that.” “The hell with what she thinks,” Ramses said angrily. “Damn it, Bertie, you don’t climb a rock face when there’s someone up above who doesn’t like you. I wouldn’t have risked it.” “Yes, you would — if you’d seen what I saw. He was laughing, Ramses, and waving some object. I couldn’t see it clearly, but it glittered. Like gold.”