The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (22 page)

PART TWO

Gateway toGaza

9

We arrived in Cairo on a misty gray morning. The city was swathed in fog and there was not a breath of air stirring. The feeling of oppression was not solely physical. We had had to leave our friends to cope with Jumana’s grief and Cyrus’s frustration — for that enigmatic clue of Jamil’s was driving him to distraction. I had made him promise on his solemn oath that he would not go wandering round the wilderness looking for Jamil’s tomb. He had given his word; but his hands were behind his back and I suspected he had his fingers crossed. Although Katherine did not reproach me, I knew she wondered how we could abandon her at such a time. Emerson had pointed out that Ineed not abandon her. Not only was there no need for me to go to Cairo, my presence there would add unnecessary difficulties to an already difficult situation. The summons had been for — “For Ramses,” I said, cutting into his tirade with the skill of long experience. “You weren’t asked either.” “If you think,” Emerson announced loudly, “that I am going to let the boy go off alone to face that pack of wolves from the War Office —” “My sentiments exactly,” I said. Upon which, Emerson burst out laughing and pulled me into a close embrace. “Peabody, when you put your chin out and give me that steely stare, I know I’ve lost the argument.” “You wanted me to come. Admit it.” “Mmmf,” said Emerson, his lips against mine. We caught the evening train and went straight to Shepheard’s. The sufragi on duty greeted us like the old acquaintances we were, and asked what he could do for us. “Breakfast,” I said, while Emerson divested himself of various articles of clothing and tossed them around the room. Emerson had not been in favor of staying over, but even he admitted that we could not dismiss this request as brusquely as we had done with the War Office’s other attempts to bring Ramses back into the service, and catch the first train back to Luxor. “Emphatically not,” said Ramses. “Smith told us virtually nothing, but they wouldn’t have sent for me unless they have some idea as to how to locate him. We must try to find him, Father. If he is a prisoner —” “If?” Emerson exclaimed. “Do you believe he is a turncoat and a traitor?” Once upon a time Emerson’s intimidating scowl would have reduced Ramses to silence. Now he met those narrowed blue orbs squarely and smiled a little. “It’s odd to hear you defend him, Father. Good God, I don’t want to believe it either! But the man is an enigma — embittered, cynical, and unpredictable.” “Hmph,” said Emerson. “Well. The sooner we find out what Murray has to say, the better. Shall we go?” “General Murray?” I repeated. “What has he to do with this? You haven’t even made an appointment.” “You know my policy, Peabody — go straight to the top and avoid underlings. He will see me whenever I damn well decide to see him,” said Emerson. “Are you ready, Ramses?” I would have insisted upon accompanying them if I had believed there was the slightest chance the general would allow me or Nefret to take part in the discussion. Men are singularly limited in their views about women, and military men are even worse. I handed Emerson his coat — he would have walked out of the room in his shirtsleeves if I had not — and helped him into it. “Come straight back here,” I ordered. “Mph,” said Emerson. “Yes, of course,” said Ramses, smiling at Nefret.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Murray kept them waiting for half an hour. It wasn’t long, considering his busy schedule and the fact that he had not expected them, but Emerson took it as a personal affront. He was in an extreme state of annoyance by the time they were ushered into the General’s office, and he expressed his feelings with his usual candor. “What the devil do you mean by letting us cool our heels all that time? It was damned inconvenient for us to come just now. You had better have a good reason for interrupting my work.” Murray was losing his hair. The high forehead added to the length of his face, which was set in stern lines, but the mouth under the neatly trimmed graying mustache twitched as Emerson spoke. Ramses had heard that Murray had had a nervous breakdown in 1915, after serving as chief of staff to the British Expeditionary Force. An encounter with Emerson wasn’t going to do his nerves much good. “I did not ask you here, Professor Emerson,” he said stiffly. The office was comfortably, almost luxuriously, furnished, with deep leather chairs and Oriental rugs. The wide windows behind the desk offered a view of palm trees and gardens. The fog had cleared; it was going to be a fine day. “No?” Emerson sat down and took out his pipe. “Well, if it wasn’t you, it was one of your flunkies, and you ought to know about it. What sort of administrator are you?” Murray began fumbling through the papers on his desk. Emerson’s tactics were brutal but effective; the general’s hands were shaking with rage. He couldn’t bully a civilian, especially one of Emerson’s eminence, as he would have done a military subordinate — but how he wanted to! After a moment of hard breathing, he selected one paper from among the rest, stared at it, and rang for an aide. A whispered conversation took place. Ramses, whose hearing was excellent, caught only a few words: “. . . devil he thinks he’s doing . . .” “Didn’t your mother teach you that it is rude to whisper when other persons are present?” Emerson inquired, tossing a burned match onto the floor. Murray’s complexion was that of a man who spends most of his time indoors. His pale cheeks reddened. “Professor Emerson, I did not ask to speak with you, but so long as you are here I can spare you a few minutes, in order to emphasize the seriousness of the situation. From now on you will be taking orders from someone else.” Oh, Lord, Ramses thought, is the man a natural idiot, or hasn’t he heard about Father? The last sentence had the effect he had known it would. Emerson’s eyes narrowed, and when he spoke it was in the quiet purring voice his acquaintances had learned to dread. “The only person from whom my son takes orders is me, General. I don’t take them from anyone — except him.” Ramses’s jaw dropped. His father had deferred to him on a few occasions — to his utter astonishment — but this was the first time he had paid him such a compliment. “When the situation demands it,” Emerson added. “We may as well leave, Ramses.” The door opened. Murray transferred his bulging stare to the newcomer. Not Smith. Cartright. “Why didn’t you tell me they were coming?” the general demanded. “I didn’t know, sir. The last I heard from them was a curt telegram denying my request for their assistance. I had planned to go to Luxor in person within the next few days.” Ramses caught his father’s questioning eye. Evidently the same doubt had entered Emerson’s mind. If this lot didn’t know of Smith’s visit, he wasn’t going to bring it up. He shook his head slightly, and Emerson settled back into his chair. “So,” he purred, “is this the person from whom my son is to take orders?” “You misunderstood, Professor,” Cartright said quickly. “We are asking for his help, not demanding it.” “He did say ‘please,’ ” Ramses reminded his father. “Perhaps we ought to listen to what he has to say.”

Emerson stamped into the room, flung himself into a chair, and took out his pipe. Nefret had left his thumb and fingers free of the cast, and by now he was using both hands, against her advice and my orders. The weight of the cast did not seem to bother him in the slightest. He proceeded to tamp tobacco into the pipe, making an even greater mess than usual. Ramses followed, his face unreadable. That withdrawn, “stone pharaoh” look was his reaction to bad news, just as poorly repressed fury was his father’s. “Well?” I demanded. “What happened?” Ramses’s features relaxed into a smile. “Father threatened to punch General Murray on the jaw.” “Ah,” I said. “Well, that was only to be expected if the general accused your — er — Sethos of treachery.” “Bastard,” said Emerson, round the stem of his pipe. I knew he was not referring to his brother. “Stop swearing and tell me what transpired.” “I will swear if I like,” Emerson said sullenly. “Murray would drive a nun to profanity.” Nefret held out her hand to Ramses. He went at once to her and took her hand in his. “You had better let me tell it, Father. It appears there was a problem of miscommunication. Murray wasn’t expecting us, and he was not at all pleased to have us turn up. He knew about the matter, but if we had asked for an appointment, in the usual way, the request would have been passed on to his chief of staff, who would have passed it on to the head of military intelligence in Cairo, who is —” “Boisdragon-Bracegirdle,” I exclaimed. “No, Mother. My old acquaintance, Captain, now Major, Cartright.” “How extraordinary. It was on this business he telegraphed you in that brusque fashion? Then what does Brace — curse it, Smith — have to do with this?” “I don’t know, and I didn’t ask,” Ramses said. “There is something odd about this business, and until we can make sense of it, the less we say the better. It may be only a question of interservice jealousy. That has caused more trouble than the enemy.” “How much does Murray know?” I asked. Emerson was still muttering curses, so Ramses answered the question. “He made no reference to our relationship with Sethos. Smith may have been telling the truth there. They know I’ve met him, though, and that I have had ample opportunity to observe him. It was Cartright who convinced Murray that I was the best man to track Sethos down. They’ve had trouble getting agents into and out of Turkish territory. None of their own people can pass as an Arab, and the locals they’ve recruited are unreliable and untrained.” Emerson had got himself under control. “They’re a bunch of bumbling incompetents,” he declared. “Sometimes it takes weeks for information about Turkish movements to reach them, via the indirect channels they employ. They got the news about Sethos fast enough, though. I suggested to Murray that he might be a prisoner instead of a traitor, and that swine Murray —” “That was when Father tried to hit him,” said Ramses, with a grin. “Cartright got us out of Murray’s office in a hurry.” “I cannot believe Sethos passed on vital information willingly,” I exclaimed. From behind a cloud of vile-smelling smoke, Emerson said, “The alternatives are almost as unpleasant, my dear.” “Alternatives? I can only think of one.” I got up and moved to the window, where the air was not so thick. “Emerson, that pipe —” “It calms my nerves, Peabody. However, anything to please you.” He knocked the thing out into a receptacle, sending sparks flying. “Torture is one possibility, certainly, though I don’t see how they could make a public spectacle of him if he was injured and under duress. There are other ways of forcing an individual to speak. Are you certain Margaret Minton is in France?” “What a horrible idea!” I cried. “That the villains would use the threat of harm to the woman he loves!” “It is a well-established technique, not only in the service but in popular fiction,” said Ramses. “I beg, Ramses, that you will refrain from inappropriate attempts to be humorous. I will set about ascertaining Margaret’s present whereabouts as soon as is possible.” “I beg your pardon, Mother,” Ramses said. He was still holding Nefret’s hand, running his fingers lightly over her wrist. “Such inquiries would take too long and would probably be inconclusive. There is one sure way of learning the truth. Ismail Pasha is now in Gaza. I’m going there to try and find him.” I was conscious of a sinking feeling at the pit of my stomach. “I thoroughly disapprove, Ramses. You are too well known to the enemy. Let them find someone else.” “I must go, Mother. I can’t leave it to someone else. You don’t understand.” He looked from me to Nefret; and on her face I saw the same dawning horror that I felt on my own. “They ordered you to kill him,” she whispered. “Is that it?” “That is how the Great Game is played.” Ramses’s voice was hard, his expression withdrawn. “Assassination, deception, corruption — nothing is too vile if it can be labeled patriotism. Whether he is guilty or under duress, he can give away vital information. Cartright wouldn’t tell me what that information is, but it is obviously enough to make him extremely dangerous.” I cleared my throat. “You agreed, of course.” Ramses came to me with his long strides and bent to kiss my cheek. It was a rare gesture for him, and I took it as the compliment he intended. “I would have done, Mother, if I had supposed they’d believe me. Murray would have; he hasn’t imagination enough to suppose anyone would dare disregard his orders, and he doesn’t know the man he wants me to assassinate is my uncle. Not that that little matter would bother him.” “ ‘If thy hand offend thee, cut it off,’ ” I murmured. I ought to have known better than to quote Scripture when Emerson was already in a vile humor. His heavy brows drew together, but before he could bellow, Ramses spoke again. “Cartright knows me well enough to suspect I would balk at assassination, so we arrived at a compromise. I will get a look at Ismail Pasha and ascertain whether he is Sethos, and whether he is being used by the Turks against his will.” “Rather a tall order, that,” I remarked. “The first part shouldn’t be difficult. He’ll be showing himself in public, as he did in Constantinople. I only hope he hasn’t altered his appearance so much I can’t recognize him.” “And then what?” Nefret demanded. Ramses shrugged. “One can’t plan very far ahead when there are so many unknowns in the equation. I’m not counting on anything except making a preliminary reconnaissance. Depending on what I learn, if anything, we’ll decide what to do next.” “Can you get in and out of the city undetected?” I asked, endeavoring to conceal my concern. “Oh, I think so. The trouble is, Cartright insisted I take someone else with me.” “It’s safer for two than for one,” Nefret said hopefully. “Not when one of the two is fresh out of the nursery,” Emerson growled. “Fair, young, speaks Arabic like a textbook, stammering with excitement at the prospect of playing spy . . .” Emerson summed it up with an emphatic “Damnation!” and went back to filling his pipe. “He can’t be that bad,” Nefret protested. “Ha! D’you remember Lieutenant Chetwode?” “Oh dear,” I said. “Not that ingenuous baby-faced young man who came to Deir el Medina with Cartright?” “Cartright claims he is his best man,” Ramses said. “He must be older and less ingenuous than he looks, since he has been in intelligence for over two years.” “Doing what?” Nefret demanded. “Sitting behind a desk filing reports?” “What does it matter?” Emerson said. “His assignment is not to assist Ramses but to make sure he does what he has said he will do. That bastard Cartright doesn’t trust him.” Nefret let out an indignant expletive. I said judiciously, “He does have a nasty suspicious mind. To be sure, a sensible individual, which Ramses is not, would go into hiding for a few days and then report that he had determined that Ismail Pasha was not the man they are after. Perhaps if I were to have a little chat with General Murray —” “No, Mother,” Ramses said, politely but emphatically. “He wouldn’t have approved the scheme if I had not agreed to take Chetwode with me. He’s a likable boy, and not as hopeless as Father makes him sound. It’ll be all right.” “Every time you say that, something disastrous occurs,” I exclaimed. “Now, Mother, don’t exaggerate. It doesn’t always.” He was back to normal, his smile broad and carefree, but the concern of a mother informed me he was holding something back. “What other orders do you have?” I asked. Emerson, who had been deep in thought, looked up. “Oh, nothing much,” he said sarcastically. “Scout the Turkish defenses, look for weak points, and while you’re at it, sound out the governor to see if he would accept a bribe.” “Hold your fire, Mother, I’ve no intention of doing anything of the sort,” Ramses said quickly. “The chaps in charge still labor under the delusion that ‘Johnny Turk’ is a white-livered coward. You’d think they’d have learned better after Rafah and Gallipoli.” “But the military mind is slow to accept new ideas,” I agreed. “Are they planning a direct assault on Gaza?” “I have not been taken into their confidence,” Ramses said dryly. “I’d bribe the damned governor if I could. It would save countless lives.” “You can’t,” Emerson said positively. “Anyhow, von Kressenstein is the one in command of the Gaza defenses. He’d have you shot if you offered him a bribe. Stick to your primary aim, my boy, and get the hell out of Gaza as soon as you can.” “Yes, sir,” Ramses said. “When do you leave?” Nefret asked steadily. “It will take a while to make the necessary arrangements,” Ramses said. She gave him a reproachful look, and he went on, “I’m not being deliberately evasive, dear. I need to learn all I can about our present dispositions in south Palestine before I decide on the best way of getting into the city. Then there’s the little matter of transport. They’ve pushed the rail lines as far as Rafah, but most of the traffic is military, and if I tried to pass as a British officer, it would mean being subject to orders from people who didn’t know who I was, or letting too many military types in on the secret. I don’t want even Cartright to know my plans: I politely refused several of his suggestions.” “You don’t trust him?” I asked. Ramses began pacing restlessly up and down the room. “I don’t trust any of the bas — — any of them. I still don’t know how Bracegirdle-Boisdragon fits into this; he’s made no further attempt to communicate with us, and when I posed a carefully phrased question to Cartright, he stiffly informed me that I was taking orders from him and no one else.” “It’s the usual interservice rivalry, as I said,” remarked Emerson, with a curling lip. “They keep more secrets from one another than from the enemy.” Ramses shrugged. He had said all he was going to say on the subject. “What makes them suppose Sethos — if it is he — will stay in Gaza?” I asked. “Ramses, you won’t go haring off to Constantinople or Jerusalem after him?” “Even if he’s left by the time I arrive, there will be news of him. We’ll just have to wait and see.” He was being deliberately evasive now, and we all knew it. He was right, though; it was impossible to plan ahead. For the next several days we were all busy about our different affairs. At my insistence, we kept up the pretense that we were in Cairo for personal reasons — a little holiday away from the family, the need to do a little research at the Museum. We dined out every evening, at one of the hotels, with as carefree a mien as we could manage, and if Emerson shouted at the waiters more often than usual, no one thought anything of it. I remember one of those evenings with a particular poignancy. We were lingering over coffee after an excellent dinner at Shepheard’s and listening to the orchestra render a selection from The Merry Widow. Emerson came out of his fog of frowning introspection when he heard the familiar strains of the waltz, and asked if I would like to dance. I pointed out to him that the dancing had not yet begun. It did soon thereafter, and several couples took the floor. Emerson asked me again, and I pointed out to him that the tune was not a waltz. It was another of the ballads that had become popular in the past few years — the kind of song Ramses had once described as tools of the warmonger, with their sentimental references to love and duty and sacrifice. I knew this one very well. Nefret had played it the night we got the news of the death in battle of our beloved nephew Johnny. Ramses rose and offered Nefret his hand. I don’t know what had moved him to want to dance to that song; perhaps the memory of Johnny, who had loved music and gaiety and laughter, perhaps a sudden need to take her in his arms. In my opinion the new dances were not nearly so pretty as the waltz, but they certainly offered the opportunity for close embraces. It was always a pleasure to watch them dance together, they moved with such matching grace, even in the clumsy (in my opinion) two-step. She was wearing a gown of pale blue voile printed with little flowers, a copy of a favorite garment of Ramses’s that had been worn to shreds and discarded. Her skirts floated out as he turned her. My sentimental husband cleared his throat and reached for my hand. There was no need for speech; we were both thinking the same thoughts: of Johnny, only one of the millions of gallant young men who were lost forever; and of another young man, even dearer, who was about to disappear into the dark underworld of war. Would we ever see our children dance together again? “Yes,” I said emphatically. So closely attuned are my dear Emerson and I (some of the time) that he required no explanation. He squeezed my hand. “Yes,” he repeated. “How are your arrangements coming along, Peabody?” “Very well. And yours?” “I will be ready when the time comes.”