The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (26 page)

10 FROM MANUSCRIPT H (CONTINUED)

It was a very pleasant dream. The surface on which he lay was soft and faintly perfumed. Above him arched a golden canopy — yellow silk, gilded by sunlight streaming through the gathered folds. He could hear birdsong and the crystalline tinkle of water. The only discordant note was a headache of stupendous proportions. He raised his hand to his temple, and a familiar voice said, “Try this. I do not indulge, of course, but I keep it for certain of my guests.” It wasn’t a dream. Ramses sat up. A few feet away, cross-legged on a pile of tasseled cushions, Sahin held out a glass half-filled with an amber liquid. Ramses started to shake his head and thought better of it. “No, thank you,” he mumbled in Turkish — the same language the other man had used. “It is not drugged. But, as you like.” His host placed the glass on a brass tray and reached for the mouthpiece of his water pipe. He smoked contentedly for a time, for all the world like a courteous host waiting for his guest to get his wits back. It took a while. When the Turk’s blow had landed, sinking him into unconsciousness, Ramses expected he would wake up in a dark, verminous cell, with various people holding various sharp, heavy, or red-hot implements. This room was airy and bright, probably the mandarah, the principal chamber where guests were received. The central part of the room was several inches lower than the rest, tiled in tasteful patterns of red and black and white, with a small fountain at one end. The alcove in which he was now sitting was draped with silk and floored with cushions. He was wearing only a shirt and drawers; they had removed his stained robe and dirty sandals, and cleaned the worst of the muck off his body. One wouldn’t want those satin cushions smeared with rotten fruit and donkey dung. “I regret the necessity of that,” Sahin said, as Ramses explored the lump on his head with cautious fingers. “I knew you would not come willingly, and resistance might have caused you serious injury.” “How can I ever thank you?” Ramses inquired, slipping into English. The Turk laughed aloud. “It is a pleasure to match wits with you again, my young friend. I was delighted to hear that against all my expectations you had survived that interesting affair outside Cairo, but I am uncertain as to the details. How did you manage it?” Ramses considered the question. It was loaded with potential pitfalls, and the genial conversational tone, the comfortable surroundings, were designed to lower his guard. A new interrogation technique? He preferred it to the methods the Turks usually employed, but he would have to be careful. “My affectionate family came to the rescue,” he said, feeling certain that this information must have reached Sahin’s ears. “You know my father.” “By reputation only. It is a formidable reputation. I hope one day to have the honor of meeting him. So he heard of your — er — dilemma — from your friend, whom I did not succeed in killing after all? I might have done, had you not spoiled my aim.” “Possibly.” Sahin drew the smoke deep into his lungs. “You also spoiled a pretty little scheme which had been long in the making. What are you after now? Why are you here?” “Just having a look round.” “I do admire the imprecision of the English language,” Sahin said. “So useful when one wishes to avoid answering a question.” “Would you prefer to speak Turkish? I don’t find it as easy to equivocate in that language.” Sahin’s beard parted, showing his teeth. “I think you could equivocate in any language, my boy. In this case, it is a waste of time. You were caught in the act. A particularly futile act, I might add. In that jostling crowd you had little chance of killing him.” “I didn’t succeed, did I?” “You hit the governor,” Sahin said, his smile broadening. “A flesh wound in a particularly awkward place. He’s very annoyed with you.” No mention of anyone else. Did that mean Chetwode had got away? Good luck to the young fool, Ramses thought sourly. He had only been obeying orders. He put his head in his hands. Thinking about Chetwode worsened his headache. “What can I offer you?” Sahin asked solicitously. “If you don’t want brandy, what about coffee or mint tea?” He clapped his hands. The servant who entered was so anxious to show the proper deference, he was bent over at the waist, his face only a few inches from the tray he carried. Obeying a brusque gesture from Sahin, he deposited it on a low table beside Ramses and backed out, still at a right angle. The heavy curtains closed after him. “Please help yourself,” Sahin said. “They have not been drugged.” Ramses’s throat was painfully dry, and he concluded it would be expedient to accept something. To refuse hospitality was an affront, and it was unlikely Sahin had ordered the drinks to be drugged. And what difference would it make if he had? So he picked up the glass of tea and sipped it gratefully, holding the hot glass by the rim, while the Turk smoked in pensive silence. Then he said suddenly, “I have a daughter.” “My felicitations,” Ramses said, wondering what the devil this had to do with anything. “When did the happy event occur?” “Eighteen years ago.” “Eighteen —” “Yes, she should have been married long before this. It is not for lack of offers. She is beautiful, well born, and educated. She speaks and writes English. She is somewhat headstrong, but I believe you prefer women of that sort.” He looked hopefully at Ramses, who had begun to feel like Alice. What sort of rabbit hole had he fallen into? Surely Sahin Pasha didn’t mean . . . Silence seemed the safest course. “The war cannot last forever,” the Turk went on. “We will not always be enemies. You have the qualities I would like in a son.” “But . . .” Ramses tried to think of a tactful way of refusing this flattering and appalling suggestion. He blurted out, “I’m already married!” “I know that. But if you were to embrace Islam, you could take another wife. I don’t recommend more. It requires a brave man to manage two women, but three are six times as much trouble as two, and four —” “You’re joking.” Sahin’s mouth stretched wider. “Am I? It is in the best tradition of our people and yours — forging an alliance through marriage. Think it over. The alternative is far less attractive.” “What is the alternative?” “Surely you need not ask. Imprisonment, a considerable degree of discomfort, and eventually a trip to Constantinople, where you will have to face several persons who know you as one of our most dangerous opponents.” He leaned forward, his face lengthening. “They will execute you, my young friend, publicly and painfully, as an English spy, but before they kill you they will try to find out everything you know. I consider torture an unreliable means of extracting information, but I fear my enlightened views are not shared by the others in my service. I am offering you a chance to escape that fate. You are no assassin. You came here for another reason. I can protect you from a death that will cause your wife and your parents much grief if you confide in me and prove your sincerity by the alliance I have offered. I assure you, the girl is quite presentable.” Increasingly bewildered, but reminded of his manners, Ramses said, “I am sure she is a pearl of rare beauty and a worthy child of her father. You would think less of me, however, if I betrayed my beliefs and my country for a woman, however desirable.” “You would not be the first Englishman to do so.” He fixed Ramses with a steady stare and Ramses considered how to respond. He wasn’t feeling very clever; insane questions kept popping into his head and it was all he could do to keep from blurting them out. “Anybody I know?” or “You wouldn’t be referring to my uncle, would you?” He wondered if there had been some drug in the tea after all, or if it was only the blow on the head that was clouding his thinking. Sahin couldn’t be serious. He was playing some sort of game and Ramses hadn’t the foggiest notion what he was really after. “There have been several,” Ramses began. His voice echoed oddly inside his head. He tried to put the glass down. It tipped, spilling the rest of the tea across the floor. “Was that really necessary?” he asked thickly. “A lesson, which you have not yet learned, it seems,” Sahin replied equably. “Never trust anyone’s word. Now come along like a good lad. I don’t want to hurt you.” He clapped his hands. Two men entered. “Gently, gently,” Sahin crooned, as they pulled Ramses to his feet and half led, half dragged him out of the room, up a few steps and down a few, through the mazelike series of rooms and corridors that were typical of such houses. He was vaguely aware of staring faces, as indistinct as ghosts, and of soft exclamations. Eventually they escorted him down a long flight of stairs. The smell came up to meet him — wet stone, and mold, and the sickly sweetness of something rotten. There were three doors along the short passage, heavy wood banded with iron. Two were closed. They took him into the third room, a stone-walled box barely six feet square and six high. Rodent bones and a thin layer of straw, liquescent with decay, littered the floor. The cell contained a rough wooden bench along one wall, a few crude earthenware vessels, and several sets of chains held by staples driven deep into floor and wall. Working with silent efficiency, as if they had gone through the procedure many times, the two guards deposited Ramses on the bench. Too dizzy to sit upright, he toppled forward; one of them had to hold him while the other raised his arms and locked the fetters round his wrists. They chained his feet, too, and then left. “Faugh,” said Sahin Pasha, wrinkling his nose. “It’s even worse than I remembered. This house is a temporary loan, from a colleague of mine; my own prisons are more civilized. I will return in the morning to see if you have changed your mind.” He drew his elegant robes tightly about him so they wouldn’t touch the filthy wall and backed away. The door slammed shut. The hinges creaked horribly. They would, of course. Ramses sat with his head bowed, breathing steadily and slowly, hoping he wasn’t going to be sick. Gradually he got his stomach under control and strength began to return to his limbs. Cautiously he tested the fetters. The iron cuffs had simply snapped into place, they could probably be opened without a key, but his hands were a yard apart and each chain was less than six inches long. He entertained himself for a while banging and rubbing the cuffs against the stone wall but succeeded only in scraping his knuckles. He leaned back, overcoming an instinctive reluctance to touch the slimy stone of the wall. His mother would have added several other adjectives — hard, cold, wet, dank, crawling with curious insects that were gathering to investigate a new source of nourishment. A few of them had already found his feet. He smiled wryly. His mother would also inform him, in that brisk way of hers, that he’d got himself into a pretty mess this time. No weapons, no useful tools concealed in his boots or clothing. They had even found the needle-thin knife he’d hidden under a dirty bandage wrapped round his forearm. And all for nothing. He was no wiser about the identity of “the holy infidel.” He closed his eyes and summoned up the image of that bearded face and arrogant nose. He had a good visual memory, but he hadn’t seen enough for a positive identification. Remembering the innumerable times he had failed to recognize his exasperating uncle, he had known a single glance wouldn’t be enough. He had counted on being able to observe Ismail longer, watching for a familiar gesture or movement, hearing his voice. The man had been closely guarded, but it might have been a guard of honor. Sahin hadn’t actually confirmed or denied anything, he had only made a few ambiguous references to turncoats. It had been a restless night and a tiring day. He fell into a waking doze, jerked upright by the pressure of the shackles against his scraped hands whenever deeper sleep loosened his muscles. Dream images floated through his mind: Nefret, first and last and always, her blue eyes tender with concern or blazing with fury — at him, for being stupid enough to fall into this trap. It had been a trap; he had been lied to, used, cold-bloodedly, for the sole purpose of getting that innocent-looking assassin into Gaza. Cartright and his superiors must have known there was a good chance both of them would be caught or killed if Chetwode carried out his orders . . . The trap, a cage as big as a drawing room, swathed in folds of golden silk that didn’t quite conceal the rusty bars; soft cushions under him, and a girl in his arms, a girl with long black hair that snaked round his hands, and tightened and hardened into fetters. When he opened his eyes, he thought for a moment he must still be dreaming. The face close to his was a disconcerting blend of Sahin’s strong features and the round-cheeked houri who had nestled in his embrace. But the pain in his hands was real, and so was the pocket torch whose beam wavered wildly before she put it down on the bench beside him. He sat up straighter and started to speak. She put her hand over his lips. “Don’t speak, don’t cry out,” she whispered in English. “I will help you escape.” Her hand was soft and plump and perfumed. Her hair was black; it had been twisted into a knot, but long strands had escaped to hang limply over her forehead. Her nose was her father’s, large and curved, and her mouth was the same shape, though it was now tremulous and, he noticed, carefully painted. There could be no doubt of her identity. Was this another trick of Sahin’s — a version of cat and mouse, raising hopes of escape before dashing them, with his daughter as the very visible alternative to re-imprisonment? Her palm and fingers slid slowly across his mouth. “Why?” he asked softly. “Don’t ask questions!” Her voice was thin with nervousness. She straightened, and he saw she was wearing the enveloping black tob over a rather frivolous pink frock of European style. It took her a while to open the manacles. Under the perfume that wafted round her, Ramses could sense the fear that made her hands shake and soaked her with sweat. The iron circles finally parted. He had lost all track of time in the eternal darkness, but he must have been there for hours. Slowly he lowered his aching arms and flexed his hands. She was kneeling, working at the chain around his feet. He bent over and pushed her hands away. “I’ll do it. Hold the torch. How do they work?” “You have to push . . . here . . .” A shaking finger indicated the spot.
“And pull this at the same time. They’re rusty, stiff . . .” The chains clinked and he swore under his breath. They were making too much noise and taking too much time. It was too damned quiet. Hadn’t Sahin left a guard? Maybe it wasn’t a trick after all. If her father had set it up, she was putting on a very convincing show of fear. As soon as he stood, she thrust a bundle at him. “Put it on. Hurry!” The caftan was probably one of Sahin’s. It was of fine wool and far too costly for someone who wanted to be inconspicuous, but since he had no choice in the matter, he put it on, and wound the woolen scarf over his head and face. The last item in the bundle was a knife. She’d thought of everything — except a belt. He slashed a strip off the bottom of the caftan, tied it round his waist, and slipped the knife through the makeshift sash. She let him precede her to the door but stayed so close behind him he could hear her agitated breathing. She’d left the door ajar. Ramses swept the torch in a hasty circuit, half expecting to see Sahin’s grin and a heavily armed guard; but the corridor was empty. “That way.” She extended a shaking arm over his shoulder. “I know. Is there anyone in the other cells?” “What does it matter? Hurry!” She pushed at him, but he stood firm. “Is there?” “No!” The light of the torch showed that the doors were not barred or bolted, but he couldn’t leave without making certain. He eased them open, one after the other, just far enough to look inside. Despite his care, the hinges gave off a series of groans, echoed, on a higher note, by the girl. She tugged at his arm. Ramses let himself be drawn away. The cells had been unoccupied except by a family of rats that had set up housekeeping in a pile of moldy straw. She led the way now, tiptoeing, her black skirts raised. Ramses followed her up the stone steps and through a mazelike series of narrow passages and small storerooms. She certainly knew her way around the cellars. He doubted very much that she had explored them herself. But they had met no one and seen no one when she finally stopped by a wooden door and tugged at the handle. Somehow Ramses was not surprised when the portal swung silently open. Stars shone bright overhead, illumining a walled courtyard. It was strictly utilitarian; no fountain, no flowers, only weeds and piles of trash. They were at the back of the villa, near the kitchens. He looked up, scanning the night sky, and found the Dipper and the North Star. It would be light in a few hours. Time was definitely of the essence, but there was one question he had to ask. He turned to the girl. “Who helped you?” “No one helped me! I did it myself, all of it. I saw you today when they brought you in, and I . . . There is no time for this. You must hurry.” “But how did you know —” “No questions! It won’t be easy to find your way out of the city. I must show you where —” “No, go back to your rooms before you are missed. I know where I am now.” She put her hands on his arms. “A horse. I will get one for you.” “Why don’t you just paint a target on my back?” Ramses inquired, and immediately felt guilty when her mouth quivered pathetically. Her face was so close he could see the kohl lining her eyes. She’d made herself up as if for an assignation, and that absurd pink frock was probably one of her best. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and although every moment counted now, he racked his brain to remember a few pleasing platitudes. “You have saved my life. I will never forget —” His breath came out in a grunt as she threw herself against him. “We will meet again one day,” she gasped. “You can never be mine, but your image will be enshrined in my heart!” “I forgot that one,” Ramses muttered. She was a well-rounded armful, soft and warm and heavy, and there seemed to be only one way of getting her to stop talking. So he kissed her, thoroughly but somewhat absentmindedly, and then detached the clinging arms and propelled her through the open door. “Through that gate,” she panted. “Turn to the left —” “Yes, right. Uh — God bless you.” He pulled the door shut and headed, not for the gate, but for the wall to his right. How long would it be before they discovered he was gone, and warned the defenders that an English spy was on the loose? Maybe not for hours. Maybe a lot sooner. He couldn’t take the chance of waiting until morning and strolling out the way he had come. Once over the wall, he found himself in a typical Middle Eastern street, narrow, dusty, and extremely dark. His suspicions had been incorrect; there was no one lurking outside the gate. He had exaggerated a trifle when he told the girl he knew where he was, but it didn’t take long to orient himself. The lacy, domed minaret of the Great Mosque pricked the moonlit sky to the southwest. He was near the Serai, then, the governor’s palace, and the quickest way out of town was westward. It took him longer than he had hoped. He had to avoid the main east-west street, which was well lighted, with men standing guard at the entrances to official buildings. The lanes wound in illogical curves, and twice he had to climb a wall to avoid patrols. Luckily the marching men made enough noise to warn him of their approach. Three miles of sand dunes separated Gaza from the Mediterranean. There was plenty of cover — the ruins of the ancient seaport of Gaza — and the picket lines were widely spaced, since their primary purpose was to guard against agents who might be landed from the sea. The first pallid light of dawn was showing in the east before Ramses waded out into the water. He had hoped to “borrow” a fishing boat under cover of darkness, but it was too late now; a boat would be seen and fired upon. With a heartfelt groan, he shed Sahin’s caftan and began to swim.