The Golden One (36 page)

‘You think he will follow us here, do you?’ he inquired.

‘Yes. What other reason could he have for being in Luxor?’

‘It may be a perfectly innocent reason,’ Ramses said. ‘Do you suppose the lady is really his sister?’

‘Possibly,’ I replied, studying the menu. ‘Men of his sort are not above using personal relationships for their own purposes. It was only her presence that prevented your
father from being rude. I believe I will start with lentil soup. They make it very well here. Nefret?’

‘I don’t care. Mother, how can you think about food, when you know that bas – that man is after Ramses again?’

‘He can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do,’ Ramses said, somewhat sharply. ‘You are getting yourself into a rage about nothing, Nefret. There is no
inducement they could offer that would make me change my mind.’

‘Damn right,’ said Emerson. ‘Who’s he working for anyhow? I can’t get all these departments and bureaus and agencies straight in my mind. Not that I care to,’
he added.

‘Nobody’s got them straight,’ Ramses said with a wry smile. ‘At one time there were four separate intelligence groups, and the police. I believe they’ve been
reorganized, but there is still a certain amount of infighting between the civilian branch, which reports to the high commissioner and the Foreign Office, and the military branches, who are under
the C-in-C – that’s General Murray – in Cairo. The Admiralty has, or had, its own group. God knows where Smith fits in.’

‘I don’t give a damn where he fits in,’ Nefret declared. ‘So long as you aren’t in it with him.’

I was tempted to intervene, for her voice had risen and Ramses’s eyes had narrowed – sure signs, in both cases, of rising temper. Considering the scrapes we often got into –
Nefret included – her almost hysterical fear of this particular danger might have seemed exaggerated, but I understood. In our other adventures we worked as a family. Well . . . most of the
time. In these he was alone, with every man’s hand against him. I told myself to leave it to them. It was not my role to interfere – unless it became necessary.

‘The devil with Smith, eh?’ said Emerson, whose fond paternal brow had furrowed. He is such a hopeless sentimentalist, he hates to see the children exchange hard words; whereas I,
who understand the human heart better, knew that little disagreements are natural and healthy. On this occasion his remark had the desired effect. The lines of tension left Nefret’s face and
she smiled affectionately at Emerson.

‘Quite right, Father. Let us drink to it: The devil with Mr Smith!’

He had at least enough courtesy to allow us to finish our dinner in peace. The waiter was hovering, waiting to remove our plates, when he approached us. The lady was not with him.

‘Will you allow me to offer you a liqueur or a glass of brandy?’ he asked.

‘I don’t want any damned brandy,’ said Emerson, glowering. ‘Or a conversation with you.’

‘I think you had better, Professor.’

Emerson’s face brightened. ‘Is that a threat?’ he asked hopefully.

I had once before observed in Smith the rudiments of a sense of humour. Amusement narrowed his eyes and he shook his head emphatically. ‘Good Lord, no. Threatening you, Professor Emerson,
is tantamount to teasing a tiger. However, I am sure you will want to hear what I have to say, and if I am mistaken, you will – er – take whatever steps occur to you. May I sit
down?’

‘Oh, I suppose so,’ Emerson grumbled. ‘Just be quick about it. You want Ramses for some other filthy job, I suppose. He has already refused. What makes you suppose that you can
change his mind?’

‘He is wanted,’ Smith said quietly. ‘And I think he will change his mind.’

Nefret caught hold of Ramses’s hand. Ramses gave her a quick glance from under lowered lids, and although his controlled countenance did not change, I knew he had misunderstood, and
resented, the gesture. It was not one of possessiveness but of fear – the unreasoning panic of a child reaching out for comfort in a dark room.

‘He will,’ Smith went on, ‘because he won’t want to see a close friend face a firing squad. Someone closer than a friend, in fact. A kinsman.’

There was no doubt as to whom he meant. Nefret’s face turned pale, Emerson’s turned red. ‘Don’t speak, Emerson,’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t anyone speak until
he has explained what he means.’

‘You know
who
I mean,’ Smith said, with that thin, satisfied smirk I remembered so well. ‘He has turned traitor. Gone over to the enemy.’

Emerson’s sun-browned face was almost as expressionless as that of his son, and when he spoke, it was in a soft purring voice. ‘That’s a lie.’

Smith leaned forward. ‘Then prove it.’

‘I thought it was Ramses you wanted,’ said Emerson, in the same soft voice.

‘It is. May I explain?’

‘You had damned well better,’ said Emerson. ‘Peabody, my dear, would you care for a whiskey and soda?’

Nefret had never been certain precisely how her mother-in-law felt about the man who had pursued her so ardently all those years; obviously she cared enough about him to resent the accusation.
Her grey eyes had a hard, almost metallic shine.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Mr Smith, how did you find out?’

‘Find out what?’

She was too clever to be tricked into an admission. ‘Whatever it is you know.’

Smith gave her a nod of grudging admiration. ‘If you are referring to my knowledge of the – er – relationship between you and the individual in question, I – uh –
Please, Mrs Emerson, won’t you let me offer you something to drink?’

‘No. There were a good many people present the evening we ourselves learned of that relationship,’ she went on thoughtfully. ‘Military persons. One of them overheard our
conversation and reported it to you?’

‘Only a few words of the conversation, but they were enough to arouse his curiosity. Eventually the word got back to me, and aroused
my
curiosity. It took my associate in England a
while to find the proof – birth and death certificates, records of certain financial transactions – you know the procedure. I haven’t told anyone else, Mrs Emerson.’

‘No, you hoard information like coins, paying it out only when you can gain something’ was the furious response. ‘Do not expect thanks for your discretion from us.’

‘Never mind, Mother,’ Ramses said. ‘That isn’t the issue now. He’s won the first round. Perhaps we should let him explain further.’

It was a damning story. A few weeks earlier, a man calling himself Ismail Pasha had appeared in Constantinople. The word soon spread among the faithful: he had been an infidel, a high-ranking
member of the British Secret Service, who had come over to the true religion and the right cause. He had been seen in public with German officers and also with Enver and the other members of the
ruling triumvirate, richly dressed and clanking with jewels. He had prayed at the mosques, and on at least two occasions he had addressed the crowd with an eloquence that brought them to their
knees. For surely no one could be so familiar with the words of the Prophet unless he himself was a holy man!

Shortly thereafter, one of the local agents in British pay was caught and executed. It was pure luck that the others in the group got away. Sethos was one of the few who knew of that particular
network; he had been sent to Constantinople to meet with its members.

‘That isn’t proof of anything,’ Emerson declared.

‘No,’ Smith agreed. ‘However, he has not been heard from since. Attempts to contact him through the usual channels have received no response. His assumed name is interesting,
too, don’t you think?’

‘Ismail is a very common name,’ Emerson said.

‘The name of the son of Abraham by his handmaiden Hagar, who was cast out into the wilderness, lest he challenge the position of Abraham’s legitimate son,’ Smith said, his thin
lips curving in a cynical smile. ‘ “His hand will be against every man and every man’s hand will be against him.” ’

‘I believe I am better acquainted with Holy Writ than you,’ Nefret’s mother-in-law said with a sniff. ‘God saved Ismael and blessed him and promised to make him –
er – fruitful.’

‘Confound it, Peabody, will you stop talking about the Bible?’ Emerson was trying not to shout; the words squeezed between his lips like rumbles of distant thunder. ‘Prove it,
you say. How?’

‘That should be obvious.’ Smith knew he had won. He leaned back in his chair. ‘Ismail Pasha is now in Gaza. Find him. You will know if he is the man we believe him to be
– or that he is not. If he is that man, and you can bring back evidence that he is a prisoner or under duress, we will take steps to free him – unless you can do the job
yourself.’

‘That’s rather a tall order,’ said Emerson. ‘Even for us.’

‘You mistook my meaning, Professor. That’s the trouble with English, it is too imprecise about pronouns.’

‘So,’ said Emerson, after a long moment. ‘You want Ramses to go after the fellow. Alone.’

‘It’s the only way, Professor. You surely don’t suppose that the four of you could cross enemy lines in disguise? Individually you are only too recognizable; as a group you are
unmistakable. It’s a job for one man, and there is only one man who can maintain a convincing disguise long enough to do the job.’

They were all looking at Ramses, waiting for him to speak; Emerson caught himself on the verge of a heated reply and remained silent, possibly because his wife had administered an admonitory
kick under the table. Ramses turned his head and met Nefret’s eyes.

They had been over this subject many times, with Nefret continuing to demand promises and reassurances and Ramses increasingly resentful of her refusal to accept his given word. There was no
need for speech now; she knew what he wanted to do, what he felt he must do, and she knew that the decision was hers.

She had the means to hold him. A few sentences, a few words . . . She released her grip on his hand. Her fingers had left white marks.

‘I’ve always felt that Ismail was unfairly treated,’ she said, shaping the words with care so her voice wouldn’t tremble. ‘God won’t take a hand this time, so
. . . so someone else must.’

PART TWO

Gateway to Gaza

Chapter Nine

We arrived in Cairo on a misty grey 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
I
need 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.