Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [18]
I took advantage of his tirade to finish my soup. I always say there is no sense in allowing worry to affect one’s appetite.
“I agree,” said Ramses. “We are fortunate in being well acquainted with the assistant commandant of the police. Russell will act on our request without the necessity for explanations.”
“What if he finds the jewelry?” Cyrus demanded.
“Then we will have it back,” I replied. “No, Emerson, do not you go off on a long-winded and wholly unnecessary lecture. Russell owes us a great deal—at least he owes Ramses a great deal, for his services to the police and the military during the war—and we may be able to get out of this without Sethos’s name being mentioned. That is supposing Russell is able to apprehend Martinelli, which I consider to be unlikely.”
Emerson had wolfed his food down at a great rate. Now he pushed his plate away and rose. “I will go to the telegraph office.”
“How many telegrams do you mean to send?” I inquired.
He stood looking down at me. “Two. Perhaps three.”
I sighed. “I suppose we must. Do you have the addresses?”
Emerson nodded brusquely and turned away.
“Hmm.” Cyrus stroked his goatee. “Who’re the other telegrams going to?”
“You can probably guess,” Nefret said.
“Reckon I can. Shall we retire to the terrace for coffee and some confidential conversation?”
It was a bright, warm day. The twin terraces of the Winter Palace, reached by a pair of handsome curved stairs, were high enough above the road so that the clouds of dust kicked up by feet and hooves did not reach us, and the noonday sun sparkled on the river. Tourists were returning from their morning trips. Cyrus took out his cheroot case, and after asking our permission, lighted one. Wine and tobacco had calmed him, and his habitual keen intelligence was once again in the fore. In a way I was sorry for that. For years we had put Cyrus off about certain matters, some personal, some professional. Our responsibility for his present dilemma made it impossible, in my opinion, to keep the truth from him. Anyhow, we would have enough trouble keeping track of the lies we would have to invent for Russell and/or Lacau.
“So you’ve kept in touch with your old pal the Master Criminal?” Cyrus inquired. “You even know his current address. Where the devil is he?”
“I’m not sure where he is at this moment,” I admitted. “He has a house in Cornwall and a flat in London, but he travels a great deal.”
“I’ll just bet he does,” Cyrus said. “All right so far, Amelia. Now—who the devil is he?”
I looked at my children, who were seated side by side, their fingers entwined. Ramses’s eyebrows tilted up in amused inquiry. “Are you asking for our advice, Mother? A penny for our thoughts?”
“I’ll give you mine for nothing,” Nefret declared. “We can trust Cyrus completely, and I for one am tired of secrets. I move we tell him everything.”
“Quickly, before Father comes back,” Ramses added.
Since I was of the same mind, I did so. Cyrus was only too familiar with Sethos’s former criminal activities, since he had been involved in several of our encounters with our old adversary. He had not heard of Sethos’s courageous and dangerous exploits as a British secret agent, but—he claimed—it came as no surprise to him. I explained that I could not go into detail, since Sethos’s activities, and those of Ramses, were covered by the Official Secrets Act.
“That’s all right,” Cyrus said. “I don’t need to know the details, I saw some of the results. Back in 1915, when Ramses ended up in bed for a week, just after the first Turkish attack on the Canal had failed, I began to wonder how he got those particular injuries. Not from falling off a cliff, not him! David was hurt even worse; he was in on it too, wasn’t he? I kept my mouth shut, since it wasn’t any of my business. Then there was that interesting episode the following year, when Sethos suddenly turned up out of nowhere and helped catch a German spy. But