Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [42]
“We’re old married men now, and fathers. It’s time we gave up the follies of our youth.”
David drew the smoke deep into his lungs and let it trickle out. “Not bloody likely we’ll be allowed to, with valuable antiquities disappearing from under Cyrus’s very nose and a lady who is obviously not what she seems. That’s the damnedest story I’ve ever heard—and I’ve heard quite a few.”
“And lived quite a few. You do believe it really happened, then?”
“Of course it happened.”
“Nefret thinks some, if not all, was a hallucination.”
“Would you recognize the woman if you saw her again?”
Ramses laughed wryly. “Nefret asked me the same thing. D’you know what I was fool enough to say? I didn’t stop to think, I just blurted it out: ‘Not her face.’ “
David grinned sympathetically. “Her face was veiled.”
“That was what I meant. I saw a good deal of the rest of her, but a shapely figure isn’t useful for purposes of identification. I was fool enough to say that too. Nefret made a number of blistering remarks.”
“She’s worried, that’s all. So am I. Tell me about Rashad.”
“It wasn’t he who sent the message.”
“How do you know? Do you still have the note?”
It was like old times—too much so. David had always been able to back him into a corner, and he wasn’t going to be put off now.
“No, I don’t have it,” Ramses admitted. “I must have dropped it somewhere along the way. What does it matter? The modus operandi was not typical of Rashad and his lot. He doesn’t care much for me, but I can’t believe he harbors enough animosity to go to all that trouble. And for what? To get his hands on you?”
“He doesn’t like me either,” David said. “But taking you hostage would be a damned roundabout way of getting at me. I had no idea he was in Cairo.”
“Is that the truth?”
David simply looked at him, his finely arched brows elevated. Ramses’s eyes fell. “I’m sorry, David. I know you wouldn’t lie to me. But there have been riots and strikes and bloody murder here, and that sort of violence irresistibly reminds me of our old friend Wardani. He’s still wanted by the police for collaborating with the enemy during the war, and God knows what he’s been up to since.”
“Not much,” David said calmly.
“Was he behind the rioting this past spring? They killed eight unarmed people in one incident alone, and—”
“That was a spontaneous demonstration protesting Zaghlul Pasha’s arrest and deportation.”
Ramses made a rude noise, and David said, “Yes, all right. It was murder, bloody and inexcusable, but there was no organized plot, just a lot of poor frustrated fools who were stirred up by a troublemaker. Wardani wasn’t involved, and neither were the Turks or the Germans, despite the hysterical accusations of certain officials. Stop lecturing me and listen, will you? Wardani did communicate with me a few months ago. And no, I don’t know where he is. Possibly Paris, lurking around the Peace Conference, in the hope that he can worm his way into the proceedings. It’s a forlorn hope; Zaghlul Pasha is the accepted leader of the independence movement and Wardani has no influence except with a few isolated radicals.”
“Like Rashad.”
“Rashad is no revolutionary,” David said contemptuously. “All he does is make speeches and then scuttle into hiding. Wardani is intelligent enough to know he has to play politics now, not foment riots. Oh, he lets people like Rashad spout sedition, but I would be very surprised to learn that Rashad is still part of Wardani’s organization.”
“Then you don’t intend to become involved?”
David threw out his hands. His forehead was furrowed. “Damnation, Ramses, I’m an artist—of sorts—not a fighter. I gave Lia my word I would stay away from Wardani. I told him the same thing. I haven’t heard from him since. Now can we forget about politics and concentrate on more imminent matters?”
He placed