Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [90]
“I fear I am unable to do so.”
“Because you cannot or because you will not?” Nefret leaned forward, hands tightly clasped. “Frankly, I don’t care what he has done. The war is over and if Sethos is back into the antiquities business, he’s on his own. You can’t expect Ramses—”
“I beg your pardon for interrupting, Nefret,” Ramses said.
“I beg your pardon.” She sat back, clasping her hands.
The exchange had amused Smith. He would find differences of opinion amusing—and potentially useful. “I don’t expect your husband to do anything,” he said smoothly. “There’s no denying that his talents could be useful; intelligence gathering does not end with an armistice, and the Middle East and Egypt are potential powder kegs.”
“Thanks to our incoherent and devious policies,” said Emerson. “There is a flagrant contradiction between the principle of self-determination, which we support in theory, and the politics we practice. France won’t give up Syria, and we won’t give up Egypt, and we’ve promised Palestine to both the Zionists and the Arabs.”
“Some would claim that the natives of those areas are not capable of self-government,” Smith said.
He was trying to egg Emerson on. It is not difficult. “Ha,” exclaimed my spouse. “Oh, I admit we’ve done better by Egypt than some occupying powers might have done, but it’s time we got the hell out and let the Egyptians work out their own destiny. Who are we to look down on them? Our great Western, Christian civilization has burned people alive, forced them into ghettos, seized their territory by guile or by force—and we’ve just fought the bloodiest war in history.”
“Our guest is not interested in your views, Emerson,” I said, watching Smith.
“Oh, I am, Mrs. Emerson. Very much interested. I trust that the Professor’s sympathy with various Nationalist aspirations would not prevent him from notifying Cairo should he learn of plans for rioting in Upper Egypt.”
“None of us believe in violence,” said Ramses, whose eyes, like mine, were fixed on the bland countenance of Mr. Smith. “As you ought to be well aware. What are you driving at, Smith?”
“Charla is eating her crayon,” said Evvie.
The evidence certainly seemed to point that way. Charla’s crayon was now a stump and her pursed mouth strongly suggested that the pretty red object hadn’t tasted as good as she had expected. Ramses rushed over and snatched his daughter up. “Spit it out,” he ordered. “This minute!”
“I told her not to do it,” said Evvie self-righteously.
Ramses inserted a finger into Charla’s mouth. “What’s in the damned things? Are they poisonous? Ouch! Mother, can you make her—”
“That is not the way to go about it,” I said. “Give her to me.”
I turned Charla over my arm and smacked her hard between the shoulderblades. A shower of repellent fragments flew out. Most of them landed on Mr. Smith’s neatly pressed flannels. Inspecting the pieces, I remarked, “I don’t believe she swallowed any of it. We’ll just make sure, shall we, Nefret?”
“I can manage,” Nefret said, snatching the squirming child from me. “Ramses, will you give me a hand?”
“What are you going to do?” Emerson demanded in alarm.
“Believe me, my dear, you don’t want to know,” I assured him.
They went off with Charla, who was protesting volubly if unintelligibly.
“Good Gad!” Emerson exclaimed. “You don’t mean . . . Poor little creature!”
“It isn’t the first time,” I said. “She is one of those children—endlessly inquisitive and too young to understand the consequences—who employs all her senses to investigate the world. One day she may be a distinguished scientist, if we can prevent her from poisoning herself before she reaches the age of reason. Mr. Smith, I am so sorry about your nice trousers. I suggest you allow the bits to dry before you brush them off.”
He had already tried. The result was very nasty and the stains, I felt sure, were indelible.
“A small price to pay for this delightful glimpse into family life,” said Smith, with a conspicuous absence of sincerity. “However, I must