He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [112]
“Here,” Ramses said softly.
“Kamil!” He tripped and staggered forward, his arms flailing. “I had to come back. I had to tell you—”
“Slowly, slowly.” Ramses caught his arm and steadied him. What a conspirator, he thought wryly. Clumsy, half-blind, timid—and loyal. “Tell me what?”
“What Mukhtar and Rashad are saying. They would not dare say it to your face. I told them they were fools, but they—”
“What are they saying?”
A great gulp escaped the other man. “That you should give out the guns now, to our people. That it is dangerous to keep them all in one place. That our people should learn how to use them, to practice shooting—”
“Without attracting the attention of the police? It would be even more dangerous, and a waste of ammunition.”
Damnation, Ramses thought, even as he calmed his agitated lieutenant. He’d been afraid some bright soul would think of that. He thought he knew who the bright soul was.
“What did Farouk say?” he asked.
“Farouk is loyal! He said you were the leader, that you knew best.”
Oh, yes, right, Ramses thought. Aloud, he said, “I am glad you told me. Go now, my friend, and make sure the weapons get to the warehouse. I count on you.”
Asad stumbled out. Ramses waited for another five minutes. When he left the mosque it was on hands and knees and in the deepest shadow he could find. The cemetery was not one of the groups of princely medieval tombs mentioned in the guidebook; it was still in use, and most of the monuments were small and poor. Crouching behind one of the larger tombs, he exchanged the old fakir’s tattered dilk and straggling gray hair for turban and robe, and wrapped the reeking ensemble in several tight layers of cloth that reduced the stench to endurable proportions. He had been tempted to abandon the garment and wig, but it had taken him a long time to get them suitably disgusting.
He slung the bag over his shoulder in order to leave both hands free, buckled the belt that held his knife on over his robe, and started toward the road. Even though he had been half-expecting it, David’s appearance made him start back, his hand on the hilt of his knife.
“A bit nervous, are we?” David inquired, his lip curling in the distorted smile of his disguise.
“What happened to the gauzy pantaloons?”
“I couldn’t find a pair that was long enough.”
They went on in silence for a time, and then Ramses said, “I thought you were going to follow the Turk.”
“I concluded it would be a waste of time. We need to know where he’s coming from, not where he goes after he has rid himself of his incriminating load. He probably hires a different team and wagon for each delivery, and I doubt he stays in the same place all the time.”
“You’re protesting too much,” Ramses said with a faint smile. “But I don’t mind admitting I appreciate your standing guard. Farouk makes me extremely nervous.”
“He affects me the same way. Especially after what happened at Aslimi’s.”
“You heard?”
“Yes. The story is all over the bazaars.” David’s voice was neutral, but Ramses was painfully aware of his friend’s disappointment.
“It’s not over yet,” he said. “We caught up with Farouk and came to an agreement with him. He wants a thousand pounds in gold in exchange for what he called a bigger fish than Wardani. Father is to meet him tomorrow night.”
“It could be a ruse.” David was trying not to let his hopes rise.
“It could. But Farouk is an egotistical ass if he thinks he can trick an old hand like Father. He’ll keep his word, to hand over the money and give Farouk three days immunity from pursuit—but first the innocent lad will spend a little time in our custody, while we verify the information.”
It was typical of David that he should think first of the danger to someone else. “The Professor mustn’t go alone. The fellow wouldn’t think twice about knifing him in the back, or shooting him. Where are they meeting and