He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [113]
“Not you, no.” Ramses went on to explain. “His choice of a rendezvous was no accident. I don’t know how much he knows, or how much he has told others, but if something goes wrong tomorrow night you must not be found near that house. I’m going with Father. Between the two of us we should be able to deal with Farouk. The little swine isn’t going to shoot anybody until he has made certain we have the money with us.”
The area between the edge of the cemetery and the city gate was an open field, used in times of festivals, now deserted. Pale clouds of dust stirred around their feet as they walked under a sickle moon through patches of weeds and bare earth. There was no sign of life but the night was alive with sounds and movements—the sharp baying of pariah dogs, the scuttle of rats. A great winged shape of darkness swept low over their heads and a brief squeak heralded the demise of a mouse or shrew. He had grown up amid these sounds and rich, variegated smells—donkey dung, rotting vegetation—and he had walked paths like this one many times with David. He was reluctant to break the companionable silence, but ahead the glow of those parts of Cairo that never slept—the brothels and houses of pleasure—were growing brighter, and there was more to discuss before they parted.
He gave David a brief account of what had transpired at the rendezvous, and David described his new abode, in the slums of Boulaq. “Biggest cockroaches I’ve ever seen. I’m thinking of making a collection.” Then David said, “What’s this I hear about a statue of solid gold?”
Ramses laughed. “You ought to know how the rumor-mongers exaggerate. It is a treasure, though.” He described the statue and answered David’s questions; but after David’s initial excitement had passed, he said, “Strange place to find such a thing.”
“I thought that would occur to you.”
“But surely it must have occurred to the Professor as well. A royal Fourth Dynasty statue in the shaft of a private tomb? Even the most highly favored official would not possess such a thing; it must have been made to stand in a temple.”
“Quite.” They passed between the massive towers of the Bab el-Nasr, one of the few remaining gates of the eleventh century fortifications, and were, suddenly, in the city. “It hadn’t been thrown in,” Ramses went on. “It was upright and undamaged, and not far from the surface. The sand around it was loose, and the purported thieves had left a conspicuous cavity that pinpointed its position.”
David pondered for a moment, his head bent. “Are you suggesting it was placed there recently? That the diggers wanted you to find it? Why? It’s a unique work of art, worth a great deal of money in the antiquities market. Such benevolence on the part of a thief . . . Oh. Oh, good Lord! You don’t think it could have been—”
“I think that’s what Father thinks. He sees the dread hand of Sethos everywhere, as Mother puts it, but in this case he could be right. I’ve been half expecting Sethos would turn up; such men gather like vultures in times of war or civil disorder. He’s been acquiring illegal antiquities for years, and according to Mother he keeps the finest for himself.”
“But why would he plant one of his treasures in your tomb?” David emitted a gurgle of suppressed laughter. “A present for Aunt Amelia?”
“A distraction, rather,” Ramses corrected. “Perhaps he’s hoping that a superb find will make her concentrate on the excavation instead of looking for enemy agents.”
“Has she been doing that?”
“Well, I think she may be looking for him. That is a damned peculiar relationship, David; I don’t doubt she is devoted to Father, but she’s always had a weakness for the rascal.”
“He has rescued her from danger on several occasions,” David pointed out.
“Oh, yes, he knows precisely how to manipulate her. If she is telling the truth about their encounters he hasn’t made a single false move. She’s such a hopeless romantic!”
“He may really care for her.”
“You’re another damned romantic,” Ramses said sourly. “Never mind Sethos’s motives; in a way I hope I’m wrong about