He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [126]
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Hope springs eternal in the human breast, particularly in mine, for I am by nature an optimistic individual. As we drove into Cairo, I told myself that Russell’s summons did not inevitably mean the dashing of our hopes; Farouk might have been captured and the end of Ramses’s deadly masquerade might be in sight.
I tried to prepare myself for the worst while hoping for the best (not an easy task, even for me.) Yet the hideous truth hit harder than I had anticipated. Equally difficult was concealing the depth of my anger and despair from Nefret. She had only hoped we might do our country a service by destroying a ring of spies; she could not know that we had a personal interest in the matter. I had to bite my lip to control my anger—with Farouk for being stupid enough to get himself killed before we could interrogate him and with the unknown fiends who had murdered him so horribly. How much had he told them before he died?
The worst possible answer was that Farouk had penetrated Ramses’s masquerade and had passed the information on to those who would not hesitate to dispose of Ramses as they had done Farouk. The most hopeful was that he had told them only of our arrangement with him. We could certainly assume that the enemy knew we were on their trail. The conclusion was obvious. We must go on the offensive!
I remained pensively silent, considering various possibilities. They were provocative enough to take my attention off Emerson’s driving for once.
“Are we taking tea at Shepheard’s?” Nefret asked in surprise. “I thought you would want to return home so we can discuss this unpleasant turn of affairs.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” said Emerson, coming to a jolting halt in front of the hotel.
“But, Professor—”
“The matter is finished,” Emerson declared. “We made the attempt; we failed, through no fault of our own; we can do no more. Curse it, the damned terrace is even more crowded than usual. Don’t these idiots have anything better to do than dress in fashionable clothes and drink tea?”
He charged up the stairs, drawing Nefret with him.
We never have any difficulty getting a table at Shepheard’s, no matter how busy it is. The arrival of our motorcar had been noted by the headwaiter; by the time we reached the terrace a bewildered party of American tourists had been hustled away from a choice position near the railing, and a waiter was clearing the table.
I leaned back in my chair and glanced casually at the vendors crowded round the stairs. They were not allowed on the terrace or in the hotel—a rule enforced by the giant Montenegrin doormen—but they came as close as they dared, shouting and waving examples of their wares. There were two flower sellers, but neither of them was David.
Poor David. Almost I wished that the failure of our hope could be kept from him. There was no chance of that, though; by now he might have heard of it from other sources. Gossip of that sort spreads quickly; there is nothing so interesting to the world at large as a grisly murder.
One of the disadvantages of appearing in public is that one is forced to be civil to acquaintances. I daresay that Emerson’s scowling visage deterred a number of them from approaching us, but Ramses’s pacifist views had not made him persona non grata to the younger women of Cairo. As Nefret had once put it (rather rudely, in my opinion), “It’s quite like a fox hunt, Aunt Amelia; the marriageable maidens after him like a pack of hounds while their mamas cheer them on.” We had not been seated long before a bevy of fluttering maidens descended on us. Some made straight for Ramses, while those who favored more indirect methods greeted Nefret with affected shrieks of pleasure.
“Darling, what have you been doing? We haven’t seen you for ages.”
“I’ve been busy,” Nefret said. “But I am glad to see you, Sylvia, I intended to pay you a little call. What the devil do you mean, writing those lies to Lia?”
“Well, really!” one of the other young women exclaimed.