He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [187]
The door opened. Fatima was there. She had neglected to veil her face, and in her hand she held a flimsy bit of folded paper.
“It is from Mr. Walter,” she said, holding out the paper as if it were burning her fingers.
How did she know? How did any of us know? Oh, there was a certain logic behind the instinctive expectation of bad news that brought us all to our feet. Telegrams and cables were used primarily for news of great joy or great sorrow, and after only a few months of war, English households had learned to dread the delivery of one of those flimsy bits of paper. But it was more than that, I think.
After a moment Katherine sank back into her chair with a look of unconcealed relief, and shame at that relief. News of her son would not come to her through Walter. Bertie was safe. But some other woman’s child was not.
It was my dear Emerson who went to Fatima and took the telegram from her. The lines in his face deepened as he read it.
“Which of them?” I asked evenly.
“Young John.” Emerson looked again at the paper. “A sniper. Killed instantly and without pain.”
Nefret turned to Ramses and hid her face against his shoulder. He put his arm around her in a gentle but almost perfunctory embrace. His face was as cold and remote as that of Khafre’s alabaster statue.
“Evelyn is bearing up well,” Emerson said. He kept looking at the telegram, as if he could not remember what it said.
“She would, of course,” said Ramses. “That’s part of our code, is it not? Part of the game we play, like the marches and the songs and the epigrams. Killed instantly and without pain. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.” He let the sheet of music fall to the floor. With the same detached gentleness he took Nefret’s hands and guided her to a chair. He left the room without speaking again.
From Manuscript H
He saddled Risha himself, waving aside the sleepy stableman’s offer of assistance. The great stallion was as sensitive as a human being to his master’s moods; as soon as they had left the stableyard Ramses let him out, and he ran like the wind, avoiding the occasional obstacle of donkey or camel without slackening speed. There was more traffic on the bridge and in the city streets, but by that time Ramses had himself under better control. He slowed Risha to a walk.
It was half past eleven when he reached the club. Too early for the rendezvous, but Russell would probably be there. Leaving Risha with one of the admiring doormen, he ran up the stairs and went in. Russell was in the hall. He was alone, reading or pretending to read a newspaper. He was watching the clock, though, and when he saw Ramses he dropped the newspaper and started to rise. Ramses waved him back into his chair and took another next to him.
“What are you doing here?” Russell demanded in a hoarse whisper. “I got the message. Has something gone wrong?”
“Nothing that affects our business. There’s been a slight change in plans, though. You can empty the arsenal whenever you like, but it must be done in absolute secrecy, and you mustn’t make any arrests. There’s another cache hidden in the ruined mosque near Burckhardt’s tomb.”
Russell’s eyes narrowed at the peremptory tone. He was accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. “Why?”
“Do you want the man who’s behind this?”
“You mean . . . Do you know who it is?”
“Yes.”
He laid it out with the cold precision of a formula, point by point, ignoring the skepticism that formed a stony mask over Russell’s face. Once a slight crack appeared in the mask, but Russell said nothing until he had finished.
“When he was in Alexandria we missed two deliveries. He was at the wrong place.”
“Then you believe me. You can convince General Maxwell—”
Slowly Russell shook his head. “It might have been pure incompetence. I thought it was. That’s why I relieved him and sent him back to Cairo. He’s one of Maxwell’s fair-haired boys, and Maxwell would resent my interference.”
Ramses knew he was right. Interservice jealousy was a damned nuisance