He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [193]
When Emerson joined me in the parlor, the brightening of his countenance assured me my selection of attire had been wise. I was about to pour when Ramses came in.
“I won’t be here for dinner. I told Fatima.”
His face was so guileless I was immediately filled with the direst of forebodings. He was wearing riding breeches and boots, tweed coat and khaki shirt, without a collar or waistcoat—an ensemble that might have been designed for camouflage. I said, “You aren’t dressed for dinner.”
“My engagement is with one of the Indian N.C.O.s. They aren’t allowed in the hotels, you know; we are meeting at a café in Boulaq.”
“What for?” I asked suspiciously.
“A language lesson and perhaps a friendly wrestling match. That is what comes of showing off. He’ll probably break both my legs.”
“They are allowing men like him to go on leave with the Turks about to attack the Canal?” Emerson demanded. “Folly, absolute folly!”
“Maxwell still doesn’t believe an attack is imminent, or that the Turks stand a prayer of getting across. I hope he’s right. Don’t wait up for me, I may be late.” He started for the door.
“Are you going to see David tonight?”
He stopped. “Are you suggesting I ought?”
I recognized his irritating, oblique manner of avoiding a lie, and my temper slipped a little. “I am suggesting that if you do, you bring him home with you. The need for caution is past; if you deem it necessary we can keep him in seclusion for a day or two.”
“It shouldn’t be necessary.” He turned round to face me. “You’re right, it’s time David came home. Good night.”
From Manuscript H
He got to the place at dusk, while it was still light enough to see where he was going yet dark enough to hide his movements. David had objected to his going alone, but he wanted to make a preliminary reconnaissance.
“Percy won’t turn up before dark, if he comes at all,” he had pointed out. “The show isn’t supposed to start until midnight. Everything is set. Russell will raid the warehouse and the mosque at nine, and once he’s got the weapons safely tucked away he’ll return to his office and wait to hear from me. Do you think I can’t handle Percy by myself? Anyhow, I need you to be my lookout. Don’t get the wind up now, David. By tomorrow morning it will be over, and we’ll be home, and Fatima will be cooking breakfast for you.”
And he would be explaining to his irate parents why he hadn’t told them the truth. He wasn’t looking forward to it. But if they had known tonight was the night they wouldn’t have let him out of the house—or else they’d have insisted on accompanying him, which would have been even worse.
In the twilight the old palace looked so forbidding it was no wonder the locals avoided it. It had been built in the late eighteenth century by one of the Mameluke beys whose reputation for cruelty was even greater than those of his peers; it was said that the spirits of his victims roamed the ruins in company with djinn and afreets, moaning and gibbering. There were certainly a great many owls nesting in the broken walls. Avoiding the derelict fountain and fallen columns of the courtyard, pushing through a rampant jungle of weeds and weedy shrubs, he reached a small building that was still in good repair.
Ramses had brought a pocket torch and masked it so that only a narrow slit of light would show. Using it sparingly, he inspected all four sides of the building, which had perhaps been a pleasure kiosk. The arched windows were now closed with crude but heavy wooden shutters, and the door also appeared to be a new addition. There was another entrance, at the bottom of a short flight of stairs, that must lead to rooms underground. Both doors were equipped with new Yale locks. Picking the lock would take time, and might leave traces. It would have to be one of the shutters.
They were locked too, or bolted from the inside. The lever he had brought took care of that. Once