He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [195]
In mounting incredulity he sorted through the other papers. Only Percy would be fool enough to keep such documents: copies of the messages he had sent and received, in clear and in code, memoranda, even a list of names, with notations next to each. None of the names was familiar to Ramses, but he would not have been surprised to learn that certain of the code names referred to individuals he knew or had known. Three of them were crossed out.
What the hell had prompted Percy to keep such incriminating evidence? Couldn’t he even remember the names of his own agents? Maybe he was planning to write his memoirs someday when he was old and senile. To do him justice, there wasn’t anything in the papers that incriminated him. The handwriting was rather clumsily disguised, but it would take more than the conflicting evidence of handwriting experts to convince a military court.
He was about to close the portfolio when belated realization struck him. He extracted one of the papers and read it again. The notes were mere jottings, most of them numbers, without explanation or elaboration, but if that number was a date, and that a time, and the letters indicated the places he thought they stood for . . .
The sound from beyond the hanging made his heart stop. It was the creak of a hinge. The door of the room had opened.
His fingers found the switch of the torch, and blackness engulfed him. There was just time enough for him to damn himself for carelessness and overconfidence before he heard someone speak, and then he realized it wasn’t Percy. The voice was deeper and slower, and it had spoken in Turkish.
“No one here. He’s late.”
The response was in the same language, but Ramses could tell from the accent that it was not the speaker’s native tongue. “I do not like this place. He could have met us in Cairo.”
“Our heroic leader does not take such risks.”
The other man spat. “He is not my leader.”
“We have the same masters, you and I and he. He passes the orders on. There will be orders for us tonight. Sit.”
As they spoke, Ramses had closed the portfolio and replaced it, and slipped the torch into his pocket. When silence fell, he stood absolutely still, hoping his breathing wasn’t as loud as it sounded to him. He hadn’t missed David’s signal after all. This was a meeting, or perhaps a celebration; so far as the conspirators knew, their job was done. He thought he knew who one of them was. The Turk had been playing a part too. He was no illiterate hired driver; his Turkish was that of the court. Who was the other man? Ought he to risk lifting the rug a fraction of an inch?
The strengthening glow of light round the sides of the hanging told him he ought not. There were only two things he could do: stay in concealment and pray no one would need to use the radio or consult the papers, or make a run for it and pray the element of surprise would give him a chance of getting away. He was not carrying a gun. He doubted he would ever use one again. It wouldn’t have done him much good anyhow; he’d got a lot more than he had bargained for that evening, and the odds against him were increasing.
Remaining in hiding was probably the better of the two alternatives, at least for the time being. He adjusted the belt that held his knife so it was more accessible—and then the door opened again.
For a moment no one spoke. Then the newcomer said, in English, “Not here yet, eh? Now, now, my friend, don’t point that rifle at me. I am not the one you await, but I am one of you.”
“What proof have you?”
“Do you carry papers identifying you as a Turkish agent? The fact that I know of this place should be proof enough. That’s the trouble with this profession,” he added in tones of mild vexation. “Not enough trust among allies. You two don’t indulge in alcohol, I suppose. Hope you don’t mind if I do.”
Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossed the room and were followed by the click of glass against glass. Ramses stood motionless. Three of them now—and one,