He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [196]
The exchange had given Ramses another useful piece of information: It would not be a good idea to make a break for it while the Turk had a rifle in his hands.
Hamilton had not bothered to close the door. Ramses heard the thump of booted feet. They came to a sudden halt, and Hamilton said coolly, “Finally. What kept you?”
“What the devil are you doing here?” Percy demanded.
“Delivering your new orders from Berlin,” was the smooth reply. “You don’t suppose the High Command let you in on all their little secrets, do you?”
“But I thought I was—”
“The top man in Cairo? How naive. You’ve done well so far; von Überwald is pleased with you.”
The name meant nothing to Ramses, but Percy obviously recognized it. “You—you report to him?”
“Directly to him. Will you join me in a brandy?”
“Enough of this,” the Turk said suddenly. “Let us complete our business.”
“There’s no hurry,” Percy said expansively. “In a few hours the streets of Cairo will be running with blood. Lord, it’s close in here. One of you open the shutters.”
Ramses knew he was only moments away from discovery. The opened shutter would tell them there had been an intruder, and the niche was the first place they would look. He was already moving when the Turk exclaimed, “They have been opened. Who—there’s someone out there!”
He’d meant to head straight for the door, but that exclamation changed his mind. Trapped behind the heavy hanging, Ramses could not have heard David’s imitation of an owl’s screech, but David must have got there before Percy; he might even have been on the spot in time to see the other three arrive. He would assume Ramses was still inside, possibly a prisoner, and he wouldn’t wait long before investigating, not David. . . .
The Turk was at the window, the rifle at his shoulder, his finger on the trigger. There wasn’t time to do anything except throw himself, not at the Turk, but at the rifle. His hands were on it when it went off. The explosion almost deafened him and the recoil loosened his clumsy grip. He stumbled forward into a hard object that caught him square across the forehead.
When he came to, he was lying on the floor with his hands tied behind him. They had searched him, removing his coat and his knife. The useful items in the heels of his boots were undisturbed, but he couldn’t get to them while he was being watched. There were four feet within the range of his vision; one pair belonged to the Turk, he thought. The second set of feet was encased in elegant leather slippers. Presumably Hamilton and Percy were also among those present, but he couldn’t see them without turning his head. There were several excellent reasons for not doing that, including the fact that his head felt as if it would explode if he moved it. Someone was talking. Percy.
“. . . get the wind up over nothing. Even if they know, they won’t have time to bother with us tonight.”
“You fool.” That was Hamilton, caustic and curt. “Didn’t you recognize the man who got away?”
“He won’t get far. He was hit. He could barely hang on.”
With an effort, Ramses kept his breathing shallow and slow. Hamilton was quick to reply.
“It was David Todros.”
“Who? Impossible. He’s in—”
“He’s not. I got a good look at him. Now think, if the effort isn’t too much for you. If Todros is here it’s because the British sent him here. He looks enough like your cousin to pass for him. They’ve pulled that stunt before. Why would they do it now, and why was it imperative that Todros’s presence here shouldn’t be known? And what about those rumors about the man in India?”
There was no reply from Percy. “For God’s sake,” Hamilton said impatiently. “Isn’t it obvious? You told that miserable young thug we planted on Wardani to get rid of him. That was not a bad idea; I never trusted Wardani either, and if we had made a martyr of him his people would be raging for revenge