He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [52]
Interested parties, of whom there were, alas, only too many, might also wonder whether Ramses’s outspoken opposition to the war was a cover for the sort of clandestine activities for which he was particularly well suited. If he was playing another role, the only way in which he could disarm suspicion was to have David take his part at strategic intervals. Knowing Ramses, I did not doubt his loathing of the war was utterly sincere, but it had also been part of the plan. He had made himself so thoroughly unpopular, few people would associate with him—or, as the case might be, with David.
Emerson had been correct; the answer was obvious. If one man could be secretly removed from exile, another could be secretly sent into it. The militant nationalist for whom the British authorities were searching was not Kamil el-Wardani, but my son—and that was why Thomas Russell had taken the unusual step of inviting us to accompany him on his futile raid, and why Wardani had got away so handily. The raid had been meant to fail. Its sole purpose had been to supply unimpeachable witnesses who could testify that Wardani was elsewhere while Ramses made a spectacle of himself at the Club; and the reason for the substitution must have to do with what Russell had said that night. Something about fighting a guerrilla war in Cairo while the Turks attacked the Canal . . . Wardani the key . . . without him, the movement would collapse.
I had reached this point in my train of thought when a faint rustling sound brought me bolt upright. A quick glance at Ramses assured me that he had not stirred. The sound had not been that of the bedclothes. It was . . . it must have been . . .
Springing to my feet, I felt under the mattress and found Ramses’s knife where he had asked me to place it. I hurried to the window and slipped through the curtains, in time to see a dark form swing itself over the stone balustrade of the small balcony. It saw me. It spoke.
“Aunt Amelia, don’t! It’s me!”
My first impulse was to throw my arms around him, but I was sensible enough to draw him into the room before I did so. It was as well he had spoken; even in the light I would not have recognized the bearded ruffian whose scarred face was set in a permanent sneer. The scar ran up under the patch that covered one eye, but the other eye was David’s, soft and brown and shining with tears of emotion. He returned my embrace with such hearty goodwill that his beard scraped painfully across my cheek.
“Oh, David, my dear boy, it is so good to see you! Where is Emerson?”
“Coming through the house in the usual way. We thought it better for me not to risk that.”
“You ought not have risked coming here at all,” said a critical voice from the bed.
The key turned in the lock and Emerson slipped into the room. “Whew,” he remarked. “That was close. Fatima will be stirring soon. Peabody, put the knife down. What the devil do you think you are doing?”
“Defending her young,” said David, with a horrible, distorted grin. “She was about to fly at me when I identified myself.”
“You ought not be here,” Ramses insisted. Obviously I had not given him quite enough of the sleeping medication. His eyes were half-closed, but the extremity of his annoyance enabled him to articulate.
“We haven’t time to argue,” Emerson said coolly. “David, hurry and change, and get rid of that beard, and—do whatever else you need to do.”
“Don’t worry,” David said, peeling off his beard and turning toward the washbasin in the corner of the room. “I’ve played Ramses often enough lately to fool most people. But you’ll have to keep Nefret away from me. She knows both of us too well to be deceived. I need more light, Aunt Amelia.”
I picked up the lamp and went to him. After rummaging in a nearby cupboard he removed several bottles and boxes and studied his face in the small shaving mirror.
“May I be allowed to say a word?” inquired Ramses, still prone and still thoroughly exasperated.
“No,” said his father. “David and I have it worked out. Peabody, you will tell Fatima that Ramses is in the middle of some filthy