He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [65]
Being late, he risked taking a cab for part of the distance. After the driver had let him off near the station at Demerdash he proceeded on foot, running when he could do so without attracting attention. It took less than half an hour to cover the two miles, and another five minutes to assume the rest of his disguise. He’d done it so often he didn’t even need a mirror: beard and mustache, a neatly wound turban, a few lines and patches of shadow rubbed round his eyes.
The village was off the main road; it had been abandoned for years, and like many villages in Egypt, it had been built of stone vandalized from ancient ruins. Segments of remaining walls stood up like jagged teeth around the roofless house that had been designated as the rendezvous.
The others were already there. He could hear low voices and the sounds of movement. He’d hoped to arrive in time to spot the wagon, which might have given him a clue as to where it had come from. Too late now. Damn Mrs. Fortescue.
His own men welcomed him with unconcealed relief. Farouk was particularly effusive, clasping him in a close embrace and inquiring solicitously after his health. Ramses shrugged him off and turned to exchange brief, insincere greetings with the Turk. The big man was obviously in a hurry to be gone. Urged on by his low-voiced curses, Wardani’s men had almost finished unloading the wagon into the smaller donkey carts they had brought. Ramses climbed into the wagon and began unwrapping one of the long cloth-wrapped bundles.
“Here! What are you doing? There is no time for—”
“There is time. Why the hurry? Did you run into trouble with one of the camel patrols?”
“There was no trouble. I know how to avoid it.”
It was a less informative reply than Ramses had hoped for, but he did not pursue the matter. The bundle contained ten rifles. He freed one from the wrappings and examined it. It was one of the Turkish models that had been used in the 1912 War, and it appeared to be in good condition. He passed it into the eager hands of Bashir. How the poor fools loved to play soldier! Bashir probably didn’t know which end to point.
“Ten in each. Two hundred in all. Where’s the ammunition?”
The Turk kept up a monotonous undercurrent of cursing as Ramses checked the other bundles and located the boxes of ammunition and grenades. There was another, larger box.
“Pistols?” Ramses pried the top off with the blade of his knife.
“A bonus,” said the Turk. He spat. “Are you satisfied now?”
“I wouldn’t want to detain you,” Ramses said politely. “When do we meet again, and where?”
“You will be notified.” The Turk climbed onto the seat of the wagon and picked up the reins. The mule team started to move.
Turning, Ramses was annoyed to see that his enthusiastic followers were passing round the pistols and trying to insert the clips. “How does it go?” Asad asked.
“In the grip. Like this.” It would be Farouk, Ramses thought. The others followed his lead, much more clumsily, and Ramses snapped, “Put those back and close the box. By the life of the Prophet, I would be better off with a bunch of el-Gharbi’s girls! Can I trust you to cover the loads and get moving? You’ve a long way to go and a lot to do before morning.”
“You aren’t coming with us?” Asad asked. A vagrant ray of moonlight shone off his eyeglasses as he turned to his leader.
“I go my way alone, as always. But I will know whether you carry out your orders. Maas salameh.”
He could still hear the creak of the wagon wheels and he too had a lot to do before morning.
He hadn’t gone more than fifty yards before there was a shout: “Who’s there?” or “Who’s that?” Ramses stopped and looked round. Not a sign of anyone. Had the damned fools got the wind up over a wandering dog or jackal? He started back, intending to put the fear of God into them before they roused the whole neighborhood. When the first shot