He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [85]
“Which one of you fired the shot?” Ramses asked.
Farouk had started to get up. He sat down with a thud and held up his hands. “Why do you look at me? It was not I! I shot at the man who tried to kill you! He was hiding. He had a rifle. He . . .”
“Calm yourself,” Ramses said irritably. He laced up his shirt and slid his arm back into his robe. “A fine revolutionary you make! If you tried to creep up on a sentry he’d hear you ten yards off, and then you’d probably kill the wrong man. The rest of you keep quiet. Did any of you see who the purported assassin was?”
“No.” Asad twisted his thin, ink-stained hands. “We thought—the Turk? Don’t be angry. We searched for him, and for you. And we brought the guns back. They are—”
“I know. Have you heard anything about the next delivery?”
“Yes.” Asad nodded vigorously. “Farouk has been at Aslimi’s shop—”
“I know. Whose brilliant idea was that?”
Asad looked guilty, but then he always did. The nom de guerre he had chosen meant “lion.” It couldn’t have been more inappropriate.
“Someone had to!” he quavered. “Aslimi has taken to his bed. It is his stomach. He has—”
“Pains after he eats,” Ramses interrupted. “I know that too. Someone had to take his place, I grant you that. Why Farouk?”
“Why not?” Farouk demanded. “I know the business, the—”
“Be quiet. When is the delivery?”
“It is for a week from tomorrow—the same time—the ruined mosque south of the cemetery where Burckhardt’s tomb is.”
“I’ll be there. And, Farouk—”
“Yes, sir?”
“Initiative is an admirable quality, but don’t carry it too far.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean. Don’t be tempted to make your own arrangements with our temporary allies. They are using us for their own purpose, and that purpose is not ours. Do you suppose the Ottoman Empire would tolerate an independent Egypt?”
“But they promised,” Bashir began.
“They lied,” Ramses said curtly. “They always lie. If the Turks win, we will only exchange one set of rulers for another. If the British win, they will suppress a revolt without mercy, and most of us will die. Our best and only hope of achieving our goal is to use one side against the other. I know how to play that game. You don’t. Have I made myself clear?”
Nods and murmurs of agreement indicated that he had convinced them. Not even Farouk had the courage to ask him to elaborate. Ramses decided he had better go before someone did ask; he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.
“You are leaving us?” Farouk scrambled to his feet. “Let us go with you, to make sure you are safe. You are our leader, we must protect you.”
“From whom?” He smiled at the beautiful face that was gazing soulfully at him. The dark-fringed eyes fell, and Ramses said gently, “Do not follow me, Farouk. You aren’t very good at that either.”
He was in no mood for gymnastics that night, so he hoped the unsubtle hint would have the desired effect. The others would be suspicious of Farouk now—and serve him right, the little swine—but he made certain there was no one on his trail before he approached the tram station. Trains were infrequent at this hour, but he wasn’t in the mood for a ten-mile hike either. Squatting on a hard bench in the odorous confines of a third-class carriage, he again considered alternate methods of transportation and again dismissed them. The motorbicycles made too much noise, and Risha was too conspicuous.
It took him almost an hour to reach Maadi. He approached the house from the back. It was unlighted, as were all the others in that huddle of lower-class dwellings—the remains of the old village, now surrounded and in part supplanted by elegant new villas.