He Shall Thunder in the Sky - Elizabeth Peters [96]
“So do you. I suppose this scheme is practicable, but I wish you had left it to me.”
Stung by the criticism, I demanded hotly, “And what would you have done?”
Emerson assumed his trousers. “Stop by Aslimi’s and collect the bastard myself. I had scheduled it for tomorrow.”
He began to rummage through the drawers in search of a shirt. They are always in the same drawer, but Emerson, who can effortlessly call to mind the most intricate details of stratification and pottery sequences, can never remember which drawer. Watching the pull of muscle across his back and arms, I rather regretted having spoken with Russell. It would have been immensely satisfying to watch Emerson “collect” Farouk; he could have done it without the least effort, and then we (for of course I would have accompanied him) could have searched the shop for incriminating evidence and carried our captive back to the house in order to interrogate him.
However, I had a feeling Ramses would not have liked it. He obviously did not like what I was doing now, but the other would have vexed him even more. Emerson is rather like a bull in a china shop when he is enraged, and this matter was somewhat delicate. I felt obliged to point this out to Emerson.
“We must not be directly involved in an attack on Farouk, or the shop, Emerson; our active participation could increase the enemy’s suspicion of Ramses.”
“So what is the point of our going there this evening?”
“I only want to be there,” I replied, refolding the shirts he had tumbled into a pile. “Or rather, near by. Coincidentally. Casually. Just in case.”
I turned and selected a light but becoming cotton frock from the wardrobe. Emerson came up behind me and put his arms round my waist.
“It is important to you, isn’t it?”
I dropped the frock onto the floor and turned into his arms. “Oh, Emerson, if we are right, this could be the end of the whole horrible business! I can’t stand much more of this. Every time he goes out I am afraid he will never come back. And David could just . . . disappear. They could throw his body into the river or bury it in the desert, and we would never know what had happened to him.”
“Good Gad, my love, that extravagant imagination of yours is getting out of hand! Ramses has been in worse scrapes than this one, and David has generally been in them with him.”
I started to deny it but could not. A series of hideous images flashed through my mind: Ramses confronting the Master Criminal and demanding that that formidable gentleman return his treasure; Ramses dragged off to the lair of the vicious Riccetti, whom he had pursued accompanied only by David and the cat Bastet; Ramses strolling into a bandit camp, alone and unarmed . . . I did not doubt there were other incidents of which I had been happily unaware. Oh, yes, he had been in worse scrapes and had got out of them too, but his luck was bound to run out one day.
I was not selfish enough to remind Emerson of that. I would not be one of those whining females who require constant reassurances and petting. Despair drains the strength, not only of the one who expresses it but of the one who is told of it.
“I am sorry, Emerson,” I said, stiffening my spine literally as well as figuratively. “I will not give way again. And I have delayed us. We must hurry.”
The garment I had intended to wear was now crumpled and covered by large wet footprints. I selected another, while Emerson dried his feet again and, at my request, mopped up the puddle of water on the floor.
“What about Nefret?” he asked.
“I would rather she did not come with us, but there is no way of preventing her. In fact, her presence will make this seem like one of our customary family outings. Behave normally and leave everything to me.”
I feared I would have to go through the same thing with Ramses, who was lying in wait for me when I came down the stairs. “There is a button off your coat,” I said, hoping to forestall an argument. “I will get my sewing kit and—”
“Stab yourself in the thumb,” Ramses said, his formidable frown relaxing into a half-smile. “You hate to