Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [194]
“Speculate.” Kuentz chuckled. “It will help to pass the time.”
“Be quiet, Peabody,” Emerson growled. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
So we sat in silence. The temperature rose as the sun did the same, and the surface under me was hard as stone and lumpy with pebbles. The ambience was not conducive to ratiocination, but I do not allow physical discomfort to distract me. I had been correct in believing that the body (the most recent body, I should say) was that of an innocent bystander, whom Kuentz had cold-bloodedly murdered when the poor fellow came upon him while he was levering out a section of rock. Emerson’s original theory had been incorrect (though I doubted he would ever admit it). He had suspected the great find lay concealed behind the nasty bits of mummy. Nonsense, of course; Kuentz must have known that a minor inconvenience of that sort would not prevent us from investigating. That there was such a tomb of Roman mummies seemed probable. Kuentz would not have admitted its existence had that fact not been generally known.
Putting aside these now irrelevant facts, and my raging curiosity about Kuentz’s discovery, I considered various options. There were not many. Ramses and Nefret would walk into the same trap, since we could not warn them. Kuentz could not let us go. Most probably he would force us to enter the hole in the ground once he had emptied it of its contents (what the devil could they be?) and shovel the debris back into place, sealing the entrance.
I was about to ask our jolly adversary whether I might drink from my canteen when I heard the rattle of rock. Someone was coming. Surely not Ramses, he never moved so clumsily. Unless his injuries had been more severe than I believed them to be . . .
Emerson let out a muffled swearword when Cyrus came into view, puffing and sweating and—I beheld with considerable alarm—with a rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Don’t shoot, Cyrus,” I shrieked. “He has the drop on us!”
I had never admired my old friend more. A single glance informed him of the futility of resistance, and the danger of failing to respond instantly to my order. He let the gun slip to the ground, and raised his hands.
Kuentz let out another of those infuriating guffaws. “So this is your reinforcement? You are a sensible man, Mr. Vandergelt. Go and sit by the others. We are getting to be quite a nice little party.”
Cyrus dropped heavily to the ground and passed his sleeve across his wet face. “Guess I better not risk reaching for a handkerchief,” he remarked coolly. “What’s going on?”
“He says it isn’t a tomb, Cyrus.”
“Well, right now I couldn’t care less.” But his eyes moved past Kuentz to the back of the little bay. We could see the opening now, black against the pallor of the rock. How deep was the shaft, and how much longer would it take to empty it?
One of the diggers called out. I could not make out the words, but Kuentz’s response made the question clear. “Coming. Wait.”
He was not laughing now. His eyes moved over us, one by one. We are within seconds of death, I thought.
As it turned out, I was wrong. Seeing my hand move toward my pocket, Kuentz said, “Don’t be foolish, Mrs. Emerson. There is an alternative to violence on either side. I have a card up my sleeve, you see. Nefret.”
Emerson went rigid. “What do you mean?”
“Mubashir is holding her prisoner. You’ve heard of him, I expect. A very unpleasant man. If anyone except myself approaches, he will kill her. I would hate to have that happen.”
“You are bluffing,” I said.
“My little scheme may not have succeeded,” Kuentz admitted. “But if it did, the charming lady is now with one of the most accomplished killers in Egypt. Are you willing to take the chance? Discuss it among yourselves,” he added, grinning like an ape. “But don’t move.”
He backed slowly away. The little bay was not deep; he could keep us in his sights even when he was at its far end.
“Let me kill him, Sitt,” Daoud begged.
“He would kill you first,” I said, watching Kuentz. “Wait. Cyrus, where is Ramses?”
“I don