Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [125]
‘Take all the time you like,’ John said, sneering audibly. ‘We’re in no hurry.’
‘Damn it, how the hell could we plan ahead?’ I demanded. ‘I didn’t know how long it would take me to get into the house, or where in the house you were. It might have taken me all night to locate you.’
‘All night?’
Feisal had turned off onto a narrow dirt road bordering one of the irrigation canals. I could see a dark glimmer of water below. On the other side of the road tall stalks of some kind of vegetation, sugarcane or reeds, blocked my view.
I didn’t need John to tell me I must have been out of my mind to think I could ramble around the house for hours on end without being caught. I had been out of my mind. Since I couldn’t think of anything sensible to say, I kept quiet.
‘All right,’ John said. He sounded as if he were choking. ‘Perhaps this is not an appropriate moment to pursue that subject. We’ve got to come to a decision about where we’re going next. God knows I’m reluctant to follow Schmidt along the chaotic pathways of his imagination, but I hate to think of the havoc he can wreak wandering through Egypt alone and uncontrolled.’
‘He’s done better than we have so far,’ I said indignantly. ‘That message he left was danmed ingenious.’
‘He’s done better than you have, you mean,’ was the unkind reply. ‘And on the basis of the ingenuity he has displayed thus far I’m willing to consider the possibility that he tried to give us additional information.’
‘Johnny,’ Feisal interrupted. ‘No one admires the precision of your syntax more than I, but could you possibly cut it short?’
‘I’m thinking of those travel brochures,’ John said. ‘He wouldn’t dare underline or circle a name, but the one on the top of the pile had been opened and refolded. The sites mentioned were all in Middle Egypt. Beni Hassan, Amarna – ’
‘Nefertiti!’ I exclaimed. ‘She was on the top of the pile too. The bag he bought at the bazaar, with her picture on it –
‘Amarna,’ John muttered. ‘I don’t see how . . . He couldn’t possibly . . .’
‘Johnny,’ Feisal began.
‘Yes, right. We need more information before we reach a final decision as to our route. I don’t suppose this miracle of automotive engineering possesses a radio? No, that would be too much to ask. Stop at the first café – or, even better, petrol station.’
When we stopped, not far from the access road to the bridge, I withdrew into the darkest corner and covered my head with a scarf while Feisal got out for a man-toman chat with the attendant and the other guys who were hanging around the pumps.
He wasn’t gone long. When he came back I could tell by his expression he had heard something he didn’t like.
John waited until Feisal had turned off onto a side road. ‘Well?’
‘My career in crime is burgeoning,’ Feisal said sourly. ‘It seems I am now a kidnapper as well as a notorious terrorist.’
‘Who’d you kidnap?’ I asked curiously.
‘You, of course.’ Feisal made another sharp turn. ‘There’s a taftish – checkpoint – ahead, on this side of the bridge. It’s a safe bet they’ll be watching for us.’ He spun the wheel again and the car squeezed itself into a narrow lane between walls that scraped the fenders. ‘We should pick up the east-bank road a couple of miles farther on.’ He let out a thin scream and slammed on the brakes. The rider of the donkey glanced over his shoulder and made a rude gesture. I assume it was a rude gesture.
‘Bad luck, old chum,’ John said insincerely. ‘I had hoped they wouldn’t get on to you so soon, but I suppose it was inevitable, when we all turned up missing at the same time.’
‘So Foggington-Smythe is in Larry’s pay,’ I said.
‘Not necessarily. He might have mentioned