Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [127]
‘Hmmm. Then we’ll have to think of another way, won’t we?’
‘It doesn’t sound to me as if there is another way,’ I remarked. ‘We’ll have to cross at Asyut and risk the roadblocks.’
‘Feisal is being modest,’ John said gently. ‘I’m sure he can suggest an alternative. He has friends everywhere. Knowledgeable friends. Right, old chum?’
‘Damn it, Johnny, I haven’t had anything to do with that crowd for years. It was one of those youthful enthusiasms – ’
‘I quite understand,’ John said, in the same quiet, very unpleasant voice. ‘No bright, idealistic lad or lassie can resist the lure of revolution. All the same . . .’
The silence from the front seat was practically deafening. It seemed to satisfy John, though.
I don’t know how long I slept, but I was stiff and cold when I woke. The car had stopped and the view out of the window next to me was so beautiful I forgot, for a few moments, that this wasn’t exactly the time to enjoy the scenery.
The moon had risen. Now at the full, it hung over the cliffs like a silver balloon. In the cold, bright light the rocky ramparts looked like glaciers and the desert floor like new-fallen snow. I had never seen so many stars.
My window was closed, but the one on the passenger side in front was partly open. I could hear their voices clearly.
‘You won’t need that,’ Feisal said.
‘I hope not. Just so you and your friend understand that I’ll use it if I must.’
I shifted position so I could see. Feisal leaned against the front fender, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the chill of the night air. John faced him, a few feet away. The moonlight was so bright I could see every detail.
‘I don’t doubt it in the least,’ Feisal said. He sounded more amused than apprehensive. ‘Amazing. I never thought I’d see the day . . . Now keep calm, Johnny. I wasn’t objecting to the aim, only to the means. It’s been five years since I went that route, and I don’t know whether I can persuade, bully, or bribe Amr into lending us the jeep. We haven’t much money left. Threatening him would be a serious error, however. Put the gun away, okay?’
‘Give him this.’ John unstrapped his wristwatch.
Feisal took the watch. ‘All right, let’s make the attempt.’ They got back into the car. John turned and looked back at me. ‘Awake?’
‘Yes. Where are we?’
‘A few miles north of Asyut. Any further questions?’
‘How – ’
‘Save them. And don’t join in any discussion that may ensue. This is a conservative area. They don’t approve of uppity women.’
The huddle of low, flat-roofed buildings a few miles farther on might, if one were charitably inclined, be described as a village. No lights showed at the windows of the houses. There was a café there is always a café, but even it was dark.
To give myself credit, which I am always inclined to do, I felt sure I knew the answers to most of the questions I might have asked. The individual in the house on whose door Feisal was knocking had to be a member of the organization to which he had once belonged – whatever that might be. Even experts in Middle East politics had some trouble keeping track of the various revolutionary groups and how their aims and methods differed. I wasn’t familiar with the ramifications, but I knew that many students had been attracted to the radical movements because they promised an end to government corruption and inefficiency.
That’s what they all promise. And sooner or later, in the Middle East or Ireland or the States, the noble aims are distorted; violence inspires answering violence, and often the ones who suffer most are the poor devils both sides claim to be defending. The repressive measures of the State Security forces had won a lot of waverers over to the revolutionary cause, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that everyone in the village was a secret sympathizer. We were in Middle Egypt now; the city of Asyut, across the river, had been and probably still was one of the centres of rebellion – or terrorism, depending on which side you supported.