The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [90]
Ali Hassan sighed. “I know,” he said mournfully.
“You had better go at once, Peabody,” Emerson said. “Take Abdullah and one or two other men; and perhaps Karl—”
“Won’t I do instead?” a voice inquired.
The sun set O’Connell’s hair ablaze. Only his head was visible around the doorjamb, and that gave the impression of being ready to disappear at the slightest sign of hostility. His smile was as broad and cocky as ever, though.
“Humph,” said Emerson. “I looked for you earlier, Mr. O’Connell.”
“I thought I had better keep out of your way at first,” the journalist replied. Emerson’s mild tone had reassured him; he stepped out from behind the shelter of the wall, his hands tucked in his pockets. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” he went on.
“Grrr,” said Emerson. (I assure you, there is really no other way of reproducing this sound.)
“Honestly.” O’Connell’s blue eyes widened. “And it’s as well I did, now isn’t it, Professor? You don’t want Mrs. E. wandering off into the hills without a man to protect her.”
“I don’t need a man to protect me,” I said indignantly. “And if I did, Abdullah would be more than adequate.”
“To be sure, to be sure. You’d be a match for Cormac himself, ma’am, and that’s the truth. Just let me come along now, for my own sake, like the sweet lady you are; and I swear by the gods of old Ireland that after I’ve written my story I’ll bring it straight to you.”
Emerson and I exchanged glances.
“What about Mary?” I inquired. “Will you leave her here, with Karl? He admires her very much, you know.”
“She’s still not speaking to me,” O’Connell admitted. “But, don’t you see, this is the story of the year! ‘New Victim of the Pharaoh’s Curse! Our correspondent on the scene! The Courage of Mrs. Emerson, parasol in hand!’” Emerson growled again at this. I confess I found it rather amusing.
After a moment Emerson said grumpily, “Very well. O’Connell, fetch Abdullah. Ask him to bring the necessary equipment—ropes, lanterns—and meet us here in ten minutes, with two of his best men.”
Grinning from ear to ear like an Irish Brownie, O’Connell rushed off. Heedless of the staring Ali Hassan, Emerson caught me in a fond embrace.
“I hope I shan’t regret this,” he muttered. “Peabody, take care.”
“And you.” I returned his embrace. “Go now, Emerson, before darkness falls to endanger us even more.”
II
It was, of course, impossible to organize an expedition of that nature in ten minutes; but scarcely half an hour had passed before Abdullah arrived with the required supplies. His grave face was its usual copper mask, but I knew him well enough to sense a deep perturbation, and the behavior of the two men he had selected to accompany us was even more revealing. They looked like prisoners being led to execution.
“Do they know what we seek?” I whispered to Abdullah.
“I could not keep the redheaded man silent,” Abdullah replied, with a hostile glance at O’Connell. “Sitt Hakim, I fear—”
“So do I. Let us go, quickly, before they have time to think and become more afraid.”
We set out, with Ali Hassan slouching along ahead. O’Connell also seemed subdued; his eyes constantly darted from side to side, as if he were taking note of the surroundings for the story he would later write.
Ali Hassan led us directly to the cliffs behind Deir el Bahri. Instead of taking the path that led to the Valley of the Kings, he went south and soon began to climb, scrambling over the jagged rocks with the agility of a goat. I rejected O’Connell’s attempts to assist me. Thanks to my parasol and my training I was in far better shape than he, and he was soon forced to use both hands in the climb. Abdullah came close behind me. I could hear him muttering, and although I could not make out the words I fancied I knew what was bothering him. Ali Hassan seemed to choose, deliberately, the most difficult path. At least twice I saw easier ways of ascent than the ones he selected.
At last, however, we reached the top of the plateau, and the going became easier. If we had