The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [118]
“No,” she said. “Thank you. Mr. Smith, how did you find out?”
“Find out what?”
She was too clever to be tricked into an admission. “Whatever it is you know.”
Smith gave her a nod of grudging admiration. “If you are referring to my knowledge of the—er—relationship between you and the individual in question, I—uh— Please, Mrs. Emerson, won’t you let me offer you something to drink?”
“No. There were a good many people present the evening we ourselves learned of that relationship,” she went on thoughtfully. “Military persons. One of them overheard our conversation and reported it to you?”
“Only a few words of the conversation, but they were enough to arouse his curiosity. Eventually the word got back to me, and aroused my curiosity. It took my associate in England a while to find the proof—birth and death certificates, records of certain financial transactions—you know the procedure. I haven’t told anyone else, Mrs. Emerson.”
“No, you hoard information like coins, paying it out only when you can gain something” was the furious response. “Do not expect thanks for your discretion from us.”
“Never mind, Mother,” Ramses said. “That isn’t the issue now. He’s won the first round. Perhaps we should let him explain further.”
It was a damning story. A few weeks earlier, a man calling himself Ismail Pasha had appeared in Constantinople. The word soon spread among the faithful: he had been an infidel, a high-ranking member of the British Secret Service, who had come over to the true religion and the right cause. He had been seen in public with German officers and also with Enver and the other members of the ruling triumvirate, richly dressed and clanking with jewels. He had prayed at the mosques, and on at least two occasions he had addressed the crowd with an eloquence that brought them to their knees. For surely no one could be so familiar with the words of the Prophet unless he himself was a holy man!
Shortly thereafter, one of the local agents in British pay was caught and executed. It was pure luck that the others in the group got away. Sethos was one of the few who knew of that particular network; he had been sent to Constantinople to meet with its members.
“That isn’t proof of anything,” Emerson declared.
“No,” Smith agreed. “However, he has not been heard from since. Attempts to contact him through the usual channels have received no response. His assumed name is interesting, too, don’t you think?”
“Ismail is a very common name,” Emerson said.
“The name of the son of Abraham by his handmaiden Hagar, who was cast out into the wilderness, lest he challenge the position of Abraham’s legitimate son,” Smith said, his thin lips curving in a cynical smile. “ ‘His hand will be against every man and every man’s hand will be against him.’ ”
“I believe I am better acquainted with Holy Writ than you,” Nefret’s mother-in-law said with a sniff. “God saved Ismael and blessed him and promised to make him—er—fruitful.”
“Confound it, Peabody, will you stop talking about the Bible?” Emerson was trying not to shout; the words squeezed between his lips like rumbles of distant thunder. “Prove it, you say. How?”
“That should be obvious.” Smith knew he had won. He leaned back in his chair. “Ismail Pasha is now in Gaza. Find him. You will know if he is the man we believe him to be—or that he is not. If he is that man, and you can bring back evidence that he is a prisoner or under duress, we will take steps to free him—unless you can do the job yourself.”
“That’s rather a tall order,” said Emerson. “Even for us.”
“You mistook my meaning, Professor. That’s the trouble with English, it is too imprecise about pronouns.”
“So,” said Emerson, after a long moment. “You want Ramses to go after the fellow. Alone.”
“It’s the only way, Professor. You surely don’t suppose that the four of you could cross enemy lines in disguise? Individually you are only too recognizable; as a group you are unmistakable. It’s a job for one man, and there is only one man