The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [119]
They were all looking at Ramses, waiting for him to speak; Emerson caught himself on the verge of a heated reply and remained silent, possibly because his wife had administered an admonitory kick under the table. Ramses turned his head and met Nefret’s eyes.
They had been over this subject many times, with Nefret continuing to demand promises and reassurances and Ramses increasingly resentful of her refusal to accept his given word. There was no need for speech now; she knew what he wanted to do, what he felt he must do, and she knew that the decision was hers.
She had the means to hold him. A few sentences, a few words . . . She released her grip on his hand. Her fingers had left white marks.
“I’ve always felt that Ismail was unfairly treated,” she said, shaping the words with care so her voice wouldn’t tremble. “God won’t take a hand this time, so . . . so someone else must.”
PART TWO
* * *
Gateway to
Gaza
9
We arrived in Cairo on a misty gray morning. The city was swathed in fog and there was not a breath of air stirring. The feeling of oppression was not solely physical. We had had to leave our friends to cope with Jumana’s grief and Cyrus’s frustration—for that enigmatic clue of Jamil’s was driving him to distraction. I had made him promise on his solemn oath that he would not go wandering round the wilderness looking for Jamil’s tomb. He had given his word; but his hands were behind his back and I suspected he had his fingers crossed. Although Katherine did not reproach me, I knew she wondered how we could abandon her at such a time.
Emerson had pointed out that I need not abandon her. Not only was there no need for me to go to Cairo, my presence there would add unnecessary difficulties to an already difficult situation. The summons had been for—
“For Ramses,” I said, cutting into his tirade with the skill of long experience. “You weren’t asked either.”
“If you think,” Emerson announced loudly, “that I am going to let the boy go off alone to face that pack of wolves from the War Office—”
“My sentiments exactly,” I said.
Upon which, Emerson burst out laughing and pulled me into a close embrace. “Peabody, when you put your chin out and give me that steely stare, I know I’ve lost the argument.”
“You wanted me to come. Admit it.”
“Mmmf,” said Emerson, his lips against mine.
We caught the evening train and went straight to Shepheard’s. The sufragi on duty greeted us like the old acquaintances we were, and asked what he could do for us.
“Breakfast,” I said, while Emerson divested himself of various articles of clothing and tossed them around the room. Emerson had not been in favor of staying over, but even he admitted that we could not dismiss this request as brusquely as we had done with the War Office’s other attempts to bring Ramses back into the service, and catch the first train back to Luxor.
“Emphatically not,” said Ramses. “Smith told us virtually nothing, but they wouldn’t have sent for me unless they have some idea as to how to locate him. We must try to find him, Father. If he is a prisoner—”
“If?” Emerson exclaimed. “Do you believe he is a turncoat and a traitor?”
Once upon a time Emerson’s intimidating scowl would have reduced Ramses to silence. Now he met those narrowed blue orbs squarely and smiled a little. “It’s odd to hear you defend him, Father. Good God, I don’t want to believe it either! But the man is an enigma—embittered, cynical, and unpredictable.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “Well. The sooner we find out what Murray has to say, the better. Shall we go?”
“General Murray?” I repeated. “What has he to do with this? You haven’t even made an appointment.”
“You know my policy, Peabody—go straight to the top and avoid underlings. He will see me whenever I damn well decide to see him,” said Emerson. “Are you ready, Ramses?”
I would have insisted upon accompanying them if I had believed there was the slightest chance the general would allow me or Nefret to take part in the discussion. Men are singularly limited