The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [137]
Ramses and Chetwode spent the night in the picturesque ruins of what was locally known as Samson’s tomb—actually a structure dating from the Middle Ages. Moonlight filtering through the broken walls and roof made baroque patterns on the ground, and the leaves of the ancient olive trees rustled in the night wind. As they ate the food purchased in the bazaar, Chetwode enlivened the meal with questions. He hadn’t had a chance to talk all day, and it must be wearing on him.
“You didn’t ask about Ismail Pasha,” he said accusingly.
“One tries to avoid asking direct questions.” Ramses tossed away a handful of orange peel and stretched out on the ground. “In this case it wasn’t necessary. You were there; didn’t you hear what they said about him?”
“Everybody was talking too fast,” Chetwode said sullenly. “Anyhow, it’s your job to locate the fellow.”
The hero worship was wearing thin. Ramses couldn’t have said why he was reluctant to share this bit of news; old habit, perhaps, or one of the Secret Service’s basic rules: Don’t tell anyone more than he needs to know. Maybe Chetwode did need to know this, if only to keep him from doing something impulsive.
“The holy infidel, as they call him, is going to pray at the mosque of Hashim tomorrow at midday,” Ramses explained. “There will be quite a crowd, I expect. We’ll go early and find a place where we can get a good long look at him.”
“And then?”
“Then we make a quick and, let us hope, unobtrusive exit from Gaza.”
“After only two days? Without—without doing anything?”
Ramses tried to hold on to his temper. Being responsible for this ingenuous youth was nerve-racking enough without having to deliver lectures on espionage. “You hadn’t planned on an indefinite stay, had you? We have to assume that there are certain people here who keep tabs on newcomers. One of our amiable acquaintances at the coffeeshop could be an agent of the governor or the military.”
“Really?”
“That’s how the Turks operate. They don’t trust anyone, and with good reason. They aren’t well liked in these parts. Sooner or later our presence will be known, and some bright soul may decide it would be a good idea to question us. Then there are the press gangs. They’re always looking for recruits. One more day is all we can risk.” He yawned and wondered why he was bothering. “Get some rest.”
“As soon as I finish this.”
Ramses sat up with a start. Chetwode squatted by the ruined arch of the entrance, scribbling busily by moonlight on what appeared to be a folded piece of paper. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Making notes. I didn’t recognize all the insignia of the men we saw, but if I describe them, our people can get a good idea which units—”
“Eat it.”
“What?”
“Get rid of the goddamn paper!” Chetwode stared blankly at him. He got to his feet. “If you were caught and they found that on you, you’d be dead. Or wish you were. What other incriminating objects are you carrying?”
He snatched the paper from Chetwode. Hastily, eyes wide, the boy took a pouch from the breast of his robe. It contained sheets of paper, several pencils, a small pocket torch, and a tiny bottle containing two white pills.
“Christ, I should have searched you before we left,” Ramses muttered, as he shredded the papers and stamped on the neatly sharpened pencils. “What’s in the bottle? Cyanide, no doubt. The Secret Service loves cyanide.”
“But if we’re caught—”
“We had better be able to talk our way out of it, which we could not do if we were carrying British-made writing materials. As for these . . .” He ground the innocent-looking pills under his heel. “Were you planning to ask the governor’s head torturer to hang on a minute while you fished round in your