The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [138]
Chetwode’s head drooped. “It does sound ridiculous, when you put it that way. They told me—”
“Yes, all right. Look here, there are a number of ways we could have gone about this, including your uncle’s idiotic suggestion that we wear captured Turkish uniforms and march into their headquarters demanding information.”
“I don’t see why—”
“Then I’ll tell you why.” Ramses lost the remains of his temper. “It’s a miracle you haven’t already been spotted. If I were picked up and questioned, they would probably do nothing worse than send me to the trenches, from which I would soon remove myself. If they caught you, it wouldn’t take a trained officer more than ten seconds to identify you as an Englishman. It’s not just your accent, it’s the way you stand, and sit, and move and . . . everything about you!”
Chetwode bowed his head. “I didn’t know I was that bad.”
“All of you are. It’s not your fault,” he added, more kindly. “To pass convincingly as a native of the area, you have to live there and think in the language for years. This is the safest way, and I’m trying to minimize the risks. You’ve done fine so far, but you’ll have to follow my orders and keep your notes in your head.”
“Like you? All that”—he gestured at the scattered bits of paper—“was a waste of time, wasn’t it? You’ve got it memorized.”
He was back to the hero worship. It was almost worse than his brief attempts at independent thinking. But not as dangerous. Ramses shrugged. “It’s a matter of practice.”
“A little late for me to start now, I guess.” He looked up with a rueful smile. “Sorry. I’ll do everything you say from now on.”
“Then get some sleep.”
Chetwode couldn’t keep quiet even when he slept. He snored. Lying awake, his hands under his head, Ramses was tempted to kick him, but his better nature prevailed. Let the fellow sleep. He wished he could. The night noises here weren’t the same as the ones at home; his nerves twitched at every rustle in the weeds. Since sleep was impossible, he went over and over the conversations he had held that day, picking them apart, looking for hints he might have missed.
He got a little sleep, but not much, what with Chetwode’s snores and the need to listen for suspicious sounds. At daybreak he roused his companion. Chetwode was uncharacteristically silent—sulking or brooding, or maybe fighting an attack of cold feet, for which Ramses wouldn’t have blamed him.
Suddenly Chetwode said, “What if something goes wrong?”
“I told you. Run.”
“That’s not much of a plan,” Chetwode said. His mouth twitched. Perhaps he was trying to smile.
Ramses came to a decision. One of the many worries that had prevented him from sleeping was the thought of his anxious family, waiting in Khan Yunus.
“If you make it out and I’m caught or killed,” he said, “go to the house of Ibn Rafid in Khan Yunus. It’s on the main square, the largest house in town—anyone can show you which it is. Leave a written message for . . .” He realized he didn’t know the name Emerson was currently using. “For the present master of the house, telling him what happened to me.”
“Is he one of us?” Chetwode asked.
“No.” The boy’s curiosity made him wonder if he’d done the right thing. The alternative would have been worse, though—leaving them in ignorance of his fate, possibly for days. They might even decide to invade Gaza looking for him. None of them was noted for patience; and if the worst happened, certain knowledge was better than false hope.
Chetwode asked no further questions.
After they had finished the bread and fruit left over from the previous night, Ramses led the other man on a circuitous route back toward the center of town. The mosque was near the Askalon Gate. Ramses found a coffeeshop—not the one they had visited the previous day—and they settled down to wait.
As the morning wore on, the cafés filled and people began to gather. It lacked half an hour till midday when the procession appeared. It was small but impressive, headed by half a dozen mounted men wearing baggy trousers