The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [145]
“Through that gate,” she panted. “Turn to the left—”
“Yes, right. Uh—God bless you.”
He pulled the door shut and headed, not for the gate, but for the wall to his right. How long would it be before they discovered he was gone, and warned the defenders that an English spy was on the loose? Maybe not for hours. Maybe a lot sooner. He couldn’t take the chance of waiting until morning and strolling out the way he had come.
Once over the wall, he found himself in a typical Middle Eastern street, narrow, dusty, and extremely dark. His suspicions had been incorrect; there was no one lurking outside the gate.
He had exaggerated a trifle when he told the girl he knew where he was, but it didn’t take long to orient himself. The lacy, domed minaret of the Great Mosque pricked the moonlit sky to the southwest. He was near the Serai, then, the governor’s palace, and the quickest way out of town was westward.
It took him longer than he had hoped. He had to avoid the main east-west street, which was well lighted, with men standing guard at the entrances to official buildings. The lanes wound in illogical curves, and twice he had to climb a wall to avoid patrols. Luckily the marching men made enough noise to warn him of their approach.
Three miles of sand dunes separated Gaza from the Mediterranean. There was plenty of cover—the ruins of the ancient seaport of Gaza—and the picket lines were widely spaced, since their primary purpose was to guard against agents who might be landed from the sea. The first pallid light of dawn was showing in the east before Ramses waded out into the water. He had hoped to “borrow” a fishing boat under cover of darkness, but it was too late now; a boat would be seen and fired upon. With a heartfelt groan, he shed Sahin’s caftan and began to swim.
“He’s all right,” Nefret said. “Believe me. I always know when he isn’t.”
I wanted to believe her. The bond between them was so strong that she had always been able to sense, not so much danger—Ramses was in trouble a good deal of the time—but an imminent threat to his life. She didn’t look as if she had slept well, though. None of us had. It had been almost twenty-four hours since we got the word that Ramses had been captured and we had spent most of that time discussing what we should do about it. Emerson does not bear waiting well. By late afternoon he had walked a good ten miles, pacing back and forth across the tiled floor of the saloon.
“We cannot act yet,” I insisted, for the tenth time. “Give him a little more time. He’s got himself out of worse situations, and at least we know he was alive when he was last seen. Emerson, for pity’s sake, stop pacing. What you need is a nice hot cup of tea. Help me, Nefret.”
Emerson said he did not need the confounded tea, but I needed something to do and so, in my considered opinion, did Nefret. The confidence she had expressed to us had not rendered her indifferent to the fate of one dearer to her than life itself; her breath came quick and fast, and her hands shook so badly I had to prepare the tea myself.
Suddenly she sprang up. It was anticipation, not fear, that had made her tremble—the unbearable, final moments of waiting for an event greatly desired. As she turned toward the door, it opened, and there he stood. There was no mistaking him, though he was wearing a British uniform, and the brim of his pith helmet shadowed his face.
I had not really been worried. Nefret’s instincts had never been wrong. All the same, I felt as if a set of stiff rods had been removed from my back and limbs.
“Ah,” said Emerson, trying to appear unconcerned. “I had begun to believe I might have to go looking for you.”
“I had begun to think so too.” Ramses removed his hat and unbuckled the belt with its attached holster. “You’ll never believe . . . Nefret!”
Her face had gone dead-white. Ramses sprang to catch her as she crumpled. He held her to him in a close embrace, with her head resting on