The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [171]
That proved nothing. She had not deliberately set out to seduce or shame him; she had been young and foolish and infatuated. My heart swelled with pity, for her and for the man who lay sleeping on the bed, his face pale and drawn with fatigue. He had not known how much he loved her until he lost her, and he blamed himself. How wonderful it would be if I could bring father and child together again!
It was a happy thought, but not practical—for the present, at any rate. We had to get through the current difficulty first. With a sigh I slipped my hand from his and tiptoed out of the room.
“Well?” Emerson demanded. “You’ve been the devil of a long time. How much were you able to get out of him?”
“We were right about him, of course,” I replied, seating myself next to him as his gesture invited. “He is no traitor. His mission was to remove Sahin Bey—Pasha.”
“Kill him, you mean?” Ramses asked.
“He didn’t say. But surely Sethos would not—”
“Sahin is a dangerous enemy and this is wartime. However,” Ramses said thoughtfully, “the same purpose would be served if Sahin Pasha were to be disgraced and removed from his position. In the last week he’s lost me, his daughter, and now Ismail Pasha, whose flight will prove to their satisfaction that he was a British spy. Careless, to say the least!”
“More than careless,” Emerson exclaimed. “Highly suspicious, to say the least! With that lot, you are guilty until proven innocent. By Gad, my boy, I believe you are right. It’s like Sethos to concoct such a devious scheme. If the Turks believe, as they well may, that Sahin Pasha has been a double agent all along, they will have to reorganize their entire intelligence network. It could take months.”
“And in the meantime they would be without their best and cleverest man,” I added. “Sethos said that once Sahin was out of the way, they could proceed with . . . something.”
“What?”
“He didn’t say.”
“And who is ‘they’?” Nefret asked. “Who is he working for? Not Cartright and ‘that lot’?”
“He—er—didn’t say.”
Emerson brought his fist down on the table, rattling the crockery. “What did he say? Good Gad, you were with him for almost three quarters of an hour.”
“How do you know that?” I demanded. “You haven’t a watch.”
This time my attempt to distract him and put him on the defensive did not succeed. “Just answer the question, Peabody. What were you talking about all that while?”
“Personal matters. Oh, Emerson, for pity’s sake, don’t grind your teeth. I wanted to make certain he was asleep before I left him. The man is on the edge of nervous collapse. He has been living for months under conditions of intolerable strain. He must not be allowed to return to Gaza.”
“He wouldn’t be such a fool,” Emerson muttered.
“He would if he believed Sir Edward had gone there to look for him.”
“He wouldn’t be such a fool,” Emerson declared.
“He would if he believed his leader was in danger. They have been friends for a long time. I am going to talk to Mustafa; perhaps Sir Edward said something to him. And I promised to treat his sore . . . Ah, there you are, Esin. You had a good long rest.”
“Yes.” Rubbing sleepy eyes, she took a seat on the divan next to Ramses. “What has happened? Has my father—”
“Nothing has happened. You are perfectly safe. Are you hungry? There must be something left on that tray. Excuse me. I won’t be long.”
Ramses accompanied me. I had expected he or his father would do so, and on the whole I preferred Ramses to Emerson. His questions were not likely to be so provocative.
“I thought I’d better come along in case Mustafa’s sore is located in a place Father would prefer you didn’t examine,” he explained.
“That is highly unlikely.”
“I was joking, Mother.”
“I know, my dear.”
The skies were still overcast but the rain had stopped. It dripped in mournful cadence from the eaves of the arcades around the courtyard. I allowed Ramses to take my arm.
“I am of the opinion that