The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [178]
The capture of the chief of the Turkish secret service ended any doubts the military might have entertained about letting us leave. General Chetwode himself called to congratulate us, accompanied by several of his staff. We had quite a time getting rid of them.
“Medals again,” Emerson grumbled. “They seem to think we intended this all along.”
“You encouraged them to think so,” Ramses said. At Nefret’s insistence he was reclining on one of the divans. She had had to put a few stitches into the cut, which had bled copiously. “It was inspired lying, Father.”
“At least we got a bottle of whiskey out of them,” Emerson said complacently. “Much more useful than medals. Here, my boy, this will put a little color into your face.”
“I would like some too,” said Esin.
“Spirits are not suitable for young ladies,” I said, sipping my own whiskey appreciatively. It had been quite a busy day, what with one thing and another, and I was not in a good humor with the girl. After we freed her she carried on quite extravagantly, and she had accepted the news of her father’s capture with unbecoming equanimity.
“Aren’t you at all concerned about your father?” I asked.
“What will happen to him?”
“He is a prisoner of war,” Emerson said. “Do you want to see him before we leave? I can probably arrange that.”
“No.” She shivered. “He tried to take me away. He says he loves me, but he will not allow me to do what I want. Is that love?”
“Sometimes,” Nefret said.
The silence that followed was broken by a penetrating shriek from outside the house. I could not make out all the words, but there were references to the will of Allah and the blessings of various prophets, up to and including the greatest, that is, Mohammed. When Sir Edward had arrived on the scene, I did not know, but he must have seen the military go off with their prisoner. This was his farewell to us, and none of us doubted that his chief would soon be informed of the news.
Emerson smiled. “Clever beggar, isn’t he?”
Selim, who had missed all the excitement and was still brooding about it, said under his breath, “Beggar. Yes. He is a clever man. And so is—” He broke off, with a glance at me.
“We will talk about it later, Selim,” I said, as softly as he had done.
“As you say, Sitt. So—it is over?”
“Yes. It is over.”
PART THREE
* * *
The Hand
of the God
12
Sped on by every assistance the military could provide, we reached Cairo in less than two days. Selim left us off at Shepheard’s just in time for tea. He was to take the motorcar on to a prearranged location and leave it. What would become of it after that I did not know and did not ask; I was only happy to be rid of the thing, for I had feared Emerson—and Selim—would want to keep it. They did want to, very badly; but Emerson admitted it might be a trifle difficult to explain how we had acquired it.
The terrace was crowded, and our appearance aroused a certain amount of ill-bred attention, even from acquaintances who ought not have been surprised at anything we did. I heard Mrs. Pettigrew’s trumpeting voice address her husband: “There are the Emersons again, Hector, looking even more disreputable than usual. It is positively embarrassing to be acquainted with them.” I waved my parasol at her in a conspicuous manner.
There was some justice in her description; two days’ motoring on military roads does not improve an individual’s appearance, and our wardrobes had been deficient to start with. However, Ramses and Emerson in Arab dress, Nefret and I in sadly crumpled European attire, and Esin, enveloped in veils, as Nefret’s maidservant, occasioned no comment from the well-trained staff of Shepheard’s, and I was not surprised to learn our old rooms had been reserved for us. The luggage we had left was brought to us, so for the first time in days we were able to clean up and dress in proper clothing. There were a number of messages, most of them from Cyrus or Katherine, asking when we would return to Luxor. They had no news to report, except that Jumana was still sulking