The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [23]
“That’s all right.” The pronouns jarred, though. Us and you. “I think I will come along, if you don’t mind. There’s someone I want to see, if I can find him.”
“Who?”
He described his encounter with Musa as they walked through the ornate lobby and out the door of the hotel.
“You didn’t tell me,” Nefret said, and then laughed and took his arm. “You couldn’t get a word in, could you? Sophia told me about el-Gharbi’s being arrested. Did you know he had put the word out that we were not to be bothered?”
“I thought he might have done.”
“I never supposed I would regret the arrest of the worst procurer in Cairo.” Her face was troubled. “But Sophia says things have got worse. More injuries, and fewer of the women are coming to us.”
“Musa wants me to intervene on behalf of el-Gharbi. Shall I try to get him out?”
“Could you?”
“Do you want him out?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Nefret said despairingly. “How does one choose between two evils? Leave it alone, darling. I don’t want you getting involved with the police again. Russell would try to recruit you for some rotten job, and I won’t allow it.”
“Russell’s sticking to ordinary police work these days. There’s a new military intelligence organization—or will be, if they ever get it right. They keep shuffling people around. Clayton and the Arab Bureau are now—”
“How did you find that out?” Her eyes narrowed and her voice was sharp.
“From Wingate, for the most part. Plus odds and ends of gossip here and there.”
“Oh, very informative. Ramses, I don’t care who is doing what with whom, so long as ‘whom’ isn’t you. Promise me you’ll stay away from them. All of them.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her tight lips relaxed into one of her most bewitching smiles, complete with dimples, and as a further inducement to good behavior, she told him she would be back in time for luncheon. Ramses watched her run lightly up the steps and in the door before he turned away.
Could he get el-Gharbi paroled? The answer was probably no. Unless . . . the idea hadn’t occurred to him until Nefret asked. It had probably been Thomas Russell who reeled him in. If he could persuade Russell that el-Gharbi had information that could be of use to him . . .
The answer was still no. Russell wouldn’t make a deal with someone he despised as much as he did the procurer. Anyhow, there were only two questions Ramses would like to have answered: the whereabouts of his infuriating uncle, and the identity of the man who had sold the artifacts to Aslimi. El-Gharbi had once had contacts with every illegal activity in Cairo, but drugs and prostitution were his chief interests; he dealt with illegal antiquities and espionage only when they impinged on his primary business.
Musa was nowhere to be found, so Ramses spent a few hours wandering through the green groves of the Ezbekieh Gardens, to get the smells of el-Wasa out of his system. It was a little after midday when he returned to the hotel. Nefret was not there, so he went to see what his parents were doing. He found his mother alone in the sitting room, placidly working at a piece of embroidery. Wondering what had prompted this unusual exercise—she hated sewing and did it very badly—he joined her on the sofa.
“Where is Father?” he asked.
“He took Sennia for a walk, in order to work off some of her energy. Have you finished packing?”
“No,” Ramses admitted. “Nefret told me I mustn’t, she says I always make a mess of it.”
“Just like your father. His notion of packing is to dump the entire contents of a drawer into a suitcase and then throw his boots on top.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Ramses asked, and got a smile in return.
“I’ll ask Gargery to take care of it,” she promised.
“That’s all right, Nefret said she’d be back before luncheon. I suppose you are all ready?”
“Certainly.” She looked searchingly at Ramses. “Is something wrong? You seem somewhat pensive.”
“No, nothing is wrong. I’m sorry if I . . .” Her steely gray stare remained fixed on him, and he felt a sudden need to