The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [91]
“Yes, yes,” Emerson said impatiently. “But the longer you delay, the more time the Turks will have to bring in reinforcements and dig more trenches. You’ll have to hit Beersheba at the same time you attack Gaza. There’s plenty of water there.”
“I’m sure General Murray would be interested in hearing your views, sir,” Cartright said.
I cleared my throat loudly, and Emerson recollected himself. “If he needs me to point out the obvious, his staff isn’t doing its job. Good day, gentlemen.”
He took me firmly by the arm and stalked off, leaving the two officers no choice but to mount and depart. “Hell and damnation,” he remarked.
“Quite,” said Ramses, catching us up. “Extraordinarily forthright, wasn’t he?”
“Too forthright,” Emerson muttered. “Why did he tell us so much?”
Ramses’s lips tightened. After a moment, he said, “There is no reason why you should remember; but Cartright was one of the three patriots with whom I had that rude encounter at the Turf Club two years ago. He was with the Egyptian Army at the time.”
“The man who struck you in the face while two others held your arms?” I demanded indignantly. “Good Gad. If I’d known that I would not have been so courteous.”
“No, he was one of the ones who held me,” Ramses corrected. “Something has brought about a radical change in his attitude.”
“We can guess what it is,” Emerson grunted. “He’s with intelligence now, and someone has told him about you. Secret Service! Good Gad, they might as well shout their business from the rooftops.”
I said, “The news of your heroism—” Ramses made a wry face, and I went on firmly, “That is what it was, and I will call it what it was. But perhaps the information has not spread as widely as we suppose.”
“I hope it has spread,” Nefret said. She raised her chin defiantly. “I hope everyone knows.”
None of us had to request elucidation of this statement. Nefret lived in constant fear of his becoming again involved in a mission like the one that had almost cost him his life two years ago. Accepting another assignment would have been dangerous enough even when his former activities were known only to a few—particularly when one of those few was the head of the Turkish Secret Service. It would have been suicidal if every intelligence officer in Cairo knew. As Ramses had once remarked, there is no point in being a spy if everybody knows you are one.
“I’ve told you before,” Ramses said, addressing his wife in a voice that brought a flush to her cheeks, “that the subject is closed. May we drop it, please?”
“Quite,” said Emerson quickly. Though he is, as his conduct proves, a firm believer in thrashing out differences of opinion on the spot and with vigor, disharmony between his beloved children upsets him. “We’ve wasted enough time on this nonsense. Back to work, eh?”
I had myself been a trifle surprised at the harshness of Ramses’s tone. However, I did not suppose that his ill humor would last or that she would be unreceptive to an attempt at apology; and so it proved. Sometime later I happened to observe that neither was in sight; and since it was almost time for luncheon I entered the vestibule of the temple, where I had set up my little shelter. They were not there, but I heard a murmur of voices from behind one of the columns that separated the vestibule from the pronaos. It was a very nice column, with the head of the goddess Hathor instead of a capital. I moved forward to examine it more closely.
I did not tiptoe or try to walk silently, but neither of them was aware of my presence until they saw me. “Damnation!