The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [60]
And an arrogant fiend. He had not even bothered to conceal his nationality; his English was as good, his syntax as elegant, as my own. I felt confident he was not a guest at the hotel. Anyone could have stolen stationery from the writing room. As for his aim in proposing a rendezvous… Well, Cyrus’s reasoning was irrefutable. It agreed with my own. Even if I were cad enough to break my word and betray a helpless people in exchange for my husband’s life…
But, oh, Reader! You know little of the human heart if you suppose that honor is stronger than affection or that cool reason can overcome loving fear. If the villain had stood before me at that moment with one hand outstretched and the other holding the key to Emerson’s prison, I would have thrown myself at his feet and begged him to take what he wanted.
Emerson’s suspicions had been logical but unsubstantiated. The letter had turned them from surmise into certainty. It was the location of the Lost Oasis the fiend was after. But what, precisely, would satisfy his demands?
A map? THE map? Either he knew it existed, or he had deduced that it must. The journey we had made led into the waterless, featureless desert, and only a madman would set out unless he had precise directions. The dirty yellow dog must know we had followed a map of some kind.
To the best of my knowledge, only one copy was still in existence. There had been five to begin with, and to complicate the matter still further, two of the five had been deliberately, fatally inaccurate. I had destroyed mine—one of the false maps. Ramses’s copy, the one we had used to reach the oasis, had been lost or mislaid during our rather precipitate departure from the place. Emerson’s copy had disappeared even before we left Nubia. That left two, one accurate, one false.
The other false copy had belonged to Reggie Forthright. He had left it with me when he set off on his expedition into the desert, and, as he had requested, I had passed it on to the military authorities, together with his last will and testament, before we went into the desert. Presumably these documents had been sent to his sole heir, his grandfather, when he failed to return. This copy of the map did not concern me, for it would only have led the one who followed it to a very dry, prolonged, and unpleasant death.
The original copy of the map had been in the possession of Lord Blacktower, Reggie’s grandfather. It was now in Emerson’s strongbox in the library at Amarna House. Black-tower had given it up, along with the guardianship of Nefret, at Emerson’s emphatic request. I had urged that it be destroyed, but Emerson had overruled me. One never knew, he had said. There might come a time, he had said…
Had it come? For the second and, I am happy to say, last time, my integrity wavered under the impact of overpowering affection. I had to bite down hard on the linen pillowcase before reason again prevailed.
I could not trust the honor of a man who clearly had none. Nor would he trust mine. He could not afford to release his hostage until he was certain the information I had given him was accurate—and how could he know that until he had made the journey and returned? I could not have retraced our route or remembered the compass readings, but I did not doubt that Emerson could. He had held the compass and followed the directions. The villain did not need a map if he could force Emerson to speak.
No, the rendezvous was a ruse. Our only hope was to find Emerson and free him before…
Where could he be? Somewhere in the vicinity of Luxor still, I felt sure. The