Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [109]
“Allow me to introduce my nephew by marriage, Mr. David Todros,” I said, stepping forward. “You are no doubt familiar with his work. Where is Howard?”
“He has left for the day,” Callender said. “And I am about to do so. Er—Todros. A journalist?”
“No, sir,” David replied.
“An Egyptologist,” I said, stressing the word. “And an artist of some standing. He was greeting some of his kinsmen, as you saw.”
“Yes. I have heard of him. Related to your former reis, Abdullah, I believe.” Having established David’s status as a “native,” he nodded brusquely and then called out to the spectators: “The Valley is closing. Everyone must leave.”
“How rude,” Nefret said indignantly. Callender gave her a harried look and set off along the path toward the entrance, moving quite briskly for a stout man. In the same carrying voice Nefret announced, “That order does not apply to US.”
Once Callender was out of sight, everyone relaxed. The workers put down their tools and lit cigarettes, and Reis Girigar began chatting with David. Some of the spectators left; the guards extracted baksheesh from those who wanted to stay on; and Miss Minton sat down on the wall and scribbled in her notebook, ostentatiously ignoring both Kevin and Sethos. Except for Cyrus, who stood staring hungrily at the stone-cut steps, the others lost interest and wandered off. Jumana attached herself to Nadji and led him off in the opposite direction.
“I am having a severe attack of déjà vu,” I said softly to Ramses. “There are too many people lurking, and the tomb is accessible again. Why hasn’t Carter installed the gate?”
“It isn’t a simple procedure,” Ramses replied in equally soft tones. “There will have to be a framework, bolted into solid rock. All the same…”
He broke off, frowning at Kevin, who was eavesdropping shamelessly. “You anticipate trouble?” the latter asked eagerly.
“Go away, Kevin,” I said.
Ramses strolled off along the path, his eyes moving from side to side. I hastened to catch him up. We had not gone far when the air was rent by a horrific burst of sound—not from behind us, near Tutankhamon’s tomb, but farther ahead, at the entrance to one of the side wadis. A cloud of pale dust rose heavenward. Ramses broke into a run. “Stay back,” he shouted.
Naturally I proceeded, at the quickest pace I could manage. When I reached him the dust was still settling. A ragged gap had been blown out of the path and the hillside next to it. Fallen stone littered the ground. Fallen stone and…
I looked away. “Who?” I gasped.
Ramses turned something over with his foot. It left a hideous smear on the dust. “Farhat ibn Simsah.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Don’t look, Mother.”
I tried not to, but there is a ghastly compulsion that draws the eyes to scenes of horror. Ramses interposed his person between me and the torn, bloody remains, and seized me as I swayed. I heard voices and running footsteps, heard Ramses call out to the others to stay away; then I was lifted into a pair of strong arms that could belong to only one individual.
“Oh, Emerson,” I cried. “You came. I knew you would!”
“Curse it,” said Emerson. Strong emotion robbed him of further speech, but I knew what he would have said had he been able, and the comfort of his embrace restored me.
“I am not harmed, Emerson. I am quite myself again. You can put me down.”
“Not on your life,” said Emerson, and bore me away.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
As Ramses had known she would, Nefret insisted on having a look at Farhat, or what remained of him. One look was enough to satisfy her physician’s conscience that nothing could be done for the man. Ramses stood by while she inspected the ruined body, hating what she was doing but knowing he couldn’t have prevented her.
“He must have been bending over the…whatever it was…when it exploded,” she said, rising to her feet. “The blast caught him full in the chest and head. Dynamite?”
“I don’t think so. We mustn