Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [147]
“What have they done with Margaret?” Ramses asked, accepting another cigarette.
“They deny having taken her.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know what I believe.” David passed his hand over his face. “Except that I may have made the worst mistake of my life. What are we going to do?”
“I don’t suppose your chums mean to turn me loose with profound apologies?”
“You would report this, wouldn’t you? Warn the authorities?”
He wouldn’t lie to David. What would be the point? “Yes,” he said.
“I knew you’d say that. I’ll get you out of here, Ramses, I swear. I never meant this to happen.”
“I know. Never mind that now. I’ve played the fool a few times myself. Perhaps you had better have a chat with the lads and find out what they have in mind—for both of us.”
“They’ve no reason not to trust me,” David said slowly. “I objected to them manhandling you, but they wouldn’t hold that against me. I haven’t had a chance to ask many questions.” He smiled wryly and got to his feet. “Just as well; I might have said the wrong thing. I’ll report as soon as I can.”
He was out the door before Ramses could respond. There was no need for a response or a handshake or any other acknowledgment; they had known each other too long and too well. David hadn’t forgiven himself, but he had put guilt aside until he could make amends for his mistake.
He had left the packet of cigarettes and the jar of water. Ramses helped himself to another drink, rinsed his hands and face, and made an inspection of his prison. It hadn’t been designed as such, though there was only one door, and the single window was barred—a customary precaution against thieves. Someone had occupied it recently, and briefly, to judge by the paucity of personal belongings lying about.
Which didn’t tell him much. One thing was certain, though. They couldn’t afford to turn him loose. He knew where their headquarters was located. He and David would have to find a way of escaping. If they couldn’t outwit a few ordinary thugs they didn’t deserve the reputations they had earned, but they’d have to get Margaret away as well, supposing she was here and not in another of their lairs. And time was passing. He brushed dried mud off the face of his watch and found, as he had expected, that it had not survived its watery journey. The unmoving hands accused him. Nefret would worry. He’d caused her too much worry.
Some might have accused him of naïveté for believing in David’s change of heart. They would be wrong. David couldn’t have misled him, even if he had wanted to. He knew his friend too well. “We,” David had said. “What are we going to do?”
They had been three adventurers together, David and Nefret and he, young and stupid and foolhardy. As a girl Nefret had been as reckless as they; she’d given him a few bad times too. He remembered the time she had blackmailed them into taking her along when they went to one of the worst parts of Cairo in pursuit of a valuable manuscript. They had barely made it out unharmed—with the manuscript. David might have got his throat cut that night if Nefret hadn’t acted, decisively and instantly, while he stood frozen. That bond had never been broken.
When David came back, Ramses was pacing up and down the small room. Before he could speak David said loudly, “I brought you something to eat. Sit down and keep your hands in sight. If you give us any trouble we’ll have to tie you up.”
“I won’t make trouble.” Ramses went to the bed and sat down.
The door, which had been slightly ajar, closed. David handed him a plate. Ramses studied his dinner without enthusiasm. Fuul, the popular dish consisting of mashed beans, and a chunk of bread. No utensils had been supplied. He was accustomed to eating Arab-style, though, so he dipped his fingers into the mess and forced a bite down.
“You’ll be let go in a few days,” David said, sitting down next