Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [15]
“I don’t like it one damned bit, Mother. But…”
Her voice trailed off. “Think of the children,” Emerson said. “If we don’t respond, these people may go after them next.”
She had thought of it. Her eyes were wide and her cheeks a trifle paler than usual. It was the only argument that could have convinced her, but her distress was so obvious that Ramses couldn’t refrain from protesting.
“That’s a low, underhanded trick, Father. The children are amply protected.”
“Any guard can be circumvented,” his mother said. “And Charla is too inclined to trust a friendly face. Nefret, I believe we must let them go—and that we must remain, on the remote chance that this is a trick to get us all out of the house.”
Emerson’s jaw dropped. She was one step ahead of him, as usual.
“Now see here, Peabody,” he began.
“Oh, I don’t believe for a moment that any such thing will happen,” she said soothingly. In fact, she was half hoping it would; her hands were clenched, as if around the handle of a weapon, and her lips were curved in a little smile. “Do you go on, then, you and Ramses. And for pity’s sake don’t behave foolishly.”
“That didn’t work out the way I expected,” Emerson muttered, as he and Ramses started toward the riverbank. “You don’t think there is a chance—”
“No, Father, I don’t. Let’s get this over with.”
Daoud’s son Sabir took them across to the East Bank. Emerson told him to wait, and they started for the rendezvous point, by the entrance to the Temple of Luxor. The gate was closed, but a nearby light showed the form of the man they had been told to expect, wearing a galabeeyah, with a distinctive red-striped scarf over his shoulders. As soon as he was sure they had spotted him he started walking away from the temple.
“Shall we take him?” Ramses asked.
“No, no. He can’t be the only one involved. Wait till we can get our hands on the rest of them.” Emerson’s teeth closed with a snap.
They followed the flitting form of their guide through the streets of the tourist areas, past the Luxor Hotel, where colored lanterns swung from the trees of the garden, and into the back alleys of the city. Ramses moved closer to his father.
“This is beginning to look like a bad idea,” he said softly.
“Quite the contrary.” Emerson didn’t bother to lower his voice. “The more insalubrious the surroundings, the greater the chance that something interesting will occur.”
“Are you armed?”
“Me? Good Gad, no. Why should I be?”
He stumbled. Ramses caught him by the arm. His eyesight was better than his father’s, and there was very little light here. The form ahead of them was as insubstantial as a shadow, vanishing and reappearing whenever a ray of moonlight found its way into the narrow alleyway. Then it seemed to fade into the darkness, and was gone.
Emerson came to a halt. “Where’s he got to?”
Ramses took his torch from his pocket. Its beam failed to locate their guide, or anyone else. The buildings on either side were those of small shops, closed for the night. Some had living quarters above, but no lights showed. The windows and doors were barred. But just ahead a shape of blackness indicated an open door.
“Ah,” said Emerson and plunged ahead before Ramses could stop him. He caught Emerson up at the door and pointed his torch into the room beyond. At first he saw nothing to cause alarm—a counter, shelves holding tinned and packaged food, boxes of wilting lettuce and dried lentils, open bags of staples such as flour and sugar, a few stools.
The door slammed into his back and propelled him against Emerson, who staggered forward into the room, knocking over a stool.
“Stop there,” ordered a voice in Arabic. “Put out the light.”
Ramses didn’t bother to turn round. He could sense their presence behind him—two men—no, three. And the door had closed with a depressingly solid sound.
“Don’t switch it off,” Emerson ordered.
“No, sir,” said Ramses, who had had no intention of doing so.
There