Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [151]
“I’ll force it,” he whispered. “Get out of the way.”
“It’s only been sixty seconds,” David said calmly. “Control your impetuosity. That’s always been your worst fault. I think…Got it.”
The door swung open, and for the first time he saw the hallway down which he had been hustled. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and dust lay thick on the floor, scuffed by footprints. On the floor lay the body of a man wearing a faded galabeeyah.
“I had to put him out,” David said softly. “Don’t even think about it, Ramses, we aren’t hanging around any longer than we have to. There’s another one at the front door. This way.”
David was reading his mind, as he always did. And he was right, as he always was.
This part of the house was the servants’ quarters. A door at the far end of the passage opened onto the salon, which was in the European style of the last century. Crumbling strips of bas-relief framed dusty mirrors and the faded remains of painted panels. Fallen plaster crunched under their feet. Moonlight filtered through cracks in the shutters.
“What about the other doors?” Ramses whispered.
“Chained, bolted, barred, and barricaded. Trust me, this is our best chance.”
He stopped in front of a pair of ornate double doors. “Let me go first,” he whispered, and eased one of them open. The rusted hinges let out a groan. David slid through the gap. Ramses moved forward and looked out into the entrance hall. A curved staircase led up to the first floor. A single lamp burned low. The man stationed at the front door wore European clothing, trousers and shirt and boots. He had been asleep, but the squeaking hinge had roused him. His eyes glinted in the lamplight.
This was the trickiest part of the whole business. Recognizing David, the fellow might not let out a yell, but he would certainly say something, if only, “What the hell are you doing here?” And he wouldn’t whisper. David had just a few seconds in which to silence him, and he couldn’t risk the sound of a struggle. Ramses stood poised, his hand on his knife, ready to move as soon as David did.
David leaped, knocking the guard flat on the floor. They rolled back and forth, the guard trying to free himself, David trying to keep his hand over the fellow’s mouth. Ramses stood over them, waiting for his chance. The grappling bodies writhed and twisted. He was afraid of hitting the wrong man.
Then the guard got one arm loose and struck. David let out a grunt of pain and fell onto his back, with the other man astride him.
“What are you waiting for?” David gasped.
The guard’s back was a temptingly vulnerable target, but Ramses couldn’t bring himself to kill, not even then. He brought the hilt of his knife down on the bare black head. It was heavy enough to stun the fellow, and Ramses finished the job with a series of hard, methodical blows. Doubled over and breathing unevenly, David unfastened the chain, which rattled as it fell loose, and drew the bolts. A voice from the head of the staircase called out, demanding to know what was going on.
The door wouldn’t open. The key wasn’t in the lock. Ramses turned the unconscious man onto his back and started investigating his pockets. Then he saw the key, hanging on a string round the fellow’s neck. A hard tug snapped the string. He forced the key into the lock and turned it.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. David flung the door open and they bolted out. The time for caution had passed, speed was their only hope now. The pursuit was underway. David stumbled, and Ramses caught him round the waist, pulling him forward. They reached the street and turned right.
There was no one in sight, not even a cart they could hide behind. Heavy footsteps pounded after them. Ahead, too far ahead, Ramses saw the lights of the Winter Palace. Panting and leaning on each other, they ran on.
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