Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [166]
“And who else?”
It was, surprisingly, Sethos, who lost his temper. “The jingoists aren’t the cause, they are the means used by the real instigators. Behind them are the people who expect to make money from British control. Oil in Iraq, cotton and foodstuffs in Egypt. And cheap labor in both countries. The financiers, the leaders of industry. The shadowy group I spoke of. Shadowy because they will never be held to account. In the end it all comes down to money. That’s all they care about; they are indifferent to the lives they affect and the deaths for which they are ultimately responsible.”
Smith appeared somewhat put out. Sethos had anticipated his speech and delivered it with a passion he could never have matched.
“Essentially, that is the case,” he said, propping his long chin on his folded hands.
“Then these people will never be brought to justice,” I said.
“Never. Nor even identified. They don’t give direct orders; they confer and hold committee meetings and drop veiled hints.”
“‘Who will free me from this turbulent priest?’” I murmured.
“Not even as direct as that, Mrs. Emerson,” Smith said. “But the message is clear to their subordinates, and so it goes down the chain of command, until it reaches the individuals who direct the actual operations. Even supposing we could trace the initial instigators, we couldn’t hold them accountable. They would express horror and dismay and deny that they so much as hinted at such a thing.”
“It’s a damned depressing picture,” said Emerson, chewing on his pipe.
“I find it so,” said Smith; and I saw a trace of emotion flicker across that masklike face. “All we can do is forestall, if possible, the deadly results and perhaps identify a few of the minor criminals. At least we’ve got a line on two of them. Malraux and Farid.”
“I am so sorry,” I said, with a somewhat hypocritical air of regret. “But I’m afraid you haven’t. Suzanne and Nadji have nothing to do with this.”
“Then why did they run off?” Emerson demanded. “Run…Oh, no. No.” He clapped his hand to his brow. “Don’t tell me this is another of your—your—”
“Precisely,” I said. “They ran off—to be married. Suzanne did her best to win her grandfather over to the idea without actually asking his permission. She was afraid to risk that, but she hoped being with Nadji and other worthy Egyptians, seeing our fond relations with them would soften his prejudices. It was, as I could have told her, a forlorn hope. When he insisted on her returning to England with him, she felt she had no other choice but to elope with her lover.”
Ramses closed his mouth, swallowed strenuously, and said in a very gentle voice, “Would you mind explaining, Mother, how you arrived at this remarkable deduction? Are you going to claim you knew all along those two were in love?”
“As your father has indicated, I enjoy a certain reputation for settling romantic affairs,” I said modestly. “The complete indifference those two displayed toward each other was highly significant. They went to considerable lengths to ensure we would hire them both: Nadji for his unquestioned competence, and Suzanne because of the portfolio he had prepared for her. Who else would have conspired in that deception? You may have found your artist in Nadji, Cyrus.”
“Good,” Cyrus said, staring.
“Then where are they?” Nefret asked. “Why haven’t we been able to find a trace of them?”
“They have gone to earth with one of Nadji’s friends on the West Bank, I expect,” I said. “You believed he had none? But he was in the habit of visiting a certain coffeeshop in Luxor. He made acquaintances there.”
Emerson, who was familiar with my methods, hid a smile behind his big hand, on the pretense of fiddling with his pipe. Smith, who ought to have been familiar with them, eyed me askance.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Emerson, but all this is hindsight. And as yet unverified.”
I couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. He had tried so hard, and he so wanted to punish someone. However, truth must out, whatever the consequences.