Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [26]
“I asked you to refrain from interrupting me. Why did your employer not respond more informatively to Emerson’s telegram?”
“His reply was the simple truth, Mrs. Emerson. We have no idea where the individual in question may be, and we are as anxious as you to locate him.”
“So you agree that the attackers were searching for—er—that individual?”
“It seems likely,” Wetherby said cautiously. Lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder, he went on. “It has been almost six weeks since his last report.”
“And he was at that time where?”
It goes against the grain for anyone in the secret service to give up any information whatever. Reluctantly he murmured, “Syria.”
“Doing what?”
“Now really, Mrs. Emerson, you cannot expect me to answer that.”
“The Official Secrets Act? Such an unnecessary nuisance, these rules. Answer this, then. Who might his adversaries be?”
“God only knows,” said Mr. Wetherby, in a burst of genuine feeling.
“You ought to be in a position to hazard a guess, since you know the nature of his mission,” I persisted.
“I know what he was supposed to be doing, Mrs. Emerson.”
“And you will say no more? I see.” I glanced at my lapel watch. “I have not time to continue the conversation, Mr. Wetherby. You have been singularly unhelpful.”
“Believe me, Mrs. Emerson—”
“Yes, yes. If it were up to you…Please remind Mr. Smith that he once offered to do anything possible to assist me or my family. We are in need of that assistance. I don’t like to be spied on and harassed.”
The rosebud mouth broadened into a smile. “I don’t blame you,” Wetherby said. “I believe I can safely promise that my superior will take steps to relieve you of that inconvenience. A few false trails…You will let us know if you should hear from the individual in question?”
“If you will do the same for me.”
“You have my word.”
For what that is worth, I thought. At least Mr. Wetherby had a sense of humor, which was more than I could say for Smith. Regretfully I abandoned the remains of my apricot tart, leaving Mr. Wetherby to pay the bill. I arrived at the railroad station in good time.
All in all, it had been a profitable day, and after a leisurely meal in the dining car I sought my swaying couch in the consciousness of duty well done.
I have never understood why I should dream of Abdullah at such irregular and seemingly unrelated occasions, nor why I always saw him as a young man, black-bearded and vigorous, instead of as the white-haired patriarch he had been at the time of his death. He scarcely ever turned up when I had a particular reason for wanting to consult him, and his remarks were, for the most part, enigmatic. Sometimes he reassured me when I was worried, sometimes he dropped vague hints that only made sense when it was too late to act on them; often he scolded me for behaving foolishly. It would have been nice to receive more practical advice; after all, when one has a close acquaintance on the Other Side, where all is known and understood, one has a right, in my opinion, to expect a helpful suggestion or two. However, it was enough just to see and hear him, to know that, in some way and in some dimension, he continued to exist.
He was waiting for me at the usual place and time, the cliffs above Deir el Bahri at Luxor, at sunrise. He seemed to be in an affable mood, for he greeted me with a smile instead of a scowl; and for a few moments we stood side by side looking out over the valley, watching the light flow across river and fields and desert until it brightened the colonnades of Hatshepsut’s temple below us.
“So,” I said. “No dead bodies this year, Abdullah.”
It was an old joke between us. Abdullah grinned. “Not yet,” he said.
“Whose?”
I did not expect an answer, nor did I receive one.
“There is always a dead body.” There was the faintest show of emotion, a suggestion of moisture in his dark eyes, when he added, “Last time it was almost yours, Sitt.”
“Oh, that was months ago,” I said dismissively.