“Everyone in Cairo is talking of your discovery,” he said. “I could not resist having a look for myself.” He tossed Ramses the reins, as he would have done to a groom.

“Come and have a closer look.” I took his arm and led him toward the shaft.

“Not too close. I know the Professor’s temper.” He lowered his voice. “I presume it was Ramses who prompted your invitation. How can I get a word alone with him?”

“That would be unwise as well as unnecessary,” I replied. “I can tell you what needs to be done.”

We came to a stop some distance from the ropemen and an even greater distance from the watching tourists. I proceeded to explain the situation to Mr. Russell. He tried once or twice to interrupt me, but I never allow that sort of thing and finally he pursed his lips in a silent whistle.

“What makes him believe Farouk is a spy?”

“Goodness gracious,” I said impatiently. “I have already gone over his—our—reasoning on that subject. Let us not waste time, Mr. Russell. I want that man locked up. He has tried once to kill my son; I don’t intend to give him another chance. If you won’t deal with him, I will do it myself.”

“I believe you would at that,” Russell muttered. “All right, Mrs. Emerson, your—er—reasoning has convinced me. It can’t do any harm and it might lead to something.”

“How soon can you act?”

Russell took out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his face. “It will take a while to make the arrangements. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“That won’t do. It must be sooner.”

Russell’s erect, military carriage slumped. “Mrs. Emerson, you don’t understand the difficulties. I have already been called on the carpet by my chief for failing to inform him of certain of my activities. I am trying to think of a way of doing what you want without informing him.”

“And thereby, Mr. Philippides.”

“Yes, he’s the rub, all right.” Russell’s lips tightened into a firm line. “I’ve got my eye on him, and someday I’ll catch the—er—fellow in flagrante. Until then, the less he knows, the better.”

“Is that why you have not kept the shop under surveillance? It would seem to me—”

“And to me, I assure you. It is a matter of manpower, Mrs. Emerson. I don’t have enough men I can trust to act on my orders and keep their mouths shut, and I gave Ramses my word I would not involve any of the other services.”

“The General knows, does he not?”

“Yes, of course; he had to be informed. It’s that motley lot of Clayton’s that concerns me; Clayton is a good man, none better, but he’s trying to cobble together a working organization out of a scrapbag of his former commands and that collection of intellectuals.”

“Surely you don’t doubt the loyalty of men like Woolley and Lawrence?” I exclaimed.

“None of them have any practical experience in criminal investigation. That’s what is wanted for effective counterintelligence, and the entire table of organization is in such disarray—”

“Well, Mr. Russell, I am sorry about all that, but I really haven’t time to listen to your troubles. The raid must be tonight. Delay could be fatal. Come along now. The sooner you get to work on this, the sooner you can act.”

Russell allowed himself to be led back toward his camel. He appeared a trifle dazed, but perhaps he was only thinking hard. After a moment he said, “Does the Professor know of this?”

“Not yet. I do not like to distract him when he is engaged in important archaeological activities. But I feel certain he will wish to come with us.”

Russell stopped and dug his heels into the sand. “Now just a damned minute, Mrs. Emerson! Confound it, I apologize for my language, but you are really the most—”

“You are not the first person to tell me that,” I said with a smile. “Ah, here is your nice camel all ready and waiting.”

Russell took the reins from Ramses and, for the first time, looked him squarely in the eyes. Ramses nodded. It was sufficient confirmation of what I had said, and in my opinion Russell ought not have risked further conversation, but he appeared a trifle confused. It might have been the hot sun.

“She intends to be there,” he said in an agitated whisper. “Can you—”

“I can try.” The corners of Ramses’s mouth twitched. “When?”

Russell looked at me and mopped his forehead. “Tonight.”

“Excellent,” I said audibly. “Now do run along, Mr. Russell; I must get back to work.”

He obeyed, of course. Ramses squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and said, “Mother—”

“I don’t intend to argue with you either,” I informed him. “We will discuss the logistical details later. I want to see what your father is doing.”

We all gathered round to watch. Finally came the moment when the entire statue was exposed except for the base. Emerson, who had kept up a monotonous undercurrent of curses and exhortations, fell silent. Then he drew a deep breath. Turning to Daoud, who held one of the ropes, he gave him a slap on the back.

“You know what to do, Daoud.”

The giant gave him a broad smile and a nod. Emerson descended the ladder that leaned against the wall of the shaft. He was followed by Ibrahim, our carpenter. There was only room below for two men to work and I had known Emerson would be one of them.

I had forgotten my duties as guard. I was vaguely aware that a circle of staring onlookers had gathered, but my full attention was focused on my spouse, who was kneeling and scooping out sand from under the base of the statue. As he removed it Ibrahim shoved the stout plank he had brought into the vacant space. The statue swayed and promptly steadied as Daoud called out directions to the men pulling on the ropes. Finally Emerson straightened and looked up.

“So far so good,” he remarked.

The front part of the statue now rested on a solid platform of wood. Emerson and Ibrahim repeated the process at the back of the base. The ropes tightened and loosened as the men followed Daoud’s orders. Then more planks, cut to measure, were lowered into the pit and Ibrahim deftly lashed them into place at right angles to the planks on which the statue rested.

Sometimes a heavy weight of that sort could be raised by rocking it back and forth and inserting wedges under the raised side. The space was too narrow for that, however. The statue and its wooden base would have to be pulled up by sheer brute strength, while the ropemen steadied it. Emerson tied cables to the planks with his own hands and tossed the ends up. Twenty men seized each rope and began hauling on it.

Selim, who had been hopping about like a grasshopper with sheer nerves, now stood still, his eyes fixed on his uncle Daoud. Daoud’s broad face was set. It was not the heat or the physical effort, but the sense of responsibility that caused the perspiration to pour down his face. My concern was for Emerson, who had sent Ibrahim back up the ladder but had remained below.

“Come up out of there,” I shouted, as the massive object began to rise.

“Yes, yes,” said Emerson. “I only want to—”

“Emerson!”

It was probably not my exhortation but the knowledge that he could be of more use directing operations from above that finally prompted him to ascend. Cameras clicked as my spouse’s disheveled head appeared; the clicking rose to a perfect fusillade as the statue rose slowly and steadily upward. When the base was level with the ground the men inserted long planks under it, bridging the shaft and forming a platform onto which the statue settled as gently as a bird coming to rest on a bough.

Emerson let out a long sigh and wiped the perspiration from his face with his shirtsleeve.

“Well done, Daoud, and the rest of you,” he said.

Ramses bent over and examined the base of the statue. “Nefret was right. It’s Khafre. ‘The Good God, Horus of Gold.’ ”

Nefret did not say “I told you so,” but she looked rather smug. The face and form of the pharaoh did bear a certain resemblance to Ramses, in his stonier moods. He was looking quite affable now; smiles wreathed all our faces as we exchanged mutual congratulations. For once, however, archaeological fever did not entirely overcome my greater concern. Would Russell keep his word? Would the raid on Aslimi’s shop succeed? I had determined to do everything in my power to make certain it would.