Chapter 7

Our return to the house resembled a triumphal procession. Daoud would not hear of using mechanical transport; once the statue platform had been securely fastened to the lengthwise beams, forty men hoisted the entire structure onto their shoulders and set off across the plateau. When they turned onto the Pyramid Road they began to sing one of the traditional work songs, with Daoud shouting out the lines and the men echoing them in a reverberant chorus. Most of the way was downhill, but it was over two miles to the house, and Emerson made them stop frequently to rest and adjust the pads that protected their shoulders. When one man faltered, another sprang to take his place. As I watched, the centuries seemed to shrink, and I felt as if I had been privileged to behold a vision from the past. Just so must the workers of Pharaoh have transported the image of their god king to its original place, chanting as they went.

To be sure, there was no actual depiction of this precise procedure in any of the tomb reliefs. However, it was a thrilling sight, and one I will never forget, nor, I believe, will those who lined the road to watch and cheer as we passed. The tourists got their fill of photographs for once.

By the time we reached the house all the men except Daoud, who had taken his turn as carrier, were on the verge of collapse. Emerson led them through the courtyard to the closest room, which happened to be the parlor. I was too excited to object to this inconvenience, but as it turned out the platform would not go through the doorway, so Emerson directed the bearers to place it in the courtyard, between two pillars. Once the statue had come safely to rest, I had to deal with fifty male persons sprawled in various positions of exhaustion on the tiled floor. Forty-nine, I should say; Daoud, perspiring but undaunted, helped us minister to the fallen, splashing them with water and offering copious quantities of liquid. The sun was setting when we sent them home, with thanks and praise and promises of a fantasia of celebration in the near future.

“I think we should celebrate too,” I announced. “Let us dine in Cairo . I told Fatima not to prepare anything for dinner since I was not certain how long the job would take. The triumph is yours, my dear Emerson, therefore I will allow you to choose the restaurant.”

As a rule Emerson is pathetically easy to manipulate. He hated dining at the hotels. I knew what establishment he would suggest: a pleasantly unsanitary little place where the menu included his favorite Egyptian delicacies and the owner would have slaughtered an ostrich and cooked it up if Emerson had requested it. Suits and cravats, much less evening clothes, would have been out of place in that ambience—another strong point in its favor, as far as Emerson was concerned.

It was located on the edge of the Khan el Khalili.

Emerson hesitated for only a moment—that brief delay being occasioned by his reluctance to leave his precious statue—before responding precisely as I had planned. I glanced at Ramses, who was looking even blanker than usual. He opened his mouth and closed it without speaking.

Turning to Nefret, I brushed the hair back from her forehead. “Perhaps you ought to stay here and rest,” I said. “You have a nasty lump as well as a cut.”

“Nonsense, Aunt Amelia. I feel fine and I wouldn’t miss dining at Bassam’s for all the world.”

She tripped away before I could respond. Meeting Ramses’s dark gaze, which seemed to me to convey a certain degree of criticism, I gave a little shrug. “Hurry and bathe and change,” I ordered. “We must not be late.”

Ramses said, “Yes, Mother.” Clearly he would have liked to say more, but after a moment’s hesitation he started up the stairs.

“All right, Peabody,” said my husband. “What are you up to now?”

I had intended to tell him anyhow.

He took the news more quietly than I had expected, though it certainly had the effect of hurrying him up. He was in and out of the bath chamber in a remarkably short period of time.

“Well, well,” he remarked, throwing his towel onto the floor, where a puddle began to form around it. “So it occurred to you too that Farouk might have been sent to infiltrate Wardani’s organization?”

“Now, Emerson, if you are going to claim you thought of it first—”

“I would not claim to be the first. I did think of it, though.”

“You always say that!”

“So do you. I suppose this scheme is practicable, but I wish you had left it to me.”

Stung by the criticism, I demanded hotly, “And what would you have done?”

Emerson assumed his trousers. “Stop by Aslimi’s and collect the bastard myself. I had scheduled it for tomorrow.”

He began to rummage through the drawers in search of a shirt. They are always in the same drawer, but Emerson, who can effortlessly call to mind the most intricate details of stratification and pottery sequences, can never remember which drawer. Watching the pull of muscle across his back and arms, I rather regretted having spoken with Russell. It would have been immensely satisfying to watch Emerson “collect” Farouk; he could have done it without the least effort, and then we (for of course I would have accompanied him) could have searched the shop for incriminating evidence and carried our captive back to the house in order to interrogate him.

However, I had a feeling Ramses would not have liked it. He obviously did not like what I was doing now, but the other would have vexed him even more. Emerson is rather like a bull in a china shop when he is enraged, and this matter was somewhat delicate. I felt obliged to point this out to Emerson.

“We must not be directly involved in an attack on Farouk, or the shop, Emerson; our active participation could increase the enemy’s suspicion of Ramses.”

“So what is the point of our going there this evening?”

“I only want to be there,” I replied, refolding the shirts he had tumbled into a pile. “Or rather, near by. Coincidentally. Casually. Just in case.”

I turned and selected a light but becoming cotton frock from the wardrobe. Emerson came up behind me and put his arms round my waist.

“It is important to you, isn’t it?”

I dropped the frock onto the floor and turned into his arms. “Oh, Emerson, if we are right, this could be the end of the whole horrible business! I can’t stand much more of this. Every time he goes out I am afraid he will never come back. And David could just… disappear. They could throw his body into the river or bury it in the desert, and we would never know what had happened to him.”

“Good Gad, my love, that extravagant imagination of yours is getting out of hand! Ramses has been in worse scrapes than this one, and David has generally been in them with him.”

I started to deny it but could not. A series of hideous images flashed through my mind: Ramses confronting the Master Criminal and demanding that that formidable gentleman return his treasure; Ramses dragged off to the lair of the vicious Riccetti, whom he had pursued accompanied only by David and the cat Bastet; Ramses strolling into a bandit camp, alone and unarmed… I did not doubt there were other incidents of which I had been happily unaware. Oh, yes, he had been in worse scrapes and had got out of them too, but his luck was bound to run out one day.

I was not selfish enough to remind Emerson of that. I would not be one of those whining females who require constant reassurances and petting. Despair drains the strength, not only of the one who expresses it but of the one who is told of it.

“I am sorry, Emerson,” I said, stiffening my spine literally as well as figuratively. “I will not give way again. And I have delayed us. We must hurry.”

The garment I had intended to wear was now crumpled and covered by large wet footprints. I selected another, while Emerson dried his feet again and, at my request, mopped up the puddle of water on the floor.