“What did Farouk say?” he asked.
“Farouk is loyal! He said you were the leader, that you knew best.”
Oh, yes, right, Ramses thought. Aloud, he said, “I am glad you told me. Go now, my friend, and make sure the weapons get to the warehouse. I count on you.”
Asad stumbled out. Ramses waited for another five minutes. When he left the mosque it was on hands and knees and in the deepest shadow he could find. The cemetery was not one of the groups of princely medieval tombs mentioned in the guidebook; it was still in use, and most of the monuments were small and poor. Crouching behind one of the larger tombs, he exchanged the old fakir’s tattered dilk and straggling gray hair for turban and robe, and wrapped the reeking ensemble in several tight layers of cloth that reduced the stench to endurable proportions. He had been tempted to abandon the garment and wig, but it had taken him a long time to get them suitably disgusting.
He slung the bag over his shoulder in order to leave both hands free, buckled the belt that held his knife on over his robe, and started toward the road. Even though he had been half-expecting it, David’s appearance made him start back, his hand on the hilt of his knife.
“A bit nervous, are we?” David inquired, his lip curling in the distorted smile of his disguise.
“What happened to the gauzy pantaloons?”
“I couldn’t find a pair that was long enough.”
They went on in silence for a time, and then Ramses said, “I thought you were going to follow the Turk.”
“I concluded it would be a waste of time. We need to know where he’s coming from, not where he goes after he has rid himself of his incriminating load. He probably hires a different team and wagon for each delivery, and I doubt he stays in the same place all the time.”
“You’re protesting too much,” Ramses said with a faint smile. “But I don’t mind admitting I appreciate your standing guard. Farouk makes me extremely nervous.”
“He affects me the same way. Especially after what happened at Aslimi’s.”
“You heard?”
“Yes. The story is all over the bazaars.” David’s voice was neutral, but Ramses was painfully aware of his friend’s disappointment.
“It’s not over yet,” he said. “We caught up with Farouk and came to an agreement with him. He wants a thousand pounds in gold in exchange for what he called a bigger fish than Wardani. Father is to meet him tomorrow night.”
“It could be a ruse.” David was trying not to let his hopes rise.
“It could. But Farouk is an egotistical ass if he thinks he can trick an old hand like Father. He’ll keep his word, to hand over the money and give Farouk three days immunity from pursuit—but first the innocent lad will spend a little time in our custody, while we verify the information.”
It was typical of David that he should think first of the danger to someone else. “The Professor mustn’t go alone. The fellow wouldn’t think twice about knifing him in the back, or shooting him. Where are they meeting and when? I’ll be there too.”
“Not you, no.” Ramses went on to explain. “His choice of a rendezvous was no accident. I don’t know how much he knows, or how much he has told others, but if something goes wrong tomorrow night you must not be found near that house. I’m going with Father. Between the two of us we should be able to deal with Farouk. The little swine isn’t going to shoot anybody until he has made certain we have the money with us.”
The area between the edge of the cemetery and the city gate was an open field, used in times of festivals, now deserted. Pale clouds of dust stirred around their feet as they walked under a sickle moon through patches of weeds and bare earth. There was no sign of life but the night was alive with sounds and movements—the sharp baying of pariah dogs, the scuttle of rats. A great winged shape of darkness swept low over their heads and a brief squeak heralded the demise of a mouse or shrew. He had grown up amid these sounds and rich, variegated smells—donkey dung, rotting vegetation—and he had walked paths like this one many times with David. He was reluctant to break the companionable silence, but ahead the glow of those parts of Cairo that never slept—the brothels and houses of pleasure—were growing brighter, and there was more to discuss before they parted.
He gave David a brief account of what had transpired at the rendezvous, and David described his new abode, in the slums of Boulaq. “Biggest cockroaches I’ve ever seen. I’m thinking of making a collection.” Then David said, “What’s this I hear about a statue of solid gold?”
Ramses laughed. “You ought to know how the rumor-mongers exaggerate. It is a treasure, though.” He described the statue and answered David’s questions; but after David’s initial excitement had passed, he said, “Strange place to find such a thing.”
“I thought that would occur to you.”
“But surely it must have occurred to the Professor as well. A royal Fourth Dynasty statue in the shaft of a private tomb? Even the most highly favored official would not possess such a thing; it must have been made to stand in a temple.”
“Quite.” They passed between the massive towers of the Bab el-Nasr, one of the few remaining gates of the eleventh century fortifications, and were, suddenly, in the city. “It hadn’t been thrown in,” Ramses went on. “It was upright and undamaged, and not far from the surface. The sand around it was loose, and the purported thieves had left a conspicuous cavity that pinpointed its position.”
David pondered for a moment, his head bent. “Are you suggesting it was placed there recently? That the diggers wanted you to find it? Why? It’s a unique work of art, worth a great deal of money in the antiquities market. Such benevolence on the part of a thief… Oh. Oh, good Lord! You don’t think it could have been—”
“I think that’s what Father thinks. He sees the dread hand of Sethos everywhere, as Mother puts it, but in this case he could be right. I’ve been half expecting Sethos would turn up; such men gather like vultures in times of war or civil disorder. He’s been acquiring illegal antiquities for years, and according to Mother he keeps the finest for himself.”
“But why would he plant one of his treasures in your tomb?” David emitted a gurgle of suppressed laughter. “A present for Aunt Amelia?”
“A distraction, rather,” Ramses corrected. “Perhaps he’s hoping that a superb find will make her concentrate on the excavation instead of looking for enemy agents.”
“Has she been doing that?”
“Well, I think she may be looking for him. That is a damned peculiar relationship, David; I don’t doubt she is devoted to Father, but she’s always had a weakness for the rascal.”
“He has rescued her from danger on several occasions,” David pointed out.
“Oh, yes, he knows precisely how to manipulate her. If she is telling the truth about their encounters he hasn’t made a single false move. She’s such a hopeless romantic!”
“He may really care for her.”
“You’re another damned romantic,” Ramses said sourly. “Never mind Sethos’s motives; in a way I hope I’m wrong about them, because I’d hate to believe my mind works along the same lines as his.”
“He could be one of the busy little spies in our midst, then—perhaps even the man in charge. That isn’t a happy prospect.” David sounded worried. “He has contacts all over the Middle East , especially in the criminal underground of Cairo , and if he is as expert at disguise as you—”
“He’s even better. He could be almost anyone.” Ramses added, in a studiously neutral voice, “Except Mrs. Fortescue.”
“You’re certain?” The undercurrent of laughter was absent from David’s voice when he went on. “She could be one of his confederates. He had several women in his organization.”
Ramses knew David was thinking of one woman in particular—the diabolical creature who had been responsible for his grandfather’s death. She was out of the picture, at any rate, struck down by a dozen vengeful hands.