“Indeed?” Cecil drawled. “Your sentiments do you credit, Captain. Simmons, report to my office first thing tomorrow. You gentlemen—” his narrowed eyes inspected the flowers of the Egyptian Army, now wilting visibly—“will give me your names and the name of your commanding officer before you leave the club. Come with me.”

“Do you need medical attention, Ramses?” Percy asked solicitously.

“No.”

As he followed Cecil and the others at a discreet distance, Ramses knew he had lost another round to his cousin. There was no doubt in his mind that Percy had prodded Simmons and the others into that “ungentlemanly” act. He was good at insinuating ideas into people’s heads; the poor fools probably didn’t realize even now that they had been manipulated into punishing someone Percy hated but was afraid to tackle himself.

Ramses went round the clubhouse and stopped at the front entrance, wondering whether to go in. A glance at his watch informed him it was getting on for half past ten , and he decided he’d made a sufficient spectacle of himself already.

He let the doorman get him a cab. Recognizing him, the driver laid his whip aside and greeted him enthusiastically. None of the Emersons allowed the horses to be whipped, but the size of the tip made up for that inconvenience. “What happened to you, Brother of Curses?” he inquired, employing Ramses’s Arabic soubriquet.

Ramses put him off with an explanation that was extremely improper and obviously false, and got into the cab. He was still thinking about Percy.

They had despised one another since their childhood days, but Ramses hadn’t realized how dangerous Percy could be until he’d tried to do his cousin a favor.

It only went to prove the truth of his father’s cynical statement: no good deed ever goes unpunished. Wandering aimlessly through Palestine , Percy had been taken prisoner and held for ransom by one of the bandits who infested the area. When Ramses went into the camp to get him out, he found his cousin comfortably ensconced in Zaal’s best guest room, well supplied with brandy and other comforts and waiting complacently to be ransomed.

He hadn’t recognized Ramses in his Bedouin disguise, and after watching Percy snivel and grovel and resist escape with the hysteria of a virgin fighting for her virtue, Ramses had realized it would be wiser not to enlighten him as to the identity of his rescuer. Percy had found out, though. Ramses had not underestimated his resentment, but he had not anticipated the malevolent fertility of Percy’s imagination. Accusing Ramses of fathering his carelessly begotten and callously abandoned child had been a masterstroke.

Yet tonight Percy had defended him, physically and verbally. Spouting high-minded sentiments in front of Lord Edward Cecil was designed to raise that influential official’s opinion of Captain Percival Peabody, but there must be something more to it than that—something underhanded and unpleasant, if he knew Percy. What the devil was he planning now?

:

I looked forward with considerable curiosity to our meeting with Mr. Russell. I had known him for some years and esteemed him highly, in spite of his underhanded attempts to make Ramses into a policeman. Not that I have anything against policemen, but I did not consider it a suitable career for my son. Emerson had nothing against policemen either, but he was not fond of social encounters, and, like Nefret, I suspected he had an ulterior motive in proposing we dine with Russell.

Russell was waiting for us in the Moorish Hall when we arrived. His sandy eyebrows went up at the sight of Nefret, and when Emerson said breezily, “Hope you don’t mind our bringing Miss Forth,” I realized that the invitation had been Russell’s, not Emerson’s.

Nefret realized it at the same time, and gave me a conspiratorial smile as she offered Russell her gloved hand. Emerson never paid the least attention to social conventions, and Russell had no choice but to appear pleased.

“Why, uh, yes, Professor—that is, I am delighted, of course, to see—uh—Miss—uh—Forth.”

His confusion was understandable. Nefret had resumed her maiden name after the death of her husband, and Cairo society had found this hard to accept. They found a good many of Nefret’s acts hard to accept.

We went at once to the dining salon and the table Mr. Russell had reserved. I thought he appeared a trifle uncomfortable, and my suspicions as to his reason for asking us to dine were confirmed. He wanted something from us. Assistance, perhaps, in rounding up some of the more dangerous foreign agents in Cairo ? Glancing round the room, I began to wonder if I too was beginning to succumb to war nerves. Officers and officials, matrons and maidens—all people I had known for years—suddenly looked sly and duplicitous. Were any of them in the pay of the enemy?

At any rate, I told myself firmly, none of them was Sethos.

Emerson has never been one to beat around the bush. He waited only until after we had ordered before he remarked, “Well, Russell, what’s on your mind, eh? If you want me to persuade Ramses to join the CID, you are wasting your time. His mother won’t hear of it.”

“Neither will he,” Russell said with a wry smile. “There’s no use trying to deceive you, Professor, so if the ladies will excuse us for talking business—”

“I would rather you talked business than nonsense, Mr. Russell,” I said with some asperity.

“You are right, ma’am. I should know better.”

He sampled the wine the waiter had poured into his glass and nodded approval. While our glasses were being filled, his eyes focused on Nefret, and a frown wrinkled his forehead. She was the picture of a proper young lady—pretty and innocent and harmless. The low-cut bodice of her gown bared her white throat; gems twinkled on her breast and in the red-gold hair that crowned her small head. One would never have supposed that those slender hands were more accustomed to hold a scalpel than a fan, or that she could fend off an attacker more effectively than most men.

She knew what Russell was thinking, and met his doubtful gaze squarely.

“A number of people in Cairo will tell you I am no lady, Mr. Russell. You needn’t mince words with me. It’s Ramses, isn’t it? What’s he done now?”

“Nothing that I know of, except make himself thoroughly disliked,” Russell said. “Oh, the devil with—excuse me, Miss Forth.”

She laughed at him, and his stern face relaxed into a sheepish grin. “As I was about to say—I may as well be honest with all of you. Yes, I did approach Ramses. I believe there is not an intelligence organization in Egypt , military or civilian, that has not tried to get him! I had no more luck than the others. But he could be of particular value to me in capturing that fellow Wardani. You all know who he is, I presume.”

Emerson nodded. “The leader of the Young Egypt Party, and the only one of the nationalists who is still at large. You managed to round up all the others—including my niece’s husband, David Todros.”

“I don’t blame you for resenting that,” Russell said quietly. “But it had to be done. We daren’t take chances with that lot, Professor. They believe their hope of independence lies in the defeat of Britain , and they will collaborate with our enemies in order to bring it about.”

“But what can they do?” Nefret asked. “They are scattered and imprisoned.”

“So long as Wardani is on the loose, they can do a great deal of damage.” Russell leaned forward. “He is their leader, intelligent, charismatic and fanatical; he has already gathered new lieutenants to replace the ones we arrested. You know the Sultan has declared a jihad, a holy war, against unbelievers. The mass of the fellahin are apathetic or afraid, but if Wardani can stir up the students and intellectuals, we may find ourselves fighting a guerrilla war here in Cairo while the Turks attack the Canal. Wardani is the key. Without him, the movement will collapse. I want him. And I think you can help me to get him.”