His father coughed apologetically. “Go on,” he muttered. “Call me anything that comes to mind. I was the bloody fool; I knew that between the two of us we could deal with a few assassins or an ambush, but I didn’t count on falling off the damned horse. If harm comes to you because of my clumsiness and stupidity, I will never forgive myself. Neither will your mother,” he added gloomily.

“It’s all right, Father.” He felt an incongruous rush of pleasure. “Between the two of us…” Did his father really think that highly of him? “In fact, there’s no one I would rather—er—well, you know what I mean.”

Too English, David would have said. Both of them. Emerson raised his head. “Er—yes. I feel the same. Hmph.”

Having got this effusive display of emotion out of his system, he accepted a cigarette from the tin Ramses offered and allowed him to light it.

“What made you suspicious of Hamilton ?” Ramses asked.

“ Hamilton ?” Emerson looked surprised. “No, no, my boy, you mistake me. I do not suspect him of anything except being a crashing bore.”

“But the other night you implied you had identified Sethos. Don’t deny it, Father, you wouldn’t have been so certain Mother was on the wrong track if you hadn’t suspected someone else. I thought—”

“Well, curse it, Hamilton ’s avoidance of us was suspicious, wasn’t it? I was mistaken. As soon as I set eyes on him I knew he wasn’t our man. I mentioned our destination to him as a precaution, so that if we did run into trouble someone would know where we were heading.”

“Oh.”

“A number of the officers overheard my conversation with Hamilton . One of them might have mentioned our intentions to other people. You see what that means, don’t you? We’re talking about a limited circle of people—all English, officers and gentlemen. One of them is working for the enemy. He had time to get out here before we arrived.”

“Or send someone here to wait for us.”

“Or reach someone by wireless.” Emerson shifted uncomfortably. He was obviously in pain, though he would rather have died than admit it.

Ramses unbuckled the holster, took off his shirt, and began tearing it into strips. “Let me strap your shoulder. Nefret showed me how.”

“You can’t do much worse than your mother,” said Emerson with a reminiscent grin. “It was her petticoat she tore up. Women used to wear dozens of them. Useful for bandages, but cursed inconvenient in other ways.”

Astonishment made Ramses drop one end of the cloth he was holding. Had that been a mildly risquй double entendre? Nothing double about it, in fact, but to hear his father say such a thing about his mother…

Greatly daring, he said, “I expect you managed, though.”

Emerson chuckled. “Hmmm, yes. Thank you, my boy. That’s much better.”

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep? We’ve nothing better to do.”

“Wake me in four hours,” Emerson muttered. “We’ll take it in turn to keep watch.”

“Yes, sir.”

In four hours it would be dark and the moon would be up. It was a new moon, but there would be light from the brilliant stars. Ramses wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but he had to do something. Desert nights were bitterly cold, and they had no blankets and very little water. Emerson had left his coat, canteen, weapon—everything except his precious pipe—on the saddle of the dead horse. Risha stood quietly, his proud head bent. He would have to go hungry and thirsty that night too. Ramses would have given him the last of the water, had he not wanted it for his father. Well, they would survive, all of them, and he’d have been willing to stick it out if the worst they had to fear was discomfort.

Would the assassin give up when darkness fell? Bloody unlikely, Ramses thought. If I’d sent him, I’d want proof that he’d done the job. A grisly picture flashed through his mind: Egyptian soldiers after a battle piling up their trophies of victory. Sometimes they collected the hands of the enemy dead. Sometimes it was other body parts.

Ramses began to unlace his boots.

The sun had just set and a dusky twilight blurred the air when he heard the sound he had been expecting. It was only the faint rattle of a pebble rolling, but in the eerie silence of the desert it was clearly audible. He strained his ears, but heard nothing more. Not an animal, then. Only a man bent on mischief would take pains to move so quietly.

He eased himself upright and moved cautiously along the wall, his bare feet sensitive to the slightest unevenness on the surface of the ground. The bastard knew where they were, of course, but a stumble or a slip would warn him that they were awake and on the alert. Then he heard another sound that literally paralyzed him with surprise.

“Hullo! Is someone there?”

A sudden glare of light framed the speaker—a British officer, in khaki drill jacket and short trousers, cap and puttees. He threw up his arm to shield his eyes.

“I see someone is,” he said coolly. “Better switch that off, old boy. The fellow who was firing at you has probably taken to his heels, but one ought not take chances.”

Emerson was on his feet. Injured, sick, or half-dead, he could move as silently as a snake, and he had obviously not been asleep.

“Looking for us, were you?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir. You are Professor Emerson? One of the Camel Corps chaps heard gunfire earlier and since you had not turned up, some of us went out looking for you.”

“You aren’t alone?”

“Three of my lads are waiting for me at the mouth of the wadi, where I left my horse. A spot of scouting seemed to be in order. Is your son with you?”

Pressed against the wall, Ramses held himself still. He could see the man’s insignia now—a lieutenant’s paired stars and the patch of the Lancashire Forty-second. His hands were empty and the holster at his belt was fastened. The impersonation was almost perfect—but it was damned unlikely that the military would send a patrol at this hour of the night to search for mislaid travelers, and although his accent was irreproachable, the intonations were just a bit off. Ramses had to admire the man’s nerve. The ambush had failed and he was hoping to settle the business before daylight brought someone out looking for them.

Emerson was rambling on, asking questions and answering them, like a man whose tongue has been loosened by relief. He kept the torch pointed straight at the newcomer’s eyes, though, and he had not answered the question about Ramses’s whereabouts.

“Afraid I’ll have to ask the loan of one of your horses,” he said apologetically. “Banged myself up a bit, you see. If you could give me your arm…”

For a second or two Ramses thought it was going to work. The officer nodded affably and took a step forward.

The pistol wasn’t in his holster. He had stuck it through his belt, behind his back. Ramses had a quick, unpleasant glimpse of the barrel swinging in his direction, and aimed his own weapon, but before he could fire Emerson dropped the torch and launched himself at the German.

They fell at Ramses’s feet. By some miracle the torch had not gone out; Ramses saw that the slighter man was pinned to the ground by Emerson’s weight, but his arms were free and he was trying to use both of them at once. His fist connected with Emerson’s jaw as Ramses kicked the gun out of his other hand. Emerson let out a yell of pure outrage and reached one-handed for the German’s throat. Ramses swung his foot again and the flailing body went limp.

Emerson sat up, straddling the man’s thighs, and rubbed his jaw.

“Sorry for being so slow, sir,” Ramses said.

Emerson grinned and looked up. “Two good arms between the two of us. Not so bad, eh?”

“You saved my life. Again.”

“I’d say the score was even. I tried to blind him but his night vision must be almost as good as yours. He went for you first because he took me to be unarmed and incapacitated. Now what shall we do with him?”