Ramses lowered himself to a sitting position, wondering if he would ever be able to match his father’s coolness. “Tie him up, I suppose. I’ll be damned if I know what with, though.”

“Yards of good solid cloth in those puttees. Here—I think he’s waking up. Stick that pistol of yours in his ear. He’s a feisty lad, and I’d rather not have to argue with him again.”

It struck Ramses as a good idea, so he complied. Emerson got the torch and positioned it more effectively before he began unwinding the strips of cloth from round the fellow’s legs. Ramses studied the man’s face curiously. It was a hard face, narrow across the forehead and broadening to a heavy jaw and protruding chin, but the mouth, relaxed in unconsciousness, was almost delicate in outline. He was younger than he had appeared. Hair, mustache, and scanty brows were fair, bleached almost to whiteness by the sun. His lips moved, and his eyes opened. They were blue.

“Sind Sie ruhig,” Ramses said. “Rьhren Sie sich und ich schiesse. Verstehen Sie?”

“I understand.”

“You prefer English?” inquired Emerson, wrapping strips of cloth round the booted ankles. “It’s no good, you know. You gave yourself away when you pulled that gun.”

“I know.”

“Are you alone?”

The pale-blue eyes rolled toward Ramses and then looked down. Emerson had managed to knot the strip of cloth by holding one end between his teeth. With his lips drawn back, he looked like a wolf chewing on a victim’s torn garments. The German swallowed.

“What are you going to do with me?”

“Take you back to Cairo ,” Ramses said, since his father was still tying knots. “First we have a few questions. I strongly advise you to answer truthfully. My father is not a patient man and he is already rather annoyed with you.”

“You torture prisoners?” The boy tried to sneer. He can’t be much over twenty, Ramses thought. Just the right age for a job like this—all afire to die for the Fatherland or the Motherland or some equally amorphous cause, but not really believing death can touch him. He must have attended school in England .

“Good Gad, no,” Emerson said. “But I cannot guarantee what will happen to you in Cairo . You are in enemy uniform, my lad, and you know what that means. Cooperate with us and you may not have to face a firing squad. First I want your name and the name of the man who sent you here.”

“My name…” He hesitated. “Heinrich Fechter. My father is a banker in Berlin .”

“Very good,” Emerson said encouragingly. “I sincerely hope you may live to see him again one day. Who sent you?”

“I…” He ran his tongue over his lips. “I see I must yield. You have won. I salute you.”

He raised his left hand. Ramses saw it coming, but the split second it took him to comprehend the boy’s real intent was a split second too long. The muscles of his hand and arm had locked in anticipation of an attempt to seize the gun; before he could turn the weapon away the young German’s thumb found Ramses’s trigger finger and pressed it. The heavy-caliber bullet blew the top of his head off in a grisly cloud of blood and brains, splintered bone and hair.

“Christ!” Ramses stumbled to his feet and turned away, dropping the pistol. The night air was cold, but not as cold as the icy horror that sent shivers running through his body.

His father put Ramses’s coat over his bare shoulders and held it there, his hands firm and steadying. “All right now?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Never apologize for feeling regret and pity. Not to me. Well. Let’s get at it, shall we?”

It was a vile, horrible task, but he was up to it now. The search produced a set of skillfully forged documents, including a tattered photograph of a sweet-faced gray-haired woman who was probably not the boy’s mother. Emerson pocketed them. “Shall we try to find his horse?”

“We can’t leave it here to die of thirst.”

“No, but to search this terrain in the dark is to risk a broken leg. We will send someone to look for it in the morning, and for his camp.”

There was one more thing. Neither of them had to suggest it; they set to work in silent unanimity, deepening the shallow depression in the corner of the wall. Ramses wrapped his coat round the shattered head before they moved the body. A good hard push sent the remains of the wall tumbling down over the grave.

“Do you remember his name?” Emerson asked.

“Yes.” It was not likely he would ever forget it, or neglect the request implicit in that single answer to their questions. Someday the banker in Berlin would know that his son had died a hero, for whatever comfort that might give him.

Another death, another dead end, Ramses thought. It appeared there was to be no easy way out.

He got the canteen from the body of Emerson’s horse and gave Risha a drink before he addressed his father. “D’you want to go on ahead? You can make better time alone. I’ll be all right here.”

“Good Gad, no. What if I fell off again? You go. I’ll wait here.”

He knew exactly what his father had in mind, and now he had no hesitation in saying so. “You want to explore your bloody damned ruins, don’t you? If you think I am going to leave you stumbling round in the dark, without food or water or transport, you can think again. We’ll go together. You ride Risha, I’ll walk.”

They had extinguished the torch, to save what was left of the failing batteries. He couldn’t make out Emerson’s expression, but he heard a soft chuckle. “Stubborn as a camel. Very well, my boy. Give me a hand up, will you? The sooner we get back, the better. God only knows what your mother has been up to.”

Chapter 11

The flat was in the fashionable Ismailiaya district. Waiting in the cab I had hired, I saw him enter the building at a few minutes past three. He had been lunching out.

I do not lie unless it is absolutely necessary. In this case it had been absolutely necessary. If Emerson had known what I intended, he would not have let me out of his sight. If I had told Nefret the truth, she would have insisted on accompanying me. Neither would have been acceptable.

I gave my quarry half an hour to settle down, and then inspected myself in the small hand mirror I carried. The disguise was perfect! I had never seen anyone who looked more like a lady bent on an illicit assignation. The only difficulty was my hat, which tended to tip, since the hat pins did not penetrate through the wig into my own hair. I pushed it back into position, adjusted the veil, and crossed the street. The doorkeeper was asleep. (They usually are.) I took the lift to the second floor and rang the bell. A servant answered it; his dark coloring and tarboosh were Egyptian, though he wore the neatly cut suit of a European butler. When he asked my name I put my finger to my lips and smiled meaningfully.

“You need not announce me. I am expected.”

Evidently the Count was accustomed to receive female visitors who did not care to give their names. The man bowed without speaking and led me through the foyer. Opening a door, he gestured me to enter.

The room was a parlor or sitting room, quite small but elegantly furnished. A man sat writing at an escritoire near the windows, with his back to me. Apparently he agreed with Emerson that tight-fitting garments interfered with intellectual pursuits. He had removed his coat and waistcoat and rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow.

I took a firmer grip on my parasol, readjusted my hat, and entered. The servant closed the door behind me—and then I heard a sound that made my breath catch.

I flung myself at the door. Too late! It was locked.

Slowly I turned to face the man who had risen to confront me, his hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. The black hair and mustache and the eyeglass were those of the Count de Sevigny. The lithe grace of his pose, the trim body, and the eyes, of an ambiguous shade between gray and brown, were those of someone else.