Percy’s connections with Nefret’s husband had been closer than anyone had suspected. Close enough to be a partner in Geoffrey’s illegal business activities—drugs and forged antiquities? Percy had spent several months in Alexandria with Russell while Russell was trying to shut down the import of hashish into Cairo from the coast west of the Delta. One way or another, Percy knew the routes and the men who ran the drugs. They were, Ramses believed, the same routes being used now to transport arms.

As Ramses had good cause to know, the grenades had not come from Wardani’s people. So whom did that leave? A British officer who had access to a military arsenal? A man who wouldn’t scruple to kill an innocent passerby in order to play hero and impress his alienated family?

Most damning of all was the fact that Farouk had known about the house in Maadi. It had been a closely guarded secret between Ramses and David until Ramses took Sennia and her young mother there, to hide them from Kalaan. Ramses had never known how the pimp tracked her down; she might have been the innocent agent of her own betrayal, slipping back to el Was’a to visit friends and boast of the new protector who had, incredibly, offered her safety without asking anything in return. Rashida was dead and Kalaan had not shown his face in Cairo since, and there was only one other person who had been a party to that filthy scheme.

Percy—who was now paying him extravagant, hypocritical compliments and defending his tarnished reputation. If Percy was the traitor and spy Ramses suspected him of being, his interest in his cousin’s present activities was prompted by more than idle curiosity.

It made a suggestively symmetrical pattern, but what chance had he of convincing anyone else when even David thought his hatred of Percy had become an irrational idйe fixe? Would any of them believe a member of their own superior caste, an officer and a gentleman, would sell out to the enemy?

He knew he couldn’t keep the knowledge to himself; he’d have to tell someone. But I’m damned if I’m going after him myself, he thought. Not now. Not until I’m out of this, and I’ve got David out, and he can go home to Lia, and I can shake some sense into Nefret and keep her safe. I couldn’t stand to lose her again.

Chapter 13

After seeing Nefret and the Vandergelts, and Fatima, who had insisted on waiting up for them, off to bed, I put on a dressing gown and crept downstairs. The windows of the sitting room faced the road, and it was on the cushioned seat under them that I took up my position after easing the shutters back in order to see out. It was very late, or very early, depending on one’s point of view; those dead, silent hours when one feels like the only person alive. The moon had set; beyond the limited circles of light shed by the lamps we kept burning at our door, the road lay quiet in the starlight.

I was not aware that Ramses had returned until the sitting room door opened just wide enough to enable a dark figure to slip in. Two dark figures, to be precise; Seshat was close on his heels.

“Do you enjoy climbing that trellis?” I inquired somewhat snappishly. Relief often has such an effect.

He sat down next to me. “I had to report myself to Seshat.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I knew you weren’t in your room. I looked in. I trust you will overlook the impertinence; I was a trifle anxious about Father.”

“So you saw him,” I murmured.

“Heard him, rather.” He gave me a brief account of what had transpired. “I hope you don’t think I did wrong in letting him go off alone.”

“Good gracious, no. Short of binding him hand and foot, you could not have prevented him.”

“How did it go on your end?”

“There was no difficulty. I arrived home well before the others.” The area of illumination looked very small against the enveloping darkness. “He has a long way to come,” I said uneasily. “Perhaps I ought to take the motorcar out again and go to meet him.”

We were sitting side by side, our heads together, so we could converse quietly. I felt his arm and shoulder jerk violently. “Again?” he gasped.

“Didn’t your father tell you?”

“No.” He seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. “I wondered why he… You drove the car home? Not all the way from Tura! Where is it?”

“In the stableyard, of course. Take a glass of water, my dear.”

“Father would say the situation calls for whiskey,” Ramses muttered. “Never mind, just tell me what happened. I don’t think I can stand the suspense.”

I concluded my narrative by remarking somewhat acerbically, “I do not understand why you and your father should assume I am incapable of such a simple procedure.”

“I believe you are capable of anything,” said Ramses.

I was pondering this statement when Seshat sailed past me and out the window. A thump and a faint rustle of shrubbery were the only sounds of her passage through the garden.

“Your father!” I exclaimed.

“A mouse,” Ramses corrected. “Don’t credit her with greater powers than she has.”

“Oh. I do hope she will eat it outside and not bring it to you. As for the motorcar—”

“Ssh.” He held up his hand.

According to Daoud, Ramses can hear a whisper across the Nile . My hearing was sharpened by affectionate concern, but it was several moments before I made out the sound that had alerted him. It was not the sound of booted feet.

“A camel,” I said, unable to conceal my disappointment. “Some early-rising peasant.”

The early-rising peasant was in more of a hurry than those individuals usually are. The camel was trotting. As it entered the lamplight, I beheld Emerson, upright and bareheaded, legs crossed on the camel’s neck, smoking his pipe.

He yanked on the head rope to slow the beast and whacked it on the side of the neck to turn it toward the front of the house and the window. I winced as my tenderly nurtured roses crunched under four large flat feet. At Emerson’s command the camel settled ponderously onto the ground, crushing a few hundred marigolds and petunias, and Emerson dismounted.

“Ah,” he said, peering in the window. “There you are, Peabody . Move aside, I am coming in.”

I found my voice. “Emerson, get that damned camel out of my garden!”

“The damage is done, I fear,” said Ramses. “Father, where did you acquire it?”

“Stole it.” Emerson climbed over the sill. “Got the idea from David.”

“You can’t just leave it there!” I exclaimed. “How are you going to explain its presence? And the owner—”

“Don’t concern yourself about the camel, I’ll think of something. What did you do to the car?”

“Put it in the stableyard, of course.”

“In what condition?”

“Let us not waste time on trivialities, Emerson. The most important thing is that you are here; Ramses is here; I am here. I suggest we all go to bed and—”

“No point in that, it will be light in an hour or two,” said my indefatigible spouse. “What about breakfast, eh, Peabody ?”

“It would be unkind to rouse Fatima at this hour, when she was so late getting to bed last night.”

“Good Gad, no, I wouldn’t do that. I will just cook up some eggs and coffee and—”

“No, you will not, you always burn the bottoms off the pans.”

“I would offer,” said Ramses, “but—”

“But you always burn them too.” The idea of breakfast had some merit. I wanted to hear how Emerson had carried out his task, and I knew he would be in a much better humor after he had been fed. The dents in the motorcar were bound to provoke some recriminatory remarks, and the missing lamp… “Oh, very well, I will see what’s in the larder.”

There was quite a lot in the larder, and Emerson tucked into a roast chicken wing with a hearty appetite. Between bites he gave us a description of his adventures.

“It went off without a hitch. What did you expect? After I had stowed the stuff away I drove the cart back to Kashlakat and left it outside the mosque.”