“Just like Christmas, isn’t it?” David said, after a long drink of fresh water. He passed the skin to Ramses and rummaged around in the bag. “Cheese, bread, grapes…What’s this?”
“It looks like more of the herbal medicine. I’ll brew up a fresh batch. You look better, but a few more doses wouldn’t do you any harm.”
“It makes me too sleepy.”
He was eating grapes with more relish than he had yet shown for food. Ramses watched him with an affection he would never have displayed in words or actions. It was amazing what a difference that humble gesture of goodwill had made; the mellow evening light seemed rich and comforting, the hoary old walls protective rather than forbidding. The small fire he had started burned clean and bright.
“I think we can sleep without worry tonight,” he said gently. “People are looking after us.”
AS WE MADE OUR WAY toward the dining salon I pondered an idea that had only recently occurred to me. We had been contacted by the War office a day or two after we arrived in Jaffa, yet there had been no communication from them here. For all I knew, Jerusalem could be swarming with spies of all nations, including our own; certainly one would expect that MO2 would be on the trail of Frau von Eine and would notify us of her presence in the city. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that a message had gone astray, so when I saw Mr. Fazah behind the desk I told Emerson to go on ahead and I approached the assistant manager.
I was tempted to wriggle my nose at him again, in case he had had some reason for ignoring the first signal, but he was watching me so warily I decided it might alarm him. If my newfound theory was correct, he was not the contact I wanted. When I asked to speak to the manager he stiffened. Underlings always expect the worst when one asks for the manager.
“If madam has a complaint,” he began.
“No, not at all. Seeing you always on duty, and performing so well, I wanted to pass on my commendation to your superior.”
His face brightened. “Thank you, madam. If you would care to write a message to that effect, it would be most kind.”
Subtlety had not availed me. I took a more direct approach. “Is there some reason why I can’t speak to him in person?”
It took some persistence to get it out of him. The manager was at home, ill with the fever. He didn’t want the word to get out for fear patrons would think they might be in danger of catching the same illness. Mr. Fazah assured me earnestly that there was no danger of infection, that such fevers were common, debilitating but not life-threatening; that all food and drink served in the hotel were perfectly safe. I promised him I would keep the matter under my hat, regretting that I was unable to demonstrate the meaning of the phrase since I was not wearing that article of apparel.
As if to indicate his dedication to duty, Mr. Fazah informed me that although there had been no written messages for us, several persons had come round to see us. One had been Mr. Page, earlier that afternoon. The other, “a queer shabby sort of little old Jewish person,” had been there within the past hour. “I was forced to ask him to leave,” said Mr. Fazah, nose in the air, “since he began waving his arms and shouting.”
The description, unkind though it was, left no doubt as to the identity of our most recent visitor. The poor man was determined to help us, whether we wanted help or not-and I could not imagine any way in which he might be of use. However, simple civility dictated that I give him a few minutes of my time.
“I will send him away if he returns,” Mr. Fazah offered.
“No, no. Notify me unless the hour is unreasonably late.”
The unexpected absence of the manager might explain why we had not received any word from MO2, if such messages were only to be delivered to him in person. The process seemed haphazard and potentially dangerous. But after all, I reminded myself, the War Office was run by men.
I found the others, including Mr. Plato, in the dining salon.
“Did you have a fruitful encounter with your friend Major Morley?” I inquired of the latter.
“I rejoice to say that we are again in amity” was the reply, accompanied by a soulful look.
“In that case,” I said, “you will, I expect, prefer to take up your living quarters with him.”
Plato gave me a startled look. “But, Mrs. Emerson-”
“What precisely was the nature of your original agreement with him?” I asked.
Planting his elbows on the table, Emerson regarded me with approval. “See if you can winkle it out of him, Peabody. When I tried, all I got was vague biblical references.”
Unfortunately the waiter turned up to take our orders, which gave Plato time to organize his thoughts-or, as Emerson would have said, think up a convincing lie. I immediately resumed my interrogation.
“You supplied the information contained in the scroll,” I said. “He supplied the funds and financial support. Were you to divide the proceeds?”
“No such mercenary object was in my mind,” Plato said with a show of dignity. “I only wished to see the Holy Scriptures confirmed, the truth shown to the world.”
“Who paid your living expenses while you were in England?”
“We were as brothers, united in our burning faith.”
“Oh, yes, I can see Morley burning with faith,” said Emerson. He added, “If he mentions David and Jonathan I will send him to his room without his supper.”
“In other words,” I said sternly, “you lived off the money Morley brought in from his subscribers. Since you are now in amity again, he can go back to supporting you. I will arrange for a carriage to collect you and your luggage first thing tomorrow morning.”
No one had the temerity to protest. Nefret looked down at her plate, lips compressed, ignoring the pitiful looks Plato shot at her. Her tender heart was at war with her keen intelligence, and finally, it appeared, intelligence was in the ascendancy.
Plato ate his way through the soup course, the fish course, and all the other courses as if he expected it would be his last meal-which for all I knew might well be the case. When we retired to the lounge for coffee, he trailed after us. Since we needed to discuss our plans for the morrow, I told him to go to his room and begin packing. Thus far he had not got wind of our intentions, and I wanted it to remain that way.
I had reason, shortly thereafter, to be thankful I had sent him away. Scarcely had we taken our seats than Mr. Fazah came toward us. “That person,” he began. He did not finish; the little rabbi pushed past him and ran to me.
“God be thanked,” he panted. “You are here.”
“Oh, good Gad,” said Emerson. “Tell him we do not need his help and get rid of him. Be polite, of course.”
The rabbi reached into the breast of his robe and took out a folded paper, which he thrust at me. “Help,” he said. “Help.”
I cannot say what I expected; but one glance at the crumpled paper dispelled any doubts as to the rabbi’s intentions. I recognized the paper as a page from my son’s notebook, and the handwriting as that of Ramses.
“It appears to be addressed to you, Emerson,” I said. “In Arabic, Hebrew, and English. Rabbi, how did you-”
“For pity’s sake, Aunt Amelia, open it!” cried Nefret. Seated next to me, she had also identified the handwriting. In her agitation she actually snatched the note from my hand and unfolded the paper. The flush of health faded from her cheeks as she read.
“What?” shouted Emerson. “What?”
“Sssh,” I said. “Let us not draw attention to ourselves. Read it aloud, Nefret. Quietly.”
In fact quite a number of other patrons were looking in our direction. A gathering of pilgrims, the same ones we had observed in the dining salon, turned to stare, and a Turkish dignitary edged closer.
Looking over Nefret’s shoulder, I saw that Ramses’s handwriting was even more irregular than usual, but she read it off without hesitating. It began abruptly, with no salutation. “‘A friend is bringing this message. We were prisoners but got away. We are holed up in Crusader castle approx. ten m. south of Nablus, e. of the main road. David ill. Would appreciate assistance but please be careful, think we are being pursued.’”