A River in the Sky (10 page)

His hands tightened on the reins, and as the soldiers approached them, Ramses said softly, “Don’t try it. Let me do the talking.”

He sat still, looking down his nose at the officer in charge. “Why are you stopping us?” he asked in his best Turkish.

“You are the one we are looking for. Get down and come with me.”

He could have tried bluster: “I am a British citizen and you have no right to detain me.” That would almost certainly be the wrong
tack. He had recognized two of the men. They were Turkish army, all right, but they were also part of Frau von Eine’s personal guard.

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of the miscellaneous currencies used in the area. “Perhaps we can come to an agreement.”

The initial effect was encouraging—an exchange of interested glances and a moment of hesitation by the officer. Only a moment, though.

“You will come with me,” he repeated, and reached for Ramses’s arm. Ramses pushed his hand away and descended with dignity, taking his time. He was several inches taller than the officer, including that worthy’s fancy fez, and he took full advantage, looming as best he could, his lip curling.

“Take me to your superior,” he snapped. “At once.” To Abdul Hamid he said curtly, “Wait for me.”

“Oh, he will wait,” said the officer. “You may be sure of that.”

Three of them, including the officer, trotted along with him as he strode into the village. The other soldiers remained with the carriage. The street was typical of such villages, narrow and littered, walled in by the facades of the houses that lined it. It was a gloomy, tunnel-like stretch, made even gloomier by the clouds that were gathering. They passed one or two slitlike side passages and Ramses fought the urge to dart into one of them. Common sense told him it would be jumping from the frying pan into the fire—being trapped in a cul-de-sac or dead end. Anyhow, he couldn’t run out on Abdul Hamid. He’d brought the poor devil into this and in the unlikely event that he could get away Abdul Hamid would be in for it.

Their destination was a house next to the mosque. It was a trifle more pretentious than the others they had passed, with barred windows and a heavy ironbound door. The door opened as they approached. The man who had opened it was Frau von Eine’s companion.

Mansur stood back and gestured to Ramses to enter. The soldiers
crowded in after him and took up positions on either side of the door. Another gesture to Ramses indicated the divan against one wall. There wasn’t much else in the room, only a few cushions, a low wooden table next to the divan, and a brazier that gave off an acrid-smelling smoke and just enough light to make out Mansur’s features.

Ramses didn’t even think of trying to make a break for it. Nor would bluster serve him here. He took the seat indicated and waited for the other man to speak first.

Mansur clapped his hands. A servant entered through a curtained doorway, carrying a tray which he put on the table. He was neatly dressed in a brightly embroidered vest over a brown galabeeyah, with red slippers on his feet. He gave Ramses a quick sidelong glance before salaaming profoundly to Mansur and backing out of the room.

“Would you care for tea?” Mansur asked, indicating the glasses on the tray.

It was the first time Ramses had heard him utter more than a muttered word or two. His voice was low and melodious, a deep baritone. Even more surprising was the fact that he spoke educated English, with only the faint trace of an accent.

“Oxford?” Ramses inquired, taking one of the glasses.

“Cambridge.”

“And before that?”

Mansur’s eyes narrowed, and Ramses explained disingenuously, “What I meant to say was that your English is excellent.”

“How kind of you to say so.”

“To speak a language so well, most people require years of study, starting at an early age.”

Mansur took a seat beside Ramses and helped himself to tea.

“We can go on fencing, if you like, but it would save time if we went straight to the point. What do you want to know?”

Ramses raised his eyebrows. “You want
me
to ask
you
questions? I expected it would be the other way round.”

The other man’s thin lips curved in a smile. With the turban low on his brow and his beard hiding the outline of chin and jaw, and those deep-set, hooded eyes, his face was to all intents and purposes masked, no feature that might have expressed his feelings exposed. “Still fencing. I don’t have to question you. Last night you met a man who was a British spy. He told you a number of things he was not supposed to know. Please don’t bother to equivocate. I let him leave the area so that I could follow him.”

“You couldn’t have overheard what he said to me,” Ramses said.

“I heard enough. He had only suspicions, no proof, but if those suspicions were passed on, an investigation might interfere with our work.”

“So you killed him. Was it you who cut his throat?”

“Why should you think that? These vagabonds one hires are a quarrelsome lot.”

And by the time someone went looking for the grave, the body would no longer be there.

Mansur finished his tea and put the glass onto the tray. “In any case,” he continued, “his disappearance won’t be discovered for some time. By then we will have finished our work and be…elsewhere.”

“And how do you propose to prevent me from reporting his death? If you kill me—”

“My dear chap!” Another fleeting, sardonic smile. “I wouldn’t do anything so foolish, even if my civilized instincts did not forbid it. Your disappearance would be known immediately, and your devoted family would move heaven and earth to find out what had become of you. I spent some time in Egypt and I know your father’s reputation—and that of your mother. They would learn that you had had encounters with our group, and that we don’t want. No, my young friend, you will have to accept our hospitality for a brief period.”

Ramses sipped his tea. His mouth was dry, but he was beginning to entertain a faint, cowardly hope that he might survive a little longer.
He didn’t believe in Mansur’s “civilized instincts,” but his reasoning made sense. There was one large flaw in his plans, though. Ramses debated with himself as to whether he should point it out.

He might have known his wily adversary had anticipated that too. “The same problem will arise if you don’t turn up in Jaffa at the appointed time. Oh, yes, we know all about that. We have allies in the village. They listen to your conversations, they read your letters. Therefore you must write to your parents and make some excuse for not meeting them. We will see it is delivered.”

“What excuse? I can’t think of one they would accept.”

“A secret mission?” Mansur suggested, eyebrows elevated. “You have a reputation, I believe, for independent action. The less specific your excuse, the better. Perhaps the best thing would be for you to say something like, ‘Have been delayed. Will explain when I see you. Go on to Jerusalem.’”

So even the contents of his parents’ letters were known. How many villagers could read English that well? Maybe the letters had been “borrowed” and shown to Mansur or Madame. Their temporary absence might not have been noticed.

“They won’t buy that,” Ramses said, knowing that they probably would. For some reason his parents had a low opinion of his common sense.

“Are you trying to persuade me to kill you?” Mansur inquired. “I won’t do that, for the reasons I have explained. But I can make life very unpleasant for you while you are in my custody if you refuse to cooperate.”

“Civilized men don’t torture prisoners,” Ramses pointed out.

“I don’t believe in torture. It is ineffective. A man in pain will say whatever he believes his questioner wants to hear. Come now, be sensible.” He leaned forward, his deep-set eyes intent. “As I said, you have no proof of wrongdoing on our part. Our mission is secret, but it poses no threat to anyone. In fact, if our plans succeed, many
people will be helped. One day soon I will be able to tell you about it and it may well be that you will find yourself in sympathy with our aims.”

“Then why not tell me now?”

“I have taken a vow of silence.”

Can’t argue with that, Ramses thought. Nor with any of the other vague hints Mansur had dropped. He remained silent, and Mansur went on, “You will not be harmed and you will have the usual comforts. And—” This time the smile was broader. “Who knows, you may find a means of escape.”

“There is that,” Ramses agreed. Against all his inclinations he was inclined to believe the other man’s assurance that he would not be harmed. Anyhow, what choice had he? Assuming he could overpower Mansur and three men carrying rifles, which was not so much unlikely as impossible, where would he go?

“I’ll write the letter,” he said. “Have you paper and pen?”

“No. But I expect you have, in your luggage if not on your person. Shall I have your suitcases brought in?”

“No need.” Ramses reached in his pocket, where he carried a small notepad and pen. He’d never got over the habit of cramming his pockets with various objects picked up during his daily activities. After removing a fragment of stone with a carved leaf—which he had forgotten to leave at the dig—a handful of figs, a coiled length of string, and the clay fragment he had found, he located the notepad. When he took it out, something else came with it—a crumpled piece of white linen.

“You may as well return this to Frau von Eine,” he said, handing it over. “She dropped it the other day. Or will I have the opportunity to do so myself?”

Mansur stared at the motley objects on the table. After a moment Ramses rephrased his question. “Will I be encountering Frau von Eine in the near future?”

“I cannot say.”

“You mean you will not say, or that her future activities are not known to you?”

“Write,” Mansur said. He picked up the handkerchief and slipped it into the breast of his robe.

Ramses wrote as Mansur dictated, almost word for word, the same message he had suggested earlier, tore the page from the notepad, and handed it over.

“Now what?” he asked.

“You accompany us to…where we are going.”

“What about Abdul Hamid?”

“Who? Oh, your driver. He will return to Sebaste tomorrow, having left you, at your request, with a group of pilgrims whom you encountered in Nablus and who were planning to travel to Jaffa next day.”

“That should muddy the trail nicely,” Ramses said with grudging admiration. “I presume Abdul Hamid will be well bribed.”

“A combination of greed and fear will convince him to stick to his story.” He rose to his full impressive height. “We must be on our way.”

In the enclosed courtyard behind the house were a wooden cart, into which his suitcases had already been loaded, and a yaila, one of the traveling conveyances more common in Syria than here. Drawn by a pair of horses, it was shaped like a tube, in which the passenger lay at full length on his bedding. At the back was a platform for a servant, who supplied the traveler with food and drink. Substitute guard for servant, and the enclosed conveyance was admirably suited for transporting a prisoner. There were plenty of guards available—at least a dozen muscular men in local garb, as well as the three soldiers.

Ramses looked inquiringly at his companion. The yailas had room enough for two, if they were very friendly, but he didn’t suppose
Mansur would be careless enough to let him travel without restraints of some kind. So far he had proved himself a thorough sort of fellow.

“I apologize for the blindfold,” Mansur said, beckoning one of the guards. “If you will give me your word as an Englishman that you will not attempt to remove it or try to escape…”

He left the sentence incomplete.

“That wouldn’t be playing the game, would it?” Ramses inquired.

From Mansur’s expression, or lack thereof, he realized Mansur hadn’t understood he was being ironic. That was one of the problems with humor. Sometimes it didn’t translate well.

He submitted to being blindfolded and having his hands tied behind him. Mansur himself helped him stretch out on the mattress that had been provided.

“I can give you something to make you sleep,” he said, for all the world like a conscientious physician to a patient. “The time will pass more quickly.”

“No, thank you.” There was always a chance he would overhear something that would give him a clue as to their destination or their real purpose.

And the possibility of getting back at Mansur for his infuriating condescension.

I had landed at Port Said and at Alexandria and thought myself prepared for the mingling of races and the general lack of organization that characterizes ports in that part of the world; but I had never seen anything quite so disorganized as the port of Jaffa. It is the great pilgrim port for the Holy Land. Earnest American Protestants, Bibles in hand, mingle with turbaned Moslems, Orthodox Jews, bearded Greek Orthodox priests robed in black. The city, ringed in by crumbling walls, clings to the slopes of the hill rising from the harbor. On the brow of the hill, a hundred feet above the harbor, stands the oldest part of the ancient city. An ancient city indeed, for it was already flourishing when Thutmose III conquered it in the fourteenth century before Christ. It has had a rich and bloodstained history. (Alas, the two are often the same.) Phoenicians and Philistines were followed in turn by the Assyrians, the Greeks, and the Romans; it was a Christian bishopric until conquered by the Arabs in the eighth century. Crusaders succeeded the followers of Mohammed, and Sara
cens succeeded Crusaders; eventually the Ottoman sultans reduced the city to ashes and, as was their normal habit, put the inhabitants to the sword.

The harbor was not deep enough to allow large steamers to dock, so we were taken ashore in little boats—a somewhat unnerving procedure, since the boats bobbed up and down and the crewmen thereof lowered passengers and luggage alike with more haste than care. As our boat approached the shore I beheld a familiar face towering above the crowd.

“There is Daoud,” I cried, waving. “And yes—Selim too.”

“You sound surprised,” said Emerson, sounding surprised. “You told them to be here, didn’t you?”

Daoud was something of a dandy, but I had never seen him so magnificently dressed as now, his elegant robes of the finest saffron wool, his sash of striped silk with a fringe a foot long. His intricately wound turban sported an ornament six inches across that sparkled with crimson gems.

“Goodness gracious, Daoud,” I exclaimed somewhat breathlessly, as he lifted me clean off my feet in a hearty embrace. “How splendid did you look!”

“It is in your honor,” Daoud explained proudly, embracing the rest of us in turn. Emerson submitted with a resigned roll of his eyes; he had learned it was useless to resist Daoud’s demonstrations of affection. Having greeted Nefret and David, Daoud inspected Mr. Plato with amiable curiosity. Nefret introduced them, adding that the reverend was a friend and a member of our group, whereupon Daoud embraced him as well, to Mr. Plato’s obvious alarm.

“Where has Selim got to?” I asked, straightening my hat.

“He is coming. With the porters.”

The sight of Selim wrung a mild expletive from Emerson. If Daoud had dazzled our eyes, Selim blinded them. His turban pin was larger and more sparkly than Daoud’s, his robes consisted of several layers
of silk, each finer and more colorful than the next. Through his sash had been thrust an ornately decorated sword, the hilt ablaze with gems. The gems were—at least I hoped they were—glass, but they made an impressive show.

Another round of embraces followed. “What the devil is this?” Emerson demanded, indicating the silk, the gems, and the sword.

Selim grinned. He was a handsome fellow, closely resembling his nephew David except for the beard he had grown so that his men would respect him more. “You will see, Father of Curses. Will you come now? Daoud!”

“Yes, yes,” said Daoud, beaming. He raised his voice in a shout. “Make way for the Father of Curses and his wife the Sitt Hakim and for Nur Misur, the Light of Egypt!”

He made sure everyone would make way by preceding us, moving with the ponderous inevitability of an avalanche and gently but firmly moving aside anyone in his path.

One face I had hoped to see was conspicuous by its absence. Turning to Selim, I said, “Where is Ramses? I ordered him to meet us here and gave him our date of arrival.”

“He has not come, Sitt Hakim.”

“Nor any message from him?”

“Not to me, Sitt. But it may be that there is a message waiting for you at your hotel. We came here from Kantara on the train two days ago, and I made certain that your rooms would be ready for you.”

“Aren’t you and Daoud staying there?”

“No, Sitt. The hotel is for Americans and Europeans only.”

Observing my frown, Selim said tactfully, “Excuse me, Sitt, I must look after the porters. They are not honest people.”

I expected that we would have some little delay passing through customs. In Egypt we are well known; the mere sight of Emerson is enough to inspire instant obedience from officials, and shouts of wel
come from those who recognize him. We had a great deal of luggage, some of which was bound to arouse the suspicion or the cupidity of the inspectors: cameras and photographic plates, tents and sleeping equipment, notebooks and painting materials, medical supplies and what would probably strike the customs officials as an unnecessarily large quantity of soap. But when we approached the counters with their long lines of waiting passengers, I understood the import of our friends’ attire.

Shouting—and sparkling—Daoud led us past the staring tourists. “Make way for the Father of Curses and his lady, the Sitt Hakim. Make way for Nur Misur, the Light of Egypt, and for the great and powerful Brother of Demons!”

David, walking beside me, let out a strangled exclamation. “That’s not me!”

“That is not I,” I corrected. “Perhaps Selim was unable to think of an appropriately impressive sobriquet for you.”

“But that’s what they call Ramses,” David protested.

“No one here knows that,” I said. “And it seems to have made quite an impression.”

People were staring and whispering. I turned my head to look at Emerson, who was escorting Nefret and Mr. Plato. As I had expected, he was bowing from side to side, and raising one hand in a gesture of regal condescension. Behind him trotted a long line of loaded porters, with Selim bringing up the rear. I couldn’t see much of Selim; I wondered if he was brandishing his sword.

We swept past the crowd of lesser beings and out of the customs shed, the throngs and even the guards at the door parting before Daoud like the waters of the Red Sea.

“Keep moving,” said Emerson, taking his place at my side and gesturing to David to fall back with Nefret.

“Carriages—carts,” I gasped, for our pace had quickened.

“Just follow Daoud.” Emerson gave me his arm. “No doubt the officials have been well bribed and thoroughly intimidated, but if we stop they may have second thoughts.”

From the quayside we climbed the hill into the old town, and I understood the need for so many porters. Carts and carriages would have had a difficult time passing along the narrow and winding streets. Evidently donkeys did pass through them, for the evidence of their presence littered the street, along with rotting fruit and other signs of habitation.

We emerged from the old town into a rather pleasant open square, with (as I was later to learn) army barracks on one side and the residence of the kaimakam (governor) on another. Our hotel was just off the square. Leaving the porters to wait outside, we entered the lobby. Everything in the place was brown—an olive-drab carpet on the floor, weak-coffee-brown paint on walls and ceiling, rusty brown upholstery on the chairs and single sofa, a few pathetic potted plants whose leaves had not a trace of green. They were, in short, brown. The walls were hung with notices announcing the hours of meals (no seating after the designated time), the availability of dragomen and porters (arrangements must be made through the manager), a pointed request for payment in British pounds or American dollars, and so on. The most conspicuous notice proclaimed proudly that this was a Temperance Hotel. Behind the registration desk stood a man wearing a morning coat and a supercilious sneer. He could only be British. The sneer faded when Emerson stamped up to the desk and addressed him in a peremptory basso.

“The rooms of Professor and Mrs. Emerson and their party.”

“You are Professor Emerson?”

“Who else would I be? Who the devil are you?”

“Er—the manager of this hotel, to be sure. My name is Boniface. Mr. Boniface.”

He held out his hand. Emerson stared at it as if he had never seen
such an object before. “Come, man, don’t stand there gaping like a fish; Mrs. Emerson is not accustomed to being kept waiting. Show us to our rooms at once.”

Visibly unnerved, the manager emerged from behind the desk and led the way to our rooms. Emerson, who takes pleasure in annoying pompous persons, followed close on his heels, so that the manager was almost running when we arrived at our destination. The accommodations consisted of three sleeping chambers on the first floor. The furnishings of the room assigned to Emerson and me were a remarkable combination of European and local wares: a purple plush sofa, toilet articles of porcelain behind an ornately carved wooden screen, and a hideous brass bedstead covered with a spread of woven fabric. Gloomy sepia photographs of Jerusalem and Nazareth were interspersed with even gloomier copies of religious paintings. The one hanging over the bed was a particularly realistic rendition of the Crucifixion.

Accustomed as I was to the elegance of Shepheard’s and the Winter Palace, I spoke only the truth when I remarked, “If this is the best you can offer, I suppose it will have to do.”

Nefret’s room, next to ours, had a green plush sofa and a hand-tinted depiction of Saint Veronica wiping the face of Jesus as he knelt beneath the weight of the cross on the Via Dolorosa. Quite a lot of red paint had been employed.

We left Nefret studying this work of art with pursed lips, and inspected the third room, which contained two beds and very little else.

“The two—er—gentlemen will share?” said the manager, eyeing David askance.

“I booked four rooms,” I said. “We are expecting our son, who will share with Mr. Todros. Are you certain he is not here or that there is no message from him?”

“What name?” Boniface asked nervously.

“Emerson, of course,” said my husband. “Good Gad, Peabody, the fellow appears to be lacking in his wits.” Thrusting his face close to that of the manager, he articulated slowly and loudly, as he might have spoken to a person whose hearing was deficient. “Send. Porters. With luggage. Now.”

“Stop that, Emerson,” I said, tiring of the game. “Mr. Boniface, send our—our attendants here as well, and please look to see whether there are any messages for us. Until our son arrives, these two gentlemen will occupy the third room.”

Boniface fled, mopping his brow, and we all returned to the room assigned to Emerson and me, which was the largest. Emerson’s first act was to remove the painting of the Crucifixion and put it at the back of the wardrobe.

By the time the porters had delivered our bundles and we had unpacked our suitcases, we were all ready for a spot of luncheon. The hotel boasted a dining room, but we were in full agreement with Emerson when he refused to patronize it.

“The food will be the worst of bad British cooking—boiled beef and brown soup—and that pompous ass of a manager probably won’t admit Selim and Daoud. Nor will we be able to get a beer or a glass of wine. Confounded temperance! There must be a decent place to eat in the bazaar.”

The manager’s coattails whisked out of sight as we passed through the lobby. “I can’t understand why we haven’t heard from Ramses,” I said uneasily. “Could a message have been mislaid?”

“The pompous ass swore he hadn’t mislaid any messages,” said Emerson, taking my arm. “I am inclined to believe him.”

So was I. Emerson had reduced Mr. Boniface to such a state, he would have written a note himself if he believed it would satisfy us.

“The boy will turn up,” Emerson went on. “If he doesn’t, we’ll go after him. You know how uncertain the mails are in this part of the world. He may never have received your letters.”

The square was crowded with strollers enjoying the balmy air and the pretty flower gardens. Led by Selim, we headed for the old town where, he assured us, there were several adequate establishments—though not, of course, as good as those in Cairo and Luxor.

“I never knew you were such a snob, Selim,” Nefret said, taking his arm. As the pair strolled on, several passersby stared, frowning, and one female said in a strident American accent, “She’s holding his arm, Hiram, just as if he was a white man.”

I did not hear Hiram’s response. Letting Emerson go on ahead, I had stopped to admire a particularly attractive bed of marigolds when someone jostled me and I felt a hand press against me. Springing instinctively into defensive mode, I spun round and raised my parasol.

“What is it, Peabody?” Emerson asked, hastening to my side.

Gazing about, I was unable to determine which of the other pedestrians had touched me. No one hastened away; no one looked guiltily in my direction. Soldiers wearing Turkish uniforms, sober pilgrims in shades of black and gray, a Greek patriarch, local residents in a variety of headdresses…Surely none of them would have accosted me so rudely or attempted to pick my pocket. My walking costume had several of them, two set into the seams of my skirt and one on either side of my coat. All my valuables were in my handbag; the pockets of my coat contained only a handkerchief and a guidebook.

“I must have been mistaken,” I began. And then my exploratory fingers contradicted the statement. Nothing had been taken from my coat pockets. Something had been added. Quickly I disengaged it from the fold of my handkerchief.

It was a small packet, less than two inches square and not very thick, wrapped in white fabric and tied with a bit of string.

The others gathered round, gazing curiously at the object and asking questions. I began plucking at the string, which was tightly knotted. Emerson snatched the packet from my hand.

“Come over here,” he said, and led the way to a shady spot under an orange tree.

“Someone slipped it into my pocket,” I replied, in answer to Nefret. “Just now. Emerson, be careful. It may contain a sharp blade, or a poisonous insect, or—”

“Balderdash,” said Emerson. Opening his pocketknife, he cut through the string, which he handed to David. After returning the knife to his trouser pocket, he unwrapped the folds of cloth, his big brown hands moving with the delicacy he employed with fragile artifacts. At last the contents lay exposed.