A River in the Sky (13 page)

“Send pomegranates Glasgow. Humboldt seeking Siberian lettuce v.I.”

“Code,” I said.

“What did you expect? ‘Morley is a German spy, we told you so, now find proof’?”

“Is that what it says?”

“I rather doubt it,” said Emerson, holding the paper close to the lamp.

“You do have the key, don’t you?” With an effort I kept my voice calm.

“Certainly. It is a simple substitution code, almost impossible to decipher without the key, since the substitutions are arbitrary and not susceptible to the—”

“Where is it?”

“What? Oh,” said Emerson, recognizing in my measured tone signs that an explosion might be imminent. “In my head, of course. They made me memorize it before I left the office. One doesn’t carry such—”

“Do you remember it?”

“Um,” said Emerson, squinting at the paper. “Er. Most of it.”

“Oh, bah,” I cried. “If that isn’t just like a man! Men, I should say—you and that pompous fool General Spencer. He believes no mere female should be trusted with classified information, and you—don’t tell me, you gave your word to remain silent, didn’t you?” In my agitation I jumped up and began pacing back and forth across the room. “It is my own fault,” I said bitterly. “I ought to have questioned you. But I trusted you, Emerson, I trusted you to confide in me.”

Emerson intercepted me and caught me in a close embrace.
“Peabody, my love, you are right to reproach me. I was a fool. It will never happen again, I promise.”

It is unusual to see Emerson in a penitent mood. I find him much more persuasive when he is in one of his rages, sapphirine eyes narrowed, heavy brows drawn together, teeth bared. However, I did not suppose his conciliatory mood would last, and his embraces have a softening effect, even when, as in this case, he was squeezing the breath out of me. I indicated with a gesture that such was the case, and Emerson relaxed his grip.

“My love,” he began.

“I accept your apology, Emerson. Now let us see how much you remember of the code.”

Emerson has what I believe is called a selective memory. He can recall minute details of particular excavations but is likely to forget where he left his hat. Since he was scarcely more interested in codes and ciphers and spies than he was in the location of his hat, I did not suppose he had made much of an effort to remember the key. However, with the proper prodding, he might be prevailed upon to dredge up enough detail to interpret this particular message.

It was not really a very ingenious code. Perhaps in order to make it easier to remember, the inventor had used proper names for other proper names and verbs for other verbs. Once Emerson had recollected that “send” stood for “proceed” and “seeking” for “made contact” it was childishly easy to interpret the gist of the message. “Glasgow” had to be “Jerusalem” that was our agreed-upon destination, after all. Prodded by me, Emerson admitted that “Siberian” was a not too clever substitution for “German.”

“So ‘lettuce,’” I said, “must stand for ‘spy’ or ‘agent.’”

“That is right,” Emerson exclaimed. “I remember now. How did you know?”

“Because the War Office is obsessed with German spies. Humboldt, of course, is Morley. Why Humboldt, I wonder? Really, one
could almost anticipate their instructions without any written orders at all. We are left with only two unknowns. I would hazard a guess that ‘pomegranates’ is an adverb—‘immediately’ or ‘posthaste.’ What about ‘v.I.’?”

“Any ideas?” Emerson inquired hopefully.

“Nothing occurs to you?”

Emerson fingered the dimple, or cleft, in his chin. “Honestly, Peabody, it strikes no chord whatsoever. Thanks to your intelligent reminders I now recall a good many other words—Dutch for British, Norwegian for French, Julius for Wilhelm—”

“Caesar for Kaiser,” I said contemptuously. “Why on earth would Kaiser Wilhelm need to be mentioned?”

“Well, one never knows what the old buzzard will be up to next,” said Emerson. He proceeded to reel off several dozen other words and their code equivalents, which I immediately committed to memory, knowing that Emerson would probably have forgotten them next day. However, try as he might, he was unable to interpret the final, unknown word.

“It could mean anything,” I said. “A place name in Jerusalem, a day of the week. In any case, the instructions are clear. We are to proceed immediately to Jerusalem because Morley has been in contact with someone the War Office believes to be a German agent—although precisely what they expect us to do about it I cannot imagine. If this rain lets up we should be able to leave tomorrow.”

“You mean, then, to abandon our son?” Emerson’s manly tones were tremulous with reproach.

I repeated the arguments I had used with Nefret. The one that finally convinced Emerson was the last—that we might endanger Ramses by going openly in search of him.

“We cannot be certain that he is held prisoner,” I concluded. “Ramses may have had some obscure motive for using a woman’s
handkerchief—his motives are often obscure—or someone may have added it without his knowledge.”

“For equally obscure motives,” Emerson grumbled.

“I can think of at least two that are not obscure to me.”

“That does not surprise me in the least.” After a moment, Emerson added, “What are they?”

“Time is getting on,” I said, rising. “Nefret will be pounding on the door before long, demanding to know what we intend to do. Are you and I agreed? We must present a united front, since I expect protests from both Nefret and David.”

“I suppose so,” said Emerson glumly.

“I think we have time for a little sip of whiskey,” I suggested. “It was clever of you, my dear, to think of bringing several bottles.”

A little compliment, I always say, smooths over small disagreements. (The whiskey was no deterrent either.) Emerson cheered up and even agreed to change his trousers before Nefret, as I had predicted, knocked emphatically at our door.

“You haven’t changed for dinner,” I said.

“Neither have you.” She settled herself into a chair and gave me a challenging look. “Is that whiskey? May I have some?”

Except for wine and sherry before dinner, Nefret seldom touched alcoholic beverages. On this occasion I saw no reason to deny her request. It might put her in a more pliable mood.

The others soon joined us and we returned to the café where we had lunched. The rain had stopped and the air smelled clean and fresh. Once we were seated I made my announcements, since I believe in taking the bull by the horns—or, as Emerson had once expressed it, riding roughshod over objections.

“We are leaving for Jerusalem first thing tomorrow morning. I will make arrangements for travel this evening. There is a good carriage road, but if anyone would prefer to ride we can hire horses.
Selim, I am sure you would rather do that. In fact, I would appreciate it if you would take charge of selecting the beasts. Nefret, what about you?”

“I too would prefer to ride,” Nefret said quietly.

“And I,” said David.

“And you, Mr. Plato?” I asked, expecting I would have to explain what I was talking about.

“I have not bestrode a beast since that memorable day on the road to Damascus,” Plato replied. “It was not a horse, of course. A dear little donkey.”

Emerson decided he too would ride if he could find a steed up to his weight, so after we had returned to the hotel I left the others to make the necessary arrangements and went to my room to pack.

The sun was setting and lingering clouds darkened the west; even after I had lighted the lamps the room was gloomy and dismal. It had to have been the War Office that had selected this particular hotel; it could not have been recommended by any fastidious traveler.

Another idea came to me then, and I let out a little expletive of annoyance. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I had had a good deal on my mind, but that was no excuse. I usually have a great deal on my mind.

Picking up my handbag and my parasol, I hurried back to the lobby. Mr. Boniface was not behind the desk. Under interrogation the clerk on duty admitted he was in his office and indicated the door to that room.

I did not knock. Boniface had his feet on his desk, a cigar in one hand and a glass of amber liquid in the other. My unexpected appearance caused him to drop the cigar and spill a considerable quantity of the liquid onto his shirtfront.

“What a hypocrite you are,” I said. “Swilling liquor in your office
while refusing to supply it in this temperance hotel of yours. Are you also an agent of the British government?”

The question made his eyes widen even more. His mustache vibrated with agitation. “Good God,” he gasped. “Mrs. Emerson—please…don’t say such things! Not with the door standing open!”

I closed the door and took a chair. “Confess, Mr. Boniface. What are you afraid of? We are on the same side, I believe. If I am correct, and I am certain I am, your hotel is a communication center for agents working in this region. Really,” I added vexedly, as Boniface continued to gape stupidly at me, “this cursed obsession with secrecy is a confounded nuisance. The time may come when I will need to use that system of communication. Who gave you the code message you passed on to me today?”

Boniface took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “You’ve got it all wrong, Mrs. Emerson. That is…Yes, I do receive and pass on messages. But that is all I do! I don’t know names. I don’t want to know them. That is the truth, I swear.”

“You didn’t know the man who delivered that message?”

“Never saw him before in my life. Dressed like a pilgrim—spectacles, dark suit, clerical collar. But he gave me the sign, so I knew he was—”

“Sign? What sign?”

Solemnly Boniface pinched the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger and wriggled it back and forth. He looked perfectly ridiculous, with his bulging eyes and perspiring brow.

“Ah,” I said. “That could come in useful. Though it seems to me a rather unsafe signal. It might be made by chance.”

“It’s the number of times that matters,” Boniface said. He seemed almost relieved to have unburdened himself. “Back and forth, back and forth. Twice, no more.”

“I see. Thank you, Mr. Boniface, for your cooperation. I believe
you know we are leaving in the morning. I may or may not see you again.”

I deduced, from Boniface’s expression, he hoped the second alternative was the correct one.

I had almost finished my (and Emerson’s) packing when he returned to announce that the arrangements had been made.

“According to Selim, the horses are a poor lot, but Nefret says they are healthy enough.”

“Selim’s standards are high,” I remarked. “And he prefers to believe nothing in this country is the equal of what Egypt can provide. I trust the others have gone to their rooms to pack?”

“Yes.” Emerson flung himself into an armchair and took out his pipe and tobacco pouch. Then he burst out, “I am worried about Nefret.”

“What has she done?”

“Nothing! That is what worries me. I expected her to complain, protest, object. It’s unnatural, Peabody.”

“Not at all, my dear. You know my methods. Once again they have proved to be effective. She has seen reason and will not try to run off by herself.”

My judgment was correct. When we gathered in the gray light of dawn, Nefret was present. David was not.

David was never late.

Turning on Mr. Plato, I cried, “Where is he? Was he still in your room when you left it?”

The reverend took a step back. “What is the matter, Mrs. Emerson?”

I had not the patience to deal with him then. I hastened up the stairs, with Emerson close on my heels.

The room David and the reverend had shared was unoccupied. Both beds were unmade; David’s two suitcases stood against the wall. It was Emerson who saw the piece of paper pinned to the pillow of his bed.

“I beg you will refrain from mentioning hideous forebodings, Peabody,” he remarked.

Wringing my hands, I cried, “I had none, Emerson. Would that I had! I ought to have had! Let me see that.”

Emerson held it away from me. “I will read it to you. Sit down and get a grip on yourself.”

Characteristically, the note began with an apology.

“‘Forgive me for going against your expressed wishes and neglecting the duty I owe you, but there is another duty that must come first. I do not believe Ramses would neglect his responsibilities so cavalierly. He is in trouble, and I must find him. I think I have found a way to do that without endangering him. I am the only one who can.’”

“Is that all?” I demanded.

“It is quite enough, I believe.” Emerson folded the note and put it in his coat pocket.

Regretting my temporary loss of calm, I made a hasty inspection of David’s suitcases. The wardrobe was empty; he had packed all his belongings, ready for us to take with us. So far as I could tell, he had taken only a small valise, toilet articles, and a change of clothing with him.

Emerson carried the suitcases downstairs and handed them to Daoud, instructing him to place them with the rest of our luggage. Daoud obeyed without comment, his broad brow furrowed.

The reverend broke off his sotto voce rendition of what sounded like a hymn. “Shall we have breakfast now?” he asked.

I was tempted to take him by the collar and shake him, but I refrained. “When did David leave?” I asked.

“David? Oh.” The reverend pondered. “I don’t know. He was not there when I was wakened by the servant. So I came down at once, because you said last night—”

I waved him to silence and looked at Nefret. She made a pretty picture, in her riding costume of tan soldier’s cloth. The coat was cut à la militaire, with many useful pockets, and the skirt could be unbuttoned to form trousers. She looked down and began unfastening the buttons. Why had I not realized that her seeming acquiescence was an ominous sign? It was only one of many I had missed.

“You and David planned this,” I said. “You knew he meant to go after Ramses.”

She stopped fiddling with the buttons and met my gaze squarely. “If he hadn’t, I would have. I am sorry, Aunt Amelia.”

I studied her more closely and saw that her eyes were shadowed and her face rather pale, as was usually the case when she had slept poorly. No doubt guilt and shame had been responsible.

Accusations and recriminations would have been a waste of time. “What is he planning to do?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. But he said he was the only one who could carry it off, and only if he were alone.” Her moods were as variable as spring weather. Defiance gave way to remorse; tears flooded her blue eyes. “I didn’t want to deceive you, truly I didn’t, but—”

“Don’t try that trick on me, young lady,” I said sharply. “I am not moved by womanly tears.”

She knew that. The tears were not meant for me, they were aimed at Emerson, who had been talking with Selim.

For once they failed to have the desired effect. Emerson was too full of the news he had heard from Selim. “David came downstairs several hours ago. The grooms can’t say precisely when; they do not carry pocket watches. He told them he was going on ahead, mounted the beast he had selected, and rode off. They had no reason to stop him, since they had seen him last evening and knew he was one of our party.”

“They can’t be blamed,” I agreed. “Did any of them see which way he went?”

Emerson pointed, and then shook his head. “That’s no help. The main roads to Gaza, Nablus, and Jerusalem are in that direction.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said grimly. “I know where he is going. Samaria.”

F
ROM
M
ANUSCRIPT
H

The rain had stopped next morning, but the roads were still waterlogged, as Ramses discovered after he had been wedged back into the vehicle, blindfolded and bound. He found himself unpleasant company, since Mansur had denied his request that he be allowed to bathe and change his clothes. He was also developing a bristly growth of beard.

The artificially imposed blindness was beginning to take its toll. He knew the blindfold and Mansur’s oh-so-polite refusal to give him so much as a basin of water and a bar of soap was part of a deliberate process, a slow and subtle method of reducing a prisoner to something less than a human being. Being spotlessly clean at all times had never been one of his major preoccupations; when he and David had prowled the back alleys of Cairo, their disguises had often necessitated filthy rags and a rancid odor. But that had been a matter of choice, and of self-imposed limits. Now a stranger and an enemy controlled even that basic aspect of his existence. For an arrogant Englishman, the control itself was intolerable. At least that’s how Mansur would reason—and he’d be right. I wonder what he’ll come up with next? Ramses thought. His imagination, enriched by knowledge of his own inner weaknesses and fears, supplied a variety of ugly possibilities. He knew what Mansur wanted—to reduce him to such a state of misery that he would beg for even a small comfort. In many ways it was a more intolerable form of torture than physical pain.

He wasn’t able to sleep, since the vehicle kept sinking into water-filled ruts. The only advantage to sightlessness was that his other senses were keener. He could hear water sloshing around as the men grunted and shoved to lift the cart, and smell the tobacco smoke whenever the man perched on the apron at the back of the cart lit a cigarette. There was always someone there, discernible by the smell
of tobacco and the small noises he made shifting position, coughing, clearing his throat. Ramses had tried speaking to him, but he never got an answer.

After an interminable interval he was allowed out, still blindfolded, to relieve himself and eat. He couldn’t see the man who kept a firm grip on his arm throughout—and who let go his grip once, so that Ramses stumbled and fell flat in the mud. He wasn’t even allowed to wipe the muck off his face; his silent attendant did it with a rough cloth, like a nursemaid cleaning a grubby child.

The man’s brisk face-scrubbing had had one positive effect. The lower edge of the blindfold had been pushed up, over the bridge of his nose, so that a thin strip of light was visible. He managed to worry it up a little more by rubbing his face against the side of the vehicle. He couldn’t see anything except the inside of the vehicle, but even that small window into the world of sight lifted his spirits.

Sometime later the worst of the jolting stopped and their progress became more even. They must have turned onto a larger highway, after traversing less-traveled back tracks. He pricked his ears. Yes; there were other travelers, he could hear snatches of conversation and laughter, hoofbeats, the creak and rumble of wheeled vehicles, and an occasional burst of profanity directed by one driver at another who had got in his way. A well-traveled highway, then. There weren’t that many roads fit for all-weather travel. One to Nablus and on to Jerusalem, another to Jaffa; unless they had headed north, toward Haifa, or west, toward Damascus. Too many possibilities, and no clue.

Their pace slowed till it was hardly faster than a walk. Mansur was in no hurry. Was he early for a rendezvous, or waiting until after dark to reach his destination? Probably the latter, Ramses thought, as the light faded and their speed began to increase. They were entering a town, a town of some size; the sounds of traffic were louder and
he saw flashes of light, from lanterns or torches, under the blindfold.

When the vehicle finally stopped, he was yanked out of it, not too gently, and assisted to stand. It was not Mansur’s hand that guided him; he had learned to recognize that touch.

The surface underfoot was stone, but the place must be open to the sky. A brisk breeze cooled his face and ruffled his hair. He was led through a door, along a corridor, and up a flight of stairs. Another length of corridor, another open door; this was no peasant dwelling, but a house of some size. The man gave him a shove that brought him to his knees. Then his bonds were untied, and the door closed with a reverberant slam.

His first instinctive act was to pull the blindfold up over his head. Blinking in the light, still on his knees, he took in his surroundings.

The light came from an ornate brass chandelier high overhead. Only half the candles had been lighted; the flames flickered in a chilly draft. The room was large, furnished with tawdry elegance—silk-and velvet-covered cushions scattered about the marble floor, ivory-inlaid tables, a long divan whose covering shimmered like cloth of gold. Ramses got slowly to his feet. It was definitely an improvement on his former quarters, but knowing Mansur as he had come to do, he was not reassured. Cautiously he moved around the room, staying close to the walls. The draft of air came from windows on a side wall. They were closed by elaborately carved wooden screens, the apertures too small to allow the occupant of the room to see out. Peering into dark corners, Ramses continued his search. He had almost decided he was alone when he came face-to-face with an apparition that wrung a muffled cry from him—a tall figure with staring eyes and a face horribly mottled with green and brown stains, a tangle of black hair crowning its head. His nerves were in such a state that it was several seconds before he realized the monster was his
own reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror, distorted by the crackling of the glass.

He got his breathing under control and moved on. The door through which he had entered the room was a massive affair, heavy wood bound with iron. It was, as he had expected, locked or bolted.

A closer examination of the room and its furnishings told him what sort of room it was. Mashrabiya screens, ornate mirrors, velvet cushions—a harem chamber, probably the ka’ah, or main salon. But the fringe on the cushions was unraveling, the mirror was speckled, and a thin film of dust covered the flat surfaces. The Turkish official who owned the house hadn’t kept his women here for some time.

The rattle of hardware at the door made him spin around.

Two of the guards entered, carrying, of all things, his suitcases. They dropped them and took up positions on either side of the open door, standing at attention.

Mansur looked as if he had just come from a long hot bath. His caftan was spotless, his beard oiled, his feet encased in elegant red leather slippers. Ramses knew only too well what he looked like. He had to fight the temptation to duck his head or raise his hands to hide his horrible face. The contrast between their appearances couldn’t have been sharper.

Suddenly, unpredictably, his sense of humor came to his rescue. This was a farce, the sort of nasty but harmless joke one schoolboy might play on another. Ramses raised his hand to his brow in ironic salute.

“How neat and tidy you are,” he said approvingly. “What’s the occasion?”

Mansur looked him over, from disheveled head to mud-caked boots, and back again. His deep-set eyes narrowed.

“I apologize for the discomfort you have endured the past few days,” he said.

Ramses smiled and shrugged. He hoped Mansur hadn’t observed him shriek and recoil from his image in the mirror. Rooms of a harem were fitted out with listening devices and hidden spy holes, so that the own er could keep an eye, and ear, on his property.

Mansur gestured him out of the room and preceded him along a narrow corridor. He himself opened a door. “I hope this will make amends,” he said.

It was a bath chamber, lined with mirrors, with a sunken tub large enough to hold a pasha and several of his ladies. The marble was chipped and stained, the mirrors cracked, but the sight was glorious. Steam rose from the water that filled the tub. On a ledge next to the bath, toilet articles and a change of clothing had been neatly laid out. They were his own.

He wanted nothing more than to strip and plunge into the tub but he didn’t want to appear too eager—or appear before Mansur naked. It was a form of humiliation he had been spared so far. He raised an inquiring eyebrow and stood waiting.

“Someone will come for you in a quarter of an hour,” Mansur said. The door closed behind him. Ramses didn’t waste time trying it. Either it would be bolted or there would be a guard. But he took his time about undressing, inspecting the amenities—a bar of highly scented soap, several large but rather threadbare towels, a loofah. He lowered himself into the tub with a groan of pleasure. There were probably peepholes in these walls too, but at that point he didn’t give a damn.

Since he had no way of measuring time, he couldn’t allow himself the indulgence of soaking his stiffened muscles, but he felt a thousand percent better after he had toweled himself off. As it turned out he could have wallowed longer. He was fully dressed and had been pacing the room for what seemed much longer than a quarter of an hour before Mansur returned. He was alone.

“Back to your room,” he said curtly. “Quickly.”

He followed close on Ramses’s heels but instead of opening the door to the harem chamber he put a hard hand on Ramses’s arm and turned him so that they were eyeball to eyeball.

“You are the son of the Father of Curses. The one they call Ramses.”

Wondering what this was all about, Ramses nodded.

With a dramatic gesture Mansur flung the door wide.

“Then who is this?”

One of his men stood over a recumbent form. His face was hidden in the crook of his arm, but Ramses recognized him instantly. His stomach sank down into his boots.

W
HAT MAN OR WOMAN
will ever forget the moment when he (or she) stood gazing for the first time on the thrice-holy city, its minarets and steeples and its great golden dome swimming in the purple haze of evening?