Lord of the Silent: A Novel of Suspense (40 page)

into the place and pull some cute stunt to get to her without being spotted. If she's not there .. .Well, folks, there's only one alternative that I can see." "Quite," I agreed. "We must capture Kuentz alive-alive, Daoud, did you hear-and force him to tell us where she is. How shall we go about it? I have my knife and my pistol, and Daoud and Selim are armed, and there is Cyrus's rifle, and-" Emerson had not spoken. His broad forehead was furrowed, his eyes glittered like sapphires. "Control yourself, Peabody," he said, in the purring voice that betokened the Wrath of the Father of Curses (to quote Daoud)."Let me talk to the bastard." He rose slowly to his feet, hands spread and empty. "Kuentz!" he shouted. The risk of movement was not as great as it seemed. Our vile opponent knew that a fusillade of gunfire would draw attention, and if he killed one of us, the others-especially Daoud-would run amok. Kuentz came back to the mouth of the bay. "Don't try anything, Professor." "Just stretching a bit," said Emerson, suiting the action to the words. "The cards are all in your hands, to continue your unimaginative metaphor. You will release Nefret after you have got your prize safely away?" "Of course. I bear her no ill will. I loved her once, you know." "Then the sooner your aim is accomplished, the sooner we will have her back," Emerson said. "How can we help you?" "A rather disingenuous offer, Professor," Kuentz said. "Your life is dearer to me than my own at this moment," Emerson assured him. "You are the only one who can save her from the Syrian." "True." Kuentz stroked his beard. "I am tempted to let you have a look. It's a sight you have never seen, and will never see again, and you are among the few who can appreciate it. I will let Selim and Daoud help my workmen finish clearing the shaft. Then you can go down, one by one, before I have it out." "Agreed," Emerson said. Kuentz made me unfasten my belt of tools, and told Cyrus and me to remove our coats before he let us proceed in single file, Daoud and Selim first. The workmen stopped and stared when we entered the bay. Quickly I assessed them. They were local men, some of whom had worked for us at various times, and I had the distinct impression that they were not at all happy. Kuentz had hired them for what appeared to be an ordinary excavation, but when he pointed a gun at the Father of Curses and the Sitt Hakim, the unfortunate fellows realized something unpleasant was about to happen. I knew we could not expect help from them, however; if they got the chance they would run like rabbits, and none of them was courageous enough to attack an armed man. Kuentz ordered Cyrus and Emerson and me to stand against the rock face and took up a position far enough away so that even Emerson could not have reached him in a single bound. "All right, Selim," he said. "Get to work. One false move and I fire." Selim's tight lips parted. "I obey the Father of Curses. We will clear the shaft for him. Come, Daoud." "Yes. Get out of my way," Daoud added, pushing assorted Gurnawis back from the opening. There was not much left to do. They must have started work before daylight, and the shaft was not deep. I could see the top of Daoud's head when he stood at the bottom. Lying flat on the ground beside the opening, Selim shone his torch down while Daoud filled one basket after another and handed them up. It took two of the workers to lift the basket he had raised with one hand. "It is open." His voice echoed up the shaft. "There is a chamber beyond-" "Come up," Kuentz ordered. His face was aglow, and for a moment I saw the ardent young scholar he had been before he was corrupted by greed and-as I was beginning to suspect-something else. "Ladies first, eh, Mrs. Emerson? Daoud, lower her down. The rest of you stand still." Emerson mumbled a protest, but wild horses could not have kept me away. As he had done so often before, Daoud took my wrists in his big hands and let me down, slowly and carefully, till my feet rested on the rough stone that floored the shaft. The opening at the bottom, on the right side, was less than five feet high. I could see nothing of what lay beyond. "Mr. Kuentz, I require a source of illumination," I called. "You made me discard my torch." "Yes, to be sure. Selim, give her yours." Daoud handed it down. I had to bend over to traverse the short passage. When it ended I rose cautiously to my feet. It was not a tomb. It was a shrine. Against the far wall, wrapped in folds of time-browned linen, stood the god. The light of the torch reflected in the subtle golden curves of the face; eyes inlaid with crystal and obsidian returned my unbelieving stare with calm indifference. He was crowned with twin plumes of gold, and lapis lazuli outlined his brows, and at his feet lay a tumble of golden vessels containing the dried remains of his last offering: Amon-Re, Ruler of Karnak, King of the Gods, Lord of the Silent.

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FROM MANUSCRIPT H It is difficult to think clearly when you are hanging head down across a surface that is in jarring motion, with a rough cloth covering your face. Nefret made the mistake of trying to struggle. She knew it was a mistake even before her head was seized and slammed against a hard object. When she came back to consciousness the second time, she was still dangling head down, still muffled in fabric from head to foot. Not a horse this time, a man's shoulder. After a few steps he lowered her onto a lumpy surface that smelled of mildew, and unwound the cloth. She had no idea where she was, but she recognized her captor from Sethos's description. His mouth drew up in a grotesque smile, distorted by the scars that had slit his cheeks. The smile and the hand that stroked the hair away from her face made her skin crawl. "Lie still," he said softly. "I will come back." He went out the door, leaving it open. Her wrists and ankles were tied, and a gag covered her mouth. She began twisting her hands, trying to loosen the ropes as Ramses had taught her. Please let him be alive, she prayed. God, Allah, Amon-Re, who hears the words of the silent, anyone . . . Please. Remembered images flashed through her mind, recapitulating the events that had led up to the disaster. Jumana's deadweight numbing her arm, the horrified faces of the family when she rode into the courtyard, Emerson snatching the girl from her, her mother-in-law's crisp orders . . . watching them ride off, knowing she couldn't leave until she was sure Jumana didn't need her . . . Margaret Minton's fixed, white face. Margaret understood the danger but she didn't feel the sickening terror that had seized Nefret. She knew what it meant, she had felt it before: the knowledge, inexplicable but sure as sight, that he was at that very moment in deadly peril. As soon as she was at ease about Jumana she had left the Castle, driven by the need to go to him, unable to wait another moment. She had eluded Cyrus, but not Margaret; they had been together when Jamil appeared from behind a pile of rocks, waving and calling piteously for help. His galabeeyah was ripped off one shoulder and there was blood on his face. She only hesitated for a moment. They might have been wrong about the boy; he might have had an innocent reason for seeking Kuentz out, or he might have failed to realize how dangerous his ally was. If he had tried to remonstrate or had threatened to confess ... It was not blood on Jamil's face, only dirt, but by the time she realized that, it was too late. She managed to draw her pistol and heard Jamil yowl as she fired, blindly, but the other man, the man with the scars, struck it out of her hand and took her by the throat. She couldn't scream for help, she couldn't see Margaret or the horses or, in the end, anything but blackness. What had happened to Margaret? She raised her head and looked around the room. It had a pathetic, faded look, as if someone had been trying to imitate the ambience of a proper hotel without the money or the knowledge to do it right-worn matting on the floor, tattered curtains at the window, a set of chipped, soiled bathroom utensils, and slung carelessly over the back of a chair, a man's shirt. A European shirt. The pieces weren't hard to put together. It was Alain, then. She had liked him, she had hoped they were wrong. He had killed at least three people. And Ramses had gone alone to face him and his accomplices, and Margaret might be dead, and the ropes weren't any looser. Please, God. Mubashir came back carrying a bottle of water and a glass smeared with greasy fingerprints. He sat down beside her, too close, his hip against her thigh, and in spite of herself she cringed away. He smiled again. "Are you afraid? I could hurt you. I would like to. But my master has said not, unless someone comes looking for you. You are hoping it will be your husband, yes? You should hope he will not come. I have heard of the Brother of Demons, but he cannot get the better of me." His fingers fumbled at her face, pulling the gag down. "Do you want water? The Master said you could have it, and food, if you wish." "No." She was dry-mouthed with fear and her throat hurt, but she couldn't bear the thought of his arm raising her, the filthy glass against her lips. "Untie me. The ropes are too tight. The Master said not to hurt me." "Ah, but then I would have to hurt you, because you would try to get away." His callused fingers stroked her cheek. "You fought hard for a woman. I liked that. Do you want the water?" Nefret shook her head. "If you change your mind, you will have to ask," he said, with another of his grotesque smiles. He filled the glass and drank, and then he began talking-stories of all the men he had killed and how he had killed them, in loving detail. He doesn't realize he is speaking to a woman who has probably disemboweled more people than he has, Nefret thought. A lot more neatly, though ... She would have to persuade him to untie her feet, at least. Knees up while he was bending over her, catching him under his chin, hoping she had strength enough to knock him out or even down, then a dash for the door. Had he left it open in order to tantalize her with a glimpse of freedom? He must be safe, she told herself. I always know when he isn't. The agonizing, irrational terror had faded, but cold reason told her there was more than sufficient cause for worry. He wouldn't rest until he had found her and she did not doubt he would-someway-somehow. But what could he or anyone else do? The hateful voice droned on. The sunlight paled. It was midday or later. She would have to beg. She hated the idea, but she had to do it, soon, before her legs were too numb to function. Then she heard the hoofbeats. That was why the door had been left open; the Syrian was taking no chances on being caught by surprise. She knew who it was even before she heard his voice. He had come alone, had not even tried to conceal his presence. She tugged at the ropes binding her wrists, and the Syrian grinned at her and drew his knife. Ramses stopped in the doorway, his feet slightly apart, his own knife held low and loose. When he saw her, some of the color came back to his face, and he let out a long, controlled breath. "I'm all right," she said. The blade of the Syrian's knife was cold against her skin. "Yes." His mouth softened into a smile. "Marhaba, Brother of Demons," Mubashir said. "Come in and drop your knife, or I will cut her face open before I kill you." Ramses glanced at his weapon, and tossed it carelessly away. It struck the floor point down and quivering, ten feet from him. "Are the odds more to your liking now?" he asked. "Or do you only fight with women?" The arrogant challenge had the desired effect. The Syrian's nostrils flared. He leaped up and lunged. Later, when Nefret tried to describe the encounter to a fascinated audience she failed. They were both so quick, the Syrian's bulky body almost as agile as her husband's taller, slimmer frame. Ramses moved with the efficiency of a machine and the grace of a cat, twisting and dodging and turning so that time after time the long blade slipped past his body or left only a superficial cut, using his hands and knees for defense since attack was impossible. He kept retreating, but gradually he maneuvered the heavier man around until he was between him and Nefret. Both were breathing quickly but Mubashir was livid with mounting fury. He hadn't expected any trouble with an unarmed opponent. "Stand and fight," he shouted, adding an unprintable epithet. Ramses planted his feet. Both hands locked round the other man's wrist, halting the descent of the knife inches from his face. For an instant they stood braced in matching strength. There was a blur of movement, so fast she couldn't make it out; Ramses's left hand lost its grip and he dropped to one knee, ducking his head to avoid the wild swing of the Syrian's fist. Then Nefret understood that every move, even the last, had been part of a deliberate and desperate plan, calculated as precisely as the steps of an intricate dance. Ramses's free hand closed over the hilt of the knife that stood upright and ready, as he had placed it. His long arm swung under and up and around, in a close, deadly embrace, and the blade entered Mubashir's back, under the left shoulder blade. The wound was not mortal, the penetration not deep enough to kill; the Syrian jerked away, breaking Ramses's hold, and Ramses, on his feet, lashed out with his fist. The Syrian's blade slashed his sleeve from shoulder to elbow, but the blow landed square on Mubashir's face, toppling him over backward. The impact and the man's own weight plunged the knife home. Ramses stood staring down at the twitching body. "Second time today," he said obscurely, and stooped to take the Syrian's knife from his lax hand. Knowing that the slightest sound or movement might break his concentration, Nefret had forced herself to remain mute and rigid. Now that it was over she was too short of breath to speak. As he came toward her she turned, offering her bound wrists. He cut the ropes, and then he caught her to him in a grip that made her ribs ache. She lay still, content to be in his arms, to feel under her cheek the rapid beat of his heart. It was some time before it slowed to normal and he relaxed his hold. "Sorry," Nefret said, trying to speak steadily. "I was careless." "Pure bad luck. Happens to me all the time," he added, with a smile that faded into a frown of concern as his eyes examined her. "Did he hurt you? There's blood on your dress." "It's your blood." The sleeves and breast of his shirt were slashed into strips and stained red from a dozen cuts. She couldn't control her voice any longer. "Tell me again that you're a coward!" "What? Oh. But-" "No one else could have done it, not even Father! I've never seen anything so-so wonderful and so brave and so-so breathtaking! I was absolutely terrified." "So was I. Don't look at me like that, or I'll lose what is left of my wits and kiss you, and ... and this isn't an appropriate venue." "I can't walk when my feet are tied," she pointed out. "Is Margaret safe? And Sethos?" "Yes, but God knows what the rest of them have got themselves into by now." He freed her ankles, but when she started to stand he picked her up and carried her toward the door, stepping unconcernedly over the fallen man's sprawled legs. The Syrian looked as formidable in death as he had in life; his eyes were open and staring, his scarred face distorted in a snarl. "My beloved coward," she said softly. It was unbelievable, preposterous, incredible. No cult statue had ever been found, in situ or anywhere else, and this one had to have come from one of the great temples. Seated, it was over three feet high, and it appeared to be of solid gold, as were the vessels scattered at its feet. No wonder Kuentz had not dared to remove them; the appearance of such objects on the market would have started alarm bells ringing throughout the scholarly world. Nor could he move the statue until he was ready to take it away, out of Egypt and to a buyer who had already agreed to pay extravagantly for it. But do not suppose, Reader, that the stupendous sight distracted me for more than a few seconds. I would have exchanged the statue and everything else in the small shrine for Nefret, or any one of those dear to me. When I turned away and went back through the low passage I was trying to think how we could use this to our advantage. Kuentz was waiting, near the opening, when Daoud pulled me up. "Well?" he demanded. "Incredible, isn't it?" "Incredible," I agreed. "Words fail me. Emerson, you will not believe-" "Don't tell him. Let him see for himself." He sounded like an enthusiastic boy. Emerson, the greatest Egyptologist of this or any other age, dominated the field like a colossus; no youthful scholar, however villainous, could remain indifferent to his approval. Despite his excitement Kuentz had sense enough to step back when Emerson approached. My husbands eyes locked with mine. "Be ready," they said. I inclined my head slightly. Obeying Kuentz's gesture, I returned to my place beside Cyrus. Emerson needed no one's assistance to descend. He lowered himself by his hands and disappeared from sight. He remained below for a long time. Not a sound issued from the pit. Torn between suspicion and anticipation, Kuentz edged closer to the opening. "What are you doing, Professor?" he called. Emerson's untidy black head appeared. His hands resting lightly on the edge of the pit, he looked up. "It's a fake," he said. Instantly I dropped to the ground, pulling Cyrus down with me. It was a sensible but unnecessary precaution; Kuentz lost his grip on the gun when Emerson's hands closed round his ankles and pulled his feet out from under him. Selim snatched the weapon up and Emerson seated himself on Kuentz's chest, and the reluctant Gurnawis pelted out of the place, scattering in all directions. "Ah," said Daoud, who had watched the performance interestedly. "Soon I can kill him, is it not so? Where is Nur Misur?" "I expect Ramses has her safe by now," Emerson said calmly. "Selim, find me some rope." I was sorry Ramses had not heard that splendid tribute. I was unable to share Emerson's confidence, but there were a few things to tidy up before we could search for our missing children. I always carry a coil of rope on my belt, in case I find it necessary to tie up a prisoner; with this and strips of cloth torn from various articles of clothing, we bound Kuentz hand and foot, despite his struggles. While we were doing this, Cyrus edged up to the opening of the shaft. "I can't stand it," he said suddenly. "You folks are going to think I'm a selfish, cold-blooded viper, and I won't take more than a minute, but if I don't see what's down there I'm going to burst." "Go right ahead," Emerson said amiably. "It may take us a minute or two to find out where that scum of a Syrian took Nefret. Give Vandergelt Effendi a hand, Daoud. Now then, Kuentz, what have you to say?" Recognizing at last the futility of resistance, the Swiss lay still, breathing heavily. "It was a lie," he gasped. "The statue is genuine. You know it. You knew it!" "He has still some of the instincts of a scholar," Emerson remarked to me. "If they had not been present in his mind, my little ruse would not have succeeded. Yes, it is genuine, and yes, I knew it, and yes indeed, I hoped the momentary relaxation of your guard would-" A whoop like that of a banshee floated up the shaft. Emerson grinned. "Vandergelt has not my self-control. Perhaps we ought to leave him here to guard the statue. I wouldn't put it past those rascals from Gurneh to sneak back after we leave. Where are we going, Kuentz?" "You cannot make me speak," Kuentz said sullenly. "I wouldn't be so sure of that," Emerson said mildly. "I am known for my patience and forbearance, but where the