The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (13 page)

Cyrus’s soiree was like all his parties — elegant and genteel. Since he was the most hospitable of men, he always invited everyone he could get hold of, so the company was mixed: friends who lived year-round in Luxor, tourists, a few professional associates — too few, alas, in these terrible times — and members of the military. I had got to the point where the very sight of a uniform depressed me, and I prayed that the day would soon come when the men who wore them could take them off and go back to their normal lives. Those that survived. I took a sip of the champagne Cyrus handed me and told myself to cheer up! No cloud shadowed Cyrus’s lined countenance, and indeed he was one of the most fortunate of men. Wealthy and respected, happily married, absorbed in work he loved, he had required only one thing to fill his cup, and Bertie had given him that — the devoted affection of a son, and a companion in his work. “What’s on your mind, Amelia?” Cyrus asked. “You look kinda gloomy. Has that young villain Jamil turned up again?” “No, we have heard nothing of him. I am sorry if I gave the impression I am not thoroughly enjoying myself, and I am ready to do my duty in entertaining your guests. Is there anyone you would like to be soothed, amused, or stirred up?” Cyrus chuckled. “Especially the last. Anything you like, Amelia; but if you want to pick on someone, have a go at Joe Albion. He was a business rival of mine some years back, and he’s got one of the best private collections of antiquities in the world. I wouldn’t like to guess how he acquired some of them.” “I didn’t know he was an acquaintance of yours,” I said, recognizing the rotund shape and round red face of Mr. Albion. “He and his family were on the boat coming over, and we ran into them the other day near Deir el Bahri. What an odd family they are, to be sure. Mr. Albion asked us to introduce him to some tomb robbers.” Cyrus let out an emphatic American ejaculation. “Gol-durn it! Sounds like Joe, all right.” “I thought he was joking. He is such a jolly little man.” “Jolly Joe.” Cyrus grinned, but he began tugging at his goatee — a sure sign of perturbation. “Don’t let that fool you, Amelia. He’s got a reputation for going straight for the jugular.” “His wife appears quite devoted to him.” “It is an odd marriage,” Cyrus admitted. “She’s from one of the best families in Boston and Joe is common as dirt. Nobody could figure out why she married him; but she’s living like a queen now — and the boy was raised like a prince.” I had no particular interest in talking with any of the Albions, so I moved about from one group to another, paying particular attention to those who were strangers or seemed ill at ease. It was my duty, but I cannot say I enjoyed it; most of the gentlemen would talk of nothing but the war. Emerson had been correct; the Germans had announced they would begin unrestricted submarine warfare, on all vessels of Allied and neutral nations. This put the tourists present in a somewhat awkward position. One of them, a tall, distinguished American named Lubancic, took the matter philosophically. “They can’t keep it up for long. This is going to get the American government riled up, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see us get into this business pretty soon. Anyhow,” he added with a smile, “Egypt’s not such a bad place to be stuck for the duration. There’s plenty to see and do, and prices are cheap, with the tourist trade down. Do you suppose there’s any chance of my doing a little digging, Mrs. Emerson? Plenty of local men for hire, I believe.” It was a common enough question; few visitors understood the regulations that governed excavation and many of them naively believed that all they had to do was dig to find a rich tomb. I was sorry to disillusion Mr. Lubancic, for he seemed a very pleasant fellow, but I felt obliged to explain. “One must have permission from the Department of Antiquities, and all excavations must be supervised by a trained archaeologist. At this particular time there aren’t many such persons available.” “The Brits and French have got something else on their minds besides archaeology,” said another gentleman. “The war on this front seems to be going well, though. The Senussi are in retreat and the Turks have been driven out of the Sinai.” “But the British advance has stalled outside Gaza,” Mr. Lubancic objected. “It’s only a matter of time before we take Gaza,” said a military officer, stroking his large mustache. “Johnny Turk isn’t much of a threat.” His insignia identified him as a member of the staff, and his portly frame and flushed face suggested that he had fought the war from behind a desk in Cairo. Another, younger, officer gave him a look of thinly veiled contempt. “Johnny Turk was a considerable threat at Rafah, and Gaza won’t be easy to take. The city is ringed round with trenches and they’ve got fortifications along the ridges all the way from Gaza to Beersheba.” The conversation turned to a discussion of strategy and I excused myself. The remote city of Gaza held no interest for me.

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Cyrus’s soiree was like all his other parties — elegant, genteel, and full of boring people. Ramses always found Cyrus congenial company when there were no strangers present; he couldn’t understand why a man would willingly endure, much less invite, such a motley mob. There was no one he wanted to talk to. His family had deserted him; his mother was chatting with Katherine, Nefret was “mingling,” and his father, whose social graces were the despair of his wife, had ignored everyone else and gone straight to Bertie. From his animated gestures and Bertie’s deferential pose, Ramses felt certain Emerson was telling him what they had done at Deir el Medina, and what he should do from here on in. Jumana was with them, looking very pretty in a pale yellow frock that set off her brown skin and sleek black hair. Ramses wondered how she felt about gatherings like this one. Even her superb self-confidence must be slightly daunted by so many strangers, many of whom, uncertain about her precise status, ignored or snubbed her. They wouldn’t dare be rude to another of Cyrus’s guests, but she was obviously Egyptian and they were not accustomed to mingling socially with “natives.” His eyes returned, as they had a habit of doing, to his wife. She saw him; one eyelid lowered in a discreet but unmistakable wink before she returned her attention to the woman with whom she was conversing. She was tall and stately and glittering with jewels; when she turned her head, pointing out something or someone to Nefret, he knew he’d seen her somewhere, but couldn’t remember where. He was rather enjoying his role as detached observer when someone touched him on the shoulder and he turned. The face beaming up at him looked vaguely familiar, but he was unable to identify it until the fellow spoke. “Albion. Joe Albion. We met on the boat coming over.” Ramses did not contradict him. “I remember you, sir, of course,” he said politely. The little man burst out laughing. “No, you don’t, young fella. Tried to meet you folks, but you managed to avoid us. Did your ma and pa tell you we met the other day on the path to the Valley of the Kings?” “Er — no, sir.” “I asked your pa if he’d introduce me to a few tomb robbers,” Albion went on. “He said no. Seemed a little put out.” “Ma” and “Pa” had been bad enough; this bland statement made Ramses choke on his champagne. Albion smacked him on the back. “Shouldn’t try to talk and drink at the same time, young fella. Don’t need your advice anyhow; there’s plenty of the rascals hereabouts, especially in that village — Gurneh. Talked to a couple of them the other day.” “Who?” Ramses demanded. “Fella named Mohammed.” Albion chortled. “Seems like everybody’s named Mohammed.” Ramses had recovered himself, though he still couldn’t believe the man was serious. “I think I know which Mohammed you mean. You can get in serious trouble dealing with him and his friends, Mr. Albion.” “Just let me worry about that.” The smile was as broad, but for an instant there was a look in the deep-set eyes that made Ramses wonder if Albion was as naive and harmless as he seemed. “Come meet my son,” the little man went on. His pudgy hand gripped Ramses’s arm with unexpected strength, and Ramses allowed himself to be towed toward a young man who stood apart from the rest, slouching a little, a glass of champagne in his hand and an aloof expression on his face. Probably the same expression that is on my face, Ramses thought. Either young Mr. Albion found the other people present not worth his notice, or he was shy. He straightened to his full height, a little under six feet, when his father came up with Ramses. His thin reserved face and eyeglasses were those of a scholar, but he looked to be in good physical trim, except for being a bit thick around the middle. His sharply chiseled features warmed a trifle when his father introduced Ramses. “Figure you two young fellas have a lot in common,” the older man went on breezily. “Get to know each other, right? Don’t stand on ceremony. Folks call you Ramses, don’t they? Some sort of private joke, I guess. Ramses — Sebastian. Sebastian — Ramses.” He chortled. “Never could understand the British sense of humor.” He trotted off, and Sebastian said, “Glad to meet you. I glanced at your book on Egyptian grammar; seemed quite adequate, but I don’t pretend to be an expert on the language. Egyptian art is my specialty.” Not shy. “Where did you study?” Ramses asked. “Harvard.” Of course, Ramses thought. The accent was unmistakable, and completely different from his father’s. Albion was what his mother would call a “common little man.” Ramses rather liked “common” people, but he wondered how the jolly, uninhibited Albion had produced such a supercilious, self-consciously intellectual prig. Sebastian didn’t seem to be embarrassed by his father’s manners, which was one point in his favor. Just about the only one. Young Albion went on. And on. He was not inclined to give America’s oldest university any credit for his present state of admitted erudition. “There’s not much being done with Egyptian art qua art,” he stated. “I had to work it out myself. I’ve pretty well exhausted what the Metropolitan Museum and the Boston Museum of Fine Arts have to offer. A winter in Egypt seemed the logical next step.” “And a spot of tomb robbing?” Ramses finally managed to get a word in. “I trust your father was joking about that. A number of people, including myfather, wouldn’t be amused.” “It goes on all the time, doesn’t it?” “To some extent; but —” “Yes, yes,” Sebastian said condescendingly. “I understand how people like you feel about it. Now my book —” Ramses caught Nefret’s eye again and grimaced. It was a distress signal, and she responded with a grin and a slight nod. Sebastian rambled on. He would be writing a book, Ramses thought. One of those books — the kind that will never be finished, because the author keeps finding additional material. Ramses had known a few scholars like that; he had always suspected their real reason for procrastinating was a reluctance to risk criticism. Sebastian declared that it was his intention to view every piece of Egyptian art in the world. It would be the definitive book on Egyptian art — when he finished it. “What are you doing in Luxor, then?” Ramses asked. “The Cairo Museum —” “Yes, yes, I know. I will get to the Museum in due course, but I wanted to see the tomb painting in situ, as it were — take photographs, make sketches, and so on. I’m a collector in a small way, and hoped to pick up a few good pieces here.” Ramses realized that if he went on talking to Sebastian he would say something rude. “If you’ll excuse me,” he began. “My wife —” “That’s she, isn’t it?” Sebastian’s head turned. “Lovely woman. Hope you don’t mind my saying so.” Ramses did mind, but though Sebastian’s tone was mildly offensive, he could not take exception to the words themselves. Sebastian went on, “There’s a delicious little creature. Is she available to anyone, or is Vandergelt keeping her for himself and Bertie?” For one incredulous moment, Ramses thought the fellow was referring to Nefret. Then he realized that Sebastian was looking at Jumana. Nefret had been on her way to join them when she saw Ramses’s face freeze. It wasn’t the old “stone pharaoh” face that concealed his thoughts, but a sign of fury so consuming it canceled thought and reason and everything else except a primitive need to act. She crossed the remaining distance in two long steps, slipped her arm through that of her husband, and caught hold of his hand. Under the pressure of her fingers his own fingers slowly uncurled. “You must be Mr. Sebastian Albion,” she said lightly. “I’ve just been talking with your mother. I’m Nefret Emerson.” “How do you do.” Albion hadn’t missed Ramses’s reaction. He took a step back. “Katherine wants to ask you something, Ramses,” Nefret went on. “Will you excuse us, Mr. Albion?” “Just a minute,” Ramses said. “We need to get something straight, Albion. The lady to whom you referred is a protégée of Mrs. Vandergelt’s and a member of our family.” “Your family? But surely she is —” “A member of our family,” Ramses repeated. “And a young, respectable girl. Where the hell did you get the idea that an Egyptian woman is free to any man who wants her? In the Cairo brothels?” “Ramses,” Nefret murmured. Albion had gone white. He mumbled something that might have been an apology, nodded at Nefret, and walked off. “What on earth did he say?” Nefret asked. “You were going to hit him!” “I was, wasn’t I?” His fingers twined with hers. “In a way I’m sorry you stopped me.” “It would have ruined Cyrus’s party,” Nefret said practically. “I was watching you, and I could see it building up. Something about Jumana?” “You can probably guess what.” “Yes. Bastard,” she added. “What were you talking about with his mother?” “Him. And his father. That’s all she can talk about! She refers to the old boy as ‘my husband, Mr. Albion.’ I thought women stopped doing that fifty years ago.” Her amusement reduced the Albions to the eccentric nuisances they were and made Ramses ashamed he had let Sebastian rouse his temper. “What does she call the bastard?” Nefret chuckled. “Well, I don’t think he is, literally. He is always ‘my son Sebastian.’ The way she pronounces the words, they sound like a royal title.” “When can we go home?” Nefret squeezed his hand. “Anytime, poor darling. You’ve been a very good boy and deserve a reward.” He smiled and her heart skipped a beat, as it always did when he looked at her in a certain way. I’m hopeless, she thought. Hopeless, and glad of it. Emerson wasn’t ready to leave. He still had a few things to explain to Bertie, and then he had to go over the whole thing again with Cyrus, who had joined the group. “Go on, if you like,” he said amiably. “May I come with you?” Jumana asked. “Of course,” Nefret said, reproaching herself for having neglected the girl. In company like this she needed all the support she could get. Ramses gallantly offered Jumana his arm, and didn’t even wince when she giggled and hung on to it. He was making it up to her for an insult she didn’t know she had received, and his infatuated wife was reminded again of how utterly she adored him. She took his other arm, and they made their way to the door. Then she felt the muscles under her hand harden. He would have hurried them on if Sebastian had not intercepted them. “I misunderstood,” he mumbled. “I beg your pardon.” Whose pardon? Nefret wondered. He had addressed Ramses, hadn’t even looked at her or Jumana. Ramses nodded brusquely and led his ladies to the waiting carriage. “Who was that?” Jumana asked curiously. “He was very polite.” “A tourist,” Ramses answered. “Very boring, as Sennia would say.” Jumana laughed, and began to chatter, repeating what Emerson had said about Deir el Medina. She had an excellent memory. Nefret leaned back and let her talk. Young Albion had had to nerve himself for that encounter. Why had he taken the trouble? To ingratiate himself and his family with the Emersons? Ignoring Jumana was probably the most sensible thing he could have done. He certainly couldn’t request an introduction to a girl he hoped to seduce from the man who had warned him off.