The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (17 page)

“Don’t be ridiculous, Emerson,” I said.

At Cyrus’s suggestion we dined informally at the Castle. Bertie was pleased to see us, and even more pleased when he was offered the chance to return to work. I examined his ankle; it was better; the swelling had gone down and there was only a little bruising. Everyone attributed this to Kadija’s miraculous ointment, and such may well have been the case, though I had begun to wonder whether its greatest effectiveness came from the mind of the patient. After dinner the young man hobbled off to the library with the others. I remained with Katherine to offer additional reassurances. “I have set up a nice little shelter where Bertie will be perfectly comfortable, and if it proves necessary for him to work elsewhere on the site, we will make certain he does not exert himself. Jumana has taken it upon herself to look after him.” This last was not, perhaps, what Katherine wanted to hear. In my opinion her worries about a serious attachment were groundless as well as prejudiced. Bertie had not got over his interest in the girl, but she had given no evidence of reciprocating; she treated him rather like a slow-witted child. I gave Katherine a little lecture on the subject, adding, “After all, Katherine, there is nothing so destructive of romance than continued proximity.” Katherine pursed up her mouth. “It didn’t work that way for Ramses and Nefret.” “That is a special case. Mark my words, working together will soon make Bertie and Jumana detest one another.” I had exaggerated a trifle, but over the next few days Bertie showed increasing evidence of impatience with Jumana. Being a man, he wanted to impress her with his strength and professional skill; being Jumana, she took advantage of his enforced helplessness to fuss over him. By moving his chair and table from one part of the site to another, we made it possible for him to assist with the surveying, at which task he was skilled, but he spent a good deal of the time sitting still. Watching Jumana bustle about, climbing nimbly up the hillside and dashing back down to readjust his sunshade, strained his temper considerably. Only his equable nature and inherent good manners prevented an explosion. One mildly disquieting incident marred the productive happiness of the next few days. It had nothing to do with Jamil, though as the Reader may well believe, I had not forgotten him. I did not suppose Jumana had heard from him, since I kept a close eye on her, but his very avoidance of her began to worry me. He needed money, if only for bare subsistence. Where was he getting it? If it was from his friends and family in Gurneh, none of them would admit it. A wall of silence blocked Selim’s inquiries. “Some are speaking the truth, I think,” he had said. “But with certain others, something has frozen their tongues. It is like the old days when the Master controlled the illegal antiquities business and all men went in fear of his wrath.” “Could it be?” Emerson asked me, after Selim had gone on his way. “Impossible, Emerson.” “Why? We haven’t heard from the . . . from him for weeks. We don’t know where the devil he’s got to.” “He would never interfere with our work, or tolerate a contemptible boy like Jamil.” We were seldom interrupted by visitors. However, one morning when I was investigating a ruined chapel up on the hillside — helping Cyrus with his plan of the tombs, as I had explained to Emerson — I saw a pair of horsemen approaching. Both were wearing the drab olive of military uniform. I made haste to scramble down the slope in the hope of heading them off before they ventured to approach Emerson. I was too slow, or Emerson was too quick. When I reached them the two men had dismounted and were endeavoring to carry on a polite conversation with my husband. They were finding it heavy going. “Allow me to repeat that there is nothing to see here,” Emerson declared, hands on hips, feet apart, and brows thunderous. “This is an archaeological dig, and you are interrupting my work.” “But, sir . . .” One of the officers — for so their insignia proclaimed them — turned with visible relief to me. He was of something over medium height, his frame heavyset and his face square, particularly around the jaw. The hair exposed when he whipped off his pith helmet, which he did immediately upon seeing me, was a nondescript shade of brown, slightly darker than his carefully trimmed mustache. “Mrs. Emerson!” he exclaimed. “I dare not hope that you remember me — I had the good fortune to be introduced to you last year in Cairo, by my colleague Woolley, of the Arab Bureau.” “Certainly I do, Major Cartright,” I replied, before Emerson could say something rude about the Arab Bureau. “Mr. Woolley is an old friend. I was very sorry to hear he had been taken prisoner by the Ottomans.” “The fortunes of war, ma’am, the fortunes of war.” “Stupidity and ineptitude,” Emerson declared. “Sailing up and down the coast in that distinctive yacht, trying to put agents ashore under the very noses of the Turks. He was bound to be caught sooner or later.” Cartright flushed angrily, but kept his temper. “Yes, sir. May I have the honor of introducing another admirer of yours — Lieutenant Algernon Chetwode.” I have never seen a countenance so prototypically English. Like his hair, the brave mustache was flaxen-fair; the lashes framing his blue eyes were so pale they were almost invisible, and his cheeks were as smooth as a girl’s. They turned pink as he stuttered out a series of incoherent compliments. “Can’t express my pleasure . . . such an honor . . .” “Yes, how nice,” I said, and since they showed no intention of going away, I added, “I would offer to show you around, gentlemen, but as my husband mentioned, there is nothing here that would interest you. I presume you are on leave from Cairo? May I suggest the Valley of the Kings or the temple of Medinet Habu, which is in that direction.” “You are most kind, Mrs. Emerson,” Cartright said, with a smile that showed he was well aware of my real motive. “We only dropped by to pay our respects. We had hoped — that is to say — is your son with you?” Emerson’s eyes narrowed and I felt a constriction in the region of the diaphragm. Naturally and necessarily, Ramses’s activities on behalf of the War Office had been a closely guarded secret. Had his courageous sacrifices been generally known, he would have been a hero; since they were not, he was regarded by many of our acquaintances in Cairo as a coward and a pacifist. (The two words being synonymous in the views of the ignorant.) There was hardly an officer in Cairo who would have spoken to him last year — and here were two of them actually seeking him out. I might have been tempted to lie, but I could not; Ramses had seen us and was approaching. It was not in his nature to avoid a confrontation. Nefret had hold of his arm. She was biting her lip, a sure sign of worry or annoyance. If young Lieutenant Chetwode had fawned over us, he did all but genuflect before Ramses. He paid no more attention to Nefret than courtesy demanded, which was in itself highly suspicious; most men paid attention to Nefret. Unsmiling and composed, Ramses shook hands with both men. “On holiday, are you?” he inquired. “A brief holiday,” Cartright replied. “I have just got back from the Gaza front, and after I had reported to the general, he was good enough to give me a few days’ leave.” “I’m sure you deserved it,” I said politely. “Ha,” said Emerson. “What the devil are you people doing? You pushed the Turks across the Egyptian border early in January, and you’ve been squatting outside Gaza ever since. We need a victory in the Middle East, gentlemen; God knows the news on other fronts is bad enough. Why isn’t General Murray pushing ahead toward Jerusalem?” “I’m sure you know the terrain, sir,” Cartright said deferentially. Glancing at me — a mere female, who presumably knew nothing about military matters — he explained, “The Turks are determined to hold Gaza; the town is heavily fortified and so are the ridges that run all the way from Gaza to Beersheba. It’s a natural defensive line twenty-five miles long. Water is one of our major problems; we have to pump it from the sweet-water canal at Suez clear across the Sinai, and the advance of the railroad has been delayed by difficult terrain. Intelligence is dreadfully vague at the moment. Our agents find great difficulty in getting through, and their aircraft —” “Yes, yes,” Emerson said impatiently. “But the longer you delay, the more time the Turks will have to bring in reinforcements and dig more trenches. You’ll have to hit Beersheba at the same time you attack Gaza. There’s plenty of water there.” “I’m sure General Murray would be interested in hearing your views, sir,” Cartright said. I cleared my throat loudly, and Emerson recollected himself. “If he needs me to point out the obvious, his staff isn’t doing its job. Good day, gentlemen.” He took me firmly by the arm and stalked off, leaving the two officers no choice but to mount and depart. “Hell and damnation,” he remarked. “Quite,” said Ramses, catching us up. “Extraordinarily forthright, wasn’t he?” “Too forthright,” Emerson muttered. “Why did he tell us so much?” Ramses’s lips tightened. After a moment, he said, “There is no reason why you should remember; but Cartright was one of the three patriots with whom I had that rude encounter at the Turf Club two years ago. He was with the Egyptian Army at the time.” “The man who struck you in the face while two others held your arms?” I demanded indignantly. “Good Gad. If I’d known that I would not have been so courteous.” “No, he was one of the ones who held me,” Ramses corrected. “Something has brought about a radical change in his attitude.” “We can guess what it is,” Emerson grunted. “He’s with intelligence now, and someone has told him about you. Secret Service! Good Gad, they might as well shout their business from the rooftops.” I said, “The news of your heroism —” Ramses made a wry face, and I went on firmly, “That is what it was, and I will call it what it was. But perhaps the information has not spread as widely as we suppose.” “I hope it has spread,” Nefret said. She raised her chin defiantly. “I hope everyone knows.” None of us had to request elucidation of this statement. Nefret lived in constant fear of his becoming again involved in a mission like the one that had almost cost him his life two years ago. Accepting another assignment would have been dangerous enough even when his former activities were known only to a few — particularly when one of those few was the head of the Turkish Secret Service. It would have been suicidal if every intelligence officer in Cairo knew. As Ramses had once remarked, there is no point in being a spy if everybody knows you are one. “I’ve told you before,” Ramses said, addressing his wife in a voice that brought a flush to her cheeks, “that the subject is closed. May we drop it, please?” “Quite,” said Emerson quickly. Though he is, as his conduct proves, a firm believer in thrashing out differences of opinion on the spot and with vigor, disharmony between his beloved children upsets him. “We’ve wasted enough time on this nonsense. Back to work, eh?” I had myself been a trifle surprised at the harshness of Ramses’s tone. However, I did not suppose that his ill humor would last or that she would be unreceptive to an attempt at apology; and so it proved. Sometime later I happened to observe that neither was in sight; and since it was almost time for luncheon I entered the vestibule of the temple, where I had set up my little shelter. They were not there, but I heard a murmur of voices from behind one of the columns that separated the vestibule from the pronaos. It was a very nice column, with the head of the goddess Hathor instead of a capital. I moved forward to examine it more closely. I did not tiptoe or try to walk silently, but neither of them was aware of my presence until they saw me. “Damnation!” said Ramses, releasing her and turning rather red. “Er — I beg your pardon, Mother.” “I should rather beg yours, my dear. I didn’t realize you were here. It is almost time for lunch.” “I’ll get Father,” said Ramses, retreating in haste. Nefret, who was trying to twist her loosened hair into a knot, let out one of her musical chuckles. “Were you afraid we had gone off to quarrel in private?” “Not really. I presume you were admiring those nice heads of Hathor. I believe I heard Ramses repeat one of her charming epithets — ‘Golden One.’ ” “If you heard,” said Nefret, amused and not at all embarrassed, “you know he was addressing me.” “Very appropriate,” I said. A ray of sunlight haloed the red gold of her locks. “Hathor was the goddess of love and beauty and — er —” “Happiness.” She looked up at the carved face. It might not have struck some people as the epitome of beauty, for the ears were those of a cow, one of the goddess’s sacred animals. After so many years of viewing ancient Egyptian art, such elements had come to seem quite natural to us, however, and the other features were delicately rendered, the long hair curling over the shoulders. “Praising the Great Goddess, Lady of Turquoise, Mistress of the West,” Nefret recited. She bowed gravely and deferentially. I couldn’t help myself. “What are you asking for?” “Happiness,” Nefret repeated. “Then — it is all right, isn’t it? Between you two?” “Of course.” She took my arm. “Let’s eat.” Emerson kept us so busy that it was not until later in the week that I was able to make my annual pilgrimage to Abdullah’s grave. I never felt any particular urgency about doing it, since I did not think of him as being there. I only went because . . . In fact, I do not know why. Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point. On this occasion my primary purpose was to look at his new monument. I had not seen it before, since Abdullah had not got round to mentioning that he would like one until just before we left Egypt the previous spring. The request had taken me by surprise; one would not have supposed that an immortal spirit — or, according to Emerson, a sentimental fantasy of my sleeping brain — would care about such things. Emerson raised no objection, however, and I had sent David’s sketch and plan to Selim, asking him to proceed. I meant to go alone, but Ramses saw me slipping out of the house and intercepted me. “I thought we agreed none of us would go off by ourselves, Mother.” “If I see Jamil wearing the Double Crown and blowing kisses I assure you I will not follow him.” Ramses was not
amused or convinced. “Where are you going?” “Only to the cemetery. I have not seen Abdullah’s tomb.” “Oh. I haven’t seen it either. May I come with you?” Recognizing the uselessness of a refusal, I agreed. In point of fact, he was the only person to whose company I had no objection. He had been with me the day after Abdullah’s funeral, and had helped me to bury over the grave the little amulets of Horus and Sekhmet, Anubis and Sobek — symbols of the ancient gods who guard the soul on the road to the West — in flagrant defiance of Abdullah’s faith and my own. However, I had always suspected Abdullah had a secret, half-shamed belief in the old gods. Ramses’s silent understanding had given me comfort, which I needed badly that day. We went on foot, over the rocky ridges and across the stony expanse of the desert plain, Ramses slowing his long strides to match mine. The cemetery was on the north side of the village, not far from the mosque. It was all desert here, all baked earth and stony ground; neither tree nor flowering plant softened the starkness of the lonely graves. The tombs themselves were underground, their location indicated by low rectangular monuments of stone or brick, with upright stones at head and foot. The grave of a saint or sheikh of eminence might be marked by a simple structure crowned with a small cupola. There were only a few of such monuments in this humble cemetery; Abdullah’s was conspicuous not only by the freshness of the stones that had been used in its construction but by the somewhat unusual design. It was the conventional four-sided building, but there was a subtle grace in its proportions, and the dome seemed to float, light as a bubble. The sun was about to set. The rosy light warmed the white limestone of the walls, and from a mosque in a neighboring village came the first musical notes of the evening call to prayer. “It will be dark shortly.” Ramses spoke for the first time since we had left the house. “We mustn’t stay long.” “No. I only want —” I broke off with a catch of breath. It was somewhat uncanny to see any movement in that deserted place, and this figure, emerging from the dimness under the cupola, was human. We were still some distance away; I could not make out details, only the long galabeeyah and white turban, before it scuttled into concealment behind the walls of the mosque. “Who was that?” I asked. “I don’t know. Did you bring a torch?” “Certainly. I have all my accoutrements. Shall we follow him?” “That wasn’t Jamil. I don’t see any point in chasing after the fellow. Let’s just make certain he hasn’t done any damage.” The disturbance of the sandy dust was the only sign that anyone other than we had come there. “There are a number of footprints,” Ramses muttered, shining the torch around. “Overlapping. That’s odd.” “Perhaps members of the family have come to pay their respects, or to pray,” I suggested. “Perhaps. Are you ready to go?” I had intended to say a few words — think them, rather — but he was obviously uneasy, and really, what more was there to say when I had just had a long conversation with Abdullah? I acquiesced and let Ramses take my arm, since the dusk had thickened. “I like the design,” Ramses said as, with the aid of the torch, we picked a path around the standing monuments. “I hope Abdullah is pleased with it.” “Oh, yes. He was only annoyed because he had to ask. He implied that I ought to have thought of it myself.” “Ah,” said Ramses noncommittally.