Children of the Storm (45 page)

However, as the small predators gathered round, I noticed that their half-clad (or unclad) bodies were healthily rounded and their eyes free of infection. Even the dogs skulking behind us were not so lean as most. There were other signs of prosperity: rows of gracefully shaped water jars baking in the sun outside the potter’s house, several webs of woof threads stretched between the trunks of palm trees, with busy weavers at work. I left Ramses to deal with the predators, which he did by promising baksheesh, much baksheesh, if they would take us to the house of the man we sought.

Before we had gone far along the narrow lane we saw a man hurrying toward us, his hands outstretched, his face wearing a happy smile, as if he were coming to greet old friends. He was young and well-set-up, though running a trifle to fat.

“God’s blessing be upon you, Brother of Demons!” he cried and threw his arms round Ramses. “Welcome. How good it is to greet you again!”

“Greetings to you, Musa,” said Ramses, freeing himself with a rather peremptory shove. “This is—”

“Ah, but who would not know the Sitt Hakim!” The fellow flopped down onto the ground and kissed my dusty boots. “It is an honor. My lord has heard of your coming, he eagerly awaits you.”

He dismissed our youthful entourage with a few words, and to my surprise they dispersed without argument. The house to which he led us was built of stone—probably pilfered from ancient monuments—and surrounded by trees and a nice little garden. In the mandarah, the principal reception room, a pleasant chamber furnished with low tables and a cushioned divan, el-Gharbi was waiting.

I had heard of him many times, but this was the first time I had set eyes on him. Instead of the women’s robes and jewels he had once affected, he wore a simple caftan of blue silk and a matching turban, but his round black face was carefully painted. Kohl outlined his eyes, and lips and cheeks were reddened with henna. A sweet, pervasive aura of perfume wafted round him.

“Don’t get up,” I said, watching in some alarm as he writhed and wriggled.

I had spoken English. He understood, but he replied in Arabic. “The Sitt Hakim is gracious. Alas, I am old and even fatter than I once was.” He clapped his hands, and Musa trotted off. “Be seated, please,” the procurer went on. “We will drink tea together. You honor me by your presence, you and your illustrious son. Beautiful as ever, I see.”

He leered amiably, not at me, but at Ramses, who replied equably, “And you are flourishing as ever. The village seems prosperous.”

El-Gharbi rolled his eyes and looked pious. “I cannot see children go hungry and the old and sick left to die. I have helped—yes, I have helped a little. One must make one’s peace with God before the end, and atone for one’s sins.”

Neither of us was rude enough to say that he had quite a list for which to atone, but he must have known what we were both thinking. His black eyes twinkled and his large body shook with silent laughter. “Is it not written, ‘Whoever performs good works and believes, man or woman, shall enter into Paradise’?”

The quotation was correct, and his was not the only faith that implies there is salvation for a repentant sinner. At least the Koran demanded good works instead of a desperate, last-second mumble of belief.

Musa returned with several servants carrying trays. They were all men, all young, and all quite handsome. Tea was handed round and fresh-baked bread offered, while el-Gharbi carried on a polite conversation. “And your lovely wife is well? May God protect her. And the Father of Curses? Ah, how kind he was to me. The motorcar I—er—procured for him several years ago was satisfactory, I presume? And the forged papers? I was so happy to do those small services for him. May God protect him!”

The whole performance had a certain element of parody, but it would not have been courteous to interrupt. Finally he gave me my opening by asking us to stay and dine that evening. “Musa will show you the village. You will admire it, I think.”

“You are most kind, but I fear we cannot stay,” I said. “We must be back in Luxor tonight. I came only to ask you a question.”

“One question? All this way for a single question?” He put his fat hands on his knees and nodded benignly. “I live only to serve you, Sitt Hakim. What would you ask?”

Now that the moment had come, I had to force myself to speak. Ramses was watching me intently, and so was the procurer.

“You sent us a warning once,” I said. “You said, if I remember correctly, that the young serpent . . . er . . .”

“Also had poisoned fangs. I remember, Sitt. I hope the warning came in time.”

“That remains to be seen,” I said, avoiding the astonished gaze of my son. “She is staying with us now. I have no reason to believe she means us harm, but I must know what prompted your words. Her marriage to the American gentleman ended badly, and she is—”

“Marriage? American?” His eyes widened until the kohl rimming them cracked.

“You must have known of it,” I said. “You are reputed to know everything.”

“I knew. But, Sitt Hakim, it was not that one I meant. It was the other one.”

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CHAPTER TWELVE FROM MANUSCRIPT H

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Nefret did not learn of her husband’s deception—as she viewed it—until midday, when her father-in-law burst into the surgery. The patient was a woman, whom Nefret was treating for a breast lesion. She let out a squawk of offended modesty, and Emerson backed out as quickly as he had entered. “How much longer will you be?” he shouted from the next room.

“Not long.” She sent the woman away with a little pot of ointment and went into the waiting room. Emerson was stamping up and down, swearing.

“Read this.” He thrust a crumpled paper at her. None of the chairs in the waiting room was occupied; if there had been other patients, they had beat a hasty retreat. “No man dares face the wrath of the Father of Curses.”

Wrathful he was, blue eyes snapping, teeth bared. “Well?” he demanded. “Do you know anything about this?”

Nefret’s own anger rose as she read the brief message. “ ‘Ramses and I have gone off on a little expedition. We will be back this evening. In the event that we have not returned by tomorrow morning you may look for us at a village called El-Hilleh, approximately three miles south of Esna, on the West Bank. I consider this contingency highly unlikely, however. À bientôt, my dear Emerson.’ “

“Damn him,” Nefret said, closing her fist over the paper.

“Ah,” said Emerson, in a less accusatory voice. “They didn’t tell you either.”

“No. She considers it highly unlikely that they will fail to return, does she? What is this village?”

“The name means nothing to me.” Emerson took out his pipe, remembered that she didn’t allow it in the clinic, and started for the door. “Let us ask Selim.”

“No!” Nefret whipped off her gown and tossed it onto a chair. “I won’t have Selim worried. Come outside, Father.”

A feathery tamarisk tree gave partial shade to a wooden bench which had been placed there for the accommodation of patients when the waiting room was full. Emerson sat down and filled his pipe. “Now, now, my dear, don’t be upset. She does this sort of thing all the time, you know.”

“He doesn’t. He swore to me he would never go off on his own again.” Nefret tucked a stray lock of hair under her cap. Her fingers were shaking.

“He’s not alone,” Emerson pointed out. “Don’t blame Ramses; if I know my wife, and I believe I do, she insisted he keep it a secret.”

“He could have refused. There are other loyalties.” The knowledge that Ramses was with his mother did not give her the comfort Emerson had intended. “She’s as bad as he is,” Nefret burst out. “The two of them together . . .”

“Hmmm, well, er.” Unable to refute this, Emerson smoked in silence for a few moments. “They must have caught the southbound train. There isn’t another until this evening.”

“We could take the horses. How far is this place?”

“Over thirty miles. It sounds as if they expect to catch the afternoon train back to Luxor. Hmph. That would give them only a few hours in the cursed place. I wonder what . . .” He shook his head in exasperation. “There is no sense in speculating, or in following them. If the northbound train is on time, they will be on their way back by the time we get there.”

“How can you be so complacent? Aren’t you angry?”

“I was briefly put out,” Emerson admitted. “However, I should be accustomed to Peabody’s little tricks. We’ve played this game for years, each trying to be the first to solve a case. She cheats, you know.”

“Then there’s nothing we can do but wait,” Nefret muttered.

“That’s how I see it. I may as well go back to work for a few hours. Let me know if they turn up.”

Nisrin put a cautious head out the door. Emerson, who hadn’t noticed her before, gave her an affable smile. Emboldened, she ventured out. “Nur Misur, there is a sick one who has come back. And this message.”

“From Ramses?” Emerson asked expectantly.

“No.” The curving, ornate handwriting was unfamiliar. Nefret ripped the envelope open. “It’s from Dr. Khattab—Mrs. Fitzroyce’s physician. Justin is ill. He asks if I will have a look at the boy.”

“I will go with you.”

“That’s silly,” Nefret said impatiently. “What possible harm could come to me in broad daylight, with hundreds of people around? I’ll deal with my patient—it’s probably that old hypochondriac Abdulhamid wanting more sugar water—and be back in a few hours.”

By the time she set out for Luxor she was in a calmer frame of mind. Ramses couldn’t be in serious trouble; she would know, as she had always known, if danger threatened him. She would have a few words to say to him when he got back, though, on the subject of promises broken and trust betrayed; but in a way she didn’t blame him. His mother was an elemental force, as hard to resist as a sandstorm.

As Nefret approached the Isis she saw signs of unusual activity and deduced that the dahabeeyah was preparing to get underway. The doctor was waiting for her at the head of the gangplank, his hat in his hand. His waistcoat was particularly resplendent, glittering with gold threads. “My dear lady, how good of you to come.” He grasped her hand and would have kissed it had she not pulled it away.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“A fever.” The broad smile with which he had greeted her was replaced by a worried frown. “I have tried without result to bring it down. Our departure is imminent, as you have no doubt observed, but it will take several days to reach Cairo, and my mistress wants to be sure all possible ways of relieving the boy are taken before—”

She cut him off. “Then let’s not waste time talking. Take me to him.”

“To be sure. Follow me.”

He indicated the shadowy passage that led between the cabins to the saloon. The doors lining it were closed, so that the only light came from the open entrance through which they had come.

“After you,” said the doctor, bowing. “It is the last door on the right.”

His vast shadow enveloped her, and a hand took her by the elbow as if to guide her steps. He was close behind her, she could hear his quick breathing, and she stopped, resisting the pressure on her arm, seized with sudden panic. Too late. His arm gripped her, pinning her arms, and his hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled, but he had her in a hold that was impossible to break, the great bulk of his body as impervious to blows as a feather bed, the big fat hand covering half her face. She kicked back. Pain shot up her ankle as her heel slammed into his shin, and with a grunt of annoyance he pinched her nose shut, cutting off the last of her breath. Her darkening vision swam with purple and green lights and her legs gave way. When he took his hand from her face she could only gasp, sucking in air, while he opened one of the doors and pushed her into the room beyond. She fell to hands and knees. The door slammed, leaving her in total darkness.

Nefret rolled over onto her back and lay still for a time, getting her breath back and trying, not so successfully, to get her thoughts in order. She had made a bad mistake, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was what they meant to do with her—and how she could prevent it.

A wry smile touched her bruised lips. She had found her mother-in-law’s gang, and by the method favored by that estimable lady. How many of them were involved? The entire crew, almost certainly; the doctor couldn’t take her captive without their knowledge. It was possible that the boy and his grandmother were unwitting dupes, used by a group of criminals for their own purpose. Neither of them was mentally competent. Maryam was not incompetent, though, and she was her mother’s daughter.

The floor under her vibrated more strongly as the beat of the engines increased. Khattab hadn’t lied about that. The boat was getting underway. She started to stand up, and then made herself remain on her knees. She had no idea how large the room was, how high the ceiling. The blackness was palpable, she could almost feel it pressing against her eyeballs, her face, her body. The air was hot and close with a strange metallic tang. Fighting the temptation to close her eyes and curl up into a fetal position, she edged forward, arms extended.

She had found a wall and was following it, trying to get some idea of the dimensions of her prison, when the door was flung open. Even that much light was welcome after the claustrophobic darkness, but she couldn’t see much, for the opening was blocked by several bodies. The doctor’s familiar, hateful voice said, “A companion for you, my dear lady, and a patient as well.”

Justin, was her first thought. But there were two men carrying the limp body. They dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor and backed away as Nefret flung herself down beside Emerson, sinking her teeth into her lower lip to keep from crying out. His eyes were closed and one side of his face was smeared with blood.

“Bastards,” she gasped. “What have you done to him?”

“Such language from a lady,” the doctor said with a high-pitched giggle. “I regret the necessity, but he is as hard to stop as a charging elephant. I don’t believe he is seriously injured. Take care of him.”