"Only wise," Ramses said, joining in his laughter. "Your English gets better all the time, Selim. I say, is Daoud offended by our levity? Even his back looks hurt. What's this all about?"

"Perhaps it is better that you see," Selim admitted.

Their destination was the modern cemetery near the village. Like the ancient burial grounds, it was located in the desert, not in the green strip of irrigation bordering the river. It was the hottest time of the day; the barren ground baked in the sun's rays. For the most part the graves were small and humble, marked only by simple pillars or low benchlike tombstones. The most impressive monument was the tomb they had had built for Abdullah. Designed by David, it was of conventional form-a domed, four-sided structure-but unusually graceful and attractive. Even from a distance Ramses saw that it looked different. His amazement mounted as they drew nearer. A rope slung across the lovely arched entrance held a bizarre variety of what must be offerings-strings of beads and gla.s.s, handkerchiefs, a bunch of hair. Under the cupola, next to the low monument over the tomb itself, sat a motionless form, turbaned head bent, hands folded.

"Good Lord," Ramses exclaimed. "It's Ha.s.san. What the devil is he doing?"

"He is the servant of the sheikh," Daoud said.

"What sheikh? Not Abdullah!"

Ha.s.san got up and came to meet them, ducking his head under the rope with its motley attachments. Ramses observed that the white marble floor was strewn with flowers and palm branches, some fresh and colorful, some withered. Ha.s.san did not appear to be practicing asceticism. He had been smoking a narghile and there were plates of bread and other food around him.

"What is this, Ha.s.san?" Ramses demanded. "No one loved and admired Abdullah more than I, but he was no holy man."

"It is good that you have come, Brother of Demons," said Ha.s.san, employing Ramses's Egyptian nickname. His smile was beatific. Ramses wondered if there had been something in the pipe besides tobacco.

"He is a sheikh, without doubt," Ha.s.san went on. "Did he not save the life of the Sitt Hakim at the sacrifice of his own? Did he not come to her in a dream, as holy men do, and tell her to build him a proper tomb?"

Ramses looked at Daoud, who met his critical gaze with an unembarra.s.sed smile. How their large friend had heard of his mother's dreams of Abdullah he could not imagine; she had not confided even in the immediate family until recently. Her belief in the validity of those dreams was one of her few streaks of superst.i.tion; but believe she did. The skepticism of the rest of them did not affect her in the slightest, and Ramses had to admit, if only to himself, that the consistency and vividness of the visions were oddly impressive. One of the household staff must have overheard her talking about them, and pa.s.sed the word on. Once it reached Daoud, the whole West Bank would know.

"But a holy man must perform miracles," he argued.

"He has done that," Ha.s.san said. "When that wretched boy, who had sinned against the laws of the Prophet, would have killed again in the very shadow of Sheikh Abdullah's tomb, did he not destroy the sinner? He performed other miracles for me. My heart was guilty and afraid. As soon as I came here and promised to be his servant I was glad again, and the pains in my body went away, and now you see that others have come to ask for his favor." He gestured at the sad little offerings. "Already he has stopped the cough that kept Mohammed Ibrahim from drawing breath and cured Ali's goat. Come, and pray with me. Ask him for his blessing."

It wasn't hashish that brought the light to his eyes. It was religious fervor-and who the h.e.l.l am I, Ramses thought, to tell him he's wrong, or deny such a harmless request?

He knew the prayers. He had known them since childhood. Removing his shoes, he followed the prescribed path round the catafalque. Daoud's sincere, deep ba.s.s voice blended with his. "Peace be on the Apostles, and praise be to G.o.d, the Lord of the beings of the entire earth."

They started back to Selim's house, leaving Ha.s.san cross-legged under the cupola. Daoud was enormously pleased with his surprise. "My uncle Abdullah will be happy to be a sheikh," he remarked. "When next he speaks to the Sitt Hakim he will no doubt tell her so."

"I will be sure to let you know if he does," Ramses said wryly. He couldn't imagine how his mother was going to react to this news.

Selim had joined in the prayers but not in the discussion. He strode along in silence. Ramses was not certain how devout he was; he followed the Five Pillars of Islam, observing the fast of Ramadan and giving generously to the poor, but some of his habits had been affected by his unabashed Anglophilia. He was more indulgent to his young wives than most local men, and he had adopted a number of English customs.

Including afternoon tea, which was ready when they reached the house, and the mingling of the s.e.xes for that meal. Ramses had hoped for a private conversation with Selim; but there was no chance of that, with the children dashing around and shrieking, and the women all talking at once. Accepting a cup of tea from Selim's younger wife, he smiled at Nefret, who had Selim's baby on her lap. Did she want another child? he wondered. They hadn't talked about it. As far as he was concerned, two were quite enough. He never wanted to see Nefret go through that ordeal of blood and pain again. Being a father was such a gigantic responsibility. A dozen times a day he asked himself if he was doing it right.

The dregs of his tea spattered the floor but he managed to hold on to the cup as Davy clambered onto his lap. He held the warm little body close. Maybe he was doing something right.

Kadija was watching them from over her veil. She was the only one of the women who would not unveil in his presence. His mother had often reminded her that since David's marriage to Lia they were all one family now, but Kadija came from a Nubian tribe where the old traditions were strong. She had finally consented to use his first name, however.

"How did you hurt your hand, Ramses?" she asked. "They are like the marks left by the claws of an animal."

He glanced at his wrist, where the cuff of his shirt had been pulled up. The scratches were deeper than he had realized, ragged and ugly. "A little souvenir from a man named Francois," he said. "Though he does have some beastly habits, including sharp nails and a willingness to use them. It's nothing."

He tried to pull his cuff down but was prevented by Davy, who clutched his hand and pressed damp kisses on the scratches, murmuring distressfully (or perhaps chanting incantations).

"Why didn't you tell me?" Nefret demanded, putting the baby down.

"It's nothing," Ramses repeated.

Kadija rose and went into the house.

"Not the famous green ointment," Ramses protested. "It leaves indelible stains on one's clothes. Thank you, Davy, that's done the job. All better now."

"I've never been able to isolate the effective ingredient, but the ointment certainly has antiseptic and anti-inflammatory qualities," Nefret said. "Human fingernails are filthy, and I doubt if our Francois visits a manicurist. Those scratches should have been disinfected immediately."

"What is this?" Selim demanded. "Who is this man like a wild animal? A new enemy?"

"Nothing of the sort," Ramses replied. Kadija came back, carrying a small pot, and Ramses submitted to having the stuff smeared over his wrist while he told Selim about the encounter. Selim's handsome face fell. He had been with them on several of their wilder adventures, and he thoroughly enjoyed a good fight.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Selim," Ramses said. "They are tourists, and it is most unlikely that we will encounter them again. Anyhow, the whole business was a misunderstanding. The fellow bears me no ill will."

"Huh," said Selim.

Before long the children had reached a stage experienced parents know well; tears and howls of juvenile rage became more frequent, and Labiba slapped Davy for pushing the baby. He slapped her back.

"Time we were going home," Nefret said, holding the combatants apart by main force. "They're getting tired."

"Right." Ramses collared his daughter, who began an indignant explanation-or perhaps it was a protest. He recognized two words. One sounded like Swahili and the other like Swedish. Neither could be said to have any particular bearing on the situation.

Daoud enveloped both squirming, grubby children in a loving embrace and handed them up to Ramses and Nefret after they had mounted their horses. "You're disgusting," Ramses informed his daughter. "What is that purple stuff on your face?"

She gave him a wide grin and rubbed her face against his shirt.

As usual, the women took forever to say good-bye. While they were exchanging final farewells and last-minute gossip, Selim came and stood by him.

"Will you tell the Sitt Hakim about Ha.s.san and my father's tomb?"

"She'll find out sooner or later. What's the trouble, Selim? I could see something was worrying you."

"It is not important." Selim tugged at his beard. "Only . . . what did Ha.s.san do, that he should feel guilt and the need for forgiveness?"

EMERSON STORMED WHEN HE DISCOVERED I had finished his article for him. We had a refreshing little discussion, and then he set about revising my text, muttering under his breath and throwing pens at the wall. I congratulated myself on this idea, which served two useful purposes: it forced Emerson to finish the article, which he would never have done without my intervention, and it stopped him from brooding about the theft and his inability to do anything about it. Emerson is always greatly relieved by his explosions, which in my opinion are an excellent method of reducing an excess of spleen.

As I had expected, our telegrams produced no new information. Thomas Russell's reply arrived on the Sat.u.r.day. Like Emerson's, his epistolary style was terse. No one of that description or name had been on the train. He had not wasted extra words demanding an explanation; he knew Emerson well enough to know none would be forthcoming.

Emerson crumpled the flimsy paper into a ball and tossed it to the Great Cat of Re, who sniffed it, decided it was inedible, and ignored it.

By the time we prepared to take the Sunday-evening train, there had been no response from Sethos. Emerson had telegraphed him at both his residences. At my request he showed me the telegram, and I must say he had communicated the necessary information without giving away the truth. That would have been disastrous, since the clerks at the telegraph office would have spread the news all over Luxor.

Cyrus's initial frenzy had been replaced by a state of profound gloom. He had been torn between rushing off to Cairo in pursuit of the thief and mounting guard over the remaining artifacts. The latter consideration won out, after I explained to him that although Martinelli might well have eluded the police, we had no certain proof that he was in Cairo. The very idea that the evildoer might be lurking, waiting for an opportunity to make another raid on the treasure, made Cyrus break out into a cold sweat. He did not even come to the railroad station to see us off.

Other friends and family members were there. Daoud considered it his duty to send us away with the proper blessings; he had dressed in his most elegant silken robes, as he always did on such occasions, though he was sulking a bit because he had wanted to come along. The twins were not coming either. If I understood the tenor of their remarks, they were extremely indignant at being left without parents and grandparents for several days. Emerson, who is a perfect coward with children and women, had wanted to creep away without telling them, but Nefret had insisted that we could not suddenly disappear without explanation and rea.s.surance of return. I agreed with her, and began quoting from various authorities on child-rearing until Emerson cut me off with his usual shout of "Don't talk psychology at me, Peabody!"

After bidding the others an affectionate farewell, I turned last of all to Selim. A little pang, half pleasure, half pain, ran through me, for he looked so like his father-more slightly built and not as tall, but with the same aristocratic bearing and finely cut features. He was the only other person we had taken into our confidence.

"Remember, Selim," I said softly, "you are to open all telegrams and send the information on to us at Shepheard's if it is from . . . him. Keep on the alert for any rumors that may-"

Emerson shouted for me to board the train, and Selim showed his white teeth in a smile. "Yes, Sitt, you have told me. Do I not always obey your slightest command? A good journey. Maa.s.salameh."

The train chugged away into the night-it was, as usual, late-and we went at once to the dining car, where I prescribed a gla.s.s of wine for Nefret.

"I know you hate to leave the children," I said sympathetically. "But take my word for it, dear girl, you will find that a little holiday from the adorable creatures will do you good. In time you will come to look forward to it."

Nefret's pensive face broke into a smile, and Ramses said, "Good advice, Nefret, from one who knows whereof she speaks. Did you look forward to your holidays from me, Mother?"

"Enormously," I a.s.sured him. Ramses laughed, and so did the others; but I thought there was a shade of reproach in Nefret's look. I prescribed another gla.s.s of wine.

The lamps on the table flickered and the crockery rattled, and it was advisable to hold on to one's gla.s.s. We lingered over our wine, since there are no companions as compatible as we four. However, the car was full and we could not talk confidentially there. Before we settled down for the night we had a little council of war in Emerson's and my compartment.

"Mark my words," I declared. "Mr. . . . What did you say, Emerson?"

"I said, we always do." Emerson muttered round the stem of his pipe.

"Oh. Thank you, my dear Emerson. As I was saying, if Mr. Russell learns we are in Cairo he will be chasing after us, demanding to know why we asked him to detain a harmless traveler and what we are up to now. We must decide how much, if anything, to tell him."

Emerson opened his mouth. I went on, raising my voice slightly, for I believe in an orderly exposition. "Even more important is what to tell Walter and Evelyn. They know nothing of our relationship-their relationship, that is-with Sethos, yet he is also Walter's brother, and in my opinion-"

"It is also my opinion," said Emerson, taking advantage of my pausing to draw breath.

"I beg your pardon?" I exclaimed in surprise.

"Did you suppose I would dare to differ with you?" Emerson grinned at me. "I agree that the time for secrecy has pa.s.sed. We may get ourselves in trouble with the War Office by exposing Sethos's role as an agent of British intelligence, but I can't see that we have any choice. The rest of it makes little sense unless that is admitted-and, as you might say, my dear Peabody, half-truths are more confusing than out-and-out lies. If I know Walter, the poor innocent chap will be delighted to find he has another brother."

"Aunt Evelyn may not be so delighted," Ramses said. Like his father, he had loosened his tie and unb.u.t.toned his shirt as soon as we were in private. "The poor innocent woman has hoped for years that we would stick to archaeology and stop messing about with criminals."

Curled up on the seat next to Ramses, with her head on his shoulder, Nefret said sleepily, "Then she should be relieved to learn that the greatest criminal of them all is no longer an enemy but a friend and kinsman."

"That is the approach we must take," I agreed. "Very good, my dear. David already knows of Sethos's involvement with intelligence and I expect he has told Lia-he tells her everything."

"No doubt," Nefret said. "Neither of them has referred to it in their letters, but then they wouldn't take the risk, would they?" She raised her hand to her face to hide a yawn. "Sorry."

"Not at all," I said. "Ramses, take your wife off to-er-your compartment, she is half asleep."

After they had gone, Emerson indicated that he was ready to follow suit, so I rang for the porter to make up our berths. We stood in the corridor while this was being done. Emerson chuckled.

"I rather look forward to informing Walter he has an unknown brother who was not only born outside the blanket-"

"A vulgar phrase, Emerson."

"Not as vulgar as certain others that come to mind. As I was saying: but who has broken at least five of the Ten Commandments."

"It will be a shock," I agreed.

"It will do him good," said Emerson heartlessly. "He has led a very sheltered life and is in danger of becoming narrow and intolerant."

That thought, and another that he acted upon immediately following the departure of the porter, distracted him from further discussion, and soon after he returned to his own berth I heard the deep respirations that betokened slumber. It did not come so easily to me.

Our failure to hear from Sethos was frustrating but not fatal. He might be away-temporarily, one could only hope. I considered it possible that the dastardly Italian had sought refuge with his former acquaintances in Sethos's criminal network-supposing any of them were still in Cairo. Curse it, I thought, turning over with difficulty in the narrow bunk, how can we take action when we are ignorant of so many things? I ought to have cornered Sethos years ago and demanded a full accounting of the present status of the organization and the whereabouts of his confederates. Well, but his visits had been brief and infrequent, and there had been too many other things to talk about-his stormy relationship with the journalist Margaret Minton, the tomb and its amazing contents, the twins, the house in Cornwall-which was legally Ramses's property but which he had willingly lent to his uncle-and Sethos's daughter Molly.

Despite-or perhaps because!-of the fact that women found Sethos attractive, his relationships with the female s.e.x had been far from satisfactory. For years he had professed an attachment to my humble self-a lost cause if ever there was one, since Emerson would never have allowed it even if I had faltered in my devotion to my spouse. In recent years he had transferred his affections to Margaret, who returned them with (at least) equal intensity. But Margaret had her own hard-won career, as a writer and newspaper correspondent specializing in Middle Eastern affairs, and she was unwilling to commit herself to a man who put his hazardous occupation ahead of her. Patriotism is all very well, but a woman likes to know where a man is and what he is up to, particularly when there is a possibility he may walk out of the house one day and never come back.

Then there was Bertha, Sethos's mistress and accomplice during his criminal years. Pa.s.sionately devoted to him at the beginning of their relationship, her tigerish affections had turned to rage when she learned of his purported love for me. She had met a violent death at the hands of my friends after several attempts to kill me, but not before giving birth to Sethos's daughter.

We had encountered Molly-or Maryam, to use her proper name-only once, when she was fourteen years of age, before we were aware of Sethos's real ident.i.ty and hers. Soon after that she had learned certain disturbing facts about her mother's death and had fled from her father's house. Despite his habitual insouciance I knew Sethos felt guilt and deep concern on her behalf, but his efforts to trace her had failed. We hadn't seen her or heard of her for years.

The waning moon slid long silver fingers through the gaps in the curtains. It was late. I cleared my mind of distractions. Finally Emerson's rhythmic breathing and the swaying of the carriage lulled me to sleep.

A YEAR AFTER THE ARMISTICE Cairo still had the look of an armed camp. Below the very terrace of Shepheard's, a crowd surrounded a young orator who held forth in eloquent Arabic on British injustice and the inalienable right of Egypt to independence. The attempts of the doormen to silence him were frustrated by the pushing and shoving of his followers, and the more timid of the foreign residents of the famed hostelry hung back, fearing to pa.s.s the mob. We stopped to listen.

"Anybody you know?" Emerson inquired of Ramses, who had once been involved in a somewhat unorthodox manner with one of the nationalist groups.

"Good G.o.d, it's Rashad," Ramses exclaimed. "The last I heard he was in prison."

The speaker caught sight of him at the same moment and broke off in mid-sentence. His blazing eyes moved from Ramses to Emerson, both of whom were conspicuous because of their height. I took a firmer grip on my parasol.

Rashad bared his teeth and pointed a quivering forefinger at Ramses, but before he could speak, one of the bystanders cried, "It is the Father of Curses and his son, and the Sitt Hakim his wife, and the Light of Egypt. Welcome! Have you come to speak for us and for our cause?"

"Certainly," Emerson shouted over the chorus of greeting.

"Not now, Emerson!" I took a firm grip of his arm.

"Well, perhaps not," Emerson conceded. He raised his voice to the pitch that has, together with his command of bad language, given him his Egyptian nickname. "Disperse, my friends, and take Rashad with you. The police are coming."

A troop of mounted men clattered toward the scene, led, as was customary, by a British officer. As Rashad ran off, he twisted his head round to look at us over his shoulder. His lips moved. It was as well we could not hear the words, for his scowling face suggested he did not share the friendly att.i.tude of his followers. By the time the squad of police arrived, they were all gone.

Perhaps it would be in order for me to remind my less well-informed Readers (a small minority, but nonetheless worthy of consideration) of the historical background in order to explain why a British officer was in command of Egyptian troops, and why Cairo seethed with the spirit of revolt. Though it was formally a province of the Ottoman Empire, Egypt had effectively been under British control since the middle of the nineteenth century. In 1914 it was declared a British protectorate, under military occupation, when the Turks were threatening the Suez Ca.n.a.l and it was feared that Egyptians would support their fellow Muslims against an occupying power they had always resented. These fears had not materialized, except for a single abortive attempt at an insurrection in Cairo. Maternal pride compels me to add that it was aborted by Ramses, who had taken on the role of a radical nationalist leader named Wardani in order to intercept the weapons sent by Turkey to Wardani's group. Had it not been for his efforts, and the equally perilous part played by David, the Ca.n.a.l might well have fallen to the enemy.

But as I was saying . . . What Egypt wanted was independence, from Britain, Turkey, or any other nation. Once the war ended, the demands of Egyptian Nationalists intensified.

Britain's response had not been well-thought-out. One bad mistake had been the exiling of Nationalist leader Zaghlul Pasha. A tall, impressive-looking man, he was a splendid orator and much beloved by the Egyptian people. When the news of his summary deportation became known, rioting and demonstrations broke out all over Egypt. Though we were of course deeply distressed by the violence, the uprising in Upper Egypt earlier that year had not affected us personally. Our Egyptian friends were too sensible to engage in such a futile, uncivilized procedure, and naturally no one would have dared inconvenience the Father of Curses and his family.

The rebellion was put down by force. Zaghlul Pasha was released and went off to Paris, where the Peace Conference of the Allies was meeting to decide the fate of conquered and occupied territories. Zaghlul's demands were ignored. The British government insisted that the protectorate must be maintained. As a result, disaffection continued to smolder, isolated acts of violence against foreigners still occurred, and orators like Rashad stirred the populace up. Britain had agreed to send out a high-level commission of inquiry under Lord Milner, the colonial secretary, but few people believed that its report would bring about the changes Egypt demanded.

"There's another complication," Ramses said, as we mounted the stairs to the terrace.

"No, why should there be?" demanded Emerson. "Kamil el Wardani may hold a grudge against you and David, but he is out of the picture, Zaghlul Pasha is the accepted leader of the independence movement. Has Rashad changed allegiance?"

"It doesn't matter," I declared. "We have enough to worry about without becoming revolutionaries, and we must at all costs prevent David from becoming involved with that lot again. Emerson, I strictly forbid you to climb on soapboxes and orate."

"They don't use soapboxes," Emerson said mildly.

I looked from his smiling, self-satisfied countenance to the hooded eyes of my son, and a strong foreboding-of a sort to which I am only too accustomed-came over me. Sympathy for the rights of the Egyptian people was one thing, and we had always been of that mind. Rioting and instigating riots was something else again.

Our rooms on the third floor of Shepheard's were a home away from home; for more years than I care to admit we had dwelled there at least once each season. The suite had two bedrooms, one on either side of a well-appointed sitting room, and two baths. Before she and Ramses were wed, Nefret had occupied the second bedchamber, with Ramses in an adjoining (but I a.s.sure you, Reader, not connected) room.

Emerson went at once to the balcony of the sitting room, and stood gazing sentimentally out across the roofs and minarets of Cairo. He invited me to join him. I was itching to unpack but I could not refuse; how many times had we stood on that same balcony, on that precise spot, in fact, reveling in our return to the land we loved, and antic.i.p.ating a busy season of excavation. How long ago it seemed, and yet how recent!