Part 37 (1/2)
”Wait and see.” Laughing, Justin sat up and clasped her hands. ”Wouldn't you like to freshen up before dinner?”
The room to which Francois took her was a distinct improvement over the other. The shutters over the windows were closed, and barred from the outside, but the gaps between the wooden slats admitted air. There were a bed and a washbasin and even a lamp, hanging on a bracket by the washbasin. An impromptu prison, this, not as formidable as the other, but they had left nothing that could be used as a weapon or a tool. Bed and basin were bolted to the floor; they had even removed the stout wooden bar on the inside of the shutters.
Nefret moved purposefully around the room, looking into the cupboard over the washbasin and under the bed. The water pitcher was not a heavy earthenware vessel but a delicate bit of china, painted with pansies. It was part of the usual set. The other vessels were just as dainty; hitting someone over the head with one would only irritate him. The soap dish held a bar of scented soap. Apparently that diabolical woman really did want her to tidy up before . . . dinner? A towel and washcloth had been provided too.
Why not? She could at least wash face and arms. The tepid water felt wonderful against her hot cheeks.
It would have been heavenly to take off her clothes and sponge the dried sweat off her body, but there was no way of locking the door from the inside. She compromised by removing her filthy s.h.i.+rt and was.h.i.+ng her upper arms and throat. The chemise that had been so fresh and white that morning was just as grimy as the rest of her clothing. The thin cotton stuck to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and ribs. In a moment of purely illogical, utterly feminine weakness, she compared her body to the graceful form on the divan, and s.n.a.t.c.hed up her s.h.i.+rt. How old was the d.a.m.ned woman? Younger than she by a good ten years. Maryam was even younger. Neither of them had borne two children.
And neither of them had Ramses, she reminded herself. She began taking the pins out of her tangled hair, remembering how his hands had stroked it over her shoulders. She had been a fool to let jealousy sour her mind and sharpen her tongue. He wouldn't rest until he had found her, and her formidable mother-in-law would be hot on Emerson's trail by now. She thought of Emerson, sweltering in the dark hold of her former prison, manacled and injured, and her jaw set. I'll ask if I can see him, she thought. I'll beg. On my knees, if the b.i.t.c.h wants that.
She looked for a comb, without success. They were taking no chances. Sharp teeth, even of celluloid, could rake painfully across a face. Philosophically she began running her fingers through her long locks, smoothing them as best she could. She stood up and tucked her s.h.i.+rt in. When the door opened she was behind it, the dainty pitcher raised. One must do one's best, whatever the odds!
The door was flung back, flattening her painfully against the wall. The pitcher fell and shattered. A hand reached round, gripped her wrist and pulled her out of concealment.
”You have spoiled the set,” the doctor said, studying the pink-and-blue shards. His fingers squeezed like pincers.
He maintained the painful grip as he led her along the pa.s.sageway to the saloon. A table had been drawn into the center of the room, covered with white damask and spread with china and crystal. Flowers filled an epergne in the center. There were four places set, but only two of the chairs were occupied. Nefret stopped, rubbing her aching wrist. The men who stood at attention behind the chairs didn't look much like waiters. Francois was one of them.
She realized now what had been wrong with the room. It was as contrived and unreal as a stage setting, a recreation of stuffy respectability. Its artificiality was emphasized by the bizarre occupants-the heavily muscled, hard-eyed attendants, and the woman she knew only as Justin.
The name was particularly inappropriate now; she wore the robes of Hathor, complete with black wig and artificial cow's ears. Maryam sat at her right. Her eyes were fixed on her plate. One of the companion's loose black dresses made her look almost as shabby as Nefret felt, but the stolen pectoral gleamed on her breast, deep lapis blue framed by the gold curves of the two serpents.
”Where are the bracelets?” Nefret asked steadily.
”My, my, what admirable sangfroid,” Justin murmured. ”Show her, Maryam.”
Maryam raised her hands, but not her eyes. The bracelets were clasped round her wrists.
”Sit there,” Justin directed. ”At my left. That will be all, Khattab.”
”The good doctor isn't dining?” Nefret asked, settling into the chair the waiter held for her.
”He's no doctor, he's a cheap abortionist who worked for me in Cairo,” Justin replied with careless contempt. ”Hardly a social equal.”
Khattab's shoulder blades twitched. He left the room without replying and slammed the door.
”Not that you are a suitable dinner companion,” Justin went on, inspecting Nefret critically. ”Was that the best you could do?”
”Under the circ.u.mstances, yes.” Nefret was past caring about the woman's taunts. ”If you find my presence so offensive, why am I here?”
”Two reasons. We hadn't finished our little chat. I enjoyed watching your reactions. You have such an open, uncontrolled face. And there is still such a lot you don't know.”
”And the other reason?” She didn't turn her head to look at the windows. The draperies had been drawn, but she could hear sounds of activity outside, on the deck.
”To join us in our celebration,” Justin said. She pulled off the heavy wig and tossed it to Francois. ”Tomorrow-or next day, at the latest-we will complete our mission. It has been a year in the making, but it will be worth the wait.”
The only thing Nefret could think of was the family-her children, Ramses, her mother-in-law-all the others, friends and kin-caught up in the same web that had entangled Emerson and her. She told herself it was impossible to strike at all of them at once. Some of them, then. Which? And how?
Involuntarily she looked toward the windows. Some heavy object had fallen, thudding onto the deck; a round Arabic curse burst out, followed by a hissing adjuration to silence.
Justin laughed gleefully and clapped her hands. ”Plain as print, that face of yours. Why don't you just ask what they're doing? I don't mind telling you.”
”What?” Nefret asked.
”By morning the Isis will be a different boat-fresh paint, a new name, the Stars and Stripes waving bravely at the stern.”
Nefret nodded. ”Clever, but not good enough. Where are we?”
”I don't mind telling you that either. We're at anchor near an island just south of Qena.”
Only a few hours downstream from Luxor. He was only a few hours away. She tried to imagine what he-and the others-might be doing, how long it had taken them to realize what had happened to her-and Emerson. Then she remembered her mother-in-law's complacent statement: ”I do not expect that such an eventuality will occur,” and icy fingers traced a path down her spine. If they had been detained, by force or accident, at that obscure village, Ramses might not yet know she was missing.
”You are thinking of him, aren't you?” Justin cooed. ”I can tell. So far as I know, he's in no danger, dear, and I feel certain he will rush n.o.bly to your rescue. But don't get your hopes up. They will have to follow by water, and they can't have put two and two together before dark. We are far ahead and they will have to be very clever to find us before we've accomplished our aim. Even if they do, they won't dare interfere so long as we hold two hostages. You are also hostages for each other. If you don't behave yourself, the punishment will fall on him.”
”Is he hurt?” Nefret asked. ”May I see him?”
Justin's lips curled into a tight-lipped smile, as enigmatic as that of an archaic statue. ”Say 'please.' ”
”Please.”
”Later. Perhaps. He's not seriously injured, but he isn't very comfortable.”
Maryam hadn't moved a muscle or uttered a sound until then; the movement was slight, only a jerk of her slim shoulders.
”Then I take it he won't be joining us,” Nefret said. She too had flinched at the gloating malice in Justin's voice but she was trying to live up to Emerson's standards. ”Who is the fourth? Someone I know?”
”Yes and no,” Justin said. ”I wonder what's keeping her. Waiting to make a grand entrance, I suppose. Francois, go and tell-ah. Finally!”
The woman who entered was tall and thin. Her wrinkled face and white hair bore the uncompromising marks of time, but her step was firm and her shoulders were straight. She had abandoned her veils and widow's weeds; her black dress was severely practical, with no concession to vanity, not even a ruffle of lace.
Justin pushed her chair back and rose, followed more slowly by Maryam. Nefret had been taught to stand up when an older woman entered the room. She remained seated.
”A criminal organization of women,” she said. ”At least you're not another of Bertha's get.”
The old woman, whose name was almost certainly not Fitzroyce, pa.s.sed a caressing hand over Justin's bright curls. Then the same withered hand administered a sharp slap across Nefret's face, the sort of slap a governess might give an impertinent pupil.
”Your manners are not so pretty as your face. Stand up in the presence of your elders.”
With a slight shrug, Nefret obeyed. The old woman went to the head of the table and seated herself. ”Thank you for waiting, my dear,” she said to Justin. ”Francois, you may open the wine now.”
”What took you so long?” Justin asked.
A cork popped and foam bubbled up over the bottle. ”Clumsy oaf,” the old lady snapped. ”Pour it and don't spill any more. Where was I? Paying a little call on the Professor. It was hard to tear myself away.”
”Is he all right?” Nefret asked. Champagne slopped into her gla.s.s.
”No, he isn't all right. He has a vile temper and the strength of an ox, and I'm taking no chances on his getting away. Now join me in a toast to our success.” She raised her gla.s.s.
”You can hardly expect me to drink to that,” Nefret said.