Part 19 (1/2)

Needless to say, I did not sleep. I lay awake as I had done every night since it happened- not tossing and turning, for that is an exhibition of weakness I do not allow myself- but trying to discover a possible course of action. At least this night I had new information to consider I went over and over every word, every phrase, every comma, even, in that malevolent missive. Every word and every phrase contained sly threats all the more terrifying for being left to the imagination of the reader. (Especially an imagination as active as mine.) The man who had composed them must be a veritable fiend.

And an arrogant fiend. He had not even bothered to conceal his nationality, his English was as good, his syntax as elegant, as my own. I felt confident he was not a guest at the hotel. Anyone could have stolen stationery from the writing room. As for his aim in proposing a rendezvous . . . Well, Cyrus's reasoning was irrefutable. It agreed with my own. Even if I were cad enough to break my word and betray a helpless people in exchange for my husband's life . . .

But, oh, Reader! You know little of the human heart if you suppose that honor is stronger than affection or that cool reason can overcome loving fear. If the villain had stood before me at that moment with one hand outstretched and the other holding the key to Emerson's prison, I would have thrown myself at his feet and begged him to take what he wanted.

Emerson's suspicions had been logical but unsubstantiated. The letter had turned them from surmise into certainty. It was the location of the Lost Oasis the fiend was after. But what, precisely, would satisfy his demands?

A map? THE map? Either he knew it existed, or he had deduced that it must. The journey we had made led into the waterless, featureless desert, and only a madman would set out unless he had precise directions The dirty yellow dog must know we had followed a map of some kind.

To the best of my knowledge, only one copy was still in existence. There had been five to begin with, and to complicate the matter still further, two of the five had been deliberately, fatally inaccurate I had destroyed mine- one of the false maps Ramses's copy, the one we had used to reach the oasis, had been lost or mislaid during our rather precipitate departure from the place. Emerson's copy had disappeared even before we left Nubia. That left two, one accurate, one false.

The other false copy had belonged to Reggie Forthright. He had left it with me when he set off on his expedition into the desert, and, as he had requested, I had pa.s.sed it on to the military authorities, together with his last will and testament, before we went into the desert. Presumably these doc.u.ments had been sent to his sole heir, his grandfather, when he failed to return. This copy of the map did not concern me, for it would only have led the one who followed it to a very dry, prolonged, and unpleasant death.

The original copy of the map had been in the possession of Lord Blacktower, Reggie's grandfather It was now in Emerson's strongbox in the library at Amarna House. Blacktower had given it up, along with the guardians.h.i.+p of Nefret, at Emerson's emphatic request. I had urged that it be destroyed, but Emerson had overruled me. One never knew, he had said. There might come a time, he had said . .

Had it come? For the second and, I am happy to say, last time, my integrity wavered under the impact of overpowering affection. I had to bite down hard on the linen pillowcase before reason again prevailed.

I could not trust the honor of a man who clearly had none. Nor would he trust mine. He could not afford to release his hostage until he was certain the information I had given him was accurate-and how could he know that until he had made the journey and returned? I could not have retraced our route or remembered the compa.s.s readings, but I did not doubt that Emerson could. He had held the compa.s.s and followed the directions. The villain did not need a map if he could force Emerson to speak.

No, the rendezvous was a ruse. Our only hope was to find Emerson and free him before . . .

Where could he be? Somewhere in the vicinity of Luxor still, I felt sure. The search had been intensive and was proceeding, but it could not penetrate into every room in every house, especially the houses of foreign residents. Egypt enjoyed the blessings of British law, which proclaims that a man's home is his castle. A n.o.ble ideal, and one with which I thoroughly agree- in principle. n.o.ble ideals are often inconvenient. I well remembered the story of how Wallis Budge had smuggled his boxes of illegal antiquities away while the police waited outside his house, unable to enter until the warrant arrived from Cairo We needed a warrant, and for that we must have grounds. That was what my devoted friends were trying to obtain- talking with their informants in the villages, following up gossip about strangers in the city, investigating rumors of unusual activity- and I pinned my hopes on their endeavors.

I had especially counted on Abdullah and his influence with the men of Gurnah, who were reputed to know every secret in Luxor, but as I lay sleepless in the dark, I had to confess I was sorely disappointed in him. I had seen very little of him in the past few days. I knew one reason why he avoided the house, he looked like a white-bearded, turbaned John Knox when he saw me and Cyrus together. Not that Abdullah would have insulted me by supposing I had the least interest in another man. He was jealous of Cyrus on his own account, resenting anyone who wanted to a.s.sist me and Emerson in the slightest way, and resenting Cyrus all the more because his own efforts had proved futile. Poor Abdullah. He was old, and this had been a terrible blow to him. I doubted he would ever fully recover.

G.o.d forgive me for such doubts. For it was Abdullah who served me best.

Cyrus and I were seated at luncheon next day, discussing how we should deal with the matter of the proposed rendezvous, when one of the servants entered and said that Abdullah wanted to speak with me.

”Have him come in,” I said.

The servant looked scandalized. Servants, I have found, are greater sn.o.bs than their masters. I repeated the order,- with a shrug the man went out and then returned to report Abdullah would not come in. He wished to speak to me in private

”I can't imagine what he has to say that he could not say in front of you,” I said, rising.

Cyrus smiled. ”He wants to be your sole prop and defender, my dear. Such loyalty is touching, but blamed aggravating. Go ahead.”

Abullah was waiting in the hall, exchanging sour glances- and I think low-voiced insults- with the doorkeeper. He would not speak until I had followed him out onto the veranda.

When he turned to face me, I caught my breath. His sour frown had vanished, to be replaced by a glow of pride and joy that made him look half his age.

”I have found him, Sitt,” he said.

”You must not tell the Amerikani!” Abdullah took hold of my sleeve and held me back when I would have rushed back into the house with the news. Drawing me farther away from the door, he went on in an urgent whisper, ”He would not let you go. It is dangerous, Sitt Hakim. I have not told you all.”

”Then for G.o.d's sake, tell me! Have you seen him? Where is he?”

Abdullah's story gave me pause and forced me to curb my raging impatience. He did not need to caution me that we must move with the utmost discretion- especially since he had not yet set eyes on his master.

”But what other closely guarded prisoner could there be, so close to Luxor? The house is outside the town, near to the village of El Bayadiya. It is rented by a foreigner, an Alemani or Feransawi. A tall black-bearded man, an invalid, it is said, for he is pale and walks with a cane when he goes out, which is not often. His name is Schlange. Do you know him, Sitt?”

”No. But it is surely not his real name, nor, perhaps, his true appearance. Never mind that now, Abdullah. You have a plan, I know. Tell me.”