A River in the Sky

My firm but kindly manner did not have the effect I had hoped. “How can you be so calm?” Nefret asked passionately. “An entire week? He could be-” Her voice caught.

“I doubt that,” I said, suppressing my own qualms. Perhaps I was reassuring myself as well as Nefret when I continued, “In any case, he is in no more danger of…of that now than he was at the time the message was written. And if…that…were intended, our intervention would almost certainly come too late. We might even bring on the result we dread by dashing wildly in pursuit.”

Reason, however sound, does not convince loving hearts. Nefret remained silent, her furrowed brow and outthrust chin expressing her resistance. I did not-could not-tell her my own theory. I felt certain that my hideous forebodings were, as usual, accurate. Ramses had, heaven knows how, got himself involved with some secret service operation. MO2 was concerned about German influence in Syria-Palestine. Ramses spoke German, Arabic, and Turkish like a native, and archaeologists, as Emerson had pointed out, made admirable agents. Either the War Office had recruited Ramses-in which case I would have General Spencer’s head on a platter-or Ramses had come across something that, in his opinion, merited investigation. My-our, that is-demand that he meet us in Jaffa had given him an excuse to leave Reisner’s dig. I was reasonably certain that if we did inquire we would find he had taken his departure in the normal fashion. What had happened to him thereafter was a matter of speculation. I am never guilty of idle speculation, so I kept an open mind on that. Except that once I caught up with him, I would have Ramses’s head on another platter.

The sky overhead was dark gray and the first drops of rain were falling. “Let us get inside,” I said, rising. “It looks as if we are in for a storm. A Nile in the sky, as Pharaoh Akhenaton once poetically expressed it. Come, Daoud.”

The three of us were rather damp by the time we reached the hotel. The manager tried to duck behind the counter when he saw me. ’Twas of no avail, as I could have told him. Leaning over the counter, I ordered tea to be brought up and asked him to look again for messages. After fumbling about, he handed me two envelopes. One was an impressive document, covered with seals and official stamps. The other appeared to have been delivered by hand.

“When did these arrive?” I asked.

“Today. Today. This afternoon. The post in this country is extremely-”

“In future,” I said sternly, “make sure all messages and letters are delivered to us at once.”

“Open them,” Nefret urged, trying to get a look at the envelopes. “Perhaps Ramses-”

“I can’t do that, Nefret, both are addressed to Emerson. The handwriting is not that of Ramses.”

We went straight upstairs to my room, and I asked Daoud to tell David to join us for tea. It was early, but the skies were so dark and the rain was falling so heavily, I felt the familiar ritual would cheer us.

It certainly cheered the reverend, who, of course, accompanied David. Watching him tuck into biscuits and scones, I wondered how he could eat so much and retain his willowy figure.

I had intended to steam the letters open, but the others came too soon and Nefret ignored my hints that she change her damp clothing. Under other circumstances I might have opened them anyhow and braved Emerson’s loud complaints; however, I had a difficult task ahead of me persuading him to go along with my plans. A further source of aggravation might render him even more recalcitrant.

A considerable noise in the corridor finally betokened the arrival of Selim and Emerson. Emerson’s primary source of complaint appeared to be the weather. Flinging the door open, he continued without interruption: “…ridiculous for this time of year. The rains do not come on until November.”

“God works in mysterious ways.” Plato piped up.

Emerson gave him an awful look. He and Selim were both drenched. Emerson had, naturally, insisted on walking the entire way instead of searching for a covered conveyance or waiting until the heaviest of the rain stopped. Nefret hurried to him and helped him out of his coat. She hung it over the back of a chair, where it continued to drip distractingly for the next hour.

David took Selim off to his room and persuaded him to change into one of his dressing gowns; Emerson divested himself of his boots and wrung out the bottoms of his trousers, which he declined to change. I knew he would not catch cold. He never did. I rang for more tea. The arrival of the genial beverage and a further supply of bread-and-butter sandwiches put Emerson in a better frame of mind.

Comparatively better, that is. Fixing me with a critical look, he declared, “Selim and I will probably catch pneumonia, Peabody, and all for nothing.”