The Golden One (39 page)

‘Resigned, rather,’ Nefret said, toying with her toast.

‘Eat something,’ I ordered. ‘We are leaving in an hour and it will be a long, hard day. The first of many, I fear.’

‘Not at all,’ said Emerson. ‘The T Model Ford Light car – ’

‘I don’t want to hear about it, Emerson. Eat your breakfast.’

‘I have,’ said Emerson indignantly. ‘You are the one who is delaying us.’

To have left the hotel in disguise or in the vehicle Emerson had acquired would have aroused speculation. We went by cab to Atiyeh, the village where the northern branch of Abdullah’s
family lived, and there we found no other than Selim awaiting our arrival. He was disappointed when I failed to register surprise at seeing him.

‘It was logical,’ I explained. ‘Once I learned of the motorcar. I am pleased, Emerson, that you didn’t insist on driving it yourself.’

‘I had a number of reasons for bringing Selim along, all of them excellent, and all of them, you will claim, obvious to you. Let us not waste time discussing the subject. Is the car ready,
Selim?’

‘Yes, Father of Curses. It is,’ Selim said enthusiastically, ‘a wonderful motorcar. It has – ’

‘What about supplies?’ I asked.

‘Everything is in order, Sitt Hakim,’ Selim said. He looked doubtfully at the piles of personal luggage I had brought. ‘I think there will be room.’

There was, but just barely. Nefret and I would have to sit on some of the parcels and put our feet on others. There was not even space on top of the vehicle, where Selim had fastened several
long planks.

The whole village gathered to wave good-bye and shout blessings. It would have been impossible to conceal our expedition, whose ostensible purpose was to examine certain ruins in the Sinai.
Selim had asked them not to speak of it, and since they all knew about Emerson’s frequent disputes with the Antiquities Department, they assumed we were planning to excavate without official
permission. Sooner or later someone would tell the story, as a good joke on the authorities, but as Emerson philosophically remarked, it didn’t matter much; by the time the gossip reached
General Murray, it would be too late to stop us.

As an additional precaution we waited until we were well away from the village before we assumed our disguises. Emerson’s consisted of shirt and trousers, an elegant long vest and flowing
robe, and, of course, a beard. Instead of a tarboosh or turban, he covered his head with a khafiyeh – the flattering headdress worn by the desert people that frames the face in folds of cloth
and is held in place by a twisted cord. It shadowed those distinctive features more effectively than a turban and protected the back of his neck from the sun.

Nefret and I bundled ourselves up in the inconvenient and uncomfortable ensembles worn by Moslem ladies when they travel abroad. Ramses always said that if a disguise is to be successful, it
must be accurate in every detail, so Nefret and I were dressed from the skin out in appropriate garments: a shirt and a pair of very full trousers, with a long vest, called a yelek, over them; and
over the yelek a gibbeh; and over the gibbeh the additional layers of the travelling costume – a large loose gown called a tob, a face veil that reaches nearly to the feet – and on top
of it all a voluminous habarah of black silk which conceals the head and the hands as well as everything else.

Emerson and Selim both stared when Nefret removed the scarf that had covered her head; I had dyed her hair before we left the hotel, and it made quite a difference in her appearance.

‘What did you do that for?’ Emerson demanded. ‘Her hair will be covered.’

‘Not from other women in the household,’ I replied, applying brown colouring to Nefret’s smooth cheeks. ‘And one must always be prepared for accidents. That red-gold hair
is too distinctive.’

Selim nodded and grinned. He was in a state of boyish exuberance, flattered by Emerson’s confidence and looking forward to the adventure. He had not been told of Ramses’s mission,
nor of our real purpose. That did not matter. He had complete faith in Emerson – and, I believe I may say, in me – and rather fancied himself as a conspirator.

I can best sum up that journey by saying that camels might have been worse. Without Selim’s expertise and Emerson’s strength we could never have got through. The first part of the
trip was not too bad, for the Corps of Engineers had improved the roads from Cairo to the Canal. We crossed it at Kantara, on one of the pontoon bridges, and it was here we met our first and only
check by the military. Huddled in the tonneau amid piles of parcels, enveloped in muffling garments that concealed everything except our eyes, Nefret and I waited in suspense while Emerson produced
a set of papers and handed them to Selim, who passed them over to the officer. Staring straight ahead, arms folded and brow dark, Emerson was a model of arrogant indignation. He did not move an
inch, even when the officer handed the papers back and saluted.

‘How did you get those?’ I asked, sotto voce.

‘I will explain later,’ Emerson grunted, as Selim sent the car bumping over the bridge.

We camped that night in a little oasis not far from the road, and a great relief it was to stretch our cramped limbs and remove several layers of clothing.

‘We are making excellent time,’ Emerson announced, as Selim got a fire started and Nefret and I sat by the little tent he had set up. So far I could not fault Emerson’s
arrangements, though I was inclined to attribute some of them to Selim. Emerson would never have thought of the tent. Concealed in its shadow, away from the flickering firelight, we allowed
ourselves the luxury of removing not only the face veil and habarah but the tob and gibbeh. The air had cooled rapidly after the sun set, as it always does in the desert.

Selim insisted upon doing the cooking, and while he arranged his pots and pans, Emerson produced the set of papers he had shown the officer. I studied them with a surprise I was unable to
conceal. They bore the signature of none other than the high commissioner, Sir Reginald Wingate, and testified to the moral character and loyalty of Sheikh Ahmed Mohammed ibn Aziz.

‘Where did you get these?’ I demanded. ‘Not from Wingate?’

‘Good Gad, no.’ Emerson began digging around in the luggage. ‘What did you do with my pipe?’

‘I didn’t do anything with it since I didn’t know you had brought it,’ I retorted. ‘Isn’t a meerschaum out of character?’

‘The devil with that,’ said Emerson, extracting pipe and tobacco pouch. ‘As for the papers, you will never guess how I got them.’

‘A forger?’ inquired Nefret, scanning the papers I had handed her by the light of the flickering flames. ‘A very skilled forger. You know a good many of them, I
expect.’

Emerson went about filling his pipe. ‘The ones with whom I am acquainted specialize in antiquities,’ he replied. ‘I required a different sort of expertise. So I paid a visit to
Ibrahim el-Gharbi.’

‘The procurer?’ I gasped. ‘But, Emerson, you called him – ’

‘A vile trafficker in human flesh. A good phrase, that,’ said Emerson, puffing. ‘According to Ramses, el-Gharbi can be useful if one takes everything he says with a strong
seasoning of scepticism, and he has connections with every illegal business in Cairo. At the moment he is open to reason. He wants to get out of that prison camp.’

‘I hope you didn’t promise you would arrange his release in exchange for these papers,’ I said severely. ‘The end does not justify the means.’

‘I made no promises,’ was the evasive reply. ‘But we owe the rascal, Peabody. It was through el-Gharbi, or rather one of his sources, that I was able to – er –
acquire the motorcar. He also gave me the name of the man who forges official papers for him, and a chit telling him to comply with my request. Good, aren’t they?’

‘Let us hope all our difficulties will be so easily solved,’ I said.

‘Don’t be such a pessimist, Peabody,’ said Emerson. ‘Aren’t you the one who keeps telling me to enjoy the moment, without worrying about what the future may bring?
What could be more enjoyable than this?’

I could have mentioned quite a number of things, but it was pleasant to sit round the fire with the fresh breeze of the desert cooling our faces and the blazing stars of the desert shining down.
The infinite eyes of God – and nowhere in that vast wasteland to hide from them.

Fortunately my conscience was perfectly clear.

It was to be our last peaceful hour for several days. From Romani on, the road surface worsened, and we encountered a great deal of traffic. Heavy lorries lumbered past, loaded with supplies;
troops of soldiers plodded through the sand. They gave us curious glances, but no one ventured to address us. The magnificent presence of Emerson, his nose jutting out from the spreading blackness
of his beard, was imposing enough to win respect, and the presence of two veiled females forbade interference. The men had been warned to leave Moslem women strictly alone. Squeezed uncomfortably
in our nest of baggage, Nefret and I looked enviously at the troops of cavalry that occasionally contested our right of way. Most of them were Australians or New Zealanders, and a splendid-looking
lot of men they were.

It was after we passed el-Arish, the farthest advance of the railroad, that the real trouble began. Men were working on the tracks and our unusual group had begun to attract undesirable
attention. Emerson, who thinks he knows everything – and usually does – declared he knew of another path that would lead us through the Wadi el-Arish and into Palestine from the
southwest.

There had been fighting at Maghdaba, some twenty miles east of el-Arish, and the ground was strewn with the debris of battle, including the pathetic remains of horses and camels. After the
second tyre blew I began to worry about supplies. We were down to our last three cans of petrol, and the water was running low. The bed of the wadi was rough but not impassable; Selim kept turning
and swerving, trying, as I supposed, to avoid the worst bumps. He could not avoid all of them; holding Nefret in a firm embrace, I began to wonder how the devil we were to get out of the cursed
canyon. It was one of the longest wadis in the region, stretching all the way down into the desert. Suddenly there was a shout from Emerson.

‘There!’ he cried, pointing. ‘Left, Selim.’

I took one appalled look at the slope, littered with boulders, and shrieked, ‘Stop!’

Selim did, of course. When faced with conflicting orders from Emerson and me, he knew whose command to obey. Emerson turned and shot me an outraged glare. ‘What’s the matter with
you, Peabody? There is no easier way out of the wadi for another five miles, and – ’

‘Easier? Well, Emerson, I will take your word for it, but I am not going to be bounced up that incline. Nefret and I will ascend on foot. Get out of those clothes, Nefret.’

I began stripping off my own garments as I spoke. Flushed with heat but perfectly composed, Nefret said meekly, ‘Yes, Mother,’ and followed my example.

The men raised all sorts of objections. Emerson declared, ‘You can’t climb in those clothes!’ and Selim, deeply offended, assured us that he was perfectly capable of getting
the confounded motorcar up the slope without difficulty. Naturally I ignored these complaints. After fumbling about, I located one of the bundles I had brought and took out two pairs of boots.

‘What the devil,’ Emerson began.

‘I believe in being prepared for all possible contingencies,’ I replied. ‘And as you see, it is as well I was! Hoist up your trousers, Nefret, and tuck the ends into your
boots. Now then, I think we can manage; are you ready, my dear?’

Nefret grinned. ‘As Ramses has often said, you never cease to amaze me, Mother. Yes, I’m ready.’

It was not a difficult climb – there was even a path of sorts, winding back and forth across the slope. We were able to remain upright most of the time, without having to resort to
four-limbed progress. When we reached the top we saw before us a baked, barren landscape that shimmered with sunlight; but the hot air dried the perspiration that had coated our bodies, and it was
wonderful to be out of those layers of clothing.

Nefret peered down into the wadi. ‘Selim has backed the car up,’ she said. ‘They see us – the Professor is waving us to get out of the way – they’re coming .
. . Oh dear. I don’t think I can watch.’

It was impossible not to, though. Amid crashes and thumps and the groans of various bits of the machinery, the vehicle thundered up the slope. Even louder than the other noises were the
enthusiastic whoops of Emerson, bouncing up and down and grinning from ear to ear. When Selim stopped, on a fairly level stretch of ground, Nefret and I ran towards the car.

‘There, you see?’ Emerson demanded. ‘I told you it would be all right.’

‘One of the tyres is flat,’ I remarked.

Emerson waved this aside. ‘We’ll have it mended in a jiffy.’

Selim managed to mend the tyre, despite Emerson’s attempts at advice and assistance. We passed round the water bottle, resumed our costumes, and started again.

I will draw a veil over the succeeding hours. I lost count of the number of times we got stuck in a sand dune. On several occasions Selim was able to back up and go at it again; at other times
he had to lay the planks down and Emerson had to push from behind. He had removed all his extraneous garments, and shouted encouragement to Selim as the wheels spun and sent sand spraying over him.
His head was bare, his fine linen shirt was torn and smeared with oil; in short, he was having a wonderful time.

As the sun sank westward, it became apparent that we were not going to make it back to the coastal road that day. Bathed in perspiration, muffled in fabric, I was considering methods of
murdering Emerson, and perhaps Selim as well, when I saw ahead a few spindly palm trees.

‘There it is,’ Emerson said happily. ‘I thought I remembered the location.’

‘You thought?’ I repeated.

It was not much of an oasis, but there was water, brackish and muddy, but enough to allow us to sponge our faces and limbs. ‘Your little shortcut has only cost a day,’ I remarked, as
we sat round the small fire. ‘So far.’