Night Train to Memphis

Chapter Thirteen

I

‘THEY GOT HIM,’ I whispered.

‘Or he turned us in?’

‘He wouldn’t do that! Would he?’

‘One would certainly hate to think so.’ John’s voice was so soft I could scarcely hear it. ‘There are other possibilities, I suppose . . .’

‘The hell with other possibilities! We have to assume the worst, as you keep telling me. What are we going to do?’

‘You may do as you like,’ said John. ‘I am going to – er – lie down.’

And he proceeded to do so, though ‘fall over’ would have been a more accurate description.

He looked rather peaceful with his head pillowed on his bent arm but when I touched his cheek he didn’t move. His skin was burning hot.

In a way, it was a relief to have no more choices left. I covered him with the coat and brushed the hair away from his temple. ‘Goodbye, John,’ I whispered. ‘I love you.’

I stood up.

His hand wrapped around my ankle and brought me thudding to the ground. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.

Sand is a lot harder than it looks, and this variety of desert is littered with rocks. By the time I recovered my breath it was too late to get away; he had rolled me over onto my back and was lying across me.

‘You low-down skunk!’ I gasped. ‘You did that on purpose!’

‘Is that any way to talk to the man you love?’ His voice was almost back to normal; I knew the slight unevenness was due to suppresed laughter. ‘I’m deeply hurt that you would think I’d resort to a childish, melodramatic trick like that one.’

‘John, are you crazy? Those people out there – ’

‘There’s plenty of time. Were you really going to dash out and lead the hunters away from me, risking capture and a fate worse than death?’

His lips were hot and dry. At first. I wrenched mine away. ‘You’re not crazy, you’re delirious. Let me go. It’s the only sensible course of action.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Yes, it is. Stop doing that.’

‘No, it’s not. Why should I?’

‘Because . . .’ I had lost my grip on the conversation, not to mention the whole situation. ‘Look – ’

‘I can’t I’m busy.’

‘They won’t do anything to me,’ I said, giggling insanely. I do that when I’m upset, and his lashes were tickling me. ‘I’ll tell them – ’

‘It is not a sensible idea,’ said John, ‘because that may not be the police. And if it isn’t, and if they catch you, I’ll go after you and then we’ll have to repeat the whole tedious performance.’

‘Would you?’

‘I told you not to ask silly questions. Say it again.’

‘I love you.’

‘That’s what I thought you said.’ He lifted himself on his elbows, freeing my hands. I wrapped them around the back of his head and drew his face down to mine.

I was a trifle distracted, however, not only by the unnatural heat of his skin but by a far-off sound. Turning my head I murmured, ‘We’d better stop this.’

‘Discretion would seem to suggest a more responsible course of action.’ Instead of moving, he kissed the corner of my mouth. ‘I couldn’t tell you the truth. I couldn’t even let you begin to wonder. They had me so boxed in – ’

‘I know. Feisal told me.’

‘I must have missed that part. I hope he portrayed me in a favourable light?’

‘You came out looking like Sir Galahad and me like something that had crawled out from under a . . . Oh, God. John – ’

‘Sorry. Did I hurt you?’

‘Yes. Do it again. No! No, don’t, we’ve got to – ’

‘I did hurt you – that night, after you danced with Feisal. While you were laughing and giving him languishing glances, she was leaning against my shoulder, watching you, and smiling, and saying things under her breath . . . Schmidt turned up in the nick of time. I couldn’t have kept my hands off her much longer. And then when I saw you – you’d been so cool and indifferent, I thought you didn’t care, and . . . But that doesn’t excuse what I did. Can you – ’

‘John,’ I said desperately, ‘isn’t that a dog I hear?’

‘Probably. There are dozens of them around and they howl at . . . Oh.’ He lifted his head and listened. ‘You mean a dog, as opposed to dogs in general. Damned if I don’t think you’re right. That puts a different complexion on things. We might elude human searchers but man’s best friend is another matter. I’m beginning to detest the bloody creatures. First that diabolical hound of yours – ’

‘Get up this minute!’

The lights were closer now. Three separate beams – flashlights, I thought. Not the police, then. They’d have more effective equipment, and they’d be making a lot more noise.

‘How could they know we’d end up here?’ I demanded.

‘Good question.’ John got to his feet. Another outburst of canine commentary floated across the desert, and John echoed it with an outburst of profanity. ‘My brain seems to have crashed. We’d better get into hiding. It may not be necessary, but – ’

My brain wasn’t working any better than his. It had gone back to basics, driven by the same primitive instincts that move all hunted creatures. ‘Right. Hide. Where?’

‘I know a place. I hoped we wouldn’t have to resort to it since I know how you feel about – ’

‘Oh, no. Not a tomb. I can’t, John, I really can’t.’

‘Not a tomb. We couldn’t get into them anyhow; they’ve all got locked gates. Come on.’

The surface under our feet cracked and crunched with every step. The shadows through which we moved weren’t dark enough; the rocks between us and the plain weren’t thick enough or hard enough. If John hadn’t kept shoving at me, I might have sat down on the ground and waited in fatalistic acceptance like some poor cornered rabbit. In a way it was worse for me than it would have been for the rabbit. I knew exactly what would happen if we were caught I had seen what Mary could do when she was just amusing herself. She’d be really annoyed by now.

The face of the cliff was weathered and uneven; I saw a dozen crevices big enough to offer concealment, but every time I headed mindlessly towards one, John pulled me on. I could have handled a nice shallow crevice, no problem. I had a feeling he had something less comfortable in mind. He seemed to know where he was going. How? The question, like a lot of others, ran through my head and out the other side, without hanging around long enough to inspire an answer.

After passing around a low ridge he headed for one of the openings in the cliff. The moon was down but those impossibly bright stars cast enough light for me to see how dark the opening was. Really dark. Very, very dark. He had to drag me through it. The space beyond was devoid of light but not of sound. Things squeaked and flapped. The blackness moved.

I flung myself at him, clutching at his shirt. Not such a smart move, that one, but there was a wall behind him; otherwise we’d have both fallen to the ground. His breath went out in a sound that would have been audible a long way off if compressed lips hadn’t contained it. Then his arms closed around me and his mouth brushed my ear.

‘Hang on, darling, it’s just a cave and a few miserable bats. Lazy little buggers, they ought to have been out before this.’

‘Oh, God,’ I whipered. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I hurt you.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ That was a lie if I’d ever heard one, and I had heard plenty of them from John. ‘Listen to me, Vicky. I doubt they know about this place but the dog may be able to lead them here. If that happens, there’s another way out. A tunnel.’

‘I can’t – ’

‘Yes, you can.’ We had both been whispering; he was barely breathing the words now, his lips against my ear. ‘Rest a minute. Catch your breath.’

I tried to pull away from him, so my weight wouldn’t press against his chest, but he tightened his grip. His lips moved across my cheek.

‘Show me where the tunnel is,’ I murmured.

‘In a minute.’

It seemed to go on longer than a minute. Then he said softly, ‘This way,’ and drew me with him towards the back of the cave. ‘Here. See it?’

‘I can’t see a damned thing.’

‘Feel it, then.’ He guided my hand.

‘Got it. How did you know about this place?’

‘There’s an old family . . .’

He didn’t have to warn me to stop talking. Sound carries a long way in the quiet desert night. The footsteps were still some distance away, but they were coming closer.

His hand moved to my shoulder. I resisted the pressure. It wasn’t difficult.

‘You first,’ I said.

‘I’ll follow.’

Another lie. Adrenaline and a mix of other hormones had given him a temporary burst of strength, but I doubted he could stand erect without the support of the wall against which he was leaning.

Sometimes my instincts work better than my so-called brain. The one that gripped me now superseded fear and even self-preservation. My hands were icy-cold but absolutely steady. His were neither. I got the gun out of his pocket while he was still fumbling for my wrist.

The dog was right outside. I heard its quick, excited panting, then a slither of rock and a muffled expletive. The uneven contours of the entrance brightened.

I got my finger around the trigger and aimed, bracing my wrist with the other hand.

The dog let out a sharp, peremptory bark. The man with it cleared his throat.

‘Uh – Dr Bliss? Mr Tregarth? Are you there?’

It wasn’t Max’s voice. It was a voice I had never heard before – slow and hesitant, with a pleasant Southern accent.

John’s hand closed over mine and pushed my arm down. The voice went on, ‘Uh – I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you, Dr Bliss, but – uh – if you’re there, you, uh – Damn it, Fido, are you sure this is the right place? Stupid dog . . .’

Fido (Fido?) barked indignantly. ‘Oh, well, then,’ the voice said. ‘I feel like a jackass, but if you say so . . . Uh. You remember me, Mr Tregarth – Keith Kendrick, from UCal? Uh – how are you?’

I started to laugh.

‘Do come in,’ John said. ‘You’ll have to excuse Dr Bliss; she does this sometimes.’

Giggling maniacally, I shielded my eyes against the brilliance of the light. Behind it was a tall, thin man with sandy hair and an embarrassed smile. The dog at his heels looked like one of the pariah dogs that hang around the villages, but it had a collar and its tail was flailing furiously.

John cleared his throat. ‘Dr Bliss, may I present Dr Kendrick?’

‘Vicky,’ I gasped. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Call me Keith.’

I made an effort and managed to stop laughing. ‘How did you know we were here?’

‘He told me, of course. He’s been expecting you.’

‘Feisal?’ I asked doubtfully.

‘Not Feisal,’ John muttered. ‘I’m afraid it wasn’t Feisal. I’m afraid . . . I don’t think I can stand this.’

‘We did run into Feisal,’ Kendrick said. ‘While we were looking for you. He expected you’d be here before this, and he was getting worried, so we went out – ’

‘He?’ I began waving my arms. ‘I don’t think I can stand this either. He who?’

Kendrick shied back. I’d forgotten I was still holding the gun. ‘Uh – Dr Bliss, if you wouldn’t mind putting that away . . . He’s coming. Don’t get excited. I think I hear him now.’

There was no ‘think’ about it He was coming at full speed, tripping over and running into things. When he burst into the cave he was too out of breath to speak; he grabbed me and hung on, wheezing.

‘Schmidt,’ I gasped. ‘Schmidt, is that you? Thank God you’re all right! What are you doing here?’

‘But why should you be so surprised?’ Schmidt let me go. ‘I told you I would be here. Guten Abend, Sir – John, I am so very happy to see you again!’

He rushed at John, grabbed his hand, and began pumping it up and down. John gave him a bemused smile. ‘Amarna,’ he mumbled. ‘You left those clues. The brochure and the – the – ’

‘The bag, yes, I knew you clever ones would know what they meant. What else could they mean?’

‘Amarna,’ John repeated. ‘Right. Clever ones.’

‘Stop shaking him that way, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘He’s not . . . he’s not feeling well.’

‘Ach, my poor friend! You have a fever, ja? We will return at once to the house. Here, I will support you.’ He turned and yanked John’s arm over his shoulder.

It was too much for poor John. I don’t know whether he was shaking with chills or with laughter, but he managed to make it back to the jeep, where Feisal was waiting, before he keeled over.

Our arrival at Keith’s house wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. He and Feisal had to carry John in, and Schmidt wouldn’t shut up. But nobody came out of the neighbouring houses to ask what was going on. Sometimes it’s safer not to know what is going on.

The house had only two rooms. The one into which Keith led us was obviously his bedroom. It contained a camp cot, a few boxes, a table and chair – both draped with miscellaneous male garments – and a lamp. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to afford such comfortable quarters if it hadn’t been for Mr Tregarth’s generosity,’ Keith said. ‘I hope he’s not seriously ill. What can I do?’

The place didn’t look comfortable to me. It didn’t even look sanitary. But it was a lot better than we had any reason to expect. I asked for water, and was pleased to learn that John’s generosity had also provided plenty of the bottled variety. Feisal went off to deal with the jeep and Keith went for more water, and Schmidt hunkered down beside me and watched while I unbuttoned John’s shirt and started peeling back the tape.

‘He has been wounded?’ He was genuinely concerned, but I detected an underlying note of enjoyment. Wounds are so romantic. In Schmidt’s favourite form of fiction they are usually in the arm or the shoulder and after biting his lip and muttering, ‘It’s only a scratch,’ the hero goes back to fighting four or five opponents barehanded.

‘You could say that.’ I lifted the cloth.

‘Lieber Gott,’ Schmidt whispered. ‘Who has done this?’

‘I’ll tell you later. It’s not as bad as it looks, Schmidt,’ I added, as tears of sympathy rolled down Schmidt’s sunburned cheeks. ‘Something else must be causing the fever. Maybe . . . Maybe a good night’s sleep is all he needs.’

John opened one eye. ‘Was that . . .’ The eye rolled towards Schmidt and then closed. ‘It was. I thought I was dreaming. I hoped I was dreaming. Schmidt, what have you – ’

‘Ruhig sein, my poor friend,’ Schmidt said. ‘All is well. You are safe with – ’

‘All is not well.’ John raised himself on one elbow. ‘What have – ’

‘Rest and sleep,’ Schmidt insisted, trying to push him back down.

‘No, have something to drink. You’re probably dehydrated.’ I shoved Schmidt away and held a glass to John’s lips.

‘Yes, that is probably better,’ Schmidt agreed.

‘Oh, Christ. Will you two stop picking at me like dogs over a bone? I’ll submit to your infernal attentions as soon as Schmidt tells me what wild story he gave Kendrick.’

‘Richard is himself again,’ I remarked.

‘Richard is a hell of a long way from being himself. Which is lucky for you. Schmidt – ’

‘Why, I told him the truth, of course.’

‘Oh, God.’ John collapsed back onto the hard pillow.

‘That you had discovered a plot directed against the museum and were on your way to Cairo to disclose it, with the villains in hot pursuit,’ Schmidt went on.

‘In those exact words, I suppose.’ He let out an involuntary sigh as I began wiping his face with a wet cloth. ‘Well, it could be worse. You didn’t go into detail?’

‘I told him no more than that,’ Schmidt said indignantly. ‘It is an old rule of espionage, the need to know. Besides, he would have thought me verrückt if I had told him the entire truth. And now you must rest. Perhaps a sleeping pill, eh? I have with me – ’

‘No pills,’ I said. ‘He’s taken too many already.’

Feisal and Keith returned at that point. ‘How is he?’ the latter asked, squatting beside the bed. ‘God Almighty. How did he – ’

‘A slight accident,’ John said. ‘I’m prone to them. Especially when I’m in the company of certain people.’

‘If he’s complaining he’s back to normal,’ said Feisal. He shoved a heap of garments off the chair and sat down.

‘You all look as if you could use a drink,’ Keith said. ‘I’ve got a bottle of bourbon.’

‘And there is beer,’ Schmidt offered. ‘I brought with me – ’

‘Beer, of course,’ I said. ‘Where there’s Schmidt there’s always beer. Sorry, boys, but we are not going to have a party. Everybody out. He needs to rest.’

‘Just . . . one more thing.’ John’s brief burst of energy was fading. He forced his eyes open. ‘Schmidt. How did you get here?’

‘Why, by the train of course. My cryptic message to you – ’

‘Was received and deciphered,’ John said gravely. ‘Which train?’

‘It left Luxor at six in the evening. It tore my heart in two to leave you, Vicky, before I could know whether you had succeeded in your courageous rescue, but I felt certain you would, and if you did not, I could serve you best by going for help as quickly as possible. So – ’

‘You left the hotel shortly after I did.’ I was beginning to understand what was on John’s mind, and to share the wild curiosity that kept him conscious. ‘I suppose you were . . . disguised?’

‘Aber natürlich. They might have been watching for us at the station. Would you like to see how I disguised myself?’

‘I can hardly wait,’ John murmured.

Schmidt rummaged among the articles on the table. He was too pleased with himself simply to display the garments; he had to put them on – a long, dusty black robe, a headcloth of the same colour, and an opaque veil that covered his face from the bridge of his nose to the end of his chin.

‘I wore also my contact lenses,’ said the chubby little Egyptian woman in a muffled voice. ‘They made my eyes water very much because the windows of the car were open and there was a great deal of dust and sand. Such a useful costume, eh? I did not even have to cut off my moustache, though I would have done it, Vicky, if . . . What is wrong?’

‘He’s fainted,’ I said. I didn’t blame him.

He felt cooler after I had sponged him off, and he had passed from unconsciousness to what seemed to be normal sleep. After washing the parts of me that showed, and a few that didn’t, I went into the next room, where the party was in full swing.

Schmidt jumped up from his chair. From the chair, I should say; there was only one. ‘Beer or bourbon, Vicky?’

‘Neither. I . . . Oh, what the hell. Bourbon.’

‘You should rest too.’ Schmidt assisted me into the chair and patted me.

‘I will. After we’ve decided what to do next.’

‘At the moment our options are somewhat limited,’ Feisal said dryly. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor. In his rumpled, dusty clothes, his face dark with a day’s growth of beard, no one would have known him for the well-groomed young professional of the Queen of the Nile. We’ll have to stay here till Johnny’s fit again. When will he – ’

‘How the hell should I know?’ I took a swallow, shuddered, and took another one. ‘Sorry, Feisal, I didn’t mean to snap at you. If he’s not better – a lot better – by tomorrow, I’ll get him to a doctor. You may have to help me; if he’s conscious he won’t go voluntarily. Then you and Schmidt will have to proceed without us. It would probably be best for you to separate; that doubles the chance that one person will get through.’

Feisal gave me an odd look and nodded, without comment. Schmidt said, ‘But, Vicky – ’

‘Shut up, Schmidt.’ The bourbon was great stuff. My brain was really clicking; I felt like a combination of Einstein and Ms Super Spy, ready for anything. ‘We can’t stay here long. For one thing, Keith could get in deep trouble if the cops find out he sheltered us.’

‘Once the truth comes out he will be a hero.’ Schmidt twirled his moustache and added happily, ‘Like the rest of us.’

‘If the truth comes out. Please don’t argue, Schmidt, I figure I’m good for about ten more minutes and although I’m dying to hear about your train ride and why Keith is indebted to John and how the hell we all ended up here where none of us expected to be, all that can wait. The whole village must know we’re here. Sooner or later someone will turn us in; any group of people has a few potential informers. I’d rather take my chances with the police than with – with the other guys. If they locate us first . . .’

I raised the glass to my lips. It was empty. No wonder I was starting to feel so peculiar. ‘I am not drunk,’ I said. Slowly and with dignity I slid from the perpendicular to the diagonal. I think it was Feisal who caught me.

I woke twice during what would have been the night if I had gotten to bed at a decent hour. On both occasions the room was light; on both occasions I found myself on my knees beside the bed, fumbling at John’s face, before I came fully awake. The first time he felt hot so I sponged him off, getting only an irritable mumble as thanks. The second time he was shivering, so I covered him up, and then returned to the rug some kind soul had put beside the bed, promising myself I’d just rest for a few more minutes . . .

The next time I woke up the temperature had risen a good forty degrees. My clothes were sticking to me and my mouth felt like a desert path along which a lot of camels had passed. Keith stood in the open doorway, a tray in his hands.

‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘I was just getting him some coffee.’

John was sitting up trying to look debonair, which isn’t easy for a man who is unshaven, dirty, half-naked, and in somebody else’s bed. I have to give him credit; he almost carried it off.

‘You look very fetching,’ he remarked. ‘If you ask me nicely I might even share my coffee with you.’

I sat up, observing for the first time that the garment sticking to my sweating body was a white robe trimmed with gold. Schmidt must have stopped at the shops on his way to the station. I hoped it was he who had undressed me.

‘I’ll – uh – I’ll just get another cup.’ Keith retreated.

‘Tactful lad,’ John said. ‘Aren’t you going to come here and soothe my fevered brow?’

I crawled to the bed and touched his forehead. ‘It is warm.’

His hand slid up my arm inside the loose sleeve. ‘So are you. So is the climate of Upper Egypt.’

‘You look terrible.’

His fingers tightened, drawing me closer. ‘“Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.”’

‘The mind has very little to do with it,’ I said wryly.

‘If I were as ill-mannered as some people,’ said my beloved, ‘I would point out that you aren’t at your best just now either. But you’re my darling, you’re my sunshine, and I won’t stop loving you when your hair has turned to silver. Can you say less?’

‘No fair. That’s at least two different songs.’

‘Answer the question.’

‘What question?’

I hadn’t supposed we’d be left alone for long, and I would have bet money on the identity of the next visitor. John let go of me and I sat back on my heels.

‘Ah,’ said Schmidt, pleased. ‘You are feeling better.’

‘I hope you aren’t going to make a habit of this, Schmidt,’ John said.

‘No, no. Don’t mind me. Just go on with – ’

‘Give me the coffee, Schmidt,’ I said.

Schmidt did so and then seated himself. ‘If you don’t want to make love some more, then perhaps we should talk, eh? Yes, that is best. You must save your strength, my friend. Making love is weakening to the vital forces of even a man who is in perfect health, and making love with a woman like Vicky – ’

‘Uh – right,’ John said. ‘If you don’t mind, Schmidt, we ought to turn our attention to more pressing matters than my vital forces. What’s been going on in the great outside world? I seem to have wasted the day in slothful slumber.’

‘It was not wasted,’ Schmidt assured him. ‘You needed to recover your strength. Perhaps we will be able to go on tomorrow morning. Assuming, of course, that you and Vicky do not – ’

‘Shut up, Schmidt,’ I said automatically.

I would have liked to give John a hand with his toilette (without engaging in any of the debilitating activities Schmidt had mentioned) but the only way I could get Schmidt out of the room was to take him out.

It was later than I had realized. Schmidt had the right idea; John needed another night’s rest before we could continue our journey and we needed clothes, nourishment and, above all, more information before we decided how to proceed.

Feisal had gone out in search of the last. Keith was brewing something on a two-burner hot plate; when he asked if I was hungry I said I’d wait for the others.

‘I’m sorry we descended on you like this,’ I added. ‘We’ll try to make it up to you.’

Keith turned down the burner and squatted beside my chair. I remembered now where I had seen him – talking to Schmidt, the day the tour visited Amarna. Schmidt would, of course, view that brief encounter as the beginning of a beautiful friendship. What were friends for if not to help their friends in an emergency? Maybe this development would cure Keith of talking to strangers.

‘I have to admit I thought Dr Schmidt had lost his marbles when he turned up with a wild story about robbing the Cairo Museum.’ Keith glanced at Schmidt, who was sitting on the floor next to the rug where the dog lay. The dog’s tail was flopping up and down and Schmidt was talking to him in German. ‘But when he said Mr Tregarth was meeting him, I figured it was all right. I hope I didn’t offend Mr Tregarth when I mentioned his generosity, he asked to remain anonymous when he offered to support my work here for an additional month.’

‘He’s a very modest man,’ I said. ‘When did he do that?’

‘About six weeks ago. I had permission to work here, but I only had enough funding for a month, with strict economy. Now I can finish my survey.’

I let him tell me about the survey, nodding and smiling at appropriate moments. I don’t believe in coincidences; it was reassuring to know that this wasn’t one. John’s ‘generosity’ had been nothing of the sort. Having been informed of Blenkiron’s plans he had realized he would need all the allies he could find, and he had had to pick someone who already had the EAO’s permission to work at a given site, since official permission wasn’t easily or quickly achieved. He must have planned to leave the cruise at Amarna, and he had undoubtedly prepared a plausible story to win Keith’s cooperation. My arrival had put an end to that scheme; he hadn’t even bothered to approach Keith during our visit. But Schmidt had, and nice indiscreet Keith must have told Schmidt about his generous patron, and Schmidt had assumed that when he indicated Amarna as our meeting place, John would go to Keith.

As he had. So far Schmidt was way ahead of the rest of us. He had known exactly what he was doing. I still didn’t know what I was doing.

Tiring of Schmidt’s attentions, the dog wandered over to inspect me. He was a nondescript creature, like all the other pathetic strays, except that his ribs weren’t showing and he seemed to trust people.

‘What happens to him when you leave?’ I asked, scratching Fido behind his ear.

‘He’s not mine. One of the Egypt Exploration Society people adopted him a couple of years ago – they come out for a few months every winter – and the custodian looks after him when they’re away. He must prefer Boston baked beans to rice, though, because he’s been hanging around me since I got here. I’m afraid that’s the main course tonight,’ he added with a grin. ‘My commissariat isn’t extensive.’

I assured him I shared Fido’s passion for baked beans.

‘I’ll get to it, then,’ Keith said, unfolding himself and rising. ‘Feisal should be back any minute. I hope Mr Tregarth is better. I’ve never seen injuries quite like those. It’s almost as if someone deliberately . . .’

‘I don’t think you want to know the details,’ I said. ‘It’s not because we don’t trust you.’

‘That’s okay. The less I know, et cetera. Here’s Feisal,’ he added. ‘Baked beans coming up.’

Schmidt rushed to greet Feisal. ‘Sehr gut, mein Freund, you are safely returned. What is happening?’

‘It could be worse,’ Feisal admitted. ‘The whole damned village knows we’re here, of course.’

‘How did you explain our presence?’ I asked. I know small towns; gossip is a favourite sport and personal questions aren’t considered rude, just friendly.

Feisal ran his fingers through his dusty hair and squatted down on the floor. ‘I said I’d been hired to drive a couple of Kendrick’s archaeological friends, who had come to visit him for a few days. Nobody questioned the story, but the sooner we move on the better. How’s Johnny?’

Johnny made his appearance at that point. ‘Anything else of interest?’ he inquired.

‘Not much. I didn’t want to ask questions about the kidnapped American tourist and nobody brought it up. You know villages; they’re more interested in local scandal than in issues of national importance. Turn on the radio, Kendrick, and let’s see if we can get a news broadcast.’

We were eating dinner – Keith had also opened a couple of cans of beef stew – before the news came on. It was, of course, in Arabic, and I had to wait for a translation, but I could tell by Feisal’s lengthening face that it would not be good news for us.

‘They know we’ve changed vehicles,’ Feisal said, switching off the radio. ‘Amr reported the jeep stolen. Damn him!’

‘One can’t blame him for protecting himself,’ John said. ‘And his friends and family. So they know we’re on this side of the river?’

‘They seem to have lost track of us,’ Feisal admitted grudgingly. ‘We might have doubled back, getting through the checkpoints before they found out about the jeep, or struck out into the desert. But we can’t use the jeep any longer, they’ve got a description and the number.’

‘Can we buy another car?’ I asked

John glanced at me. He didn’t say anything, but I knew that look, and I realized that once again he was one step ahead of me. If he had planned to leave the cruise here, he must have made arrangements for transport away from the site.

After a brief pause – I give the guy credit, it was very brief – Keith cleared his throat. ‘You can take my Land Rover. I guess it’s the least I can do, since it was your money that paid the hire fee.’

John’s faint smile faded and he said bluntly, ‘You’re too intelligent not to suspect by now that you’ve been set up, Kendrick. I didn’t expect matters to develop as they have and I’m sorry about taking advantage of you, but not sorry enough to let you off the hook. We’ve got to have that vehicle. I don’t think you’ll get in serious trouble over this. If anyone – police or otherwise – learns we were here, don’t try to be clever or heroic. Tell them we robbed you, lied to you, or held you up at gunpoint – any story you like. We’ll back you up.’

‘Let’s hope it won’t come to that,’ Keith said. ‘I don’t understand what the hell this is all about, but as my granny used to say, you’ve got to trust somebody sometime. You will let me know what happens, won’t you?’

‘You’ll hear it on the news broadcasts,’ John said. ‘One way or the other . . . All right then, we’ll be on our way in the morning. Feisal, you and Schmidt take the Land Rover. You’ll look very innocent with your dear old mum in the backseat. Vicky and I will wend our way to Minya and – ’

Feisal shook his head. ‘It won’t wash, Johnny.’

‘There’s a greater chance . . .’ John began.

‘I agree. We’ll have to divide forces. But neither of you speaks Arabic. Schmidt does.’

‘Only enough to swear and tell dirty jokes,’ I said.

Schmidt blushed. Feisal said, ‘That could be enough. No, Johnny, I’m sorry, but Vicky goes with me or with Schmidt. It had better be with me. That way there’ll be one able-bodied man in each party.’

‘Listen, you male chauvinist,’ I began.

Schmidt was as indignant as I. ‘Ha! You think I cannot defend myself and protect Vicky? I, the finest swordsman in Europe?’

I patted his hand and made appreciative noises, but I was watching John and I saw his face change as he met Feisal’s steady stare. ‘Feisal is right,’ he said slowly. ‘This is a better arrangement all round. He knows the roads, and if Vicky slumps down in the backseat she can wear one of those conveniently concealing female garments, and remain modestly silent. I hope that won’t be too great a strain, Vicky.’

‘Oh, go to hell,’ I said angrily. ‘If you think I don’t know why Feisal suggested this you are sadly mistaken. Women and children into the lifeboats first, right? They’ll be watching the railroad stations, and you’re the one Larry wants, and you aren’t able-bodied, and – ’

Schmidt had taken my hand in his. He squeezed it and said gently but firmly, ‘They are in the right, Vicky. Think with your head instead of your heart and do not make this more difficult.’

It wouldn’t be any easier for John or for Schmidt than for me, I knew that. They’d be as worried about me as I would be frantic with apprehension for them. But they were right, damn them. Larry would be just as pleased to have me as John. If they catch you, John had said, then I’ll come after you. So would Schmidt, the little hero.

They took my silence for agreement. Feisal got to his feet. ‘The market is still open. What are we going to need?’

Schmidt had cashed all his traveller’s checks, so we had money to burn. After Feisal had left, shopping list in hand, we settled down to wait. Keith declined my offer to help with the dishes so I joined John on the floor and Schmidt started singing to the dog.

Don’t ask me why. I guess singing calmed Schmidt’s nerves. The dog loved it. So did John. ‘Let’s have “Detour on the Highway to Heaven” again, Schmidt,’ he suggested.

The third verse – ‘If you ever get out of the fast lane – ’ fascinated Keith to such an extent that he squatted down on the rug next to the dog and requested an encore. Under cover of Schmidt’s (and the dog’s) howls, I said softly, ‘You rotten cheat. You already know those songs.’

‘I am acquainted with the entire spectrum of western music,’ John said modestly. He put his arm around me and I leaned against his shoulder.

‘Then why did you pretend you’d never heard them?’

‘I hadn’t. Not as Schmidt performed them. I have been waiting all my life to hear him sing “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky-tonk Angels.”’

Schmidt was explaining to Keith about travelling melodies. ‘You will find the same tune used for many different songs. The one I have just sung to you is the same one used for that tender love song, “I Am Thinking Tonight of My Blue Eyes . . .”’

‘Don’t sing it, Schmidt,’ I begged.

‘No, not our song,’ John agreed. He was shaking with amusement. ‘How about “Great Speckled Bird” instead, Schmidt?’

‘Ach, ja, that is right. Do you know that one, Keith? The larged spotted bird is the church, you see. “The outer birds all flopped around her . . .”’

John’s face took on a look of unholy glee. ‘I’m going to get him a guitar. No – a harmonica.’

I hid my face against his shoulder. I was laughing. Laughing so hard I cried.

Feisal and I left at dawn Schmidt and John would wait till late, when there were more people around, before they took the passenger ferry. Schmidt was the cutest little sheikh you ever saw. Since he had to do whatever talking might be necessary he had to wear male clothing, and since his accent was a trifle peculiar we had decided he had better be a tourist from some other Arab-speaking country. He was crying, of course. He held out his arms and I gave him a hearty hug.

‘See you in Cairo, Schmidt. Take care of yourself.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Schmidt straightened his shoulders and wiped his eyes. ‘Fear not, Vicky I will protect your lover with – ’

‘Shut up, Schmidt.’ I kissed him and turned to John.

Schmidt’s dye wasn’t as sophisticated as the hair colouring my female friends use; it had left John’s hair flat and dull. His eyes were startingly blue in the tan of his face.

We had not weakened John’s vital forces the night before; in fact I had hardly had a moment alone with him. There had been too much to do, and at Schmidt’s insistence he had taken something to make him sleep.

‘Take care,’ I said.

‘And you.’

We shook hands. It was an absurd thing to do, I suppose. But with Feisal and Schmidt looking on, and the black garments muffling even my face, anything more demonstrative would have been still more absurd. Feisal grinned and shook his head and murmured something in Arabic. Schmidt blinked furiously.

Since the section of the east-coast highway north of Amarna wasn’t finished, we had to take the car ferry acoss to the west bank. (Feisal had turned pale when John asked if there wasn’t a roundabout way, like the one we had taken to reach the site, and John had tactfully dropped the subject.) Once we reached Minya we would cross back to the east bank; there were fewer towns and less traffic on that side, and we could make better time.

I huddled down in the backseat and tried to look senile, while Feisal got out to chat and smoke with the other early birds. The crossing took only five minutes, and nobody approached me.

My thoughts weren’t good company. Had some potential danger been overlooked, some precaution forgotten? John’s temperature had been about normal that morning, as nearly as I could tell without a thermometer, but he was a long way from healthy and some of the deeper cuts weren’t healing the way they should. Since Schmidt was a sheikh, with all that oil money in his pocket, they could at least travel comfortably. John was supposed to be his secretary or companion or something (Schmidt had turned purple with embarrassment and fury when Feisal made a ribald comment about one alternative). John was wearing poor Keith’s one white shirt and best suit, and he would speak only German, at which he was fairly fluent.

But theirs, as I had known, was the most dangerous route. Once they reached the opposite bank they would have to hire a car or a taxi to take them to Minya in order to catch the train, and there was a good chance the police would have the railroad station under surveillance. Given the best possible scenario – if they weren’t caught or delayed or forced to seek an alternative route – they couldn’t hope to reach Cairo before afternoon.

Feisal had estimated it would take us at least six hours, even if none of the above disasters occurred. We were to meet the others at the central railroad station, where the giant statue of Ramses II marks the centre of the square; there was enough traffic, pedestrian and vehicular, to provide reasonable cover. Five p.m. was the hour designated for the first attempt at a rendezvous; we’d try again every two hours until we met, or . . . until something else happened.

If either party reached the city earlier, it was not to wait for the other. John’s instructions on that point had been clear and forceful. ‘The sooner we notify the authorities, the safer everyone will be. Schmidt will get in touch with his friends in the EAO and the Ministry. Vicky – ’

‘I’ll put through a call to Karl Feder. He got me into this, damn him, and he can damn well get me out.’

‘All right. If you can’t reach him or if anything whatsoever goes wrong, head straight for the American Embassy.’

Feisal and I hit our first little problem when we approached the bridge crossing to the east bank. Traffic was backed up for half a mile and as Feisal slowed I heard him cursing quietly and monotonously under his breath. I leaned forward and he interrupted his monologue long enough to mutter, ‘Shut up and cover your face. And pray.’

He called out a question to a man standing in the back of a pickup ahead of us. I didn’t understand the answer (or the question) but I knew what it must have been. Traffic was moving, though very slowly; I could see the uniforms and the rifles up ahead.

I turned myself into a black huddle, trying to look seven inches shorter. In my extremity the only prayer I could remember was ‘Now I lay me down to sleep,’ which was, I devoutly hoped, inappropriate. I bowed my head and concentrated on breathing.

It took over twenty minutes to get through that half mile. I knew better than to look up, even when the car stopped and I felt rather than saw a man right next to me. After a moment, during which I didn’t breathe at all, and a brief exchange in Arabic, the Land Rover began to move.

Feisal went on for another ten or fifteen miles and then pulled off the road. Turning, his arm over the back of the seat, he gave me a strained smile and said hoarsely, ‘How about something to drink?’

I fumbled in the basket at my feet and got out a bottle of soda.

‘If we have to do that again I am going to die,’ I informed him.

Feisal drained the bottle and tossed it out. ‘They’re still looking for the jeep, I think. They didn’t even ask for my papers. If they don’t find out we’ve changed vehicles we should be all right. Relax and enjoy the scenery.’

‘Ha,’ I said.

One of these years I hope to travel that road again when I’m in a proper state of mind to appreciate the view. That day I wouldn’t have noticed the Great Pyramid of Giza unless it had been in the middle of the road. Feisal drove like a man fleeing justice, but then so did everybody else. I had to hold my voluminous garments with both hands to keep them from flapping in the breeze from the open windows. He was in front, I was in back; there was no possibility of conversation, so I clung to my veils and closed my eyes. Twice we were slowed to a crawl by construction, three times by accidents. All three appeared to be minor; what blocked the road were the crowds of gesticulating debaters discussing the incident.

I hadn’t slept much the previous night. When I awoke after a nap I hadn’t meant to take we were on a wide street lined with shops and teeming with traffic. Straight ahead two slender, delicately carved towers rose into the sky.

I leaned forward and poked Feisal. ‘Where are we? Is that a mosque up ahead?’

‘No. It’s one of the city gates. Dates from the eleventh century. I took a roundabout route.’ His voice cracked. ‘We made it. Praise be to God, we made it!’

‘Praise be to God,’ I agreed heartily. ‘What time is it?’

‘Half past twelve. Do you want something to eat?’

‘I want to get out of this tent,’ I grumbled. ‘I want a shower and a drink with ice in it and a change of clothes. But I’ll settle for being here in one piece.’

‘You may as well divest yourself of that ensemble if you can do it gracefully and inconspicuously,’ Feisal said. ‘You’ll be no more noticeable in Western clothes now. I’ll find a café and we’ll have a bite while we discuss our next move.’

I was too stupefied by heat, drowsiness, and disbelief to argue, but by the time he stopped and I had – inconspicuously, I hoped – removed my tent and veil, I had had second thoughts. We were in the heart of the city by then and there were a number of young people around, including some foreigners. I cleverly deduced that Feisal had picked a spot in the university area.

‘We shouldn’t take time for this,’ I objected, as he helped me out. ‘I need to make that call to Karl Feder.’

‘Munich is in an earlier time zone, isn’t it? He’s probably out to lunch.’ Feisal led me through a doorway curtained with strings of beads and found a table. The place was hot and dark and noisy and full of flies; people were talking in a mixture of languages, and a radio was blaring Egyptian pop music in the background. ‘What do you want to eat?’

‘I don’t care. Anything. Something with ice in it.’

‘No ice, not here. It’s made of the local water.’

He ordered in Arabic. Then he said, ‘I’m going to telephone my father.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’

‘My mother will be out of her mind,’ Feisal said simply. ‘I have to let her know that I’m safe and innocent of the charges.’

If he had presented any other argument I might have disagreed, but that one hit me where I lived. I knew what it was like to wait hour after hour and day after day for news of someone’s fate, fearing the worst. Boy, did I know.

‘Come to think of it, my mother is probably not very happy either,’ I said guiltily. ‘Does the whole world know I’ve been abducted?’

‘Count on it,’ Feisal said’ grimacing.

‘Yeah. It’s the kind of story reporters love. Damn! My dad’s probably on his way to Cairo right now. Well, they’ll have to wait a few more hours, I can’t put through an international call from a public phone.’

The food arrived – chunks of meat and pieces of pepper and onion, on little wooden skewers.

‘It won’t take long,’ Feisal said. ‘I’ll be right back.’

It was two o’clock. Three more hours to wait. At least three. If they weren’t there at 5 p.m. . . . I tried not to think about it.

When Feisal came back he was smiling. I hadn’t realized how tired and old he had looked until I saw that smile.

‘It’s all right,’ he announced, settling into his chair. ‘He wants us to meet him.’

‘Your father?’

‘He started out ordering me to turn myself in. But when I explained, told him you were with me and that you’d confirm my story, he said he’d be willing to listen.’

‘Danm nice of him. Look, Feisal, I’m not sure – ’

‘It’s okay, I tell you. A friend of his is away on business, Father has the key to his apartment, which is not far from the train station. We can hole up there, use his telephone to call Munich and your parents and, if you like, the Embassy. That’s much safer than the central telegraph office. You can have that shower and maybe even a drink with ice in it.’

‘Where does he want us to meet him?’ I asked doubtfully.

‘Ezbekiya Gardens. It’s not far from his office. He didn’t want us to go there or to the house.’

‘The police have probably got both places staked out.’

‘He hinted as much. Have you finished?’

I sat in front with Feisal this time. He was in a very happy mood, relaxed and smiling. He kept pointing out sights – mosques and museums and parks. The traffic was horrendous and parking seemed to be hit or miss. I wouldn’t have considered the place where Feisal stopped, in between a barrow piled with cauliflower and a little old lady who had apparently set up housekeeping on the kerb, as a legitimate spot, but he waved my comments aside.

‘God willing we won’t be coming back to the damned car anyhow. We’ve got a couple of blocks to walk.’

‘Okay.’

‘Vicky.’

‘What?’

‘Just in case . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I’m sure it’s all right. But stay a couple of hundred feet behind me. I’ll talk to him, get the key to the apartment. Wait till I wave or call to you before you join us.’

He didn’t give me a chance to reply. He started walking.

I followed, close enough to keep him in sight, but no closer. What he had suggested was only a sensible precaution; his father might be under surveillance and unable to shake it.

Crossing Cairo streets is a death-defying procedure. The street on the west side of Ezbekiya Gardens is a wide, very busy thoroughfare, and I lost sight of Feisal for a few seconds while I tried to avoid being run down by taxis, buses, and trucks. Reaching the other side breathless but intact, I caught sight of him standing by a little kiosk. The gardens were large; they must have arranged to meet at that precise spot. Hanging back, per instructions, I saw a tall grey-haired man approach Feisal. He was wearing Western clothes, and even at that distance I noted the resemblance. They stood talking for a while; then the older man threw his arms around Feisal.

Any father might embrace a returning prodigal son, and Middle Eastern males have no hang-ups about expressing affection physically. Not until I saw the crowds disperse, like hens when a fox enters the chicken yard, did I realize what was happening. Feisal saw the foxes too. They were hard to miss – four of them, carrying automatic weapons. He twisted away from the arms that tried to hold him, and gave his father a shove that sent him staggering back.

‘Run,’ he yelled. ‘Run, Vicky!’

He wasn’t trying to escape. He was just trying to warn me. He was standing perfectly still when they cut him down. I heard the rattle of weapons, and I heard him cry out, and saw him fall. Another, shriller, cry echoed his. It came, I thought, from Feisal’s father.

People were screaming and running and I ran with them, blindly. My throat ached with rage and horror and grief. What sort of man would turn in his own son? I hoped it had been the old man who had cried out. I hoped he was suffering. Maybe he hadn’t expected they would fire without so much as a preliminary warning. But he ought to have known, he ought to have trusted his son, given him a chance to explain . . .

I threw myself in front of a taxi, pried myself off the front fender and wrenched the door open. ‘The American Embassy,’ I gasped. ‘Shari Latin America.’

I’m as patriotic as the next guy, but the sight of the flag had never affected me as it had that day. The farther you are from home the better that star-spangled banner looks. I marched up to the door with my chin held high and demanded entry.

It’s nice to be famous. As soon as I mentioned my name I was passed from flunky to flunky till I ended up in an office few tourists see. There was a flag there too, and behind the big mahogany desk hung a picture of the President. I had voted for him and I had always thought he had a nice friendly smile. It had never looked friendlier.

‘Dr Bliss? Dr Victoria Bliss! Thank God! You have no idea how relieved I am to see you.’ The man who hurried to meet me didn’t resemble my idea of an ambassador. He was too young and his hair wasn’t grey. He sure was glad to see me, though. He invited me to call him Tom, and took both my hands and shook them, and went on to tell me exactly how relieved he was.

‘The ambassador’s in the States, which left me holding the bag, as you might say. A hostage situation is a diplomat’s worst nightmare.’

‘Gee whiz, I’m really sorry to have upset you,’ I said.

He flushed, and I gave myself a mental kick. I was getting to be as bad as John, making smart-ass remarks when I should be trying to gain his support and attention. It was imperative that I remain calm. If I lost my temper or broke down he’d think I was just another hysterical female, and I’d never convince him in time that my wild, improbable story was true.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, with a smile so charming it must have been one of the qualifications for the job. ‘Our primary concern, of course, was for your safety. Sit down. No, I insist, I won’t ask you any more questions until you’ve had a chance to catch your breath.’ He went to the desk and started punching buttons. ‘Joanie, will you come in here, please? Joanie’s my assistant, she’ll take care of you.’

‘But I want you to ask me questions! There’s been a mistake. I was never – ’

Joanie must have been waiting for the summons. By that time everybody had heard of my arrival, and they were all wild with curiosity. She was older than her boss. Being female she would of course rise more slowly up the diplomatic ladder.

‘You have to listen to me!’

Joanie put her arms around me. ‘Sure we will, honey. Don’t worry about a thing. Come along with me, I’ll bet you’d like to freshen up some.’

If she hadn’t had grey hair and a lined, motherly face I might have resisted. There was shock on that pleasant face as well as sympathy. It gave me some idea of how awful I must look. I suddenly realized, as well, that I had to go to the bathroom. (I know, that’s not ‘romantic’ But it’s true.)

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Five minutes. I’ll be right back, Tom. Don’t go away.’

Joanie was very kind. She even offered me some of her makeup, and after I’d seen the wild face glaring back at me from the mirror, I accepted. I wouldn’t have listened to anything that came out of a face like that.

She only asked me one question. ‘Did he hurt you, honey? He didn’t . . .’

It was the wrong question. I thought of Feisal, making jokes and worrying about his mother and falling, falling and screammg, trying to warn me with what might have been his last breath. I turned on her like a madwoman.

‘Hurt me! He was . . .’ It was the wrong tense, too. I threw her lipstick wildly at her. ‘Damn it, why I am I standing here doing stupid things to my stupid face? Maybe he’s not dead. Maybe he’s . . . just dying and being tortured and – ’

‘Take it easy, honey.’

‘And don’t call me honey!’

I thought I had behaved quite rationally and reasonably until Joanie escorted me to a small room that was obviously an infirmary or clinic. Another motherly grey-haired woman, wearing a sweater over her white uniform, rose to greet us.

‘So this is the young lady. Welcome home, my dear. We’re all so relieved to see you.’

I felt as if I were being smothered in cotton candy. They closed in on me, one on each side, and Tom entered, barring my way to the door.

‘How is she, Frances?’ he inquired, rubbing his hands and smiling. He thought the worst was over. He was in for a shock.

‘I haven’t had a chance to look at her. If you’ll just sit down, Miss Bliss – ’

I started to argue. Then, belatedly, I realized what I had done. Defending Feisal had been a bad mistake. Hostages sometimes end up identifying with their captors, and when the captor is young and handsome and the hostage is female . . . I made a last desperate effort to control myself, but in retrospect I admit I didn’t succeed very well.

‘What are you going to do?’ I demanded, backing away from the nurse. ‘I won’t have any shots. I hate shots.’

‘Just your blood pressure and pulse,’ the nurse said, as she would have spoken to a child. ‘No nasty shots, I promise.’

‘All right.’ I let her push me into a chair and fixed Tom with what I intended to be a firm, unhysterical look. It must have been more like a wild-eyed glare. ‘You stand there and listen to me.’

‘Believe me, Dr Bliss, there are a number of people who want nothing better than to listen to you. But,’ he added, with the first touch of kindly consideration he had displayed, ‘I’m damned if I’m going to let them at you until I’m sure you’re okay. I called your – uh – your friend. He’s on his way.’

‘My friend?’ A wild hope dawned. Had Schmidt and John made it? If they had caught the 10 a.m. train . . .

‘Yes.’ Tom smiled. ‘He’s been calling every hour on the hour.’

‘Normal,’ the nurse announced, unwinding the blood pressure cuff. She sounded disappointed.

‘I told you so. Now – ’

‘Open wide.’

She propped my mouth open with a stick and peered in.

I don’t suppose it would have made any difference. The whole business only took a few minutes. But if I had had a chance to ask one question . . .

I had forgotten that I wasn’t the only important American in Egypt. I had forgotten it takes only sixty minutes to fly from Luxor to Cairo. They brought him directly to the clinic. Well, wouldn’t you escort a distraught millionaire into the presence of the fiancée he has lost and just recovered?

When I saw him I jumped up, spilling the glass of water the nurse had offered and the little white pills she was trying to persuade me to take. There was no place to go. The room had only one door. When he caught me in his arms I tried to fight free.

‘Darling, it’s all right!’ he exclaimed, holding me tight. ‘Oh, Vicky, I’ve been so worried. Don’t talk, sweetheart, just let me hold you.’

Calm, reasoned behaviour might have saved me, though that is questionable. It was also impossible. I couldn’t stand having him touch me. Instead of expensive aftershave and fresh linen I smelled sweat and blood; instead of his smooth well-groomed face I saw the gaping hole that had been Jean-Louis’s face, and Feisal falling, and John slashed to bloody ribbons by the people this man had hired. I struggled and screamed and tried to bite. I can’t blame them for thinking the emotional collapse they expected had finally occurred. It took two of them to hold my arm rigid so the needle could go in. The last thing I heard was Larry’s voice. ‘My poor darling. God bless you, all of you; I’ll take care of her now.’