Elizabeth Peters - A River in the Sky

They followed the route she had suggested earlier, one which would take them out into the countryside most quickly.

“Nablus,” Ramses said. “We’re only ten miles from Samaria, where I started out! They must have been driving in circles all that time.”

“Same for me,” David agreed. “I was just outside Nablus when they picked me up. What’s the plan now? Back to Samaria? Jaffa?”

“No, the parents will be in Jerusalem by now. If we don’t turn up soon they’ll come looking for us. Anyhow, I’m ready to admit my inferiority and ask for a council of war. This business is more complicated than I realized. I’ll be damned if I can figure out what’s going on.”

“What do you mean?”

They squeezed past a donkey loaded with fodder. The houses were thinning out. Ramses waited until there was no one within earshot before he answered.

“David, we’ve been told three different stories by two people whom we can’t believe, and a third, poor Macomber, who may have been deliberately misled. I don’t even know who’s on whose side now. Did you happen to notice the tattoo on Majida’s arm when she reached out to touch my face? It was the same as that peculiar mark on Mansur’s forearm.”

Once again Plato Panagopolous had wreaked havoc with my schedule. By the time we had taken him back to the hotel and wrung the truth out of him, it was too late to return to our new house and begin a thorough cleaning.

I examined Mr. Plato, despite his insistence that he was unharmed. A bump on his cranium and a few more bruises were the only damage I could see. Daoud had a shallow cut on one arm. As Nefret cleaned and bandaged it, he explained that his arm “got in the way of a knife one man was holding.”

We were in our sitting room at the time. When Plato referred to the subject of luncheon, I was in complete sympathy with Emerson when he seized the reverend by the collar and addressed him in the ominous growl that is feared by every man in Egypt.

“I have reached the end of my patience. Not a morsel of food shall touch your lips until you have answered all my questions fully and truthfully. Where did you go this morning? Why is a man with a knife after your blood? Who sent him? I would like,” said Emerson, his voice rising, “to write the fellow a letter of thanks!”

Plato’s eyes were bulging and his pale countenance had darkened. I said, “Loosen your grip, Emerson, and let me conduct the interrogation, if you please. You must ask more direct questions. Mr. Plato, was it Mr. Morley you went to see this morning? There is no sense in lying, for I am fairly certain of the answer. Yes or no?”

Plato inserted a shaking finger into his collar. “Yes,” he stuttered. “Yes. Why should I not? I went on your behalf, to persuade him to ask your advice before proceeding with-”

“And he punched you on the jaw?”

Plato hung his head. “At first he took my suggestion badly. The role of the peacemaker-”

“Did not succeed in this instance,” I said. “Was it Morley who sent the assassin after you?”

“I cannot believe-”

“Have you other enemies in Jerusalem?”

“No. That is…”

I will spare the Reader the rest of his rambling discourse. In the end, between my pointed questions and Emerson’s threats, he admitted it had been Morley who robbed and attacked him at the inn in England. He had come to us after he discovered Morley intended to leave him behind when the expedition-based on his discoveries!-left England. Morley had used and then abandoned him, leaving him penniless. But he bore no hatred toward his betrayer, no indeed! He had accompanied us in the hope of bringing Morley to a better understanding. Had he not preached forgiveness?

“Oh, good Gad,” said Emerson. “Now he claims to have been Jesus. I don’t know how much more of this I can stand.”

“His explanation is consistent with what we already knew,” I pointed out. “We had assumed from the first that Mr. Morley was a conscienceless adventurer, concerned only with profit.”

“Oh, quite,” said Emerson glumly. “‘Consistent’ is the correct word. Either he is the most consistent liar I have ever met or he is a perfectly consistent fool. Now, then-er-since it is clear Morley has no intention of cooperating with us, we must take steps to control his activities. Here is paper and pen. You claim to recall the text of your famous scroll. Write it down.”

Plato complied readily, explaining that he was giving us only the part of the text that contained directions as to the location of the treasure. It was certainly a curious document. It read in part: “Now while the workmen were lifting up their picks there was a rift on the right hand, one hundred cubits from the entrance, leading to the place of the treasure, and one hundred cubits was the height of the rock over the heads of the workmen.”

“This is, of course, a translation,” said Emerson, studying the paper. “You read ancient Hebrew?”

“At one time I did. My memory-”

“Aha,” said Emerson. “If you are the scholar you claim to be, you ought to be able to reproduce at least part of the original.”

Plato blinked at him. “Do you understand-”

“Are you hungry?” Emerson replied with a wolfish smile.

Plato picked up the pen.

To my astonishment he proceeded to inscribe several lines of what certainly appeared to be a variety of Hebrew. Emerson’s smile vanished. He cannot read the ancient form of the language any more than I can, but he knew enough, as did I, to tell that the text was not a scribble of meaningless symbols.

Nefret spoke for the first time. “Touché, I believe,” she remarked.

BY THEN THE HOUR was late for luncheon and the dining salon was only half full. Emerson, still in a state of aggravation, directed Plato to a table clear across the room from the one at which we gathered.

“I wish to discuss a number of matters that don’t concern him,” he said, in response to Nefret’s attempted objection. “I have yet to make up my mind about the creature.”

“I quite agree,” I said. Selim nodded emphatically.

“Very well, then,” said Nefret, frowning. “Let us begin with the matter of Ramses and David. You said we should wait a few days. We have waited. I propose one or all of us leave for Samaria tomorrow.”

“If we do that, it will mean postponing our activities here for several days,” I said. “There is a great deal to do. Setting up the house-a complex chore in itself-keeping watch over Morley, arranging for Emerson’s excavations.” Nefret’s lips parted, so I hurried on. “Would you care to explain to us, my dear Emerson, what intrigues you about that particular site?”

The waiter delivered the soup we had ordered, which gave Emerson time to consider his response. It took the form of a lecture.

“Egypt ruled this entire region during the fourteenth century B.C., including Jerusalem, which is mentioned in the Egyptian archives. Yet no artifacts of that period have been found here.”

He paused to have a sip of soup, and I took advantage.

“Don’t tell me you have found evidence of remains from that remote period? After a cursory examination of surface material? I understand, my dear, why you would be thrilled to discover Egyptian material here, but surely-”

“You would not sacrifice the safety of your son for such a discovery?” Nefret cut in. The verb is appropriate; her voice was as sharp as a knife blade.

“Certainly not,” Emerson exclaimed. “You wound me deeply by such a suggestion. However, we have no proof at this time that his or David’s safety is at risk.”

“Proof!” Nefret cried. “What are you waiting for, a ransom note, or…” She paused, biting her lip. The image in her mind was as clear to the rest of us as it was to her. There was no putting her off, and to be candid I had come round to share her concerns.