Elizabeth Peters - A River in the Sky

Emerson answered with another question. “What were you planning to do with it if you had it?”

“Show it to various people. He has been in Jerusalem before, I have no doubt of that. I had hoped we could send a copy to Scotland Yard.”

“It would be weeks before we could expect a response,” Emerson said.

“Quite. I had another possibility in mind. Don’t you think it is time you told me which of the persons at this hotel are in the employ of the War office?”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea,” said Emerson. “Now, Peabody, don’t lose your temper. Here, let me refill your glass.”

Having done so, he continued, “The idiots at the War office have already come up empty on the subject of-er-that person. Their investigation seems to have been superficial in the extreme. I sent off telegrams to Jacobsen at the British Museum, Frankfort in Berlin, and a few others, as well as to Scotland Yard. Cursed expensive it was, too, since I gave them not only his current name but a description as well. I mean to make the same inquiries here in Jerusalem, but there wasn’t time yesterday.”

Determined to stick to the point, I said, “You haven’t answered my initial question. Do you deny that the War office sent us to this hotel, just as they did in Jaffa?”

“No,” said Emerson. “That is, yes. That is-”

“Then they must have told you how to communicate with their local representative in case of trouble.”

“Yes,” said Emerson, resentment replacing his initial confusion. “Curse it, Peabody, just give me a chance to speak. I was told that I would be approached by their agent here. He was to give a particular signal when-”

“Aha,” I cried. “This particular signal?”

Taking the tip of my nose daintily between thumb and forefinger, I wriggled it twice.

Emerson stared at me, his mouth ajar. Then he burst out laughing.

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Dust billowed up around their feet as they trudged along the path. Sheep grazed on the yellowing grass and oxen dragged primitive plows across the fields. The scene was peaceful and pastoral, the valley framed by mountains north and south of the city.

“How far is it to Jerusalem?” David asked, shifting his bag from one shoulder to the other.

“As I remember, it’s only thirty or forty miles in what passes in these parts for a straight line. But it’s easy to get lost if you don’t know the country.”

“Should we take a chance on the main road, then?”

Ramses had been wondering the same thing. One part of him-the part his mother had tried to eradicate-was tempted to make a run for it, risking recapture or worse. Another, more sensible part, told him that although their disguises were good from a distance, they might not hold up under close inspection. He wished he knew how far Mansur would go to get them back-or to keep them from passing on what they had learned. If he was desperate enough he might have ordered they be shot down rather than let them escape. An unfortunate accident, the soldier had mistaken them for wanted criminals, perfectly understandable considering that they were in disguise…But what if conceit had made him rate his and David’s importance too high? It could take them days to reach Jerusalem, skulking around the countryside, while his family worried and nobody else, including Mansur, gave a damn about them.

“My mind’s going round in circles,” he said in disgust. “I think we’ll try to avoid the road for a while longer.”

As the sun rose higher, he began to wonder if he had made the right decision. The narrow paths, some of them no more than goat tracks, wound round small fields, vineyards, groves of trees. The terrain became increasingly difficult as they climbed out of the valley into a region of rolling hills, with higher peaks visible to the west. After a few hours Ramses had no idea where they were, except for the fact that they were headed generally south, and that they were east of the main road.

“How far have we come?” David asked.

“Damned if I know. We’ve been walking in circles part of the time, trying to stay away from villages and houses. I suggest we climb higher and try to get an overall view of the countryside.”

“You sound uncharacteristically tentative,” David remarked.

“If you have a better suggestion, kindly make it,” Ramses snapped. They hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious for hours, but his sense of uneasiness was growing. Having David with him was a great comfort, but knowing David wouldn’t be there but for him was an equally great burden.

They made their way up a steep ridge, past dark openings that might have been ancient tombs. Crowning a hilltop ahead was a structure that stopped both of them in their tracks. It might have been the ruin of a Norman castle, magically transported from England to this improbable location. The massive walls were still eight or ten feet high in some places, with flanking towers at intervals and the remains of a keep visible beyond the walls.

“What on earth is that?” David asked. “Not biblical, surely?”

Ramses eased the pack off his shoulder and stretched. “It must be a Crusader fortress. Eleventh century-A.D., that is. There are a number of them in Syria-Palestine.”

“Crusader,” David repeated. “Oh, yes-that lot who wanted to save the Holy Land from the infidels. They built to last, didn’t they?”

“They built to hold off a good many people who hated them and their religion. And the builders didn’t last. The Kingdom of Jerusalem endured for two hundred years, off and on, spawning seven or eight bloody Crusades, costing countless lives, and in the end they were forced to give up and go home.”

“You certainly are a repository of useless information. How do you know all that?” David asked, with more amusement than admiration.

“I have a mind like a magpie’s, easily distracted by interesting odds and ends,” Ramses admitted. “Actually I learned about the Crusades from a young fellow I met at Oxford. He had chosen Crusader castles as his special subject.”

“I don’t suppose you know which one that is, or precisely where it is.”

Ramses was too discouraged to resent the implicit criticism. “There are too many damned ruins in this country,” he said gloomily. He turned slowly, shading his eyes against the sun. “There’s another one down in that valley-could be a derelict church. I can’t see…Wait a minute. Isn’t that Nablus, that darkish blur across the plain, north and slightly west?”

David let out a heartfelt groan. “We’ve only come that far?”

Ramses sat down, crossing his legs. “Let’s take a rest and see what Majida has given us for luncheon.”

It was the usual fare-flat bread and goat cheese, a handful of figs, plus a flask of thin, sour beer. Ramses wolfed his half down, and then realized David hadn’t eaten more than a few bites.

“Are you feeling all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Just a little thirsty.” He raised the flask to his lips and took a long drink. “Horrible stuff.”

“We’ll have to find water soon,” Ramses said, watching him. “And there’s not enough food for another day.”

“Water shouldn’t be a problem. There must be wells and springs.”

“Plenty of both, I should think. We’ve been avoiding villages and people, but I don’t see any need for continuing to do so.”

“All right.” David got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

They had passed a number of small settlements earlier, but now that they were looking for habitation, they failed at first to find it. Ramses kept an unobtrusive eye on his companion. David kept up the pace, but he was unusually silent, as if every ounce of energy he possessed was focused on walking. The path had virtually disappeared and the hilly terrain was tiring: down into a valley and back up again, over and over. Ramses was about to suggest they stop for a rest when he spotted a moving form heading straight for them.