The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery Read Free Page B

cigarette and lit it for him before lighting his own. It was like the old days, when they had sneaked away from Ramses's mother to indulge in the forbidden pleasures of smoking and drinking beer. Ramses wondered if David had deliberately set the scene.
    They hadn't been as comfortable together since David had become involved in a cause Ramses considered both dangerous and futile. He sympathized with the desire of the new generation of Egyptians for independence, but he felt sure it had no chance of success at the present time. Egypt was a British protectorate in all but name, and with the political situation in the Middle East so unsettled, Britain could not risk losing control of a country close to the Suez Canal. The recent appointment of the redoubtable Kitchener of Khartoum to the post of consul general unquestionably signaled a hardening of policy toward the nationalist movement. David had a brilliant career and a happy marriage ahead of him. It would have been madness to risk them for exile or prison.
"I wondered if you had seen this." David pulled a slim volume from his coat pocket.
Ramses accepted the change of subject with relief. "Percy's masterpiece? I knew Nefret had it, but I haven't read it."
"Have a look at this chapter. You're a fast reader. It won't take you long."
He'd put a bit of paper in to mark the place. "It's a good thing you brought the beer," Ramses said, taking the book. "I suspect Percy's prose will require the numbing effect of alcohol."

I had been a prisoner for two weeks. Zaal visited me daily. In the beginning it was to threaten and sneer, but as time went on he developed a queer penchant for me. We spent many hours discussing the Koran and the teachings of the Prophet. "You have a brave heart, English," he said one day. "I hope your friends pay the ransom; it would sadden me to cut your throat."
Naturally I did not intend to wait until my unhappy father and affectionate friends could come to my rescue. After I had recovered from the injuries received during my capture, I spent several hours each day in such exercises as the limited confines of my dungeon cell permitted. Shadow-boxing, running in place, and vigorous calisthenics soon restored my strength. I concealed these activities from Zaal. When he entered my cell he always found me reclining on the divan. I hoped that my pretense at feeble ness and his own natural arrogance would lead him to become overconfident. One day he would come alone, without his guards, and then—then he would be at my mercy!
I was awaiting his usual visit one afternoon when the door was flung open to disclose, not Zaal, but two of his thugs, supporting a third man between them. They had stripped him of his clothing except for a pair of loose drawers; his brown skin and unkempt black hair betrayed his race. His head was bowed and his bare feet dragged as they pulled him into the room and threw him onto the divan.
Zaal appeared in the doorway, grinning fiendishly. "You have your medicines, English. Use them. He is the son of my greatest enemy, and I don't want him to die too quickly."
The door slammed and I heard the rattle of bolts and chains.
I turned to look at my unexpected guest. He had slid from the divan and fallen onto his back. A black beard and mustache framed features of typical Arab form—thin lips, a prominent hawklike nose, and heavy dark brows. There were a few bruises on his chest and arms, but he was not seriously hurt. Most probably he had fainted from fear.
I brought him round, but when I lifted him to a sitting position and attempted to give him a sip of brandy he spat it out.
"It is forbidden," he said, in guttural Arabic, and then repeated the statement in stumbling English. He was younger than I had supposed, tall for an Arab but slightly built.
"I speak your tongue," I said. "Who are you, and why are you a prisoner?"
"My father is Sheikh Mohammed. I am Feisal, his eldest son. There is a blood feud between him and Zaal."
"It will not be a