Chapter
6
Enthralled by all he had heard, and awed by the mighty responsibility which he had been chosen to share with Sir Denis, Brian was about to speak when Nayland Smith raised his hand.
“Ssh! Listen!”
He seemed to be watching the closed door. Brian watched it too. But he saw, and heard, nothing.
“What?”
“Wait a moment. I may be wrong, but——”
Nayland Smith moved quietly across the room until he could press his ear to a panel of the door. Then, very gently, he opened it—looked out. He closed it again silently and came back.
“Too late. There was certainly someone there. Let’s hope they don’t know I’m in here! I must be brief. But I want to bring you up to date. . . . We doubled back to Paris and flew here to Cairo. Dr. Hessian needed rest, facilities, and safety, to complete his plans for a laboratory demonstration. I knew he could find all this with the Seyyid Mohammed. Also, I was rather shaken, and as you see”—he touched his nose—”had had a spot of trouble in Berlin!”
The phone bell rang.
“Be careful!” Nayland Smith warned as Brian took the call.
It was Zoe.
“Oh, Brian dear, I can only speak for a moment. But I do not have to leave Cairo for another week! Are you glad?”
“Very glad indeed.”
“I will call you in the morning.”
The sound of a kiss. Zoe hung up. Brian turned, and met a quizzical stare from Nayland Smith.
“Evidently a lady,” he snapped in his dry fashion.
Brian grinned rather guiltily. “As a matter of fact, Sir Denis, it was someone you know. Zoe Montero.”
Nayland Smith smiled. It wasn’t quite the boyish smile which Brian seemed to remember, but he had to allow for the fact that Sir Denis had obviously been through hell, although he treated his troubles lightly.
“Little Zoe? Her uncle and I became close friends some years ago when I was in Luxor. She’s a sweet little girl, and I know she’s safe with you. And now I must be off.” He stooped, picked up his coat and hat and put them on. “Never go out alone, Merrick. And lock your door at night.”
“I must come down with you, Sir Denis!”
“Not on your life! You’re the last man in Cairo I want to be seen with! Look—walk along to the lift, and when you get there, just open the door opposite—the one with a red light above it—and make sure there’s nobody on the stair it leads to. If all’s clear, pretend to press the bell for the lift, and don’t attempt to contact me. Enjoy Zoe’s company! She doesn’t know you’re working with me?”
“I never told her so.”
“Never do!” Good night!”
* * *
But when Nayland Smith had gone in his mysterious way, Brian sat down to try to get these new developments into focus.
One thing was crystal clear. He had let himself in for a devil of a job! He was up to his ears in an international intrigue which obviously involved the safety of the United States—perhaps of the whole Western world. He thrilled to the prospect, but asked himself, in cold blood, if he felt competent to go through with it. Something more than mere physical courage was called for.
Did he possess those extra qualities? And was he justified in taking it for granted that he did when nothing in his life to date had given him an opportunity to find out?
He believed he had a fairly good brain, but he wasn’t vain enough to pretend that it was a first-class brain. Yet, according to Nayland Smith he was soon to find himself in the ring against an opponent who had the brain of a criminal genius! In such a contest, of what use could he be to Sir Denis?
Evidently Peter Wellingham had decided that he was the very man Sir Denis was looking for, so that, although he didn’t recognize the fact, he must possess some qualification which was necessary.
What could it be?
So far he had been asked to do nothing. He wondered how long that state of affairs would have lasted if he hadn’t blundered upon Sir Denis’s hiding-place.
And now it appeared he had carte blanche to do as he pleased for the next few days.
Yet Nayland Smith had warned him that his every move was covered!
Brian took another drink.
He decided that if he were to prove a success as a secret agent he must learn to control his hasty judgements. Men engaged in such perilous work were sure to move in an aura of mystery, for mystery, danger surrounded them. He, himself, had become aware of this fact. Making bad beginnings by distrusting Peter Wellingham, he had transferred his doubts to Lola (who had nothing to do with the matter); then to Ahmad, and finally to little Zoe!
Thinking of Zoe reminded him of the fact that he owed her a new frock. He would take her out shopping in the morning. Then they would lunch at Mena House and visit the Great Pyramid, an old ambition of Brian’s.
He hoped she would call him when she got back, and be in time for a drink and a smoke before parting for the night. Brian had made few acquaintances since his arrival in Cairo, and none, except Zoe, whom he cared to cultivate. He settled down to write a report to his father of his first meeting here with Sir Denis Nayland Smith and his impressions of that remarkable man. . . .
* * *
Midnight drew near before the long letter was finished, and Brian felt very sleepy. Zoe hadn’t called, and he settled for a final drink and bed. He fell asleep almost immediately.
Perhaps (as he thought afterwards) it was an aftermath of his concentration on the character and strange life of Sir Denis which had gone into the writing of the letter, but he had a singular and very disturbing dream. . . .
He found himself in a state of unaccountable and helpless panic, incapable of movement or speech. It was a condition he had never experienced in reality, and for that reason was all the more horrible. . . . Nayland Smith was pacing up and down the room in which he, Brian, had interviewed the Sherif Mohammed—exactly as he had seen him from the roof of the neighbouring building. But, in the dream, Brian was in the room; could hear as well as see. And the first sound he heard came from behind the iron grille high in one wall. It was a strange, harsh, but dreadfully compelling voice:
“You have crossed my path once too often, Sir Denis . . .The time has come for me to order, for you to obey ...”
The vision faded. . . . Brian was in Zoe’s arms. “Brian!” she whispered, trembling—”Brian, listen to me! Leave here at once.... I love you, but you must go. Promise me you will go!” But he couldn’t utter a word. He was dumb with fright. . . . Then the harsh voice came again. “Do you dare to forget who is your master?” Some unseen force dragged Zoe away. “Brian!” he heard. “Brian! Answer me . . .”
And Nayland Smith was there again, not in the lofty saloon but in a small room, stone-paved like a dungeon. He was chained by his ankle to a staple in the stone wall. Haggard eyes watched Brian.
“Don’t do it, Merrick! Give me your word!”
And Brian could only gasp, mumble. Not one word could he utter. ...
A sound of banging reached him. He couldn’t move. He was no longer in the stone cell. He was lying in darkness so complete that a ghastly idea crossed his mind. . . . He had been buried alive!
The banging went on. Someone was trying to break into his tomb! A voice came faintly, from a long way off:
“Brian! Brian! Are you there? Answer me. . . .”
It was Zoe!
He was unable to make a sound!
But still he could hear the banging—only it grew less and less audible. . . .
That frightful oppression seemed to be lifting. He found he could move; stretched out his arm. And in doing so he nearly upset the reading-lamp! He was in bed!
Gladly, he switched on the light; got out and ran to the door (which he had forgotten to lock). That banging sound, and Zoe’s voice, still echoed in his ears. He opened the door and looked out. . . . There was no one there.