“Ah,” Sahin Pasha said, and smiled. “I relieve you of your prisoner, Bimbashi.”
“But, Your Excellency -
“He is an English spy. Espionage is my department, Bimbashi. Do you question my authority?” He beckoned his servant, who dismounted and untied the rope from the officer’s saddle.
The officer didn’t like what was happening. A direct refusal was more than he dared risk, but he ventured to protest. “You will need an escort, Excellency. He fights like a demon. It took six of my men -”
“No need for that,” Sahin said affably. He raised his arm and brought the whip handle down.
10
FROM MANUSCRIPT H (CONTINUED)
It was a very pleasant dream. The surface on which he lay was soft and faintly perfumed. Above him arched a golden canopy – yellow silk, gilded by sunlight streaming through the gathered folds. He could hear birdsong and the crystalline tinkle of water.
The only discordant note was a headache of stupendous proportions. He raised his hand to his temple, and a familiar voice said, “Try this. I do not indulge, of course, but I keep it for certain of my guests.”
It wasn’t a dream. Ramses sat up. A few feet away, cross-legged on a pile of tasseled cushions, Sahin held out a glass half-filled with an amber liquid.
Ramses started to shake his head and thought better of it. “No, thank you,” he mumbled in Turkish – the same language the other man had used.
“It is not drugged. But, as you like.” His host placed the glass on a brass tray and reached for the mouthpiece of his water pipe. He smoked contentedly for a time, for all the world like a courteous host waiting for his guest to get his wits back.
It took a while. When the Turk’s blow had landed, sinking him into unconsciousness, Ramses expected he would wake up in a dark, verminous cell, with various people holding various sharp, heavy, or red-hot implements. This room was airy and bright, probably the mandarah, the principal chamber where guests were received. The central part of the room was several inches lower than the rest, tiled in tasteful patterns of red and black and white, with a small fountain at one end. The alcove in which he was now sitting was draped with silk and floored with cushions. He was wearing only a shirt and drawers; they had removed his stained robe and dirty sandals, and cleaned the worst of the muck off his body. One wouldn’t want those satin cushions smeared with rotten fruit and donkey dung.
“I regret the necessity of that,” Sahin said, as Ramses explored the lump on his head with cautious fingers. “I knew you would not come willingly, and resistance might have caused you serious injury.”
“How can I ever thank you?” Ramses inquired, slipping into English. The Turk laughed aloud.
“It is a pleasure to match wits with you again, my young friend. I was delighted to hear that against all my expectations you had survived that interesting affair outside Cairo, but I am uncertain as to the details. How did you manage it?”
Ramses considered the question. It was loaded with potential pitfalls, and the genial conversational tone, the comfortable surroundings, were designed to lower his guard. A new interrogation technique? He preferred it to the methods the Turks usually employed, but he would have to be careful.
“My affectionate family came to the rescue,” he said, feeling certain that this information must have reached Sahin’s ears. “You know my father.”
“By reputation only. It is a formidable reputation. I hope one day to have the honor of meeting him. So he heard of your – er – dilemma – from your friend, whom I did not succeed in killing after all? I might have done, had you not spoiled my aim.”
“Possibly.”
Sahin drew the smoke deep into his lungs. “You also spoiled a pretty little scheme which had been long in the making. What are you after now? Why are you here?”
“Just having a look round.”
“I do admire the imprecision of the English language,” Sahin said. “So useful when one wishes to avoid answering a question.”
“Would you prefer to speak Turkish? I don’t find it as easy to equivocate in that language.”
Sahin’s beard parted, showing his teeth. “I think you could equivocate in any language, my boy. In this case, it is a waste of time. You were caught in the act. A particularly futile act, I might add. In that jostling crowd you had little chance of killing him.”
“I didn’t succeed, did I?”
“You hit the governor,” Sahin said, his smile broadening. “A flesh wound in a particularly awkward place. He’s very annoyed with you.”
No mention of anyone else. Did that mean Chetwode had got away? Good luck to the young fool, Ramses thought sourly. He had only been obeying orders. He put his head in his hands. Thinking about Chetwode worsened his headache.
“What can I offer you?” Sahin asked solicitously. “If you don’t want brandy, what about coffee or mint tea?”
He clapped his hands. The servant who entered was so anxious to show the proper deference, he was bent over at the waist, his face only a few inches from the tray he carried. Obeying a brusque gesture from Sahin, he deposited it on a low table beside Ramses and backed out, still at a right angle. The heavy curtains closed after him. “Please help yourself,” Sahin said. “They have not been drugged.”
Ramses’s throat was painfully dry, and he concluded it would be expedient to accept something. To refuse hospitality was an affront, and it was unlikely Sahin had ordered the drinks to be drugged. And what difference would it make if he had?
So he picked up the glass of tea and sipped it gratefully, holding the hot glass by the rim, while the Turk smoked in pensive silence. Then he said suddenly, “I have a daughter.”
“My felicitations,” Ramses said, wondering what the devil this had to do with anything. “When did the happy event occur?”
“Eighteen years ago.”
“Eighteen -”
“Yes, she should have been married long before this. It is not for lack of offers. She is beautiful, well born, and educated. She speaks and writes English. She is somewhat headstrong, but I believe you prefer women of that sort.” He looked hopefully at Ramses, who had begun to feel like Alice. What sort of rabbit hole had he fallen into? Surely Sahin Pasha didn’t mean… Silence seemed the safest course.
“The war cannot last forever,” the Turk went on. “We will not always be enemies. You have the qualities I would like in a son.”
“But…” Ramses tried to think of a tactful way of refusing this flattering and appalling suggestion. He blurted out, “I’m already married!”
“I know that. But if you were to embrace Islam, you could take another wife. I don’t recommend more. It requires a brave man to manage two women, but three are six times as much trouble as two, and four -”
“You’re joking.”
Sahin’s mouth stretched wider. “Am I? It is in the best tradition of our people and yours – forging an alliance through marriage. Think it over. The alternative is far less attractive.”
“What is the alternative?”
“Surely you need not ask. Imprisonment, a considerable degree of discomfort, and eventually a trip to Constantinople, where you will have to face several persons who know you as one of our most dangerous opponents.” He leaned forward, his face lengthening. “They will execute you, my young friend, publicly and painfully, as an English spy, but before they kill you they will try to find out everything you know. I consider torture an unreliable means of extracting information, but I fear my enlightened views are not shared by the others in my service. I am offering you a chance to escape that fate. You are no assassin. You came here for another reason. I can protect you from a death that will cause your wife and your parents much grief if you confide in me and prove your sincerity by the alliance I have offered. I assure you, the girl is quite presentable.”