He Shall Thunder in the Sky
capture.”
         “How much?” Ramses inquired.
         “Fifty English pounds. Not enough to tempt you, is it?”
         Ramses gave her a long level look. “Wardani would consider it insultingly low.”
         “It is a large amount to an Egyptian.”
         “Not large enough for the risk involved,” Ramses replied. “Wardani’s people are fanatics; some of them would slit a traitor’s throat as readily as they would kill a flea. You ought not have expected the censors would allow any report of the incident. Wardani pulled off another daring escape and made Russell look like an incompetent ass. I don’t doubt that all Cairo knows of it, however.”
         Nefret appeared to be watching the cat. Seshat had rolled onto her back and Ramses’s long fingers were gently rubbing her stomach. “Is press censorship really that strict?” she asked.
         “We are at war, my dear,” Ramses replied in an exaggerated public-school drawl. “We can allow nothing to appear in print that might give aid and comfort to the enemy.” He added in his normal tones, “You had better not pass on any personal confidences to Lia when you write her. The post will also be read and censored, quite possibly by an officer who is an acquaintance of yours.”
         Nefret’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
         “I’ve no idea. But you do know most of them, don’t you?”
         “That would be an unacceptable violation of the fundamental rights of free English persons,” I exclaimed. “The rights for which we are fighting, the basic —”
         “Yes, Mother. All the same, it will be done.”
         “Nefret does not know anything that could give aid and comfort to the enemy,” I insisted. “However . . . Nefret, you didn’t tell Lia about our encounter with Wardani, did you?”
         “I haven’t mentioned anything that might worry her,” Nefret said. “Which leaves me with very little to write about! The primary topic of conversation in Cairo is the probability of an attack on the Canal, and I am certainly not going to tell her that.”
         “Damned war,” said Emerson. “I don’t know why you insist on talking about it.”
         “I was not talking about the war, but about Mr. Wardani,” I reminded him. “If there were only some way we could manage to talk with him! I feel certain I could convince him that for his own good and the good of Egypt he ought to modify his strategy. It would be criminal to throw away his life for what is at present a hopeless cause; he has the potential to become a great leader, the Simón Bolívar or Abraham Lincoln of Egypt!”
         The line between Nefret’s brows disappeared, and she emitted one of her musical, low-pitched laughs. “I’m sorry,” she sputtered. “I had a sudden image of Aunt Amelia knocking Mr. Wardani over the head with her parasol and holding him prisoner in one of our guest rooms, where she can lecture him daily. With tea and cucumber sandwiches, of course.”
         “Enjoy your little joke, Nefret,” I said. “All I want to do is talk with him. I am reckoned to have fair powers of persuasion, you know. Is there nothing you can do, Ramses? You have your own peculiar methods of finding people — you tracked Wardani down once before, if I remember correctly.”
         Ramses leaned back against the cushions and lit a cigarette. “That was entirely different, Mother. He knew I wouldn’t have done anything to betray him so long as David was involved. Now he has no reason to trust me, and a hunted fugitive is inclined to strike first and apologize afterward.”
         “Quite right,” Emerson ejaculated. “I cannot imagine what you were thinking of, Peabody, to suggest such a thing. Ramses, I strictly forbid . . . uh . . . I earnestly request that you will make no attempt to find Wardani. If he didn’t cut your throat, one of his fanatical followers

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