‘There’s a greater chance . . .’ John began.
‘I agree. We’ll have to divide forces. But neither of you speaks Arabic. Schmidt does.’
‘Only enough to swear and tell dirty jokes,’ I said.
Schmidt blushed. Feisal said, ‘That could be enough. No, Johnny, I’m sorry, but Vicky goes with me or with Schmidt. It had better be with me. That way there’ll be one able-bodied man in each party.’
‘Listen, you male chauvinist,’ I began.
Schmidt was as indignant as I. ‘Ha! You think I cannot defend myself and protect Vicky? I, the finest swordsman in Europe?’
I patted his hand and made appreciative noises, but I was watching John and I saw his face change as he met Feisal’s steady stare. ‘Feisal is right,’ he said slowly. ‘This is a better arrangement all round. He knows the roads, and if Vicky slumps down in the backseat she can wear one of those conveniently concealing female garments, and remain modestly silent. I hope that won’t be too great a strain, Vicky.’
‘Oh, go to hell,’ I said angrily. ‘If you think I don’t know why Feisal suggested this you are sadly mistaken. Women and children into the lifeboats first, right? They’ll be watching the railroad stations, and you’re the one Larry wants, and you aren’t able-bodied, and – ’
Schmidt had taken my hand in his. He squeezed it and said gently but firmly, ‘They are in the right, Vicky. Think with your head instead of your heart and do not make this more difficult.’
It wouldn’t be any easier for John or for Schmidt than for me, I knew that. They’d be as worried about me as I would be frantic with apprehension for them. But they were right, damn them. Larry would be just as pleased to have me as John. If they catch you, John had said, then I’ll come after you. So would Schmidt, the little hero.
They took my silence for agreement. Feisal got to his feet. ‘The market is still open. What are we going to need?’
Schmidt had cashed all his traveller’s checks, so we had money to burn. After Feisal had left, shopping list in hand, we settled down to wait. Keith declined my offer to help with the dishes so I joined John on the floor and Schmidt started singing to the dog.
Don’t ask me why. I guess singing calmed Schmidt’s nerves. The dog loved it. So did John. ‘Let’s have “Detour on the Highway to Heaven” again, Schmidt,’ he suggested.
The third verse – ‘If you ever get out of the fast lane – ’ fascinated Keith to such an extent that he squatted down on the rug next to the dog and requested an encore. Under cover of Schmidt’s (and the dog’s) howls, I said softly, ‘You rotten cheat. You already know those songs.’
‘I am acquainted with the entire spectrum of western music,’ John said modestly. He put his arm around me and I leaned against his shoulder.
‘Then why did you pretend you’d never heard them?’
‘I hadn’t. Not as Schmidt performed them. I have been waiting all my life to hear him sing “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky-tonk Angels.”’
Schmidt was explaining to Keith about travelling melodies. ‘You will find the same tune used for many different songs. The one I have just sung to you is the same one used for that tender love song, “I Am Thinking Tonight of My Blue Eyes . . .”’
‘Don’t sing it, Schmidt,’ I begged.
‘No, not our song,’ John agreed. He was shaking with amusement. ‘How about “Great Speckled Bird” instead, Schmidt?’
‘Ach, ja, that is right. Do you know that one, Keith? The larged spotted bird is the church, you see. “The outer birds all flopped around her . . .”’
John’s face took on a look of unholy glee. ‘I’m going to get him a guitar. No – a harmonica.’
I hid my face against his shoulder. I was laughing. Laughing so hard I cried.
Feisal and I left at dawn Schmidt and John would wait till late, when there were more people around, before they took the passenger ferry. Schmidt was the cutest little sheikh you ever saw. Since he had to do whatever talking might be necessary he had to wear male clothing, and since his accent was a trifle peculiar we had decided he had better be a tourist from some other Arab-speaking country. He was crying, of course. He held out his arms and I gave him a hearty hug.
‘See you in Cairo, Schmidt. Take care of yourself.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Schmidt straightened his shoulders and wiped his eyes. ‘Fear not, Vicky I will protect your lover with – ’
‘Shut up, Schmidt.’ I kissed him and turned to John.
Schmidt’s dye wasn’t as sophisticated as the hair colouring my female friends use; it had left John’s hair flat and dull. His eyes were startingly blue in the tan of his face.
We had not weakened John’s vital forces the night before; in fact I had hardly had a moment alone with him. There had been too much to do, and at Schmidt’s insistence he had taken something to make him sleep.
‘Take care,’ I said.
‘And you.’
We shook hands. It was an absurd thing to do, I suppose. But with Feisal and Schmidt looking on, and the black garments muffling even my face, anything more demonstrative would have been still more absurd. Feisal grinned and shook his head and murmured something in Arabic. Schmidt blinked furiously.
Since the section of the east-coast highway north of Amarna wasn’t finished, we had to take the car ferry acoss to the west bank. (Feisal had turned pale when John asked if there wasn’t a roundabout way, like the one we had taken to reach the site, and John had tactfully dropped the subject.) Once we reached Minya we would cross back to the east bank; there were fewer towns and less traffic on that side, and we could make better time.
I huddled down in the backseat and tried to look senile, while Feisal got out to chat and smoke with the other early birds. The crossing took only five minutes, and nobody approached me.
My thoughts weren’t good company. Had some potential danger been overlooked, some precaution forgotten? John’s temperature had been about normal that morning, as nearly as I could tell without a thermometer, but he was a long way from healthy and some of the deeper cuts weren’t healing the way they should. Since Schmidt was a sheikh, with all that oil money in his pocket, they could at least travel comfortably. John was supposed to be his secretary or companion or something (Schmidt had turned purple with embarrassment and fury when Feisal made a ribald comment about one alternative). John was wearing poor Keith’s one white shirt and best suit, and he would speak only German, at which he was fairly fluent.
But theirs, as I had known, was the most dangerous route. Once they reached the opposite bank they would have to hire a car or a taxi to take them to Minya in order to catch the train, and there was a good chance the police would have the railroad station under surveillance. Given the best possible scenario – if they weren’t caught or delayed or forced to seek an alternative route – they couldn’t hope to reach Cairo before afternoon.
Feisal had estimated it would take us at least six hours, even if none of the above disasters occurred. We were to meet the others at the central railroad station, where the giant statue of Ramses II marks the centre of the square; there was enough traffic, pedestrian and vehicular, to provide reasonable cover. Five p.m. was the hour designated for the first attempt at a rendezvous; we’d try again every two hours until we met, or . . . until something else happened.
If either party reached the city earlier, it was not to wait for the other. John’s instructions on that point had been clear and forceful. ‘The sooner we notify the authorities, the safer everyone will be. Schmidt will get in touch with his friends in the EAO and the Ministry. Vicky – ’
‘I’ll put through a call to Karl Feder. He got me into this, damn him, and he can damn well get me out.’
‘All right. If you can’t reach him or if anything whatsoever goes wrong, head straight for the American Embassy.’
Feisal and I hit our first little problem when we approached the bridge crossing to the east bank. Traffic was backed up for half a mile and as Feisal slowed I heard him cursing quietly and monotonously under his breath. I leaned forward and he interrupted his monologue long enough to mutter, ‘Shut up and cover your face. And pray.’
He called out a question to a man standing in the back of a pickup ahead of us. I didn’t understand the answer (or the question) but I knew what it must have been. Traffic was moving, though very slowly; I could see the uniforms and the rifles up ahead.
I turned myself into a black huddle, trying to look seven inches shorter. In my extremity the only prayer I
