Mr. Impossible

  “Yet it might seem to others that your brother — a scholar — believed it.”

  Miles certainly had seemed to believe it — perhaps because he was a little boy in some ways. And he had a romantic streak.

  Her romantic streak had shriveled and died years ago. Her marriage had mummified it.

  “No educated person could believe that Vanni Anaz or anyone else knew exactly what was written on that papyrus,” she said. “No one — I repeat — no one can read hieroglyphic writing. But the papyrus did contain symbols associated with royalty. Naturally Miles planned to look for those symbols in Thebes. A number of tombs have been discovered there. More will certainly be discovered. Whether any remain filled with treasure is impossible to know.”

  “Someone believes it,” Mr. Carsington said. “Someone went to a deal of trouble to steal that papyrus.”

  “But what good will it do them?” she said impatiently. “They can’t read it.”

  “My eldest brother Benedict takes an interest in criminal proceedings,” Mr. Carsington said. “He says the average felon is a person of low cunning, not high intelligence.”

  At that moment the absurd idea she’d kept pushing away stomped to the forefront of her brain.

  Miles kidnapped. Papyrus stolen.

  “They believe Miles can read it,” she said. “Good grief. They must be completely illiterate — or desperately gullible — or —”

  “French,” said Mr. Carsington.

  “French?” she said. She gazed at him in plain incomprehension.

  “I hope they’re French,” he said. “My brother Alistair was at Waterloo.”

  “Killed?” she said.

  “No, though they did their best.” He clenched his hands. “He’ll be lame for the rest of his life. I’ve been waiting for a chance to repay the favor.”

  NOT VERY FAR away, in another corner of Cairo, an elegant middle-aged man stood by one of the windows overlooking his house’s courtyard. He did not gaze out of the latticed window but down, reverently, at the object in his hands.

  Jean-Claude Duval had come to Egypt with Napoleon’s army in 1798. Along with the soldiers had come another army — of scientists, scholars, and artists. These were the people responsible for the monumental Description de l’Egypte. To Monsieur Duval, this army of savants was proof of French superiority: unlike the barbaric British, his countrymen sought intellectual enlightenment as well as military conquest.

  He had been in Egypt when his compatriots found the Rosetta Stone and, being intellectually superior, instantly understood its value. He was here in 1801 when the English defeated the French at Alexandria and took the stone away, claiming it was “honorably acquired by fortune of war.”

  He was still here, and he still hated the English for a long list of reasons — including, most recently, their employing the infuriatingly lucky Giovanni Belzoni — but their “stealing” the Rosetta Stone constituted Reasons Number One through Five.

  Duval had spent twenty years working to even the score.

  However, though he had sent to France a great number of fine Egyptian artifacts, he had found nothing approaching the Rosetta Stone’s significance.

  Until now.

  Very cautiously he unrolled the papyrus. Not all the way. Only enough to reassure himself that this was the one. His men had blundered enough already. But it was the one — his chief agent Faruq was no fool — and M. Duval closed the document up again, with the same gentleness, and no small degree of frustration.

  The first time he’d seen it, he’d understood it was above the common run of papyri. Even so, he had not believed the story the merchant Vanni Anaz told to justify the insane price he asked. Only the most ignorant persons would believe it. Everyone else knew that no one could read hieroglyphs or any other form of ancient Egyptian writing; therefore no one could tell what this papyrus said.

  Still, it was a rare specimen, and Duval had determined to get it.

  But before he could arrange to have it stolen, Miles Archdale, one of the world’s foremost language scholars, had gone to Anaz’s shop, listened soberly to the tale of long-hidden treasure and forgotten pharaoh, and paid the horrendous price. Without a murmur.

  One need not be a linguistic genius to comprehend why: Archdale had found the key to deciphering hieroglyphs. He’d kept it a secret because it would lead to great discoveries, and he wanted all the honor and glory.

  He’d seen that this papyrus would lead to the greatest discovery of all, far surpassing anything Belzoni had done and at least equaling the Rosetta Stone in importance: an untouched royal tomb, filled with treasure.

  Duval unrolled the foolscap copy of the papyrus. Its margins held numerous notes in English, Greek, and Latin, along with a number of odd symbols and signs, all of it incomprehensible.

  “But he will explain it to us,” Duval murmured. “Every word of the papyrus. The meaning of every sign.”

  And once Archdale had given up all his secrets, he would die, and no one would ever find his body. The desert kept secrets even better than he. Jackals, vultures, sun, and sand combined to make corpses vanish with amazing speed.

  In the meantime, however, Duval must deal with the infuriating complication. “These must leave Cairo at once,” he said. “But I must stay, for a time at least.”

  The man who’d brought the documents stepped out of the shadows. Though he called himself Faruq, he was Polish. He was educated, one of the more intelligent of the many mercenaries and criminals who found in Egypt a profitable market for their talents.

  Duval wished he’d sent Faruq after Archdale. But how could he have guessed he’d need his top agent to carry out a simple kidnapping?

  The men sent after Archdale failed to take him in Giza. He was too well-guarded. They could not get to him until he crossed the river again and dispersed his escort in Old Cairo. When the men finally did capture him, they beat his servant and left him for dead, without making sure. The servant had somehow crawled back to the sister, who promptly reported the incident to the consulate. By tomorrow, everyone in Cairo would know.

  The local authorities did not worry Duval. They were slow, incompetent, and corrupt.

  The one who worried him was the Englishman known as the Golden Devil.

  He had become Duval’s nemesis in the last year. In addition to being cunning, ruthless, and as hungry for glory for England as Duval was for France, the Golden Devil was slightly insane.

  Duval hated crazy people. They were too unpredictable.

  “The sister will care only to find her brother,” Duval said. “She will be easy to divert. The Golden Devil is the graver problem. You must go ahead, to join the others at Minya as we planned. You must take the papyrus. Whatever else happens, it must not fall into his hands.”

  Though he spoke coolly, Duval was close to weeping with vexation. Everyone dreamt of finding an intact royal tomb. The key was in his hands, in this papyrus. The man who’d finally unlocked the secrets of hieroglyphic writing was Duval’s captive, and barely a day’s journey away.

  But Duval must remain in Cairo to divert suspicion. If he left, his most feared and hated rival would instantly know who was behind the kidnapping and theft. If Duval stayed, he would become merely one of several possible suspects. If he arranged matters well, suspicion would soon shift elsewhere.

  And so M. Duval put the two documents into a battered old dispatch bag that wouldn’t tempt thieves, gave the bag to Faruq, and told him where and when they would next meet.

  RUPERT HAD NOT failed to notice that his comments about the French distracted Mrs. Pembroke from asking the logical question: What will they do to my brother when they find out he can’t read the papyrus?

  It was a question Rupert had rather not answer. He did not count Archdale’s life worth a groat once the villains discovered their error. He doubted the man’s life would be worth much even if he could read the papyrus.

  Still, there was a chance. In Archdale’s place, Rupert would pretend and p
revaricate, putting off the moment of truth as long as possible. Meanwhile, he’d be looking for a way to escape.

  If the villains did discover the truth sooner than was convenient, one might be able to persuade them to demand a ransom. That way at least, he would tell them, they needn’t come away empty-handed.

  Rupert kept these thoughts to himself and concentrated on keeping Mrs. Pembroke’s mind from dwelling unhappily on her brother.

  Fortunately, Rupert Carsington had a natural talent for driving others distracted.

  Because she’d found his renaming the boy Tom so provoking, the first thing Rupert did when they’d mounted their donkeys was christen his Cleopatra.

  “That is not the creature’s name,” said Mrs. Pembroke. She told him the Arabic name.

  “I can’t pronounce it,” Rupert said.

  “You don’t even try,” she said.

  “I don’t understand why these people don’t speak English,” he said. “It’s so much simpler.”

  He could not see her face — she’d put on the evil veil — but he heard her huff of exasperation.

  They set out at a surprisingly fast clip, considering how narrow, congested, and busy the streets were. He thought it was wonderful: the donkeys trotting steadily on their way while carts, horses, and camels came straight at them; the drivers running alongside and ahead, calling out incomprehensibly and waving sticks, trying to clear a path while everyone appeared to ignore them.

  He praised the donkeys to their drivers, congratulated the beasts on particularly narrow escapes, and told the men anecdotes about London hackneys.

  Mrs. Pembroke bore it for as long as she could, which was not very long, before she exploded, “They have no idea what you’re saying!”

  “Well, they’ll never learn, will they, if one doesn’t make an effort,” he said.

  If the streets hadn’t been so noisy, he was sure he’d have heard her teeth grinding.

  She said nothing more, but Rupert was confident she was too preoccupied with his breathtaking stupidity to fret overmuch about her brother.

  Still, Rupert was not a man to leave anything to chance.

  When they reached their destination, he was off his mount even before it had come to a complete halt, and instantly at Mrs. Pembroke’s side.

  He reached up and grasped the lady firmly at the waist.

  “That is not nec —” She broke off as he lifted her up from the elaborate saddle. Instinctively she grasped his shoulders. Smiling into her veiled countenance, Rupert held her in the air at eye level for a moment. Then slowly, slowly, he lowered her to the ground.

  She did not immediately let go of his arms.

  He did not immediately let go of her waist.

  She remained utterly still, looking up at him.

  He couldn’t see her face, but he could hear the hurried in and out of her breath.

  Then she let go and pushed away from him, and turned away in that quick, angry flurry he found so delicious.

  “You are absurd,” she said. “There is no need to show off your strength.”

  “That hardly wanted strength,” he said. “You weigh far less than I’d have thought. It’s the layers and layers of mourning that fooled me.” Not completely, though. There was the walk.

  “I can only hope that you will be as diligent about finding my brother as you are about ascertaining the dimensions of my person,” she said crossly.

  By this time the gatekeeper had appeared. He looked to Rupert, but Mrs. Pembroke got in the way and spoke in impatient Arabic.

  The gate opened, and they entered the courtyard. Another servant appeared and led them into and through the house.

  As they navigated the labyrinth common to Cairo’s better houses, Mrs. Pembroke dropped Rupert a few hints.

  “Do keep your mind on why we are here,” she said in an undertone. “We can’t afford to waste time. Please resist the temptation to give Lord Noxley’s servants nicknames. I doubt he will appreciate it, and I had rather not spend valuable minutes smoothing matters over. And please try not to wander from the subject. Or tell anecdotes. You are not here to entertain anybody. You are here to obtain information. Is that clear?”

  “You’re so forgetful,” he said. “Don’t you remember telling me that you’re the brain and I’m the brawn? Naturally I expect you to do all the talking. And naturally I shall knock heads and toss people out of windows as required. Or did I misunderstand? Did you want me to think, too?”

  Chapter 4

  RUPERT DISLIKED THE VISCOUNT NOXLEY ON sight.

  He was a few inches shorter than Rupert and not so broad across the shoulders and chest, but he was fit enough. His hair and eyes were the tawny color properly belonging to cats. Rupert especially disliked the eyes and their expression when regarding Mrs. Pembroke.

  It was the look a hungry lion cast upon the gazelle selected for dinner.

  Rupert wished she’d left her veil down.

  But she’d thrown it back as soon as she entered the room, and his lordship’s face lighted up, bright as the sun, at the sight.

  And then, as soon as she’d explained what had happened, it was as though a vast thundercloud mounted over the fellow’s head.

  Servants hurried in with the obligatory coffee and sweets and hurried out again at his brusque signal.

  “This is incredible,” Noxley said. “I can scarcely take it in. What fool would leap to such a conclusion, let alone act upon it? But no, it must be a madman. The idea is monstrous. I am sure your brother never gave the smallest indication of a breakthrough of that magnitude. Quite the contrary. He is exceedingly modest about his work. One can scarcely persuade him to speak of it.”

  “I agree that it is bizarre,” she said. “But the two matters must be connected. Or do you believe it is mere coincidence?”

  “No, no, yet I hardly know what to believe.” He shook his head. “It is shocking. I need a moment to collect my thoughts. But I am remiss.” He indicated the coffee tray with its array of elegant silver dishes. “Do take some refreshment, I beg. Mr. Carsington, you may be unfamiliar with the local delicacies.”

  He explained the food while lovingly arranging a plate for Mrs. Pembroke. Less lovingly, he prepared one for Rupert. Once this task was done, Noxley forgot about Rupert and devoted his attention to the lady.

  Rupert let his attention wander to his surroundings. The room was entirely in the local style. Acres of Turkey carpets. Plastered and whitewashed walls. Elaborately carved and painted wooden ceiling with chandelier suspended therefrom. High, latticed windows. Low banquettes running along three sides of the room, heaped with pillows and cushions. Paneled cupboards above the banquettes. Paneled doors almost but not quite facing each other. The one they’d entered was shut; the other stood partly open. The opening was clearly visible from where Rupert sat. A figure moved past, then returned and hovered there. A veiled face peeked round the edge of the door, and a dark gaze met his.

  He pretended to study the design of his coffee cup while covertly watching the woman watching him.

  After a moment, she grew bolder and showed more of herself. There was a great deal to show, the veil being the only modest feature of her attire. It must have been too heavy for her, because she dropped it once or twice.

  Still, Rupert was attuned to the conversation nearby. Mrs. Pembroke was prodding Noxley to remember something Archdale might have said or done to cause someone to leap to conclusions.

  Noxley still seemed bewildered. He described the small dinner party — merely three guests besides Archdale, all English: one artist and two colonels. “I did wonder,” he said, frowning. “Your brother’s reason for going to Giza this time seemed odd to me. But I supposed I must have misunderstood him. Either that or he had some private business there he preferred to keep private.”

  Rupert came to attention. “A woman, do you mean?” he said.

  Mrs. Pembroke stared at him.

  Noxley looked, too, and his expression chilled. “I had not co
nsidered that possibility,” he said.

  “Really?” Rupert said. “It’s the first thing that occurred to me.”

  “Mr. Archdale would never be so unwise as to become entangled with any of the local women,” Lord Noxley said frigidly. “The Muslims have strict notions of propriety, and the consequences of violating them are severe.”

  “Those notions don’t include the dancing girls, I’ve noticed,” said Rupert. “From what I’ve seen —”

  “Mr. Carsington,” Mrs. Pembroke said.

  He gave her an innocently inquiring look.

  “We seem to be straying from the main point,” she said. “That point, which may have eluded you, is the possibility of my brother’s going to Giza for reasons other than those he gave me.”

  “Given your theory about the two incidents, Mrs. Pembroke, I find myself wondering whether Mr. Archdale did, after all, make a discovery of some kind at the pyramids,” his lordship said. “Or perhaps while at Giza he said or did something to arouse curiosity and speculation. The Egyptians are formidable gossips, as you know. They will endlessly debate the most trivial matters, elaborate on every tale they hear, and pass it on to everyone they meet. News travels up and down the Nile with prodigious speed. Then there are the French and their spies watching everything we do, as though we were still at war. They are so jealous of our accomplishments here — and we all know their agents are not the most savory persons.”

  “The French?” Rupert said.

  “They seem to believe that Egypt and all it contains belong exclusively to them,” Noxley said. “They are completely unscrupulous. Bribery, theft, and even violence are nothing to them.”

  “Now here’s something like it,” Rupert said. “Violence. Unsavory persons. And French besides.” He looked at Mrs. Pembroke. “Well, we’d best set out after the scoundrels, hadn’t we? By the way, where exactly is Giza, and what’s so irresistible about it?”

  They both stared at him. Mrs. Pembroke wore a comical look of wondering exasperation.