He Shall Thunder in the Sky by Elizabeth Peters Page B

them a real smile instead of that quirk of the lips that is his usual expression of mild amusement or pleasure. He has quite a devastating smile — or so I have been told, by various bemused women. This one isn’t a woman, she’s only twelve, but what female could resist being rescued by a handsome, sun-bronzed, athletic young man? There wasn’t a thing wrong with her ankle. I hope she isn’t going to be trouble.

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    Three

    “M usic,” Ramses remarked, “is one of the most effective tools of the warmonger.”
         This sententious observation was overheard by all at the railing of Shepheard’s terrace, where we stood watching the military band marching past on its way to the bandstand in the Ezbekieh Gardens. Today the musicians had halted in front of the hotel, marking time and (one would suppose) catching their breaths before launching into the next selection. The brilliant crimson-and-white uniforms made a gaudy show, and sunlight struck dazzlingly off the polished brass of trumpets and trombones and tubas.
         I caught the eye of Nefret, who was on Ramses’s other side. Her lips parted, but like myself she was not quick enough to head him off. Leaning on the rail, Ramses continued, in the same carrying voice, “Stirring marches confuse rational thought by appealing directly to the emotions. Plato was quite correct to forbid certain types of music in his ideal society. The Lydian mode —”
         A blast of drums and brasses drowned him out as the band burst into “Rule, Britannia.” The loyal watchers attempted to join in, with only moderate success; as the Reader may know, the verse has a series of rapid arpeggios that are very difficult to render clearly. What the singers lacked in musicality they made up for in enthusiasm; faces glowed with patriotic fervor, eyes shone, and as soprano tremolo and baritone rumble mingled in the stirring words of the chorus: “Britons never, never, never will be slaves!” I felt my own pulse quicken.
         The onlookers formed a cross-section of Anglo-Egyptian society, the ladies in filmy afternoon frocks and huge hats, the gentlemen in uniform or well-cut lounge suits. Down below, waiting for the street to be cleared so they could go about their affairs, were spectators of quite a different sort. Some wore fezzes and European-style suits, others long robes and turbans; but their faces bore similar expressions — sullen, resentful, watching. A conspicuous exception was an individual directly across the street; his well-bred countenance was tanned to a handsome brown and he was half a head taller than those around him. He was not wearing a fez, a turban, or a hat. I waved at him, but he was talking animatedly to a man who stood next to him and did not see me.
         “There is your father at last,” I said to Ramses. “Whom is he conversing with?”
         The band had moved on, and it was now possible to make oneself heard without shouting. Ramses turned, his elbow on the rail. “Where? Oh. That’s Philippides, the head of the political CID.”
         I studied the fellow’s plump, smiling face with new interest. I had not met him, but I had heard a number of unpleasant stories about him. His superior, Harvey Pasha, had made him responsible for rounding up enemy aliens, and it was said he had acquired a small fortune from people he threatened with deportation. The guilty parties paid him to overlook their transgressions and the innocent parties paid him to be left in peace. He terrorized a good part of Cairo, and his shrewish wife terrorized him.
         “Why on earth would your father spend time with a man like that?” I demanded.
         “I’ve no idea,” said Ramses. “Unless he hopes Philippides will use his influence on David’s behalf. Shall we go back to our table? Father will join us when he chooses, I suppose.”
         In point of fact, I was surprised Emerson had condescended to join us at all. He