He Shall Thunder in the Sky Read Online Free PDF

strident tones. “One of Germany’s finest military strategists. He is, I believe, adviser to the Syrian Army?”
         Pettigrew snorted and Hamilton gave him a hard look, but neither spoke. The response came from the adjoining table. Simmons, the Finance fire-eater, flushed angrily and snapped,
         “They’ll never get an army across the Sinai. It’s a desert, you know; there’s no water.”
         His smirk vanished when Ramses said, humbly but clearly, “Except in the old Roman wells and cisterns. The rains were unusually heavy last season. The wells are overflowing. Do you suppose the Turks don’t know that?”
         “If they didn’t, people like you would tell them.” Simmons stood up and stuck out his chin — what there was of it. “Why they allow rotten traitors in this Club —”
         “I was just trying to be helpful,” Ramses protested. “The lady was asking about the Turks.”
         One of his friends caught the irate member of Pharaoh’s Foot by the arm. “One mustn’t bore the ladies with military talk, Simmons. What do you say we go to the bar?”
         Simmons had already had a few brandies. He glowered at Ramses as his friends led him away; Ramses waited a few minutes before following. He bowed politely to each of the four at the next table, and was magnificently ignored by three of them. Mrs. Fortescue’s response was discreet but unmistakable — a flash of dark eyes and a faint smile.
         The hall was crowded. After ordering a whiskey Ramses retired to a corner near a potted palm and located his quarry. Simmons was such easy prey, it was a shame to take advantage of him, but he did appear to be suitably worked up; he was gesticulating and ranting to a small group that included his friends and a third officer who was even better known to Ramses.
         Whenever he saw his cousin Percy, he was reminded of a story he had read, about a man who had struck an infernal bargain that allowed him to retain his youthful good looks despite a life of vice and crime. Instead, those sins marked the face of the portrait he kept concealed in his library, until it became that of a monster. Percy was average in every way — medium height and build, hair and mustache medium brown, features pleasant if unremarkable. Only a biased observer would have said that his eyes were a little too close together and his lips were too small, girlishly pink and pursed in the heavy frame of his jaw. Ramses would have been the first to admit he was not unbiased. There was no man on earth he hated more than he did Percy.
         Ramses had prepared several provocative speeches, but it wasn’t necessary to employ any of them. His glass was still half full when Simmons detached himself from his friends and strode up to Ramses, squaring his narrow shoulders.
         “A word with you,” he snapped.
         Ramses took out his watch. “I am due at Shepheard’s at half past ten.”
         “It won’t take long,” Simmons said, trying to sneer. “Come outside.”
         “Oh, I see. Very well, if you insist.”
         He hadn’t intended matters to go this far, but there was no way of retreating now.
         Unlike the Gezira Sporting Club, with its polo field and golf course and English-style gardens, the Turf Club was planted unattractively on one of the busiest streets in Cairo, with a Coptic school on one side and a Jewish synagogue on the other. In search of privacy, Ramses proceeded toward the rear of the clubhouse. The night air was cool and sweet and the moon was nearing the full, but there were dark areas, shaded by shrubbery. Ramses headed for one of them. He had not looked back; when he did so, he saw that Simmons’s two friends were with him.
         “How very unsporting,” he said critically. “Or have you two come to cheer Simmons on?”
         “It’s not unsporting to thrash a cowardly cad,” said Simmons.