Ghosts of Karnak (16 page)

“Now, here is a lady who has properly acclimatized to a life in the desert.” She looked round to see Amaury standing by her table, smiling down at her. “A far cry from when we first met, just a short time ago.” He took her hand, and kissed it. “You look radiant, Mademoiselle.”

Ginny felt her cheeks flush. She was going to have to find a way to let him down gently. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Indeed. Have you enjoyed your time in Luxor?” He pulled out a chair to join her. They’d arranged to have dinner here together on the terrace, to celebrate her final night. She watched him take a cigarette from a small silver case and light it with a match. Smoke wreathed his head.

“It’s been eye-opening,” she said. “I’ll say that much.”

“Not what you expected, then?” he said.

“So much
more
. I mean I knew there’d be ruins—that’s why I came. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? Like the Egyptian empire never really went away. It permeates everything. You can see the threads of culture stretching right back, all the way to ancient times. I hadn’t expected that.”

“You’re an intelligent woman, Miss Gray. You see things as they really are, and not how the guidebooks would have you believe.” He leaned forward, placing his hand on top of hers. “I shall miss your delightful company very much.”

Ginny swallowed, carefully extracting her hand. “Listen, Jacques. I need to be straightforward with you about something. You’re a delightful man, you really are, and you’ve been such a sport, taking me under your wing, showing me the sights, trusting me with the trip to your dig. I’ll never forget it. Really I won’t. It’s just…”

“You have someone waiting for you back in New York,” he said.

Ginny breathed a short sigh of relief. “Yes. It’s complicated, but that’s about the size of it.” She reached over and touched his arm. “Are you terribly angry with me?”

Amaury smiled. “How could I be? You’ve given me no promises, no cause to hope. I admire you very much,” he said, “and it does not surprise me to hear your heart is already given to another.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Ginny. She sat back in her chair. “Now, what will you have to drink? It’s a lovely evening, and I’ll be damned if we’re wasting it talking about things that will never be.”

Amaury laughed. “Are all women from New York so direct?”

“Only if they know what’s good for them,” said Ginny. She beckoned the waiter over and ordered two gin and tonics.

“Now,” said Amaury, “before you object, I want to give you something, and I want you to accept it without a fuss.”

“Oh, really,” said Ginny. “There’s no need. You’ve done far too much for me already. I shouldn’t like to take advantage.”

Amaury rolled his eyes. “I like that you are not very good at doing what you are told,” he said.

Ginny laughed. She could see he was going to be offended if she refused. “Oh, all right then, what is it?”

Amaury took a little leather purse from his pocket and placed it on the table between them. It was small, and decorated with an amateurish painting of the Eye of Horus. She’d seen hundreds like it at the tourist markets all over the city. She stifled a frown. All that fuss over something that wouldn’t even fetch a couple of cents back home?

“It’s… well… it’s…” she stammered, unsure what to say.

“Well open it!” said Amaury.

She picked it up, cursing herself for being so foolish. There was something small inside, and so she undid the leather strap and tipped it out into her palm. It was a small golden ring, its face inlaid with lapis lazuli and marked with a symbol that she recognized from the site of the dig—nested triangles, squares, and circles. It was beautiful, and she had the sense that it was very, very old.

“I can’t accept this,” she said, wide-eyed. “It’s an antique. It belongs in a museum.”

Amaury grinned. “Do you like it?”

“Very much.”

“Then it belongs on the finger of someone who might treasure it,” he said. “It is a ring, and rings are made to be worn, not to sit in display cases in dusty museums in the far corners of the world.” He shrugged. “Besides, Landsworth has already filled his pockets until they overflow. His greed seems to know no bounds. It is obscene to watch. His exhibition will be the talk of the world. Let him show off all the trinkets he does not understand, while you take something of meaning from all our efforts.”

“Where’s it from?”

“The tomb of Sekhmet, where we ventured together into the dark. Let it be a memento of your trip.”

“Well, if you’re certain?” said Ginny.

He nodded.

“Then I shall treasure it,” she said.

She moved to slip it back into the leather purse, and he sat forward, holding out his hand for her to stop. “Oh no,” he said, “please, try it on. I should like to see you wear it.”

“Very well,” said Ginny. She slid it carefully onto the little finger of her right hand. It was snug, and she held it up so he could admire it.

“Perfect,” he said. “Just perfect.”

“I shall have to treat it with great care,” she said. “Tell me, what does the symbol mean? I saw it at the site, too, in the large courtyard area. It doesn’t look terribly Egyptian.”

The waiter had arrived with their drinks, and she lowered her hand, a little self-conscious. Amaury waited until he had deposited their drinks and left.

“It is a symbol that is very dear to me,” he said, “a reference to the interconnectivity of all things. When Thoth calculated the heavens, he observed that the heavens resembled the domain of men. What occurred above, amongst the gods, was mirrored below. Thoth conspired for things to remain that way, for the benefit of mankind. If the lands of men might always resemble the realm of the gods, then mankind might always be happy, and the gods always in control.” Amaury took a swig of his drink.

“Over the years, however, mankind disrupted those plans, as the great pharaohs believed themselves worthy of divinity. Mankind forgot its place, and the realms of gods and men drifted apart. Over thousands of years, mankind forgot about the gods, and the gods fell into a long and restful slumber. There they wait, dreaming of a time when they might be awoken in order to realign the heavens and the realm of men.”

“So, when you spoke of waking the gods, it was this you were referring to?” said Ginny.

Amaury waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, no, merely that in excavating the ancient monuments, we might once again show them to the world. It is a good story though, is it not?”

“It’s marvelous,” said Ginny. “Thank you, Amaury.” She sipped at her gin, enjoying the cool, crisp taste of it on her palate. “I shall write to you from the
Centurion
, and again when I reach New York.”

“The
Centurion
?” said Amaury, surprised.

“Yes, I booked my ticket this morning. I leave from Cairo in a few days.”

“Then you shall have a traveling companion, for that is the vessel Landsworth has arranged to transport the antiquities to New York.”

Ginny tried not to look too dismayed. “Wonderful,” she said, painting on a smile.

Amaury chuckled. “Come now, Miss Gray. There is no need to be coy. I see that Mr. Landsworth has not made the best impression. It is a particular skill of his to alienate people. Let me guess—he issued you with a ‘warning’ in the desert, telling you to keep away, and that you should never have agreed to come along to the dig?”

Ginny frowned. “Well, something like that,” she said.

“Ah,” said Amaury. “He told you I was not to be trusted.”

Ginny swallowed. She was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. “I’d prefer to put it all behind me,” she said. “Let’s just say that I shall not be sharing a table with him during our crossing, and leave it at that.”

“Very well,” said Amaury, amused. “But I fear for Mr. Landsworth’s safety if he inadvertently crosses your path.”

Ginny couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, perhaps you should offer
him
a warning of his own.”

“I might just do that,” he said, raising his glass. “Come now, let us toast your final night in Luxor. Here’s to you, and whatever the future might bring.”

“To the future,” said Ginny, clinking her glass against his. She leaned back, looking out across the desert at the distant stars. Only this time, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were looking back.

“You know, I’m starting to get the impression you can’t keep away, Inspector Donovan. And here’s me thinking you had a distaste for corpses.”

“I do,” growled Donovan, chewing on the end of his unlit cigarette. He was back in Vettel’s laboratory, staring at the milky-white corpse of an overweight mobster. This one had been in the morgue for well over a week, chilling in one of the storage cabinets, and the flesh had taken on a pale, sickly hue. The man was going blue around the lips, and his eyelids were shut tight and rimed with frost. Donovan could see the little ice crystals, resting on the tips of his eyelashes. There was a six-inch gash in his throat, yawning open to expose the muscles and arteries inside.

“I have to hand it to you,” she said. “You hide it well.”

“Very droll,” said Donovan. He bit down too hard on the cigarette and it split, flooding his mouth with dry tobacco. He plucked it out and tossed it in the trash, trying to hide his distaste.

“Whoever tipped you off was really on to something, Felix. Take a look at this.” She crossed to the corpse and lifted the man’s arm, presenting his wrist.

Donovan frowned.

“Come on, he won’t bite,” said Vettel. “But I might if you don’t get over here and let me show off a bit. I’ve been putting in the hours to help you out with this one.”

“I know, I know,” said Donovan. “And I appreciate it. I really do.” He went to join her.

“Here,” she said. She pointed to a small, puckered mark in the flesh.

“What is it? Looks like he was wounded in the fight. It’s just a ragged tear.”

“Look again,” said Vettel. “In light of Autumn Allen.”

With a sigh, Donovan leaned closer, peering at the wound. She was right—the scabrous line traced the faint shape of an ibis. It was simple, and the perpetrator clearly hadn’t taken care in the same way they had with Autumn Allen, but there was no doubt—it was derived from a similar ancient design. “An ibis,” he said. “I see it.”

“Indeed. And do you remember who this man was?”

“Howard Fuseli, a mobster working for the Reaper,” said Donovan. “They were marking the corpse, making sure the Reaper knew who was responsible. Good God, I wonder how far back this goes.”

“I can give you some idea,” said Vettel. “But first, the throat. Look at the gash.”

“I’d rather not.”

She ignored him, running her index finger back and forth, just above the wound. “He was slashed from left to right by someone employing a large, curved blade. It was sharp, but see how it’s basically ripped his larynx out? It’s a particularly brutal way to go. Judging by the lack of other wounds on the body, I’d say this was definitely an execution, rather than a brawl. Someone probably held his hands behind his back, maybe pulled his head back a little, while another slashed him once across the throat.”

“At least it was over quickly,” said Donovan, “which is more than he deserved.”

Vettel drew a cotton sheet over the corpse. “This was the only one I still had in storage, but I’ve got scans of the others.”

“Others, as in plural?” said Donovan.

“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.” She walked over to her holograph terminal and flicked it on. The lamp emitted its familiar hum as it warmed.

“No Sergeant Mullins today?” said Vettel. “I thought you two were inseparable these days.”

Donovan decided not to take the bait. “I told him to wait in the car.”

“Saving him from the corpses?”

“Saving him from
you
. I think he finds you a little intimidating.”

“Me?” said Vettel. “But I’m a pussycat!”

“You’re a damn good doctor and you don’t take any shit,” said Donovan. “That’s what he’s not used to. None of them are. When you’ve been in this job as long as I have, you’ve seen plenty of people come and go. We’ve had our fair share of surgeons, and you’re the first who’s ever really given a damn. That counts for a lot in my book, but it scares the hell out of the lads at the precinct. They don’t know how to act around you. They’re used to tossing the police surgeon a body and getting a perfunctory report. You, on the other hand, ask a lot of questions. Difficult questions. Some of them think you’re making their job harder, that you’re just breaking their balls because you can. They haven’t cottoned on yet that it’s actually because you’re good at your job.”

Vettel smiled. “I knew I liked you for a reason,” she said. The holograph blinked on behind her, and she turned and inserted a series of glass plates from a stack she’d pre-prepared on the counter.

“Right, here we go,” she said, as the image of a body shimmered to life in the mirrored cavity. “Joey Malone. Killed three weeks ago in what we all assumed was a mob battle.”

With the Reaper going around assuming control of most of the smaller outfits, there’d been a lot of this over the course of the last few months. No one was talking, of course, and it was almost impossible to prosecute, even when the police knew who was responsible. Consequently, a lot of the deaths were written off, chalked up as statistics and forgotten about. It was wrong, of course, they all knew that, but small-time gangsters taking each other off the streets had never seemed like a priority.

“But it wasn’t?” said Donovan.

“I’m beginning to think not,” said Vettel. “At least, not in the way we thought. Look at the gash in his throat.”

Donovan leaned closer. The hologram was startlingly realistic, and the kid’s face—he couldn’t have been more than eighteen years old—was set in a horrible, rictus snarl. There was no denying that the slash in his throat was a close match to the one that had put an end to Fuseli, however.

“And a mark on the wrist?”

“Not in this instance,” said Vettel. “The killer must have been in too much of a hurry, but here’s another.” She hurriedly switched out the slides, and a moment or two later, Donovan was looking at a third corpse. This was an older man, around forty years, who he recognized as Albert Harness, a well-known pickpocket and snitch. Once again, his throat had been cut in exactly the same way.