The objects arranged in niches along two inner walls weren’t Islamic, but ancient Egyptian – a life-sized sandstone head of a pharaoh wearing the double crown, a small painted statue
of a slender girl carrying a basket on her head, a wooden panel from a cosmetic box, with a charming painting of an ibis crouching, or squatting, or whatever ibises do. It was a modest collection
for a man with Larry’s money and taste. They were all good pieces, but none was what I’d have called outstanding.
I didn’t have time to examine them in detail. Larry drew me to the door, where I stood for the next half hour helping him receive his guests. It was probably the high point of my social
life. As I shook hands with the Minister of the Interior and allowed the head of the Egyptian Antiquities Organization to kiss my fingertips I couldn’t help thinking, Wow, wait till Mom hears
about this! Even the best of us (which doesn’t include me) is susceptible to snobbery.
Our buddies from the tour were among the last to arrive. Suzi flashed her teeth at Larry and gave me a huge hug. Her diamonds left dents in my chest. Larry passed her on to a minister of
something. I greeted Sweet and his silent companion, noted that Louisa’s veils were already slipping, and pressed the flesh with the others. Among them was Feisal, resplendent in black tie
and tails. He kissed my hand and winked at me.
‘That’s enough,’ Larry said, when the last of them had gone on. ‘Come and have some champagne. You’ve earned it.’
Almost at once he was captured by some dignitary or other and I retreated to a relatively quiet corner. Sipping my champagne – with caution, since it has an unfortunate effect on me
– I surveyed the room. ‘Our’ crowd had gathered together, except for Suzi, who had found herself a general. Or maybe a colonel, I didn’t know the significance of the
insignia. He had several square acres of ribbons on his chest, and he seemed to be as fascinated by Suzi as she was by him. I spotted Ed, strategically situated by the windows opening onto the
lawn, his eyes ceaselessly scanning the crowd. His tux had been cut by a good tailor, but it bulged in several places. At first I couldn’t locate Schmidt. Then I saw him coming towards me,
accompanied by a youngish man with a broad, open face that inspired a sudden wave of violent homesickness. My home town is full of people with faces like that. He had to be from Minnesota.
He had been born in Duluth, but that didn’t emerge until later in the conversation. Schmidt introduced him as Dr Paul Whitney, the director of Chicago House, the Luxor-based branch of the
Oriental Institute.
‘Skip the titles,’ Paul said, with a broad smile. (Oh, those lovely big teeth! Only inMinnesota . . .) ‘The place is swarming with doctors. Quite an occasion, isn’t
it?’
‘I don’t know what the occasion is,’ I admitted. ‘Larry said something about a surprise, but . . .’
‘It’s not that much of a surprise. We’re a hopeless bunch of gossips here in Luxor. Larry is handing this place over to the Antiquities Organization and endowing it as a
research institute specializing in conservation.’
He took a glass from the tray a waiter had offered. So did I. What the heck, two glasses wouldn’t hurt me.
‘A most kind and generous action,’ said Schmidt. ‘I hope, my young friend Paul, that you are not out of joint in the nose concerning this.’
It took Paul a few seconds to figure that one out. Then he laughed. ‘It’s certainly a more impressive set-up than ours. The Epigraphic Survey began in the twenties, and although
we’ve tried to keep up-to-date, it isn’t easy to get funding. There have been many new technological developments in archaeology, and the equipment costs a bundle. Everything here is
state-of-the-art, from the computer set-up to the laboratories. But no, our noses aren’t out of joint. Quite the contrary. We’re in the conservation business too, recording the
monuments before they are destroyed.’
Schmidt asked a couple of questions about the Temple of Medinet Habu, which had been one of the Survey’s major projects, and in which I had only a vague interest. Actually, to be honest, I
had no interest whatever. Seeing my wandering eye, Paul amiably changed the subject.
‘If you have the time, Vicky, we’d be delighted to have you visit our humble establishment. Our library is one of the best in the country, should you care to use it.’
I expressed my appreciation, adding that between Feisal, Alice, and Perry I had already been stuffed full of information I’d probably forget within two weeks.
‘They’re all first-rate,’ Paul agreed. ‘Only the best for a fancy tour like yours. Oh, that reminds me – there is someone among your crowd I’m anxious to
meet. You both know Mr Tregarth, I’m sure. Can you point him out to me?’
‘We will do better,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘We will present you. He is an old . . . er, hmm. We have become good friends during the voyage. Now where . . . Ah, there he is talking
with the Minister of the Interior.’
If I’d needed anything else to complete my state of demoralization, that last sentence would have done it. The Interior Ministry controls, among other offices, that of State Security.
As we approached, the stout, coffee-coloured gentleman with whom John had been conversing gave him a friendly slap on the back and turned away. John saw us coming. Eyebrow raised in polite
inquiry, he awaited us.
Paul introduced himself; he was too eager to wait for Schmidt. ‘This is indeed a pleasure, Mr Tregarth. The Director wrote to you, but I’m delighted to be able to express our
appreciation in person.’
‘Appreciation,’ said somebody. Me, in fact.
John lowered his eyes modestly but not before I had seen the wicked glint in them.
‘Mr Tregarth was instrumental in restoring to the Oriental Institute an artifact that had been stolen,’ Paul explained. ‘One of his employees bought it, accepting the
fraudulent documentation the seller presented, but when Mr Tregarth saw it he recognized the piece and contacted us.’
‘How much did he take you for?’ I inquired. Two glasses of champagne
had
been too many.
John’s face lengthened into a look of noble suffering, but the glint was still there, and it was still directed at me. Paul said, shocked, ‘Only what he had paid for the piece, which
was minimal. He wouldn’t even accept a finder’s fee.’
‘It was nothing,’ John murmured. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’
I was spared further dramatics by Larry, who called for silence so that he could make his announcement. It was brief and quiet and modest, but bureaucrats can’t do anything simply;
everybody who was anybody had to make a speech. A couple of them embraced Larry, to his evident embarrassment. He concluded by presenting the new director of the new institute, a stocky, bearded
young Swiss named Jean-Luis Mazarin. I had noticed him earlier, chug-a-lugging champagne. He had cause for celebration, all right. Jobs in archaeology are scarce, and this one was a scholar’s
dream. It was a fitting gesture of appreciation, said Larry, for Dr Mazarin’s supervision of the restoration of Tetisheri’s tomb paintings.
Fitting, maybe; but not particularly tactful. I was surprised that the first director wasn’t an Egyptian.
But not as surprised as I had been at Paul’s gushing thanks. What was John up to now? He must have some ulterior motive, he always did. The most obvious explanation was that the Oriental
Institute now owned a very well-made fake. Making them pay for it was a particularly nice touch.
The party was still in full swing when Larry edged up to me and invited me to come see his etchings. They were sketches, actually – the original hand-coloured drawings of
Egyptian sites made back in the 1830s by an artist named David Roberts. I’d seen countless reproductions of them on postcards and notepaper. Even the prints sold for hundreds of dollars at
auction.
The main object of interest, however, was a man, short and slim and straight. He rose from his chair when we entered Larry’s study, and although he was in civilian clothes you could see
the invisible uniform. He cut Larry’s introduction short.
‘First names will suffice,’ he said, with a smile that came nowhere near his intent dark eyes. ‘Call me Achmet.’
‘I’d like to call you a few other names,’ said my champagne-loosened tongue. ‘What the hell’s the idea of leaving me out in the cold without even a woolly
scarf?’
‘Sit down, please,’ said Achmet.
I sat. I imagine most people sat when Achmet told them to.
‘I am sorry you feel that way,’ he went on. ‘We could not anticipate that our arrangements would be . . . disarranged.’
‘Ali was disarranged some too, wasn’t he?’
His lips tightened. ‘He was murdered, yes. But you have nothing more to worry about, Dr Bliss. Your part of the job is finished. Tregarth was the only one you recognized? You have not
identified any of his allies?’
‘Yes and no, in that order,’ I said shortly.
‘Then there is no more for you to do.’ He sat back and spread his hands wide. ‘He will be under observation from now on. Enjoy the remainder of your visit to our country, and
forget what has happened.’
‘Just a damned minute,’ I said, as he got to his feet. ‘I’ve got a few questions of my own.’
‘The less you know the better for you.’
‘Oh, that haunting old refrain! So I’m curious. What if he doesn’t go through with it? He knows me. He knows – ’
‘That he is under suspicion?’ Achmet stroked his neat black moustache. ‘I imagine he does. Your presence on the cruise would be enough to alert him to that.’
‘I told Burckhardt so at the beginning.’
Achmet shrugged. ‘It does not matter. If he proceeds, and we believe he will, there is no way he can avoid being caught.’
‘What’s he after?’ I demanded. ‘I hope it’s occurred to you, as it has to me, that the museum could be a decoy. While you increase security there, he may walk off
with something else.’
‘Certainly it occurred to us.’ Achmet was halfway to the door. Obviously I bored him. He turned for a final word. ‘I told you to forget it, Dr Bliss. Stay away from Tregarth,
from the museum, and most especially from the offices of State Security.’
‘That’s all very well and good. What if he – they – won’t stay away from me?’
Achmet looked exasperated. At least I think that was the import of his frown. His face didn’t appear to be capable of any more affable expression than annoyance. ‘Why should they
bother with you? You have passed on the only information you possessed. Stop prying into matters that no longer concern you and you will be perfectly safe.’
I returned his scowl with interest. ‘You guys were the ones who asked me to pry.’
‘That is true. We are very grateful for your assistance.’
It was the most insincere thank-you I have ever heard, and I include a few I’d wrung out of John.
My memories of the remainder of the evening are somewhat blurred. People kept pressing champagne on me, and by that time I couldn’t think of any reason to refuse. I had a little chat with
Alice, who was looking quite elegant in sequins and chiffon; she had been told the same thing Achmet had told me: you’re off the case, forget the whole thing. I vaguely remember
congratulating Jean-Louis, the new director, but I don’t recall what we talked about or how I got to bed.
I woke with a hangover, of course. Served me right.
The reopening of Tetisheri’s tomb turned out to be another big occasion. I had expected a minister or two, but I hadn’t realized there would be so many reporters or that security
would be so tight. Our little caravan was accompanied by a military escort, and when we reached the site I realized there were no tourists around except us. Everywhere I looked I saw uniformed men
carrying rifles.
Tetisheri’s tomb is not in the Valley of the Kings or the Valley of the Queens. The royals and nobles of her dynasty had been buried on the slopes of a hill called the Dira’
Abu’l-Naga. She was one of the last of her line to be buried in that cemetery; her predecessors had taken the choicer and more accessible sites in the flanks of the hill. The fact that hers
was higher, at the back of a narrow cleft, had probably contributed to its survival.
We climbed the modern stairs that had made access to the tomb easier for the men who had worked on it for over three years. Naturally there were more speeches. Larry handed over a huge key to
the minister, who unlocked the iron gates that had been built over the entrance. Everybody clapped, and Larry led the first party inside. All were government dignitaries. The rest of us commoners
had to cool our heels.
While we were awaiting our turn I chatted with Paul Whitney. Only a few archaeologists had been invited, and according to Paul, plenty of noses were out of joint. ‘We all complain about
the damage done to the tombs by visitors,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘But we except ourselves.’
‘So are you going to decline the invitation?’ I asked.
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘I am.’
I wasn’t even worried about my claustrophobia. Compared to the more elaborate later tombs, this one was small and simple – a single flight of stairs, a short corridor, and two rooms.
Only ten people were allowed in at a time, but the rooms seemed very crowded because we huddled together, elbows tight against our sides. We had been warned not to touch the paintings.
Carefully I edged up to one of the walls and squinted at close range. The ancient artists had covered the rock walls with a layer of plaster before applying the paint, and by the time
Larry’s people got to work, moisture and the formation of salt crystals had separated large sections of plaster from the rock behind it. The loose sections had been carefully removed and
placed onto padded supports; then the rock wall had been cleaned before the plaster was replaced, using modern adhesives that wouldn’t flake or dry or shrink as older types had often done.
Not until that process was complete could the actual restoration begin – cleaning off the accumulated grime of decades, replacing tiny flakes of paint that had fallen to the floor or between
the rock and the facing. The patience and skill required had been extraordinary.