‘There’s a good and sufficient practical reason for this bit of romanticism.’ John followed me, towing ‘Sweet’ by his feet. I am as a rule a tenderhearted person
but I did not wince when I heard his head bounce from step to step.
There was no door at the bottom of the stairs. They opened directly into a large windowless room.
No wonder I hadn’t been impressed with Larry’s collection of antiquities. Here was the real collection – his own private collection, hidden away from all eyes but his. The room
was softly lit and carpeted. The air was cool, the temperature and humidity carefully controlled to preserve the exhibits. They stood along the walls and rested in velvet-lined cases. The cases
were open, so he could touch and fondle to his heart’s content.
My eyes moved in dazed disbelief from one masterpiece to another. The lovely little statuette of Tetisheri in the British Museum was a fake, all right. The original was here. So was the
Nefertiti bust – not the painted bust in Berlin, but the other, even more beautiful, that was – was supposed to be – in the Cairo Museum.
Had I been mistaken about Larry’s ultimate intent after all? The contents of this room represented the greatest art theft in history. Getting them out of the museum and into this room was
only half the battle. He was in the process of finishing the job – getting his pieces out of Egypt. Packed in among his household effects, they would pass through customs without a hitch. No
one would be boorish enough to inspect the possessions of the great philanthropist, the man who had just presented Egypt with a multimillion-dollar institute. Wasn’t this enough for
Larry?
No. My original reasoning still held, tenuous and unsupported though it was. The convenient breakdown of the
Queen of the Nile
, the violent death of the new director of the institute,
only a few hours after he had found a sympathetic and notoriously inquisitive listener in me, the precise timing of Larry’s permanent departure from Egypt, his bizarre obsession . . . The
collection I saw before me was a convincing demonstration of that obsession. Almost every object in the room depicted, or had belonged to, a queen or princess.
Many of the cases were empty, their contents already transferred to the wooden packing boxes that spoiled the neatness of the room. But there was lots left. A small head of an Amarna princess, a
diadem of twisted golden wire set with tiny turquoise flowers . . .
John heard me gasp. ‘I wondered if you’d spot that,’ he said, dragging Sweet into a corner and turning one of the empty boxes over on top of him.
The diadem bad been buried with a princess of the Middle Kingdom. I’d found a sketch of it in the workshop of the goldsmith who had been producing fake jewels for the gang in Rome. The
original had been in the Cairo Museum, not the Metropolitan, as I had ignorantly supposed at the time. Obviously it wasn’t there now.
‘You . . .’ I began. ‘You . . . You started this that long ago?’
‘This sort of collection takes a while to build up,’ John said coolly. He joined me and studied the lovely thing with obvious appreciation. Then he shook his head regretfully.
‘Too large and too fragile. This will do the trick just as well, I expect.’
The object he shoved carelessly into his pocket was a pectoral, its complex design dominated by a huge scab of lapis lazuli. It had belonged to Tutankhamon.
John took my limp hand and led me up the stairs.
‘Time?’ he asked, closing the sliding panel.
‘Uh . . . seven-forty.’
‘We may as well get into position, then.’
‘Do you know what Max has planned?’
‘I’ve an inkling, yes. Don’t tell me you haven’t anticipated his intentions. You’re the one who is supposed to be in charge of this rescue.’
I snarled at him. The sight of that incredible collection – a good deal of which had probably come to Larry via John – had made me remember what he was, and the sight of him,
bright-eyed and cheerful and higher than a kite in a March gale, didn’t relieve my apprehensions any. I had had more than a nodding acquaintance with amphetamines and other useful drugs
during my days as a grad student. Sooner or later he would crash, and to judge by the immediate effects it would be a long hard fall. Some of the cuts were still bleeding. The bright splashes of
red looked like flowers against the rusty stains.
He saw me staring at his shirt and misinterpreted my expression. ‘Lend me that peculiar garment you’re wearing.’
‘What for?’
‘For God’s sake, Vicky, pull yourself together and stop asking silly questions. It won’t serve you as a disguise, not with that mop of blond hair shining like a beacon, and you
can probably run faster without it. If, as I hope but dare not expect, we get as far as the corniche, we’ll have to catch a taxi. Even a Luxor cab driver may be reluctant to pick up a fare
who looks as if he’s been in a war.’
‘Especially these days,’ I muttered, stripping off the galabiya.
It didn’t suit him, but at least it covered the blood.
Max had instructed us to be ready at ten minutes to eight. Once he had made his move – whatever it was – we could count on five minutes, maybe less. If he hadn’t acted by ten
after eight we were on our own, and he wished us the best of British luck.
Either he had overestimated the appetites of his associates or my watch was slow. We were crossing the hall, exposed and fully visible from at least four directions, when I heard them leaving
the dining room. I almost ran over John, who was in the lead, in my wild dash towards what could only he described as comparative concealment. The first of them entered the parlour as I ducked
under the stairs.
Before I had time to catch my breath, Max acted. It wasn’t until later that I figured out what he had done; at the time I was too confused to hear anything except a medley of shouts and
expletives, in various languages and various voices. People were running in all directions, some through the French doors onto the terrace, others into the hall. Mary was among the latter. I caught
only a glimpse of her as she darted past. One glimpse was more than enough. That face would have looked appropriate under a head of writhing snakes.
Larry was right behind her. Instead of following her up the stairs he ran towards his study. Interesting, how basic instincts prevail in moments of crisis. Inconvenient, too. I didn’t know
how Mary planned to get through that locked door, but I didn’t underestimate the little dear’s cunning, and when she discovered she’d lost her new toy she’d be back. And so
would Larry, as soon as he had found Sweet. And we were still in the house and the door was probably locked or guarded or both. I began to wonder if my girlish confidence in Max had been
misplaced.
Even as this unkind doubt entered my mind I heard the door open. It must have been Hans who was standing guard outside, for Max called out in German. ‘Hurry! They went that way. After
them!’
He followed Hans. When I started forward, assisted by a shove from John, the hall was empty and the front door stood open.
It was almost too easy. Max had directed the search towards the back of the house, which was where sensible fugitives would go – poorly lighted, thickly landscaped. It was even darker back
there after Max shot out some of the lights. I assumed it was Max, since none of the others would have been so helpful.
Almost too easy, I said. One dedicated soul had stuck to his post. His black uniform blended with the darkness. If he hadn’t moved closer to the gate, drawn by curiosity, we wouldn’t
have seen him in time. The light glinted dully off the rifle barrel.
We froze in a puddle of shadow, knowing the slightest movement would betray our presence. There wasn’t even a skinny shrub between us and the guard.
‘Give me the knife.’ John breathed the words into my ear.
I didn’t ask what he was going to do with it. I couldn’t imagine what he was going to do with it. The guy was ten or fifteen feet away and there was no way of creeping up on him
unobserved. The rifle wasn’t slung over his shoulder, it was in his hands.
John’s arm shot back and his foot hooked around my ankle, sending me sprawling to the ground. A bullet whined through the air over my head; when I got up, which I did with considerable
alacrity, the guard lay face down and unmoving.
‘Is he dead?’ I asked breathlessly.
John straightened, the rifle in his hand. ‘Not unless he passed on from sheer terror. I can’t throw a knife that accurately; it was only meant to distract him. Vicky, would you mind
terribly if we postponed this conversation and started running? They’ll have heard the shot, you know.’
Running barefoot over a hard, broken surface is no fun. The first time I stubbed my toe John tossed the rifle away and took my hand. When I stumbled, which I did every two or three steps, he
yanked at my arm and kept me moving forward in a series of staggering rushes. I stopped listening for sounds of pursuit, I stopped worrying about whether there would be another guard at the street;
I could only think how much my feet hurt.
When we emerged, unchallenged, onto the brightly lit expanse of the corniche I was still preoccupied with my feet. ‘Slow down,’ I panted, trying to free my hand. ‘We made
it.’
‘Not yet.’ He stopped, raising his arm. ‘Praise be to God and Saint Jude, there’s a taxi. I do hope you have some money. I’m getting tired of hitting
people.’
The driver may have been dubious about picking us up but John didn’t give him time to think about it. As the cab pulled away he looked out of the back window and said something under his
breath. I deduced that Saint Jude, the patron of hopeless causes, wasn’t going to get a donation after all. Someone had seen us get into the cab.
After giving the driver directions John didn’t speak again except to demand money, in the tone a bank robber might have employed. I handed over part of Schmidt’s wad and sat nursing
my sore feet. I wondered where we were going, but I didn’t have the energy to inquire. After we passed the Luxor Temple the cab turned away from the river into the streets of the town and
finally came to a stop.
‘Can you walk a little farther?’ John asked, helping me out.
‘What’s the alternative?’ I stood on one foot. It only hurt half as much that way.
‘Crawling a little farther.’
But he put his arm around me and lifted me over the worst spots. The sidewalk was broken and littered. I was too busy watching where I stepped to notice my surroundings; when he turned into a
doorway and knocked, I was only glad we had reached our destination. I was beginning to think the occupant wasn’t home when I heard a rattle of bolts and chains. The door opened a crack. Then
it started to close again.
John inserted his foot. ‘Open, sesame,’ he said.
It was the foot, not the request, that got the point across. The door swung open and there she was. She had drawn a fold of cloth across her face, hiding all her features except beady little
black eyes. But I’d have known her anywhere.
‘Hi, Granny,’ I said. ‘I’m back. Aren’t you glad to see me?’
Feisal wasn’t glad to see us either. After a prolonged and obviously profane monologue in his own lanunage he threw up his hands. ‘In here,’ he snapped,
opening a door. It was Granny’s parlour, elegantly fitted out with shiny upholstered furniture and a television set and a rug covered with bright red roses. Granny let out a wavering howl of
protest. I couldn’t really blame her for not wanting two dusty vagabonds in her nice clean room. However, my bloody footprints blended with the red roses.
I collapsed into the nearest chair and stretched my legs. When he saw my feet, Feisal’s face changed. ‘What happened?’
‘Quite a lot has happened,’ John said.
Granny had slipped out of the room. Now she returned with her veil pinned firmly in place. She was carrying a basin of water, which she set down on the floor beside my chair. There was a dead
fly floating in the basin; I pushed the body callously aside with my toes and slid my feet into the warm water. It felt wonderful. I smiled and nodded at the old lady. She ducked her head and
muttered in Arabic.
‘She is begging your pardon,’ Feisal translated. ‘She thinks you hurt yourself running away from her. She says she didn’t mean to frighten you.’
I leaned over and touched Granny on her bowed shoulder. ‘Shoukran,’ I said. ‘That’s all the Arabic I know, Feisal; tell her I owe her an apology and that I’m very
grateful.’
‘She’s not the only one to whom you owe an apology,’ said John, unmoved by this touching exchange. ‘If you’d stayed here as you were supposed to – ’
‘I did apologize to you. It’s your own fault. If you would stop pushing people around and take the trouble to explain why you’re doing what you’re doing, instead of being
so insufferably condescending, people might – ’
‘Enough!’ Feisal exclaimed. ‘We have not the time to waste on recriminations. You promised you’d get me out of this mess, Johnny – ’
‘Johnny?’ I repeated. ‘Isn’t that sweet. How come you never let me call you Johnny?’
‘I never allow him to do it either. It’s only a crude attempt to soften me by recalling sentimental memories of our school days.’
‘Then I’ll have to go on thinking of you as my blue eyes.’
I thought he’d miss that one, but Schmidt’s tutelage had been more extensive than I had believed. Spontaneous, unguarded laughter transformed his face, and my defensive barriers
developed a few more cracks. I hadn’t often seen that look.
‘I’ll never forget the pleasures we’ve both seen together,’ he assured me.
‘What in God’s name – ’ Feisal began.
‘You don’t want to know. The fact is, old chap, I can’t get you out unless I can extricate myself as well, and the only way I can do that is to turn my coat and join the forces
of law and order. Until our former associates are safely stowed away in a maximum-security prison neither of us is going to be out of this.’ He sighed. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? Forced
by circumstances beyond my control to become an honest man . . .’
‘Don’t let it bother you too much,’ I advised. ‘You can console yourself with the knowledge that it wasn’t morality but self-preservation that drove you to that
painful decision. Clearing your name is going to be something of a tall order, though. How are you planning to go about it?’