John caught my arm. ‘No, Vicky.’
‘She could be – ’
‘No.’
He touched my cheek. I had forgotten about the cut until his fingertip traced a line from my cheekbone to my jaw. I don’t know who moved first. His arms went around me with bruising
strength, but he was shaking from head to foot and he didn’t resist when I guided his head onto my shoulder.
‘That’s more like it,’ I murmured. ‘John, don’t. You couldn’t have stopped him. He tried every trick in the book to get you to do it for him.’
‘He almost succeeded. God. It was so close. Too close . . .’
‘Kiss me.’
‘What? Oh. Right.’
‘Better now?’ I asked after a while. My voice wasn’t very steady.
Neither was his. ‘Yes, thank you, I am experiencing temporary relief. Suppose we postpone further treatment? I can’t stand this ghastly place much longer.’
‘Is it safe to leave?’
‘Oh, I should think so. Maxie’s a man of his word – when it suits him to keep it.’
‘Are we going to keep ours? To give him an hour?’
‘I didn’t give him my word. However, annoying Max would not be a sensible move on my part. I shan’t turn him in, but there’s no reason why we have to wait out the time
here.’
‘Okay. Wait just a minute.’
The earrings were hard to see against the complex pattern of the rug. I finally found both of them. One of the wires was broken.
‘It can be repaired,’ said John, over my shoulder. ‘Though I shouldn’t think you’d want them now.’
‘Are you kidding? They’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.’
‘How did you know I meant them for you?’
‘She told me. That just made me want them more.’
‘Vindictive little creature, aren’t you?’
‘Vindictive, yes. Little, no.’ The light ran softly along the tiny golden faces. I closed my fingers carefully around them. ‘Over twenty centuries they have probably been in
worse hands. And ears.’
The house was uncannily quiet and as eerie as a mausoleum. Dust covers shrouded most of the furniture and our footsteps echoed in the silence. It was hard for me to believe the place was really
deserted; I kept expecting someone to jump out at us from the shadows huddling in those vast, high-ceilinged rooms. When we reached the door without meeting anyone John let out his breath.
‘There are television crews and newspaper reporters all around the house,’ he said. ‘I would offer to carry you out in a fainting condition, but appealing to the tender mercies
of the press might not be as effective as making a run for it.’
‘We’ll run,’ I said. ‘I won’t even ask where.’
‘That’s an encouraging sign. Stay close.’
He put his arm around me and opened the door.
The limo was big and black and long. As we raced towards it, hotly pursued by assorted newspapers, the door opened. John tripped a reporter and pushed me into a pair of waiting arms.
‘Hi, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘I had a feeling you’d be here.’
When I woke next morning it wasn’t morning, but afternoon. I was lying on my side, facing the window, with my back to John. I could tell by his breathing he was still
asleep, so I lay still, enjoying . . . enjoying the fact that I could hear him breathing and that I was doing the same.
The scenery wasn’t bad, though. Few hotels in the world can boast such view: the Great Pyramid of Giza, golden in the late sunlight, seeming so close it might have been right outside the
bedroom window. Trust Schmidt to come up with the fanciest suite in one of the most elegant hotels in the country, on short notice and during the height of the tourist season.
We hadn’t arrived at Mena House until 4 a.m. Our first stop, at John’s insistence, had been at the hospital. The legal process which would clear Feisal might take some time, and the
least we owed him and his family was to tell them at the earliest possible moment that it was under way.
It required a call to the minister to get us past the guards who were still on duty, and when I saw Feisal’s father I felt so sorry for him I couldn’t hold on to my anger. His mother
was there too; they were sitting side by side on a hard bench in the corridor, and her arm was around his bowed shoulders. They both broke down when Schmidt told them the good news and everybody
except John the imperturbable started crying and hugging one another indiscriminately. Feisal was under deep sedation, but when I kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear I think he heard me.
It had been John’s suggestion that I be allowed to see Feisal. (‘If anything can rouse him it will be a woman.’) When I suggested that so long as we were there he might let a
doctor have a look at him, he glowered and made a pointed remark about other kinds of therapy, but with Schmidt’s assistance I managed to bully him into giving in. There would be time for
another kind of therapy later. And I wanted to make sure he was in fit condition for it.
After that we had to talk with a lot of people who wanted answers to questions we hadn’t figured out how to answer yet, and I had to droop and pretend to feel poorly so they would let us
go. And later . . . He was out cold the moment his head hit the pillow. That’s what you get for being thoughtful.
I changed position, trying to make as little noise as possible. His head was turned away; I could see only one side of his face and the curve of his cheek. I had always admired those cheekbones,
but this one was too tightly shaped, and although his mouth was relaxed and his breathing even, a chill of superstitious terror ran through me when I saw how drawn his face was even in sleep.
The one visible eye opened. It held an expression of mild interest.
‘‘Oh, you’re awake,’ I said brightly.
‘I am now. You were breathing on me.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Are you? I’m not.’ He turned over and gathered me in.
‘The doctor said – ’
‘The subject was not mentioned. I carefully refrained from bringing it up.’
His lips moved from my temple to my ear and were heading south when I said, ‘I don’t think this is such a good idea. You look awful and you’re too thin and – ’
His lips touched mine and I threw caution to the winds and kissed him back so hard he let out a grunt.
‘I knew you didn’t mean it,’ he said complacently. ‘The men of my family are notoriously irresistible to women. Well, not my father; by all accounts, particularly those
of my mother, he was a dull stick in every way. But Grandad was quite a lad in his time, and my great-grandfather has become something of a – ’
‘I don’t want to hear about your great-grandfather. I love you. Did I mention that?’
‘I wouldn’t object to hearing it again.’ But he held me off, and he was no longer smiling. ‘It took long enough to wring it out of you. What were you afraid
of?’
There were too many answers to that question, some obvious, some not. He had to know most of them.
I tried to pass it off. ‘You know me. Independent, bull-headed – ’
‘And afflicted with bad dreams.’
‘Oh, God. Did I . . .’ I had. It was coming back to me. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right. You stopped crying and babbling when I got hold of you. Was it the old nightmare?’
‘Yes. Uh – no. Not that one.’
‘I thought not. You went on like Lady Macbeth.’
‘Blood and . . . roses.’ I remembered now. So that was why I hadn’t woken completely. ‘How embarrassing. My subconscious isn’t awfully original.’
His mouth relaxed. ‘I am willing to overlook a few minor flaws in a woman who is so talented in other areas.’
‘Are you sure you feel up to . . . Damn it, don’t laugh! That wasn’t intentional.’
‘I shoutd hope not. Trite
and
vulgar.’
I was only conscious of the movements of his hands and lips until he started violently and lifted his head. ‘Oh, Christ! Isn’t that – ’
It could only be. Schmidt was humming like a drunken bumblebee. I didn’t recognize the tune. Nobody could have recognized the tune.
‘It’s all right,’ I murmured tenderly. ‘I locked the door.’
‘I can’t.’ He sounded like a nervous virgin. ‘Not with Schmidt out there. I haven’t fully recovered from the time he broke the door down just when I –
’
‘He was labouring under a slight misapprehension.’ I drew his head back to my breast. ‘He won’t break this door down. He’s very romantic’
‘Then he’ll be listening at the keyhole,’ John mumbled. ‘I’ve become very fond of the little imp but I draw the line at providing him with vicarious
entertainment.’
‘Try to rise above it,’ I suggested.
‘That
was
deliberate. Well, perhaps with a little of the proper sort of encouragement . . .’
‘How’s this?’
‘A step in the right direction, certainly. Do go on.’
‘More precious than jewels, more precious than gold,’ I murmured. ‘John, if you don’t stop laughing, Schmidt will think we’re telling jokes and want to come
in.’
I figured we could count on half an hour. It didn’t seem that long, but it was actually forty minutes later when Schmidt raised his voice to a level that could not be ignored, even by me.
Trust Schmidt to select an appropriate air with which to serenade us. This one was about a cold-blooded hoodlum named Pretty Boy Floyd. Folk music, like Schmidt, glamorizes outlaws; according to
the lyrics of the ballad, Pretty Boy was a misunderstood martyr who had given Christmas dinners to families on relief.
‘I’ll head him off,’ I said, removing myself from John and the bed, in that order. ‘Stay there and rest.’
‘I don’t need to rest. I was just getting warmed up. Are you going to put on some clothes or have you decided to reward Schmidt for refraining from kicking the door in?’
‘I don’t have any clothes,’ I said bitterly. ‘Except that filthy, wrinkled, disgusting outfit I have worn day and night for too long. I will not put it on. I’m
going to burn it first chance I get and dance around the bonfire.’
‘Widdershins,’ John suggested. ‘Have a sheet, then. You don’t want to get the old chap too worked up.’
He watched interestedly as I wrapped the sheet around me and tried to figure out how to keep it there. ‘I’m afraid you haven’t got the hang of it. Why don’t you come over
here and let me show you?’
‘Some other time.’
‘Excellent suggestion.’
Schmidt had enjoyed himself with ‘the room service.’ I’ve never seen such a spread – everything from pastries to salads and from coffee to champagne. And, of course,
beer.
‘I did not know whether you would like breakfast or Mittagessen,’ he explained, pulling out a chair. ‘So I ordered both. How is Sir John? How do you feel? Did you have a
pleasant time making – ’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘You look very glamorous.’
I pushed my tangled hair back from my face. ‘I look very terrible. I don’t even have a comb. I need clothes, makeup, a toothbrush – ’
‘There is much to do,’ Schmidt said, around a mouthful of pâté. ‘We must organize ourselves.’
‘What’s happened since last night?’
‘I will wait to tell you until Sir John joins us. Perhaps I should go and – ’
‘No!’ I shoved Schmidt back into his chair. ‘He’ll be out in a minute.’
Knowing Schmidt, he was. He was more kempt than I, though he was wearing the same grubby clothes. After submitting with only a faint grimace to Schmidt’s embrace, he joined us at the
table.
‘Eat, eat,’ Schmidt crooned. ‘And I will tell you the news.’
The
Queen of the Nile
had docked at midnight After the briefest of inspections the authorities had ordered the hold sealed, arrested the entire crew, including my shipmates Sweet and
Bright, and carried a protesting Larry away.
‘Not to prison, though,’ Schmidt said. ‘It is a great embarrassmeut to all concerned. Not only is he an American citizen, but he is a powerful man with many friends. I do not
know what will be done with him.’
‘Nothing,’ John said cynically. ‘At worst he’ll end up in an expensive nursing home till he recovers from his fit of temporary insanity. The fact that it went on for ten
years will be tactfully ignored. What about the others?’
‘That is what we must discuss.’ Schmidt’s round face was unusually serious. ‘For you, my friend, are one of the others and even the dangers you have incurred in order to
redeem your initial – er – error will not save you if the truth comes out. Feisal too must be cleared of blame. We are three intelligent people; I feel certain we can invent a scenario
that will achieve those ends.’
If the situation hadn’t been so serious I would have enjoyed listening to those two concoct a plot. The greatest collaborators of fiction couldn’t have done better; Schmidt’s
inventive imagination had been developed by years of reading sensational fiction, and John had always been the world’s champion liar.
Getting Feisal off the hook was the easiest part. He hadn’t been involved with the restoration of the tomb and he could reasonably claim he had suspected nothing until after
Jean-Louis’s death. His activities thereafter warranted a medal, not a prison sentence. If all four of us told the same story and stuck to it, it would be hard to prove we were lying.
‘What about Larry?’ I asked.
‘It will be his word against ours,’ Schmidt began.
John shook his head. ‘Forget about Blenkiron. His wisest course is to say nothing and admit nothing. There will be a behind-the-scenes deal made, in order to avoid embarrassment all
around. Egypt will get its treasures back and will accept with proper appreciation the gift of the Institute for Archaeological Research, and the blame will be placed on the shoulders of
Max’s crowd – and on mine.’
‘No, no,’ Schmidt said energetically. ‘I have it all worked out, you wlll see.’
Max and the boys had made their getaway. Three men of their descriptions had boarded a plane to Zurich shortly before midnight and were now believed to be somewhere in Europe. A rather large
territory.
‘They will not be caught this time,’ Schmidt said. ‘Which is all to the good. They will say nothing about you, John, and Blenkiron cannot accuse you without admitting things he
will not wish to admit. So far as anyone else knows, you and Vicky met for the first time on the cruise. Neither of you had any reason to doubt Herr Blenkiron’s intentions until I expressed
to you my suspicions – ’