No Rules (18 page)

“What I realize is that you’re the only one of us who has any shot at recognizing the significance of the vase if you see it. Wally must have been confident that you would, and that’s good enough for me.”

It sounded flattering, but it wasn’t like he had any choice. Neither did she, when she considered what was at stake. Donovan didn’t say it, but she couldn’t forget it: a young man and woman were held captive somewhere nearby, their future depending on her.

Donovan might be good at winging it, but she would feel better if she had just a few guidelines. “What do I do if I find the vase? Offer to buy it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe looking at it will be enough. Or maybe what we need to know is where it came from. I hope you’ll know once you see it, but if you don’t, then stall. Tell him you need time to think about the purchase.”

It wasn’t a great answer, but she knew it was the best she’d get.

“What’s my role?” Avery asked. “I’m not good at sitting around.”

“None of us are,” Kyle grumbled. “I say we scout out some of the shops, see if we think any are likely suspects for dealing in black-market items. It might speed things up.”

“I agree,” Donovan said. “What’s your cover story for poking around for information?”

“It’s probably best to stick close to what we are. We’ll be crass Americans with too much money to spend and a passion for owning what no one else has.”

“But you don’t know anything about the history or the artifacts,” Jess said.

“We won’t need to,” Avery told her. “We just want to know if someone might be willing to deal with us. If they are, we tell you and let you check them out. I just hope something comes of this, or we’re wasting a lot of valuable time while the hostages could be in danger.”

“If anyone thinks of better options, let me know,” Donovan said. “Meanwhile, finding a black-market dealer will be the plan.”

“Then it’s settled.” Mitch wadded up a napkin, stuffed it in a bag with their garbage, and stood. “If we’re set for tomorrow, I have things to finish tonight. I’ll see you all later.”

“Hold up,” Donovan said. “Where are you going?”

“Socializing,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows. “The night is young, and I made a date to meet up with those two other grad students. Turns out there are some hot chicks working in ancient Egyptian archeology, and they were happy to meet a studly American man.” Mitch slipped something small from his backpack into his pocket and flashed a rakish grin. “Don’t wait up.”

Donovan stood. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Mitch came to a stop slowly, and turned. “You don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

The air suddenly stretched tight with tension, and Jess knew she wasn’t the only one who felt it. Avery and Kyle had gone still, watching the exchange.

Mitch did his best to play it down. “Hey, man, it’s only eight o’clock. I’m a naturally gregarious young man with a healthy sex drive. I put in a long day, and my work is done. You can’t expect me to stay home and watch Egyptian sitcoms on TV.”

“That’s exactly what I expect you to do. There are people out there who want to stop us before we stop them. I don’t think they know where we are, but I can’t say for sure that Jess and I weren’t followed home after that attack. If we were, you’re not safe going out alone. And if they spot you and follow you back here, none of us are safe. Your social needs aren’t worth that kind of risk. We stay here, remain unobtrusive, and avoid going out alone.”

Mitch grew quiet, losing his easy smile. “I wasn’t aware there was a rule against mixing business with pleasure.”

“There is when it endangers the mission. There always has been.”

“And that’s your call,” Mitch said, as if double-checking to see if he had it right.

“It’s my call.”

The hairs prickled to attention on Jess’s arms as she waited to see if Mitch would push the issue. Donovan stood with arms folded, solid and unmovable, while Kyle and Avery kept their expressions unreadable. After a long moment, Mitch threw his arms up in a careless gesture. “Fine, whatever you say. I hope there’s something to watch in English besides CNN.” He flopped into a chair and began fiddling with the TV remote, switching it on. Laughter and Arabic words filled the room.

Jess saw Donovan shoot a quick glance at Avery, saw her shrug in return, as if to say she had no idea what Mitch’s problem was, but wasn’t worried about it. She doubted Donovan let it go that easily, not the way his mind seemed to always be working and sorting possibilities, but he said nothing more as he sat down and dug into the leftover hummus. Before long the three of them were talking about the islands Kyle and Avery had explored up and down the Nile.

Jess listened, aware of her role, alert for a phrase that would trigger some memory and make a mental connection to the story Wally had told her. Her mind swirled with a mixture of disjointed images: beaver lodges, wolves, and rabbits mixed with ancient pottery, marshy islands, and feluccas, the Nile’s ubiquitous sailboats. Behind it all, the smell of their food and the low flow of Arabic from the TV flavored every image with the essence of Egypt. She tried to make it all fit together like some crazy sort of jigsaw puzzle, aware of their occasional glances as they checked to see if something sparked her interest.

Nothing fit. Nothing brought the jolt of recognition she’d been waiting for. Two hours later she gave up and went to bed, a mild headache the only reward for her efforts.

She didn’t sleep well. At three a.m. she got up to take something for her headache. Padding to the kitchen without turning on the light, she found a bottle of water and tossed back an Advil. Standing in the shadowed room, she saw Mitch slip soundlessly past on his way to the men’s bedroom. He was fully dressed.

She stood in the dark, deciding what to do. She hadn’t heard the front door open and close, so she couldn’t be sure he’d been out. If he’d kept his assignation with the grad students despite Donovan’s orders, it would cause tension and division in the group. If he’d simply been sleeping in his chair, she would be the one causing tension and division if she brought it up and forced him to defend himself. It was a decision fit for a children’s book—did she tattle, or did she keep what she’d seen to herself?

With no proof he’d been out, and no evidence that any harm had been done, she decided it was best to keep it to herself. She could always mention it later if it seemed significant.

…

Jess stood in the center of the narrow street that comprised the shopping area called
El Souk
staring in awe. Small stores lined either side of the paved street, their wares spilling out of doorways. The sidewalk, had there actually been one, was crowded with forests of hookah pipes, hanging lanterns, and alabaster bowls. Through open doorways she saw more delights—silver and gold jewelry, animal statues, and slabs of stone painted with reproductions of hieroglyphics. Multiple carved stone statues of the jackal-headed god Anubis stood on human legs or reclined like a dog.

And vases. Thousands of them, from one inch high to three and four feet, made of alabaster, stone, and bronze. Some plain, some carved, and some inset with beautiful blue lapis stones. How would she ever find one that stood out among the thousands?

Business was good. Even at eight in the morning, the street swarmed with shoppers, many of them foreigners. She heard Arabic, both American and British-accented English, and German, and that was just in her immediate vicinity. Overhead, latticed canopies and awnings blocked most of the bright Egyptian sun, although the shaded street was already warm.

Not too warm, though. Her
abaya
was loose enough that it didn’t cling and she was comfortable in it. She appreciated the head-to-toe covering that helped her blend in with the local population, although today it also made her stand out. Her black
abaya
and
hijab
were trimmed in intricate pale gold lace, ostentatious in this setting, but marking her as the wealthy woman she was supposed to be. So did her bodyguard in his ankle-length white
thobe
and
kufi
, never far from her side. With one look, merchants would know there was much money to be made here.

Why had Wally come here? It seemed too touristy to house someone who dealt in black-market items. But it was the only place he’d mentioned to Hakim. So they would start with the souk.

If all went well today, she would bargain to buy an ancient vase, one that was illegal to own and could send her straight to prison if she was caught with it. Of everything that had happened in this crazy week, it was perhaps the most surreal moment of her sheltered, safe life.

“I don’t know where to start,” she murmured to Donovan.

“It’s your call, Jess. How we follow the clues is up to you. I only know it has to do with your knowledge of ancient Egypt and the children’s story Wally told you.”

Egyptian pharaohs and
The Beaver Family’s New Home
—she couldn’t think of a less likely combination.

With an eye to the multihandled alabaster vases in the first shop, she held her head high and walked into the shop, Donovan at her heels.

You’re successful and assertive
, she reminded herself, trying to feel the part.
And rich. Most of these items are common reproductions, not what your status-conscious husband wants in his home.
Gliding past rows of vases, pots, and candleholders, she looked but kept her hands folded, a sign of curiosity with no intent to buy. It took only seconds for the owner to approach them.

His gaze touched on her, apparently confused by a Western woman in an
abaya
, then settled on Donovan. “May I help you find something?” he asked.

“You may help me,” she said. Her words elicited a quick, apologetic bow. “I am in the market for a unique gift for my husband.”

“You have come to the right place. We have many unique items.”

“You have many items,” she agreed pleasantly. “I do not see anything unique.”

“Perhaps if I knew what the gentleman likes? His interests or hobbies?”

“My husband is too busy to have hobbies,” she improvised, hating the implied arrogance of her fictitious spouse, but feeling that it fit with the story. Donovan hadn’t said it had to be a
happy
marriage. “However, he has always been fond of the culture of ancient Egypt and might be termed a collector. Perhaps you have something special for the more discriminating buyer?”

“Of course! Come this way.” He led the way to a locked glass case and stood aside to give her a better view. “These items are quite special, all solid twenty-four-karat gold. Made for a man such as your husband, knowledgeable and selective.”

“That’s him, exactly,” she said, amused by the definition. She leaned forward to admire the collection of heavy rings and necklaces. The rings were topped by cartouches, the hieroglyphic symbols that stood for a name. In this case, the names of various gods. They were familiar, items she’d seen in illustrations in her father’s textbooks. “These are replicas of items from the tomb of Tutankhamun, are they not?”

“You are correct,” he said, obviously impressed. “Your husband would like these, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.” She had to admit they stirred her interest for the simple fact that the two missing students had been working in King Tut’s tomb. But she wasn’t sure how that was significant in finding them now. More importantly, these weren’t vases.

“Tutankhamun is the most popular pharaoh among our buyers,” the salesman said. Perhaps belatedly realizing that might not be a good thing when it came to uniqueness, he added, “Most people cannot afford these, though. Many look, but few can buy.”

“Really? What do they cost in U.S. currency?”

“This one in front, twenty thousand dollars.”

The price would be negotiable, of course, probably half of that. She hadn’t discussed with Donovan just how wealthy this husband of hers was, but decided to give his bank account a boost. Black-market items would be far pricier, she was sure. “Perhaps you have something more special?”

The man’s grin was pure delight, brilliant against his dark complexion. “Of course! For the most discriminating buyer,” he said, and gestured like a spokesmodel to the top shelf.

She stood on tiptoe. Under two tiny spotlights, a perfect replica of the burial mask of Tutankhamun gleamed in golden splendor.

“Solid gold,” he said proudly. “Fifty-five thousand. For you, fifty.”

“It’s…” Gorgeous. Impressive. Breathtaking. “Small,” she finished.

“Six inches. Not life-size, of course. That would be prohibitively expensive. For most people. But it would be a magnificent, original item for the true collector of Egyptian art. If the lady is interested, I could arrange for a life-size copy to be made. For a small deposit, of course. It would take only a few weeks, and would be well worth the wait.”

An exact replica of the burial mask of Tutankhamun in twenty-four-karat gold. It was an amazing thought, a museum-worthy piece. She couldn’t believe anyone had ever bought one. But she couldn’t see how it related to the missing students. “It’s beautiful, but I just recalled my husband mentioning a vase,” she said, trying a heavy-handed hint. “I believe it was rare and valuable. Do you have anything like that?”

“A vase? I, uh, no, not exactly. That is, nothing that special. I have some fine alabaster, but it is worth much less than this.”

“Perhaps something older,” she prompted.

“Older? Ancient?” He stiffened, looking suddenly suspicious. “Antiquities are protected. You will not find anyone selling Egyptian antiquities. This is not possible.”

“No, of course not. Obviously, I misunderstood what my husband said.”

“Yes, clearly, but that is okay. Let me show you a vase. I think you will like it.”