“Yes,” John said warily.
“You will please to come with us.”
S
chmidt and I were included in the invitation. The two men were perfectly courteous, they just ignored our questions and smiled politely when we protested. Schmidt’s blood was up. He clenched his fists and began muttering about truth, freedom, and justice.
“Never mind, Schmidt,” John said.
“You will not resist?” Schmidt demanded fiercely.
“Refuse a courteous invitation?” John inquired, eyebrow lifting.
“But if they are enemies, like the man in Rome—”
“I think not. There are only two of them and they don’t appear to be armed. If this were an attempted kidnapping they wouldn’t have selected a place where there are so many people about, including a number of policemen. The air of confidence displayed by these affable gentlemen implies that they are acting in an official capacity.”
“Oh, damn,” I said. “Are we being arrested?”
“Taken in for questioning,” John corrected.
Our escorts raised no objection when John collected a few porters to bring our luggage. Still smiling those bland smiles, they led the way to a long black limo. When one of them opened the door I saw Feisal inside. He was just sitting there, hunched over and looking like a scolded puppy. There was no one else in the car except the driver.
Schmidt, John, and I joined Feisal in the tonneau. One of the men got in front with the driver. The other took the seat facing us.
“I presume you know no more about this than we,” John said.
Feisal shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I couldn’t warn you.”
“We have no reason to fear,” Schmidt said loudly. “We have done nothing wrong.”
Feisal’s expression brought home to me, more clearly than the articles I had read or the stories I had heard, that we were not in a country where a man was presumed innocent until proven guilty.
But we were foreign nationals, I told myself, citizens of countries considered to be allies of Egypt. Foreigners might be arrested and accused of espionage in other parts of the Middle East. Surely not here. Not when the U.S. kept pouring in all that lovely money.
Where that might leave Feisal I didn’t like to think.
Schmidt asked a few questions of our guard, getting only shrugs and smiles in return. Finally John said softly, “Don’t waste your breath, Schmidt. I don’t think they understand much English.”
“Then we can speak freely,” Schmidt exclaimed. “Make plans.”
“This would seem to be an occasion for improvisation,” John said. He added pointedly, “And for taciturnity.”
The long drive took us back over the skyway into central Cairo. The cacophony of traffic reached us even through the closed windows. We were a little cramped in the backseat, thanks to Schmidt’s ample sitting area, but the car was very posh, with gray velvet upholstery and an air-conditioning system that ruffled my hair. Schmidt kept quiet, although he looked as if he were about to burst with questions. I occupied myself by studying the man who faced me. His hair was graying and his suit was a little shabby. If he was a member of the secret police, or whatever they might be called, he didn’t look very dangerous. Catching my eye, he produced another of those meaningless smiles and looked away.
After a while I began to see a familiar sight or two and I realized we were headed toward the river. We came out on the corniche and joined the line of traffic crossing one of the bridges. Straight ahead, the Cairo Tower raised a pointing finger toward the sky.
Feisal sat up straight. His mouth was set in a tight line.
“What is it?” I whispered.
Feisal shook his head. Oh my God, I thought. He knows where we’re headed. One of those horrible prisons, where captives are tortured in secret dungeons.
Feisal ignored my pokes and whispers. I tried to catch John’s eye and failed. The car finally pulled up to the curb. Feisal had the door open before the vehicle had come to a complete stop; he flung himself out, staggered, caught himself, and went racing across a paved plaza and into a building that looked as if it housed offices. Bemused and confused, I let John shove me out. Neither of the guards tried to stop us; we pelted after Feisal and found him standing in front of an elevator jabbing at the buttons. Schmidt was too out of breath to speak, but I managed to croak out another “What?” I got no answer. The lift doors opened and we piled in. When the lift stopped on an upper floor, I saw the sign on the door across the way. The truth began to dawn on me. I had caught a glimpse of letters like those on the facade of the building before John hustled me inside.
The room into which the door opened was just an ordinary office, no bars, no Iron Maiden, only desks with secretarial-looking people seated behind them. Feisal, still in the lead, barreled across the room toward an inner door. He moved so fast, the secretaries hadn’t a prayer of stopping him.
The inner office was imposing, with big windows and a picture of Mubarak on the wall, and a large table surrounded by sofas and chairs. At one end of the room was a huge desk with a man seated behind it. Feisal launched himself across the desk, sending papers flying like huge snowflakes, and grabbed the man by the throat.
People ran in all directions, in and out of the room, yelling and screaming. A few valiant souls tried to get hold of Feisal, but he
shook them off. He was yelling louder than anyone. I caught only the word “son” repeated several times and deduced that Feisal was calling his victim bad names. I glanced at John, who stood watching interestedly. Then I sat down on one of the nice comfortable chairs by the table.
The man Feisal was trying to choke was none other than the secretary general. After a few moments he grabbed Feisal’s wrists and broke his hold with a quick, brutal twist.
“Now that you’ve got that out of your system, why don’t you sit down so we can talk sensibly?” he inquired.
He wasn’t even out of breath. Feisal lay sprawled across the desk amid a welter of papers, file folders, books, pamphlets, pens, bottles of water, scarabs, several small boxes (brass, wood adorned with mother-of-pearl and turquoise) containing various objects, and a stuffed camel. He was breathing hard, but I decided it was from rage more than from exertion.
Feisal called the secretary general a son of something else. Khifaya grinned. Close up, he was even better-looking than in his photographs. He was wearing a white silk shirt open halfway down his tanned chest and a modest display of jewelry—a heavy gold wristwatch, several rings, and a gold chain round his neck.
“Good morning, Dr. Bliss.” The smile hit like a searchlight. I blinked. “Herr Professor Schmidt, Mr. Tregarth. Do make yourselves comfortable. Tea? Coffee?”
He snapped his fingers. A head peered round the door frame, followed shortly thereafter by the accompanying body, that of a young woman wearing a head scarf and a well-cut pantsuit. The secretary general looked inquiringly at me.
“Coffee,” I squeaked. “Thank you, Dr. Khifaya.”
“Please—call me Ashraf. We are going to be good friends, I hope.”
I hoped so too.
Feisal slid off the desk, onto his feet. “You—”
“You are about to repeat yourself, I believe,” said my new friend. He picked up a vase containing a single red rosebud. Water had spilled across a corner of the desk and was dripping onto the floor. Ashraf shook his head sadly and handed the vase to another young woman, who began mopping up the water. “Really, Feisal, there was no need to make such a mess.”
Hands on his hips, feet braced, Feisal fairly vibrated with indignation. “That was a filthy, low-down trick. We thought we were under arrest!”
“Oh dear. Did you really? Dr. Bliss, please accept my apologies if I inadvertently alarmed you. I assumed Feisal would recognize my car.”
“How the hell was I supposed to recognize your car?” Feisal demanded. “I didn’t know you rated a limo these days.”
“Are you two by any chance related?” John asked.
“Cousins,” Feisal muttered, in the same tone in which he would have admitted being kin to a serial killer.
“You never told me that,” I said.
“Second cousins.”
“Once removed,” Ashraf said, with another of those incandescent grins. “He’s jealous of my superior rank and resents the fact that my branch of the family is wealthier than his.”
Busy hands, most of them female, had collected the scattered objects and supplied trays with coffee and plates of little cakes. Another snap of the fingers sent them scurrying out of the room. Ashraf rose and gestured toward the table.
“Let’s start again, shall we? I greatly enjoyed seeing you all on television. Thank you for supporting our cause with such panache.”
“I made the sign,” Schmidt said, reaching for a sugared cake.
“So I assumed. I have fond memories of our conversation in Turin a few years ago, before I assumed my present position. Did you speak with Dr. Perlmutter?”
“Yes. I am sorry to say he remains obdurate.” Schmidt took a bite of the cake. He added thickly, “But we will persevere.”
“Indeed. Feisal, you aren’t drinking your coffee. Would you prefer tea?”
“I would prefer an apology,” Feisal growled. “Or at the very least, an explanation.”
“I do apologize for being somewhat peremptory in my invitation, but really, you left me no choice. I have been trying for two days to get in touch with you, but you move round so fast! I didn’t learn until this morning that you were in Cairo, and when I telephoned the hotel you had already left for the airport.”
The man did have a way with him. Charm oozed from every tooth and every inch of skin. Even Feisal had relaxed, though he still looked wary.
“Why did you want to see us?” I asked.
“Not you, Dr. Bliss—although seeing you is a pleasure. Alas, business must take precedence over pleasure, and I have imperative reasons for wishing to speak with Mr. Tregarth.”
I hid my face behind a paper napkin and surreptitiously removed coffee grounds from my teeth. Turkish, aka Egyptian, coffee is half grounds; usually I know when to stop drinking, but Ashraf’s sudden attack of candor had caught me off guard. He had been playing games with our nerves and thoroughly enjoying it. John took a careful sip, put his cup down, and met Ashraf’s gaze eyeball to eyeball.
“Please feel free to use my first name,” John said. “We are going to be good friends, I hope.”
Schmidt choked on a bite of cake. Ashraf let out a little sigh of satisfaction.
“I believe I am going to enjoy dealing with you, Mr. Tregarth—John. That is my hope as well. Are you wondering, perhaps, why I was so anxious to get in touch with you?”
“I feel certain you are about to tell me,” John said.
“And I feel certain you—all of you—are about to tell me various things.”
The two of them watched each other like duelists, eyes locked. I remembered a quotation: “Don’t bother watching his eyes, watch the bastard’s hands.” Good advice under some circumstances, but irrelevant here. Ashraf’s hands, lightly clasped, neatly manicured, were empty. He was good, but he was no match for a man who had spent most of his life avoiding dangerous slips of the tongue.
Feisal wasn’t as experienced. He started squirming. His forehead was beaded with perspiration. His lips parted. Schmidt, cozily close to Feisal on the sofa, shifted position and cleared his throat loudly.
“Yes, Feisal?” Ashraf asked.
“Nothing.”
Ashraf’s eyes moved from him to Schmidt, and then to me. So did John’s. If I had needed any incentive to keep my big mouth shut, that cold blue stare would have provided it, but I felt as if my brain were about to burst with questions. He knew. The SCA must have received a message, ransom note, threat, whatever, from the thieves. But in that case wouldn’t Ashraf have dashed off to Luxor to check on Tut? And wouldn’t Feisal have told us if he had? I picked up my cup and swallowed a spoonful of coffee grounds.
Ashraf chuckled. “It appears we have reached a stalemate. Very well; it is my move.”
He got up and went to a safe that stood against the wall and punched in a combination. It contained several open compartments
filled with ledgers and files, plus a closed compartment, another, internal, safe. Ashraf took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Inside was a single object—a small box wrapped in heavy brown paper, which Ashraf removed. Returning to his seat, he put the box on the table.
“This was delivered to my flat day before yesterday.”
He took his time, carefully folding back the paper, slowly lifting the lid of the cardboard box it enclosed. Inside was another box, this one of wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. You could find boxes like that in every shop in the suk. It had a rather flimsy brass catch, which Ashraf unfastened. Ashraf moved like a slug, in slow motion, watching John, whose expression of courteous patience didn’t change. The hinged lid was lifted, the layer of cotton wool inside was removed. And there it was.
A mummy’s hand.
I
had only seen mummies and parts of same in movies. We have a few so-called relics in the museum, purchased because of the artistic merits of the reliquaries, which are usually made of precious metals, bejeweled and beautifully carved. I had never closely examined the contents. Seen close up, this fragment of humanity was something of a shock to the system—dried and brown, the fingers slightly flexed. Some of the skin was gone, exposing the finger bones. It could have been a well-made fake, a prop for a movie. But Feisal sprang to his feet and reached for the box.
“Carefully, carefully,” Ashraf said. “Don’t damage it.”
“Him,” Feisal whispered. He gazed yearningly at the horrible thing.
Ashraf leaned back, his lips curved in a smile of satisfaction. Thanks to that single pronoun, the cat was doing its damnedest to squirm out of the bag.
“Disgusting,” I said, in a feeble attempt to fend off the inevitable.
“Who would send a thing like that? Some sicko, or maybe a publicist for a forthcoming horror film? I suppose there are people who—”
“Don’t waste your breath, Vicky,” John said. “He’s playing games. Feisal, are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. I would know him anywhere.” Feisal’s voice rose in a cry of distress. “Again he is being dismembered. What part will be next?”
Ashraf retrieved the box and began replacing the wrappings.
“Let us stop playing games, then,” he said briskly. “I will place my cards on the table and I expect you to reciprocate. When I first saw this, my reaction was like yours, Vicky. We do get such bizarre communications from time to time; Egypt breeds strange fantasies in certain minds. Then I saw the message that had been enclosed.”
He reached in the pocket of his shirt and took out a folded paper, which he handed to John. John read it aloud.
“‘If you want the rest of him, it will cost you three million American dollars. You have ten days to collect the money. We will be in touch.’”
“It was not difficult,” Ashraf resumed, “to deduce whose hand this might be. No anonymous mummy would be worth so much, and only one of the great kings rested in his tomb, outside the protection afforded by the Royal Mummies room of the museum. I went to my reference books. There are innumerable photographs, many by Harry Burton, who worked with Carter. They had dismembered the mummy in order to remove the jewelry on it. The head, hands, arms, feet, and legs had been detached, the lower legs separated from the upper, the lower arms from the upper arms, and the torso bisected. In an attempt to conceal their sacrilege, the excavators had arranged the body on a sand tray and reattached the feet
and hands with resin. You can see traces of the resin at the wrist of this hand.”
The cat was prowling around the room lashing its tail. Feisal knew it, but I think he was still clinging to the forlorn hope that Ashraf hadn’t discovered his failure to report the theft. The hope didn’t last long.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Feisal?” Ashraf asked gently.
“I—um—”
“Did you think I would hold you accountable?” He spoke like a father to an erring son.
Feisal could only be jerked around so much. He sat up straight and glared at his cousin. “Damn right I did. I’ve been trying ever since I found out to get it—him—back. I didn’t know until after it happened, they picked a day when I was in Aswan—”
“I know. I spoke to Ali.”
“Poor devil,” Feisal said feelingly. “It wasn’t his fault either, Ashraf. What have you done to him?”
Ashraf’s big brown eyes widened. “Promised him immunity and promotion, of course. Good Lord, Feisal, sometimes your naïveté astonishes me. The last thing we want is for Ali to break down and babble. Enough of this. I have an outer office full of people and most of them are wondering why I am spending so much time alone with you lot.”
He looked at each of us in turn, enjoying Schmidt’s desperate attempt to keep his face noncommittal, and Feisal’s quickened breathing. I was biting my lip to keep from yelling at him. Finally he said, “I want to hire you, Mr. Tregarth, to retrieve Tutankhamon.”
I had braced myself for an accusation, not an offer. So had Schmidt; he let his breath out in an explosive whoosh. John crossed his legs and smiled.
“Why me?” he asked, his big blue eyes widening.
“Because you and your friends here saved the treasure of Tetisheri for us.”
“Ah,” said John.
“The details of that extraordinary business are known only to a few, of which I am one. You received no reward except the thanks of a grateful nation. This time the reward will be worthy of the deed.”
“How much?” John asked.
Raised eyebrows indicated Ashraf’s disapproval of such crudity. “I am prepared to negotiate. But not here and now. Do you accept?”
“I must consult my associates,” John said. “But not here and now. If you and I can come to an agreement, we will proceed to Luxor and begin our investigation.”
A timid tap on the door prevented what would probably have been another cute remark from Ashraf and a violent assault from me, on him or John. I wanted to get the hell out of there. Ashraf shouted, “What do you want? I told you to hold my calls.” The door opened a crack; taking its cue from him, the voice spoke English.
“Yes, sir, but the minister is on the telephone and the director is here for your appointment, and—”
“We mustn’t keep you,” John said, rising to his feet.
“When may I expect to hear from you?” Ashraf asked. His smile indicated that although he might have lost this round, he was looking forward to the next one.
“Tomorrow.”
“Why not tonight? We have no time to waste.”
It was a good point, and John didn’t really have a good answer. “It may take a while to get in touch with some of my sources.”
“Sources,” Ashraf repeated thoughtfully.
The ambiguous, suggestive word hung in the air like a hooked
fish. John was smart enough not to elaborate, but I noticed he was beginning to perspire.
“Tonight, then,” he said, rising. “I’ll ring you.”
O
ur departure rather resembled the mad dash of freed prisoners. When we emerged from the building there was the limo waiting at the curb, next to a sign that said “No parking under any circumstances.”
Feisal swore and turned as if he were ready to run. John grabbed his arm.
“Your nerves are in frightful shape, Feisal. It’s all right. And if it isn’t all right, there is not a damned thing we can do about it.”
There was only one man in the limo—the driver. Seeing us, he jumped out and opened the back door.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Back to the hotel, I suppose.” Despite his advice to Feisal, John sounded a trifle rattled. “Do you think we can get our rooms back?”
“Yes, yes.” Schmidt whipped out his cell. “I will arrange it. Get in, Vicky.”
The vehicle forced its way into the stream of traffic. After a few fraught moments I said, “I want a drink.”
“I have vodka and Scotch in my suitcase,” Schmidt said.
“And beer.”
“
Aber natürlich.
But we can wait until we reach the hotel. It is all arranged.”
“Aber natürlich,”
Feisal echoed. “How the hell do you do it, Schmidt? Never mind, I don’t really care how, so long as you do it.
Alhamdullilah!
Much as I hate to admit it, Johnny, you pulled that off rather neatly.”
“He was the one pulling the strings. We are doing precisely what he wanted us to do.”
Feisal gestured at the driver.
“No problem,” John said. “I have a gun pointed at the back of his head.”
The driver didn’t even twitch. Having made his point, John went on, “He kept us off balance every step of the way, and he knew it. I do wish you three could learn to control your gasps and twitches; you might as well have fallen on your knees and confessed.”
“I thought he was going to accuse you,” I said.
“He knew I would deny it, and there was no way he could prove anything. This way he has both bases covered. If I am guilty I may be willing to negotiate, cutting out my confederates and saving him money. If I am innocent, I will cooperate in order to preserve my good name and my freedom. He’s good,” John said grudgingly. “Very good. Did you see how he pounced on my reference to outside sources?”
“That wasn’t up to your usual standard,” I said. “But it didn’t constitute an admission of anything.”
“So we will accept his offer?” Schmidt asked.
“Honestly, you people amaze me,” John said in exasperation. “That wasn’t an offer, that was a threat. He’s got us—Feisal and me, at any rate—over the proverbial barrel. Anybody who knows the details of that extraordinary business, to quote our grandiloquent friend, knows we were in it up to our necks. The only reason we got off scot-free was because we turned our coats and almost got ourselves killed saving the paintings—and because the government didn’t want a scandal. If we can’t retrieve Tut without the theft becoming public knowledge, he’ll make sure we pay for Tetisheri too. So don’t start spending your share of the reward. I doubt we’ll see so much as a piastre. The best we can hope for is that Feisal will keep his job and I will remain a free man.”
“Tsk, tsk,” said Schmidt. “I am surprised at you, John. It is not like you to be so pessimistic. The Herr Director General is also over a barrel. He cannot collect that large sum in so short a time unless he informs his superiors in the government of the situation. That is the last thing he wants to do. He would be the scapegoat, be assured of that. He might take others down with him, but he would be the first to fall.”
“You have a point,” John admitted, looking marginally more cheerful.
The car stopped in front of the hotel and an attendant started unloading our suitcases. Our rooms were ready—
natürlich.
Strutting, Schmidt led the way to his suite.
“I have a point too,” I said, dropping into a chair. I’d been brooding about it ever since that interview with Ashraf. I would have brought it up before if anybody had let me get a word in.
“Proceed,” said Schmidt, investigating the minibar.
“Didn’t it strike you that there was no either/or in that message? Deliver the money, or…What? You get another chunk of Tut?”
“Don’t say that,” Feisal muttered, flinching.
“Why not?” All of a sudden I was hopping mad. “All this fuss and furor over a damned mummy! He’s a dead man, Feisal, a very, very dead man.”
“A dead king,” Feisal said softly.
“Dead man, dead king, what’s the difference? If that hand had been lopped off a living person, king or commoner, I’d say we spare no effort to get him out alive and in as few pieces as possible. Hell, I’d do the same for a dog or a cat.”
“She is very tender-hearted, our Vicky,” said Schmidt, offering me a beer.
I pushed his hand away. “Shut up, Schmidt, I haven’t finished. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about Tut or any other mummy. I’m not willing to risk my neck or any of your necks, for him—for it.”
The other three exchanged glances. I had no difficulty interpreting them: You know how women are, let her get it out of her system.
“Your moral position is unassailable,” said Schmidt. “But look at it this way, Vicky. No one has been killed or violently attacked. The case has been remarkably free of bloodshed.”
“So far.”
“Does this mean you’re pulling out?” John asked.
“In your dreams,” I said, as I grabbed the beer from Schmidt and took a swig.
I
was surprised to see how little time had elapsed; the interview with Khifaya had seemed to last for hours. After we had refreshed ourselves with various beverages, we got to work catching up with our correspondence, verbal and written. It didn’t take me long to get through my messages, since Schmidt, my most faithful (read “persistent”) communicant, was with me. Feisal fired off a few forceful directions in Arabic, presumably to various subordinates, and turned to John, who was brooding over his mobile.
“Anything of interest?” he asked nervously.
“Not with regard to the present situation. However, if I get out of this I may yet have a business to run. Perlmutter wants a look at the Amarna head.”
“Did you give him your number?” I asked.
“No, this call was from Alan. Perlmutter contacted him—the business number, rather. He says he’s already forwarded a photo.”
“You’ve done the lad an injustice,” I said. “He seems to be doing his job. Why don’t you call him back and administer a few pats on the back?”
“He talks too much. I’ll text him.” John’s fingers glided over the keys.
“What Amarna head?” Feisal said.
“That’s no concern of yours or Ashraf’s. I didn’t steal it and I have the papers to prove it.”
“I was just asking,” Feisal said in a hurt voice.
“Hmph,” said John.
“Anything from Jen?” I asked.
“She wants to know where I am and why I haven’t been in touch. I’d better ring her, otherwise she might go haring off to London.” He met my eye, grimaced, and said, “Later. What have you got, Schmidt?”
“Like your esteemed mother, Suzi asks where I am. I have waited to consult you before replying.”
“Tell her you’ve gone to New York or Buenos Aires,” Feisal suggested.
“No, no,” John said. “She’s bound to find out the truth sooner or later and we don’t want your credibility damaged. Let’s invent a nice fictitious account of your investigations.”
We all joined in. As I might have expected, Schmidt had long since got over his fit of remorse and was enjoying himself hugely. We shot down several of his more outrageous plot ideas, including one in which John and I had dived into the Nile to save him after some unknown villain pushed him in.
“But it will indicate your innocence,” Schmidt said, pouting.
“It will indicate that you are a bloody liar,” said John. “How about this?”
After a few more suggestions, Schmidt produced something along these lines: “They continue to trust me. So far no suspicious encounters, only normal contacts. Will inform at once of any such, as well as our next destination.”
He refused to add “Love.”