“If you mean did I ask Perlmutter how he figured it out, the answer is a loud profane no,” I went on. “I haven’t spoken to the skunk since then.”
“I didn’t recognize him,” John admitted. “He’s losing his hair.” He ran a gentle hand over his own shining locks.
“Serves him right,” I said vindictively. “That discovery put him on the high road to promotion and left me looking like an idiot.”
“If it’s any consolation, he didn’t look very happy.”
“He didn’t, did he? He’s finding out that being a museum big shot isn’t all rich donors and fine art. Hey—why don’t you check the Net and see if there are any stories about the siege of the museum?”
“Sure to be,” said John. “Every other piece of trivia is.”
Reuters and the German newspapers had stories, with lots of photographs, mostly of Khifaya. His good looks, his showmanship, and most of all that pith helmet had a visual impact as impressive as that of any celebrity. He spoke with eloquence and passion and an occasional winning touch of humor. I could have sworn there were tears in those big dark eyes when he appealed to the world for justice.
“You’re drooling,” John said nastily, and switched to what he referred to as the Egyptology blogs. They were full of Khifaya too. I pulled up a chair, shoved John over, and began reading some of the comments. Opinion was divided. Some thought Egypt’s claim should be honored, some had accepted the museum’s statement that the famous bust was too fragile to be moved. Then I got distracted by other items. They ranged from the soberly professional to the utterly loony. Debates raged about everything from the construction of the
Great Pyramid to the age of the Sphinx, and ignorance of the subject didn’t prevent people from voicing their ideas.
A word caught my eye and I stopped John as he was about to scroll down.
The word was “mummy.”
It took a few minutes to pick up the thread of the discussion, which had apparently been going on for a while. Somebody had found Queen Hatshepsut—again—and somebody else said no, it couldn’t be she, because she was another mummy in another tomb, identified only by a number that didn’t strike an immediate chord, and somebody else declared that mummy number two was Nefertiti or maybe her daughter.
“I could get hooked on this,” I said, fascinated. “Look at that sketch of mummy number two. She’s copied it straight off the Berlin head.”
“The world is full of fanatics,” said John. “At least they aren’t talking about—”
My cell phone rang. I snatched it up.
“I am here,” said a doleful voice. “Shall I come there?”
“No,” John said loudly.
“Schmidt, are you all right?” I said.
“No. I am in deep distress. I am coming—”
“Stay where you are.” John grabbed the phone. “The Savoy?”
“
Aber natürlich
. I always stay at the Savoy when I am in London. I am well known here, and they—”
“We are coming to you,” I said, retrieving the phone. “Stay put, Schmidt. We’ll be there in half an hour.”
“
Sehr gut.
I will buy you dinner.”
A long sigh followed. I hung up in the middle of it.
“You had better change,” John said, eyeing my jeans and T-shirt critically.
“Don’t they have a grill, or someplace less formal than the main dining room?”
“There is no informal dining spot at the Savoy. Change. And hurry. Schmidt isn’t known for his patience.”
He skinned off his jeans and shirt as he spoke. By the time I had located a pair of respectable pants and a top without a rude saying printed on it he was knotting his tie.
“The Royal Marines?” I asked, studying the pattern of stripes.
“First Gloucestershire Regiment.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“My dear girl, there is no law against wearing a regimental tie.” He began transferring various items from the jacket he had worn that day into the pockets of an elegant wool-and-silk navy blazer. The last item was the fake gun. Toy or not, it was heavy enough to make the pocket sag. He studied the effect in the mirror, frowned, and transferred the gun to an inside breast pocket.
“How about getting me one of those?” I asked.
“You move around too much. Try getting one of these through airport security and you will discover that nobody finds it amusing.”
The Savoy was one of the numerous (read: expensive) places in London to which John had never taken me. I took to it right away—the circular drive set back from the Strand, the top-hatted serf who leaped to open the door of the taxi, the beautifully appointed lobby. Schmidt was waiting, arms open. He hugged me and would have hugged John if John hadn’t been ready for him, and announced he had been able to wangle a table in the grill. It must have been a big deal. John looked impressed.
While Schmidt pored over the menu I studied him with mounting concern. His color was fine and he certainly hadn’t lost any more weight, but there was something…His eyes kept shifting.
He babbled, not with his usual manic enthusiasm, but as if he were talking at random to keep his mind off other things.
Finally I said, “Okay, Schmidt, that’s enough. Get it off your chest. That’s what we’re here for.”
Schmidt took out a large handkerchief and pressed it to his face. “I do not want to talk about it. Later, perhaps. Not here. I do not wish to weep in public. Distract me. Tell me about yourselves, what you are doing. How is the business? Any new objects of interest?”
“There’s a rather nice
Entombment of Christ
by one of the fifteenth-century German woodcarvers,” I said. “But don’t expect you’ll be offered a discount. He always ups the prices for friends.”
Schmidt broke into a loud peal of laughter. “Very good, very good. I will go to the shop tomorrow to have a look.”
I opened my mouth and got a sharp kick on the ankle.
“By all means,” John said. “How long do you intend to stay, Schmidt?”
“I do not wish to interfere with your plans,” Schmidt said.
“They are flexible,” said John, in what had to be the understatement of the year. I felt sure he still intended to get out of town next day, without telling Schmidt. Not a good idea, I thought. That would leave Schmidt on the loose in London, thoroughly and (from his point of view) legitimately mad as hell at us. I had learned not to underestimate my boss. He’d be on our trail as soon as he learned we had vanished from his ken. The idea of having his rotund and conspicuous person following us to Egypt made me very uneasy. Supposing, that is, that we were going to Egypt.
Observing my knitted brows, Schmidt said, “You are not worrying about Clara, I hope. I have made certain she will be looked after.”
“Good,” I said absently.
I think we had an excellent meal, though I can’t remember what
I ate. New and alarming ideas kept popping into my head. John had made rather a point of making sure Schmidt stayed off the streets. Was the old boy in danger? And if so, from whom? And if so, why? And if so, we couldn’t leave him unprotected.
I came back to the real world to hear John and Schmidt chatting about the Victoria and Albert Museum.
“I have not been there for some time,” said Schmidt, dabbing daintily at his mustache. “I would like to have another look at the armor collection. Vicky, you will join me, I hope? You too are welcome, John, though I suppose you will be busy with the shop.”
“I thought you were coming by to look at the
Entombment
,” John said.
“Another day, perhaps.”
Schmidt insisted on escorting us to the door. “So,” he said, “tomorrow at nine, Vicky, for breakfast, and then the Victoria and Albert.”
He stood waving and blowing kisses as the taxi pulled away.
“Did you get the impression that I am not wanted tomorrow?” John asked.
“I got a lot of impressions, none of which makes any sense. I am beginning to think—”
“Not now. That is to say,” John amended, “you are of course free to think all you like, but let’s not discuss it now.”
So I confined myself to staring out the window. London is one of my favorite cities. I used to feel safe there, even after the suicide attack in the Underground and the foiled bombings. Terrorist attacks are as random as tornadoes, I told myself; they are, unhappily, as likely in New York and Madrid as in the Middle East. But that morning I had come close to being yanked into a car by people who were after me, Vicky Bliss, not any anonymous victim. One would suppose I had become accustomed to it during my long acquain
tance with John, but take it from me, you never get used to that sort of extremely personal interest.
John made a quick tour of the flat before settling down on the sofa and gesturing me to join him.
“Still thinking?” he inquired.
“Yes. No. I think we ought to let Schmidt in on the whole thing.”
His only response was a raised eyebrow. I had marshaled my arguments, so I plunged on.
“Schmidt has a lot of contacts. He knows everybody. You keep denigrating him with adjectives like old and little, but if it hadn’t been for Schmidt, our Egyptian venture last year wouldn’t have ended so well. Hell’s bells, he was the deus ex machina the whole time, dragging us out of one hairy situation after another. He may strike you as a comedic figure—”
“He is a comedic figure. That’s one of the things that makes him so effective. People underestimate him. But I,” said John, “am learning not to do so. Believe it or not, I was considering the same idea. The only thing that deters me is the fact that I am rather fond of the old—sorry—the dear chap. I don’t want to see him hurt.”
“Do you think I do? But he’s an adult, John, even if he is fat and—oh, hell—not as young as he used to be. I haven’t the right to make decisions for him, and neither do you. His male ego has already taken a blow, from that bitch Suzi. Maybe he’d rather risk his life than his self-esteem. Maybe you’ll feel the same way when you’re his age.”
John reached for my hand. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” I said snuffily.
“You had
me
on the verge of tears,” John said, handing me a handkerchief. (He always has one.) “And you’ve convinced me. God knows I’d rather have Schmidt on our side than against us.”
“Furthermore…Oh. You agree? So what’s the plan?”
“You meet him at the Savoy as promised, enjoy a hearty breakfast, hop in a cab, and head for Heathrow. I’ll meet you there. International terminal, half past ten.”
I had more or less expected it. “What’ll I tell Schmidt?”
“If I know Schmidt, all you need say is that we are off on another thrilling adventure and that I will fill him in on the details in due course. You have sworn an oath of secrecy,” said John, warming to the theme, “and dare not divulge the plans of the mastermind. (That’s me.) We are all in deadly peril until we arrive at our destination, at which time he will be formally inducted into the cabal. We might have a little ceremony, handing out disguises and masks and the like.”
John employed silliness as a defensive weapon. It was contagious—to such an extent that when he asked if I felt like a snack I declined in favor of another variety of amusement.
S
chmidt’s reaction to the change of plan wasn’t what I had expected or John had predicted. When I told the cabdriver we wanted to go to Heathrow instead of the V and A, he looked as if he had just been informed of the death of a close friend.
“So, you are on the run,” he said, his brows knit. “Again.”
“
We
are on the run,” I corrected. “What’s the matter, Schmidt? I thought you enjoyed adventures.”
“Yes, yes,” Schmidt said testily. “But why did you not tell me? How can I set off for—for some unknown destination without my luggage?”
He had the most important things—his passport—and his laptop, encased in elegant leather. I doubted that he would have been
allowed to take it into the museum, but there was no point in bringing that up since we weren’t going there anyhow. He wasn’t much worse off than I. I had crammed a change of underwear and a toothbrush into my backpack. Sooner or later somebody was going to have to buy me a new wardrobe. I hoped it would be Schmidt. He was more generous than John.
Reasonably enough, Schmidt wanted to know where we were headed. And why. John’s speech, which I repeated almost verbatim, didn’t improve his mood. After announcing that he would ask no further questions, he relapsed into sullen silence, arms folded and lower lip outthrust. That wasn’t like Schmidt, and if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with other worries, I might have wondered what was up. Not that it would have mattered in the end.
John was waiting for us, boarding passes in hand. Schmidt snatched one of them.
“Berlin,” he said flatly.
“Berlin?” I said, on a rising note.
“We’ve just time for a coffee,” said John, taking Schmidt’s arm.
He stuck as close to Schmidt as a long-lost brother, through security, and even into the Gents. When we boarded, I was relegated to a seat between two strangers while John snuggled up next to Schmidt several rows forward.
Always expect the worst; then you are never disappointed. Always prepare for the worst; then you are never caught off guard. It was one of John’s basic rules of operation, but I felt sure that in this case he was overdoing it. Schmidt was acting strangely, but it was inconceivable that the old (oops) boy was up to no good.
I hadn’t brought anything to read, so after perusing the in-flight magazine and deciding which Hermès scarves I would have selected if anybody had offered to buy me a few, I tried to figure out why we
were going to Berlin. I hoped we weren’t headed for a meeting with a German version of Bernardo. A German version of Monsignor Anonymous? Somebody connected with the museum? Maybe I could make myself a sign and join the picket line. If it didn’t accomplish anything else it would annoy the hell out of Perlmutter, especially if I could get on television. Ah well, I thought, mine not to reason why, mine but to follow blindly where the mastermind led. I might as well be married. Love, honor and especially obey.
There was no hired car waiting outside the terminal, but the hotel to which the taxi delivered us bore a certain resemblance to the one in Rome—in a quiet neighborhood, small, unobtrusive. The desk clerk did not indicate recognition of John, but after he had consulted with the manager we were given a suite, with two bedrooms, which strongly suggested hanky-panky past if not present. We showed ourselves up; within a few minutes a waiter arrived with a bottle of wine.