by Melissa Yi
Tucker stared at the fly, expressionless, as he probably calculated how much it was worth.
Hadi's family could use that money for their hospital debts. I could give this fly to them.
It would be so easy to reach for that box. To make myself say thank you.
Revulsion held me back, along with five words lodged in my throat.
I am not for sale.
She sighed. "Such a pity. He thought you might laugh, especially once you learned the history of it."
"He" didn't know me at all. She'd also confirmed the stalker's gender. Both things brought me tiny pieces of comfort. "You haven't answered my question about filming me illegally."
Karima Mansour laughed. "Oh, goodness. You're like an elephant. You don't forget. Yes, we have permission to film you. You gave it yourself."
"When and how?"
"At the airport. Here, I have a copy on my phone, just in case." One pink talon flicked, and she showed me a photo of a purple and white contract written in Arabic.
The contract we signed at the airport. For our cell phone SIM card. When I was jet-lagged and sprayed by toilet water and desperate to get out, I'd signed a contract I couldn't understand.
"I'm happy to send you a copy. You'll find that pages 2 and 3 are quite explicit with regard to media rights."
"Show me," said Tucker, and she pointed out the key paragraphs, switching between Arabic to English with almost palpable condescension.
"I'm sorry, Hope." Tucker looked pale and pinched.
"Not your fault. I'm the one who signed it." Tucker had told me it looked okay, but I should have realized his written Arabic was almost nil.
I should have asked a passer-by for help. I should have tried Google translate, even though I was conserving my phone battery to contact Sarquet Industries. I should have …
"If it's any consolation, your platform has soared since our coverage. Before, you were only known in Canada and a few other places. Now you're known worldwide. I have nine million followers on my Facebook page alone. You see this post?"
I closed my eyes.
Someone like Karima Mansour would never understand that I'd come to Egypt to escape from notoriety, not to add to it.
My mind flicked through my immediate priorities.
1. Get to work.
2. Make sure Tucker doesn't flip.
3. Get rid of the stalker.
I couldn't stop them from filming me, so I struck back the only way I could. "Keep the fly. Tell him I've withdrawn my permission for him to film us in public or in private. Never contact me. Don't follow me. You are dead to me." I felt a twinge at having to pay for this trip, but firmly reminded myself, I am not for sale.
"That goes double for me," said Tucker.
I gestured at the small, murmuring crowd that had gathered around us. Some of them captured my words on video too. "These are my witnesses, as well as you and your own cameraman. Good-bye forever."
Karima Mansour dashed after me and Tucker as we neared the X-ray machine, waving the fly box. "Dr. Sze, it's 24 karat gold!"
"I don't need any more vermin," I said. "The deal was that I'd open it, not that I'd keep it."
She fluttered her eyelashes. "He'll be so disappointed. Still, I have to thank you, Dr. Sze, for our most recent news piece."
Tucker couldn't resist. "What was that?"
"The drowning of Abdallah Hussein."
32
"What?" Tucker and I yelled.
Karima Mansour pouted and studied us from beneath her eyelashes. "You didn't hear? Such a tragedy. The flooding, you know."
"How do you know him? Did you verify his identity?" demanded Tucker.
Yes. I bet Egypt had more than one Abdallah Hussein. Still, I felt nauseous.
"Oh, we're aware of your connection."
They'd bugged our hotel room and bribed the staff. They'd followed us everywhere. We'd tossed them a bone by meeting at a bus station. I began scratching my arms before I could stop myself.
"Our team helped you find him, as a matter of fact. You think it was entirely the power of Twitter and your friends that uncovered his identity?" Scorn flicked up the corners of her mouth. "We broke the story and interviewed the Hussein family. He has three little children. So sad."
Tucker grasped one of my hands so tightly that I compressed my lips, but he did stop me from scratching myself as I asked, "How did a grown man drown during a flood?"
"He was electrocuted first."
I stifled a gasp. "Someone electrocuted him?"
She waved one stylish hand. "You must always be wary of loose electrical cables during flooding. It's not unheard-of for this to happen, although so unfortunate. Egypt really must modernize its drainage system and architecture. Then, of course, once one is electrocuted, it is so easy to drown."
Electrocuted. Drowned.
No, it wasn't a coincidence that Abdallah had been killed after he spoke to us. How did a stray electrical cable kill a healthy adult man instead of a knee-high child?
Who'd kill Abdallah Hussein?
My eye fell on the fly broach box, which Karima had passed on to the lighting director. The white box stood out against his dark skin.
I remembered the 24K gold fly's eyes. Pestilence.
Then I spoke to Karima Mansour, woman to woman. "I have one final story for you. This may be the most shocking one of all. But first, I need help with one very sick boy, his father, his sister, and one pregnant mother. They need medical care, education, and honest employment."
She shrugged. "Yes, I've advertised Hadi's plight in my stories. It is possible some viewers will donate to Dr. Tucker's GoFundMe, although of course we hear so many sad stories, and most Egyptians don't have spare funds. Still, we'll do our best to help you."
I leaned toward her and stared until her words died. "I will cut you out of this story unless you help them."
Tucker's head snapped up, and he moved to my side in silent solidarity.
She pressed her collagenized lips together. "You may have an inflated idea of a news reporter's income."
"I'm sure you could contact someone with more resources."
Her eyebrows arched. She knew I meant the stalker. "I can't make any promises on his behalf, Dr. Sze. If he does take on their bills as a sign of good faith, will you meet with him afterward?"
Tucker choked, but I was already shaking my head. "Never. Still, this final story could make your career. What's it going to be?"
33
Wednesday
Post-work on Wednesday, Gizelda Becker sent a car to take us to dinner. We'd offered to treat her on her last night in Cairo (hello, line of credit!), but she'd insisted on handling all the details.
Although my arms itched, I couldn't scratch them in my little black dress with a halter top, while bow-tied waiters in green vests fluttered around me and Tucker.
Fanciest restaurant of my life. Too bad I couldn't enjoy it.
A waiter pulled out my chair as I rose from our table of four to greet Gizelda Becker. I imitated Karima Mansour's confident bearing and elegant smile.
Tucker looked cool in a black shirt and black jeans, topped off with a white dinner jacket and black tie borrowed from Youssef.
"Thank you for inviting me, Dr. Sze and Dr. Tucker." Ms. Becker had braided her hair and wore some sort of flowy, eggplant-coloured boho dress.
"Thank you for coming," Tucker and I said together.
When Gizelda and I glanced at our chairs, our waiters pushed them toward the backs of our knees, ensuring that we could sit without deigning to use our hands.
Yep. Way above my student pay grade. No pressure.
A waiter topped up my water glass. Another lit the candle at the centre of an arrangement of red roses and white lilies. I thanked them, trying to look like I was accustomed to luxury instead of scrounging for egg sandwiches..
"We're so glad to see you before you fly home," Tucker said.
"My pleasure. Thank you for everything you did for my fath
er. May I make some suggestions from the menu?"
I nodded and continued to smile as she issued instructions to the waiters, including ordering wine, something I never bother with. Hope Sze budget tip: avoid alcohol, drinks in general, appetizers, seafood, meat, and dessert if you want to eat out with minimal damage to your wallet.
Tucker chimed in with wine suggestions, and she allowed him to make the final choice.
I smiled across the table at Gizelda. "You're so generous. Maybe I should give you this to replace the one you lost." I showed Gizelda the little ankh from Noeline Momberg. "Would you like it?"
She touched her own suprasternal notch, the hollow of her neck, which lay conspicuously bare today. "Oh, you noticed my old necklace?"
"Yes, yours looked like it was made out of diamonds."
"Well. I didn't need it any more." She signalled a waiter for the red wine, sampled it, and indicated that he should pour the full glass. "Will you join me in a toast?"
Tucker amped up the charm. "Absolutely, although I thought the ankh was a symbol for everlasting life. Why wouldn't you want it any more?"
She gestured at the waiters to fill our glasses. "When you get to be my age, you realize that trinkets are meaningless."
"Yes. Life is what's important, isn't it?" I said.
"Exactly. You're young to be so wise. To life!" She lifted her glass.
I sipped and suppressed my instinct to spit it out. Too bitter for me.
Meanwhile, Tucker smiled his appreciation. "A fine vintage." He reached into the ice bucket and turned the bottle so he could read the label. "That date rings a bell. Oh, I'm sorry. Isn't 2017 the same year your mother passed away?"
She averted her head. "It is. I shouldn't have spoken so much that night. I was emotional after losing our father too."
"What happened to your mother?" he continued in a gentle voice. "Sometimes it helps to talk about it. You mentioned an autopsy."
She played with the napkin in her lap. "The report described her head injury and fractures and internal injuries. I don't understand how she went through the windshield. She always insisted on seatbelts, unlike some South Africans. She bought car seats for her grandchildren and made sure they were strapped in every time, even past the age of three."
I nodded sympathetically. I'm a seat belt devotee. If a bunch of us climb into one taxi, I'll belt two or three of us in together.
She licked her lips. Tucker and I bent forward as she dropped her voice almost to the point of inaudibility. "How could she test positive for benzodiazepines? She swore she'd never take them after one of her friends got addicted."
It is possible to trigger false positives on drug tests, but Tucker met my eyes.
"My father never got over it," she whispered. "He kept her car. Had it towed to their garage and still has it today. Refused to have it taken away. He stopped giving interviews about his mineral collection. He constantly visited our church, tithing and praying and retelling Egyptian legends. My brother said he was going mad."
Then she picked up her glass and drank. While Tucker and I murmured sympathetically, she poured herself a second and third glass of wine, topped up Tucker's glass, and ordered another bottle.
I took a deep breath. "Ms. Becker."
"Gizelda."
"Gizelda, I know this is a difficult time, but did you hear what happened to Abdallah Hussein?"
She sloshed her wine onto the table, staining the white tablecloth. A waiter instantly dropped a white napkin over the splotch before retreating.
"He was electrocuted first," I said. "Then he drowned in the floodwaters around his home. His wife and three little children are staying with relatives for now. They say it could have been a stray electrical cable, but I find it strange that no other family members or neighbors were electrocuted or drowned. Only Abdallah."
"Oh no." She held her head. "Oh, God. Jesus, help me. No, no, no, no, no."
O gold! O gold! O flesh of the god!
Tucker said, in a gentler voice, "You gave him your father's cobra bag. Could you please confirm its contents?"
She wouldn't look up.
"Maybe this would help?" I held up a screenshot on my phone, a photo of the mummified hand gifted from Harold Carter to Sir Bruce Ingram.
She covered her face, but Tucker intoned, "'Cursed be he who moves my body. To him shall come fire, water, and pestilence.'"
"Pestilence? What on earth are you talking about?" demanded a man striding across the room.
34
We all stared up at the oversized man who loomed over us. His shadow blocked Tucker's face, but as I gazed up at him, I noticed a red spot on his left jaw, near the temporomandibular joint.
"Hello, Mr. Becker," said Tucker evenly. "So glad you could make it. Yes, we were talking about pestilence." Tucker reached into the breast pocket of his borrowed suit jacket and opened up a small white box, revealing the 24-carat gold fly.
"Luke," the man said gruffly, dropping into the last seat of the table, between Tucker and Gizelda and across from me. Luke, too, wore a suit jacket, although his was soft grey wool and looked tailored to minimize his bulk. He poured himself a glass of wine from the new bottle, tasted it, and gritted his teeth. "What is this shit? Bring me your beer."
"Right away, sir," said the closest waiter.
I cradled the fly broach in my left hand like I'd never seen it before. "That's wild."
"Can I see that?" Luke reached for the fly broach, but I cupped it in my left hand, swinging it toward Gizelda, who leaned away from it.
"Where did you get that?" Luke beckoned me with his hand as he followed the broach with his eyes. That gave me a better look at the red spot on his cheek. It was more like a swelling. A dental abscess.
I raised my eyebrows at Tucker and slid the fly to the right, to my guy, who tucked it back into his jacket pocket with practiced ease. "Hang on. Did I ever tell you that I do magic tricks?"
Luke harrumphed and tossed back some of the Sakara Gold beer newly placed in front of him. "No."
"Yeah. I used to perform at schools and restaurants. The kids would clap their hands and tell me how awesome I was. I never made four million dollars, though."
Luke swivelled his bulk to face Tucker. "What are you saying?"
"The Paris art dealer sold the coffin of Nedjemankh to the Met in July 2017 for 3.5 million euros, or very close to four million U.S. dollars," I told him. "Now, we realize that you and your father wouldn't have made four million. You'd have to pay off the looters and the guards and Abdallah Hussein, or whoever else falsified the documents, plus the art dealer. Still. Four million U.S."
"You're insane." Luke stood, his massive knees knocking the table and rattling the wine glasses. "Let's go, Gizelda."
She stared up at him before she waved an index finger at the wine bottle label. "Luke, look. This wine is from 2017."
He sighed and reached for her elbow to help her up. "What of it?"
She evaded his grasp. "That's the year our family suddenly came into more money."
He shrugged. "Lots of things happened in 2017. Let's go."
She tucked her elbows against her chest. "You and Father flew to Paris at the end of June and stayed through to July. I remember that. Quite soon after, Father started building the home museum for his mineral collection."
Luke snorted. "He loved those rocks."
"He loved history. He loved art. And most of all, he loved our mother. Mother was our company accountant until July 2017, when you said we should hire an outside firm. As soon as she died, you hired the books out to Krygers."
"Yes, yes, water under the bridge. Let's go, or I'll leave without you."
The waiter reappeared with another beer on a white-napkined tray.
Luke towered over him. "Get out of my way!"
I stood up, too, drawing his eye. "Yes, so sad that your accountant mother died after coming to your house. Did you sabotage her car? Or drug her so much that she couldn't remember how to put on her seatbelt? Or bo
th?"
"Hope!" Tucker bounded to his feet.
Luke shoved his red face in mine, across the table. "You're lucky you're a woman in a public place."
I stared right back into his crazy eyes. "Why, are you going to kill me like you killed your mother and Abdallah Hussein when they asked you too many questions about your artifacts? Plus the kids dying to dig them up? You can just say yes. The real question is how you engineered the IED that killed your father. So interesting that the last bomb that killed tourists in Egypt took place in 2017. The year of your giant payout."
Luke reached under his suit jacket and seized a gun from his shoulder holster.
I hit the ground, bashing both knees before I landed on my stomach, hollering, "Tucker!"
He landed a split second after me, as police officers stampeded the room and Karima Mansour's majestic voice cut through the air.
"Luke Becker, a murderer unmasked! Broadcasting live from the Egyptian Classic Continental!"
35
"That story may break the Internet," said Karima Mansour, after the police had tackled Luke Becker and led him away before he fired a single shot.
"With any luck," said Tucker, holding up his glass for Gizelda. She filled it, her hands only trembling a little.
Karima dropped into Luke Becker's seat and shook out her hair extensions. "I spoke to the police. They interviewed the widow of Abdallah Hussein, who positively identified Luke, or Luca, Becker as the man who came to their house and argued with her husband before leading him outside and—" She gestured with her free hand.
Somehow electrocuting and drowning him. I closed my eyes. Abdallah Hussein had figured out Hadi's fate and tried to blackmail Luke Becker over it, only to end up a victim himself.
"Hadi's family isn't willing to speak on camera yet, but I think they will, with a little incentive." Karima smiled and sipped the last of our wine.