In a more sophisticated scenario, I’d keep the rope and submit it as evidence, looking for strands of hair, DNA, all those CSI kinds of things. My parents were certain that any trace you left in a restroom or public space could be traced directly back at you, so they were very careful in public spaces. Mother had watched a special report on the FBI and was frightened enough by the re-enactments of dozens of FBI agents invading the homes of innocent citizens that she vowed to never take a chance. I chucked the rope into the trash and headed out, pushing open the door with my bare hand just for good measure.
Nic, bless his increasingly black little heart, was pacing in the lobby. His hair was standing on end as if he had pressed his finger into a light socket. “Where have you been?” He cried when he saw me. “What happened to your face?”
“I ran into the door frame.”
He looked at me in astonishment. “Jesus. We need to get out of here.”
I raised my eyebrows. Ouch, it hurt to move my face. “Need?”
“We can leave tonight.” He moved to the front desk, but I stopped him.
“We can’t leave tonight, there are no buses running. We have to wait until morning.”
His eyes traveled around the lobby, he reached out and pulled me close. “Okay, okay. You’re right, you’re always right.” He looked into my eyes. I swallowed but resisted saying anything more. “Did you know that?”
“I did not know that, but I’m right this time.”
Chapter 18
We walked in lockstep to the elevator, Nic seemed reluctant to let me go. I snuggled closer on the elevator ride. My shoulder ached, my arms hurt, my torn skin needed to be covered in Neosporin. But at least I was safe. Nic locked the door, secured the chain and I shoved the only chair in the room under the doorknob.
“Who did this to you?” He sat on the edge of the bed and watched me as I bustled around inflicting my version of security.
“Oscar and Oslo.”
“They gave you their names?”
I put my hands on my hips and glared at him with my one good eye.
He held his hands up in supplication. “Sorry. What did they want?”
“You.”
“Ah.”
“I appreciate you coming with me on this incredibly unproductive goose chase. Apparently, I could have stayed home and tortured you for information."
To his credit he didn’t bother to prevaricate. “At the bar, what did you call him?”
“Oslo. The one with the blond hair.”
Nic nodded. He followed me to the bathroom where I washed my scraped arms again for good measure. “They know me from the archeology project, they think I know where the source of the hippo is.”
“And do you?”
He shook his head. “They aren’t our guys; I don’t know where they came from or what they want.”
I straightened from the sink, wincing as my back tweaked. I needed to stretch, but it always looks so awkward, and I did not need to look any more vulnerable in front of Nic.
“Where did they come from?”
He shook his head. “I don’t even know. This was such a bust.” He reached out and lightly touched my sore arm. “I shouldn’t have gotten you into this. I’m sorry.”
I met his eyes. “We need to go to Egypt.”
He shook his head, which was astonishing. I thought he’d jump at the chance to return. But even if he didn’t want to keep going, I did. I wanted, I needed to discover the end of the story even if he did not. I was the victim of violence; I was the victim of theft and I had lost my best friend. I was all in. At least for forty-eight more hours.
“Don’t you want to find out who is stealing precious artifacts?”
“Not so precious,” he replied.
I needed a shower and started removing my dirty clothes. I regarded the blouse. It was impressively ugly. No one in my past would have ever approved. And no one in my present would approve either. I shoved it into the small bathroom trash can.
“Precious enough. Valuable enough.” I eyed the can; would it hold the slacks as well? I tried. “I want Miranda to rest.” I balled up the slacks. “I want to understand why she died.”
The slacks barely fit into the tiny waste can. “Is that too much to ask?”
The ball resisted my initial stuffing. “We all need a reason, a good ending to our story.” I lifted my bare foot and stomped down on the wad of indestructible beige. Those clothes would never pop out again. Triumphant, I faced him in my bra and panties.
“You’ve thought a lot about this.” He regarded me with at least a modicum of appreciation.
I pulled off the wig and dropped it on top of the garbage can. Now the can looked like a badly dressed robot.
“I’ve been around death for quite a while now. I’m practically a professional.”
About sleeping with the enemy. Life is shorter than we think. I had insisted on following the lead to Albania, dragging Nic along, not realizing that Nic was part of the problem. Cindy could be part of the problem; the thugs Oslo and Oscar were part of the problem. So out of a whole menu of bad choices, Nic at night was an easy yes. That’s what happens when you get older. You take the easy yes because the odds are good and you’ve already experienced the worst of the nos.
I woke later the same night, my phone lit up and furiously vibrating. I pulled it to me and held it at arm’s length to see better. Cindy. I could take her call or wait for her text. I chose text.
Men at the door. What should do?
Lock, go to bed.
When back?
Two more days. I thought of telling her we were headed to Luxor, but then changed my mind.
I woke stiff and sore, facing an abundance of missives from needy strangers and loving family.
Maria, the real estate agent texted me and demanded that Cindy open the door; she had more prospects. This did not look good for us.
Matt texted me, he was out with friends, other was mad, what should he do?
Chris had sent a photo of the proposed Luxor Deep Bay project. The photo was clear, pulled from a website. Twelve men stood in a line on the sand, no identifying monuments on the horizon, so they could have been anywhere. The tall man in the center held a shovel decorated with a red bow. No one smiled. To the far left of the group was Nic.
He groaned and rolled on his back. “On the phone already? Are you ever off that thing?”
I held up the phone to him.
“I can explain.” He made to grab the phone, but I held it out of reach. “I told you, I’m consulting on the project.”
I studied the phone. “It says here you are the resident archeology expert.”
He nodded, but he was clearly not proud of the title.
I read more. “Dredge the Nile? Is that even possible?”
“They want to dredge the Nile for bigger boats, create a longer dock.” I continued to look at him, making him focus on my bruised face.
“They want to make it so deep the Suez will look like a drainage ditch.” He was sulky, like Matt the afternoon we caught him emptying the fireplace ash all over baby Chris.
“That doesn’t sound sustainable.”
“Since the dam, it’s easy. There is no more flooding and the silt doesn’t back up like it used to. Besides,” he muttered. “Anything is possible.”
I gave him a disgusted look. “I’m sure anything is.” I turned away and texted Matt with possible excuses that Tina hadn’t already heard.
What was really depressing? I was not surprised. These are the people who allowed a circus strong man to haul a full-size obelisk to London and probably helped him load it onto the barge. This is a government that doesn’t arrest men who use dynamite to blow up inconvenient monuments standing in the way of more remunerative tombs. They are too overloaded to worry about a little more digging along a river that had survived Libyans, Nubians, Hyksos, Napoleon and a dam.
“They need the tourism,” Nic said, reading my mind. “It’s their only export.”
“T
hat and black-market artifacts.”
“That has a place as well,” he admitted.
“Tomb robbing.”
“Done before the mummy was even fully stiffened,” he countered.
“I know that.”
“It’s been a long time.”
I rubbed my face, avoiding the sore bruised sections. I had to go home. I could go now, be there early and ease Tina’s mind, and reassure the boys that their aunt, at least, could be counted on.
Nic sat up and stroked my bare back. “What if a whole ship load comes? Double, triple the fees, the food, the guides. Egypt could be popular. It could take the boats that other countries are currently rejecting. If your people are starving, why wouldn't you do anything to make it better?”
I remained silent.
“Hungry people riot.” I said. “Hungry people demand change.”
He gave me a look. While Nic was busy with coeds and lectures at UCSB, I audited a class by Dr. Fagan at the height of his popularity. I remembered a great deal about Egyptian history and myth. A surprising lot of it was returning.
In the end I kept my enemy closer. I had a feeling so much of our trouble would circle around and land back on Nic, so for answers, I might as well stick with the evil I knew. The good news was we could fly directly from Tirana to Cairo.
The Cairo airport had been remodeled. The arched girders and sandstone floors and ceilings reflected the tombs and temples most tourists hustling through the corridors were scheduled to tour, like a taste of delights to come.
I took a deep breath; the air was bone dry a term that well could have been invented by the nineteenth-century explorers as they dug for Egypt’s treasures. The air conditioning was turned on frigid. I shivered but did not complain. I was back, wasn’t I? When I left Nic, striding purposefully through this very terminal, I carried not only heavy luggage, but also a heavy stone in my stomach, convinced that I would never see the pyramids again.
I paused, relishing my return.
Nic studied the departure board searching for our Egypt Air flight to Luxor.
I automatically clocked off airplane mode on my phone.
The texts pinged like a wild party. I glanced up and located our flight—on time, out of Gate E14. I dropped my gaze and studied my phone. Tiffany and Lucy texted together to both me and Maria. What did we think? Who were these buyers? Did I have their names? Where were they from? Where are you?
I did not say where I was since I was supposed to be grounded in Venice with no passport.
Those Italians are so inefficient! Tiffany texted.
Yet Maria, with I assumed Cindy’s help, was showing the apartment to three prospective buyers today. The girls couldn’t complain.
But complain they did.
Nic turned away from the board. “We’re at Gate E14.”
I smiled at him like he was Ramses II and followed. Fortunately, Nic headed in the right direction.
We passed crowds of passengers heading towards the exits. I glanced at a few young men as they passed by. Attractive, but not dangerous.
Tiffany wanted to know the offer price.
I felt like I was boarding the final boat with Anubis and heading down to the underworld, hoping all my goods, shipped ahead so to speak, would be there and intact when I needed them for my next life-round. And here I was, on a next round. I never thought I’d be back. I never thought I’d do anything like this; despite years of cautionary news stories, I certainly never thought I’d get beat up.
I took a lungful of the chilled artificial air and plunged back into the adventure.
Be careful what you wish for.
I pressed my head against the plane window trying to catch a glimpse of the pyramids. The privacy of the flight was a perfect time for Nic to confess everything: why he could support dredging the Nile of all things, why he knew about the stolen artifacts, and, frankly, what did he know about Miranda’s death? Maybe I needed to tie him to a chair and beat him with a rubber hose.
We disembarked quickly since we didn’t even have carry-on luggage and headed past the stylized papyrus columns decorating the Luxor airport to the paint scratched cabs parked in the brutal sun.
“Winter Palace.” I slid into the back seat.
“Too expensive.” Nic slid in next to me and slammed the door.
“Not it’s not, it’s perfect.”
I gave him a look and he actually shrank back. Good. “I’ve camped with you on the perimeters of more digs that I care to remember. I’ve been a good sport all my life. The beds in Albania were tragically uncomfortable. And I would like a modicum of security and working fire escapes.” Forget hunger, a couple of sleepless nights was enough to trigger a revolution. I certainly was ready.
“Because I say so,” I added, a phrase I picked up from my sister-in-law.
A text from Chris—Did I know that green wallpaper was made with arsenic?
I did not know that, I texted back.
Three more texts from Tiffany, mostly about her need to quickly sell Miranda’s apartment and what was Maria doing anyway?
I reminded her that Maria was showing the house.
Tiffany texted that Maria couldn’t get into the apartment.
Cindy should be there.
Cindy, Tiffany informed me, was not there.
Shit. I glanced at Nic who was lost in thought or just didn’t want to engage in more conversation.
I texted Cindy. I texted Maria and described where the additional key was hidden. Well, not so hidden now.
At least Maria responded in an internationally understood smiley face. Using all the emojis in my texts called to mind hieroglyphics.
The cab pulled up to the covered portico of the Winter Palace. Not looking like qualified guests, we climbed the left curving stairs to the second-floor lobby.
I love this hotel. Just being here allows me to be Agatha Christie scribbling notes for Death on the Nile or Amelia Edwards and Barbara Mertz recording their adventures both real and marvelously fictional. I was again an archeologist. Even if just for the night. I had one night.
The lobby was spacious and cool flanked by (ironically) Corinthian topped columns. Well-dressed men and women lingered in the lobby. It was mid-day, a few tourists braved the blistering sun by the pool but, most guests stayed under protective umbrellas and awnings, retreating to their cool hotel rooms.
We walked past the curved stairs to the upper, and older rooms. The wide gardens in the back were welcoming green. Out the front doors ran the Nile and across was the West Bank. The Valley of the Kings shimmering in the heat. Later I would visit the best souvenir shop in town situated on the street level just below the gently curved walkway.
Adventure, sex, and danger. This was it then, I had to figure it all out right now, no time to waste.
While Nic paid for our room, I checked in with the family.
Chris texted that Matt was finally out of prison (likely just repeating what Matt called it. I would hardly call Matt’s room a prison. In fact, for about five years, it was hard to pry the boy OUT of his room. He obviously didn’t remember that phase, nor did his mother). Chris was now looking into related finds close to the Luxor Bay dig. I texted him that Venice was lovely this time of year confident he’d pass that along to Tina. As much as I wanted to, I did not post any photo of the hotel or the East Nile Bank on Instagram or Facebook.
The hotel where Tiffany had left her paintings texted and asked what to do with them and when was I coming to get them?
I called, regretting the cost but it was necessary. After a protracted argument and assurances, they were willing, once I offered a decent amount for their trouble, to ship the paintings themselves.
Fed Ex, I suggested.
“That is more expensive.”
“Worth it at this point.” My phone buzzed again.
Matt was actually on probation and would not be able to drive for another year. Tina treated me to an alarming number of exclamation points.
Tomor
row, I texted. Just have a few things to wrap up.
We accepted an offer for the house, Vince texted.
I was officially homeless.
Nic over-tipped the bellman because the poor man couldn’t understand that we really did not have any luggage. We followed the bellman in single file, Nic in the lead as I scrolled through more family texts: the offer for Mom’s house; the offer for the apartment; ominously, nothing from Cindy; and one from Chris, a minute ago—check this out and a link.
I followed the link while Nic waved the key card over the door lock.
Chris had found an article posted last month. The dredging project, the Deep Nile Port would be an enormous port, purpose-built for larger ships. Safe and secure, the promoters anticipated that the dock would increase local prosperity, raise up the economy, and offer unprecedented value to their visitors. No longer would guests need to suffer strangers trooping thorough their small river boats to reach the dock (river boats dock four deep requiring the passengers in boat four to reach the shore by walking through the lobbies of boats 1–3). No longer will tourists languish on the deck of a small Nile boat with nothing but a drink and the stars. With a deep-water dock, full luxury cruise ships could bring tourists from Cairo to Luxor in the style in which they all pay to become accustomed to. Okay, that last bit was mine.
I scrolled down. A picture emerged, a group of men in hard hats, the organizers and investors, and (I enlarged the photo) their own personal lackey, Archeologist Dr. Nicholas Ratzenberg who was quoted that no legitimate archeology sites were in danger from the project. There were no settlements or work villages, let alone tombs or even late-Greek burial sites. The project could go forward with residents having confidence that nothing of value would be disturbed.
Our hotel room was decorated in late excessive imperial; it looked like one of Napoleon’s savants had just stepped out. A wide bed was framed by a half canopy. Tall windows swaged in green velvet overlooked the West Bank. Three inlaid end tables were scattered around, and an empire marble topped coffee table designated the sitting area.
This was more like it. I wandered to the window while Nic washed up. To the far left three enormous orange cranes punctured the sky. I texted Chris: Excellent job, what else can you learn about illegal trafficking in artifacts?
After I'm Buried Alive Page 18