by Aaron Elkins
He jerked his head. It was Forrest he had to worry about. Once he had taken care of Forrest Julie would be all right. What "taken care of" meant, he had yet to figure out, but something would come to him.
I know you'll think of something. He hoped so.
Staying low, he scrambled for better cover about thirty feet further on: a column of limestone that had collapsed and fractured into a jumble of massive slabs. From between two of them, he scanned the pale, eroded plateau in Forrest's presumed direction, squinting in the needle-sharp light. To his surprise a white Horizon van stood about two hundred yards away, and directly beyond it, no more than a mile off, was the familiar, humpbacked Monkey's Spine that marked the location of WV-29- Between the two he could make out, for much of the way, a portion of a "desert freeway," one of the sandy tracks used by night-driving truck drivers who had their own reasons for keeping far from the main roads.
That explained how Forrest had gotten here first. When Gawdat had started off on the roundabout route that would bring them to the entrance to the sunken canyon—it had taken a good twenty minutes—Forrest had simply hopped into the other van and driven straight to the cliffside, only a mile—
He ducked. There had been a flash of white about fifty yards in front of him, along the back of the organ-pipe formation. White and red. Forrest's broad-brimmed Panama hat. Gideon dropped onto his belly and peered through a heap of crumbled limestone. Forrest was coming toward him, rounding the edge of a rocky column and scooting sideways down a sandy incline, one hand steadying himself against the rock, the other holding the rifle.
Crablike, Gideon backed further into the three-foot space between the tilted slabs. He didn't think he'd been seen; Forrest's face had been down, his eyes on his footing, and the brim of his hat had probably blocked his vision.
Probably.
He could hear him now, big desert boots scrunching on the gritty soil. Forrest had no choice but to come this way to get to a spot where he could overlook the van; on this part of the cliffs the organ-pipe formation at Gideon's back sidled up almost to the rim, leaving only a six-foot-wide space for passage. Right in front of Gideon.
And when he came, Gideon would be coiled and ready, his eyes fixed on the place where Forrest's legs would appear. The instant he saw him he would spring, bowling him over, going for the rifle with both hands and wresting it out of the startled Forrest's grasp. He would take Forrest to the van he'd come in, lay him down in the back and lash him to something, and find the road that led down into the canyon. In an hour he and Julie would be on a patio in Luxor sipping something cool, and Forrest would be learning firsthand about the Egyptian system of justice administration.
Assuming that all went well.
He got into position on fingertips and toes, a sprinter's crouch. With his eyes on the pathway and his muscles so tense they vibrated he waited. And waited.
Two minutes passed. His neck began to ache. His shoulders and back were stiffening; he had probably taken more of a mauling in the van than he'd realized. He adjusted his position, easing the strain on his neck and hands. Forrest didn't come. Another minute went by. No Forrest.
Sweat dripped from the end of his nose. Had he been seen after all? Had he boxed himself in? Was it Forrest who was doing the waiting-out, sitting at his ease—
His ears pricked. He'd heard something; the chink of metal against stone. Not coming toward him, but already past, toward the canyon rim. Somehow Forrest had gotten by. But how could... a frightening image of him out there, taking his time, drawing a bead on Julie through one of the van's windows, brought him swiftly out from behind the rocks with the tire iron in his hand.
It took him a few seconds to find Forrest. He wasn't on the rim with Gideon, but about fifteen feet below it, on a projection that Gideon hadn't noticed before even though he had to have climbed over it on the way up; a slanting shelf about a hundred feet long that ran from the cliff top, well behind where Gideon was standing, to peter out about seventy feet above the canyon floor. Forrest was hunkered down behind some boulders near the lower end of it with his back to Gideon, methodically surveying the area below. The rifle was held beside him, propped on its butt. Clearly, he was concerned that they might have gotten out of the van; equally clearly, the idea that Gideon might already have gotten up the steep walls and be behind him had never crossed his mind.
Frankly, it seemed improbable to Gideon too. He didn't have a particularly good head for heights, and looking at that fissured, near-vertical cliff face now was enough to make his legs watery. God bless the autonomic nervous system, he thought; always ready to kick in when you needed it. He hoped it was getting ready again.
He began to edge quietly forward, crouching low, placing his feet with care to avoid any friction. He had about fifteen feet of downward-sloping limestone to go to the rim of the cliff. Then a sheer six-foot drop to Forrest's level and another ten or twelve feet—the width of the shelf—to Forrest himself. It was the last dozen feet that were going to be the hard part. Assuming he made it without being seen to the edge of the cliff, what then? If he hurled himself down at Forrest, could he possibly reach him? He didn't think so. Well, on a bounce maybe, but that wasn't going to do the trick.
He gripped the tire iron. Flung end-over-end it would be a wicked missile, easily capable of cracking Forrest's skull. But one try was all he was going to get, and he wasn't close enough yet. He crept onward, freezing when Forrest straightened up. But the director, unwaveringly confident, didn't bother looking behind him. Instead, he settled down into a more stable position on one knee and brought the rifle forward, propping his left arm on one of the rocks and adjusting his aim. Gideon began moving again.
Forrest took off his hat, wiped his forehead with his fingers and put the hat on again. He sighted along the rifle, swung out the handle of the bolt and slipped it smoothly back and forward, chambering a new cartridge with a well-oiled click. Gideon picked up his pace. Julie wasn't visible through the windows, but even a chance shot through the floor of the upturned van could easily hit her.
But Forrest wasn't settling for chance shots; he seemed to be taking careful aim, repositioning his torso, shifting his elbow, getting his orientation just right. Standing on the rim now, behind and above him, Gideon could sight down the barrel at almost the same angle that Forrest had. He seemed to be aiming at a place just forward of the rear axle, at—
The gas tank. The sonofabitch was trying to—
"No!" Gideon yelled, heaving the iron at the white hat. With almost the same motion he launched himself after it. It was a long jump and he put into it everything that he had against Forrest: the heat, the pain, the fear, the blood in his mouth, the hammering in his chest. And above all, above everything, Julie. He plunged from the rim like an avenging angel, arms outstretched, fingers reaching.
The iron missed its mark by three feet, zinging end-over-end above Forrest's head and out into the canyon.
Gideon missed by two.
He fell short, coming down in a sprawling three-point landing on one hand and both feet, his momentum carrying him into Forrest, or rather into Forrest's rifle. At Gideon's shout Forrest had spun to his feet and tried to bring the gun to bear on the howling thing falling out of the sky on him. But he hadn't been fast enough. The barrel of the weapon, still being swung around, smacked Gideon hard in the ribs below his left arm. With a grunt he clamped his arm down on it, then got his other hand around it too, a few inches further up the barrel, butted up against Forrest's left hand. He shifted to get a grip with both hands and pulled.
Forrest hung on, staggering momentarily before he set himself. They stood, straining and glaring at each other with their faces a couple of feet apart, like fencers with crossed swords. The tire iron clanged distantly on the rocks below. Forrest's face was scarlet from the strain, his cheeks distended. The tendons in his neck were popping. Gideon supposed he looked about the same.
"This is crazy, Forrest," he said through clenched jaws. "Don't make it worse on yourself..
. let go."
Forrest kicked him in the hip with a size-twelve, lug-soled desert boot. Gideon stumbled backward over a rock and went down onto the seat of his pants, clinging to the barrel with his left hand and twisting furiously to keep the muzzle pointed away from him.
Forrest kicked at him again, catching him under the arm and tugging on the rifle at the same time. Flinching with pain and dragged over the stones by the heavier Forrest, Gideon held grimly on, forcing the muzzle to the side. Letting go would be the end of everything, for him and for Julie. The bullet was in the chamber, the gun was cocked, and Forrest's finger was on the trigger. A quick, simple squeeze was all it would take for Gideon's death. Julie's wouldn't be long in following.
Somehow he managed to scramble to his feet again, helped inadvertently by Forrest's hauling on the rifle. But although he got his other hand on the gun again, his grip had slipped down almost to the muzzle. If not for the metal tag of the front sight, digging agonizingly into the fleshy heel of his hand, he would have lost hold altogether. He was winded now; that last kick had taken something out of him, and Forrest's greater weight was grinding him down as the larger man continued to wrench at the rifle. His arms had begun to tremble. His fingers were wooden.
Why, I might lose, he thought dully. This man might actually kill me, kill Julie.
Forrest was fresher. Forrest was heavier. And Forrest had hold of the right end of the gun.
Breathing hard, Forrest seemed to sense a weakening. "God... damn... you," he croaked, his broad back arched with the strain, his nostrils flaring, "let—"
Gideon let go.
Forrest flew back like a man shot out of a cannon. There was no cry or curse, no futile scrambling for balance, no expression of horror. His eyes, fixed on Gideon's, showed only a dawning surprise. His mouth remained as it was, formed for the "g" in "go." Two quick, stumbling backward steps and over the edge he went.
Over the edge and down, not in the parabolic arc that Gideon anticipated but down, like a safe falling out of a window. A moment later, out of sight, the rifle went off, mercifully overriding the sound that Gideon was listening for but trying not to hear. On his knees he edged to the rim and looked over in time to see Forrest sliding limply to the sand from the inclined top of a ten-foot-high boulder. The lolling neck, the impossible position in which his head came to rest, made it amply clear that the craniospinal junction had been severed.
So it was over. About Forrest he felt nothing; no triumph, no misgivings about taking a life, no soul-searching over whether there might have been a better way. Already he wasn't sure if he'd meant for Forrest to plummet over the edge when he let go or if he'd just been trying to gain the advantage.
Either way, he didn't much care. It was done, that was all, and he was alive and Julie was alive. Wearily, he wiped his hands on his pants.
Twenty yards away from Forrest the white Panama hat with its red band spiraled gently to the canyon floor.
Chapter Twenty-Five
"Fascinating," opined Rupert Armstrong LeMoyne. "An incredible story, just fascinating." He shook his head, staring into the softly crackling log blaze. To the side of the brick fireplace, beyond the windows of the faculty club's cozy bar a few spatters of gray, early-January snow, probably the last of the winter, swirled dismally over a murky Lake Washington.
"But why in the world," he continued after a reflective sip of white wine, "would this Forrest Freeman person want to kill you?"
"Obviously, that's something nobody's ever going to know for sure," Gideon said. "My guess is that he heard about my offer of $40,000 and thought it was for real; that I was actually after that statuette. I suppose he thought I was bent. Like him."
"Mm, yes, I see. That makes sense."
As far as it went, Gideon thought. But what could Forrest have thought his motivation was? Gideon, after all, didn't have the corresponding inlays or head, so why would he have been so ready to shell out $40,000 for a sandstone body that wasn't much of anything in itself? But maybe Forrest hadn't worried about motivation. From his point of view, the fact was that Gideon was doing it, whatever the reason, and that was enough.
"No," Julie said, turning from her own contemplation of the fire, "I can't imagine anybody seeing you as a crook. You're too straight-arrow. I think that business with Hassan made Forrest realize that you were on to him, or about to be."
"Yes, that makes sense too," said the agreeable Rupert.
"Either way," Julie said, "you obviously had to go. Unfortunately, since I was with you at the time, I had to go too."
"Well, now, wait, Gideon," Rupert said. "You were in disguise that night. Nobody knew your name. How did he find out it was you?"
Gideon laughed. "Come on, a mysterious American named John Smith? With a stick-on beard? In Phil Boyajian's company? A story like that, with a few more details from Jalal or one of the others, wouldn't have been too hard to crack."
"Well, in any event," Rupert said, "it all worked out in the end, and that's what counts."
So it had, thanks largely to Sergeant Gabra. The setup with Hassan had been executed perfectly, even without Gideon's presence (Gabra had forbidden it after he and Julie had gotten back in the second Horizon van and given him an account of the events in the Western Valley). By the next morning, Gabra had all the pieces: the body, the head, and the box of inlays, the latter two thanks to Kermit Feiffer, who admitted to having been an on-again-off-again smuggling accomplice of Forrest's over the years, but who expressed dubious shock at hearing that Haddon's death had not been accidental. After a long session with Gabra and a night in the Luxor jail, Kermit had welcomed the opportunity to produce the objects, to tell everything, and to swear never again to set foot in Egypt, all in exchange for a promise of immunity from prosecution.
Forrest, Gabra confirmed, had been a conduit for the el-Hamids for years. He would offer them a little more than they could get anywhere else in Luxor and then smuggle it out of the country in his equipment cases to sell for ten or twenty times what he'd paid. According to Kermit, four years earlier, when he had been a cameraman on Forrest's PBS documentary, they had approached the director with the sandstone body recently taken from WV-29, asking what was for them a preposterously high price. Forrest said no.
Ah, they explained, but this particular statuette was from a newly excavated portion of the same ancient sculptor's studio that a certain Amarna head, now lying forgotten in a drawer at Horizon House, had come seventy years earlier—the now-aged Atef el-Hamid himself had been on Lambert's dig as a boy-laborer—and they had good reason to believe that the two were parts of a single sculpture. Moreover, there was another branch of the family at the village of el-Till, near the ruined site of Akhetaten, with whom they were in periodic contact. Information from this branch had long ago led them to conclude that the inlays that had been made for this Amarna head were at the Tel el-Amarna Museum, unrecognized and unrecorded, having been excavated long ago from an ancient metalsmith's studio in Akhetaten.
Surely, they said, a resourceful man such as Forrest, armed with this knowledge, could manage to get his hands on the head and the inlays. When added to the body that they were offering to sell him, he would have an art object of fantastic value, which was why they were asking such an admittedly extravagant price.
Six hundred American dollars.
Forrest was skeptical. They already had the body, didn't they? If they were so sure about the inlays and the head why hadn't they themselves stolen them? Why hadn't they stolen them years ago? They responded with wounded pride. To take something from a museum would be stealing, and the el-Hamids were not thieves. Removing an object from the ground was an entirely different matter, however. Who could claim before God or the law to own what had lain beneath the desert for ten thousand years? But steal from a museum? Never.
Forrest, who also preferred not to sully himself or his staff with stealing if he could pay someone else to take the risks, pressed them to reconsider their convictions. He would pay $800
if they would get him the head as well as the body.
Never, said the el-Hamids, not even for $1,000.
But when he got to $1,200—almost four times the average annual wage—one of the family, Abdul Nasr el-Hamid, made it clear that his own ethics might not be quite as rigid as those of the others, and that he had little love for Horizon House. Moreover, having worked there for a little while, he knew his way around.
An agreement was reached, but when two weeks passed without hearing anything more, Forrest made contact again. He was told that Abdul had unaccountably disappeared, failing to show up after his foray to Horizon House. Forrest assumed they had simply found a better buyer, and accepted the situation with a shrug. That was the way the game was played. The matter was dropped.
Four years later, with Forrest and Kermit back at Horizon House for Reclaiming History, it was picked up again. When Arlo, Jerry, and TJ walked into the crew's late-night pizza party with a tale about the remains of a body in the storage enclosure, a light had clicked on. Forrest had gone to check for himself and had found the head. In the seven hours before Gabra and Saleh were due to arrive, he and Kermit had painted the numbers on the bones, buried the real F4360, and put the head in the most logical of places: its own drawer. By now, knowing more about Horizon's nonexistent security precautions, they were more at ease about retaking it later. All Forrest had to do now was reinstate the visit to the el-Amarna Museum to get at the inlays, buy the body from Ali Hassan, who had gotten it from the el-Hamids, and remove the head at his pleasure. He would realize enough money from the statuette's eventual sale to finance whatever films he wanted to make for the rest of his life; no more Reclaiming Historys or Joy of Spring Bulbs. Kermit was to get twenty percent of the profits. And they would manage it all without leaving a single clue or even a single lingering question behind.
Except, as they were shortly to find out, that Haddon had seen the head.
"You know, Gideon," Julie said, "now that I think about it, there's one part of this I've never gotten straight."