A shraf refused to see a doctor. He was steady on his feet, and it was two o’clock in the morning, so we decided to take him back to the Winter Palace. The yawning guard assured us we were the last to leave the temple. I doubted, not his veracity—he probably thought he was telling the truth—but his accuracy. But by that time I didn’t give a damn who was still chasing whom around the columns or climbing over which walls.
After protesting our intent, to no avail, Ashraf lapsed into silence and refused to answer questions. The streets of Luxor were dim and deserted, with not even a taxi in sight, but of course the director’s car awaited. Nothing so prosaic as an ordinary EgyptAir flight for Ashraf; he had had his chauffeur drive him to Luxor.
When we arrived at the hotel, I stopped at the desk to ask for messages and was informed, with appropriate hauteur, that they would have been delivered to our room. Mr. Tregarth had not picked up the one we had left earlier. The news came as no surprise.
Schmidt dug out his first-aid kit and Ashraf submitted fairly graciously to my ministrations, such as they were. The blow had landed just behind his right ear, resulting in a bump and a small cut. He refused my offer to shave off the hair around the cut, so I had to settle for dabbing on an antiseptic cream. I smeared on quite a lot of it, messing up his nice haircut, since by that time I had had it up to here with Ashraf.
He had resigned himself to the inevitable by then—the inevitable being three annoyed people who were prepared to use force to prevent his leaving—and he’d also had time to think things over.
“How did you know?” he inquired, taking a sip of the fizzy lemon drink with which Schmidt had supplied him.
“We’re asking the questions,” I said, folding my arms. “Why didn’t you tell us you had heard again from the thieves?”
“The second message warned me of what would happen if I confided in anyone else.”
“Another piece of Tut?” I asked.
Ashraf shuddered. “Please, don’t say such things.”
“But we aren’t the police,” Feisal said. “That was an idle threat; they couldn’t know whether you had told us.”
“They would know if you turned up at the right place at the right time,” Ashraf said with sudden fury. “Which you did. You were seen. She was extremely angry. I swore by every saint in several pantheons that I hadn’t said a word to any of you. Fortunately she believed me.”
“What a nice, trusting lady she must be,” I said. “Some conspirator!”
Ashraf leaned back, legs extended, ankles crossed, lips curving in a smile. “She was amenable to persuasion. But perhaps I should start at the beginning.”
He had found the second message waiting for him when he arrived at his house in Luxor. (He had others, Feisal told us later, at Sharm el Sheikh and Alexandria.) It instructed him to meet his contact in the Hypostyle Hall at Karnak between twelve midnight and 1:00 A.M. They were thoughtful enough to give him twenty-four hours to arrange the matter. If he failed to show up, he would have cause to regret it.
“I came to you to ask whether you had made any progress. You presented me with a variety of unfounded theories, but no facts. It became evident to me that you were incapable of carrying out your assignment, or unwilling to do so. So…” He took out a fancy silver case, extracted a cigarette, and lit it with a fancy silver lighter. “I decided to proceed on my own. I invited a number of dignitaries and archaeologists to justify my reason for opening the temple. I staked myself out near the entrance in the hope of identifying my contact when he entered; when I saw you three, I realized I ought to have anticipated that Dr. Schmidt would learn of the occasion from one of his several thousand dear friends, and that you would be unable to resist enjoying the experience.”
“Enjoy, hell,” I said. “We went because we had figured out what you were up to. The fact that you hadn’t invited us was suspicious.”
“It was ratiocination of the most brilliant kind,” Schmidt added.
“If you say so,” Ashraf said, not believing a word of it. “In any event, I decided your presence would not interfere with my plan. I had been given a specific cross-reference, and the area is extensive.” He blew a perfect smoke ring and leaned back to admire it.
“Go on,” I said. We should have banged him on the head again in order to keep him off balance. He was enjoying his place in the spotlight.
“As I said, when I encountered a woman I was taken by surprise. However, she gave me the word I had been told to expect—”
“Mummy?” I couldn’t resist.
“How did you know?” Ashraf demanded in surprise.
I had meant it as a feeble joke, but I wasn’t about to admit it. Smug is a game two can play. I gestured for him to continue.
She had been angry and visibly nervous at first, “but I soon put her at her ease. We—er—negotiated. I promised her immunity and a safe haven if she accepted my offer.”
“How much?” Feisal asked bluntly.
Ashraf hesitated. “Two hundred and fifty thousand, for herself.”
“In exchange for Tut’s current address?” I asked.
Feisal and Ashraf both flinched. “I wish you wouldn’t be so frivolous about this,” the latter said. “In essence, yes, that is what we agreed. We were about to set up our next and final meeting when your friend interfered. When I recovered from that cowardly blow, he and she were both gone.”
He lit another cigarette, looking pleased with himself.
He’d told a plausible story, one that made him look like both hero and victim. I wondered how much spin he’d put on it. I was prepared to believe that one of the gang was ready to make a deal. Criminals are not noted for loyalty to one another. Ashraf had private means. He could probably raise that much if he had to.
“Ashraf, you damned fool,” I said. “Didn’t it occur to you that someone would be keeping an eye on your lady friend? I hope for her sake the other guy didn’t overhear too much. Crooks have ways of dealing with traitors.”
“He must have overheard a good deal,” Ashraf admitted. “He struck me down just as we were about to come to an agreement.”
We had to come to it, sooner or later. “He was behind you,” I said, in a last-ditch effort. “How do you know it was John—Mr. Tregarth?”
“I caught only a glimpse. I heard a sound, and started to turn. But I saw enough. How many fair-haired individuals were present tonight?”
“Several, I should think.”
“But only one who is involved in this affair,” Ashraf said triumphantly. “Up to his neck, I should add. Why would he have gone to the temple unless he knew a meeting was planned? You claim you were able to anticipate my intentions through—ratiocination, was it not?—and I am willing to consider the possibility that Tregarth has deceived you as he tried to deceive me; but the evidence against him is strong. If he was not there, where was he? Where is he now?”
“He’ll turn up,” I said. “With a perfectly good explanation.”
“Let me know when he does.” Ashraf put out his cigarette and stood up. “It is late and I am feeling a trifle fatigued. Can I give you a lift, Feisal?”
Feisal looked as if he would like to refuse, but exhaustion overcame pride. None of us was in the mood to go on rehashing the affair. The two men left; Schmidt trudged off to his room; I hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door into the hall, peeled off the outer layers of clothing, and collapsed into bed.
I was so tired, every muscle in my body ached, but my brain wouldn’t shut down. Ashraf had presented a circumstantial but damning case. He wasn’t the only one who claimed to have seen John. Suzi had too, if we could believe her. And what had become of Suzi? Feisal had been following her when he heard Ashraf being attacked. Could it have been Suzi who hit him? She had blond hair, cut short like a man’s. That was all Ashraf had seen, the glimmer of light on a head of fair hair. Feisal had only seen a woman who was wearing a head scarf.
The windows were rectangles of pale gray. Dawn wasn’t far off. I was too
exhausted to get up and close the drapes. I pulled the sheet over my head and fell asleep.
B right sunlight hit me in the eyes and woke me. My watch informed me it was almost ten. I rolled over onto the cold, empty space next to me. The rustle of bedclothes produced a knock at the door.
“Are you awake?” Schmidt, who else. He must have been standing right outside, with his ear pressed to the panel.
“No.”
“I will order breakfast.” Footsteps retreated.
Having been left with no choice in the matter, I dragged myself into the shower. In fact, I felt better than I had any reason to expect. My subconscious hadn’t come up with any answers to the questions that had kept me awake the night before, though.
I got dressed, realizing I had better send some laundry out too. I was buttoning my last clean shirt when the door opened, after what I can only call a perfunctory knock.
“You are dressed,” said Schmidt.
“Sorry about that.”
“There is coffee,” said Schmidt, resigned. “And Feisal is here.”
I didn’t ask whether John had returned. Schmidt would have said so.
The waiter had been and gone and Schmidt was tucking into a plate of eggs and turkey sausages. I accepted a cup of coffee from Feisal.
“Did you get anything useful out of Ashraf?” I asked.
Feisal made a wry face. “All he did was gloat about his cleverness and scold me for queering the deal.”
“How much of his story do you think is true?”
“The basic facts, I believe,” said Schmidt thoughtfully. “But there are many unanswered questions. I have now heard Suzi’s version of what transpired.”
“You’ve been a busy little bee this morning. Sorry I overslept.”
“A man in my physical condition does not require much sleep.” Schmidt smeared jam on a roll. “In accordance with my new policy I expressed concern over her safety and offered to tell her what had happened to Ashraf, since I assumed she would already have heard of it.”
“Well done.” The jam was all gone. I opened a little pot of honey. “Well? What did she say?”
“She did not see the attack itself, only Ashraf’s fallen body. Hearing Feisal approach, she hid herself and watched.”
“Those useful columns,” I murmured. “How did she get out of the temple?”
“Walked out, I expect,” Feisal said. “The guard wasn’t told to keep track of people leaving. Isn’t anybody going to ask how I spent the morning?”
I made encouraging noises, through a mouthful of bread and honey.
“Not happily,” Feisal said. “Ali’s family wants his body back. They sent a delegation—all the men in the family—to my office. I had to tell them the autopsy wasn’t finished. They didn’t like it.”
“According to Muslim law, the body must be buried before sunset of the day of death, or at latest the following day,” Schmidt informed me.
“It was too late for that when the body was found, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“You don’t reason with people who are in emotional distress,” Feisal said. “I’m going to the village to see the rest of the family, try to explain. Do you want to come with me?”
I didn’t want to. It was bound to be an upsetting experience. But maybe our presence would make it easier for Feisal.
He waited while I got my laundry together and Schmidt loaded his pockets with a variety of useful and useless objects, including the beloved magnifying glass, which Feisal had returned to him. One never knows when one will stumble across a Clue.
Since we did not have the limo at our disposal, we crossed the river on one of the boats. I like the boats; they have bright awnings and soft, if faded, cushions on the seats, and they have names like Rosebud and Cleopatra and Nefertiti. Watching Schmidt wobble across the gangplank added a certain element of suspense to the entertainment. Feisal’s Jeep was waiting on the other side.
“I have to stop by the Valley later,” he explained. “But I want to get this over with first.”
This encounter was a repeat of the first—the same swarm of importunate kids, the same darkened room and watching eyes, the same offer of tea and biscuits, the same chicken, or a close relative of same. I ended up sitting next to Umm Ali, who ducked her head in greeting and returned my mispronounced “Salaam aleikhum” with a few words in Arabic that weren’t in my current vocabulary. Schmidt sat in a chair across from me, his face somber. Everybody stared at Feisal.
They listened in silence to his brief speech. The silence lengthened. The chicken flapped up onto Schmidt’s knee. He patted it absently.
“Please, Feisal, express our sympathy to the family.”
“I did. We may as well go. My explanation wasn’t well received,” he added morosely.
I put my glass of tea on the little table and stood up. I felt a need to do or say something, not just walk out. Feeling miserable and ineffectual, I said, “I’m sorry. So very sorry. If there is anything we can do…”
The old lady got to her feet. One bony hand shot out and caught hold of mine. Standing on tiptoe, she looked up at me. The sharp black eyes were blurred with tears. She spoke softly and urgently, squeezing my hand. Her fingers felt like birds’ claws, thin and strong.
Feisal translated, his voice hoarse. “‘My son was murdered. Find his murderer, sitt, so that he can rest in peace.’”
“I will,” I said. “Aywa. Yes. I promise. Inshallah.”
Feisal didn’t have to translate. The old lady nodded and sat down. “Inshallah,” she echoed.
God willing. Nobody makes a promise without adding that. In the end it is in the hands of God. But by her God and mine, I meant to do my damnedest.
Schmidt was openly wiping his eyes when we emerged from the house. “That was very beautiful, Vicky.”
“It was the right thing to say,” Feisal admitted. He gave me an odd look. “I can’t imagine why she should appeal to you. In this culture—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, men rule the roost. Maybe some of the women know better.”
F eisal’s Jeep needed new springs (among other things). Schmidt kept bouncing off me as we hit potholes and swerved to avoid various fauna and other vehicles. A cloud of dust traveled with us, most of it inside the vehicle.
“Tell him to slow down,” I yelled at Feisal, who was up front with the driver.
“We’re late,” Feisal yelled back.
Late for what? I wondered. I didn’t ask. The Jeep hit another pothole; Schmidt ricocheted off the window frame and onto my lap.
Feisal deigned to explain after the driver had dropped us off at the entrance to the Valley of the Kings. “I’m meeting Ahmed Saleh, the subinspector in charge of western Thebes. He’s miffed because I haven’t been answering his calls. He’s a born complainer, but I figured I had better shut him up before he goes over my head. Or,” Feisal added, “behind my back, with a knife in his hand.”
“Is he after your job?” I asked.
“They’re all after my job. For ten piastres I’d let them have it.”
The subinspector was not at the guards’ kiosk. Feisal’s irritated question got an expansive gesture and an explanation Feisal cut short.
“He’s gone on along the main path. Confound him, I told him to wait for me here.”
He lengthened his stride. There’s no denying we were all a little sensitive about that particular tomb; like a murderer who is guiltily conscious of where the body is hidden, we got nervous whenever anyone went near it.
The sun was past the zenith. Many of the tourists had gone off to lunch, but there were enough of them left to slow our progress; we had to veer around groups clustered around a lecturing guide, and a few of those maddening trios and foursomes who spread themselves out across the path, yielding the way to no one. When we came in sight of the tomb—The Tomb—Feisal screeched to a stop. Dust spurted up from under his heels.
Perched on the enclosure wall above the entrance was a pretty little woman wearing a
becomingly arranged head scarf and a full skirt which spread out around her in an amber pool. She was looking down, and seemed to be chatting with someone who was out of sight on the steps below.
Feisal let out a bellow. The woman looked up, displayed a set of gleaming white teeth, and sprang to her feet.
“Here you are at last,” she cried, hurrying toward him. “Saleh, here he is.”
Feisal put out a hand to fend her off. Unperturbed and still beaming, Saida threw her arms around me. Over her head I saw a man emerge from the depths of the stairs and come toward us. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry.
“What the hell are you doing?” Feisal shouted. “I told you no one was to be allowed in that tomb.”
Mr. Saleh’s most conspicuous feature was a magnificent black beard, which he kept stroking nervously. He greeted his superior with an ingratiating smile and looked imploringly at Saida.
Like the lady she was, she came to his rescue. “He was only inspecting the steps, Feisal. I asked him—”
“What’s to inspect? They’re steps!” Feisal lowered his voice a few decibels. “You asked him, did you? And smiled and fluttered your lashes and—”
Her melting brown eyes congealed like hardening fudge. “Don’t you dare talk to me that way!”
I detached myself from Saida’s fond embrace and took Feisal’s arm. “Watch it,” I muttered.
“What?” He stared at me and, with a visible effort, got himself under control. “Oh. Right. I’m sorry, Saida.”
Saida, now in Schmidt’s fond embrace, said cheerfully, “I forgive you.”
“As for you, Saleh,” Feisal began.
“I was only—”
“Never mind. What did you want to see me about?”
“It can wait. There is no problem. Whenever you can spare the time, Chief Inspector.”
He was backing away, step by step, as he spoke. Feisal nodded curtly. “Later, then.”
“Yes, sir. As you say.” He beat a hasty retreat, but I caught a glimpse of his face before he turned, and I understood why Feisal had mentioned knives in the back.
“Oooh,” Saida cooed. “I do love you when you are being masterful.”
“Knock it off, Saida,” Feisal growled. “What are you doing here?”
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