by Joan Hess
Rather than passively watch any longer, I dashed through the sitting room, grabbing my purse, and raced to the elevator. Although I knew it was futile, I jabbed the button again and again until the car arrived and the doors slid open. Two sunburned tourists shrank into a corner, staring at me as I squirmed like an insect facing annihilation beneath a boot sole.
Ahmed tried to waylay me as I went through the lobby, but I ignored him. When I reached the terrace, I stopped. Miriam had vanished—and so had Sittermann. I bit back the urge to howl with frustration. Samuel glanced up as I grabbed his shoulder.
“Where’s Sittermann?” I snapped.
“Who?”
“Don’t give me that! Did he go into the hotel?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he said, trying to pull himself free.
My grip tightened. “I saw him from my balcony less than five minutes ago. Where is he?”
“That guy from Texas? The really loud—”
“Which way did he go?” I lowered my voice, aware that I was attracting attention. “Just point, okay?”
Samuel gestured in the direction of Luxor Temple, visible above the trees in the garden. “Why don’t you sit here and have something cool to drink, Mrs. Malloy? You’re looking awfully upset.”
I went to the corniche and looked to the right. A couple of taxi drivers were leaning against the temple wall, smoking cigarettes and waiting for weary tourists to emerge. Sittermann was nowhere in sight. On the far side of the corniche, a policeman was talking to a carriage driver. I stopped at the corner. To my right were all the narrow streets where Caron and I had been earlier. If he’d gone that way, I’d never find him.
The taxi drivers drew back as I approached the entrance to the temple. The man in the ticket kiosk was reading a magazine, but he set it aside when I cleared my throat.
“Did a man in a white suit come in here a few minutes ago?” I asked.
“Twenty pound.”
“A man,” I said slowly, “tall like this.” I held my hand several inches above my head. “American, dressed in white.” Since I was wearing green, I looked around, then touched the margin of his magazine. “White.”
His eyes widened with confusion. He pushed the magazine under the grill and said, “Kora. Ah … football.”
The cover of the magazine depicted a swarthy man in shorts leaping into the air as a soccer ball rocketed off his head. “No, not football,” I said. “A man, tall, dressed in white.”
“Italian,” the ticket seller said, pointing at the photo. “Very good football.”
I was going to find myself with a date to the next match if I persisted. I took out a twenty-pound bill and handed it over. Two guards at a table opened my purse to make sure I wasn’t armed and dangerous. I crossed my fingers and said, “Did a man in a white suit come in here?” One of them nodded. I went down the steps to the area in front of the temple complex. The avenue of sphinxes was on my left, the colossal statues of Ramses II on my right. Unless Sittermann was crouched behind one of the stone sphinxes, he’d gone into the temple.
Although we’d been there before, we’d been in a lot of temples since then and I couldn’t remember the layout. I went into the courtyard. Most of the tour groups had departed, and the few remaining tourists were milling about with guidebooks and cameras. I made my way through the colonnade, watching for Sittermann. What he was doing was beyond speculation; he’d shown no great enthusiasm for the architecture or history. I was sure he could no more differentiate between Ramses II and Ramses IV than I could. He was a Tut man, at best.
I stopped in the next courtyard and sat on the base of a pillar. The last of the tourists, a tweedy man and his formidable female companion, gave me disapproving looks as they left in the direction of the entrance. Above the pillars, the sky was pale blue. Clouds tinged with dark edges moved ponderously toward the mountains east of the city. The sonorous atonal chant of the muezzins summoning the pious to prayer reverberated in the empty courtyard. Forced to rely on scenes from movies, I pictured myself as a royal princess, surrounded by kowtowing servants and stern, bearded priests in tall hats and white robes.
Therefore, I was startled when Sittermann’s face appeared above me. I bit back a yelp as I stumbled to my feet.
“Why, if it ain’t Mrs. Malloy,” he said. “Darned if we don’t keep bumping into each other in the most peculiar places. Fancying yourself as Cleopatra?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“I suspected that might be why you followed me. I’m sorry about running out last night, but I had an urgent matter that I had to deal with before it bit me on the buttocks.”
“Speaking of deals, what’s yours?” I said, irritated by his benign smile. “And don’t give me that nonsense about a theme park. I want answers, Mr. Sittermann.”
He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his neck. Once he was finished, he returned it to his pocket. “Mrs. Malloy, I have no obligation to answer questions in order to satisfy your curiosity. You may believe whatever you choose.”
“Your accent slipped,” I pointed out politely.
“Yes, I suppose it did. Why don’t you run along back to the hotel and watch the sunset from your balcony? Make a drink, put your feet up, and relax. Not everyone has the opportunity to watch the sun set over the Nile. You should take advantage of the opportunity while you’re here.”
I was growing alarmed by his abrupt transition from extroverted Texan mogul to… whatever. He and I were the only two people in this far area of the temple complex. The sun was still shining, but shadows encroached and the air was cooler. I was reasonably confident that my screams would be heard if he threatened me. There were more than enough columns to make for a spirited game of chase all the way back to the entrance of the temple complex. Once I was there, the security guards might be bewildered, but they would come to my assistance.
“I’m not going to behave in an ungentlemanly fashion,” he said. “Just stroll out of here and go back to the hotel. I allowed you to follow me here so I could ask you to keep your nose out of this mess. That’s all I can do, since you seem to have made up your mind to interfere.”
“You allowed me to follow you?” I said, offended. “What made you so certain that I would? I could have stayed in the suite and read a book, or joined Samuel for a drink on the terrace.”
“But here you are, Mrs. Malloy.”
“What if I said I was coming here anyway, merely to enjoy the temple when it wasn’t crowded?”
“I’d say I didn’t believe you.” He touched the brim of his hat. “I must be off now. I assume you can find your way out on your own. Give my regards to your husband and young Bledrock.”
He went through a narrow doorway. I leaned against the column and muttered some colorful comments that were inappropriate in any religious setting, even one that had been decommissioned for nearly two millennia.
Two backpackers walked by, nervously glancing at me. I gave them a wan smile, then crept over to the doorway through which Sittermann had disappeared. Beyond it was a vast open yard with stacks of flat rocks and broken pottery. In a corner, native workmen were drinking tea from tin cups. Tools were aligned on a low rock wall. It was, I surmised, the restoration area, and off-limits to casual visitors. Not that there was anything casual about Sittermann, I thought as I turned around and started toward the entrance.
I froze as I saw a figure propped against a column in the colonnade. He wore a dark business suit and sunglasses, and a mustache dominated his features. Almost, that is.
The scar was quite visible.
CHAPTER 14
I was sorry I didn’t actually have a stun gun; the most lethal object in my purse was the heavy brass key from the hotel. Confrontation was not necessarily my best option, I decided as I went through the doorway into the restoration area. I stepped over a yellow tape and made my way through the labyrinth of rocks and broken pillars. Sittermann had all of a thirty-second lead, but he ha
d vanished.
I looked over my shoulder, then went to the far wall where the workmen were sitting. “Did any of you see which way that man in the white suit went?”
The workmen stared at me.
“Is there another exit?” I persisted.
Another round of stares.
“No, I didn’t think so,” I said. “I’d love to stay and chat some more, guys, but I need to figure out how to get back out to the corniche without bumping into the other man, the one with the mustache and scar. As much as I’d like to shove him into a corner and demand to know who he is and why he’s been frightening my daughter and her friend, this just isn’t the place. Any suggestions?”
“There’s a gate over there,” said a workman, pointing at a corner. “It’ll put you on the backstreet where the carriages park when the horses need a break. You can ride back to your hotel in style.”
It took me a minute to respond. “Thank you. I apologize if I sounded like an idiot. I certainly feel like one.”
“I grew up in Toronto,” he said, “and work as a stonemason for the restoration team. As for the man in the white suit, he cut across the yard in the direction of the entrance. Didn’t see a second man. I’d offer to escort you, but we’re about to knock off and I want to make sure everything’s put away.”
“The gate will be fine.” I smiled weakly and left before I further embarrassed myself, if such a thing was possible. The Canadian and his crew hadn’t seen the elusive stalker, and I wasn’t entirely sure I had, either. Incipient sunstroke could have transformed an ordinary tourist into an ominous figure in the shadows. The carriage drivers watched me as I came out onto a rough sidewalk, but no one offered me a ride. Like a pedestrian wary of speeding buses, I looked both ways before I stepped off the curb and followed the exterior wall of the temple around the corner to the corniche. Late afternoon traffic was raucous as drivers blew their horns and outmaneuvered one another to get around buses and carriages.
Samuel was no longer on the terrace. I went into the lobby, but Ahmed caught me before I reached the elevator.
“Sitt Malloy-Rosen,” he said breathlessly, “how fortunate that I saw you. I have a message from Mr. Rosen. He called the suite, he said, but no one answered. I told him I saw you earlier, going out to the terrace. I searched for you there, and then in the restaurant. I was beginning to despair when—”
“What is Mr. Rosen’s message?”
Ahmed was disappointed that I didn’t want to hear about his diligent search for me behind every potted plant and porcelain teapot. “Mr. Rosen said that he is sorry, but he has gone to Cairo for the weekend. He did not say why.”
“His girlfriend, a belly dancer. Her name is Fatima and she has a ruby in her navel.”
“On your honeymoon?” Ahmed said, gasping. “Surely not. He must have important business there—with businessmen and bureaucrats.”
“Very important.” I stepped back to escape the overpowering gust of breath mints. “Thank you for passing along Mr. Rosen’s message. I’ll tell him that you told me at your first opportunity.”
He closed in on me. “These belly dancers are prostitutes, Sitt Malloy-Rosen, and the clubs where they can be found are often dangerous, particularly in Cairo. I do hope Mr. Rosen is aware of this.”
“Yes, I hope so as much as you.” I punched the elevator button, struggling not to smile. Ahmed looked as though he wished to elaborate, but I held up my hand as I backed into the elevator. He was on the verge of tears as the doors closed. I was, too, but for a different reason.
After Caron, Inez, and I had a quiet dinner in the restaurant, we went to the lobby. The girls gravitated toward a card game in one corner. I watched curiously to see if I could pick out Inez’s pool date, but no sparks were visible. I sat down at a table in the bar and ordered coffee. Another romantic night, I thought with a grimace. At least Peter and I had had some private interludes on the ship. My face and other areas of my anatomy began to turn warm, and I was disconcerted when the waiter intruded with my coffee.
“Shukran,” I mumbled.
“You’re looking awfully smug,” Alexander said as he sat down and lit a cigarette.
“I wish I were. What are you up to tonight?”
“Hanging around a bar, hoping to meet a beautiful lady who’s been abandoned by her lover. Our eyes will lock across the table in a gaze fraught with unspoken desires. The lights will dim and treacly violin music will fill the room. Two lonely souls, drawn together through fate.”
“You need a Humphrey Bogart accent to pull this off.”
Alexander laughed. “I’d sound like a bullfrog.” He waved over the waiter and ordered two brandies. “My father and the others have gone to Lady Emerson’s for dinner and cards. All but Miriam, who pleaded a headache. She’s probably slitting her wrists in their room, but doing it over the washbasin to minimize the mess. She’s very fastidious.”
“Why are you so boorish about her?” I asked.
“I am many things,” he said, “but never boorish. I prefer to think of myself as perceptive and articulate. Miriam annoys me. It’s not as though she’s an orphaned waif living on crusts of bread off Mrs. McHaver’s kitchen floor. The only reason she’s so ghastly pale is that she avoids the sun. She’s not as frail as she’d like you to believe, either. You should have seen her wrestling Mrs. McHaver’s luggage out of the trunk of a taxi when they arrived at the hotel. The bellmen were awed.”
“If you say so.”
“You should never question the son of a baron. It’s not done.”
I listened to the whoops and laughter from the card game. Caron appeared to be holding her own. I wondered if she’d sucked in her arrogance long enough to ask Inez for a few tips. At nearby tables, elderly couples carried on low conversations, occasionally touching hands. Other couples whispered intimate secrets. I felt very isolated. Alexander was not an adequate substitute for Peter. Neither was a long, hot bath and a good book, but it was the best I could do.
A rapping noise awoke me. Bewildered, I looked through the shuttered window at the embryonic morning light. The rapping, low and insistent, continued. I grimaced as I sat up. Had my husband been asleep beside me, I would have poked him and bade him do his manly duty. He was, however, AWOL for the remainder of the weekend. I realized the miscreant was at the door that led from the bedroom to the hallway.
Clad in a T-shirt and boxers, I forced myself out of bed and ran my fingers through my hair before opening the door.
“I am so sorry, Mrs. Malloy,” Samuel said. “This is a gawd-awful hour to disturb you, but I couldn’t wait any longer. As soon as it started getting light, I had to come. I hope you’ll understand.”
“This better be good,” I said.
“It’s—uh, well, kind of complicated. Can I come in?”
He had not changed clothes since I’d seen him on the terrace. His cheeks were stubbly, his hair sticking out at angles, and his eyes bloodshot. I was afraid he might collapse at my feet and begin to sob at any moment. I did not want to be caught in the scene by some bushy-tailed tourist with a perverse desire to be the first in line at the breakfast buffet.
“Come through here,” I said, “and go into the parlor. Call room service for coffee and whatever else you want. Keep your voice down; the girls are sleeping in the other bedroom. I’ll be out in ten minutes.”
“I knew you’d understand,” he said with such intensity that I flinched.
“I can assure you, Samuel, that I do not.”
I dressed as quickly as I could and did the minimum required in the bathroom to make myself remotely presentable. I went into the parlor. Samuel had pulled back the drapes and opened the doors to the balcony. His back was to me as he stared at the mountains to the west. He looked more like a construction worker than an architect, but I’d met librarians built like grizzly bears and truck drivers no sturdier than fashion models.
“Okay,” I said. “Explain.”
He stiffened, and his hands tightened on t
he railing. “Buffy called late last night, maybe a couple of hours after midnight. I could barely hear her voice. She said she was at the Kharga Oasis, locked in a windowless room in a hotel. I told her to call the police, but she wouldn’t. She’s terrified that if the police show up, her captors will kill her.”
“And this room has a pay phone?”
“She said she managed to steal a cell phone from one of them. It went dead before she could say any more.”
There was a more civilized tap on the door. I admitted Abdullah, who merely raised his eyebrows when he saw Samuel. He put the tray on the coffee table and gazed stonily at me.
“That will be all,” I said. “Thank you for coming so promptly. If we need anything else, I’ll call. Run along and gossip about me.”
Once Abdullah was gone, I poured myself a cup of coffee and went out to the balcony. “Did you believe Buffy?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I mean, we all saw those men grab her and gallop away. She must have been going through hell since then. They could have done”—he gulped—“anything to her. She was almost hysterical when she called. Why don’t you believe her?”
“I didn’t say that.” I took a sip of coffee and waited for the caffeine to jolt some neurons into activity. It was not my best time of day for keen insights and ruthless analysis. “There’s just been too much going on around here. Maybe aliens did build the pyramids. It’d make as much sense.”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Malloy.”
“And don’t patronize me. You’re the one who came bursting in here at five thirty in the morning with some wild story about Buffy in a hotel in an oasis.”
“Does that mean you won’t go with me?”
I nearly choked on a mouthful of coffee. I managed to put the cup on the table before it sloshed all over me. “Me? That’s absurd. Chief Inspector el-Habachi will make an ideal companion. He can wear a burqa. Those things are voluminous. He could have an arsenal strapped to his body. Once he sees the situation, he can decide how to get Buffy out intact.”