Chapter Nine
We sat crossed-legged on the bed and ate in silence. I moved the ashtray on the nightstand and placed my beer within easy reach. The butt-holder reminded me that I had killed a man today. I didn’t feel bad about it and that worried me. Of course I didn’t intend to kill him. I was trying to stop him from killing Roger. But still, shouldn’t I feel something? Was I becoming hardened? Real estate brokers are not licensed to kill even in extreme circumstances. I thought about some of my former clients. Maybe there should be a special section of agents whose licenses start with double-oh.
I lifted the beer and took a swig.
Roger had filled me in on everything about his meeting with Sir Sydney except where Dorkovsky fit in.
“What’s up with that dork, Dorkovsky?”
“Try not to get on his bad side. He’s an oligarch.”
Unfortunately, I was familiar with Russian oligarchs. I sold Miami Beach mansions to a couple of them.
They aren’t political oligarchs running a country as you might recall from your high school civics class when you weren’t falling asleep. It’s a term for businessmen who took over faltering Russian government-run enterprises when the Soviet Bloc collapsed and became ruthless billionaires. Many of them are former KGB or Communist party bosses with connections to the Russian mafia. They have more money than they can spend on mega-yachts and the like so they become patrons, then collectors just for the sake of collecting.
“From the warm welcome he gave you, it seems you’re already on his bad side.”
“He hires looters to plunder burial sites for his private collection. He’s the kind of guy who’ll buy a stolen Rembrandt just to possess it even though he’ll never be able to show it. I’m his opposite number, trying to find and protect historical treasures.”
“Why is he so chummy with Sir Sydney?”
“Sydney might be humoring him. The guy doles out big bucks to places like the Museum. But Dorkovsky is smarter than Sydney and it’s too much of a coincidence for him to show up the day Sydney gives me the medallion piece. My guess is Dorkovsky got wind of my agreement with Sydney through spies or electronic surveillance and is here to follow the medallion until we find Cleopatra’s half. Dorkovsky’s latest passion is black archaeology.”
“Don’t you mean black market archaeology?”
“No. Black archaeology is the looting of archaeological sites, not the selling of the relics. They hoard what they find.”
He ducked into the bathroom.
“And you would be a white archaeologist?” Roger’s tight rump reflected in the bathroom mirror as he washed his hands.
“And those ninja-types belong to Dorkovsky?”
“Not his style. He’ll wait until the treasure’s found then grab it. In this case he’ll send in his team before the Society can secure the site.”
“Do you think Dorkovsky snatched the body? My ashtray-hit?”
Roger leaned out the bathroom door. “No. He’ll stay in the shadows until we locate the tomb.”
Two sharp knocks on the cabin door caused me to lurch. I wiggled under the sheet and tucked it around my breasts. If it was Fiona she was pushing my patience button. The little dame was high maintenance. Maybe I could palm her off on Petri. He’s French. Aren’t they supposed to be great lovers? She could pick his brains for her erotica.
Roger belted his robe and opened the door.
There I was thinking of Petri and he walked in. He wore a leather glove that covered his left hand and wrist and carried a draped round-bottomed birdcage. He placed it on the built-in dresser and yanked off the cloth with a flourish. A bird the size of a large crow filled most of the cage. His body was blue-gray with a dusting of white feathers on his belly. He had a black head and a huge yellow beak that looked like it could pry the cap off a Corona.
“This is a peregrine falcon. He is a brave companion,” Petri said opening the cage. “When you have located the tomb, we will release the bird. He has been trained to return to Sir Sydney to confirm your success.”
The bird stepped onto the glove.
I backed away. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just phone Sir Sydney?”
“Satellite phones can be intercepted. There are those who would interfere with the Museum’s quest if they know where we are.” He returned the falcon to the cage and laid the glove on the dresser.
The bird hunched his shoulders, clearly in a pissy mood.
Petri re-draped the cage and stepped toward the cabin door.
“Whoa! You forgot something,” I said.
“Horus is safer down here with you. I’m keeping watch on the upper deck tonight. Aside from your pretty little colleague, Fiona, I fear we can trust no one with Horus. If he were to be released too soon it could cause much confusion.”
Roger was silent. I wondered if he had expected to get the bird. He locked the door after Petri and settled back on the bed.
I took the final swig of beer, running my tongue over my teeth. They were fuzzy. I wished I’d packed mouthwash and toothpaste in my purse. The consolation was Roger wasn’t in any better condition.
“Be right back,” I slipped into the bathroom and used the pump-it toilet. By the time I came out Roger had removed the tray and was lying on the bed looking like a centerfold in Playgirl. I shed my towel and jumped into bed.
Lover boy pinned me with his hard body. He tenderly pushed my hair back and looked deep into my eyes. I hoped I’d be able to hold down the racket I usually made. I wasn’t sure how thin the walls were. Providing personal material for Fiona’s Erotica for Dummies was not on my to-do list.
“Let’s take this out on the balcony,” I said.
“Sound travels over water.” He put his tongue in my ear.
I giggled and pulled away.
“We’re two of a kind, Wendy,” Roger said. “You and I are opposite sides of the same coin.”
I rolled on top of him and glued my lips on his until he shut up. He nodded his understanding and accidentally banged his teeth against my upper lip.
We made sweet, silent love until moonlight rippled off the Nile and illuminated the balcony.
Chapter Ten
I dozed briefly and woke to find Roger, still naked, quietly pacing in the dark between the bed and the wide-open balcony doors. Occasionally a moonbeam would highlight his body. The hung and the restless. He stopped pacing and cocked his head. I started to speak but he waved me off with a finger to his lips.
A voice carried in from the upper deck. Whoever was up there spoke Russian. Then silence.
I felt naked for two reasons. First, I was. Second, I was unarmed. I pulled the sheets up to my chest and shivered despite the heat. I groped around on the nightstand for the marble ashtray till I felt it’s cool surface. I exhaled softly. Now I was only naked- naked.
With a light thump someone landed outside the doorway. What was it with Egyptian balconies?
Roger assumed an Inspector Clouseau-like karate stance that gave me absolutely no confidence. This wasn’t the set of The Pink Panther. I tightened my grip on the ashtray.
A tall figure slipped into the room. The person was backlit so I couldn’t tell much about him except that he had broad shoulders and was half a head taller than my bedmate.
“Key-yah!” Roger yelled as he jumped the prowler and took him down. They were tied in the cursing department with an equal number of Russian and English epithets coming out of the cartoon-like tangle of arms and legs rolling around. Roger would be on top for a second, then the Russian. I hesitated. I could bop Roger as easily as the intruder. The Russian yelped when he missed Roger’s head and slammed his fist into the floor.
As the Russian sucked on his wounded knuckles, Roger separated from him and jumped to his feet. The Russian did the same. Roger hopped back and forth jabbing little punches in the air but not connecting. He should have learned how to handle himself better than that watching me duke it out with Darcy.
Horus’s squawking added to the chaos. He
beat his wings against the cage.
The Russian said something that sounded like good night. He socked Roger in the jaw and my guy went down.
A banshee couldn’t have matched the sound I made as I leaped off the bed and nailed the Russian on the noggin with the marble ashtray. He went down face-first with a thud. A black semi-automatic pistol dropped from his hand.
I helped Roger stand. He swayed in front of me. “Why’d you hit him? I was winning.”
“Right.” I stepped back and my foot landed on the gun. I held my breath. When it didn’t go off, I carefully placed it in the nightstand drawer. Ashtrays, not guns, were my thing. I switched on the nightstand light.
Roger had quit swaying and his eyes were focused. I said, “Let’s get some cord and tie this guy up.”
A coil of rope attached to a life preserver hung just outside the door. Roger grabbed it while I pushed up the prowler’s cuffs to get at his thick wrists. I tied triple-knots on each arm, and looped a double knot with a bow at his back. I didn’t have enough rope to tie his feet. There was something kinky, but not sexy, about tying up a stranger while my lover and I were naked.
Roger searched the Russian’s pockets. “Empty, except for this.” He held up a cellphone.
The cellphone buzzed softly as it vibrated. Roger studied the screen. “Cyrillic letters for SS.”
Evidently my ashtray victim had the hardest head this side of Moscow. He kicked out, landing a solid shot at the back of Roger’s knee. He fell and dropped the phone. The Russian shook off my super nifty knots, making me wish I’d spent more time learning them at camp and less time watching the boys skinny dip on their side of the lake. He grabbed his cell and dashed to the balcony.
We scrambled to our feet. Roger reached the balcony, with me a couple of feet behind him, just as the intruder catapulted over the railing into a small boat. The craft sped away into the darkness.
Roger hobbled to the bed and flopped. I locked the balcony doors although I was pretty sure we’d seen our last visitor for the night. The Asp had become Fawlty Towers on the Nile, all we needed were some German tourists.
I picked up my trusty ashtray and set it on the nightstand. The design for an ashtray holster skipped through my mind. I wished we had a bottle of champagne to celebrate our second balcony victory of the day. I sat on the bed and massaged Roger’s knee.
Roger, in his usual helpful manner, lay with his eyes closed and said nothing. I squeezed the sore spot behind his knee just hard enough to pop his eyes open. “What the hell was that all about? Was that guy working for Dorkovsky?”
He shook his head. “Dorkovsky wants us, or somebody, to find the medallion. Then he’ll make his move. He wouldn’t be trying to stop us. But I’m sure he’s tracking us.”
I stopped rubbing his knee and leaned over him till we were eye-to-eye. “So who were those guys? Talk to me.” It’s tough to be stern when you’re buck naked, but I was doing my best.
He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “We must have an additional player in the game.”
That certainly cleared it up. Another thought flitted through. “I’m surprised nobody heard the scuffle.”
“We’re on the stern. The sound would have carried away from the rest of the boat.”
“Should we go get Petri?”
“We should stay here.” He removed the gun from the nightstand drawer and smiled. “A Glock nine millimeter, very reliable, even on the Nile.” He ejected the magazine, checked to make sure there was one in the chamber, and reinserted the magazine. He propped two pillows behind his back and sat upright in bed with the gun trained on the balcony doors. “We have sixteen bullets for the next assassin.”
I propped two pillows behind my back, took the marble ashtray off the nightstand, and turned out the light. “And one ashtray.”
Chapter Eleven
Fingers of feeble yellow light poked through the portholes. If it’s morning it must be Alexandria. A lot had happened in twenty-four hours.
I brushed the grit from my eyes, popped my cramped fingers from the marble ashtray, and attempted to stand. My back ached from the soft mattress, my kidneys bore the weight of sitting up in bed at a cockeyed angle, and my neck felt like cracked glass. The worst part was no coffee. I rolled out of bed, put my feet on the floor, and faced Roger who was still sitting up with the Glock in his hand.
He laid the gun down and grabbed my thigh. He tried to work his way higher but I grabbed his wrist. “How can you think of sex at a time like this?”
“Easy. You’re here, I’m awake, and we have time for that great American innovation, the quickie.”
Hmmm. He had a point, but I couldn’t get past the grit in our bed, the grit in my eyes, and the grit in my mouth. Plus, I remained a little shaken by the assassination attempts, which didn’t seem to bother him even though I’d had to save his bacon both times. My libido said yes but my hang-ups said no. A toothbrush would have been the tie-breaker.
He yawned then bare-skinned it out of the bed on his side. “If that’s the way you’re going to be, don’t be looking at my ass.”
“I never look at your ass.”
This time he rolled his eyes. He strutted to the bathroom and pulled his clothes off the shower rod. He brought them out, braced himself against the dresser, pulled on his jockeys, then his khaki shorts. Bruises decorated his body like tattoos on an NBA wannabe.
I stretched and did some jumping jacks. A few karate kicks might be in order. I’d never taken a karate lesson but I watched both Kill Bills. I did a couple of Uma Thurman spins slamming the blade of my foot into the built in dresser and then taking out the nightstand. Feeling as empowered as if I were Angelina Jolie in a Lara Croft movie, I flexed my biceps, which made my cleavage look Partonesque, and stepped into the bathroom ignoring Roger’s smirks.
My skirt and blouse were Brillo stiff. I grimaced as I eased into my panties. If they didn’t soften, I’d have a Brazilian by the end of the day and possibly the equivalent of a tumbling motorcyclist’s road rash.
The waistband of my skirt would make a cheese grater feel like a baby’s butt.
The buttonholes on my blouse were mud-welded despite my rinse job last night. I fought with each button cursing as I fastened.
I imagined I was donning a killer-expensive Alexander McQueen metal-studded designer outfit. I slipped my arms into the full-length sleeves, fastened the last button, and took two robot-like steps just as the Asp crunched against something hard. I fought to steady myself. Roger dashed to the balcony.
A loud thud made me jump. It sounded like a sail had fallen to the deck. But what did I know about dahabiyas? I stood on a chair and peeked out a porthole. The boat had come to rest against a battered old dock. A rap on the door sent me tumbling off the chair and flat on my back.
It was Fiona. This broad was killing me. Her sparkly green eyes flicked toward Roger’s shorts as he opened the door. “Where are we?” she said nibbling her lower lip.
“Alexandria. Got your bag?” I asked.
She held her messenger bag out for my approval.
I strapped my purse across my chest, grabbed the two white robes from the bed and slipped the marble ashtray into my skirt pocket. It clunked against my leg but I felt more secure. You wouldn’t expect James Bond to go unarmed, would you?
Fiona flipped her pith helmet in the air. It landed on her head and she stuck out her arms in a ta-da moment. She’d come a long way in a day, and I didn’t mean from Cairo to Alexandria.
She latched onto my arm sending shudders through my body as she ground the grit in my sleeve into the tender skin inside my arm. “Somebody please tell me what’s going on. Am I in danger?”
“Think of it as an erotic mystery,” Roger said grasping the handle of Horus’s cage.
Fiona blushed scarlet. “This isn’t very erotic unless I have completely missed the mark in my research. And I don’t think I have. I’m well on my way to the book that will redefine eroticism and sexuality. A
ll I have left to complete is the integration of Cleopatra’s Kama Sutra into the context of modern life.”
I buried my face in my hands. We were in harm’s way and she wasn’t even on our planet. How was I going to look after her when it was all I could do to keep my not-always-in-the-moment Roger alive?
Then my not-always-in-the-moment Roger tapped the brim of Fiona’s pith helmet over her eyes and laughed. He was pretty chipper for a sleep-deprived walking contusion. Adrenalin was illuminating my guy’s aura. He was approaching the climax of his childhood dream, Cleopatra’s grave.
I hoped it wasn’t our grave too.
Chapter Twelve
I led Fiona, struggling with life, and Roger, struggling with the birdcage, down the passageway and onto the upper deck. The three-man crew performed a slow motion synchronized tie-down of the boat. The morning sun danced in heat waves off the blue of the river.
I could just make out a dot on the horizon that took on the shape of the Montaza Palace through my smeary sunglasses. The tiny silhouette was as I remembered it from cruising the travel websites. The palace sat on the shore of the Mediterranean Sea. A mixture of Turkish and Florentine styles, with two towers, one rising high above the other, it was visible from miles away. I smiled at Roger. We were getting closer to the prize.
Petri was at the top of the gangplank. “I will see to our transportation. Sir Sydney arranged for a Land Rover, which is supposed to be nearby. But other people are nearby and these are difficult times, as I believe you’ve noticed, so things might not go smoothly. If I’m not back in an hour, you’ll know I’ve run into difficulty. Make your way to Pompey’s Pillar and we’ll rendezvous there.” He clicked his heels, hastened down the dock, and disappeared behind sand-encrusted buildings.
Difficult times. And I thought Roger was the master of the understatement. Our team – if you could consider a trippy librarian, an archaeologist wearing two left shoes, and a displaced Miami real estate broker a team – watched Petri walk down the skinny wooden gangway.
Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 03 - Cairo Caper Page 5