by Amanda Vink
“Oh, that slimy bugger.”
“My feelings, exactly,” Marjorie said. “Well, all I know is he’s got this.” Marjorie pulled out the drawing of the ox. Frank took it in his hands and swore.
“Can you tell me more about it?” asked Marjorie.
“Remember when I told you about Darius the Great leaving something in Egypt? The tale goes that Cambyses—the rightful heir to the throne—went mad after a severe loss in the Egyptian desert. Overcome by anger, he killed a bull by stabbing it in the thigh. The gods punished him—or so it goes. Darius, his lance bearer, became king after some plot. Darius received a gift from the gods—but your father thought it likely this gift was actually stolen by Darius from somewhere else. I believe it came from the Lost Tribes of Israel, but I’ve yet to prove it. This gift has been called the Hoama. It’s written Darius kept the Hoama with him at all times.
“Your father thought he must’ve buried it with him. The tombs were looted by the armies of Alexander the Great, but the Hoama itself has yet to be discovered. What did come out of the tomb was the ox figurine—” he gestured to the newspaper— “which your father traced to Egypt—and a key. Your father thought this key opened the Hoama itself. It was apparently on Darius’s person at all times in life.”
A shot of adrenaline coursed through Marjorie’s body. “This key,” she said, pulling her necklace from under her shirt. She brought it forward, laying it in his hand, then sat on the edge of the nearby bed.
“I knew it,” Frank exclaimed, his eyes shining. “I knew you found it. Just like your father, you are.”
It was a lovely thing to say, and all of a sudden, a wave of emotion rocked Marjorie. Her eyes began to tear up, and her vision blurred. It was overpowering. She pretended to look at the key while she regained control of herself.
Frank turned the key over in his hand. He smiled, lost in ancient worlds and mythology, no doubt. Finally, he looked up at her. “The next step will be Persepolis.”
“That’s where Dr. Baxter said he was going to be working.”
Frank walked to the balcony and leaned out. He closed his eyes, alternating between trying to relax and grimacing. He must’ve been in more pain than he was letting on. He stayed that way for a long time.
“Here’s what I don’t get,” he said, finally. “Why did you help me? How?”
Marjorie shrugged. “The why is easy. You needed help—and fast. How is more complicated. I asked for a favor.”
Frank’s expression changed, and dark storm clouds extinguished whatever sun was in the room. “From Nadine.”
“I couldn’t think of anyone else who could help,” Marjorie defended. “She knows her onions.”
“A shame, that,” he said. “I don’t trust her. It’s likely she threw me in the clinker herself.”
Why would she do that? “Don’t you work for her?” Marjorie narrowed her eyes at him, trying to understand.
“Well, more or less,” he responded. “Ah, shite.”
“What’s wrong?” She stood, crossing to stand beside him at the balcony.
Below, they watched a car pull over on the road in front of the building. Frank’s eyes darted, calculating—to run, to fight, to wait. Marjorie saw the window roll down.
Nadine’s arm, with a fresh cigarette clutched between her fingers, fell from the window.
“It looks like she’s calling in that favor,” Frank said.
Chapter Fifteen
The celebration took place at a palace in Garden City. No other descriptor would do the building justice. It was actually the home of a rich banker who came to live in Cairo during the 1890s. The outside façade depicted French Rococo statues. A serene child with a halo of curls looked down on the entryway and welcomed visitors. Its blank eyes stared.
Inside, visitors were saturated by the vision of elaborate pastel colors and patterns from floor to ceiling—in murals and other architectural detail. Flowers and angels lined the walls, the curving lines soft and sumptuous. Blue skies appeared in symmetrical scenes from above—a garden that never witnessed night.
Many visitors arrived to pay their respects to the Persian Ox. It stood on display in the middle of the house, surrounded by a security team.
Marjorie dressed to impress, as was everyone else, but her attire was more than a statement—it was a distraction. Designed as an Art Deco piece, the gown resembled a giant, elegant peacock feather. It was cut very low in the back, and shining, sparkly gold lines gathered and then fell toward the floor over the top of dark blue velvet. To complete the piece, Marjorie wore dangling diamond earrings and a headpiece of the same velvet. Her entrance produced the gossip intended—everyone turned to stare.
Marjorie squirmed under their gaze. A favor, she thought. And my word.
She wasn’t exactly sure what would happen, but she knew whatever it was couldn’t be good. She had hesitated when Nadine asked her to come to the opening for the ox, but ultimately Nadine had done what she promised to do—saved Frank. Even if she did the deed herself, as Frank suspects, Marjorie thought bitterly. But she couldn’t prove it. Maybe the guilty party was someone else? She couldn’t help feeling like she had been played for a fool. But still, she had given her word that she would return a favor. She didn’t like it, but when she was done, she could return to her original mission—to find out what happened to her father.
Besides, looking around, she noted the intense security. It was likely that nothing could be done anyway.
Her job this evening was to distract Wessaim Seif, whom Nadine had warned her about that first night. Marjorie learned from Frank that he had been chief of police under the former Egyptian regime and was in charge of security at the event tonight.
Nadine’s reasons to be involved were just as elusive. What exactly she was after, Marjorie didn’t know, but it obviously involved the ox.
“Qu’est-ce que voulez vous boire?” asked a middle-aged gentleman wearing a military suit with numerous lines on the sleeves indicating a high rank and medals pinned to his lapel. “English? Champagne, madame?” His English was heavily accented by a blend of Turkish and French sounds.
“Yes, please.” She took the sparkling drink from his hand, admiring how it went with the rest of the house.
“My name is Minister Gamal,” he said and gave a short bow.
“Minister Gamal, in charge of transportation?” asked Marjorie.
His eyebrows shot up. “Ah! Yes. Not many foreigners care much about transportation in this country—at least when it’s not directly impacting them.”
“Why, it’s fascinating,” Marjorie said. “I’ve read the goal is to have a direct line from London to Cairo?”
His eyes lit. “Yes, it’s a lot of moving parts. You can imagine. It takes passengers seven days to travel from London to Cairo—with many stops and transfers along the way. My department would like to change that, but we must work with other countries along the route. Some countries are less open than others.”
“Is your administration having trouble with that?”
He started to say something, but then stopped. “Not for too much longer.” He changed the subject then. “How long have you been in Cairo?”
“A few days only,” Marjorie confessed. “It’s a beautiful city. What an incredible building.”
Minister Gamal gestured around. “This is not Egyptian architecture, you understand.” He sighed. “For now, it seems we must continue to be under the influence of Western countries. We love to share our history, of course, but we are our own country—not a pawn for colonial powers. As an American, you may understand this.”
“Of course.” Marjorie inclined her head. “Imperialism is rarely good for everyone. Globalization is powerful. We should be careful with it.”
“Aha! It seems like you and I have similar ideas. Now, let me introduce you around, Miss Hart.” He extended an arm, and she took it.
Playing coy, she asked, “But how did you know my name?”
“Even in a big
city, word gets around—especially when it involves the daughter of the late Professor Hart. Your father was a friend.”
“He made quite a name for himself in this city.”
Minister Gamal smiled. “He made many contributions to the Egyptian Museum. Cairo will always think of him fondly. It will always welcome the Hart family.”
“That’s an honor,” Marjorie said. “Actually, one of the main reasons I came to Cairo was to find out more about what happened to him. Can you tell me anything?”
“I can’t imagine I might add more to the tale,” Minister Gamal said. “I heard his body was found near the Suez Canal. A bloody shame.”
Marjorie had to catch her breath. “The Suez Canal? I was under the impression that his body was pulled from the Nile.”
Minister Gamal paused. “Maybe—No, no, I’m quite sure. I remember it. I was there on railroad business at the time. We’re exploring options for a bridge so that passengers won’t have to get off. Since King Tut’s tomb was discovered, more and more people are coming to Egypt for holidays.”
Why was it reported that his body was found in the Nile? She didn’t have the time to wonder it more. They steered into the main room, and Marjorie gasped.
In the center, the ox sat displayed on a red velvet pedestal. Illuminated by an electric light, there wasn’t any doubt that it was the star of this show. Marjorie couldn’t help but gawk.
“It’s beautiful, no?” asked Minister Gamal.
It was beautiful. Basalt made up the large sculpted body, which looked black against a gold-leafed stand. Under the gold was bronze—it was an umber shade of red.
“When was it found?” she asked.
“Two weeks ago, I believe,” the Minister answered. “They had to ship it here in a hurry—quite the expense, I’m told.”
“Huh.”
Marjorie narrowed her eyes. Something wasn’t sitting right here. From what she understood, bronze was shiny and orange when first finished. Over time, a chemical reaction between the metal and the air created a protective layer called patina. This layer steadily turned the piece green, or in some cases, a different color. Marjorie first learned about it from a study her father had contributed to. The problem was, this statue was a different chemical reaction than one would expect. Too green and worn, as though it had been exposed to the elements for much longer than a few weeks. Very strange indeed.
She continued, “Where exactly was it found?”
Minister Gamal looked unsure. His mouth fell opened.
“The dig site was near Memphis,” another voice said. Dr. Baxter appeared at Marjorie’s arm. “It was fascinating—completely closed off, air tight for thousands of years. Can you believe it?”
“Dr. Baxter,” Marjorie said in greeting, her voice flat.
“I’ll leave you now,” Minister Gamal murmured. “I have to pull my wife away from the hor d’heurs before she eats everything. Dr. Baxter, Miss Hart.”
“It was lovely to meet you,” Marjorie said, her voice much brighter when directed at him.
He gave a short, quick bow of the head before heading toward the food table.
“I’m pleased you decided to join us,” Dr. Baxter said. “I assume this means you’ve considered my proposal. You made quite the splash at Saint Catherine’s.”
She turned toward him, and her mouth fell open. Seeing the look on her face, he chuckled. “Surely you must realize how tight this research community has become. When something happens, everyone is bound to learn of it.”
She closed her mouth, not wanting to reveal anything. “Congratulations on such a tremendous find,” she finally mumbled.
His eyebrows lifted. Marjorie guessed he had not been expecting her to respond that way. What exactly did he want from her?
Marjorie looked around, and her eyes settled on a standing wooden clock. It was getting late—soon the party would end.
“Miss Marjorie Hart,” a voice said.
She turned. A man of considerable stature stood before her. She knew who it was immediately. It couldn’t have been anyone else.
***
The man had a serious face, and his dark eyes gave nothing away. He wore a crisp, dark suit along with a perfectly straight bow tie. He held himself like a military man.
“I am Wessaim Seif,” he said, taking her outstretched hand and bowing over it.
“A pleasure,” Marjorie said.
“Would you care to dance?” he asked.
She gave a nod, and he extended his hand. Marjorie tried to stop her hand from trembling. This man might’ve been responsible for her father’s death. He certainly looked like he could kill someone—he had probably killed many people during his lifetime. Trying to look unaffected, she took his hand and let him guide her to the dance floor.
The small orchestra began to play—a waltz. The tune sounded familiar—possibly Strauss. Men extended their arms, leading their partners to the floor. They began a traditional step. After a cordial bow, a rush of circling, spinning skirts raced over the floor.
Although technically proficient, Seif was not a great partner. He had no feeling for the rhythm and kept her as far from his person as possible. Still, it gave Marjorie an opportunity to examine him closer. He looked everywhere but at her.
He had a small scar under his left eye, a jagged white mark healed long ago. Marjorie’s guessed he had been a regular soldier at one point in his life. It was the way he held himself, tight as a bow string and ready for action. But he hid his thoughts well, suggesting an intellectual.
She tried to remember what else Frank had told her about this man. It wasn’t much. Frank said he was very private, and even though Frank had been asking around about him the entire time he had been in Cairo, there was not a lot of common knowledge floating around about him. In addition to being former police chief, he was some kind of military man—the only other thing everyone seemed to know about him was that he was dangerous. Do you work for the government? she wondered.
Marjorie realized already that she had to keep her head. This was a dangerous dance, and one misstep could cost her her life.
“This is a lovely party,” she said. She hoped she might be able to break through the hard exterior to see what made him tick.
“It’s a duty,” he responded.
“Duty can sometimes be a pleasure.”
He made a small, noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. They made another turn of the floor, and Marjorie realized that she was quickly losing time. Soon the song would be over, and she would have ended the dance without having learned anything.
“This is a tricky business,” she stated, trying to keep her tone casual. Then, in an attempt to get him to reveal something, she reached. “After all, we both know the ox was not found in Memphis two weeks ago.”
He looked at her fully for the first time, and she knew she was right in her initial evaluation. The patina had given something away. She was by no means an expert in this study, but something was off enough that it had triggered warning bells in her mind. She wanted to know when it was initially found, and what had happened to it in the meantime. She was surprised, however, to find not the eyes of a killer in Seif. Instead, he seemed almost concerned about her welfare.
“You should give up this pursuit,” he said. He twirled her, giving her just enough time to think of a response. His arms were stiff and strong, unyielding.
“Why should I?” she asked, defiant.
“I don’t want what happened to your father to happen to you.”
Even though she knew it, the statement gutted her. Her arms dropped, falling off his shoulders and stalling the progression of the dance. They stood, facing one another at the center of the floor. The couples around them continued to dance, a whirl of activity along the periphery.
“What do you mean?” she demanded.
He looked away, a small, unhappy smile crossing his features. He made a move as if to say something—Marjorie wished she knew what—but their attention was snat
ched from one another by a loud gasp and commotion. The crowd erupted in murmurs and agitated conversation. Marjorie turned, and her eyes followed the arrow of a woman’s pointed finger to the table with the ox. Only now it was gone, and there wasn’t a thing left in its place.
Marjorie felt herself gasp as well. How did it happen? She had no idea. Her eyes flicked around the room, searching out any familiar faces. There were none. Somehow, the ox had been taken from right under their noses.
Seif pushed past Marjorie, practically knocking her over. He was quick, and within moments he had pushed through the crowd and stood next to the pedestal. His hand ran over it, coming up empty. Without wasting time, he started barking orders in Arabic. Men—both dressed as security and members of the party—spread out in different directions.
Marjorie made her way through the crowd to the exit, but it had already been blocked by Seif’s security forces.
Suddenly, she felt a hot gaze on her back, and she turned. Seif still stood at the pedestal, using it like a lookout to oversee the movement in the room. He locked eyes on her, and she couldn’t mistake the expression—a mix between anger and something else, possibly respect? He knew somehow she had been involved, even though she herself had no idea what had just happened.
Chapter Sixteen
Frank met Marjorie outside the grand house. Everyone was tired and the mood had turned melancholic. The guests were held for two hours, but it was clear that no one had a lead for the police. During that time, Marjorie was surprised Seif had not questioned her. In fact, after the first scramble, he had disappeared and was not seen again. Eventually, everyone could go.
In many ways, Marjorie felt sick about it. She had stolen something, even if she hadn’t grabbed it herself. The only balm was that she suspected the ox had been stolen in the first place—there was no way it had been uncovered only two weeks before.
She wrapped her arms around herself. It was still warm, the heat of the day having soaked into the stones around them, but she felt cold.