Laughter of Dead Kings

EIGHT

N ext morning Ashraf’s car delivered us to the terminal and we were whisked through the formalities by an efficient young woman who spoke English with a pronounced public school accent. Once we were on the plane, Feisal said it again.

“He’s gone into hiding. Ashraf put the fear of God into him.”

I said it again. “That isn’t Ashraf’s version.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt he thought he was being affable, but to simple souls like Ali he’s the voice of the Almighty, authoritative and unpredictable. Ali may have decided the safest course was to make himself scarce until things settle down.”

“Drop it,” John said. “We’ve been over this a dozen times.”

And gotten nowhere. Feisal’s explanation could be the right one. If I had been in the shoes of the unfortunate guard, I’d have run for cover too.

W e were greeted at the Old Winter Palace by the manager, a handsome white-haired gentleman, another of Schmidt’s dearest friends, who personally escorted us to the Presidential Suite. It had two bedrooms and two bathrooms, one of which incorporated a tub big enough to do laps in. I could tell by John’s expression that he wasn’t keen on being separated from Schmidt only by the width of the sitting room, good-sized though it was; but there wasn’t anything he could do about it since Schmidt had “forgotten” to reserve another room for us.

After lunch we headed for the West Bank. It’s a somewhat tortuous process—taking one of the gaily decorated motorboats across the river, picking up a taxi on the other side, and driving for a considerable distance. I hadn’t seen much of Luxor during my last visit, being primarily concerned with avoiding a number of people who bore me ill will. Schmidt had been there many times, but he gaped out the taxi window with that childlike sense of delight that is one of his most charming characteristics, commenting on the changes that had been made and asking questions of Feisal. He didn’t get many answers; the closer we got to the Valley of the Kings, the more tense Feisal became. It was with some difficulty that we persuaded him to hop on one of the electric trams that carry visitors to the entrance instead of setting out at a dead run. The sun was high and hot and the air was dusty and I didn’t want my chubby little boss to tire himself. Schmidt had decked himself out in one of the white linen suits he had bought in Berlin, and a natty panama hat which I hadn’t seen him buy. I wondered what the hell else he had in that overweight suitcase.

The tomb of Tutankhamon is a couple of hundred yards from the entrance to the Valley. I don’t know what Feisal had expected, or feared—that the tomb would have vanished along with Ali, or that it had been invaded by importunate tourists—but he let out a long sigh of relief when the rectangular opening came into view. It was closed by a heavy iron gate. A party of tourists was talking with the guards—or rather, to judge by their shrill expletives, trying to argue their way in. One of the men was wearing shorts that bared long hairy legs; the women bulged over the necklines of their skimpy T-shirts. When the harassed guard caught sight of Feisal he let out a cry of relief and ran to meet him.

Feisal disposed of the tourists with a few brusque words. They dispersed, sulking and muttering. Arrogant idiots like that have always been with us and probably always will be. I remembered the story of how Howard Carter had lost his job with the Service des Antiquités by defending his guards against the pushy drunks who had tried to force their way into a pyramid at Sakkara.

After an animated discussion with the guard, Feisal said, “Ali didn’t turn up for work yesterday. Mohammed here went to his house to inquire about him; his wife claimed he hadn’t come home the night before. I’m going to see her.”

“All in good time.” Hands in the pockets of his jeans, John gazed thoughtfully at the dark entrance to the tomb. “Can we get in?”

“Why?” Feisal asked.

“The scene of the crime,” John reminded him. “I know you’re worried about your subordinate, but I should think you’d want to make certain it hasn’t been disturbed.”

“Yes, that is the correct procedure,” said Schmidt. “I have brought a camera to record the clues.”

“Good thinking, Schmidt,” I said.

“And a notebook and pen.” Schmidt thrust them into my hands. I ought to have known I’d be appointed secretary. I thrust them back into Schmidt’s hands.

I have been accused by some (John) of learning all my history, except that which pertains to my own limited field, from popular novels. I had read a couple of reports about the discovery of this tomb, including that of Howard Carter himself; it’s almost as exciting as fiction. But I will admit that the version I remembered best was in a novel by some woman whose name I couldn’t recall. It claimed to be based on actual journals by actual eyewitnesses. I had never bothered to check her facts. Why should I, it wasn’t my field.

The last (and first) time I had called on King Tutankhamon, the tomb had been open to tourists. Today, everything looked the way it had before: the massive stone sarcophagus and its heavy glass cover smeared with dust and fingerprints, the golden shape inside. Schmidt stopped me with a warning shout when I was about to proceed into the small tomb chamber. From his pockets he extracted not only a digital camera but a large magnifying glass.

“The lighting is not good,” he complained, bending stiffly and squinting through the glass. “Has anyone a torch?”

“No, nor a fingerprint kit,” said John.

“Then we must get one.” Schmidt increased his angle of inclination, with imminent danger to the seat of his trousers.

“You’ll find hundreds of prints,” Feisal said. “Mine and Ali’s—”

“And those of the miscreants who removed the king.” Schmidt straightened and waved the magnifying glass. “Perhaps some of them are in the files of Interpol or another agency.”

“To which we have no access,” John said patiently. “Go ahead, Feisal. Don’t bother looking for footprints, just see if there is anything unusual, anything that is out of place.”

“Bloodstains,” said Schmidt, his eyes gleaming.

“Shut up, Schmidt,” I said. “Please.”

The floor wasn’t clean. In addition to the dust, there were bits and pieces, scraps of paper and bread crumbs, orange seeds and a pile of mouse droppings. Most of them had been there for weeks, if not months. Schmidt photographed every square inch of the damned place—the dusty floor, the painted walls, the sarcophagus and its contents. After I came across the mouse droppings I abandoned the hunt and joined Feisal, who stood looking down into the sarcophagus.

The golden face, with its beautiful inlaid eyes, stared up at me. It didn’t question or demand. It was dead, inanimate. Feisal, fingers clenched over the edge of the glass, said suddenly, “I keep thinking he’s still in there.”

If you want to hide something, put it in the least likely place, a place that has already been searched, a place so obvious, no one would think of looking there.

I read too many mystery stories. But there was a certain insane logic to that premise; hadn’t John said it would be difficult to smuggle Tut out of the Luxor area? What if “they” had come and put him back? Once the ransom was paid, they wouldn’t have to risk producing the mummy, they would just have to direct the searchers to the tomb. And what if Ali was the only witness to their second visit? He had disappeared. He couldn’t bear witness to anything.

“If he’s there, he’s missing a hand,” I said, trying to convince myself of the absurdity of the idea. “Uh—can you tell whether the coffin lid has been moved since you and Ali put it back?”

Unfortunately Schmidt overheard the question. I say unfortunately because he has an imagination even more lunatic than mine and a greater familiarity with sensational fiction.

“Aha!” he shrieked. “The old Purloined Letter trick! Brilliant, Vicky, brilliant!”

There was no restraining him, and by that time I had half-convinced myself. Even with four of us it was a tricky job manipulating the glass cover and the coffin lid; I couldn’t imagine how Feisal and Ali had managed it. Sheer desperation, I supposed. Feisal kept repeating, “Be careful! Don’t damage it!”

“Get a grip,” John said impatiently. “Pun, deliberate. You can blame any damage on the thieves. Ready? Lift, shift and lower. One, two…”

We didn’t have to shift the lid far. It was dark down in there; Feisal slid his hand through the gap, which I wouldn’t have done, and felt around. His face fell.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“It was a preposterous idea,” John said.

“But it had to be done,” Schmidt said.

“Quite so. Leave no stone unturned, no coffin lid unlifted. I see no point in moving it back, do you?”

He addressed Feisal, who shook his head. “If anyone gets this far, we’re lost anyhow. Just replace the glass so it doesn’t fall and break.”

Just, he said. We got the job done, though I pulled something in my shoulder, and Schmidt mashed a finger. Our first casualty, I thought, as I wound a hankie round his hand. Schmidt rather enjoys being wounded in the course of battle; he nobly refused my suggestion that we return to the hotel for more extensive first aid.

“We must go at once to the house of the poor guard and question his wife,” he insisted.

“There’s no need for you to come with me,” Feisal said. “You should get that finger cleaned up, Schmidt, it’s only too easy to get an infection here.”

“It has bled freely,” said Schmidt, admiring the stained hanky. “You will want witnesses, Feisal, and persons skilled in interrogation. Vicky will take notes.”

Feisal locked the gate and switched off the lights. We made our way back to the entrance; Feisal hailed a taxi, and I asked, “Don’t you rate a car and driver?”

“I rate an ancient Jeep. It’s in the shop. It usually is.”

From his sour tone I figured he was thinking of Ashraf’s upholstered limo and squadron of assistants.

The road led back the way we had come, toward the boat landing. Having failed to force notebook and pen into my hands, Schmidt was trying to make notes. Considering the state of the road and the taxi’s springs, I doubted he would be able to decipher his scrawled writing, but it kept him busy and happy. The scenery was monotonous in the extreme, stretches of barren earth reaching back to equally barren cliffs—all shades of tan and brown, with an occasional vivid patch of green. I didn’t criticize, since I knew I’d be jumped on by the experts, who would start pointing out fascinating heaps of rubble and telling me what they were.

The taxi stopped in front of a cluster of houses that clung to a rocky hillside. They looked like square boxes, randomly placed, but they were the most interesting things my uneducated eyes had seen since we left the Valley. Some of the flat facades were painted shining white or golden yellow or faded blue, some had scenes of people and camels, ships and airplanes, in nonchalant juxtaposition.

“I thought the authorities were moving these people to a new village,” said Mr. Know-It-All Schmidt, without looking up.

“They’re about to.” Feisal got out of the front seat and wrestled with the back door, which had no inside handle. It gave way finally and I got out. “We’ll have to walk from here,” Feisal went on. “Ali’s house is farther up, near the tomb of Ramose.”

“It is a pity,” Schmidt said. “They have lived here for centuries.”

“And earned a good living robbing the tombs under the houses,” Feisal said. “I know, Schmidt, the place is picturesque as hell, and the Gurnawis have fought the move tooth and nail, but it has to be done.”

It was picturesque, if you don’t mind a lot of dust and stray dogs and barefoot children pestering innocent tourists. Some tried to peddle hideously fake scarabs and small figurines, others just demanded baksheesh. Feisal yelled at them in Arabic. Some of them backed off; the bolder ones circled us and came in from the rear. Schmidt stopped and dug in his bulging pocket. First he produced the magnifying glass, which inspired gasps of longing from the kids. One of them, a skinny boy wearing a ragged T-shirt, reached out. Feisal swatted his hand away.

“Don’t give them anything, Schmidt; they have to learn not to beg. That’s one of the reasons why we’re moving them; tourists complain about being hassled.”

“They are poor,” Schmidt said. “If you had so little, would you not beg?”

He put the magnifying glass back and came up with a handful of ballpoint pens. They were obviously popular substitutes for cash. The distribution process got a little agitated, with the bigger youngsters snatching from the little ones, and Schmidt in the thick of the melee, scolding and snatching back. A wave of affection swept over me as I watched him. He was a soft-hearted pushover. If there were more like him, the world wouldn’t be such a sad place.

Finally Feisal dispersed the young villains with a roar. A few ran on ahead. By the time we reached Ali’s house, our arrival had been announced.

The summer temperatures in Egypt hover around one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The houses have thick walls and small windows to keep out the heat, and the room seemed pitch-black after the blinding brightness outside. As my eyes adjusted I saw that the room was packed with people, mostly women and children, some seated on a low cushioned divan along the side wall, some squatting on the floor. The shadowy forms and bright unblinking eyes were a little uncanny. How long had they been sitting there, unmoving as statues? They couldn’t have known we were coming. I got a grip on myself. Obviously our arrival had been announced even earlier than I’d thought, probably the moment Feisal got out of the taxi.

One of the women stood up and greeted Feisal. I recognized the formal “Salaam aleikhum,” to which Feisal responded. He knew better than to cut the formalities short; we were offered seats on the divan and glasses of steaming tea and a plate of sweet biscuits. I got a place next to the woman who had welcomed us. Surely she couldn’t be Ali’s wife. Women wore out fast, but her face was as withered as those of the better-looking mummies in the museum. She was enveloped in black, head, arms, and body—the traditional garb of the previous generation, which most modern women have modified or abandoned—and when she smiled at me and spoke, I saw she was missing most of her teeth. But the eyes, half-hidden by sagging lids, were as bright and piercing as those of a bird of prey.

“This is Umm Ali,” Feisal said. “Ali’s mother. Drink your tea, Vicky, she asked if you would prefer something else.”

I would have risked blistering my fingers rather than offend, but in the nick of time I remembered the technique—thumb under the thick glass of the bottom, fingers steadying the rim. I nodded vigorously at the old lady, bared my teeth in a grin, and sipped. The tea was strong and very sweet. Cavities, here I come, it proclaimed.

I was the last to do my duty. As soon as I had done so, Feisal launched into a series of questions. Umm Ali responded. I couldn’t understand a word, so I tried to figure out which of the other women was Ali’s wife, nodding and smiling as my gaze met one pair of brown or black eyes after another. One woman, veiled as well as swathed, had eyes of a paler shade; she ducked her head shyly when I looked at her. To judge by her attire, she was too old to be the wife, but what did I know? Mama was obviously the one in charge. The others were probably part of an extended family, which could include sisters and aunts and even more-distant relatives. They didn’t say a word. A couple of the men present joined in after a while, adding brief comments, but deferring, as the women had done, to the matriarch. From the back part of the house I heard a donkey bray and a duck quack. A chicken wandered into the room, its head cocked in that deceptive look of intelligence chickens have, and tried to get up on my lap. I pushed it off and smiled apologetically at the woman on my left, hoping I had not been rude. I have nothing against chickens except for the fact that they are not housebroken.

Rejected, the chicken approached John. I hoped it would hop up on him, but something in his frozen glare must have penetrated even its feeble chicken brain. It backed off. I had finished most of my tea and was feeling strangely comfortable; the animal sounds and smells took me back to the days of my childhood on my family’s farm in Minnesota, where I learned to love the scent of a well-manured garden.

Feisal broke the mood, addressing me directly. “I don’t suppose you understood any of that. Sorry about the chicken,” he added.

“No problem. Would I be rude to ask for more tea?”

“Yes,” John said firmly.

“No,” Feisal said. “But we shouldn’t spend more time here. I’ll explain after we—”

“I have a question,” Schmidt said.

“Later, Schmidt.”

“But I—”

“Not now!” Feisal’s voice rose. It was his first display of emotion, but I realized he had been holding himself in tight control the whole time.

The concluding formalities took almost as much time as the initial ceremony, but after repeated “shukrans” and “maasalamas” we edged ourselves out. An escort of children followed us down the hillside to the taxi.

“What was in that tea?” John demanded of me. He brushed a few feathers off his sleeve. “You looked as if you were prepared to squat there indefinitely.”

“I was having a nice time,” I said dreamily. “They were all so nice. It was a nice chicken.”

John gave up on me. “Never mind the bloody chicken; what did they say?”

“They believe he is dead,” Schmidt said soberly. “The poor mama asked us to find his body so he can receive a proper burial.”

Feisal closed his mouth with an audible snap. “Why don’t you go ahead and repeat everything that was said? I wasn’t aware your Arabic was that good.”

Schmidt realized he had offended, though he didn’t know why. “I have been studying,” he said humbly. “I understood that much, but not all. I am sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Feisal shook his head. “I’m a little on edge. If they’re right, it’s my fault.”

According to what Mama had told Feisal, the family had no proof of foul play, but the signs weren’t encouraging. Never once had Ali failed to return home after his hours of work. Never once had he stopped at a coffee shop or spent time gossiping with friends. Never once had he taken a trip without telling his mother where he was going and for how long.

“Does he tell the old lady everything?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Damn right,” I said, remembering those beady black eyes.

“Not everything, I hope,” John said.

“Not about the—er—theft,” Feisal amended.

“That is what I wanted to ask,” Schmidt said.

“I don’t think so. I couldn’t ask directly. She said something had been worrying him, he had been short-tempered and moody for days, but when she asked, he said nothing was wrong. Then, day before yesterday, he came home looking—I quote—‘as if he had seen a vision of Paradise.’ Great things were in store for him, for all of them.”

“He’d spoken with Ashraf,” John said.

“That would be my guess. Why isn’t this damned taxi moving?”

“Maybe because you haven’t told him where you want to go,” I suggested.

T he sun was setting behind us as we sailed back across the river. Feisal had allowed as how he ought to check in with his office, which was near the Luxor Museum on the East Bank and go to his flat to change before joining us for dinner. I figured I ought to have a look at Schmidt’s wounded finger, which he was exhibiting in an unintentionally (I think) vulgar gesture.

It wasn’t broken, just scraped and bruised; with the first-aid kit Schmidt produced from his magic suitcase I cleaned the digit and wound enough bandages around it to satisfy him. We joined John on the balcony, where he was mumbling into his cell phone. I sat as far from him as I could get and enjoyed the view. The river was ablaze with reflected light and the western cliffs had turned a soft shade of purple. Gorgeous as the view was, I couldn’t recapture the relaxed mood I had enjoyed for too brief a time. Not without a chicken.

I had allowed nostalgic memories to distract me because I didn’t want to think about our reason for being there—about the possibility that the guard’s body might be lying in a shallow grave somewhere in the sand of the West Bank. We’d hashed and rehashed theories all the way back. Had Ali, after all, decided to go into hiding? Possible, but not likely, considering his mother’s testimony as to his habits and mood. Had he seen or heard something during the robbery without realizing at the time that it was important? Plausible, but that opened up a whole list of other unanswerable questions. When had it dawned on him that he had vital information, and what had he done about it? Would he have approached the thieves and tried to blackmail them? Supposing they were responsible for his disappearance, how else could they have found out he had to be silenced?

John finished his conversation and addressed Schmidt. “Ashraf claims Ali said absolutely nothing to him that would indicate he had new information.”

“But how closely did he question Ali?” Schmidt demanded. “Did Ashraf perhaps ask a question or make a statement that triggered a forgotten memory in the mind of the poor fellow?”

“Do you suppose I neglected to ask him that?” John demanded. “If he did, he has no idea what it might have been. You can sit here drinking beer and concocting scenarios all you like, but it won’t get us anywhere.”

The sunset colors had faded into rose and gray and the voices of the muezzins had died into silence. John’s voice had that ugly edge that always rubs me the wrong way. “So what are you doing to get us somewhere?” I inquired. “Not a damn thing that I can see. Time is running out and you—”

John jumped up and headed for the door. “I’m going out. Try not to do anything stupid.”

“I thought you told us not to wander around alone,” I shouted after him.

The slam of the outer door was my only answer.

“He said you were not to go about alone,” said Schmidt.

He was the only one left, so of course I picked on him. “Is that what he told you? ‘Poor dumb Vicky, she doesn’t have the sense of a chicken; do try to prevent her from getting in trouble.’”

Schmidt said, “Tsk, tsk,” and sipped his beer.

I took a few deep breaths. “Okay, I apologize. But what I said was true. We aren’t getting anywhere. The mastermind isn’t doing his job.”

“Then perhaps,” said Schmidt hopefully, “I should be the mastermind.”

“You’ve got my vote, Schmidt.”

“Good. The light is fading; let us go inside and make a plan.”

We retired to the sitting room and turned on all the lights. Schmidt opened two more beers and indicated the notebook and pen, which just happened to be strategically placed on the coffee table. I took them. Schmidt began to lecture.

The good ol’ boy does have a logical mind. We started with the assumption that Tut was still somewhere in the Luxor area, since the alternative—that he wasn’t—meant that he could be anyplace in the world. One of the avenues we hadn’t explored was an effort to track the van, but as Schmidt pointed out, that was probably a dead end. Ali had told Feisal the vehicle wasn’t the enormous van that had come the first time, but something about the size of a large bus. It probably was a large bus or truck, disguised by panels painted with appropriately mysterious symbols. All the thieves needed was a quiet spot off the road, where the panels could be removed and destroyed. The vehicle, now undistinguished and unnoticeable, would then proceed to…

There are a thousand hiding places in the cliffs of the West Bank—caves, abandoned tombs, clefts in the rock. Schmidt insisted the thieves wouldn’t put their precious cargo in a place which involved so many risks, from rockfalls to discovery by wandering fellahin. Not to mention the conspicuousness of a large bus heading back into the hills on tracks designed for goats.

“A residence” was the new mastermind’s conclusion. “Not a hotel, for obvious reasons, but an environment that can be controlled to some extent, away from extreme heat and dusty air and wandering animals.”

“It makes sense,” I admitted, impressed by his argument. “Are you sure you didn’t do it, Schmidt?”

Schmidt chuckled. “It is all surmise,” he said modestly. “But at least it provides us with a starting point.”

“Right. Every private house in Luxor and environs.”

Darkness hovered at the window. Across the river, lights began to twinkle. I had been dutifully taking notes, but I’d also been listening. When a knock sounded at the door I jumped up and ran to open it.

The well-crafted diatribe I had composed died in my throat. The newcomer wasn’t John. It was Feisal.

“Oh,” I said.

“Good to see you too,” said Feisal. He looked around. “Where’s Johnny?”

Schmidt giggled. He is only too well acquainted with American pop culture, past and present. “Never mind,” I said, as Feisal gave him a blank stare. “John went out a while ago. He hasn’t come back.”

“Where did he go?”

“He didn’t say.”

“You had a fight,” said Feisal, enlightened. “I’ve been expecting it.”

“He is, no doubt, exploring new avenues of investigation,” said Schmidt, dividing a look of reproach between me and Feisal. “We have been doing the same. Would you like to hear our deductions?”

Feisal went to the minibar and got out a bottle of some fizzy nonalcoholic lemon drink. I had tried it; it was quite revolting. “Go ahead,” he said.

When Schmidt finished, Feisal shook his head. “Fine, as far as it goes. But do you know how many private houses and villas and flats there are in the area? We can’t just bang on people’s doors and demand entry.”

“So we will have to narrow the possibilities by logical deduction,” said Schmidt. “Have you any suggestions, Feisal?”

Feisal drained the bottle. “Not offhand.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Anything new at the office?”

“Only a dozen messages from various subdirectors, reporting suspicious activities and/or illegal encroachment onto protected sites and/or…”

He went on for a while. I had stopped listening, straining my ears for the sound of footsteps or the turn of a key in the lock. Nothing. Surely he’d have got over his fit of the sulks by now.

Schmidt nudged me and I realized he was waiting for an answer to a question I hadn’t heard. Observing my vacuous look, he repeated it.

“Are you ready for dinner? Feisal has recommended a restaurant.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for John?” I asked.

“He’ll turn up when he’s good and ready,” Feisal said. “I’m getting hungry.”

At my suggestion, Feisal left a message for John telling him where we’d gone, and I allowed myself to be escorted out of the hotel. Fending off importunate drivers of taxis and carriages, we walked along the corniche past the Luxor Temple. The giant columns glimmered pale gold against the darkness.

“Ah, it is open tonight,” Schmidt said. “Shall we go in?”

I was about to say no when I saw someone heading toward the entrance. He was surrounded by other would-be visitors of all sizes, shapes, and modes of dress, but the light glowed off a head of fair hair. The sight of him, engaged in a casual bit of sightseeing after he’d left me to worry, brought my mounting anger to a boil.

“There he is!” I exclaimed. Pulling my arm from Feisal’s grasp, I ran after John. Feisal yelled at me to stop, and one of the ticket-takers tried to intercept me. I did a quick end around run past the latter, but by the time I reached the great pylon, John was nowhere in sight. Panting and swearing, I was about to enter the temple proper when Feisal caught up with me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, taking firm hold of me.

“Didn’t you see him?”

“Who?”

Schmidt came puffing up. “Vicky, you must not run off that way.”

“It was John,” I said. “He went into the temple.”

“You must have been mistaken,” Feisal said.

“No! I saw…”

What had I seen, really? What I wanted to see, what I hoped to see?

“So long as we are here, we will enter and look round,” Schmidt said, in the soothing voice he would have used to a whiny toddler.

It was pointless, hopeless, and a waste of time. I knew that even before we passed between the giant statues of some Ramses or other and entered the great open court. The place was vast, with dozens of huge columns and doorways and statues and side chapels, all ideal hiding places for a man who wanted to avoid attention, and with perhaps a hundred people wandering in and out and back and forth. Several of the men had fair hair.

“Sehr interessant,” said Schmidt, stroking his mustache. “Sehr schön. The most beautiful temple in Egypt, some have—”

“You don’t have to be tactful, Schmidt,” I snarled. “So I was wrong. Let’s go.”

The restaurant had a courtyard which looked peaceful and pleasant in the glow of lanterns. A small fountain played in the center, and sitting at one of the tables was John.

Rising and holding a chair for me, he said, “Finally! I’ve been here some time.”

“Where were you?” I inquired very politely.

“Strolling. I stopped at one of the shops round the corner.” He handed me a small parcel. I unwrapped it, and found a pair of silver earrings shaped like cats’ heads.

It was meant as a peace offering, but I wasn’t ready to forgive and forget. “I thought I saw you going into Luxor Temple,” I said.

After an infinitesimal pause, John raised an eyebrow. “So that’s what took you so long. I presume Schmidt had to inspect every corner of the place.”

“I was not inspecting, I was enjoying an aesthetic experience,” said Schmidt.

Feisal ordered for us and Schmidt decided to have another Stella. I said, “Schmidt and I have worked out a plan of operation.”

“Have you indeed?” This time both eyebrows went up. “May I hear it?”

Schmidt was happy to oblige. “It only remains,” he finished, “to narrow down the possibilities.”

As I might have expected, John proceeded to demolish our arguments. “What makes you suppose they would worry about a controlled environment? He’s been in that tomb for more than three thousand years, and for more than eighty of those years he’s been exposed to every form of pollutant imaginable. A few more weeks in a hole in a cliff won’t hurt him.”

“That would mean he’s still on the West Bank,” I said, unwilling to abandon our nice, neat theory. “How could they transport him back into the cliffs without being seen?”

“On a cart or wagon,” John said. “At night. I doubt they care whether he is banged up a bit. They’ve already lopped off a hand.”

Feisal grimaced. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Well, what do you think?” John asked. “Is there any point in following Schmidt’s suggestion?”

“I think it would be a bloody waste of time,” Feisal admitted. “Time we don’t have. If we had a lead—any faint, feeble lead…”

He looked at John, who shook his head. “What about Ali?” he asked.

“I’m sending some men out to look for him tomorrow. It’s common knowledge that he’s disappeared, and the theory is that he met with an accident back in the cliffs. Even experienced locals do occasionally.”

A waiter began distributing plates and bowls around the table. I recognized rice and a stewed vegetable dish consisting primarily of tomatoes. Feisal gestured to me to serve myself, which I did, discovering eggplant, lamb in several incarnations, and lentils. For a while there was no sound except that of Schmidt masticating.

“It looks as if I’ll have to make a quick trip to Denderah tomorrow or next day,” Feisal went on. “Someone broke into the storehouse there and made off with a granite sarcophagus basin. They’ve got a suspect, but haven’t tracked him down.”

“Where could he have hidden such a thing?” I asked. “It must weigh a ton.”

“Thereabouts,” Feisal agreed. “Farouk is an old hand at this, though. He and his pals stole a statue of Hathor from the temple a couple of months ago, in broad daylight, with hundreds of witnesses watching. It’s never been found.”

“Maybe we should ask him where he’d have put Tut,” I said.

Nobody found this amusing, not even me.

The Curse of the Omnipresent Cell Phone had reached Egypt; throughout the meal they had been beeping and bopping all around us. When one burst into song nearer at hand I looked at Schmidt. “That has to be yours,” I said. “Who else would have Johnny Cash?”

“Don’t answer it,” John ordered. “Let her leave a message.”

“You can’t be sure it’s Suzi,” I said.

“If it is, I’d rather Schmidt didn’t talk to her before he gives it due consideration.”

“And before I have finished my dinner,” Schmidt said, scooping the last of the eggplant onto his plate.

“I’d better check my messages,” Feisal said, taking out his cell phone. “I told Ali’s brother to let me know at once if they heard from him.”

I couldn’t blame him for clinging to that hope, increasingly unlikely though it seemed. He had several messages, none of which wrung a comment from him until the last. He let out a strangled squawk of horror.

“Oh, no,” I said. “Don’t tell me Ali is—”

“Not Ali,” Feisal muttered. “But it’s bad. Very bad. What am I going to do?”

We waited, holding our collective breaths. Feisal’s face was haggard. “Saida. She’s coming. Tomorrow. She wants to see…him.”