Laughter of Dead Kings

NINE

F eisal’s first impulse was to cut and run for it. “She can’t get in the tomb if I’m not here.”

“Wanna bet?” I inquired.

Feisal thought it over. “Bloody hell,” he said.

“Perhaps,” said Schmidt, “we should enlist her aid. She is very intelligent.”

“Tell her the truth, you mean?” said Feisal, horrified.

“Out of the question,” John said. “Control your lascivious impulses, Schmidt. It’s not her intelligence that interests you. You’ll have to ring Ashraf, Feisal. He’s the only one who can head her off.”

“Yes, right.” Feisal pushed his chair back and rose. “Let’s find a more private spot.”

We let Schmidt pay the check and hurried back to the hotel. A turbaned attendant was turning down the beds and putting little foil-wrapped pieces of chocolate on the pillows.

“The service here is very good,” Schmidt said, unwrapping his chocolate.

“Too good,” John said, roaming restlessly around the sitting room. “Get rid of him, Feisal. Politely.”

“Find anything?” I inquired, after John had looked behind the sofa cushions and under the table.

“No. That’s the trouble with all this assiduous service, one can’t tell whether the place has been searched. Watch what you say to Ashraf, Feisal. Schmidt, you had better report to Suzi.”

“I want to hear what Feisal says first,” said Schmidt, settling himself on the sofa.

Feisal got through to Ashraf right away. I found this surprising until it occurred to me that Ashraf must be as edgy as we were, and as anxious to stay in touch.

“Put it on speaker,” Schmidt said, all ears.

“Sorry, my equipment is somewhat primitive,” Feisal snapped. “Ashraf? Feisal here. We have a slight problem…No, nothing like that…No, there’s been no news of him. But Saida wants to visit a particular site in the Valley tomorrow, and…Yes, that site. Can you…Good. No, I’m going to Denderah tomorrow, there has been…Oh. If you say so. What? Oh. Are you sure you…Oh. You’re sure. Right.”

“Let me guess,” I said brightly. “He’ll put Saida off. And you are not going to Denderah.”

“Very clever,” said Feisal, baring his teeth. “Go on.”

“Ashraf is coming to Luxor.” I was guessing now, but Feisal’s expression of deepening gloom confirmed my hunch. “When?”

“Maybe tomorrow. Next day at the latest. He’ll let me know.”

“Hmph,” said John. “He’ll expect progress, won’t he?”

“Indubitably.”

“Then we must make some progress,” said Schmidt, taking out his cell. “What shall I say to Suzi?”

“As little as possible,” John said.

I must say, the little rascal was good. After the initial fond greetings, his first question was a coy, “Guess where I am?”

Suzi didn’t go in for guessing. She knew. Schmidt’s mustache twitched; he chewed on his lower lip as he listened to a fairly lengthy speech. “But, Liebchen,” he began, “I could not find the opportunity…” Another longish interruption. Wrong tack, Suzi, I thought, watching Schmidt stiffen and scowl. “You are wrong to reproach me,” he said loudly. “They know no more than you. I would swear to it. We are on the trail of the real perpetrators. If you truly care for me…” Listening, he put on a smirk I had learned to know well; Suzi had decided to be conciliatory. Too late, had she but known. Then Schmidt let out a bellow. “No! No, you must not do that! You do not trust me! Ach, Gott!”

The last fell, it was clear, on deaf ears—the ears of Suzi, at any rate.

“Let me guess,” I said. “Suzi is coming to Luxor.”

S uzi was stupider than I had believed, or else dangerously confident of her powers of seduction. If I had been in her shoes I’d have begun wondering about Schmidt. She had had sense enough to assure him of her complete trust, and she had promised to stay away from us while she was in Luxor. I didn’t believe that promise. It wouldn’t be difficult to follow us unobtrusively; Egyptian dress, for men and women both, involves long flapping garments and a variety of concealing headgear. And most men sport beards. Useful things, beards. Suzi was tall enough to pass for a man.

Feisal had declared his intention of heading for the West Bank the next morning to join the search for Ali. After a somewhat acrimonious discussion we decided to join him. Most of the acrimony came from John, who pointed out that we would only be in the way, since we knew nothing about the terrain and weren’t in fit condition to climb around the cliffs. Schmidt took this personally and started loping around the sitting room flexing his muscles.

I didn’t argue with him. I understood why he wanted to go; action, any kind of action, was better than sitting around stewing and speculating. He even agreed to skip breakfast and head out at sunrise, so we’d have several hours before the heat got too bad.

If Schmidt was going, I was going too. I thought John might try to talk me out of it, but he didn’t. Having lost the argument with Schmidt, he retired to our room in high dudgeon (and John’s dudgeons are extremely high), leaving me to work out the final details. When I joined him he was already tucked up in bed, reading. He put the book down and held out one elegant, expressive hand. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

It would have been childish to hold a grudge. Besides, the sofa in the sitting room was only five and a half feet long.

S chmidt rousted us out at 6:00 A.M. There was coffee. There was also a heap of square white boxes, the hotel’s packed lunch offering. Schmidt delved into one of them as we left the room, and finished a banana before we emerged from the hotel. He had arranged for a car the night before, tactfully refusing Feisal’s offer of his Jeep. Schmidt doesn’t care for Jeeps, especially the ones that are often in the repair shop. This vehicle was a small van, with plenty of room for us and the lunch boxes. It takes longer to cross the Nile by means of the bridge instead of taking a boat, but Schmidt isn’t crazy about gangplanks either, especially the type used by the launches, which are planks about six inches wide. They don’t usually wobble, but they look as if they might. Schmidt had been a good sport about the gangplanks the day before, so we tacitly agreed to indulge him this time.

Up front with the driver, Schmidt kept up a running monologue of commentary to which I did not listen. The rest of us didn’t talk much. I assumed that John and Feisal, like me, were preoccupied with the ensuing arrivals of a couple of people we didn’t want to see. Suzi wasn’t answering her phone. Ashraf had ordered Feisal to wait for his call instead of trying to reach him. According to Feisal, Ashraf was not in a good mood early in the morning. It struck me as a very civilized attitude, generally speaking, but I would have given a great deal to be assured that Ashraf had Saida under control. Too damn many people were coming to Luxor. I felt like a nanny in charge of undisciplined children, or a guard single-handedly trying to control a prison break.

The bridge was a grandiose affair, with ornamental statues and posters with enormous portraits of Mubarak. Once on the West Bank, the van headed north, past irrigation canals filled with reeds and garbage. Traffic included carts pulled by morose donkeys, bicycles and motorbikes, people riding morose donkeys, and the occasional tourist bus. Schmidt passed a hard-boiled egg back to me.

“Eat, eat, Vicky. You must keep up your strength for the task ahead.”

It turned out to be excellent advice.

Feisal’s squad were waiting for us at a predesignated spot, north of the causeway that led from the road to Hatshepsut’s temple of Deir el Bahri. The temple is one of the most popular tourist spots on the West Bank, but it was still early, and tourists were not yet in evidence.

Feisal gathered the group round him and began talking and gesturing. It appeared to be a group of volunteers rather than an official squad; clothing ranged from the black uniforms of the security police to jeans and T-shirts, to the standard galabiyas and head cloths; ages ranged from graybeards to kids who could have been as young as ten. He finished with a final wave of his arm, and the men started off in various directions. Two of the youngsters squatted down on the ground, waiting for further orders.

“Might one inquire as to your plan?” John asked. “Supposing you have one.”

“I can’t think of any good reason why I should explain to you,” Feisal said.

John raised one eyebrow. Feisal’s emphatic black brows drew together like small thunderclouds. I had a feeling this was going to be a difficult day, in more ways than one. Feisal was drawn tight as a bowstring, hoping not to find what he feared to find, and John had been in a filthy mood for days.

“Now, now, boys, play nicely,” I said.

“I am playing nicely,” Feisal growled. “All things considered. As it happens, I do have a plan, which would take too long to explain even if you had the vaguest notion of what I was talking about. You three will be with me. Don’t wander off.”

He inspected us with a critical eye. I’d seen Feisal under pressure, but never in command, so to speak; he was in his element now, on his own turf, and I had to fight an impulse to stand at attention and salute. I passed inspection; I had had sense enough to wear sturdy, low-heeled shoes and loose clothing, and even a hat. John, hatless and lounging, rated a curt “If you end up with sunstroke, don’t expect us to carry you.”

Feisal snatched a bottle of water from Schmidt, who was trying to insert it into a water-bottle-shaped bag hung on a hook attached to his belt. There were more hooks and tabs all over his vest, one of those khaki-colored garments with approximately a hundred pockets. All the pockets bulged. Most of the tabs were in use—camera, flashlight, Swiss Army knife, compass, and the magnifying glass, among other objects too numerous to mention.

“Don’t load yourself down,” Feisal ordered. “Yusuf and Ahman will carry the food and water. Hand over that magnifying glass.”

Schmidt clutched it protectively. “Will they give it back?”

Feisal replied with another question. “Do you want to set your pants on fire?”

Schmidt gave the magnifying glass to one of the boys, whose grin did not augur well for the return of same, and we set out.

Don’t expect specific details; most of the time I had no idea where I was or where I’d been, much less where I was going. Once we had left the temple and its surroundings behind, there were few conspicuous landmarks, only acres of bare brown sandy ground, undulating indiscriminately, backed by ridges of equally bare cliff. Tracks of paler color rambled here and there, up and down. It was the most indeterminate landscape I had ever seen; I couldn’t imagine how a search party could operate efficiently. We went up low hills and down them, stopping every now and then to look down into a hole or crevice. The air was still cool, and so clear you could make out the forms of some of the other searchers, who had fanned out from the starting point. The sun had lifted over the hills of Luxor; pale sunlight spread out before us, brightening the western cliffs.

The farther we went, the tougher the going became. The sun rose higher and the slope became steeper. Even with sunglasses the glare was hard on the eyes. Heaps of loose scree, ranging in size from pebbles to good-sized rocks, had been rolled down by wind and water, piling up at the base of the cliffs and sliding down the hillside. The other searchers were no longer in sight, but every now and then we encountered a local villager on business of his own; more and more frequently we were forced to circumnavigate piles of rock or declivities of varying depths. When we stopped and passed round the water bottles, Schmidt lowered himself carefully onto a boulder. Glancing at his flushed face, Feisal said, “Rest for a few minutes. It’s all uphill from here on.”

In my opinion it had been pretty much uphill all the way. I accepted a bottle of water from Yusuf, or maybe it was Ahman. The liquid was warm as blood. I shaded my eyes and looked up—straight up. We were getting close to the base of the cliffs, which were for all intents and purposes perpendicular.

“I hope you don’t intend to climb those,” I said, gesturing. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Feisal’s tight lips relaxed. “Sorry I was a little brusque back there. I don’t mind your asking, but I’m afraid any explanation would be meaningless without a map.”

Schmidt coughed. “We are not far from DB 320, is it not so?”

Feisal stared at him, and then let out an actual, genuine laugh. “Touché, Schmidt. Have a sandwich.”

“I am already doing so,” said Schmidt, who was already doing so. He had extracted one of the lunch boxes from the jealous hands of Ahman, or maybe it was Yusuf.

“Is DB 320 a tomb?” I asked.

“Right. They’re numbered, with each area having its own grouping. KV refers to the Valley of the Kings, DB to the Deir el Bahri region.”

Even Feisal seemed willing to rest for a while longer. Or maybe he was just reluctant to go on. The cliffs were full of tombs on various levels, not to mention crevices and natural holes. If Ali hadn’t disappeared of his own free will, there were only two possibilities: an accident, in which case he shouldn’t be too hard to locate; or foul play and subsequent concealment, in which case his body might be undiscovered for years.

Schmidt directed the boys to pass the lunch boxes around, and to help themselves. Nibbling on a very warm cheese sandwich, I looked out across the landscape. In the distance I could see the green strip of cultivation and a sunlit sparkle on the river beyond the green. Deir el Bahri was out of sight, concealed behind the curve of the cliffs.

“What’s that building?” I asked, indicating a structure some distance below. It was constructed of mud brick, the same color as the earth around it; only its rectangular outlines allowed me to make it out.

“Metropolitan House,” Feisal answered. “It was once the headquarters of the Metropolitan Museum team; they worked in this area for years. If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, Vicky, forget it. The place isn’t abandoned. It’s now being used by a Polish expedition.

“And that one?” I asked, indicating another low-slung building.

“It belongs to a British archaeological group, FEPEA. They usually come out in October for six months or so.”

“An admirable organization,” Schmidt declared. “I have been privileged to visit with them on several occasions. Their archives contain some remarkable material. It should be of particular interest to you, John.”

John had been uncharacteristically silent that morning. He remained so, staring at the distant outline of FEPEA headquarters with a remarkably vapid expression. I nudged him.

“Are you all right?”

“What?” He started. “Yes, certainly. Shouldn’t we get on with this?”

On we trudged, stopping more and more often to let Schmidt catch his breath. There wasn’t an inch of shade even at the base of the bigger boulders; the sun was high overhead. To be honest, I was losing interest in the whole business. How on earth could anyone hope to find one human body in this wilderness? Even the living were diminished by the towering cliffs.

Only once did something happen to shake me out of my fatalistic mood. Rounding a finger of cliff, we saw, projecting from the rubble ahead, an irregular dark shape. It moved slightly, like a feebly gesturing arm.

Feisal dived for the heap of debris and began digging with his bare hands. The rest of us stood frozen until he straightened up and held out a torn scrap of fabric.

“It’s from a woman’s robe,” he said, breathing hard. “Black. Faded.”

He and the two boys leveled the heap of rock, though a second glance had indicated it wasn’t high enough to have concealed a body. Some careless female had snagged her hem, and not recently. The fabric was so rotted, it tore at a touch.

“That’s it,” Feisal muttered, wiping his damp forehead with a damp handkerchief. “You three start back. I’ll catch you up.”

“We cannot abandon Feisal,” said Schmidt the indomitable. His face was red and his mustache hung limp with sweat. Even his giant hat hadn’t protected him entirely from sunlight reflected up from the surface. Guilt swamped me. I ought to have kept a closer eye on him.

“He’ll get along better without us,” John said. “I don’t think I can go any farther, Schmidt.”

He tried to look wan and wilted, which isn’t difficult for him. That air of aristocratic ennui serves him well.

Schmidt made clucking noises. “Ach, poor John. We will start back at once.”

He detached his compass and Feisal said, “You won’t need that, Schmidt, just head straight for FEPEA house and tell your driver to meet you there. He’ll know where it is.”

Schmidt started collecting his gear. Both boys denied any knowledge of the magnifying glass; while Schmidt was arguing with them I said softly to John, “Well done. You put on a good show of exhaustion.”

“It wasn’t a show.”

Feisal extracted Schmidt’s magnifying glass from one of the boys and went on with the boy—Yusuf—in the direction we had taken originally. He was out of sight almost immediately, behind an outthrust spur of rock. We started toward the river, accompanied by Ahman, the other boy, who carried a few remaining bottles of water and the last of the lunch boxes. It was downhill most of the way, but the sun was high overhead and by the time we reached our destination we were all drenched in sweat, except for Ahman, who was as brisk as a goat.

The compound, for such it proved to be, was on the edge of the cultivation. Palm trees and patches of greenery surrounded various structures which were presumably designed for storage and laboratory functions. The main house was a good-sized building, constructed of local mud brick that had been repeatedly patched and repaired, but the design was unusual for that part of the world. A veranda enclosed by screened arches stretched across the front of the house. John tried the door, which was also screened.

“It’s unlocked,” he said. “Let’s get out of the sun. Have a seat.”

The shade felt heavenly. The only pieces of furniture on the veranda were a wicker armchair with faded cushions and a rickety table. Empty pots of various sizes stood on the window ledge. Schmidt collapsed onto the chair and whipped out his cell phone. He hadn’t been able to reach his driver earlier. This time he succeeded.

“He was in the restroom,” he explained, supplying a tidbit of information I didn’t need to know. “He will come at once. Let us finish the lunch while we wait, eh?”

John perched on the wide window ledge. I joined him and looked around. “The caretaker hasn’t been doing his job,” I remarked, indicating the withered vines that had been trained to climb around the arches.

“He comes every week,” said Ahman.

It was the first time he had spoken English or given any indication that he understood the language. There’s a child among you taking notes, I thought, and scolded myself for falling victim to the unconscious superiority we feel for people of other cultures. I hoped I hadn’t said anything rude about him or his country or his relatives.

“Is he by chance your father?” John asked.

“The brother of my father. He is a good man.”

I was about to apologize for implying otherwise when I heard a sound at one of the closed windows of the house proper. An apparition met my startled gaze. Standing on its hind legs, scratching vigorously at the pane, was a large fluffy cat, striped in black and gray. Its mouth opened. A faint but peremptory mew penetrated the glass.

John went to the door. The handle turned and the door opened; the cat disappeared from the window and shortly thereafter marched out, bristling with indignation. Spotting the sandwich Schmidt was holding, it headed straight for him.

“A beautiful animal,” cooed Schmidt, dispensing scraps of chicken.

“Hmmm,” said John. “Was it supposed to be shut in the house?”

Ahman replied, from outside the veranda. I hadn’t even seen him move. “No.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He was staring at the cat, the whites of his eyes very much in evidence.

“You aren’t afraid of the cat, are you? Who does it belong to?”

Ahman opened the door just wide enough to slip in. “It lives here.”

“All the time? Who feeds it when the staff is away?”

“Everyone. It goes where it likes and does as it likes, and when it comes to a house it is given what it likes. People bring food to it.”

“Oho,” said Schmidt interestedly. “It is a locus genii, then.”

Ahman looked bewildered. “A supernatural guardian spirit,” I translated.

Tiring of this meaningless commentary, Ahman said, “It is not an ordinary cat. It goes where it likes and—”

“I understand,” John said, smiling. “I expect the creature has a den in one of the outbuildings and lives on mice and rabbits.”

“And dogs,” Ahman said seriously. “The dogs run from it.”

I could almost believe it. The animal was huge, a good three feet from the tip of its nose to the end of its enormous tail, which was now raised in feline approval as it finished Schmidt’s chicken.

“Someone seems to have fed it recently,” John said. He indicated the bowls on the ledge. “They’re all empty. Give it some water, Schmidt.”

The water was received with the usual feline appreciation; that is to say, the cat condescended to drink.

“It appears it hasn’t eaten or drunk since yesterday,” John said. “So it must have been shut in the house last night.”

He got up and went to the door, which he had left open.

“We shouldn’t go in,” I said. “Isn’t that breaking and entering, or something equally illegal?”

“Just entering,” John said. He added, “The cat couldn’t have let itself in, which means someone has been here. As good citizens, we are obliged to make certain the place hasn’t been robbed.”

The central block of the house was devoted to offices and a handsomely appointed library. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling and several tables, equipped with reading lamps, occupied the center of the library. Schmidt went at once to the bookshelves and began reading titles. “It is one of the best Egyptological libraries in the country,” he said admiringly. “Here are all the volumes of the Amarna Tombs series, and the Denkmäler of Lepsius, and…”

I let him ramble on while I inspected the contents of a pair of glass cases flanking the door. Expecting to find precious manuscripts and/or choice artifacts, I was somewhat taken aback to see a smallish, old-fashioned gun, a large knife, and a piece of folded fabric, roughly triangular in shape. The light was poor. I was trying to figure out what on earth it was when John forcibly removed Schmidt from the bookshelves and ordered us into the next room.

It had to be the director’s study. The desk was a massive piece of solid mahogany, hand-carved with Egyptian motifs, with crocodile heads forming the drawer handles. Oriental rugs in a glorious medley of colors covered the floor; a table was surrounded by high-backed leather chairs. The chairs showed evidence of being used as scratching posts. The long sofa against one wall was piled with cushions. There was a stone-faced fireplace along the inner wall, for those chilly desert nights, with a pair of crossed swords on the wall above it. It was a wonderful room, dignified and cozy at the same time. Even the filing cabinets were handsome articles of furniture, massive structures of polished wood. I was admiring the effect and wondering where I could get hold of a pair of crossed swords (and a comfy sofa) for my office when I heard a faint sound, no louder than a mouse’s scamper. I knew it probably was a mouse but it reminded me that we had no business being in the house.

“Let’s go,” I said uneasily.

“Yes, the driver is probably waiting,” Schmidt agreed. “Come, puss, puss, good puss, you do not want to be locked in again.”

The car and driver were there. So was Feisal. One look at him told me we were not about to hop in the car and go home.

“Let me have your camera, Schmidt,” he said.

Wide-eyed, Schmidt started fumbling in his pockets. For a few seconds no one spoke. Then John said evenly, “Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“Then he can wait a little longer,” John said. “Where, how, and when?”

The flat, almost callous tone was, contrary to expectations, the right one. Feisal replied as flatly.

“We won’t know when or how until we get him out. I want to get photographs before we move him. He was at the bottom of a narrow ravine a few hundred yards back from the top of the cliff.”

“Can we do anything?” I asked. It was a feeble attempt to convey the sympathy and distress I felt, but something told me not to go any further.

“No. I’ve rung the police. I tried to reach Ashraf, but he’s on his way to Luxor even as we speak. I left a message. You may have to deal with him. Go back to the hotel and wait for me.”

Mutely Schmidt offered him the magnifying glass. As a gesture it was perfect: heartfelt and absurd at the same time. Feisal’s frozen face cracked into normalcy. “Thanks, Schmidt.”

After he had left, covering the ground with long, quick strides, Schmidt and I stood staring helplessly at each other. Neither of us could think of anything to say that wasn’t banal or useless.

“What are you waiting for?” John demanded. “Get in the car.”

“Shouldn’t we lock up?” I asked.

“What with? We haven’t a key. Yusuf—”

“Ahman,” said the individual addressed.

“Sorry. What time of day does your uncle usually come here?”

Ahman shrugged. The gesture might have indicated lack of comprehension, indifference, or ignorance of the answer.

“Bloody hell,” said John. “We can’t wait indefinitely. Where does he live and what is his name?”

Ahman gave him a blank look and shrugged again.

“Feisal will know,” I said. “The kid isn’t going to tell you anything, John, he’s afraid his uncle may be in trouble. Give him some baksheesh and let’s go.”

A long unpaved version of a road led down to the main highway bordering the river. Rejoicing in the blast of cold from the car’s air conditioner, I took off my hat and shook out my damp hair.

“Someone searched that house,” I said.

“A somewhat sweeping statement,” said John.

“The director’s study, anyhow. Two of the chairs had been pulled away from the table and—”

“Several desk drawers were open an inch or so.”

“Oh,” I said, deflated. “You noticed.”

“There were a few other indications, subtle but suggestive, that someone had been in that room recently.”

“How did he get in? A hefty bribe to the uncle of Ahman?”

“I don’t think so. The lock had been forced. An easy job, with a clumsy, old-fashioned lock like that one.”

“What was he looking for?” I asked. “A place to hide…” Ali’s name had been mentioned; there was no avoiding the subject any longer. “To hide a body? And then the killer decided it wasn’t a good place after all?”

“Not likely.” John’s mouth shut tightly. But I was on track now, I didn’t need any help from him.

“Not likely,” I agreed, thinking aloud. “There would be no hope of making Ali’s death look accidental if his body were found there.”

“Perhaps it was Ali who went there, looking for the mummy,” Schmidt offered. “And the thieves caught him.”

I shook my head. “The place had been searched. They, or he, or she, or whomever, wasn’t looking for Tut, they were looking for something relatively small.”

John leaned back, arms folded, and stared out the window. The car swerved around a camel loaded with bundles of some variety of herbage.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked, poking him.

“A long cold shower.”

I had to admit it was the best idea I’d heard for a while.

J ohn didn’t join me in the shower. Perhaps, I mused, as the lovely element caressed my sticky self, the idea had struck him as somewhat inappropriate. I wasn’t in the mood either. I had never known Ali, but Feisal’s description and the collective memories of his family had painted the picture of the man: hardworking and honest, struggling to make ends meet against considerable odds. One of the common people. And worth more than any dead king.

We had found several messages tucked under the door of the sitting room. When I came out of the bedroom, toweling my hair, John was reading them.

“Let me see,” I said.

“Be my guest.” John went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Schmidt, pink and scrubbed and wrapped in one of the terrycloth robes supplied by the hotel, joined me before long.

“We are popular,” I said, handing him one of the slips of paper. “Ashraf has already been round to see us.”

“Aha,” said Schmidt, perusing it. “He is on his way to the West Bank. That implies that he has received Feisal’s news about Ali. Who is that one from?”

“Somebody I’ve never heard of.”

“It is addressed to me,” Schmidt said indignantly. “You opened the envelope?”

“John did. I did not read it,” I said virtuously. “Who is Jean-Luc LeBlanc?”

“A distinguished French archaeologist. His team works at Karnak. He has heard I am in Luxor and invites me to visit him.”

“French, eh? We’ve had suspicious encounters in Germany, Italy, and England. Maybe we shouldn’t have skipped Paris.”

“Jean-Luc cannot be an object of suspicion. He is a distinguished—”

“Right. This next one sounds like an American. Only a few more Western countries to be heard from. Is she another distinguished archaeologist?”

Schmidt looked at it and shook his head. “She writes to John, not to me. ‘I am staying at the Mercure, please call me as soon as possible.’”

John emerged. He had exchanged his sweat-stained shirt and jeans for a suit and tie. (Regimental or public school, I presumed.) I handed him the message.

“One of your floozies?”

“I do not have floozies. Not even one.”

He gave me a fond smile and bent over to kiss me on the top of the head.

“Who is she?” I asked, resisting distraction.

“An admirer, I expect. I have quite a number of them.”

“You don’t recognize—”

The unmistakable voice of Johnny Cash made itself heard. Schmidt fumbled in the pocket of his robe. “Where is my cell phone?”

“Probably in your bedroom,” John said. “You had better answer, it might be Feisal. I’ll help you look.”

Schmidt’s phone was on the table next to his bed, which was strewn with articles of clothing. I’ve tidied up after Schmidt so often it has become a habit; ears pricked, I began collecting cast-off garments. Among them was a rather large pair of boxers printed with hearts and bluebirds. Schmidt shares my fondness for fancy lingerie.

After an initial exclamation of distress, Schmidt didn’t say much. He rang off, and John said impatiently, “Well?”

“Feisal is on his way here,” Schmidt said. “With Ashraf.”

“Fast work,” John muttered. “Was it murder?”

“They will have to wait for the results of the autopsy. He had a fatal wound of the head and several broken bones, but they could have resulted from a fall.”

“Has his family been notified?” I asked.

“I forgot to ask.” Schmidt ducked his head. “I am ashamed.”

“You’ve no reason to be ashamed, Schmidt,” John said gently. “You’re a good man.”

It was a rare tribute, and Schmidt reacted by leaking tears. By way of distraction I suggested we fill out a laundry form. He must be getting low on white linen suits by now. Such proved to be the case. Schmidt fished out clothes from the floor of the wardrobe. It took a while to sort and list them and put them into the bag provided.

“I’ll call to have them picked up,” I said briskly. “You get dressed, Schmidt.”

“Yes, yes, we will soon be having guests. I will call the room service and—”

“I’ll do it. Beer?”

Schmidt nodded. Activity had got him out of his mournful mood, but he looked sober. “Time is running out, Vicky. How many days have we left?”

I tried to think. Ten days, Ashraf had said. That had been two days ago, and the message had been delivered to him…when? A day or two before we saw him.

“I don’t know, Schmidt. Fewer than I’d like.”

“You were right, you know, in what you said. A dead king is less important than a living creature. But we must persevere, to help our friends.”

“Of course.” I patted him on his bald head.

I towed the bulging bag of laundry out into the sitting room and called housekeeping and then room service. Then I sat down on the sofa and picked up the notebook and pen. The problem was one of simple arithmetic, but so much had happened I was beginning to lose track of the time. Our unscheduled meeting with Ashraf had taken place Tuesday morning. At the latest he would have received the “ransom” note the day before. So when we saw him there were nine days left, not ten. We had arrived in Luxor the following day, inspected Tut’s tomb and visited Ali’s family.

Eight days.

Today on the West Bank.

Seven days.

Or had I miscounted? At best we had a week. Maybe less.

I was doodling aimlessly on the page, drawing vultures and jackals, when the laundry maid—a gray-haired, timid little woman—arrived. We got excellent service, thanks to Schmidt’s habit of tipping everybody for every move they made. I was fishing in my pocket looking for a few stray pounds when Schmidt came out and provided them.

“You look very natty,” I said. “How about a rose for your buttonhole?”

“It does not seem fitting. A black armband, do you think?”

“That would be overdoing it,” I said, wondering whether a black armband formed part of his usual travel wardrobe.

“Perhaps you are right. Where is John?”

Yes, indeed, where was he? The bedroom door was closed. I opened it and looked in. Not a sign of him there or in the bathroom.

“Goddamn him,” I said. “He’s done it again.” I ran to the balcony and leaned over the balustrade. Three stories below, the corniche provided its picturesque view of camels and carts and cars and carriages, with a bustle of pedestrians strolling along the sidewalk or weaving their way through the traffic on the street. None of the foreshortened forms was familiar.

Uttering incoherent curses, I started for the door. Schmidt inserted his solid form between me and the egress.

“You waste your time, Vicky, you cannot find John when he does not want to be found. Why are you angry? He will turn up, as he did the other night.”

“He’s up to no good, Schmidt. He knows something he hasn’t told us.”

“If he is,” said Schmidt, ponderously shifting position as I tried to slide past him, “it is because he is following a lead he can best pursue alone. You have no proof that he is concealing important information.”

Unbidden and unwelcome, the memory of John’s meeting with Helga, the dealer in Berlin, came back to me.

“Schmidt,” I said, “what does Helga look like?”

“Who?”

“The antiquities dealer in Berlin. What does she look like?”

“Oh, Helga von Sturm. Why do you—”

“Just tell me, okay?”

“She is a handsome woman. Not young, you understand, but soigné and elegant, always expensively dressed. She is very successful, and can afford—”

“So it wasn’t she John met in Berlin.” I slammed my fist onto the table. “Ouch. He lied about that, he’s lying about the woman who left that note. When he comes back, I’m going to tie him to a chair and torture him till he comes clean. I’m going to—”

“I am sure he has only gone to the bank or to purchase a newspaper,” Schmidt said. Someone knocked at the door. “Ah—there, you see.”

Primed and ready, I opened the door. A waiter with a cart shied away when he saw my expression. I forced my face into nonthreatening lines and stood back.

“What is all this?” I demanded. “I only asked for beer.”

“I spoke to the room service too,” said Schmidt. “I feared you would forget that we must offer hospitality to our friends, who have been hard at work in the hot sun. No doubt they will want…Ah. Just in time, they are here.”

We got Feisal and Ashraf in and the waiter, properly baksheeshed, out. It was obvious they had come straight from the West Bank; Feisal’s once-crisp shirt hung limp and the dust on his face was streaked with runnels of sweat. Ashraf was carrying his jacket and his two-hundred-dollar shoes were covered with dust. He hadn’t forgotten his manners, though; he waited until I had sat down before sinking into a chair. Schmidt bustled about, offering fizzy drinks and platters of hors d’oeuvres.

“Just water,” Feisal said hoarsely. He twisted the cap off a frosty bottle and drank deeply. “Alhamdullilah, that’s good. Where’s Johnny?”

“Out,” I said, snapping the word off.

“When do you expect him back?” Ashraf asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Ah.” Ashraf leaned back and loosened his tie. He’d hurried off to the West Bank without stopping to change. “Then perhaps you, his associates, can tell me how your investigation is proceeding.”

He looked inquiringly from me to Schmidt. I kept my mouth shut. Feisal shut his. Sensing a certain level of discomfort all round, Schmidt burst into speech.

“Today’s tragic development has altered the picture, Sie verstehen. We must analyze the ramifications before we can fully comprehend how they fit into the overall pattern.”

“So there is a pattern?” Ashraf inquired.

Feisal stood up. “If I may make use of your bathroom, Schmidt, I’d like to wash up.”

Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into Schmidt’s room.

“Feisal has not been forthcoming,” Ashraf said smoothly. “He referred me to Mr. Tregarth. I did not press him, since he is clearly distraught about the death of his subordinate.”

Schmidt, for once at a loss for words, shoved a plate of cheese and sliced smoked turkey at him. Ashraf looked ruefully at his dirty hands.

“With your permission, I will emulate Feisal.”

I waved him toward the other bathroom. As soon as the door had closed behind him, Feisal popped out of Schmidt’s room, toweling his hands.

“Talk fast,” he ordered. “Has anything happened? Anything encouraging?”

“No,” I said, glancing at the outer door. It remained uncompromisingly closed.

“Damn. I can’t keep putting Ashraf off, he wants some indication of progress.”

“Make something up,” I said.

Feisal directed a desperate stare in my direction, and Schmidt said brightly, “I can do that.”

Ashraf reappeared, wearing his jacket. He had given his shoes a quick rub, probably with one of my towels, but what did I care?

“So,” he began.

“So it appears,” said Schmidt, hands raised and fingertips together, “that our preliminary theory was correct. The missing object is hidden somewhere in the Theban hills. Ali came to the same conclusion and went to look for it. He surprised the men guarding the cache and they were forced to silence him. What did you say to him, Dr. Khifaya, that might have given him the idea?”

That was taking the fight into the enemy camp, all right. Ashraf looked startled, and then thoughtful. “Nothing that I can think of. He was speaking from the taftish, to which I had summoned him; I cautioned him to watch what he said, since there were others present. I did most of the talking…Let me see. I told him that the theft had been discovered, and cut him off when he began babbling; assured him that I did not hold him responsible…”

“That I was the one responsible,” Feisal said, scowling.

“What is the American saying? ‘The buck stops here’?”

“That means you,” Feisal said. The two glowered at each other. I could see the family resemblance now, they glowered similarly.

“Do not quarrel,” Schmidt said. “You are getting off the track. What else did you say to Ali?”

Ashraf rubbed his forehead. “Not much. To notify me at once if anything out of the ordinary occurred.”

“Vague,” I said critically.

“I couldn’t be more specific,” Ashraf insisted. He was on the defensive now, which was just where I wanted him. “Not over the telephone.”

“No suggestions as to where the—er—missing article might be? No orders to search for it?” Schmidt demanded.

“No, I tell you. How could I propose an idea that hadn’t occurred to me? May I ask why it occurred to you lot?”

“I will explain,” said Schmidt, peering owlishly at Ashraf.

The explanation took a good ten minutes. Feisal couldn’t sit still; he paced and sat down, jumped up and went onto the balcony, came back, sat down, jumped up, paced. When Schmidt couldn’t drag it out any longer, he stopped talking and gave Ashraf a smug smile.

“It does open up a possible line of action,” the latter admitted. “But there are difficulties. If Ali’s death was not an accident—and we still have no actual proof that it was not—we must assume the murder did not occur near the place where his body was found. That leaves a large territory to be searched. Furthermore, how can I send search parties into the hills without telling them what they are searching for?”

“And without warning them that if they find it they could be murdered,” I said.

“That too,” said Ashraf.

Not a sound at the door.

“You disgust me,” I burst out. “All of you. A man is dead, a good, harmless man, and all you can think of is how to keep this business a secret. You’re willing to risk more lives to retrieve a dried-up corpse.”

Ashraf’s expression was so tender and kind I wanted to paste him one. That was the attitude he expected from a woman. If he had praised me for it I would have hit him. It might have been Feisal shaking his head or Schmidt’s fit of frantic coughing that warned him. All he said was, “If I decide to send out search parties, they will be armed and expecting trouble. We can easily find an excuse that does not involve—er—him. A missing tourist, perhaps. When did you say you expected Mr. Tregarth to return?”

Back at you, Vicky.

“When he’s good and ready,” I said. “Have some cheese.”