Laughter of Dead Kings

FIVE

T he scene ended on that dramatic note, because the waiter turned up with our order. Sobbing, Schmidt fled into the bedroom. John gestured to me to open the door, and flattened himself against the wall, prepared, I assumed, to defend me from pistol-packing waiters. This one had thinning gray hair and an expansive stomach. If he was a member of a gang, the gang must be pretty hard up. John indicated he need not linger; he gave me a genteel leer and took himself off.

Hearing the door close, Schmidt made a tentative appearance. Everything drooped—mouth, mustache, both chins.

“Can you ever forgive me?” he whimpered.

I gave him a big hug. John said, “Have a beer.”

It was probably the beer, not the hug, that did the trick.

“I will not weep again,” Schmidt announced after a long swig. “I will show the stiff upper lip. And I will bare my chest.”

John gallantly resisted that one. I joined Schmidt in a beer and John had a glass of wine. Health fanatics be damned, there’s nothing like a little alcohol to relieve stress and create a cozy atmosphere. The beer and the prospect of clearing his conscience did wonders; Schmidt was himself again, his cheeks pink and his eyes candid.

“Suzi put you up to this,” I prompted.

“I will tell it,” said Schmidt, manfully squaring his shoulders. “We were in your house, to look after Clara, as I promised. Clara did not want Suzi to look after her. She growled and spat and was rude. So I went to get her food and while I was doing that, Suzi went into your bedroom. When I found her there I was shocked—shocked! And then she told me. That a valuable, unique antiquity had been stolen from Egypt, and that you, John, were the principal suspect.”

He looked hopefully at John, who promptly provided him with another beer. “She didn’t tell you what antiquity,” he said. It was not a question; Schmidt’s drop-jaw astonishment had been proof that Tut had not been mentioned.

“She said she was not at liberty to do so. Natürlich, I thought of the great statues in the museum, Khafre and Menkaure, and the golden coffin and mask, the fabulous jewels. Who would bother to steal a dried-up ugly mummy?

“But now I understand why you are under suspicion. The caper has your trademark, nicht wahr? She knows who you are, John—who you were. She has not told her superiors, because she wants the credit of bringing you to justice.”

“So that’s it,” I said. “Before we left Egypt last time, I had a hunch she had fingered John but that she wasn’t blowing the whistle because she liked us and was sorry for us.”

“And because at that point she couldn’t prove anything,” said John.

“Right. God, what a sucker I am!”

“You trust people,” John said. “It is a serious character flaw which I have endeavored without success to correct. So, Schmidt, when she asked you to play spy, you agreed.”

Schmidt hung his head. “I was a besotted old fool. But, my friends, I swear to you that I agreed only because I knew I would find proof of your innocence. I will find it! And I will hurl it in her face!”

“So that pitiful story about Suzi breaking up with you was pure fiction?” I inquired.

“She told me what to say,” Schmidt admitted. “But it was my performance that convinced you, is that not so?”

“It convinced Vicky,” John said. “She trusts people. Especially her friends.”

“But you do not.” Schmidt gave him a reproachful look. “You made sure to be at my side every minute, so I could not text to her. Vicky—I would not have done it anyhow. From the moment I saw you again I was in agony, torn between friendship and—er—”

“Lust,” John suggested.

Lips pursed, Schmidt considered the noun. “Yes, yes, that was part of it. But only part. I loved her. She made me laugh.”

“Suzi?” I said. She hadn’t struck me as the funniest lady in the cabaret.

Schmidt blushed. “Private jokes, you understand. And she said that I did not owe you loyalty, John, because you had deceived me and lied to Vicky. But now I know she pretended to care for me only because she wanted to lay you by the heels. I have learned my lesson. Never again will I succumb to the lure of the flesh. The marriage of true minds, mutual respect, common interests, they will be my guiding principles.”

“Quite,” John said. “Go on. What other orders did she give you?”

“To report to her at once if you left London.”

“But you didn’t,” I said.

“No. No, I have told you—”

“They’ll track us down before long,” John said. “But it may take a little time. What else, Schmidt?”

“Only to pass on any information about your recent activities, persons you had contacted, but—”

“But you didn’t,” John said, with a curl of his lip. “Can I believe that?”

Schmidt wilted, and I said, “Lay off, John. I believe you, Schmidt.”

“So do I,” John said. The curl of his lip turned into a smile.

The declaration of faith cheered Schmidt enough to awaken his appetite; he started lifting covers, and browsed among the varied dishes while, at his suggestion, we gave him a rundown of our recent activities. Schmidt didn’t say much because his mouth was full, but he nodded and rolled his eyes and made inarticulate noises indicative of amazement, concern, and interest. Finally he sat back, wiped his chin, and opened another beer.

“Also,” he said. “Let us summarize. Feisal (poor Feisal!) is holding the fort in Luxor. The Supreme Council has not yet learned of the theft. Several dangerous persons have learned of it—Bernardo in Rome and at least one unknown party in London. They, however, are not the persons who committed the theft. Suzi has also found out. The dissemination of information seems random, but is it? Is there a pattern? A single source, vielleicht?”

“Very good, Schmidt,” I said. “If we knew the answer to that, we would be well on the way to learning not only the motive for the theft but the identity of the real thieves.”

“Possibly,” said Schmidt. He steepled his fingers and peered at me over them. I recognized the Sherlock Holmes persona. Well, he was entitled, bless his heart. I remained respectfully silent and, for a wonder, so did John.

“You seem to have considered most of the possible motives,” Schmidt resumed. “The most likely would seem to be simple greed. Ransom, to be precise. But if that is the case, why has not the Egyptian government or the Supreme Council been approached?”

“How do we know they haven’t been?” John asked.

“I was about to make that point,” Schmidt said, giving John a Holmes-to-Watson look. “They would have good reason to remain silent.”

“No, but surely their first move would be to make sure he was missing,” I argued. “Tut, I mean. Feisal is sounding nervous, but not as frantic as he surely would be if somebody from the SCA had demanded entry into the tomb.”

“This is all idle speculation,” Schmidt grumbled. “There is one way to find out for sure whether the secretary general of the SCA has received a ransom note. We will ask him.”

W hat Schmidt meant was “I will ask him.” He claimed to be a dear personal friend of Khifaya. He thought he was a dear personal friend of everybody he’d ever met, but his connections and his reputation did give him an edge when it came to extracting information. I offered, out of the goodness of my heart, to approach Khifaya by joining the picket line at the museum. Schmidt thought this was a fine idea. He would carry a sign too. However, we were doomed to disappointment. Khifaya had left Berlin.

Hovering over his laptop, Schmidt continued to search the more esoteric reaches of the World Wide Web, from one of which he had retrieved that information. Khifaya was no longer an item of current interest, but his name turned up in a lot of places, including his Web site. So did Tutankhamon’s, although he didn’t have his own Web site.

“Nothing relevant to our inquiries,” Schmidt announced, rolling the r. “We must proceed forthwith to Egypt.”

“In hot pursuit of Khifaya?” I asked hopefully.

“Has anyone a better suggestion?” Schmidt demanded.

John put down the wurst on which he had been nibbling. “I wondered when someone would ask me.”

“Consider yourself asked,” I said, investigating the cheese selection.

“I had several reasons for coming to Berlin,” John said. “The notion of joining the picket line had its charm, but I also hoped I might hear from an old acquaintance.”

“Another crook?” I inquired. “I don’t mean to sound critical, but you’ve already got one gang in Rome and another in London after you. Why can’t you leave bad enough alone?”

“I agree,” said Schmidt, reaching for the last slice of Gouda. “Now let us organize ourselves. First, you should communicate with Feisal. Who can tell what may have transpired within the last few hours?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” John admitted. “Perhaps I’ll risk a telephone call.”

Feisal answered on the first ring. “Where are you?” he demanded.

“On our way,” said John. “We saw your boss on the telly the other night. He seems to be having a jolly good time harassing the Berlin museum.”

“He’s back. In Cairo. I,” said Feisal pointedly, “am in Luxor. When will you join me?”

Schmidt reached for the phone. John turned his back, clutching it protectively, and I hissed, “Don’t say anything, Schmidt.”

“But I would like—”

“We’re saving you for a surprise.”

John rang off. “So far so good, one may deduce. He wasn’t actually screaming. I told him we’d try to get a flight first thing tomorrow.”

“No, we cannot do that,” said Schmidt. “In the evening, vielleicht. In the morning I am going to picket at the museum. Yes, yes, I know, Dr. Khifaya has left, but some of his students may still be there, and if they are not—well, I will be even more visible, will I not? Perhaps I will lie down on the pavement and be arrested.”

“You want to make Perlmutter squirm,” I said, torn between amusement and consternation.

“Warum nicht? He has made me squirm, allowing me to dig up that grave in full public view when he knew nothing was there! Also, I would like to question him, subtly and slyly, as is my method. Has either of you bothered to ascertain whether museums and legitimate collectors have heard the rumors?”

“I haven’t had time,” John said defensively.

“Tsk, tsk,” said Schmidt. (He is the only person I’ve ever met who pronounces each separate consonant.) “Not even the British Museum? The Keeper, I believe, is a distant—”

“Very distant. He wouldn’t know me from Adam.”

“Leave it to me, then.” Schmidt glanced at his watch and rose. “We must hurry. There is much to do.”

“What precisely do you have in mind?” I asked, expecting the worst.

“Shopping, of course. I do not have with me so much as a toothbrush.”

“The concierge,” John began.

“The concierge cannot purchase for me clothing. Heiliger Gott, I cannot go to Egypt with only one suit and no pajamas, no dressing gown, no—”

“Can I come too?” I asked hopefully.

“Aber natürlich.” Schmidt beamed at me.

He trotted into his room to put his laptop away and, as he put it, “tidy myself as much as is possible.” John gave me a critical look and began, “Vicky, you aren’t going to let him—”

“Buy me a new wardrobe? Damn right. Don’t you see, he’s trying to make up for mistrusting us. I bet he’ll buy you a new suit too if you’re nice.”

“Not under any circumstances whatever.”

I gave him a quick kiss. “You’re just sulking because you aren’t the mastermind anymore.”

S chmidt was well known in all the right shops. One genuflecting merchant promised to have the pants of three white linen suits shortened and delivered to the hotel by eight the next morning. Another supplied various items of haberdashery, from socks to nightshirts. I put my foot down when Schmidt tried to lure me into an elegant boutique, and led the way to Gesundbrunnencenter, where I picked up jeans and a couple of shirts. Schmidt went off, sulking, while I was in the dressing room, and came back with several bags, which he pressed into the unwilling grasp of John.

“We have almost finished,” he announced. “Another stop and then we will go to dinner.”

One look in the window of the establishment to which the taxi delivered us was enough to confirm my suspicions. There was a single garment on display: a nightgown which appeared to have been spun by spiders. It glimmered like a dragonfly’s wings, semitransparent, shot with pearly threads.

“They’re closed,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed. A woman of my height doesn’t go forth in lace and chiffon, but as Schmidt well knew, I have a weakness for sexy nightgowns.

“Trudi will open for me,” Schmidt said. “She expects us.”

He pushed a discreetly concealed button. A light went on inside; a curtain was drawn aside, an eye peered out, a cry of rapture echoed, and the door was flung wide. Schmidt rushed into the outspread arms of a well-endowed blonde wearing a negligee trimmed with crystals, cascading ruffles, and God knows what else.

He and John sat at a marble-topped desk sipping champagne while Trudi thrust intimate garments into the dressing room to which I had been led. None of them had anything so vulgar as a price tag, which was in itself a sign that I couldn’t have afforded so much as a hanky. I was determined to behave myself, but that damned nightgown, which Trudi removed from the show window, was too much.

Ideas of sensuality vary from culture to culture and era to era, but an excessive display of skin can be—well—excessive. (Especially when, as is only too often the case these days, the skin covers vast expanses of wobbly flesh.) It isn’t so much what you show as how you show it. Victorian gents used to get short of breath when a lady bared an ankle, and the ancient Egyptians knew what they were doing when they draped queens and noblewomen in transparent linen. I wanted that nightgown. It moved with me, graceful as a cloud. I wanted it really badly.

I’ll pay him back, I told myself.

I joined Schmidt in a glass of champagne (another glass, in his case) and Trudi presented him with a pale pink, gold-handled bag with tissue paper billowing out the top.

“Many many thanks for your courtesy, Liebchen,” said Schmidt, handing the bag to John. “Put it on my account.”

The taxi she had called pulled up as we exited; we waited until we heard the chains rattle and the locks click; and I thought, Account? How come Schmidt had an account at a shop that specialized in hideously expensive lady’s underwear? How many other women had been beneficiaries of his largesse? And what business was it of mine?

When I unpacked Trudi’s bag later that night, I found not only the nightgown but a matching negligee and a selection of bras and panties. They all looked as if they had come from the spiders’ workshop—and they were all my size. Either Schmidt had a trained eye or he had been rummaging around in my bureau drawers.

If I had been true to my principles I would have marched into Schmidt’s room and handed them back, with a dignified refusal. I couldn’t resist trying a few things on, though, and the nightie inspired John to quote several of the Restoration poets. It inspired more than that. That night I didn’t dream about Tutankhamon.

A thunderous pounding on the door woke me. I groaned and sat up. The flow of dragonfly wings all about me made me confine my response to a mild “What do you want, Schmidt?”

“It is time to get up,” Schmidt yelled. “We must be at the museum in one hour. There is coffee. Shall I bring it there to you?”

John had pulled the sheet over his face, but that offer got him up and out of bed. I put on the negligee that matched the nightgown and wafted my way to the door.

“Ooh, that is very nice,” said Schmidt, inspecting me.

“You look very natty yourself,” I mumbled. “You got your suits, I see.”

“Oh, yes, I can always depend on Friedrich. Have your breakfast. There are eggs and wurst, hot rolls and jam, cheese and ham.”

“What, no caviar?” said John, emerging.

Schmidt reached for the telephone. “I was joking,” John said hastily.

Schmidt had already eaten breakfast, but he kept us company, nibbling on various odds and ends until we finished, and then shooed us into the bedroom, demanding that we hurry. When we came back, Schmidt was on his knees putting the finishing touches on an enormous banner. In passionate German it besought the return of Nefertiti.

“Is that a bedsheet?” I asked.

“Yes, I could not find paper large enough,” said Schmidt, working away with his purple Magic Marker. “I will pay for it, of course.” He added a few words.

“You can’t say that about Perlmutter,” I objected.

“I wish to get his attention.” Schmidt rose stiffly to his feet. “Oh, and by the way, I have made reservations for us on the evening flight to Cairo. You should telephone to Feisal and tell him we arrive at ten forty-five.”

“I think I’d better wait to see whether you two get out of jail in time,” John said.

Meekly we followed Schmidt to the lift. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” I asked John.

“I’m beginning to. There is something to be said for being a foot soldier instead of an officer. Whatever happens, it won’t be my fault.”

“What about your friend?”

John shrugged. “I’ll see if I can get in touch later. This is bound to be one of Schmidt’s more memorable performances. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

There were no pickets in evidence. The handsome classical facade of the museum faced onto a circle with a fountain in the center. The sidewalk was wide enough for half a dozen people walking abreast—or, as it turned out, for two people holding Schmidt’s banner. I took one end and Schmidt the other.

“The center sags,” Schmidt said. “John—”

“Oh, no,” said John, retreating.

“Do we start walking or stand in front of the stairs?” I asked.

“We wait.” Schmidt consulted his wristwatch. “He said he would be here. Where—Ah!”

The green van that screeched to a stop had the logo of a local television channel. A man wearing dark glasses and carrying a camera got out.

“Verzeihen Sie, Herr Professor. Sorry I couldn’t get the whole crew, there’s a warehouse fire in Dahlen.”

“We must do the best we can,” Schmidt replied. “Ernhardt Flug-schaften—my assistant, Fräulein Doktor Victoria Bliss. Now, Ernhardt, go back ten feet; we will come marching toward you, carrying the banner and shouting our slogan.”

“What is our slogan?” I asked, holding my end of the banner high.

“Or perhaps we should sing,” said Schmidt, who obviously hadn’t come up with a slogan. “What is the Egyptian national anthem?”

“Damned if I know.”

Inspiration came to Schmidt. He let out a bellow that made me and Ernhardt jump. “Wahrheit! Freiheit! Gerechtigkeit!”

I couldn’t see what freedom had to do with it, unless it was our freedom from jail, but I joined in at the top of my lungs. “Truth! Freedom! Justice!” It had a great rhythm, and it rhymed, too. Grinning, Ernhardt backed away, filming as he went. From a safe distance near the railings, John looked on, hands in his jacket pockets. We were beginning to attract an audience—not only the people who had had to jump out of our way and remained to shake their fists at us, but several museum guards.

“Wahrheit!” we shouted. “Freiheit!”

The nearest of the guards cleared his throat noisily. “Herr Doktor—entshuldigen Sie—”

He jumped back as Schmidt barreled down on him without stopping or veering aside. “Ach, Überwald, mein alter Freund! Ihre Familie ist gesund?”

“Ja, vielen Dank, Herr Doktor—aber—aber…” We made a right about-face, not too smartly, since I wasn’t expecting it, and bore down on Überwald again. “You cannot do this! It is verboten. Bitte…”

We passed him at a brisk walk and Schmidt handed him a card. “Announce me to Herr Doktor Perlmutter.”

Schmidt knew everybody. Guards at the museum, shopkeepers, restaurant owners, journalists; he probably knew the name of the guy who picked up the trash, and the names and ages of all the guy’s kids. He had a memory like the proverbial pachyderm and he had often proved his claim that he never forgot a face. We weren’t going to get arrested. Everybody knew Schmidt.

It took several trips back and forth to arrange the interview with Perlmutter. He wanted us to come to his office and Schmidt insisted he come down to us. Schmidt handed another of the guards a wad of money and told him to go get food, lots of food, any sort of food, not only for us but—with an expansive gesture at our growing audience—“for all our friends here.”

Before long we were joined by several people who didn’t know what we were marching about but who wanted to get on television. The rest of them sat down on the steps to watch. John remained aloof. The chorus swelled. “Wahrheit! Freiheit! Gerechtigkeit!”

Jan Perlmutter tried to make an unobtrusive appearance, but Schmidt was on the lookout and saw him cowering behind one of the columns. Alerted by Schmidt, Ernhardt got an excellent shot of the huge classical columns and Perlmutter peeking nervously out. Chortling, Schmidt handed his end of the banner to me and trotted up the steps, waving and calling. I passed the banner on to a couple of volunteers and followed.

Wrenching himself free of Schmidt’s fond grasp, Jan tried to maintain his dignity. “I am surprised to see you here, Vicky.”

I had once had an old-fashioned crush on Jan, who resembled a gorgeous young saint in one of my favorite paintings. Alas, the magic was gone. Not only did I have a new crush, but Jan was no longer gorgeous. The hawklike features had sagged, the crisp curls were silvery pale instead of bright gold, and they had retreated so far that his forehead looked like a mountain massif topped with snow. He turned his back on Ernhardt, who was climbing the stairs, filming industriously, and hissed, “Tell him to stop! Schmidt, come inside at once. Have you not made a sufficient spectacle of yourself?”

Schmidt nodded judiciously. “Perhaps so. Come, Vicky, John. Ernhardt, my thanks, and best wishes to Erma.”

Jan led the way to his office, moving at a clip that left our admirers behind. Settling himself at his desk, he demanded rather piteously, “Why have you done this to me, Schmidt?”

Schmidt said, “Wahrheit! Freiheit!” and offered Jan a sausage in a bun.

“Spite,” said Jan, ignoring the sausage. “Revenge. This is not worthy of you. It is not my fault if you were not clever enough to find the gold of Troy.”

Schmidt started to eat the hot dog, to use that term loosely, so I took it upon myself to reply. “How did you do it?”

Schmidt swallowed. “That is in the past,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We are here in the cause of truth, freedom—”

“What will it take to make you go away?” Jan demanded.

“…and justice,” said Schmidt. He put the bun down, leaving a smear of mustard on the polished desk. Jan snatched a tissue from his pocket and wiped it off. “The Egyptians ask only that Nefertiti be lent to them for a special exhibit. Why can you not agree?”

“The bust is too fragile—”

“Bah,” said Schmidt. “Special packing, a private airplane. The Egyptians have sent equally delicate objects abroad.”

“They won’t give her back,” Jan burst out. He leaned forward, hands tightly clasped. “They will refuse to return her, claiming, as they have always done, that she was stolen. And what will happen to her there? The Cairo Museum is a disaster, overcrowded, filthy, vulnerable to theft. Without climate controls, even air-conditioning, objects are deteriorating by the minute. All over Egypt there are tombs, temples, precious monuments falling to pieces. We have rescued Nefertiti! She is part of our heritage too, she belongs to the world!”

It was the old familiar argument, made by all the looters. Where would the Elgin Marbles be today if they had remained on the Parthenon? What would have happened to the Pergamum Altar if it hadn’t been “rescued” from what is now Turkey by a German expedition? Would the Rosetta Stone have ended up in a Cairene house foundation if the French hadn’t recognized its worth? There are usually two sides to every argument, and this side had its merits.

So did the other side.

“The new museum, where they plan to exhibit her, will have all the amenities,” I said. “They’re doing the best they can, Jan. Egypt has too much stuff. The world ought to be helping preserve that heritage, instead of wasting money on wars.”

“Stuff,” Jan muttered. He passed his hand over his forehead. “Your proposition is noble, but it will never happen, Vicky. All we can do is save what we can.”

“And how far would you go,” Schmidt asked, “to save what you can?”

Jan stiffened. “What are you implying, Schmidt?”

“There are rumors,” Schmidt began.

Jan didn’t bite. Schmidt went on, “That the museum has objects acquired under dubious circumstances.”

“Oh, that. The same is said of almost every museum in the world. Laws have changed. What is now illegal was once perfectly proper.”

“So if you were offered a unique artifact you would refuse unless you were certain of its provenance?”

If that was Schmidt’s idea of subtle, sly questioning, it missed the target. Jan actually laughed. “Certainly. And now, Schmidt, if you have nothing more to say…”

He hadn’t asked us to sit down. The desk was a barricade and a symbol of authority and superiority. Leaving us standing constituted a strong hint that we should go away.

“Where are your manners?” John asked. “Here, Vicky, take this chair. Schmidt…”

“Who the devil are you?” Jan demanded.

“You did not give me time to make introductions,” Schmidt said. “Mr. John Tregarth, a colleague of mine and a well-known art dealer.”

“I believe I have heard of you,” Jan admitted. “A colleague?”

“Friend,” John said modestly. “You might call me an amicus curiae.”

“On which side? As a dealer in antiquities, surely you realize the importance of protecting precious articles.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “He realizes the importance of making money from them.”

“Hmmm.” Jan studied John’s impassive face. “I cannot recall that we have ever purchased anything from you. Yet you look somewhat familiar…”

“We’ve never met,” John said. It was true; he had made a point of staying out of Jan’s way during the Trojan Gold fiasco. He went on, “I have recently acquired a few Egyptian pieces in which the museum might be interested.”

“You might send us photographs,” Jan said. “Assuming, of course, that their provenance is impeccable.”

“I assure you, it is.”

“We would never consider purchasing an object that had not been legally acquired.”

He smirked at Schmidt and gave John a warm smile. John smiled warmly back.

T hough we assured him it wasn’t necessary, Jan summoned a guard to escort us out of the museum. This indication of mistrust offended Schmidt, who insisted on stopping by to say hello to Nefertiti.

I had seen her many times, but I never tired of it. The photographs don’t do her justice. The tall, distinctive blue crown that hides her hair, the delicately tinted face and smiling lips, the long throat and lifted chin…Even the missing eye didn’t detract from her beauty. I could see why the Egyptians wanted her back. If Tutankhamon is the most famous of all Egyptian symbols, Nefertiti runs him a close second—and she’s much nicer to look at.

Schmidt paid her the tribute of a long sigh, and then let himself be led away.

The audience had dispersed, and our banner had disappeared—thrown into a trash can, I supposed.

“Time for lunch,” said Schmidt. “There is a restaurant—”

“You just ate four hot dogs,” I protested.

“We may as well feed him,” John said. “He’s more amenable to suggestion when he’s eating.”

The restaurant was crowded and noisy. The perfect setting, as all spies know, for a private conversation.

“So what suggestion?” Schmidt demanded. “Perlmutter gave nothing away, the sly dog, but you did well, John, to form a bond with him.”

“Thank you,” John said humbly.

“Do you really have objects of museum quality? Why was I not given a chance to see them?”

“Because our collections don’t include ancient Egyptian material,” I said.

“How did you acquire them?” Schmidt demanded.

“Quite legitimately, I assure you.”

“Aha,” said Schmidt. “From—”

“Irrelevant and immaterial,” John said. “They should serve as a means of maintaining amicable relations with Perlmutter, however. On a completely unrelated subject, isn’t it time you were in touch with Suzi?”

Schmidt choked on the bite of food he had just ingested. Then he mumbled, “Yes, you are right. I was told—asked—to report every day, whether I had news or not.”

“Maybe there’s a message from her,” I suggested.

“No, she would not message me, for fear you might intercept it. She is very careful.” Schmidt dug out his cell phone. “What shall I say to her?”

John had obviously given the matter some thought. “That we’re in Berlin.” He waved away Schmidt’s incipient protest. “If she hasn’t found out through her sources, someone is bound to see you on the evening news.”

“I had not thought of that.” Schmidt looked crestfallen.

“No harm done. Tell her we mean to stay a few more days and that you have high hopes of catching me in the act of negotiating with one of my gang.”

Schmidt chuckled. His pudgy little fingers were already punching buttons. “Gang, yes, that is good. What else shall I say?”

“Love and kisses,” I suggested.

Schmidt made a face, but complied.

I hadn’t indulged in wurst in a bun, so I made a hearty lunch. I know it sounds as if I eat all the time, but traveling with John means I never know when the next meal will be available.

“Are we actually going to Egypt, or is this another evasive technique?” I asked. “Not that I expect a truthful answer.”

John raised an eyebrow. “I cannot imagine why you should say that. The fact is we don’t seem to be getting anywhere from this end, so perhaps it’s time we started looking for him. I think he’s still in Egypt.”

“He? Oh—him. Why?”

“Consider the logistical difficulties of getting him out of the country. How would you transport a six-foot-long object through ordinary channels? One might posit such methods as a boat at a Red Sea port, or a hired aircraft landing in the desert, but why go to all that trouble when he could just be tucked away someplace handy, ready to be returned upon payment of ransom?”

“That makes very good sense,” said Schmidt.

John smiled modestly. “There is also the difficulty of getting him away from the Luxor area. As I recall, one can’t go far in any direction without encountering a security checkpoint. Vehicles usually have to wait to join a police-escorted convoy. I can think of several ways around the checkpoint problem, but we may as well start from the assumption that they won’t have gone far.” John glanced at his watch. “We’d better get back to the hotel and start packing.”

“Then I must have a suitcase,” Schmidt said, brightening at the prospect of more shopping.

We didn’t take the first taxi. I wondered when the bad guys were going to figure out people were on to this maneuver, and have the kidnapper drive the second cab.

KaDeWe, Berlin’s equivalent of Harrods, was not the right place to take Schmidt. He bought each of us a suitcase (genuine leather), and John a watch (a Rolex), and me a scarf (Hermès), and in the toy department, an exact replica of Princess Leia’s pistol.

“You’ll never get that through security,” I said.

“I will place it in my checked baggage. A present for my godchild, you see. Shall I get one for you too?”

“Well…”

“Two godchildren,” said Schmidt. “And perhaps the sword of Aragorn for each.”

The swords were four feet long. We talked him out of them.

We got back to the hotel with time to spare. I put all my new presents, including Leia’s gun, in my new suitcase and checked to make sure I hadn’t overlooked anything. John had already finished packing and left the bedroom. When I went out into the sitting room, he wasn’t there.