Laughter of Dead Kings

SIX

H e wasn’t anywhere in the suite. Schmidt, still packing things I hadn’t even seen him acquire, interrupted his off-key rendering of “Night Train to Memphis” long enough to deny seeing or hearing him.

“Stay here,” I said, through clenched teeth. “I mean it, Schmidt; don’t stir from this room until I come back.”

Had I been a nice person I would have been wringing my hands and working myself into a frenzy of concern. However, cold reason reminded me that there had been no sound of a disturbance, not even a stray gunshot. He must have left of his own accord, on his own well-shod feet, for his own reasons. Which he had not bothered to confide to me.

The lift was located in a hallway just off the lobby. I wasn’t quite furious enough to come barreling out of it shouting threats; peering cautiously round a potted palm, I saw two people standing by the outer door engaged in earnest conversation. One of them was John, smiling and urbane, not a hair on his head ruffled. The other person was shaped like Schmidt, short and rounded, but she was obviously female, and to judge from her attire, no longer young: a dark print dress that reached to mid-calf, sensible laced shoes, and a scarf that covered her hair. She carried an oversized purse and a cloth shopping bag. I couldn’t see her face, since she had her back to me.

I stayed where I was, ears pricked. Only soft murmurs were audible. When I finally caught a phrase it was uninformative: “Auf Widersehen,” from John. A throaty chuckle from the hausfrau was her only answer. John sprang to open the door for her, and out she marched, purse swinging.

I emerged from behind the greenery. John’s reaction to my appearance was a smile and a reminder that we were running late.

“So whose fault is that?” I inquired, as he bowed me into the lift. “Why didn’t you tell me you had an appointment with your contact?”

John put his arm round me and turned me to face him. “Were you worried?” he asked tenderly.

“I was furious.”

“So I assumed.” He removed his arm. “I did tell you earlier today that I meant to get in touch.”

“Who is she? She didn’t look like a crook.”

“The most successful crooks don’t.” John looked smug. “However, in this case the word ‘crook’ does not apply. She’s one of the most respected antiquities dealers in Berlin. She wasn’t keen on being seen in public with me, so she agreed to drop by here for a brief consultation.”

“I was under the impression that you were also a respectable antiquities dealer. Why was she unwilling to meet you in public? Aha—wait, let me guess. She’s heard a thing or two.”

“Very good,” John said patronizingly. He rapped on the door of the suite. Schmidt must have been standing right behind the door. It was flung open. There stood Schmidt, pointing Princess Leia’s pistol at us.

“God be thanked, you are safe!” he exclaimed.

“I can’t imagine why you should suppose we wouldn’t be,” John said. “But I appreciate your concern, Schmidt. Have you finished packing?”

“Yes, yes, only the pistol. Where—”

“All in due time,” John said. “Where’s your bag, Vicky?”

“Oh, are you going to carry it for me? How gallant.”

I ended up carrying the thing myself, since, after watching Schmidt drag his bulging suitcase toward the door, John decided he needed assistance more than I.

“What on earth have you got in here?” John demanded.

Schmidt looked self-conscious. “A few odds and ends. Necessities. What—”

John refused to talk until we were in the taxi on our way to wherever. Leaning back, hands folded, he said, “Instead of answering a string of questions, I shall expound briefly on the most recent developments. I didn’t mention my appointment because it was a last-minute arrangement, and I knew it wouldn’t take long. Helga’s reluctance to meet me was a strong indication that she’d heard something of interest, but I wanted more information than that and I didn’t want to discuss it on a line that might no longer be secure.”

“You think Suzi—” Schmidt clapped his hand over his mouth.

“No names,” John said. “It’s possible, yes.”

“And Hel——the other, it is—er—the one on Ludwigkirchplatz?”

“You know her, of course,” John said.

“Aber natürlich. One of the most—”

John cut him off. “She and several other important independent dealers had been notified of a recent theft. No details, only that it was an Egyptian antiquity of considerable value. She was asked to communicate immediately with the Supreme Council of Antiquities if she were approached by anyone offering such an object for sale. Or,” he added, after a slight pause, “if she were approached by me.”

“Hmmm,” said Schmidt.

“Hmmm indeed,” I agreed. “That’s strange. Why the SCA and not Interpol? And why mention your name?”

“She asked me the same questions,” John said. “My current reputation in the trade is impeccable. At least it was, up until now. Given the context, the mere mention of my name is enough to arouse certain doubts. I wouldn’t be the first dealer to go wrong.”

“You assured her of your innocence, I presume,” I said.

“No problem,” John said smugly. “I simply said I had heard rumors as well, and since I meant to be in Berlin anyhow, I was curious to know what, if anything, she had heard. I was shocked—shocked!—when she said my name had been mentioned. My distress moved her so much, she promised to let me know if anyone contacted her about the antiquity.”

“In other words, you put on one of your better performances,” I said.

“Butter would have melted in my mouth.” He sobered. “It’s more than odd, Vicky, it’s inexplicable. The—er—missing object is not the sort of thing people like her would handle even if it had been legally acquired, which, as the message made clear, it was not.”

“Perhaps it is not so inexplicable,” said Schmidt, frowning.

“What do you mean?” John asked sharply.

“Only that your once impeccable reputation is now being sullied,” Schmidt said in surprise. “As you have said, it is not unheard of that a dealer should succumb to temptation, if offered a prize of great value.”

“Very few dealers, I daresay, would be tempted by—by something like that,” John said. “How the bloody hell would one dispose of it?”

Schmidt made conciliatory noises. John had come close to losing his temper, which was unusual. And I had begun to wonder. Most dealers wouldn’t know how to handle a bizarre object like a famous mummy. But if anybody would…

N eed I say that our tickets to Cairo were first class?

I love traveling with Schmidt.

Schmidt had arranged for us to be met at the airport by a courier, who accepted a wad of money and our passports from Schmidt and went off to get our visas. He came back with the visas, and a wheelchair, into which Schmidt settled himself.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes, yes. There is a special line for the handicapped.” Schmidt winked, and then let his face fall into lines of bravely controlled pain.

“He’s gotten worse,” I whispered to John. “Is there nothing to which the man will not stoop?”

“I certainly hope not. I’ve used the wheelchair method myself—bewigged, bandaged, and/or dribbling in a senile fashion—but so far Schmidt has lived up to my fondest expectations.”

Trailed by a small procession carrying our luggage, we proceeded to and, thanks to the wheelchair, handily through passport control. Beyond the security area, people lined the barrier waiting for arriving passengers. Foremost among them was a familiar form.

John said, “I’d better go on ahead and warn…Oops. Too late.”

Schmidt had already spotted Feisal. He let out a genial bellow and began waving. Until that moment Feisal had not spotted Schmidt. His expression was that of the hero in a horror film who has just seen the monster lurching toward him.

Schmidt jumped up and embraced Feisal. “We wanted to surprise you. Are you surprised?”

Feisal took a deep breath and proved himself to be the man I had always known him to be. “Yes. Yes, I am definitely…surprised. Hello, Schmidt. Vicky. Johnny…”

“You will come with us to the hotel,” Schmidt announced. “We are staying at the Nile Hilton. It is not my favorite hotel in Cairo, but it is convenient to the museum.”

Cairo traffic is vicious at all hours. It was well past midnight when we reached the hotel and were shown to our rooms. Schmidt’s was a suite, with a balcony looking down on the city. It was a glorious sight by night, glittering like a jeweled robe, with the Nile running through like a shining snake. I was admiring the view when Schmidt summoned me.

“Come, come, this is no time for nostalgia. We must have a council of war.”

Feisal sank down onto the sofa and fixed John with a baleful stare. “He knows. You told him. Why did you tell him?”

Tempted though I was to have John take the blame, fairness demanded that I own up. “It was my idea, Feisal.” The stare moved to me. “Uh—that is—both our ideas.”

“And why not?” Schmidt demanded. “Have I not proved my quality? Are we not like the four musketeers, one for all and all for one?”

“I want to be d’Artagnan,” I said.

Schmidt chuckled. “But it is I who am the greatest swordsman in Europe, nicht wahr?”

“You only challenge people to duels when you’re drunk, Schmidt.”

“That is not true,” said Schmidt, who honestly believed his statement. “Sit down, Vicky, sit down. We will have beer and talk.”

“There is no beer,” Feisal mumbled. “The hotel doesn’t—”

“There will be beer,” said Schmidt.

And sure enough, there was.

Busy guzzling, Schmidt allowed John and me to fill Feisal in on what we had discovered. Feisal failed to react to our encounters with the criminal underworld except to mutter “Serves you right”; but when I told him about Suzi he let out a few resounding Arabic oaths. I assumed they were swear words, not only from the tone, but from the fact that Schmidt, who can swear in a dozen languages, shrank back and stared sadly into his empty glass.

“Don’t be mad at Schmidt,” I said.

“I have repented,” said Schmidt hollowly.

“What’s more,” said John, “Schmidt is now our spy in the enemy camp. A double agent, no less.”

“Hmmm.” Feisal nodded grudgingly. “But that’s bad news. I remember her. Did you ever figure out exactly who she’s working for?”

“I’m betting on Interpol,” I said. “Some special branch dealing with art fraud. Feisal, she can’t prove anything. Not yet.”

“Somebody is spreading the word,” John summarized. “Selectively and secretly. If we knew why—”

“I take it you haven’t a clue,” Feisal said, sipping water.

Schmidt said nothing, so loudly we all turned to look at him.

“Well?” John demanded.

“What? Oh.” Schmidt tapped his forehead. “An idea or two is bubbling in my head. But it is too early to speak of them. We need more information. I would like to examine the scene of the crime and question the witnesses.”

“You mean the tomb?” Feisal’s eyes widened. “Do you think that’s a wise move? Surely we don’t want to draw attention to it.”

“I agree with Schmidt,” John said. “So far we’ve been on the defensive, waiting to see what other people are going to do. I can’t see that it’s getting us anywhere.” He smiled angelically. “I also have an idea or two bubbling round in my head.”

Feisal looked sick.

Schmidt got on the phone with his unfortunate courier, whom he had apparently rousted out of bed, and instructed him to get us all on a flight to Luxor the next morning. The courier’s protests were shouted down by Schmidt. “Yes, yes, I know it will be difficult, but you can do it. Employ whatever means are necessary.”

I hope that meant bribery instead of threats and intimidation. Schmidt’s new, self-appointed role as mastermind had gone to his head.

Feisal got heavily to his feet. “I’ll ring you in the morning. Good night, all.”

“Maasalama,” said Schmidt, bright-eyed as a little bird.

He opened another bottle of Stella. He offered me one; I shook my head. “It’s after two A.M., Schmidt. I’m going to bed. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

I was aroused, only too soon, by the phone. “Breakfast is here,” said Schmidt. “Hurry. Our flight is at ten.”

“What time is it?” I croaked.

He had already hung up. I fumbled for my watch. Half past seven.

I was beginning to hate traveling with Schmidt.

We hadn’t heard from Feisal, and Schmidt waxed critical. “He does not answer his mobile. He is not in the hotel. Where is he? Why did you not ask where he was going last night?”

I had had enough coffee to be fully awake, but not enough to put me in a pleasant mood. “You didn’t ask him either. It’s none of our business where he went. Maybe he spent the night with his girlfriend.”

“What girlfriend? Who?”

“I didn’t ask,” I snarled. “That’s none of our business either.”

“Calm yourself, Schmidt,” John said. “If he misses the plane he’ll follow as soon as he can.”

We were almost ready to leave when Feisal finally called. Schmidt ordered him to meet us at the airport and shooed us out the door.

The car he had ordered was waiting. While Schmidt settled the hotel bill, I said to John, “I vote you take over as mastermind. Schmidt is getting worse and worse. What was the point of our staying at a hotel near the museum if we didn’t go to the museum?”

John shrugged.

It took over an hour to get to the airport. There was no sign of Feisal outside the terminal. Only local EgyptAir flights use the domestic terminal, but the place was bustling; porters snatching at luggage, in the hope of picking up a little baksheesh; travelers of all nationalities in all sorts of clothing: conservative Muslim ladies tented in black, students in jeans bent under the weight of bulging backpacks, a couple of dignitaries in flowing white robes and head-cloths, a little old lady with her nose in a guidebook, uniformed security guards…

“Mr. John Tregarth?”

There were two of them. They wore ordinary business suits, not uniforms, but John took an involuntary step back. The two moved closer.

“Yes,” John said warily.

“You will please to come with us.”

S chmidt and I were included in the invitation. The two men were perfectly courteous, they just ignored our questions and smiled politely when we protested. Schmidt’s blood was up. He clenched his fists and began muttering about truth, freedom, and justice.

“Never mind, Schmidt,” John said.

“You will not resist?” Schmidt demanded fiercely.

“Refuse a courteous invitation?” John inquired, eyebrow lifting.

“But if they are enemies, like the man in Rome—”

“I think not. There are only two of them and they don’t appear to be armed. If this were an attempted kidnapping they wouldn’t have selected a place where there are so many people about, including a number of policemen. The air of confidence displayed by these affable gentlemen implies that they are acting in an official capacity.”

“Oh, damn,” I said. “Are we being arrested?”

“Taken in for questioning,” John corrected.

Our escorts raised no objection when John collected a few porters to bring our luggage. Still smiling those bland smiles, they led the way to a long black limo. When one of them opened the door I saw Feisal inside. He was just sitting there, hunched over and looking like a scolded puppy. There was no one else in the car except the driver.

Schmidt, John, and I joined Feisal in the tonneau. One of the men got in front with the driver. The other took the seat facing us.

“I presume you know no more about this than we,” John said.

Feisal shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I couldn’t warn you.”

“We have no reason to fear,” Schmidt said loudly. “We have done nothing wrong.”

Feisal’s expression brought home to me, more clearly than the articles I had read or the stories I had heard, that we were not in a country where a man was presumed innocent until proven guilty.

But we were foreign nationals, I told myself, citizens of countries considered to be allies of Egypt. Foreigners might be arrested and accused of espionage in other parts of the Middle East. Surely not here. Not when the U.S. kept pouring in all that lovely money.

Where that might leave Feisal I didn’t like to think.

Schmidt asked a few questions of our guard, getting only shrugs and smiles in return. Finally John said softly, “Don’t waste your breath, Schmidt. I don’t think they understand much English.”

“Then we can speak freely,” Schmidt exclaimed. “Make plans.”

“This would seem to be an occasion for improvisation,” John said. He added pointedly, “And for taciturnity.”

The long drive took us back over the skyway into central Cairo. The cacophony of traffic reached us even through the closed windows. We were a little cramped in the backseat, thanks to Schmidt’s ample sitting area, but the car was very posh, with gray velvet upholstery and an air-conditioning system that ruffled my hair. Schmidt kept quiet, although he looked as if he were about to burst with questions. I occupied myself by studying the man who faced me. His hair was graying and his suit was a little shabby. If he was a member of the secret police, or whatever they might be called, he didn’t look very dangerous. Catching my eye, he produced another of those meaningless smiles and looked away.

After a while I began to see a familiar sight or two and I realized we were headed toward the river. We came out on the corniche and joined the line of traffic crossing one of the bridges. Straight ahead, the Cairo Tower raised a pointing finger toward the sky.

Feisal sat up straight. His mouth was set in a tight line.

“What is it?” I whispered.

Feisal shook his head. Oh my God, I thought. He knows where we’re headed. One of those horrible prisons, where captives are tortured in secret dungeons.

Feisal ignored my pokes and whispers. I tried to catch John’s eye and failed. The car finally pulled up to the curb. Feisal had the door open before the vehicle had come to a complete stop; he flung himself out, staggered, caught himself, and went racing across a paved plaza and into a building that looked as if it housed offices. Bemused and confused, I let John shove me out. Neither of the guards tried to stop us; we pelted after Feisal and found him standing in front of an elevator jabbing at the buttons. Schmidt was too out of breath to speak, but I managed to croak out another “What?” I got no answer. The lift doors opened and we piled in. When the lift stopped on an upper floor, I saw the sign on the door across the way. The truth began to dawn on me. I had caught a glimpse of letters like those on the facade of the building before John hustled me inside.

The room into which the door opened was just an ordinary office, no bars, no Iron Maiden, only desks with secretarial-looking people seated behind them. Feisal, still in the lead, barreled across the room toward an inner door. He moved so fast, the secretaries hadn’t a prayer of stopping him.

The inner office was imposing, with big windows and a picture of Mubarak on the wall, and a large table surrounded by sofas and chairs. At one end of the room was a huge desk with a man seated behind it. Feisal launched himself across the desk, sending papers flying like huge snowflakes, and grabbed the man by the throat.

People ran in all directions, in and out of the room, yelling and screaming. A few valiant souls tried to get hold of Feisal, but he shook them off. He was yelling louder than anyone. I caught only the word “son” repeated several times and deduced that Feisal was calling his victim bad names. I glanced at John, who stood watching interestedly. Then I sat down on one of the nice comfortable chairs by the table.

The man Feisal was trying to choke was none other than the secretary general. After a few moments he grabbed Feisal’s wrists and broke his hold with a quick, brutal twist.

“Now that you’ve got that out of your system, why don’t you sit down so we can talk sensibly?” he inquired.

He wasn’t even out of breath. Feisal lay sprawled across the desk amid a welter of papers, file folders, books, pamphlets, pens, bottles of water, scarabs, several small boxes (brass, wood adorned with mother-of-pearl and turquoise) containing various objects, and a stuffed camel. He was breathing hard, but I decided it was from rage more than from exertion.

Feisal called the secretary general a son of something else. Khifaya grinned. Close up, he was even better-looking than in his photographs. He was wearing a white silk shirt open halfway down his tanned chest and a modest display of jewelry—a heavy gold wristwatch, several rings, and a gold chain round his neck.

“Good morning, Dr. Bliss.” The smile hit like a searchlight. I blinked. “Herr Professor Schmidt, Mr. Tregarth. Do make yourselves comfortable. Tea? Coffee?”

He snapped his fingers. A head peered round the door frame, followed shortly thereafter by the accompanying body, that of a young woman wearing a head scarf and a well-cut pantsuit. The secretary general looked inquiringly at me.

“Coffee,” I squeaked. “Thank you, Dr. Khifaya.”

“Please—call me Ashraf. We are going to be good friends, I hope.”

I hoped so too.

Feisal slid off the desk, onto his feet. “You—”

“You are about to repeat yourself, I believe,” said my new friend. He picked up a vase containing a single red rosebud. Water had spilled across a corner of the desk and was dripping onto the floor. Ashraf shook his head sadly and handed the vase to another young woman, who began mopping up the water. “Really, Feisal, there was no need to make such a mess.”

Hands on his hips, feet braced, Feisal fairly vibrated with indignation. “That was a filthy, low-down trick. We thought we were under arrest!”

“Oh dear. Did you really? Dr. Bliss, please accept my apologies if I inadvertently alarmed you. I assumed Feisal would recognize my car.”

“How the hell was I supposed to recognize your car?” Feisal demanded. “I didn’t know you rated a limo these days.”

“Are you two by any chance related?” John asked.

“Cousins,” Feisal muttered, in the same tone in which he would have admitted being kin to a serial killer.

“You never told me that,” I said.

“Second cousins.”

“Once removed,” Ashraf said, with another of those incandescent grins. “He’s jealous of my superior rank and resents the fact that my branch of the family is wealthier than his.”

Busy hands, most of them female, had collected the scattered objects and supplied trays with coffee and plates of little cakes. Another snap of the fingers sent them scurrying out of the room. Ashraf rose and gestured toward the table.

“Let’s start again, shall we? I greatly enjoyed seeing you all on television. Thank you for supporting our cause with such panache.”

“I made the sign,” Schmidt said, reaching for a sugared cake.

“So I assumed. I have fond memories of our conversation in Turin a few years ago, before I assumed my present position. Did you speak with Dr. Perlmutter?”

“Yes. I am sorry to say he remains obdurate.” Schmidt took a bite of the cake. He added thickly, “But we will persevere.”

“Indeed. Feisal, you aren’t drinking your coffee. Would you prefer tea?”

“I would prefer an apology,” Feisal growled. “Or at the very least, an explanation.”

“I do apologize for being somewhat peremptory in my invitation, but really, you left me no choice. I have been trying for two days to get in touch with you, but you move round so fast! I didn’t learn until this morning that you were in Cairo, and when I telephoned the hotel you had already left for the airport.”

The man did have a way with him. Charm oozed from every tooth and every inch of skin. Even Feisal had relaxed, though he still looked wary.

“Why did you want to see us?” I asked.

“Not you, Dr. Bliss—although seeing you is a pleasure. Alas, business must take precedence over pleasure, and I have imperative reasons for wishing to speak with Mr. Tregarth.”

I hid my face behind a paper napkin and surreptitiously removed coffee grounds from my teeth. Turkish, aka Egyptian, coffee is half grounds; usually I know when to stop drinking, but Ashraf’s sudden attack of candor had caught me off guard. He had been playing games with our nerves and thoroughly enjoying it. John took a careful sip, put his cup down, and met Ashraf’s gaze eyeball to eyeball.

“Please feel free to use my first name,” John said. “We are going to be good friends, I hope.”

Schmidt choked on a bite of cake. Ashraf let out a little sigh of satisfaction.

“I believe I am going to enjoy dealing with you, Mr. Tregarth—John. That is my hope as well. Are you wondering, perhaps, why I was so anxious to get in touch with you?”

“I feel certain you are about to tell me,” John said.

“And I feel certain you—all of you—are about to tell me various things.”

The two of them watched each other like duelists, eyes locked. I remembered a quotation: “Don’t bother watching his eyes, watch the bastard’s hands.” Good advice under some circumstances, but irrelevant here. Ashraf’s hands, lightly clasped, neatly manicured, were empty. He was good, but he was no match for a man who had spent most of his life avoiding dangerous slips of the tongue.

Feisal wasn’t as experienced. He started squirming. His forehead was beaded with perspiration. His lips parted. Schmidt, cozily close to Feisal on the sofa, shifted position and cleared his throat loudly.

“Yes, Feisal?” Ashraf asked.

“Nothing.”

Ashraf’s eyes moved from him to Schmidt, and then to me. So did John’s. If I had needed any incentive to keep my big mouth shut, that cold blue stare would have provided it, but I felt as if my brain were about to burst with questions. He knew. The SCA must have received a message, ransom note, threat, whatever, from the thieves. But in that case wouldn’t Ashraf have dashed off to Luxor to check on Tut? And wouldn’t Feisal have told us if he had? I picked up my cup and swallowed a spoonful of coffee grounds.

Ashraf chuckled. “It appears we have reached a stalemate. Very well; it is my move.”

He got up and went to a safe that stood against the wall and punched in a combination. It contained several open compartments filled with ledgers and files, plus a closed compartment, another, internal, safe. Ashraf took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Inside was a single object—a small box wrapped in heavy brown paper, which Ashraf removed. Returning to his seat, he put the box on the table.

“This was delivered to my flat day before yesterday.”

He took his time, carefully folding back the paper, slowly lifting the lid of the cardboard box it enclosed. Inside was another box, this one of wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. You could find boxes like that in every shop in the suk. It had a rather flimsy brass catch, which Ashraf unfastened. Ashraf moved like a slug, in slow motion, watching John, whose expression of courteous patience didn’t change. The hinged lid was lifted, the layer of cotton wool inside was removed. And there it was.

A mummy’s hand.