Night Train to Memphis

Chapter Five

I

I MUST HAVE looked as sick as I felt. Hamid took my arm and led me to a chair.

‘You must not blame yourself, Dr Bliss.’

‘I don’t.’ One of my less convincing lies, that one. It didn’t even convince me.

‘It was an unfortunate accident,’ Hamid said gently. ‘He must have tried to swim to shore and been seized by a cramp or something of the sort.’

The others were gathering for the afternoon tour. John was among them – with Mary, as usual, by his side.

‘Tell them to wait for me,’ I said, rising. ‘I won’t be long.’

All I could see as I ran up the stairs was that kid’s face – wet with tears as he protested his innocence, wreathed in smiles as he assured me of his appreciation for my kindness. Kindness! It couldn’t have been an accident. Either he had been bribed to drop the flowerpot and later repented, or he had seen the person responsible. They had disposed of him as coolly and callously as if he had been a mosquito.

The note I scribbled wasn’t very coherent, but I was pretty sure it would get the point across. I put it in the safe and ran back to the lobby.

The others were heading down the gangplank when I got there, but Feisal had waited for me.

‘Hamid said he had told you.’ His warm dark eyes searched my face.

‘Yes.’

‘He should not have. It has distressed you.’

‘Of course it has! What kind of monster do you think I am?’

‘I don’t think you are a monster. That is why I did not want Hamid to tell you.’ He put a supportive arm around my shoulders. I leaned against him for a moment, and his grip tightened as a violent tremor ran through me. He didn’t know I was shaking with rage, not distress.

‘There is no need to mention this unhappy business to the other passengers,’ Feisal said.

I nodded. ‘I’m all right, Feisal. Let’s go.’

‘Herr Schmidt is not yet here. He indicated his wish to accompany us.’

A wild hope dawned in my heart. ‘We can’t wait indefinitely. He’s probably fallen asleep.’

No such luck. Beaming all over his round pink face, burbling apologies, he emerged from the elevator, complete with pith helmet, sunglasses, bag, and a variety of objects that dangled from straps criss-crossing his torso. I identified a camera, a pair of binoculars, and a canteen among other, more arcane, impedimenta.

Fewer than half the passengers had taken advantage of the opportunity to visit the royal tomb. I was relieved to see that dear old Anna had declined; in fact, only the diehards, all of them relatively young and vigorous, were there. After considering the other options – Sweet and Bright, John and Mary, Louisa, swathed in veils and trying to look mysterious, the German couple from Hamburg, Alice and Perry – Schmidt seated himself next to Larry Blenkiron and greeted him like an old friend, which, as it turned out, he was – or at least an old acquaintance, which is the same thing by Schmidt’s standards. I wondered if there was anybody in the world of art and archaeology Schmidt didn’t know. Ed Whitehead politely moved over so I could sit on Larry’s other side. It was a touching demonstration of confidence, I thought – in my harmlessness, or in his ability to stop me if I attempted to assassinate his boss. I didn’t doubt he could.

We went rattling off across the empty plain, followed by the armed escort. The sun high overhead bleached all the colour from the sand; the only contrast was the brilliant blue of the sky above. The breeze of our movement felt like the blast from an oven.

Schmidt started reminiscing about the last time he and Larry had met, at a conference on preservation and restoration. From the stained glass of medieval cathedrals to the stones of the Colosseum, scarcely a monument in the world has escaped damage from fire and flood, pollution and traffic, and the mere presence of human beings. Larry, of course, was primarily interested in Egyptian monuments and he became more animated than I had ever seen him, his voice deepening with distress as he described the devastation of the tombs.

‘The plaster, and the paintings on it, are literally falling off the walls. There has been more damage done in the last twenty years than in the preceding four thousand.’

‘But it is a wonderful thing you have done,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘To restore the tomb paintings of Tetisheri – ’

‘It’s only one out of many.’

‘There is also Nefertari’s tomb.’

‘The Getty people have done a splendid job with Nefertari,’ Larry agreed. ‘But if the tomb is reopened, the same thing will happen again.’

‘Then you support the idea of constructing reproductions?’ Schmidt asked. ‘For the tourists to visit, while the original tombs are open only to scholars?’

‘Yes.’ Larry caught my eye and smiled deprecatingly. ‘It does smack of elitism, doesn’t it? Don’t admit anyone – except me!’ He shifted uncomfortably; the seats were hard. ‘It’s too late for the Amarna tombs,’ he went on regretfully. ‘There’s very little left. I admit the Egyptian government needs tourist dollars, but I regret what they’ve done here to make it easier for visitors to reach the royal tomb. Until they made this road through the wadi, it was a long, hard, three-mile walk.’

‘I hear that the Japanese are talking of building lifts to the nobles’ tombs,’ Schmidt said.

They sighed in unison.

We had crossed the plain and entered a canyon or wadi that cut through the enclosing cliffs. They gave little shade; the sun was still high and the centre of the road baked in the bright light. Seeing me swallow, Schmidt unscrewed his canteen and offered it to me. Gratefully I accepted it. I took a drink and gagged.

‘Beer!’

‘Aber natürlich,’ said Schmidt, retrieving the canteen. ‘Herr Blenkiron?’

Larry refused the offer. So did Ed.

There was an ice chest on the trailer. When it stopped we had drinks all round before starting on the last part of the trip. It was an easy walk along a narrower side wadi up to the entrance to the tomb. A short flight of steep steps led down. I could see a glow of light from the passage beyond, but it wasn’t exactly dazzling.

Feisal gathered us around him and began lecturing. Schmidt wasn’t looking at Feisal. He was looking at me. He had taken off his sunglasses preparatory to descending into the dimly lighted passageway, and his beady little eyes were worried.

Schmidt was one of the few people in the world who knew about the time I had been buried alive under a castle in Bavaria. That may sound melodramatic, but it’s the literal truth; the tunnel had been blocked by an earth-fall and I had to dig my way out. I had no tools, only my bare hands, no light except a few matches, and, towards the end, not much in the way of oxygen. I have avoided dark, confined underground places since. Even Schmidt didn’t know that I still dream about it from time to time.

John knew. He knew because I had had the dream once when he was with me. He had held me while I choked and gurgled and made a damned fool of myself, clinging to him and pleading incoherently for light and for air. After I calmed down he had insisted I tell him the whole story. It would help exorcise the demons, he had said . . .

He was staring at me too. Over Mary’s head his eyes, narrowed and unblinking, met mine. I looked away.

The others started down the stairs and Schmidt edged closer to me. ‘Vicky, perhaps you should not do this.’

He was under the impression that he was whispering. Several heads turned, and Feisal came back to me. ‘Is there a problem, Vicky?’

‘No problem,’ I said curtly.

Nor was there, not really. What bothered me was not claustrophobia in the classic sense: abnormal fear of narrow, confined spaces. As long as there was light and there were other people around, I was okay.

At least that’s what I told myself.

It wasn’t as bad as I had feared. There were lights at frequent intervals and modern stairs or ramps over the rougher parts of the ancient passageways. And people. Schmidt stuck close, bless his thoughtful little heart.

Egyptian tomb architecture has never been one of my passions in life. Sweet set out to prove it was one of his; he latched on to Perry, despite the latter’s attempts to get away so he could come and tell me all about everything, and began babbling about changes in axis and angles of descent and comparisons with earlier and later types. He’d certainly done his homework. Alice and Schmidt were arguing about Minoan influences on Amarna art. Feisal’s voice echoed weirdly as he mentioned points of interest.

There weren’t many. The walls of the sloping passage were rough and unadorned. It had an eerie impressiveness, though, and by the time we reached the burial chamber everyone except Feisal had fallen silent.

There wasn’t much to see there either, only a few scratches on the rough walls; but when Feisal pointed them out and described the scenes of which they were the scanty remainder, he managed to suggest something of the beauty that had once been there: depictions of the king and queen offering to the sole god they had worshipped, the sun disk with rays ending in small, caressing human hands; mourners, their garments rent and their hands raised in ceremonial grieving. Even with his eloquence I couldn’t make out the details of the figure on the funeral bier. Feisal claimed these details proved it was a female figure.

‘But I thought this was the king’s tomb,’ the Frau from Hamburg said.

‘We don’t know the identity of the woman on the bier,’ Feisal answered. ‘It has been suggested she was – ’

‘Nefertiti!’ Louisa swooped down on him, waving her arms. Her veils billowed like bat wings. ‘Yes, I feel it. I feel her presence.’

She flopped down onto the floor and sat cross-legged, crooning to herself.

The others studied her in mingled disgust and embarrassment. Sweet muttered something derogatory about New Age mystics and Blenkiron’s face was rigid with distaste.

‘Odd how so many people go soggy over Nefertiti,’ murmured a satirical voice. Hands in his pockets, hair shining in the light of the bulb overhead, John glanced at me and smiled.

Feisal was the only other member of the party who was more amused than embarrassed. He had probably run into this sort of thing before. ‘It is not Nefertiti. She appears elsewhere in the same scene. One authority has suggested that this was her tomb, not that of her husband, but that viewpoint is not generally accepted. The unfinished suite of rooms leading off the downward passage may have been intended for her burial. We will visit them later, but first you will want to see the best preserved portion of the tomb, which was designed for one of the royal princesses.’

Ignoring Louisa, he led us out the way we had come.

The others crowded after him. They weren’t any more comfortable in that room than I had been, and I’m not just talking about the temperature and the close air. It was good sized – about thirty feet square, according to Feisal, and the ceiling didn’t brush the top of my head. But somehow I felt as if it did, and the battered stone pillars looked as if they might collapse at any moment.

Whistling softly and irreverently, John stood studying the wall and Mary sidled up to me. ‘Are you as anxious to leave this place as I am?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t know. How anxious are you?’ I wiped the perspiration off my forehead.

‘I suppose it’s partly psychological,’ Mary murmured. ‘The reminders of death and decay and darkness . . .’

That was one of the words I didn’t need to hear right then. Without replying I headed for the door.

I was determined to stick it out, though. The chambers we had visited in the mastaba tombs at Sakkara were above ground; the nobles’ tombs at Amarna were cut into the cliff, but we hadn’t gone down under, into the burial chambers, and I had always been able to see daylight in the distance. This was the most difficult place I’d encountered yet, and I felt I was going about conquering my phobia in a very sensible way. The hell with jumping back onto the horse; I’d rather start with a very small pony or a Saint Bernard, and work my way up.

One of Akhenaton’s daughters had died young and had been buried in her father’s tomb, in a suite of rooms located off the main descending corridor. The scene I had found particularly moving, that of the little body lying stiff on the funeral bed, with the grieving parents bending over it, could hardly be made out. Some vandal had tried to hack out a portion of the relief; the deep jagged incision had destroyed the upper part of the princess’s body and other details.

‘That’s an example of why I dread increased accessibility,’ said Larry, who was standing next to me. ‘These reliefs were virtually intact until the thirties.’

‘But you cannot blame the poor devils of villagers,’ said Schmidt, the unreconstructed socialist, on my other side. ‘It is the European and American collectors who pay large prices for illegal antiquities who are responsible. I do not mean you, of course,’ he added quickly.

Larry laughed. ‘That’s why my collection isn’t very impressive. The best objects were acquired by museums and less scrupulous collectors before I got interested. Anyhow, I’m more concerned about preservation than collecting.’

When we left the princess’s rooms I noticed that John again hung back while Mary followed me. Had there been a lovers’ tiff? I waited for her and gave her a friendly smile. I had, of course, no ulterior motive.

‘Almost through,’ I said encouragingly.

‘Oh, I don’t mind.’ Her voice wavered a little, though. ‘It’s been very interesting.’

We started up the ramp. It seemed a lot steeper than it had when we descended. The last suite of rooms, the ones Feisal had said might have been meant for the queen’s burial, was located about halfway up the incline. Indicating the entrance where the others were waiting, I asked, ‘Are you going to skip the final treat, or shall we participate?’

Mary glanced behind her. John was some distance away, taking his time. Couldn’t the poor little wimp come to any decision without consulting him? What had he been doing down there alone? Perhaps there had been a quarrel and he was sulking, trying to make Mary feel guilty about hurting his sensitive feelings.

‘I meant to ask you before,’ I said casually. ‘About Jen. How is she?’

‘Much better. In fact – ’

She stopped with a gulp. All of a sudden there he was, behind her, looming. ‘You startled me, darling!’ she exclaimed.

‘In fact,’ John said, ‘she’s recovered enough to return home.’

‘You mean she’s left Egypt?’ I stared at him.

‘This morning. She doesn’t trust Egyptian doctors or hospitals.’

‘Then she won’t be rejoining the tour?’

‘No, she won’t.’

I looked from his self-satisfied smile to Mary’s downcast face. Was that what the quarrel had been about?

‘You sound pleased,’ I said.

‘Oh, I am. She was a bloody nuisance,’ John said callously. ‘Now hurry along, girls. One would suppose, from the way you’re dawdling, that you are enjoying this.’

By the time we had finished examining a few more rough unfinished rock-cut rooms and listened to Feisal describe their possible function, everyone, even Louisa, was ready to call it a day. ‘I do not feel her presence,’ she intoned. ‘The beautiful one was never interred here.’

‘She’s probably right about that,’ muttered Larry. ‘But for the wrong reasons. Since when did she become an expert on Nefertiti?’

‘I think she’s making her the heroine of her new book,’ I said.

‘Then why was she carrying on about missing Meydum?’ Larry demanded. ‘That pyramid predates Nefertiti by over a thousand years.’

‘Historical novelists don’t worry about little details like that,’ I explained, with certain guilty memories of my own heroine’s activities. Having Rosanna hide in a broom closet to elude Genghis Khan had not been kosher, but it had entertained Schmidt, which was my primary purpose for continuing the saga.

Hot, thirsty, and coated with dust, we made a beeline for the ice chest and stood swilling down cold drinks. The late-afternoon heat was intense, but it felt refreshing after the confined airlessness of the tomb. Even in the shade I seemed to feel my skin drying and shrinking over my bones. It was the climate of Egypt, not the well-meaning but often destructive process of burial, that produced such excellent mummies.

Blenkiron wanted to see a few more tombs on the way back to the boat, but he gave in with smiling good grace when the others emphatically outvoted him. Mary let out a muted wail when he suggested stopping at the southern tombs. Schmidt, ever gallant, hurried to her and offered her his arm.

He’d held up well, but I was worried about him. The open-heart surgery he had undergone a few years earlier had, he claimed, made a new man of him. The new man looked to me just as unhealthy as the old one. His face was flushed with heat and exercise, but his smile was as broad and his moustache as defiant as ever. He was obviously having a wonderful time.

I let them and the others go on ahead. I hadn’t had a chance to talk with John; huddling with him in an otherwise unoccupied tomb chamber might have inspired rude speculation. Maybe he was just as anxious for a private conversation. Maybe that was why he appeared to be avoiding Mary.

That theory was strengthened when he fell in step with me and said easily and audibly, ‘Enjoying yourself, Dr Bliss?’

‘Don’t let’s be so formal,’ I said, stretching my mouth into a tight smile.

‘I’m trying, but my ingrained awe of academic titles makes it difficult.’ His voice kept dropping in pitch. ‘I don’t believe I can possibly address Professor Schmidt as Anton.’

‘Try Poopsie,’ I suggested, losing it for a second.

The corners of his mouth compressed, holding back laughter – or a rude comment. The reference, to a particularly tense moment in one of our earlier encounters, might have inspired either.

I went on, in a hoarse whisper, ‘What did you tell him?’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘I intend to. But I want to hear your version. Quit stalling, the others are waiting for us.’

I stumbled artistically, stopped, and bent over to examine my foot.

‘Coincidence,’ John said, taking me by the arm as if to steady me. The flow of blood to my hand stopped dead.

‘He’ll never buy that.’

‘He’ll have to, won’t he?’

‘Not Schmidt.’

‘I cannot be held accountable for Schmidt’s unholy imagination. If you and I agree, what can he – ’ He broke off as Feisal and Larry hurried towards us. ‘Is it sprained?’ he inquired, adding doubtfully, ‘Perhaps Feisal could – er – carry you.’

The implication being that he couldn’t, and that even Feisal might have some difficulty lifting my enormous body. I straightened. ‘I just turned it. It’s fine.’

My assignation with Schmidt was more easily arranged. We debated it at the top of our lungs as the trailer bounced noisily over the rough track. Schmidt wanted to meet in the lounge so we could share Happy Hour with all his newfound friends. That was reassuring; it suggested he had accepted the coincidence story and wasn’t about to interrogate me about my real reasons for being on board. However, I figured I had better deliver a brief lecture on tact and discretion before I turned him loose on the world, and as I pointed out, he hadn’t had time to unpack yet. We agreed that I would come to his room after I had freshened up.

After I had locked and bolted my door I went, not to the bathroom, but to the safe. The note was still there.

I stamped my foot and swore. That didn’t accomplish anything, so I headed for the shower. Maybe my mysterious contact hadn’t had a chance to retrieve the message as yet. Still, it was not an auspicious omen and the cool water sloshing over my heated body didn’t settle the doubts that sloshed around in my heated brain. I was getting dressed when I heard the knock at the door.

Throwing on a robe, I hurried to answer it. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Hi.’

Alice was certainly a fast-change artist. She was wearing a flowered print dress and white low-heeled sandals. ‘I thought you might need something for that ankle,’ she explained. ‘I’ve found this liniment very effective.’

The bottle she offered me didn’t look like liniment. Her hand covered the label.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said slowly. ‘Come in.’

When I turned, after closing the door, she had settled herself in a chair, ankles crossed. The bottle, on the table beside her, proclaimed that its contents were hydrogen peroxide.

‘You?’ I squeaked unoriginally.

‘I admit I don’t look the part,’ Alice said coolly.

‘How did you know I wanted to see you? You didn’t get my note.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘Which note?’

I produced it. ‘You were upset, weren’t you,’ she murmured, after reading the hurried message.

‘Of course I was. That poor innocent kid – ’

‘Come now, you aren’t thinking clearly. Why do you suppose that note wasn’t collected earlier?’

‘My God.’ I dropped heavily onto the bed. ‘You mean Ali was – ’

‘An agent of the Egyptian security service.’ Alice’s expression darkened. ‘Which I am not. I agreed to help out with this particular job because I care deeply about the protection of antiquities and because an increase in anti-foreign feeling here could affect my work and that of others. He was the man assigned to look after you; I was only supposed to pass on messages.’

The news relieved one nightmare. Ali was just as young and just as dead, but at least he had been a professional, fully aware of the risks his job entailed.

‘I didn’t learn of his death until this afternoon,’ Alice went on. ‘I realized then that I had to talk to you, even though I had been told never, under any circumstances, to contact you directly. These people are stupidly obsessed with security, in my opinion, but to do them justice they may have been concerned with my safety as well as yours. I – ’

‘Holy shit, Alice!’ I stared at her in horror. ‘I didn’t think of that. And I should have. You’d better go. And stay far, far away from me in the future.’

‘Calm yourself, honey; I am not volunteering to take over Ali’s job. I’m exactly what I seem to be – an ageing, overweight archaeologist who’s never fired a gun or taken a karate lesson. If you had to depend on me to protect you, you’d be a sitting duck. But we’d better discuss this situation and decide what to do about it.’ She reached into her shirt pocket. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

‘No, go right ahead.’ I looked around for an ashtray. Alice laughed.

‘That’s a slip, Vicky. I don’t know why you’re pretending to be a smoker, but you’d better learn how to do it right. You haven’t used the ashtray and you don’t even inhale.’

‘It was not one of my brighter ideas,’ I admitted. ‘So what are we going to do?’

‘Wait, I suppose.’ Alice frowned thoughtfully at her lighter. ‘They will have learned of Ali’s death by now and will, one assumes, arrange for a replacement. The change of schedule worries me, though. My job was to pass on the information Ali gave me when I went ashore, but we’ve already skipped two of the scheduled stops and we’ll miss a third tomorrow; I won’t be able to communicate again until we get to Abydos.’

‘You have no other means of reaching the people in charge? Damn, that’s stupid! What if there were an emergency?’

‘There has been an emergency,’ Alice said wryly. ‘Two, in fact; the lines of communication have been cut in both directions. However, I’ve suspected all along that I was only a minor cog in the machinery – a backup, if you will, for the transmission of information. There must be at least one other agent on board – another professional, not a willing but incompetent amateur like me.’

Wishful thinking? I hoped not. Burckhardt had used the plural when he promised me protection. ‘Who?’ I asked.

‘If I knew I wouldn’t be talking to you.’ Alice rubbed her forehead, as if it ached. It probably did. She went on, ‘I gather from the spy thrillers I’ve read that this is standard procedure. Minimal contacts, maximum anonymity.’

I’d read a few of the damned things myself. Ali had known me and Alice. If they had questioned him before they killed him . . . There wouldn’t necessarily be any marks on his body. Up-to-date torturers have all kinds of neat scientific devices at their disposal, including drugs.

‘It couldn’t be Anton, could it?’

Her words made it as far as my ears but my brain refused to acknowledge them. ‘What?’ I gasped.

‘They’ll have to replace Ali,’ Alice said. ‘Anton turned up this morning, out of the blue – ’

‘No! Are you crazy, or what? Schmidt isn’t . . .’ I stopped to catch my breath. ‘The timing is too tight, Alice. They couldn’t have learned of Ali’s death until early this morning. Schmidt was already in Minya.’

‘That’s true.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. ‘No sense speculating, I guess. The situation won’t become critical until we get back to Cairo, and surely we’ll be contacted long before then – probably in Luxor. My advice would be to sit tight, play it cool, and be careful.’

It was excellent advice and I had every intention of following it – if I was allowed to.

After she had left I stood stock-still staring at the closed door. My heart was pounding as if I’d run a mile. Her suggestion that Schmidt might be Ali’s replacement was so far out that only a lunatic could believe it. Alice wasn’t a lunatic, though. Did she know something about Schmidt I didn’t know? Did other people know that same something?

Someone groaned. It had to be me; I was the only one there. ‘Impossible,’ I informed myself. Ali other considerations aside, such as the possibility that I was prejudiced, condescending, and easily manipulated by a cute little, shrewd little actor, Schmidt couldn’t have gotten from Munich to Minya in three hours. I prayed with all my heart that the bad guys were as familiar with plane schedules as I was. I didn’t want them to think, as Alice had done, that Schmidt might be Ali’s replacement.

The telephone rang. Schmidt, of course. The sound of that fat, jolly, Father Christmas voice snapped me back into the real world. ‘Impossible,’ I said.

‘Was ist’s?’ said Schmidt.

‘I’m on my way, Schmidt.’

To judge by the image I saw in a mirror later on I must have selected clothes that were more or less coordinated, but I don’t know how I did it; I was thinking of other things.

The opposition seemed to be a lot more efficient than our group. They had fingered Ali, which was more than I had, and disposed of him without scruple or delay. Why now? I wondered. Just general tidiness, or had he been about to blow the whistle on one or all of them? He’d have to have solid evidence to do that – and they must have known he had it or they wouldn’t have taken the risk of committing murder at this stage.

Despite the record he’d managed to build up while hobnobbing with me, John wasn’t a killer. Admittedly that assessment depended to some extent on his own statements, which were far from reliable in other areas, but I was inclined to believe him. He could reasonably claim self-defence in both the examples to which I had been an eyewitness.

Or defence of me.

The phone distracted me from that uncomfortable train of thought. I didn’t bother answering, since I assumed it was Schmidt; I picked up my bag and headed out.

All prejudice aside, I couldn’t visualize John knocking Ali unconscious and holding his head underwater till he drowned. That wasn’t John’s style. Apparently he had got himself mixed up with a very nasty crowd. He had a bad habit of doing that.

Schmidt’s room was on the top deck, the sundeck, on the same side of the boat as mine. There were only four suites on that level – the choicest of all, I assumed, since Blenkiron had two of them.

Schmidt flung the door open before I could knock, and enveloped me in a huge hug. ‘At last! I was about to go in search of you. You are late.’

‘No, I’m not. We didn’t settle on a time.’

His room was a tad bigger and fancier than mine. A fixed screen separated the sitting area from the bedroom and there were two overstuffed chairs, plus a long comfortable sofa. The sliding doors stood open, admitting a cool breeze and a breathtaking view of the sunset-reddened cliffs.

‘We will sit on the balcony and admire the scenery,’ Schmidt said, bustling around with glasses and bottles. ‘It is very pleasant, nicht? I have been on many cruise boats, but never one so luxurious as this.’

Like mine, his balcony was fringed with flowering plants. I edged cautiously onto it, telling myself nobody could drop anything on me here; there wasn’t another deck above this one. To my right I could see the prow – or maybe it was the stern – of one of the lifeboats. To the left a solid partition separated Schmidt’s balcony from the one next door. However, it wasn’t solid enough to muffle a voice as loud as Schmidt’s, and when he shouted cheerfully, ‘Sit, sit, my dear Vicky, and we will have a pleasant chat,’ I said, ‘Who’s next door?’

‘Ssssir. . .’ Schmidt caught himself. ‘Mr Tregarth and his wife.’

‘Damn it, Schmidt,’ I said savagely but softly. ‘That’s the precise reason I insisted on a private conversation. You’ve got to avoid slips like that.’

‘Ach, yes, yes, I know. But what is the harm this time? You know and he knows – ’

‘Maybe she doesn’t.’

‘They have gone downstairs.’ Schmidt looked subdued. ‘You are right to remind me, though, Vicky. They have only been married a few weeks, and she is very young, very innocent. Perhaps he has not yet told her of his brave and perilous occupation. She is the sort of child one would wish to shield from the harsh realities of life, nicht?’

Down below I heard a rattle and clank that must have been the gangplank being drawn in. The boat began to move, gliding gently away from the shore. The eastern sky was darkening but the curving bay of cliffs glowed in reflected sunset light. A flock of egrets settling into the shallows looked like flying white flowers.

Schmidt was rambling on. ‘It may be that he will decide to retire from the service. A man of honour and of conscience would not wish to endanger his young bride or cause her a broken heart if he should – ’

‘It’s a nice plot, Schmidt. Why don’t you write a book? Now listen to me. You’ve never met him before. I’ve never met him before. Nobody has ever met anybody before. Can you remember that?’

Schmidt had taken advantage of the interruption to hoist his glass. Emerging from it, he fixed a stern eye on me. ‘Aber natürlich. And you, Vicky – do you promise me, on your word of honour, that you did not know he would be on this cruise?’

‘I did not know,’ I said steadily.

‘Not that you wouldn’t lie to me if you wanted to.’ Schmidt ruminated. I drank my beer. It was some local variety – not bad, actually. Then Schmidt said, ‘And your heart is not broken? You would not revenge yourself on your faithless lover by betraying him to his innocent, trusting – ’

‘For God’s sake, Schmidt!’

‘Good,’ said Schmidt calmly. ‘Then we will have a pleasant holiday, eh, and enjoy ourselves. I have not been in Egypt for many years. This should be a wonderful excursion. I have long looked forward to making the friendly acquaintance of Mr Blenkiron.’

‘And extracting a contribution?’ I suggested.

Schmidt grinned. ‘It is my job, getting money from wealthy people. I am very good at it.’

He was, too. Our museum is remarkably well endowed for such a small institution. ‘He gives money to many worthy causes,’ Schmidt went on reflectively. ‘Why not to us? Since your heart is not broken, you can help me do this. He is not such an ugly man, is he?’

‘Shame on you, Schmidt. Is that any way to talk to a dedicated feminist like me?’

‘Well, he is not ugly,’ Schmidt declared. ‘I would not ask you to use your charms on a man who was disgusting to you. He is a woman hater, they say, but he said many nice things about you, Vicky, and asked many questions.’

I long ago gave up hope of convincing Schmidt that it is not nice to seduce potential donors. He’d have done it himself if he had had the necessary equipment. I suspect this is true of most museum directors. ‘What did he say?’ I asked, pulling my chair closer.

II

I had planned to sleep in next morning; it had been a long day, concluded by one of Perry’s more boring lectures, but I was hauled out of bed at the crack of dawn by Schmidt, demanding that I join him on deck to watch the boat manoeuvre through the Asyut locks. Since I had already made the mistake of letting him in – the alternative being to let him go on yelling and pounding on my door – I scrambled into my clothes and let him lead me away.

The buffet on the upper deck offered tea and coffee and an assortment of pastries. I downed a cup of coffee while Schmidt wreaked havoc among the pastries, for, I presumed, the second time. It would have been unwise to admit it to him, but as the caffeine took effect I was glad he had awakened me. The sun was barely above the horizon and the air was fresh and cool. Ahead lay the massive barrier of the barrage; the traffic crossing the bridge atop it included buses, bicycles, and donkeys. The ship had stopped, waiting its turn to pass through. There was one boat ahead of us on this side of the lock.

Several other ships were already lined up behind us. Surrounding us and them, like minnows around a shark, were clusters of small boats filled with enterprising merchants, who were hawking their wares at the top of their lungs. I joined Schmidt and several of the others at the rail. Schmidt was yelling too, bargaining for a garment one of the merchants held up. It was a long robe, basically black but covered from shoulders to midsection with sequins, beads, and embroidery in pseudo-Egyptian patterns.

I was about to ask my tasteless boss how the exchange of merchandise and money could be made, since the little boats were a good thirty feet below us, when an object came hurtling through the air and landed with a splat on the deck.

I jumped back with the alacrity of a frog in reverse, and someone bent to pick up the parcel.

‘You seem a trifle tense this morning, Dr Bliss,’ John remarked. Turning with a gallant bow, he presented the parcel to Suzi Umphenour.

I had believed I was getting used to Suzi’s outrageous outfits, but she constantly surprised me. This garment might have come straight out of a thirties’ film starring Jean Harlow: bias-cut satin trimmed with marabou feathers at the neck and the cuffs of the flowing sleeves. The things she had on her feet were, I think, referred to as mules. How she had managed to get upstairs in them without breaking her neck I could not imagine. As she reached for the parcel she slipped and tottered. Several pairs of masculine arms, including those of Sweet and Bright, made hopeful grabs at her, but she managed to avoid them, and fell heavily against John. He had to detach both her hands before he could set her on her feet.

Giggling merrily, Suzi removed her purchase and held it up: a shift, very tight and very short, completely covered with gold sequins. There was, I regret to say, a matching cap.

‘Oh, very smart,’ said John.

‘It’s for the Egyptian party tonight,’ Suzi explained, with one of her wide white grins.

‘Ah, yes. I’d forgotten. Perhaps I’d better get something for Mary. Advise me, will you, Suzi? Your taste is so impeccable.’ He offered her his arm.

Did I follow them to the rail? Certainly. I was going that way anyhow. I heard Suzi ask why Mary wasn’t with him, and John’s reply: ‘I persuaded her to sleep late. She had rather a restless night.’

Plastic bags were landing all over the place. Schmidt had already retrieved one; tossing the hideous garment over a chair, he put money into the bag, knotted it tightly, and tossed it down. He had a good arm for a fat old guy; the seller snagged the bag without difficulty. Suzi’s aim wasn’t so good; her bag missed the boat entirely, splashing into the water, but it was neatly retrieved by the merchant using a long hook.

I didn’t see what gorgeous garment John bought for his bride. I was too busy trying to keep Schmidt from buying not one but several for me. I did succeed in talking him out of one of the gold-sequined shifts. More of the passengers had come on deck to join in the fun. It would have been fun, I guess, if it hadn’t been for my tense suspicious mind. Yet – I assured myself – it was an awfully sloppy method of exchanging contraband or delivering explosives. Especially when one of the boats down below was filled with men in black uniforms, who kept a keen eye on every transaction.

The party broke up when we started moving into the lock. It was a tricky manoeuvre, owing to the size of the Queen of the Nile; she filled the entire space, lengthways and sideways. The stone walls rose sheer on either side, broken only by a flight of stairs leading from the top to water level. Once we were in, even Suzi could have tossed a package into the hands of someone who stood on the steps.

The only person there, however, wore a black uniform and carried a rifle. There were more of them up above, lining the bridge that crossed the lock.

Schmidt tugged me away. ‘We will have breakfast,’ he announced.

In a meaningful manner I brushed the crumbs off his moustache. He chuckled. ‘That was not breakfast, only a little snack.’

Since we were not going ashore that day, the service of food was practically continuous; the passengers had to be kept amused, and for some of them eating was a favourite sport. I kept Schmidt company while he stuffed himself, trying to decide how to occupy the long leisurely day. I am not ashamed to admit that Ali’s death had put a damper on my enthusiasm, which had already been fairly water-logged. If Alice was my only ally, we were both in deep trouble. If she wasn’t, why the hell hadn’t the other person identified him- or herself? I had left another message in the safe; its tone was peremptory, not to say hysterical, but if I didn’t get a response there was not a damn thing I could do about it.

As for the other guys, I was prepared to leave them alone if they did the same for me. I didn’t want to learn anything or even look as if I had. If there was ever a time for retreating into the fort and concentrating on defence, this was it. And I was going to take Schmidt into the fort with me. If Alice could get crazy ideas about him, so could the other guys.

Schmidt had a lovely day. Usually he follows me around. This time I followed him, tight as a tick on a dog, and he was innocently delighted by my companionship. We tried on the ghastly garments he had bought, and although he assured me most sincerely that I looked wonderful in all of them (fond as I am of Schmidt, I was unable to return the compliment), I persuaded him to pay a visit to The Suq, as Mr Azad’s shop was called, to see if we could find something even gaudier.

Schmidt loved The Suq. He loves places where he can buy things, not only for himself but, bless his generous heart, for his friends and relations. The shop was small and crowded; the people who hadn’t purchased their costumes from the aquatic merchants were looking for appropriate attire for the banquet that evening. Mr Azad didn’t have any gold-sequined shifts, but some of the robes were lavishly embroidered and trimmed with gold braid. With his smiling approval we carried an armful back to my room and tried them on. Schmidt adores trying on clothes and he likes even better watching me try them on.

After much consultation and much pirouetting in front of the mirror, Schmidt settled on the gaudiest and most voluminous of the robes. It was an ensemble, in fact; a long-sleeved floor-length caftan-type garment with a matching sleeveless robe, open down the front, that was worn over it. After he had tried three times to wind a long scarf around his head turban-fashion, I persuaded him he looked much more macho in a bedonin-type headdress.

By then it was time for Brotzeit – lunch. I don’t even want to think about what Schmidt ate. I had hoped he would want to take a nap afterward, but he was full of beans (among other edibles) and raring to go. ‘You will not want to miss the lecture, Vicky. Herr Foggington-Smythe is speaking on the tomb of Tetisheri, and showing slides!’

‘You haven’t heard him lecture, Schmidt. He is the most boring – ’

‘But the slides, Vicky! Many have never been seen before. It is a complete photographic reproduction . . .’

I said I’d meet him in the lounge in ten minutes and he trotted off, after warning me not to be late and assuring me I was beautiful enough already.

I spent a few minutes putting on fresh makeup. Then I opened the safe.

My notes were gone, and something had heen added. A nice shiny .45 automatic.