Night Train to Memphis

Chapter Eight

I

HAMID WAITED until we had assembled for lunch before making the announcement. There was the usual chorus of complaints from certain parties, but the sputtering and shouts of ‘Outrageous’ faded as Hamid went on to outline the alternatives. They were a good deal more generous than most companies would have offered.

That afternoon we would be transferred to the Winter Palace Hotel – all expenses paid of course. After the prearranged four days in the Theban area, passengers who wished to do so could board another cruise ship for Aswan, where they would spend several days before sailing back to Luxor. They might instead opt to return to Cairo by air for a two-week stay at Mena House or one of the four-star Cairo hotels.

‘What do you say, Vicky?’ Schmidt demanded. ‘What shall we do? Me, I vote for Cairo. Aswan is sehr interresant, but except for the nobles’ tombs – ’

‘We don’t have to make up our minds this minute.’

I couldn’t take my eyes off John. His face was as bland and uninformative as an oyster as he listened to Hamid. I had no doubt what his decision would be. He had known this would happen; he must have had a hand in arranging it. Mary was watching him too, her expression faintly troubled. She wouldn’t be consulted, but if I had been in her shoes (which God forbid), I’d have had my own reasons for preferring Cairo.

Shotgun wedding, I thought, savouring the ugly phrase. Mary’s daddy must be some guy. But he could never have cornered such an expert at elusion if John hadn’t had his own reasons for embracing matrimony. The ripe, juicy chunk of mango I was chewing tasted like sand as the inevitable calculations reeled off in my head. At least six weeks before she could be sure, maybe longer – a few more weeks making the arrangements for the wedding . . .

Months. It must have been going on for months. The same months during which he had . . . visited . . . me. While I sat there like some slack-jawed idiot in a country music ballad, bein’ true to my man.

I swallowed the loathsome morsel with a loud gulping sound. Schmidt looked at me in alarm. ‘Was ist’s? Are you going to be sick? You cannot be sick now, we have much – ’

‘I’m not sick, dammit! Stop fussing, Schmidt. Let’s go and pack.’

My elegantly appointed room and pretty little balcony had never looked more appealing. So much for that luxury tour I’d been promised; I’d never had the chance to enjoy it. Mother had always told me that if an offer seemed too good to be true it probably was.

The prospect of being Larry’s house guest offered some consolation. (It would certainly impress my mother.) I’d seen photographs of his Luxor establishment in some magazine; it wasn’t just a house, it was a whole estate, with beautiful gardens and a swimming pool and all the other odds and ends rich people consider necessary to happiness.

And I would be far far away from John and his pregnant bride.

I am not a neat packer, and my mood that day was not conducive to order and method; I tossed things at random into the bags and put them by the door. After a final check of closets and drawers to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything, I opened the safe.

The reels of tape were gone.

I was squatting in front of the safe, fumbling in its interior in the hope of finding something – a gun, a message, a box of chocolates, anything to indicate interest – when the telephone rang. I snatched it up and yelled, ‘What do you want, Schmidt?’

‘I’m afraid it’s only me,’ an apologetic voice murmured.

‘Larry?’

‘Yes. You are going to accept my invitation, I hope. I intended to repeat it in person, but you left the dining room before I could speak to you.’

He had meant it, then. A little quiver ran through me, a mixture of pleasure, relief, and renewed alarm. The situation must be serious if he was anxious to get me to a safe place without delay. ‘It’s very kind of you. Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure it’s the best possible place for you.’

He didn’t have to spell it out. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Thank you. What about Schmidt?’

‘I’ve already spoken to him. He said he’d come if you did. So it’s settled. We’ll meet in the lobby in, say, half an hour?’

There was no point in hanging around my room, so I headed for the lounge. I expected to find Schmidt there, since Hamid had announced the bar would be open – a final farewell to the Queen of the Nile, for those who chose to take advantage of it. Schmidt hadn’t chosen, but several of the others had, including Alice and Feisal, who were engaged in earnest conversation. I joined them.

‘So what’s going to happen to you guys?’ I asked.

‘All friends must part at last,’ said Feisal with a theatrical sigh. ‘We part sooner than I had hoped; but not for a few more days. I will remain with the tour here in Luxor.’

‘And after that?’

His smile was dazzling. ‘Something good, for me at least. I’m not at liberty to discuss it just yet. Are you coming with me to the Luxor Temple this afternoon?’

I shook my head. Feisal gave me one of those patronizing masculine looks. ‘Primping for the reception instead? I will see you later at the hotel, then.’

He glanced at his watch and stood up.

‘I won’t be at the hotel. Larry has asked me to stay with him.’

Alice gave me a startled look and then laughed. ‘Congratulations. You’re the first single woman to be so honoured in years.’

‘He’ll be adequately chaperoned,’ I said. ‘Schmidt is coming too.’

Feisal grinned. He was in a good mood, all right. ‘He is not the marrying kind, as you say. And he is too old for you. You haven’t forgotten you promised to let me show you the night life of Luxor?’

‘I’d like that. Thanks, Feisal.’

‘Till this evening, then.’ He went off, collecting Suzi as he passed her table. I heard her shrill voice raised in pretended protest as he led her out.

‘Are you really staying with Larry?’ Alice didn’t wait for me to answer. Thoughtfully she went on, ‘You’ll be all right, then. That compound of his could withstand a siege.’

‘How about you?’

‘I’m out of it.’ Alice made no effort to conceal her relief. ‘They’ve asked me to accompany the group that will be going on to Aswan.’

‘Then you’ve talked to – someone?’

The lounge was emptying, but I was wary of specific references.

‘Not yet. I’m supposed to meet – someone – at the Luxor Temple later this afternoon. But I can’t imagine that my services will be required any longer. The people who – the people concerned won’t be going to Aswan.’ She drained her glass and rose. ‘I was going to resign anyhow. I’m too old for this sort of thing. See you later.’

I let her go on before I followed. She was undoubtedly correct. The passengers who opted for the Aswan cruise had to be innocents. The Cairo-bound crowd was the one to be watched.

The last of the shore-tour group was leaving the lobby when I got there, to find my escort waiting – Schmidt, Larry, and the inevitable Ed. The open doors led, not to the gangplank but to the lobby of another cruise ship. We had to pass throngh it to reach the dock. Sometimes there were as many as five moored abreast, Larry said.

The car waiting for us looked as if it had been custom-built for a sheikh, and I felt sure the tinted glass was bulletproof. Ed rode up in front with the chauffeur, which left the three of us in splendid isolation in the back. There was room for the sheikh’s four legal wives and a couple of concubines.

The Shari el-Bahr el-Nil, familiarly known as the corniche, runs along the riverbank. It is a handsome boulevard with a tree-lined promenade on one side and on the other a fascinating mélange of ancient temples and modern hotels and souvenir shops. We passed the Winter Palace, where our fellow passengers were to stay, and went on for another mile or so before turning into a narrow driveway. The walls ahead resembled those of a fort. They were topped with wicked-looking coils of barbed wire, and the closed gates appeared to be fashioned of steel. They swung slowly open as the car approached.

I pinched Schmidt. ‘You know, Schmidt, I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more.’

It was like the sudden switch from black and white to Technicolor in the film. For the past mile we had driven past high-rise hotels and storefronts adorned with garish signs in Arabic and half a dozen other languages. Behind these grim walls were green lawns and flower beds bright with blossoms. Winding paths led between the trees to the buildings whose rooflines showed through the leaves. The main house was a low, unpretentious structure of pale brick. Two storeys in height, it was roofed with red tiles and had balconies sprouting out from the upper floor.

Schmidt didn’t answer. He was gaping in childish pleasure.

When we got out of the car a bunch of Munchkins descended on us. Two of them carried my bags up the stairs to my room, where a smiling, grey-haired maid was waiting to unpack for me. She expostulated when I insisted on helping, but I didn’t want her to see the condition of my underwear. I finally got rid of her by allowing her to carry off an armful of garments to be pressed.

There was mineral water in a cut-glass carafe, and a bowl of fruit on the table, not to mention a vase of fresh flowers. I hadn’t eaten much for lunch. Munching an apple (did they grow apples in Egypt? Did Larry have them flown in?) I wandered out onto the balcony.

I couldn’t see the ugly walls; they were screened by careful plantings of shrubs and trees. Sprays of water shone with rainbow glints, soaking the thirsty grass. I could get accustomed to living this way. It wouldn’t be any trouble at all.

Glancing down at my scuffed sandals and wrinkled skirt, I smiled wryly. I doubted Larry’s intentions were honourable – or even dishonourable, in the conventional sense. This was business. I’d settle for that.

He had informed us that he’d be busy for the rest of the afternoon, and told us to make ourselves at home – explore the house, the grounds, take a swim, check out the library, ask for anything we wanted.

I lay down on the bed. Just for five minutes.

I was awakened by the sound of thunder. Blinking sleepily at the sunlight striping the floor with gold, I cleverly deduced it wasn’t thunder. Someone was knocking at the door. Who else but Schmidt? Well-trained servants, as we sophisticates know, do not pound on doors.

‘Come in,’ I called, stretching like a cat.

He came. Or was it another Munchkin? His robe, striped in green and purple, left his plump calves bare. His little pink toes stuck out of his flip-flops.

‘Why do you waste time in sleeping?’ he demanded. ‘Already I have explored the house. You must see it, Vicky, he has some of the finest antiques I have seen – not antiquities, you understand, but Islamic art and furniture. But there is no time now. We are having the cocktails at the pool. Hurry and put on your bikini.’

It struck me as a good idea. I fished my suit – it was not a bikini, I am a modest woman – out of the drawer and retired to the bathroom. Schmidt reached for a tangerine.

‘Ah, that is very nice,’ he said approvingly when I emerged. ‘No, do not cover it up! You do not have a big stomach like mine, you do not have to – ’

‘Shut up, Schmidt,’ I said amiably, slipping into my robe. He led the way unerringly down the stairs and along a shadowy corridor that ended in an inner court, with its own high walls. Hibiscus and roses bloomed with tropical luxuriance; jasmine twined over a pergola at one end of the huge free-form pool whose blue waters sparkled in the sunlight. Larry rose from one of the chairs under the pergola and hurried towards me.

He was wearing black trunks and I think he was trying to suck in his stomach. In fact he looked a lot fitter than most men of his age; but I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention. Something else – someone else – had caught my eye.

He was poised, arms raised and knees slightly bent, on the diving board at the other end of the pool. He didn’t look in my direction but I knew he had seen me; the pose was designed to show off his tan and the lean lines of his body, and he held it a little too long before he sprang and dived, slipping through the air and into the water as smoothly as a water snake.

I turned to Larry. ‘What the hell – ’

I was so outraged I had forgotten Schmidt. Larry’s raised hand reminded me. Schmidt was trotting towards the pergola, but if I’d gone on at the same volume he would have heard me.

‘It’s as difficult to get out of this place as it is to get in,’ Larry said quietly. ‘I’d rather have him here, where I can monitor his activities, than on the loose in Luxor.’

‘He’s not stupid enough to make any false moves here,’ I insisted. ‘He knows he’s under suspicion.’

‘Stupid, no.’ Larry’s eyes were focused on John, who had pulled himself out of the water and was sitting on the edge of the pool. Schmidt came trotting up to him, waving a glass and calling out enthusiastic greetings. Smiling in response, John leaned back, supporting himself on his elbows. The movement stretched the muscles of his chest over the underlying structures of ribs and clavicles. He had lost weight – not much, he had never had much to lose, but those elegant bones were more visible now.

‘Stupid, no,’ Larry repeated. ‘Arrogant, yes. If we give him enough rope . . .’

‘His complexion is perfect gallows.’ I had proposed that once, as a fitting epitaph for John. Did they hang people in Egypt?

‘I need a drink,’ I said.

John slid back into the water. Schmidt peeled off his robe, flung it aside with the panache of Arnold Schwarzenegger (whom he did not in the least resemble), pinched his nose with two fat fingers, and leaped into the pool. A fountain of water billowed skyward. Averting my eyes, I followed Larry towards the pergola. Mary was there, stretched out on a deck chair, half-hidden by sprays of jasmine, and not much else. Her suit was very French – a few patches and a few strings. In her case the effect was cute rather than sexy; she was shaped as delicately as a child. Not a bulge anywhere.

I forced myself to stop counting. Feeling like a big blond ox, I lumbered pergolaward and took a chair next to Mary while Larry busied himself with glasses and ice. Very cosy and informal it was, no servants, just a small group of friends.

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ Mary said. ‘So kind of Larry.’

‘Uh-huh.’

From the far end of the pool two voices blended – to use the term loosely – in song. Apparently they were delving deep into the historical roots of country music, for this was a real oldie. ‘“If I had the wings of an angel, Over these prison walls I’d fly . . .”’

Not bloody likely, I thought. There was no way he’d get out of it this time. And nobody deserved it more.

II

When I got back to my room I found that my freshly pressed clothes had been returned to the closet. They smelled faintly of jasmine.

It wasn’t a closet, in fact, but an enormous gilded and painted cupboard, serving the same function as an armoire. My pitiful wardrobe occupied less than half of the vast interior. The cupboard was lined with sandalwood, and like every other piece of furniture in the room it was old, beautiful, and probably extremely valuable. I examined the paintings appreciatively, wishing I knew as much as I had claimed about medieval Islamic art. Like orthodox Judaism, Islam avoids the use of the human form in art. These designs featured flowers, animals, and the ornamental Kufic script. An ornate grille, gilded and pierced so cleverly that the openings formed part of an overall pattern, covered the top half of the doors. A good idea that, in a hot climate; it allowed air to circulate among the garments hanging inside.

In contrast to the bedroom, the adjoining bath was completely modern. There was even a built-in hair dryer, and I blessed Larry as I worked on my dank locks. I’d been a fool to let my hair grow long, it was thick and heavy and took forever to dry. I promised myself I’d have it cut as soon as I got home.

We were to dine, en famille, with our host at seven-fifteen. The reception started at nine. I figured it would be pretty fancy, but the best I could do was my good old, slinky black cocktail dress. I had just slipped into it when Schmidt banged on my door. He was ten minutes early. I padded on stockinged feet to the door and opened it. Schmidt’s face fell. He’s always trying to catch me with my clothes off.

‘You are ready,’ he said sadly.

‘Not by a damn sight. Sit down, Schmidt, I’ve got to do my hair.’

‘It is very pretty hanging over your shoulders like that. Leave it so.’

‘It gets in my mouth when I eat.’

In white tie and tails Schmidt looked like a portly penguin. He wandered to the mirror and began preening, straightening his tie and adjusting the ribbon that stretched diagonally across his chest. The ribbon was purple. I’d been with him when he bought it. I had talked him out of buying a medal to hang on it.

I decked myself out in my jewels, including the gold locket and not including the enamelled rose. The locket had never looked tackier. Watching, Schmidt opened his mouth and then decided not to comment. He’s tried several times to buy jewellery for me, and in that area, as in anything to do with art, he has superb taste. He also has more money than he knows what to do with. So why hadn’t I accepted his gifts? Not because I suspected his motives. Schmidt loves me like a daughter and a friend. I suppose it was because I didn’t want our friendship to be contaminated by expensive and one-sided presents.

I can be a damn fool at times.

At the top of the stairs Schmidt offered me his arm and we strutted down them with slow dignity. I knew he was seeing us, not as a cute little fat man and a tall gangly female, but as King Rudolf and Princess Flavia descending to the ballroom between rows of curtsying courtiers. In a sudden burst of affection I squeezed his arm. He squeezed back but he didn’t look at me. He was smiling with regal condescension and matching his steps to the strains of the royal anthem of Ruritania.

I can’t say that intimate dinner party was particularly enjoyable. Whitbread and Schroeder weren’t present; I assumed they were supervising the final arrangements for the reception. Schmidt devoted himself to Mary, whose slim arms and delicate collarbones were exposed by a low-cut, blue chiffon frock that might as well have been printed with dollar signs. She was wearing a parure of sapphires and diamonds – earrings, necklace, and bracelet. The heavy bracelet weighted her narrow wrist.

For once John said very little. He seemed preoccupied; once or twice Mary had to repeat a comment or question before he responded.

Finally Larry looked at his watch. ‘We’d better go in. The guest will be arriving soon.’

The grand salon occupied one entire side of the house. Words fail me when I attempt to describe it. (They fail me because I still don’t know much about Islamic architecture.) The outside wall, the one facing the gardens, was a glorious hodgepodge of stained-glass panels and intricately carved wooden screens. The arches and pillars framing the windows were covered with antique tiles in shades of blue-green and coral.

The objects arranged in niches along two inner walls weren’t Islamic, but ancient Egyptian – a life-sized sandstone head of a pharaoh wearing the double crown, a small painted statue of a slender girl carrying a basket on her head, a wooden panel from a cosmetic box, with a charming painting of an ibis crouching, or squatting, or whatever ibises do. It was a modest collection for a man with Larry’s money and taste. They were all good pieces, but none was what I’d have called outstanding.

I didn’t have time to examine them in detail. Larry drew me to the door, where I stood for the next half hour helping him receive his guests. It was probably the high point of my social life. As I shook hands with the Minister of the Interior and allowed the head of the Egyptian Antiquities Organization to kiss my fingertips I couldn’t help thinking, Wow, wait till Mom hears about this! Even the best of us (which doesn’t include me) is susceptible to snobbery.

Our buddies from the tour were among the last to arrive. Suzi flashed her teeth at Larry and gave me a huge hug. Her diamonds left dents in my chest. Larry passed her on to a minister of something. I greeted Sweet and his silent companion, noted that Louisa’s veils were already slipping, and pressed the flesh with the others. Among them was Feisal, resplendent in black tie and tails. He kissed my hand and winked at me.

‘That’s enough,’ Larry said, when the last of them had gone on. ‘Come and have some champagne. You’ve earned it.’

Almost at once he was captured by some dignitary or other and I retreated to a relatively quiet corner. Sipping my champagne – with caution, since it has an unfortunate effect on me – I surveyed the room. ‘Our’ crowd had gathered together, except for Suzi, who had found herself a general. Or maybe a colonel, I didn’t know the significance of the insignia. He had several square acres of ribbons on his chest, and he seemed to be as fascinated by Suzi as she was by him. I spotted Ed, strategically situated by the windows opening onto the lawn, his eyes ceaselessly scanning the crowd. His tux had been cut by a good tailor, but it bulged in several places. At first I couldn’t locate Schmidt. Then I saw him coming towards me, accompanied by a youngish man with a broad, open face that inspired a sudden wave of violent homesickness. My home town is full of people with faces like that. He had to be from Minnesota.

He had been born in Duluth, but that didn’t emerge until later in the conversation. Schmidt introduced him as Dr Paul Whitney, the director of Chicago House, the Luxor-based branch of the Oriental Institute.

‘Skip the titles,’ Paul said, with a broad smile. (Oh, those lovely big teeth! Only inMinnesota . . .) ‘The place is swarming with doctors. Quite an occasion, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know what the occasion is,’ I admitted. ‘Larry said something about a surprise, but . . .’

‘It’s not that much of a surprise. We’re a hopeless bunch of gossips here in Luxor. Larry is handing this place over to the Antiquities Organization and endowing it as a research institute specializing in conservation.’

He took a glass from the tray a waiter had offered. So did I. What the heck, two glasses wouldn’t hurt me.

‘A most kind and generous action,’ said Schmidt. ‘I hope, my young friend Paul, that you are not out of joint in the nose concerning this.’

It took Paul a few seconds to figure that one out. Then he laughed. ‘It’s certainly a more impressive set-up than ours. The Epigraphic Survey began in the twenties, and although we’ve tried to keep up-to-date, it isn’t easy to get funding. There have been many new technological developments in archaeology, and the equipment costs a bundle. Everything here is state-of-the-art, from the computer set-up to the laboratories. But no, our noses aren’t out of joint. Quite the contrary. We’re in the conservation business too, recording the monuments before they are destroyed.’

Schmidt asked a couple of questions about the Temple of Medinet Habu, which had been one of the Survey’s major projects, and in which I had only a vague interest. Actually, to be honest, I had no interest whatever. Seeing my wandering eye, Paul amiably changed the subject.

‘If you have the time, Vicky, we’d be delighted to have you visit our humble establishment. Our library is one of the best in the country, should you care to use it.’

I expressed my appreciation, adding that between Feisal, Alice, and Perry I had already been stuffed full of information I’d probably forget within two weeks.

‘They’re all first-rate,’ Paul agreed. ‘Only the best for a fancy tour like yours. Oh, that reminds me – there is someone among your crowd I’m anxious to meet. You both know Mr Tregarth, I’m sure. Can you point him out to me?’

‘We will do better,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘We will present you. He is an old . . . er, hmm. We have become good friends during the voyage. Now where . . . Ah, there he is talking with the Minister of the Interior.’

If I’d needed anything else to complete my state of demoralization, that last sentence would have done it. The Interior Ministry controls, among other offices, that of State Security.

As we approached, the stout, coffee-coloured gentleman with whom John had been conversing gave him a friendly slap on the back and turned away. John saw us coming. Eyebrow raised in polite inquiry, he awaited us.

Paul introduced himself; he was too eager to wait for Schmidt. ‘This is indeed a pleasure, Mr Tregarth. The Director wrote to you, but I’m delighted to be able to express our appreciation in person.’

‘Appreciation,’ said somebody. Me, in fact.

John lowered his eyes modestly but not before I had seen the wicked glint in them.

‘Mr Tregarth was instrumental in restoring to the Oriental Institute an artifact that had been stolen,’ Paul explained. ‘One of his employees bought it, accepting the fraudulent documentation the seller presented, but when Mr Tregarth saw it he recognized the piece and contacted us.’

‘How much did he take you for?’ I inquired. Two glasses of champagne had been too many.

John’s face lengthened into a look of noble suffering, but the glint was still there, and it was still directed at me. Paul said, shocked, ‘Only what he had paid for the piece, which was minimal. He wouldn’t even accept a finder’s fee.’

‘It was nothing,’ John murmured. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

I was spared further dramatics by Larry, who called for silence so that he could make his announcement. It was brief and quiet and modest, but bureaucrats can’t do anything simply; everybody who was anybody had to make a speech. A couple of them embraced Larry, to his evident embarrassment. He concluded by presenting the new director of the new institute, a stocky, bearded young Swiss named Jean-Luis Mazarin. I had noticed him earlier, chug-a-lugging champagne. He had cause for celebration, all right. Jobs in archaeology are scarce, and this one was a scholar’s dream. It was a fitting gesture of appreciation, said Larry, for Dr Mazarin’s supervision of the restoration of Tetisheri’s tomb paintings.

Fitting, maybe; but not particularly tactful. I was surprised that the first director wasn’t an Egyptian.

But not as surprised as I had been at Paul’s gushing thanks. What was John up to now? He must have some ulterior motive, he always did. The most obvious explanation was that the Oriental Institute now owned a very well-made fake. Making them pay for it was a particularly nice touch.

The party was still in full swing when Larry edged up to me and invited me to come see his etchings. They were sketches, actually – the original hand-coloured drawings of Egyptian sites made back in the 1830s by an artist named David Roberts. I’d seen countless reproductions of them on postcards and notepaper. Even the prints sold for hundreds of dollars at auction.

The main object of interest, however, was a man, short and slim and straight. He rose from his chair when we entered Larry’s study, and although he was in civilian clothes you could see the invisible uniform. He cut Larry’s introduction short.

‘First names will suffice,’ he said, with a smile that came nowhere near his intent dark eyes. ‘Call me Achmet.’

‘I’d like to call you a few other names,’ said my champagne-loosened tongue. ‘What the hell’s the idea of leaving me out in the cold without even a woolly scarf?’

‘Sit down, please,’ said Achmet.

I sat. I imagine most people sat when Achmet told them to.

‘I am sorry you feel that way,’ he went on. ‘We could not anticipate that our arrangements would be . . . disarranged.’

‘Ali was disarranged some too, wasn’t he?’

His lips tightened. ‘He was murdered, yes. But you have nothing more to worry about, Dr Bliss. Your part of the job is finished. Tregarth was the only one you recognized? You have not identified any of his allies?’

‘Yes and no, in that order,’ I said shortly.

‘Then there is no more for you to do.’ He sat back and spread his hands wide. ‘He will be under observation from now on. Enjoy the remainder of your visit to our country, and forget what has happened.’

‘Just a damned minute,’ I said, as he got to his feet. ‘I’ve got a few questions of my own.’

‘The less you know the better for you.’

‘Oh, that haunting old refrain! So I’m curious. What if he doesn’t go through with it? He knows me. He knows – ’

‘That he is under suspicion?’ Achmet stroked his neat black moustache. ‘I imagine he does. Your presence on the cruise would be enough to alert him to that.’

‘I told Burckhardt so at the beginning.’

Achmet shrugged. ‘It does not matter. If he proceeds, and we believe he will, there is no way he can avoid being caught.’

‘What’s he after?’ I demanded. ‘I hope it’s occurred to you, as it has to me, that the museum could be a decoy. While you increase security there, he may walk off with something else.’

‘Certainly it occurred to us.’ Achmet was halfway to the door. Obviously I bored him. He turned for a final word. ‘I told you to forget it, Dr Bliss. Stay away from Tregarth, from the museum, and most especially from the offices of State Security.’

‘That’s all very well and good. What if he – they – won’t stay away from me?’

Achmet looked exasperated. At least I think that was the import of his frown. His face didn’t appear to be capable of any more affable expression than annoyance. ‘Why should they bother with you? You have passed on the only information you possessed. Stop prying into matters that no longer concern you and you will be perfectly safe.’

I returned his scowl with interest. ‘You guys were the ones who asked me to pry.’

‘That is true. We are very grateful for your assistance.’

It was the most insincere thank-you I have ever heard, and I include a few I’d wrung out of John.

My memories of the remainder of the evening are somewhat blurred. People kept pressing champagne on me, and by that time I couldn’t think of any reason to refuse. I had a little chat with Alice, who was looking quite elegant in sequins and chiffon; she had been told the same thing Achmet had told me: you’re off the case, forget the whole thing. I vaguely remember congratulating Jean-Louis, the new director, but I don’t recall what we talked about or how I got to bed.

I woke with a hangover, of course. Served me right.

The reopening of Tetisheri’s tomb turned out to be another big occasion. I had expected a minister or two, but I hadn’t realized there would be so many reporters or that security would be so tight. Our little caravan was accompanied by a military escort, and when we reached the site I realized there were no tourists around except us. Everywhere I looked I saw uniformed men carrying rifles.

Tetisheri’s tomb is not in the Valley of the Kings or the Valley of the Queens. The royals and nobles of her dynasty had been buried on the slopes of a hill called the Dira’ Abu’l-Naga. She was one of the last of her line to be buried in that cemetery; her predecessors had taken the choicer and more accessible sites in the flanks of the hill. The fact that hers was higher, at the back of a narrow cleft, had probably contributed to its survival.

We climbed the modern stairs that had made access to the tomb easier for the men who had worked on it for over three years. Naturally there were more speeches. Larry handed over a huge key to the minister, who unlocked the iron gates that had been built over the entrance. Everybody clapped, and Larry led the first party inside. All were government dignitaries. The rest of us commoners had to cool our heels.

While we were awaiting our turn I chatted with Paul Whitney. Only a few archaeologists had been invited, and according to Paul, plenty of noses were out of joint. ‘We all complain about the damage done to the tombs by visitors,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘But we except ourselves.’

‘So are you going to decline the invitation?’ I asked.

‘You’ve got to be kidding.’

‘I am.’

I wasn’t even worried about my claustrophobia. Compared to the more elaborate later tombs, this one was small and simple – a single flight of stairs, a short corridor, and two rooms. Only ten people were allowed in at a time, but the rooms seemed very crowded because we huddled together, elbows tight against our sides. We had been warned not to touch the paintings.

Carefully I edged up to one of the walls and squinted at close range. The ancient artists had covered the rock walls with a layer of plaster before applying the paint, and by the time Larry’s people got to work, moisture and the formation of salt crystals had separated large sections of plaster from the rock behind it. The loose sections had been carefully removed and placed onto padded supports; then the rock wall had been cleaned before the plaster was replaced, using modern adhesives that wouldn’t flake or dry or shrink as older types had often done. Not until that process was complete could the actual restoration begin – cleaning off the accumulated grime of decades, replacing tiny flakes of paint that had fallen to the floor or between the rock and the facing. The patience and skill required had been extraordinary.

After we emerged I found a convenient boulder and sat down, tipping my hat over my eyes. I must be getting used to the climate. The hot, dry air felt good. Yes, by God, I would do as jolly old Achmet had suggested – forget distractions and enjoy myself.

I could probably talk Schmidt into going to Aswan. It would be pleasant to cruise, without distractions. We could come back to Luxor later, after . . .

They’d be watching every move he made from now on, poised like cats by a mouse hole, waiting for him to commit the act that would condemn him to prison, or to a narrower and more permanent resting place. People have been shot while resisting arrest

A pair of booted feet came into view and I looked up to see Jean-Louis. I wasn’t sorry to have my train of thought interrupted.

‘Do you have a cigarette?’ Jean-Louis asked brusquely.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t . . .’ Then I remembered that I did. Reaching into my bag, I dredged out my cigarettes. The pack was almost full, but it was rather squashed. ‘Keep it,’ I added generously.

‘That is most kind.’

It wasn’t, but I didn’t say so. He must be a chain-smoker. The ground where he had been standing was littered with butts.

‘So, did you enjoy the paintings?’ he asked.

‘I’m still dazzled. You’ve done a magnificent job. Mes hommages.’

Between the mop of bushy hair and the beard I couldn’t see much of his face, but he didn’t respond to my smile. ‘It is only one small part of what needs to be done. That is what the work of the institute will be – preservation. A worthy cause, do you not think?’

‘Unquestionably. As I said – ’

‘A cause worthy of sacrifice.’

He appeared to be talking to himself rather than to me. I wondered if the guy was drunk. Surely not at this hour? His hands were shaking as he lit another cigarette from the butt of the first.

I could feel relays clicking into place. I don’t know how society conditions women into feeling that they are obliged to console, reassure, and flatter melancholy males. I’d fought the impulse ever since I was old enough to recognize it, but I hadn’t been entirely successful. I decided that Jean-Louis must be one of those unfortunate people who can’t see the doughnut for the hole. Apparently he was brooding on the magnitude of the task ahead and questioning his ability to carry it out. The job would never be finished, not in his lifetime at least; there was too much to be done. That’s true of a lot of things, though, including the achievement of social justice, universal peace, and a world in which there are no hungry children. It’s no excuse to stop working towards those ends.

I said as much, larding the pompous speech with compliments, and gradually his face, or at least his mouth, relaxed. ‘It is true,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘And I am one of the few who can work effectively in this area.’

‘Uh – right,’ I said.

He went on to tell me how good he was at the restoration business and I went on to regret my womanly instincts. My wandering eye caught that of Larry, who had been watching us, and he responded to my unspoken plea for rescue.

‘Come now, Jean-Louis, you’re supposed to be mingling,’ he said.

‘Me too,’ I said, rising. ‘I haven’t had a chance to talk to our former shipmates.’

Larry accompanied me. ‘Moody fellow, isn’t he?’ I inquired, when we were out of earshot.

Larry frowned. ‘He hasn’t any reason to be moody right now. What did he say?’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention.’

‘He was talking a lot. Unusual for him, he’s not very sociable.’

‘He was fishing for compliments,’ I said. ‘Getting them too.’

Our shipmates greeted us with open arms. Sweet, who had apparently recovered from his bout of sickness, said slyly, ‘We were afraid you had deserted us, Vicky.’

‘I’d desert you too if I had the chance,’ Suzi said with a big grin. ‘How about wangling an invitation for me, Vicky?’

‘I was only asked . . . because of Schmidt,’ I said, fumbling for a reasonable explanation. ‘He and Larry are old pals.’

‘What about the Tregarths?’ Suzi demanded. ‘They aren’t old pals of Larry’s, are they?’

‘I’ve no idea what prompted that invitation,’ I said.

‘Tregarth is good at pushing in where he’s not wanted,’ said Perry, joining us.

‘I can’t get anyone an invitation,’ I said pointedly. ‘I wouldn’t be rude enough to try.’

‘So what are your plans?’ Sweet asked. ‘Will you be going on to Aswan with us day after tomorrow?’

I said I hadn’t made up my mind. Some of the others were still wavering, but the majority had opted for the Aswan cruise. Including Sweet and Bright. Obviously I’d been wrong about them. But I still couldn’t understand why Bright had lied about his origins.

‘At any rate we will enjoy one another’s company for a day or two longer,’ Sweet said cheerfully. ‘Are you coming to Karnak with us this afterooon, Vicky?’

The party was breaking up. Feisal began herding the group towards their bus and I returned to ‘my’ stretch limo, but not before I had agreed to join the others that afternoon. It was pure reverse snobbism; I didn’t want them to think I was too stuck up to mingle with non-billionaires.

There were five of us in the limo, not counting the chauffeur, but it wouldn’t have seemed crowded if John hadn’t been one of the five. At least I didn’t have to sit next to him. I climbed in after Schmidt, and Larry took the seat beside me. Leaning back with a sigh, he loosened his tie.

‘You must be glad it’s over,’ I said.

Larry glanced at me and smiled sheepishly. ‘I hate ceremony and long speeches. I am glad to be done with that part of it, but it will be hard to leave Egypt.’

I figured I’d done my duty as a sympathetic female, and I couldn’t feel too sorry for a man who owned – if I remembered the newspaper stories correctly – six other residences, including a chateau in the Loire Valley.

‘You can always build another house,’ I said.

‘I have too many damn houses already,’ Larry said, with an uncanny impression of having read my thoughts. ‘No, I won’t live in Egypt again.’

‘I’m sure they’ll always have a spare room for a guest,’ said John.

He was referring to Jane Austen, but none of the others caught the allusion, or its implications. Nasty old Aunt Norris in Mansfietd Park always had a spare room because she never invited anyone to stay with her.

Schmidt chuckled fatly. ‘For you, Larry, there will always be a spare room anywhere in Egypt. You have done the country a great service. When will you be departing, mein Freund? You must tell us when we are in the way. The ETAP hotel, I understand, is very fine; we can take ourselves there at any time.’

Larry assured us we were welcome to stay as long as we liked. ‘The packers are coming tomorrow. It will take a while, since some of the ceramics and furniture are old and fragile, so there’s no hurry. Have you decided on your future plans?’

He looked at John. John was looking at me. One eyebrow went up.

I remembered what Achmet had said. This seemed like an appropriate moment to indicate my complete disinterest in John Tregarth alias Smythe and all his works. ‘I’m going to Aswan,’ I said.

‘But Vicky,’ Schmidt began.

‘You don’t have to come along, Schmidt.’

‘I will go where you go,’ Schmidt said, as I had hoped he would. Otherwise I’d have had to kidnap him and drag him away by force.

So that afternoon we went to the temple of Karnak. John and Mary decided to join us. I hadn’t invited them. Schmidt had. Larry declined; he said he had work to do, and he’d seen the temple several dozen times.

We had to wait a few minutes for the rest of the group to arrive. Studying the crowds that filled the passage between the rows of ram-headed sphinxes, I said, ‘I can’t imagine what this place is like when tourism is at its peak. look at all those people.’

‘This is not an area where there have been attacks on tourists,’ Schmidt said, nodding encouragingly at Mary.

Mary’s devoted husband wasn’t so considerate of her feelings. Frowning slightly, he said, ‘Not precisely true, Schmidt. There was a bombing here a couple of years ago and another attempt earlier this season.’

‘Ah, but those attacks were in objection to what the fundamentalists consider the worship of the old heathen gods,’ Schmidt explained. ‘Some of these peoples’ – his pointing finger indicated a group of unkempt visitors in ponytails and cut-off jeans – ‘the New Agers, you call them, hold ceremonies in the temple. We, we don’t worship anything.’

‘We sure don’t,’ I agreed. John grinned at me. Avoiding his eyes, I went on, ‘You’re right about that bunch, Schmidt, they’re all wearing amulets and crystals and earrings and junk. Why do they have to look so scruffy?’

‘Their spiritual consciousness has elevated them above earthly desire,’ said John, in a voice I knew well. ‘I should think you’d approve, Vicky; you dislike crass materialism and vulgar acquisitiveness, don’t you?’

I was saved from replying by the arrival of our shipmates. Falling in step with Feisal I remarked, ‘You’re looking very pleased with yourself, Feisal. Are you going to tell me about that good news you mentioned, or is it still a secret?’

‘Not any longer.’ Feisal stopped and turned to face me. He thumped himself on the chest. ‘Greet, with proper respect, the assistant director of the institute.’

I caught his hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Congratulations! I’m absolutely delighted.’

Feisal kept hold of my hand as we walked on. ‘You’ll help me celebrate, perhaps. I promised to show you some of the night life of Luxor.’

‘That would be great. But why are you guiding this tour?’

‘I’m no quitter, as you Americans say. As soon as I get the last of this lot onto the plane in Cairo I’ll come back and take up my new position. In the meantime I will carry out my duties like a good little soldier. All right, friends, gather around; the temple of Karnak is not one temple but a complex of temples, built over many centuries. The Avenue of Sphinxes . . .’

People wandered off as we proceeded, some to stop and rest, others to inspect a particular area in more detail. Schmidt and I had paused to look at an obelisk and he was lecturing me about the career of Hatshepsut – ‘one of the first feminists, Vicky, she should be of interest to you’ – when I saw a familiar face that didn’t belong to our group. A familiar beard, rather.

‘I have been looking all over for you,’ Jean-Louis said grumpily.

‘What for?’ I asked. He certainly didn’t look like a man who has finally found the girl of his dreams.

‘To show you the temple, of course. Didn’t you ask that I do so?’

‘We are delighted to have you, of course,’ Schmidt exclaimed, before I could answer. Just as well; I would have said no, I hadn’t. However, I was familiar with the habit some people have of believing in their own fantasies. I must have made a hit with Jean-Louis. That would teach me not to go around oozing sympathy.

He’d worked on the Aton Temple project for three years before leaving it to take up Larry’s offer, and he knew Karnak as I know my own apartment. We finally managed to pry him away from that part of the temple and talked him into showing us boring tourist stuff like the Hypostyle Hall. ‘Impressive’ is an overused word, but it’s the only word for that cluster of mammoth columns. The only thing wrong with it was the tourists. One group had squatted in a circle and I recognized the seekers after truth we had seen entering the temple earlier. They were muttering to themselves and waving their hands. I heard somebody say something about auras.

‘Cretins,’ Jean-Louis muttered.

‘They do no harm,’ Schmidt said tolerantly.

Finally I decided I’d absorbed enough for one day and I cut Jean-Louis short in the middle of a translation of the annals of Thutmose III. He was reading the hieroglyphs off the wall. It was a wasted exhibition so far as I was concerned; how did I know he was reading them right?

Jean-Louis consulted his watch. ‘Yes, we must go. Mr Blenkiron has sent the car for us, it will be waiting.’

I spotted Suzi as we passed through the Hypostyle Hall. She waved and I waved back, but Jean-Louis didn’t stop. I deduced that we were late. When we emerged from the last – or first, depending on which way you were going – pylon into the Avenue of Sphinxes, John and Mary were waiting. She looked done in. I didn’t blame her; we had covered a lot of territory and still seen only part of the enormous complex.

That was when it happened. The force of the explosion threw me to the ground, or maybe it was Schmidt who threw me to the ground. He was on top of me when I got my breath and my wits back.

I decided I probably wasn’t dead. I wished I could be sure about Schmidt. The plump pink hand lying on the ground near my face was flaccid and unmoving. I tried to squirm out from under him. People were screaming and there were sounds like firecrackers.

The weight on my back lifted. I got to my hands and knees, then to my knees. John was bending over Schmidt, shaking him. Schmidt’s head rolled back and forth, then his eyes opened and he let out an anguished bellow. ‘Vicky? Vicky, wo bist du? Bist du verletzt? Ach, Gott – ’

‘You’ll do,’ John said, stepping back. ‘Stop shrieking, Schmidt, she’s not hurt.’

‘Speak for yourself.’ My shins and forearms had taken the brunt of the fall. Blood oozed from a few square feet of scraped skin. ‘What happened?’

Schmidt, crawled over to me and enveloped me in a hug. ‘It was a bomb, Vicky. Terrorists, setting off bombs and shooting. Gott sei Dank, you are not injured.’

I could see over his shoulder. The cloud of dust from the explosion was still settling. Other people had been bowled over but they didn’t appear to be badly hurt, for they were moving and cursing. All except one. The bloody cavern where his face had been was framed all around by sticky wisps of hair.