Laughter of Dead Kings

FOURTEEN

W e restored Ashraf with brandy—permissible for medicinal purposes—and barraged him with questions.

“What do you mean, he wasn’t there?” Feisal cried. “Where else could he be? You didn’t search thoroughly!”

“We tore the place apart.” Ashraf spread his dust-smeared, splinter-riddled hands. “Not only the main house, but every outbuilding. That woman—that dreadful woman—has gone to investigate the villa at Karnak, but I cannot believe they would have left him there unattended.”

“No,” John said.

“Where can he be?” Ashraf’s voice rose in a poignant plea.

“Well, now, that’s the question, isn’t it?” John said coolly. “Let us control our emotions and examine the matter logically.”

“Please,” I said. “Not another lecture on crime and the criminal mind.”

“Just crime, darling. I was about to go into that aspect of the matter when we were interrupted. If anyone has a better suggestion…” Eyebrow lifted, he swept his audience with an inquiring eye. No one responded. Ashraf had relapsed into gloomy despair, Feisal was pacing, Schmidt watched John with amiable expectation, and even Saida was fresh out of ideas. The blow had been devastating; it had never occurred to any of us that the damned mummy wasn’t there.

I refrained from additional criticism. John had been through a lot lately; as he had frequently remarked he hates being hurt, and his amour propre had also taken a beating. He had, to put it rudely, screwed up not once but several times. So I folded my hands and gave him an encouraging nod. He would have gone ahead anyhow.

“This,” said John, “was an expensive operation. It required a number of people to carry it out, people with special skills. There aren’t as many of them as you might suppose, particularly in this part of the world—not terrorists, not politically motivated, a criminal organization pure and simple, interested only in the money. After checking my sources I had determined before we arrived in Egypt that one group was the most likely. They had pulled off several rather neat thefts of antiquities, from storehouses and in one case from a well-guarded temple.”

“Denderah,” Feisal exclaimed.

“Right. The modus operandi in that case was similar to the one employed here. Now you may well ask why, if I had identified the group in question, I didn’t tell you. The answer is that the gang itself was unimportant. They are for hire, they carry out orders. I wanted the man who had hired them, and at that point I didn’t have a clue as to his identity. There were too many possible motives, too many possible suspects.

“Gangs have their uses, but they also have inherent disadvantages. They’re in it for the money. So if somebody offers them more money, they may decide to take it and run. Or if something goes wrong they may decide to save their own skins—and run. That’s why I don’t use them. You simply can’t count on the buggers. Vicky, you’re twitching. Am I boring you?”

“Yes.”

“Me too,” Feisal snarled. “Where is all this leading?”

“I am trying to explain,” said John loftily, “why I didn’t let you in on my deductions. You were all suspects. Yes, Feisal, even you. You would have been happy to see Ashraf disgraced and you the hero who had saved Tut. The only people I didn’t suspect were Vicky and Schmidt, and both of them have a deplorable tendency to take matters, and in Schmidt’s case, weapons, into their own hands.”

Taking this as a compliment, Schmidt chuckled and opened another bottle of beer. “I didn’t have any damned weapons,” I said grumpily. “Schmidt, how the hell did you get hold of that gun?”

“I got it the night I went shopping with Saida and Feisal,” Schmidt explained. “From a taxi driver, after they had left. There are ways to find things, Vicky, if one knows the ropes.”

Feisal rolled his eyes heavenward. “I don’t want to hear about it, Schmidt, and I don’t want to hear any more theories. I want to know what the hell has happened to Tutankhamon!”

“So do I,” Ashraf said. “If you’re so bloody clever, Tregarth, answer that.”

John went to the minibar. “I never drink to excess, but I think this evening I’m entitled to approach that level.” He winced theatrically and rubbed his arm. “Tut? He’s at the FEPEA house, of course.”

Ashraf was too infuriated for coherent speech; he sputtered and waved his arms. Feisal swore eloquently. “Impossible. We searched the place from top to bottom.”

“You didn’t look in the right places,” John said.

J ohn refused to say more, claiming he was feeling faint and needed his rest.

“Tomorrow,” he said wanly. “I—I may be up to the job tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow be damned,” Feisal yelled. “I’m heading there right now.”

“I strongly advise against that,” John said. “You’ve left some of your people guarding the place, I presume? He’ll be perfectly all right.” He had to raise his voice to be heard above the threats and curses. “Do you want the man who is behind this? Then be patient. It will be worth the wait. Trust me on this.”

We got Feisal and Ashraf out before they could commit bodily assault on John. I was tempted to join them, but I was beginning to get an inkling of an idea. I think Saida was too. She hadn’t joined in the general outcry.

T he cat was the first to greet us. It came round the corner of the house, tail erect, and made a beeline for Schmidt.

“She remembers,” Schmidt said happily, stooping to stroke the animal’s head.

“It’s a he, Schmidt,” I said, from the other end of the cat. “Definitely a he.”

“I was worried about you,” Schmidt informed the cat. “I ought to have known that you would be sensible enough to stay away from a place where there were loud noises and projectiles.”

Schmidt held the door for me and the cat. The others were in the director’s office. Schmidt stopped and looked down at the dark stain on the Bokhara rug.

“It’s okay, Schmidt,” I said, patting his shoulder. “He’s still alive.”

Schmidt sighed. “Barely. But it was necessary. He might have killed you or John.”

The dark stain wasn’t the only evidence of violence. The study looked the way my living room looks most of the time—chairs pulled out or knocked over, various objects strewn around the floor. Among the latter were the two swords. The tips were darkly stained.

“Tsk, tsk,” said Schmidt. “Such beautiful weapons, to be treated so cavalierly. They should be cleaned and replaced.”

“Not by you, Schmidt,” I said. “Ashraf, you had better get some of your henchmen in here to repair the damage before the expedition arrives, or you’ll have some explaining to do to.”

“I suppose that is true,” Ashraf admitted. Something crunched; he lifted his foot and examined the sole of his brogue. “Broken glass. Where did that come from?”

“In the mad rush to the rescue last night, someone knocked over one of the display cases,” John said, looking into the library. He bent over and delicately extracted a knife from amid the shards of glass. “Nice weapon.”

“The founders must have been a bloodthirsty lot,” I said.

“Life was hazardous in those days,” John said, admiring the knife. It was a good eight inches long, and showed signs of use.

“Never mind the nostalgia,” Feisal growled. “Where’s Tutankhamon?”

John came back into the study. He put the knife down on the table. “Here.”

“I tell you, we looked everywhere,” Feisal insisted.

“You were looking for a coffin-shaped box approximately six feet long,” John said.

The words fell like lumps of lead thudding onto a defenseless head. Feisal’s jaw dropped. Ashraf choked. Saida said calmly, “I thought so.”

John went to the file boxes piled in the corner. They were of heavy cardboard, squarish in shape, none longer than three feet. The one on top was about a foot square. With the slow deliberation of a magician preparing to produce a rabbit from a hat, John removed the lid and lifted a few loose papers. The head of Tutankhamon smiled shyly up at us.

“Ham,” I said. “Show off. Charlatan.”

“They broke him into pieces,” Ashraf wailed.

“He was already in pieces,” I reminded Ashraf.

Saida hovered over the box, uttering little moans of distress. In an effort to console her, I said, “They seem to have packed him quite carefully—cotton wool all around, nice sturdy boxes.”

Feisal rushed at the other boxes. Two legs, half a torso, the other half, arms. He was all there. Or rather, all of him was there, except for the hand that had been sent to Ashraf. Feet and the second hand occupied a separate container. While the others unpacked Tut, John stood to one side, nursing his arm and looking superior. Schmidt settled down in the director’s chair and began feeding the cat chicken from one of the lunch boxes he had brought. His mustache was twitching. Either he was deep in thought or he was trying not to laugh. Laughter was inapropos, but the situation did have an insane touch of black humor. I felt as if I were at a wake, there was so much groaning and gnashing of teeth.

Ashraf was the first to get his wits together. Unlike Feisal and Saida, he was less concerned with poor old Tut than with saving his reputation. He snatched the box containing the head. “We’ve got to put him back. Right now, before word leaks out. Feisal, start loading those boxes into the car.”

Schmidt looked up. “Now, in broad daylight, with tourists and guards in the Valley watching every move you make?”

“No, we can’t do that,” Feisal exclaimed. He snatched the box back from Ashraf. “Damn it, be careful. Don’t joggle him.”

“He won’t mind,” I said. “He’s dead.”

Feisal gave me a hateful look. Ashraf stroked his freshly shaven chin. “We must think,” he muttered. “Think before we act. Tonight, after the Valley is closed…”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” John drawled. “Take your own advice, Ashraf, and think this through. Aren’t you even slightly interested in the identity of the mastermind? You ought to hold a personal grudge; he was the one who bashed you on the head the other night.”

“We know who it was. Your assistant—I forget his name—”

“As I keep telling you, it’s not that simple. There’s no hurry. Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable and let me explain?”

“Not another lecture,” I said.

“At the end of which,” said John, nostrils flaring with annoyance, “I will produce the real instigator of this affair. Please sit down, ladies and gentlemen.”

Grudgingly and grumbling, the rest of us took our places around the table. The head of Tutankhamon, placed tenderly on the table by Feisal, lent a macabre note to the proceedings. The solemnity of the meeting was somewhat marred by Schmidt’s passing round the box of chicken legs. (The cat had eaten the breasts.)

“If I may,” said Schmidt, “I would like to say a few words.”

“By all means,” said John, with a gracious inclination of his head.

“Thank you,” said Schmidt, graciously inclining his head. “Referring, John, to your deductions of last night: It seems to me that you left certain matters unexplained. The unfortunate Alan may have been able to locate the group you mentioned by getting access to your private files, but if he wanted money, why devise such a bizarre, complex scheme? Why Tutankhamon instead of an artifact he could sell on the illicit antiquities market?”

“I’m glad you asked,” John said. They nodded at each other again. Clearly they had set this charade up, the two of them. Just for the fun of infuriating Ashraf, or for some other reason? John kept sneaking surreptitious glances at his watch.

“Why Tutankhamon, indeed? The only logical answer was that Alan was working with someone else—someone whose primary motive was not financial. We won’t be able to question Alan for a long time, if ever. But I think this is how it came about.

“Alan was approached by an individual who had conceived the idea of embarrassing the SCA by making off with one of its most conspicuous treasures. At the outset he believed he was dealing with me. Alan convinced him that he, Alan, had taken over that aspect of the business. Alan also pointed out that the group of people who carried out the actual theft would expect to be paid, and paid handsomely. There was no way of raising that amount of money except by holding the mummy for ransom.”

“So it was the other guy who proposed stealing Tut,” I said. “But that means…That means he…Who, damn it?”

“Can’t you guess?” John’s smile was maddeningly superior.

I looked at Ashraf, who was looking at Feisal, who was looking at Saida, who was watching John, her lips slightly parted.

John looked at his watch.

Schmidt couldn’t stand it any longer. He sprang to his feet, pointing at the doorway. “Perlmutter! Jan Perlmutter. Who else!”

The doorway remained unhelpfully empty of Jan Perlmutter.

“Don’t be silly, Schmidt,” I said. “You just want him to be the villain because you’re still mad at him.”

“Schmidt is, as always, correct,” John said resignedly.

Ashraf sat up with a start. “Perlmutter? From the Altes Museum in Berlin? He’s behind this? Why? How?”

“You were driving him crazy,” John said simply. “During our interview with him in Berlin, Perlmutter was practically frothing at the mouth when he talked about preserving antiquities. It was as though he had a God-given right to defend them from the barbarians—as defined by him. He is, to put it simply, over the edge. Most of you archaeological types are somewhat demented, you know. Look at the way you and Feisal have been carrying on about the bloody mummy. A sane person wouldn’t give a damn what happened to it.”

“But Herr Doktor Perlmutter cared,” Saida said.

“You prove my point,” John said. He looked again at his watch, glanced at the door, and scowled.

“He planned to return it, unhurt,” Saida insisted. “We must give him credit for that.”

“Credit be damned,” Ashraf said furiously. “I will see that he suffers for this, and for his violence against me. I will catch a plane to Berlin tomorrow, after we have returned Tutankhamon to his tomb.”

“Forgive me for mentioning,” John said, “that you have still to work out how to accomplish the latter. As for Berlin, there is no need. Here he is, in person. Finally,” he added in exasperation. “I told him to be here at ten.”

All eyes focused on the doorway. “I was detained,” Jan said.

He had ruined John’s meticulously plotted scenario by failing to appear on cue. The cue being, I presumed, John’s smarmy question, “Can’t you guess?”

For a criminal who has just been unmasked, Jan looked unnervingly pleased with himself. Silver-gilt curls shining, he moved toward a chair. “I could not help overhearing the last part of your conversation,” he said coolly. “Your wild accusations are pure fantasy, of course.”

Ashraf pushed his chair back and surged to his feet, fists clenched. “Coward! You struck me down, from behind. You will pay.”

Jan smiled. One could almost hear what he was thinking: These excitable Arabs, they are too emotional to look after their treasures. I wanted to kick Ashraf to shut him up, but I was too far away from him. Schmidt and John were just getting started. How much real evidence they had against Jan I didn’t know, but I had a feeling it was flimsy. He would have to be tricked into making a damaging admission. Skilled interrogators know violence is counterproductive in inducing confessions; punching Jan in the chops would only make him mad and reinforce his sense of superiority.

It was good ol’ boy Schmidt who took the necessary steps. His shout made the rafters ring.

“Sit down and be quiet!”

Schmidt doesn’t exert his authority often, but when he does he is formidable. Ashraf sat down as suddenly as if he had been pushed. If I hadn’t already been seated, my knees would have buckled.

“You too,” Schmidt went on, glowering at Jan. “Speak only when you are spoken to. I am taking charge of this inquiry and I will brook no interruptions. Yes. That is better. Now, John, proceed with your deductions.”

John was still not used to the new Schmidt. Visibly awestruck, he cleared his throat. “As I was saying…What was I saying?”

“That all archaeologists are slightly mad,” Schmidt prompted.

“Right. Um. Stealing the mummy of Tutankhamon was the sort of idea that would only have occurred to a monomaniac, someone who placed inordinate value on it and believed that other monomaniacs would share his estimate of its importance. In other words, a psychotic Egyptologist or authority on ancient remains. That ruled out Alan and the gangs of professional thieves. It also indicated that the motive was personal and abnormal rather than financial or political. We had proposed that as one possibility among others, but we had never actually followed through on the idea. I wasted a certain amount of time speculating about a grudge against a specific individual—Ashraf, or Feisal, or me. However, all of us had led blameless lives—”

That was too much for Jan, who had been increasingly maddened by John’s use of insulting adjectives. He burst out, “Blameless, you say? You, one of the most notorious…”

“Ah,” John said. “You knew about me, did you? Make a note of that, Vicky.”

“What with?” I asked, looking round for pen and paper.

“I will do it, I will do it,” Saida cried. She whipped out her notebook and began scribbling.

“I did know,” Jan said. His hands, gripping the arms of the chair, were white-knuckled, but he wasn’t ready to concede defeat yet. “During the Trojan Gold affair I spoke with Herr Müller about a mysterious individual who had been an active party in the proceedings and a friend of Vicky’s. I had—er—certain government sources available to me, and through them I was able to identify the individual and keep track of his activities. I did so as a precaution, you understand. A criminal of his sort might prove a danger to the museum in future.”

“Not a bad recovery,” John said judicially. “However, we have now established the fact that you were aware of my former connections. You made another slip during our conversation at the museum in Berlin. You claimed to be unaware of the existence of the Amarna head, yet according to Alan, he had notified the major museums of its existence.”

“His word against mine,” Jan said.

“How long have you been in Egypt?”

After John’s long-winded exposition, Schmidt’s brusque question made Jan start. He took his time about answering. “Two—three days.”

“Which?” It was John’s turn.

Jan’s head turned in his direction. “None of your business.”

“It was, in fact, five days ago,” Schmidt said. “This has been confirmed by my old friend Wolfgang of the German Institute.”

“You had learned from Alan that he was prepared to hand over the mummy in return for the ransom,” John said. “You had never intended to do that. You were determined to prevent it at any cost. We know you were at Karnak that night.”

Jan’s head swiveled back and forth like that of a spectator at a tennis match. The deadly duo didn’t give him a chance to reply, just kept hitting him with one accusation after another.

“It wasn’t until after you arrived in Egypt that you found out about the murder of Ali and, later, that of the young woman.” John took up the tale. Back and forth, back and forth; we were all doing it now. I had a crick in my neck. The only exception was Saida, whose head was bent over her writing. Jan’s glance swerved aside, focusing briefly on her before returning to John.

“An honest man, a man of courage and integrity, would have gone immediately to the police. You caved in. You and Alan came to an agreement. He could keep the money, all of it, if he left the mummy to you. You had enough scholarly integrity left to want it kept safe. As you see, your plans for it have been foiled.” With a theatrical wave of his hand, John indicated the box that contained the head of Tutankhamon.

Someone laughed. I wasn’t the only one who gaped at the box in startled horror. But it wasn’t Tut. It was Jan. He had been temporarily shaken by the performance of John and Schmidt but he still had a card up his sleeve, and it was an ace.

“Wrong,” he said, leaning back and folding his hands. “My plans, as you choose to call them, are unfolding according to schedule. I presume you were planning to return the mummy secretly to its tomb? It is too late. Last night the press of the world was notified by an anonymous but reliable source that the Supreme Council had allowed Tutankhamon’s mummy to be stolen by a gang of common thieves. Representatives of the major news media will shortly arrive in Luxor.”

He didn’t have to elaborate. I could see it now—the tomb surrounded by clamoring hordes of reporters and cameramen. They couldn’t be kept out of the Valley unless it was closed to all visitors, and that move would only increase speculation. And certain people, such as Feisal’s jealous subordinate, would be only too happy to talk with the press.

Saida dropped her pen. Ashraf bounded up from his chair. Feisal had turned pale; his lips moved soundlessly.

“So you admit,” Schmidt said, in a desperate last-ditch effort, “that you planned the theft of the mummy in order to embarrass the Supreme Council?”

“I admit nothing,” Jan said, chin outthrust. “I learned of the theft only recently and felt it my duty to report it. You can prove nothing. And if you attempt to detain me”—he pushed his chair back and stood up—“you will regret it.”

Ashraf charged around the table toward Jan. I yelled at him to stop and so did Saida, but he was too infuriated to hear us. Jan snatched up the knife John had placed on the table and scuttled backward.

“Don’t touch me,” he cried hysterically. “Don’t try to stop me.”

Ashraf tripped over John’s outthrust foot and fell flat.

“You’re welcome,” John said to Jan. “Go or stay, it’s all the same to me.”

Eyes bulging, Jan backed toward the door. John twisted a hand in Ashraf’s collar, pulled him upright, and slapped him smartly across the cheek.

The slap may not have been necessary; having one’s breath cut off has a tendency to decrease belligerence. Ashraf clawed at his collar and John chanted, “‘Vicious attack on critic by head of Supreme Council.’ Is that what you want to see in tomorrow’s newspapers, Ashraf?”

Jan turned and ran. He didn’t even stop long enough to brush the dust off his jacket.

“Let him go,” John said, keeping a firm grip on Ashraf.

“We’re doomed,” Feisal said hollowly. “Damn you, Johnny, you expected this.”

“Didn’t you?” John allowed a touch of exasperation to enter his voice. “Weren’t you listening to me? This is what Perlmutter wanted—publicity. He wouldn’t have dared walk in here today unless he had already taken steps to achieve it.”

“Then why the charade?” Feisal demanded. “Why did you and Schmidt waste all that time interrogating him when you knew he had already won?”

John lowered his eyes. His long lashes—one of his best features, as he knows—caught the light in a golden shimmer. “It was fun,” he said.

Schmidt chuckled. “We had him worried for a while.”

“He’s not worried now,” Feisal muttered. He hid his face in his hands. “We’re doomed.”

“Not necessarily,” John said.

The light of hope dawned, touchingly, on several faces. Ashraf’s was not one of them.

“What can we do?” he demanded, his tie askew and his hair ruffled. “The bastard is right, we can’t drive into the Valley and unload the pieces of Tutankhamon under the very noses of the press. Even if we could barricade the approach to the tomb and keep reporters at bay, someone would see what we were doing…Some enterprising pressman would bribe a guard to let him pass…One photograph would be enough.”

“You’re thinking,” John said approvingly. “Good. However, you are on the wrong track. It seems to me that there is only one way out of your little dilemma.”

T here was room in the limo for all of us, though we had to squeeze up a bit because the seventh passenger occupied so much space. Ashraf had insisted on putting the boxes in proper order, in a single layer, so that we could keep them from being joggled. John sat on one side of them and Feisal on the other. I’d seen too many pictures of the naked mummy; it didn’t require much stretch of the imagination to picture it side by side with John and Feisal, like those grisly royal effigies at Saint Denis—you know the ones I mean, the king robed and crowned in worldly splendor lying next to a naked rotting corpse. “What I am now so you shall be.”

Ashraf’s first reaction to John’s idea had been a shout of incredulous, outraged laughter. Unperturbed, John went on.

“It’s about six hundred miles to Cairo. That limo of yours should be able to make it before dawn if we start right away.”

Half convinced, half aghast, Ashraf said, “And then what?”

“If you haven’t the authority to get into the museum before hours, no one has. Once he’s there, who is going to confess he hasn’t been there all along? And who would have the audacity to call you a liar if you say he has been?”

Feisal started to his feet and began pacing. “That’s right,” he said excitedly. “It would explain everything. The van was an official vehicle, sent by you—”

“To rescue the king from his insalubrious surroundings,” Schmidt broke in.

“As I demanded,” Saida added, her eyes sparkling.

“And as Ashraf had already decided was right and proper,” John said smoothly. “He intended it to be a delightful surprise for critics past and potential—and a nice little publicity stunt. Perlmutter has played right into your hands with his pathetic accusations. Let them burgeon and bloom. When you put Tut on public display, you’ll have every media outlet in the world begging for an interview, and Perlmutter will look like a jealous, spiteful fool.”

Ashraf’s face took on the dreamy expression of an unwilling dieter being presented with a large, thickly iced chocolate cake. “But how…Do you know how much those climate-controlled cases in the royal mummy room cost—how long it takes to construct one? We haven’t any extras. I can’t display Tutankhamon in a crude wooden box.”

“Move one of the other kings temporarily,” I suggested. “Thutmose the Third, maybe. He looks like a man with a sense of humor.”

My little touch of levity was ignored as it deserved to be. “It could work,” Feisal said.

“It is brilliant,” Saida declared. “It must work!”

We were under way in less than two hours. Ashraf dismissed his driver with plane fare back to Cairo. It wouldn’t be the first time he had taken a notion to drive himself. We collected our luggage from the hotel and Schmidt loaded the car with food and drink and a few other comforts I didn’t notice until I got in the vehicle. I don’t know how he smuggled blankets and pillows out without being seen, but I feel sure he left money to pay for them—probably more than they were worth. Infected by the general hubbub, I trotted back and forth without accomplishing very much; at one point I found myself heading for the lift carrying one shopping bag that contained my galabiya—an item which I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t need. The only person who didn’t join in the flurry of activity was, of course, John. Leaning against the limo, he made an occasional suggestion.

Ashraf settled himself behind the wheel, pulled on a pair of expensive leather driving gloves, and drew himself up like a ship’s captain on the poop deck, or wherever it is captains stand. Schmidt was in the front seat next to him, Saida and I in the tonneau with the boys, living and dead.

“Fasten your seat belts,” Ashraf intoned.

I added mentally, “We are about to take off.” Hastily I complied. Knowing Ashraf as I had come to, I figured we were in for a rough ride.

As we pulled away from the hotel, another vehicle swung in ahead of us—a dark unmarked car that, despite its lack of official markings, had the unmistakable look of an official vehicle. “What’s that?” I demanded, leaning forward. “I thought we wanted to avoid being conspicuous.”

“Ashraf always travels with an escort,” Feisal muttered.

“We need to get through the checkpoints without being delayed,” John said. “I presume you’ve called ahead?”

“Yes, yes,” said Schmidt, already on his cell phone. “They know we are coming.”

Everybody knew we were coming. The escorting vehicle began sounding its horn. Cops stopped traffic at intersections. Cars and carriages tried to pull to the side. Sometimes they succeeded, sometimes they didn’t. Our caravan swerved around them. At least I think it did. I didn’t hear any screams. I could hear Schmidt babbling away on his phone, and Ashraf commenting unfavorably on the skills of other drivers. I tried to close my eyes, but they wouldn’t stay shut. The columns of Luxor Temple were far behind us. Karnak’s pylons came into view and vanished. The approach to the Nile bridge whizzed by. Then we were out of Luxor and on the road northward.

Ten hours. Assuming nothing happened, like a flat tire or running out of gas or hitting a camel. I should probably explain to those who have never driven in Egypt that camels weren’t the only local hazard. The road from Luxor to Cairo is two lanes most of the way, and it isn’t well maintained. Potholes and ruts abound, trucks and buses do not yield the right of way. Possibly the greatest hazard is the Egyptian driver himself. If he wants to pass he does, even when there is another car coming straight at him. Usually there’s enough room on either side for the vehicles legitimately occupying their respective lanes to edge over far enough to let him through. Usually.

It was all coming back to me. I wished it hadn’t.

“Fond memories?” John inquired softly. He is only too adept at reading my mind.

“Not so fond.”

“Quite. Look on the bright side. Instead of occupying an antique vehicle held together by wire and prayer, you are traveling in style and comfort. Instead of taking desperate measures to avoid checkpoints and hotly pursuing antagonists, we’re on a straight shot to Cairo. Instead of Feisal driving, we have—” He broke off with a grunt as Ashraf pulled suddenly onto the shoulder to avoid an oncoming truck which was in our lane passing a taxi. “Well, perhaps Ashraf isn’t that much of an improvement.”

“I resent that,” said Feisal, from the other side of Tut. He sounded fairly cheerful, however, perhaps because he and Saida were snuggled close together.

“Pleasantly cramped quarters, aren’t they?” John inquired. “Have a pillow.”

“Or a little hay,” I murmured. “It’s very good when you’re feeling faint.”

I tried to follow his advice and concentrate on the bright side, but those grisly memories kept recurring. Just John and me and Feisal that time, John barely functioning after the rough handling he had endured, Feisal jittery as a nervous virgin, Schmidt’s whereabouts unknown and a source of nagging worry.

This was definitely better.

It was still daylight when we reached Nag Hammadi and crossed the river to the West Bank. I remembered Nag Hammadi from that first trip. We had never made it across the river, but had had to take off on a mad ride along the East Bank road and through the desert wadis.

“We’ll fill up with petrol here,” Ashraf announced. “Make use of the facilities, ladies, if you like, but don’t linger to paint your faces.”

“How are you doing?” Saida asked, linking her arm in mine.

I thought about the question, while we made use. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Everything has happened so fast. This is crazy, you know.”

“It’s exciting,” Saida said happily. “Your John is an amazing man. Is he always this imaginative?”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Feisal is not.” Saida peered into a smeary mirror and took out her lipstick. “But I love him anyhow.”

She didn’t appear to be in a hurry, so I leaned against the wall and watched her carefully apply fresh makeup. Painting my face was the least of my concerns at the moment.

“I hope you didn’t take John’s remarks about demented archaeologists personally,” I said. “He was just baiting Perlmutter.”

“No, he meant it,” Saida said coolly. “He lacks the scientific mind. It is very important that Tutankhamon’s body survive. Without it the king cannot attain immortality.”

“I was under the impression that a statue or painting or even a name could substitute for the physical body. If that’s so, Tut—excuse me, Tutankhamon—has a better chance of survival than anyone in history. There must be thousands of images of his mummy and tens of thousands of reproductions of his coffins, his mask, and his statues scattered around the world.”

“That is so,” Saida admitted. She put her lipstick away and took out an eyebrow pencil. “But I am not certain that they count.”

While I was considering this remark and wondering whether she was serious, a fist pounded on the door and Feisal yelled, “Come out of there. We’re ready to go.”

Saida winked at me. “He enjoys being masterful. It does no harm to let men believe that they are in control, so long as we decide the important matters.”

We piled back into the car and rearranged Tut. The last of the light was fading as we headed north. Schmidt began opening containers of various foodstuffs which were, of course, in the front with him. He passed back pieces of chicken, eggs, oranges, and other items.

“I’m not hungry,” I said wanly. I remembered, only too well, what it was like driving in Egypt after dark. People don’t use their headlights except when they are approaching another car. That sudden burst of brilliance out of the dark is very unnerving until you get used to it—which I never had.

“Eat,” Schmidt insisted. “You will need your strength.”

“I hope not.”

The swollen crimson orb of the sun descended with slow dignity; crimson and purple streamers spread out across the west. The first stars twinkled shyly in the darkening sky. We were going at a good clip, passing buses and trucks. Ashraf was eating a chicken leg and talking on his cell phone.

That left, if my arithmetic was correct, no hands for the wheel.

Knowing it was in vain, I called out, “Ashraf, why don’t you let Schmidt make the calls for you?”

“I am telephoning my subordinates,” Ashraf said stiffly. “Ordering them to meet me at the museum. Even the great Herr Doktor Professor Schmidt cannot do that.”

John let out a breath of laughter that tickled my ear. “A-to-Z Schmidt, the greatest swordsman in Europe. It will take Ashraf a while to get over that.”

We slid through another checkpoint, slowing down just long enough for Ashraf to stick his head out the window and bark at the guards, then picked up speed again. Schmidt offered me an orange. Darkness was complete and Ashraf was driving like a NASCAR racer, weaving in and out of semi-visible traffic and singing one of those Arabic songs that wavers up and down the scale. I dropped the orange peel onto the floor. I am going to mess up Ashraf’s beautiful car, I thought, and when we get to Cairo I am going to kill him.

I woke up when we stopped for gas.

“Where are we?” I asked, blinking at the lights.

“Minya,” Feisal said. “We’re making good time.”

“Last stop before Cairo,” Saida said. She untangled herself from Feisal and hopped lithely out of the car. I followed, not lithely. When we got to Cairo I was going to kill her too. I was as stiff as—well, as a mummy.

The stop was brief. The interminable ride continued. I couldn’t stay awake, but I couldn’t really sleep either. Bursts of light from approaching cars turned onto oncoming freight trains and dragons shooting flame. Somebody was laughing. Not the dragons, not dead kings. I recognized Schmidt’s guffaws. He must be telling jokes. He always laughs louder at his own jokes than anyone else does.

I came to full awareness when a different kind of light impinged on my eyelids. My head was on John’s shoulder and his arm was around me. When I stirred he said, “My arm’s gone numb.”

“All of me has gone numb. Especially my derriere. Remove your damned arm, then.”

“As soon, my darling, as you remove your lovely head.”

I struggled upright and stared out the window. “We’re here. We’re in Cairo!”

“Ah,” said Schmidt, turning his head around as far as it would go. “You are awake.”

“We’re here. We made it!”

Great cities never sleep. The lights along the corniche blazed bright, and although the traffic wasn’t as heavy as it was during the day, there were people abroad, going home after a night of merriment or heading for work, even at that ungodly hour. The facade of the Cairo Museum shone like raspberry ice. Ashraf headed straight for the heavy wrought-iron gates. They parted and swung slowly back.

The moment the car stopped, one of the doors of the building opened. Several men hurried out and converged on Ashraf. They began talking excitedly. They spoke Arabic but the gist of their remarks was clear. “What the hell is going on?”

Whatever Ashraf said, it was said with enough force to send them scurrying back into the museum. “Get him out and inside,” Ashraf ordered, turning to us. He took the lead, picking up one of the boxes. (Half a torso, I think.) Feisal and Schmidt followed suit and so did Saida, cradling the box that held Tut’s head tenderly in her arms. Ashraf indicated the last two boxes and barked, “Take his legs.”

“Aren’t you coming?” John asked me.

I swung my own legs up onto the seat. “I’m going to take a real nap. Wake me when it’s over.”

It felt wonderful to stretch out. I kicked off my shoes and wriggled my toes luxuriously. Instead of dozing off, I lay there staring dreamily at the facade of the museum. I had been involved in a lot of peculiar situations, but this one was in a class by itself. What was I doing here? I asked myself. In front of the Cairo Museum at four o’clock in the morning, aiding and abetting a trio of demented Egyptologists who were piecing together a dead, dismembered king. What was Tutankhamon to me, or I to him, that I should care about him? I did care, though. Witness the pronouns: I had come to think of that withered mummy as “him,” instead of “it.”

Some good had come of the adventure. John was in the clear, and we were rid forever of Suzi. Schmidt had turned his back on her when she offered her hand and an apology. Feisal and Saida were headed for the altar. Jan Perlmutter was going to get a well-deserved comeuppance. He might even be blackmailed into sending Nefertiti home. I pictured him stuffed and stuck up on a plinth in his own museum, with a sign saying, “The man who lost Nefertiti.”

The sky began to lighten. The sunrise wasn’t spectacular; Cairo smog is too thick. A head appeared at the window, and a voice said, “Wake up, Vicky. You must see this.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” I croaked. “What time is it?”

“Seven A.M.” Saida opened the door. “Come quickly, it is a sight you will never forget. You will be among the first to see it.”

The royal mummy room was softly lit except for a spotlight focused on one of the glass cases. Men in white lab coats with surgical masks covering their mouths hovered over it, making the final adjustments. The masks seemed extraneous, considering what Tutankhamon had been through, but they looked professional. Schmidt and John and Feisal stood to one side looking on.

“Did you have a good sleep?” John asked, putting his arm around me.

“I wasn’t asleep.”

Thutmose III was still grinning. They must have removed one of the lesser royals in order to accommodate Tut.

The technicians stepped back and there he was. He looked quite peaceful. Like the other mummies, he was decently covered, from chin to ankles. The fabric was brownish and old; Saida had told us that the museum authorities had used ancient linen. Folds of the fabric concealed the fact that his head wasn’t attached to his body.

“That’s it,” one of the technicians said, on a long breath. He spoke English, out of deference to the ignoramuses in the room, and the conversation continued in that language.

Ashraf stepped up to the case and stared into it. “Satisfactory,” he said. “Now listen, and listen carefully. I have called a press conference, to be held here in the museum at ten A.M. I will announce that the king’s mummy has been here for more than a week, in the laboratory, while we prepared a place for him. After he has rested in the museum for a time, he will return to his tomb in a properly constructed, scientifically designed case like this one. You will avoid reporters at all costs. If you should be questioned, you will repeat the story I have just told. I need not explain what the consequences will be should you deviate from it. Is that understood?”

Nods and sycophantish murmurs of agreement acknowledged understanding. Ashraf had expected no less. With a regal wave of his hand he dismissed the technicians.

“So,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “All is in order.”

“Except for Tut’s other hand,” I said, suppressing a yawn.

“It will be restored when convenient. Is there anything else?”

What he meant was, had he overlooked anything important? He looked inquiringly at Schmidt.

“I think not” was the judicious reply.

I gave Tut one last fond look, and we straggled out of the museum, leaving several of the guards—who had been, I assumed, promised the same fate as the technicians if they were tempted to spill the beans—to close the place up. Ashraf was kind enough to offer us a ride to our hotel.

“Have we got a room?” I asked, more in hope than in expectation.

“Aber natürlich,” said Schmidt. “I telephoned last night.”

“Any news from the Valley of the Kings?” John inquired.

Ashraf laughed fiendishly. “The journalists were informed last night that I would be giving a press conference today. Some won’t be able to reach Cairo in time. They will be scooped, as the saying goes, by others.”

Schmidt’s room was waiting for him, but—the manager informed us, cringing—ours would not be ready until noon. “It does not matter,” Schmidt said. “None of us wishes to sleep.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said.

“But we must attend the press conference.”

“Not me. I’ve seen enough of Tutankhamon to last the rest of my life.”

Leaving the others congratulating themselves and drinking coffee, I threw myself down on Schmidt’s big soft king-size bed and fell asleep. When I woke up, sunlight brightened the room and Jan Perlmutter was standing in the open doorway.