Night Train to Memphis

Chapter Seven

I

HANDS TOOK HOLD of me and tried to unwind me. I fought them frantically until it dawned on me that there was something familiar about that grip. ‘Tony,’ I croaked. ‘Oh, Tony, damn it, I thought you were – ’

He slapped me, hard. After my head had settled back onto my neck I squinted up at him. It wasn’t Tony. Of course it wasn’t. Tony was in Chicago, not in that filthy tunnel under the Schloss. Neither was I. I was in Egypt in a filthy tunnel in a tomb,with . . .

‘You bastard,’ I said feebly.

‘How pitifully inadequate.’ John hauled me to my feet and propped me against the wall, out of his way. Leaning over the shaft he called, ‘Blenkiron! Speak up, don’t be shy.’

The voice echoed hollowly. ‘I’m okay. You’ll have to get a rope. The ladder . . .’

‘Hang on.’

‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded.

John turned to me. I couldn’t make out his features; the only light came from the top of the ramp and even that distant illumination dimmed as people crowded around the opening, spouting agitated questions and exclamations. I sensed, rather than saw, the movement when his raised arm fell to his side. I had hit him a lot harder than he had hit me. Apparently he had decided not to even things up with a second slap. Too many people watching.

‘You have a positive genius for irrelevance,’ he remarked. ‘Come on, up you go; can you walk or shall I drag you?’

I couldn’t walk. The roof was too low. So I crawled, as fast as I could, leaving John calmly discussing the situation with Larry.

I emerged from the opening to find myself in the middle of a fight, if one can use that word to describe an altercation between a fat elderly midget and a tall muscular man. Ed had Schmidt in a close embrace and Schmidt was pounding on his back and yelling in Mittelhochdeutsch, his favourite language for swearing.

‘Cut it out, you little lunatic,’ Ed said. His breathing wasn’t even fast. ‘Here she comes. Safe and sound.’

He released Schmidt. Schmidt darted at me. ‘Vicky! Are you all right? I was trying to get to you – ’

‘Stop squeezing me, Schmidt. I’m fine.’ But I didn’t try to free myself; it felt good to be held by someone who loved me. Over the top of Schmidt’s head I saw other members of our group, in various poses of curiosity and concern. Feisal clutched Suzi’s voluptuous form. Her eyes were closed, but I doubted she was unconscious; one of her arms was draped around Feisal’s neck. Pale and shaken, Mary leaned against a wall. She wasn’t as pale as the young archaeologist, who had just seen his hopes of a generous contribution go up in smoke. It is difficult to win the heart of a potential donor after he has fallen down a shaft.

‘I don’t understand how it could have happened,’ he insisted. ‘The ladder was perfectly sound, we’ve been up and down it a hundred times . . . Oh! Oh, thank God, Mr Blenkiron. Are you all right?’

‘Just a few bruises.’ Followed closely by John, Larry emerged from the tunnel. He was dusty and sweaty and dishevelled, but he didn’t seem to be damaged. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he went on sheepishly. ‘The ladder is intact. I guess my foot slipped when the lights went out. And someone screamed – ’

‘Probably Suzi.’ Feisal lowered her unceremoniously to the ground. She promptly opened her eyes and muttered, ‘Where am I?’

Nobody told her.

‘It’s fortunate that no one was injured,’ said Feisal, in a voice that reminded me he was responsible for the safety and well-being of the group. Did they dock his pay for every tourist he lost? If so, he was already out a few bucks on account of Jen. Had she really left Cairo? I had only John’s word for it and I wouldn’t have relied on that if he had assured me the world was round.

Urged on by Feisal, we started back to the bus. Nobody asked why the power had failed. Apparently that sort of thing happened all the time. It was probably just an odd coincidence that it had happened after Vicky Bliss, the well-known phobic, had crawled down into a tomb. If I hadn’t baulked at the last minute I might have been on the ladder when it happened.

There were only two people who knew about my phobia. I thanked God I hadn’t made an abject fool of myself in front of Larry; he had realized I was uncomfortable, but he wasn’t aware of the disgusting performance I had put on. My vocal reaction had been in the form of whimpers rather than screams.

My eyes focused on John, who was ahead of us. Mary was clinging to his arm. They hadn’t been part of the original expedition. They – and Suzi and the others – must have accompanied Schmidt. John could have managed it. A yank at the electric wire that snaked around the wall . . .

Another warning, designed to inflict emotional rather than physical damage. It was a low-down filthy trick to pull on a person under any circumstances; the circumstances under which John had learned of this particular Achilles heel made the trick even filthier.

Schmidt looked up at me. ‘You are very red in the face, Vicky. Is it the sunburn?’

‘No, Schmidt. It’s not sunburn.’

II

The boat got under way as soon as we boarded. We were due in Luxor next day. I could hardly wait. By hell or high water, hook or crook, I was going to get myself into the presence of an actual living unmistakable policeman or a member of State Security Investigation, and demand to know what was going on. The situation was coming apart like a soggy paper towel and I must be losing my touch; I hadn’t suspected Ali or spotted Alice until she declared herself. I was beginning to wonder about Sweet and Bright; if they were supposed to be protecting me they had screwed up at least twice. And I hadn’t the faintest idea who John’s confederates might be.

Not that my past record was all that good. On several memorable occasions I hadn’t identified the criminal until he pointed a gun at me.

Alice and I managed to exchange a few words. They were, ‘I hear you had a little adventure, Vicky. Good thing no one was hurt,’ to which I replied, ‘Yes, isn’t it,’ and to which she responded with, ‘Here’s that book on the Memphis tombs I promised to lend you.’

There were no messages written in invisible ink or spelled out by means of dots or pinpricks under certain words. What there was was a note, hastily scribbled in pencil and stuck in between the pages. ‘He was there. Promised we’ll be contacted as soon as we get to Luxor. Said to lie low, take no action, stay in a crowd. Ali died of drowning. All bruises postmortem except for one on his face. Could have hit his head, knocked himself out, fallen overboard. Suggest you don’t think about the alternative.’ There was a P.S. ‘Burn this and flush the ashes down the nearest convenience.’

I would have done it anyhow. As I watched the ashes being sucked down with the swirling water I thought about the alternative.

After lunch Schmidt and I settled ourselves on the sundeck. Schmidt started writing postcards. He’d already sent them to everybody he knew and he couldn’t understand why I wasn’t doing the same.

‘At least to your mama and papa,’ he insisted. ‘Here, here is a pretty one of the pyramids. And one of Cairo for Tony – ’

I took them, to shut him up. It was a little difficult composing appropriate messages. ‘Having a wonderful time’ was not only trite but untrue. As for ‘Wish you were here,’ I could only thank God they weren’t.

Yet as I scribbled a witty greeting on Tony’s card (‘Hi! Guess where I am!’) part of me, the selfish, cowardly part, wished he were. Here. This was the first time I’d been completely on my own, with no one to talk to, argue with, or fall back on. Schmidt hadn’t been particularly useful during the Roman affair, but he had been aware of what I was doing, and towards the end of that business John and I had become reluctant allies. We had spent most of our time together trying to elude various people who wanted to kill either or both of us, but when you are running wildly away from killers it’s nice to have company. John was awfully good at running away.

Stretched out in the chair next to mine, Schmidt had tipped his hat over his eyes and dozed off. His hands were clasped on his tummy and the ends of his moustache fluttered every time he exhaled.

The sight of him, vulnerable and lovable and harmless as a baby, was like a cold shower, clearing my head and bringing my thoughts into focus. I had to get Schmidt out of this. I had to get myself out too. I’d been a fool to consent to such a dangerous scheme – even if I hadn’t realized how dangerous it was going to be – and an even bigger fool to go on with it after I spotted John. I had done the job I had agreed to do, and my mysterious employers hadn’t kept their part of the bargain. They had let Schmidt get away. The hell with the Cairo Museum. I wouldn’t have traded a square inch of Schmidt’s bald scalp for the entire contents of the museum. The hell with security, too. I didn’t have to flap around like a wounded duck until somebody condescended to contact me – or until somebody else drowned me in my bathtub and threw me overboard. As soon as we reached Luxor I’d call Karl Feder and hand in my resignation. I’d have done it that minute if it had been possible to make a direct call. I didn’t trust anybody anymore; and that included the radio operator.

It was amazing how much better I felt once I’d made that decision. I could even enjoy the scenery. The cliffs of the high desert bounded the river on either side; even in bright sunlight they were a pale, ethereal pinky-yellow. At some places they rose sheer from the water’s edge; elsewhere they fell back, leaving a narrow strip of cultivable land. Little clusters of brown mud-brick houses were framed by green crops and palm trees. Birds flapped and swooped and beds of blue water hyacinths glided past, floating flowery islands in the stream.

I waved back at a group of children gathered along the bank, but my mind kept wandering. The greatest difficulty would be to talk Schmidt into cutting the trip short. I toyed with wild ideas – a fake telegram announcing that the museurn was on fire, or that a family member had fallen ill? No, that wouldn’t work. He’d telephone and discover the truth. Anyhow, it would be cruel to scare him.

We were to be in Luxor for four days. There wasn’t a prayer for getting Schmidt away until after he’d seen the famous tomb. I was rather keen on seeing it myself. Maybe, I thought hopefully, the cops were waiting on the quay at Luxor to round up the bad guys. Maybe John would call the whole thing off. Maybe Schmidt would get sick. A lot of tourists get sick. Maybe I’d get sick. Maybe I could pretend to be sick and insist that Schmidt take me home to Munich . . .

Maybe the mummy of Tutankhamon would rise up out of its coffin and blast the villains with a supernatural curse.

‘Oh, hell,’ I muttered.

Schmidt stirred. ‘Was hast du gesagt?’

‘Nothing.’

How about faking a nervous breakdown? I shouldn’t have any trouble doing that.

Schmidt pushed his hat back and sat up. ‘Brotzeit,’ he announced.

Sure enough, it was. The stewards were setting out the tea-things. Awake or sleeping, Schmidt always knows when it’s time to eat. If he ever sinks into a deep coma I figure I can bring him out of it by waving a doughnut under his nose.

The passengers who had been elsewhere started to assemble. I was greedily collecting cookies when Perry joined me at the buffet. He was looking a little peaked, and when I recommended the chocolate wafers he grimaced and said he thought he’d better stick to tea.

‘I noticed you didn’t go ashore this morning,’ I said. ‘Are you okay?’

I hadn’t noticed, actually – Perry was not one of those people who are conspicuous by their absence – but I thought it would be polite to say so. He hesitated. I decided he was torn between his desire for sympathy and his reluctance to admit he was no more immune to common weakness than any inferior tourist.

‘Just a touch of stomach trouble,’ he said finally.

‘There’s a lot of it going around.’

‘It’s never happened to me before,’ Perry said pettishly. ‘And I’ve eaten in places tourists are warned away from. Someone in the kitchen must have been careless.’

There are some ailments that bring out the worst in people who don’t suffer from them. I licked chocolate off my lower lip and took another big bite. ‘They say it happens to everybody sooner or later,’ I said heartlessly. ‘Several people have been sick. Anna, and the Hamburgers and – ’

‘Who? Oh.’ Perry laughed politely. ‘A joke. They’re suffering from the usual tourist complaint. That’s not my problem. I haven’t actually – er – been sick, just a little queasy. My temperature is normal, but my pulse – ’

‘What are you lecturing about this evening?’ I had intended to offer him a little sympathy with his tea, but I really didn’t want to hear a list of unpleasant symptoms.

‘The Valley of the Kings. That’s where you’ll be going tomorrow morning. But Alice has kindly offered to speak in my place. It is essential that I take care of myself. I must attend the reception tomorrow evening. Larry made a point of inviting me.’

Everybody had been invited. An uncharacteristic wave of kindness stopped me from saying so. Poor devil, he couldn’t help being a bore. I wanted desperately to get away from him, but I couldn’t think how to manage it without hurting his feelings. My eyes kept wandering. Schmidt had cut Larry out of the herd and Alice had joined them at their table. They seemed to be having a good time, laughing and talking animatedly. John and Mary were standing at the rail, their shoulders touching. Near them, but obviously not with them, were Bright and . . .

Just Bright. I realized I’d never seen one without the other. Where was Sweet? Could Bright be forced into conversation, lacking his interpreter?

Perry was rambling on about various boring things, all of which he claimed he could do better than anybody else. ‘Not that I couldn’t handle the job, you understand. Anyone can be an administrator, but field archaeology and lecturing require special – ’

‘Right,’ I said, wondering vaguely what I had agreed with. ‘Shouldn’t you rest now? You must take care of yourself.’

As soon as he’d gone I made a beeline for Bright. No need for subtlety here; my first question was one anyone might have asked. ‘Where’s your buddy? Not sick, I hope.’

Bright considered the question. After a moment he nodded gravely. ‘Sick.’

‘I’m so sorry. Has the doctor seen him?’

Bright nodded and smiled.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

Bright shook his head and shrugged.

‘Are you all right?’

Bright nodded and smiled.

I had a feeling that if I kept asking questions the process would keep repeating itself. Nod and smile, shake head and shrug, nod and smile . . . The man wasn’t mute, he had spoken. One word, in a soft hesitant voice, the voice of someone who has a painful speech defect, a lisp or a stutter, who has to choose his words with care.

Or someone who is trying to conceal the fact that he can’t speak the language that is supposed to be his native tongue.

He had to risk it once more; he couldn’t just walk away without a word. His ‘Excuse me,’ was accompanied by another smile and another nod. I watched him cross the deck, nodding and smiling at people, until he had vanished inside.

I supposed he’d got tired of sitting with his sick friend and came out for a breath of air and a change of scene. Careless of him to risk it, though. The last two words had been articulated with a precision no native speaker of the language would employ. I had assumed he wasn’t really a manufacturer from Milwaukee, but I would have expected a professional undercover agent to be smart enough to assume a credible persona.

Yes, I definitely had to talk to somebody who knew what was going on. I sure as hell didn’t.

When I went back to Schmidt I found him entertaining again. John was actually taking notes. ‘Hillbilly,’ he repeated, writing it down.

‘Das ist recht. It means – ’

‘I’m vaguely familiar with the term. Then the western element – ’

‘Yes, the cowboys. A pessimistic group of individuals.’ Schmidt illustrated the theme. ‘Do not bury me on the lonesome prairie. There the coyotes (a variety of jackals, with loud voices) howl . . .’

‘‘‘And the wind blows free.” Yes, I’ve got that. It does have a lugubrious quality, doesn’t it?’

‘But the most romantic are the prison and the railroad songs.’

I said, before I could stop myself, ‘Romantic?’

‘All those dying pillows,’ John murmured.

Schmidt continued the lecture, with vocal illustrations. How Mary stood it I could not imagine. She had to be tone-deaf as well as infatuated. Finally I took pity on her and tried to change the subject.

‘Where is everybody? It’s a beautiful day, you’d think there would be more people on deck.’

‘On their dying pillows, no doubt,’ John said. ‘The pharaoh’s curse has struck. The rest of us will probably be in the same stage before we reach Luxor.’

‘What do you mean?’ I demanded.

‘Hadn’t you heard?’ He turned slightly, facing me. ‘The refrigeration apparatus has broken down. Perfect conditions for ptomaine.’

I didn’t bother to ask how he knew. Once such rumours start they spread quickly, especially in a small closed society like ours. By the time the group reassembled for drinks and the evening lecture, Hamid felt it necessary to make a public announcement.

It was true, as we had heard, that the refrigeration had failed and that efforts to repair it had been unsuccessful. However, there was not the slightest danger of food poisoning. As those of us who had experienced prolonged power failures knew, the freezers would remain cold for hours and we would be in Luxor by morning. Any food served that evening (and the chef, said Hamid, with one of his largest smiles, was preparing a veritable feast) would be perfectly safe.

When he finished there was some grumbling, most of it from our habitual complainers. Alice, who had replaced Hamid on the podium, added a few sentences of reassurance before beginning her lecture.

She was a much better speaker than Perry, enlivening the facts with personal reminiscences and funny stories. Cued by Schmidt’s rumbling chuckles, I laughed in all the right places, but I have to admit I didn’t pay proper attention. Just when I thought I had come to a sensible sane decision, something happened to make me question it. Could I have been mistaken about Sweet and Bright? The answer to that was depressingly obvious. The corollary was equally depressing. They were the only ones to whom I had spoken about John. Several little reels of tape were jostling around in my bag at this very moment. I hadn’t left them in the safe. I kept telling myself there was nothing incriminatory on those tapes, only a series of rude remarks from John and feeble rejoinders from me, but I knew I was kidding myself. And I knew why.

And I knew it was high time I stopped behaving like a fool. John claimed he was opposed to violence, but either he had changed his views or he was mixed up with people who didn’t share them. Ali had been murdered; I was as certain of that as if I had seen it done. I wasn’t at all happy about the failure of the refrigeration either. Machinery is always breaking down – at least my machines are always breaking down – and this damage seemed, on the surface, quite harmless. But our schedule had already been altered once and this might necessitate an even more drastic change, if the coolers couldn’t be repaired.

The lights went on, and I hastily rearranged my features into an expression of smiling interest. Alice started taking questions. As I might have expected, the first one was about the curse of Tutankhamon.

Pure coincidence, said Alice. Lord Carnarvon had cut himself shaving and blood poisoning had set in, followed by pneumonia. The others who had worked on the tomb with him had lived to ripe old ages. She reeled off names and dates with the assurance of someone who has been asked the question dozens of times before. Morbidly, I wondered whether tourists fifty years from now would be discussing the hideous doom that had fallen upon the passengers of the Queen of the Nile, and the sad fate of Victoria Bliss, cut off in her prime by an unfortunate coincidence.

Everybody went to bed early that night. We were supposed to disembark at six forty-five for our visit to the Valley of the Kings.

III

The group that gathered in the lobby next morning was greatly diminished – only a dozen passengers, plus Alice and Feisal. Oh, and Perry. Sweet and Bright were not among them. John and Mary were among them. So was Suzi, somewhat to my surprise; I’d have expected her to spend the whole day primping for the grand reception that evening. Subtle questioning on my part elicited the information that the missing persons were all alive and undamaged; some were suffering from the conventional complaints, others had decided not to take the long tiring trek.

I had been tempted to skip the tour too. A hasty glance at the itinerary had reminded me that several of the tombs we were to visit were described as ‘deep.’ I had acquired a violent aversion to tombs in general, never mind ‘deep’ tombs. But when I called Schmidt, hoping against hope he would be suffering from tummy trouble, he informed me he was on his way to breakfast and demanded I hurry up. So I hurried. Schmidt was determined to go ashore and I couldn’t let him go alone.

Before I left my room I collected the reels of tape and locked them in my safe.

The itinerary had reminded me of something else I had forgotten – the lay of the land. The modern city of Luxor is on the east bank of the Nile. The Valley of the Kings and the other ancient cemeteries are on the west bank. The boat had landed us on the west bank. It would then cross the river and moor, along with the other tourist steamers, and we would take the ferry across to rejoin the others in time for lunch. That meant I’d have to wait till afternoon before calling Karl or attempting to locate police headquarters.

The rising sun, behind us as we left the boat, turned the western cliffs an exquisite shade of deep rose. The air was cool and would have been fresh had it not been for a couple of dozen tour buses belching out pollution.

Feisal shepherded us towards one of them. As we stood in line waiting to climb on, I managed to draw Alice aside.

‘I’ve decided to resign,’ I muttered.

‘I’m about to.’

I asked how.

‘Someone will contact me this afternoon. Luxor Temple. I’m going to stamp my little foot and demand – ’ She broke off. The others had boarded the bus and Feisal was gesturing at us.

Schmidt had saved me a seat. He insisted I take the one next to the window so I could see the sights, which he described in a loud voice as we drove on. The man’s memory was absolutely astonishing. By his own admission he hadn’t been in Egypt for ten years, but he hadn’t forgotten a thing.

The drive took about fifteen minutes, through the cultivated fields and across the barren desert. We were headed straight for the cliffs. Then a cleft opened up; the road curved and passed through, into the desolate valley where for centuries the kings of the empire had been buried. Schmidt rumbled on, spouting statistics and historical data.

Louisa, brooding among her veils, was sitting across the aisle. She interrupted Schmidt’s lecture to say, ‘What of the tomb of the great queen Nefertari?’

‘No, no, that is not on today’s tour,’ Schmidt explained tolerantly. ‘It is in the Valley of the Queens, so called. Now this,’ he went on, without drawing breath, ‘this has changed since my last visit. The new parking place is some distance from the tombs, which is a very good thing since the buses caused much damage. This tram on which we will ride the rest of the way is electric . . .’

I wondered what the place looked like when tourism was at its height. It was bad enough now – a dozen buses, hundreds of people. As we got off the tram and trudged along a dusty path following Feisal, Schmidt said, in the loud mumble he thinks is a whisper, ‘How is with you, Vicky? Will it be too difficult, descending into the depths of – ’

‘That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have come if I couldn’t handle it.’

My sharp tone didn’t offend him. Nodding sympathetically, he took my arm. ‘I will be next to you at all times. There will be bright lights, many people.’

The first tomb was the easiest; it was also the one I didn’t want to miss. Tutankhamon’s tomb had been closed to tourists in the past. Like most of the others in the Valley, its wall paintings were deteriorating.

In itself the small tomb was relatively unimpressive. Unlike the long complex structures designed for royal burials, this one had only a flight of stairs and a single corridor, with a few rooms at its end. The accepted theory was that Tutankhamon had died suddenly at the age of eighteen, before he had had time to prepare his tomb, so it had been necessary to take over a tomb previously constructed for a non-royal person.

‘Murder,’ said Feisal in a sepulchral voice, as we gathered around him. ‘Was that how the young king died? The fracture of his skull might have been the result of a fatal accident, but he had many enemies and no heirs.’

The great stone box of the sarcophagus stood in the middle of the room. Tut’s mummy still lay there, decently hidden; it had been in ruinous condition. His golden coffins were now in the Cairo Museum. Involuntarily I looked at John, who was contemplating the sarcophagus with a look of pensive interest. Surely not even he would try . . . One of the damned coffins was of solid 22-carat gold, weighing almost three hundred pounds. You’d need a block and tackle just to lift the thing. But there were hundreds of other objects, all easily portable, that would be worth his time and trouble. The four small rooms of the tomb had been stuffed with objects of artistic and historic value.

They were empty now, except for the sarcophagus and the poor, battered bones of the boy himself. Eighteen years old, childless, possibly murdered . . . Schmidt pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He’s disgustingly sentimental.

We retraced our steps – twenty-five paces, I’d counted them – along the passage and up the stairs – sixteen of them, I’d counted them too. But it hadn’t bothered me. Not with lights all along the way and Schmidt snuffling sentimentally beside me. After we had emerged into daylight the custodian swung the doors shut and locked them, to the audible annoyance of several loose tourists hanging around in the hope of getting in. The tomb must be officially closed. In this, as in other ways, our group had been favoured.

Schmidt started fussing at me again when we reached the next of the tombs on our list, that of Amenhotep II. It was one of the ones the guidebook had described as ‘deep,’ and Schmidt kept insisting I ought not attempt it. He was talking loudly, as usual, and if there was anyone in the group who hadn’t known about my phobia, they knew now.

‘Don’t be silly, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Down, down, down we went, and if you think I wasn’t counting you are dead wrong. The stairs led down, all the corridors sloped down, and just when I thought we had reached the bottom there was another flight of stairs – leading down, in case you are wondering – and another downward-sloping passage. The square pillars in the last room were painted and inscribed. That’s about all I remember. I was too busy keeping an expession of insouciant calm on my face.

Other sources of discomfort aside, it was hot and close and very dusty down in the depths. By the time we started back up, Schmidt’s face was bright red and I didn’t like the way he was panting. Slowing my steps to match his, stopping frequently to rest, I forgot my own qualms in concern for him. I knew he’d never admit weakness and I could have kicked Feisal when he said solicitously, ‘Perhaps, Herr Doktor, you had better go to the rest house and have a cool drink instead of attempting the next tomb. That of Horemheb is the deepest in the Valley; the air is not good and the heat – ’

Schmidt almost choked in his attempt to stop wheezing. Before he could protest I said, ‘I don’t care what you do, Schmidt, but I’m copping out. Where’s the rest house?’

Everybody voted for the rest house, so we returned to the entrance and got onto one of the cars of the tram. The sun was now high enough to bleach all the colour from the cliffs, turning them a pale tan. Not that there was much colour to begin with – only the clear blue sky overhead and the garish garb of some of the tourists.

Schmidt was on his second lemonade – he wanted beer, but I wouldn’t let him have it – when Larry, with whom I had been discussing tomb reliefs, broke off in mid-sentence. With a murmured ‘Excuse me,’ he rose and headed for the door.

Schroeder, hat in hand, bald head shining with sweat, awaited him. I thought it was a little odd that the man hadn’t joined us, and I wasn’t the only one to wonder. Everyone stopped talking and stared. Everyone except John. After a quick glance at Schroeder he leaned back and lowered his eyes. He hadn’t spoken since we sat down.

After a few minutes Schroeder left and Larry returned, shaking his head and smiling. ‘He takes his duties too seriously, as I keep telling him. Some unimportant detail about tonight’s reception.’

‘How long has he been with you?’ I asked guilelessly.

‘Let’s see . . .’ He turned to the omnipresent Ed. ‘How long has it been? A couple of years?’

‘’Bout that.’ Ed returned to his beer. He was not much of a conversationalist.

If Ed could remember when Schroeder signed on, he had been with Larry even longer than two years. I reminded myself that I was no longer interested in details like that.

Schmidt polished off another lemonade and two candy bars, and announced he was ready to resume the tour. I was trying to think of a way of taking him out of it when Larry said, ‘It’s too nice a day to spend underground. How about taking the path to Deir el Bahri, Vicky? It’s in the bay south of here, over that range of hills, and the view of the temple from above is wonderful. The bus could pick us up there, couldn’t it, Feisal?’

Feisal nodded and Schmidt exclaimed, ‘Good, good. An excellent idea! I will come too.’

‘But Herr Direktor,’ Feisal protested, ‘it is a long, hard walk. Forty-five minutes . . .’ He eyed Schmidt’s rotund shape dubiously and added, ‘Or longer.’

What was more, Schmidt hadn’t been invited. I didn’t waste my breath mentioning this. The walk might be the lesser of two evils. It couldn’t be more taxing for Schmidt than the hot dusty airlessness of the tombs.

‘We’ll take it easy,’ Larry said, with a reassuring nod at me.

‘An enticing prospect,’ said John. ‘I’ll join you, if I may.’

‘Yes, a walk would be lovely,’ Mary said eagerly.

‘No.’ He turned to her. ‘It would be too strenuous for you, in your condition.’

Mary’s jaw dropped and a charming blush spread over her face. I don’t know what my face looked like, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t charming.

‘Anyone else?’ Larry asked, after a moment of embarrassed silence. ‘All right, then, we’ll see you all later.’

Ed hadn’t said a word, but I was not surprised to find him making up one of our party. He tried to give Schmidt a hand during the first and most difficult part of the hike, the steep climb up from the Valley, but was huffily rebuffed. Once we had reached the top, Schmidt mopped his perspiring brow and gasped triumphantly, ‘Ha! Such a fuss you make over a little walk. If you had climbed the Zugspitze and the Matterhorn . . .’ His breath gave out, so he left it there, and we all looked impressed except John, who was grinning like an idiot.

We admired the view for longer than it deserved, to give Schmidt time to recover, and Larry pointed out the locations of other tombs. Pale in the sunlight, the great pyramid-shaped peak called the Lady of the West rose over the valley it guarded.

The next part of the walk led across the rocky summit of the plateau. The path was rough but level, and Schmidt charged valiantly ahead. John kept pace with him. I started to quicken my step. Larry took my arm. ‘I want to talk to you, Vicky. That’s why I suggested this.’

I glanced over my shoulder. Ed was some distance behind, hands in his pockets.

‘What about?’ I asked.

Larry lowered his voice. ‘About a mutual friend. His name is Burckhardt.’

I stumbled over a stone no bigger than a Ping-Pong ball. Larry’s hand steadied me. ‘Sorry. You didn’t know?’

‘I don’t know a damn thing,’ I sputtered. ‘That son of a polecat Burck – ’

‘Let’s not mention the name again, okay? Don’t get the wrong idea, Vicky.’ His face wrinkled in an attractive, deprecating smile. ‘I haven’t been leading a double life, like some superhero in the comics. I was informed of the situation by the Egyptian government. They know how intensively I have worked for better relations between Egypt and the West, and how deeply I care about the wonderful antiquities of this country. The announcement I will make this evening . . . Well, you’ll hear that in due course. The idea that someone could use this trip as a cover for activities designed to destroy everything I’ve worked for . . .’

‘I understand.’

‘I know you do. And I can’t tell you how much I – all of us – appreciate what you’re doing. It was for your own protection that I was told not to contact you earlier. Now things have changed.’

‘That’s why Mr Schroeder came,’ I said. ‘To tell you – ’

‘That the refrigerating unit didn’t break down, Vicky. It was a deliberate act of sabotage. It can’t be repaired, it will have to be replaced. God knows how long that will take. The tour will have to be cancelled. Hamid will make the announcement when we return at noon. You see what that means, don’t you?’

My eyes were fixed on Schmidt, who was gesturing animatedly. A sound like the howl of a coyote drifted to my ears. I caught a few of the words; they had to do with heaven, mama, and train whistles.

‘I’m not sure I do,’ I said slowly. ‘What alternatives will the passengers be offered – aside from a refund of the fare?’

‘That, of course. But I expect most of them will choose to remain in Luxor for a few days, since this is the high point of the tour. Fortunately – or unfortunately, from the viewpoint of the tourism industry – there are plenty of hotel rooms empty. After that . . .’

He looked expectantly at me. ‘Some may decide to return to Cairo,’ I muttered. ‘Sooner or later everybody will end up in Cairo. Where the museum is.’

‘Yes. Vicky, have you any idea of who these people are?’

‘Yeah.’ I gestured. ‘Him.’

Schmidt and John had stopped, waiting for us to join them.

‘Not Anton!’ Larry exclaimed.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Him.’ I couldn’t pronounce his name.

‘Mr Tregarth?’ Larry sounded almost as incredulous. He slowed his steps. ‘But he’s a well-known – ’

‘Crook. I’ve encountered him before. I don’t know who the others are; he’s the only one I recognized.’

‘Surely he wouldn’t bring his pregnant bride along.’ Larry looked shocked.

‘Excellent cover, wouldn’t you say?’

I heard John laugh. Schmidt had taught him a new one. A few words floated back to me: ‘When I woke up, I had shackles on my feet . . .’

‘Come. Vicky, hurry, why are you so slow?’ Schmidt yelled. ‘It is a glorious view.’

‘One more thing,’ Larry said quickly. ‘I want you to stay with me while you’re in Luxor. I have a house here, you know – ’

‘Of course I know. You’re holding the reception there, right?’

‘Right. You’ll be safer there than in a hotel. Anton too, of course.’

Schmidt has twenty-twenty hearing. ‘What about me?’ he demanded.

‘I’ll tell you later, Schmidt,’ I said. ‘It’s a surprise.’

Schmidt loves surprises. Beaming, he demanded that I admire the view.

The temple of the female pharaoh, Hatshepsut, lay below, its colonnades and courtyards sharp-etched by shadow and sunlight. It is probably the most graceful, perfectly proportioned structure in Egypt. I had looked forward to seeing it.

But not under these circumstances. Beside me, hands in his pockets, hair shining like silver-gilt, John was humming wider his breath. ‘‘‘It takes a worried man to sing a worried song . . . I’m worried now – but I won’t be worried long.’”

That’s what he thought.