The African Quest

Arma virumque cano

Of war and a man I sing

1

W E WERE A STRANGE little group, thinking back on it, some of us saints, some of us sinners, and at least one of us with murder on our minds.

The story of how we all came together, collided might be the better word, is, on the surface at least, an account of my short and something-less-than-successful career as a tour guide. On closer examination, however, it is a cautionary tale about the depths to which greed and obsession can plunge the human soul. If I have learned anything from the experience, it is that courage is found in the most unlikely of people, while evil lies hidden behind the blandest of faces.

My tale, the facts of which are true, but, as is always the case, subject to some sifting through the mind and memory of the teller, begins with two words I was coming to dread whenever they emanated from a certain source.

"I 'M THINKING," CLIVE Swain, my ex-husband, and through a series of events much too long--and painful--to get into, my current business partner, said.

Don't hurt yourself, Clive, the little voice in my head retorted. I keep these uncharitable thoughts to myself because, in addition to his aforementioned status in my life, he is also my best friend Moira's lover.

"I'm thinking," he said again. Clive is a veritable fountain, no, a geyser, of ideas on how to promote our antiques business, McClintoch Swain by name. These notions of his, I've not failed to notice, require the oozing of copious amounts of charm on his part, and a great deal of hard work on mine.

I could see Alex Stewart, a dear friend and retired gentleman who comes in four days a week to help out in the shop, give a wry smile. For some reason that eludes me, Alex and Clive, as completely different as they are, get along just fine. Even more astonishing is the fact that Diesel, an orange cat who holds the title of Official Guard Cat at the shop, and who, like most cats, treats the rest of the world with pure disdain, positively fawns on Clive. As this fateful conversation was unfolding, Diesel was looking up at Clive as if he were brilliance personified, purring his approval. Come to think of it, the only one of my friends who doesn't get along with Clive is Rob Luczka, a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Rob and I are good friends, and occasionally toy with the idea of getting closer. Maybe his considerably less than favorable opinion of Clive is part of the attraction.

"We have to be top of mind in the antiques business, right? The first store that people think of when they're in the market for furniture and design," Clive said, stepping over the cat. It was a statement, not a question. Clive had recently taken a week-long marketing course, attendance at which apparently entitled him to liberally pepper his every utterance with terms like "top of mind," "extending our reach," and "market niche." Any moment now, he'd be calling our business a strategic alliance.

"So I have a great idea." He paused for effect. "Wait for it, Lara," he said, a devilish grin on his face. I waited.

"Antiques tour!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "Brilliant idea, isn't it? One of my best. We do a couple of promotional evenings--in the store, of course: a little cheese, a little wine to loosen things up, a little time to look around and perhaps to buy. We get some free publicity for the tour, and therefore the shop, in the travel rags. In no time flat, we get a group together. Price of the tour includes a couple of lectures before they go about what they'll see, in the shop again--another chance for them to make obscenely large purchases--then a week or ten days somewhere interesting with an expert along--that's you--to help them make their selections, and to ship the big stuff home. Nothing too ostentatious, of course, but unusual and quietly elegant. Loads of charm, just like us. Trip of a lifetime. What do you think?"

"I guess it's not the worst idea you ever had, Clive," I conceded.

"I knew you'd love it," he said. "You see the beauty of it, don't you? The price of the tour includes all your expenses. You do some buying while you're there, and the trip costs us nothing. If people buy a lot of stuff, we might even get a container paid for out of it. Great isn't it?"

"Where?" I asked. It was useless to protest. "How about London? Portobello, Camden Passage, the Silver Vaults? A visit to the furniture galleries at the Victoria and Albert so they start to develop an eye for what's really good. Maybe take in some theater while we're there? Tea with scones and cream and strawberry jam served from a trolley in some elegant courtyard." I was beginning to warm to this idea.

"Too dull," he replied, with a dismissive wave.

"Okay then, France. Paris first. A charming Left Bank hotel, a sweep of les marchés aux puces, the flea markets at Clignancourt and Montreuil. Great wine, good food, magnificent art. An afternoon sipping pastis in Place des Vosges. Then we could take a few days and go to Provence. Stay in town, Avignon perhaps, or maybe even a farmhouse . . ."

"Too French," he interrupted, unburdened as he is with even the remotest concept of political correctness.

I sighed. "How about Rome? That would work, wouldn't it? A cappuccino in the Piazza Navonna, then a leisurely stroll through the antiques shops right around there, with a little diversion to the market in the Campo dei Fiori, then a side trip to Florence, the Uffizi . . ."

"Too common," he sniffed.

Rome? Common? He took me by the arm and led me into the office where we keep a map of the world dotted with little colored pins that mark the whereabouts of our shipments. We don't need the pins, of course: We have a computer to do our tracking now, but we like the look of it a lot. At least I do.

"We need something more exotic," he said. "Somewhere everybody else isn't going. The way to be successful in this business of ours is not to spot the latest trends; it's to start them. That's a good line, isn't it? I'll have to use it again." His hand waved over the surface of the map, index finger pausing for a second or two over Afghanistan, then sweeping on to Libya.

"Too dangerous," I said firmly.

"There!" he exclaimed, tapping his finger on the north coast of Africa. "Of course. The medina and souks of Tunis, the mosaics at the Bardo, a little time wandering the ruins of Carthage, a visit to the mosque at Kairouan, the ancient Roman cities in the desert--what are they called? Thuburbo Majus, Dougga, I think. You remember what that was like." I tried to look vague. "You do remember," he said leering at me. "Moonlight on the water, the garden of the hotel, you in my arms."

Of course I remembered. Tunisia was where Clive and I spent our honeymoon, nigh on twenty years ago. And I suppose the souks and mosques and ruins and moonlight were lovely. What I remember most about that trip, however, was the realization that I had made a mistake, although it took me something like twelve years to do anything about it. The question was, did I want to go back there, with Clive or without him?

"Think blue and white everywhere," Clive was saying, as I returned to the present, "tiles with that North African look, those charming wire birdcages, useless maybe, but they look wonderful and people love them, copper, maybe one or two of those splendid box beds with all the carving. We could do up the back showroom in a come-with-me-to-the-casbah look. People would lap it up. And carpets. We need lots more carpets, and as you say, Pakistan and Afghanistan are a bit dicey these days. Beautiful," he said. "Don't you agree?"

I nodded. "Beautiful," I said, shrugging in Alex's general direction. I figured it would never happen. Clive's enthusiasm would wane as quickly as it usually did, and he'd be on to something else. Even if it did come about, there were things to be said for it. We were always on the lookout for new merchandise for the store, that was true, and, speaking personally, a week or two away from Clive and his brilliant ideas would be just fine with me. I had to admit that it really wasn't the worst idea in the world.

"I DON'T USUALLY take tours," the thin, elegant woman was saying to her companion, in a tone that implied this kind of travel was far beneath her. "When my husband was alive, he always took me on his business trips abroad, first class, of course. I've never traveled economy. But since he passed away . . ."

"Don't you worry, honey," her companion said, patting her hand, and completely misinterpreting the other woman's words. "I'll keep my eye on you. I take at least two trips every year now, since Arthur passed on. He hated to travel, so now I'm making up for lost time--with his money." She chuckled gleefully. "Now, what did your husband do, Catherine? It is Catherine, isn't it? Can I call you Cathy?" Catherine looked horrified.

Susie Windermere, group busybody, I thought, checking her off my list, and Catherine Anderson, group snob. The two women couldn't have been more unlike, the one with outlandishly dyed red hair, dressed in a long T-shirt that did its best to hide her pendulous breasts and little potbelly, her legs, clad in green and pink tights, surprisingly thin, making her look like a plump little bird on spindly legs; the other rather well turned out in a quietly expensive pantsuit, and just loaded with jewelry. She wore a gold watch laced with diamonds, an impressively heavy gold chain around her neck, and pear-shaped diamond earrings that were probably worth a fortune.

"Mrs. Anderson," I said joining them. We were not yet on a first-name basis, most of us, and with Catherine Anderson, quite possibly never would be. And for certain it would never be "Cathy." "Perhaps you missed my advice not to bring expensive jewelry on the trip. It can be a magnet, I'm afraid, for thieves."

The woman looked faintly surprised. "But I did take your advice," she said. "I left all of my best pieces at home."

"You just put that lovely necklace and earrings in your purse, honey," Susie said. "When we get to the hotel, that Bear place, what's it called?" she asked, turning to me.

"Taberda," I replied.

"Whatever," she said. "You can put your jewelry in a safety deposit box, honey, so you won't have to worry. Now, did I tell you about the cruise I took down the Nile? Have you been down the Nile?"

Inwardly I groaned. The two women, while traveling solo, had indicated that if possible they'd like to share a room, Susie to save money, and Catherine, presumably, for the company. We'd put the two of them together, but already I was wondering how bad an idea this was going to be.

"I thought Muslims didn't approve of homosexuals," another of our fellow travelers, Jimmy Johnstone from Buffalo, said, elbowing his wife, Betty, and pointing toward two men across the row from them.

"Don't worry," one of the men said cheerfully. "We won't hold hands in public." The "we" referred to were Benjamin Miller, a large teddy bear of a man, with a reddish beard and thinning hair to match, brown eyes that crinkled at the corners, and a handshake to be reckoned with, and the speaker, his traveling companion, Edmund Langdon, tall, thin, dark, and devastatingly good-looking, with long, curving eyelashes to die for, a man about ten or fifteen years Ben's junior.

"Stone them in public squares, I've heard," Jimmy went on without noticing.

Group bigot, I thought. It had taken me only minutes to realize that Jimmy would spend his entire vacation dissing everything and everybody even a little bit different from his comfortable world at home. With about twenty years in retail, I consider myself a pretty good judge of character, able to size up almost anyone at a glance. I shouldn't do this, of course, but, experience being a painful teacher, you do learn to spot the customer who can be cajoled into a purchase and the one that needs to be left alone to decide, or, more negatively, the visitor who is likely to shoplift, or the one whose check will bounce sky-high. As unfortunate as this tendency to categorize may be, I've found I'm right about ninety-five percent of the time. The other five percent, that is when I'm totally and utterly wrong, I attribute to a fluke of some sort. Having said that, while Jimmy might have leapt to some conclusions about the two men's relationship, the sleeping arrangements, to which I was privy as the group leader, were inconclusive. The men had requested single rooms, and Ben had told me, when he'd signed up for the tour, that Ed was his nephew.

"I'm tired, Mummy," Chastity Sherwood pouted. Why do parents do that to their children, I wonder, giving them names like Chastity? Chastity was about fifteen, I'd say, and, in addition to being whiny, was one of those people who haven't yet acquired a sense of their personal space. She had a very bad habit of swatting anyone in the vicinity with her backpack every time she turned around, and although people had known her for only eight or nine hours, they were already diving for cover when they saw her approach. "How much longer do we have to wait in this stupid place?" she said in a petulant tone.

"This stupid place" was the transit lounge at Frankfurt's airport, an admittedly dreary spot. The tour, which we were billing as an antiques and archaeology excursion, started in Toronto, where eight of our group had gathered: Chastity and her mother, who went by the sensible name of Marlene; Jimmy and Betty, Canadians who had moved across the lake to Buffalo twenty years earlier and never come back; Susie, Catherine, and the two men, Ben and Ed, who hailed from Boston, but who had opted to join the group in Toronto.

In Frankfurt, my task was to find the rest of our fellow travelers, someone by the name of Richard Reynolds, a businessman from Montreal, whom I'd only spoken to briefly on the telephone; Emile St. Laurent, a colleague from Paris, who'd been a late addition to the trip, having signed up only three days previously, and a couple who seemed certain to up the glamour quotient of the trip: Curtis Clark, a professional golfer from California, and his wife, whose name on her passport read Roslyn Clark, but who was far better known as Aziza, one of those models of one name only who are regularly featured in the fashion pages of numerous magazines and on the runways of the haute couture houses of Europe.

And indeed the couple was easy to spot, he with the even tan, beautiful teeth, and the shock of blond hair so familiar from the sports pages and CNN, and she, taller than he at about six feet, with gorgeous toffee-colored skin, elegant long neck and high cheekbones, a beautifully shaped head, accentuated by very, very short dark hair, and graced with a regal bearing that left the men she met drooling, and the women suicidal. There was no question about it, she was lovely. But then again, so was he.

Curtis, as far as I knew, had never won a major tournament of any kind, and might well have gone unnoticed forever, were it not for the fact he'd snared Aziza, thereby making himself the envy of half the world's population, but also because of his ability to be charming on television, a skill he was given the opportunity to demonstrate once he'd married Aziza. As a result, he snagged some very lucrative product endorsements, and his dazzling smile was much to be seen. He also functioned as her manager, if the stories in the tabloids were true, there having been some dustup with her former manager, which had been the subject of juicy speculation for a period of time. Why they were on this tour, when they could afford to travel first class, just the two of them, I could not imagine, but the fact they were had the potential to bring us some wonderful publicity. Clive had told me about a hundred times to make sure they enjoyed themselves.

Emile St. Laurent I had met on several occasions, and so I found him easily. He was seated near the gate, reading an antiques magazine. He was about sixty, with a nice head of gray hair, dressed in gray flannels and a polo shirt, with a houndstooth sports jacket over his arm, stylish in a lovely Parisian sort of way. He looked decidedly fresh and unrumpled, after what surely had been a decent meal and a good night's sleep, something the rest of us, having endured airline food and cramped seating on the transatlantic flight, were sorely missing. The truth of the matter was that, despite my annoyance with Chastity's complaining, I, too, was very tired, having just finished a stint at a design show that had kept me up till all hours and required a great deal of packing and unpacking of merchandise. Then there were all the last-minute arrangements for the tour, and hours of boning up on various subjects so I could be the expert Clive had envisioned. Even though I knew a fair amount about the part of the world we were going to see, I still felt I needed to do a lot of study before we left. Just looking at the neat and squeaky-clean St. Laurent made me feel even grubbier and more tired.

"Lara McClintoch!" he exclaimed, rising from his seat and extending his hand. "How nice to see you again."

"Nice to see you, too, Emile," I said, as he kissed my hand rather suavely. "Glad you'll be joining us."

"I'm delighted, too," he replied. "I found there was a space in my calendar after a business trip fell through, and I thought I'd just call up and see if you had room for one more at the last minute. This antiques and archaeology tour of yours is an inspired idea! Nice concept for a trip, and the publicity won't hurt business at all, will it? Gets the McClintoch and Swain name around internationally. Wish I'd thought of it first."

While Curtis and Aziza were the celebrities of our group, in some circles St. Laurent might have arguably been considered even more famous. Emile was a numismatist, a coin collector. This occupation might be a hobby for most, but for Emile it was a serious, and in his case, very lucrative, business. We'd first met about twenty years earlier, when I was just getting into antiques, and was beginning to go to antiquarian shows. Emile, too, was just starting up then; now, he was considered one of the most successful coin dealers on the planet, and his company, ESL Numismatics, had an international reputation. I doubted that in his business, at least, he needed the publicity he was referring to.

"Is this just a vacation for you, Emile, or is there something special you're looking for?"

"Just a holiday," he said. "Although, if I came across a silver tetradrachm or two from ancient Carthage, I wouldn't mind, now, would I? seeing as how they're selling at auction anywhere in the range of fifteen hundred to twenty thousand dollars these days. Rather more than enough to cover my expenses on this tour. But this is, as I say, a holiday, and something of a homecoming. I was born in Tunisia, actually. Haven't been back in forty years, so it will be interesting to see how it's changed, or at least how wrong my youthful memories of the place are." He winked at me through the little round wire-rimmed spectacles that gave him a rather scholarly appearance. "I hear you and Clive are back together," he said, changing the subject. "Professionally speaking, of course."

"Professionally only, I can assure you, Emile," I said, rather tartly. "Why don't you come along and meet the rest of the group? I'm sure they'll be interested in hearing stories of your youth in Tunisia." While I do know that it is a complete waste of time to contemplate such things, I could not help but idly wonder, as I led him over to the group, where I'd be if I'd chosen coins twenty years ago, instead of furniture. The kind of prices he was mentioning left me breathless. You wouldn't think there'd be that kind of money in coins, but Emile was the living proof there was. He'd had his ups and downs, though. At one time I'd heard he owned homes all over the world, including a spectacular apartment overlooking Central Park in New York, and an equally wonderful villa near Nice, and he'd gotten out of coins for a while. Then he'd lost all his money in some business scheme. His return to the coin business about three or four years earlier had created quite a stir at the time. I took his presence here as a good sign, that he was well on his way to a full economic recovery.

"I teach," Ben was saying at Susie's prompting, as Emile and I approached. "Harvard. Classics. Greeks, Romans, that sort of thing."

"And your friend?" Susie said, glancing Ed's way. The woman was going to know everything there was to know about everybody before we even hit Tunis.

"I'm a parasite," Ed replied. Susie looked taken aback.

"He means he's temporarily unemployed," Ben said, glaring at Ed.

"Oh, I see," Susie said. "Well, I'm sure it's not your fault, honey. It's those politicians."

"You can say that again," Jimmy exclaimed. "Should take the whole lot of them out back and shoot them."

"And what do you do, Jimmy?" Susie asked.

"Chicken parts," he replied.

"Chicken parts?" she replied dubiously. "You mean . . . ?"

"Feet, necks, gizzards. I sell to the Chinese."

"The Chinese," Susie repeated. "Oh," she said, then brightened. "Chicken feet. Dim sum, right? You sell to Chinese restaurants in Buffalo!"

"China," he said. He looked at her. "I sell to the Chinese in China."

"From Buffalo?" she asked incredulously.

"Sure, why not?" he replied. "The rest of us don't want the stuff. Good business, actually. Helps to keep my bride here in style." The bride smiled and self-consciously patted her hair. She reminded me of nothing so much as a TV mom from the fifties.

"Oh," Susie said. "Isn't that sweet. How long have you and Betty been married?"

"Thirty years," Jimmy said.

Susie thought about this for a moment and then wisely decided to move on. "And you are?" she said to Emile.

"Emile St. Laurent, at your service," Emile said, bowing slightly.

"And what do you do, Emile?" she asked, rather coyly, I thought. He was an attractive man.

"I just dabble in a few things," he replied.

"Like what?" she prodded. There was no stopping this woman.

"Coins, that sort of thing," he said.

"Oh," she said. "Then you should meet Ed here. He doesn't do anything either." Emile had the good grace to look amused. I gave him the title of group diplomat on the spot.

"How much longer do we have to wait?" Chastity pouted, looking balefully in my direction. "I'm just miserable," she added.

I could kill Clive, I thought. Although I would never admit it to Clive, up until that moment I had been warming to this idea of his. Determined to make the tour a success in a more tangible way than Clive's rather sketchy notions of publicity value, I was aided, unwittingly on his part, by a film star who had recently purchased a huge house in Rosedale, a Toronto neighborhood that many aspire to but few attain. He called on McClintoch Swain to furnish the place.

"I want to make a statement," the actor had said, pulling at his short and spiky bleached blond hair. "Something that expresses the real me."

I'd taken him sketches, swatches, and photos of Thai-style, Indonesian, and Greek decor, Tuscan farmhouse, Provencal villa, and just about everything else, but nothing appealed to him. Then, almost in desperation, I called him one last time. "North Africa," I said.

"Way cool," he'd replied. The house had ten bedrooms, six fireplaces, and a living room the size of a football field. Way cool, indeed. Clive and I made up a list of furnishings I was to locate during the tour. My plan was to get the group to Tunisia, hand them over to the local guide and the archaeologist we'd hired, then undertake the one activity that might actually keep us in business: scouring the country for the rather lengthy list of antiques and carpets needed for the Rosedale home. There are few activities I enjoy as much as hunting down the perfect antique for a client. From my perspective, the chase is as much fun as the purchase, and finding something really unusual for a good price is positively exhilarating.

"I'm hungry," Chastity said.

"Have a potato chip," Ben said, thrusting a bag in front of her. The girl eyed it, and him, suspiciously. "Okay, don't have a potato chip," Ben said, reaching into the bag to help himself to a handful. Ben, I could already tell, liked to eat. I hadn't seen him for even a moment without some food in his hand. Keeping him from getting hungry on this trip might be a challenge.

I turned my attention to finding the last member of the group to meet us in Frankfurt, one Richard Reynolds, another last-minute addition to the trip. The only thing I knew about Reynolds was that he was a stockbroker and had flown in from Montreal. I found him right away, though. He was the only person in the bar talking in English on a cell phone. I had no idea who he might be talking to, it being 2 A.M. back home, but they say the market never sleeps.

I had a minute or two to look him over while he talked away on his phone. His entire outfit was brand-new, right down to his belt and the carry-on bag at his side: new denim shirt, with the folds still showing, Reeboks so white they hurt my eyes, and a just-purchased khaki jacket. I knew that, because one of those nasty plastic price-tag clamps that require garden shears to remove was still protruding from the edge of one sleeve. I debated whether or not to point it out, but decided I wasn't his mother, just the tour guide, and anyway, given the self-important way he was leaning against the bar and talking loudly on his phone, I wasn't sure his ego could stand it. I hadn't seen his luggage yet, but I had no doubt it would be absolutely pristine, too, minus the usual wear and tear of the transatlantic flight. If I wasn't mistaken, this was the first trip of its kind Reynolds had ever taken. Whatever had possessed him, I wondered, to take an antiques and archaeology tour to Tunisia instead of, say, a sun, sand, and sex excursion to the Caribbean.

"Hold on a sec," he said into his cell phone as I hovered nearby. "You Lara, by any chance?" I nodded. "Hey, how ya doin'?" he asked, giving me one of those overly hearty handshakes that set your rings digging painfully into your fingers. "Call you back in a sec," he said to the phone.

"Glad you could join us, Mr. Reynolds," I said.

"Hey, call me Rick. I'm glad, too. Touch and go, let me tell you. Didn't know if I could make it right up until the last minute. Market's pretty hot, right now. But a guy's gotta take a break every now and then. You know what they say, all work and no play. Hope I don't get called back, though. I assume I'll be in cell phone range at all times? This thing is digital, of course. The satellite will find me just about anywhere, I should think."

"Maybe not always," I said, feeling sorry for the busy satellite whose job it was to keep an ear out for Rick. "But you know, I expect there'll be regular phones just about everywhere."

"Have to do," he said. "I promised I'd check in regularly. In fact, we'll have to talk some more later. Still got a couple of calls to make before we leave. Got to find out how the Nikkei did, get a few deals ready for tomorrow. Nice meeting you, Lara." he said, turning back to his phone.

If I was supposed to be impressed by this notion of Richard Reynolds' indispensability, I confess I wasn't. Indeed, when it came right down to it, if I had money to invest, which I don't--I have only one investment, and it's called a store--I already knew Rick was the last person I'd have look after it for me.

But at least, all were accounted for, except for one couple meeting us at Taberda.

"I think they're calling our flight, Rick," I said, gesturing toward the gate. I'd leave it to Susie to find out all there was to know about Rick Reynolds.

"I find a hatpin is very effective in warding off unwelcome advances," Susie was saying to Catherine as I caught up to them in the boarding line. "I always have one with me when I travel," she added, pointing to a rather lethal-looking pin in her felt chapeau. The pin was about four inches long, with a large fake ruby gemstone at one end and an unprotected point at the other. I wondered if they'd let her on the plane with it.

"I'd have said a Swiss Army knife would be better," Marlene said. "I have one."

"A gun works best of all," Jimmy said, turning to look back at the two women. "But Betty here made me leave mine at home." He gave his wife a baleful glance.

"Have a chocolate," Ben said from behind me. This is going to be quite the trip, I thought, helping myself to a large chunk of candy.

T ABERDA IS A GLORIOUS little town built on the top and down the sides of a cliff high above Tunisia's Gulf of Hammamet. It is a sun-drenched cluster of brilliant white houses, domes, and minarets, accented with a distinctive blue, with terraces cascading down the sides of the hill to a tiny harbor and fishing port, and farther along, a small but very pretty beach. Originally a Berber village, it was now the haunt of wealthy Tunisians and travelers who eschewed the more crowded and popular tourist zones that lay to the south and north of it.

I had first crossed the threshold of the Auberge du Palmier twenty years earlier as a new bride. I fell in love instantly: the gentle rattle of the palm tree in the courtyard, the intense blue of the shutters and doors against the stark white of the walls, the smooth feel of the marble beneath one's feet, tumbling vines set against glowing tilework, and from somewhere, the scent of oranges and jasmine. I'd loved it then, and, despite everything that had transpired in the intervening years, I loved it now. Better still, I could see the magic working on my weary little band of travelers, who were as enchanted as I was.

"My, isn't this nice!" Susie sighed.

"Perfect," Aziza agreed.

"It's very good to see you again, Madame Swain," said Mohammed, the concierge, taking my carry-on bag. I winced. Mohammed had insisted on calling me Mme. Swain when I came here with Clive, despite my protestations that my name was still McClintoch, and I didn't think anything would change him now. He looked older, his face a little more weathered, and he stooped a little, too, but his friendly smile was the same. He was probably past it, as concierges go, but it said something about the nature of the place that the management had kept him on. I found, despite all my misgivings about revisiting the place, I was pleased to see him, the Swain name notwithstanding, and more than that, delighted to be there.

The auberge was built as a family home in the 1930's by the father of the current innkeepers, a Frenchman who'd come to North Africa to make his fortune, and stayed because he loved it. The house had been his passion, a folly of sorts, a magnificent home, a villa or a palace really, on which he'd lavished his attention, and much of his cash. He'd lost the place in the troubles in the late 1950's and early 1960's, when the country was agitating for independence from French rule. Like most of his compatriots, he'd fled with his wife and daughters, Sylvie and Chantal, to France. But Tunisia had been in their blood, and Sylvie and Chantal had returned to Taberda a few years later, now to run the hotel for the current owner, a charming man by the name of Khelifa Dridi.

Like most houses in Taberda, the inn showed a virtually blank wall to the street, dazzling white walls broken only by large solid wood gates in the traditional keyhole shape, decorated with metal studs, and painted a glorious blue that mirrored the sky and sea, and the cascading branches of bougainvillea in purple and pink. Once inside the gates, it was a different story. The house was on the outskirts of Taberda, about two-thirds of the way up the hill, and had a wonderful view back to the town's terraces to one side, and the Mediterranean on the other. The gardens were truly lovely, with palms and orange trees, and a profusion of flowers, hibiscus in yellow and scarlet; pink, lilac, and white oleander, and a small, but pretty swimming pool.

The large double entrance doors opened into a two-story space, the second floor supported by white marble columns which created a gallery on either side of the entrance. The upper portions of the columns and the arches between them were so delicately and intricately carved that it was almost impossible to believe they were marble. The walls in this area were sheathed in an incredible rose marble, and the floors were marble, too, covered at regular intervals with beautiful carpets. The most wonderful feature of all was the carved wood ceiling, painted dark red and gold.

To the right of the entranceway was a sitting room, which doubled as a tearoom and bar, with several couches, all covered with kilims, tapestry-woven rugs, or throws. There were niches in all the windows, filled with benches and pillows, and to one side a chessboard was set up. At the back, in a spacious alcove under the overhang of the floor above, was an eating area. Farther along was the so-called music room, with lovely light streaming through the windows, and a little library and reading area.

To the left, past the stairs to the second floor and through large doors, was a courtyard open to the sky. In it was the palm tree after which the auberge was named.

The hotel was to be our base during the stay in Tunisia, a pleasant refuge from which we'd head out every day to see the sights--Tunis and Carthage to the north, Sousse, farther south, and later, the Roman ruins on the edge of the desert, and then into the desert itself. Despite its size as a family home, as hotels go it was small, intimate. Our group had, in fact, pretty much taken over the whole inn, and in recognition of that fact, Sylvie, Chantal, and Sylvie's daughter Elyse were waiting for us when we arrived.

"Mesdames, messieurs, bienvenue a` l'Auberge du Palmier," Sylvie said.

"Can't she speak English?" Jimmy said in a somewhat irritated tone.

"French is the country's second language after Arabic," Aziza said. "Tunisia was once part of France's empire. She is welcoming us to the hotel. Merci, madame," she added in Sylvie's direction. "Votre auberge est trés gentille." Aziza speaks French, I realized. That was good to know. She wouldn't need as much assistance getting around as some of the others.

"You are all most welcome," Sylvie said, switching to English. "We want you all to have a wonderful stay here in Taberda. And now, may I attend to some formalities?"

In short order, everyone had their room keys and had been shown to their rooms. The guest rooms were located off the upstairs hallway, which overlooked the main space below. As tired as I was, there was no time for me to rest. I had only a moment or two to see my room, a small but almost perfect single, formerly an artist's studio, where according to Sylvie, she and her sister once had weekly art lessons. The room had a tiled entranceway, marble floors, and one of those boxed beds Clive was so keen to acquire for the store, and which I thought would be perfect for the film star, a bed essentially built into an alcove, and surrounded by a glorious carved wood frame. I sat on the bed for a moment or two. Perfect, and I was looking forward to falling into it. It had been a very long day: the overseas flight, the stopover in Frankfurt, another flight, and then the usual customs formalities, and an almost two-hour bus ride to our destination. Sleep was something I needed very badly.

In the meantime, however, I had work to do. First I checked that the remaining two members of our group had arrived, which indeed they had: Clifford Fielding, an American, and a woman by the name of Nora Winslow, who described herself as Fielding's companion, whatever that meant. They had requested adjoining rooms. "M. Fielding, he is resting," Sylvie said. "Tre`s charmant, our M. Fielding. And the other one, she has gone jogging," she added, her distaste for such an activity, and the person engaged in it, plain in her tone. She had a point. Why would anyone travel all the way to North Africa to go jogging? "Ah, there she is. Madame Winslow, this is Madame McClintoch," she called out to a very fit-looking woman in jogging attire who was heading up the stairs.

Nora Winslow had a nice firm handshake, and the body to go with it. Rather androgynous in appearance, with long legs and a slim, wiry body with good muscle definition, she was about my age, early to mid-forties, and had short-cropped hair, bleached by the sun, and an even tan. Group athlete, I decided. "I'm very glad you'll be joining us," I said aloud. "You'll meet the others at dinner, cocktails are from seven-thirty to eight, here in the lounge. Will you tell Mr. Fielding for me?"

"Of course," Nora said rather abruptly. "See you," she added, before bounding up the stairs two at a time. Not a great conversationalist, our Ms. Winslow.

Next, with everyone accounted for, I met briefly with the guide who had greeted us at the airport and who would accompany us on all our excursions, a pleasant young woman named Jamila Melka, to make sure the arrangements for the next day's tours were in good shape. Then I telephoned our resident expert guide, an archaeologist and historian called Briars Hatley--an unusual name to be sure, but one I'd take over Chastity any day. I'd found Briars through some contacts I had in the field. He was a professor of archaeology at UCLA, a specialist on the Phoenician period in Tunisia, and was on sabbatical, working at a site on the Gulf of Hammamet. He confirmed he'd be at the hotel shortly to meet me, and was ready to start the next day.

"Can they spare you at the site?" I asked. I had been told he was the project director, and was pleased we'd been able to hire him.

"They can," he chuckled. "I have a very competent assistant. And I'm delighted to have a real paying job for a few days."

"Why don't you join us for dinner at the auberge this evening, then?" I suggested. "We'll throw in a good meal, too. We're having a Tunisian-style feast tonight to get things off to a fitting start. You can get acquainted with everyone."

"I never turn down a good meal, particularly given the grub I've been eating lately. Regrettably, our housekeeper quit and we've had to do our own cooking," he said. "I'll be there, with bells on."

"About seven-thirty or eight," I said, concluding the call.

Next I typed up a list of all our guests and their room numbers, had it copied, and arranged to have the list slid under everyone's door. I figured it would help people remember names that evening.

Then it was off to the kitchen to consult with Chantal, who was head chef for the evening. We went over all the details of the menu. Then, with Sylvie and Jamila, I went to see about setting up the tables. Clive had insisted we start with a big dinner, even though I protested that people would be too tired. "You start big, and end big," he insisted. "Then everyone will be happy. You'll see."

We had two large tables of eight, plus an extra setting at one of the tables for Briars. I decided to split up the couples, except for the group whiner and her mother. "Who do you figure will get lost first?" I said to Jamila, as she helped me put out place cards.

"Catherine," she replied. "She is the kind of woman who has been looked after all her life, and can't find her way anywhere by herself."

"You could just as easily say Betty by that criterion," I said, laughing. "I vote for Rick. He'll be too busy making deals over his cell phone to notice the rest of us have all moved on. Why do you figure he came on a trip like this?"

"I see that type all the time," Jamila said. "Men who work day and night for years and years. Never marry, or the wife leaves them because she's alone all the time. Then one day, right around forty or forty-five--I think that's his age, don't you?--they wake up and realize life is passing them by. They find they have few close friends, just casual acquaintances from the office, and no real stories to tell. But they do have money, so they try to buy some experiences: this trip, for example. Rick's got the look all over him. I agree he is a candidate for first person lost, but my money is still on Catherine. Want to bet a dinar or two?" she asked, referring to the local coinage.

"A dinar," I said. "You're on."

Cocktails were to be served at seven-thirty, and I had barely enough time to shower and change into something more partylike before it was time for the festivities to begin. I threw on a silk dress, some lipstick and eyeliner, looked longingly at the bed, and then headed down to the bar. We'd taken over the lounge, by and large, for the party. There were a couple of local businessmen there, but they soon left the place to us. It started quietly enough, but gradually our travelers began to drift in, and as the drinks flowed, the decibel level rose. On the bar were lovely pottery dishes decorated with elaborate Moorish patterns, heaped with glistening olives and sun-dried sweet peppers. Waiters passed plates of tiny briks, succulent warm and savory pastries filled with eggs or meat and perfumed with olives, capers, and cilantro. Other waiters passed platters of doigts de Fatma, Fatima's fingers, slender tubes of golden pastry filled with potato and onion. Still others brought artichokes stuffed with ricotta and tuna. And then there were slices of baguette--the French might have gone from Tunisia, but they'd left a number of culinary traditions behind--topped with goat cheese and roasted tomatoes.

Susie was the first to arrive. She'd exchanged her pink and green tights for white pants and a pink T-shirt. Catherine was one of the early birds, too, in a very elegant long skirt and starched white cotton blouse with a lace collar. She was wearing pearls this time, and while they make pretty authentic-looking fakes these days, I was reasonably sure these were the real thing. I sincerely hoped she had taken the advice to lock up the rest of her jewelry, and debated about mentioning it again, but it wasn't necessary. Susie was on it right away. "I'll do it after dinner," Catherine replied. "I was just too tired when we first got here."

"Don't you forget, honey," Susie said. "I'll remind you." That would have been enough to make me dash right back to the room to get the jewelry just to make her stop, but Catherine was made of sterner stuff than I.

Most of the others arrived in one big bunch. Aziza was absolutely spectacular in a royal blue silk sheath, and Curtis looked rather fetching, too, in a white suit that showed off his admirable tan to perfection. Marlene and Chastity arrived in similar little black dresses, with Emile in tow, casually elegant in a dark suit and white turtleneck. Betty wore an attractive yellow pantsuit, her husband rather flashy slacks and a blazer. Ben came in looking fairly casual, in slacks and sweater over a shirt and tie, Edmund, the fashion plate, wore a white T-shirt and black slacks, and a heavy silver bracelet. It was all rather festive.

Nora arrived with her arm linked through that of a rather debonair older man, about sixty, I judged, with a smashing red cravat, blue blazer, and gray trousers. While he looked very distinguished, she was dressed in white shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt with a very low scooped neck and large dangly earrings in the shape of a parrot. I made a mental note to tell her that when we were out visiting the sites, particularly the mosques, she would have to cover up.

"Hey, how ya doin'?" I heard, and realized that the last of our group had arrived: Rick, in a spanking new leisure outfit, who proceeded to bore everybody with how many calls he'd had to make to his office since we'd arrived. "Market's open back home, now," he said. "Gotta stay on top of it." Rick, I had already decided, was going to redefine the word shallow on this trip. Even Clive at his worst had more interesting things to say than he did, and was less self-centered. I left Rick to it, and moved on.

It was my first opportunity to meet Cliff Fielding, but I had barely introduced myself, when Susie was on the case. "Where are you two from?" she asked him and Nora.

"Dallas," Cliff said pleasantly. Up close, I decided Fielding was older than I'd originally thought, closer to seventy than sixty, but in remarkably good shape for his age.

"Dallas!" Susie exclaimed. "Didn't you say your name is Winslow, Nora? I have a cousin in Dallas by the name of Fred Winslow. Small world, eh? Do you know him? Maybe we're related."

Nora looked startled at the notion of being a relative of Susie's. "No," she said. "I don't." Making conversation with Nora was hard work, even for Susie.

"I should send him a postcard," Susie went on. "Maybe the two of you could get together when you get back." Nora looked less than thrilled with the idea.

"What do you do, Cliff?" Susie went on, oblivious to the fact that Cliff and Nora were trying to move away.

"I'm a dentist, but I'm retired now," he replied. "I have a little company, only five employees."

"My husband, Arthur, had a small business, too. He was an engineer. What does your company do?

"It manages my investments," he said. For once, Susie was speechless.

Group tycoon, was what I was thinking. "You'll have to meet Rick," was what I said aloud, however. "He's in a similar business, I believe." Cliff was about to allow himself to be led over to meet Rick, when Nora grasped his arm and steered him in another direction. It seemed that Nora was the one to decide who Cliff was to meet, and when, and although so far as I knew, she hadn't as yet had any opportunity to be bored to tears by Rick, she had other plans for Cliff.

Shortly after eight, Sylvie clapped her hands for attention and announced that dinner was served. We went into the candlelit courtyard, and sat at the tables around the palm tree. The setting was magnificent, with brass cutlery and gold-trimmed glassware gleaming against rich red napery. In the background, the music of the Malouf could be heard, exotic and soulful. At each place there was a small round or oval metal container, some engraved with flowers or swirls, others with brightly colored enamel work, against which the place cards were set. I'd dashed out in the afternoon to buy them. They were not expensive, but they were very attractive, and I thought they would make nice, and portable, mementos. As Clive had said a hundred times, if he'd said it once: Make sure everyone has a good time. It seemed to work. Everyone admired the workmanship, and wanted to know what they were. "Small powder cases," I explained, "as in gunpowder. Now you can use them for whatever you wish--tie tacks, rings, pills, whatever." Everyone seemed delighted with their keepsakes.

There was a fair amount of confusion at first about the seating arrangements, with Nora insisting that she had to sit with Cliff. "He's not as strong as he could be," she whispered to me. "I want to sit with him in case he needs my help." He didn't look as if he needed much help to me, but I decided not to argue, and we rearranged the seating to accommodate them. Cliff sat with Nora to his right, and Catherine Anderson to his left.

The meal started with a traditional Tunisian soup, chorba el khodra, a nice thick vegetable soup thickened with tiny pasta. Then, with a flourish, the waiters strode from the kitchen with platter after platter of various delectables. There was couscous, at least two or three kinds, one with lamb meatballs, one with vegetables, another with chicken; mechouia, a dish made of grilled tomatoes and peppers, spiced up with harissa, the Tunisian hot sauce, and the spice blend called tabil; heaping bowls of carrots, glistening with olive oil, redolent with caraway and sprinkled with parsley; and plates of grilled meat of various kinds. The air was filled with the scent of cumin and coriander, fennel and cinnamon. A collective sigh of contentment went up as the group tucked into their meal. "This is just divine," Betty said, and several others murmured their agreement. It occurred to me that what Betty really liked best was sitting at a different table from her husband. She immediately engaged Ed Langdon in conversation and was soon giggling away happily.

Everyone seemed to be having a good time, except for one or two people. "What's this?" Chastity said, poking at the food on her plate.

"I don't know, dear," her mother said. "And we do have to be very careful what we eat in these primitive countries."

"Chicken," Jimmy said. "I should know. But they've put something strange on it." I assume he meant the cumin. Chastity looked at her plate rather dubiously.

"I'm sure there must be a McDonald's or something around here somewhere, dear," Marlene went on. "We'll find it tomorrow."

"Actually, there isn't," I said, with some satisfaction. "I don't believe there are any burger joints in this country."

Marlene looked horrified. Her daughter looked as if she was about to cry. "Tragic," Chastity said.

Ben just smiled. He was a man who enjoyed his food. He'd sampled all the appetizers and gone back for his favorites more than once, and had heaped his plate at dinner. He took a large bite of the suspect food, poured himself a generous glass of wine from the decanter on the table, and raised his glass. "Delicious," he proclaimed. "Whatever it is."

Nora ate silently, sharing only a word or two with Cliff and hardly anything with Marlene, who sat on her other side. Cliff, though, seemed to be enjoying himself, engaging in animated conversation with Catherine, on his left. From time to time, both of them would erupt in laughter. When that happened, Nora would insinuate herself into the conversation for a moment or two before drawing back into her shell.

Curtis did not appear to be having as good a time as the rest of us, but for a different reason. He kept looking over at the other table where his wife, the beautiful Aziza, was talking animatedly in French to the handsome and flirtatious, although in a relatively harmless way, Emile St. Laurent. He's jealous, I thought, not surprisingly. She was lovely, but more than that, she was his meal ticket. Golf wasn't going to make Curtis's fortune, his relationship with Aziza was, and he wasn't about to give her up any time soon. Betty tried manfully to engage him in conversation, but soon gave up, and turned her attention back to Ed.

We were already on the main course and well into the wine when Briars arrived. "Sorry," he said. "Problem at the site. Shall I go round and say hello to everyone, or can I eat first?"

"Sit down and eat," I said, remembering he'd been cooking for himself. "Make your own introductions here, and I'll introduce you to the other table later."

"Thanks," he said, reaching for some couscous. "I'm starving."

"Man after my own heart," Ben said. "Eat first. Deal with problems later. Try some of this excellent local wine. Magon, I think the waiter says it's called. I'm Ben Miller, by the way. Harvard. I understand you're from UCLA."

And so the conversation went, and by and large, the evening seemed to go quite well. Everyone made an effort to get along with everyone else, even with Chastity. When she began to whine that there was nothing she wanted for dessert, Ben picked up a branch of dates, and offered her one.

"Try it," he commanded in a voice I expect he put to good use in the lecture hall.

Chastity took the proffered piece of fruit, and carefully placed it in her mouth. "Oh," was all she said, a look of surprise crossing her face as she reached for another. Ben grinned across the table at me.

"Excellent evening," he said.

And it was. People stayed at the tables long after they needed to, and lingered over coffee and fruit. Briars, a good meal in him at last, was charming and funny, and had everyone eating out of his hand within minutes. People came and went. From time to time, someone would get up to get another drink from the bar, or go to the bathroom, but no one seemed inclined to cut the evening short, not even Ben when Chastity, pushing back her chair suddenly without looking behind her, and nearly flattening Susie in the process, also knocked over a glass of red wine, splattering it all over Ben's sweater. He just got up, disappeared for a few minutes, and returned wearing a clean sweater, his good humor intact. Aziza left for a few minutes to fetch a wrap as the evening air turned cooler, and Curtis followed her. People switched places from time to time to talk to someone new: Ed got up and came over to chat with Ben for a few minutes. Susie bobbed around the courtyard continuing her interrogation of anyone she'd missed at the airport or the cocktail party. Emile and Cliff, two businessmen who'd presumably found much in common, got into a discussion about fine cognac, then went into the bar to see what they could come up with, leaving Nora, who went to exchange a few words with Rick before going after Cliff. Even Marlene felt secure enough to leave her daughter alone for a moment and went over to talk to Betty Johnstone. I kept up my end of the conversation as best I could and tried not to fall asleep right then and there. In my sleep-deprived state, I was even beginning to credit Clive with being the genius he always said he was.

All that changed in an instant. "It's gone," Catherine gasped, almost falling into the courtyard in her distress. "My gold necklace. It's been stolen!"

2

T HE MAN SNIFFED the air and cursed under his breath. Storm coming, he thought, looking longingly back as the hills and battlements of Qart Hadasht receded behind the thin white wake of the boat. Bad storm, he added a few moments later, when the first large drops of rain smacked the deck and the rectangular sail began to luff briefly as the wind abruptly shifted. Superstitiously, he touched the silver pendant around his neck that held the magic words--painstakingly copied on a tiny piece of papyrus--that would keep him safe.

He stamped his feet on the wooden deck to keep warm. Why had he ever agreed to this? He didn't even know the ship's destination, let alone how long he would be away. A sudden vision of his tiny baby daughter made him smile. She was the reason why, of course, and the other one on the way. He wanted a good life for them all, and there would be extra profit in this voyage. The captain, Hasdrubal--he'd sailed with him many times before--was a stern but honorable man and had promised him that much.

But what was it about this journey that made it necessary to leave on such a night, to steal from his warm bed and the loving arms of his young wife, to slip across the courtyard, then through the silent city streets past the metal workshops and the artisans' quarters to the harbor? What need was there for the ship to slip its moorings when the night was darkest, maneuvering the squat little freighter quietly out of the harbor, where the sail was raised and the wind and the current took her? Did they think they could outrun the storm? And why now, with winter coming? He'd be sitting out the storm season at the voyage's destination, wherever it might be--that much was certain. His new child would be months' old when he got back.

Even in good weather, why sail at night, and alone? What were they worried about? Pirates? His eyes quickly scanned the coastline, peering into the dark coves where danger might lurk. But if pirates--and here he smiled--thinking that his own people had made piracy an art, and a rather lucrative one at that, then why sail unaccompanied? There were warships aplenty in the harbor when they left. They could have escorted the ship.

Pirates should not be a hazard at night, surely. Few except his fellow citizens ventured to sea at night. Even fewer knew the secrets of the polestar, and the aid to navigation that star could be. And fewer still had the courage it took, preferring to huddle in little bays until the light, then scooting to the next landing place before darkness fell once more.

A foreign power, perhaps? Possibly. There were other nations that challenged their supremacy at sea from time to time, but they did not enjoy the protection of the city gods, Baal Hammon and Tanit, nor the god of the old city and sailors, Melqart, to whom he, Abdelmelqart, sailor of Qart Hadasht, had been pledged at birth. It was unbelievable that Agathocles the Greek tyrant should have outrun Hamilcar's blockade, but it was said he'd burned his ships once he'd reached the shore, so he should be no worry at sea, no matter how much a threat on land.

And where were they going? It was a puzzle, to be sure. East, that much was clear. Egypt perhaps. He had done that route often enough, hugging the Libyan coast all the way. The great pharaoh always had need of their goods, the riches they brought from the lands at the ends of the sea. Or Tyre, the mother city, from whom Qart Hadasht's founder, the great Elissa Dido had once sailed? Now, that he wouldn't mind. Even if Qart Hadasht had outstripped Tyre in grandeur and importance for some time now, since Alexander had captured the city, Abdelmelqart would still like to see it. He could picture the amazement in his wife's eyes as he recounted where he had been, the things he had seen and done. A vision of her long, long dark hair caused him to look back again. He could no longer see the city. Soon enough they would round the headland, and if there was an offshore breeze--and he hoped there wasn't, because it was the worst stench in the world, no matter what wealth it brought--he'd catch a whiff from the vats where the purple dye fermented. Then he'd need to keep a lookout for Iranim, a shadow on the sea off to the port side of the ship, and if the ship turned south toward the Libyan coast, for Hadramaut--what was left of it after Agathocles had captured it--then the island called Meninx.

But if not pirates, and not enemies, what then? The cargo? He had seen the last of it loaded into the hold, the hundreds of amphorae filled with wine and oil, the pithoi filled with glass and ivory, the piles of silver and copper ingots. A rich cargo to be sure, but still, nothing unusual there. A few slaves for sale, also nothing out of the ordinary. They remained chained below.

Only one thing had caught his attention, a plain cedar box tarred black to keep it watertight, now lashed to the deck, and the stranger who had seen it stowed. Nothing all that special about either the box or the man, really, but if the rumors in the port were true, and Abdelmelqart was reasonably sure they were, both the stranger and his cargo had come in on a ship from the colonies to the west. Not that this was in itself unusual: All ships from the west stopped at Qart Hadasht.

Too bad we aren't headed west, he thought. Those lands, he would give much to visit. Just once he'd like to brave the tricky currents of the pillars of Herakles and see for himself the lands that marked the ends of the earth. He'd heard that the ground burned there, and rivers of pure silver flowed from its depths, fabulous riches that could be purchased for a few amphorae of oil and a trinket or two. What treasures must come from there! Tartessus. Even the name seemed exotic.

He looked at the wood crate, then scanned carefully about him. Most of the crew had found shelter from the rain. The men below dozed at their places, and no one looked his way. Well, shouldn't he as watchman know what he was guarding? He advanced silently on bare feet toward the box, which was about six feet long, and not quite three feet wide and high. It was, he found, securely fastened with rope. Still it might be possible to pry the lid up just enough to catch a glimpse of what was inside once there was a little more light. Carefully he took the short-sword from his belt and slid the blade between the lid and the box. He looked around again. He could see no one.

Holding his breath with the effort to be quiet, he levered the blade so that the lid began to pull up and away from the box.

Too late, he turned to the sound of a board creaking behind him.

"A RRIVING TOMORROW AMERICAN Airlines flight 124. Meet me at airport. KE," the fax said. A little peremptory in tone, one might say, but I suppose Kristi Ellingham, travel writer for the upscale--dare I say snotty?--First Class magazine, had come to expect such attention. The fax was not entirely a surprise, Clive having put prodigious effort into getting a travel writer of Kristi's stature to come along with us, in an attempt to "extend the reach"--to use his expression--of this particular public relations endeavor called an antiques and archaeology tour. Once we'd gotten underway, however, I'd assumed, with some relief, that she wouldn't show. An enthusiastic call from Clive, however, disabused me of that assumption.

"I have fabulous news," he said, without even saying hello, as I groped in the dark for the light. "Kristi Ellingham is joining the group. Kristi Ellingham!" he enthused.

"Clive," I said, finding the light and peering at the clock. "It's four in the morning here."

"Oh," he said. "Right. Sorry. But make sure she has a great time, won't you? We'll be famous the world over."

Fortunately, there was still room at the inn, the best suite in the place, in fact, which I was certain Kristi would consider her due. Chantal and Sylvie had offered to give us the room for free in return for the hoped-for publicity; McClintoch Swain was paying her airfare and all her incidental expenses, First Class magazine not being among those publishers with any scruples about their writers accepting freebies. Kristi's appearance meant that we wouldn't make a dime on the trip, but the publicity, as Clive kept telling me, would more than make up for the few dollars it was going to cost us to have her along. The problem was that the first thing she might hear about this tour was that we had a thief in our midst.

Which we surely did. In the uproar that followed Catherine's announcement, I'd forced myself into some semblance of alertness and looked about me. Every one of our guests was in the courtyard at that moment, and all had something to say. "I told you," Susie said to Catherine. "You should listen to someone like me. I'm an experienced traveler." True, but maybe Catherine didn't need to hear it at this very moment. Aziza took Catherine by the arm, led her over to a sofa in the lounge and sat with her.

"You should have let me bring my gun," Jimmy said to Betty. "You can't be too careful in these Muslim countries."

"You're going to shoot yourself or some innocent person, one day," Betty said, a hint of steel in her voice. Perhaps she wasn't the submissive little wife I'd taken her for. "You almost shot our future son-in-law, remember? Just because he was sneaking in to see our daughter during the night." The couple glared at each other. I wasn't sure the marriage would survive this tour.

"Are you insured?" Rick asked, going over to Catherine. Catherine just sat there numbly, but that question gave Betty another thought.

"Do you think she hid it herself to collect on the insurance?" she whispered to her husband. If she had, I thought, she was a rather good actress. The poor woman was white as a sheet, and her hands shook as she sat there.

"She has a roommate, doesn't she?" Jimmy replied, not all that quietly. "That nosy little woman. Maybe she took it."

"Why don't we go up and have a look at Catherine's room?" Ed suggested. "Perhaps she just misplaced it. Jet lag can do that to you."

That struck several of us as a very sensible course of action, and so Ben, Ed, Marlene, Chastity, Betty, and Susie went to look. They came back empty-handed.

Speculation then began as to who was responsible, and regrettably, although perhaps predictably, everyone decided it was the staff. "I saw the concierge--what's his name?--skulking around over there when I went to get some aspirin in my room," Rick said.

"We did, too," Curtis said. "When Aziza and I went up to get her wrap."

"His name is Mohammed," I said, "and it's his job to be checking around the place. He's been here for years." I did not like the way the conversation was going.

"I didn't see any signs that the room was broken into," Ed said.

"Someone with a key, then," Jimmy said, forgetting his earlier comment about Susie, "Pretty clear, if you ask me. The staff. Has to be."

Sylvie and Chantal protested that their employees were absolutely honest, had all been with them for years without any such incident, but I could see that the tour group much preferred to think it was one of the staff rather than one of their fellow travelers--which I suppose was understandable, as unfounded as that conclusion might be.

I took Catherine back to her room, Susie jogging along behind, and then got her into bed. Sylvie said that a guard would be posted in the upstairs hallway that night, and that seemed to soothe Catherine a little.

As we left her to get some rest, I ran my finger along the edge of the door near the lock, and pulled it back quickly as a splinter pierced my hand. Hardly conclusive, but the possibility was there that the door had been forced. If the door was opened with a key, it pretty well had to be staff or Susie. If it was forced, then the pool of possible thieves widened considerably. I went to my own room and had a closer look at the lock, which was just a button in the door knob, standard in all the guest rooms. There was a security chain, but it only worked when someone was in the room. I decided the door could be forced, and rather easily at that.

I went downstairs to see Sylvie, who was still upset about what had happened, and about the implication that her staff was involved.

"It could easily have been someone from outside," I said soothingly.

"No, it couldn't," she said. "There are three gates into the hotel grounds. Only one is ever left unlocked, the main one, and when it's open, there is a guard on duty every minute. Even that one is locked at night. That's why the guests are given keys to the gate when they check in, so they can let themselves in anytime. There are also regular patrols of the grounds from dusk until dawn, in case an intruder tries to scale the wall. I've asked the guards. The gates are all locked, and there has been no sign of anyone coming in from the street. So it has to be someone in the hotel. I have to tell you I believe in the honesty of my staff absolutely. That leaves her roommate, Mme. Windermere, I'm afraid."

"I'm not so sure," I said.

"We've never had any trouble before. This is a law-abiding country. Who else could it be?"

The question really was, was it one of us, and to my way of thinking, the answer was yes. Catherine had put the chain and earrings in her purse when we were leaving Frankfurt, so the staff wouldn't have seen it. Several of the rest of us did. I tried to think who had heard that conversation about Catherine's jewelry in the airport: Betty and Jimmy for sure, Ben and Ed, Marlene and Chastity. Emile hadn't joined us at that point, nor had Curtis, Aziza, and Rick.

However, Catherine had continued to wear the necklace right on to the plane, so the others might have seen it when we were all lining up to board. It was very obviously a good necklace. That was my problem with it in the first place. It just screamed "steal me." And Susie made a big thing about it at the cocktail party, so I couldn't even leave out the people who joined us there.

Given the possibility that all of them not only knew she had the chain, and also that she hadn't got around to putting it in the hotel safe, I had to look for motive and opportunity to narrow the field a little.

These people were all strangers to me. I'd met a couple of them at the shop before we left--Susie and Catherine and Marlene, to be specific--but none of the others. But if money was the issue, then surely at least a few members of the group could be eliminated. Susie seemed a little anxious about finances, but she was hardly alone in the world in that. Clifford Fielding, the group tycoon, didn't need the money. I could leave him and Nora off the list of suspects, I thought, unless, of course, they had tendencies to kleptomania I didn't know about.

By the same token, I'd have to eliminate Emile, too. For all his charm, Emile, the group diplomat, was a tycoon, too, or at least well on his way to being one again. Rick was a tycoon wannabe, and Curtis and Aziza were not exactly hurting, either. I was a little surprised by the people who signed up, in fact. I'd expected antiques and archaeology lovers, certainly, and this wasn't a budget tour, but neither was it a luxury junket, just--how had Clive described it?--upscale and charming. But somehow we'd attracted some real financial powerhouses.

So if motive wasn't immediately apparent to me, who had the opportunity to do this? I walked about the lower floor and looked up at the upstairs hallway. Because of the atrium-style design of the building, most of the guest-room doors were visible from downstairs. But not all of them, my own room and Catherine and Susie's being two that weren't. Our rooms were off small corridors at opposite ends of the building. Yes, you could see someone walking along the hall outside the rooms, but the thief could have ducked quickly into the corridor, and then into Catherine and Susie's room.

As I stood there, Susie hailed me from upstairs, then came bounding down to talk to me. "Catherine's asleep now," she whispered to me, as if her roommate could hear us from the floor above. "I've been sitting there thinking about which one of us could have done this," she went on, gesturing me to a seat in the lounge. "I know it wasn't me, and I don't think it was you, either, because you were here when Catherine and I came down to dinner, and you never left the whole time. So who was it, do you think?"

"I have no idea," I confessed.

"What might help would be figuring out who left the courtyard," she went on. "Aziza did, I know, and Curtis with her. Ben left, too, after Chastity doused him with wine. At my table, the only person who didn't actually leave the room was Chastity, and maybe her mother, although even she went to get a liqueur at some point, I think. Cliff and Emile headed off somewhere, although they came back at different times, so they weren't together the whole time," she said, barely stopping for breath. "Aziza left a second time with Betty: they went out to the garden to see the lights of the town. Rick went off for a while. I shouldn't say this, but I was happy to see him leave for a few minutes. My, that man is a bore. I don't know where he went, and I didn't ask. I was sure if I did, he'd tell me he'd phoned Japan to see how his stocks were doing, and I couldn't bear to hear it. The Lord strike me dead for saying it, but that's the truth. Didn't Rick say he went to get aspirin, or something, and that's when he saw Mohammed?"

"He said at first he'd gone up to call Montreal to see how his stock portfolio was doing, and he also said he went to get some aspirin. Did he go twice?" It felt a little strange having this conversation with the number one suspect, Susie having both some motive and all kinds of opportunity, given her room key--but if anyone had noticed what was going on, she had, and furthermore she was prepared to talk about it.

"Maybe," she said. "I'm not sure. But do you really think you can eliminate Chastity? She caused quite a stir with that wine, and nearly knocked me over with her chair. Maybe it was a diversionary tactic so her mother could dash upstairs and do the deed. I'm trying to recall whether Marlene was in the room at the time. Do you remember?"

"I don't," I said. If it had been a diversionary tactic, it had been very effective with me. I was so mesmerized by the pattern of the wine splatters on Ben's sweater, I didn't see anything else. Chastity had certainly done a job on the poor man. He'd been awfully good-humored about it. It was possible, of course, that the thief was Ben, taking advantage of the opportunity, but he'd have had to move rather fast to change his clothes and then rob another room.

"Somehow I don't think Chastity's move was deliberate," I said.

"I guess not. Did you notice how Nora managed to get out of Chastity's way, unlike slow old me? Nice reflexes that woman has."

"She jogs, apparently," I said. It was the most compelling argument I'd heard in some time for getting back to jogging: to avoid being knocked senseless by Chastity Sherwood's backpack. For a moment I even toyed with the idea of getting up early the next morning and going for a run. "I've got to get some sleep," I said dismissing the idea. "We are not going to solve anything tonight."

"When I think about it, I don't think we've eliminated anybody, have we, except maybe Chastity? What should we do?" she said.

"I think we should just carry on with the tour, but keep our eyes and ears open," I said.

So that is what we did.

"T HIS IS WHERE it all began," Briars said. We were standing on the summit of Byrsa Hill, with the city of Tunis around us, the water of the Gulf of Tunis behind, and the hills of Cap Bon across the gulf. "These are the very foundations of one of the most important cities of the ancient world, the great city of Carthage. Its history begins with a love story. A tragic one, perhaps, but a love story, nevertheless. It is the story of a woman called Elissa.

"At the time I am speaking of, the ninth century B.C.E., the whole of the Mediterranean," he said, waving his arms toward the sea behind him, "all of it, right to the Pillars of Hercules and beyond, was dominated by a merchant nation we have come to call the Phoenicians. They didn't call themselves that. In fact, we really don't know what name they went by: Canaanites, perhaps.

"Be that as it may, we do know these people controlled much of the trade in the Mediterranean from a city-state called Tyre, located in what is now Lebanon. They were fabulous sailors, having mastered the art of celestial navigation, and knowing intimately the currents and winds of the Mediterranean Sea. No other nation at that time could touch them on the seas.

"At this time, there was a king in Tyre called Mattan. He had a daughter and a son, and he made his wishes quite clear. On his death, Tyre was to be ruled jointly by both of them. You could say he was a man ahead of his time. When he died, though, the people wanted just one ruler."

"Could you possibly guess which one they picked?" Marlene said.

"The people chose the son," Briars went on.

"No kidding," Marlene sneered. "I would never have guessed that, would you?" Her face was framed against the backdrop of the ancient city, the bright sun behind her casting part of her face in shadow. Marlene, I realized, was in the grip of what might be permanent cynicism, which was etching itself into bitter lines about her mouth and eyes. Chastity cringed at her mother's tone.

"The son's name was Pygmalion," Briars said. The wind ruffled his hair, what was left of it, that is. He was an attractive man, in a burly, outdoorsy kind of way, his face and forearms freckled from so much time spent outdoors--a kind of maleness that draws a woman. Nora noticed it, too. For a moment she gave him her undivided attention. Then Cliff and Catherine shared a chuckle, and hearing them, Nora turned away from Briars and returned to Cliff's side, as if reminded of her duty.

"Pygmalion!" Chastity exclaimed. "I've heard of him." I noticed with relief that she looked interested for the first time since we left home.

"His sister's name was Elissa," Briars continued. "Elissa was married to the high priest of Tyre, a man by the name of Zakarbaal. The high priest would have been the second most powerful person in Tyre, after the king. Perhaps Pygmalion thought Zakarbaal a threat, or maybe he was just plain greedy. In any event Pygmalion had Zakarbaal killed. Elissa fled the city with some of her followers, and headed to sea. She stopped first in what we now call Cyprus, added a number of temple priestesses to her retinue; then after sailing from port to port, eventually found this spot on the north coast of Africa.

"When she and her followers arrived here, they were welcomed by the inhabitants, led by a Libyan chieftain named Hiarbas. In this case, the term Libyan refers to one of the groups of people living here when the Phoenicians arrived. Elissa asked to buy some land, and Hiarbas agreed to sell her as much territory as could be covered by the hide of an ox. Elissa, a clever woman and never one to back down from a challenge, cut the hide into the narrowest of strips and encircled this hill, which is called Byrsa now, after the Greek word for ox hide. It was here, on this hill that, in the year 814 B.C.E., she founded what was called Qart Hadasht, or new city, the place we now call Carthage. Qart Hadasht was not the first city the Phoenicians founded on the shores of North Africa, nor would it be the last. But it was unquestionably the most important, eventually outstripping its parent, Tyre, in both grandeur and power. Its people, now called Carthaginians, dominated the Mediterranean for many hundreds of years. It was to become a cultured, cosmopolitan city of temples and marketplaces, ateliers and beautiful homes. And it was strong enough to hold off even the Roman juggernaut for a very long time."

"I thought you said this was tragic," Chastity pouted. The others laughed. She flushed with anger or embarrassment.

"Wait," Briars said, smiling at her. "For a while the two peoples, the Phoenicians and the native Libyans, lived in harmony. The woman who had been Elissa in Tyre, became known as Dido, or the wandering one, in North Africa, and it is by this second name that she has come down to us through history. Then Hiarbas decided he wanted to marry Elissa. She, still loyal to her dead husband, refused him. When his entreaties failed, he resorted to threats, saying if she didn't agree, he would kill all her followers. Elissa built a huge bonfire for what looked to be a great ceremony. And a great ceremony it was. Try to picture it: all the people gathered to see the lighting of the great fire, Dido in the magnificent robes of city founder. Perhaps off in the distance, Hiarbas and his followers stood watching and waiting, Hiarbas, in eager anticipation of the prize that was about to be his. And then, as the flames licked at the wood, crackling and spitting and soaring higher and higher, Elissa Dido threw herself into the flames, which became her funeral pyre. Rather than submit to Hiarbas, rather than betray her dead husband, Dido sacrificed herself."

"Tragic enough for you, Chastity?" Ed joked. But Chastity stood transfixed by the story. As I watched her, a single tear left the corner of one eye and began its journey down her cheek. She was a lonely and impressionable young girl.

"The astounding thing about this story," Briars went on, "is that parts of it may actually be true. While the archaeological evidence to date goes back only as far as the eighth century, it is close enough to give some credence to the stories of Carthage's founding. We do know that there was political upheaval in Tyre during Pygmalion's reign, and we know that he ruled at the time traditionally given as the founding of Carthage. We also know that sacrifice by fire was an important ritual for the Carthaginians, that in times of great danger they may even have sacrificed their own children, and that the wife of the last leader of Carthage threw herself into the flames, along with her children, rather than be taken by Rome at the fall of the city in 146 B.C.E. Be that as it may, Dido's story--her journey, her steadfast love for her husband, her courage, and her tragic death--has resonated through the ages.

"The Romans liked the story, of that we are certain, because they adopted it as their own, with some variations that suited their particular egotistical view of history. To the average Roman citizen, Rome was, let's face it, the center of the universe," Briars said, smiling.

"Writing in the first century B.C.E., Virgil, one of the great storytellers and poets of ancient Rome, began his tale of the foundation of Rome with the words, Arma virumque cano, of war and a man I sing, and tells the story of Aeneas, a Trojan, who flees the defeat of Troy at the hands of the Greeks, and sets sail, later to found Rome. Fato profugus, exiled by fate, multum ille et terris iactatus, much tossed about, buffeted, on land and sea, as Virgil describes it, Aeneas arrives on these shores to be welcomed by Dido herself. In this version of the story, Juno, consort of the Greek god Zeus, casts a spell on Dido, under the influence of which the Queen of Carthage falls madly in love with the dashing Aeneas, only to be left behind when duty calls and he sets sail again to meet his destiny. Overcome with grief at his betrayal, Dido casts herself into the flames." Briars paused for a moment. "Now let's go and have a look around the site, before you proceed from ancient Carthaginian rituals to modern-day Tunisian commerce with Lara and Jamila, who will be taking you on a tour of the medina or marketplace." Everyone laughed.

"T HE FORMAL PART of our tour of the Medina of Tunis ends here," I told the group sometime later. "You now have some time to explore on your own, shop a little if you want to, or just sit in a coffee house and watch the world go by.

"I have maps of the area for each of you," I said, handing them around. "You are here," I explained, holding up a map and pointing, "in the Souk des Chéchias, so if any of you want to buy one of the red skull caps, the chéchia, this is the place to do it. Also, right over there," I said, pointing once again, "is the Café Chaouechin, the oldest coffee house in Tunis. There's also Café Mrabat in Souk el Trouk, the souk of the Turks, which is over that way. The café is actually built right over the tomb of a saint. For the more adventurous among you, there are some public baths in the medina; they're called hammams. Most are for men, but there is one that has women's hours about now," I said, checking my watch. "You would be sampling a very important part of Tunisian life, if you opt for the baths. You'll recognize them from the very distinctive red doorways." From the shaking of heads, I gathered that public baths were not a popular option.

"If you get lost, just remember that the medina was built around the mosque, so look for the Zitouna Mosque. I've marked it, and Jamila," I said, referring to the efficient woman who shared guide duties with me, and who was looking after all the arrangements as we went, "has put the name in Arabic on the map, so you can ask directions in any shop. We'll meet at the main door of the mosque in about an hour, say one hour and ten minutes.

"For those of you who would like to shop, Jamila is going to an area where you can sometimes find antiques, old lamps and such, and I'll be going over to the Souk el Trouk and the Souk de Leffa to look at carpets. Anyone who wants to come along with either of us, is quite welcome to do so. Now, one hour and ten minutes, main door of Zitouna Mosque. See you there."

"Something smells good around here," Ben said. "I vote we go and get something to eat."

"I could use a coffee and a sit-down," Susie said. "I'll come with you. You coming, too, Catherine?"

"I guess so," Catherine said.

"Why don't you go and buy yourself something nice, Nora?" Cliff said reaching for his wallet.

"No, I'll stay with you, Cliff," she said.

"You don't need to do that," he said, a trifle irritably. "I'm not an invalid."

"I'm going to explore a little bit more," Ed said. "Anyone want to come and have a look at the hammam with me?"

"I knew he'd head for the baths," Jimmy muttered to his wife.

"Shush," she said.

"I'll go with you," Chastity said to Ed.

"You will not!" her mother exclaimed. "You just come and have some tea!"

"I'll go," Cliff said. Nora started to protest. "You can come, too, if you want to, Nora. I don't want to miss a thing."

"Excellent!" Ed declared. "Let's go, Cliff. I'll take good care of him, Nora. Don't worry." Nora stood there looking like a little lost child.

"He'll be fine, Nora," I assured her.

"You never know what can happen," she replied.

"There has to be a coin dealer around here somewhere," Emile said. "I think I'll see what I can find."

Gradually the others dispersed.

S O FAR, OUR plan to carry on in as close to a normal manner as possible seemed to be working. While the majority still thought that someone on the staff had to be responsible for the theft of Catherine's necklace, many of them were coming around to the view that she had been very careless. Catherine still seemed a little delicate, but she was rallying, and we stuck to our original schedule.

And so, while the others had been exclaiming over the exquisite Roman mosaics in the Bardo museum, I'd been dashing out to the airport, as directed, to meet Kristi Ellingham.

I don't know what I expected Kristi Ellingham to look like, with her chichi name and her job as travel editor for First Class magazine, a journal that catered to the upscale tastes and acquisitiveness of newly wealthy boomers as well as old money types. Tall, thin, elegant, perhaps, with an imperious attitude, Vuitton luggage, and a Burberry raincoat. Kristi was, in fact, rather ordinary-looking, of average height and weight, with short brown hair. Her only distinguishing feature was a scar that ran from the corner of her lip down to the line of her jaw. The expensive luggage was in evidence; the attitude, however, was not. "Hi," she said, handing me her business card. "Thanks for meeting me. I'm really looking forward to covering this tour." She reached into her large shoulder bag, and pulled out a silver lighter and pack of cigarettes. "Those transatlantic nonsmoking flights are killers," she said, inhaling deeply. "Filthy habit, I know," she added. "Can't seem to kick it. No willpower. Now, where do we go?"

It should be said that I don't much like First Class magazine. Let's just say that if you are looking for thoughtful commentary on social and political issues, inspiring stories of people overcoming adversity, or indeed for articles of any redeeming social value whatsoever, then First Class may not be the magazine for you. I knew only too well how influential it was, though. A few months earlier, First Class had run a photo of a condo we'd furnished for an up-and-coming young Canadian starlet--an assignment Clive still referred to as The Job from Hell, but which First Class called "New Life in Old Houses"--as one small part of a feature they were running on young swingers who liked old places, and it had led to a surprising number of inquiries.

I took Kristi back to the hotel, and with Sylvie, showed her to her room. The suite was gorgeous, spacious, with beautiful tilework on the walls in the entranceway, a large canopy bed, and a huge tiled bathroom. A carved wooden archway led to a small sitting room. There were flowers everywhere, and I'd sprung for a bottle of real champagne, the only foreign wine, I believe, the Tunisian government allowed into the country. It was set out, with two crystal flutes, on an elegant brass tray. There was also a lovely bowl filled with apples, pears, and dates. "Isn't this delightful?" Kristi said. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to rest for the remainder of the day. I'll join the group tomorrow when I'm feeling a little less jet lagged. I'm looking forward to meeting them all, and seeing the sights." Pleasantly surprised by her generally agreeable demeanor, I left her and headed back to the group, just in time to take them to the medina.

F OR THE BETTER part of an hour, I took Aziza, Betty, and Jimmy, to look at carpets, explaining the different grades, the methods by which they were produced, and in general what to look for in buying one. With my help in the bargaining, Betty and Jimmy purchased two rather large and handsome carpets in a traditional Persian design. Or rather Betty did, Jimmy being essentially uninterested in both the carpets and all the bargaining that went along with their acquisition. Nonetheless, Betty was delighted, and I arranged to have her choices shipped.

Aziza was more interested in the more informal Berber allouches, but couldn't decide on one. Instead she purchased a lovely silk and linen sifsari, the traditional shawl and headcovering, in which I knew she'd look spectacular. She and I then went hunting for a chicha, a water pipe, something she said Curtis wanted, and I helped her distinguish the good ones from the junk made for the tourist trade. She was rather pleased with her purchase.

Taking a few minutes for my own search, I found six rather large, old but not antique, carpets for my film-star client. In addition to the six, I ordered two custom carpets, huge ones, for the living room--silk, in lovely shades of red and green. I was off and running on the Rosedale house.

I got my little group back to the Zitouna Mosque right on time. Jamila was already there with several of the others, and a few stragglers turned up within five minutes of the appointed time, laden down with their purchases. Susie, spectacular in blue and yellow tights and an emerald-green sweatshirt, was buzzing around asking to see what everyone had bought and exactly how much they'd paid for it. There were more little stuffed camels than anything else, which just goes to prove that people who come on an antiques tour aren't necessarily interested in antiques, nor are they terribly discriminating. I noted that Marlene and Chastity had succumbed to the lure of the large wire birdcages, as Clive said people would. I would have to figure out how to get these rather unwieldy objects home for them.

When Ed and Cliff arrived, everyone crowded around to hear about the baths. "They were really interesting," I heard Cliff say. "A real social place."

Emile, among the last to return, told me he hadn't found any interesting coins, but had picked up a small terra-cotta lamp. "What do you think?" he asked me. "This isn't my field. Is it worth anything?"

I examined it closely. "Roman, I should think, and probably authentic." He beamed. "However," I said, "see here, it's been broken and repaired." He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and studied the place I'd pointed to. "So a nice piece, but the repairs bring the value down."

"Ah, I see what you mean. I'll have to take you shopping with me next time." He smiled ruefully. "I confess to being a little embarrassed."

"You shouldn't be," I consoled. "It's not your field, and the repairs are really expert. I can't imagine how badly I'd do if I went looking for coins. It's very attractive and you should just enjoy it as a lovely memento of your trip."

"I will," he said, but, as I began to turn my attention to the group, I saw him hand the lamp to Catherine, who'd admired it. "Keep it," he said to her, "with my compliments." Catherine flushed with pleasure. It seemed Emile St. Laurent was only interested in the finest specimens, and he was not prepared to live with his mistakes. Come to think of it, though, I might have felt the same way if he'd told me a coin I'd found was worthless. An occupational hazard, I suppose.

"Time to go," I called to the group. "Let me do a head count."

"Guess I owe you a dinar," Jamila said after we'd counted everybody three times. We were one short, and it was Rick Reynolds who was missing.

"You do, and I'll expect to collect the debt this evening," I told her. I was not worried in the least about Rick. "Anyone seen Rick since the Souk des Chéchias?" I asked the group. No one had.

After another ten minutes or so, I did begin to feel a little anxious. Certainly it was easy enough to get lost in the medina, but the area is really not that large, and with the map I'd given him, getting directions should not have been a problem. A few minutes later, with still no sign of Rick, and the group becoming restive, I suggested to Jamila that she accompany the others back to the bus to wait, then circle back to help me try to find Rick.

J AMILA AND I got out a map, and decided who would go where, agreeing to meet back at the mosque in twenty-five minutes to check on each other's progress. The medina, the historical center of the city of Tunis, indeed the original city, was built in the seventh century by the Arabs. It is a semicircular walled town which has at its heart the grand mosque. It is a vibrant mix of monuments and tombs, former palaces and tiny homes, hammams, and the Koranic schools called medersas, white domes and minarets. Everywhere there are shops: one tunnel-like souk, or covered market, leads into another in a confusing maze. The streets are, for the most part, narrow, winding, and inevitably crowded during the day, so looking for Rick was a daunting task. Jamila was to retrace the most direct route back to the Souk des Chéchias, where Rick had last been seen. I was to circle a little farther afield.

For several minutes I looked carefully about, traversing pillared arcades and peering into various souks, the air filled with smoke, and sharp streaks of sunlight penetrating the haze from skylights above. Little children tugged at my sleeves, and salesmen, ever on the lookout for tourists, followed me for a while, extolling the virtues of their particular establishment. Several invited me in for a look. I made my way past workmen at their benches making red felt skullcaps and leather goods, cafés where the men sat drinking strong, black Turkish coffee and smoking the chicha, then past the gargotes, where the aroma of kebabs and kefta wafted into the street. It was hot, and crowded, and I was beginning to think it was hopeless. I wondered if Rick would know how to get back to Taberda on his own, or indeed if he had enough money with him for the hour-long trip, when he realized he was late and the group had left him behind.

I had just come up on the heavy wooden gates of the Souk des Orfe`vres, the souk of the goldsmiths, when I thought I caught sight of him. I entered the souk, with its narrow little shops, the sun casting patterns on the street through the awnings overhead, but couldn't see him. Perhaps I'd been mistaken, but it seemed worth a closer look. I went up and down the souk, and was just about to give up and look elsewhere when I caught sight of him again. This time he was standing in the doorway of one of the shops, stuffing what looked to be a wad of cash into the money belt at his waist. He appeared to have just made a purchase and was putting his change away.

I was about to go over to him and, as with a wayward child, either hug him in my relief at finding him, or berate him for being so late. Something stopped me, though, something in the way he was looking about him carefully before stepping fully into the street, or the fact that he wasn't carrying any parcel. Instead, I pulled back into one of the shops, and watched as he went by. He didn't look worried, or lost, for that matter.

I waited until he had left the souk, and was about to follow him, when, struck by an unpleasant thought, I went into the shop he had just left.

"Can I help you, miss?" the man behind the counter asked.

"Perhaps," I said. "I'm looking for a gold necklace."

"We have many," the man said enthusiastically. "Here," he said, pointing to rows of rather elaborate filigree work, a trifle ornate for my taste.

I looked at several, feigning some interest, but not too much. Shopping in the medina requires nerve, skill, and not just a little acting ability.

"Where are you from?" he asked. "England? Germany?"

"Canada," I replied.

"Excellent," he replied. "I give a good price for Canada. You like which one?"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe something simpler. Plain, but good, you know. Heavy," I added.

"I might have something like that," he said, turning to the counter behind him, where the object I was really interested in, lay. "Something like this?" he asked, holding the necklace up for me to see.

"That's a little closer to what I was thinking of," I said, carefully emphasizing the words a little. "Can I have a look?"

"Of course," he said, handing it to me. "Lovely, isn't it? Eighteen karat, too. It's very fortunate you came in here. I just got it in today, and I'm sure it will sell very quickly. How much do you want to pay?"

"I'm not sure this is the one," I said. "It's a bit like what I had in mind, but not exactly right. Are there others?" I looked at a few more necklaces, then turned back to the one I was determined to get, and at the lowest price possible.

"I'll give you a good price, I told you," he said. He made a big show of thinking, did some figuring on a pocket calculator, named a breathtaking sum, and the haggling began.

"Oh, I don't know," I said again. "Maybe . . ." I looked about me, then took a couple of steps toward the door. He lowered his price slightly. I paused and countered with a much lower offer. He looked hurt, but came back with something less than his previous price. I named a sum slightly higher than my original offer. He offered me a cup of pine nut tea. Back and forth it went between sips of the lovely minty beverage. Finally he threw up his hands. "I must be feeling very good today"--he sighed theatrically--"to agree to such a low price. But, it's for such a lovely lady. And Canada, too." I thanked him for the compliment, we shook hands, I forked over the cash, and he wrapped it up for me. It was a lot of money, but probably considerably less than Catherine Anderson's late husband had paid for it back home. Rick Reynolds had rather a lot of explaining to do.

But Rick did not so much as bat an eyelash when I produced the necklace with a flourish at dinner that night.

Catherine almost cried with delight, and the rest of the group burst into spontaneous applause. Cliff reached over and patted Catherine's hand. "Where did you find it?" they exclaimed.

"In a shop in the Souk des Orfe`vres," I said. "While I was out trying to find Rick." I looked at him pointedly. He shrugged and looked a little sheepish.

It was either a magnificent performance or the man was entirely innocent. While I was sorely tempted to take him aside and demand that he pay up for the necklace, every last penny I'd shelled out for it, I had to admit that just being in the same shop didn't make him a thief, and the fact I'd seen him putting money away didn't incriminate him either. As for the lack of a parcel, it could be as simple as his having purchased something small enough to carry in his money belt. A pair of earrings for a girlfriend, for example, or even a ring.

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "Maybe that will make up for the fact that I kept everybody waiting. Sorry about that, really I am. My watch stopped, and I didn't notice. But I won't be late again. I managed to buy a battery for it, right in the medina."

Or a watch battery, I conceded.

Still, I felt a small twinge of triumph, however tempered by a certain ambiguity about the identity of the thief. Kristi Ellingham, whose opinion could make or break the reputation of McClintoch Swain, had not yet emerged from her room, and at least one major stumbling block to a positive report on her part had been removed, in a fashion at least. Yes, it had cost a pretty penny to get the necklace back, but it was worth it, wasn't it?

3

H ASDRUBAL STRAIGHTENED FROM examining the body, and sighed. What had happened here? An accident surely, but how could that be? To such an experienced sailor as Abdelmelqart! The sea was choppy perhaps, but not dangerously so, the deck a little wet from the brief squall that had passed through, but not, he thought, sliding his foot tentatively across the surface, so slippery that someone as surefooted as this sailor would stumble. It was not possible!

But there to prove him wrong, Abdelmelqart lay, the life gone from him, eyes staring upward, as if fixed on some distant place, the dark plait of hair on the right side of his head now matted with blood. It was easy to see how he had died: a severe blow to the back of his skull. There was something wrong about it, though, the way the man lay, and Hasdrubal had a sense of a body disturbed, somehow, something missing, perhaps, from the way he usually saw the man. He would have to think about this when he was more able, when the shock of seeing him dead had passed a little.

"Did anyone see how this happened?" he asked the group of men crowded around the body. They all shook their heads.

"Hit his head, I expect," one of them, a man by the name of Mago, said.

"Obviously," Hasdrubal replied dryly. "But how?"

Mago shrugged. Hasdrubal didn't like Mago. He thought him untrustworthy. There was nothing in Mago's words with which to find fault, ever, but something about his attitude, the mild defiance that crossed his face whenever Hasdrubal gave him an order, the treachery in his eyes, bothered the captain. Mago might be telling the truth; then again, he might not. And was that not Abdelmelqart's silver pendant already hanging around Mago's neck? Ah, there it was, the missing object. He recognized the design, a solar disk set into a downward crescent. Abdelmelqart would not be without his talisman, just as he, Hasdrubal, would not set sail without his. Swift, that Mago. Swift and nasty.

Hasdrubal looked over at the others. "Anyone?" he demanded.

"We thought we heard a cry over the sound of the wind," replied Safat, a friend of Mago's and equally untrustworthy, although not as clever. On a mission such as this, one took on whatever crew one could. Even then, Hasdrubal would not have hired Mago and Safat, had the man who had commissioned the ship not insisted upon leaving immediately, making it impossible for the captain to round up his usual crew.

"But we didn't think anything of it. We thought it was a bird," a man named Malchus said, picking up the story from Safat. "But later, when dawn came, we found him lying there. We didn't see it happen."

Now there's another one, Hasdrubal thought. The man could hardly contain his glee at the sight of Abdelmelqart's body. Hadn't the two of them been rivals for the hand of the lovely Bodastart, and Abdelmelqart the lucky one? Now perhaps Malchus was thinking of expressing his condolences to the widow in person. Abdelmelqart had not been pleased to see Malchus aboard, but Hasdrubal had persuaded him that it was better to have him here than hanging about Qart Hadasht while Abdelmelqart was at sea.

The others were nodding now, in agreement. All but the young man, a boy really, who was going to sea for the first time. Hasdrubal had selected him for the voyage because he looked intelligent and observant. Now, though, the young man looked wary, and perhaps even frightened.

Hasdrubal dismissed the crew with a wave. "Back to your duties," he said. The men turned to go. "And Mago," he said, extending his open hand toward the man. "The pendant, please. For Abdelmelqart's widow." Mago gave him a look of pure hatred as he unclasped the pendant and hurled it at Hasdrubal.

The captain turned back to the body. He would be sorry to lose Abdelmelqart. He was a good man, cunning certainly, and useful when it came to negotiations with the locals in the various ports of call, but an honorable man when it came to dealing with his fellow citizens and sailors. And in such a silly, unnecessary accident, a moment's carelessness, perhaps, in an occupation that allowed few mistakes.

But what had he hit his head on? Surely there would be some blood that would show the point of impact. The ship's captain tentatively reached out and touched the gunwales near where the man had fallen. Nothing that he could see there. He turned to the cedar box. There was no sign of blood there either, but he ran his fingers along its edge. A splinter jabbed his hand, and he pulled it back abruptly.

He looked at the spot where the splinter had caught him. Could it be, he wondered, that someone had tried to pry open the box? He bent to study the wood. The marks were faint, but they were there. Some very slim instrument had been inserted between the lid and the box, and pressure exerted to force the lid up.

He turned back and bent over Abdelmelqart's body. His short-sword was not there. Perhaps he had forgotten to bring it with him, having had to leave his bed in the middle of the night. Unlikely, though, the captain thought. Abdelmelqart was very proud of that sword. He had purchased it from a mercenary soldier years earlier. It had cost him a silver drachm, he once told Hasdrubal. The mercenary could hardly refuse to sell it at that price. But Abdelmelqart had paid the man with a coin that he had stolen from him the night before. Abdelmelqart always laughed when he told that story, how he'd paid the man with his own money. Yes, Abdelmelqart was a crafty one, that much was certain. Had Mago stolen that, too? Probably not, the captain concluded. There had not been enough time before the others arrived to have hidden it. Unless . . .

He looked ahead to the sky, now red with dawn. Two men stood watching him, the stranger and Mago. Now he had two problems, Hasdrubal thought. The sky meant a storm, and a bad one at that. And there was something seriously amiss on his ship.

"Come," he said to the boy, who hovered nervously nearby. "Come and talk to me."

T HE NEXT ITEM to go missing was Marlene's Swiss Army knife, followed closely by a rather large sum of money, large by my standards anyway--about seven hundred dollars, that Jimmy was carrying around with him.

"At home we leave the back door unlocked all the time," he said. "This country is full of thieves. A man can't leave his belongings in a hotel like this, even for a minute."

I wanted to tell him that Tunisia, while it had its share of the problems every country has, was a relatively safe place, but there didn't seem to be any point. His mind was made up. And certainly, on the face of it, it appeared he was right: two serious thefts in the first few days. The truth of the matter was that he had been very careless. He'd taken the money with him when he'd gone to the pool, and had left it with his towel while he went for a swim. Then, still in his bathing suit, he'd left the pool to watch a croquet match his wife was playing in. Hardly just a minute--more like fifteen or twenty, during which time just about everybody had passed through the pool area. Inattentive though he might have been, however, the thefts simply had to stop for any number of reasons, not the least of which was that we had a reporter on the scene. Kristi Ellingham said she wanted to interview me for the article she was writing on the tour. I was dreading a question or comment about the theft, but she never mentioned the subject, and her questions surprised me.

"It's rather unusual to be in business with your ex-husband, isn't it?" she began, pen poised over her notebook, and a cigarette in her left hand.

I was taken aback, but rallied. "It works for us," I said. In a fashion, I thought.

"Clive was telling me that the two of you were in business together before, then sold the store when you divorced."

"Yes," I said. The less said about that, the better, as far as I was concerned. Clive should learn to keep his mouth shut. I'd had to sell the store to give him half the proceeds, even though I'd started the business alone, long before he and I even met.

"But now you're back in business again," Kristi said.

"That's right," I replied. "How about you? How long have you been writing for First Class?"

"I'm interviewing you, remember?" she said, but she smiled to take the edge off the remark. "About ten years," she added.

Then, sensing I wasn't about to be more forthcoming on the subject of Clive and me, she switched gears. "You have quite a diverse group of people on this tour, don't you? They come from all over the place, and have such varied interests and occupations."

"I think most people are interested in seeing different cultures, and of course, the focus of this tour on antiques and archaeology makes it unusual." I hoped Clive would be pleased with my response here, although I couldn't believe these words were coming out of my mouth. It certainly sounded like PR talk to me.

"Emile, for example," she went on. "He sounds French. Is he from France?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Very charming, isn't he?" she said in a tone that implied she was confiding in me. "What does he do?"

"He's a numismatist. A coin dealer. He has a company called ESL Numismatics, very influential in the field of ancient coinage."

"How interesting," she said, taking a sip of her gin and tonic. If there was fault to be found with Kristi, it was her fondness for gin. She was on her third drink since we'd sat down together, charging each of them to her room. Tunisia being a predominantly Muslim country, alcoholic beverages are generally served only in tourist establishments, and even there, are prohibitively expensive. A rather unexceptional gin and tonic can run as high as $8 or $10, and Kristi managed to consume several every day. As Ms. Ellingham's host, the bills came to me every morning from either Sylvie or Chantal, who clucked sympathetically as they handed them over, while I swore Clive's marketing initiative was going to bankrupt us. Still she was pleasant enough, and if we got some positive press, presumably Clive would think it was worth it. Praise be for my film star's ten-bedroom house. It was going to save the day, financially speaking.

"And that fellow Rick. He must be involved in the stock market some way." She laughed, and I did, too. It was impossible not to know that about Rick. "Where's he from?"

"Montreal," I replied.

"What company is he with?" I told her. We went through the list of everyone on the tour, where they were from, and what I knew about them, which frankly wasn't much.

"Aziza and Curtis I know, of course," she concluded. "I'm surprised they're here, but you're lucky to have them along. They have lots of influential friends."

"They're lovely people," I said, tactfully. When, I wondered, were we going to get around to the trip itself?

She asked some questions about the next few days' itinerary. I waxed poetic about the Roman ruins in the desert, the mosque at Kairouan, and so on, and that was it. It was a strange interview, I thought, but then First Class was a peculiar magazine. I hoped this wouldn't end up being a gossipy piece, but with First Class that was always a risk.

But it was done, and I didn't have time to worry about it. After the first flurry of buying, I was not making as much progress as I'd hoped to on furnishing the Rosedale house. I'd found lots of carpets, some lovely ones, and furniture, too, but I really wanted to find unusual decorative elements that would pull it all together, and so far I hadn't seen anything that seemed just right. Furthermore, I didn't have as much time to do it as I'd thought I would. My idea of just turning the group over to someone else once we got there, and from time to time dispensing sage advice on antiques, had essentially been wishful thinking.

In the first place, whether I liked it or not, there was a tour to be run, people's needs and desires to be met: Ben's insatiable appetite had to be assuaged, Marlene's and Catherine's nervousness about foreign lands needed soothing. And Curtis, with his jealous nature, had to be kept away from Emile, who had the bad habit of flirting without realizing he was doing it. And Jimmy with his prejudices had to be kept away from Ed, who had taken to countering Jimmy's remarks with some inflammatory ones of his own. My ally in this last challenge, although we'd never discussed the subject, was Jimmy's wife, Betty.

And then there was teenaged Chastity, in a category all her own. Everything was "tragic" to Chastity. "I'm bored," she was always saying. "I'm tired. I want to go back to the hotel. I'm hot." It was like dealing with a squalling baby, and I didn't know how her mother could stand it, or why she let her get away with it.

To be fair, there were some easy people on the trip. Cliff was a pleasant fellow, although a bit forgetful, and Nora, despite her overly protective manner toward him, was no trouble whatsoever. Susie, too, seemed happy with just about anything. I sometimes wondered why she bothered to travel at all, when she was more interested in the people on the trip than the sights themselves, but I suppose it was meeting new people that made it all worthwhile for her. Aziza seemed to enjoy herself, and despite what I'd heard of her prima donna tendencies on the fashion runway, there was no evidence of them here.

But the person who was most cutting into my buying time was Rick. Leaving aside his insatiable need for a telephone, and my herculean efforts to find him one in the most obscure places, his cell phone not working as well as he expected it to out in the Sahel, there was what I, on admittedly scant evidence, presumed to be a nasty tendency to theft. I decided I would dog his every footstep, and if I caught him at it, he'd be on the first plane out. I stayed as close to him as possible, trying not to be obvious about it, but never leaving him completely alone for long. If he went to the bathroom during dinner, I made some excuse, and more or less followed him, watching until he went into his room, and then again until he returned to the table.

It was always a relief when everyone turned in for the night. That was when I got to stroll the grounds alone in the darkness, looking back to the lights of the town, and breathing in the heady scent of the night flowers. Sometimes I'd leave the security of the hotel, and just walk the cobblestone streets of the town for a while, enjoying the solitude. Taberda, I decided, was at its best at night, when the tourists departed, leaving the streets to the cats, who flitted like tiny ghosts through the jasmine-scented air.

My enjoyment was spoiled the evening of my interview with Kristi, though, by the sight of Rick slipping through one of the hotel gates--not the one with the guard on it--and heading down the hill. I couldn't help but wonder what he was up to this late at night. Worried, I followed him at a distance, staying away from the streetlights, which was a good idea, because about halfway down the hill he met Curtis Clark. I was surprised to see the two men together, as they'd had virtually nothing to do with each other until this moment. The pair continued down the main street to the lower town, past the shops, now boarded up until the morning, and the little white houses, some with slivers of light still showing through the shutters. At the traffic circle at the bottom, where only a few stragglers were still sitting in the cafés, they turned left along another residential street, then right, onto a steep and rough path that led down to the harbor. I stayed back in the shadows, far enough behind them that they couldn't see me, but not so far that I lost them.

The path was really treacherous for someone unfamiliar with it--steep, and the stones that made up the surface were rough and uneven. It was also apparent, from the billing and cooing, and the occasional louder and more passionate yelp, that we were in the local version of a lovers' lane.

The moon was full that night, which was the only thing that kept me from breaking my ankle, I am certain, but it also meant that if either man turned around, they would probably see me. It was hard going, trying to negotiate the path in the moonlight, and at the same time keep a watchful eye on the two men ahead of me. At one point the path curved around, and I lost sight of them. I quickened my pace, and then unintentionally almost caught up to them where they stopped in the middle of the path.

I edged forward as quietly as I could to try to hear what they were saying, sticking to the shadows at the side of the road. At first, I could catch only the murmur of their low voices, not actual words. Curtis sounded angry, Rick almost frightened, gibbering something to the effect that it wasn't his fault. I moved closer.

"I told you to take care of it, you incompetent little twit," Curtis said.

Rick muttered something that sounded like "I promise you we'll get it," although I couldn't swear to it. His back was to me, and his words got swallowed in the breeze from the sea.

"Go back to the hotel," Curtis said quite clearly. "If you're not capable of it, then I am." Rick, after a word or two of protest, turned abruptly away from his companion and started back up the hill. I flung myself hurriedly into the brush at the side of the road, stumbling, as I did so, upon a couple in, shall we say, the throes of ecstasy. The man in question, though startled no doubt, managed to hurl a string of epithets in my general direction--I do not know Arabic, but I am reasonably sure the word pervert must have been among them--as I moved past the couple to hide behind a tree. Rick, silhouetted against the moonlight, stopped for a moment and peered into the darkness, but, apparently satisfied it was only lovers, and presumably not knowing Arabic either, he moved on. I heard his footsteps, dragging a little as if he were a defeated man, recede into the distance up the hill. I stayed behind the tree, and the couple, now nervous at my presence, pulled themselves together and slunk away. I counted on the fact that they wouldn't want anyone to know they were there, and therefore wouldn't sound the alarm.

I waited for several minutes, expecting to see Curtis also move past my position, but he didn't. I certainly didn't want to be seen there by either man. My appearance in this part of town at this time of night would require an explanation that even my vivid imagination would have trouble inventing. I wondered whether there might be another route back to the hotel by going downhill, and decided there was, but not on foot, since it involved climbing up the very long and steep cliff below the hotel and the town. I would have to chance finding a yellow taxi on the harbor road, and I couldn't imagine there'd be too many of them down by the waterfront at this time of night.

Finally, after deciding that I couldn't wait all night, I stepped out onto the path, listening for footsteps below me as I did so, and was startled instead by the clatter of tiny pebbles coming down the hill toward me. Afraid that it was Rick coming back, I tried to plunge back into the shadows quickly, but twisted my ankle in the attempt. Despite my efforts to be quiet, I gasped out loud. There was a sliding sound, as if someone higher up on the path had lost their footing for a second on the slippery slope. I held my breath and listened carefully. I had a sense that whoever was up there was doing the same. In a moment or two, to my relief, I heard footsteps retreating back up the hill.

I sat on the side of the path for a few moments, until the throbbing in my ankle subsided to manageable proportions, and then hobbled as quickly as I could uphill. Several yards above my original position, about where I would have assumed the mystery walker had stopped, the moonlight caught a shiny strip of something on the path. I leaned over and picked up Kristi Ellingham's notebook. I recognized it immediately, one of those leatherbound, six-ring diaries, this one with protective metal corners that had caught the moonlight and my attention. It seemed obvious to me that it must have been Kristi on the hill above me. She would have dropped the notebook when she slipped. I stuck the book in my handbag and made my way slowly and carefully back to the hotel, hoping the bar was still open so I could get some ice for my ankle.

The bartender was beginning to close up and the lounge was almost empty when I came in, trying not to limp. There was no sign of Curtis, nor of Kristi, but Rick was there, the remains of a large drink in front of him, and another one coming his way. He was having a nightcap with Briars Hatley and another man I didn't know. The three men were engaged in a rather heated discussion and did not hear me approach until the last moment, when the conversation abruptly stopped. "Just stay away," I heard Briars say. "I'm warning you."

"Don't you threaten me. I've had enough," Rick replied. "You . . ." They all stopped at my approach. The stranger, a young man with dark hair and eyes, looked at me briefly, and then turned away.

I put on my most innocent face and smiled sweetly. "Good evening, gentlemen," I said. "I've just come for some ice. We'll see you tomorrow morning, breakfast at seven-thirty sharp. We have a big day out on Cap Bon tomorrow." They looked at me suspiciously, no doubt wondering what I'd heard, but I gave no indication I had heard anything at all. I was not introduced to the young man.

What was going on here? I huffed to myself. What could all these men possibly be going on about? Taking care of something, and staying away, and heaven knows what else. What was Briars doing threatening one of our guests? This was an antiques and archaeology tour, for God's sake, and he was the archaeologist! Was I going to have to say something to him about this? I gingerly mounted the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing to spare my ankle, as Briars and the stranger both left the bar and disappeared into the night. Rick remained, and drained his drink. I expected he'd be prevailing on the barman to get him another before closing. Back in my room, I threw Kristi's notebook on the night table--a quick peek at the first page confirmed that it was hers, although there had been little doubt in my mind--iced my ankle, and got ready for bed, fuming.

For about an hour I tossed and turned, my ankle paining me, rehearsing over and over what I'd say to Briars, cursing him and Curtis and Rick. What was it Rick had promised they would get? Kristi's book? It was lying right there on the path. Still, if the moon hadn't been just right, I wouldn't have seen it, either. Maybe they weren't talking about that at all. The whole episode made me cross. Worse still, the book on the night table kept calling out to me. What was she going to say about us? Don't stoop so low, I told myself. But what was she doing out on the path? Spying, like me?

Finally I succumbed to my more primitive self, and turned on the light. What I found in her notebook made me so angry, I could barely see. Kristi Ellingham was keeping a list of what she considered to be deficiencies in the McClintoch Swain antiques and archaeology tour, shortcomings that no doubt would appear in good time in the pages of First Class magazine. Things like: No Elevator!! Or, No Diet Cola!!! Boring Ruins!! No Room Service after 10 P.M.!!!! Or even, since she apparently did not restrict herself to the location itself, Peculiar Bunch of Tourists! All her comments were punctuated with capitals and exclamation marks, the number of the latter presumably indicating the depth of her displeasure. It was a long list, and presumably getting longer, and the trip was shaping up to be a public relations disaster rather than the triumph Clive had envisioned.

All smiles and compliments, she hadn't voiced any of these criticisms, just scribbled them down in her notebook. Her comments were by and large unfair. True, there was no elevator in the Auberge du Palmier, but it was only two floors, and with abundant helpful staff at her every beck and call, the only weight Kristi had to heft up the one flight of stairs was her own. And surely, it should be possible to go without diet cola for a day or two. As for me, it was a source of considerable relief that there was no room service after ten at night, thus bringing Kristi's drink orders to a close for the day.

Rarely have I felt as angry as I did at that very moment, and helpless, too. Thinking rationally, I doubted that she could actually ruin McClintoch Swain. We were not really in the travel business, after all. But she could seriously harm us, and furthermore could adversely influence business, at the Auberge. The staff, including Sylvie and Chantal, had worked so hard to please her. And she hadn't paid one thin dime for the trip. We and the Auberge had covered everything, even her taxis. I wanted to scream at her, tell her how unreasonable she was being.

Calm down, Lara, I told myself. Everything will be fine. The other people are enjoying the trip. Perhaps they'll write letters to the editor; you never know. Aziza and Curtis speaking up for us certainly wouldn't hurt. And Emile must have some influence in this business.

Should I say something to her? Probably not. I couldn't do it without losing my temper. Should I tell Clive? He was going to be awfully disappointed. He'd get over it. He always did. And we'd survive this, no matter what she said. But the idea of poisoning her gin did cross my mind.

But even these unjust observations were nothing compared to what I found toward the back of the book, something she called her To Do list. I wasn't entirely sure what it was all about, but what I saw I didn't like. Ms. Ellingham had written down the initials of every person on the trip, and in several instances, had made some rather nasty insinuations. CC--freeloader or blackmail? it said. Aziza--too thin. Drugs? St. Laurent--rings a bell--fraud? CS--Lolita complex. Abusive father? Check RR--something fishy. NW--trailer-park trash/master manipulator. Get the poop on her and CF. BM/EL--uncle/nephew: Not! The list went on and on, and the fact that there was nothing noted next to LM, while something of a relief, didn't make me feel any better.

Maybe it was just idle curiosity on her part, but it had the look and feel of what she seemed to be accusing Curtis of--assuming CC stood for Curtis Clark--blackmail, in other words. Some of the comments were just uncharitable, like referring to Nora, NW that is, as trailer-park trash. Yes, it was true the woman didn't know how to dress, and her perfume made her smell more like a salad than a flower, but this was just plain unkind. And yes, she did seem to have Cliff under her thumb a little, and the relationship was a little ambiguous. As for Ben and Ed, did it really matter about their relationship? Maybe they were trying to be discreet, which was more than you could say about Kristi. But accusing a young girl of being a Lolita, and hinting that she'd been abused made me more than a little uncomfortable. What bothered me most of all was that I'd helped her compile that list, unknowingly, of course, during our talk. She hadn't been interviewing me, she'd been pumping me for information. Clearly she had to be stopped.

Maybe what it would take would be a list of my own: Just how much gin was that dreadful woman drinking? Was it enough that she might lose her job if her employer found out about it? I certainly had the receipts. What would her employer think of this little list of hers? Would they think she was no longer an asset to their fancy publication, or would they commend her for her brilliant investigative journalism?

Stop this, I told myself. Don't sink to her level. So what if she thought Curtis was a freeloader; I did, too. As for RR, I had heard enough that very evening to think something was fishy myself, to say nothing of the fact that he was probably a thief.

It occurred to me that I had another problem: what to do with the notebook. It was bad enough that I'd found it somewhere I wouldn't normally be, but now that I'd read it, the situation got a whole lot worse. Should I just hide it in my luggage? I didn't think so: It would drive me crazy knowing it was there. Should I take it into town and toss it in a dumpster far from the hotel? Or should I be very bold and hand it right back to her at breakfast, saying I'd found it outside? If I opted for the latter course, should I hint that I'd read it, or just hand it over with an "I think this is yours, Kristi"?

I carefully copied out the two lists--heaven knows, I might need them sometime, and most certainly I wasn't asking the front desk to make a copy for me--then extinguished the light and surprisingly, considering the huge weight of guilt and anger I was carrying, went to sleep. I awoke very early in the morning with an idea. Kristi would soon figure out, if she hadn't already, that she'd lost the book. I hadn't run into her in town as I returned to the hotel, so if she'd gone back for it, it would have been later. I wasn't sure I'd want to be out there on that path in the middle of the night again, and I suspected she wouldn't either. Presumably she wouldn't know exactly where she'd dropped it. If I got up right away, I could toss it in the bushes near the main gate. While there were three entrances to the hotel property, there was only one way into the grounds at night, a gate which required the use of a key, which all guests had in case they were late returning. She would have had to come in that way, unless she'd climbed straight up the hill from the beach way down below, a feat I'd already decided was too much for me. I didn't think she'd be up for it either, given her whining about one flight of stairs. She was always the last to arrive at breakfast, and by then the gardener probably would have found her book and turned it in at the desk. Failing that, I could go out a little later myself, preferably with one of the others along as a witness, and "discover" it, with some appropriate dialogue along the lines of "Is that something in the bushes over there? Oh, look. A notebook." That kind of thing.

I pulled on a pair of shorts, a sweater, and my sneakers, carefully sliding my still swollen foot into the shoe, and crept down the stairs, my handbag with its unpleasant contents over my shoulder. If I'd thought I could slink out undetected, I was mistaken. The staff was setting up for breakfast, and Sylvie waved cheerily to me. Several members of the group were already up, Catherine reading a romance novel in the lounge, a cup of tea at her side, and Cliff at the front desk asking if the previous day's International Herald Tribune had come in. Emile stood at one of the bay windows, just looking outside. From the upstairs hallway I could hear Jimmy railing away at some issue that concerned him, his wife quietly murmuring by his side. "We're still setting up, but we can get you a coffee," Sylvie called to me.

Despite the tempting aromas of warm croissants, pain au chocolat fresh from the oven, and hot coffee, I had my insalubrious task to accomplish before I could indulge. "Thanks, but I'm going for a morning constitutional," I told her. "I'll be back soon."

"Don't tell me you are getting into this jogging," Sylvie said disapprovingly.

"Ah, Lara," Briars said from behind me. I started at the sound of his voice, the notebook in my shoulder bag making me nervous. "Sorry to startle you," he said, as I turned to speak to him. He was accompanied by the young man I had seen the previous evening. "I was just about to leave you this note. Can we talk privately for a minute?"

"Good idea," I said. There were things I wanted to say to him, too.

"I'm sorry to do this, but I have to leave for a few hours. Hedi here--sorry, have I introduced you two? This is Hedi Masoud, Lara. He's the supervisor at the project I've been working on, and has been filling in as director in my absence. Hedi, this is Ms. McClintoch." We shook hands briefly. "Hedi has just told me about a problem at the site which requires my attention," Briars continued. "I've talked to Jamila: She's perfectly capable of doing the guiding we need this morning. It's just the scenic tour of Cap Bon. I'll rejoin you at the Punic city site, Kerkouane, this afternoon to explain that to everyone. I'm sorry about this. I really am, but it can't be helped."

"That's fine, Briars," I said. "As long as you meet us at Kerkouane by about two, it won't be a problem. There is one thing, however, I'd like to talk to you about," I added, drawing him aside a little so that Hedi couldn't overhear us. I realized I was still very angry with Briars. "About that rather unpleasant conversation you were having with Rick Reynolds last night . . ."

"I was afraid you'd overheard that. It won't happen again, I can assure you," Briars said.

"But--" I wanted an explanation.

"It won't happen again," he said firmly, and turned away. It appeared our conversation was at an end. Annoyed, I would have liked a fuller explanation of his behavior, but with the task at hand preying on my mind, I just watched him leave with Hedi, and then continued out the door to do the evil deed.

It was just about dawn, a sliver of pink on the horizon, and the haunting chant of the muezzin for the first call to prayer drifting across the town from the mosque's tower. I shivered a little in the cool of the morning, then stepped out briskly, looking the part of a morning exercise enthusiast. I'd gone only a few steps when I met Aziza, returning to the hotel. It surprised me that everyone was up, but of course, I was the one who had told them we would be on our way early that day. "Lovely morning, isn't it?" Aziza said. "And this is such a delightful spot. I must go and wake Curtis. He's missing the best part of the day."

Didn't she think that Curtis might need a little more beauty sleep after all that wandering about late at night? She must know he'd been out. They were in the same room. An unbidden thought surfaced: Perhaps she was drugged up to her lovely eyeballs, and wouldn't have a clue as to whether her husband was in their room or not. I dismissed the idea with some annoyance. That was the trouble with people like Kristi Ellingham, wasn't it? They dropped these ugly little hints, allegations that would never have occurred to you, and then suddenly you found yourself looking for evidence that would support them. Aziza wasn't on drugs. Anyone on the tour could tell you why she was so slim. She didn't eat. She was always just picking at her food, saying it was delicious, but that she wasn't terribly hungry. Anorexic, maybe, but no drug addict. Kristi was wrong. Not that anybody had seen the accusations but me, of course, and I shouldn't have. Get rid of that horrible diary, I told myself, just as soon as you possibly can. And forget everything that's in it, I added.

As I neared the gate, I looked about me very carefully. I did not, after all, need one of my charges to come running after me, telling me I'd dropped something. Nor did I want to see Briars. My righteous anger at his deportment of the previous evening wouldn't stand up very well if he knew what I was up to. Seeing no one, I tossed the notebook into a bush beside the path; then, without looking around, headed right out to the road toward town, testing my ankle, which I found, to my relief, much improved. As I reached the main street, I saw Nora streak by. She waved briefly as she churned past me and up the hill, barely breaking a sweat. Lagging far behind her was little Susie, her flaming-red hair now plastered to her head, her T-shirt clinging wetly and unflatteringly to her body, puffing slowly up the hill. I moved in beside her. "If Nora can do it, I can, too," she gasped. "Do you know," she said stopping abruptly, "Nora lost forty-five pounds in one year. Forty-five!" Susie exclaimed, wiping sweat out of her eyes. "Just by taking up jogging. She runs marathons now. That's twenty-six miles or kilometers or something, isn't it? Don't you think that's amazing?"

"Amazing," I agreed.

"She lifts weights, too. Have you seen her arms? And when she has so little time for it," Susie went on, gasping for breath. "Looking after Cliff all the time. She's devoted the last year of her life to him, you know, since his wife died. Cancer, the poor thing. She lingered for months. I'm glad that Arthur went so fast. It was a terrible shock at the time, what with him being so much alive one minute, and stone-dead the next. But better that than what happened to Cliff's wife. He was lucky to have Nora as a neighbor. They both were. She saw them through the last few weeks of the wife's life, moved right in with them to stay at her bedside day and night, and then took care of him, too, when he developed heart trouble. The strain of seeing his wife go, I expect. That's why she's always telling him to rest. She had to give up her job, you know, to care for them both. And her apartment. It can't be much of a life for her, I wouldn't think. She's at least twenty-five years younger than him. But she doesn't complain, I'll give you that. And he's promised to look after her. They have a legal agreement of some kind. She's moved in with him permanently. He has a really large apartment. She told me," Susie whispered, "it's strictly platonic, you know. The relationship. I asked her."

"You didn't!" I exclaimed, in spite of myself. This woman was incorrigible.

"I certainly did," she replied. "I had to, didn't I? I think my roomie is sweet on Cliff, and so I had to get the lay of the land. Oops," she giggled, putting her hand to her mouth. "Bad pun. Well, I better shove off. I'll never get thin talking to you. If she can do it, I can, too," she repeated. "Gotta get myself a new man, you know. Can't stay a widow forever. You don't think Arthur would mind, do you?"

"No," I replied. "I don't." Still, there was no question in my mind that Susie would do better to find a man who would appreciate her as she was, rather than one who would go for the more streamlined version that I suspected Susie might never become.

"This is a really excellent trip in that way," she added, turning back to me again. "All those single men! Most of the tours I go on are filled with older widows like me. Cathy wants Cliff, so he's out for me. That Emile is single, you know, and about the right age, and very distinguished and foreign. But maybe not my type. What do you think?"

I chose not to answer that one.

"Marlene has her eye on him, too--Emile, I mean," Susie went on, barely stopping for breath. "I wish she'd exercise a little more control over her daughter, by the way, but I guess she's still recovering from the divorce: It sounded particularly nasty. Her husband walked out and took up with someone not much older than Chastity. Not that that's so unusual. Still, not very nice. Maybe she's too depressed to notice her daughter's behavior. There's something wrong with that girl, though. Now Briars . . ."

She paused for barely a second. "He's cute as a bug's ear. Too young for me, but how about you? You don't have anybody, do you? I'm pretty sure he's divorced, or soon to be, anyway. You could do a lot worse. Don't you think it's time you got over your divorce and moved on? There's Rick, of course, but he's too young for all of us, no matter what his real age. What about Ben? Good job. Harvard. You don't think he's you-know-what, do you, the way Jimmy does? Not that I care, but it does affect his eligibility."

"I have no idea," I said, managing to break into this torrent of words. "You'd better get going, though, if you want to catch up to Nora, and not miss breakfast!" My, that woman could talk, and such a meddler! Had I actually told her I was divorced? I supposed I had, that first evening. Perhaps it was the jet lag. I had to admire her determination, though, as I watched her lumber off after Nora, who, if we could have seen her at all, would be a tiny speck in the distance. And her gall. I had been wondering myself about the relationship between Nora and Cliff, but would never have dared ask. In fact, once I'd seen Kristi's insinuations, I'd have died rather than ask any one in the group a personal question.

"I think either Briars or Emile is for you," Susie called back to me. "Save me one of those buns with the melted chocolate inside, will you? Or maybe two. They're kind of small."

I was sorry in a way that I hadn't managed to steer Susie toward the hotel so that she could find the notebook. If anybody would spot it, it was Susie; nothing escaped her eagle eye. It was clear, however, that she was going to soldier on behind Nora. Alone, I circled back to the hotel, and, hoping to avoid another set-to with Briars as he left, cute as a bug's ear though he might be, entered the grounds through another gate, at the far end of the garden. I then walked slowly along a path that took me through the orange grove toward the pool, savoring the day.

Mist rose from the warm water, and as the sun climbed higher, the brightly colored chairs and umbrellas beside the pool were reflected in the still water, a perfect little world in reverse. I stopped for a moment to look. A pair of slacks and a golf shirt were neatly folded on one of the chairs, a pair of sandals nearby, and a towel lay beside the pool.

I realized then what deficiency would undoubtedly appear next on The List, the one right after Boring Ruins!! It was Dead Body in Swimming Pool!!!!!

Rick Reynolds, clad in emerald-green swimming trunks, brand new, no doubt, lay on the bottom at the shallow end, a slight haze of red slowly dispersing in the water above his head. I knew he was dead even before I got to him.

4

"W HAT DID YOU SEE?" Hasdrubal asked the boy. Outside, the sea was getting rougher, the sky darker, and the boy, unaccustomed to a life at sea, had to steady himself.

"Nothing," he said.

The captain looked at him intently.

"Nothing!" the boy exclaimed defiantly.

"But something frightened you," Hasdrubal said.

The boy shifted his weight slightly to adjust to the roll of the ship. "A shadow," he said. "It was only a shadow."

"Tell me about this shadow," the captain said quietly. He noticed the boy eyeing the food on his table. "First, eat," he said, ladling the cereal into a bowl.

"I heard a cry," the boy said finally. "I took shelter, it was raining a little, and I was cold, so I pulled my robe up to cover my head and face and took shelter as best I could. The cry--" He paused for a moment. "It sounded bad. I knew something terrible had happened. Then there was the sound of something falling. But I was afraid to go out and look in the dark. Just when it got to be light, I crawled out and stood up, and Abdelmelqart was there."

"Did he look exactly as he did when I first saw him?"

"Not exactly," the boy said reluctantly. The captain waited. "He was closer to the cedar box. Mago--" The boy stopped.

Too frightened to say anything bad about Mago, Hasdrubal thought with a sigh. "Mago moved the body when he took the silver pendant. How did he move him? How was Abdelmelqart lying when you first saw him?"

"Face down," the boy said. "Mago rolled him over to take the pendant."

Face down, was it? Hasdrubal thought. And with a blow to the back of the head. Rather difficult to do, wouldn't it be? To fall back and hit one's head, but to end up face down.

"And the shadow?"

"It was still dark," the boy said. "And raining. I thought I saw something, a shadow, a man, moving away. But I'm sure I was mistaken," he added miserably. "I called out, and the others came. It was too late, though. He was dead."

"Think carefully," Hasdrubal said. "Where did the others come from?"

"From all over," the boy said in a surprised tone. "Some from the bow, some from the quarterdeck at the stern . . ."

"And Mago?"

"The stern, I think," the boy said. "Although I can't be sure. The dead man . . . the rain, I don't know."

"And the one the crew calls the stranger? The custodian of the special cargo?"

"I don't recall seeing him at all," the boy said.

The captain took two silver coins from a little sack he carried around his neck. "I have a task for you," he said to the boy, "for which I will pay you handsomely."

The boy's eyes widened as he realized the coins were for him.

"You have the run of the ship. I want you to search it, everywhere you can."

"For what?" the boy asked.

"For two things. Two coins," Hasdrubal said, "two objects I require. When you find them, I want you to leave them where they are, but to come immediately and tell me exactly where you found them. The first is a short-sword. Do you know what they look like? The swords used by the mercenaries from the western lands who fight in the armies of Qart Hadasht?" The boy nodded, and the captain continued. "This one has a fine carving of a horse's head on the hilt."

The boy nodded. "And the other?"

"I'm not sure. A strong piece of wood, perhaps, something heavy." He paused for a moment. "Something with blood on it. I want you to find the weapon that was used to kill Abdelmelqart."

The boy's eyes widened again, but he said nothing.

"You understand you must tell no one of this?"

"Yes," the boy whispered.

"Good," the captain said. "Here is one coin in advance. The other will be yours when you report back to me. You may go now."

The boy took the coin and stared at it for a moment in the palm of his hand. Then he turned to leave.

"And Carthalon," the captain said very quietly to his retreating back. "Be very, very careful. Shadows can be dangerous."

"L ARA,"CLIVE WAS saying in a loud and rather accusing tone, "I've just had a call from a reporter with the National Post about an article he's writing for tomorrow's newspaper. Something about an accident on our tour!"

"Rick Reynolds is dead," I said, holding the phone away from my ear.

"Dead! What do you mean dead?" he said even more loudly.

"Dead. You know, deceased, passed away, gone to a better place. Dead."

"Dead!" Clive repeated. "This is not the kind of publicity I had in mind, Lara."

"That may well be, Clive, but I don't think I can be held responsible for someone who is dumb enough to go out swimming all by himself before anybody else is up and then takes a very deep dive into a very shallow pool," I said. "Right in front of signs in four, count 'em, four languages, warning him not to do so."

"Oh," he said. "I see. Well, I'll just have to put the best spin on this I can."

There he was, using one of those odious marketing expressions again. "You do that, Clive," I said.

"You're rather touchy, aren't you?" he said. "How is everybody else taking it?"

"Surprisingly well," I replied. As indeed they were. It was a testament to just how unpopular Rick was, with his "hey" this and that and his incessant babbling about how important and busy he was, together with his inability to establish any kind of rapport with his fellow travelers, that, after expressions of shock--genuine, I'm sure--everyone on the tour seemed to be carrying on very much as before. Shortly after noon, we'd packed them onto the bus and sent them to catch up with the afternoon part of the day's itinerary, a visit to the ruins of the Punic city of Kerkouane.

"In fact," I added, "I think the only thing that's really worrying them at this point is how we'll make up the four-hour scenic tour of Cap Bon, which we had to miss this morning due to the police investigation."

"Idiot," Jimmy had said, echoing, I'm sure, much of the sentiment in the group. "Couldn't have made the No Diving signs much bigger, could they? Can't he read?"

"Not anymore," Ed said.

"Hush, Jimmy," Betty said. "You must have more respect for the dead."

"Too bad," Ben said, looking down at the body. "Do you think they're serving breakfast yet?"

"How can you eat right now?" Chastity demanded. "That's gross." For once I agreed with her.

"Mors certa, hora incerta," he replied. "Death is certain, the hour uncertain."

Nora didn't show up at all. I gathered she went into the hotel from her run without seeing what had happened. Susie turned up some time later, but she was remarkably subdued, perhaps having worn herself out trying to catch up to Nora.

Come to think of it, the only person showing much emotion was Marlene, who, acting in a fashion I would have expected more from her daughter, set about shrieking and screaming to such an extent that I almost had to hold my ears before she collapsed against Emile, who stood, a peculiar expression on his face, patting Marlene's head.

The good news, however, was that the auberge had nothing to fear from Rick's death. The depth of the pool was marked very clearly in both meters and feet and there were very prominent signs, as Jimmy had pointed out, saying NO DIVING in Arabic, French, English, and German. Khelifa Dridi, the hotel owner, was hastily called after efforts to revive Rick proved singularly unsuccessful. He did all the talking to the police, bless his heart, and there seemed no doubt about what had happened. Rick had gone out early for a swim and had taken a dive into only three feet of water. His head was thoroughly bashed in as a result, although the cause of death would later be officially listed as drowning. The blow had rendered him unconscious, and he'd died in the water. The police officer in charge of the investigation, perfunctory in the extreme, summed it all up rather succinctly. "Stupid tourist," he said, snapping his notebook closed with some finality.

Others were somewhat more charitable. "I think perhaps it's fortunate that he's dead," Khelifa said, holding Chantal's hand as he spoke. "He'd be almost certainly paralyzed if he wasn't." Khelifa and Chantal were, to put it politely, close. There was a wife around somewhere, I was reasonably certain, but both he and Chantal seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement. I wasn't sure whether Khelifa was basing his comments on any knowledge of what happened to people who did what Rick had done, or if he was just trying to make us feel better. If it was the latter, I wasn't sure it helped.

The Canadian embassy in Tunis was called, and staff there took over dealing with the arrangements to ship Rick's body back home. The local tour company handling our itinerary in Tunisia also assigned someone to deal with this problem, much to my relief, and it was all very straightforward after the initial shock of it all.

"None of them have asked for their money back, or anything, have they?" Clive asked rather nervously.

"Nope," I told him.

"Well, that's something," Clive said. "What about Kristi Ellingham? Where is she on this subject?"

"I think she's rather enjoying the whole spectacle, Clive," I said, a vision of Kristi as I'd seen her right after the accident flashing across my brain. She was standing, as she always did, off to one side, silver lighter in one hand, freshly lit cigarette in the other. I was certain she'd have been scribbling away in her nasty little notebook, too, were it not for the fact that the notebook was resting in a bush near the main gate at that moment, as I knew only too well. She was obviously trying to look concerned, but knowing what I did, I interpreted her expression rather differently.

She turned to me, and perhaps seeing something in my face, dropped the mask for a moment. "This is a rather fascinating tour you're putting on, Ms. McClintoch," she said. "I can't wait to see what will happen next."

"Is that good or bad?" Clive said.

"Who's to say?" I replied. Personally, I could almost see the headlines in First Class magazine: "Death Takes a Holiday with McClintoch Swain." Or worse: "See Carthage and Die--the McClintoch Swain Tour." In my opinion this idea of Clive's was well on its way to becoming an unmitigated disaster. "It's the only thing about the trip so far she's liked, though."

"What hasn't she liked?" Clive said.

"Just about everything," I said. "I don't think this trip is quite Kristi's cup of tea."

"For instance?"

"No diet cola. No elevators. Boring ruins."

"Surely you can do something about the diet cola," Clive said peevishly.

"I'm trying," I replied. "I've put out an all points bulletin. We may see a case or two come in on a ship in the next few days."

"Isn't there anything else she likes to drink?"

"Yes," I said. "Gin. Lots of it. At about ten dollars a shot, I might add."

"Whew!" he exclaimed. "I wonder if I could buy a case of diet cola and have it air-freighted to you."

"Not a bad idea, Clive," I said. "At the rate she's going through the gin, you could just strap the case into a seat. Business class."

"Oh. Well, keep on it," Clive said.

"How's the shop, Clive?" I asked, changing the subject before I got really riled.

"Great!" he said with enthusiasm. "We're reorganizing the place, giving it a whole new look."

"What's wrong with the old look?" I said, gritting my teeth.

"Nothing, really. But Moira has some neat ideas about making it look sleeker."

Sleeker! Why would anyone want an antiques shop to look sleek? And what was my friend Moira doing messing around with my store while I was out of the country? Now I was really steamed.

"I'd appreciate it if you and Moira wouldn't make that kind of decision when I'm not there," I snapped. "This is my shop, too."

"Lara, you really are in a mood. If you don't like it, we'll put it back the way it was."

"Goodbye, Clive," I said. He was right. I was feeling touchy, maybe even downright testy. I reminded myself that Clive and Moira had been thrown together because of me. I'd been in trouble, and worried about me, they'd taken to talking on the telephone, then in person, wondering if I was all right. And suddenly, I think, they realized there was something more. I was left to come to terms with their relationship. Eventually I'd agreed to get back in business with Clive, influenced by the fact that it was really important for Moira that Clive and I get along. What I hadn't expected was that she'd start having a say in what I still considered to be my, not our, store.

All in all it was not a happy conversation, but it was all sweetness and light compared to the one I'd have later in the evening with Briars Hatley minutes after he had returned to the auberge.

"Sabotage," he said. "In a word. Since you asked. And when I get my hands on the proof that sniveling little creep did it, his life won't be worth much." His face was flushed and he had one fist upraised. Tall as he was, it was not a pleasant sight, but I was too angry to be intimidated.

"I don't care about your problems," I snarled. "You were supposed to be at Kerkouane at two. You weren't, we were. And incidentally, we would have had a much better excuse than you do, if we hadn't shown up."

"And what big excuse might that be?" he asked.

"Oh, you think having a member of your tour party die wouldn't have been a good enough reason?"

"What are you talking about?" he exclaimed.

"Rick Reynolds is dead, that's what," I said. "In case you haven't heard."

"What do you mean, dead?" he said.

"I mean dead dead," I said. What part of the word dead did the men I was having to deal with that day not understand? "He dove into the shallow end of the pool."

"My God," Briars said, lowering his arm and taking a step back. "When?"

"Early this morning," I said. "Right about dawn, probably."

Briars slumped in a chair. He looked genuinely shocked. "My God," he said again.

"What do you say we start this conversation all over again?" I said, sitting opposite him. We were having this little altercation in one of the reading rooms upstairs, with the double doors closed so that we could say what we really thought. "I was asking you what you were arguing with Rick about last night, and why you hadn't shown up at Kerkouane to be our guide this afternoon as you promised you would. I may have sounded rather annoyed. I am sorry for that. My excuse, if I'm permitted one, is that last night I sprained my ankle, found out Kristi Ellingham was going to write awful things about the trip in her magazine; then, this morning, I found Rick face down in the swimming pool. After that I had a phone conversation with my business partner, Clive, who is also my ex-husband--don't ask!--who seemed to feel I should have made sure this drowning kind of thing didn't happen, and that furthermore, I should overhaul the entire Tunisian economy to get Kristi Ellingham a diet cola. It has been a rather stressful twenty-four hours, and it has made me, as Clive pointed out, rather touchy."

"I'm sorry, too," Briars said. "I really am. Your tour is very important to me, and I don't want to mess up here. God knows, we need the money, but it's more than that. I enjoy telling people about the archaeology of the area, and I want to do a good job. If I am to be permitted an excuse, it is that last night Hedi reported that two of our crew had quit to join a competitor, gone over to the dark side, as it were, and that the bank was getting nasty about the payroll. Then early this morning he came to tell me that he had discovered someone had gotten into the office and trashed the place, including some critical equipment. When I saw what had happened, I just lost it, I'm afraid. I went off to find the individual I think--I am quite certain--is responsible, a guy by the name of Peter Groves. He and I have been rivals for the last year or two, and he's the one who hired two of my people away from me. I found him down in Sousse, and I'm afraid I made something of an ass of myself, yelling at him, even worse than I've been shouting at you now. I have a bit of a temper. You may have noticed. He denied it, of course, and then some of his people threatened to call the cops, and I finally took off."

"I accept your apology," I said, "and hope you do mine. I have something of a temper, myself. Maybe I'm tired, but none of this is making any sense to me, Briars. You work on an archaeological project. Who is Peter Groves? An academic from another university? Is that what you're saying? You're going to hurl learned dissertations at one another? Why on earth would anyone be interested in trashing the office of an archaeology project?"

He looked puzzled for a moment. "Ah," he said at last. "I see what you thought. Obviously I have a lot to tell you," he went on, looking at his watch. "And it's time for dinner. We have to go and be charming for a few hours. Isn't tomorrow a rest day for the tour, a day to spend on the beach or whatever? The group doesn't need our help and wise counsel to do that, do they? How about we get together tomorrow at some point? I'll take you to the site, and we'll talk. I promise I'll explain everything. Agreed?"

"Agreed," I said. "I've had enough for one day."

But my day wasn't over yet.

I WAS STANDING high on a cliff above the sea, in an emerald-green bathing suit. Behind me the earth was in flames. I knew I must choose between the fire and the water, but I didn't know what to do. Around me there were voices: Briars saying, "It won't happen again, I promise you," and Curtis, "I told you to take care of it, you incompetent little twit." I turned and looked back to a burning city, then at the sea as it crashed against the shore below. Decision made, my arms stretched up above my head, palms facing out; my elbows, straight as can be, hugged my ears. My legs pushed off and out and I left the burning soil. The water rushed up to meet me. As I streaked toward it, I saw Rick Reynolds in the foam of the waves. A single strand of blood streamed from his head, and swirled with the motion of the water. Then I saw the rocks, huge ones, just below the surface. I knew I would be dashed to pieces. I pictured bone splintering, my skull smashed like a ripe melon thrown against a brick wall. I awoke gasping, my heart pounding. It took a second or two to get my bearings.

Then I realized I did smell fire, not in my dream, but there and then. I got out of bed and went out into the hall to find smoke seeping from under the door that led to Kristi Ellingham's suite. I tried the door but it was locked. I yelled as loudly as I could, and almost immediately heard footsteps behind me. Ben shouted, "Get out of the way," and then hurled himself against the door. Nothing happened.

"Together!" Cliff said, coming up behind us, and the two men, in unison, hit the door with their full weight. Mercifully the lock snapped, the door flew open, and Ben ran into a wall of smoke. Cliff tried to follow him, but Nora held him back.

"No, Cliff," she cried. "Your heart!"

I started into the room, but Cliff grabbed me. "Ben won't know where the bed is in that huge room," I said to Cliff. "I do." I wrenched myself free and dashed into the haze.

Nothing could have prepared me for how dreadful it was in that place, dense smoke assailing my lungs and eyes. "The bed is to the right in an alcove," I tried to shout to Ben, who had to be somewhere inside, but the words came out a croak.

"I can't find her," he gasped, a few feet away from me. "She's not in bed. We've got to get out of here. There's nothing we can do. Go for the door."

I knew he was right. I turned and, disoriented, tried to figure out the way back. My foot hit something and I went down. "She's here," I choked out. "On the floor."

I felt Ben pulling me to my feet, and then, with each of us grabbing one arm, we dragged her along the floor. I wasn't sure we'd make it, but then there was Cliff, anxious, framed in the light, and several hands--Mohammed and Ed and even Catherine--pulling us to safety, as several staff with fire extinguishers rushed past us into the room. We burst into the hallway, and then stood, stunned by what we saw.

"What the hell!" Ben exclaimed, because it wasn't Kristi. Aziza coughed and opened her eyes.