Schmidt, director of the National Museum in Munich, is one of the top men in his field. What makes him so much fun to be around is that he has some decidedly nonacademic interests, from American country music, which he sings in an off-key baritone and a hideous accent, to his latest passion,
“He’s been on vacation,” I said.
“Where?”
“I don’t know. He was very mysterious about it—winks and chuckles and so on. He could have been anywhere—in New Zealand, single-handedly reenacting the battle of the Pelennor Fields, or in Nashville at the Grand Ole Opry, or at the Spy Museum in Washington, you know how he is about spies.”
John said, “Mmm.”
Clara had decided to forgive him and was settled on his lap, shedding all over his elegant tweeds. Caesar was drooling on his knee, hoping for the tidbits that in his experience often accompanied glasses of liquid.
“When is Schmidt due?” he asked.
“Not for a few hours.”
“Well, then…” He dislodged Clara, claw by claw, and came toward me.
“Oh, no,” I said, backing up. “I refuse to be distracted.”
“Is that the latest euphemism? Very ladylike.” He scooped me up and started for the stairs. I’m almost as tall as he is, and although he is in extremely fit condition he only made it halfway up the stairs before he had to stop. He put me down and collapsed onto the step next to me, panting, and we both started to laugh, and the need for distraction came over me like a tornado. It had been two long weeks.
J ohn sat watching me while I bustled around the living room, plumping pillows and trying to scrape Clara’s hairs off the sofa cushions.
“Why this sudden burst of domesticity?” he asked. “Schmidt will sprinkle cigar ashes and spill beer over everything as soon as he settles in.”
“He’s bringing a guest.”
Another of those slight but meaningful pauses. “Oh? Who?”
“He didn’t say. From the frequency of his chuckles I suspect it’s a lady. A female, anyhow.”
I paused for a quick look in the mirror over the couch. Some of my guests have complained that it is a trifle high for them, but I’m almost six feet tall and whose mirror is it, anyhow? Actually, I hate being tall. It’s okay if you want to be a fashion model or a basketball pro, but being tall and blond and well-rounded (as I like to put it) can be detrimental to an academic career. Some people still cling to the delusion that a female-shaped female can’t possibly have a functioning brain.
I tucked a few loose strands of hair into the bun at the nape of my neck, checked to make sure my makeup was on straight and grimaced at my reflection. For whom was I primping, anyhow? Schmidt’s postulated lady friend?
John glanced casually at his watch. “I think I’ll take Caesar out for a quick run before they arrive.”
“It’s still raining.”
“Misting. Normal weather where I come from.”
Moving with his deceptively casual stride, he almost made it to the door before I caught hold of him.
“All right, that’s enough. Sit down in that chair and tell me what’s wrong.”
Caesar began barking indignantly. He’s not awfully bright but he was smart enough to put two and two together: somebody had been about to take him for a walk and somebody else had interfered. The sheer volume of his protest almost drowned out another sound. The doorbell.
“That can’t be Schmidt yet,” I exclaimed. “He’s never on time.”
The doorbell went on ringing. It sounded almost as frantic as Caesar. John put his head in his hands.
“Too late,” he moaned.
“Who is it?” I shouted over the cacophony. A longish list of dangerous names unrolled in my head. “Max? Blenkiron? Interpol? Scotland Yard?”
“Worse,” said John, in a voice of doom. “Shut up, Caesar.”
Caesar did. In the comparative silence the sound of the doorbell was replaced by rhythmic pounding. John got up and went to the door.
The forty-watt bulb on the porch illumined the form of a man, his black hair shining with damp. Shadows obscured his features, but I saw enough to identify him. Relief left me limp.
“Feisal? Is that you? Why didn’t John tell me you were coming?” And why, I thought, was he so appalled at the idea of your coming? Feisal wasn’t an enemy, he was a friend, a really good friend, who had risked life, limb and reputation to keep me safe during our latest escapade in Egypt.
John caught Caesar by the collar and dragged him out of the way so that Feisal could come in. Now that I saw his face clearly I knew this was not a social call, a happy surprise for Vicky. He is a handsome guy, with those hawklike classic Arab features, long fuzzy eyelashes, and a complexion the color of a caffe latte. Only now it was more latte than coffee, and the lines that framed his mouth looked as if they had been carved by a chisel. I didn’t ask any more questions. Why bother, I wasn’t getting answers anyhow. Wordlessly I gestured Feisal to a chair.
“I’d offer you a drink,” I began, groping for a steadying cliche. “But you don’t. Drink. Alcohol.”
“I do,” said John, “thank God.”
He filled three glasses—vodka and tonic for me and for him and plain tonic for Feisal.
“Start talking,” he said curtly.
I stared at him. “You mean you don’t know what this is about either?”
“No. Dire hints, hysterical groans, a demand that I meet him here—immediately, if not sooner. Talk fast, Feisal. Schmidt will be here before long.”
“Schmidt!” Galvanized, Feisal sprang to his feet. “Oh, Lord, no. Not Schmidt. Why didn’t you tell me he was coming? I’ve got to get out of here!”
“I didn’t know until it was too late,” John said. “You’ve got approximately three-quarters of an hour to put us in the picture and then make a run for it, or compose yourself and behave normally. If I’d been able I’d have headed you off, but alas, it was not to be. Do we want Vicky in on this?”
“She’s in on it,” I said, folding my arms in a decisive manner.
Feisal nodded gloomily. “May I smoke?”
I shoved an ashtray at him. “I thought you’d quit.”
“I had. Until day before yesterday.”
“Get on with it,” John said.
“I’m going to tell you what happened, as it was told to me by the man on the spot. I wasn’t there. As Inspector of Antiquities for all Upper Egypt I have a huge territory to cover, and I’m short on personnel, and—”
“We know all that,” John said impatiently. “Don’t make excuses until you’ve told us what you’re accused of doing.”
A li looked up at the sun, glanced at his watch for verification, and sighed. Over an hour before he and the other guards could kick the tourists out of the Valley of the Kings and go home. He unscrewed the top of his water bottle and drank. It was a day like any other day, hot and dusty and dry. The fabled burial ground of the great pharaohs of ancient Egypt held no charm for him; it was just a job, one he had held for more than ten years.
The mobs of visitors had diminished somewhat, but there were still hundreds of them crowding the pathways of the Valley, kicking up dust, chattering in a dozen languages. A group of Japanese visitors passed him, clustering round the flag held high by their guide. Like little chickens, Ali thought, scampering after the mother hen, afraid to leave her side. He didn’t know which was worse, the little chickens or the Germans, who kept wandering off and poking into places where they weren’t supposed to go, or the French, who went around with their hairy legs bare and their bodies indecently exposed. He didn’t hate any of them. He just didn’t like them much, any of them. At
