that where you were? At a fat…uh, I mean, a spa?”
“A scientific health clinic,” Schmidt corrected. “In Switzerland.” Selecting a knife from the rack above the counter, he sliced cheese and apples onto a plate. (Apples? Schmidt?) “Come, we must join our friends. Er—I would appreciate it if you would not mention the clinic to Suzi.”
From the look of relief on John’s face I deduced he had found conversation heavy going. Catching my eye, he supplied me with a drink. It was mostly tonic, I discovered with regret. He was right, though; we needed to keep our wits about us.
For the next half hour Schmidt did most of the talking. My God, it was boring. Calories, saturated and unsaturated fats, carbs, the glycemic index, the food pyramid, the ratio of this to that and that to whatever peppered his speech. Red wine was mentioned, and so was dark chocolate. There wasn’t a food fad, scientific or pseudo, Schmidt had missed. John listened in open fascination. His gaze kept moving from the plate of sliced apples to Schmidt’s bright-brown mustache to the bottle of wine. (Red wine, of course.) I watched Suzi.
As a Southern belle she had affected masses of blond hair, a toothy grin, and a well-developed, ostentatiously displayed figure. The last time I had seen her, at the embassy, she had worn a tailored suit, very businesslike. Only the grin had been familiar. It was still in evidence, but her hair was short and there were glints of silver in its sandy waves. I wondered how old she was. Over forty, under sixty? It’s hard to tell these days. Her trim figure suggested she worked out regularly. Tonight she was casually dressed in jeans and T-shirt, the latter loose enough to be discreet but tight enough to make Schmidt’s eyes keep wandering back to her chest. There was no doubt in my mind that Schmidt’s interest was romantic, not professional. But what about her?
I tried to remember the details of that last conversation I had had with Suzi. They were foggy. I’d been somewhat upset, or, to be more accurate, mad as hell. When I agreed to go on that damned cruise I had been assured that the anonymous officials who sent me would have an equally anonymous agent on board who’d come to my rescue in case there was trouble. There was plenty of trouble, and Suzi had screwed up. It wasn’t entirely her fault, and most of my fury had been directed at her bosses, whoever they were. Anonymous. I hate those people— FBI, CIA, all of them. They are so obsessed with security, it supersedes everything else, including the welfare of the people they are supposed to be protecting. They don’t even talk to one another.
Whatever Suzi’s precise affiliation might be, it had to have something to do with art and antiquities fraud, otherwise she wouldn’t have been on that cruise. “Sir John Smythe” was still a subject of interest to several European governments, not to mention Interpol. My connection with that notorious crook was well documented. Suzi might not know that Smythe and John Tregarth, respectable dealer in legitimate antiquities, were one and the same, but at the very end of that interview she had said something…No, she hadn’t actually said anything, she had just looked as if…
Catching the notorious Sir John Smythe would be a feather in any agent’s cap. Was Suzi trying to get to John through me and to me through Schmidt? Or was I reading too much into a look, an imagined hint? Why couldn’t she have taken a fancy to Schmidt? I couldn’t visualize him as anything but my cute little, crazy little roly-poly pal, but that was no reason to suppose he wouldn’t appeal romantically to a woman.
What with eating and drinking and listening to Schmidt babble on about fitness we got through the evening. I kept trying to think of ways to draw Suzi out about her work without indicating why I had a personal interest. “Any unusual cases lately?” (a question that made John bite his lip and roll his eyes heavenward) elicited only a toothier grin and a bland “Nothing I can talk about.”
As a rule I have to kick Schmidt out while he’s still chattering, or put him to bed on the sofa if he has had too much to drink. That night he was the one who announced it was time to end our delightful evening. The look he gave Suzi was, as they say, meaningful. She gave him one back, and rose obediently to her feet. They did not linger over their farewells.
I stood by the door until I heard Schmidt gun the engine and roar away. Then I turned very slowly to face John.
“I need something,” I croaked. “I don’t know what, but I need it bad.”
“You’ve had enough to drink, smoking is unhealthy, and we’ve no time for—what was the word?— distraction.”
“Damn it, I think you’re actually enjoying this!”
“I am enjoying the fact that thus far no one has tried to shoot me, stab me, or hit me. Let’s get Feisal…Ah, there he is.”
“I watched from the window, saw them leave.” Feisal edged cautiously down the stairs. “Who was the woman?”
John and I exchanged glances. “That isn’t immediately relevant,” John said. “I expect Feisal is hungry. He hasn’t dined.”
“Nor lunched, nor, as far as I can recall, breakfasted,” Feisal said.
We settled down around the kitchen table and the remains of Schmidt’s bounty. Though he had stuck strictly to his diet, he hadn’t stinted the rest of us; Feisal tucked into a sandwich of goose pate and dark bread.
“So what do we do now?” he asked. His eyes, big and soft and brown, were fixed on John with a look of touching hope.
“Well…” John loves being appealed to. He leaned back, steepling his fingers like Sherlock Holmes. “The first step is damage control. You did all you could to prevent discovery, but you had better get back to Luxor as soon as possible and make sure Ali doesn’t crack under pressure. Keep the tomb closed. You have the authority to do that, I presume.”
“Unless I’m overruled by a direct order from the SCA.”
“Another reason why you must be on the spot. It’s likely that the thieves will contact someone—you, the Supreme Council, or the press.”
Feisal choked. I leaped up, ready to apply the Heimlich maneuver, but he managed to swallow. “Why would they do that?” he gasped.
“That depends on their reason for the theft,” John said. “Which is the most interesting part of the entire business. Offhand, four possible motives occur to me. One, the perpetrators were funded by a private collector whose tastes are, shall we say, extremely bizarre. Should that be the case, they and their client won’t communicate with anyone. The second possibility is that they are holding the mummy for ransom. I expect certain parties would be willing to pay a tidy sum for its safe return, and for keeping the whole business quiet. In which case they will contact the SCA directly; there will not be any publicity, but you, my friend, will be on the spot.”
“What’s the third?” I asked, knowing John was dying to be prompted.
“Political. Embarrassing the government, nationally and/or internationally.”
Feisal put the remains of his sandwich down on the table. He looked sick. John didn’t have to spell it out; if that was the motive, the thieves would want publicity, the more the better.
“That’s weak,” I said. “It might make Mubarak and company look silly, but it wouldn’t do them any real harm. The U.S. isn’t going to cut off aid on account of a mislaid mummy, and it wouldn’t give any real leverage to the various parties that would like to overthrow the government—of whom, I presume, there are quite a number.”
“There always are,” Feisal said. “Ranging from radical Islamists who want a theocratic state to liberals who want genuinely democratic elections, freedom of speech, and all those nice things. Vicky’s right. A scandal over a missing antiquity, even one as important as Tutankhamon, isn’t enough to start a revolution.”
He reached for his sandwich and encountered instead the large head of Caesar. Caesar swallowed and slunk under the table.
“That dog is getting out of hand,” John said. “You don’t discipline him properly. To return to the subject under discussion—your point is well taken, logically speaking, but would-be revolutionaries aren’t always logical. However, I am inclined to believe that my fourth motive is the most likely.”
He waited for somebody to ask him what it was. I had already played stooge once. I got up and made Feisal another sandwich. The silence lengthened, broken only by the sound of a large dog under the table licking its lips.
“Personal enmity,” John said. “Someone is out to get you or your boss.”
“It can’t be me,” Feisal protested. “I’m not that important. This was a big, expensive operation. I don’t have
