Upon his majestic head he wore the tall double crown of the upper and
lower kingdoms. His expression was calm and enigmatic.
Royan recognized the statue instantly, for its twin i stood in the grand
hall of the Cairo museum. She passed it every day on her way to her
office.
She felt anger rising in her. This was one of the major treasures of her
very Egypt. It had been plundered and stolen from one of her country's
sacred sites. It did not belong here. It belonged on the banks of the
great river Nile. She felt herself shaking with the strength of her
emotion as she went forward to examine the statue more closely and to
read the hieroglyphic inscription on the base.
The royal cartouche stood out in the centre of the arrogant warning: 'I
am the divine Ramesses, master of ten thousand chariots - Fear me, of ye
enemies of Egypt.'
Royan had not read the translation aloud; it was a soft, deep voice
close behind her that spoke, startling her. She had not heard anyone
approaching. She spun round to find him standing close enough to touch.
His hands were thrust into the pockets of a shapeless blue cardigan.
There was a hole in one elbow. He wore faded denim jeans over well'worn
but monogrammed velvet carpet slippers - the type of genteel shabbiness
that certain Englishmen often cultivate, for it would never do to seem
too concerned with one's appearance.
'Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you,' He smiled eazy.
'le of apology, and his teeth were very white but slightly 't smi
crooked. Suddenly his expression changed as he recognized her.
'Oh, it's you.' She should have been flattered that he remembered her
from so fleeting a contact, but there was that flash of something in his
eyes again that offended her.
Nevertheless, she could not refuse the hand he offered her.
'Nick Quenton-Harper,' he introduced himself. 'You must be Percival
Dixon's old student. I think I saw you at the shoot last Thursday.
Weren't you beating for us?'
His manner was friendly and forthright, so she felt her hackles
subsiding as she responded, 'Yes. I am Royan Al Simma. I think you knew
my husband, Duraid Al Simma.'
'Duraid! Of course, I know him. Grand old fellow. We spent a lot of time
in the desert together. One of the very best. How is he?'
'He's dead.' She had not meant it to sound so bald and heartless, but
then there was no other reply she could think of.
'I am so terribly sorry. I didn't know. When and how did it happen?'
'Very recently, three weeks ago. He was murdered.
'Oh, my God.' She saw the sympathy in his eyes, and she remembered that
he also had suffered. 'I telephoned him in Cairo not more than four
months ago. He was his old charming self Have they found the person who
did it?'
She shook her head and looked around the hall to avoid having to -face
him and let him see that her eyes were wet. 'You have an extraordinary
collection here.'
He accepted the change of subject at once. Thanks mostly to my
grandfather. He was on the staff of Evelyn Baring - Over Bearing, as his
