Dead Men's Hearts

Gabra nodded, stirring sugar into his already sweetened glass of tea. “I too believe this to be so.”

“If it is,” Gideon said, “wouldn’t your next step be to find out if there’s been any new word of the head on the black market? Talk to the el-Hamids?”

“Yes, but to get information from these people is hard. Also, I think by now that this goes beyond the el- Hamids. It is too large a matter.”

Gideon leaned forward. “I have a friend here, a Dr. Boyajian. He thinks he might be able to learn something from people he knows in Luxor, people who might have contacts in the illegal antiquities market—”

But Gideon had pushed a little too far, a little too fast. “Your friend is too much interested, I think,” Gabra said curtly.

“I just thought—”

“This is a police matter, Doctor, a matter of…” He searched for the right words. “Of sensitivity, of discretion.”

Glumly, Gideon took a sip of the thick, syrupy coffee from its small, squat glass. Was he running into another police roadblock after all? “What’s so sensitive about it? Look, there have been two murders. There have been two thefts of antiquities that add up to a single piece of tremendous historical and monetary value. That piece properly belongs to Egypt, but if it’s not already out of the country by now it’s well on its way. I’d think—”

Gabra was shaking his head. “They will not talk to your friend, they will not talk to me. What we require is to have the help of a—a person with disguise, a—‘’ He fumbled for words again.

“An undercover agent?”

“Yes, an undercover agent, a person to pretend to be a rich buyer of antiquities in search of an Amarna statue.”

Gideon calmed down. “That’s a good idea.”

“We must have a person they do not know, a person who is familiar with Egyptian antiquities. We will have to speak with the antiquities authorities in Cairo. Unfortunately, this may take time—”

“How much time?”

Gabra hunched his shoulders while he used a pair of oversized tweezers to adjust the brazier of burning charcoal that kept the tobacco alight. “A week, no more.”

“A week? In a week there wouldn’t be—”

“Perhaps three days. If we are lucky, tomorrow, even.”

Tomorrow. Bukhra. Well, Gabra might be operating on Egyptian time, but Clifford Haddon’s killer wasn’t. “Sergeant, there’s a murderer at Horizon House. He—or she-is still there, but the more time we give him, the more chance he has—”

“Dr. Oliver, believe me, I have this many times before. To rush in without good preparation is bad. A proper undercover agent must first be found. Then he must be explained the situation, he must understand—”

“How about me?” Gideon said, startling himself.

Gabra appraised him for a good twenty seconds, through two pulls on the narghile. For a single, teetery moment Gideon thought he was going to go along with the idea, but then he shook his head. “This is not possible.”

“Why not?” Now that he’d adjusted to having made the suggestion in the first place, he was beginning to see some merit in it. The only part that daunted him was the prospect of telling Julie about it, but he’d work that out later. “They don’t know me. I know a fair amount about antiquities. I think I could do a pretty convincing imitation of a collector or a dealer who didn’t have too many scruples—”

“You don’t know to speak Arabic—”

“Why would a rich American collector speak Arabic?”

“You have no false identification.”

“You couldn’t have some made up for me?”

Again, there was a flash in Gabra’s eye, a brief, eager weighing of pros and cons, but again it dulled. “It is too dangerous,” he said with finality. “Already one American is killed. No. We will wait for a proper undercover agent. In the meantime, I have plenty of questions for your friends in Horizon House.”

“But—”

Gabra smiled and shook his head. “Go slowly, Doctor. You’re in Egypt. May I tell you an old Arabic saying?”

“Sure,” Gideon said with a sigh. Who knew, a few words of guidance from the Koran might be what he needed.

Gabra steepled his fingers and looked sagacious. “How does the camel fuck the ant?”

Or maybe not from the Koran. “How?” Gideon asked.

“With patience,” Gabra said.

Chapter Twenty

“Fortunately,” Phil said, “I have a plan.”

Trust Phil to have a plan.

He had been lying in wait in the shade of a fig tree, angularly wedged into one of the wicker armchairs on the patio, when Gideon had returned from his talk with Gabra. He had listened with exclamations of excitement and interest to Gideon’s accounting; his own researches, it seemed, had also led him to the shadowy el-Hamid family. He too felt an undercover agent was required. And he had a plan.