“What the devil—” he began.
“Moomy,” the man announced, and was silent.
“Moomy,” Dr. Haddon echoed after a moment. “What the devil is moomy?”
“Moomy,” the man said again. “In back.”
Dr. Haddon had no choice but to ask for help from Tiffany, the only one among them who knew more Arabic than was required to issue an instruction or hold a rudimentary conversation. She asked a brief question. The man replied volubly.
“He says he found a mummy while he was cleaning up,” Tiffany explained.
“A
Tiffany asked several more questions and received lengthy answers. “Apparently what he’s found is a skeleton, or at least some bones. He thinks they’re human.”
Dr. Haddon waved the idea away. “Absurd. Where?”
“In the old storage area behind the laundry.”
“The—what in heavens was he doing in there?” Dr. Haddon glowered at the man. “You! What were you doing in there?”
The man grinned and nodded. “Moomy, yes. No problem.”
“He said they were following your instructions, cleaning everything up for the moving pictures,” Tiffany said.
“Yes, of course, but I didn’t mean the old storage area, for God’s sake. Does he think they want to—oh, what difference does it make?” Haddon rubbed wearily at his eyes. “Go and see what he’s talking about, Tiffany. Nobody’s been back there for ages. It’s probably what’s left of some dog that got in.”
As Tiffany left with the Egyptian, Dr. Haddon turned to the others. “I’ll keep you from your beds for only a few minutes more,” he said, yawning. “Now, what was I saying-”
TJ escaped into the night with a sense of having made it just in time. Another thirty seconds of Clifford Haddon’s arch and simpering posturing, his petty meanness and insincerity, and she would have burst.
She realized she was overbreathing—Haddon did that to her—and made herself take a deep breath and slacken her stride. “Slow down, Ragheb,” she said.
The Egyptian, who was leading the way over the dark, curving, hibiscus-scented paths with his powerful flashlight, obeyed.
Damn Haddon, he had gotten to her again. She was still fuming. It wasn’t simply because of the schedule change— although that would have been enough—but because of his uncanny ability to set her off just by being himself. She was not an emotional person. She hated emotional people, and she hated herself when she blew up, the way she had back there. What had been the point? How many times had they been over the same ground, and where was it ever going to get them? But Clifford Haddon, like no other person she had ever known, could turn her into a ranting screamer just byopening his mouth. It was amazing, really. Sometimes, especially when he’d been at his Scotch, he could set her teeth on edge just by walking into a room. Those smarmy, prissy speeches, that horrible little pharaoh’s tuft of beard, that narrow-minded, self-righteous…
And why was it only her? That was what was so frustrating, that nobody else ever blew their stack. Haddon hadn’t aced only her out of the picture, after all; he had cut the time that Jerry would have to show the library as well, and what had Jerry’s reaction been?
No, that wasn’t fair. Jerry wasn’t dumb, she knew that, he honestly didn’t give a damn. He was probably glad of the change. Leaving him out of it altogether probably would have made him happiest of all. It was too bad she couldn’t be more like her easygoing, take-things-in-his-stride husband when it came to dealing with their despicable boss, she thought, not quite meaning it. But thank God he was always there to provide TLC and propping-up after one of her sessions with Haddon. She’d probably need some tonight.
A few steps ahead of her, Ragheb stopped at the warped and leaning metal gate of an unroofed, stucco-walled enclosure jutting out from the rear of the laundry building. Her eyes had gotten used to the darkness now. Even without the flashlight she could see the welter of junk through the open gate: corroded bed frames, a toilet bowl broken in two, knotted tangles of filthy, moldering clothing, some rust-cankered, mysterious engine parts reputed to be from a 1925 motorcycle.
Ragheb waited for her to precede him. He spoke English. “Moomy in here, madam,” he said politely.
Unexpectedly, she caught herself hesitating. Out here, at the furthest perimeter of the Horizon compound and of the city itself, shielded by the bulk of the buildings, the familiar traffic sounds from the Corniche were muted and distant. The civilized aroma of bougainvillea and hibiscus from the well-planted grounds was faint, the ashy, primeval smell of the vast, unseen Eastern Desert strong and mysterious. Even the familiar, friendly Ragheb was suddenly exotic and inscrutable. A rare, chill breeze from the desert eddied about her, raising the tiny hairs on the back of her neck.
“Well, then,” she said, and her own too-loud voice made her start. “Let’s just see what we have.” Firmly, she led the way into the enclosure.
Thirty seconds later, grim-faced, she told Ragheb to go back and get Haddon.
Chapter Four
They came scurrying in a line behind the director, who had commandeered Ragheb’s flashlight and made for the storage area double-time, his bearded chin well out ahead of his feet, a man who intended to set things straight, by God.
But when he reached the enclosure, he lost impetus. Standing at the entrance, swaying a little, he flashed the light from mound to mound of junk. “Well then, where is it? Don’t keep us in suspense.”
