hours ago.’
I
I MUST HAVE looked as sick as I felt. Hamid took my arm and led me to a chair.
‘You must not blame yourself, Dr Bliss.’
‘I don’t.’ One of my less convincing lies, that one. It didn’t even convince me.
‘It was an unfortunate accident,’ Hamid said gently. ‘He must have tried to swim to shore and been seized by a cramp or something of the sort.’
The others were gathering for the afternoon tour. John was among them – with Mary, as usual, by his side.
‘Tell them to wait for me,’ I said, rising. ‘I won’t be long.’
All I could see as I ran up the stairs was that kid’s face – wet with tears as he protested his innocence, wreathed in smiles as he assured me of his appreciation for my kindness. Kindness! It couldn’t have been an accident. Either he had been bribed to drop the flowerpot and later repented, or he had seen the person responsible. They had disposed of him as coolly and callously as if he had been a mosquito.
The note I scribbled wasn’t very coherent, but I was pretty sure it would get the point across. I put it in the safe and ran back to the lobby.
The others were heading down the gangplank when I got there, but Feisal had waited for me.
‘Hamid said he had told you.’ His warm dark eyes searched my face.
‘Yes.’
‘He should not have. It has distressed you.’
‘Of course it has! What kind of monster do you think I am?’
‘I don’t think you are a monster. That is why I did not want Hamid to tell you.’ He put a supportive arm around my shoulders. I leaned against him for a moment, and his grip tightened as a violent tremor ran through me. He didn’t know I was shaking with rage, not distress.
‘There is no need to mention this unhappy business to the other passengers,’ Feisal said.
I nodded. ‘I’m all right, Feisal. Let’s go.’
‘Herr Schmidt is not yet here. He indicated his wish to accompany us.’
A wild hope dawned in my heart. ‘We can’t wait indefinitely. He’s probably fallen asleep.’
No such luck. Beaming all over his round pink face, burbling apologies, he emerged from the elevator, complete with pith helmet, sunglasses, bag, and a variety of objects that dangled from straps criss-crossing his torso. I identified a camera, a pair of binoculars, and a canteen among other, more arcane, impedimenta.
Fewer than half the passengers had taken advantage of the opportunity to visit the royal tomb. I was relieved to see that dear old Anna had declined; in fact, only the diehards, all of them relatively young and vigorous, were there. After considering the other options – Sweet and Bright, John and Mary, Louisa, swathed in veils and trying to look mysterious, the German couple from Hamburg, Alice and Perry – Schmidt seated himself next to Larry Blenkiron and greeted him like an old friend, which, as it turned out, he was – or at least an old acquaintance, which is the same thing by Schmidt’s standards. I wondered if there was anybody in the world of art and archaeology Schmidt didn’t know. Ed Whitehead politely moved over so I could sit on Larry’s other side. It was a touching demonstration of confidence, I thought – in my harmlessness, or in his ability to stop me if I attempted to assassinate his boss. I didn’t doubt he could.
We went rattling off across the empty plain, followed by the armed escort. The sun high overhead bleached all the colour from the sand; the only contrast was the brilliant blue of the sky above. The breeze of our movement felt like the blast from an oven.
Schmidt started reminiscing about the last time he and Larry had met, at a conference on preservation and restoration. From the stained glass of medieval cathedrals to the stones of the Colosseum, scarcely a monument in the world has escaped damage from fire and flood, pollution and traffic, and the mere presence of human beings. Larry, of course, was primarily interested in Egyptian monuments and he became more animated than I had ever seen him, his voice deepening with distress as he described the devastation of the tombs.
‘The plaster, and the paintings on it, are literally falling off the walls. There has been more damage done in the last twenty years than in the preceding four thousand.’
‘But it is a wonderful thing you have done,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘To restore the tomb paintings of Tetisheri – ’
‘It’s only one out of many.’
‘There is also Nefertari’s tomb.’
‘The Getty people have done a splendid job with Nefertari,’ Larry agreed. ‘But if the tomb is reopened, the same thing will happen again.’
‘Then you support the idea of constructing reproductions?’ Schmidt asked. ‘For the tourists to visit, while the original tombs are open only to scholars?’
‘Yes.’ Larry caught my eye and smiled deprecatingly. ‘It does smack of elitism, doesn’t it? Don’t admit anyone – except me!’ He shifted uncomfortably; the seats were hard. ‘It’s too late for the Amarna tombs,’ he went on regretfully. ‘There’s very little left. I admit the Egyptian government needs tourist dollars, but I regret what they’ve done here to make it easier for visitors to reach the royal tomb. Until they made this road through the wadi, it was a long, hard, three-mile walk.’
‘I hear that the Japanese are talking of building lifts to the nobles’ tombs,’ Schmidt said.
They sighed in unison.
We had crossed the plain and entered a canyon or wadi that cut through the enclosing cliffs. They gave little shade; the sun was still high and the centre of the road baked in the bright light. Seeing me swallow, Schmidt unscrewed his canteen and offered it to me. Gratefully I accepted it. I took a drink and gagged.
‘Beer!’
‘Aber naturlich,’ said Schmidt, retrieving the canteen. ‘Herr Blenkiron?’
Larry refused the offer. So did Ed.
There was an ice chest on the trailer. When it stopped we had drinks all round before starting on the last part of the trip. It was an easy walk along a narrower side wadi up to the entrance to the tomb. A short flight of steep steps led down. I could see a glow of light from the passage beyond, but it wasn’t exactly dazzling.
Feisal gathered us around him and began lecturing. Schmidt wasn’t looking at Feisal. He was looking at me. He had taken off his sunglasses preparatory to descending into the dimly lighted passageway, and his beady little eyes were worried.
Schmidt was one of the few people in the world who knew about the time I had been buried alive under a castle in Bavaria. That may sound melodramatic, but it’s the literal truth; the tunnel had been blocked by an earth- fall and I had to dig my way out. I had no tools, only my bare hands, no light except a few matches, and, towards the end, not much in the way of oxygen. I have avoided dark, confined underground places since. Even Schmidt didn’t know that I still dream about it from time to time.
John knew. He knew because I had had the dream once when he was with me. He had held me while I choked and gurgled and made a damned fool of myself, clinging to him and pleading incoherently for light and for air. After I calmed down he had insisted I tell him the whole story. It would help exorcise the demons, he had said . . .
He was staring at me too. Over Mary’s head his eyes, narrowed and unblinking, met mine. I looked away.
The others started down the stairs and Schmidt edged closer to me. ‘Vicky, perhaps you should not do this.’
He was under the impression that he was whispering. Several heads turned, and Feisal came back to me. ‘Is there a problem, Vicky?’
‘No problem,’ I said curtly.
