‘It was nothing,’ John murmured. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’
I was spared further dramatics by Larry, who called for silence so that he could make his announcement. It was brief and quiet and modest, but bureaucrats can’t do anything simply; everybody who was anybody had to make a speech. A couple of them embraced Larry, to his evident embarrassment. He concluded by presenting the new director of the new institute, a stocky, bearded young Swiss named Jean-Luis Mazarin. I had noticed him earlier, chug-a-lugging champagne. He had cause for celebration, all right. Jobs in archaeology are scarce, and this one was a scholar’s dream. It was a fitting gesture of appreciation, said Larry, for Dr Mazarin’s supervision of the restoration of Tetisheri’s tomb paintings.
Fitting, maybe; but not particularly tactful. I was surprised that the first director wasn’t an Egyptian.
But not as surprised as I had been at Paul’s gushing thanks. What was John up to now? He must have some ulterior motive, he always did. The most obvious explanation was that the Oriental Institute now owned a very well-made fake. Making them pay for it was a particularly nice touch.
The party was still in full swing when Larry edged up to me and invited me to come see his etchings. They were sketches, actually – the original hand-coloured drawings of Egyptian sites made back in the 1830s by an artist named David Roberts. I’d seen countless reproductions of them on postcards and notepaper. Even the prints sold for hundreds of dollars at auction.
The main object of interest, however, was a man, short and slim and straight. He rose from his chair when we entered Larry’s study, and although he was in civilian clothes you could see the invisible uniform. He cut Larry’s introduction short.
‘First names will suffice,’ he said, with a smile that came nowhere near his intent dark eyes. ‘Call me Achmet.’
‘I’d like to call you a few other names,’ said my champagne-loosened tongue. ‘What the hell’s the idea of leaving me out in the cold without even a woolly scarf?’
‘Sit down, please,’ said Achmet.
I sat. I imagine most people sat when Achmet told them to.
‘I am sorry you feel that way,’ he went on. ‘We could not anticipate that our arrangements would be . . . disarranged.’
‘Ali was disarranged some too, wasn’t he?’
His lips tightened. ‘He was murdered, yes. But you have nothing more to worry about, Dr Bliss. Your part of the job is finished. Tregarth was the only one you recognized? You have not identified any of his allies?’
‘Yes and no, in that order,’ I said shortly.
‘Then there is no more for you to do.’ He sat back and spread his hands wide. ‘He will be under observation from now on. Enjoy the remainder of your visit to our country, and forget what has happened.’
‘Just a damned minute,’ I said, as he got to his feet. ‘I’ve got a few questions of my own.’
‘The less you know the better for you.’
‘Oh, that haunting old refrain! So I’m curious. What if he doesn’t go through with it? He knows me. He knows – ’
‘That he is under suspicion?’ Achmet stroked his neat black moustache. ‘I imagine he does. Your presence on the cruise would be enough to alert him to that.’
‘I told Burckhardt so at the beginning.’
Achmet shrugged. ‘It does not matter. If he proceeds, and we believe he will, there is no way he can avoid being caught.’
‘What’s he after?’ I demanded. ‘I hope it’s occurred to you, as it has to me, that the museum could be a decoy. While you increase security there, he may walk off with something else.’
‘Certainly it occurred to us.’ Achmet was halfway to the door. Obviously I bored him. He turned for a final word. ‘I told you to forget it, Dr Bliss. Stay away from Tregarth, from the museum, and most especially from the offices of State Security.’
‘That’s all very well and good. What if he – they – won’t stay away from me?’
Achmet looked exasperated. At least I think that was the import of his frown. His face didn’t appear to be capable of any more affable expression than annoyance. ‘Why should they bother with you? You have passed on the only information you possessed. Stop prying into matters that no longer concern you and you will be perfectly safe.’
I returned his scowl with interest. ‘You guys were the ones who asked me to pry.’
‘That is true. We are very grateful for your assistance.’
It was the most insincere thank-you I have ever heard, and I include a few I’d wrung out of John.
My memories of the remainder of the evening are somewhat blurred. People kept pressing champagne on me, and by that time I couldn’t think of any reason to refuse. I had a little chat with Alice, who was looking quite elegant in sequins and chiffon; she had been told the same thing Achmet had told me: you’re off the case, forget the whole thing. I vaguely remember congratulating Jean-Louis, the new director, but I don’t recall what we talked about or how I got to bed.
I woke with a hangover, of course. Served me right.
The reopening of Tetisheri’s tomb turned out to be another big occasion. I had expected a minister or two, but I hadn’t realized there would be so many reporters or that security would be so tight. Our little caravan was accompanied by a military escort, and when we reached the site I realized there were no tourists around except us. Everywhere I looked I saw uniformed men carrying rifles.
Tetisheri’s tomb is not in the Valley of the Kings or the Valley of the Queens. The royals and nobles of her dynasty had been buried on the slopes of a hill called the Dira’ Abu’l-Naga. She was one of the last of her line to be buried in that cemetery; her predecessors had taken the choicer and more accessible sites in the flanks of the hill. The fact that hers was higher, at the back of a narrow cleft, had probably contributed to its survival.
We climbed the modern stairs that had made access to the tomb easier for the men who had worked on it for over three years. Naturally there were more speeches. Larry handed over a huge key to the minister, who unlocked the iron gates that had been built over the entrance. Everybody clapped, and Larry led the first party inside. All were government dignitaries. The rest of us commoners had to cool our heels.
While we were awaiting our turn I chatted with Paul Whitney. Only a few archaeologists had been invited, and according to Paul, plenty of noses were out of joint. ‘We all complain about the damage done to the tombs by visitors,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘But we except ourselves.’
‘So are you going to decline the invitation?’ I asked.
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘I am.’
I wasn’t even worried about my claustrophobia. Compared to the more elaborate later tombs, this one was small and simple – a single flight of stairs, a short corridor, and two rooms. Only ten people were allowed in at a time, but the rooms seemed very crowded because we huddled together, elbows tight against our sides. We had been warned not to touch the paintings.
Carefully I edged up to one of the walls and squinted at close range. The ancient artists had covered the rock walls with a layer of plaster before applying the paint, and by the time Larry’s people got to work, moisture and the formation of salt crystals had separated large sections of plaster from the rock behind it. The loose sections had been carefully removed and placed onto padded supports; then the rock wall had been cleaned before the plaster was replaced, using modern adhesives that wouldn’t flake or dry or shrink as older types had often done. Not until that process was complete could the actual restoration begin – cleaning off the accumulated grime of decades, replacing tiny flakes of paint that had fallen to the floor or between the rock and the facing. The patience and skill required had been extraordinary.
After we emerged I found a convenient boulder and sat down, tipping my hat over my eyes. I must be getting used to the climate. The hot, dry air felt good. Yes, by God, I would do as jolly old Achmet had suggested – forget distractions and enjoy myself.
I could probably talk Schmidt into going to Aswan. It would be pleasant to cruise, without distractions. We could come back to Luxor later, after . . .
They’d be watching every move he made from now on, poised like cats by a mouse hole, waiting for him to commit the act that would condemn him to prison, or to a narrower and more permanent resting place. People have been shot while resisting arrest
