the room, went into the bedroom and study and did the same, and preceded me into the kitchen.
“All clear,” he said.
I put the groceries away and then settled down to watch telly and wait for Schmidt to call. John, who professes to despise popular culture, retreated into the study, his nose in the air. In a way I didn’t blame him for avoiding what has become an exercise in despondency (the news) and/or idiocy (most sitcoms), but I find it relaxing. I had a bag of crisps in one hand and a beer in the other and was switching from channel to channel when I caught something that made me spill the crisps.
“John,” I yelled. “Get in here. Quick!”
He shot through the door. Seeing me bolt upright and unthreatened, he was about to expostulate when I gestured at the screen. “Look. It’s him!”
I recognized the background: the facade of the Altes Museum in Berlin. In the foreground Dr. Ashraf Khifaya, secretary general of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, in full glorious color, was being interviewed by a BBC reporter. He was wearing a pristine pith helmet and carrying a huge sign that read, in English, German, and Arabic: “Let Nefertiti come home.” Other newspersons surrounded him. He looked like a particularly gorgeous Hollywood star playing an adventurous archaeologist. The bullwhip would appear any second. In the background a long line of black-robed women paced slowly along the sidewalk, accompanied by the slow throb of drums.
“No dancing girls,” John said critically.
“This is better. Solemn and dramatic.”
“I ask only for what is ours,” Khifaya declaimed, in excellent English with just enough accent to sound exotic. “After years of exploitation…”
They cut him off in mid-spiel; no news item is worth more than a few minutes. In keeping with their declared policy of presenting both sides, the cameras switched to a man sitting behind a desk.
“It’s him,” I squealed.
“He,” said John.
“Shh.”
“This is a free country,” said the man behind the desk in clipped tones. “If the distinguished secretary general chooses to make an exhibition of himself, that is his privilege. Thank you.”
“So Nefertiti is not going home?” asked a blond female, twinkling at the camera.
“You have received a press release on the position of the museum. It has not changed. Thank you.”
“So the feud continues,” said the blonde, with a merry laugh.
She was replaced by an equally blond starlet answering questions about her upcoming divorce. John grabbed the remote and switched off the set.
“You recognized him, didn’t you?” I demanded. “Not Khifaya, the second guy.”
“I presume he is the director of the museum.”
“Assistant director. It was Jan Perlmutter. You remember—the guy that stole the Trojan Gold out from under our noses.”
“Your nose.”
“Oh, come on, you were in on the hunt too. So we picked the wrong grave. I still don’t know how Perlmutter figured out which was the right one.”
“Ah, yes, it’s coming back to me.” John began collecting scattered crisps. “My guess would be that he winkled the information out of your chum, the little old woodcarver. I got the distinct impression that the old chap knew more than he was telling you. Didn’t you ever ask?”
“There wasn’t time. I fled with my tail between my legs and Herr Muller had left Garmisch to stay with his sister. I meant to get in touch with him, but a few weeks later I got a note from the sister telling me he had died.”
I still felt a little guilty about not making more of an effort to find out how the old fellow was doing. I had grown fond of him and I had thought he was fond of me. Had he been holding out on me? If so, it was surely because he feared that for me knowledge might be dangerous. As it definitely had been. He might have meant to tell me more if he hadn’t died suddenly…It was irrelevant now.
“If you mean did I ask Perlmutter how he figured it out, the answer is a loud profane no,” I went on. “I haven’t spoken to the skunk since then.”
“I didn’t recognize him,” John admitted. “He’s losing his hair.” He ran a gentle hand over his own shining locks.
“Serves him right,” I said vindictively. “That discovery put him on the high road to promotion and left me looking like an idiot.”
“If it’s any consolation, he didn’t look very happy.”
“He didn’t, did he? He’s finding out that being a museum big shot isn’t all rich donors and fine art. Hey—why don’t you check the Net and see if there are any stories about the siege of the museum?”
“Sure to be,” said John. “Every other piece of trivia is.”
Reuters and the German newspapers had stories, with lots of photographs, mostly of Khifaya. His good looks, his showmanship, and most of all that pith helmet had a visual impact as impressive as that of any celebrity. He spoke with eloquence and passion and an occasional winning touch of humor. I could have sworn there were tears in those big dark eyes when he appealed to the world for justice.
“You’re drooling,” John said nastily, and switched to what he referred to as the Egyptology blogs. They were full of Khifaya too. I pulled up a chair, shoved John over, and began reading some of the comments. Opinion was divided. Some thought Egypt’s claim should be honored, some had accepted the museum’s statement that the famous bust was too fragile to be moved. Then I got distracted by other items. They ranged from the soberly professional to the utterly loony. Debates raged about everything from the construction of the Great Pyramid to the age of the Sphinx, and ignorance of the subject didn’t prevent people from voicing their ideas.
A word caught my eye and I stopped John as he was about to scroll down.
The word was “mummy.”
It took a few minutes to pick up the thread of the discussion, which had apparently been going on for a while. Somebody had found Queen Hatshepsut—again—and somebody else said no, it couldn’t be she, because she was another mummy in another tomb, identified only by a number that didn’t strike an immediate chord, and somebody else declared that mummy number two was Nefertiti or maybe her daughter.
“I could get hooked on this,” I said, fascinated. “Look at that sketch of mummy number two. She’s copied it straight off the Berlin head.”
“The world is full of fanatics,” said John. “At least they aren’t talking about—”
My cell phone rang. I snatched it up.
“I am here,” said a doleful voice. “Shall I come there?”
“No,” John said loudly.
“Schmidt, are you all right?” I said.
“No. I am in deep distress. I am coming—”
“Stay where you are.” John grabbed the phone. “The Savoy?”
“
“We are coming to you,” I said, retrieving the phone. “Stay put, Schmidt. We’ll be there in half an hour.”
“
A long sigh followed. I hung up in the middle of it.
“You had better change,” John said, eyeing my jeans and T-shirt critically.
“Don’t they have a grill, or someplace less formal than the main dining room?”
“There is no informal dining spot at the Savoy. Change. And hurry. Schmidt isn’t known for his patience.”
He skinned off his jeans and shirt as he spoke. By the time I had located a pair of respectable pants and a top without a rude saying printed on it he was knotting his tie.
“The Royal Marines?” I asked, studying the pattern of stripes.
“First Gloucestershire Regiment.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“My dear girl, there is no law against wearing a regimental tie.” He began transferring various items from the jacket he had worn that day into the pockets of an elegant wool-and-silk navy blazer. The last item was the fake
