“I feel certain you are about to tell me,” John said.
“And I feel certain you—all of you—are about to tell me various things.”
The two of them watched each other like duelists, eyes locked. I remembered a quotation: “Don’t bother watching his eyes, watch the bastard’s hands.” Good advice under some circumstances, but irrelevant here. Ashraf’s hands, lightly clasped, neatly manicured, were empty. He was good, but he was no match for a man who had spent most of his life avoiding dangerous slips of the tongue.
Feisal wasn’t as experienced. He started squirming. His forehead was beaded with perspiration. His lips parted. Schmidt, cozily close to Feisal on the sofa, shifted position and cleared his throat loudly.
“Yes, Feisal?” Ashraf asked.
“Nothing.”
Ashraf’s eyes moved from him to Schmidt, and then to me. So did John’s. If I had needed any incentive to keep my big mouth shut, that cold blue stare would have provided it, but I felt as if my brain were about to burst with questions. He knew. The SCA must have received a message, ransom note, threat, whatever, from the thieves. But in that case wouldn’t Ashraf have dashed off to Luxor to check on Tut? And wouldn’t Feisal have told us if he had? I picked up my cup and swallowed a spoonful of coffee grounds.
Ashraf chuckled. “It appears we have reached a stalemate. Very well; it is my move.”
He got up and went to a safe that stood against the wall and punched in a combination. It contained several open compartments filled with ledgers and files, plus a closed compartment, another, internal, safe. Ashraf took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Inside was a single object—a small box wrapped in heavy brown paper, which Ashraf removed. Returning to his seat, he put the box on the table.
“This was delivered to my flat day before yesterday.”
He took his time, carefully folding back the paper, slowly lifting the lid of the cardboard box it enclosed. Inside was another box, this one of wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl. You could find boxes like that in every shop in the suk. It had a rather flimsy brass catch, which Ashraf unfastened. Ashraf moved like a slug, in slow motion, watching John, whose expression of courteous patience didn’t change. The hinged lid was lifted, the layer of cotton wool inside was removed. And there it was.
A mummy’s hand.
SEVEN
I had only seen mummies and parts of same in movies. We have a few so-called relics in the museum, purchased because of the artistic merits of the reliquaries, which are usually made of precious metals, bejeweled and beautifully carved. I had never closely examined the contents. Seen close up, this fragment of humanity was something of a shock to the system—dried and brown, the fingers slightly flexed. Some of the skin was gone, exposing the finger bones. It could have been a well-made fake, a prop for a movie. But Feisal sprang to his feet and reached for the box.
“Carefully, carefully,” Ashraf said. “Don’t damage it.”
“Him,” Feisal whispered. He gazed yearningly at the horrible thing.
Ashraf leaned back, his lips curved in a smile of satisfaction. Thanks to that single pronoun, the cat was doing its damnedest to squirm out of the bag.
“Disgusting,” I said, in a feeble attempt to fend off the inevitable. “Who would send a thing like that? Some sicko, or maybe a publicist for a forthcoming horror film? I suppose there are people who—”
“Don’t waste your breath, Vicky,” John said. “He’s playing games. Feisal, are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. I would know him anywhere.” Feisal’s voice rose in a cry of distress. “Again he is being dismembered. What part will be next?”
Ashraf retrieved the box and began replacing the wrappings.
“Let us stop playing games, then,” he said briskly. “I will place my cards on the table and I expect you to reciprocate. When I first saw this, my reaction was like yours, Vicky. We do get such bizarre communications from time to time; Egypt breeds strange fantasies in certain minds. Then I saw the message that had been enclosed.”
He reached in the pocket of his shirt and took out a folded paper, which he handed to John. John read it aloud.
“‘If you want the rest of him, it will cost you three million American dollars. You have ten days to collect the money. We will be in touch.’”
“It was not difficult,” Ashraf resumed, “to deduce whose hand this might be. No anonymous mummy would be worth so much, and only one of the great kings rested in his tomb, outside the protection afforded by the Royal Mummies room of the museum. I went to my reference books. There are innumerable photographs, many by Harry Burton, who worked with Carter. They had dismembered the mummy in order to remove the jewelry on it. The head, hands, arms, feet, and legs had been detached, the lower legs separated from the upper, the lower arms from the upper arms, and the torso bisected. In an attempt to conceal their sacrilege, the excavators had arranged the body on a sand tray and reattached the feet and hands with resin. You can see traces of the resin at the wrist of this hand.”
The cat was prowling around the room lashing its tail. Feisal knew it, but I think he was still clinging to the forlorn hope that Ashraf hadn’t discovered his failure to report the theft. The hope didn’t last long.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Feisal?” Ashraf asked gently.
“I—um—”
“Did you think I would hold you accountable?” He spoke like a father to an erring son.
Feisal could only be jerked around so much. He sat up straight and glared at his cousin. “Damn right I did. I’ve been trying ever since I found out to get it—him—back. I didn’t know until after it happened, they picked a day when I was in Aswan—”
“I know. I spoke to Ali.”
“Poor devil,” Feisal said feelingly. “It wasn’t his fault either, Ashraf. What have you done to him?”
Ashraf’s big brown eyes widened. “Promised him immunity and promotion, of course. Good Lord, Feisal, sometimes your naivete astonishes me. The last thing we want is for Ali to break down and babble. Enough of this. I have an outer office full of people and most of them are wondering why I am spending so much time alone with you lot.”
He looked at each of us in turn, enjoying Schmidt’s desperate attempt to keep his face noncommittal, and Feisal’s quickened breathing. I was biting my lip to keep from yelling at him. Finally he said, “I want to hire you, Mr. Tregarth, to retrieve Tutankhamon.”
I had braced myself for an accusation, not an offer. So had Schmidt; he let his breath out in an explosive whoosh. John crossed his legs and smiled.
“Why me?” he asked, his big blue eyes widening.
“Because you and your friends here saved the treasure of Tetisheri for us.”
“Ah,” said John.
“The details of that extraordinary business are known only to a few, of which I am one. You received no reward except the thanks of a grateful nation. This time the reward will be worthy of the deed.”
“How much?” John asked.
Raised eyebrows indicated Ashraf’s disapproval of such crudity. “I am prepared to negotiate. But not here and now. Do you accept?”
“I must consult my associates,” John said. “But not here and now. If you and I can come to an agreement, we will proceed to Luxor and begin our investigation.”
A timid tap on the door prevented what would probably have been another cute remark from Ashraf and a violent assault from me, on him or John. I wanted to get the hell out of there. Ashraf shouted, “What do you want? I told you to hold my calls.” The door opened a crack; taking its cue from him, the voice spoke English.
“Yes, sir, but the minister is on the telephone and the director is here for your appointment, and—”
“We mustn’t keep you,” John said, rising to his feet.
“When may I expect to hear from you?” Ashraf asked. His smile indicated that although he might have lost this round, he was looking forward to the next one.
“Tomorrow.”
