is a disgrace that he, the most famous of all our monarchs, the name of all names synonymous with Egypt, is left to rot in that contaminated hole in Luxor. I wish you would speak to Ashraf about it, Feisal.”
“I—uh—saw him today,” Feisal said.
“You did?” She clapped her hands. “I am so glad. It is time you two made it up. Perhaps you can influence him; he only laughs at me. But now—” She consulted her wristwatch. “We have had enough of mummies, haven’t we, Vicky? Let us wash the dust of ages from our throats with an aperitif and decide where we should go for dinner.”
I was all in favor of the first part of the agenda. An hour with Saida would have left me limp even if I had not become overly sensitive to the mention of certain words. She fairly crackled with energy.
Tugged along by her arm through mine, I wondered how much Feisal had told her about his past. Did she know about his part in the theft and subsequent retrieval of Tetisheri’s tomb? Complete trust between lovers is a beautiful thing, but he was a damned fool if he had confessed all. Would she still love him if she knew he had once planned to help a bunch of crooks steal a great treasure? Would she still adore him if she found out he had lost Tut?
The museum was closing. We dragged Schmidt away from the bookstore, where a three-foot-high image of the jackal-headed god Anubis had caught his eye, and joined the crowds being shooed out. A row of tourist buses belched exhaust fumes and hawkers of various worthless items closed in on us. As Saida sent them packing with a few well-chosen words, I thought how easy it would be for a would-be assassin to pick off a victim at close range. Any one of the vendors or casual strollers who brushed past us could be carrying a gun. The same had been true in Berlin, though, and in Rome and London. What was the significance of that?
It meant that up until now nobody had wanted to kill one of us. Up until now.
We retired to the comfort of the bar at the hotel, a cozy place with dim lights and soft chairs. Saida flirted indiscriminately with Feisal and Schmidt, but made little progress with John, who seemed even more preoccupied than usual.
“He is your lover, yes?” she inquired, turning to me. “That is nice. Feisal and I have not made love yet. He is very proper. And he is afraid of my father. I tell him there is no reason, Papa is not even in Egypt, he is in Paris. He is a brain surgeon, and my sister is also a medical doctor.”
She told her whole life story and expounded her views on marriage, religion, and life in general. “Now you must tell me all about yourself,” she said. “I am glad to meet you at last. Feisal has spoken of you often. I was a little jealous!”
“Now you know you needn’t have been,” I said. “What has he told you about me?”
“That you are a distinguished professor of art history and an official of the National Museum in Munich and a close friend of Herr Doktor Schmidt.” She paused invitingly. She had been more than candid with me, and it was hard to resist those big brown eyes and friendly smile, but I remembered one of John’s basic rules: Find out how much the other person knows before you let your hair down. Stick to trivia.
So I told her about Clara and Caesar, and my family back in the States, and about my pathetic attempt to crochet a baby cap for my soon-to-be-niece or nephew. She wasn’t trying to pump me, I would have bet on that; but she had a way with her, and it was a rare pleasure to gossip with a fellow female with whom I had so much in common. We started swapping funny stories about our work. She told me about the man who had entered her office at the museum carrying a huge wreath of flowers, and asked if he might put it on the coffin of one of the anonymous female mummies. She had been his mother in a former incarnation, he had explained, and she had been haunting him demanding attention. I countered with the story of a visitor whom we found in the torture room trying to get into the Iron Maiden. He kept yelling, “I have sinned, I have sinned,” as the horrified guards dragged him away.
“And then there was the time…” I said.
“Excuse me, ladies.” John, who had seemed to be engrossed in chitchat with Schmidt, turned toward us. “We were discussing where to go for dinner. Feisal said you could recommend a restaurant, Saida.”
“Yes, there is one not far from here. I will telephone.”
We had to cross Tahrir Square, which was an adventure I hope not to repeat with any frequency. There are a dozen lanes of traffic, none of which obeys any discernible rules. Saida took charge of Schmidt, who had probably had too much beer; I heard his loud chuckles as she guided him across with the skill of a matador sidestepping the horns of the bull. The rest of us followed, less skillfully, but as Feisal pointed out, nobody really wanted to run into us; it would have delayed them.
“Shouldn’t you call Ashraf?” Feisal asked.
“Not until we get rid of your girlfriend,” John said.
Feisal gave him a hurt look. “Don’t you like her?”
“I adore her. Be polite. But get rid of her.”
Saida and Schmidt would have made a night of it if John hadn’t mentioned that we had to get up early to catch our flight. I almost said, “What flight?”
“What flight?” Schmidt asked.
“Luxor,” John said. “Dear me, you are getting forgetful, Schmidt. It’s time you were in bed. Come along quietly.”
Feisal insisted on taking Saida home. “I won’t be long,” he promised.
“Ha,” said Schmidt. “Were I in your place, I would not come back at all.”
We subdued Schmidt. The walk back, and a few hairbreadth escapes crossing the square, sobered him up enough to be sensible, but he could not stop singing Saida’s praises.
“A wonderful young woman. Feisal is lucky to have won her heart. We must attend the wedding. Will it be soon, do you think?”
“There may not be a wedding if we can’t get Feisal and ourselves out of this mess,” I said.
Feisal was true to his word. He got to the hotel only half an hour after we did.
“I had a hard time getting away,” he reported.
“She wanted to come to Luxor with us,” Feisal went on, ignoring the leer.
“Just what we need,” I said. “An expert on mummies with a particular interest in Tutankhamon following us around. Feisal, how much does she know about the Tetisheri affair?”
“You might call it an expurgated version,” Feisal said wryly. “A lot of people knew about the retrieval of the paintings, and my part in it. I was appointed to my present job because of my heroism, and over the heads of a lot of people who thought they had a better claim to it.”
“I bet you described our mad dash to Cairo, with innumerable villains hot on our trail,” I suggested.
Feisal grinned self-consciously. “She led me on. You know how it is.”
“You were a hero,” I said, patting him on the arm. “So nothing about your initial involvement—or John’s?”
“Good God, no. And if she ever finds out…”
“She won’t,” John said impatiently. “If you keep your mouth shut. I trust you talked her out of coming with us?”
“Yes. Have you spoken with Ashraf yet?”
“I guess I’ve left him dangling long enough. Hang on.”
We could hear only John’s end of the conversation, but it wasn’t hard to fill in the intervening lines.
“We accept your proposition…
“I know. I assure you, we won’t waste any more time…
“Tomorrow. We would appreciate it if you would make arrangements. In view of the fact that our earlier flight was—er—canceled…”
He was silent for a while, listening. His expression didn’t change much—nothing so obvious as a raised eyebrow—but I knew the outlines of his features well enough to know he’d heard something he didn’t like.
“Very well,” he said and snapped the cell phone shut.
“What?” Schmidt demanded. “What did he say?”
“He’ll see that we catch the ten-thirty flight tomorrow. He’ll send his car for us and make reservations at the Winter Palace.”
“The Old Winter Palace, I trust,” said Schmidt, still feeling no pain. “The New is not acceptable. I had better
