least the Americans tipped well. Better than the British, who haggled over every pound.
The tomb he guarded was locked, as it often was, but that hadn’t prevented people from trying to bribe him to let them in. One fat-faced American had offered him a hundred Egyptian pounds—two months’ pay for him, the price of an inexpensive dinner for the American. God knew he could have used the money. But it would have cost him his job to break the rules, especially with this tomb. It was too conspicuous, right on the main path, the most famous tomb in the Valley.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. The babble of voices faded; and then a sound brought him wide awake. He sat up and stared.
Coming toward him was a black SUV, horn blaring, warning pedestrians off the road. It had to be an official vehicle, no others were allowed in the Valley. It was followed by two other cars, and behind them was an object that made Ali’s eyes open even wider. It was as big as a tour bus, but it wasn’t a bus; it was a van, painted white and covered with writing in some language that definitely wasn’t Arabic. Memory stirred and Ali invoked his god. He’d seen a van like that before. What was it doing here now? Why hadn’t he been told?
The cavalcade pulled to a stop in front of the tomb. Men in black uniforms got out of the sedans and fanned out, forming a cordon around the entrance. The doors of the SUV opened. A man got out and strode briskly toward Ali. He was bearded and wore horn-rimmed glasses. Another, younger, man followed him. He carried a worn briefcase.
“You the fellow in charge?” the older man barked. “Jump to it. Get that gate open. We haven’t much time.”
“But,” Ali stuttered. “But—”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Weren’t you notified we would be here?”
Ali’s blank stare was apparently answer enough; the man turned to his younger companion and said something in an undertone. Ali caught the words “typical Egyptian efficiency.”
“Well, we’re here now,” the bearded man went on. “I am Dr. Henry Manchester of the British Institute of Technoarchaeology. I presume you would like to see my authorization. Yes, yes, quite proper.”
He snapped his fingers. The younger man fumbled in his briefcase and pulled out a paper, which he handed to Manchester, who handed it to Ali. “I don’t suppose you read English, but you should recognize the signature.”
Ali prided himself on his knowledge of English but knew better than to express his resentment. The document looked impressive. The Supreme Council of Antiquities, Office of the Secretary General. It was signed by the Great Man himself. Not that Ali had ever received a letter from the Great Man, but he had met him once, just after his appointment to the post, when he made a tour of the major sites. Perhaps “met” wasn’t the precise word; but the Great Man had nodded graciously in his general direction.
“Yes, I see,” he said slowly. “But I cannot—”
“Put in a call to the Supreme Council, then,” the Englishman said impatiently. “Only make it fast.”
Oh, yes, Ali thought. Telephone the Supreme Council. This is Ali, you remember me, the guard from the Valley of the Kings. Put me through to Dr. Khifaya right away…
“No,” he said. “The paper is in order.”
“I should think so. Now don’t delay me any longer, we were held up at the bridge and are short on time. Never mind the key, I have one.”
He pushed past Ali and went down the stairs.
From that point on things moved so fast Ali couldn’t have stopped them if he had wanted to. The back doors of the van opened. Inside was a bewildering medley of machinery—cables, tubes, shapes of plastic and metal. Several men in crisp white dungarees jumped out and followed the two Englishmen down the stairs. Ali looked around for help—advice—reassurance. A small crowd had gathered, tourists gaping and speculating, and several of his fellow guards, kept at a distance by the men in black uniforms. After a moment he went down the stairs and along the corridor into the tomb chamber. He let out a faint cry of protest when he saw that the glass covering the stone sarcophagus had been set aside. The white-garbed men were in the process of lifting the lid of the gilded coffin inside the big stone box. From the coffin base they removed a long, rigid platform covered by dusty fabric. Moving quickly but with care, the bearers maneuvered their burden through the narrow space and out of the room.
By this time interest and curiosity had replaced Ali’s initial concern. Yes, it was like the last time. The van wasn’t the same—the other one had been larger—but from what he could tell, the equipment inside was similar. Only this time there were no journalists or television crews. He’d seen himself on television when they showed the program—just a fleeting glimpse, but he’d bought a tape and played that part over and over. Maybe they had got it wrong the first time and had to come back and do it again? That made sense. They wouldn’t want to admit a mistake, so they had arranged for this to be done without publicity and advance notice.
Finding himself alone in the burial chamber, he went back along the corridor and up the stairs. They had put the litter and its contents into the van and closed the doors. Machinery was humming and sputtering. There were beeping noises and people talking. He squatted down and lit a cigarette and waited and thought about…him. How did he like being dragged out of what he had hoped would be his final resting place, stared at by impious strangers, discussed as if he were a piece of wood? He had been an infidel, a pagan, but once he had been human and he had been faithful to his own gods in his time.
The sun was low above the cliffs when the doors at the back of the van opened again. The shrouded shape was lifted out and carried back into the tomb.
“You have been very helpful,” the Englishman said. He smiled for the first time, and Ali saw the glint of a gold tooth or filling. “I shall mention you to Dr. Khifaya. Here.”
Ali took the folded paper but he didn’t look at it until after the men had piled back into their vehicles and driven off. Then he unfolded the banknote. His lip curled. Ten miserable Egyptian pounds.
Englishmen.
I don’t get it,” I said. “Why the consternation? Nobody told you in advance, but maybe this was a sudden decision and they tried to get in touch with you and couldn’t because you were out in the desert or something. Or maybe…”
My voice trailed off. The two of them sat there staring fixedly at me. “Oh, Lord,” I said.
“She’s a little slow this evening,” John explained, nodding at Feisal. “Be patient with her. What did you do after Ali informed you of the—er—visit?”
“Went into the tomb.” Feisal removed a crumpled white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “At first sight everything looked normal. But I had a feeling…One of
“King Tut?” I gasped. “They stole King Tut?”
TWO
J ohn’s only reaction was a lifted eyebrow. He’d seen it coming. I had a feeling that he wished he’d thought of it himself.
“But why?” I asked. “Why on earth would anyone want a beat-up, dried-up old corpse?”
“We’ll get to that in due course,” John said. “First things first. Who else knows about this, Feisal?”
“Who knows he’s missing, you mean? Only Ali and I. We managed to get everything back in place. Actually, I can’t swear that his legs weren’t still there, we couldn’t reach down that far, but…”
“Ick,” I said.
“It’s a safe assumption that if they took the rest they’d have made a clean sweep,” John said. “They had plenty of time. Will Ali keep his mouth shut?”
Feisal laughed bitterly. “Damn right he will. He’ll lose his job for sure and probably end up in prison. In the cell next to mine.”
“Come on now,” I protested. “It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t even there.”
“The Supreme Council will want a scapegoat, and it happened in my jurisdiction. My God, Vicky, Tutankhamon
