“Did you believe her?”
“Of course I did not. But it seemed to me wise to act as if I did. Vicky, she says John is here at Karnak. She saw him not five minutes ago. Turn off the flashlight and I will take you—”
“Damned if I will. I’ve had enough dark.”
“He will see us approaching.”
“No, he won’t because we aren’t going…Hmmm. Where was he when she saw him?”
Schmidt pointed down one of the endless aisles. “Going in that direction. What will you bet me that he is following Ashraf?”
“Ashraf is being followed by John who is being followed by Suzi who is being followed by Feisal and us? This is ludicrous, Schmidt. I’m going back to the entrance and you are coming with me.”
“Feisal is following Suzi?”
“Just come quietly, okay?”
There was only one way of making certain he did, and that was to start back myself. I knew my Schmidt wouldn’t leave me alone.
We had only gone a little way when a long, high-pitched cry echoed down the aisles. The sound was as shocking as an explosion in the pervasive silence, and it went on and on, broken by brief pauses which wrenched at the hearing almost as painfully as the cries themselves.
The flashlight beam wobbled violently as I pivoted, trying to locate the source. Schmidt tugged at my arm. “This way!”
“Schmidt, we can’t—”
But I knew we had to. Feisal was out there somewhere.
As we swerved around columns we ran into a man coming the other way—another way, anyhow, there weren’t any discernible directions in that maze. I directed my light at him in time to keep Schmidt from knocking him flat. He was even chubbier than Schmidt; they bounced off each other and rocked to a stop.
“Wolfgang!” Schmidt exclaimed.
“Schmidt! Is it you?
“Your flashlight, Schmidt,” I said breathlessly.
He had, understandably, neglected to introduce Wolfgang; I deduced that he was a member of one of the archaeological groups working in the Luxor area. The screams had stopped, but after we’d gone a little way I began to hear voices. We weren’t the only ones who had responded. Some must have been closer to the scene than we, since already a small group of people had gathered around a figure seated on the ground, hands clutching his head. Everybody was talking at once, offering advice in a variety of languages.
“Don’t try to get up.”
“Lie down, you are bleeding.”
“Send for an ambulance!”
“Stand back, give him air.”
Among the spectators was Feisal. We trotted up to him and he spared us a quick glance. “It’s Ashraf. He’s not badly hurt. All right, friends, your assistance is appreciated but unnecessary. He slipped and hit his head, that’s all.”
“I was afraid it was you,” I mumbled.
“No, that was me screaming. I heard a muffled cry and the sound of a fall, and found him flat on the ground. I didn’t want to leave him alone while I went for help.”
“He didn’t slip, did he?”
“Later. Come on, Ashraf, let me give you a hand.”
“He may have concussion,” Schmidt said. “Should we not wait for a medical person?”
“He could die of old age before we got a stretcher in here,” Feisal said. “Are you offering to carry him?”
Ashraf lowered his hands and looked up at us. Blood trickled down his neck. “I don’t require to be carried. A slight accident, as Feisal said. I hope I have not spoiled this experience for you.”
He got slowly to his feet, waving Feisal away. The spectators made polite disclaimers, but they began to drift away singly and in pairs, returning to the entrance. The show was over, in any case. The light had faded. The gibbous moon was setting.
“Take my arm,” Feisal said. “Nobody’s looking, you needn’t show off any longer.”
“Go away,” Ashraf said through his teeth. “Leave me alone.”
Wolfgang, the only one of the outsiders left, took this personally. He chugged away, muttering and shaking his head.
“You too,” said Ashraf, squaring his manly shoulders and distributing an indiscriminate glare at the rest of us.
“Fat chance,” I said. “You owe us an explanation, Ashraf. Whom did you meet? Where did he go?”
“She,” Feisal said.
“What?” I stared at him.
“I saw her running away,” Feisal said. “She had a scarf pinned round her head and she was wearing a skirt. And don’t try to tell me it was a man in a head cloth and galabiya, I know the difference.”
“I suppose,” said Ashraf, “that if I told you I had an appointment with a lady friend—”
“We wouldn’t believe it,” I assured him. “So your contact was female.” I succumbed, I admit, to sexist prejudice.
For all his bravado, Ashraf wasn’t at his best. He sagged a little, and when Feisal put an arm round him he didn’t shrug it off. “It was clever,” Ashraf admitted. “I had come prepared to defend myself should it be necessary. Finding a woman lowered my guard.”
“Why did she hit you?” I asked.
“She didn’t. We were getting along nicely when someone came up behind me.” Ashraf showed his teeth in what was certainly not a friendly smile. “It was your friend Mr. Tregarth.”
ELEVEN
A shraf refused to see a doctor. He was steady on his feet, and it was two o’clock in the morning, so we decided to take him back to the Winter Palace. The yawning guard assured us we were the last to leave the temple. I doubted, not his veracity—he probably thought he was telling the truth—but his accuracy. But by that time I didn’t give a damn who was still chasing whom around the columns or climbing over which walls.
After protesting our intent, to no avail, Ashraf lapsed into silence and refused to answer questions. The streets of Luxor were dim and deserted, with not even a taxi in sight, but of course the director’s car awaited. Nothing so prosaic as an ordinary EgyptAir flight for Ashraf; he had had his chauffeur drive him to Luxor.
When we arrived at the hotel, I stopped at the desk to ask for messages and was informed, with appropriate hauteur, that they would have been delivered to our room. Mr. Tregarth had not picked up the one we had left earlier. The news came as no surprise.
Schmidt dug out his first-aid kit and Ashraf submitted fairly graciously to my ministrations, such as they were. The blow had landed just behind his right ear, resulting in a bump and a small cut. He refused my offer to shave off the hair around the cut, so I had to settle for dabbing on an antiseptic cream. I smeared on quite a lot of it, messing up his nice haircut, since by that time I had had it up to here with Ashraf.
He had resigned himself to the inevitable by then—the inevitable being three annoyed people who were prepared to use force to prevent his leaving—and he’d also had time to think things over.
“How did you know?” he inquired, taking a sip of the fizzy lemon drink with which Schmidt had supplied him.
“We’re asking the questions,” I said, folding my arms. “Why didn’t you tell us you had heard again from the thieves?”
“The second message warned me of what would happen if I confided in anyone else.”
“Another piece of Tut?” I asked.
Ashraf shuddered. “Please, don’t say such things.”
