Laughter of Dead Kings

is a symbol, a legend, a unique historical treasure. The media will go crazy. There will be jokes on late-night talk shows and criticism from every museum and institution in the world, and they’ll all say Egypt has a hell of a nerve asking us to give its antiquities back when it lets a bunch of crooks walk off with the most famous pharaoh in history.”

“Hmmm.” John rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid you’re right. It would definitely embarrass the government.”

“Embarrass!” Feisal flung up his hands. “Embarrass is when you spill a drink into the ambassador’s wife’s lap. This is shame, disgrace, heads rolling right and left. But if I could get him back…” He turned to John; his long, flexible hands went out in a gesture of appeal.

Him, not it, I thought. He kept talking about that battered mummy as if it were alive. Well, but it—he—had been alive, once upon a time. Not an inanimate object like a coffin or a statue, an actual, living human being, a king, incredibly preserved for an incredible length of time. I began to get a glimmering of why Feisal was so frantic. Imagine someone making off with the bones of George Washington. And he’d only been dead two hundred years.

“We’ll help if we can,” I said, wondering how.

“You aren’t keeping up, Vicky,” John said. He leaned back and crossed his ankles, the picture of ease. “You think I was responsible, Feisal. That’s why you dashed over here, to ask me to give it—”

“Him.”

“Sorry. Him back.”

“Please?”

“For Pete’s sake, Feisal,” I said. “That’s crazy.”

“Not really,” John said pensively. “It’s the sort of thing I might have done in my younger and giddier days, for the sake of the challenge. The operation was well planned. They chose a time when you’d be elsewhere, waited till late in the day when the guards would be tired and anxious to leave, moved fast and with arrogant authority. Your friend Ali was in no position to stop them. It’s probably lucky for him he didn’t try. I don’t like the sound of those chaps in the black uniforms.” John brooded, thinking it over. “A setup familiar to Ali from a previous occasion: proper documentation—even a key to the tomb. A copy of that wouldn’t be difficult to obtain. He couldn’t confirm, you were out of cell-phone reach even if he had had access to one, and he’d never have got through to the Supreme Council. The equipment was fake, of course. Ali wouldn’t know the difference, any more than I would, so long as it looked impressive. They shoved it—er, him—into the van, moved him off the sand tray into another sort of container, sat around for half an hour making interesting technical noises—laughing their heads off, I don’t doubt— and then took the empty tray back in. Or maybe…Maybe they had a duplicate of the tray ready. That way they wouldn’t have to move those fragile bones. Yes, that’s how I would have done it. Only…” He leaned forward, hands clasped and eyes intent on his friend. “Only I didn’t, Feisal. Aside from the fact that I wouldn’t pull a filthy stunt like that on you, I was in London and I can prove it.”

A knot under my breastbone loosened. I hadn’t believed it—not really—but I hadn’t laid eyes on him for two weeks, and the modus operandi, as we sleuths say, was reminiscent of some of his deals.

“Your gang,” Feisal began, only half convinced.

“I don’t have a bloody gang! Gangs are composed primarily of extremely stupid, dishonest individuals who are for sale to the highest bidder. I learned from painful experience I couldn’t trust anyone except myself. That’s why I—”

“John,” I said sharply.

“Oh, right.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to know a lot more about this, but as Vicky so rightly reminded me, we’re running out of time. Can you be the charming, debonair guest with Schmidt and his girlfriend? He mustn’t get wind of this.”

“Allah forbid that he should,” Feisal said. He looked a little more…well, no, not more cheerful. A little less haggard. “I’d better go. Schmidt has an unfortunate effect on my nerves, which are already shaky. Call me after he’s left.”

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

Feisal looked blank. “I don’t know. I came straight from the airport.”

From the street outside came the familiar squeal of abused tires. I knew that sound. “Oh, my God, it’s Schmidt,” I exclaimed. “He’s early. What are we going to do?”

Thoroughly rattled, Feisal bolted for the door. Caesar followed, barking helpfully.

“Upstairs,” John ordered. “Second door on the right.”

Feisal didn’t stop moving, he spun in a circle and ran toward the stairs. John picked up his briefcase and thrust it at him. “Lock the door. We’ll tell you when the coast is clear. And don’t make a noise!”

Feisal stopped halfway up the stairs. “What if I have to—”

“Improvise,” said John through his teeth. The doorbell rang. Caesar barked. Feisal let out a faint scream and fled.

“Deep breath, Vicky,” John said. “Once more into the breach, dear friends. Into the mouth of death, into the jaws of hell…Or is it the other way round? I’ll get the door, shall I?”

Still incapable of speech or movement, I nodded. It will be all right, I told myself. Just keep Schmidt amused and unwitting for a few hours. I should be able to do that.

John flung the door open with what had been intended to be a jovial greeting. It ended in a catch of breath, and then I also saw the woman with Schmidt. His new girlfriend. Suzi Umphenour.

That wasn’t her real name. It was the name by which I had known her when she was a fellow passenger on the ill-fated Queen of the Nile during my last trip to Egypt—our most recent criminal investigation, as Schmidt called it. My assignment had been to identify a notorious thief who was purportedly about to rob the Cairo Museum. Suzi played the silly society matron from Tennessee with such panache that I probably should have suspected it was a caricature; but I had had other things on my mind and I didn’t find out who—or what—she really was until after the grisly affair was over and I encountered her again in a certain office in the U.S. Embassy in Cairo. Her precise affiliation had never been made clear. Interpol? Some set of initials? CIA, NSA, BFAE?

I might have known Schmidt would take up with her. He had described her as “a fine figure of a woman.” That’s been the story of my life: if something can go wrong, it will. Of all the people in the universe, the last one I wanted to see on a night like this was a woman who worked for an organization that tracked crooks. FBI, BFE, DAR, AA, PETA?

All that and more swirled around my befogged brain as I stood frozen.

“Surprise!” Schmidt shrieked. “A night of surprises, is it? John, my friend, how good to see you! You remember Suzi? She is my surprise!”

“And a very pleasant surprise,” said John, making a valiant effort. “Do come in. Let me take your coats.”

Schmidt was loaded down with parcels. “I take them to the kitchen,” he announced.

I followed him. Compared with Suzi, Schmidt was the lesser of two evils. “These in the refrigerator,” he announced, suiting the action to the words. “These on…” He looked down into the hopeful face of Caesar. “On the high shelf. And here is wine.”

I took the bottle he handed me. “I didn’t know you and Suzi were an item.”

Schmidt smirked. “I don’t tell you everything, Vicky. Yes, we have been friends for some time. Good friends.”

If he giggles, I thought, I’ll hit him with this bottle.

Schmidt struck a pose, hand on hip, chin lifted. “You have not told me how well I look.”

I hadn’t really looked at him. Same old Schmidt, five feet six standing on tiptoe, round as an orange and rosy as an apple, bristly white mustache…Wait a minute. Not white—brown. Rich, decisive brown. If I hadn’t been so bemused by Suzi I would have seen it immediately. Other details began to penetrate. The cheeks weren’t quite as plump or florid, the stomach had retreated behind what appeared to be a solid barrier of some kind.

“You dyed your mustache,” I said.

“Not dyed; brought out the natural color,” said Schmidt indignantly. “It is a special formula designed for prematurely gray individuals. Is that all you see?” He thumped his stomach, winced, and went on, “I have lost twenty pounds. I am fitter than most men half my age. Would you like to see my pecs?”

“Good God, no! I mean…” This new development almost made me forget Feisal, the missing mummy, and gimlet-brained Suzi, who must not, MUST NOT get wind of either of the former. “You look great,” I mumbled. “Was