“
“I thought you and Saida had tomorrow’s schedule all worked out.”
Schmidt tugged at his mustache. “Yes, but I am not so sure she is on the right track. How could an object of such size be concealed in a place where there are always people?”
“True, Schmidt. Why don’t you put Wolfgang off? Rain check, and so on. We don’t have time for social activities. I take it Saida and Feisal are planning to come for breakfast? We’ll reconsider our plans then.”
Schmidt went off with his parcels and his beer. He forgot the flail, which was lying on a chair. I picked it up and gave it a tentative swish. The beads made a sound like a baby’s rattle. As a potential weapon it lacked gravitas.
After I had washed and brushed and so on, I sat down on the side of my bed and called a number I had rung every night for the past four days. As before, there was no answer.
The bed had been turned down and not one but three foil-wrapped chocolates rested on the pillow. I unwrapped one. Maybe a sugar surge would stimulate my thought processes. I hadn’t had time to consider my conversation with Suzi and what I meant to do about it.
The pale blue galabiya Schmidt had pressed upon me lay across a chair. It would be about as useful as a belly dancer’s costume. (Schmidt would probably get one of those for me next.) I couldn’t pass as a man without, at the bare minimum, a properly wound turban and something to darken my hands and face. What I needed was a black woman’s robe and face veil. They sure didn’t sell them in the suk. I considered possibilities as I unwrapped the second chocolate. The “nice lady” from housekeeping might be able to get one for me—but negotiating with her while Schmidt was around wouldn’t be easy. Saida would know how to get one—but I didn’t want her in on this.
There was only one other option. I ate the last chocolate and got into bed.
T hat must be the house I was told about,” I said, pointing. “It’s the only one around that fits the description. Do you know it, Feisal?”
Feisal leaned past me to peer out the window of the taxi. We had hired one of the nondescript vehicles that wait for fares outside the hotel.
“Yes, I know it. When are you going to tell us how you learned of this place and why it’s important?”
Saida whipped out her notebook. “Is it on my list?”
“How the hell should I know?” Feisal demanded. “Vicky—”
“Later. Just keep a lookout.”
Someone might reasonably have asked “What for?” The house was surrounded by a high wall made of whitewashed mud brick. Only the tops of trees and the roofline of the building inside were visible. A wooden double-leafed gate, wide enough to admit a delivery truck, was closed. Sitting next to it on a straight chair was a man wearing a raggedy galabiya and head cloth. He glanced incuriously at the taxi. There were a few other people around—two women robed in black towing a protesting child between them, a huddled figure apparently asleep under a dusty palm tree, a man driving a donkey cart piled with greenery.
The taxi driver addressed Schmidt, who was sitting beside him. “Is this where you wish to go? Shall I stop?”
“No!” I said emphatically. “Keep going. Slowly.”
I pushed Feisal away from the window and craned my neck as we cruised past. It was the back of the house in which I was interested. I couldn’t see much. The right angle of the wall went on for some distance. It was as blank and uninformative as the front wall.
“The effendi is not there,” the driver offered. “He lives in Cairo most of the year.”
“Who is living there now?” I asked.
The string of blue beads hanging from the rearview mirror tinkled musically as the taxi turned onto a road that led away from the house. “Strangers. Also from Cairo, perhaps. They have their own vehicles. They came a month ago. They are not friendly people. They do not buy at the local market.”
“What about servants?” I asked. “Have they hired local people?”
An expressive shrug. “No.”
I was sorry to hear that, though it didn’t surprise me.
“Where now, sitt?” the driver asked. He had apparently accepted the fact that I was the one in charge.
“A cafe,” said Schmidt promptly. “The nearest.”
An extremely chilly silence ensued, enlivened only by hostile glares from Feisal. My colleagues had realized they weren’t going to get the information they wanted while the helpful, English-speaking driver was present. He selected a place (probably owned by a friend or cousin) on one of the streets of town, away from the corniche. We accepted his offer to wait.
“Very nice,” said Schmidt, as we settled at a table.
Very nice and very empty. We were the only patrons. Feisal fizzed quietly like a lit fuse while Schmidt discussed food with the waiter. When the latter had gone into the kitchen, Feisal leaned forward, pushed aside a vase with two rosebuds in it, and planted his arms on the table.
“All right, Vicky, we went along with you on this expedition and refrained, as you requested, from questions. Now let’s have it.”
“I will tell you everything,” I said.
“Hah,” said Schmidt.
I did tell them everything. Almost everything. Schmidt’s eyes narrowed and widened, narrowed and widened, as I described my conversation with Suzi. Feisal’s eyebrows wriggled. Grinning, Saida took out her notebook and pen.
I stopped talking when the waiter came with our coffee. The usual alternative to Turkish coffee is Nescafe and a pot of hot water. I was happy to settle for that. There were no grounds involved.
Nobody had interrupted me. They were too busy trying to take in the flood of information I had supplied. Saida was the first to recover.
“As I expected! A woman is the first to make a vital discovery!”
“It’s a possible lead,” I said modestly. “She could have been feeding me a line. I didn’t see anything suspicious.”
“Precisely what you would expect to see if it were the headquarters of the gang,” Saida cried.
“Hmm,” said Feisal.
“What do you think, Schmidt?” I asked. I was beginning to worry about him. He had barely spoken, and I had hit him with the equivalent of a sockful of sand.
“I think,” said Schmidt, “that you are deceitful and dangerous. And even more clever than I had realized. At least you had the sense to let us in on this instead of going alone to reconnoiter.”
“I am all those things,” I admitted. “And so are you, Schmidt, so don’t give me a hard time.”
“I do not because I know what drives you,” Schmidt said. “But we will not speak of that. We agree, do we not, that the house is suspicious? Strangers who have been in residence for a month, who do not mix with the local population, who live behind high walls with a guarded gate. Suzi would have no reason to lie to you. She wants your help.”
“And she’s perfectly willing to use you as a decoy,” Feisal added. “Forget it, Vicky. Not even to retrieve Tutankhamon would I permit you to take such a chance.”
“Aw, gee,” I said, patting his hand. “That’s so sweet.”
“You are a dreadful woman,” Feisal said, without rancor. “Can’t you accept a statement of affection without making a joke of it?”
“No, she is afraid of serious emotions,” Schmidt explained. “We who love her accept this.”
“Shut up, Schmidt,” I said. “Please.”
Schmidt patted my hand. “It is a subject for another time, perhaps. Assuming that Suzi is speaking the truth, that house may be the present headquarters of the gang. In which case, Tut—er—he may be there.”
Lips pursed and eyes shining, Saida chortled, “Yes, he must be. And it is Vicky who has found the vital clue! A woman!”
Nerves were a trifle strained. Feisal turned on his beloved with a sneer. “As it turns out, you weren’t so clever, were you? He’s not on the West Bank. You were wrong.”
“Not at all,” Saida said serenely. “Mine was only one theory among others.”
