enemies—at least not rich enemies.”
“I can think of one—” I bit my tongue. Feisal didn’t need any more negative thoughts.
“We’re still a long way from listing names,” John said. “It’s late, and I want Feisal on a plane to Cairo tomorrow.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?” Feisal asked.
“I can’t do anything from that end.”
“But—” Feisal began.
John raised a finger, like a schoolmaster enjoining silence. “This is how it stands. We don’t know what these people are likely to do next. Our only hope at the moment is damage control, to whatever extent that is possible. Your position is that you knew nothing in advance about the visit, you assumed when you learned of it that it was legitimate, and that you have no reason to suspect anything is wrong. You did not inspect the tomb or look in the sarcophagus. Neither did Ali. Notify me at once if you hear anything from anybody. That includes seemingly idle rumors and casual remarks from observers who might have noticed the route that damned van took. It would be nice to know where it went and when it disappeared off the radar, but it might be risky to ask direct questions.”
Feisal muttered something. I didn’t understand the words, but they sounded profane.
“In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do from my end,” John went on. “There are only a few organizations in my—er—former profession that have the means and the motives to pull off such a stunt. I need to send out feelers, see if there are any rumors starting to circulate.”
“This could be an entirely new group,” I suggested.
“Try to say something encouraging,” Feisal muttered.
“The encouraging aspect is that an act this preposterous will have repercussions,” John said. “There are connections, overt and covert, between the legitimate antiquities market and the illegal underground. I won’t give you examples—”
“No, don’t,” I said. “I see what you’re saying, and I’ll bet I can say it faster. The word will get around. People will talk. The network will operate the way networks do.”
“I could have said it better,” John remarked. “But in essence that’s it. I’ll start networking (dreadful word), and I can best do that in London.”
“I’m going with you,” I said.
J ohn obviously didn’t trust Feisal to do what he was told, so we personally escorted him to the airport in time to catch an afternoon flight to Cairo. I had spent the morning at the museum, arranging for my leave of absence. I was prepared to point out to Schmidt that he owed me, after his four frivolous weeks at a fat farm, but to my surprise he didn’t even ask where I was going. He didn’t have to. Thanks to the miracles of modern communication the little rascal could locate me wherever I was, by any one of a dozen different ways. Sometimes I yearn for the good old days of the Pony Express. By the time you got the news of someone’s imminent demise the person was dead and buried. And by the time your response arrived, the survivors had put off their mourning and were getting on with their lives.
“Enjoy yourself,” Schmidt said, standing on tiptoe so he could pat me on the head. “You are not looking your best, Vicky. You need a rest.”
So I wasn’t looking my best, was I? Compared to whom? I sulked out and located Karl the janitor, who had a crush on Caesar, and who was thrilled at the prospect of looking after him while I was gone. Schmidt was not particularly thrilled at the prospect of dropping by my house daily to check on Clara, but I knew I could count on him to do it when he remarked, “Suzi will be glad to help. She is very fond of cats.”
So Suzi was going to be around for a while. I hadn’t noticed any bonding going on between Suzi and Clara. In fact, Clara had made rather a point of trying to climb onto Suzi’s lap, which, as any cat person knows, is intended to be annoying rather than affectionate. A nasty new suspicion slid into my nasty suspicious mind. I didn’t say anything to Schmidt—what would have been the point—but I raced home and spent a frantic hour going through files and drawers to make sure I hadn’t left anything incriminating lying around. Since I wasn’t sure what might be incriminating, it was a somewhat futile procedure. When I mentioned my worries to John, he shrugged.
“There is no way one can defend oneself from a difficulty which is undefined and may not even exist. And don’t mention Suzi to Feisal. It hasn’t occurred to him to ask who Schmidt’s ladylove is, and I’d just as soon he remained ignorant.”
“I wish I were,” I grumbled. “What do you suppose she’s after?”
“Schmidt, perhaps.” He turned back to the computer. I slammed the drawer I had been searching.
“You aren’t leaving any incriminating e-mails on that thing, are you?”
“What do you take me for? Finish packing. We haven’t much time.”
Packing was another undefined difficulty, since I didn’t know how long I’d be gone or where I was going. John and I were planning to catch the first available flight to London after we got Feisal on his way; but after London, who knew where the quest would take us?
Probably someplace I didn’t want to go.
I made a final call to the museum, to leave last-minute instructions with my new secretary: “Don’t call me, I’ll call you, and if you give my number to someone who doesn’t already have it I will Take Steps.” Gerda, my former nemesis, had left to get married; I wondered if she was reading her new hubbie’s mail the way she had pried into mine. Her replacement didn’t open my mail, but his inhuman efficiency was almost as irritating. I had a feeling he thought he could do my job better than I did and was out to prove it. (I wasn’t worried; Schmidt likes me best.)
We made it to MUC with no time to spare and escorted Feisal to Hall C for his EgyptAir flight. Instead of proceeding through security, he stood shuffling his feet and shifting his briefcase from hand to hand.
“There’s something I have to tell you.”
John groaned. “Worse than what you’ve already told us?”
“No. I hope not. I mean…” His long lashes fell, and his high cheekbones turned a shade darker. “I’m in love.”
“Oh,” I said blankly. “Who—”
“For God’s sake!” John’s voice rose over mine. “What—”
“It’s not just my job I stand to lose.” Feisal grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “I’ll lose her too, if I’m disgraced and discredited. You understand, Vicky. You won’t let me down, will you?”
His big soulful brown eyes would have melted the heart of a dried-up mummy. “Of course not,” I said, squeezing back. “Who—”
“Stop that,” John said through his teeth. “Get going, Feisal, or you’ll miss your flight.”
“If she loves him she’ll stick by him whatever happens,” I said, as we watched Feisal proceed on his way.
“Is that a promise?” John inquired.
I decided to ignore that one. “I wonder who—”
“Does it matter?” John took my arm. “We needn’t be at our gate for another hour or so; I’ll buy you a coffee.”
British Air leaves from a different hall in the same terminal. John and I hadn’t been able to get adjoining seats, and since I hadn’t brought anything to read I made him stop at a bookstall, despite his sneers about lowbrow literature.
“I suppose you always travel with a copy of Plato in the original Greek,” I countered, browsing the racks of magazines and newspapers. The latest issue of
“So it is. Wonder what he’s done to make the cover of
He had been photographed at Giza, leaning casually against a column, with a couple of pyramids in the background. He bore a certain resemblance to Feisal—the same strong features and thick black hair and tall athletic body, the latter set off by neatly creased khakis and a matching jacket covered with pockets, the kind worn by photographers and a few archaeologists, and tourists trying to look like one of either group. Dr. Ashraf Khifaya, the secretary general of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, didn’t have to try. Though remarkably young for that high post, which he had held for less than a year, he had excavated at practically every site in Egypt.
“The usual,” I said. “Asking for Nefertiti back. He’s been picketing the Altes Museum in Berlin off and on for
