Golden Relic (17 page)

"I surrender," said Sam, laughing along with everyone else.

"Did they put you back in your box, Sam?" Maggie asked, returning to her seat.

"Oh yes," Sam said. "What's with you? You look like the cat who…"

"That was the call I've been waiting for," Maggie smiled. "Everything is arranged, Sam."

"What everything?" Sam asked.

"The arrangements for our trip."

"Our trip? What trip?"

"You and I are flying to Cairo tomorrow."

"We are?"

"Have you got your toothbrush?"

"Yes, I've got my toothbrush. My toothbrush is not the problem," Sam growled, tipping everything
she'd just packed out onto the lounge floor. "The problem is this backpack is too small. Why did you
let me buy this fiddly little handbag thing?"

"Hey, I was all in favour of that triple-decker sea trunk contraption," Jacqui said. "Let me have
a go while you see who's at the front door."

Sam did as she was told, tripping over several pairs of shoes on the way out of the room. She
opened the front door to find Maggie and a perfectly strange young man in a black suit.

"Thank god you're here," she said to Maggie. "I'm having a luggage crisis."

"That is not a good way to start the day," Maggie said. "Have you got your passport?"

In a nanosecond Sam's expression changed from exasperated to dumbfounded. "Bloody hell. Maggie, I
don't have a passport. I don't know what I was thinking. I can't go anywhere. I shouldn't be allowed
to go anywhere; I'm an idiot. Jacqui's quite right about me not coping with spontaneous acts. I mean
how the hell can I when it requires so much forward planning?"

"Sam, please stop babbling," Maggie pleaded.

"Excuse me," said the guy in the suit. "Are you Detective Diamond?"

"No, she left town on the Stupid Express last night," Sam declared. "I'm her alter ego."

"I've got a package from the Bureau for a Detective Sam Diamond," the guy said hesitantly.

Sam pulled out her ID, accepted a small envelope and signed for it. "What is it?" she asked.

"No idea," he said, heading off down the path.

"Please come in Maggie. Last door on the right," Sam directed, ripping open the package as she
followed Maggie down the hall.

"It's a passport," she stated. "It's my passport," she added in amazement, turning the page which
featured her personal details and standard Bureau photo, to find a freshly stamped Egyptian visa.
"You did this, didn't you Maggie? Is this a forgery? I'm sure the ink's still wet. Who the hell are
you, Mata Hari's daughter or something?"

"I told you I know a lot of people," Maggie said, stopping dead in her tracks. "Heavens above,
Sam! No wonder you're in a tizzwoz. You've got everything here including a redhead."

"I'm the sister," Jacqui pronounced. "And I assume you're the breakfast archaeologist."

"The what?" Maggie asked.

"Just say yes, Maggie," Sam suggested.

Maggie nodded vaguely and then waved her hand at the piles of clothes on the floor. "Honestly
Sam, we're only going to Cairo for a few days. Why have you got that gargantuan backpack?"

"It's not that big," Sam protested. "I can only fit half my stuff in it."

"You don't need all that stuff. Get rid of all the warm clothes for a start. It's hot in Cairo.
Just pack underwear, socks, three T-shirts, one pair of jeans, some loose trousers, a couple of
long-sleeved shirts, walking boots, a pair of sandals, one windcheater, a lightweight jacket, basic
toiletries and a towel. And make sure you're comfortably dressed for the plane. Wear runners."

"What if we're there for more than a few days?"

"That's enough for a year, Sam. If I was sure it was only going to be a few days you'd be taking
half what I just suggested. And I have everything else we need including a first aid kit, so you can
put that emergency field hospital back in your warehouse."

"What if we get separated or I get lost or…"

Maggie glanced at Jacqui. "Is she always like this?"

"Yep. And she
will
get lost too. She's got no sense of direction, unless of course she's
memorised the map and can manage to find one recognisable landmark."

"Do you mind?" Sam objected. "She is in the room, you know."

"I just want to know what I'm in for, Sam. You seemed so level-headed yesterday."

"I was, I mean I am. I'm…"

"She's cactus," Jacqui stated. "She'll get over it, round about the third whisky on the
plane."

"How about you trot off and make us some coffee, sister dear," Sam suggested sweetly.

"Good idea. Maggie's going to need it." Jacqui quipped.

"Here Sam, this is for you. It's a money belt. Put your passport, travellers' cheques, credit
card and drivers' licence in it," Maggie said. "You wear it under your clothes," she added as Sam
put it on over her jeans.

"Under? With all that stuff in it?"

"You strap on a gun everyday, Sam, I'm sure you'll get used to this."

"Speaking of guns, which we weren't really, but it reminds me I have to go and see Jack Rigby
from Homicide before we go. I can't run off to Cairo without filling him in on the case."

Rigby was just wrapping up a team briefing as Sam and Maggie approached his office
at the end of the squad room. He motioned for them to enter and then dismissed everyone else except
Rivers, who leapt to his feet, said good morning to Sam and grinned idiotically at Maggie.

Sam looked questioningly at Rivers, who sat down again and gave his undivided attention to his
notebook, and then glanced at Maggie, who smiled suggestively.

Sam shook her head in bemusement and then said, "Jack, I'd like to introduce to you Dr Maggie
Tremaine: archaeologist and lecturer at Sydney Uni; long-time friend of the late Professor; and
connected, it seems, with everyone in the known universe who has influence."

Jack smiled. "I'll just pretend I understood that last bit," he said, nodding at the empty
chairs. "Are you the Maggie responsible for the Inca trinket thing Prescott mentioned?" he asked.

"'Fiasco' is the term that's being bandied around and I most definitely was not responsible."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to imply, um…I'm glad you're here Sam," Rigby said, changing the
subject, "we've got a few more leads. For a start, Gilchrist's alibi sucks. Excuse me, Doc," he
said, glancing at Maggie, before continuing. "Could you and Herc talk to him again this arvo?"

"I can't Jack, I'm going to Cairo today," Sam said, as if it was a perfectly ordinary thing to
do.

"You're going to Cairo." Rigby frowned as if he thought he'd misheard. "Which Cairo?"

"There's only one as far as I know," Sam stated.

Rigby shook his head. "You can't go just go to Cairo, Sam."

"Why not?"

"Why, would be a better question."

"Maggie and I have some leads of our own, which I'll give you, that necessitate a trip to
Egypt."

"They 'necessitate' a trip to Egypt?" Rigby repeated. "What the hell does that mean? Are you
saying the murderer has left the country and nicked off to Cairo?"

"No, but we believe the answer to why the Professor was murdered might be in Cairo."

"The answer might be in my garden shed too, but I'm not going to spend the week in there looking
for it," Rigby snorted, eyeing Sam as if he thought she'd gone completely mad.

As Sam had spent most of the previous night wondering the very same thing, she could hardly take
offence. She smiled and filled Rigby in on the details about the package Marsden had sent to Maggie,
their search of the cottage and the details about the postcard from Cairo. She didn't mention the
photograph of Manco City or anything about Incas, partly because it was probably irrelevant but
mostly because she knew Jack would still be laughing next week if she had.

"So Sherlock, you're telling me that you and Dr Watson here are just going to flit off to Cairo
on the basis of this flimsy load of old cobblers," Rigby asked, waving his hand at Marsden's cryptic
notes and the key to his cottage which Sam had laid out on the desk as she spoke.

"Yes Jack, and what's more, odd as it may seem," Sam said casting a sideways glance at Maggie, "I
am under orders to do just that."

"Whose orders?" Jack demanded as if that person had also lost their mind. "Pilger's?" he said in
disbelief. "Blimey Sam, I realise your or rather the ACB's interest in this case is primarily one of
damage control because of the Conference, but this is crazy. What's the man thinking? We're up to
our armpits in suspects right here in Melbourne.

"Gilchrist is failing his degree, apparently suffers some personality disorder that makes him
resent anyone, like Marsden for instance, who tries to help him and has an alibi you could drive a
truck through. Some bird in publicity had a mile-wide crush on the Professor and, allegedly, has a
tendency to overreact when rejected. And Marsden did owe money to a Melbourne bookie, about eight
grand worth. Then there's my prime suspect, Haddon Gould, who apart from having a questionable sense
of reality and a big time grudge against the Professor, was also the last known person to see him
alive. To cap it off his museum plant collection just happens to include varieties of the genus
Chondrodendron from which curare can be extracted."

"Really Jack? Is Gould the only one who has access to those plants?" Sam asked.

"No, but I doubt Marsden's bookie slipped in and cooked up a batch of poison," Rigby snarled.

"It's your case Jack. I'm sure you'll cope while I'm away for a few days," Sam remarked.

"Of course I will, but it's beyond me what it was about these silly notes that convinced the
Minister to send you half way round the bloody world."

"Not what, who," Maggie corrected. "I convinced Jim Pilger of my belief that there is much more
to this whole thing than just Lloyd's murder."

"Oh you did, did you. And what is the basis of that belief exactly?" Jack asked.

"I'm not exactly sure," Maggie admitted. "But I think it has far-reaching implications."

"Far-reaching implications?," Rigby echoed. "You're not related to Prescott are you?" Jack asked,
eyeing Maggie warily. "Speaking of the Director of Conspiracy Theories, isn't it your job to keep
him reigned in Sam? And, not that I think it's connected with the murder, but what about the
limerick sent by that illiterate whacko?"

"You are going to miss me, aren't you Jack?" Sam grinned.

"Don't bet on it," Rigby said. "I just don't want to see Prescott on the evening news denying
sabotage rumours of which the media had no previous knowledge."

"Well I don't mean to throw a spanner in your works Jack, but I think the limerick is related to
the murder, not as a threat of sabotage, but as a device to throw us off the scent."

Rigby closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Why, pray tell?"

"Because I think it was sent by an educated someone who wanted us to think it was written by an
illiterate whacko."

"Lovely, that brings us back to everyone at the Museum," Jack complained. "So when are you coming
back from Cairo?"

Sam looked at Maggie who replied, "Friday, if all goes well."

Sam still couldn't believe it. She was actually in Egypt. Everything had happened
so fast that halfway through the interminable 21-hour flight she was still trying to process the
fact that she'd even left home, for the first time in her life. She couldn't believe that she was
now being driven through the streets of a city she'd only ever dreamed of visiting and that she
really was within cooee of the pyramids. But mostly she couldn't believe that having come all this
way, she was going to die on her first day in Cairo because her life was in the hands of a maniac
driver who was watching the road ahead with his left ear, while he talked in Arabic to Maggie who
was in the back seat.

"Truck," Sam pointed out, gripping the dashboard. "Truck!" she yelled.

"Yes, truck," the driver agreed, zigzagging back onto the correct side of the road. "Is
okay."

"Is not okay," Sam stated, rubbing her arm where it had been slammed into the door.

"Camel truck," the driver informed her, turning to point behind them.

"Is that what they were?" Sam said flatly. "All I saw were five furry heads screaming 'car, car!'
Do you think you could watch where we're going instead of where we've been?"

"I don't think his English is a match for your hysteria, Sam," Maggie stated, before saying
something in Arabic. The driver turned to face the front, grinning madly. "Emil is actually one of
the better Embassy drivers. You're lucky we didn't have to take a service taxi."

"Ser-veece taxi, very bad drives," Emil proclaimed, then added "
ismik eh
?"

"He wants to know your name," Maggie translated.

"Sam."

"Sam," he repeated, then handed her a business card and said, "Emil best drive, try me all times.
No taxi. Is okay?"

Sam nodded. "Whatever you say, Emil." She turned to Maggie. "Are you going to tell me how we were
ushered straight from the plane to an Australian Embassy car chauffeured by Mad Max?"

"My friend Michael Frank, who is sort of a cultural attaché at the Embassy, expedited our passage
through customs and immigration."

"We didn't pass through customs and immigration," Sam reminded her.

"Exactly," Maggie said. "And I imagine that when Michael doesn't need him, Emil is at our
disposal."

"Wonderful. Oh, this is amazing," Sam noted, holding her breath as three oncoming cars, a motor
cycle and another camel truck veered out of the way as Emil overtook a rickety donkey-drawn cart,
"the traffic is much worse than Melbourne peak hour, yet it's actually moving."

"Cairo has upwards of 15 million inhabitants, Sam, it doesn't have time to stop," Maggie laughed,
then said, "Emil, Sharia Talaat Harb."