Star of Egypt (15 page)

Veins stood out in relief on Professor Willis’ flushed face. Maggie Leiber was certain he was, at any moment, going to hurl
a priceless artifact across the room and watch it explode into useless—and worthless—fragments. In some cases, semi-decayed
or aged pieces had to be reassembled, like puzzles. For it to get broken all over again seemed like a farcical waste of everyone’s
time.

“Where’s Rademacher?” he demanded. “I want to speak with him first!”

“That’s just the trouble, Gordie,” Maggie said, trying to calm the steaming man down. “Nobody seems to know where he’s got
to. I’m sure he’ll be back.”

“Why did Shauna leave without telling anyone—oh, god, all these smaller pieces need to be checked off and set up.” Willis
made a desultory motion toward the work scattered over the table. His heart was not really in it.

Maggie could only shrug again, but she strove to make the gesture as sympathetic as possible. She found Willis’ pique funny
in a sort of silent-movie-comedy way—the scientist stereotype flying into a burlesque of rage.

“And the crew chief—shot by one of his own bloody men! What happened to the security we were supposed to get from—” He nearly
spluttered, considering the Sparta men. “—from
those
incompetents!”

It was impossible for Maggie to explain to Willis just what was
really
going on. It would not have been relevant to his eye no matter what the excuse; all that he could understand or care about
was the disruption, or complication, at least, of the opening presentation, Smoothing such ruffled feathers was a stock-in-trade
for Maggie—she was accustomed to manipulating events back onto the track with minimum fuss. Willis was almost unreasonably
angry. Therefore, logic dictated to her, simple, superficial curatives would not get him back to work. He could be satisfied
only by events beyond the current realm of probability.

So, she lied.

“Professor, I’ll go right now and round up Shauna and find Mr. Rademacher. The crew is operating practically by reflex. I
don’t feel any pressing need to watchdog them this close to the opening of the tour. And you’ve got to get those stage-fright
jitters out of your system a bit, if I may be so bold.”

He was not expecting something like that. “Stage fright?” he said. “Nonsense. Never had it in my life. What are you talking
about?”

“You might not acknowledge it by that name, but I’d guess you’re more nervous than you’d care to admit about facing the President
of the United States and his august minions tomorrow. I’d think you’ve been devoting too much of your time to the preparations
on the exhibit—and not enough time on your speech. Hm?”

Maggie knew what she was saying; she was invoking the hallowed deity of academic respectability. All at once, Professor Willis
would become a high-visibility figure, exposed to national television and newspaper coverage, and so expected to be a personality
as well. He must consider not accurate dating and ancient burial procedures but, to him, the nebulous and fearsome prospect
of stage presence. At ease before an audience of peers, he now must regear with the common tourist in mind.

“It’s making you reactionary and snappish,” she said, shifting gears and appealing directly to his sense of intellect, now.
“Just cool it; sit and do nothing for a minute. A minute won’t disrupt anything.” She placed her hands on his shoulders and
gently impelled him down. He slid easily into the metal folding chair directly behind him.

Calm rationality seemed to flow over his face in a wave. “You’re right, Maggie, damn you, you’re always right. Do you know
what bothers me about all this?” He indicated the room, now a convoluted reproduction of the tomb of an obscure Egyptian general
named Seth-Olet. “It sounds silly when I say it this way, but in a word, it’s accessibility. I feel so steeped in my own speciality
that it’s a singularly futile proposition to try to make it palatable to laymen on a level that would satisfy us both. It
would either disappoint me, or confound the public.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “What about Mr. Rademacher? He surprised you.”

His tone was flat. “Do you suppose Mr. Rademacher is a representative example of the people who will partake of this exhibit,
Maggie?”

“
Touché,
” she said. To say she thought he was would sound too glib, as though she were too anxious to get Willis back to normal. “Well,
I think he’s an exception, and he seems to impress you, at any rate. How about this—when you imagine the people to whom you’ll
be speaking, why not picture him and address them as though you were speaking directly to him? Start a trend by not talking
down to your audience. They may not be as dense as you fear.”

Willis smiled, apparently relieved. “It’s novel, you have to give it that. Yes.” He stood up and rubbed his hands together.
“Get Shauna in here as soon as you find her. I do so hope she’s not checked into some scenic Washington hotel with Mr. Rademacher.
There’ll be time enough to waste
after
we try to impress the entire country.”

Maggie smiled, bemused. Mentions of sex, even oblique ones, were so far outside the Professor’s normal retinue that the abrupt
mention now seemed calculated to startle her. It did.

It also amused her in a more personal way, since she was certain the man who called himself Ben Rademacher could not possibly
be shacked up in a hotel with Shauna Ramsey.

Hamilton Winship glared at the digital clock on the desk, wondering where in hell Ben Slayton could be, and fathoming reasons
for the failure of his check-in call to come through on schedule—reasons that, he hoped, could be utilized to get Slayton
to be just a bit more punctual in the future. The man just did not have enough respect, or fear, wherever authority was concerned.

On the other hand, he thought, Ben Slayton, for all his unorthodox procedures, was infinitely preferable to the programmed
personalities of the gray-suited Secret Service agents who stood on a perfect crescent across from him. The faceless gray
hoarde, Slayton would call them. He would not have been far wrong. The Secret Service men were singularly humorless.

Specifically, the function of these men was the protection of the President. To Winship, their attendant functions seemed
mere niceties, or elaborations on their basic purpose. Of course they served as guards—or walking bullet shields—for the President’s
family as well, plus the Vice President, his family, and anyone else the Chief Executive cared to designate as worthy of protection.
But grouped together in the sights of a psycho with a burp gun, Winship thought, there was no doubt as to who the Secret Service
men would jump to the protection of first, not since that little media incident in 1963.

The men fanned out before him on the opposite side of the desk were assigned to duty relating to the safety of the President
during the opening of the Seth-Olet tour, and Winship had planned on Slayton’s briefing support. Now, without Slayton handling
the details, he would have to wing it.

“Before you is a map of the building itself, with the layout of the exhibit components outlined in blue. The only doors you
must concern yourselves with are indicated in red. The others will be locked, and will not count as useable accesses.” Their
attention was dutifully riveted on the tripod stand which featured the maps and diagrams.

Winship plowed ahead. “Television cameras will be placed here and here,” he said, tapping the blueprint. “Seats here. Your
stations are indicated, but I want to make a few points about mobility. You are, of course, to be as unobtrusive as possible,
but especially careful in this case because of the cameras—this is not your usual press conference or soapbox situation. There
is the possibility that the TV crews may try to make a big deal out of the security after we screen them—media people never
like being searched. We must press home the urgency of this without being anything they might interpret as oppressive.

“We are the only ones who must be aware of the possibility that Rashid Haman may attempt to infiltrate himself into the scenario.
We must be prepared to act before anything is allowed to even
begin
to happen. To this end I’ve had Ben Slayton micro-comb the components of the exhibit itself. This is entirely separate from
the screening you men will perform tomorrow morning. I will, of course, be in the audience during the presentation. Mr. Slayton
may not. The one thing I must emphasize is that, should he appear suddenly, or perform actions that may seem confusing or
threatening to any of you men—” He broke off in order to fix the men with his eyes, to punch home what he knew to be a crucial
point. “—you must
in no way interfere
with Ben Slayton. Regardless of what he does. He has worked on this case exclusively for the past week. His actions—or whatever—may
mean the difference between mayhem and stability. If he gives orders, you are to follow them. If he knocks any of you on your
ass, you’re to hug the floor. If he is hampered in any way from performing tasks which may close up the Rashid Haman file—and
believe me, gentlemen, if there is to be a climax to this little passion play it will come with the opening of the exhibit,
if not before—then I shall personally assign the offender to an Icelandic coding post. Ben Slayton has my utmost trust. He
knows more about the case than anyone. And the President has already advised me that a delay or rescheduling is impossible.
He will not, and I quote him directly, be intimidated by terrorists. So, the boundaries of your jobs are fairly well set.
Questions?”

The line was military and unmoving. Winship felt he had done his best to get the point across in a way that was urgent without
seeming superfluous.

“Mr. Slayton was, as you know, due to attend this briefing,” he added. “He is still exclusively involved in the case and could
not attend. Each of you men will review your individual assignments with me tomorrow morning. That’s all.”

He waved the men out of the office. His eyes fixed on the closing door, and then he turned back to the window, to observe
Washington.

“And if Mr. Slayton has gotten himself killed,” he said to the empty room, “we shift to plan B. But God help us all if we
have to.”

Shauna Ramsey stood amid the wreckage of her hotel suite, fighting to convince the police officers flanking her that she was
dealing with a simple case of breaking and entering. Or more properly, entering and breaking, taking into account the junkyard
through which she and the investigating officers had sifted, discovering nothing had been removed from the rooms. The display
told her—though she neglected to mention this to the police—that Benjamin Slayton,
nee
Rademacher, was somehow involved.

And the knowledge, along with the impression that Ben was either injured or dead as a result of the freewheeling wreckage
before her, was making her slightly sick.

The hotel manager, an effete type in a sky-blue leisure suit, was making a show for the police of effortlessly transferring
Shauna to a fresh room, neglecting to ask her whether this was, in fact, what she desired. The taller of the two officers
was devoting his attention almost exclusively to the deep V of. Shauna’s blouse and the suggested delights bound within, or
trying valiantly to peer up the slit in her skirt as she bent to straighten or retrieve her possessions from the floor.

Far worse, his partner was handling the entire affair with the air of someone who has far better things to do than deal with
“hysterical females.” He sighed a lot, did his best to appear exasperated, and generally hinted that his time was being squandered.

Shauna wanted very much to see Ben Slayton alive and intact, and the indifferent behavior to which she was being subjected
began to grate on her nerves.

“Look, ma’am, there’s really not a whole lot that the department can do for you until we get down and file and produce suspects
and that sorta thing. If you ask me, I think what we got here is just a simple case of vandalism. Teenagers, you know? Tourists
are easy marks for ’em.”

She wheeled and spoke with a slow menace that pulsed from her like the heat from a redly glowing coal. “Pay attention to me,
because I’m only going to say this once. Watch my lips instead of my chest and you might understand.” Her accent became more
pronounced as her anger rose—an international trait richly exemplified. “I am not a tourist. I am a guest in your country.
I am not a ‘ma’am.’ I hold degrees you probably never would have heard of even if you had stayed in school past the sixth
grade, which I severely doubt.” She stabbed a finger in the cop’s direction, and he recoiled.

“You and your incompetent bully-boy friend have wasted almost an hour of my time. It is clear that between the pair of you,
you anticipate taking no action save to embarrass me with your stupidity and your drooling sidelong glances. I did not request
you—this man did.” She motioned toward the manager, whose head came bobbing up like an Irish setter on-scent. “Deal with him.
You offend me.” She stepped over the broken remains of the divider door and stalked from the room.

Unfortunately, vindicating herself in this manner did nothing to ease her anxiety concerning Slayton. And if she did not get
back to the exhibit hall, and back to preparations for the opening, soon, Willis would crucify her. Her chance to prove herself
the asset to the tour that Maggie had always suggested she might be would be neatly blown.

There was no place for her to look for him. The questions flooded in on her, unbidden, and she found herself alone. Foremost
among the things etching her curiosity was the source of the figurine she had pieced together from the fragments discovered
on the bedroom floor. At first she had thought it to be a gag gift of some kind from Ben—since it was obviously a fake or
a duplicate. But where would he have gotten it in the first place?

Shauna had never seen the figurine before.
Rameses—Ramsey?
Perhaps it was a subtle joke. But the thing was definitely not authentic, and even if it was, to filch it from the exhibit
would get everybody in trouble. It was the sort of thing Shauna would never even consider doing, since she had access on a
twenty-four hour basis anyway.