The Laughter of Dead Kings (28 page)

Ten hours. Assuming nothing happened, like a flat tire or running out of gas or hitting a camel. I should probably explain to those who have never driven in Egypt that camels weren’t the only local hazard. The road from Luxor to Cairo is two lanes most of the way, and it isn’t well maintained. Potholes and ruts abound, trucks and buses do not yield the right of way. Possibly the greatest hazard is the Egyptian driver himself. If he wants to pass he does, even when there is another car coming straight at him. Usually there’s enough room on either side for the vehicles legitimately occupying their respective lanes to edge over far enough to let him through. Usually.

It was all coming back to me. I wished it hadn’t.

“Fond memories?” John inquired softly. He is only too adept at reading my mind.

“Not so fond.”

“Quite. Look on the bright side. Instead of occupying an antique vehicle held together by wire and prayer, you are traveling in style and comfort. Instead of taking desperate measures to avoid check
points and hotly pursuing antagonists, we’re on a straight shot to Cairo. Instead of Feisal driving, we have—” He broke off with a grunt as Ashraf pulled suddenly onto the shoulder to avoid an oncoming truck which was in our lane passing a taxi. “Well, perhaps Ashraf isn’t that much of an improvement.”

“I resent that,” said Feisal, from the other side of Tut. He sounded fairly cheerful, however, perhaps because he and Saida were snuggled close together.

“Pleasantly cramped quarters, aren’t they?” John inquired. “Have a pillow.”

“Or a little hay,” I murmured. “It’s very good when you’re feeling faint.”

I tried to follow his advice and concentrate on the bright side, but those grisly memories kept recurring. Just John and me and Feisal that time, John barely functioning after the rough handling he had endured, Feisal jittery as a nervous virgin, Schmidt’s whereabouts unknown and a source of nagging worry.

This was definitely better.

It was still daylight when we reached Nag Hammadi and crossed the river to the West Bank. I remembered Nag Hammadi from that first trip. We had never made it across the river, but had had to take off on a mad ride along the East Bank road and through the desert wadis.

“We’ll fill up with petrol here,” Ashraf announced. “Make use of the facilities, ladies, if you like, but don’t linger to paint your faces.”

“How are you doing?” Saida asked, linking her arm in mine.

I thought about the question, while we made use. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Everything has happened so fast. This is crazy, you know.”

“It’s exciting,” Saida said happily. “Your John is an amazing man. Is he always this imaginative?”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Feisal is not.” Saida peered into a smeary mirror and took out her lipstick. “But I love him anyhow.”

She didn’t appear to be in a hurry, so I leaned against the wall and watched her carefully apply fresh makeup. Painting my face was the least of my concerns at the moment.

“I hope you didn’t take John’s remarks about demented archaeologists personally,” I said. “He was just baiting Perlmutter.”

“No, he meant it,” Saida said coolly. “He lacks the scientific mind. It is very important that Tutankhamon’s body survive. Without it the king cannot attain immortality.”

“I was under the impression that a statue or painting or even a name could substitute for the physical body. If that’s so, Tut—excuse me, Tutankhamon—has a better chance of survival than anyone in history. There must be thousands of images of his mummy and tens of thousands of reproductions of his coffins, his mask, and his statues scattered around the world.”

“That is so,” Saida admitted. She put her lipstick away and took out an eyebrow pencil. “But I am not certain that they count.”

While I was considering this remark and wondering whether she was serious, a fist pounded on the door and Feisal yelled, “Come out of there. We’re ready to go.”

Saida winked at me. “He enjoys being masterful. It does no harm to let men believe that they are in control, so long as we decide the important matters.”

We piled back into the car and rearranged Tut. The last of the light was fading as we headed north. Schmidt began opening containers of various foodstuffs which were, of course, in the front with him. He passed back pieces of chicken, eggs, oranges, and other items.

“I’m not hungry,” I said wanly. I remembered, only too well, what it was like driving in Egypt after dark. People don’t use their headlights except when they are approaching another car. That sudden burst of brilliance out of the dark is very unnerving until you get used to it—which I never had.

“Eat,” Schmidt insisted. “You will need your strength.”

“I hope not.”

The swollen crimson orb of the sun descended with slow dignity; crimson and purple streamers spread out across the west. The first stars twinkled shyly in the darkening sky. We were going at a good clip, passing buses and trucks. Ashraf was eating a chicken leg and talking on his cell phone.

That left, if my arithmetic was correct, no hands for the wheel.

Knowing it was in vain, I called out, “Ashraf, why don’t you let Schmidt make the calls for you?”

“I am telephoning my subordinates,” Ashraf said stiffly. “Ordering them to meet me at the museum. Even the great Herr Doktor Professor Schmidt cannot do that.”

John let out a breath of laughter that tickled my ear. “A-to-Z Schmidt, the greatest swordsman in Europe. It will take Ashraf a while to get over that.”

We slid through another checkpoint, slowing down just long enough for Ashraf to stick his head out the window and bark at the guards, then picked up speed again. Schmidt offered me an orange. Darkness was complete and Ashraf was driving like a NASCAR racer, weaving in and out of semi-visible traffic and singing one of those Arabic songs that wavers up and down the scale. I dropped the orange peel onto the floor. I am going to mess up Ashraf’s beautiful car, I thought, and when we get to Cairo I am going to kill him.

I woke up when we stopped for gas.

“Where are we?” I asked, blinking at the lights.

“Minya,” Feisal said. “We’re making good time.”

“Last stop before Cairo,” Saida said. She untangled herself from Feisal and hopped lithely out of the car. I followed, not lithely. When we got to Cairo I was going to kill her too. I was as stiff as—well, as a mummy.

The stop was brief. The interminable ride continued. I couldn’t stay awake, but I couldn’t really sleep either. Bursts of light from approaching cars turned onto oncoming freight trains and dragons shooting flame. Somebody was laughing. Not the dragons, not dead kings. I recognized Schmidt’s guffaws. He must be telling jokes. He always laughs louder at his own jokes than anyone else does.

I came to full awareness when a different kind of light impinged on my eyelids. My head was on John’s shoulder and his arm was around me. When I stirred he said, “My arm’s gone numb.”

“All of me has gone numb. Especially my derriere. Remove your damned arm, then.”

“As soon, my darling, as you remove your lovely head.”

I struggled upright and stared out the window. “We’re here. We’re in Cairo!”

“Ah,” said Schmidt, turning his head around as far as it would go. “You are awake.”

“We’re here. We made it!”

Great cities never sleep. The lights along the corniche blazed bright, and although the traffic wasn’t as heavy as it was during the day, there were people abroad, going home after a night of merriment or heading for work, even at that ungodly hour. The facade of the Cairo Museum shone like raspberry ice. Ashraf headed straight for the heavy wrought-iron gates. They parted and swung slowly back.

The moment the car stopped, one of the doors of the building
opened. Several men hurried out and converged on Ashraf. They began talking excitedly. They spoke Arabic but the gist of their remarks was clear. “What the hell is going on?”

Whatever Ashraf said, it was said with enough force to send them scurrying back into the museum. “Get him out and inside,” Ashraf ordered, turning to us. He took the lead, picking up one of the boxes. (Half a torso, I think.) Feisal and Schmidt followed suit and so did Saida, cradling the box that held Tut’s head tenderly in her arms. Ashraf indicated the last two boxes and barked, “Take his legs.”

“Aren’t you coming?” John asked me.

I swung my own legs up onto the seat. “I’m going to take a real nap. Wake me when it’s over.”

It felt wonderful to stretch out. I kicked off my shoes and wriggled my toes luxuriously. Instead of dozing off, I lay there staring dreamily at the facade of the museum. I had been involved in a lot of peculiar situations, but this one was in a class by itself. What was I doing here? I asked myself. In front of the Cairo Museum at four o’clock in the morning, aiding and abetting a trio of demented Egyptologists who were piecing together a dead, dismembered king. What was Tutankhamon to me, or I to him, that I should care about him? I did care, though. Witness the pronouns: I had come to think of that withered mummy as “him,” instead of “it.”

Some good had come of the adventure. John was in the clear, and we were rid forever of Suzi. Schmidt had turned his back on her when she offered her hand and an apology. Feisal and Saida were headed for the altar. Jan Perlmutter was going to get a well-deserved comeuppance. He might even be blackmailed into sending Nefertiti home. I pictured him stuffed and stuck up on a plinth in his own museum, with a sign saying, “The man who lost Nefertiti.”

The sky began to lighten. The sunrise wasn’t spectacular; Cairo smog is too thick. A head appeared at the window, and a voice said, “Wake up, Vicky. You must see this.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” I croaked. “What time is it?”

“Seven
A.M.
” Saida opened the door. “Come quickly, it is a sight you will never forget. You will be among the first to see it.”

The royal mummy room was softly lit except for a spotlight focused on one of the glass cases. Men in white lab coats with surgical masks covering their mouths hovered over it, making the final adjustments. The masks seemed extraneous, considering what Tutankhamon had been through, but they looked professional. Schmidt and John and Feisal stood to one side looking on.

“Did you have a good sleep?” John asked, putting his arm around me.

“I wasn’t asleep.”

Thutmose III was still grinning. They must have removed one of the lesser royals in order to accommodate Tut.

The technicians stepped back and there he was. He looked quite peaceful. Like the other mummies, he was decently covered, from chin to ankles. The fabric was brownish and old; Saida had told us that the museum authorities had used ancient linen. Folds of the fabric concealed the fact that his head wasn’t attached to his body.

“That’s it,” one of the technicians said, on a long breath. He spoke English, out of deference to the ignoramuses in the room, and the conversation continued in that language.

Ashraf stepped up to the case and stared into it. “Satisfactory,” he said. “Now listen, and listen carefully. I have called a press conference, to be held here in the museum at ten
A.M.
I will announce that the king’s mummy has been here for more than a week, in the laboratory, while we prepared a place for him. After he has rested in the museum for a time, he will return to his tomb in a properly
constructed, scientifically designed case like this one. You will avoid reporters at all costs. If you should be questioned, you will repeat the story I have just told. I need not explain what the consequences will be should you deviate from it. Is that understood?”

Nods and sycophantish murmurs of agreement acknowledged understanding. Ashraf had expected no less. With a regal wave of his hand he dismissed the technicians.

“So,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “All is in order.”

“Except for Tut’s other hand,” I said, suppressing a yawn.

“It will be restored when convenient. Is there anything else?”

What he meant was, had he overlooked anything important? He looked inquiringly at Schmidt.

“I think not” was the judicious reply.

I gave Tut one last fond look, and we straggled out of the museum, leaving several of the guards—who had been, I assumed, promised the same fate as the technicians if they were tempted to spill the beans—to close the place up. Ashraf was kind enough to offer us a ride to our hotel.

“Have we got a room?” I asked, more in hope than in expectation.

“Aber natürlich,”
said Schmidt. “I telephoned last night.”

“Any news from the Valley of the Kings?” John inquired.

Ashraf laughed fiendishly. “The journalists were informed last night that I would be giving a press conference today. Some won’t be able to reach Cairo in time. They will be scooped, as the saying goes, by others.”

Schmidt’s room was waiting for him, but—the manager informed us, cringing—ours would not be ready until noon. “It does not matter,” Schmidt said. “None of us wishes to sleep.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said.

“But we must attend the press conference.”

“Not me. I’ve seen enough of Tutankhamon to last the rest of my life.”

Leaving the others congratulating themselves and drinking coffee, I threw myself down on Schmidt’s big soft king-size bed and fell asleep. When I woke up, sunlight brightened the room and Jan Perlmutter was standing in the open doorway.

H
e hadn’t shaved. His clothes were wrinkled and his face was that of an old man. His tie was twisted and the top button of his shirt undone, as if he couldn’t get enough air.

“Where is he?” he demanded. Even his voice was unrecognizable, hoarse and broken.

“Who?”

It was the best I could come up with on short notice. I looked from the knife in Jan’s hand to the telephone on the bedside table.

“Don’t try it,” he said. “Where is Schmidt?”

I gave up the idea of trying to reach the phone. My brain was in overdrive, all remnants of sleep dispersed. There’s nothing like terror to promote quick thinking. Unfortunately I couldn’t think of anything heroic, or even useful.

“Why are you mad at Schmidt?” I asked, stalling for time.

“He hates me,” Jan said.

“No, no,” I said soothingly. “He doesn’t hate you. Nobody hates you. Why don’t you sit down and—”

“They all hate me. They have made me look like a fool. Schmidt is the worst. He has held a grudge since the Trojan Gold affair.”

I sneaked a quick look at the clock on the bedside table. Almost noon. Where was everybody? They ought to be back by now. Why had they left me alone with a homicidal lunatic?

Jan went on ranting. All he had ever wanted was to rescue the world’s treasures. And this was his reward—to be humiliated and abused and threatened.

He was the one doing the threatening, but I decided not to mention that. Nor did I point out that to the best of my knowledge he hadn’t been named as the source of the rumors about the theft of Tut. We had discussed exposing him and decided, regretfully, that proving the accusation would be time-consuming if not impossible. He would suffer enough, said Schmidt, from knowing he had been foiled and defeated.

“How did you find out?” I asked. “You clever man,” I added.

Jan blinked and stared at me as if he had forgotten I was there. “Find out…Oh.” He passed his hand over his mouth. When he replied, he sounded almost rational. “I flew to Cairo last night. The news of the press conference was on the radio and television this morning. They were speculating, some of the announcers, about the return of Tutankhamon.”

So somebody had been unable to resist spreading the news. It was only to be expected.

“I couldn’t believe it,” Jan said in an aggrieved voice. “So I telephoned at once to Luxor, to the German Institute, to Wolfgang Muhlendorfer. He informed me that most of the journalists had left the Valley and that Dr. Khifaya’s limousine had been observed leaving Luxor in haste and with many people in the vehicle. Even then
I did not believe it, not until I saw the press conference itself, and heard Khifaya boasting, telling a pack of lies…And Schmidt, in the background, smiling and stroking his absurd mustache…”

His voice had soared into the high pitch of hysteria.

“Ashraf picketed the museum too,” I said, hoping to distract Jan from Schmidt. No good.

“Khifaya behaved with dignity. But Schmidt! Prancing up and down with that appalling banner, shouting rude slogans, handing out wurst to the spectators, like a circus clown…It was all on the television, and me, hiding behind a column like a frightened rabbit. He made me a laughing stock.”

“I was there too,” I said.

“
Aber natürlich.
You would obey your superior.”

And I was a lowly woman. It was insulting but reassuring to hear Jan dismiss me so cavalierly. I didn’t think he would attack me unless I did something drastic. My body didn’t believe it. My mouth was dry and my heart was racing.

“Why isn’t he here?” Jan demanded. “The press conference ended an hour ago.”

“I expect he’s on his way.” I had to think of something quick, before Schmidt walked in. “Tell you what, Jan. Why don’t you hide in the bathroom. Then, when they get here, you can jump out and surprise everybody!”

Degrees of mania are hard to calculate. Like Hamlet, Jan was only mad north-northwest; he knew a hawk from a handsaw, or, in this case, a helpful suggestion from a really stupid idea.

“And what would you be doing?” His eyes narrowed. “But perhaps if I tied you up and gagged you…”

He’d have to put the knife down in order to do that. I had learned a few dirty tricks from John, and Jan had gotten flabby, but he was crazy and I was scared and what if he decided to knock me
unconscious or use the knife in ways I didn’t want to think about before he…The alternative was worse, though. Schmidt, with that knife in his chest.

“Okay,” I said.

“You agree too readily,” Jan said. “Wait. I have a better idea. I will lock you in the bathroom and conceal myself behind the door.”

“Okay.”

I slid off the bed and stood up. I felt a little braver now that I was on my feet. I wondered if I could trick him into the bathroom and slam the door. No, that wouldn’t work, there was no lock on the outside.

Jan stood back and waved me through the bedroom door as I walked slowly toward him. Maybe I could make it to the door of the suite before he…No, that wouldn’t work either. He was so close behind me that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. Let him shut me in the bathroom, lock the door, and start yelling? No good. He’d be on Schmidt the second the outer door opened, before anyone heard my screams or understood what they meant.

The decision was taken out of my hands. There was no warning, not even the sound of voices. The door swung open. As I had expected, Schmidt was the first to enter. Make way for Schmidt, the greatest swordsman in Europe! He stopped in the doorway, petrified and gaping. John and Feisal were behind him.

Jan shoved me aside and started for Schmidt. John tried to push Schmidt out of the way, but the solid shape of Schmidt only swayed a little. I was past thinking, I just planted my feet and grabbed hold of Jan’s arm. He swung around.

Something hard, like a fist, hit me in the side. It knocked the breath out of me for a second or two, and then I saw that Jan was on the floor, arms and legs thrashing, as Feisal tried to subdue him.
John, who didn’t believe in hand-to-hand combat, put an end to it by kicking Jan in the head.

Schmidt was still on his feet, but he was very pale. I tried to ask him if he was okay, but my voice didn’t seem to be functioning. They were all staring at me. John came toward me, stepping as delicately as a cat in a puddle, his hands reaching. His face had gone as white as Schmidt’s.

“Easy,” he said. “Don’t move. Let me…”

Three words. That was all I needed, three little words. I tried to say them. Then the lights went out.

I
came to in a strange room. I lay still, wondering why I felt so peculiar and trying to figure out where I was. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a window. It was dark outside. The room was dimly lit. There was a funny smell. Several funny smells, actually. Not disgusting smells, just…funny.

I turned my head. The first thing I saw was a chair next to the bed, and someone sitting in it. Someone familiar. He looked very uncomfortable, slumped over, arms dangling, head bowed.

The name came back to me. “John?” somebody said. The voice didn’t sound like mine.

John sat up with a start. “You’re awake.”

“No, I’m not. I’m not even here. I don’t know where I am.”

“Shh.” He slid from the chair, onto his knees beside the bed. “You’re going to be all right.”

“I want a drink.”

“No drink, not even water for a while. Have a bit of ice.”

He slipped a sliver into my dry mouth. It dissolved like the nectar of Paradise.

“I’m in a hospital,” I said. “More ice. You look terrible.”

“So do you. Here, open your mouth.”

A door opened and somebody came in. I deduced that she was a nurse, on account of her wearing a nurse’s uniform. She did nurse’s things, smiled a professional nurse’s smile, and went away.

“How do you feel?” John asked. He grimaced. “Why do people ask imbecile questions like that, I wonder.”

“I feel like hell. What happened?”

“You’re supposed to rest.”

“I’ve been resting. Why don’t you sit in that chair?”

“I’m not sure I can stand up. My knees feel like Schmidt’s.”

“Have you been here since…Since when?”

“Since they brought you in. A little after midday.”

“What time is it now?”

“Night,” John said briefly.

“I want to know what happened.”

I hadn’t fully realized how drawn his face was until he smiled. “You sound almost yourself again. In a nutshell, Jan Perlmutter is locked up in a psychiatric ward, under guard, and Schmidt is fine. You probably saved his life—and lost your spleen in the process.”

“Is that an organ I can do without?”

“Generally speaking, yes. Anything else you want to know? You are supposed to be resting.”

“I want to know lots of things.”

He reacted to that harmless statement as if I had told a bad joke. Covering his face with his hands, he sat back onto his heels. His shoulders shook.

“Are you laughing?” I demanded.

“No,” John said in a muffled voice.

“Oh.”

After a few moments he took his hands away from his face. His eyes were wet.

I had never seen him cry. I didn’t think he could. I didn’t know what to say.

He took hold of my hand. “Schmidt and Feisal and Saida are in the waiting room. I’m supposed to tell them when you wake up.”

“Send ’em in,” I said grandly. “We’ll have a party.”

“You’re doped up to your eyeballs,” John said, shaking his head. “No party, not yet.”

“Stop squeezing my hand, it hurts. Can’t you just enclose it tenderly in your long, strong fingers, like heroes in books?”

His face lit up. “You
are
going to be all right. You sound like your normal, rude self. Do you know what you said, just before you keeled over?”

“Three little words,” I murmured.

“Three little words, yes. Words you fought a deadly injury to utter. Could they have been ‘I love you’?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You said,” John snapped, “‘Elizabeth of Austria.’ Why did you say ‘Elizabeth of Austria’?”

“I remember now,” I said drowsily. The shot the nurse had given me was beginning to take effect. “You remember her, the empress of Austria back in 1890 something…She got stabbed by an anarchist, he’d probably be called a terrorist these days, and then she went on walking for, gee, I forget how long, before she collapsed, because she thought he had just punched her in the side, and that was what it felt like, and I thought I should tell you that that was what it felt like, in case you didn’t notice—”

“A knife sticking out of your side? I noticed.”

“I love you.”

He leaned closer. “What was that?”

“I said…I don’t remember.”

“Coward. I love you too. Go to sleep.” He enclosed my hand tenderly in his long, strong fingers.

Six weeks later. Munich.

J
ohn came down the stairs, with Clara draped over his shoulder. Caesar, lying beside the couch on which I reclined, jumped up with a howl and dashed toward them.

“Stop that, you idiot dog,” I said. “You saw him ten minutes ago, before he went upstairs.”

Caesar stopped and thought it over. Then he came back and lay down again.

“Schmidt is on his way here,” John reported. “He’s bringing dinner.”

“He’s brought dinner almost every day. I’m getting fat.”

“Maybe you ought to get more exercise.”

“I don’t feel up to it yet.” I leaned back against the cushions and tried to look like Camille.

John wasn’t looking too healthy himself. His Egyptian tan had faded and he had lost weight. As soon as I was able to travel, we had returned to Munich. John had made a couple of flying trips to London, leaving at dawn and getting back by midnight, leaving Schmidt to fuss over me. The shop was closed until he found a replacement for Alan. I knew he was losing business, not to mention money. Jen had been driving him up the wall, demanding to know what he was doing and why he wasn’t in London. When he explained I had had a serious accident and he was looking after me, she had offered to come and play nurse—an offer that almost brought on a relapse.

I was being unfair and selfish. The truth was that I liked having him around, bringing me things, walking the dog, doing the wash
ing up. We argued all the time and fought some of the time. I liked that, too.

Alan had died without recovering consciousness. Schmidt had wallowed in self-reproach when he heard, but taking care of me cheered him up, and the news from Egypt was balm to his wounded soul. The news from Berlin was even balmier. Jan Perlmutter had resigned from his position. The museum tried to hush up the details, but Schmidt’s gossips had told him that Jan was locked up in a maximum-security psychiatric institution. He kept telling the attendants he was King Tutankhamon and demanding that they kneel when they addressed him. I failed to feel sorry for him. The people I felt sorry for were innocent victims like Ali and his grieving mother. We would never know whether Ali had gone to the expedition house as part of his normal custodial duties, or whether he had had a sudden inspiration. It didn’t matter, not to him. He was dead because he had tried to do his duty. His family would be taken care of, at any rate. Schmidt had seen to that.

Tutankhamon’s triumphant appearance at the Cairo Museum had been featured in the media for days. Ashraf had wrung every ounce of publicity out of it. Privately he had apologized for being unable to give us rewards, medals, and universal acclaim; but that, as he pointed out, would have necessitated making the whole embarrassing affair public.

“That seems to be the story of my life,” John had remarked caustically. “The next time I become involved in a case like this I shall demand to be paid in advance.”

It had had its moments, though.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me you were related to the world’s most famous family of archaeologists?” I asked. “Professor Emerson and his wife dominated Egyptology for over half a century!”

Hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, John stood looking
out the window. He didn’t turn around. “I and about eighty other people.”