The Laughter of Dead Kings (4 page)

“Damn it, I think you’re actually enjoying this!”

“I am enjoying the fact that thus far no one has tried to shoot me, stab me, or hit me. Let’s get Feisal…Ah, there he is.”

“I watched from the window, saw them leave.” Feisal edged cautiously down the stairs. “Who was the woman?”

John and I exchanged glances. “That isn’t immediately relevant,” John said. “I expect Feisal is hungry. He hasn’t dined.”

“Nor lunched, nor, as far as I can recall, breakfasted,” Feisal said.

We settled down around the kitchen table and the remains of Schmidt’s bounty. Though he had stuck strictly to his diet, he hadn’t stinted the rest of us; Feisal tucked into a sandwich of goose pâté and dark bread.

“So what do we do now?” he asked. His eyes, big and soft and brown, were fixed on John with a look of touching hope.

“Well…” John loves being appealed to. He leaned back, steepling his fingers like Sherlock Holmes. “The first step is damage control. You did all you could to prevent discovery, but you had better get back to Luxor as soon as possible and make sure Ali doesn’t crack under pressure. Keep the tomb closed. You have the authority to do that, I presume.”

“Unless I’m overruled by a direct order from the SCA.”

“Another reason why you must be on the spot. It’s likely that the thieves will contact someone—you, the Supreme Council, or the press.”

Feisal choked. I leaped up, ready to apply the Heimlich maneuver, but he managed to swallow. “Why would they do that?” he gasped.

“That depends on their reason for the theft,” John said. “Which is the most interesting part of the entire business. Offhand, four possible motives occur to me. One, the perpetrators were funded by a private collector whose tastes are, shall we say, extremely bizarre. Should that be the case, they and their client won’t communicate with anyone. The second possibility is that they are holding the mummy for ransom. I expect certain parties would be willing to pay a tidy sum for its safe return, and for keeping the whole business quiet. In which case they will contact the SCA directly; there will not be any publicity, but you, my friend, will be on the spot.”

“What’s the third?” I asked, knowing John was dying to be prompted.

“Political. Embarrassing the government, nationally and/or internationally.”

Feisal put the remains of his sandwich down on the table. He
looked sick. John didn’t have to spell it out; if that was the motive, the thieves would want publicity, the more the better.

“That’s weak,” I said. “It might make Mubarak and company look silly, but it wouldn’t do them any real harm. The U.S. isn’t going to cut off aid on account of a mislaid mummy, and it wouldn’t give any real leverage to the various parties that would like to overthrow the government—of whom, I presume, there are quite a number.”

“There always are,” Feisal said. “Ranging from radical Islamists who want a theocratic state to liberals who want genuinely democratic elections, freedom of speech, and all those nice things. Vicky’s right. A scandal over a missing antiquity, even one as important as Tutankhamon, isn’t enough to start a revolution.”

He reached for his sandwich and encountered instead the large head of Caesar. Caesar swallowed and slunk under the table.

“That dog is getting out of hand,” John said. “You don’t discipline him properly. To return to the subject under discussion—your point is well taken, logically speaking, but would-be revolutionaries aren’t always logical. However, I am inclined to believe that my fourth motive is the most likely.”

He waited for somebody to ask him what it was. I had already played stooge once. I got up and made Feisal another sandwich. The silence lengthened, broken only by the sound of a large dog under the table licking its lips.

“Personal enmity,” John said. “Someone is out to get you or your boss.”

“It can’t be me,” Feisal protested. “I’m not that important. This was a big, expensive operation. I don’t have 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
Der Stern
caught my eye. “Hey,” I said, picking it up. “Isn’t that Dr. Khifaya on the cover?”

“So it is. Wonder what he’s done to make the cover of
Der Stern
?”

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 weeks, but this time he says he’s going to bring along a few friends. I wonder what…”

I paid for the magazine and went on reading, guided by John’s hand on my elbow. Most of the material was familiar. German and Egyptian scholars had been arguing about the beautiful bust of Nefertiti ever since it went on exhibit in Berlin back in the 1920s. The Egyptians had a point. Some of the other antiquities they wanted back, like the Rosetta Stone, had been found and appropriated before the foundation of the Egyptian Antiquities Organization, as it was once called. By 1912, when Nefertiti had turned up in a German dig, the laws governing the division of finds
were strict: the Egyptians kept pretty much whatever they pleased, especially unique items, and the rest was divided between the Cairo Museum and the excavators. Somehow or other, Nefertiti had been included in the objects handed over to the excavators. It was hard to understand how anyone, even an inexperienced inspector, could have failed to claim her. Like Tutankhamon, the life-sized painted bust is unique, and unlike poor old Tut, it is outstandingly beautiful.

John steered me into a chair; when he returned with two cups of coffee I had finished the article.

“I wonder if he’ll really do it,” I said.

“Bring a brass band and some dancing girls to help him picket the museum?” John chuckled. “I hope so.”

“Wouldn’t the cops run him in?”

“He’d love that. Excellent publicity.”

“I’m surprised you never tried to steal her,” I said.

“Nefertiti?” John looked pensive. “I might have had a stab at it if anyone had offered me enough. I didn’t steal things for myself, you know,” he added self-righteously.

“The important word in that sentence is not ‘myself,’ but ‘steal,’” I pointed out, and closed the magazine. “He is a good-looking guy, isn’t he? Is it only a coincidence that this—um—business happened soon after he took over? Speaking of people who have made enemies—”

“We weren’t.”

“Then let’s. I trust you didn’t point out to Feisal that there is a certain multimillionaire who might hold a grudge against him. He was instrumental in foiling Blenkiron’s plan to steal Tetisheri’s tomb paintings. And if we’re talking about collectors with bizarre tastes—”