Barnaby shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way. Luxor is a little town, and there are only three hotels. No restaurants, except for those in the hotels. No self-respecting tourist would stray far from them. Also, no self-respecting tourist would spend more than a week in the town; there isn’t a lot to do there. We’d be spotted as phony right away.”
Pierce paced up and down the room for several minutes. It obviously wasn’t going to be easy—and quite clearly, Barnaby wouldn’t be much help in making plans.
“All right,” he said at last. “Meet me in my hotel room tomorrow night at seven. Until then, keep this under your hat.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Think.”
“You’re not going to Athens?”
“No,” Pierce said. “I’m not going to Athens.”
4. The Plan
PIERCE WAS WAITING IN his room when Barnaby knocked on the door and entered.
“Sit down,” he said. “Make yourself a drink. I spent the day in the library of the American University here. I also talked to a few people—on general matters—and have come to several conclusions.”
“Yes?”
“First, it can only be done one way—as a straightforward, legitimate archaeological expedition.”
“But I told you! They’ll watch us every minute—”
“Not if we’re smart,” Pierce said. “Our expedition doesn’t have to be searching for the tomb, does it?”
Barnaby was silent.
“We will need a reasonable cover,” Pierce continued. “The expedition will have to be approved by the Cairo Museum staff and the Department of Antiquities, and probably by the UNESCO liaison. I’ll count on you to devise a project that puts us near the Valley of Kings for credible, if unexciting, reasons. Can you come up with something?”
“I suppose so.”
“All right. Second, we will need money. I understand from my friend Dr. Aliopoulous at the American University that few foundations are putting money into Egyptology anymore, except for saving the flooded Nubian monuments.”
“That’s true.”
“So we need a benefactor, a person of eccentricity and wealth. I know just the man.”
Barnaby began to feel a certain sense of helplessness. What had been, just a few hours before, his idea was no longer his. Pierce was taking control of everything. He was both grateful and resentful.
“Go on.”
“Third, we will need help. Obviously, native laborers are out of the question, though they are traditionally employed. We must put together a team of capable and strong people to do the manual work involved. Naturally, they will have to know the secret and share in the eventual profits.”
Barnaby frowned.
“Well, did you expect to do the digging all by yourself, on weekends?”
“All right,” Barnaby said. “What else?”
“We must have a method of removing the treasure and transporting it elsewhere. Now, the whole operation as I see it works like this.”
Pierce spread a tourist map of Luxor out on the bed.
“You will begin thinking of an excuse for an archaeological expedition. When I contact you that we have our patron, you will work your way up the bureaucratic ladder, bribing where necessary. Once you have a concession, start collecting provisions for the expedition. We’ll need a Land Rover, a half-dozen tents, sleeping bags, food for six or seven. Try to think of a project which will give us an excuse for batteries and lights, for night work.
“I will recruit all necessary personnel—paying my own travel expenses—and collect them in Athens, where I will brief them. We will meet you in Cairo and proceed to Luxor.
“This expedition, like the man who sponsors it, will be highly colorful and eccentric—I believe the term is a ‘party dig.’ We will all be out for a good time and a bit of adventure. You will be the patient, long-suffering scientist who has to endure our buffoonery in order to gain access to our money.”
Pierce thought to himself that it would not be a hard part for Barnaby to play.
“The rationale of our approach is based on the assumption that government watchdogs will be off-duty at night. The tombs, as I understand it, are over here—” he pointed to the map “—on the other side of the Nile from the town of Luxor. Anybody who is assigned to keep track of us, and somebody is sure to be sent along, will return to Luxor each night. After all, why sleep on the ground when you can have a nice bed? And there is little chance of our escaping with anything large. Any of us who leave the dig, which is out in the desert in the middle of nowhere, will be watched carefully. Any packages we mail, any letters we write, will be opened—we can expect that. They will think that it is impossible for us to get anything of value out of the site and so will watch us casually.”
“Won’t they be right? The road is on the other side of the river, remember—the only road back to Cairo.”
“We won’t move the stuff by road,” Pierce said.
“By air? The airfield is also on the other side.”
“Not by air.”
Barnaby paused. “The railroads are out of the question. Completely out of the question.”
“Quite right.”
Barnaby took a long drink, put his glass down carefully, and looked at Pierce irritably. “You’re crazy,” he said. “I thought of going overland by truck, too. We could make for Libya and try to ship it out from Tripoli. The Libyans wouldn’t suspect anything. But it’s hundreds of miles of desert, with only two large oases in between, El Kargeh and El Dakhel. Even in Land Rovers, it would be one chance in a hundred that we’d reach civilization alive.”
“That’s true.” Pierce folded his hands quietly.
“Then how?”
“I have worked it out,” Pierce said. “There is only one way that it can be done, the only really logical possibility…. But actually, moving the contents of the tomb is not our greatest problem.”
“What then? Getting it out of the country?”
“No,” Pierce said, making himself another drink. “The greatest problem is selling it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you ever wonder how we are going to convert this treasure into hard cash?”
There was a silence. Barnaby puffed his cigarette. Pierce had hit a question that had not even occurred to him. The treasure was certainly valuable—priceless, literally—but the actual value of its gold and gems, taken apart, melted down, would not be so great. Much of the treasure of Tutankhamen’s tomb had consisted of gilded wood statuary, most of the intrinsic value lay in its beauty and historical value, not the costliness of the materials.
“Sell it to collectors, I suppose. There are a lot of collectors around who wouldn’t mind buying illegal stuff if it’s genuine. It happens in paintings all the time.”
“True, but how are you going to find all these unscrupulous collectors? And how long will it take you to unload fifty million dollars worth of treasure?”
Barnaby threw up his hands. “All right, how?”
“Ah,” Pierce said. “That’s a secret.”
“You mean you won’t tell me?”
“More or less.”
Barnaby stood up. “Forget it,” he said. “Forget the whole thing. If there’s no trust between us—”
“Of course there’s no trust. Now sit down.” Pierce took an envelope from his breast pocket “This is a plane ticket. Tomorrow I am leaving for Europe, to find people for the project. Shall I cancel it?”
Barnaby hesitated, then sat down. He reviewed what he knew of the plan and decided it was good. If Pierce had figured it out this far, perhaps he could go all the way. He had a better chance than most.
“No,” he said. “Go ahead.”
“There are a few conditions, however,” Pierce said. He smiled easily.
Barnaby waited.
“First of all, I’m running this project. I will be the boss, and I will make the decisions. If anybody wants to do something—if they ev
en want to go off and pee in the rocks—they have to get my permission first.”
Barnaby squirmed. In a sense, he had been expecting this all along, but not so blatant, not so forthright. Perhaps it was best in the long run. There would be no time for squabbles and angry scenes. “Agreed.”
“The money will be distributed as follows: for you, twenty percent of the gross; for me, twenty percent; for our benefactor, twenty-five percent; the remaining thirty-five percent to cover expenses and the other people on the project.”
Barnaby hesitated, then nodded.
“If we do strike it rich, no one is to touch his money for two years. The lump sum will be conservatively invested in Geneva, and any interest will be proportionally distributed before the final division. Everyone must agree to spend whatever portion of their own money is necessary to arrange a credible explanation for their sudden wealth. A man in your position, for instance, might not be noticeable if he suddenly received fifty thousand dollars. But ten million is a different animal. It’s damned hard to conceal.”
“Does everyone else have to agree on all these points?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay,” Barnaby said. “It’s a deal.”
They shook hands.
Pierce raised his glass. “To the tomb.”
Barnaby smiled. “You know,” he said, “it’s funny. Every archaeologist who has worked at the Valley of Kings has left convinced that he has uncovered the last tomb to be found in the valley. Belzoni said it, Davis said it, Maspero said it. But perhaps this time it really will be the last tomb.”
“All right then” Pierce said. “To the last tomb of the pharaohs.”
“To the last tomb.”
5. Grover
THEY SAT AT A corner table, looking out at the dancers moving frantically on the tiny floor. The music was loud, pounding the walls.
Lord Grover leaned over and spoke into Pierce’s ear. “I like it here,” he said. “Better than digitalis.”
Pierce smiled. “You don’t take digitalis.”
“Oh, but I do, you know. My heart is terribly weak, and I subject it to such mighty strains.” Lord Grover threw an affectionate arm around the blonde seated alongside him. She smiled at Grover—an animal grin, earthy and anticipatory.
“She doesn’t speak much English,” Grover said, “but she has the strongest, flattest stomach you have ever seen. It is quite remarkable. In all my experience, I cannot recall—oh say, look at that.”
He nodded toward the knot of dancers. A new couple had joined the throng on the discotheque floor, now shaking in wild abandon as the Rolling Stones screamed for satisfaction. The man was uninteresting, tanned and greasy-looking, but the girl was startling. She was barefooted, with long legs and a hard figure ensheathed in a shimmering white dress; her platinum hair was cut short and contrasted sharply with her tan.
“Quite nice,” Lord Grover remarked, after a moment of observation. “I must look into her—in a manner of speaking, that is.” He laughed, a deep rumble.
Lord Grover, fifth earl of Wheatston, was a huge man. He was nearly six feet tall and weighed over two hundred pounds. As he approached his mid-fifties, some of the physique of a fine athlete was softening and sagging, but he remained a formidable figure. His manner was vigorous and masculine, assertive in the way that only those born wealthy can bring off. He would have been an obnoxious, perhaps boorish man were it not for his face, which was extraordinarily childlike and constantly smiling, as if concealing devilish thoughts.
At the same time, he was nobody’s fool, and he did not lack nerve. During the war, Pierce knew, he had parachuted into France to coordinate resistance groups for the coming Normandy invasion; Grover had volunteered simply because he regarded it as an important job that he thought himself best fitted to do. He never mentioned it. Pierce had found out from a mutual acquaintance.
“You are probably wondering why I suggested we come here,” Grover said.
“Yes,” Pierce said. A discotheque on Capri hardly seemed appropriate.
“It is quite simple. I wish to relax before you involve me in gruesome discussions. I assume it concerns money?”
“Yes.”
Lord Grover sighed. “It always does. Can I persuade you to stay at my villa for a few days?”
“I would like that, but I will be rather busy—”
“But Robert, I am arranging some entertainments for you. I really must insist.”
Pierce hesitated. The thought of Grover’s entertainments—undoubtedly weird, and possibly practical jokes—did not appeal to him. On the other hand, he did not want to insult the man.
“I accept with pleasure.”
“Good, good. Let’s go to the villa now, shall we?”
They all stood, and Grover led the way out, holding the girl by the hand. It occurred to Pierce that he was probably lonely and wanted company for a few days—but the thought was fleeting. He was watching the girl’s hips shift as she walked.
The villa was small, on a promontory near Marina Piccolo, but it had its own private beach. The house was whitewashed, a cheerful little place with three guestrooms, a master bedroom, a dining room, and living room. Nearby were servants’ quarters for the maid and cook.
They came into the living room, and Grover dismissed the girl with a kiss on the forehead and a pat on the bottom. When she had gone, he turned to Pierce and laughed, as if ashamed of himself.
“What will you drink?”
“Nothing, thanks. You want me coherent, after all.”
“Precisely. How do you expect to order your thought without a drink? Scotch?”
“Thank you.”
“A sober man is a depressing man.” Grover walked to the bar and mixed it quickly. Then, he produced four bottles with strange shapes and unfamiliar labels. “I’m off Scotch, myself. Too dull. Have you ever had a vampyra? Fabulous. I believe it is of Rumanian origin. It calls for slivovitz, grain alcohol, and a shot of absinthe. Horrible, you say—but I must tell you it changes a man utterly.”
“Hence the name?”
“Superstitious people, the Rumanians,” Grover said, as he prepared his drink. “Or possibly they just hold their liquor badly.” He finished and brought both glasses over, handing Pierce the Scotch. “To money.”
Pierce grinned and drank.
“Now then,” Grover said, sitting down. “Let’s have it. I lit must warn you that my finances are in a rather poor state at the moment. You can’t expect miracles. What’s on your mind?”
“I have a proposition for you,” Pierce said. “A little investment which will give you rather remarkable returns. Something on the order of, say, two and a half thousand percent. Can I interest you?”
Grover sighed. “You Americans. So clever in business. What’s the initial outlay?”
“Fifty thousand dollars.”
“Hmmm.” Grover got up and walked to the bar. He mixed himself another drink, though he had hardly touched the first. “You must excuse me,” he said. “I often prepare a second drink beforehand. After the first, it is sometimes hard to get the right proportions. Do I understand you to be talking about twelve and a half million dollars?”
“Approximately.”
“Hmmm.” He returned to his seat and began patting his pockets. Then he stood, went to a cabinet, and searched through several drawers, muttering “hmmm” at intervals. He looked back at Pierce, frowning. Then he walked to the door, calling “Maddelena? Madd-e-lena?”
A maid appeared, fortyish and matronly. “Signor?”
“Where is my damned marijuana? I seem to have misplaced it.”
She went to the cabinet and opened the lowest drawer, removing a small packet that she handed him without a word. Her glance was sympathetic but still disapproving. She left silently.
“You’d think she was my goddamned mother,” Grover said, watching her go. “Now where are the blasted toothpicks?” He rummaged again for a while and finally found them at the bar. He licked one, rolled i
t in the packet of marijuana, and held it up to the light, critically inspecting the little ball of clinging powder. Then he popped it into his mouth like a thermometer.
“Hmmm,” he said, and sat down again. He propped his feet up on the coffee table. “Old custom, you know. They used to do it in Elizabethan times—you absorb it right through the gum. Saves wear and tear on the lungs. You were saying?”
Pierce smiled. “I made you a proposition.” Inwardly, he was thinking that Lord Grover was perfect, just the man he needed. Pierce was aware that this little act had been performed for Pierce’s benefit, to convince him that Grover was an unreliable man, hopelessly debauched. But Pierce had watched the eyes, which were alert, looking for a reaction.
“So you did, so you did. A very interesting proposition. But I must tell you something: I will not countenance illegal actions of any sort except for my own amusement”
“Who said it was illegal?”
“Robert, you are a dear boy, but nobody ever made a profit like that legally.”
“All right,” Pierce shrugged. “It’s illegal.”
“Terribly illegal?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Dangerous?”
“Possibly.”
“Can I be in on it, or do you simply want my wallet?”
“No, as a matter of fact, your presence is essential.”
“Hmmm.” Lord Grover sipped his drink. “I think this is going to be amusing after all. Shall we discuss it more fully?”
It was three in the morning when Pierce finally went to bed. Lord Grover had heard the whole plan—with certain deletions—and announced he would make his final decision in the morning. Pierce had climbed under the covers completely exhausted and was instantly asleep.
He awoke smelling perfume. Something was tickling his ankle. He raised his head from the pillow and looked into a pair of very blue eyes. “Hello,” the girl said. She was lovely, with long blonde hair and a deep tan. She was getting undressed.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello,” said another voice. He looked over and saw another girl, also blonde, also undressing. Pierce glanced from one to the other.
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