Easy Go

by Michael Crichton

  He ran.

  Pierce sighed.

  Conway said, “He didn’t see the pictures?”

  “No. I checked.”

  “Uh, would you have killed him if he did see the pictures?”

  Pierce shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  The airplane carried them high over the Nile Valley. From here, it was no more than a muddy, twisting streak in the endless desert, a small rivulet surrounded by green, beyond which extended a trackless waste on which nothing survived.

  “I can never quite get used to it,” Lisa said, looking out the window.

  Pierce nodded.

  “You’ve been quiet lately. Are you always so moody?”

  “Will we have a good time in Cairo?”

  “We’ll have a hell of a time in Cairo.”

  Barnaby stood frowning outside the door to the Department of Antiquities of the Cairo Museum. He had stopped by to see Varese, only to be told by the staff officer that Mr. Varese was away at the moment.

  Where? Barnaby had asked.

  The staff officer was rather surprised. Luxor, of course, he had said.

  Barnaby did not know why this information bothered him, but it did. No doubt, Varese’s reasons for going to Luxor were perfectly straightforward. It might have to do with tourist problems or the German concession within the Valley of Kings. Any number of things.

  Still, it bothered him.

  “I was promised a room overlooking the river,” Lord Grover told the man behind the desk. “I was promised it.”

  The man shrugged helplessly. “We have given you a very beautiful room overlooking Liberation Square. The light is excellent there, and—”

  “I’m not interested in the light. I want a view of the Nile.”

  “I am sorry sir. We are nearly full up at the moment, and I am afraid—”

  “Don’t be afraid.” Grover pushed ten Egyptian pounds across the desk. “I wouldn’t want you to be afraid.”

  The man stared at the money, not moving. He licked his lips. Silently, Grover added another five pounds.

  “I believe it can be arranged.”

  “Now?”

  “Of course, sir.” He deftly scooped up the money.

  “Got it,” Grover said as he entered Pierce’s room. Pierce was standing by the window, looking out over the Nile through his binoculars. “No problem.”

  “Any bugs this time?”

  “No. I am apparently considered trustworthy.”

  “Good,” Pierce said. “That means we have three rooms facing the river—mine, yours, and Alan’s. Somebody will be sure to see him.”

  “I should hope so.” Grover looked down at Pierce’s bed and picked up an earring. He looked at it and dropped it again. “You haven’t got anything to drink, have you?”

  “It’s eleven in the morning.”

  “That’s hardly an answer to a civil question.”

  “Scotch in the bathroom,” Pierce said. Through his binoculars, he could see the sailors in the feluccas on the river.

  “Scotch in the bathroom? Scotch, in the bathroom?”

  “Yes,” Pierce said. “Glasses, too.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “To drink out of.”

  Grover shook his head. “Oh, Robert, Robert. I fear you’ll never make a proper Englishman. In the bathroom—good God.”

  “Who said anything about being an Englishman?”

  From the bathroom came a clink and the sound of pouring liquid. “Well, I just thought….”

  There was an embarrassed silence. Grover came back into the bedroom. “Well, what I really mean to say…”

  Another uncomfortable silence. Pierce continued to stare through the binoculars. He heard Grover walking around the room. “Well, I have a certain duty to discharge.”

  “You carry out that duty admirably, judging from appearances.”

  “The Americans,” Grover said sadly, “are given to crude remarks. Frankly, I cannot imagine what she sees in you.”

  “Oh, so that’s what we’re talking about.”

  “Yes.” Grover breathed deeply. “Now, will you please put those damned binoculars away and talk to me?”

  Pierce put them down, poured himself a glass of Scotch, and sat on the bed. He saw the earring; it was Lisa’s. He slipped it into his pocket.

  “Robert, I’m afraid I must ask your intentions concerning my private secretary.”

  Pierce nearly choked on his drink. “What?”

  “You heard me quite clearly,” Grover said, standing stiffly.

  “Don’t you think that’s a matter between myself and her?”

  “Robert, that girl has almost been a daughter to me.”

  “She doesn’t need you to look after her in this respect.”

  Grover sighed. “She is very dear to me. I never had any children of my own, you know. When I married each of my three wives, I looked forward to the prospect anew, but the better I know my wives, the less I wanted anything to come of the union. Horrible creatures, my wives. True harpies. Lili was different.”

  “Lili?”

  “Lisa’s mother. Lili Castellani.”

  The name was familiar. Lili Castellani was a French-Italian countess who had been the toast of prewar London; the most elegant woman, the most sophisticated hostess, the cost desirable woman in the town.

  “Oh,” Pierce said. “Does she know?”

  “Lisa? Certainly not. She thinks both her parents were killed in the London Fire. Her mother was, actually. Her mother was a beautiful woman.”

  “Who was the father?”

  “A very close, very dear friend of mine. You will understand if I am no more specific than that.” Grover shook his head sadly. “I wanted to marry her, you know, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Terribly unconventional—she was the only woman who ever turned me down. After the war, I found out that the child had been sent to the country when the bombing started. I looked her up and arranged the records. I couldn’t adopt her—I’m not regarded as a proper guardian, you see—but I did manage to see that she received everything she needed. I became a sort of uncle, but I am deeply attached to her, and I feel responsible.”

  He shrugged. “So there it is. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I don’t have an answer.”

  “I’ve always approved of you, Robert.”

  “I still don’t have an answer.”

  “So infernally stubborn,” said Grover, walking to the window. “Americans are proud of it. National trait. I hope you are aware that when I die, she will be a very wealthy woman.”

  “I’m not for sale,” Pierce said, suddenly angry.

  Grover smiled.

  “That’s what I’d hoped you’d say.”

  “You should have known that’s what I’d say.”

  “One can never be sure,” Grover said. “The prospect of wealth does strange things to people.”

  12. An Unexpected Visit

  HAMID ISKANDER, TREMBLING WITH fear, stumbled to his feet. He looked at his visitor and managed to stammer in Arabic, “Sir, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “I am sure,” Varese said. He stood straight and motioned to the servant to bring in a small cardboard box. The box was placed on Iskander’s desk.

  “Be seated,” Varese said.

  Both men sat down and stared at each other over the box. Finally, when he could stand it no longer, Iskander said, “What is in the box?”

  “You are a fool,” Varese said, shaking his head rather sadly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You were appointed before I became Director of Antiquities. I have allowed you to continue your sluggish performance only because I had no clear evidence of bungling.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “However, now I have evidence. Can you guess the nature of it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Iskander said, hanging his head.

  Varese was genuinely surprised. “You can?”

  “I know,” said Iskander, “W
hat the charges are against me. I know that I am guilty. But I beg you to leave her out of this. I am simply a man, and women…”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My guilt,” Iskander said. “Perhaps you have seen her. She beautiful, and I cannot resist the temptation to spend some afternoons—not every afternoon, why not even one afternoon this week—at her side. I cannot resist it.”

  “Fool,” said Varese irritably. “You think I care about your fat mistress?”

  “She is not fat!”

  “Fool!” Varese opened the box and removed a small piece polished stone. He placed it in front of Iskander, who was sweating profusely.

  “What do you make of this?” Varese smiled grimly. “I ask you in your capacity as regional representative of the Antiquities Service in Luxor. I ask for your professional opinion.”

  Hesitantly Iskander picked up the stone and turned it in his hand. He fingered the etched markings.

  “It is a scarab beetle,” he said.

  “Brilliant.”

  Iskander shrugged. “They are for sale anywhere. On the streets of Luxor you can buy them of quartz which looks like lapis lazuli. Fifty piasters, or one hundred for a large one. They are manufactured in the home of Abdul—”

  “May Allah preserve especially the fools,” Varese said, sighing. “You think that is quartz?”

  Iskander paused, squinted at the stone, and bit his lip. “You mean it is real lapis lazuli?”

  “Yes, former employee. It is real lapis lazuli.”

  “Then this is a genuine and priceless artifact!”

  “No.” Varese shook his head. “Order tea.”

  “But if it is real—”

  “Order tea,” Varese commanded.

  Iskander scrambled to his feet.

  Later, Varese became calm. Iskander started to think of ways to ingratiate himself with his boss and keep his job. His only alternative was the Transport Ministry, where his cousin worked, and there, the pay was less and the hours longer—altogether unsatisfactory.

  “The scarab,” said Varese, “came into my hands last week. A wealthy visitor came to the museum and was so impressed he wished to make a donation. Naturally, I was amenable. At the conclusion of our meeting, he jokingly brought forth the scarab, which he had purchased that morning in the Cairo bazaar. He said he knew it was fake, but he wanted my opinion of it anyway. It is the kind of foolishness one puts up with for a donation.”

  “Only this time it was real.”

  “Silence,” Varese said coldly. “Your stupidity will carry you to an early grave. I am trying to explain that the scarab is, indeed, a fake.”

  Iskander spread his hands. “Then where is the problem?”

  “In the stone and the quality of the cutting. It was seen by Professor Hakim, and Professor Imman. Both agreed it was probably a copy, but neither could be certain. In any case, the stone itself was the genuine article and the workmanship excellent. We decided to investigate.”

  Iskander knew what was coming. The story of tracing antiquities was oft repeated in Egyptian history. Squads of police would set out to track down the route that a piece had taken from its source.

  “It was a precaution,” Varese said dryly. “A routine matter. The dealer was questioned. He explained he had purchased it from a Nubian traveler. The traveler was located. He explained that he had bought it in Aswan. We discovered that the dealer there was a Turk. He said he bought it from a sailor. The sailor was difficult to locate, but when we found him, he told an unusual story. It seems he got it from an unknown stranger, a man who stole a boat in Aswan. The stranger had offered it as a bribe and then beaten the sailor, but did not retrieve the scarab. A most unusual story.”

  “And you believed it?”

  “Yes. When we were through with him, we believed him.”

  “It seems unlikely,” Iskander ventured.

  “It seems more likely all the time,” Varese said. “The story of the boat was puzzling. We reexamined the scarab and still could not be certain it was a fake, though we suspected it. So we made still further, very subtle inquiries.”

  “Yes?”

  “It may interest you to know,” Varese said, “that I have been in Luxor for two weeks, and I am satisfied that I know the truth.”

  Iskander shifted again in his chair. A long silence fell. Finally, he said, “And what can I do to help?”

  “Remove all personal belongings, and vacate this office by morning,” Varese said. “Your replacement is already on his way from Cairo.”

  With that, he got up and left the room.

  13. The Meeting

  CONWAY SAT IN A chair in the Hilton, looking out at the river through the glass window. From the bathroom came the sound of a shower running; the little girl from Hong Kong. She had become quite attached to him.

  On the Nile, several boats drifted up and down. There was a good breeze; the sails were puffed full.

  He watched as one boat came downstream, passing beneath the Koubry el-Tahrir, the bridge connecting the east bank with the island of Zamalik. It was an old boat, riding low in the water, unremarkable except for the sail.

  A blue patch.

  He looked again, then picked up the binoculars. In the stern, slumped in the sun, was Nikos. He watched as Nikos brought the boat down past the Hilton, then around the northern point of the island.

  A cool customer, Conway thought. He never once looked up at the windows of the hotel.

  Conway met Pierce at dinner. “We have a visitor.”

  “Nikos?”

  “Uh-huh. Came by right on time, at twelve-thirty.”

  “How’d he look?”

  “Like anybody who had just spent two weeks on the Nile. Bored out of his mind.”

  “We have a busy night.” Pierce said. “Where’s Barnaby?”

  “Probably in his hotel room.”

  “Go see him. Tell him to meet us in Liberation Square at ten tonight.”

  “Okay.”

  “Meet me in the lobby here at nine.”

  “What’re we going to do?”

  “Get a taxi.”

  “It won’t take us an hour to—” He stopped. “Oh. I see. You mean you want to get a taxi.”

  “That’s right,” Pierce said.

  They walked quietly through the eastern quarter of the city, down dark streets.

  “I feel like a fool,” Conway said. “When I was a kid, I used to wear pyjamas like this.”

  He was dressed in a galaba which they had bought new and made appropriately dirty by dropping in the street and stomping on.

  “Don’t worry,” Pierce said. “You look fetching. Are you sure you know how to start up one of these cars?”

  “A Fiat? You insult me.”

  After half an hour of searching, they found what they wanted. A Fiat taxi parked by itself. It stood alongside a café brightly lighted in red neon. The owner was probably inside, eating dinner.

  “Risky,” Pierce said.

  “Naaa.”

  Conway wore a suit and tie beneath the galaba. If anything went wrong, he would run down the street, into an alley, and pull off the robe, emerging a new man. Nobody would challenge a Westerner. “It’s my superman act,” he explained.

  They stopped at the end of the street.

  “Okay man,” Conway said. “Now you wait here, and if you see anything coming, you start coughing. Cough like hell. I’ll hotfoot it out and meet you back at the hotel. Otherwise, wait here, and I’ll pick you up. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Now, uh, give me the cutters and the knife.”

  Ho took them and walked quickly across the street. Pierce saw him stop at the taxi, bend over, and open the door. Conway shut the door silently and disappeared from view. He was working underneath the dashboard.

  It seemed to take forever.

  Pierce lit a cigarette and felt a sudden urge to cough. God, not now. He swallowed hard. The urge passed.

  Nobody appeared on the stre
et. Then, three blocks away, a policeman. Coming toward him.

  What was Conway doing down there?

  The policeman came nearer. Now he was only two blocks away. Pierce saw his uniform clearly in the streetlamp.

  Conway sat up in the car and slipped behind the wheel. The taxi roared to life. He shoved it in gear and sped around the corner.

  The policeman walked steadily forward. He had not noticed anything. Pierce stood on the corner and waited. He smoked the cigarette and tried to appear unconcerned.

  Λ Fiat came around the corner, three blocks away. It sped by.

  “Taxi!”

  Red brake lights.

  Pierce got into the back seat.

  “Sahib?” Conway said.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Inevitably, they became lost. It was a natural consequence of the labyrinthine city and street signs in Arabic. Nearly half an hour later, they pulled into Mtdan el-Tahrir, Liberation Square. It was a scene of great activity, even at night. Trolleys and buses rumbled around the turnabout; pedestrians walked, talked, argued, or stood at the little stands that squeezed fresh fruit juice.

  Pierce spotted Barnaby: “There he is.”

  “Where?”

  “Pull over to the right.”

  Conway did. Pierce got out and waved Barnaby over.

  “Listen,” Barnaby said. “We can’t trust a cab driver—”

  Then he saw Conway.

  “Oh.”

  “Whaddya mean, oh? Is that all you have to say for the fella who presented you with this marvelous machine? Oh?”

  “Sorry,” Barnaby said, slipping in. Pierce followed him and shut the door. They pulled out into traffic.

  “Why a cab?”

  “Because,” Pierce said, “it’s the least likely vehicle to be stopped at night. You’re an archaeologist, I’m your friend. We want to see the pyramids by moonlight. How do we get there? By taxi, of course.”

  “Did you have trouble stealing it?”

  “No,” Conway said. “I’m an old joyrider from way back. Now where do I go?”

  “Turn right,” Barnaby said. “I’ll direct you.”

  “Try to keep us on back streets,” Pierce said.

  The taxi sped off into the night.

  Sixteen miles to the south, they passed the sleepy village of Badrshein, and continued on toward Masgun. The road was lined with date-palm trees; there was no traffic, except for a few donkey-carts returning to their villages for the night.