“Feisal is beginning to sound a trifle nervous,” he remarked, and read the message aloud.
“‘Looking forward to seeing you. I have much to tell you, much to show you. Let me know the time of your arrival.’”
“Perhaps you had better reassure him.”
“At the moment I can’t think of any news that would do that.” He began poking at the buttons, pronouncing the words as he wrote them. “‘Hope to have plans made by tomorrow. Let’s keep your news for a surprise, shall we?’”
“You both have a somewhat telegraphic style,” I remarked. “I take it you haven’t gone in for instant messaging?”
“We have to assume that all our means of communication are compromised. How I loathe modern technology,” he added petulantly. “Every new so-called advance in communication is only a new way of eavesdropping.”
Before I could voice my hearty agreement the bell at the shop door jangled. John stood up. “Stay here,” he ordered, and went out.
Naturally I went to the door and looked into the shop. The potential customers looked harmless enough: two middle-aged women wearing twin sets and pearls. John advanced on them, exuding charm; in response to his question, “May I be of assistance?” one of them chirped, “Just browsing.”
“By all means,” said John. He retreated to the desk at the back of the showroom and sat down.
The women—Mabel and Allie, as they referred to each other—looked at every painting and every artifact, asking questions and requesting prices. They were free with their comments. “Two hundred pounds for that? It’s quite ugly, you know.”
They were at it for almost an hour, obviously killing time, with no intention of buying anything. John answered their questions fully and courteously, but without moving from his chair. After they left I ventured out of the office.
“I suppose you get a lot of that,” I said.
“Oh, yes. Most of the drop-in customers are ‘just having a look round.’ But one never knows when a live one may turn up. Come here and sit down. We close in another three-quarters of an hour.”
He didn’t seem inclined toward conversation, so I opened a drawer looking for the magazine Alan had been reading. It wasn’t there. But something else was.
“I thought you never carried—”
“It’s a toy. Good enough to fool most people, though, wouldn’t you say?”
“Modern technology,” I murmured, staring at the deadly black shape.
“Life in the metropolis,” said John, “is increasingly hazardous, especially for innocent merchants. I’ve had this ever since an acquaintance of mine up the road was robbed at gunpoint a few months ago. They beat him rather badly and got away with two diamond rings.”
He picked up a pile of papers from the in-box and began going through them. An occasional grimace suggested that some of them were bills.
One other customer showed up just before closing time. The drawer was open and John’s hand was on the fake Beretta before the bell stopped jangling. It was a man this time, sturdily built and bearded, wearing a turban.
“I am in the market,” he said, in the accents of Whitechapel, “for African textiles.”
“I’m afraid we have nothing of that sort,” John said. “Try Alfie’s.”
“I have been there,” said the bearded man, standing his ground.
“There’s a place around the corner that specializes in African crafts,” John said, gripping the barrel of the gun so hard his knuckles went white. “Marks and—uh—Markham and Wilson. Turn right when you leave, and right again at the next intersection. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.” The beard opened in a smile. “You are most helpful.”
The bell jangled. John let out his breath and relaxed his grip. “That’s it. Get your gear while I close up.”
J ohn unlocked the door of the flat. “No one’s been here.”
“The old thread-in-the-doorframe gimmick,” I said, watching it float to the floor.
“Simple but generally efficacious. However, just to be on the safe side…” He cast a searching glance round the room, went into the bedroom and study and did the same, and preceded me into the kitchen.
“All clear,” he said.
I put the groceries away and then settled down to watch telly and wait for Schmidt to call. John, who professes to despise popular culture, retreated into the study, his nose in the air. In a way I didn’t blame him for avoiding what has become an exercise in despondency (the news) and/or idiocy (most sitcoms), but I find it relaxing. I had a bag of crisps in one hand and a beer in the other and was switching from channel to channel when I caught something that made me spill the crisps.
“John,” I yelled. “Get in here. Quick!”
He shot through the door. Seeing me bolt upright and unthreatened, he was about to expostulate when I gestured at the screen. “Look. It’s him!”
I recognized the background: the facade of the Altes Museum in Berlin. In the foreground Dr. Ashraf Khifaya, secretary general of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, in full glorious color, was being interviewed by a BBC reporter. He was wearing a pristine pith helmet and carrying a huge sign that read, in English, German, and Arabic: “Let Nefertiti come home.” Other newspersons surrounded him. He looked like a particularly gorgeous Hollywood star playing an adventurous archaeologist. The bullwhip would appear any second. In the background a long line of black-robed women paced slowly along the sidewalk, accompanied by the slow throb of drums.
“No dancing girls,” John said critically.
“This is better. Solemn and dramatic.”
“I ask only for what is ours,” Khifaya declaimed, in excellent English with just enough accent to sound exotic. “After years of exploitation…”
They cut him off in mid-spiel; no news item is worth more than a few minutes. In keeping with their declared policy of presenting both sides, the cameras switched to a man sitting behind a desk.
“It’s him,” I squealed.
“He,” said John.
“Shh.”
“This is a free country,” said the man behind the desk in clipped tones. “If the distinguished secretary general chooses to make an exhibition of himself, that is his privilege. Thank you.”
“So Nefertiti is not going home?” asked a blond female, twinkling at the camera.
“You have received a press release on the position of the museum. It has not changed. Thank you.”
“So the feud continues,” said the blonde, with a merry laugh.
She was replaced by an equally blond starlet answering questions about her upcoming divorce. John grabbed the remote and switched off the set.
“You recognized him, didn’t you?” I demanded. “Not Khifaya, the second guy.”
“I presume he is the director of the museum.”
“Assistant director. It was Jan Perlmutter. You remember—the guy that stole the Trojan Gold out from under our noses.”
“Your nose.”
“Oh, come on, you were in on the hunt too. So we picked the wrong grave. I still don’t know how Perlmutter figured out which was the right one.”
“Ah, yes, it’s coming back to me.” John began collecting scattered crisps. “My guess would be that he winkled the information out of your chum, the little old woodcarver. I got the distinct impression that the old chap knew more than he was telling you. Didn’t you ever ask?”
“There wasn’t time. I fled with my tail between my legs and Herr Müller had left Garmisch to stay with his sister. I meant to get in touch with him, but a few weeks later I got a note from the sister telling me he had died.”
I still felt a little guilty about not making more of an effort to find out how the old fellow was doing. I had grown fond of him and I had thought he was fond of me. Had he been holding out on me? If so, it was surely because he feared that for me knowledge might be dangerous. As it definitely had been. He might have meant to tell me more if he hadn’t died suddenly…It was irrelevant now.
“I didn’t recognize him,” John admitted. “He’s losing his hair.” He ran a gentle hand over his own shining locks.
“Serves him right,” I said vindictively. “That discovery put him on the high road to promotion and left me looking like an idiot.”
“If it’s any consolation, he didn’t look very happy.”
“He didn’t, did he? He’s finding out that being a museum big shot isn’t all rich donors and fine art. Hey—why don’t you check the Net and see if there are any stories about the siege of the museum?”
“Sure to be,” said John. “Every other piece of trivia is.”
Reuters and the German newspapers had stories, with lots of photographs, mostly of Khifaya. His good looks, his showmanship, and most of all that pith helmet had a visual impact as impressive as that of any celebrity. He spoke with eloquence and passion and an occasional winning touch of humor. I could have sworn there were tears in those big dark eyes when he appealed to the world for justice.
“You’re drooling,” John said nastily, and switched to what he referred to as the Egyptology blogs. They were full of Khifaya too. I pulled up a chair, shoved John over, and began reading some of the comments. Opinion was divided. Some thought Egypt’s claim should be honored, some had accepted the museum’s statement that the famous bust was too fragile to be moved. Then I got distracted by other items. They ranged from the soberly professional to the utterly loony. Debates raged about everything from the construction of the Great Pyramid to the age of the Sphinx, and ignorance of the subject didn’t prevent people from voicing their ideas.
A word caught my eye and I stopped John as he was about to scroll down.
The word was “mummy.”
It took a few minutes to pick up the thread of the discussion, which had apparently been going on for a while. Somebody had found Queen Hatshepsut—again—and somebody else said no, it couldn’t be she, because she was another mummy in another tomb, identified only by a number that didn’t strike an immediate chord, and somebody else declared that mummy number two was Nefertiti or maybe her daughter.
“I could get hooked on this,” I said, fascinated. “Look at that sketch of mummy number two. She’s copied it straight off the Berlin head.”
“The world is full of fanatics,” said John. “At least they aren’t talking about—”
My cell phone rang. I snatched it up.
“I am here,” said a doleful voice. “Shall I come there?”
“No,” John said loudly.
“Schmidt, are you all right?” I said.
“No. I am in deep distress. I am coming—”
“Stay where you are.” John grabbed the phone. “The Savoy?”
“Aber natürlich. I always stay at the Savoy when I am in London. I am well known here, and they—”
“We are coming to you,” I said, retrieving the phone. “Stay put, Schmidt. We’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Sehr gut. I will buy you dinner.”
A long sigh followed. I hung up in the middle of it.
“You had better change,” John said, eyeing my jeans and T-shirt critically.
“Don’t they have a grill, or someplace less formal than the main dining room?”
“There is no informal dining spot at the Savoy. Change. And hurry. Schmidt isn’t known for his patience.”
He skinned off his jeans and shirt as he spoke. By the time I had located a pair of respectable pants and a top without a rude saying printed on it he was knotting his tie.
“The Royal Marines?” I asked, studying the pattern of stripes.
“First Gloucestershire Regiment.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“My dear girl, there is no law against wearing a regimental tie.” He began transferring various items from the jacket he had worn that day into the pockets of an elegant wool-and-silk navy blazer. The last item was the fake gun. Toy or not, it was heavy enough to make the pocket sag. He studied the effect in the mirror, frowned, and transferred the gun to an inside breast pocket.
“How about getting me one of those?” I asked.
“You move around too much. Try getting one of these through airport security and you will discover that nobody finds it amusing.”
The Savoy was one of the numerous (read: expensive) places in London to which John had never taken me. I took to it right away—the circular drive set back from the Strand, the top-hatted serf who leaped to open the door of the taxi, the beautifully appointed lobby. Schmidt was waiting, arms open. He hugged me and would have hugged John if John hadn’t been ready for him, and announced he had been able to wangle a table in the grill. It must have been a big deal. John looked impressed.
While Schmidt pored over the menu I studied him with mounting concern. His color was fine and he certainly hadn’t lost any more weight, but there was something…His eyes kept shifting. He babbled, not with his usual manic enthusiasm, but as if he were talking at random to keep his mind off other things.
Finally I said, “Okay, Schmidt, that’s enough. Get it off your chest. That’s what we’re here for.”
Schmidt took out a large handkerchief and pressed it to his face. “I do not want to talk about it. Later, perhaps. Not here. I do not wish to weep in public. Distract me. Tell me about yourselves, what you are doing. How is the business? Any new objects of interest?”
“There’s a rather nice Entombment of Christ by one of the fifteenth-century German wood-carvers,” I said. “But don’t expect you’ll be offered a discount. He always ups the prices for friends.”
Schmidt broke into a loud peal of laughter. “Very good, very good. I will go to the shop tomorrow to have a look.”
I opened my mouth and got a sharp kick on the ankle.
“By all means,” John said. “How long do you intend to stay, Schmidt?”
“I do not wish to interfere with your plans,” Schmidt said.
“They are flexible,” said John, in what had to be the understatement of the year. I felt sure he still intended to get out of town next day, without telling Schmidt. Not a good idea, I thought. That would leave Schmidt on the loose in London, thoroughly and (from his point of view) legitimately mad as hell at us. I had learned not to underestimate my boss. He’d be on our trail as soon as he learned we had vanished from his ken. The idea of having his rotund and conspicuous person following us to Egypt made me very uneasy. Supposing, that is, that we were going to Egypt.
Observing my knitted brows, Schmidt said, “You are not worrying about Clara, I hope. I have made certain she will be looked after.”
“Good,” I said absently.
I think we had an excellent meal, though I can’t remember what I ate. New and alarming ideas kept popping into my head. John had made rather a point of making sure Schmidt stayed off the streets. Was the old boy in danger? And if so, from whom? And if so, why? And if so, we couldn’t leave him unprotected.
I came back to the real world to hear John and Schmidt chatting about the Victoria and Albert Museum.
“I have not been there for some time,” said Schmidt, dabbing daintily at his mustache. “I would like to have another look at the armor collection. Vicky, you will join me, I hope? You too are welcome, John, though I suppose you will be busy with the shop.”
“I thought you were coming by to look at the Entombment,” John said.
“Another day, perhaps.”
Schmidt insisted on escorting us to the door. “So,” he said, “tomorrow at nine, Vicky, for breakfast, and then the Victoria and Albert.”
He stood waving and blowing kisses as the taxi pulled away.
“Did you get the impression that I am not wanted tomorrow?” John asked.
“I got a lot of impressions, none of which makes any sense. I am beginning to think—”
“Not now. That is
to say,” John amended, “you are of course free to think all you like, but let’s not discuss it now.”
So I confined myself to staring out the window. London is one of my favorite cities. I used to feel safe there, even after the suicide attack in the Underground and the foiled bombings. Terrorist attacks are as random as tornadoes, I told myself; they are, unhappily, as likely in New York and Madrid as in the Middle East. But that morning I had come close to being yanked into a car by people who were after me, Vicky Bliss, not any anonymous victim. One would suppose I had become accustomed to it during my long acquaintance with John, but take it from me, you never get used to that sort of extremely personal interest.
John made a quick tour of the flat before settling down on the sofa and gesturing me to join him.
“Still thinking?” he inquired.
“Yes. No. I think we ought to let Schmidt in on the whole thing.”
His only response was a raised eyebrow. I had marshaled my arguments, so I plunged on.
“Schmidt has a lot of contacts. He knows everybody. You keep denigrating him with adjectives like old and little, but if it hadn’t been for Schmidt, our Egyptian venture last year wouldn’t have ended so well. Hell’s bells, he was the deus ex machina the whole time, dragging us out of one hairy situation after another. He may strike you as a comedic figure—”
“He is a comedic figure. That’s one of the things that makes him so effective. People underestimate him. But I,” said John, “am learning not to do so. Believe it or not, I was considering the same idea. The only thing that deters me is the fact that I am rather fond of the old—sorry—the dear chap. I don’t want to see him hurt.”
“Do you think I do? But he’s an adult, John, even if he is fat and—oh, hell—not as young as he used to be. I haven’t the right to make decisions for him, and neither do you. His male ego has already taken a blow, from that bitch Suzi. Maybe he’d rather risk his life than his self-esteem. Maybe you’ll feel the same way when you’re his age.”
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