Laughter of Dead Kings vbm-6

by Elizabeth Peters

  Schmidt choked on the bite of food he had just ingested. Then he mumbled, “Yes, you are right. I was told—asked—to report every day, whether I had news or not.”

  “Maybe there’s a message from her,” I suggested.

  “No, she would not message me, for fear you might intercept it. She is very careful.” Schmidt dug out his cell phone. “What shall I say to her?”

  John had obviously given the matter some thought. “That we’re in Berlin.” He waved away Schmidt’s incipient protest. “If she hasn’t found out through her sources, someone is bound to see you on the evening news.”

  “I had not thought of that.” Schmidt looked crestfallen.

  “No harm done. Tell her we mean to stay a few more days and that you have high hopes of catching me in the act of negotiating with one of my gang.”

  Schmidt chuckled. His pudgy little fingers were already punching buttons. “Gang, yes, that is good. What else shall I say?”

  “Love and kisses,” I suggested.

  Schmidt made a face, but complied.

  I hadn’t indulged in wurst in a bun, so I made a hearty lunch. I know it sounds as if I eat all the time, but traveling with John means I never know when the next meal will be available.

  “Are we actually going to Egypt, or is this another evasive technique?” I asked. “Not that I expect a truthful answer.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “I cannot imagine why you should say that. The fact is we don’t seem to be getting anywhere from this end, so perhaps it’s time we started looking for him. I think he’s still in Egypt.”

  “He? Oh—him. Why?”

  “Consider the logistical difficulties of getting him out of the country. How would you transport a six-foot-long object through ordinary channels? One might posit such methods as a boat at a Red Sea port, or a hired aircraft landing in the desert, but why go to all that trouble when he could just be tucked away someplace handy, ready to be returned upon payment of ransom?”

  “That makes very good sense,” said Schmidt.

  John smiled modestly. “There is also the difficulty of getting him away from the Luxor area. As I recall, one can’t go far in any direction without encountering a security checkpoint. Vehicles usually have to wait to join a police-escorted convoy. I can think of several ways around the checkpoint problem, but we may as well start from the assumption that they won’t have gone far.” John glanced at his watch. “We’d better get back to the hotel and start packing.”

  “Then I must have a suitcase,” Schmidt said, brightening at the prospect of more shopping.

  We didn’t take the first taxi. I wondered when the bad guys were going to figure out people were on to this maneuver, and have the kidnapper drive the second cab.

  KaDeWe, Berlin’s equivalent of Harrods, was not the right place to take Schmidt. He bought each of us a suitcase (genuine leather), and John a watch (a Rolex), and me a scarf (Hermès), and in the toy department, an exact replica of Princess Leia’s pistol.

  “You’ll never get that through security,” I said.

  “I will place it in my checked baggage. A present for my godchild, you see. Shall I get one for you too?”

  “Well…”

  “Two godchildren,” said Schmidt. “And perhaps the sword of Aragorn for each.”

  The swords were four feet long. We talked him out of them.

  We got back to the hotel with time to spare. I put all my new presents, including Leia’s gun, in my new suitcase and checked to make sure I hadn’t overlooked anything. John had already finished packing and left the bedroom. When I went out into the sitting room, he wasn’t there.

  SIX

  H e wasn’t anywhere in the suite. Schmidt, still packing things I hadn’t even seen him acquire, interrupted his off-key rendering of “Night Train to Memphis” long enough to deny seeing or hearing him.

  “Stay here,” I said, through clenched teeth. “I mean it, Schmidt; don’t stir from this room until I come back.”

  Had I been a nice person I would have been wringing my hands and working myself into a frenzy of concern. However, cold reason reminded me that there had been no sound of a disturbance, not even a stray gunshot. He must have left of his own accord, on his own well-shod feet, for his own reasons. Which he had not bothered to confide to me.

  The lift was located in a hallway just off the lobby. I wasn’t quite furious enough to come barreling out of it shouting threats; peering cautiously round a potted palm, I saw two people standing by the outer door engaged in earnest conversation. One of them was John, smiling and urbane, not a hair on his head ruffled. The other person was shaped like Schmidt, short and rounded, but she was obviously female, and to judge from her attire, no longer young: a dark print dress that reached to mid-calf, sensible laced shoes, and a scarf that covered her hair. She carried an oversized purse and a cloth shopping bag. I couldn’t see her face, since she had her back to me.

  I stayed where I was, ears pricked. Only soft murmurs were audible. When I finally caught a phrase it was uninformative: “Auf Widersehen,” from John. A throaty chuckle from the hausfrau was her only answer. John sprang to open the door for her, and out she marched, purse swinging.

  I emerged from behind the greenery. John’s reaction to my appearance was a smile and a reminder that we were running late.

  “So whose fault is that?” I inquired, as he bowed me into the lift. “Why didn’t you tell me you had an appointment with your contact?”

  John put his arm round me and turned me to face him. “Were you worried?” he asked tenderly.

  “I was furious.”

  “So I assumed.” He removed his arm. “I did tell you earlier today that I meant to get in touch.”

  “Who is she? She didn’t look like a crook.”

  “The most successful crooks don’t.” John looked smug. “However, in this case the word ‘crook’ does not apply. She’s one of the most respected antiquities dealers in Berlin. She wasn’t keen on being seen in public with me, so she agreed to drop by here for a brief consultation.”

  “I was under the impression that you were also a respectable antiquities dealer. Why was she unwilling to meet you in public? Aha—wait, let me guess. She’s heard a thing or two.”

  “Very good,” John said patronizingly. He rapped on the door of the suite. Schmidt must have been standing right behind the door. It was flung open. There stood Schmidt, pointing Princess Leia’s pistol at us.

  “God be thanked, you are safe!” he exclaimed.

  “I can’t imagine why you should suppose we wouldn’t be,” John said. “But I appreciate your concern, Schmidt. Have you finished packing?”

  “Yes, yes, only the pistol. Where—”

  “All in due time,” John said. “Where’s your bag, Vicky?”

  “Oh, are you going to carry it for me? How gallant.”

  I ended up carrying the thing myself, since, after watching Schmidt drag his bulging suitcase toward the door, John decided he needed assistance more than I.

  “What on earth have you got in here?” John demanded.

  Schmidt looked self-conscious. “A few odds and ends. Necessities. What—”

  John refused to talk until we were in the taxi on our way to wherever. Leaning back, hands folded, he said, “Instead of answering a string of questions, I shall expound briefly on the most recent developments. I didn’t mention my appointment because it was a last-minute arrangement, and I knew it wouldn’t take long. Helga’s reluctance to meet me was a strong indication that she’d heard something of interest, but I wanted more information than that and I didn’t want to discuss it on a line that might no longer be secure.”

  “You think Suzi—” Schmidt clapped his hand over his mouth.

  “No names,” John said. “It’s possible, yes.”

  “And Hel——the other, it is—er—the one on Ludwigkirchplatz?”

  “You know her, of course,” John said.

  “Aber natürlich. One of the most—”<
br />
  John cut him off. “She and several other important independent dealers had been notified of a recent theft. No details, only that it was an Egyptian antiquity of considerable value. She was asked to communicate immediately with the Supreme Council of Antiquities if she were approached by anyone offering such an object for sale. Or,” he added, after a slight pause, “if she were approached by me.”

  “Hmmm,” said Schmidt.

  “Hmmm indeed,” I agreed. “That’s strange. Why the SCA and not Interpol? And why mention your name?”

  “She asked me the same questions,” John said. “My current reputation in the trade is impeccable. At least it was, up until now. Given the context, the mere mention of my name is enough to arouse certain doubts. I wouldn’t be the first dealer to go wrong.”

  “You assured her of your innocence, I presume,” I said.

  “No problem,” John said smugly. “I simply said I had heard rumors as well, and since I meant to be in Berlin anyhow, I was curious to know what, if anything, she had heard. I was shocked—shocked!—when she said my name had been mentioned. My distress moved her so much, she promised to let me know if anyone contacted her about the antiquity.”

  “In other words, you put on one of your better performances,” I said.

  “Butter would have melted in my mouth.” He sobered. “It’s more than odd, Vicky, it’s inexplicable. The—er—missing object is not the sort of thing people like her would handle even if it had been legally acquired, which, as the message made clear, it was not.”

  “Perhaps it is not so inexplicable,” said Schmidt, frowning.

  “What do you mean?” John asked sharply.

  “Only that your once impeccable reputation is now being sullied,” Schmidt said in surprise. “As you have said, it is not unheard of that a dealer should succumb to temptation, if offered a prize of great value.”

  “Very few dealers, I daresay, would be tempted by—by something like that,” John said. “How the bloody hell would one dispose of it?”

  Schmidt made conciliatory noises. John had come close to losing his temper, which was unusual. And I had begun to wonder. Most dealers wouldn’t know how to handle a bizarre object like a famous mummy. But if anybody would…

  N eed I say that our tickets to Cairo were first class?

  I love traveling with Schmidt.

  Schmidt had arranged for us to be met at the airport by a courier, who accepted a wad of money and our passports from Schmidt and went off to get our visas. He came back with the visas, and a wheelchair, into which Schmidt settled himself.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes. There is a special line for the handicapped.” Schmidt winked, and then let his face fall into lines of bravely controlled pain.

  “He’s gotten worse,” I whispered to John. “Is there nothing to which the man will not stoop?”

  “I certainly hope not. I’ve used the wheelchair method myself—bewigged, bandaged, and/or dribbling in a senile fashion—but so far Schmidt has lived up to my fondest expectations.”

  Trailed by a small procession carrying our luggage, we proceeded to and, thanks to the wheelchair, handily through passport control. Beyond the security area, people lined the barrier waiting for arriving passengers. Foremost among them was a familiar form.

  John said, “I’d better go on ahead and warn…Oops. Too late.”

  Schmidt had already spotted Feisal. He let out a genial bellow and began waving. Until that moment Feisal had not spotted Schmidt. His expression was that of the hero in a horror film who has just seen the monster lurching toward him.

  Schmidt jumped up and embraced Feisal. “We wanted to surprise you. Are you surprised?”

  Feisal took a deep breath and proved himself to be the man I had always known him to be. “Yes. Yes, I am definitely…surprised. Hello, Schmidt. Vicky. Johnny…”

  “You will come with us to the hotel,” Schmidt announced. “We are staying at the Nile Hilton. It is not my favorite hotel in Cairo, but it is convenient to the museum.”

  Cairo traffic is vicious at all hours. It was well past midnight when we reached the hotel and were shown to our rooms. Schmidt’s was a suite, with a balcony looking down on the city. It was a glorious sight by night, glittering like a jeweled robe, with the Nile running through like a shining snake. I was admiring the view when Schmidt summoned me.

  “Come, come, this is no time for nostalgia. We must have a council of war.”

  Feisal sank down onto the sofa and fixed John with a baleful stare. “He knows. You told him. Why did you tell him?”

  Tempted though I was to have John take the blame, fairness demanded that I own up. “It was my idea, Feisal.” The stare moved to me. “Uh—that is—both our ideas.”

  “And why not?” Schmidt demanded. “Have I not proved my quality? Are we not like the four musketeers, one for all and all for one?”

  “I want to be d’Artagnan,” I said.

  Schmidt chuckled. “But it is I who am the greatest swordsman in Europe, nicht wahr?”

  “You only challenge people to duels when you’re drunk, Schmidt.”

  “That is not true,” said Schmidt, who honestly believed his statement. “Sit down, Vicky, sit down. We will have beer and talk.”

  “There is no beer,” Feisal mumbled. “The hotel doesn’t—”

  “There will be beer,” said Schmidt.

  And sure enough, there was.

  Busy guzzling, Schmidt allowed John and me to fill Feisal in on what we had discovered. Feisal failed to react to our encounters with the criminal underworld except to mutter “Serves you right”; but when I told him about Suzi he let out a few resounding Arabic oaths. I assumed they were swear words, not only from the tone, but from the fact that Schmidt, who can swear in a dozen languages, shrank back and stared sadly into his empty glass.

  “Don’t be mad at Schmidt,” I said.

  “I have repented,” said Schmidt hollowly.

  “What’s more,” said John, “Schmidt is now our spy in the enemy camp. A double agent, no less.”

  “Hmmm.” Feisal nodded grudgingly. “But that’s bad news. I remember her. Did you ever figure out exactly who she’s working for?”

  “I’m betting on Interpol,” I said. “Some special branch dealing with art fraud. Feisal, she can’t prove anything. Not yet.”

  “Somebody is spreading the word,” John summarized. “Selectively and secretly. If we knew why—”

  “I take it you haven’t a clue,” Feisal said, sipping water.

  Schmidt said nothing, so loudly we all turned to look at him.

  “Well?” John demanded.

  “What? Oh.” Schmidt tapped his forehead. “An idea or two is bubbling in my head. But it is too early to speak of them. We need more information. I would like to examine the scene of the crime and question the witnesses.”

  “You mean the tomb?” Feisal’s eyes widened. “Do you think that’s a wise move? Surely we don’t want to draw attention to it.”

  “I agree with Schmidt,” John said. “So far we’ve been on the defensive, waiting to see what other people are going to do. I can’t see that it’s getting us anywhere.” He smiled angelically. “I also have an idea or two bubbling round in my head.”

  Feisal looked sick.

  Schmidt got on the phone with his unfortunate courier, whom he had apparently rousted out of bed, and instructed him to get us all on a flight to Luxor the next morning. The courier’s protests were shouted down by Schmidt. “Yes, yes, I know it will be difficult, but you can do it. Employ whatever means are necessary.”

  I hope that meant bribery instead of threats and intimidation. Schmidt’s new, self-appointed role as mastermind had gone to his head.

  Feisal got heavily to his feet. “I’ll ring you in the morning. Good night, all.”

  “Maasalama,” said Schmidt, bright-eyed as a little bird.

  He opened another bottle of Stella. He offered me one; I shook my head. “It�
��s after two A.M., Schmidt. I’m going to bed. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

  I was aroused, only too soon, by the phone. “Breakfast is here,” said Schmidt. “Hurry. Our flight is at ten.”

  “What time is it?” I croaked.

  He had already hung up. I fumbled for my watch. Half past seven.

  I was beginning to hate traveling with Schmidt.

  We hadn’t heard from Feisal, and Schmidt waxed critical. “He does not answer his mobile. He is not in the hotel. Where is he? Why did you not ask where he was going last night?”

  I had had enough coffee to be fully awake, but not enough to put me in a pleasant mood. “You didn’t ask him either. It’s none of our business where he went. Maybe he spent the night with his girlfriend.”

  “What girlfriend? Who?”

  “I didn’t ask,” I snarled. “That’s none of our business either.”

  “Calm yourself, Schmidt,” John said. “If he misses the plane he’ll follow as soon as he can.”

  We were almost ready to leave when Feisal finally called. Schmidt ordered him to meet us at the airport and shooed us out the door.

  The car he had ordered was waiting. While Schmidt settled the hotel bill, I said to John, “I vote you take over as mastermind. Schmidt is getting worse and worse. What was the point of our staying at a hotel near the museum if we didn’t go to the museum?”

  John shrugged.

  It took over an hour to get to the airport. There was no sign of Feisal outside the terminal. Only local EgyptAir flights use the domestic terminal, but the place was bustling; porters snatching at luggage, in the hope of picking up a little baksheesh; travelers of all nationalities in all sorts of clothing: conservative Muslim ladies tented in black, students in jeans bent under the weight of bulging backpacks, a couple of dignitaries in flowing white robes and head-cloths, a little old lady with her nose in a guidebook, uniformed security guards…

  “Mr. John Tregarth?”

  There were two of them. They wore ordinary business suits, not uniforms, but John took an involuntary step back. The two moved closer.

  “Yes,” John said warily.

  “You will please to come with us.”