“I was worried about you,” I explained. “You were gone so long. Where are Feisal and Saida? You promised to stay with them. Have you been in the bar all this time? Boozing it up while I fretted?”
“Feisal and Saida escorted me back to the hotel—as if I were a little boy,” Schmidt added indignantly. “They then went on their way. I was in the bar only for a single glass of beer. It is a historical room, where Howard Carter often went when he was working on the tomb of Tutankhamon. Would you like—”
“No, thanks. I’m beginning to resent Howard Carter. If he hadn’t dug Tut up we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“And how is Caesar?” He followed me into the elevator.
“Who? Oh.” I had forgotten I was supposed to have been inquiring after my dog. “Fine. Where’d you get the fly whisk?”
“It is not a fly whisk, it is one of the royal scepters,” Schmidt explained. “The flail, as it is sometimes called.” He swished the strings of beads.
“Very nice. What else did you get?”
Showing off his purchases took a while. Schmidt has a weakness for bling. Instead of simple inconspicuous galabiyas, he had purchased gaudy garments made for the tourist trade, trimmed with colored or metallic braid. I was moved to mild protest. “I thought you wanted something you could wear as a disguise.”
“Like this?” He dug into another of the bags.
Galabiyas are made to the same basic design: straight, ankle-length garments with long sleeves. They go on over one’s head; the neck opening is just a hole with a slit down the front. The first one Schmidt produced was pale blue, the second had narrow stripes of brown and white, the third was tan. At my suggestion Schmidt tried them on, one after the other. Even the shortest dragged on the ground. Hoisting his striped skirts, Schmidt trotted into his bedroom and came back with a pair of scissors. I crawled around him, hacking off a foot or so of fabric all around, and sat back to study the result.
“It won’t do, Schmidt. A ragged hem might pass, but not when the rest of the garment is in pristine condition. And don’t expect me to fix it, I can’t even sew on a button.”
“The nice lady from housekeeping will do it for me. Now let us make for me a turban.”
We tried, using the white scarves Schmidt had bought. The ends kept coming loose and falling down around Schmidt’s ears. Unperturbed, Schmidt produced a large white-and-red-checked cloth which he draped over his head and tied in place. He looked like a mustachioed member of Hamas or Hezbollah. I refrained from criticism, since I had no intention of letting him go out on the street in the outfit.
Well, it passed the time. Schmidt handed over the stripy robe to a beaming “nice lady,” who knew she would earn a week’s wages for an hour’s work, opened a Stella, and whipped out his cell phone.
“I must report to Suzi so that she will remain unwitting of my defection.”
Somehow I wasn’t surprised when Suzi failed to answer. Schmidt then went through the messages waiting. “Here is one from Heinrich asking how he should respond to a request for you to speak at a meeting in Zurich.”
“That fink! Why did he go to you behind my back?”
“He says you do not communicate with him.”
“He doesn’t communicate with me either. He’s after my job, trying to make me look bad.”
Schmidt chuckled. “That is what you call an uphill struggle. Here is another from him, asking why you do not communicate. Foolish young man. And this…Hmm, hmmm, only unimportant reports. Ah! Wolfgang has called.”
I waited until he had listened to the message, and then said, “The guy we—er—ran into at Karnak?”
“Yes. He regretted that our encounter should have ended so abruptly and asks me for lunch tomorrow.”
“He wants to pump you about the so-called accident.”
“Aber natürlich. I would do the same. Shall we go?”
“I thought you and Saida had tomorrow’s schedule all worked out.”
Schmidt tugged at his mustache. “Yes, but I am not so sure she is on the right track. How could an object of such size be concealed in a place where there are always people?”
“True, Schmidt. Why don’t you put Wolfgang off? Rain check, and so on. We don’t have time for social activities. I take it Saida and Feisal are planning to come for breakfast? We’ll reconsider our plans then.”
Schmidt went off with his parcels and his beer. He forgot the flail, which was lying on a chair. I picked it up and gave it a tentative swish. The beads made a sound like a baby’s rattle. As a potential weapon it lacked gravitas.
After I had washed and brushed and so on, I sat down on the side of my bed and called a number I had rung every night for the past four days. As before, there was no answer.
The bed had been turned down and not one but three foil-wrapped chocolates rested on the pillow. I unwrapped one. Maybe a sugar surge would stimulate my thought processes. I hadn’t had time to consider my conversation with Suzi and what I meant to do about it.
The pale blue galabiya Schmidt had pressed upon me lay across a chair. It would be about as useful as a belly dancer’s costume. (Schmidt would probably get one of those for me next.) I couldn’t pass as a man without, at the bare minimum, a properly wound turban and something to darken my hands and face. What I needed was a black woman’s robe and face veil. They sure didn’t sell them in the suk. I considered possibilities as I unwrapped the second chocolate. The “nice lady” from housekeeping might be able to get one for me—but negotiating with her while Schmidt was around wouldn’t be easy. Saida would know how to get one—but I didn’t want her in on this.
There was only one other option. I ate the last chocolate and got into bed.
T hat must be the house I was told about,” I said, pointing. “It’s the only one around that fits the description. Do you know it, Feisal?”
Feisal leaned past me to peer out the window of the taxi. We had hired one of the nondescript vehicles that wait for fares outside the hotel.
“Yes, I know it. When are you going to tell us how you learned of this place and why it’s important?”
Saida whipped out her notebook. “Is it on my list?”
“How the hell should I know?” Feisal demanded. “Vicky—”
“Later. Just keep a lookout.”
Someone might reasonably have asked “What for?” The house was surrounded by a high wall made of whitewashed mud brick. Only the tops of trees and the roofline of the building inside were visible. A wooden double-leafed gate, wide enough to admit a delivery truck, was closed. Sitting next to it on a straight chair was a man wearing a raggedy galabiya and head cloth. He glanced incuriously at the taxi. There were a few other people around—two women robed in black towing a protesting child between them, a huddled figure apparently asleep under a dusty palm tree, a man driving a donkey cart piled with greenery.
The taxi driver addressed Schmidt, who was sitting beside him. “Is this where you wish to go? Shall I stop?”
“No!” I said emphatically. “Keep going. Slowly.”
I pushed Feisal away from the window and craned my neck as we cruised past. It was the back of the house in which I was interested. I couldn’t see much. The right angle of the wall went on for some distance. It was as blank and uninformative as the front wall.
“The effendi is not there,” the driver offered. “He lives in Cairo most of the year.”
“Who is living there now?” I asked.
The string of blue beads hanging from the rearview mirror tinkled musically as the taxi turned onto a road that led away from the house. “Strangers. Also from Cairo, perhaps. They have their own vehicles. They came a month ago. They are not friendly people. They do not buy at the local market.”
“What about servants?” I asked. “Have they hired local people?”
An expressive shrug. “No.”
I was sorry to hear that, though it didn’t surprise me.
“Where now, sitt?” the driver asked. He had apparently
accepted the fact that I was the one in charge.
“A café,” said Schmidt promptly. “The nearest.”
An extremely chilly silence ensued, enlivened only by hostile glares from Feisal. My colleagues had realized they weren’t going to get the information they wanted while the helpful, English-speaking driver was present. He selected a place (probably owned by a friend or cousin) on one of the streets of town, away from the corniche. We accepted his offer to wait.
“Very nice,” said Schmidt, as we settled at a table.
Very nice and very empty. We were the only patrons. Feisal fizzed quietly like a lit fuse while Schmidt discussed food with the waiter. When the latter had gone into the kitchen, Feisal leaned forward, pushed aside a vase with two rosebuds in it, and planted his arms on the table.
“All right, Vicky, we went along with you on this expedition and refrained, as you requested, from questions. Now let’s have it.”
“I will tell you everything,” I said.
“Hah,” said Schmidt.
I did tell them everything. Almost everything. Schmidt’s eyes narrowed and widened, narrowed and widened, as I described my conversation with Suzi. Feisal’s eyebrows wriggled. Grinning, Saida took out her notebook and pen.
I stopped talking when the waiter came with our coffee. The usual alternative to Turkish coffee is Nescafé and a pot of hot water. I was happy to settle for that. There were no grounds involved.
Nobody had interrupted me. They were too busy trying to take in the flood of information I had supplied. Saida was the first to recover.
“As I expected! A woman is the first to make a vital discovery!”
“It’s a possible lead,” I said modestly. “She could have been feeding me a line. I didn’t see anything suspicious.”
“Precisely what you would expect to see if it were the headquarters of the gang,” Saida cried.
“Hmm,” said Feisal.
“What do you think, Schmidt?” I asked. I was beginning to worry about him. He had barely spoken, and I had hit him with the equivalent of a sockful of sand.
“I think,” said Schmidt, “that you are deceitful and dangerous. And even more clever than I had realized. At least you had the sense to let us in on this instead of going alone to reconnoiter.”
“I am all those things,” I admitted. “And so are you, Schmidt, so don’t give me a hard time.”
“I do not because I know what drives you,” Schmidt said. “But we will not speak of that. We agree, do we not, that the house is suspicious? Strangers who have been in residence for a month, who do not mix with the local population, who live behind high walls with a guarded gate. Suzi would have no reason to lie to you. She wants your help.”
“And she’s perfectly willing to use you as a decoy,” Feisal added. “Forget it, Vicky. Not even to retrieve Tutankhamon would I permit you to take such a chance.”
“Aw, gee,” I said, patting his hand. “That’s so sweet.”
“You are a dreadful woman,” Feisal said, without rancor. “Can’t you accept a statement of affection without making a joke of it?”
“No, she is afraid of serious emotions,” Schmidt explained. “We who love her accept this.”
“Shut up, Schmidt,” I said. “Please.”
Schmidt patted my hand. “It is a subject for another time, perhaps. Assuming that Suzi is speaking the truth, that house may be the present headquarters of the gang. In which case, Tut—er—he may be there.”
Lips pursed and eyes shining, Saida chortled, “Yes, he must be. And it is Vicky who has found the vital clue! A woman!”
Nerves were a trifle strained. Feisal turned on his beloved with a sneer. “As it turns out, you weren’t so clever, were you? He’s not on the West Bank. You were wrong.”
“Not at all,” Saida said serenely. “Mine was only one theory among others.”
“The first part of the scenario was right,” Schmidt said, before a jolly little lovers’ quarrel could develop. “They changed the look of the van while they were still on the West Bank, or transferred him to another, more inconspicuous, vehicle. No one would have paid particular attention to a small van or truck on the bridge or on the streets of Luxor. The house is isolated; they could drive straight into the courtyard. It is the right place. It must be. So. We go in tonight, nicht wahr?”
His mustache bristled. I said, “If you mean go in, as ‘in with guns blazing,’ the answer is forget it. This is going to require some planning.”
“Exactly,” Feisal said, giving Schmidt a stern look.
We discussed it for a while. As Feisal kept telling Schmidt, we couldn’t involve the police without getting a warrant, for which we had no cause. Ashraf would go ballistic at that idea. The most interesting suggestion came from Saida.
“Vicky and I will approach the guard at the back gate. Yes, yes, Feisal, there is certainly a back gate. He will be disarmed by the appearance of two helpless, harmless females. We will persuade him to let us in. Then we will begin screaming for help. That will provide an excuse for you and the others to break in.”
Schmidt said, “No, we cannot allow you to take the chance. I will approach the guard, wearing a veil and habara.”
I said, “Not to disparage your powers of seduction, Schmidt, but—”
Feisal said, “What others?” Then he said, “That is the most absurd scheme I have ever heard, and if you suppose for one second that I will allow—”
The appearance of the waiter, wondering what the yelling was all about, put an end to the argument. Schmidt asked for more coffee and I took advantage of the relative quiet.
“Okay, this is the plan. I call Suzi and report. Feisal, you arrange a meeting with Ashraf. One of them may have an idea.”
“That is not a plan, that is procrastination,” Schmidt exclaimed. “If we are to go in tonight—”
“We are not going in tonight. We need time to think and make arrangements.”
“Time,” Schmidt intoned, “is running out.”
“Shut up, Schmidt.”
To show my good faith, I called Suzi and let the others listen in. She had already been informed of our appearance that morning and scolded me for bringing the others with me. I responded with whining excuses which, if she’d had the sense God gave a goat, would have warned her to back off. An exasperated sigh followed my explanation that I wasn’t ready to take action that night. “Meet me in the lobby, same time, same place, tonight,” she said crisply. “I’ll have a plan worked out.”
“She’s a charmer, all right,” I said, ringing off. “Your turn, Feisal. Tell Ashraf we’ll meet him later at—someplace on the West Bank. Deir el Bahri, maybe.”
Nobody asked why the West Bank. That was a relief, since I couldn’t explain my reasons.
The taxi driver was reluctant to part with us, but we couldn’t have conversed freely in the presence of someone whose English was so good. After he had dropped us at the hotel, Schmidt proposed lunch. Over his protests and those of Feisal—“we aren’t meeting Ashraf until three”—I managed to hustle them all onto a boat by telling them the simple truth.
“I want to visit Umm Ali. I wouldn’t want her to think we had forgotten her or her son.”
We picked up a taxi on the other side and went to the village.
I wondered if the kids posted lookouts. They converged on us with the speed of paparazzi tracking the latest pop culture celebrity. Among them I saw a familiar face. I stopped.
“Hey, Ahman. I’m sorry about your uncle.”
The cheeky grin faded, the outstretched hand dropped to his side. “It’s okay,” I said quickly. “I just wanted to know—”
He slid away. I didn’t go after him. It had been a random shot, but his hasty retreat strengthened my hunch. Young as he was, he had been taught the lessons his elders had learned from years of exploitation and adversity: don’t answer questions, or show emotion to strangers, however well-intentioned. They are not one of us. They don’t understand.
The men were in the courtyard, smoking and sitting. That was a relief; I wouldn’t have to face the entire family. I dealt with the next hurdle by the same method that had worked up till now. The truth.
“Stay here,” I told the others. “I want to talk to her alone.”
“You don’t speak Arabic,” Feisal protested.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make myself understood.”
She’d had enough advance notice to arrange herself on the sofa, erect and formidable as a graven image. There were several other women present, including the veiled gray-eyed female I had noticed before. After gabbling my way through the formal greetings, I addressed gray-eyes.
“Do you speak English?”
“A little only, sitt.”
I had concocted a couple of wild theories about her. I’d been wrong on all counts. The face she bared when she put her veil aside was that of a young Egyptian woman, smooth-cheeked and unfamiliar.
“Tell Umm Ali I think I know who murdered her son. Tell her I need her help.”
Another example of unconscious prejudice made me cringe when a murmur of comprehension ran around the room. The younger women had remained modestly silent in the presence of the matriarch, but I ought to have known some of them understood and spoke English.
I told them what I wanted.
When I emerged, blinking, into the sunlight, my backpack bulged, but not enough to provoke comment. So far so good. One step at a time. The next step was going to be a giant step, though.
Nobody was hungry except Schmidt, who is always hungry. Since we had time to kill, we found him a restaurant.
“Now we must discuss what to tell Ashraf,” Saida said, digging into a bowl of hummus with a chunk of bread.
“The truth,” I said absently. “It seems to be working.”
Feisal ignored the last statement. He and Saida got into one of their standard arguments about who was to say what to whom and why. Schmidt drank beer and ate and watched me. He knows me too well, does Schmidt. The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth…It had to work. It was my only option.
Laughter of Dead Kings vbm-6 Page 23
