Laughter of Dead Kings vbm-6

by Elizabeth Peters

  It was all coming back to me. I wished it hadn’t.

  “Fond memories?” John inquired softly. He is only too adept at reading my mind.

  “Not so fond.”

  “Quite. Look on the bright side. Instead of occupying an antique vehicle held together by wire and prayer, you are traveling in style and comfort. Instead of taking desperate measures to avoid checkpoints and hotly pursuing antagonists, we’re on a straight shot to Cairo. Instead of Feisal driving, we have—” He broke off with a grunt as Ashraf pulled suddenly onto the shoulder to avoid an oncoming truck which was in our lane passing a taxi. “Well, perhaps Ashraf isn’t that much of an improvement.”

  “I resent that,” said Feisal, from the other side of Tut. He sounded fairly cheerful, however, perhaps because he and Saida were snuggled close together.

  “Pleasantly cramped quarters, aren’t they?” John inquired. “Have a pillow.”

  “Or a little hay,” I murmured. “It’s very good when you’re feeling faint.”

  I tried to follow his advice and concentrate on the bright side, but those grisly memories kept recurring. Just John and me and Feisal that time, John barely functioning after the rough handling he had endured, Feisal jittery as a nervous virgin, Schmidt’s whereabouts unknown and a source of nagging worry.

  This was definitely better.

  It was still daylight when we reached Nag Hammadi and crossed the river to the West Bank. I remembered Nag Hammadi from that first trip. We had never made it across the river, but had had to take off on a mad ride along the East Bank road and through the desert wadis.

  “We’ll fill up with petrol here,” Ashraf announced. “Make use of the facilities, ladies, if you like, but don’t linger to paint your faces.”

  “How are you doing?” Saida asked, linking her arm in mine.

  I thought about the question, while we made use. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Everything has happened so fast. This is crazy, you know.”

  “It’s exciting,” Saida said happily. “Your John is an amazing man. Is he always this imaginative?”

  “That’s one word for it.”

  “Feisal is not.” Saida peered into a smeary mirror and took out her lipstick. “But I love him anyhow.”

  She didn’t appear to be in a hurry, so I leaned against the wall and watched her carefully apply fresh makeup. Painting my face was the least of my concerns at the moment.

  “I hope you didn’t take John’s remarks about demented archaeologists personally,” I said. “He was just baiting Perlmutter.”

  “No, he meant it,” Saida said coolly. “He lacks the scientific mind. It is very important that Tutankhamon’s body survive. Without it the king cannot attain immortality.”

  “I was under the impression that a statue or painting or even a name could substitute for the physical body. If that’s so, Tut—excuse me, Tutankhamon—has a better chance of survival than anyone in history. There must be thousands of images of his mummy and tens of thousands of reproductions of his coffins, his mask, and his statues scattered around the world.”

  “That is so,” Saida admitted. She put her lipstick away and took out an eyebrow pencil. “But I am not certain that they count.”

  While I was considering this remark and wondering whether she was serious, a fist pounded on the door and Feisal yelled, “Come out of there. We’re ready to go.”

  Saida winked at me. “He enjoys being masterful. It does no harm to let men believe that they are in control, so long as we decide the important matters.”

  We piled back into the car and rearranged Tut. The last of the light was fading as we headed north. Schmidt began opening containers of various foodstuffs which were, of course, in the front with him. He passed back pieces of chicken, eggs, oranges, and other items.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said wanly. I remembered, only too well, what it was like driving in Egypt after dark. People don’t use their headlights except when they are approaching another car. That sudden burst of brilliance out of the dark is very unnerving until you get used to it—which I never had.

  “Eat,” Schmidt insisted. “You will need your strength.”

  “I hope not.”

  The swollen crimson orb of the sun descended with slow dignity; crimson and purple streamers spread out across the west. The first stars twinkled shyly in the darkening sky. We were going at a good clip, passing buses and trucks. Ashraf was eating a chicken leg and talking on his cell phone.

  That left, if my arithmetic was correct, no hands for the wheel.

  Knowing it was in vain, I called out, “Ashraf, why don’t you let Schmidt make the calls for you?”

  “I am telephoning my subordinates,” Ashraf said stiffly. “Ordering them to meet me at the museum. Even the great Herr Doktor Professor Schmidt cannot do that.”

  John let out a breath of laughter that tickled my ear. “A-to-Z Schmidt, the greatest swordsman in Europe. It will take Ashraf a while to get over that.”

  We slid through another checkpoint, slowing down just long enough for Ashraf to stick his head out the window and bark at the guards, then picked up speed again. Schmidt offered me an orange. Darkness was complete and Ashraf was driving like a NASCAR racer, weaving in and out of semi-visible traffic and singing one of those Arabic songs that wavers up and down the scale. I dropped the orange peel onto the floor. I am going to mess up Ashraf’s beautiful car, I thought, and when we get to Cairo I am going to kill him.

  I woke up when we stopped for gas.

  “Where are we?” I asked, blinking at the lights.

  “Minya,” Feisal said. “We’re making good time.”

  “Last stop before Cairo,” Saida said. She untangled herself from Feisal and hopped lithely out of the car. I followed, not lithely. When we got to Cairo I was going to kill her too. I was as stiff as—well, as a mummy.

  The stop was brief. The interminable ride continued. I couldn’t stay awake, but I couldn’t really sleep either. Bursts of light from approaching cars turned onto oncoming freight trains and dragons shooting flame. Somebody was laughing. Not the dragons, not dead kings. I recognized Schmidt’s guffaws. He must be telling jokes. He always laughs louder at his own jokes than anyone else does.

  I came to full awareness when a different kind of light impinged on my eyelids. My head was on John’s shoulder and his arm was around me. When I stirred he said, “My arm’s gone numb.”

  “All of me has gone numb. Especially my derriere. Remove your damned arm, then.”

  “As soon, my darling, as you remove your lovely head.”

  I struggled upright and stared out the window. “We’re here. We’re in Cairo!”

  “Ah,” said Schmidt, turning his head around as far as it would go. “You are awake.”

  “We’re here. We made it!”

  Great cities never sleep. The lights along the corniche blazed bright, and although the traffic wasn’t as heavy as it was during the day, there were people abroad, going home after a night of merriment or heading for work, even at that ungodly hour. The facade of the Cairo Museum shone like raspberry ice. Ashraf headed straight for the heavy wrought-iron gates. They parted and swung slowly back.

  The moment the car stopped, one of the doors of the building opened. Several men hurried out and converged on Ashraf. They began talking excitedly. They spoke Arabic but the gist of their remarks was clear. “What the hell is going on?”

  Whatever Ashraf said, it was said with enough force to send them scurrying back into the museum. “Get him out and inside,” Ashraf ordered, turning to us. He took the lead, picking up one of the boxes. (Half a torso, I think.) Feisal and Schmidt followed suit and so did Saida, cradling the box that held Tut’s head tenderly in her arms. Ashraf indicated the last two boxes and barked, “Take his legs.”

  “Aren’t you coming?” John asked me.

  I swung my own legs up onto the seat. “I’m going to take a real nap. Wake me when it’s over.”

  It felt wonderful
to stretch out. I kicked off my shoes and wriggled my toes luxuriously. Instead of dozing off, I lay there staring dreamily at the facade of the museum. I had been involved in a lot of peculiar situations, but this one was in a class by itself. What was I doing here? I asked myself. In front of the Cairo Museum at four o’clock in the morning, aiding and abetting a trio of demented Egyptologists who were piecing together a dead, dismembered king. What was Tutankhamon to me, or I to him, that I should care about him? I did care, though. Witness the pronouns: I had come to think of that withered mummy as “him,” instead of “it.”

  Some good had come of the adventure. John was in the clear, and we were rid forever of Suzi. Schmidt had turned his back on her when she offered her hand and an apology. Feisal and Saida were headed for the altar. Jan Perlmutter was going to get a well-deserved comeuppance. He might even be blackmailed into sending Nefertiti home. I pictured him stuffed and stuck up on a plinth in his own museum, with a sign saying, “The man who lost Nefertiti.”

  The sky began to lighten. The sunrise wasn’t spectacular; Cairo smog is too thick. A head appeared at the window, and a voice said, “Wake up, Vicky. You must see this.”

  “I wasn’t asleep,” I croaked. “What time is it?”

  “Seven A.M.” Saida opened the door. “Come quickly, it is a sight you will never forget. You will be among the first to see it.”

  The royal mummy room was softly lit except for a spotlight focused on one of the glass cases. Men in white lab coats with surgical masks covering their mouths hovered over it, making the final adjustments. The masks seemed extraneous, considering what Tutankhamon had been through, but they looked professional. Schmidt and John and Feisal stood to one side looking on.

  “Did you have a good sleep?” John asked, putting his arm around me.

  “I wasn’t asleep.”

  Thutmose III was still grinning. They must have removed one of the lesser royals in order to accommodate Tut.

  The technicians stepped back and there he was. He looked quite peaceful. Like the other mummies, he was decently covered, from chin to ankles. The fabric was brownish and old; Saida had told us that the museum authorities had used ancient linen. Folds of the fabric concealed the fact that his head wasn’t attached to his body.

  “That’s it,” one of the technicians said, on a long breath. He spoke English, out of deference to the ignoramuses in the room, and the conversation continued in that language.

  Ashraf stepped up to the case and stared into it. “Satisfactory,” he said. “Now listen, and listen carefully. I have called a press conference, to be held here in the museum at ten A.M. I will announce that the king’s mummy has been here for more than a week, in the laboratory, while we prepared a place for him. After he has rested in the museum for a time, he will return to his tomb in a properly constructed, scientifically designed case like this one. You will avoid reporters at all costs. If you should be questioned, you will repeat the story I have just told. I need not explain what the consequences will be should you deviate from it. Is that understood?”

  Nods and sycophantish murmurs of agreement acknowledged understanding. Ashraf had expected no less. With a regal wave of his hand he dismissed the technicians.

  “So,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “All is in order.”

  “Except for Tut’s other hand,” I said, suppressing a yawn.

  “It will be restored when convenient. Is there anything else?”

  What he meant was, had he overlooked anything important? He looked inquiringly at Schmidt.

  “I think not” was the judicious reply.

  I gave Tut one last fond look, and we straggled out of the museum, leaving several of the guards—who had been, I assumed, promised the same fate as the technicians if they were tempted to spill the beans—to close the place up. Ashraf was kind enough to offer us a ride to our hotel.

  “Have we got a room?” I asked, more in hope than in expectation.

  “Aber natürlich,” said Schmidt. “I telephoned last night.”

  “Any news from the Valley of the Kings?” John inquired.

  Ashraf laughed fiendishly. “The journalists were informed last night that I would be giving a press conference today. Some won’t be able to reach Cairo in time. They will be scooped, as the saying goes, by others.”

  Schmidt’s room was waiting for him, but—the manager informed us, cringing—ours would not be ready until noon. “It does not matter,” Schmidt said. “None of us wishes to sleep.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I said.

  “But we must attend the press conference.”

  “Not me. I’ve seen enough of Tutankhamon to last the rest of my life.”

  Leaving the others congratulating themselves and drinking coffee, I threw myself down on Schmidt’s big soft king-size bed and fell asleep. When I woke up, sunlight brightened the room and Jan Perlmutter was standing in the open doorway.

  FIFTEEN

  H e hadn’t shaved. His clothes were wrinkled and his face was that of an old man. His tie was twisted and the top button of his shirt undone, as if he couldn’t get enough air.

  “Where is he?” he demanded. Even his voice was unrecognizable, hoarse and broken.

  “Who?”

  It was the best I could come up with on short notice. I looked from the knife in Jan’s hand to the telephone on the bedside table.

  “Don’t try it,” he said. “Where is Schmidt?”

  I gave up the idea of trying to reach the phone. My brain was in overdrive, all remnants of sleep dispersed. There’s nothing like terror to promote quick thinking. Unfortunately I couldn’t think of anything heroic, or even useful.

  “Why are you mad at Schmidt?” I asked, stalling for time.

  “He hates me,” Jan said.

  “No, no,” I said soothingly. “He doesn’t hate you. Nobody hates you. Why don’t you sit down and—”

  “They all hate me. They have made me look like a fool. Schmidt is the worst. He has held a grudge since the Trojan Gold affair.”

  I sneaked a quick look at the clock on the bedside table. Almost noon. Where was everybody? They ought to be back by now. Why had they left me alone with a homicidal lunatic?

  Jan went on ranting. All he had ever wanted was to rescue the world’s treasures. And this was his reward—to be humiliated and abused and threatened.

  He was the one doing the threatening, but I decided not to mention that. Nor did I point out that to the best of my knowledge he hadn’t been named as the source of the rumors about the theft of Tut. We had discussed exposing him and decided, regretfully, that proving the accusation would be time-consuming if not impossible. He would suffer enough, said Schmidt, from knowing he had been foiled and defeated.

  “How did you find out?” I asked. “You clever man,” I added.

  Jan blinked and stared at me as if he had forgotten I was there. “Find out…Oh.” He passed his hand over his mouth. When he replied, he sounded almost rational. “I flew to Cairo last night. The news of the press conference was on the radio and television this morning. They were speculating, some of the announcers, about the return of Tutankhamon.”

  So somebody had been unable to resist spreading the news. It was only to be expected.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” Jan said in an aggrieved voice. “So I telephoned at once to Luxor, to the German Institute, to Wolfgang Muhlendorfer. He informed me that most of the journalists had left the Valley and that Dr. Khifaya’s limousine had been observed leaving Luxor in haste and with many people in the vehicle. Even then I did not believe it, not until I saw the press conference itself, and heard Khifaya boasting, telling a pack of lies…And Schmidt, in the background, smiling and stroking his absurd mustache…”

  His voice had soared into the high pitch of hysteria.

  “Ashraf picketed the museum too,” I said, hoping to distract Jan from Schmidt. No good.

  “Khifaya behaved with dignity. But Schmidt! Prancing up and down with that appalling
banner, shouting rude slogans, handing out wurst to the spectators, like a circus clown…It was all on the television, and me, hiding behind a column like a frightened rabbit. He made me a laughing stock.”

  “I was there too,” I said.

  “Aber natürlich. You would obey your superior.”

  And I was a lowly woman. It was insulting but reassuring to hear Jan dismiss me so cavalierly. I didn’t think he would attack me unless I did something drastic. My body didn’t believe it. My mouth was dry and my heart was racing.

  “Why isn’t he here?” Jan demanded. “The press conference ended an hour ago.”

  “I expect he’s on his way.” I had to think of something quick, before Schmidt walked in. “Tell you what, Jan. Why don’t you hide in the bathroom. Then, when they get here, you can jump out and surprise everybody!”

  Degrees of mania are hard to calculate. Like Hamlet, Jan was only mad north-northwest; he knew a hawk from a handsaw, or, in this case, a helpful suggestion from a really stupid idea.

  “And what would you be doing?” His eyes narrowed. “But perhaps if I tied you up and gagged you…”

  He’d have to put the knife down in order to do that. I had learned a few dirty tricks from John, and Jan had gotten flabby, but he was crazy and I was scared and what if he decided to knock me unconscious or use the knife in ways I didn’t want to think about before he…The alternative was worse, though. Schmidt, with that knife in his chest.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You agree too readily,” Jan said. “Wait. I have a better idea. I will lock you in the bathroom and conceal myself behind the door.”

  “Okay.”

  I slid off the bed and stood up. I felt a little braver now that I was on my feet. I wondered if I could trick him into the bathroom and slam the door. No, that wouldn’t work, there was no lock on the outside.

  Jan stood back and waved me through the bedroom door as I walked slowly toward him. Maybe I could make it to the door of the suite before he…No, that wouldn’t work either. He was so close behind me that I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. Let him shut me in the bathroom, lock the door, and start yelling? No good. He’d be on Schmidt the second the outer door opened, before anyone heard my screams or understood what they meant.