by Buck Sanders
“I’ve only got time for a quick cup of coffee,” he admitted, “but you’re welcome to share that. Our destinations aren’t exactly unrelated, you know.” It was true; she had to get to work as well.
“Mr. Rademacher, I thought you’d never ask.”
Slayton found time for a quick and discreet check-in call to Winship, during which he recounted his certainty that they were crossing swords with the real Rashid Haman. Winship surprised him by asking him to check in again that evening. “I think some material will be logged in by then that might be of particular interest to you, as relates to Haman.”
Slayton neglected to mention the search of his car, or the attack. Everyone so far held potential. Even someone like Shauna might be incriminated by the fact that her overtures to him were growing ever more overt.
Of course, it was also possible that she wished to make up for all the time she had invested in the company of the dead, inside Seth-Olet’s mastăba in Egypt.
Slayton’s interviews with the newer members of Ahmed Sadi’s crew were generally a formality, and as such, were unsatisfying. Ahmed insisted on lording over the proceedings like a pharoah’s condor, elaborately translating for Slayton. The man named Bassam seemed sullen and hostile, in fact angered, by the indirect nature of Slayton’s questioning—a necessity, since he obviously could not dive in, splashing accusations and the magic name of Rashid Haman all over the place at once.
Despite the events of the previous night, Slayton felt an itching, urgent need for action. Something had to break for him soon.
“You are dissatisfied with Bassam, eh?” said Ahmed Sadi, from his corner of the ship’s mess.
“I didn’t say that,” said Slayton.
“You didn’t have to. I saw it in your eyes.” He got up and approached Slayton, now that the mess was empty, and spoke in an undertone: “Whatever it is you are seeking, my friend, he will not be able to provide you with it. He is merely disgusted with Egyptian politics—he got this job, signed on to get out of the country and away from the problem. He hates the tensions in his country, but at the same time it is his homeland. Do you understand?”
Yes, thought Slayton, I understand that everyone seems to be incriminated equally but separately.
“Besides,” Ahmed added in an offhanded fashion, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Bassam operate a forklift. But then, I don’t think my men have anything against you, anyway.” He shrugged and followed Slayton out of the mess, talking as they went. Ahmed was apparently going to great effort to do a Sancho Panza routine, trailing after Slayton like a squire after his knight.
Up on deck, he peeled away to supervise the crew. The trucks would arrive later in the afternoon, and they would begin loading all over again for the convoy to Washington, D.C. Slayton paused, watching the activity from above, lording over the abstract patterns of movement below, and trying to get spirit messages from it.
Ten to one the information Winship would hand over would be some type of verification. Verification he had already. Now that Slayton had a reason to be alert, it seemed the activity lapsed into a tedious normalcy—which, of course, was the key. Rashid Haman’s crême of specialties was the art of misdirection. Or, as American military brass had said of the California Japanese during the World War II, “The very fact that there has been no sabotage is an ominous development.”
Slayton was stirred out of his reverie by a voice nearby.
“Hey! Whyever are you mooning about up here?” It was the indomitable Maggie Leiber, bundled cozily into a leather coat with a lavish fur mane, which the breeze stirred lazily.
“I’ve been thinking that people are never who they seem to be,” said Slayton.
“Sounds like you might have had a run-in with our own dragon lady,” she said, pursing her lips as though she knew in advance how the entire conversation would go.
“You mean Shauna?”
She nodded. “Um-hm.”
“You’re wrong, Maggie, but I’m flattered anyway.”
She hooked his arm in hers. “Walk me down the ramp. Heels can be treacherous sometimes.”
He acquiesced gladly. “And just what, precisely,” he said with theatrical emphasis, “is your role in this circus? Obviously you and Shauna are killing time until the opening.”
“Partially true,” she said. “I keep the schedules, make sure everyone is where they’re supposed to be, generally doing what they’re supposed to be doing. I spent all of this morning doing that, and am in fact bound back for the hotel now to further the cause.”
“You, a ramrod? But I thought you were a scientist.”
“Ah, but I am. My doctorate is strictly archeological, and it helps to know what you’re talking about with this bunch. But that’s been the extent of it.”
“Why?”
Pointedly, Maggie said, “Because I am nowhere near the Egyptologist Shauna is, let alone Professor Willis.” The silence hung for a few seconds, and she added, “But you don’t have the whole picture. You see, I’m perfectly satisfied with this thing at this moment—it’s like a vacation for me. The pressures are normal pressures, not the stuffy emphasis on staying published, on keeping one’s academic reputation spotless, and at the same time insuring that you remain in the academic limelight.
“You see, Mr. Rademacher, that kind of pressure kills the pure researchers, the scientists who are in it for the love of the work, the ones you always see on television dressed in the out-of-style clothes. They almost discredit themselves. And one of the reasons I’m working this tour is to act as a buffer between that kind of pressure and Professor Willis.”
“It seems to work,” said Slayton. “He doesn’t really notice anything outside the artifacts.” Again, he knew he was lying, but now it was for the purpose of drawing Maggie out.
“He shouldn’t be concerned, and isn’t. So it’s working out, isn’t it?”
“What about Shauna?”
“Surely you’ve noticed how predatory this job has made her. She has good defense mechanisms, but her compensational ones leave a lot to be desired.” She trailed off.
“Predatory?” Slayton knew what was coming.
“You mean she hasn’t put the make on you yet, Mr. Rademacher? Really.” Maggie rolled her eyes.
Near the mouth of the warehouse they stopped and Ben faced her. “And what about you, Dr. Leiber?”
“Well, you can only take conversation with the Professor, or with the Arab hoardes over there, so far.”
“Funny. That sounds like something Shauna would say.”
“We’ve been in awfully close quarters,” Maggie said.
“Perhaps you’re picking up her… um, compensational mechanisms?”
“That sounds like a—what do you call it?—a come-on all by itself, Mr. Rademacher.” She smiled, and her eyes literally sparkled.
“Could well be, Dr. Leiber,” he said. “I’ll see you both at dinner, then.”
“Oh, not at that dreadful hotel restaurant, though.”
“I think my operatives can produce a suitable local dive.”
He left her at the checkout point and headed toward the warehouse. As soon as she was out of sight, he decided there was really nothing to be gained by another once-over of the place—he knew he would wind up staring at the broken piles of cinder blocks and getting his ear talked off by Ahmed—and turned back toward the checkpoint. If he could catch Maggie, he could buzz her back to the hotel himself.
The lot on the leeward side of the warehouse was deserted; there was only a scattering of parked cars, including Slayton’s Triumph. It was almost time to check in with Ham Winship, at any rate.
Out of habit he paused while unlocking the door. No scratches. But the door panel, which he had made a point of buffing clean when he parked earlier in the day, showed several dull fingerprints.
Slayton checked quickly around; apparently the driver’s side door had been the only thing touched. He entered the car from the opposite side. Nothing. Once again he checked unde
r the hood.
He saw it instantly.
A packet, wrapped in electrical tape, with a pair of black wires bleeding off to the starter and generator, connected by alligator clips. The packet adhered to the wheel-well on a cushion of military adhesive gum.
His car had, in the parlance of the explosive trade, been “slapped”—that is, an explosive device designed for quick application had been planted. Once under the hood, you slapped it on, connected the wires, closed the hood, and blended into the scenery. Later, when your victim fired up the car, he blended into the scenery as well, but in a more direct fashion.
Slayton gingerly undamped the clips and jerked the packet loose, smelling its underside to verify the gum and ingredients.
God, what if he had seen Maggie—he might have ushered her into the car without checking, and blown them both to hell! He had proceeded all day long with some unspecified imbalance nagging at him—perhaps this had been it. It was not the sort of gimmick designed for secrecy. He now held it in his hands—intact evidence. Therefore, someone had intended he hurry to his car and jump in, and that meant a phony imperative, to make him hurry.
One of the Sparta men stood across the lot waving his arms, trying to get Slayton’s attention.
Slayton fired the Triumph to life, did not explode, and tooled quickly over to where the guard was standing, cranking down the window on the way.
“Yeah?”
“Sir, Professor Willis just phoned from the hotel and said that it was urgent you get over there right away.”
“He give any kind of reason?”
“No, sir. I thought I’d flag you in case that’s not where you were headed. But that was all he said. Urgent.”
“Wonderful,” Slayton deadpanned. “Thanks.”
6
“Mr. Rademacher, I have absolutely no idea what you mean. Whomsoever phoned the docks, I assure you it was not me.” Professor Willis seemed insulted by the suggestion he might need to call for assistance.
Terrific. A planted bomb and a phony phone call to get him into the car with a pretense of urgency. He would have to question the guard. How many of the men knew Willis’ voice? How many could slap his car in something under two minutes?
But it was clear, because of the packet now sitting harmless—relatively harmless—in his car, that he had gone from being a nuisance to being a target. Perhaps he should just wire the charge to the driver’s side door the next time he left the car in the docks. He might return to find his own target in pieces scattered all over the lot—considering the affection the stranger showed for getting to Slayton via his automobile. Slayton, naturally, took it as a more personal form of affront. He loved his cars.
Willis was not lying. Slayton was certain there was nothing to fear from the Professor. He might have been duped into making the call—but by whom? Tooling slowly, Slayton fixed on a family-style coffee shop he knew to have individual little phone carrels in the back, near the restrooms.
The facilities within were all faceless and gleaming Formica; the waitresses a crew of ebullient, underpaid sixteen-year-olds. If you hit them with anything besides a direct order, they would shake their head as though they were hearing a foreign language. Slayton stopped at the counter to order a black coffee, which he proceeded to take with him toward the telephones.
Slayton slipped into one of the booths and dialed the preliminary clearing number from memory:
Federal Treasury 1-202-566-2000.
“Good morning, U.S. Treasury Department.”
“Extension 788, please,” said Slayton. Now the maze began.
“Thank you.” An extension began to buzz with that blatting, low-frequency ring. Five times.
A click, then tape hiss: “You have reached 788; please insert identification code and clearance number.” Click. It was a pleasant, neutral woman’s voice.
Slayton dialed 221-121-2212-111, punching the * button between the gaps. They’d have to switch over again when Ma Bell finally found a consumer use for that button.
There was a series of important clicks and relays falling into place, followed by another dial tone, this one high-pitched. Slayton punched in 4-4656. Two buzzes and another woman’s voice, this one a live human being, and the final hurdle for Slayton prior to reaching Hamilton Winship on the priority scramble line. “Yes?” was all the voice said.
“Tell Ham we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“Mr. Slayton?” The inflection of the voice squeaked upward on the final syllable. That would be Marilyn.
“Marilyn, darling, I have a priority 71 on this. Can you punch me through?”
In response, another line rang, once.
“Slayton?”
“Right.”
“Slayton,” said Winship gruffly, “I wish to hell you would stop calling me that name, especially to the bloody secretaries.”
“What name, sir?”
“I’ve assembled a briefing for you; I trust you and the tour will be arriving on time.”
“Yes, sir. Trucks are being loaded now. We should be late, but we’ll be there.”
“Any incidents?”
“No sir. Nothing conclusive.”
“I’ll leave it in your hands, then, and see you tonight.”
“Late tonight,” said Slayton. It would be good to see if the briefing filled any holes. To Slayton, the attempts on his life equalled a kind of progress, but to inform Winship at this point would be meaningless. Let’s see the briefing.
“Alright, then.” Winship hung up, and there was a fast run of noise that was the priority scramble line disconnecting itself. Winship was unaccustomed to time-wasters like hello, or good-bye, or have a nice whatever. Slayton appreciated that.
He didn’t have any scribbles to pocket—to write the numbers down on paper would be professional suicide—and so he left, hitting the counter for two refills on the way back. Perhaps the caffeine would open up some new possibilities in his brain, provide inroads or approaches he had not yet considered that would make everything clearer, or at least, more obvious.
The truck convoy to Washington, D.C., was designed to be slow. It was a stretch of eighteen-wheelers, lead cars, red flags, and blinking lights that frequently backed the traffic up for miles in the no-passing zones. From the sky it would manifest itself as a convoluted mechanical snake, slowly twisting through its wind-up routine.
Ahead of the convoy, Ben Slayton piloted an unmarked government car at a healthy clip nearer the posted limits. There was nothing to be gained by poking along with the trucks—if there was sabotage, for example, he could do little except watch the trucks fall over like groaning dinosaurs—so he had opted to escort the stars of the tour into the nation’s capital. Beside him sat Shauna Ramsey, immaculately dressed as usual; behind him, the Professor and Maggie Leiber. Somewhere behind the convoy, Slayton guessed, was Wilma Christian, poking along in her Corvette, doing her best in the name of comprehensive coverage.
“A mastăba contains several chambers, Mr. Rademacher, principal of which is a room or chapel in which the actual burial service is conducted,” said Willis. “There is a separate compartment in which the body of the deceased is walled off, but it does not contain the corpse—or, if the deceased was better known or wealthier, the sarcophagus. A man’s wealth was frequently counted in the number of multiple coffins he could afford, or in the way he was mummified.”
“Just like today,” said Slayton, and the women laughed politely.
“The compartment features a deep shaft that winds down to another passage that connects to the actual chamber of the dead—the vault. These were often brick-lined, or hewn out of rock, and decorated with paintings depicting scenes from the life of the dead person.”
“Except for the poor. I believe they merely tossed them into caves or dug pits for them. Am I correct, Professor?”
“Correct. Their lives did not merit such documentation. Seth-Olet was a soldier, and the vault paintings we have reproduced are quite spectacular. It’s
hard to scoff, even though I realize there were probably scientists or philosophers, unknown to this day, who were probably dumped in holes with no ceremony, but whose work formed the basis for our present-day science. Money can buy you immortality.”
“Reproductions of the paintings?” said Slayton, momentarily confused.
“Yes,” said Shauna. “We couldn’t very well ship the entire mastăba over to America like the London Bridge. The presentation was Maggie’s idea.”
Maggie picked up her cue. “We plan to present the artifacts as they would be arranged inside the actual mastăba, slightly redesigned to fit onto a horizontal plane, of course. The idea is to present an experience as close to the actual penetration of the tomb as possible. None of your stuffy rows of glass cases here; that’s why all the security. Naturally, everything is as tamper-proof as we can make it, as well. But we have huge reproductions of the vault chamber paintings and so on—we want to shut out the outside world as much as possible.”
“Except for the TV cameras on behalf of your President,” said Shauna, and Willis groaned.
“Oh yes, oh god, the importance of media. The President is to appear live on tape from the tomb of Seth-Olet, to open the tour. Ye gods.”
Slayton was inwardly happy. With a minimum of steering, they had worked themselves around to the things he was anxious to quiz them about.
“That means that besides the cameras, your tomb is going to be full of men in natty gray business suits,” he said. “I wonder if they’ll wear their sunglasses in a tomb?”
Maggie looked confused now. “What?”
Shauna shrugged wearily. “Secret Service, love. They’re as ostentatious here as Her Majesty’s.”
“Really,” said Slayton, amused.
Shauna stumbled. “Well, that is… I’ve seen a few television shows and they seem to be…” She actually began to blush.
“What happened to your little car, Mr. Rademacher?” said Maggie abruptly, from the back seat.
“Left it,” said Slayton. “No problem. I have several, and couldn’t very well fit you three into it for the drive, so my people supplied another. I’ll pick it up in a few days.”
