I let them and the others go on ahead. I hadn’t had a chance to talk with John; huddling with him in an otherwise unoccupied tomb chamber might have inspired rude speculation. Maybe he was just as anxious for a private conversation. Maybe that was why he appeared to be avoiding Mary.
That theory was strengthened when he fell in step with me and said easily and audibly, ‘Enjoying yourself, Dr Bliss?’
‘Don’t let’s be so formal,’ I said, stretching my mouth into a tight smile.
‘I’m trying, but my ingrained awe of academic titles makes it difficult.’ His voice kept dropping in pitch. ‘I don’t believe I can possibly address Professor Schmidt as Anton.’
‘Try Poopsie,’ I suggested, losing it for a second.
The corners of his mouth compressed, holding back laughter – or a rude comment. The reference, to a particularly tense moment in one of our earlier encounters, might have inspired either.
I went on, in a hoarse whisper, ‘What did you tell him?’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘I intend to. But I want to hear your version. Quit stalling, the others are waiting for us.’
I stumbled artistically, stopped, and bent over to examine my foot.
‘Coincidence,’ John said, taking me by the arm as if to steady me. The flow of blood to my hand stopped dead.
‘He’ll never buy that.’
‘He’ll have to, won’t he?’
‘Not Schmidt.’
‘I cannot be held accountable for Schmidt’s unholy imagination. If you and I agree, what can he – ’ He broke off as Feisal and Larry hurried towards us. ‘Is it sprained?’ he inquired, adding doubtfully, ‘Perhaps Feisal could – er – carry you.’
The implication being that he couldn’t, and that even Feisal might have some difficulty lifting my enormous body. I straightened. ‘I just turned it. It’s fine.’
My assignation with Schmidt was more easily arranged. We debated it at the top of our lungs as the trailer bounced noisily over the rough track. Schmidt wanted to meet in the lounge so we could share Happy Hour with all his newfound friends. That was reassuring; it suggested he had accepted the coincidence story and wasn’t about to interrogate me about my real reasons for being on board. However, I figured I had better deliver a brief lecture on tact and discretion before I turned him loose on the world, and as I pointed out, he hadn’t had time to unpack yet. We agreed that I would come to his room after I had freshened up.
After I had locked and bolted my door I went, not to the bathroom, but to the safe. The note was still there.
I stamped my foot and swore. That didn’t accomplish anything, so I headed for the shower. Maybe my mysterious contact hadn’t had a chance to retrieve the message as yet. Still, it was not an auspicious omen and the cool water sloshing over my heated body didn’t settle the doubts that sloshed around in my heated brain. I was getting dressed when I heard the knock at the door.
Throwing on a robe, I hurried to answer it. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Hi.’
Alice was certainly a fast-change artist. She was wearing a flowered print dress and white low-heeled sandals. ‘I thought you might need something for that ankle,’ she explained. ‘I’ve found this liniment very effective.’
The bottle she offered me didn’t look like liniment. Her hand covered the label.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said slowly. ‘Come in.’
When I turned, after closing the door, she had settled herself in a chair, ankles crossed. The bottle, on the table beside her, proclaimed that its contents were hydrogen peroxide.
‘You?’ I squeaked unoriginally.
‘I admit I don’t look the part,’ Alice said coolly.
‘How did you know I wanted to see you? You didn’t get my note.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘Which note?’
I produced it. ‘You were upset, weren’t you,’ she murmured, after reading the hurried message.
‘Of course I was. That poor innocent kid – ’
‘Come now, you aren’t thinking clearly. Why do you suppose that note wasn’t collected earlier?’
‘My God.’ I dropped heavily onto the bed. ‘You mean Ali was – ’
‘An agent of the Egyptian security service.’ Alice’s expression darkened. ‘Which I am not. I agreed to help out with this particular job because I care deeply about the protection of antiquities and because an increase in anti-foreign feeling here could affect my work and that of others. He was the man assigned to look after you; I was only supposed to pass on messages.’
The news relieved one nightmare. Ali was just as young and just as dead, but at least he had been a professional, fully aware of the risks his job entailed.
‘I didn’t learn of his death until this afternoon,’ Alice went on. ‘I realized then that I had to talk to you, even though I had been told never, under any circumstances, to contact you directly. These people are stupidly obsessed with security, in my opinion, but to do them justice they may have been concerned with my safety as well as yours. I – ’
‘Holy shit, Alice!’ I stared at her in horror. ‘I didn’t think of that. And I should have. You’d better go. And stay far, far away from me in the future.’
‘Calm yourself, honey; I am not volunteering to take over Ali’s job. I’m exactly what I seem to be – an ageing, overweight archaeologist who’s never fired a gun or taken a karate lesson. If you had to depend on me to protect you, you’d be a sitting duck. But we’d better discuss this situation and decide what to do about it.’ She reached into her shirt pocket. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘No, go right ahead.’ I looked around for an ashtray. Alice laughed.
‘That’s a slip, Vicky. I don’t know why you’re pretending to be a smoker, but you’d better learn how to do it right. You haven’t used the ashtray and you don’t even inhale.’
‘It was not one of my brighter ideas,’ I admitted. ‘So what are we going to do?’
‘Wait, I suppose.’ Alice frowned thoughtfully at her lighter. ‘They will have learned of Ali’s death by now and will, one assumes, arrange for a replacement. The change of schedule worries me, though. My job was to pass on the information Ali gave me when I went ashore, but we’ve already skipped two of the scheduled stops and we’ll miss a third tomorrow; I won’t be able to communicate again until we get to Abydos.’
‘You have no other means of reaching the people in charge? Damn, that’s stupid! What if there were an emergency?’
‘There has been an emergency,’ Alice said wryly. ‘Two, in fact; the lines of communication have been cut in both directions. However, I’ve suspected all along that I was only a minor cog in the machinery – a backup, if you will, for the transmission of information. There must be at least one other agent on board – another professional, not a willing but incompetent amateur like me.’
Wishful thinking? I hoped not. Burckhardt had used the plural when he promised me protection. ‘Who?’ I asked.
‘If I knew I wouldn’t be talking to you.’ Alice rubbed her forehead, as if it ached. It probably did. She went on, ‘I gather from the spy thrillers I’ve read that this is standard procedure. Minimal contacts, maximum anonymity.’
I’d read a few of the damned things myself. Ali had known me and Alice. If they had questioned him before they killed him . . . There wouldn’t necessarily be any marks on his body. Up-to-date torturers have all kinds of neat scientific devices at their disposal, including drugs.
‘It couldn’t be Anton, could it?’
Her words made it as far as my ears but my brain refused to acknowledge them. ‘What?’ I gasped.
‘They’ll have to replace Ali,’ Alice said. ‘Anton turned up this morning, out of the blue – ’
‘No! Are you crazy, or what? Schmidt isn’t . . .’ I stopped to catch my breath. ‘The timing is too tight, Alice. They couldn’t have learned of Ali’s death until early this morning. Schmidt was already in Minya.’
‘That’s true.’ Sh
e stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. ‘No sense speculating, I guess. The situation won’t become critical until we get back to Cairo, and surely we’ll be contacted long before then – probably in Luxor. My advice would be to sit tight, play it cool, and be careful.’
It was excellent advice and I had every intention of following it – if I was allowed to.
After she had left I stood stock-still staring at the closed door. My heart was pounding as if I’d run a mile. Her suggestion that Schmidt might be Ali’s replacement was so far out that only a lunatic could believe it. Alice wasn’t a lunatic, though. Did she know something about Schmidt I didn’t know? Did other people know that same something?
Someone groaned. It had to be me; I was the only one there. ‘Impossible,’ I informed myself. Ali other considerations aside, such as the possibility that I was prejudiced, condescending, and easily manipulated by a cute little, shrewd little actor, Schmidt couldn’t have gotten from Munich to Minya in three hours. I prayed with all my heart that the bad guys were as familiar with plane schedules as I was. I didn’t want them to think, as Alice had done, that Schmidt might be Ali’s replacement.
The telephone rang. Schmidt, of course. The sound of that fat, jolly, Father Christmas voice snapped me back into the real world. ‘Impossible,’ I said.
‘Was ist’s?’ said Schmidt.
‘I’m on my way, Schmidt.’
To judge by the image I saw in a mirror later on I must have selected clothes that were more or less coordinated, but I don’t know how I did it; I was thinking of other things.
The opposition seemed to be a lot more efficient than our group. They had fingered Ali, which was more than I had, and disposed of him without scruple or delay. Why now? I wondered. Just general tidiness, or had he been about to blow the whistle on one or all of them? He’d have to have solid evidence to do that – and they must have known he had it or they wouldn’t have taken the risk of committing murder at this stage.
Despite the record he’d managed to build up while hobnobbing with me, John wasn’t a killer. Admittedly that assessment depended to some extent on his own statements, which were far from reliable in other areas, but I was inclined to believe him. He could reasonably claim self-defence in both the examples to which I had been an eyewitness.
Or defence of me.
The phone distracted me from that uncomfortable train of thought. I didn’t bother answering, since I assumed it was Schmidt; I picked up my bag and headed out.
All prejudice aside, I couldn’t visualize John knocking Ali unconscious and holding his head underwater till he drowned. That wasn’t John’s style. Apparently he had got himself mixed up with a very nasty crowd. He had a bad habit of doing that.
Schmidt’s room was on the top deck, the sundeck, on the same side of the boat as mine. There were only four suites on that level – the choicest of all, I assumed, since Blenkiron had two of them.
Schmidt flung the door open before I could knock, and enveloped me in a huge hug. ‘At last! I was about to go in search of you. You are late.’
‘No, I’m not. We didn’t settle on a time.’
His room was a tad bigger and fancier than mine. A fixed screen separated the sitting area from the bedroom and there were two overstuffed chairs, plus a long comfortable sofa. The sliding doors stood open, admitting a cool breeze and a breathtaking view of the sunset-reddened cliffs.
‘We will sit on the balcony and admire the scenery,’ Schmidt said, bustling around with glasses and bottles. ‘It is very pleasant, nicht? I have been on many cruise boats, but never one so luxurious as this.’
Like mine, his balcony was fringed with flowering plants. I edged cautiously onto it, telling myself nobody could drop anything on me here; there wasn’t another deck above this one. To my right I could see the prow – or maybe it was the stern – of one of the lifeboats. To the left a solid partition separated Schmidt’s balcony from the one next door. However, it wasn’t solid enough to muffle a voice as loud as Schmidt’s, and when he shouted cheerfully, ‘Sit, sit, my dear Vicky, and we will have a pleasant chat,’ I said, ‘Who’s next door?’
‘Ssssir. . .’ Schmidt caught himself. ‘Mr Tregarth and his wife.’
‘Damn it, Schmidt,’ I said savagely but softly. ‘That’s the precise reason I insisted on a private conversation. You’ve got to avoid slips like that.’
‘Ach, yes, yes, I know. But what is the harm this time? You know and he knows – ’
‘Maybe she doesn’t.’
‘They have gone downstairs.’ Schmidt looked subdued. ‘You are right to remind me, though, Vicky. They have only been married a few weeks, and she is very young, very innocent. Perhaps he has not yet told her of his brave and perilous occupation. She is the sort of child one would wish to shield from the harsh realities of life, nicht?’
Down below I heard a rattle and clank that must have been the gangplank being drawn in. The boat began to move, gliding gently away from the shore. The eastern sky was darkening but the curving bay of cliffs glowed in reflected sunset light. A flock of egrets settling into the shallows looked like flying white flowers.
Schmidt was rambling on. ‘It may be that he will decide to retire from the service. A man of honour and of conscience would not wish to endanger his young bride or cause her a broken heart if he should – ’
‘It’s a nice plot, Schmidt. Why don’t you write a book? Now listen to me. You’ve never met him before. I’ve never met him before. Nobody has ever met anybody before. Can you remember that?’
Schmidt had taken advantage of the interruption to hoist his glass. Emerging from it, he fixed a stern eye on me. ‘Aber natürlich. And you, Vicky – do you promise me, on your word of honour, that you did not know he would be on this cruise?’
‘I did not know,’ I said steadily.
‘Not that you wouldn’t lie to me if you wanted to.’ Schmidt ruminated. I drank my beer. It was some local variety – not bad, actually. Then Schmidt said, ‘And your heart is not broken? You would not revenge yourself on your faithless lover by betraying him to his innocent, trusting – ’
‘For God’s sake, Schmidt!’
‘Good,’ said Schmidt calmly. ‘Then we will have a pleasant holiday, eh, and enjoy ourselves. I have not been in Egypt for many years. This should be a wonderful excursion. I have long looked forward to making the friendly acquaintance of Mr Blenkiron.’
‘And extracting a contribution?’ I suggested.
Schmidt grinned. ‘It is my job, getting money from wealthy people. I am very good at it.’
He was, too. Our museum is remarkably well endowed for such a small institution. ‘He gives money to many worthy causes,’ Schmidt went on reflectively. ‘Why not to us? Since your heart is not broken, you can help me do this. He is not such an ugly man, is he?’
‘Shame on you, Schmidt. Is that any way to talk to a dedicated feminist like me?’
‘Well, he is not ugly,’ Schmidt declared. ‘I would not ask you to use your charms on a man who was disgusting to you. He is a woman hater, they say, but he said many nice things about you, Vicky, and asked many questions.’
I long ago gave up hope of convincing Schmidt that it is not nice to seduce potential donors. He’d have done it himself if he had had the necessary equipment. I suspect this is true of most museum directors. ‘What did he say?’ I asked, pulling my chair closer.
II
I had planned to sleep in next morning; it had been a long day, concluded by one of Perry’s more boring lectures, but I was hauled out of bed at the crack of dawn by Schmidt, demanding that I join him on deck to watch the boat manoeuvre through the Asyut locks. Since I had already made the mistake of letting him in – the alternative being to let him go on yelling and pounding on my door – I scrambled into my clothes and let him lead me away.
The buffet on the upper deck offered tea and coffee and an assortment of pastries. I downed a cup of coffee while Schmidt wreaked havoc among the pastries, for, I presum
ed, the second time. It would have been unwise to admit it to him, but as the caffeine took effect I was glad he had awakened me. The sun was barely above the horizon and the air was fresh and cool. Ahead lay the massive barrier of the barrage; the traffic crossing the bridge atop it included buses, bicycles, and donkeys. The ship had stopped, waiting its turn to pass through. There was one boat ahead of us on this side of the lock.
Several other ships were already lined up behind us. Surrounding us and them, like minnows around a shark, were clusters of small boats filled with enterprising merchants, who were hawking their wares at the top of their lungs. I joined Schmidt and several of the others at the rail. Schmidt was yelling too, bargaining for a garment one of the merchants held up. It was a long robe, basically black but covered from shoulders to midsection with sequins, beads, and embroidery in pseudo-Egyptian patterns.
I was about to ask my tasteless boss how the exchange of merchandise and money could be made, since the little boats were a good thirty feet below us, when an object came hurtling through the air and landed with a splat on the deck.
I jumped back with the alacrity of a frog in reverse, and someone bent to pick up the parcel.
‘You seem a trifle tense this morning, Dr Bliss,’ John remarked. Turning with a gallant bow, he presented the parcel to Suzi Umphenour.
I had believed I was getting used to Suzi’s outrageous outfits, but she constantly surprised me. This garment might have come straight out of a thirties’ film starring Jean Harlow: bias-cut satin trimmed with marabou feathers at the neck and the cuffs of the flowing sleeves. The things she had on her feet were, I think, referred to as mules. How she had managed to get upstairs in them without breaking her neck I could not imagine. As she reached for the parcel she slipped and tottered. Several pairs of masculine arms, including those of Sweet and Bright, made hopeful grabs at her, but she managed to avoid them, and fell heavily against John. He had to detach both her hands before he could set her on her feet.
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