Chapter Six

I

I GREW UP ON A farm in Minnesota. Dad taught all of us how to handle a shotgun and a rifle; he didn’t hunt, but he saw nothing wrong with discouraging varmints, including the human variety, when they attacked the livestock (including the human variety). A bullet was also the quickest and most humane method of dispatching a fatally injured or rabid animal. He hated handguns, though. He claimed they were cowards’ weapons and more likely to get a person into trouble than out of it.

I suppose it’s easy to take that attitude when you’re six-five and built like a tank.

Inconsistent or not, I share his attitude. I picked the thing up with all due caution, and examined it with even greater caution. I can tell an automatic from a revolver, but that’s about the limit of my expertize. This wasn’t one of the few models I had handled. The safety was on and there was a full clip, but no extras.

The presence of the gun proved Ali had had a backup on board, which was good news. I only hoped it wasn’t meant to convey a subtle message: ‘You’re on your own, baby, don’t expect me to rush to the rescue.’

I can deliver subtle messages too. I put the gun back in the safe and closed the door. Anyhow, I couldn’t carry the damned thing on me; my clothes were all lightweight cotton and linen, there was no place I could stash it where it wouldn’t show. If I put it in my bag, either it would fall out at an inappropriate moment or it would sink to the bottom and I wouldn’t be able to locate it in a hurry.

Dad was right. The damned things were more trouble than they were worth. I hoped.

Schmidt had saved me a seat in the lounge. By what was probably not a strange coincidence, the only other person at the table was Larry. He did seem pleased to see me. Schmidt’s face had the bland, pink-cheeked innocence it wore when he was up to something. I knew what he was up to this time, and I wished him luck. I’m a loyal employee of the National Museum myself – up to a point.

‘So they let you off for a few hours?’ I said, glancing at the table where Larry’s two henchmen were sitting.

‘It’s the other way around, actually,’ Larry said with a smile. ‘I had to order Schroeder to take a break. He’s been on the phone to Luxor a dozen times, working on the arrangements for the reception.’

‘Mr Schroeder is your secretary?’ I asked.

‘Executive assistant, rather. Haven’t you met him?’

I shook my head. ‘I have,’ said Schmidt. ‘A very pleasant person. But shy, nicht?’

Larry laughed. ‘I wouldn’t say that. But he’s been pretty busy. These changes in schedule have been a damned nuisance. We’ve had to revise our own schedule for the reception at my place in Luxor, and for the formal opening of the tomb.’

‘It is true, then, that we will have the honour of being the first to see the tomb in all its new glory?’ Schmidt asked eagerly.

‘The first and possibly the last,’ Larry said.

‘Aha!’ Schmidt nodded and winked. ‘I thought that would be your aim. I am in full agreement, of course. But can you do that, mein Freund? The Bureau of Tourism will surely object to closing the tomb.’

‘I have an argument that may convince them. No,’ he added pleasantly but firmly, ‘don’t ask, Anton; I’m saving it for a surprise. It will be announced at the reception day after tomorrow.’

‘I would not want you to tell me then,’ Schmidt announced, widening his eyes and pursing his lips. ‘I like surprises.’

He was overdoing the cute stuff, and I tried to tip him off with a slight shake of my head. Schmidt only grinned.

The room had filled. Everyone was there, even Suzi, whom I had expected to prefer sunbathing over culture. Perhaps she had found she lacked an audience.

It was a long lecture, but for once even Perry’s hopelessly pedantic delivery couldn’t spoil the fascination of the subject.

The tomb had been discovered around the turn of the century by a famous husband-and-wife team of Egyptologists. It was an unusual combination in those days, when women weren’t allowed to work in archaeology or any other serious discipline, and the excavators were also unusual in that they followed rigorous standards of recording and copying instead of the slash-and-burn, dig-’em-up-and-dump-’em techniques favoured by many of their contemporaries.

Since colour photography had not yet been developed, the only way of accurately reproducing the wall paintings was to have them copied by an artist. Howard Carter, known to the world for his discovery of Tutankhamon’s tomb, began his career as a copyist. He did some nice work, but I believe I cannot be accused of prejudice when I claim that the greatest archaeological copyists of that period were women. The discoverers of Tetisheri’s tomb had employed one of them, and she had copied the paintings with exquisite skill.

As Schmidt had mentioned a couple of dozen times, we were among the first people to see the photographs of the restorations. Larry had denied dozens of requests for permission to reproduce them. Even the National Geographic hadn’t been able to talk him into letting them do a story.

Perry had had the bright idea of comparing three versions, slide by slide – first the painting, then a colour photograph taken before the restoration began three years earlier, then the photograph of the same section as it now appeared. It was a fascinating and convincing demonstration of the hazards of accessibility, and an equally impressive demonstration of what expert restorers and pots of money could do. The paintings had deteriorated shockingly in only ninety years, but Larry’s crew had returned them to their original beauty.

After the lights had come on and the shades had been drawn back, Perry started taking questions. I got up and headed for the deck. Larry followed me.

‘In need of nicotine?’ he asked, smiling.

I kept forgetting I was a smoker. I took out a cigarette, and said with perfect honesty, ‘I didn’t want to spoil the impression. You’ve done a wonderful thing, Larry. I feel as if I ought to kiss your hand.’

Schmidt was close on Larry’s heels. ‘Sie hat recht, mein Freund,’ he said seriously. ‘The art lovers of the world owe you a great debt. I will not kiss your hand, but I would like to shake it.’

A dark flush spread over Larry’s face. He looked down and shuffled his feet like a bashful schoolboy. ‘Your praise means a great deal to me,’ he mumbled.

I was afraid Schmidt might take advantage of Larry’s emotional state to start hinting about certain other things he could do for the art lovers of the world, so I changed the subject. ‘What happened to her mummy?’

‘One of the unlabelled mummies in the Deir el Bahri cache is believed to be hers,’ Larry said. ‘I question the identification.’

‘On what basis?’ Schmidt asked interestedly.

‘It’s a rather complicated question.’

‘Ach, ja, I recall reading about it.’ Schmidt leaned against the rail, his eyes bright with interest. Schmidt is interested in practically everything, and as I have said, he remembers practically everything he has ever read. ‘There is a papyrus – Amherst, I believe – dating from the twelfth century B.C., which describes the confessions of tomb robbers of Thebes. So many of the royal tombs had been robbed that priests gathered up the royal mummies, or their battered remains, and hid them in a secret place. This cache was found in the 1880s, after it, in turn, had been looted by local thieves. Some of the mummies were unidentified and none were in their original coffins – ’

‘You are very well informed,’ Larry said curtly. He turned, arms on the rail, looking out across the river.

I would have taken the hint, but Schmidt went gaily on. ‘A few years ago the University of Michigan undertook a complete X-ray examination of the royal mummies. There were some peculiar discoveries. For instance, the small wrapped mummy found with the body of a high priestess was not, as had been believed, that of her stillborn child, but a baboon! One of the little old queens was bald and had – what do you call it – teeth that stuck out – ’

‘Brotzeit, Schmidt,’ I interrupted. ‘Specifically, teatime. Why don’t you get us a good table near the buffet before the others come out?’

The prospect of food can distract Schmidt from just about anything. He went bustling off.

‘Are you having tea?’ I asked Larry.

He shook his head. ‘I’m saving myself for the banquet this evening. Come to think of it, I ought to get a costume of some sort together. If you’ll excuse me . . .’

I joined Schmidt. ‘They are still setting out the food,’ he complained. ‘There was no hurry. Why – ’

‘A gentle hint, Schmidt: if you want to win Larry’s heart, don’t talk to him about mummies. Especially the mummies of beautiful Egyptian queens.’

‘Ah.’ Schmidt thought it over. ‘Ah! Vielen Dank, Vicky, I should have realized. A romantic he is, nicht? He dreams of the lovely images, the paintings and the statues.’

‘That’s my guess. Even at their best, mummies aren’t romantic’

‘Mmmm, yes. That is why he does not want to believe the little old lady, who is bald and sticking out of tooth like her descendant, is his dream queen. The head was broken from the badly damaged body – ’

I let out a croak of protest. ‘Schmidt, I’m no romantic, but I am just about to eat. Knock it off, will you?’

I realized I was still holding the cigarette. I was about to return it to the packet when a lighter went off, so close to the end of my nose that I shied back.

‘May we join you?’ Mary asked.

Schmidt leaped to his feet and held a chair for her. I sucked on the damned cigarette, womanfully suppressing a cough. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘A pleasure,’ said John.

I didn’t doubt it.

‘We were talking about Tetisheri,’ Schmidt explained. ‘Vicky did not want to hear about her mummy.’

‘Mary dotes on dead bodies,’ said John.

‘Oh, darling, don’t tease!’ Mary’s pretty mouth quirked with distaste.

Over the past days her skin had darkened from cream to pale gold, without so much as a hint of homely sunburn. She wore a white silk shirt with a scarf of burgundy and gold knotted loosely around her throat. The Greek earrings would have suited the ensemble better than the diamonds she was wearing – a carat and a half each, if I was any judge (and I am). At that they were smaller than the stone in the ring on her third finger. It overwhelmed the simple gold band next to it.

Schmidt was beginning to catch on to the idea that very few people enjoy talking about mummies. ‘You prefer the charming little statuette of the lady that is in the British Museum?’ he said with a twinkle and a chuckle.

Mary glanced shyly at John. ‘I’m afraid I don’t – ’

‘There is no need to apologize,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘A lovely young woman should not trouble her head with antiquities.’

‘Thanks, Schmidt,’ I said.

‘In your case it is different,’ Schmidt said calmly.

I decided not to pursue that point, but I admit it was partly pique that inspired my next comment. ‘I’ve always loved that little statue. I was crushed when they decided it was . . . it was . . .’

‘A forgery.’ Schmidt, oblivious to undercurrents, finished the sentence.

I tore my eyes away from John’s face. He had raised one eyebrow, a trick of his I particularly dislike, and a faint smile curved his lips.

‘What does it matter, if it is beautiful?’ he asked. ‘A respected authority on Egyptian art said it was the most appealing and charming of the sculptures of that period. Has it lost artistic merit?’

‘Ah, but you miss the point; my friend,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘The authenticity of the work . . .’

I was only too familiar with the arguments pro and con, including John’s arguments. I’d heard them before, when I was about to blow the whistle on him and his scheme for substituting forgeries for valuable antique jewellery. They had been superb copies, almost indistinguishable from the originals. But one example of the counter-argument had dangled from Mary’s dainty earlobes the night before. I lusted after those Greek earrings, and I wouldn’t have felt the same about copies, however accurate.

Mary reached for John’s hand. The movement stretched the silk of her blouse across her arm; the fabric was so thin I could see the golden tan of her skin through it. I could see the dark spots too. There were several of them, spaced regularly. Not the sort of bruise you’d get from bumping into a piece of furniture or a door. More like the marks of fingers.

II

Schmidt had taken a fancy to Mary, and vice versa. Who could blame her? He is awfully sweet, especially when he puts himself out to be gallant. John didn’t want to leave us either. I wasn’t sure what he had in mind. General aggravation, maybe. It certainly aggravated me when he turned Schmidt’s attention from antiquities to country music. One question was enough. Schmidt was delighted to expand on the subject

‘Yes, yes, it is a most interesting type. I am indebted to Vicky for introducing me to it. I am thinking of taking up the guitar.’

‘It would be better than listening to you sing,’ I said rudely.

Schmidt had become impervious to my insults. He thinks I’m just teasing. (And maybe he’s right.) ‘You sing, then. The one about the pillow that is dying.’

‘A moribund pillow?’ John’s eyes were as blue and innocent as forget-me-nots. ‘I must hear that one.’

We ended up in the lounge, gathered cosily around the piano. Schmidt plays a little, enough to pick out tunes. He gave us all three verses of ‘The Sinner’s Death,’ including the dying pillow. (‘A slight error in the reference of the adjective,’ as John described it.)

There are a lot of bluegrass songs about prisoners and chain gangs and sinners. Schmidt set out to prove he knew them all. A sensitive man might have found that theme a trifle awkward, but not John. His sense of humour is offbeat at best, but that day he was in a particularly strange mood. He kept egging Schmidt on. What Mary was thinking I could only imagine. She certainly was not amused.

The lounge had emptied rapidly as soon as Schmidt began singing. Since I didn’t want to leave Schmidt alone – especially with John – I remained. In order to demonstrate my cool I even joined in on a couple of choruses. I am rather proud of my ability to slide from one note to the next. I was giving my all to ‘Little Rosewood Casket’ when I realized that Schmidt had dropped out (he always breaks down during ‘Little Rosewood Casket’) and that John was singing harmony in a flat, nasal tenor that bore a suspicious resemblance to the voice of the great Sara Carter.

That brought me back to earth with a painful thud. We had sung – a weird medley of Bach, German pop tunes, and Christmas carols – to keep awake the night a blizzard trapped us in the abandoned church. It was the most memorable night we had spent together, and I include other occasions which were memorable for quite different reasons. It was the night of all nights I didn’t want to remember.

The lyrics didn’t help either. ‘Take his letters and his locket, Place them gently on my heart . . .’ I broke off in the middle of a glissando. ‘We’d better go and dress for dinner, Schmidt. It’s getting late.’

‘One more,’ John pleaded, looking soulfully at me from under his lashes.

‘Yes, there is time. Let me think. Ah! Here is one you may not have heard, it is the latest hit of the famous Road Sisters.’

The song was ‘You’re a Detour on the Highway to Heaven.’ A sample will suffice, I believe.

‘When mama lay a-dyin’ on the flatbed, She told me not to truck with gals like you; But you were just one more roadside attraction, And I went joy-ridin’ jest for the view.’

I cut Schmidt off after three verses and three choruses.

John’s face was rapt. ‘My God,’ he said reverently. ‘That’s magnificent. It’s even better than the one about Jesus and the goal posts of life. How does it go again? “Your curves made me lose my direction . . .”’

‘Schmidt,’ I said, through clenched teeth.

‘Yes, Vicky, we will go.’ Rising, he took John’s arm. ‘“Mein’ hand from the steering wheel strayed . . .”’

They went off arm in arm, voices clashing in duet. It was the most outrageous noise I have ever heard, and I have stepped on the tail of a cat or two in my time.

I caught Mary’s eye.

‘He’s like that sometimes,’ she said, with a stiff, apologetic little smile. ‘So whimsical.’

‘Whimsical’ wasn’t the word I would have chosen.

III

Getting Schmidt ready for the grand dinner and costume party was almost as bad as decking a bride out for the wedding. (Yes, I’ve been a bridesmaid. Twice.) It didn’t take me long to dress. Schmidt, that sly little rascal, had presented me with three ghastly garments he had bought from the guys in the boats; one was too short, one was too tight, and the third was both, and all three were covered with multicolored sequins. I had already decided I wasn’t going to appear in public in any of the three. I put on the simple blue-and-white-stripe robe I had bought at The Suq and studied the effect. It might not be glamorous, but it was very comfortable and very simple: two rectangles stitched together at the shoulders and down the sides, with open spaces left for the insertion of the arms. Blue braid outlined the neck opening and a perpendicular slit down the front.

I slung on all my fake gold jewellery and, after considering the question for longer than it merited (‘Take his letters and his locket . . .’) I fastened around my neck the chain that held the golden rose. Too many people had access to my room and that ornament was unusual enough and valuable enough to arouse speculation. I tucked the pendant firmly down into my bra so it could not be seen or dislodged, and proceeded to Schmidt’s room.

When he opened the door his pink mouth sagged in disappointment. ‘Why didn’t you wear one of your beautiful new gowns? That is too plain, too large. It is ugly!’

I could have been equally insulting about his contributions to my wardrobe, but my mother always told me it isn’t nice to criticize presents people give you. ‘I’m saving the others so I can dazzle Gerda. Hurry up, Schmidt. Were you waiting for me to button you up?’

‘There are no buttons to button,’ said Schmidt, unamused. ‘I have not decided what to wear. The gold-trimmed or the silver? Or this, with red and green?’

‘I thought you’d decided on the gold.’

‘I had. But now I think the silver. Ah, I have it! You will wear the gold and I the silver.’

‘Nobody is going to believe we’re twins, Schmidt.’

Schmidt condescended to giggle. He was determined, though, so I gave in. He retired modestly to the bathroom with his ensemble while I changed. It took me about forty seconds, after which I sat and cooled my heels for another ten minutes. Finally I yelled, ‘What the hell are you doing, Schmidt?’

The door opened. If I hadn’t been sitting down I would have fallen to the floor.

Flowing robes and a headcloth that frames the face and hides a gent’s bald spot make a very becoming, not to say sexy, outfit; even short chubby guys look dignified. The only trouble was Schmidt had dyed his moustache black.

That simple statement cannot convey how ridiculous he looked. Schmidt has a fair complexion. It was now pink with sunburn. His eyebrows were still bushy and still white. The moustache was . . . well, let’s say it was a serious mistake.

Did I say so? I did not. I said, ‘Ach, du Lieber! As we say in Minnesota, Schmidt, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’

Schmidt told me I looked gorgeous too, but he wanted me to let my hair down. I declined. He was still arguing about it when I opened the door, just in time to see his neighbours emerging from their room.

Mary looked about sixteen in another version of the basic caftan. Hers was pale yellow. It had little ribbons dangling from the bodice. The sleeves were elbow-length and the fabric was cotton, heavy and opaque. Nothing showed through it.

I’d expected John would let himself go – he specialized in disguises and he was something of a ham – but he wasn’t even wearing a tux. Bareheaded, in his shirt sleeves and a pair of wrinkled khaki pants, he looked as scruffy as John was capable of looking.

The boots gave me the clue. ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘You’re disguised as an honest, hard-working field archaeologist. Very original.’

John was the only one who caught the veiled insult. He grinned, and Schmidt exclaimed, ‘Sehr gut! But you need a pith helmet, Ss . . . John. Have you not got one? Take mine. No, I insist, it will complete the ensemble.’

Most of the other men had been unable to resist the chance to dress up. Only Ed Whitbread and the urologist-birder wore ordinary dinner jackets. Sweet and Bright sported enormous matching turbans, Herr Hamburger had a red fez set at a rakish angle, and Larry wore long robes of subdued brown. The women looked like a flock of bright birds. Suzi had crammed herself into the gold sequins, Louisa into one of the gaudy embroidered gowns. That would have been bad enough, since the seams were visibly straining, but she had topped it with a construction she must have made herself – a copy of the tall crown Nefertiti wears in most of her portraits. It looks great on Nefertiti. She has a long slim neck and no moustache.

We all milled around, admiring one another’s outfits and exchanging compliments, and had a few drinks, and then were summoned to the banquet. I was getting sick and tired of the newlyweds and I didn’t feel up to watching Schmidt eat, so I approached Sweet and Bright and asked if I could join them.

My other reason for wanting to join them was foiled by Suzi, who decided to make the fourth at our table. Apparently she had set her cap for Bright; I decided he must be richer than he (or Sweet, rather) had implied. She didn’t succeed in getting him to talk, but he grinned and nodded a lot, and kept trying to tear his eyes from her décolletage. It was, I had to admit, a remarkable sight.

I tried once to introduce an interesting subject, but when I mentioned Ali, Sweet frowned and shook his head. ‘Yes, I had heard. It is very sad. Too sad to think about on such an evening. Have you tried the couscous, Vicky? Delicious!’

I tried the couscous. I don’t remember what else I ate; it was all delicious, but I couldn’t remember the names even if I had been paying attention. As I wandered to and from the groaning board I caught glimpses of Schmidt, enjoying himself as only Schmidt can.

After dinner we retired to the lounge for coffee and entertainment. Almost everyone was a little tight by that time, and they entered into the contest for best costume with childish delight. Suzi tried to belly dance and Louisa struck a pose, arms raised and bent, à la Steve Martin imitating King Tut. The prize for best men’s costume went to, of all people, Larry’s secretary, who had apparently been persuaded to take the evening off. He looked very authentic in Arab costume, with dark glasses and an Ibn Saud moustache under his checked headcloth.

Our little musical ensemble had traded in their Western instruments for drums and pipes. They gave us a brief concert, and then Hamid, the master of ceremonies, made an announcement. We were in for a treat, it appeared. He would say no more, except that the dancer we were about to see ordinarily did not perform in public. This was a gracious gesture, a tribute to a particularly distinguished group of visitors.

Feisal walked out onto the floor.

I had never seen him in other than Western clothing. His robe was plain, light grey in colour. He looked gorgeous just standing still. Then the band struck up, if that is an appropriate phrase, and he started to dance.

I knew belly dancing was a bastard form, and that the classic form of the art is performed only by men. If you think a man dancing alone looks effeminate, you haven’t seen Baryshnikov or any of the other great premiers danseurs. In a completely different way, and in a completely different idiom, Feisal had the same power. I can’t describe what he did. It involved movements of arms and body and head, sometimes graceful and gliding, sometimes forceful, almost abrupt. By the time he finished, every woman in the room was dry-mouthed and I was thinking things I would call sexist if a man had been thinking them about me.

Feisal stood still for a moment, acknowledging the applause with a slight inclination of his head. Then he held out his hands and gave us a brilliant smile. ‘Come, who will join me?’

Suzi was the first onto the floor. They glided around for a while; at least Feisal glided, holding her out at arm’s length, only their hands touching. Graceful she was not, but she enjoyed herself hugely, flashing teeth almost as white as Feisal’s, emitting peals of laughter when she tripped over her own feet. Sweet and Bright were the next to try it; they circled solemnly, waving their arms. The effect was not at all the same.

I decided I needed a cup of coffee. As I approached the dance floor, Feisal passed Suzi neatly off to Bright and caught my hand.

‘All the ladies in turn,’ he called, towing me onto the floor.

There wasn’t much I could do; he had a grip like a steel trap. I tried to be like a good sport, but I could feel my face turning red. I’ve always been self-conscious about my height. Even when they are clumsy, little women manage to look cute. Tall women just look clumsy, period.

‘You are very graceful,’ Feisal murmured, steadying me as I stumbled.

‘And you are very much a liar. I’ll get you for this, Feisal.’ He laughed, throwing his head back. His throat was smooth and brown, corded with muscle. ‘Have you been avoiding me? I have seen nothing of you.’

‘You’ve been busy. Oops. Sorry.’

‘Relax, don’t fight me. You would do well if you were not so afraid.’

As double entendres go it wasn’t awfully subtle, especially when it was accompanied by a languishing look from those thick-lashed dark eyes. I laughed, and stumbled again. Feisal smiled. ‘Sorry. One gets into the habit. I have been busy, and social encounters on board ship present certain difficulties. We’ll have some free time in Luxor; may I show you something of the city?’

‘This is a hell of a time to ask for a date,’ I said, trying not to trip over my own feet.

‘Think about it.’

‘I will. Now can I sit down?’

‘Yes, certainly. It’s time I gave Nefertiti a whirl. Doesn’t she look frightful?’

I shouldn’t have been out of breath, but I was. I decided what I needed was fresh air and time to regain my composure. As I headed for the open doors and the deck, I beheld an amusing little pantomime. Mary was on her feet, gesturing animatedly. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, the music was too loud, but it was obvious she was trying to persuade John to dance with her. He kept shaking his head. She caught his hand and tugged at him, her face bright with laughter. He smiled and went on shaking his head. Schmidt had also been watching them. Ladies’ man that he was, he sashayed up to Mary and offered his hand. They were heading for the dance floor when I went out.

There were no dark corners on that deck, but I found a spot between two lamps that was relatively shadowy and leaned against the rail. It was a glorious night; the breeze cooled my flushed cheeks, and the moon, three quarters full, cast a silvery path across the water. Lights from a village on the west bank sparkled through the trees and more stars than I could ever recall seeing brightened the sky. Romantic as all hell, that’s what it was, and there I stood, alone in the moonlight, wondering which of the handsome men on board was planning to cut my throat, and when.

Feisal might be genuinely interested in my wonderful self. Tall blondes are popular in Italy and points east. He might also be an agent of the Egyptian security police. I’d have been quite happy to believe either and even happier to believe both.

He’d kept his distance until this evening. Had that been deliberate – a precaution, to prevent others from suspecting his real role? Proposing a rendezvous in Luxor might have been a way of reassuring me. It was all quite logical and completely unproven.

He walked like the fog, on little cat feet, so lightly I didn’t hear him till he was right behind me. When I turned it was too late to get away. My back was against the rail and his arms, raised and ready, told me I wouldn’t get far if I tried to run. The moon was behind him; it glimmered in his hair but his face was in shadow.

His hands gripped my upper arms and pulled me towards him. He was so quick, and it was such an unexpected, damn-fool gesture, I didn’t react in time. I tried to raise my knee, but his body pressed mine against the rail, and my fists never made it as far as his face, they were caught between my breast and his as his arm went around my shoulders and pulled me close.

‘If you’re thinking of screaming, I’d strongly advise against it,’ he murmured.

‘Damn you,’ I whispered. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Someone will see – ’

He said something, in a voice so low and uneven I couldn’t make out the words, as his free hand slid into the open neck of my robe. Screaming was no longer an option. There wasn’t enough air in my lungs. The last of my breath mingled with his as his lips forced mine apart. I couldn’t free them; his fingers had moved from my breast to twist through my hair, and the pressure of his mouth held my head in the hard cradle of his hand. I knew – I had thought I knew – the strength of his hands and arms and lean body, but never before had he used it like this, uncontrolled and mindlessly demanding. Not against me . . .

He let me go so abruptly that only the rail behind me kept me from falling, and stepped back, shoving his hands into his pockets. I felt like a swimmer who has been underwater too long – ears ringing, legs straining, muscles limp. Gasping and shaking, I hung on to the rail until I got my breath back. I can swear in several languages, but I couldn’t think of any word in any of them that would be bad enough. ‘How long have you been married – two weeks?’

He turned slightly, lifting his shoulders in a shrug, but when he replied his voice was harsh and unsteady. ‘Monogamy is so dull. Why should I confine myself to one woman?’

‘She’s young and pretty and madly in love – ’

‘And wealthy,’ John said. ‘You don’t suppose I paid for those vulgar diamonds, do you?’

Every negative emotion I had ever felt for him – anger, contempt, hatred, loathing – boiled up in a sudden flood. My Scandinavian ancestors were prone to berserker rages, but this was the first time I’d ever experienced one. I hauled my arm back and let fly.

It wasn’t often I could catch John off guard, but I succeeded this time. The flat of my hand connected with a sound like that of a large dry branch snapping. The impact sent pain darting clear up my arm to my shoulder.

It felt wonderful.

As the roaring in my ears subsided I heard voices and laughter. The dancing must be over. People were coming out of the lounge. I didn’t know whether any of them had seen us. I didn’t care.

My evening bag had fallen to the deck. I picked it up, took out my handkerchief, and scrubbed my mouth. John had retreated into the shadow, his hand on his cheek. I threw the handkerchief down and walked away.

I didn’t want to go through the lounge. I knew I looked like a Gorgon, my hair straggling, my lip dripping blood and my face set in a snarl. After blundering up a stairway marked ‘Crew Only’ I reached the upper deck and made it to my room unobserved. I closed the curtains, then stripped and examined the damage. I ached in so many places it was hard to tell which hurt most. The reddened spots on my arms would be purple and black by morning. Nice, I thought. Mary and I could compare bruises.

I made it to the bathroom just in time. Kneeling by the commode, in the ultimate posture of humiliation, I faced the ugly truth. After the first split second that kiss had not been one-sided. If he hadn’t held my arms pinned, they would have been around him.

And he’d found the rose pendant. It had been outside my dress when I reached my room. The movements of those long deft fingers, tracing the length of the chain to where the rose rested between my breasts, had been prompted by curiosity and amused malice. What a boost to his ego that must have been, to find another infatuated woman wearing his trinket.

One hard tug snapped the chain. I threw the ornament across the room, stepped into the shower, and turned it on full blast.

I didn’t hear the pounding at the door till I turned off the water. It had to be Schmidt; nobody else would make such a racket. I might have expected he’d notice my absence and come looking for me. I swathed my dripping body and my bruises in a terry-cloth robe and went to open the door. He’d continue beating on it until I did.

He must have used shoe polish or some other water-soluble substance on his moustache. It had run, leaving long black streaks down his cheeks. He looked like Fu Manchu.

‘Ah,’ he exclaimed, looking me over critically. ‘You have been sick.’

‘How did you know?’

‘I know the look,’ said Schmidt. ‘Let me in. I will take care of you.’

I sighed and stepped back. ‘I don’t need you to take care of me, Schmidt, I just need to go to bed.’

‘Yes, that is true. We must be up at dawn, for the visit to Abydos. I will put you to bed.’

I laughed and started to protest. The laugh was a mistake. It stretched my lower lip and the cut opened up again. Schmidt’s face softened, and he said, in a voice he seldom used even to me, his favourite flunky, ‘You have done it for me, Vicky, when I was sick or hurting. Let me do something now for you.’

I bent my head to keep him from seeing the tears that stung my eyes. ‘Okay,’ I muttered. ‘Thanks, Schmidt. Just don’t suggest a glass of beer to settle my stomach.’

‘It is very good for a weak stomach,’ Schmidt said seriously. ‘However, I have something better. I will get it while you put on your nightgown. Unless you would like me to help you?’

He gave me a giggle and a leer and trotted out without waiting for an answer. I had time to change and hide the reddening bruises before he got back. He was so sweet and solicitous I swallowed the ghastly stuff he gave me without a whimper, and accepted a sleeping pill as well. After he had tucked me in he stood by the bed looking down at me.

‘Do you want to tell me what is wrong?’

I turned my head away. ‘Nothing’s wrong, Schmidt. I over-indulged, that’s all.’

‘Hmph,’ said Schmidt.

‘Good night, Schmidt. And thanks.’

‘Schlaf’ wohl, Vicky. And do not worry. Farther along we will know all about whatever it may be.’

He had deliberately garbled the quote to make me smile, so I smiled; he patted me clumsily on the shoulder and trotted out, leaving the bedside lamp burning. After he had gone I reached to turn it off. The rose pendant lay on the table, with the broken chain coiled around it like a tiny golden snake.

IV

I’d forgotten to leave a wake-up call, but Schmidt remembered. A good thing, too; I am not used to sleeping pills and I’d have snored on until mid-morning if he hadn’t telephoned to say he was on his way down.

‘Give me half an hour,’ I mumbled pathetically.

‘Fifteen minutes.’

Motivated by that promise or threat, I managed to get in and out of the shower and into my clothes before he arrived. I do not have transparent garments in my wardrobe – not for day wear, at any rate – so I had no trouble finding a shirt that covered the bruises, which were darkening as expected. Studying myself in the mirror I was pleased to find that the excesses – physical and emotional – of the previous night hadn’t left visible marks, and when Schmidt insisted we go down to breakfast I agreed. I wanted John to see me smiling and calm, cool, collected, and contemptuous.

He wasn’t in the dining room. Neither was Mary. The place was only half full, so I concluded the others were breakfasting in their rooms. Alice was sitting with Feisal; they waved and I waved, and joined Schmidt at a table as far from Alice as I could get. The less we were seen together, the safer for her.

She’d be looking for her contact when we went ashore. I wondered what disguise he’d assume – another tourist, a seller of souvenirs, a beggar? The set-up was perfect for a seemingly casual encounter, the sites were swarming with people. He’d be there, I felt sure. The change in schedule must be known to the authorities, and after Ali’s death it was imperative that they reestablish contact.

Schmidt stuffed himself with eggs and cornflakes and fruit and bread, and then proceeded to fill his pockets with titbits. For the cats? ‘Yes,’ said Schmidt, when I asked. ‘And the poor dogs. Ach, Vicky, it is sad to see – ’

Feisal interrupted the speech, stopping by our table on his way out to warn us we’d better hurry. ‘Don’t forget a hat, Vicky. We are farther south, and the sun is hot.’

I hoped that was a hint; but after I had dashed upstairs and opened the safe, nothing was there that hadn’t been there the night before. Maybe it was a hint of another kind? And maybe it wasn’t a hint of any kind. After deliberating for a few seconds I put the gun into my bag.

Most of the passengers had assembled. After all that time cruising, even the lazy ones were ready to go ashore. Schmidt had cornered Larry; ignoring his winks and nods, I joined Anna Blessington. She looked cute as a button, eyes bright in her wrinkled face, a broad-brimmed straw hat tied under her chin with a jaunty bow. The hands resting on her stick were mottled with age spots and twisted with arthritis. If she was a crook or a secret agent I’d turn in my Sherlock Holmes badge.

‘Did you enjoy the party last night?’ I asked.

‘Yes, it was splendid, wasn’t it?’ She grinned, producing an even more astonishing set of wrinkles. ‘Especially Feisal’s dancing. To think I am the only female whom he has held in his arms!’

‘I’m thinking of spraining my ankle,’ I admitted.

‘You don’t have to resort to such painful expedients, my dear.’ She hoisted herself to her feet and reached, unselfconsciously, for my arm. ‘Just till we get down the gangplank, if you don’t mind; it’s a bit steep.’

The ancient cemeteries and the temples that served them are in the desert; we had a long ride, through the cultivated fields and the town of Hammadi. The children were on their way to school; I was pleased to see girls among them, modestly clad in long-sleeved dark robes, their heads covered with white kerchiefs. Older women all wore black. Stalls along the street sold a variety of goods, from fruit and vegetables to cheap plastic dishes. After we left the town we drove through fields of cabbages and sugarcane. The road, paved but narrow, bordered a canal. We roared past donkeys loaded with reeds and rusty trucks loaded with pots and turbaned men riding bicycles, and another tourist bus.

The area outside the entrance to the archaeological enclosure was a modern disaster – rows of stalls selling film and souvenirs, a couple of coffee shops with rows of rusting tables and chairs outside. Feisal raced around like a Border collie, shepherding us into a compact group and assuring Suzi, who kept trying to break away and head for the souvenirs, that she would have a chance to spend her money after we had seen the temple. He lost Schmidt when we started up the ramp to the entrance. looking back, I saw my boss surrounded by lean dogs and peremptory cats. Handing Anna over to Feisal, I went back to him.

‘For heaven’s sake, Schmidt, come on. Feisal has the tickets.’

Schmidt had emptied his pockets of food. His stricken face was turned towards a child who sat on a low wall nearby. The kid’s hand was out and he was whining for baksheesh. He had only one leg.

‘Ach, Vicky – ’

‘I know, Schmidt. I know. Come on.’

‘One moment only . . .’ He trotted towards the boy and filled the outstretched hand with crumpled bills. That wasn’t as generous as it sounds, since Egyptian currency consists mainly of paper money, the smallest being worth approximately ten cents. But I don’t think Schmidt looked at the numbers on the bills.

He’s a volatile old guy, though, and he cheered up after we got inside. There are those who consider the Abydos temples the most beautiful in Egypt, and I wouldn’t argue with them. Some of the other tourist favourites – Dendera, El Kab, Philae – are better preserved, but they date from the Greek or Ptolemaic period, a thousand years later. Abydos is Nineteenth Dynasty, one of the high points of Egyptian art.

Schmidt hauled out his camera and took pictures of everything. Then he forced it on me and made me take pictures of him in front of everything. Then he forced it on Bright, who happened to be nearby, and made Bright take pictures of both of us in front of . . . well, practically everything. By the time we reached the inner courtyard he’d used up the first roll of film and retired behind a pillar to reload.

I took advantage of his absence to escape, not only from Schmidt’s obsession with snapshots, but from the others. Feisal was lecturing. I didn’t want to hear a lecture, I just wanted to look.

Some of the others had wandered off too. I saw Alice going up the steps that led into the Hypostyle Hall and John and Mary, hand in hand, following her. Bright and Sweet were nowhere around.

Perched on a low foundation wall of cut stone, I sat soaking it all in and trying not to think about what Alice might be doing. I sincerely hoped she was doing it, but I didn’t want to think about it. After a while Feisal led the group into the pillared hall. I went on sitting. It was hot, but not unbearably so. The square pillars of the vestibule opposite were decorated with the mighty form of pharaoh being greeted by various gods. Exposed as these were, they had lost most of the paint that had once covered them. I tipped my hat so it shaded my eyes and relaxed. Gradually the voices of guides lecturing in six different languages faded into an agreeable background hum, and somehow I wasn’t at all surprised to see that the reliefs were now bright with fresh paint, the king’s body and limbs red-brown, his crown a soft blue, his collar and bracelets picked out with turquoise and gold.

One of the painted figures stepped out of the pillar. He wasn’t wearing a crown, and his hair was pale gold, not black. Raising one eyebrow at me in distant acknowledgment, he turned and began removing objects from the wall. They solidified and took on dimension in his hands: jewelled and beaded collars, heavy bracelets, golden cups, bowls and containers . . .

‘There you are.’

I shook the sleep from my eyes and looked up. The figure standing over me wasn’t wearing a white kilt and beaded collar but dust-coloured pants and shirt. Larry gave me a tentative smile. ‘Sorry to disturb you.’

‘It’s a good thing you did. I was about to fall over.’

‘Some of us are going to have a look at the Old Kingdom tombs,’ Larry explained. ‘Anton thought you might want to come along.’

‘The First Dynasty royal tombs? I thought nothing remained of them.’

‘Nothing worth visiting, no. But there are tombs of all periods here; this was one of the holiest places in Egypt, the legendary site of the tomb of Osiris. Last year an expedition from Boston located a new cemetery of Fourth Dynasty burials. Normally tourists aren’t allowed, but I happen to know the chap in charge and . . . He broke off, eyeing me doubtfully. ‘But perhaps only an enthusiast like myself would be interested.’

He looked like a little boy whose mum has rejected his offering of a toad or a garter snake. Close your eyes and think of the National Museum, I told myself. The tombs must be mastabas, like the ones at Sakkara. The superstructures were all above ground. If anybody invited me to visit the sunken burial chamber I would politely decline.

‘I’d love to,’ I said.

We were a select group, as it turned out. Ed Whitbread was present, of course; he trailed Larry and me at a discreet distance. Sweet and Bright had also joined us.

‘Where’s Schmidt?’ I asked, turning to look back as we started off across the sandy wasteland.

‘Feeding cats, I expect,’ Larry said. ‘Shall we go back for him? He may have changed his mind.’

‘He’s easily distracted,’ I admitted. ‘Wait a minute, here comes . . . No, it’s Feisal.’

The sun was in my eyes or I wouldn’t have made that mistake. Feisal soon caught up with us. He was frowning.

‘Sir, the bus will be leaving in an hour. Where . . .’

Larry explained. ‘I’d have asked you to join us, Feisal, but I thought you had to stay with the group.’

Feisal’s scowl changed to a look of bright-eyed interest. It wasn’t directed at me. I kept forgetting he was a trained Egyptologist. ‘They are now buying souvenirs and cold drinks. I haven’t had a chance to see the excavations, so I will join you if you don’t mind.’

He fell tactfully behind, leaving me to Larry, who proceeded to tell me all about the Old Kingdom tombs. I must say it made a pleasant change to have a man flex his mind instead of his muscles to impress me.

It was also a pleasant change to leave the crowds behind. An ambitious ‘guide’ trotted along with us until Larry dismissed him with a curt Arabic phrase. We had been walking for ten minutes when he gestured. ‘There it is.’

I looked around for walls and cut stone. All I could see was a low mound up ahead. A sinking feeling came over me as I realized I had made a slight error. Anything that had been above ground in two thousand-plus B.C. would be under it now, buried by encroaching sand. I followed Larry up the slope of the mound, and cheered up when I saw below me, not a dark sinister hole in the ground, but a large pit open to the sky. It was paved with stone and there were a few stretches of wall, none of them over a metre high. In front of one such stretch squatted a tan bundle, which unfolded into a man.

‘Sorry, folks, nobody is allowed . . .’ he began. Then his narrow face relaxed. ‘Mr Blenkiron! I heard you were in Egypt, but I didn’t expect you’d honour us with a visit.’

‘Hope we’re not interrupting anything.’ Larry offered me his hand and we scrambled down into the excavation.

Having lots of money makes one welcome in all social circles. The excavator would have kicked Cleopatra out of his bed to welcome the rich patron of archaeological excavations. He greeted Feisal by name, invited the rest of us to call him Ralph, and apologized feverishly for the fact that nothing particularly interesting was going on.

‘The men are off today,’ he explained. ‘It’s Friday. Pat will be sorry to have missed you; he’s gone to Luxor to work at the library at Chicago House.’

He showed us some of the reliefs. They were fragmentary but very beautiful, delicate low reliefs like the ones at Sakkara. He and Larry went off into a spate of technical discussion, and before long Sweet said he thought he and Bright would go back. Larry looked at his watch. ‘Yes, go ahead. Tell them we’ll be along shortly. I’d like to have a quick look at the burial chamber.’

He produced a huge flashlight from his pocket. ‘No need for that, sir,’ Ralph said proudly. ‘We’ve run a wire and stuck up a few lightbulbs. I’ll turn them on, shall I?’

From the northwest corner of the pit, a gently sloping ramp led down. It was low-ceilinged but fairly well lit by a series of bare bulbs. I followed Larry and Ralph until we got to the dreaded, anticipated hole in the ground. The top of a rough wooden ladder showed at the edge of the shaft.

Somebody called from up above, and Ralph said, ‘Damn. I’d better go see – ’ He scrambled back up the ramp. Larry, already on the ladder, looked up at me and for once in my life I decided to be sensible instead of foolhardy.

‘Sorry. I can’t . . .’

I tried to keep my voice steady, but I didn’t succeed. Larry looked startled. ‘Why, Vicky, I had no idea. Is that what was bothering you when we were in the royal tomb at Amarna? I thought you looked . . . We’ll go back. I don’t have to do this.’

‘No, you go ahead. I’ll wait for you here.’

‘If you’re sure . . .’ His head sank down out of sight.

I thought the scream, high and piercing as a bird’s call, had come from Larry until he echoed it. His startled cry was followed by a rattle and a crash. The lights went out.

There was daylight behind me, only thirty feet away – a bright, heavenly square of brightness. I could crawl up the ramp . . . and leave Larry down below in the dark. The ladder must have broken. He had fallen from it – how far? I heard a faint groan. It died into silence.

Did I mention that I shared that tunnel under the Schloss in Rothenburg with two other people, both of them injured? One of them was Tony, once my Significant Other, still my cherished friend. The groan from the darkness shot me back into the past, and for a few horrible moments I lost track of where I was and when I was. I thought it was Tony down there, unconscious, gasping for breath. I had to go to him, help him . . .

I didn’t. I couldn’t. I rolled myself into a ball like a reluctant foetus and when the daylight behind me was blotted out I started to whimper.