Death on Tour (21 page)

“Ah, well, then, I’m sure you are right. But let me know if you start to feel worse. I am glad to help. Very glad.”

“You know, you absolutely have to come back some other time to see everything you’ve missed,” said Keith. “Nothing in the world compares to Egypt. Nothing. In fact, this is my third visit, and second time to take this same tour.”

Everyone turned to him in surprise. Other than his brief impassioned outburst at the Temple of Horus, it was the first time Keith had volunteered anything more than a quiet good morning. And he’d been to Egypt three times? Very interesting, although I was wondering why anyone would do the same tour more than once. Surely there were other things to do in Egypt.

As if reading my thoughts, he said, “You see something new every visit. I had a different guide last time, and let me tell you, Anni is better by far. Much more knowledgeable, and better organized. Last time we had a British man named Raymond. I’m pretty sure he was reciting from a guidebook half the time, and just making up things the rest.” He shook his head. “Friendly, though. And he did know where all the bars were.” He smiled at the memory.

Dawn lifted one perfectly waxed eyebrow above icy eyes. “Yes, do tell us more about your honeymoon with your first wife. I’m sure we’re all fascinated.”

Keith froze and then went beet red. For a moment, an awful silence descended on the table, and then DJ exploded into a loud guffaw and slapped Keith on the back.

“Oh man, you have done it now. Run. Run while you can,” he shouted. Heads at other tables turned in our direction.

We all howled with laughter, even Dawn, although I wasn’t convinced she was as amused as the rest of us. And it was a good cue to leave to get ready for the day. But I couldn’t help glancing back at the table where Jane still sat with Ben and Lydia. Their heads were together and they were talking earnestly. And they were not smiling.

*   *   *

To my surprise, the repairman was in our room when we popped up after breakfast. He was just closing the door to the closet.

“Ah, good morning,” he said cheerfully. “I have just fixed the safe. It was only the backup battery. Sometimes they go out.”

“Fabulous,” said Kyla.

“Thank you very much,” I added.

We hastily filled the tiny space with our passports and valuables—including the necklace—and then ran back to join the group in the lobby. For once, everyone appeared more or less on time, even Flora and Fiona.

The drive to the Valley of the Kings took less than an hour. On the way, we saw the house that Howard Carter built during the years that he was excavating the tomb of King Tut, a sand-colored building on a hill, its domes and arched windows making it look very exotic. A couple of stunted trees stood near the walls, monuments to someone’s stubborn efforts with a watering can. No other vegetation could be seen anywhere in the relentless barrenness. I knew the British used to, and in fact still did, abandon Egypt in the summer months when the desert heat became unbearable. Even now, in late March, the temperatures were already rising and reflecting off the rock. Someone local must be keeping the trees alive.

I was almost beside myself with excitement as the white hills rose up on either side of us until they became low cliffs. Holes and doors dotted the chalky white rock, evidence of unlikely habitation in that parched land. Were they storage caves or dwellings, I wondered, nose pressed almost onto the glass of my window. Inside the bus, a faint air-conditioned breeze streamed over us, laden with the smell of upholstery and rubber and bus. Our insulated little world, traveling in our tourist bubble to the unimaginable past of pharaohs and mummies and death.

Or not. The bubble part was real enough, but the Valley of the Kings was firmly anchored in the twenty-first century. A huge parking lot, already half filled with tour buses, guarded the entrance of the valley; it was followed closely by a large modern visitor center, complete with queues of fat, sunburned German tourists and the usual phalanx of vendors with their depressingly vast and cheap assortment of crap. The same crap we’d seen at every single monument we’d visited. If it weren’t impossible, I’d have bet the same twenty or thirty vendors were tearing down their stalls each day and scampering ahead of our bus to set up again at our next stop.

We disembarked and formed our own queue behind Hello Kitty, winding our way nonstop through the center. The walls were lined with timelines and photographs of archaeological digs. Charlie tried to pause to read about what we were to see, but the rest of us pressed forward, eager to see the tombs for ourselves. I did notice with some malevolent pleasure that Kathy had bright red shoulders under her most unsuitable tank top. She must have been sunning herself on the top deck of the
Nile Lotus
yesterday afternoon for hours to have obtained that particular shade of scarlet.

On the other side of the center, we boarded tiny trams, the kind you see at very small carnivals. Puffing, they hauled us up a fairly steep narrow road to the mouth of the high valley that held the tombs of the pharaohs. Ahead, a naturally pyramid-shaped mountain rose into the deep blue sky, and all around cliffs shot up out of the white dusty ground, becoming steeper and higher the farther we went.

We hopped off and Anni handed out colorful tickets good for three tombs.

“Only three?” asked Jerry Morrison in disbelief.

“We don’t have time for more than that,” said Anni with a smile. “Remember, we go from here to lunch and then to the alabaster factory. Now, if you all will follow me, I will show you which are the most interesting tombs, and then we will meet back here to take the tram to the buses. Everyone look at your watches. Two hours. Meet here at noon. All right?”

Jerry and his daughter instantly veered off to the left, scorning to stay with a tour group. Kathy was still limping just a little.

“Good riddance,” muttered Ben. “Maybe they’ll fall in a pit.”

“Ben!” said Lydia, automatically reproving.

The rest of us obediently followed as Anni pointed out the most famous tombs. KV 17, the tomb of Seti I, who built the great temple at Abydos. KV 11, Ramses III, Egypt’s last great pharaoh. And of course, KV 62—Tutankhamen, the boy king whose tomb was the archaeological find of the century and the inspiration for dozens of movies about curses and mummies.

“I know you will all want to see this tomb, but it is really not very impressive. There is nothing left inside. It is very small and empty,” said Anni, without much hope.

I wondered if she really thought she could persuade us. We would all wait however long it took to see the most famous tomb in the world. No matter how unimpressive or disappointing, we had not come all this way to walk past the location of Howard Carter’s triumph, the place where hidden treasure beyond our imaginings had been discovered, and where a mummy’s curse had its beginnings. Almost in unison, our entire group stampeded down the dusty path to the entrance to Tut’s tomb.

Twenty minutes later, we were back on the path. “We should have listened to her,” said Kyla. “Pretty lame.”

“No it wasn’t!” I protested. “It was fabulous. Anyway, we had to see for ourselves. And it was pretty cool anyway. So small, so secret. It’s what kept it safe all these centuries.”

She did not look convinced.

“Now where to?”

I consulted a pamphlet I’d picked up in the visitor center. “Seti I. This way.”

We passed a couple of openings and joined a line of tourists who were inching forward toward a rectangular opening in the side of the white rock.

Kyla clicked her tongue impatiently. “Why this one? There are a couple over there without the tourist hordes.”

“There’s a reason for that. This is the longest tomb in the valley and has the most and best paintings. Besides, it’s Seti I.” I grinned.

“How do you know this shit? And who the hell is Seti?”

“You know, the pharaoh from
The Mummy
. The guy who got stabbed? The fat dude who had his concubine painted so no one could touch her?”

She gave me a pitying look. “You are so pathetic. I would honestly be ashamed if I knew what you were talking about.”

“So you do remember.”

A group of Germans lined up behind us, and behind them Alan Stratton stepped quietly into line. As usual, he was alone, although I’d seen him talking with DJ and Nimmi earlier. I turned back, quickly enough to alert Kyla.

She leaned out of line, saw Alan, and waved. “Come up here with us,” she shouted, earning disapproving glares from a dozen Germans.

“Thanks, I’m good here,” he declined.

She turned back with a little pout. “You know, sometimes I think that man is completely antisocial. Or gay. Do you think he’s gay?”

I did not. “Maybe he just didn’t want to cut into the line.”

“We could go back and join him,” she suggested, but I grabbed her arm.

“No! Just leave it alone. He’s a big boy. He can stand in line by himself.”

“Do you think he’s following us around?” she asked thoughtfully.

I looked at her in exasperation. “Is it hard carrying around that big an ego? I mean, do you have trouble getting through doors or does it fold up for traveling?”

She just grinned. “I have a healthy amount of self-respect and I’m not ashamed of it. But I didn’t actually mean that for a change. I meant, literally, do you think he’s following us around. He’s sort of … there, every time we turn around.”

“All of us are there, every time we turn around. We’re on a fucking tour, for God’s sake.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What kind of language is that in a cemetery? Anyway, you’re so busy trying not to have the hots for him that you’re not paying attention. Look around. No one else from the group is in line here. They probably figured out shorter lines were better.”

“Fiona and Flora are up there ahead of the Japanese.” I pointed to a pair of garish floral polyester shirts. “Besides, this tomb will be worth it,” I promised, although I had no idea whether it would be or not.

“That’s not the point. We have to stand in line for some creepy hole in the ground. It might as well be this one. What
is
the point is that ever since Millie got murdered, neither of us can swing a dead cat without hitting Alan Stratton. Which would be okay, except I don’t think he’s interested in hitting on me. Us, I mean,” she added hastily.

I had a hard time choosing which statement to be most outraged over. “Creepy hole in the ground?” But was she right about Alan? Ordinarily, I’d have to say Kyla’s instincts were spot on when it came to men. I thought about the few moments we’d shared on Elephantine Island and my little gold pyramid. Had the small spark I’d felt then been only on my side? Probably.

The line inched forward until we could see the entrance, a rough rectangle cut almost horizontally into the gentle slope of the hill. A steep stairway descended into blackness and I felt a shiver of excitement. I wished I could push all these pesky Germans aside and rush down the steps.

However, we eventually reached the doorway, and once inside, our eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The stairway transitioned from modern concrete to ancient stone, cut and smoothed by hand and now a little worn, not by sandaled feet, but by the Nikes of countless tourists. A steep corridor followed the steps, walls lined with paintings of red-and-black vultures holding large feathers in their claws beneath cartouches and glyphs that offered protections and instructions for the dead. The cryptic and beautiful symbols had existed in darkness for over three thousand years until the early 1800s, when an Italian archeologist named Giovanni Belzoni made a discovery that was as famous in its time as the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamen would be a century later. Of course, archaeology wasn’t quite as sophisticated back then, and many of the friezes had been damaged by water and smoke. Some were even cut off the walls and sent to museums across Europe. Nevertheless, what remained was breathtakingly beautiful.

The tomb grew hotter and stuffier the farther we went. Did the fierce Egyptian sun make its presence felt even through yards of limestone and sand, or was it the body heat and breath of countless tourists that gave the air the humid, unpleasant feel of a cheap sauna? We moved on. I wished my memory were better. I’d studied what I was going to see, but now, confronted by the fading paintings, I could no longer remember which was the Book of the Dead, the Book of Gates, or the Litany of Ra.

At the bottom of another short flight of stairs, we passed through an archway and unexpectedly found ourselves stepping onto a wooden bridge. The floor fell away into darkness on either side. I balked and clutched my purse. Saying I did not like heights was sort of like saying mice did not like snakes.

Kyla moved forward without me, then turned back. She took one look at my face and rolled her eyes. “Oh, get a grip,” she said. “It’s only about fifteen feet high.”

I gingerly took a step forward and peered over the edge. She was right. Fifteen or twenty feet to the bare stone below, although that was bad enough. The bridge was a wooden plank walkway lined with a flimsy railing atop matchstick posts that were supported by a couple of very thin cables. A murmur from the people behind me shamed me into taking a hesitant step forward. The bridge seemed sturdy enough. At least it didn’t move. I stayed right in the middle, sweaty hands fastened on my bag.

“I wonder what this room was for,” said Kyla, leaning over the railing with careless ease.

“They call it the well chamber.” I was pleased that my voice sounded only slightly squeaky.

“Dear God, did you memorize the guidebook? Besides, it doesn’t look like there was ever any water here.”

I made the mistake of glancing down again to see and felt almost sick. I quickly focused on the back of Kyla’s shirt and took a deep shaky breath. I heard her snort.

“You’re doing fine,” she said, encouraging, if somewhat patronizingly.

We were just passing the midpoint of the bridge, my eyes already focused on the far side, when the lights went out. I froze with terror. Someone, I hope not me, gave a little scream, and everyone else began talking at once. I couldn’t remember how far the edges were. At first, everything seemed pitch black, the kind of black you see only in caves when the guide turns off the lights and tells you to try to see your own hand in front of your face. I shut my eyes and couldn’t tell the difference. Gradually, however, I could make out the dimmest of dim lights behind us, streaming down from a higher corridor. People were passing the word back, and soon we heard shouting in Arabic. I could feel my heart hammering in my chest.