Mummy Dearest (4 page)

“Thank you very much,” I said. “Do we have any idea about an itinerary, Peter?”

My darling husband, with his lovely brown eyes and dazzling smile (all of which could have a profound effect on me in amorous moments), reached over and held my hand. “I have nothing on my schedule tomorrow. You seem a little tired from the trip, so I thought you might prefer to spend a restful day at the hotel. Bakr can take Caron and Inez to the temples at Karnak and arrange for a private tour.” He smiled at the girls, who were looking leery at the idea of a lengthy lecture on history. “Whenever you’ve had enough, Bakr will take you to a café for ice cream or whatever you wish. Later you can return for the sound-and-light show. How does that sound?”

Caron grimaced. “It sounds like you’re trying to get rid of us for the day.”

“Yes, I am,” Peter said. “I haven’t seen my wife for a month.”

“Karnak is cool,” Inez volunteered before Caron could respond. “It has a hypostyle hall and a sacred lake, and all sorts of reliefs and hieroglyphs on the wall. It was the most important place of worship in Egypt during the Theban period. It was called something that means ‘The Most Perfect of Places.’”

We all waited for Caron to pronounce judgment. I, of course, would have her mummified and entombed in the Valley of the Drama Queens if she turned truculent. Finally, she sat back and sighed. “Yeah, that’s okay, as long as we get to shop.”

Mahmoud finished his lemonade and rose. He shook Peter’s hand, then nodded to us and said, “Please call Bakr and tell him your plans. He will make sure to find out the location of the very best shops. Do not worry about letting him wait for you. He’s on salary, so he will be content to sit in the car and read one of his tasteless paperback books. He will
have an ample supply of bottled water and snacks for you in the car. If you will be so kind as to excuse me, I will hurry home. My son is participating in a concert at his school this evening, and Aisha is firm that I must go sit on a folding chair and pretend to enjoy the music. I have heard my son practicing his violin, so I know it will be abysmal, like the screeching of ravens in a field. I hope to see all of you soon. Good day.” He went down to the curb and got into the backseat of a black car. Seconds later the car slipped into the traffic and was lost from view.

“Can we go to the shops on the hotel grounds?” asked Caron. “I want to try on those sandals.”

Peter opened his wallet and handed her several bills. “I’m sure you and Inez can find a few things that fit. We’ll wait here.” Once they’d left, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. “How’s the Presidential Suite,
Sitt
Malloy?”

“Stately,” I said. “Where have you been staying since you got here?”

“Part of the time at the New Winter Palace and in a generic hotel in Cairo. I’ve been to Aswan, Port Said, Alexandria, and Ras Gharib, too. Mahmoud and a security specialist from the American Embassy have had me in meetings or on the road since the day I arrived. I’m as exhausted as you are. That’s not to imply I’m going to sleep all day tomorrow. I have other ideas as well.”

“I should hope so.”

We were exchanging wicked smiles when a young man appeared at the table.

“Be ever so kind as to forgive me if I’m intruding,” he said in an exaggerated British drawl. He had dark hair and wore a freshly ironed shirt with an ascot, and white trousers. His face was lightly tanned and smooth, as though he spent his days playing tennis or croquet with vapid young women from only the best families. I couldn’t help comparing him to my image of Bertie Wooster, the amiable ne’er-do-well in the Wodehouse novels. “My father and I are sitting at a table over there. He’s convinced that you must be Claire Malloy, and insisted that I make inquiries. I’m Alexander Bledrock,
by the way. Shall I return to our table and tell him that he’s a meddlesome old man?”

Peter looked up, annoyed. “Why does your father care?”

Alexander flopped down in the chair recently abandoned by Caron. He took out a thin gold case and selected a dark cigarette, tapped it against the case, and lit it. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say he cares,” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “He’s curious, as are all the members of his little coterie. They come here every fall at the beginning of the season to ascertain if there are any promising excavations in progress. Most of them remain until the worst of the winter weather in England has passed, then go home and brag about descending into pits and surviving the lack of televised cricket matches.”

I looked across the terrace at a portly man in a gray suit. He had a fringe of white hair, bushy white eyebrows that contrasted with his ruddy complexion, and a small, fussy mouth almost lost under an equally bushy white mustache. He wiggled his fingers at me as if he were a flirtatious walrus. “That’s your father?” I asked, doing a bit of arithmetic in my head.

“His first wife died in a riding accident, and the second ran off with a bishop, or so the gossip goes. My mother was his third wife. He was thirty years older than she, but she was more interested in his title and his money than in a titillating relationship. She died when I was ten, probably out of boredom. Being mistress of a vast estate may sound glamorous, but she discovered that having to live there was monotonous at best.”

I tried to control myself, but I couldn’t. “Title?”

“The old boy’s the Baron of Rochland,” Alexander said, grinning at me. “Impressed?”

Peter was not. “Why is he curious about my wife? She only arrived yesterday.”

Alexander beckoned to a waiter and ordered a brandy and soda. “You have to understand that the expatriate community here is small. The same people come year after year, and will continue to do so until they take their last barge ride
to the netherworld. A few of them have villas in the outskirts of town, but most stay at the Winter Palace from October until March or April. Every now and then someone arranges an outing to a museum or an excavation site. They dutifully attend lectures about mummification or controversial interpretations of depictions of water lilies during the twenty-first dynasty. Once or twice during the season, the British ambassador invites them for tea in Cairo. Other than that, all they do is play bridge, congratulate themselves for avoiding the weather back home, complain about the service, and drink themselves silly at cocktail parties. Therefore, they’re always madly curious about newcomers.”

“But why me?” I asked.

“It began several weeks ago, when Ahmed—the toady hotel manager—went into a tizzy about your arrival. The poor chap was dreadfully distraught because he didn’t know if he was to address you as
Sitt
Rosen or
Sitt
Malloy. He was scandalized at the thought you might not be properly married, and terrified that you might report him if he made the wrong assumption and offended either of you. He begged us for guidance. This led to highly spirited debates over gin rickeys and cucumber sandwiches, at times resulting in emphatic incoherency. I thought it was quite jolly. Then Miriam McHaver, who’s here as a companion to her great-aunt, took the initiative and searched for your name on the Internet. The fact that you’ve been mentioned in conjunction with murder investigations kept us entertained for another week. Some of the ladies are absolutely giddy with speculation, as is my father. So there you have it, Mrs. Malloy, or Mrs. Rosen if you prefer. Your reputation has preceded you.”

“And exceeded me,” I said. “I am here on my honeymoon. My daughter and a friend came along, since I knew my husband would be occupied with business concerns part of the time.”

Alexander eyed me for a moment, then turned to Peter. “Mr. Rosen, please don’t be aggrieved because you’ve been neglected by the busybodies. What sort of business are you in?”

“Development,” said Peter.

“How fascinating. Not a ski lodge, one assumes.”

“I represent a company in the States that’s considering building a resort a few miles south of Luxor. I’m exploring the legal aspects.”

Alexander raised his eyebrows. “So you’re a solicitor—no, I suppose the proper word is ‘attorney.’ ‘Soliciting’ has a negative connotation in America, doesn’t it? Well, do forgive me and accept my father’s invitation for a cocktail party tomorrow evening in his suite. It will be quite the feather in his cap if he is the one to introduce the mysterious Claire Malloy to his compatriots. Shall we say six o’clock or thereabouts?”

I was surprised when Peter agreed, since I could think of nothing less agreeable than chatting with rich, bored Brits (with or without titles). Lord Bledrock, as I supposed he was called, was the stereotypic aristocrat. I could envision him sputtering at the butler when the eggs were not properly coddled. Lord Bledrock would pay his staff a pittance and throw away a hefty sum on a horse race.

“My father will be elated.” Alexander finished his drink and stood up. “I’ll pop by your suite and escort you. Mrs. Malloy, your presence will do much to liven things up, especially if you stumble across a fresh corpse. We’re more accustomed to withered old mummies around here. In fact, you’ll be introduced to some tomorrow evening.” He ambled away and joined his father, whose eyes were bulging with excitement. With only a minor costume change, he could have been plucked from a Hogarth engraving set in an eighteenth-century house of ill repute.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Peter said to me. “It’s… ah, business.”

I kept my mouth shut while I reminded myself that Peter was not only my adoring husband and the object of my lustful passion, but also working with the nameless intelligence agencies. He had a reason for accepting the invitation, and we’d agreed that I would remain uninformed.

Caron and Inez came back to the table, each carrying a
plastic bag. Caron looked at our glasses, then said, “Do we have to drink tea? I’d rather have something cold. Do they have Coke or Pepsi?”

“There are some sodas in the mini-bar,” I said, “and we can order a bucket of ice from room service. Shall we retreat upstairs?”

As we headed for the entrance, I noticed that I was being studied by various other patrons on the patio. Slitted eyes peered at me over the tops of newspapers and magazines. Conversations halted. I felt as though I had an unseemly stain on the seat of my slacks. Lord Bledrock was openly staring from beneath his bushy eyebrows as he sipped a glass of what appeared to be whiskey. Ahmed approached us as we went through the lobby, but Peter waved him off and clung to my arm until we reached the elevator.

Once we were safely in the suite, Caron and Inez retreated to their bedroom to gloat over their purchases. Peter and I went out to the balcony and sat down.

“Why,” I said in a level voice, “did Ahmed go into a tizzy about how to address me?”

“I suppose because someone from the American Embassy made the reservation and specified this particular suite. Ahmed must have presumed that one of us is a high-level government dignitary. Presidents, prime ministers, celebrities, and royals have always stayed at the Winter Palace. Protocol must be observed. It’s unfortunate that Ahmed made an issue of it. We’re supposed to be ordinary tourists—a businessman, his wife, and their teenaged daughter and her friend.”

“We’re your cover?”

“Something like that,” Peter admitted.

“Are we in any danger? I’d like to be warned so that I can carry a parasol to fend off attackers. In college, one of my physical ed electives was fencing. I wonder if I can find one with a metal blade in the shaft.”

Peter considered this, then said, “You’ll have to ask Bakr if he knows of a shop that sells that kind of thing. I doubt you can take it through security on the way home, though.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, you’re not in any danger. There is a rumor, unconfirmed and sketchy, that suggests that a militant Islamist organization is planning something that will have a major negative impact on the tourism industry and lead to a political crisis. Mahmoud has had very poor luck with infiltrating the organization, and his usual informers are too frightened to cooperate. However, if anything is going to happen, it will be early next year.”

“If Mahmoud knows so little, then how can he know that nothing’s going to happen tomorrow?”

Peter sighed. “He and others in the internal security agencies do have sources. They’ve intercepted e-mails and decoded encrypted messages on otherwise innocuous Web sites. They watch the ports for incoming shipments that might contain weapons or explosives, and they keep track of certain individuals’ whereabouts.”

“This sounds like the plot of one of those six-hundred-page thrillers,” I said, unamused. “I’d much prefer a romance novel, with a moonlit beach and the distant sound of sentimental music. The only sounds I’ve heard so far are the prerecorded calls to prayer from the minarets. You’d think they’d go off at the same time, but no one seems to agree on the precise time.”

“The muezzins aren’t obsessed with Greenwich mean time. I’ll fix drinks and we can sit here and watch the sunset over the Nile. That’s romantic, isn’t it?”

“It’s not bad,” I said, “as long as there’s a second act.”

Caron and Inez had already left for their outing to Karnak when I emerged from the master bedroom the following morning. Peter was asleep and showed no signs of stirring any time soon. I ordered coffee and rolls from room service, then went out to the balcony. On the terrace below I saw Sittermann in his white suit, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. It must have been an old newspaper, since he was not too engrossed to watch other patrons as they settled at other tables and ordered from the hovering waiters. If he
was lurking in hopes of finding other Americans, I wished him luck—and wished them my condolences. I’ve never considered myself to be a designated soul mate of any of my fellow 300 million Americans (Inez would know the exact figure) simply because we were in a foreign country. I am not the sort of tourist who stays in the dull familiarity of a Hilton, eats at the local McDonald’s, and behaves rudely to the natives who don’t speak English. This is not to imply that if I were visiting Mongolia, I would rent a yurt and subsist on curdled yak milk. I do have my minimum level of creature comforts.