The Laughter of Dead Kings (16 page)

“This is Umm Ali,” Feisal said. “Ali’s mother. Drink your tea, Vicky, she asked if you would prefer something else.”

I would have risked blistering my fingers rather than offend, but in the nick of time I remembered the technique—thumb under the thick glass of the bottom, fingers steadying the rim. I nodded vigorously at the old lady, bared my teeth in a grin, and sipped. The tea was strong and very sweet. Cavities, here I come, it proclaimed.

I was the last to do my duty. As soon as I had done so, Feisal launched into a series of questions. Umm Ali responded. I couldn’t understand a word, so I tried to figure out which of the other women was Ali’s wife, nodding and smiling as my gaze met one pair of brown or black eyes after another. One woman, veiled as well as swathed, had eyes of a paler shade; she ducked her head shyly when I
looked at her. To judge by her attire, she was too old to be the wife, but what did I know? Mama was obviously the one in charge. The others were probably part of an extended family, which could include sisters and aunts and even more-distant relatives. They didn’t say a word. A couple of the men present joined in after a while, adding brief comments, but deferring, as the women had done, to the matriarch. From the back part of the house I heard a donkey bray and a duck quack. A chicken wandered into the room, its head cocked in that deceptive look of intelligence chickens have, and tried to get up on my lap. I pushed it off and smiled apologetically at the woman on my left, hoping I had not been rude. I have nothing against chickens except for the fact that they are not housebroken.

Rejected, the chicken approached John. I hoped it would hop up on him, but something in his frozen glare must have penetrated even its feeble chicken brain. It backed off. I had finished most of my tea and was feeling strangely comfortable; the animal sounds and smells took me back to the days of my childhood on my family’s farm in Minnesota, where I learned to love the scent of a well-manured garden.

Feisal broke the mood, addressing me directly. “I don’t suppose you understood any of that. Sorry about the chicken,” he added.

“No problem. Would I be rude to ask for more tea?”

“Yes,” John said firmly.

“No,” Feisal said. “But we shouldn’t spend more time here. I’ll explain after we—”

“I have a question,” Schmidt said.

“Later, Schmidt.”

“But I—”

“Not now!” Feisal’s voice rose. It was his first display of emotion, but I realized he had been holding himself in tight control the whole time.

The concluding formalities took almost as much time as the initial ceremony, but after repeated
“shukrans”
and
“maasalamas”
we edged ourselves out. An escort of children followed us down the hillside to the taxi.

“What was in that tea?” John demanded of me. He brushed a few feathers off his sleeve. “You looked as if you were prepared to squat there indefinitely.”

“I was having a nice time,” I said dreamily. “They were all so nice. It was a nice chicken.”

John gave up on me. “Never mind the bloody chicken; what did they say?”

“They believe he is dead,” Schmidt said soberly. “The poor mama asked us to find his body so he can receive a proper burial.”

Feisal closed his mouth with an audible snap. “Why don’t you go ahead and repeat everything that was said? I wasn’t aware your Arabic was that good.”

Schmidt realized he had offended, though he didn’t know why. “I have been studying,” he said humbly. “I understood that much, but not all. I am sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry.” Feisal shook his head. “I’m a little on edge. If they’re right, it’s my fault.”

According to what Mama had told Feisal, the family had no proof of foul play, but the signs weren’t encouraging. Never once had Ali failed to return home after his hours of work. Never once had he stopped at a coffee shop or spent time gossiping with friends. Never once had he taken a trip without telling his mother where he was going and for how long.

“Does he tell the old lady everything?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Damn right,” I said, remembering those beady black eyes.

“Not everything, I hope,” John said.

“Not about the—er—theft,” Feisal amended.

“That is what I wanted to ask,” Schmidt said.

“I don’t think so. I couldn’t ask directly. She said something had been worrying him, he had been short-tempered and moody for days, but when she asked, he said nothing was wrong. Then, day before yesterday, he came home looking—I quote—‘as if he had seen a vision of Paradise.’ Great things were in store for him, for all of them.”

“He’d spoken with Ashraf,” John said.

“That would be my guess. Why isn’t this damned taxi moving?”

“Maybe because you haven’t told him where you want to go,” I suggested.

T
he sun was setting behind us as we sailed back across the river. Feisal had allowed as how he ought to check in with his office, which was near the Luxor Museum on the East Bank and go to his flat to change before joining us for dinner. I figured I ought to have a look at Schmidt’s wounded finger, which he was exhibiting in an unintentionally (I think) vulgar gesture.

It wasn’t broken, just scraped and bruised; with the first-aid kit Schmidt produced from his magic suitcase I cleaned the digit and wound enough bandages around it to satisfy him. We joined John on the balcony, where he was mumbling into his cell phone. I sat as far from him as I could get and enjoyed the view. The river was ablaze with reflected light and the western cliffs had turned a soft shade of purple. Gorgeous as the view was, I couldn’t recapture the relaxed mood I had enjoyed for too brief a time. Not without a chicken.

I had allowed nostalgic memories to distract me because I didn’t
want to think about our reason for being there—about the possibility that the guard’s body might be lying in a shallow grave somewhere in the sand of the West Bank. We’d hashed and rehashed theories all the way back. Had Ali, after all, decided to go into hiding? Possible, but not likely, considering his mother’s testimony as to his habits and mood. Had he seen or heard something during the robbery without realizing at the time that it was important? Plausible, but that opened up a whole list of other unanswerable questions. When had it dawned on him that he had vital information, and what had he done about it? Would he have approached the thieves and tried to blackmail them? Supposing they were responsible for his disappearance, how else could they have found out he had to be silenced?

John finished his conversation and addressed Schmidt. “Ashraf claims Ali said absolutely nothing to him that would indicate he had new information.”

“But how closely did he question Ali?” Schmidt demanded. “Did Ashraf perhaps ask a question or make a statement that triggered a forgotten memory in the mind of the poor fellow?”

“Do you suppose I neglected to ask him that?” John demanded. “If he did, he has no idea what it might have been. You can sit here drinking beer and concocting scenarios all you like, but it won’t get us anywhere.”

The sunset colors had faded into rose and gray and the voices of the muezzins had died into silence. John’s voice had that ugly edge that always rubs me the wrong way. “So what are you doing to get us somewhere?” I inquired. “Not a damn thing that I can see. Time is running out and you—”

John jumped up and headed for the door. “I’m going out. Try not to do anything stupid.”

“I thought you told us not to wander around alone,” I shouted after him.

The slam of the outer door was my only answer.

“He said
you
were not to go about alone,” said Schmidt.

He was the only one left, so of course I picked on him. “Is that what he told you? ‘Poor dumb Vicky, she doesn’t have the sense of a chicken; do try to prevent her from getting in trouble.’”

Schmidt said, “Tsk, tsk,” and sipped his beer.

I took a few deep breaths. “Okay, I apologize. But what I said was true. We aren’t getting anywhere. The mastermind isn’t doing his job.”

“Then perhaps,” said Schmidt hopefully, “I should be the mastermind.”

“You’ve got my vote, Schmidt.”

“Good. The light is fading; let us go inside and make a plan.”

We retired to the sitting room and turned on all the lights. Schmidt opened two more beers and indicated the notebook and pen, which just happened to be strategically placed on the coffee table. I took them. Schmidt began to lecture.

The good ol’ boy does have a logical mind. We started with the assumption that Tut was still somewhere in the Luxor area, since the alternative—that he wasn’t—meant that he could be anyplace in the world. One of the avenues we hadn’t explored was an effort to track the van, but as Schmidt pointed out, that was probably a dead end. Ali had told Feisal the vehicle wasn’t the enormous van that had come the first time, but something about the size of a large bus. It probably was a large bus or truck, disguised by panels painted with appropriately mysterious symbols. All the thieves needed was a quiet spot off the road, where the panels could be removed and destroyed. The vehicle, now undistinguished and unnoticeable, would then proceed to…

There are a thousand hiding places in the cliffs of the West Bank—caves, abandoned tombs, clefts in the rock. Schmidt insisted
the thieves wouldn’t put their precious cargo in a place which involved so many risks, from rockfalls to discovery by wandering fellahin. Not to mention the conspicuousness of a large bus heading back into the hills on tracks designed for goats.

“A residence” was the new mastermind’s conclusion. “Not a hotel, for obvious reasons, but an environment that can be controlled to some extent, away from extreme heat and dusty air and wandering animals.”

“It makes sense,” I admitted, impressed by his argument. “Are you sure you didn’t do it, Schmidt?”

Schmidt chuckled. “It is all surmise,” he said modestly. “But at least it provides us with a starting point.”

“Right. Every private house in Luxor and environs.”

Darkness hovered at the window. Across the river, lights began to twinkle. I had been dutifully taking notes, but I’d also been listening. When a knock sounded at the door I jumped up and ran to open it.

The well-crafted diatribe I had composed died in my throat. The newcomer wasn’t John. It was Feisal.

“Oh,” I said.

“Good to see you too,” said Feisal. He looked around. “Where’s Johnny?”

Schmidt giggled. He is only too well acquainted with American pop culture, past and present. “Never mind,” I said, as Feisal gave him a blank stare. “John went out a while ago. He hasn’t come back.”

“Where did he go?”

“He didn’t say.”

“You had a fight,” said Feisal, enlightened. “I’ve been expecting it.”

“He is, no doubt, exploring new avenues of investigation,” said
Schmidt, dividing a look of reproach between me and Feisal. “We have been doing the same. Would you like to hear our deductions?”

Feisal went to the minibar and got out a bottle of some fizzy nonalcoholic lemon drink. I had tried it; it was quite revolting. “Go ahead,” he said.

When Schmidt finished, Feisal shook his head. “Fine, as far as it goes. But do you know how many private houses and villas and flats there are in the area? We can’t just bang on people’s doors and demand entry.”

“So we will have to narrow the possibilities by logical deduction,” said Schmidt. “Have you any suggestions, Feisal?”

Feisal drained the bottle. “Not offhand.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Anything new at the office?”

“Only a dozen messages from various subdirectors, reporting suspicious activities and/or illegal encroachment onto protected sites and/or…”

He went on for a while. I had stopped listening, straining my ears for the sound of footsteps or the turn of a key in the lock. Nothing. Surely he’d have got over his fit of the sulks by now.

Schmidt nudged me and I realized he was waiting for an answer to a question I hadn’t heard. Observing my vacuous look, he repeated it.

“Are you ready for dinner? Feisal has recommended a restaurant.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for John?” I asked.

“He’ll turn up when he’s good and ready,” Feisal said. “I’m getting hungry.”

At my suggestion, Feisal left a message for John telling him where we’d gone, and I allowed myself to be escorted out of the hotel. Fending off importunate drivers of taxis and carriages, we
walked along the corniche past the Luxor Temple. The giant columns glimmered pale gold against the darkness.

“Ah, it is open tonight,” Schmidt said. “Shall we go in?”

I was about to say no when I saw someone heading toward the entrance. He was surrounded by other would-be visitors of all sizes, shapes, and modes of dress, but the light glowed off a head of fair hair. The sight of him, engaged in a casual bit of sightseeing after he’d left me to worry, brought my mounting anger to a boil.

“There he is!” I exclaimed. Pulling my arm from Feisal’s grasp, I ran after John. Feisal yelled at me to stop, and one of the ticket-takers tried to intercept me. I did a quick end around run past the latter, but by the time I reached the great pylon, John was nowhere in sight. Panting and swearing, I was about to enter the temple proper when Feisal caught up with me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, taking firm hold of me.

“Didn’t you see him?”

“Who?”

Schmidt came puffing up. “Vicky, you must not run off that way.”

“It was John,” I said. “He went into the temple.”

“You must have been mistaken,” Feisal said.

“No! I saw…”

What had I seen, really? What I wanted to see, what I hoped to see?

“So long as we are here, we will enter and look round,” Schmidt said, in the soothing voice he would have used to a whiny toddler.

It was pointless, hopeless, and a waste of time. I knew that even before we passed between the giant statues of some Ramses or other and entered the great open court. The place was vast, with dozens of huge columns and doorways and statues and side chapels, all ideal
hiding places for a man who wanted to avoid attention, and with perhaps a hundred people wandering in and out and back and forth. Several of the men had fair hair.