The Laughter of Dead Kings (2 page)

“Schmidt is coming for dinner,” I said. “He’ll be thrilled to see you.”

The reaction wasn’t flagrant, just a blink and the tiniest of pauses before he replied. “How nice. I hope my unexpected presence won’t leave you short of food. I can run out to the shops if you like.”

Maybe I was imagining things. Whether or not, pursuing the sub
ject wouldn’t get me any further. “He’s bringing food from his favorite deli. There’ll be enough for a regiment. You know Schmidt.”

“Know and love. What’s the little rascal been up to lately?”

Actually, it had been several weeks since I’d set eyes on my boss. I had missed him. Herr Doktor Anton Z. Schmidt, director of the National Museum in Munich, is one of the top men in his field. What makes him so much fun to be around is that he has some decidedly nonacademic interests, from American country music, which he sings in an off-key baritone and a hideous accent, to his latest passion,
Lord of the Rings
collectibles. He has all the action figures, all the swords, Gimli’s axe, and the One Ring, which he wears on a chain around his fat neck. He also harbors the delusion that he is a great detective and that I am his loyal sidekick. Together, Schmidt is wont to declaim, we have solved many crimes and brought innumerable villains to justice. Allowing for Schmidt’s habit of exaggeration, there was some truth in the assertion. Despite my best efforts I had been unable to keep him out of several of my encounters with the criminal element—most of them, I should add, instigated by John.

“He’s been on vacation,” I said.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. He was very mysterious about it—winks and chuckles and so on. He could have been anywhere—in New Zealand, single-handedly reenacting the battle of the Pelennor Fields, or in Nashville at the Grand Ole Opry, or at the Spy Museum in Washington, you know how he is about spies.”

John said, “Mmm.”

Clara had decided to forgive him and was settled on his lap, shedding all over his elegant tweeds. Caesar was drooling on his knee, hoping for the tidbits that in his experience often accompanied glasses of liquid.

“When is Schmidt due?” he asked.

“Not for a few hours.”

“Well, then…” He dislodged Clara, claw by claw, and came toward me.

“Oh, no,” I said, backing up. “I refuse to be distracted.”

“Is that the latest euphemism? Very ladylike.” He scooped me up and started for the stairs. I’m almost as tall as he is, and although he is in extremely fit condition he only made it halfway up the stairs before he had to stop. He put me down and collapsed onto the step next to me, panting, and we both started to laugh, and the need for distraction came over me like a tornado. It had been two long weeks.

J
ohn sat watching me while I bustled around the living room, plumping pillows and trying to scrape Clara’s hairs off the sofa cushions.

“Why this sudden burst of domesticity?” he asked. “Schmidt will sprinkle cigar ashes and spill beer over everything as soon as he settles in.”

“He’s bringing a guest.”

Another of those slight but meaningful pauses. “Oh? Who?”

“He didn’t say. From the frequency of his chuckles I suspect it’s a lady. A female, anyhow.”

I paused for a quick look in the mirror over the couch. Some of my guests have complained that it is a trifle high for them, but I’m almost six feet tall and whose mirror is it, anyhow? Actually, I hate being tall. It’s okay if you want to be a fashion model or a basketball pro, but being tall and blond and well-rounded (as I like to put it) can be detrimental to an academic career. Some people still cling to the delusion that a female-shaped female can’t possibly have a functioning brain.

I tucked a few loose strands of hair into the bun at the nape of my neck, checked to make sure my makeup was on straight and grimaced at my reflection. For whom was I primping, anyhow? Schmidt’s postulated lady friend?

John glanced casually at his watch. “I think I’ll take Caesar out for a quick run before they arrive.”

“It’s still raining.”

“Misting. Normal weather where I come from.”

Moving with his deceptively casual stride, he almost made it to the door before I caught hold of him.

“All right, that’s enough. Sit down in that chair and tell me what’s wrong.”

Caesar began barking indignantly. He’s not awfully bright but he was smart enough to put two and two together: somebody had been about to take him for a walk and somebody else had interfered. The sheer volume of his protest almost drowned out another sound. The doorbell.

“That can’t be Schmidt yet,” I exclaimed. “He’s never on time.”

The doorbell went on ringing. It sounded almost as frantic as Caesar. John put his head in his hands.

“Too late,” he moaned.

“Who is it?” I shouted over the cacophony. A longish list of dangerous names unrolled in my head. “Max? Blenkiron? Interpol? Scotland Yard?”

“Worse,” said John, in a voice of doom. “Shut up, Caesar.”

Caesar did. In the comparative silence the sound of the doorbell was replaced by rhythmic pounding. John got up and went to the door.

The forty-watt bulb on the porch illumined the form of a man, his black hair shining with damp. Shadows obscured his features, but I saw enough to identify him. Relief left me limp.

“Feisal? Is that you? Why didn’t John tell me you were coming?” And why, I thought, was he so appalled at the idea of your coming? Feisal wasn’t an enemy, he was a friend, a really good friend, who had risked life, limb and reputation to keep me safe during our latest escapade in Egypt.

John caught Caesar by the collar and dragged him out of the way so that Feisal could come in. Now that I saw his face clearly I knew this was not a social call, a happy surprise for Vicky. He is a handsome guy, with those hawklike classic Arab features, long fuzzy eyelashes, and a complexion the color of a caffe latte. Only now it was more latte than coffee, and the lines that framed his mouth looked as if they had been carved by a chisel. I didn’t ask any more questions. Why bother, I wasn’t getting answers anyhow. Wordlessly I gestured Feisal to a chair.

“I’d offer you a drink,” I began, groping for a steadying cliché. “But you don’t. Drink. Alcohol.”

“I do,” said John, “thank God.”

He filled three glasses—vodka and tonic for me and for him and plain tonic for Feisal.

“Start talking,” he said curtly.

I stared at him. “You mean you don’t know what this is about either?”

“No. Dire hints, hysterical groans, a demand that I meet him here—immediately, if not sooner. Talk fast, Feisal. Schmidt will be here before long.”

“Schmidt!” Galvanized, Feisal sprang to his feet. “Oh, Lord, no. Not Schmidt. Why didn’t you tell me he was coming? I’ve got to get out of here!”

“I didn’t know until it was too late,” John said. “You’ve got approximately three-quarters of an hour to put us in the picture and then make a run for it, or compose yourself and behave normally. If
I’d been able I’d have headed you off, but alas, it was not to be. Do we want Vicky in on this?”

“She’s in on it,” I said, folding my arms in a decisive manner.

Feisal nodded gloomily. “May I smoke?”

I shoved an ashtray at him. “I thought you’d quit.”

“I had. Until day before yesterday.”

“Get on with it,” John said.

“I’m going to tell you what happened, as it was told to me by the man on the spot. I wasn’t there. As Inspector of Antiquities for all Upper Egypt I have a huge territory to cover, and I’m short on personnel, and—”

“We know all that,” John said impatiently. “Don’t make excuses until you’ve told us what you’re accused of doing.”

A
li looked up at the sun, glanced at his watch for verification, and sighed. Over an hour before he and the other guards could kick the tourists out of the Valley of the Kings and go home. He unscrewed the top of his water bottle and drank. It was a day like any other day, hot and dusty and dry. The fabled burial ground of the great pharaohs of ancient Egypt held no charm for him; it was just a job, one he had held for more than ten years.

The mobs of visitors had diminished somewhat, but there were still hundreds of them crowding the pathways of the Valley, kicking up dust, chattering in a dozen languages. A group of Japanese visitors passed him, clustering round the flag held high by their guide. Like little chickens, Ali thought, scampering after the mother hen, afraid to leave her side. He didn’t know which was worse, the little chickens or the Germans, who kept wandering off and poking into places where they weren’t supposed to go, or the French, who went around with their hairy legs bare and their bodies indecently ex
posed. He didn’t hate any of them. He just didn’t like them much, any of them. At least the Americans tipped well. Better than the British, who haggled over every pound.

The tomb he guarded was locked, as it often was, but that hadn’t prevented people from trying to bribe him to let them in. One fat-faced American had offered him a hundred Egyptian pounds—two months’ pay for him, the price of an inexpensive dinner for the American. God knew he could have used the money. But it would have cost him his job to break the rules, especially with this tomb. It was too conspicuous, right on the main path, the most famous tomb in the Valley.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. The babble of voices faded; and then a sound brought him wide awake. He sat up and stared.

Coming toward him was a black SUV, horn blaring, warning pedestrians off the road. It had to be an official vehicle, no others were allowed in the Valley. It was followed by two other cars, and behind them was an object that made Ali’s eyes open even wider. It was as big as a tour bus, but it wasn’t a bus; it was a van, painted white and covered with writing in some language that definitely wasn’t Arabic. Memory stirred and Ali invoked his god. He’d seen a van like that before. What was it doing here now? Why hadn’t he been told?

The cavalcade pulled to a stop in front of the tomb. Men in black uniforms got out of the sedans and fanned out, forming a cordon around the entrance. The doors of the SUV opened. A man got out and strode briskly toward Ali. He was bearded and wore horn-rimmed glasses. Another, younger, man followed him. He carried a worn briefcase.

“You the fellow in charge?” the older man barked. “Jump to it. Get that gate open. We haven’t much time.”

“But,” Ali stuttered. “But—”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Weren’t you notified we would be here?”

Ali’s blank stare was apparently answer enough; the man turned to his younger companion and said something in an undertone. Ali caught the words “typical Egyptian efficiency.”

“Well, we’re here now,” the bearded man went on. “I am Dr. Henry Manchester of the British Institute of Technoarchaeology. I presume you would like to see my authorization. Yes, yes, quite proper.”

He snapped his fingers. The younger man fumbled in his briefcase and pulled out a paper, which he handed to Manchester, who handed it to Ali. “I don’t suppose you read English, but you should recognize the signature.”

Ali prided himself on his knowledge of English but knew better than to express his resentment. The document looked impressive. The Supreme Council of Antiquities, Office of the Secretary General. It was signed by the Great Man himself. Not that Ali had ever received a letter from the Great Man, but he had met him once, just after his appointment to the post, when he made a tour of the major sites. Perhaps “met” wasn’t the precise word; but the Great Man had nodded graciously in his general direction.

“Yes, I see,” he said slowly. “But I cannot—”

“Put in a call to the Supreme Council, then,” the Englishman said impatiently. “Only make it fast.”

Oh, yes, Ali thought. Telephone the Supreme Council. This is Ali, you remember me, the guard from the Valley of the Kings. Put me through to Dr. Khifaya right away…

“No,” he said. “The paper is in order.”

“I should think so. Now don’t delay me any longer, we were held up at the bridge and are short on time. Never mind the key, I have one.”

He pushed past Ali and went down the stairs.

From that point on things moved so fast Ali couldn’t have stopped them if he had wanted to. The back doors of the van opened. Inside was a bewildering medley of machinery—cables, tubes, shapes of plastic and metal. Several men in crisp white dungarees jumped out and followed the two Englishmen down the stairs. Ali looked around for help—advice—reassurance. A small crowd had gathered, tourists gaping and speculating, and several of his fellow guards, kept at a distance by the men in black uniforms. After a moment he went down the stairs and along the corridor into the tomb chamber. He let out a faint cry of protest when he saw that the glass covering the stone sarcophagus had been set aside. The white-garbed men were in the process of lifting the lid of the gilded coffin inside the big stone box. From the coffin base they removed a long, rigid platform covered by dusty fabric. Moving quickly but with care, the bearers maneuvered their burden through the narrow space and out of the room.

By this time interest and curiosity had replaced Ali’s initial concern. Yes, it was like the last time. The van wasn’t the same—the other one had been larger—but from what he could tell, the equipment inside was similar. Only this time there were no journalists or television crews. He’d seen himself on television when they showed the program—just a fleeting glimpse, but he’d bought a tape and played that part over and over. Maybe they had got it wrong the first time and had to come back and do it again? That made sense. They wouldn’t want to admit a mistake, so they had arranged for this to be done without publicity and advance notice.

Finding himself alone in the burial chamber, he went back along the corridor and up the stairs. They had put the litter and its contents into the van and closed the doors. Machinery was humming and sputtering. There were beeping noises and people talking. He squatted down and lit a cigarette and waited and thought about…
him. How did he like being dragged out of what he had hoped would be his final resting place, stared at by impious strangers, discussed as if he were a piece of wood? He had been an infidel, a pagan, but once he had been human and he had been faithful to his own gods in his time.