The Laughter of Dead Kings (3 page)

The sun was low above the cliffs when the doors at the back of the van opened again. The shrouded shape was lifted out and carried back into the tomb.

“You have been very helpful,” the Englishman said. He smiled for the first time, and Ali saw the glint of a gold tooth or filling. “I shall mention you to Dr. Khifaya. Here.”

Ali took the folded paper but he didn’t look at it until after the men had piled back into their vehicles and driven off. Then he unfolded the banknote. His lip curled. Ten miserable Egyptian pounds.

Englishmen.

I
don’t get it,” I said. “Why the consternation? Nobody told you in advance, but maybe this was a sudden decision and they tried to get in touch with you and couldn’t because you were out in the desert or something. Or maybe…”

My voice trailed off. The two of them sat there staring fixedly at me. “Oh, Lord,” I said.

“She’s a little slow this evening,” John explained, nodding at Feisal. “Be patient with her. What did you do after Ali informed you of the—er—visit?”

“Went into the tomb.” Feisal removed a crumpled white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “At first sight everything looked normal. But I had a feeling…One of
those
feelings. It was unlikely, verging on impossible, that I wouldn’t have been noti
fied in advance. I’d have ordered Ali to leave, but I couldn’t lift the coffin lid by myself, it’s too heavy. We managed to shift it just enough to get a look inside. The poor devil is in pieces, you know, they’ve got the various parts laid out on a sand table, padded all round with cotton wool and covered with a sort of heavy blanket. At first glance it looked normal. But when I folded the blanket back from where his head was supposed to be, it wasn’t there. He was gone. Not so much as a stray bone left.”

“King Tut?” I gasped. “They stole King Tut?”

J
ohn’s only reaction was a lifted eyebrow. He’d seen it coming. I had a feeling that he wished he’d thought of it himself.

“But why?” I asked. “Why on earth would anyone want a beat-up, dried-up old corpse?”

“We’ll get to that in due course,” John said. “First things first. Who else knows about this, Feisal?”

“Who knows he’s missing, you mean? Only Ali and I. We managed to get everything back in place. Actually, I can’t swear that his legs weren’t still there, we couldn’t reach down that far, but…”

“Ick,” I said.

“It’s a safe assumption that if they took the rest they’d have made a clean sweep,” John said. “They had plenty of time. Will Ali keep his mouth shut?”

Feisal laughed bitterly. “Damn right he will. He’ll lose his job for sure and probably end up in prison. In the cell next to mine.”

“Come on now,” I protested. “It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t even there.”

“The Supreme Council will want a scapegoat, and it happened in my jurisdiction. My God, Vicky, Tutankhamon is a symbol, a legend, a unique historical treasure. The media will go crazy. There will be jokes on late-night talk shows and criticism from every museum and institution in the world, and they’ll all say Egypt has a hell of a nerve asking us to give its antiquities back when it lets a bunch of crooks walk off with the most famous pharaoh in history.”

“Hmmm.” John rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid you’re right. It would definitely embarrass the government.”

“Embarrass!” Feisal flung up his hands. “Embarrass is when you spill a drink into the ambassador’s wife’s lap. This is shame, disgrace, heads rolling right and left. But if I could get him back…” He turned to John; his long, flexible hands went out in a gesture of appeal.

Him, not it, I thought. He kept talking about that battered mummy as if it were alive. Well, but it—he—had been alive, once upon a time. Not an inanimate object like a coffin or a statue, an actual, living human being, a king, incredibly preserved for an incredible length of time. I began to get a glimmering of why Feisal was so frantic. Imagine someone making off with the bones of George Washington. And he’d only been dead two hundred years.

“We’ll help if we can,” I said, wondering how.

“You aren’t keeping up, Vicky,” John said. He leaned back and crossed his ankles, the picture of ease. “You think I was responsible, Feisal. That’s why you dashed over here, to ask me to give it—”

“Him.”

“Sorry.
Him
back.”

“Please?”

“For Pete’s sake, Feisal,” I said. “That’s crazy.”

“Not really,” John said pensively. “It’s the sort of thing I might have done in my younger and giddier days, for the sake of the challenge. The operation was well planned. They chose a time when you’d be elsewhere, waited till late in the day when the guards would be tired and anxious to leave, moved fast and with arrogant authority. Your friend Ali was in no position to stop them. It’s probably lucky for him he didn’t try. I don’t like the sound of those chaps in the black uniforms.” John brooded, thinking it over. “A setup familiar to Ali from a previous occasion: proper documentation—even a key to the tomb. A copy of that wouldn’t be difficult to obtain. He couldn’t confirm, you were out of cell-phone reach even if he had had access to one, and he’d never have got through to the Supreme Council. The equipment was fake, of course. Ali wouldn’t know the difference, any more than I would, so long as it looked impressive. They shoved it—er, him—into the van, moved him off the sand tray into another sort of container, sat around for half an hour making interesting technical noises—laughing their heads off, I don’t doubt—and then took the empty tray back in. Or maybe…Maybe they had a duplicate of the tray ready. That way they wouldn’t have to move those fragile bones. Yes, that’s how I would have done it. Only…” He leaned forward, hands clasped and eyes intent on his friend. “Only I didn’t, Feisal. Aside from the fact that I wouldn’t pull a filthy stunt like that on you, I was in London and I can prove it.”

A knot under my breastbone loosened. I hadn’t believed it—not really—but I hadn’t laid eyes on him for two weeks, and the modus operandi, as we sleuths say, was reminiscent of some of his deals.

“Your gang,” Feisal began, only half convinced.

“I don’t have a bloody gang! Gangs are composed primarily of extremely stupid, dishonest individuals who are for sale to the high
est bidder. I learned from painful experience I couldn’t trust anyone except myself. That’s why I—”

“John,” I said sharply.

“Oh, right.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to know a lot more about this, but as Vicky so rightly reminded me, we’re running out of time. Can you be the charming, debonair guest with Schmidt and his girlfriend? He mustn’t get wind of this.”

“Allah forbid that he should,” Feisal said. He looked a little more…well, no, not more cheerful. A little less haggard. “I’d better go. Schmidt has an unfortunate effect on my nerves, which are already shaky. Call me after he’s left.”

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

Feisal looked blank. “I don’t know. I came straight from the airport.”

From the street outside came the familiar squeal of abused tires. I knew that sound. “Oh, my God, it’s Schmidt,” I exclaimed. “He’s early. What are we going to do?”

Thoroughly rattled, Feisal bolted for the door. Caesar followed, barking helpfully.

“Upstairs,” John ordered. “Second door on the right.”

Feisal didn’t stop moving, he spun in a circle and ran toward the stairs. John picked up his briefcase and thrust it at him. “Lock the door. We’ll tell you when the coast is clear. And don’t make a noise!”

Feisal stopped halfway up the stairs. “What if I have to—”

“Improvise,” said John through his teeth. The doorbell rang. Caesar barked. Feisal let out a faint scream and fled.

“Deep breath, Vicky,” John said. “Once more into the breach, dear friends. Into the mouth of death, into the jaws of hell…Or is it the other way round? I’ll get the door, shall I?”

Still incapable of speech or movement, I nodded. It will be all
right, I told myself. Just keep Schmidt amused and unwitting for a few hours. I should be able to do that.

John flung the door open with what had been intended to be a jovial greeting. It ended in a catch of breath, and then I also saw the woman with Schmidt. His new girlfriend. Suzi Umphenour.

That wasn’t her real name. It was the name by which I had known her when she was a fellow passenger on the illfated
Queen of the Nile
during my last trip to Egypt—our most recent criminal investigation, as Schmidt called it. My assignment had been to identify a notorious thief who was purportedly about to rob the Cairo Museum. Suzi played the silly society matron from Tennessee with such panache that I probably should have suspected it was a caricature; but I had had other things on my mind and I didn’t find out who—or what—she really was until after the grisly affair was over and I encountered her again in a certain office in the U.S. Embassy in Cairo. Her precise affiliation had never been made clear. Interpol? Some set of initials? CIA, NSA, BFAE?

I might have known Schmidt would take up with her. He had described her as “a fine figure of a woman.” That’s been the story of my life: if something can go wrong, it will. Of all the people in the universe, the last one I wanted to see on a night like this was a woman who worked for an organization that tracked crooks. FBI, BFE, DAR, AA, PETA?

All that and more swirled around my befogged brain as I stood frozen.

“Surprise!” Schmidt shrieked. “A night of surprises, is it? John, my friend, how good to see you! You remember Suzi? She is my surprise!”

“And a very pleasant surprise,” said John, making a valiant effort. “Do come in. Let me take your coats.”

Schmidt was loaded down with parcels. “I take them to the kitchen,” he announced.

I followed him. Compared with Suzi, Schmidt was the lesser of two evils. “These in the refrigerator,” he announced, suiting the action to the words. “These on…” He looked down into the hopeful face of Caesar. “On the high shelf. And here is wine.”

I took the bottle he handed me. “I didn’t know you and Suzi were an item.”

Schmidt smirked. “I don’t tell you everything, Vicky. Yes, we have been friends for some time. Good friends.”

If he giggles, I thought, I’ll hit him with this bottle.

Schmidt struck a pose, hand on hip, chin lifted. “You have not told me how well I look.”

I hadn’t really looked at him. Same old Schmidt, five feet six standing on tiptoe, round as an orange and rosy as an apple, bristly white mustache…Wait a minute. Not white—brown. Rich, decisive brown. If I hadn’t been so bemused by Suzi I would have seen it immediately. Other details began to penetrate. The cheeks weren’t quite as plump or florid, the stomach had retreated behind what appeared to be a solid barrier of some kind.

“You dyed your mustache,” I said.

“Not dyed; brought out the natural color,” said Schmidt indignantly. “It is a special formula designed for prematurely gray individuals. Is that all you see?” He thumped his stomach, winced, and went on, “I have lost twenty pounds. I am fitter than most men half my age. Would you like to see my pecs?”

“Good God, no! I mean…” This new development almost made me forget Feisal, the missing mummy, and gimlet-brained Suzi, who must not, MUST NOT get wind of either of the former. “You look great,” I mumbled. “Was that where you were? At a fat…uh, I mean, a spa?”

“A scientific health clinic,” Schmidt corrected. “In Switzerland.” Selecting a knife from the rack above the counter, he sliced cheese and apples onto a plate. (Apples? Schmidt?) “Come, we must join our friends. Er—I would appreciate it if you would not mention the clinic to Suzi.”

From the look of relief on John’s face I deduced he had found conversation heavy going. Catching my eye, he supplied me with a drink. It was mostly tonic, I discovered with regret. He was right, though; we needed to keep our wits about us.

For the next half hour Schmidt did most of the talking. My God, it was boring. Calories, saturated and unsaturated fats, carbs, the glycemic index, the food pyramid, the ratio of this to that and that to whatever peppered his speech. Red wine was mentioned, and so was dark chocolate. There wasn’t a food fad, scientific or pseudo, Schmidt had missed. John listened in open fascination. His gaze kept moving from the plate of sliced apples to Schmidt’s bright-brown mustache to the bottle of wine. (Red wine, of course.) I watched Suzi.

As a Southern belle she had affected masses of blond hair, a toothy grin, and a well-developed, ostentatiously displayed figure. The last time I had seen her, at the embassy, she had worn a tailored suit, very businesslike. Only the grin had been familiar. It was still in evidence, but her hair was short and there were glints of silver in its sandy waves. I wondered how old she was. Over forty, under sixty? It’s hard to tell these days. Her trim figure suggested she worked out regularly. Tonight she was casually dressed in jeans and T-shirt, the latter loose enough to be discreet but tight enough to make Schmidt’s eyes keep wandering back to her chest. There was no doubt in my mind that Schmidt’s interest was romantic, not professional. But what about her?

I tried to remember the details of that last conversation I had
had with Suzi. They were foggy. I’d been somewhat upset, or, to be more accurate, mad as hell. When I agreed to go on that damned cruise I had been assured that the anonymous officials who sent me would have an equally anonymous agent on board who’d come to my rescue in case there was trouble. There was plenty of trouble, and Suzi had screwed up. It wasn’t entirely her fault, and most of my fury had been directed at her bosses, whoever they were. Anonymous. I hate those people—FBI, CIA, all of them. They are so obsessed with security, it supersedes everything else, including the welfare of the people they are supposed to be protecting. They don’t even talk to one another.

Whatever Suzi’s precise affiliation might be, it had to have something to do with art and antiquities fraud, otherwise she wouldn’t have been on that cruise. “Sir John Smythe” was still a subject of interest to several European governments, not to mention Interpol. My connection with that notorious crook was well documented. Suzi might not know that Smythe and John Tregarth, respectable dealer in legitimate antiquities, were one and the same, but at the very end of that interview she had said something…No, she hadn’t actually said anything, she had just looked as if…

Catching the notorious Sir John Smythe would be a feather in any agent’s cap. Was Suzi trying to get to John through me and to me through Schmidt? Or was I reading too much into a look, an imagined hint? Why couldn’t she have taken a fancy to Schmidt? I couldn’t visualize him as anything but my cute little, crazy little roly-poly pal, but that was no reason to suppose he wouldn’t appeal romantically to a woman.
Chacun à son goût
. He was funny, charming, brilliant, and, bless his heart, starving himself into relative—I said relative—fitness. Losing a little weight certainly wouldn’t do him any harm. But if Suzi broke his susceptible heart I would murder her.

What with eating and drinking and listening to Schmidt babble on about fitness we got through the evening. I kept trying to think of ways to draw Suzi out about her work without indicating why I had a personal interest. “Any unusual cases lately?” (a question that made John bite his lip and roll his eyes heavenward) elicited only a toothier grin and a bland “Nothing I can talk about.”

As a rule I have to kick Schmidt out while he’s still chattering, or put him to bed on the sofa if he has had too much to drink. That night he was the one who announced it was time to end our delightful evening. The look he gave Suzi was, as they say, meaningful. She gave him one back, and rose obediently to her feet. They did not linger over their farewells.

I stood by the door until I heard Schmidt gun the engine and roar away. Then I turned very slowly to face John.

“I need something,” I croaked. “I don’t know what, but I need it bad.”

“You’ve had enough to drink, smoking is unhealthy, and we’ve no time for—what was the word?—distraction.”