“They seem awful young to be on such an expensive trip,” I said. “And usually twenty-somethings are, I don’t know, going to more popular destinations, don’t you think? Rome or the Greek islands?”
“Or Ibiza,” Brian agreed. The young ladies in question were now in the lobby, chatting up our young — and very dishy — van driver, Emin. More blushes, more giggles, more photos.
That reminded me: As we headed to the end of the trip, I wanted to organize some tips from all of us for Emin and for Lale. They were well paid, but had done such a good job—
Something Harold had just said reminded me: I wasn’t the only one who knew what the objects might be valued at. Lale certainly did, and she knew ahead of time we’d be seeing them as well. But there was no way she would have taken the artifacts. Was there?
I shook my head; this speculation was hopeless. “Such small objects — some no bigger around than a pencil — and worth so much. You could hide dozens of them anywhere, and have a small fortune.”
Brian opened his mouth, then hesitated. “This is crazy, but—”
“Go for it,” I said.
“What if Jack or Tiffany rolled them into the grape leaves?”
“Or the manti?” I thought about it, then shook my head. “Even if they were expert, they couldn’t stuff a whole handful of coins and seals into one grape leaf. And it’s too obvious, too public. You’d have to be a magician to pull it off.”
Suddenly, I was thinking of Harold and the trick he did with his lighter. And of the supply of empty cigar tubes he might have accumulated over the course of the trip. Still too complicated. “I’m beat, Brian. Let’s go upstairs.”
“Remember, we have to put the suitcases out before we go down to breakfast tomorrow, to be loaded in the van.”
I slumped. I really didn’t want to do more organizing so late; it had been a long, tiring, eventful day. But I resigned myself as I worked; it was a small price to pay for seeing the world.
After I got into bed, I thought I’d be asleep in an instant. But I stared into the dark, listening to Brian snore softly. The noises of the air conditioner, and farther away, barely audible, the elevator and ice machine.
It had been such a wonderful trip, I thought. It’s people, really, who can spoil tourism—
I sat up and switched on the light, took out my tablet computer to check something. I spent another couple of hours thinking, then shook Brian.
“Mup,” he said. He squinted against the light. “Time ’zit?”
“It’s not time to get up, yet,” I said. “What do you know about ‘Ozymandias’?”
When he realized it really was the middle of the night, and there was no emergency, he sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.”
“Emma, what are you talking about?”
“The theft. I don’t want to be a suspect. I’ve been there, I don’t like the feeling. I don’t want Lale to get into trouble, she’s been too good to us. And I don’t want the museum to lose its excellent artifacts and good reputation. What do you know about ‘Ozymandias’?”
“He didn’t build the tomb on Mount Nemrut,” Brian said, rubbing his eyes.
“No, I mean the poem. You had to memorize it, right?”
“Yeah, but it was like six hundred years ago. I don’t know anything about it.” He looked around. “Is there any bottled water left?”
“It’s warm.” I handed him a bottle. “Try to remember about the poem.”
“It was written by Coleridge—”
“No, it wasn’t. It was written by Shelley.”
“How do you know—?”
“I briefly flirted with the Romantics as a response to Grandpa’s obsession with Shakespeare. But I won’t ask you to take my word for it.” I held up the tablet computer I’d brought with me. There was an encyclopedia article, with the poem and its origins.
“Okay, so what does that prove?”
“It means people can know a poem, and not know anything about it,” I said with satisfaction.
He stared at me.
I told him who I thought might be responsible for the theft.
Brian shook his head. “It’s kind of a long shot, Emma. Really circumstantial.”
“Sure, and like you’ve said, it’s not my job to solve this case.” I looked at my watch, then pulled my shorts and the rest of my clothes from the back of the chair. “So I don’t need to prove anything. But it won’t hurt to ask what Lale knows about the members of the tour. She’s usually up hideously early, making calls in the lobby. I’ll just go have a quick word.”
I padded down the hall to the elevator. I always think it’s strange, being alone in such a public place, knowing people were asleep in their rooms all around me. It was a little creepy, and I was grateful for the social pretense that let us ignore the fact that we were so close to each other.
Now that was a very Western idea, I reminded myself. A very American idea; other cultures would be made comfortable by so much human proximity.
Or maybe it was just me being paranoid.
I turned the corner. Somewhere, close behind me, a door had clicked shut. The noise, even the very slight vibration, made me jump a mile. I turned around.
Jack Boyle was setting down a suitcase outside the doorway. It was the large blue wheelie bag with the flower decal on it for identification. And the monogrammed initials “S.O.”
The one that belonged to Steve Osborne.
Jack knew I recognized the bag.
“Steve still feeling unwell?” I managed to say.
“Yeah. I think he’s gonna try to see a doctor today. Get some antibiotics, or something, before we head to the airport. I told him I’d put his bag out for him, poor guy.”
The sleeve to Jack’s hiking shirt was rolled up. It was damp, and there was a faint pink tinge coloring the white technical cloth.
I forced myself to breathe normally, but my heart was in overdrive. I’d seen a lot of bloodstains in my time.
“Nice of you. Well, see you.” I waved a little wave, and forced myself to turn back down the corridor, my pulse still racing.
“Emma.”
I turned around, knowing what I’d see. Jack had a pistol trained on me.
I’ve had guns pointed at me before. Familiarity didn’t make it any easier.
“You were staring at my shirt just a little too long. I can’t let you go.”
“Huh? Shirt?” I shook my head, but my heart was sinking. He knew, or at least suspected, I knew.
“Don’t scream; I’ll shoot you and be away before anyone hears you. The only way to live is to do exactly what I say.” He gestured to the room. “Get in.”
I couldn’t go in there; it would be all over for sure. I had no doubt that Steve was either dead or dying, and if I went in, I’d soon join him. But I also knew that staying out here, hesitating too long, would end in a similar result.
A movement out of the corner of my eye sent a thrill through me. Things were going to happen very quickly. I had to be ready.
I decided the best thing to do was panic. It seemed like the easiest, most obvious thing to do.
I stepped forward, wobbling, my breath rapid and uneven. “Wha—? I can’t...”
He reached into his pocket for the key card, never taking his eyes off me. “Shut up. Get in, now.” He slid it into the door, shoved the handle down with his elbow, stuck his foot in to keep it opened.
“I can’t...” One hand flew to my chest, the other steadied me against the wall. I staggered forward a few more reluctant steps, hyperventilating. “I can’t breathe...”