“We’re here. We made it!”
Great cities never sleep. The lights along the corniche blazed bright, and although the traffic wasn’t as heavy as it was during the day, there were people abroad, going home after a night of merriment or heading for work, even at that ungodly hour. The facade of the Cairo Museum shone like raspberry ice. Ashraf headed straight for the heavy wrought-iron gates. They parted and swung slowly back.
The moment the car stopped, one of the doors of the building opened. Several men hurried out and converged on Ashraf. They began talking excitedly. They spoke Arabic but the gist of their remarks was clear. “What the hell is going on?”
Whatever Ashraf said, it was said with enough force to send them scurrying back into the museum. “Get him out and inside,” Ashraf ordered, turning to us. He took the lead, picking up one of the boxes. (Half a torso, I think.) Feisal and Schmidt followed suit and so did Saida, cradling the box that held Tut’s head tenderly in her arms. Ashraf indicated the last two boxes and barked, “Take his legs.”
“Aren’t you coming?” John asked me.
I swung my own legs up onto the seat. “I’m going to take a real nap. Wake me when it’s over.”
It felt wonderful to stretch out. I kicked off my shoes and wriggled my toes luxuriously. Instead of dozing off, I lay there staring dreamily at the facade of the museum. I had been involved in a lot of peculiar situations, but this one was in a class by itself. What was I doing here? I asked myself. In front of the Cairo Museum at four o’clock in the morning, aiding and abetting a trio of demented Egyptologists who were piecing together a dead, dismembered king. What was Tutankhamon to me, or I to him, that I should care about him? I did care, though. Witness the pronouns: I had come to think of that withered mummy as “him,” instead of “it.”
Some good had come of the adventure. John was in the clear, and we were rid forever of Suzi. Schmidt had turned his back on her when she offered her hand and an apology. Feisal and Saida were headed for the altar. Jan Perlmutter was going to get a well-deserved comeuppance. He might even be blackmailed into sending Nefertiti home. I pictured him stuffed and stuck up on a plinth in his own museum, with a sign saying, “The man who lost Nefertiti.”
The sky began to lighten. The sunrise wasn’t spectacular; Cairo smog is too thick. A head appeared at the window, and a voice said, “Wake up, Vicky. You must see this.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” I croaked. “What time is it?”
“Seven A.M.” Saida opened the door. “Come quickly, it is a sight you will never forget. You will be among the first to see it.”
The royal mummy room was softly lit except for a spotlight focused on one of the glass cases. Men in white lab coats with surgical masks covering their mouths hovered over it, making the final adjustments. The masks seemed extraneous, considering what Tutankhamon had been through, but they looked professional. Schmidt and John and Feisal stood to one side looking on.
“Did you have a good sleep?” John asked, putting his arm around me.
“I wasn’t asleep.”
Thutmose III was still grinning. They must have removed one of the lesser royals in order to accommodate Tut.
The technicians stepped back and there he was. He looked quite peaceful. Like the other mummies, he was decently covered, from chin to ankles. The fabric was brownish and old; Saida had told us that the museum authorities had used ancient linen. Folds of the fabric concealed the fact that his head wasn’t attached to his body.
“That’s it,” one of the technicians said, on a long breath. He spoke English, out of deference to the ignoramuses in the room, and the conversation continued in that language.
Ashraf stepped up to the case and stared into it. “Satisfactory,” he said. “Now listen, and listen carefully. I have called a press conference, to be held here in the museum at ten A.M. I will announce that the king’s mummy has been here for more than a week, in the laboratory, while we prepared a place for him. After he has rested in the museum for a time, he will return to his tomb in a properly constructed, scientifically designed case like this one. You will avoid reporters at all costs. If you should be questioned, you will repeat the story I have just told. I need not explain what the consequences will be should you deviate from it. Is that understood?”
Nods and sycophantish murmurs of agreement acknowledged understanding. Ashraf had expected no less. With a regal wave of his hand he dismissed the technicians.
“So,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “All is in order.”
“Except for Tut’s other hand,” I said, suppressing a yawn.
“It will be restored when convenient. Is there anything else?”
What he meant was, had he overlooked anything important? He looked inquiringly at Schmidt.
“I think not” was the judicious reply.
I gave Tut one last fond look, and we straggled out of the museum, leaving several of the guards—who had been, I assumed, promised the same fate as the technicians if they were tempted to spill the beans—to close the place up. Ashraf was kind enough to offer us a ride to our hotel.
“Have we got a room?” I asked, more in hope than in expectation.
“Aber natürlich,” said Schmidt. “I telephoned last night.”
“Any news from the Valley of the Kings?” John inquired.
Ashraf laughed fiendishly. “The journalists were informed last night that I would be giving a press conference today. Some won’t be able to reach Cairo in time. They will be scooped, as the saying goes, by others.”
Schmidt’s room was waiting for him, but—the manager informed us, cringing—ours would not be ready until noon. “It does not matter,” Schmidt said. “None of us wishes to sleep.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said.
“But we must attend the press conference.”
“Not me. I’ve seen enough of Tutankhamon to last the rest of my life.”
Leaving the others congratulating themselves and drinking coffee, I threw myself down on Schmidt’s big soft king-size bed and fell asleep. When I woke up, sunlight brightened the room and Jan Perlmutter was standing in the open doorway.
FIFTEEN
H e hadn’t shaved. His clothes were wrinkled and his face was that of an old man. His tie was twisted and the top button of his shirt undone, as if he couldn’t get enough air.
“Where is he?” he demanded. Even his voice was unrecognizable, hoarse and broken.
“Who?”
It was the best I could come up with on short notice. I looked from the knife in Jan’s hand to the telephone on the bedside table.
“Don’t try it,” he said. “Where is Schmidt?”
I gave up the idea of trying to reach the phone. My brain was in overdrive, all remnants of sleep dispersed. There’s nothing like terror to promote quick thinking. Unfortunately I couldn’t think of anything heroic, or even useful.
“Why are you mad at Schmidt?” I asked, stalling for time.
“He hates me,” Jan said.
“No, no,” I said soothingly. “He doesn’t hate you. Nobody hates you. Why don’t you sit down and—”
“They all hate me. They have made me look like a fool. Schmidt is the worst. He has held a grudge since the Trojan Gold affair.”
I sneaked a quick look at the clock on the bedside table. Almost noon. Where was everybody? They ought to be back by now. Why had they left me alone with a homicidal lunatic?
Jan went on ranting. All he had ever wanted was to rescue the world’s treasures. And this was his reward—to be humiliated and abused and threatened.
He was the one doing the threatening, but I decided not to mention that. Nor did I point out that to the best of my knowledge he hadn’t been named as the source of the rumors about the theft of Tut. We had discussed exposing him and decided, regretfully, that proving the accusation would be time-consuming if not impossible. He would suffer enough, said Schmidt, from knowing he had been foiled and defeated.