“‘Stolen’ isn’t strictly accurate in some cases,” John said. “The Rosetta Stone—”
“I know more than I need to know about the Rosetta Stone. But you, of all people, can’t deny that a number of museums and private collectors have objects whose provenance is dubious.”
“I take leave to resent that implication,” John said primly. “Why do you keep wandering off the subject? All I said was that Khifaya’s background might bear investigation.”
“A nasty divorce? Hey, is he married?”
“Don’t be frivolous.” John glanced at his watch and rose. “Let’s go.”
“It’s a good picture. If we go to Egypt, maybe I can get him to autograph it. ‘To dear Vicky, my biggest fan.’”
John’s lip curled in one of his elegant sneers.
“He’s even handsomer than Feisal. Or,” I said, struck by a new and inspiring thought, “maybe he’ll let me be one of his friends next time he pickets the museum.”
Content to be towed by a masterful hand on my arm (so I could go on admiring the picture of my new crush), I didn’t take note of where we were going until we arrived at the gate.
“Hey,” I said, digging in my heels. “This is the wrong flight. It’s not going to London.”
“Neither are we.” He had timed it perfectly; the last passengers were lined up. He handed over our boarding passes and propelled me forward.
“Why are we going to Rome? When did you change plans? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t change plans.”
“But you told Feisal—”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you…” Now that I thought back on his reference to London, he hadn’t actually said we were going there. “Damn it, I don’t want to go to Rome. Please don’t tell me you mean to confer with Pietro and whatsername and the other crooks you were working with when we first met.”
“All in the past, my dear, the distant past. In point of fact I hope to confer with someone at the Vatican. Here’s your seat.”
He went on to find his, leaving me in a frenzy of speculation. Someone at the Vatican. Not the pope. Surely not the pope. Not John.
I had ample time for reflection during the flight. Unfortunately, all I could do was go over and over the same ground, like a cat chasing its tail, getting nowhere. Not one cat, several of them, a random feline ballet, interwoven and endless. Suzi. Rome. Tutankhamon. Why in heaven’s name would anybody steal Tutankhamon? Why would anybody want to steal it…him? What would you do with him once you had him? You couldn’t stick him away in an attic or a closet, he’d require…What does a mummy require? Controlled temperature, sterile atmosphere, room service?
I jerked awake from a dream that featured an air-conditioned suite in the best hotel in Cairo, and Tutankhamon laid out on a Posturepedic mattress surrounded by harem beauties in white nurses’ uniforms.
I had planned to intercept John when he passed my seat, but everybody was pushing and shoving and I didn’t catch up with him until I reached the baggage area.
“Not the pope,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?” He raised one eyebrow, in that maddening way of his.
“All right, not the pope. Who? And if you say ‘Who what?’ I will lie down on the floor and kick and scream.”
“Not here, someone will trample you underfoot.” He turned and ran a seemingly casual eye over the passengers who were shoving and pushing as they waited for the belt to deliver their luggage. Nothing unusual about them that I could see: the young mother shepherding two darling kiddies who were beating at each other with stuffed bunnies; the self-important business types yelling into their cell phones; two priests in black cassocks; a pair of twenty-somethings, nationality indeterminate, wound round each other like pretzels; a little gray-haired lady wearing sunglasses and carrying an enormous purse…Nobody brandishing an UZI or a deadly vial of shampoo.
“Nobody could have followed us onto that plane,” I declared. “I didn’t even know we were taking it.”
“Precisely.”
B y the time we got through passport and customs it was late evening and I was starved. I informed John of this.
He didn’t even respond with a raised eyebrow. Taking me by the arm, he hustled me out of the airport, past a line of waiting taxis. Pausing by an anonymous dark sedan, he opened the back door, shoved me in, and followed me.
“What—” I began.
“Quiet,” said my beloved. Leaning forward, he pressed a knuckle into the back of the driver’s neck.
“Albatross,” he said.
“Ancient mariner,” replied the driver, and giggled. The car pulled smoothly away from the curb.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said. “How paranoid can you get?”
“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean—”
“I am familiar with the reference.”
“This is Enrico.”
“How do you know?” The man was as anonymous as the vehicle. He wore one of those chauffeur-type peaked caps, which would have made it difficult to see his face even if it hadn’t been dark and he hadn’t been looking forward.
“I’d know that giggle anywhere,” said John.
Enrico obligingly produced another giggle and a polite “Buona sera, signorina.”
John turned to look out the back window. Apparently he was satisfied by what he saw, or didn’t see; after a while he returned his attention to me.
“You may now finish your question,” he said graciously.
I refused to give him the satisfaction of asking the obvious. Obviously he had set this up before we left Munich, at the same time he had changed our reservations. Obviously the driver was one of his old acquaintances. Obviously he was deathly afraid of being followed, which meant—obviously—that he had reason to suspect he would be followed.
“Never mind,” I muttered.
A chilly silence ensued. At least it was silent in the backseat. Enrico began crooning in an off-key falsetto. It took me a while to recognize the tune: one of Cherubino’s arias from The Marriage of Figaro. I joined in, hoping to annoy John. He is an excellent musician with well-nigh perfect pitch, which cannot be said of me. Except for twitching a bit when Enrico and I tried for a high note and missed, he did not react. Enrico told me I had a beautiful voice. We sang more Mozart, all the way into Rome, at which point I looked out the side window and tried to figure out where we were going, since I was damned if I was going to ask John.
The narrow streets of Trastevere gave me the clue. When we stopped in front of a small hotel I said, “Well, well, here we are again. I’m surprised the cops haven’t closed this place down. If you are representative of its customary clientele—”
“Shut up and get out,” John snarled.
It hadn’t changed a bit. The same quiet, rather elegant lobby, the same creaky lift, and, of course, the same room. The same heavy off-white drapes, the same cozy little sitting area, with a red plush love seat and low table, the same bathroom. The same bed.
“You didn’t even let me say good night to Enrico,” I said, seating myself on the red plush and crossing my legs.
John tossed his suitcase onto the bed and began unpacking.
“I’m hungry,” I said.
John stiffened, gave me a piercing look, and then relaxed. “You’re always hungry. Call room service. You remember the procedure, I trust?”
That and a lot of other things, I thought, as I picked up the phone. John had brought me here after the end of our Roman escapade—if I may use such a light-hearted word to describe a scenario that included murder, attempted murder (of me), grand theft, fraud, another murder, attempted seduction (of me), and a spectacular nervous breakdown (not me). The hotel didn’t have a restaurant; if a guest wanted anything, from a gourmet meal to a piano, he called the front desk and asked for it—and got it. On the occasion of my first stay I had requested medical supplies and copious quantities of booze, in addition to food. The booze was for me. My nerves were in terrible shape. The medical supplies were for John, who had incurred a number of well-deserved injuries. He’d been one of the gang initially and had come over to my side only because…Well, to make a long story short, by the time we left the hotel next day I was inclined to believe he had repented of his evil deeds and learned to care deeply for me. At least I believed it until the next time we met…