But if not pirates, and not enemies, what then? The cargo? He had seen the last of it loaded into the hold, the hundreds of amphorae filled with wine and oil, the pithoi filled with glass and ivory, the piles of silver and copper ingots. A rich cargo to be sure, but still, nothing unusual there. A few slaves for sale, also nothing out of the ordinary. They remained chained below.
Only one thing had caught his attention, a plain cedar box tarred black to keep it watertight, now lashed to the deck, and the stranger who had seen it stowed. Nothing all that special about either the box or the man, really, but if the rumors in the port were true, and Abdelmelqart was reasonably sure they were, both the stranger and his cargo had come in on a ship from the colonies to the west. Not that this was in itself unusuaclass="underline" All ships from the west stopped at Qart Hadasht.
Too bad we aren't headed west, he thought. Those lands, he would give much to visit. Just once he'd like to brave the tricky currents of the pillars of Herakles and see for himself the lands that marked the ends of the earth. He'd heard that the ground burned there, and rivers of pure silver flowed from its depths, fabulous riches that could be purchased for a few amphorae of oil and a trinket or two. What treasures must come from there! Tartessus. Even the name seemed exotic.
He looked at the wood crate, then scanned carefully about him. Most of the crew had found shelter from the rain. The men below dozed at their places, and no one looked his way. Well, shouldn't he as watchman know what he was guarding? He advanced silently on bare feet toward the box, which was about six feet long, and not quite three feet wide and high. It was, he found, securely fastened with rope. Still it might be possible to pry the lid up just enough to catch a glimpse of what was inside once there was a little more light. Carefully he took the short-sword from his belt and slid the blade between the lid and the box. He looked around again. He could see no one.
Holding his breath with the effort to be quiet, he levered the blade so that the lid began to pull up and away from the box.
Too late, he turned to the sound of a board creaking behind him.
"A RRIVING TOMORROW AMERICAN Airlines flight 124. Meet me at airport. KE," the fax said. A little peremptory in tone, one might say, but I suppose Kristi Ellingham, travel writer for the upscale--dare I say snotty?--First Class magazine, had come to expect such attention. The fax was not entirely a surprise, Clive having put prodigious effort into getting a travel writer of Kristi's stature to come along with us, in an attempt to "extend the reach"--to use his expression--of this particular public relations endeavor called an antiques and archaeology tour. Once we'd gotten underway, however, I'd assumed, with some relief, that she wouldn't show. An enthusiastic call from Clive, however, disabused me of that assumption.
"I have fabulous news," he said, without even saying hello, as I groped in the dark for the light. "Kristi Ellingham is joining the group. Kristi Ellingham!" he enthused.
"Clive," I said, finding the light and peering at the clock. "It's four in the morning here."
"Oh," he said. "Right. Sorry. But make sure she has a great time, won't you? We'll be famous the world over."
Fortunately, there was still room at the inn, the best suite in the place, in fact, which I was certain Kristi would consider her due. Chantal and Sylvie had offered to give us the room for free in return for the hoped-for publicity; McClintoch Swain was paying her airfare and all her incidental expenses, First Class magazine not being among those publishers with any scruples about their writers accepting freebies. Kristi's appearance meant that we wouldn't make a dime on the trip, but the publicity, as Clive kept telling me, would more than make up for the few dollars it was going to cost us to have her along. The problem was that the first thing she might hear about this tour was that we had a thief in our midst.
Which we surely did. In the uproar that followed Catherine's announcement, I'd forced myself into some semblance of alertness and looked about me. Every one of our guests was in the courtyard at that moment, and all had something to say. "I told you," Susie said to Catherine. "You should listen to someone like me. I'm an experienced traveler." True, but maybe Catherine didn't need to hear it at this very moment. Aziza took Catherine by the arm, led her over to a sofa in the lounge and sat with her.
"You should have let me bring my gun," Jimmy said to Betty. "You can't be too careful in these Muslim countries."
"You're going to shoot yourself or some innocent person, one day," Betty said, a hint of steel in her voice. Perhaps she wasn't the submissive little wife I'd taken her for. "You almost shot our future son-in-law, remember? Just because he was sneaking in to see our daughter during the night." The couple glared at each other. I wasn't sure the marriage would survive this tour.
"Are you insured?" Rick asked, going over to Catherine. Catherine just sat there numbly, but that question gave Betty another thought.
"Do you think she hid it herself to collect on the insurance?" she whispered to her husband. If she had, I thought, she was a rather good actress. The poor woman was white as a sheet, and her hands shook as she sat there.
"She has a roommate, doesn't she?" Jimmy replied, not all that quietly. "That nosy little woman. Maybe she took it."
"Why don't we go up and have a look at Catherine's room?" Ed suggested. "Perhaps she just misplaced it. Jet lag can do that to you."
That struck several of us as a very sensible course of action, and so Ben, Ed, Marlene, Chastity, Betty, and Susie went to look. They came back empty-handed.
Speculation then began as to who was responsible, and regrettably, although perhaps predictably, everyone decided it was the staff. "I saw the concierge--what's his name?--skulking around over there when I went to get some aspirin in my room," Rick said.
"We did, too," Curtis said. "When Aziza and I went up to get her wrap."
"His name is Mohammed," I said, "and it's his job to be checking around the place. He's been here for years." I did not like the way the conversation was going.
"I didn't see any signs that the room was broken into," Ed said.
"Someone with a key, then," Jimmy said, forgetting his earlier comment about Susie, "Pretty clear, if you ask me. The staff. Has to be."
Sylvie and Chantal protested that their employees were absolutely honest, had all been with them for years without any such incident, but I could see that the tour group much preferred to think it was one of the staff rather than one of their fellow travelers--which I suppose was understandable, as unfounded as that conclusion might be.
I took Catherine back to her room, Susie jogging along behind, and then got her into bed. Sylvie said that a guard would be posted in the upstairs hallway that night, and that seemed to soothe Catherine a little.
As we left her to get some rest, I ran my finger along the edge of the door near the lock, and pulled it back quickly as a splinter pierced my hand. Hardly conclusive, but the possibility was there that the door had been forced. If the door was opened with a key, it pretty well had to be staff or Susie. If it was forced, then the pool of possible thieves widened considerably. I went to my own room and had a closer look at the lock, which was just a button in the door knob, standard in all the guest rooms. There was a security chain, but it only worked when someone was in the room. I decided the door could be forced, and rather easily at that.
I went downstairs to see Sylvie, who was still upset about what had happened, and about the implication that her staff was involved.