Mummy Dearest (37 page)

“Stop it,” a voice whispered, so close that I could feel the warm air on my earlobe. “I don’t want to hurt you.” The hand was withdrawn, but I could see it poised beside my head.

“Then loosen your arm,” I croaked. The pressure eased. I took several deep breaths. “Let me go.”

“Can’t,” came the whisper.

“Yes, you can. Start with removing your arm before you fracture my windpipe. I haven’t given up on a career in opera. I promise I won’t scream.” I didn’t add that I had every intention of disabling him with a well-placed jerk of my knee, then snatching up the nearest object and bashing him on the head.

The hand gripped my shoulder so tightly that I bit back a shriek of pain. I was unceremoniously yanked around and carried to a back door, my feet kicking futilely. He released my shoulder long enough to open the door, then shoved me into an alley with such force that I almost fell across a bicycle propped against a crate. The door slammed, but not before I caught a glimpse of a black mustache and a scar.

I closed my eyes and waited for my heart to stop pounding. When I could trust my legs, I walked briskly, if unsteadily, toward the corniche, leaving a trail of colorful expletives in my wake. Had Caron and Inez’s purported stalker been following me all this time? With a few small
exceptions, I’d been occupied with all the standard tourist activities. As alluring as I was, I had never found myself obliged to beat back admirers.

It had to be Peter’s fault, I concluded as I swung around the corner.

And crashed into Peter.

“Hello, dear,” I said weakly. “How was Cairo?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” he said, making no effort to embrace me and inquire about my well-being. We’d been married less than a month; I hoped he would still recognize me in a year or two.

“I’m going back to the hotel,” I said.

He gripped my arm as though he was afraid I might bolt into traffic or dash back down the alley. “You weren’t supposed to leave the hotel.”

“Something came up. Could we please hurry?”

“I turned off the tap,” he said, still speaking to me as if I was nothing more than an acquaintance he’d met at a banquet honoring a civic leader. “Please stop gasping and explain.”

“I do not gasp.” I pulled my arm free. “I’d explain, but I doubt I can meet your standards. I’m a mere amateur who happens to have been attacked in the last five minutes. Shouldn’t I file a report with the CIA first? Is there a manual that’ll tell me how to reduce it to a tiny black microdot and glue it to the leg of a pigeon with security clearance? Am I supposed to use your code name and put ‘Mrs.’ in front of it?”

“Attacked? By whom?”

“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” I started for the hotel.

He caught up with me, his expression decidedly unfriendly. We went through the lobby and took the elevator. I pulled off my sunglasses and the scarf and handed them to him. He snorted. Abdullah’s mouth twitched as he watched us from behind a cleaning cart. When we went into the suite, Bakr dropped his cards and scrambled to his feet, looking at each of us in turn.

“Mrs. Malloy,” he said, gurgling, “I see Mr. Rosen found
you. You should not have lied to me. Chief Inspector el-Habachi will be angry at me for failing to—”

“Wiser men than you have tried with less success,” I said.

Caron and Inez exchanged looks, then picked up the cards and went into their bedroom. Peter told Bakr to wait outside the door. I retreated to the bathroom, noted wryly that the bathtub was emptying, and splashed water on my face. My hair had been mussed in the scuffle, but there were no marks or bruises on my neck. My clothes felt sullied, so I changed into clean ones.

A bucket of ice had appeared by the mini-bar. Peter handed me a drink and we went to the balcony. Just a stereotypic married couple, I thought as we sat down and looked at the view. He was home from the office, while I’d spent the day lunching with friends and driving the children to soccer practice and piano lessons. Neither of us motivated to inquire about each other’s day. Same old, same old. Dog threw up in the backseat on the way to the vet’s office. The boss was in a bad mood. Plumber didn’t show up as promised. The meeting lasted more than two hours. Don’t forget the parent-teacher conference on Thursday.

“How was Cairo?” I asked.

“Oh, fine. I spent a great deal of time being interrogated and lectured because my wife was prowling in the hotel basement and confronting kidnappers at a seedy hotel in an oasis town. My attempts to explain your behavior were met with incredulous stares and derisive snickers. But I really didn’t mind, because every man should be humiliated on his honeymoon. It’s such a great way to start a marriage.”

“Your sarcasm is not appreciated,” I said. “I told you about the luggage. As for the excursion to the Kharga Oasis, I had no choice. I tried to get in touch with you, but the only telephone number I had was for the embassy.”

“You had Mahmoud’s number.”

“Samuel convinced me that Buffy would be killed if the police intervened. I decided to wait until we arrived there.
If it was too dangerous, I would have gone to the police and told them everything.”

Peter looked at me. “When have you ever told the police everything?”

“This required delicacy, not the local SWAT team,” I said, evading the issue. “I presume you already know about Nabil’s death, and the murder of the taxi driver who took Shannon to the Valley of the Kings.” Peter nodded, not bothering to ask me how I knew. I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or offended. “There is one thing I haven’t had a chance to mention to Mahmoud. It happened today.”

“Before you snuck out of the hotel, I assume.”

I told him about Caron and Inez admitting that they’d found the
shabti
several days before it was discovered in the excavation. “They left it in their room when we went on the Nubian Sea cruise. Someone found it and planted it at the excavation in order to stir up excitement. That implies this particular someone suspected or knew they had it. Sittermann’s high on my list.”

“It wasn’t Sittermann,” Peter said. “Would you like another drink?”

He took my glass and went into the sitting room. He knocked on the door of the girls’ room and reminded them that Bakr would drive them to Mahmoud’s home for dinner shortly, then took his sweet time fixing drinks. I gnawed on my lip and reconsidered my theory. Sittermann was everywhere and knew everything. He’d been following Lord Bledrock and the McHavers
(tante et nièce).
If I’d been less preoccupied at the Kharga Oasis, I might have noticed him peering out through a shuttered window by the Desert Inn or lurking between the camels.

I gave up. When Peter sat down, I said, “How do you know it wasn’t Sittermann?”

“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.”

“Oh,” I murmured. “One of them …”

He grinned. “Technically, one of us.”

“Are you sure he’s on our side?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“The thought makes my skin crawl,” I said. “When did you find out?”

“After the cruise, and with great reluctance from certain parties in D.C. and Cairo. I should have been informed before I left the country, but the different agencies don’t communicate. The Pentagon has seventeen and a half miles of corridors and more than six and a half million square feet. You can pack in a lot of covert agencies with innocuous-sounding names stenciled on the doors. In order to get a bigger chunk of the budget, they all have to run their own operations and keep their intelligence information to themselves. The idea of cooperating with each other is beyond their comprehension. You shouldn’t have a problem with that concept.”

“So Sittermann …?”

“Might as well be from another planet. I suspect the only reason he tipped us off was that he was worried about you. Amateurs can get themselves in trouble when they’re inadvertently playing with professionals.”

“You should have told me,” I said, “or at least given me a hint. He’s been driving me crazy since we got here, with all his inane jabber about Tut-O-Rama and how he’s an ol’ cowhand from the Rio Grande. Does he know about your… connections?”

Peter shrugged. “I have no idea, but damned if I’m going to enlighten him. Now, will you please tell me why you left the hotel and who attacked you?”

I had no problem with the first part, stressing that my prime motivation was to find out what Sittermann was up to. Peter leaned forward and listened intently when I described the scene in Dr. Guindi’s shop. “It was an entirely new side of Miriam,” I added, envisioning her coldblooded demeanor as she swung her hand. “It makes sense, though. She went to extremes to look that dowdy. I wouldn’t be all that surprised if she used theatrical makeup for the pallor. At breakfast one morning, she tried to convince me she was a shy orchid pining for Alexander, but she fired a
lot of questions at me. We may have a troupe of actors at the other end of the hallway, touring with their show.”

“Including Alexander?” Peter asked.

I thought I detected a tinge of jealousy in his voice. I wanted to sit in his lap and remind him that he was more handsome, quite as rich, and came from an upper-crust family as well. He would never be a baron, granted, but I had no desire to live in a drafty manor and devote my energy to snipping flowers and sipping tea. “No, I don’t think Alexander is part of the charade,” I said. “He really is an indolent, spoiled aristocrat with a cushy job that doesn’t interfere with his social life. He either doesn’t realize it or doesn’t care. That’s why I tolerate his company.”

Peter sipped his drink. “Or he may be more astute than you think. He has to know his father is buying antiquities on the black market, and Mrs. McHaver as well. Mahmoud has known for years. He’d love to put a stop to it, but they have powerful connections. Lord Bledrock went to Eton with some of the higher echelon in the foreign service ministry. His first wife entertained the Egyptian ambassador’s wife in London. Mrs. McHaver funded medical clinics in remote villages. They’re benefactors of the Cairo Museum. Mahmoud would find himself at a desert outpost if he dared to even investigate them.” He fell silent for a long moment. “And this man that attacked you when you were spying on them in the antiques shop? You’re sure you saw the mustache and the scar?”

I was still brooding about his remarks. “You could have told me this, you know. I could have saved myself a lot of energy figuring it out on my own.”

“But you’re a lowly amateur, remember? You’re not supposed to be briefed, especially when some of the information is classified. Scotland Yard does not consult Miss Marple.”

“Stuff it, Sherlock,” I said.

“Wow,” Caron said from the doorway. “Are you guys having a fight? Don’t let me interrupt or anything. I just wanted to tell you that Inez and I are leaving for an utterly
thrilling evening of making conversation and admiring grubby children. I’ll tell you all about it when we get back.”

I walked to the door with them and made sure Bakr was waiting. He gave me a chilly look, no doubt blaming me for whatever trouble he was in with his superior. I closed the door and rejoined Peter, who had propped his legs on the rail and was gazing with great innocence at the birds flapping over the Nile.

“Yes,” I said, returning to his earlier question, “I saw the mustache and the scar. He must be the man Caron and Inez have been insisting was after them. Is it possible he’s part of this terrorist group, whatever it’s called?”

“El Asad li-allah, the Lion of God. I don’t know why they’d bother with you or the girls.”

“Because they’re suspicious of you,” I suggested. “All these trips to the police station and Cairo, and the other places you went before we arrived. These people are violent. Remember Oskar’s not-so-accidental accident in the spring, and now Shannon’s. The lethal cigarette given to Nabil so that he wouldn’t be able to talk to Magritta about the
shabti.
The taxi driver, poor man, who did nothing more than pick up a second passenger before driving to the Valley of the Kings. Jess Delmont’s body is likely to be out in the desert, his throat slashed as well.”

“He’s in custody in Cairo. They picked him up at the airport, and he hasn’t been able to explain why he had ten thousand dollars in his suitcase.”

“Well, I’m glad he had enough sense to try to get out of the country before they found him. I think you should call Mahmoud before he sits down to dinner with his charming American guests. The sooner Magritta’s taken into custody, the better. Wallace, too.”

“And why do you think that?” Peter asked.

I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or not, but I told him anyway. After all, communication is the foundation of a solid marriage.

At breakfast, Caron and Inez announced that they were tired of dead pharaohs and ready to shop. Peter gave them a substantial amount of money, told them to call Bakr to escort them, and watched as they hurried into the lobby.

“Is there anything left to buy in Luxor?” he asked. “They’ll need an extra suitcase to haul their loot home.”

“They haven’t even started on Cairo.” I filled his coffee cup and sat back. There were only a few people still eating breakfast, none of them familiar. I was relieved not to have to make conversation with anyone but my husband, who was idly watching the birds fight over crumbs on the floor. If we bought a house in the country, we would put up bird feeders and become experts on rare species of wrens and finches.

“I called Mahmoud while you were in the shower,” my future bird fancier said. “He has doubts about this evening’s plan, but he also admitted that he didn’t have a better idea. I’m going to coach him”—he saw my sudden frown—“here, at the hotel, in an hour. He has to run the show. I can’t appear to know anything more than the others.”

“You’ll do very well as a bartender. Have the invitations been delivered?”

“To everyone in the hotel. Salima’s went to the Mummification Museum, where she’s giving tours today, and Lady Emerson’s to her villa. Magritta and Wallace will be
escorted here by police officers. There’s been no sign of Samuel. Are you positive he’ll show up today?”

“Unless he’s buried up to his chin in the desert. It’s impossible to estimate how many people are involved in Buffy’s kidnapping. If they grabbed him, he’s in serious trouble. I doubt they did, though. It’s more likely that once he realized that Buffy and I were gone, he found a safe place to hide until he could arrange transportation. Her rescue has been all over the newspapers and TV. His only hope now is to get to her here in Luxor before she does irreparable damage.”