Sands of Time (Out of Time #6) (9 page)

He didn’t really mind waiting for whoever this Diana was—probably a spinster draped in pearls and judgment—it gave him time to mull over what he’d found in Mason’s room last night. He’d waited until the hotel was quiet and picked the lock. Too easy. A place like this should have better security. Although, in this case, their lapse worked in his favor.

He hadn’t been surprised to see he wasn’t the first to be there. The room had already been tossed. Clothes and books strewn about the floor. He gave it a quick going over, but if there had been anything worthwhile there, it was gone now.

He let out a sigh.

“She’s always a little late,” Christina said with a small smile and then returned to fiddling with the lace cuff of her dress. She was really quite attractive and the sort who had no idea. He knew the type, too busy hiding behind her glasses and books to notice people noticing her.

She kept looking expectantly toward the front door, but so far the half of Cairo that had come and gone didn’t include the mythical Diana.

Jack settled into his chair and decided to pass the time doing one of the things he did best, watch people. There was nothing quite like the lobby of a hotel for people watching. In his business, observing people was more than half the game. He leaned back in his rattan chair and watched a young couple descend the grand staircase. Their clothes gave them away immediately as English and from money. The man’s cream suit was freshly pressed, although he was not. From the small round sunglasses he wore indoors to the gingerly way he walked, the man was obviously suffering from one hell of a hangover. His wife looked only a little bit less nauseated.

She waved toward him. For a moment, Jack wondered if he’d been caught staring.

“The Everetts,” Christina said, not bothering to hide her disdain.

Ah, the missing couple from last night’s dinner, Jack thought. No wonder they hadn’t shown up. They must have been plenty soused to be that deep in the bag this morning.

The couple slowly made their way over to them. The man grabbed a bellboy and barked an order. “Coffee with Fernet,” he said.

“Times two,” his wife added.

The bellboy bowed deeply.

“Yes, yes,” Everett said, impatiently. “Just get on with it.”

The boy scurried away and the man turned back to Christina and lowered his glasses. His squinting eyes shifted to Jack and then back. Jack’s presence barely registered and what had, was filed as unimportant. “About dinner last night,” Everett drawled in a tired, insincere way.

“We found ourselves at the most wonderful party,” his wife chimed in. “We simply couldn’t pull ourselves away. It would have been so rude.”

Christina opened her mouth to speak, no doubt to remind them that not showing up for dinner was rude, but thought better of it. “Terribly,” she said instead.

The woman leaned forward conspiratorially. “You’re such a dear child.”

Christina’s face wrinkled in restrained irritation.

Everett offered Christina a false smile and hooked his wife by the arm. “Catch you later?” he asked, not bothering to wait for an answer before pulling his wife away and heading toward the dining room.

“Child,” Christina ground out, showing a bit of fire and temper. “She’s only seven years older than I am.”

“Weren’t they charming,” Jack said, winning a small laugh from Christina. “Who exactly are they?”

“Constance and Trevor Everett. Of the Everetts of Leeds,” she added meaningfully.

Jack shrugged. “Is that impressive?”

Christina smiled and shrugged. “They think so.”

Jack’s laugh was interrupted by a woman’s voice calling out near the front door.

“
Chud baulk!
”

Their attention, along with everyone else’s in the lobby was pulled toward the commotion. Two men carried a large crate suspended between two poles. The sea of people parted before them.

“
Taht! Byshwysh!
” the woman said again.

When the men stopped and put the large crate down, Jack could finally see her.

She took off her large brimmed hat and waved to the men. She was beautiful. Brown shoulder length hair, and a figure that even a men’s white shirt and boxy, tan riding skirt could not hide. Her boots clicked on the tile floor for a moment in the silence that had followed her entrance. She spoke to the two men in Arabic, giving orders and looking used to doing so.

The men picked up the crate again and she watched them go with a frown before turning toward Christina smiling.

“Diana,” Christina said. “I told you she’d be here.”

Christina hurried over to the woman and gripped her by the hand. Together, they walked back over to Jack. Diana eyed him up and down, and smiled, happy with what she saw. Jack returned the favor. This woman was going to be a challenge, he thought. A welcome one.

“Diana Trent, this is Jack Wells. The one I mentioned in the note.”

She stuck out her hand and Jack shook it. Firm grip, and soft hands. Of all of the Dianas he’d imagined, this was not one of them. A chaperone was a dowager. A plump, cross woman with an umbrella to whack young would-be suitors with. This woman was far from that.

“Miss Trent,” he said with one of his most disarming smiles.

She laughed, not quite making fun of him, but amused nonetheless, before turning to Christina. “I am sorry I’m late,” she said. “The men at the depot ‘misplaced’ my shipment. I had to spend the morning straightening it out. You can see what that led to.”

“It’s all right,” Christina said, fondly. She might be on the shy side with everyone else, but the girl definitely had a special affection and admiration for Diana.

Jack was inclined to feel the same way. She was beautiful, confident and did he mention beautiful? That was a combination he found hard to resist.

“I have a carriage out front, unless you’d like to walk,” Diana said with a wry smile.

Christina fought down her own smile and slipped her arm through Diana’s and started for the front door.

Jack stood watching them for a moment, before Diana looked over her shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?”

Jack grinned, put on his fedora and started after them.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

If you sat on the terrace at Shepheard’s Hotel long enough, you could see the world walk by. At least, that’s how the saying went. Judging from the endless parade of everything from men wearing stuffed crocodiles on their heads—for sale, of course—to boys leading tourists balanced precariously on the backs of small donkeys, Elizabeth was inclined to agree. From large pythons wrapped around men’s shoulders like feathered boas, to curiously dressed monkeys, the animal population was almost as diverse as the human one. Peddlers with every imaginable ware walked back and forth in front of Shepheard’s Hotel. Every time an unsuspecting guest left or arrived, they were besieged by offers of hats, fly-switches, picture frames and ostrich feathers.

Elizabeth sat back in her chair and enjoyed the spectacle as they waited for Whiteside to arrive. The large front terrace was elevated from the street by about six feet, so the guests could watch the pageant without being unduly bothered by it.

She sipped her tea, grateful for the caffeine. She and Simon had been awakened before dawn by the Muslim call to prayer. Some time around 5:00 a.m., the loud, undulating call roused them from a sound sleep. Simon rolled over, but Elizabeth padded over to the window. In the distance she could see the silhouette of a muezzin standing at the top of a minaret reciting the call to prayer to the sleeping city. She could almost make out the sound of others, just a bit farther away standing atop the many minarets that dotted the city’s skyline. It would take some getting used to, but considering the call came five times a day, she was sure it would seem a normal part of every day before long.

But for now, she was a little on the sleepy side and tried to hide her yawn behind her hand.

Simon smiled slyly. He’d done his part to keep her up late last night. She shook her head, amused, and he went back to reading his copy of the Egyptian Gazette, one of the two major English language newspapers available.

Elizabeth was just contemplating another cup of tea or maybe some Turkish coffee, or would that be Egyptian coffee here, when she saw Whiteside step out onto the terrace.

She waved and they met him at the top of the wide staircase leading down to the street. Whiteside gripped his cane as they headed down the stairs and into the gauntlet of hucksters, beggars and tradesmen. As soon as their feet hit the bottom stair, they were surrounded on all sides. Despite Simon’s barked commands and Whiteside’s pleas, the men were unrelenting, each shouting louder than the next to be heard over the din.

Elizabeth and Simon were shuffling their way through the crowd and toward a waiting carriage when she felt a hand slip into hers. She turned to look, expecting a child, only to find a baboon grinning up at her. She gasped in shock. At least she hoped that was a grin.

“What’s wrong?” Simon asked.

Elizabeth didn’t want to scare the animal and so she remained frozen in place, it’s hand lightly holding hers. It sat on its haunches grinning up at her, baring his teeth in a frightening smile. His owner said something in excited Arabic and gestured toward her. No doubt he wanted a baksheesh, a sort of gratuity, for the experience.

“Oh dear,” exclaimed Whiteside. “Filthy creatures.”

Simon was about to step forward when a voice rang out from the crowd. It was commanding and seemed to be berating the baboon owner, who gently pulled his animal away and disappeared into the throng. Elizabeth looked over to see her savior.

“Hassan!”

She stepped forward and hugged him, before realizing how inappropriate that was.

His broad grin was a welcome sight. “Mister Cross. Miss Elizabeth. It is good to see you both.”

Simon stuck out his hand and shook Hassan’s heartily. “It is good to see you, my friend.”

“We were worried about you,” Elizabeth said.

He tilted his head back and puffed out his chest. “I am Hassan.” He laughed and then nodded toward the carriage at the curb. “This is for you?”

“Yes, we’re off to the museum.”

Hassan nodded and then cut a swath through the crowd and helped Elizabeth up into the fancy carriage where Whiteside sat waiting for them.

“We’ll be back this afternoon,” Simon said.

“Hassan will be here,” he said and then rapped on the carriage signaling to the driver their readiness.

Elizabeth watched Hassan stand on the sidewalk and wave to them. When traffic from other carriages and horses blocked her view she sat back in her seat.

The broad avenue took them down past the Grand Continental hotel and Opera Square before they turned to the west and headed toward the Nile. The Egyptian Museum sat just along the eastern bank near the southern tip of Gezira Island and its famed sports club and botanical garden.

The museum itself was large and well stocked thanks to the Department of Antiquities and the international digs that gave up half of their proceeds to the museum.

They paid the five piastres admission fee, about a shilling, and enjoyed the expansive museum while Whiteside conducted his business. They strolled through the large rotunda and into the central atrium where colossal statues of Pharaohs Ramses II and III and Imhotep and their queens sat. Sarcophagi and large door-shaped steles rested in niches inside the main gallery. Smaller burial displays with canopic jars and ushabti lined the walls

They wandered from room to room filled with statues and parts of tomb walls and every sort of antiquity imaginable. Each focused on a particular dynasty or empire. If you traveled clockwise around the ground floor, you could travel from 3000 BC to 700 AD in just under an hour.

The upper floor held the smaller items including the mummies, jewelry and papyri. One room even had mummies of crocodiles, apes and jackals.

Elizabeth leaned in closer to the glass case that held King Merenre. It wasn’t the Boris Karloff type mummy at all. He’d been unwrapped and was only covered from chest to knees in some sort of gauzy material that looked unnervingly ghosty. His lower jaw was missing and his feet looked enormous next to his skinny desiccated legs. It hardly seemed a fitting end for a king.

“Can you imagine the parties?” Simon said at her side and then added, sensing her question, “The unwrapping parties.”

Victorians and their obsession with death. In addition to those “I wish I hadn’t Googled that” post-mortem portraits, Victorians loved to import mummies and have unwrapping parties. They might even give you a hand, literally, as a souvenir.

Elizabeth shuddered.

“Agreed,” Simon said. He checked his watch. “Time to meet Whiteside.”

Reluctantly, she allowed him to pull her away from the exhibit. She could have spent hours and hours in the museum, but this wasn’t a vacation. They went downstairs to the rotunda where they’d arranged to meet the Professor.

They found him standing near the front door talking to a tall, dark haired man in an impeccable and very expensive suit. He was handsome by any standards and a hot-damn by hers. Not that she noticed that sort of stuff. Whiteside waved them over.

“I was just finishing up with Henri here,” he said. “I hope we can come to agreeable terms.”

Henri bowed his head in acknowledgement to Simon and when his eyes shifted to Elizabeth, a smile lit his face. He waited patiently for an introduction.

“Your manners, Arthur,” Henri said in a sublime French accent.

“Oh, of course, head in the clouds,” Whiteside said. “Mr. and Mrs. Cross, may I present, Henri Jouvet.”

Henri ignored Simon and took Elizabeth’s hand and raised it to his lips. “
Enchanté
.”

Elizabeth barely repressed her giggle. He was so movie star suave, genuinely so, she felt like a schoolgirl. Her husband was less amused.

“Yes,” Simon said, his displeasure clear in his clipped tone, “Well…”

“The Crosses are friends of George Mason,” Whiteside said, oblivious to Simon’s crankiness.

“George?” Henri said, but it sounded like “Zhorzh.”