Star of Egypt (6 page)

“Are you busy? May I come in?”

“Just a second!” He dumped the pistol into a drawer alongside a Gideon bible and found his pants. He pulled a fresh white
shirt from the closet, and made a point of buttoning a single button, in the middle, after he had opened the door.

Shauna Ramsey definitely did not dress to impress conclaves of solemn archeologists. This morning, she was clad in a fetching
black skirt and bolero-vest combination, offset by an elegant golden blouse. One could get lost, Slayton thought, in all that
wonderful black hair.

“I’ve disturbed your bath,” she said as a courtesy.

“A welcome interruption, Doctor,” Slayton replied, treading carefully. “What’s on your mind?”

She appeared suddenly perturbed. “Well—you are involved with the security and safety of the exhibit.” She said it as though
she was not sure.

“Something the matter?”

“I’m not sure.” She moved over to the desk with liquid, graceful strides, and leaned back against it, folding her arms. At
last she said, “I think someone has been tampering with the crated artifacts. It’s rather nebulous right now—nothing I can
specifically put a finger on. But in case I do, I want you to know about it now, and perhaps help me to verify, or deny.”

“That does sound rather uncertain.”

“We were doing some inspections. Some things are not coming out of the packages the way we put them in. I cannot get more
concrete than that right now.” She bit her lip.

“I suggest that you show me precisely what is causing the suspicions. You wouldn’t be on the alert unless it was something
serious.” He paused, then looked at her directly. “Would you?”

“Well, I did also want to speak with you. I can give you the official Shauna Ramsey ten-pence primer on Egyptological artifacts.
You surprised Gordie, you know?”

“Professor Willis?”

“He’s so used to dealing with bumpkins. And I’m up to here, my very eyelids, in dealing with Arabs. You’re something of a
life preserver, if you know what I mean.”

“I love compliments,” Slayton smiled warmly back at her. “And you have all of mine. Tell you what: in exchange for your help
on the Seth-Olet end of things, I’ll give you the underground tour of America’s capital city. I’m not as sharp on this stuff
as Professor Willis may think.”

She was lightly abstracted, looking toward the floor. “I think you’ll do well with a quick cribbing session.” She was drawn
to his rumpled and sexy appearance.

“I’m known for being a quick study,” he submitted, sitting conversationally on the bed across from her.

“And I accept the underground tour.” She squinted at him in mock gravity. “Is it dangerous?”

“I, madam, am the only survivor of such outings.”

“Good. Danger is better than being bored to death.” Her tone spoke of midnight dips in cool lagoons and reckless driving on
hairpin highways. The magnetism Slayton had recognized on their first meeting was asserting itself as powerfully as ever.

But Slayton thought, business first. Business before. He secured his wayward shirt. “I presume you’ve breakfasted already?”

“In fact, I’ve not.” It was an enigma to Slayton how such women became scientists, when under the right circumstances everything
they said was a suggestion that was more than a bit wanton. Then, he realized the operative phrase was
under the right circumstances
. Given that, everybody was wanton!

“I’ve only got time for a quick cup of coffee,” he admitted, “but you’re welcome to share that. Our destinations aren’t exactly
unrelated, you know.” It was true; she had to get to work as well.

“Mr. Rademacher, I thought you’d never ask.”

Slayton found time for a quick and discreet check-in call to Winship, during which he recounted his certainty that they were
crossing swords with the real Rashid Haman. Winship surprised him by asking him to check in again that evening. “I think some
material will be logged in by then that might be of particular interest to you, as relates to Haman.”

Slayton neglected to mention the search of his car, or the attack. Everyone so far held potential. Even someone like Shauna
might be incriminated by the fact that her overtures to him were growing ever more overt.

Of course, it was also possible that she wished to make up for all the time she had invested in the company of the dead, inside
Seth-Olet’s
mast
ă
ba
in Egypt.

Slayton’s interviews with the newer members of Ahmed Sadi’s crew were generally a formality, and as such, were unsatisfying.
Ahmed insisted on lording over the proceedings like a pharoah’s condor, elaborately translating for Slayton. The man named
Bassam seemed sullen and hostile, in fact angered, by the indirect nature of Slayton’s questioning—a necessity, since he obviously
could not dive in, splashing accusations and the magic name of Rashid Haman all over the place at once.

Despite the events of the previous night, Slayton felt an itching, urgent need for action. Something had to break for him
soon.

“You are dissatisfied with Bassam, eh?” said Ahmed Sadi, from his corner of the ship’s mess.

“I didn’t say that,” said Slayton.

“You didn’t have to. I saw it in your eyes.” He got up and approached Slayton, now that the mess was empty, and spoke in an
undertone: “Whatever it is you are seeking, my friend, he will not be able to provide you with it. He is merely disgusted
with Egyptian politics—he got this job, signed on to get out of the country and away from the problem. He hates the tensions
in his country, but at the same time it is his homeland. Do you understand?”

Yes
, thought Slayton,
I understand that everyone seems to be incriminated equally but separately
.

“Besides,” Ahmed added in an offhanded fashion, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Bassam operate a forklift. But then, I don’t
think my men have anything against you, anyway.” He shrugged and followed Slayton out of the mess, talking as they went. Ahmed
was apparently going to great effort to do a Sancho Panza routine, trailing after Slayton like a squire after his knight.

Up on deck, he peeled away to supervise the crew. The trucks would arrive later in the afternoon, and they would begin loading
all over again for the convoy to Washington, D.C. Slayton paused, watching the activity from above, lording over the abstract
patterns of movement below, and trying to get spirit messages from it.

Ten to one the information Winship would hand over would be some type of verification. Verification he had already. Now that
Slayton had a reason to be alert, it seemed the activity lapsed into a tedious normalcy—which, of course, was the key. Rashid
Haman’s
crême
of specialties was the art of misdirection. Or, as American military brass had said of the California Japanese during the
World War II, “The very fact that there has been no sabotage is an ominous development.”

Slayton was stirred out of his reverie by a voice nearby.

“Hey! Whyever are you mooning about up here?” It was the indomitable Maggie Leiber, bundled cozily into a leather coat with
a lavish fur mane, which the breeze stirred lazily.

“I’ve been thinking that people are never who they seem to be,” said Slayton.

“Sounds like you might have had a run-in with our own dragon lady,” she said, pursing her lips as though she knew in advance
how the entire conversation would go.

“You mean Shauna?”

She nodded. “Um-hm.”

“You’re wrong, Maggie, but I’m flattered anyway.”

She hooked his arm in hers. “Walk me down the ramp. Heels can be treacherous sometimes.”

He acquiesced gladly. “And just what,
precisely,
” he said with theatrical emphasis, “is your role in this circus? Obviously you and Shauna are killing time until the opening.”

“Partially true,” she said. “I keep the schedules, make sure everyone is where they’re supposed to be, generally doing what
they’re supposed to be doing. I spent all of this morning doing that, and am in fact bound back for the hotel now to further
the cause.”

“You, a ramrod? But I thought you were a scientist.”

“Ah, but I am. My doctorate is strictly archeological, and it helps to know what you’re talking about with this bunch. But
that’s been the extent of it.”

“Why?”

Pointedly, Maggie said, “Because I am nowhere near the Egyptologist Shauna is, let alone Professor Willis.” The silence hung
for a few seconds, and she added, “But you don’t have the whole picture. You see, I’m perfectly satisfied with this thing
at this moment—it’s like a vacation for me. The pressures are normal pressures, not the stuffy emphasis on staying published,
on keeping one’s academic reputation spotless, and at the same time insuring that you remain in the academic limelight.

“You see, Mr. Rademacher, that kind of pressure kills the pure researchers, the scientists who are in it for the love of the
work, the ones you always see on television dressed in the out-of-style clothes. They almost discredit themselves. And one
of the reasons I’m working this tour is to act as a buffer between that kind of pressure and Professor Willis.”

“It seems to work,” said Slayton. “He doesn’t really notice anything outside the artifacts.” Again, he knew he was lying,
but now it was for the purpose of drawing Maggie out.

“He shouldn’t be concerned, and isn’t. So it’s working out, isn’t it?”

“What about Shauna?”

“Surely you’ve noticed how predatory this job has made her. She has good defense mechanisms, but her compensational ones leave
a lot to be desired.” She trailed off.

“Predatory?” Slayton knew what was coming.

“You mean she hasn’t put the make on you yet, Mr. Rademacher? Really.” Maggie rolled her eyes.

Near the mouth of the warehouse they stopped and Ben faced her. “And what about you,
Dr
. Leiber?”

“Well, you can only take conversation with the Professor, or with the Arab hoardes over there, so far.”

“Funny. That sounds like something Shauna would say.”

“We’ve been in
awfully
close quarters,” Maggie said.

“Perhaps you’re picking up her… um, compensational mechanisms?”

“That sounds like a—what do you call it?—a come-on all by itself, Mr. Rademacher.” She smiled, and her eyes literally sparkled.

“Could well be, Dr. Leiber,” he said. “I’ll see you both at dinner, then.”

“Oh, not at that dreadful hotel restaurant, though.”

“I think my operatives can produce a suitable local dive.”

He left her at the checkout point and headed toward the warehouse. As soon as she was out of sight, he decided there was really
nothing to be gained by another once-over of the place—he knew he would wind up staring at the broken piles of cinder blocks
and getting his ear talked off by Ahmed—and turned back toward the checkpoint. If he could catch Maggie, he could buzz her
back to the hotel himself.

The lot on the leeward side of the warehouse was deserted; there was only a scattering of parked cars, including Slayton’s
Triumph. It was almost time to check in with Ham Winship, at any rate.

Out of habit he paused while unlocking the door. No scratches. But the door panel, which he had made a point of buffing clean
when he parked earlier in the day, showed several dull fingerprints.

Slayton checked quickly around; apparently the driver’s side door had been the only thing touched. He entered the car from
the opposite side. Nothing. Once again he checked under the hood.

He saw it instantly.

A packet, wrapped in electrical tape, with a pair of black wires bleeding off to the starter and generator, connected by alligator
clips. The packet adhered to the wheel-well on a cushion of military adhesive gum.

His car had, in the parlance of the explosive trade, been “slapped”—that is, an explosive device designed for quick application
had been planted. Once under the hood, you slapped it on, connected the wires, closed the hood, and blended into the scenery.
Later, when your victim fired up the car, he blended into the scenery as well, but in a more direct fashion.

Slayton gingerly undamped the clips and jerked the packet loose, smelling its underside to verify the gum and ingredients.

God, what if he had seen Maggie—he might have ushered her into the car without checking, and blown them both to hell! He had
proceeded all day long with some unspecified imbalance nagging at him—perhaps this had been it. It was not the sort of gimmick
designed for secrecy. He now held it in his hands—intact evidence. Therefore, someone had intended he hurry to his car and
jump in, and that meant a phony imperative, to make him hurry.

One of the Sparta men stood across the lot waving his arms, trying to get Slayton’s attention.

Slayton fired the Triumph to life, did not explode, and tooled quickly over to where the guard was standing, cranking down
the window on the way.

“Yeah?”

“Sir, Professor Willis just phoned from the hotel and said that it was urgent you get over there right away.”

“He give any kind of reason?”

“No, sir. I thought I’d flag you in case that’s not where you were headed. But that was all he said. Urgent.”

“Wonderful,” Slayton deadpanned. “Thanks.”

“Mr. Rademacher, I have absolutely no idea what you mean. Whomsoever phoned the docks, I assure you it was not me.” Professor
Willis seemed insulted by the suggestion he might need to call for assistance.

Terrific. A planted bomb and a phony phone call to get him into the car with a pretense of urgency. He would have to question
the guard. How many of the men knew Willis’ voice? How many could slap his car in something under two minutes?

But it was clear, because of the packet now sitting harmless—relatively harmless—in his car, that he had gone from being a
nuisance to being a target. Perhaps he should just wire the charge to the driver’s side door the next time he left the car
in the docks. He might return to find his own target in pieces scattered all over the lot—considering the affection the stranger
showed for getting to Slayton via his automobile. Slayton, naturally, took it as a more personal form of affront. He loved
his cars.