ELIZABETH PETERS was born and brought up in Illinois. She is a prolific and successful novelist with over fifty novels to her credit and is internationally renowned for her mystery stories. Mrs Peters lives in a historic farmhouse in Frederick, Maryland, with six cats and one dog.

Praise for Elizabeth Peters

‘A writer so popular that the library has to keep her books under lock and key.’

Washington Post Book World

‘Elizabeth Peters has always known how to romance us.’

New York Times Book Review

‘A real winner – the pages virtually turn themselves.’

Good Book Guide

‘I really do think Elizabeth Peters’ books are great entertainment.’

Angela Rippon

‘The perfect recipe for splendid entertainment!’

Maxim Jakubowski, Guardian

Also by Elizabeth Peters

The Amelia Peabody

murder mystery series:

(Titles listed in order)

Crocodile on the Sandbank

The Curse of the Pharaohs

The Mummy Case

Lion in the Valley

The Deeds of the Disturber

The Last Camel Died at Noon

The Snake, the Crocodile and the Dog

The Hippopotamus Pool

Seeing a Large Cat

The Ape Who Guards the Balance

The Falcon at the Portal

Thunder in the Sky

Lord of the Silent

The Golden One

Children of the Storm

Guardian of the Horizon

The Serpent on the Crown

Tomb of the Golden Bird

The Vicky Bliss

murder mystery series:

(Titles listed in order)

Borrower of the Night

Street of the Five Moons

Silhouette in Scarlet

Trojan Gold

Night Train to Memphis

Constable & Robinson Ltd

55-56 Russell Square

London WC1B 4HP

www.constablerobinson.com

First published in the USA by William Morrow,
an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, 2008

First published in the UK by Constable,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2008

Copyright © Elizabeth Peters, 2008, 2009

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-1-84529-901-9
eISBN: 978-1-78033-764-7

Printed and bound in the EU

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

to Roxie Walker

Foreword

Recently I discussed, with several mystery writer friends, the problem of what we sometimes call ‘the current now.’ One of my series is set in real time; the characters age appropriately with each passing year and with each volume. The Vicky series, and those of many of my friends, don’t work that way. Vicky made her first appearance in 1973. She was not yet thirty. The most recent volume was published in 1994, more than twenty years later, but Vicky had aged only a few years. She’s still in her early thirties, although the world in which she lives has changed a great deal. The Cold War has ended, the horror in Iraq is under way, the Internet has its tentacles into everybody’s lives, and people go around with mobile phones glued to their ears.

So how do we writers explain the inconsistencies and anachronisms? We don’t. We can’t. So please don’t bother writing to point them out to me, ignore them as I have, and place yourself in the ‘current now.’ To quote my friend Margaret Maron, to whom I owe that phrase and other excellent advice, ‘Isn’t it fun being God in our separate universes, where we can command the sun to stand still, and it does?’

Chapter One

I cover my ears, I close my eyes,
Still I hear your voice, and it’s tellin’ me lies . . .

My singing doesn’t inspire thousands of fans to emit screams of delight, but I was a trifle hurt when my dog jumped up with a howl and streaked for the stairs. Usually he likes my singing. He’s the only one who does like my singing. Otherwise his hearing is pretty good.

John was coming down the stairs. He halted Caesar’s headlong rush with a peremptory order – something I’ve never succeeded in doing – and sauntered towards me.

I hadn’t seen him for two weeks. My toes went numb. He was wearing a blue shirt that matched his eyes and those of the Siamese cat draped over his shoulder. One of his hands supported Clara’s front end, his long fingers as elegantly shaped as the small seal-brown paws they held. Clara had not cared much for John at first, but he had set out to win her feline heart (the alternative being bites and scratches) and he had succeeded, with the aid of frequent offerings of chicken. They looked sensational together. He looked sensational.

So I said grumpily, ‘Right on cue. Why can’t you come in the front door like normal people instead of climbing up to my bedroom window?’

‘It brings back such fond memories.’

Memories of the time when Interpol and a variety of competing crooks had been looking for him and the art treasures he had made off with. He was now a respectable antiquities dealer, if I could believe him. Which I probably shouldn’t. Tellin’ me lies had been one of his favourite activities.

I picked up the grubby wad of white yarn and the crochet hook precariously attached to it, which I had dropped onto my lap, and pretended to study it. Playing it cool, so as not to be beguiled by the winsome smile and melting blue eyes. Damn him, he hadn’t showed up for two damned weeks. London is less than two hours from Munich by air. I should know, I’d made the trip often enough. Thanks to an indulgent boss I could get away from my job at the museum more easily than John could get away from his antiques business. Or so he claimed. Tellin’ me lies?

‘So how’s business?’ I enquired.

No answer. A thud and a loud Siamese complaint made me look up. Clara was on her feet – at HIS feet, glaring at him, and John was . . . not glaring . . . staring at me with a look of glazed disbelief. No, not at me. At the misshapen object I held.

‘What is it?’ he croaked.

‘You needn’t be so rude,’ I said defensively. ‘It’s a baby cap. I’m not very good at crochet, but I’ll figure it out eventually.’

John staggered to the nearest chair and collapsed into it. He was white as a sheet, a lot whiter than the mangled little cap, which had suffered from Clara’s occasional attempts to play with it.

‘What the hell is the matter with you?’ I demanded. ‘Bob – you know, my brother Bob – his new wife is expecting her first and I thought it would be a nice gesture if I . . . if I . . .’

He let out a long gasp of air, and then it hit me. Like a punch in the solar plexus.

‘Aaah,’ I said. ‘Aha. Sometimes I am so slow. Is that what you thought? That is what you thought! Not only that I was about to become a mummy but that I – wait a minute, it’s coming, I’ll get it eventually – that I had got myself pregnant in order to trap you into unholy wedlock. And the very idea made you sick! You low-down rat! You son of a bitch! I’ll bet your mother has been hinting for months, “Watch out for that worthless trollop, she’ll try to – ”’

‘Vicky!’ His voice is usually a mellifluous tenor, but he can outshout me when he has to, and believe me, he had to. He jumped up and came towards me. I threw the baby cap, complete with crochet hook, at him. He ducked. The ball of yarn rolled off the couch and Clara went in pursuit. John grabbed me by the shoulders.

‘Stop yelling and listen to me.’

‘You did, didn’t you? Believe it.’

‘Believe what? That you’d be dim enough to pull an antiquated stunt like that one? Never in my wildest fantasies. But you must admit my initial impression was justified by the evidence available to me at the time.’

‘Stop talking like a lawyer. It wasn’t what you thought, it was your reaction. The very idea terrified you. You looked as if you were about to pass out.’

‘Yes.’

I was gearing up for a loud, satisfying fight, but that quiet-voiced confession took the wind out of my sails. The best I could come up with was a feeble ‘So you admit it.’

‘I may be all the things you called me and more, but I’m not so complacent as to be blind to the consequences of my own misdeeds. Bloody hell, Vicky, I’m terrified all the time! Admittedly I’m one of the world’s most flagrant cowards, but I’m also afraid for you. There are a lot of people in the big bad world who hate my guts and who harbour grudges.’ The words came spilling out, his face was flushed and his fingers bit into my skin. ‘When we agreed to be together, I tried to talk you out of it. I put you in danger simply by associating with you. But as you pointed out with considerable eloquence, you were an adult and it was your choice. You convinced me against my better judgement, and the few remaining shreds of my conscience. How do you suppose I felt, for one ghastly moment, when I thought there might be another hostage to fortune, a helpless, totally vulnerable, completely innocent potential victim of my various sins? The people I’m referring to wouldn’t feel the slightest compunction about using a child to get back at me – and you.’

I felt like a low-down rat.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mumbled. ‘I blew up without stopping to think. There are a few people who hold grudges against me, too.’

‘Quite a few.’ He managed to smile.

‘Well. It’s okay.’

‘I’m sorry. For . . . everything.’

I knew what he meant, and I didn’t dare go down that road, even in my own mind. I stood up, leaving him sitting with his hands limp in his lap, looking uncharacteristically helpless, and rescued the pitiful remnants of my attempt at domesticity from Clara. By the time I had untangled the yarn from under chairs and around legs of tables, John was at the cupboard mixing drinks. I didn’t blame him. Tossing the pathetic wad of yarn into a bin, I accepted the glass he handed me.

‘I’m sorry for what I said about your mother.’ At least I had run out of breath before I started calling her names. Jen and I would never be best friends, and in my not so humble opinion she was too possessive about her baby boy, but rudeness is rudeness, even when it’s true.

John shrugged. ‘She’s the reason I haven’t been in touch recently. No, it’s not what you think; I had to pop down to Cornwall and deal with a little emergency there. Someone broke into the house.’

‘How terrible,’ I exclaimed, with only a moderate amount of hypocrisy. I pitied the burglar who ran into Jen unless he was armed to the teeth.

‘She wasn’t hurt, or even frightened. You know her.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘She wasn’t aware a break-in had occurred until she took it into her head to do a spot of housework, and ventured into the attic.’

My first, and thus far last, visit to the family home had been a well-meaning attempt on John’s part to get his mother used to me, or at least the idea of me. John had once told me: ‘You wouldn’t like her. She wouldn’t like you either.’ But when I first met Jen, on what could be called neutral territory, I had found her mildly amusing and perfectly pleasant.

That was before she found out who I was – or rather, what I was – in relation to John.

When he suggested we spend a few days in Cornwall, giving Jen a chance to know me better, I thought, what the hell, why not give it a try? I did try, I really did. I even bought a dress. It was an inoffensive shade of green with a demure neckline and a skirt that reached to mid-calf. I put pink polish on my nails and bought a matching lipstick. I had my hair done. I looked, as John was unwise enough to remark, like an ingénue in a forties musical.

Bear in mind, if you please, that I didn’t regard Jen as a threat. I had realized early on that John’s feelings about his mother were a mixture of exasperation and tolerant affection. He’d go his own sweet way no matter what she said or thought. What I hadn’t realized was that Jen refused to accept that.

They say Americans are suckers for antiquity. I suppose we are; we don’t have many houses that are over three hundred years old. This one had all the right stuff – gateposts with shapeless heraldic beasts on top, heavy wrought-iron gates, a winding drive overhung by gloomy trees, a circular carriage drive. The house itself was like a caricature of a Gothic novel’s cover: the original, rather elegant stone facade, now smeared with lichen and thick with ivy, had inappropriate towers on either end and, of all things, crenellations. I wondered somewhat hysterically if there was an Ornamental Hermit lurking in the grounds.

It had been raining and drizzling all day; clouds hung low and dark over the house and fog twined around the towers. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Jen had ordered up the weather. The front door opened as we approached and there she stood, like the evil housekeeper in one of those novels: robed all in black, leaning on a black, silver-headed cane. I felt pretty sure the cane was a prop; she had been brisk as a cricket during that Egyptian cruise, and there hadn’t been a single long black robe in her wardrobe.

We had tea in the Small Drawing Room (you could hear the capital letters when Jen pronounced the words). I had expected it to be served by an Aged Retainer (sorry about the capitals, they are contagious). I suppose Jen couldn’t rake one up, but the maid wore an apron and a ruffly white cap pinned on top of her head. John sat there looking bland while Jen and I made conversation. I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing I let her do most of the talking. It was all about the distinguished family tree and general worth of the Tregarth family. She summed it up by remarking, ‘There has never been a dishonest or dishonourable Tregarth.’ I choked on my iced biscuit.

After tea Jen showed me round the entire place, making sure I realized that this wasn’t just a house, it was the Family Mansion, reeking with the sort of history and tradition a Colonial from the American corn belt could never appreciate. I knew what she was doing, and I didn’t appreciate it much, but as we paced along corridor after corridor and climbed stair after endless stair, my mounting annoyance had another cause. The place was an anachronism, a gigantic white elephant. I wouldn’t be in the business I’m in if I didn’t appreciate historical values, but one has to draw the line somewhere; in some cases the old has to make way for the new. This place was quaint but not unique, picturesque but useless for any practical purpose. It was costing John a small fortune to keep it from falling down around Jen’s ears. He had once remarked in a rare moment of pique that he’d have torn the house down and sold the land if it had not been for Jen.

‘The storerooms are in the attic, if you remember,’ John went on. ‘She got something of a shock when she saw what had been done – every box and chest opened, the contents strewn around. She rang up the local constable and got him out to inspect the wreckage. After she’d ranted at him for a while, he informed her there wasn’t much he could do. As far as she could tell nothing was missing – certainly nothing of any value, since nothing of value had been there. We don’t keep the family jewels in the attic.’

‘I didn’t know you had any family jewels.’

‘A metaphorical statement,’ John said, looking shifty. ‘The point is that there was nothing worth stealing. And no useful clues. She couldn’t even be sure when the break-in occurred.’

‘Still,’ I said, getting interested, ‘it’s frightening to find out that you are vulnerable to any casual intruder. How did the non-thief get in?’

‘My dear girl, you’ve seen the place; there are twenty doors and a hundred windows on the ground floor alone, and three separate sets of staircases. She’s a sound sleeper and her room is at the front of the house.’

‘Doesn’t that suggest that the intruder knew the layout of the house? He wouldn’t go tramping past the door of her room.’

‘Don’t get carried away, Sherlock. One can’t arrive at any sensible deductions from the evidence at hand. The most likely theory is that some local youth was dared by his friends to see whether he could get into the house and out again without being caught. Stupid, I know, but that’s youth for you. Jen is regarded as a mixture of lady of the manor and local witch. A challenge, in other words.’

He sipped his drink, and I said righteously, ‘That’s a very cavalier attitude for a dutiful son. She oughtn’t be there by herself, in that large isolated house.’

‘I’ve tried to persuade her to move to London,’ John said. ‘She won’t hear of it. Honestly, Vicky, she’s perfectly all right. We don’t breed serial killers in that part of the world, and any miserable sinner she might come across would be in more danger than she would. She takes her cane to bed with her. There’s a pound of lead under that silver head.’

I wandered to the window and looked out. Everything was grey – grey skies, grey streets, grey houses, little boxes all in a line, their flower beds and shrubs and other brave attempts at individuality dulled by the weather. I have to have a house and yard on account of my oversized Doberman, and this suburb, outside the city centre of Munich, was the best I could afford. It was okay. I spend my working hours surrounded by medieval and Renaissance art, I don’t need more of it at home.

The silence lengthened, broken only by the purring of Clara and the heavy breathing of Caesar. I said, without turning, ‘Something has happened, hasn’t it?’

‘I told you – ’

‘Not Jen. Something else.’

He started to stand up and let out a yelp as Clara dug her claws into him. I took the empty glass from his hand and refilled it. Another sign, if I had needed one. As a rule it took him a lot longer to get through a drink.

‘You overreacted,’ I said. ‘Okay, so did I, but not for the same reason. You wouldn’t have gone into panic mode if you hadn’t been recently, and forcibly, reminded that you are, as you put it, of interest to several unpleasant persons. Who’s after you now? What have you done?’

‘Nothing! Not a damned illegal thing. That’s the truth, believe it or not.’

I did believe it. Not because of the candid gaze of those cornflower-blue eyes – John could lie his way into heaven – but because of the note of indignation in his voice. Like that of a burglar who has been charged with breaking into a house when he has a perfect alibi because he was actually robbing a bank at the time.

‘Schmidt is coming for dinner,’ I said. ‘He’ll be thrilled to see you.’

The reaction wasn’t flagrant, just a blink and the tiniest of pauses before he replied. ‘How nice. I hope my unexpected presence won’t leave you short of food. I can run out to the shops if you like.’

Maybe I was imagining things. Whether or not, pursuing the subject wouldn’t get me any further. ‘He’s bringing food from his favourite deli. There’ll be enough for a regiment. You know Schmidt.’

‘Know and love. What’s the little rascal been up to lately?’

Actually, it had been several weeks since I’d set eyes on my boss. I had missed him. Herr Doktor Anton Z. Schmidt, director of the National Museum in Munich, is one of the top men in his field. What makes him so much fun to be around is that he has some decidedly nonacademic interests, from American country music, which he sings in an off-key baritone and a hideous accent, to his latest passion, Lord of the Rings collectibles. He has all the action figures, all the swords, Gimli’s axe, and the One Ring, which he wears on a chain around his fat neck. He also harbours the delusion that he is a great detective and that I am his loyal sidekick. Together, Schmidt is wont to declaim, we have solved many crimes and brought innumerable villains to justice. Allowing for Schmidt’s habit of exaggeration, there was some truth in the assertion. Despite my best efforts I had been unable to keep him out of several of my encounters with the criminal element – most of them, I should add, instigated by John.

‘He’s been on vacation,’ I said.

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. He was very mysterious about it – winks and chuckles and so on. He could have been anywhere – in New Zealand, single-handedly re-enacting the battle of the Pelennor Fields, or in Nashville at the Grand Ole Opry, or at the Spy Museum in Washington, you know how he is about spies.’

John said, ‘Mmm.’

Clara had decided to forgive him and was settled on his lap, shedding all over his elegant tweeds. Caesar was drooling on his knee, hoping for the titbits that in his experience often accompanied glasses of liquid.

‘When is Schmidt due?’ he asked.

‘Not for a few hours.’

‘Well, then . . .’ He dislodged Clara, claw by claw, and came towards me.

‘Oh, no,’ I said, backing up. ‘I refuse to be distracted.’

‘Is that the latest euphemism? Very ladylike.’ He scooped me up and started for the stairs. I’m almost as tall as he is, and although he is extremely fit he only made it halfway up the stairs before he had to stop. He put me down and collapsed onto the step next to me, panting, and we both started to laugh, and the need for distraction came over me like a tornado. It had been two long weeks.

John sat watching me while I bustled around the living room, plumping pillows and trying to scrape Clara’s hairs off the sofa cushions.

‘Why this sudden burst of domesticity?’ he asked. ‘Schmidt will sprinkle cigar ash and spill beer over everything as soon as he settles in.’

‘He’s bringing a guest.’

Another of those slight but meaningful pauses. ‘Oh? Who?’

‘He didn’t say. From the frequency of his chuckles I suspect it’s a lady. A female, anyway.’

I paused for a quick look in the mirror over the couch. Some of my guests have complained that it is a trifle high for them, but I’m almost six feet tall and whose mirror is it, anyway? Actually, I hate being tall. It’s okay if you want to be a fashion model or a basketball pro, but being tall and blonde and well-rounded (as I like to put it) can be detrimental to an academic career. Some people still cling to the delusion that a female-shaped female can’t possibly have a functioning brain.

I tucked a few loose strands of hair into the bun at the nape of my neck, checked to make sure my make-up was on straight and grimaced at my reflection. For whom was I primping, anyway? Schmidt’s postulated lady friend?

John glanced casually at his watch. ‘I think I’ll take Caesar out for a quick run before they arrive.’

‘It’s still raining.’

‘Misting. Normal weather where I come from.’

Moving with his deceptively casual stride, he almost made it to the door before I caught hold of him.

‘All right, that’s enough. Sit down in that chair and tell me what’s wrong.’

Caesar began barking indignantly. He’s not awfully bright but he was smart enough to put two and two together: somebody had been about to take him for a walk and somebody else had interfered. The sheer volume of his protest almost drowned out another sound. The doorbell.

‘That can’t be Schmidt yet,’ I exclaimed. ‘He’s never on time.’

The doorbell went on ringing. It sounded almost as frantic as Caesar. John put his head in his hands.

‘Too late,’ he moaned.

‘Who is it?’ I shouted over the cacophony. A longish list of dangerous names unrolled in my head. ‘Max? Blenkiron? Interpol? Scotland Yard?’

‘Worse,’ said John, in a voice of doom. ‘Shut up, Caesar.’

Caesar did. In the comparative silence the sound of the doorbell was replaced by rhythmic pounding. John got up and went to the door.

The forty-watt bulb in the porch illuminated the form of a man, his black hair shining with damp. Shadows obscured his features, but I saw enough to identify him. Relief left me limp.

‘Feisal? Is that you? Why didn’t John tell me you were coming?’ And why, I thought, was he so appalled at the idea of your coming? Feisal wasn’t an enemy, he was a friend, a really good friend, who had risked life, limb and reputation to keep me safe during our latest escapade in Egypt.

John caught Caesar by the collar and dragged him out of the way so that Feisal could come in. Now that I saw his face clearly I knew this was not a social call, a happy surprise for Vicky. He is a handsome guy, with those hawklike classic Arab features, long fuzzy eyelashes, and a complexion the colour of a café latte. Only now it was more latte than coffee, and the lines that framed his mouth looked as if they had been carved by a chisel. I didn’t ask any more questions. Why bother, I wasn’t getting answers anyway. Wordlessly I gestured Feisal to a chair.

‘I’d offer you a drink,’ I began, groping for a steadying cliché. ‘But you don’t. Drink. Alcohol.’

‘I do,’ said John, ‘thank God.’

He filled three glasses – vodka and tonic for me and for him and plain tonic for Feisal.

‘Start talking,’ he said curtly.

I stared at him. ‘You mean you don’t know what this is about either?’

‘No. Dire hints, hysterical groans, a demand that I meet him here – immediately, if not sooner. Talk fast, Feisal. Schmidt will be here before long.’

‘Schmidt!’ Galvanized, Feisal sprang to his feet. ‘Oh, Lord, no. Not Schmidt. Why didn’t you tell me he was coming? I’ve got to get out of here!’

‘I didn’t know until it was too late,’ John said. ‘You’ve got approximately three-quarters of an hour to put us in the picture and then make a run for it, or compose yourself and behave normally. If I’d been able I’d have headed you off, but alas, it was not to be. Do we want Vicky in on this?’

‘She’s in on it,’ I said, folding my arms in a decisive manner.

Feisal nodded gloomily. ‘May I smoke?’

I shoved an ashtray at him. ‘I thought you’d quit.’

‘I had. Until the day before yesterday.’

‘Get on with it,’ John said.

‘I’m going to tell you what happened, as it was told to me by the man on the spot. I wasn’t there. As Inspector of Antiquities for all of Upper Egypt I have a huge territory to cover, and I’m short on personnel, and – ’

‘We know all that,’ John said impatiently. ‘Don’t make excuses until you’ve told us what you’re accused of doing.’

Ali looked up at the sun, glanced at his watch for verification, and sighed. Over an hour before he and the other guards could kick the tourists out of the Valley of the Kings and go home. He unscrewed the top of his water bottle and drank. It was a day like any other day, hot and dusty and dry. The fabled burial ground of the great pharaohs of ancient Egypt held no charm for him; it was just a job, one he had had for more than ten years.

The mobs of visitors had diminished somewhat, but there were still hundreds of them crowding the pathways of the Valley, kicking up dust, chattering in a dozen languages. A group of Japanese visitors passed him, clustering round the flag held high by their guide. Like little chickens, Ali thought, scampering after the mother hen, afraid to leave her side. He didn’t know which was worse, the little chickens or the Germans, who kept wandering off and poking into places where they weren’t supposed to go, or the French, who went around with their hairy legs bare and their bodies indecently exposed. He didn’t hate any of them. He just didn’t like them much, any of them. At least the Americans tipped well. Better than the British, who haggled over every pound.

The tomb he guarded was locked, as it often was, but that hadn’t prevented people from trying to bribe him to let them in. One fat-faced American had offered him a hundred Egyptian pounds – two months’ pay for him, the price of an inexpensive dinner for the American. God knew he could have used the money. But it would have cost him his job to break the rules, especially with this tomb. It was too conspicuous, right on the main path, the most famous tomb in the Valley.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. The babble of voices faded; and then a sound brought him wide awake. He sat up and stared.

Coming towards him was a black SUV, horn blaring, warning pedestrians off the road. It had to be an official vehicle, no others were allowed in the Valley. It was followed by two other cars, and behind them was an object that made Ali’s eyes open even wider. It was as big as a tour bus, but it wasn’t a bus; it was a van, painted white and covered with writing in some language that definitely wasn’t Arabic. Memory stirred and Ali invoked his god. He’d seen a van like that before. What was it doing here now? Why hadn’t he been told?

The cavalcade pulled to a stop in front of the tomb. Men in black uniforms got out of the sedans and fanned out, forming a cordon around the entrance. The doors of the SUV opened. A man got out and strode briskly toward Ali. He was bearded and wore horn-rimmed glasses. Another, younger man followed him. He carried a worn briefcase.

‘You the fellow in charge?’ the older man barked. ‘Jump to it. Get that gate open. We haven’t much time.’

‘But,’ Ali stuttered. ‘But – ’

‘Oh, for God’s sake. Weren’t you notified we would be here?’

Ali’s blank stare was apparently answer enough; the man turned to his younger companion and said something in an undertone. Ali caught the words ‘typical Egyptian efficiency.’

‘Well, we’re here now,’ the bearded man went on. ‘I am Dr. Henry Manchester of the British Institute of Technoarchaeology. I presume you would like to see my authorization. Yes, yes, quite proper.’

He snapped his fingers. The younger man fumbled in his briefcase and pulled out a paper, which he handed to Manchester, who handed it to Ali. ‘I don’t suppose you read English, but you should recognize the signature.’

Ali prided himself on his knowledge of English but knew better than to express his resentment. The document looked impressive. The Supreme Council of Antiquities, Office of the Secretary General. It was signed by the Great Man himself. Not that Ali had ever received a letter from the Great Man, but he had met him once, just after his appointment to the post, when he made a tour of the major sites. Perhaps ‘met’ wasn’t the precise word; but the Great Man had nodded graciously in his general direction.

‘Yes, I see,’ he said slowly. ‘But I cannot – ’

‘Put in a call to the Supreme Council, then,’ the Englishman said impatiently. ‘Only make it fast.’

Oh, yes, Ali thought. Telephone the Supreme Council. This is Ali, you remember me, the guard from the Valley of the Kings. Put me through to Dr. Khifaya right away . . .

‘No,’ he said. ‘The paper is in order.’

‘I should think so. Now don’t delay me any longer, we were held up at the bridge and are short on time. Never mind the key, I have one.’

He pushed past Ali and went down the stairs.

From that point on things moved so fast Ali couldn’t have stopped them if he had wanted to. The back doors of the van opened. Inside was a bewildering medley of machinery – cables, tubes, shapes of plastic and metal. Several men in crisp white dungarees jumped out and followed the two Englishmen down the stairs. Ali looked around for help – advice – reassurance. A small crowd had gathered, tourists gaping and speculating, and several of his fellow guards, kept at a distance by the men in black uniforms. After a moment he went down the stairs and along the corridor into the tomb chamber. He let out a faint cry of protest when he saw that the glass covering the stone sarcophagus had been set aside. The white-garbed men were in the process of lifting the lid of the gilded coffin inside the big stone box. From the coffin base they removed a long, rigid platform covered by dusty fabric. Moving quickly but with care, the bearers manoeuvred their burden through the narrow space and out of the room.

By this time interest and curiosity had replaced Ali’s initial concern. Yes, it was like the last time. The van wasn’t the same – the other one had been larger – but from what he could tell, the equipment inside was similar. Only this time there were no journalists or television crews. He’d seen himself on television when they showed the programme – just a fleeting glimpse, but he’d bought a tape and played that part over and over. Maybe they had got it wrong the first time and had to come back and do it again? That made sense. They wouldn’t want to admit to a mistake, so they had arranged for this to be done without publicity and advance notice.

Finding himself alone in the burial chamber, he went back along the corridor and up the stairs. They had put the litter and its contents into the van and closed the doors. Machinery was humming and sputtering. There were beeping noises and people talking. He squatted down and lit a cigarette and waited and thought about . . . him. How did he like being dragged out of what he had hoped would be his final resting place, stared at by impious strangers, discussed as if he were a piece of wood? He had been an infidel, a pagan, but once he had been human and he had been faithful to his own gods in his time.

The sun was low above the cliffs when the doors at the back of the van opened again. The shrouded shape was lifted out and carried back into the tomb.

‘You have been very helpful,’ the Englishman said. He smiled for the first time, and Ali saw the glint of a gold tooth or filling. ‘I shall mention you to Dr. Khifaya. Here.’

Ali took the folded paper but he didn’t look at it until after the men had piled back into their vehicles and driven off. Then he unfolded the banknote. His lip curled. Ten miserable Egyptian pounds.

Englishmen.

I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Why the consternation? Nobody told you in advance, but maybe this was a sudden decision and they tried to get in touch with you and couldn’t because you were out in the desert or something. Or maybe . . .’

My voice trailed off. The two of them sat there staring fixedly at me. ‘Oh, Lord,’ I said.

‘She’s a little slow this evening,’ John explained, nodding at Feisal. ‘Be patient with her. What did you do after Ali informed you of the – er – visit?’

‘Went into the tomb.’ Feisal removed a crumpled white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘At first sight everything looked normal. But I had a feeling . . . One of those feelings. It was unlikely, verging on impossible, that I wouldn’t have been notified in advance. I’d have ordered Ali to leave, but I couldn’t lift the coffin lid by myself, it’s too heavy. We managed to shift it just enough to get a look inside. The poor devil is in pieces, you know, they’ve got the various parts laid out on a sand table, padded all round with cotton wool and covered with a sort of heavy blanket. At first glance it looked normal. But when I folded the blanket back from where his head was supposed to be, it wasn’t there. He was gone. Not so much as a stray bone left.’

‘King Tut?’ I gasped. ‘They stole King Tut?’