William Johnston - The Spy Who Went Out to the Cold

“Yeah, box,” a third voice said.

“But can we trust them?” the first voice asked. “Under normal conditions, they might be honest as the day is long. But this is an extreme circumstance. They could be lying, saying they’re not rich.”

“Chief, look at it logically,” the second voice said. “If they were rich, what would they be doing on this ratty old houseboat, floating idly up the Nile? Only rich Americans do that.”

“And that’s another thing,” Max said. “We’re American citizens!”

“Bring ’em along,” the first voice said.

“Yeah, bring,” the third voice said.

The pirates hustled Max and 99 off the houseboat and took them through the darkness to their hideout, which, from the outside, looked like a huge pile of rocks, and, from the inside, looked like the interior of a tomb. In the beam of light, Max caught a glimpse of a number of mummy cases.

“It’s not your conventional hideout,” the first voice said. “But, in our business, it saves time. After we rub out our victims, we don’t have the bother of carting the bodies out to the cemetery. We just stuff them into these mummy cases. Then, in time, an archeologist comes along and discovers them and ships them off to a museum in New York or London or Paris or somewhere.”

“You mean they think they’re mummies?” Max said incredulously.

“You know the mummy of King Akim-Tut-Amen at the Metropolitan in New York?” the first voice replied. “Actually, that’s a Mr. Hiram Overholt, late of Omaha, Nebraska.”

“That’s terrible!” Max said.

“As a matter of fact, it was a break for old Overholt,” the voice replied. “He and his wife didn’t get along too well. And now she’s in London.”

“A mummy?”

“I doubt it,” the voice replied. “At least, she was childless when she left here. But now,” he said, “let’s talk about you. To whom shall we send the ransom telegram? Your bank? Your stock broker? Your lawyer? The Diners Club?”

“Yeah, Club?” the third voice said.

“You’re wasting your time,” 99 said. “We’re not-”

“Uh. . 99, just a minute,” Max interrupted. “I think we would be wise to cooperate with these gentlemen.” He addressed the bandits. “You can send the telegram to The Chief at Control in Washington, D.C.,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll take immediate action.”

“Doesn’t he have a name?” the first voice said. “Isn’t that a little odd?”

“What’s so odd about that?” 99 asked.

“Yes, Chief, what’s so odd about that?” the second voice asked.

“Yeah, what’s?” the third voice asked.

“Sorry I brought it up,” the first voice said. “Tie these two up with tape and stuff them into a couple of mummy cases,” he commanded his followers. “Then we’ll get that telegram off to what’s-his-name.”

Max and 99 were bound hand and foot with tape and then placed in a pair of empty cases. After that, the lids were closed.

“We’ll be back to rub you out as soon as we get an answer to the telegram,” the bandit leader advised them. “In the meantime, try to relax.”

“You fiends!” 99 cried.

“What kind of gratitude is that?” the second voice said, hurt. “Your body will probably get a free trip to New York, Paris or London out of this.”

“Let’s get going,” the leader said. “That telegram to the Chief won’t send itself.”

“With our luck, he’ll probably be away on vacation,” the second voice said.

The bandits could be heard departing. Then the tomb became quiet.

“Max. .” 99 whimpered.

“I know, 99, we’re in a very tough spot. I can’t see any possible way out of this. Unless, of course, the Chief has returned from vacation and he sends someone to rescue us when he gets that telegram. But how would our rescuer know where to look? The bandits probably won’t mention the location of their hideout in that telegram.”

“The mission is a total failure, Max.”

“I know. Von BOOM is probably wandering around out there in the desert again. If KAOS doesn’t find him first, he’ll undoubtedly die of thirst or hunger or exposure-or all three.”

“I wonder what happened to him, Max?”

“Didn’t I make that clear? He wandered off. Apparently, I said the wrong thing again.”

“But, Max, he was there when we went to sleep.”

“99, just forget it.”

“But, Max, I don’t understand. How could you have said the wrong thing? You weren’t awake.”

“99, please-it’s very embarrassing.”

“Max. . you mean. .”

“All right, now you know-I talk in my sleep, 99. I’ve been trying to cure myself of the habit for years. But nothing works.” He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I guess I’ll be cured of it now, though. I’ve never heard of a corpse talking in its sleep.”

“That’s what I like about you, Max. You always see the bright side.”

“Thank you, 99. I hope we both get sent to the same museum.”

“Max-I think I heard something! The bandits must be coming back!”

“That was quick. There must be a telegraph office right here in the tomb.”

“Maybe they phoned it in.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose that could explain it.”

A few seconds later, they heard voices-but not the voices of the bandits. The speakers had British accents.

“Desmond, we’ve been in here before,” the first voice said. “I recognize the surroundings. There-those mummy cases-they’re all vacant, remember?”

“I’d be the last chap in the world to dispute your word, Archie,” a second voice replied. “But the surroundings are totally unfamiliar to me. And how do you know that those cases are empty? They’re all closed.”

“Shall I prove it to you, dear boy?”

“I’d be much obliged, Archie.”

The lid of Max’s mummy case was lifted. Max found himself peering up into the faces of two middle-aged men who were dressed in khaki and wearing pith helmets. One had a drooping handle-bar mustache: The other did not.

“There you are, chap-vacant as dear old Mother Hubbard’s jam closet.”

“Archie, old boy, I’d be the last person in the world to dispute your word,” Desmond responded. “But isn’t that foreign-looking blighter in there a mummy? He has all the characteristics. The tape, you know. And that unhealthy complexion. I do believe he’s crumbling to dust.”

“For your information,” Max said, “I have a very healthy complexion. And I am not a mummy. At least, I hope I’m not. I was childless when I was put in here.”

Archie and Desmond exchanged looks.

“Fantastic,” Desmond said. “Perfect preservation. He must be thousands of years old, and yet he functions as well as the day he was placed in this case. Too bad we don’t savvy his tongue, eh, chap? What a story he must have to tell!”

“You idiots!” Max raged. “I’m not a mummy. I’m Agent 86. I’m a Control agent. Now, get me out of here!”

Again, Desmond and Archie exchanged looks.

“What do you make of it?” Desmond asked.

“Quite unbelievable, old boy. He claims to be a Control agent. Yet, Control is an American organization. And, thousands of years ago, America did not even exist.”

“Do you suppose he’s putting us on, Archie?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised, Des. He does have that foreign look, you know.”

“Max! Convince them!” 99 cried.

Desmond’s eyebrows shot up. “Jove! Did you hear that? It came from this other mummy case, didn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t that be a bit of too much, chap-two mummies in one day?” Archie replied. “No, I rather suspect that the truth of the matter is that this one-” He indicated Max. “-is a ventriloquist.”