Aaron Elkins: Dead men’s hearts

That glorious day had come two years ago, and by now Personal Ornamentation from the Time of Akhenaten was well on the way to completion, the photographs almost completed, the text more than half-done. With luck and perseverance, another year would do it. He had no doubt that it would be the making of his career, that it would get him out of this parched and backward country, out from under Haddon, and into a respectable academic post in the United States. Someplace civilized, with soft, moist summers and a little snow in the winter; someplace with clouds. Virginia or Maryland sounded nice.

But how unfortunate this news of a schedule change was. Arlo had been hearing rumors about some jewelry of interest in the storage cabinets at the el-Amarna Museum, and he had hoped to use the visit as a way of examining it for himself, but now “-for which I am relying on you, Arlo,” Haddon said out of the blue.

Arlo straightened up, scrambling for something to say. For all Haddon’s shabby faults, the older man still had the ability to tie his tongue in knots.

“I beg your pardon… I wasn’t…”

Haddon spoke with exaggerated patience. “I am relying on you, Arlo, to see to it that Forrest Freeman’s video production does not result in a distorted, typically sensationalized program in which Horizon House’s genuine accomplishments are trivialized or oversimplified to suit the television mentality. As a trained photographer yourself, you are in a position to work closely with them in the day-by-day editing-”

“But I don’t know anything about making a documentary. I don’t know anything about video. It’s a completely different field, as different as… as-”

“Nevertheless, I’m depending on you. We’re all depending on you, Arlo.”

“But-but even if I did know something about it, how in the world could I tell them what to do? I don’t have any authority-”

“Authority?” Haddon snatched the word out of the air as a frog might snatch a bug. “By which you mean the power to elicit compliance?”

“Well…”

“Well, now, Arlo,” Haddon said, and the pedantic, glossily genial overtones were unmistakable. A set piece was on the way. “It seems to me,” he said, crossing his legs more comfortably, “that there are essentially four types of authority…” Arlo slumped bleakly in his chair.

“… four types of authority. First there is the authority of com -pe-tence, in which one’s power to influence others derives from one’s knowledge and abilities. Second, there is the authority of con -fi-dence, achieved only when one has won the trust and reliance of one’s associates. Third, there is the authority of char -ac-ter, built on the strength of one’s personal integrity. And fourth-” Haddon’s lip curled, his voice dropped dismissively. “-there is the authority of po- si -tion, which has nothing to do with achievement or expertise, but derives solely from the perquisites of title and office, and evokes-at best-mere com- pli -ance. Ahem.”

What an absolute schmuck Haddon was, Jerry Baroff thought; not rancorously, but with something close to admiration. It was amazing, the old guy just never let you down. Every time you thought he might actually be going to say something different-something original, for example, or something nice about somebody else, or something responsive or even helpful-he managed to come up with another dose of the same old crap. Arlo, the poor fish, was getting Lecture Number 94, the one Haddon usually reserved for any staff member dumb enough to mention in his presence that he was having trouble getting the Egyptian antiquities authorities to go along on something or other.

And the old bugger was in prime form, especially considering that he was drunk as a skunk, or pretty well on the way. Only the windup remained now, the part where he leaned forward keenly and said: “Now tell me, young man, just which type of authority do you lack?”

Haddon leaned keenly forward, eyeing the cringing Arlo. “Now suppose you tell me,” he said with quivering beard, “just which kind of authority do you lack?”

For a man who prided himself on observing the vagaries of others with tolerance and detachment, on not letting people get under his skin, Jerry was ready to admit that he’d met his match in Clifford Haddon. Usually Haddon, who didn’t even pretend to take any interest in Jerry’s domain of library and collection administration, let him go his way in peace, but in the past few days he’d seen more of the director than in most months, and he was beginning to get a glimmer of why Tiffany, who had to deal with him every day, needed a neck massage about three nights a week and got that look on her face when his name came up. Still, if you looked at it right, you had to admit the guy was funny. Sometimes you just had to laugh out loud. Which, not intending to, he did.

Haddon turned to look sourly at him. “Something amuses you?”

Jerry raised his hands apologetically, one of them holding the pipe. “Sorry, Dr. Haddon, no offense. Something just struck me funny.” He shrugged amiably, grinned at Haddon, and stuck the pipe back in his mouth.

Dr. Haddon’s retort was interrupted by the appearance in the arched doorway of a wiry, dark-skinned man in turban and long, loose dirt-stained galabiya, who appeared to be in a state of mild, pleasurable excitement. This was in itself an extraordinary occurrence. It was one of Dr. Haddon’s rules that outside workers were not to enter the living quarters.

“What the devil-” he began.

“Moomy,” the man announced, and was silent.

“Moomy,” Dr. Haddon echoed after a moment. “What the devil is moomy?”

“Moomy,” the man said again. “In back.”

Dr. Haddon had no choice but to ask for help from Tiffany, the only one among them who knew more Arabic than was required to issue an instruction or hold a rudimentary conversation. She asked a brief question. The man replied volubly.

“He says he found a mummy while he was cleaning up,” Tiffany explained.

“A mummy?” Dr. Haddon exclaimed incredulously. “Here on the grounds? Impossible.”

Tiffany asked several more questions and received lengthy answers. “Apparently what he’s found is a skeleton, or at least some bones. He thinks they’re human.”

Dr. Haddon waved the idea away. “Absurd. Where?”

“In the old storage area behind the laundry.”

“The-what in heavens was he doing in there?” Dr. Haddon glowered at the man. “You! What were you doing in there?”

The man grinned and nodded. “Moomy, yes. No problem.”

“He said they were following your instructions, cleaning everything up for the moving pictures,” Tiffany said.

“Yes, of course, but I didn’t mean the old storage area, for God’s sake. Does he think they want to-oh, what difference does it make?” Haddon rubbed wearily at his eyes. “Go and see what he’s talking about, Tiffany. Nobody’s been back there for ages. It’s probably what’s left of some dog that got in.”

As Tiffany left with the Egyptian, Dr. Haddon turned to the others. “I’ll keep you from your beds for only a few minutes more,” he said, yawning. “Now, what was I saying-”

TJ escaped into the night with a sense of having made it just in time. Another thirty seconds of Clifford Haddon’s arch and simpering posturing, his petty meanness and insincerity, and she would have burst. Tell me, just what kind of authority do you lack!… Believe me, my dear, I’m more distressed about this than you are… Aaaargh.

She realized she was overbreathing-Haddon did that to her-and made herself take a deep breath and slacken her stride. “Slow down, Ragheb,” she said.

The Egyptian, who was leading the way over the dark, curving, hibiscus-scented paths with his powerful flashlight, obeyed.