Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

And these, Smithback thought, were merely the hors d’oeuvres-the dinner was yet to come. He rubbed his hands together, savoring the splendid sight and looking about for his wife, Nora, whom he had hardly seen in the past week, and shivering slightly at the thought of other, more intimate pleasures to be enjoyed later, once this party-and this whole hectic and dreadful week-had finally come to a close.

He was contemplating which of the food tables to assault first when he felt an arm slip through his from behind.

“Nora!” He turned to embrace her. She was dressed in a sleek black gown, tastefully embroidered with silver thread. “You look ravishing!”

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” Nora reached up and smoothed his unrepentant cowlick, which promptly sprang up again, defying gravity. “My handsome overgrown boy.”

“My Egyptian queen. How’s your neck feeling, by the way?”

“It’s fine, and please stop asking.”

“This is amazing. Oh, God, what a spread.” Smithback looked around. “And to think-you’re the curator. This is your show.”

“I had nothing to do with the party.” She glanced over at the entrance to the Tomb of Senef, closed and draped with a red ribbon, waiting to be cut. “My show’s in there.”

A slim waiter came sweeping by, bearing a silver tray loaded with flutes of champagne, and Smithback snagged two as the man passed, handing one to Nora.

“To the Tomb of Senef,” he said.

They clinked glasses and drank.

“Let’s get some food before the crush,” said Nora. “I’ve only got a few minutes. At seven, I’ve got to say a few words, and then there’ll be other speeches, dinner, and the show. You won’t see much of me, Bill. I’m sorry.”

“Later, I’ll see more.”

As they approached the tables, Smithback noticed a tall, striking, mahogany-haired woman standing nearby, dressed incongruously in black slacks and a gray silk shirt, open at the neck, set off by a simple string of pearls. It was down-dressing in the extreme, and yet somehow she managed to pull it off, make it look classy, even elegant.

“This is the museum’s new Egyptologist,” said Nora, turning to the woman. “Viola Maskelene. This is my husband, Bill Smithback.”

Smithback was taken aback. “Viola Maskelene? The one who…?” He quickly recovered, extending his hand. “Very pleased to meet you.”

“Hullo,” the woman said in a cultured, faintly amused accent. “I’ve enjoyed working with Nora these past few days. What a museum!”

“Yes,” said Smithback. “Quite the noble pile. Viola, tell me…” Smithback could hardly restrain his curiosity. “How, er, did you happen to end up here in the museum?”

“It was a last-minute thing. With Adrian’s tragic death, the museum needed an Egyptologist right away, someone with expertise on the New Kingdom and the tombs in the Valley of the Kings. Hugo Menzies knew of my work, it seems, and suggested my name. I was delighted to take the job.”

Smithback was about to open his mouth to ask another question when he caught Nora casting him a warning look: now was not the time to start pumping her for information about the kidnapping. Still, he reflected, it was mighty strange that Maskelene was so suddenly back in New York-and at the museum, no less. All Smithback’s journalism bells were ringing: this was far too much a coincidence. It bore looking into… tomorrow.

“Quite a spread,” Viola said, turning to the food tables. “I’m starving. Shall we?”

“We shall,” said Smithback.

They elbowed up to the teeming tables, and Smithback, gently easing aside a meek curator, reached out and loaded up a plate with a good two ounces of caviar, a tall stack of blinis, and a dollop of crème fraîche. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw, with surprise, that Viola was heaping her plate with an even more unseemly amount of food, apparently as dismissive of decorum as he was.

She caught his eye, colored slightly, then winked. “Haven’t eaten since last night,” she said. “They’ve had me working nonstop.”

“Go right ahead!” Smithback said, scooping up a second mound of caviar, delighted to have a partner in crime.

A sudden burst of music came from the small orchestra at the end of the hall, and there was a smattering of applause as Hugo Menzies, magnificent in white tie and tails, mounted a podium next to the orchestra. A hush fell on the hall as his glittering blue eyes surveyed the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “I won’t inflict a long speech on you tonight, because we have far more interesting entertainment planned. Let me just read you an e-mail I received from the Count of Cahors, who made this all possible with his extraordinarily generous donation:

My dear Ladies and Gentlemen,

I am desolate not to join you in these festivities celebrating the reopening of the Tomb of Senef. I am an old man and can no longer travel. But I shall raise a glass to you and wish you a spectacular evening.

With kindest regards,

Le Comte Thierry de Cahors

A thunder of applause greeted this short missive from the reclusive count. When it died down, Menzies resumed.

“And now,” he said, “I have the pleasure of introducing to you the great soprano Antonella da Rimini as Aïda, joined by tenor Gilles de Montparnasse as Radamès, who will sing for you arias from the final scene of Aïda, ‘La fatal pietra sovra me si chiuse,’ which will be sung in English, for the benefit of those of you who do not speak Italian.”

More applause. An enormously fat woman, heavily painted and eyelined, and squeezed to bursting into a faux Egyptian costume, stepped onto the stage, followed by an equally large man in similar garb.

“Viola and I have to go,” Nora whispered to Smithback. “We’re on next.” She gave his hand a squeeze, then left with Viola Maskelene in tow, disappearing into the crowd.

Another round of applause shook the hall as the conductor mounted the stage. Smithback marveled at the enthusiasm of the guests-they had hardly had time to get lubricated. Glancing around while munching a blini, he was surprised at the number of notable faces: senators, captains of industry, movie stars, pillars of society, foreign dignitaries, and of course, the full spread of museum trustees and assorted bigwigs. If somebody nuked the joint, he reflected ghoulishly, the repercussions wouldn’t be just national-they’d be global.

The lights dimmed and the conductor raised his baton, the audience falling into silence. Then the orchestra began a dolorous motif as Radamès sang:

The fatal stone above has sealed my doom,

Here is my tomb! The light of day

I shall never see again… Nor shall I see Aïda.

Aïda, my love, where are you? May you live happily,

My hideous fate forever unknown!

But what is that sound? A slithering serpent? A ghoulish vision?

No! A dim human form I see.

By the gods! Aïda!

And now the diva sang out:

Yes, it is I.

Smithback, a confirmed opera-hater, made an effort to shut out the shrieking voice while he returned his attention to the loaded tables. Shouldering his way through the crowd, he took advantage of the temporary lull in the feeding frenzy to scoop up half a dozen oysters; on top of this, he laid two thick slabs cut from an ancient, moldy round of French cheese, added a stack of paper-thin slices of prosciutto and two slices of tongue. Balancing the tottery stack, he moved to the next table and snagged a second flute of champagne, asking the bartender to top it off for efficiency’s sake so he wouldn’t have to return as quickly for a refill. Then he made his way to one of the candlelit tables to enjoy his booty.

A free feed like this came only rarely, and Smithback was determined to make the most of it.