Elizabeth Peters: Laughter of Dead Kings

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.

Idon’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?”

TWO

John’s only reaction was a lifted eyebrow. He’d seen it coming. I had a feeling that he wished he’d thought of it himself.

“But why?” I asked. “Why on earth would anyone want a beat-up, dried-up old corpse?”

“We’ll get to that in due course,” John said. “First things first. Who else knows about this, Feisal?”

“Who knows he’s missing, you mean? Only Ali and I. We managed to get everything back in place. Actually, I can’t swear that his legs weren’t still there, we couldn’t reach down that far, but…”

“Ick,” I said.

“It’s a safe assumption that if they took the rest they’d have made a clean sweep,” John said. “They had plenty of time. Will Ali keep his mouth shut?”

Feisal laughed bitterly. “Damn right he will. He’ll lose his job for sure and probably end up in prison. In the cell next to mine.”

“Come on now,” I protested. “It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t even there.”

“The Supreme Council will want a scapegoat, and it happened in my jurisdiction. My God, Vicky, Tutankhamon is a symbol, a legend, a unique historical treasure. The media will go crazy. There will be jokes on late-night talk shows and criticism from every museum and institution in the world, and they’ll all say Egypt has a hell of a nerve asking us to give its antiquities back when it lets a bunch of crooks walk off with the most famous pharaoh in history.”

“Hmmm.” John rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid you’re right. It would definitely embarrass the government.”

“Embarrass!” Feisal flung up his hands. “Embarrass is when you spill a drink into the ambassador’s wife’s lap. This is shame, disgrace, heads rolling right and left. But if I could get him back…” He turned to John; his long, flexible hands went out in a gesture of appeal.

Him, not it, I thought. He kept talking about that battered mummy as if it were alive. Well, but it—he—had been alive, once upon a time. Not an inanimate object like a coffin or a statue, an actual, living human being, a king, incredibly preserved for an incredible length of time. I began to get a glimmering of why Feisal was so frantic. Imagine someone making off with the bones of George Washington. And he’d only been dead two hundred years.

“We’ll help if we can,” I said, wondering how.

“You aren’t keeping up, Vicky,” John said. He leaned back and crossed his ankles, the picture of ease. “You think I was responsible, Feisal. That’s why you dashed over here, to ask me to give it—”

“Him.”

“Sorry. Him back.”

“Please?”

“For Pete’s sake, Feisal,” I said. “That’s crazy.”

“Not really,” John said pensively. “It’s the sort of thing I might have done in my younger and giddier days, for the sake of the challenge. The operation was well planned. They chose a time when you’d be elsewhere, waited till late in the day when the guards would be tired and anxious to leave, moved fast and with arrogant authority. Your friend Ali was in no position to stop them. It’s probably lucky for him he didn’t try. I don’t like the sound of those chaps in the black uniforms.” John brooded, thinking it over. “A setup familiar to Ali from a previous occasion: proper documentation—even a key to the tomb. A copy of that wouldn’t be difficult to obtain. He couldn’t confirm, you were out of cell-phone reach even if he had had access to one, and he’d never have got through to the Supreme Council. The equipment was fake, of course. Ali wouldn’t know the difference, any more than I would, so long as it looked impressive. They shoved it—er, him—into the van, moved him off the sand tray into another sort of container, sat around for half an hour making interesting technical noises—laughing their heads off, I don’t doubt—and then took the empty tray back in. Or maybe…Maybe they had a duplicate of the tray ready. That way they wouldn’t have to move those fragile bones. Yes, that’s how I would have done it. Only…” He leaned forward, hands clasped and eyes intent on his friend. “Only I didn’t, Feisal. Aside from the fact that I wouldn’t pull a filthy stunt like that on you, I was in London and I can prove it.”

A knot under my breastbone loosened. I hadn’t believed it—not really—but I hadn’t laid eyes on him for two weeks, and the modus operandi, as we sleuths say, was reminiscent of some of his deals.

“Your gang,” Feisal began, only half convinced.

“I don’t have a bloody gang! Gangs are composed primarily of extremely stupid, dishonest individuals who are for sale to the highest bidder. I learned from painful experience I couldn’t trust anyone except myself. That’s why I—”

“John,” I said sharply.

“Oh, right.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to know a lot more about this, but as Vicky so rightly reminded me, we’re running out of time. Can you be the charming, debonair guest with Schmidt and his girlfriend? He mustn’t get wind of this.”

“Allah forbid that he should,” Feisal said. He looked a little more…well, no, not more cheerful. A little less haggard. “I’d better go. Schmidt has an unfortunate effect on my nerves, which are already shaky. Call me after he’s left.”

“Where are you staying?” I asked.

Feisal looked blank. “I don’t know. I came straight from the airport.”

From the street outside came the familiar squeal of abused tires. I knew that sound. “Oh, my God, it’s Schmidt,” I exclaimed. “He’s early. What are we going to do?”

Thoroughly rattled, Feisal bolted for the door. Caesar followed, barking helpfully.

“Upstairs,” John ordered. “Second door on the right.”

Feisal didn’t stop moving, he spun in a circle and ran toward the stairs. John picked up his briefcase and thrust it at him. “Lock the door. We’ll tell you when the coast is clear. And don’t make a noise!”

Feisal stopped halfway up the stairs. “What if I have to—”

“Improvise,” said John through his teeth. The doorbell rang. Caesar barked. Feisal let out a faint scream and fled.

“Deep breath, Vicky,” John said. “Once more into the breach, dear friends. Into the mouth of death, into the jaws of hell…Or is it the other way round? I’ll get the door, shall I?”