Elizabeth Peters - Laughter of Dead Kings

Ashraf tripped over John’s outthrust foot and fell flat.

“You’re welcome,” John said to Jan. “Go or stay, it’s all the same to me.”

Eyes bulging, Jan backed toward the door. John twisted a hand in Ashraf’s collar, pulled him upright, and slapped him smartly across the cheek.

The slap may not have been necessary; having one’s breath cut off has a tendency to decrease belligerence. Ashraf clawed at his collar and John chanted, “‘Vicious attack on critic by head of Supreme Council.’ Is that what you want to see in tomorrow’s newspapers, Ashraf?”

Jan turned and ran. He didn’t even stop long enough to brush the dust off his jacket.

“Let him go,” John said, keeping a firm grip on Ashraf.

“We’re doomed,” Feisal said hollowly. “Damn you, Johnny, you expected this.”

“Didn’t you?” John allowed a touch of exasperation to enter his voice. “Weren’t you listening to me? This is what Perlmutter wanted—publicity. He wouldn’t have dared walk in here today unless he had already taken steps to achieve it.”

“Then why the charade?” Feisal demanded. “Why did you and Schmidt waste all that time interrogating him when you knew he had already won?”

John lowered his eyes. His long lashes—one of his best features, as he knows—caught the light in a golden shimmer. “It was fun,” he said.

Schmidt chuckled. “We had him worried for a while.”

“He’s not worried now,” Feisal muttered. He hid his face in his hands. “We’re doomed.”

“Not necessarily,” John said.

The light of hope dawned, touchingly, on several faces. Ashraf’s was not one of them.

“What can we do?” he demanded, his tie askew and his hair ruffled. “The bastard is right, we can’t drive into the Valley and unload the pieces of Tutankhamon under the very noses of the press. Even if we could barricade the approach to the tomb and keep reporters at bay, someone would see what we were doing…Some enterprising pressman would bribe a guard to let him pass…One photograph would be enough.”

“You’re thinking,” John said approvingly. “Good. However, you are on the wrong track. It seems to me that there is only one way out of your little dilemma.”

There was room in the limo for all of us, though we had to squeeze up a bit because the seventh passenger occupied so much space. Ashraf had insisted on putting the boxes in proper order, in a single layer, so that we could keep them from being joggled. John sat on one side of them and Feisal on the other. I’d seen too many pictures of the naked mummy; it didn’t require much stretch of the imagination to picture it side by side with John and Feisal, like those grisly royal effigies at Saint Denis—you know the ones I mean, the king robed and crowned in worldly splendor lying next to a naked rotting corpse. “What I am now so you shall be.”

Ashraf’s first reaction to John’s idea had been a shout of incredulous, outraged laughter. Unperturbed, John went on.

“It’s about six hundred miles to Cairo. That limo of yours should be able to make it before dawn if we start right away.”

Half convinced, half aghast, Ashraf said, “And then what?”

“If you haven’t the authority to get into the museum before hours, no one has. Once he’s there, who is going to confess he hasn’t been there all along? And who would have the audacity to call you a liar if you say he has been?”

Feisal started to his feet and began pacing. “That’s right,” he said excitedly. “It would explain everything. The van was an official vehicle, sent by you—”

“To rescue the king from his insalubrious surroundings,” Schmidt broke in.

“As I demanded,” Saida added, her eyes sparkling.

“And as Ashraf had already decided was right and proper,” John said smoothly. “He intended it to be a delightful surprise for critics past and potential—and a nice little publicity stunt. Perlmutter has played right into your hands with his pathetic accusations. Let them burgeon and bloom. When you put Tut on public display, you’ll have every media outlet in the world begging for an interview, and Perlmutter will look like a jealous, spiteful fool.”

Ashraf’s face took on the dreamy expression of an unwilling dieter being presented with a large, thickly iced chocolate cake. “But how…Do you know how much those climate-controlled cases in the royal mummy room cost—how long it takes to construct one? We haven’t any extras. I can’t display Tutankhamon in a crude wooden box.”

“Move one of the other kings temporarily,” I suggested. “Thutmose the Third, maybe. He looks like a man with a sense of humor.”

My little touch of levity was ignored as it deserved to be. “It could work,” Feisal said.

“It is brilliant,” Saida declared. “It must work!”

We were under way in less than two hours. Ashraf dismissed his driver with plane fare back to Cairo. It wouldn’t be the first time he had taken a notion to drive himself. We collected our luggage from the hotel and Schmidt loaded the car with food and drink and a few other comforts I didn’t notice until I got in the vehicle. I don’t know how he smuggled blankets and pillows out without being seen, but I feel sure he left money to pay for them—probably more than they were worth. Infected by the general hubbub, I trotted back and forth without accomplishing very much; at one point I found myself heading for the lift carrying one shopping bag that contained my galabiya—an item which I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t need. The only person who didn’t join in the flurry of activity was, of course, John. Leaning against the limo, he made an occasional suggestion.

Ashraf settled himself behind the wheel, pulled on a pair of expensive leather driving gloves, and drew himself up like a ship’s captain on the poop deck, or wherever it is captains stand. Schmidt was in the front seat next to him, Saida and I in the tonneau with the boys, living and dead.

“Fasten your seat belts,” Ashraf intoned.

I added mentally, “We are about to take off.” Hastily I complied. Knowing Ashraf as I had come to, I figured we were in for a rough ride.

As we pulled away from the hotel, another vehicle swung in ahead of us—a dark unmarked car that, despite its lack of official markings, had the unmistakable look of an official vehicle. “What’s that?” I demanded, leaning forward. “I thought we wanted to avoid being conspicuous.”

“Ashraf always travels with an escort,” Feisal muttered.

“We need to get through the checkpoints without being delayed,” John said. “I presume you’ve called ahead?”

“Yes, yes,” said Schmidt, already on his cell phone. “They know we are coming.”

Everybody knew we were coming. The escorting vehicle began sounding its horn. Cops stopped traffic at intersections. Cars and carriages tried to pull to the side. Sometimes they succeeded, sometimes they didn’t. Our caravan swerved around them. At least I think it did. I didn’t hear any screams. I could hear Schmidt babbling away on his phone, and Ashraf commenting unfavorably on the skills of other drivers. I tried to close my eyes, but they wouldn’t stay shut. The columns of Luxor Temple were far behind us. Karnak’s pylons came into view and vanished. The approach to the Nile bridge whizzed by. Then we were out of Luxor and on the road northward.

Ten hours. Assuming nothing happened, like a flat tire or running out of gas or hitting a camel. I should probably explain to those who have never driven in Egypt that camels weren’t the only local hazard. The road from Luxor to Cairo is two lanes most of the way, and it isn’t well maintained. Potholes and ruts abound, trucks and buses do not yield the right of way. Possibly the greatest hazard is the Egyptian driver himself. If he wants to pass he does, even when there is another car coming straight at him. Usually there’s enough room on either side for the vehicles legitimately occupying their respective lanes to edge over far enough to let him through. Usually.