In my opinion it had been pretty much uphill all the way. I accepted a bottle of water from Yusuf, or maybe it was Ahman. The liquid was warm as blood. I shaded my eyes and looked up—straight up. We were getting close to the base of the cliffs, which were for all intents and purposes perpendicular.
“I hope you don’t intend to climb those,” I said, gesturing. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
Feisal’s tight lips relaxed. “Sorry I was a little brusque back there. I don’t mind your asking, but I’m afraid any explanation would be meaningless without a map.”
Schmidt coughed. “We are not far from DB 320, is it not so?”
Feisal stared at him, and then let out an actual, genuine laugh. “Touché, Schmidt. Have a sandwich.”
“I am already doing so,” said Schmidt, who was already doing so. He had extracted one of the lunch boxes from the jealous hands of Ahman, or maybe it was Yusuf.
“Is DB 320 a tomb?” I asked.
“Right. They’re numbered, with each area having its own grouping. KV refers to the Valley of the Kings, DB to the Deir el Bahri region.”
Even Feisal seemed willing to rest for a while longer. Or maybe he was just reluctant to go on. The cliffs were full of tombs on various levels, not to mention crevices and natural holes. If Ali hadn’t disappeared of his own free will, there were only two possibilities: an accident, in which case he shouldn’t be too hard to locate; or foul play and subsequent concealment, in which case his body might be undiscovered for years.
Schmidt directed the boys to pass the lunch boxes around, and to help themselves. Nibbling on a very warm cheese sandwich, I looked out across the landscape. In the distance I could see the green strip of cultivation and a sunlit sparkle on the river beyond the green. Deir el Bahri was out of sight, concealed behind the curve of the cliffs.
“What’s that building?” I asked, indicating a structure some distance below. It was constructed of mud brick, the same color as the earth around it; only its rectangular outlines allowed me to make it out.
“Metropolitan House,” Feisal answered. “It was once the headquarters of the Metropolitan Museum team; they worked in this area for years. If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, Vicky, forget it. The place isn’t abandoned. It’s now being used by a Polish expedition.
“And that one?” I asked, indicating another low-slung building.
“It belongs to a British archaeological group, FEPEA. They usually come out in October for six months or so.”
“An admirable organization,” Schmidt declared. “I have been privileged to visit with them on several occasions. Their archives contain some remarkable material. It should be of particular interest to you, John.”
John had been uncharacteristically silent that morning. He remained so, staring at the distant outline of FEPEA headquarters with a remarkably vapid expression. I nudged him.
“Are you all right?”
“What?” He started. “Yes, certainly. Shouldn’t we get on with this?”
On we trudged, stopping more and more often to let Schmidt catch his breath. There wasn’t an inch of shade even at the base of the bigger boulders; the sun was high overhead. To be honest, I was losing interest in the whole business. How on earth could anyone hope to find one human body in this wilderness? Even the living were diminished by the towering cliffs.
Only once did something happen to shake me out of my fatalistic mood. Rounding a finger of cliff, we saw, projecting from the rubble ahead, an irregular dark shape. It moved slightly, like a feebly gesturing arm.
Feisal dived for the heap of debris and began digging with his bare hands. The rest of us stood frozen until he straightened up and held out a torn scrap of fabric.
“It’s from a woman’s robe,” he said, breathing hard. “Black. Faded.”
He and the two boys leveled the heap of rock, though a second glance had indicated it wasn’t high enough to have concealed a body. Some careless female had snagged her hem, and not recently. The fabric was so rotted, it tore at a touch.
“That’s it,” Feisal muttered, wiping his damp forehead with a damp handkerchief. “You three start back. I’ll catch you up.”
“We cannot abandon Feisal,” said Schmidt the indomitable. His face was red and his mustache hung limp with sweat. Even his giant hat hadn’t protected him entirely from sunlight reflected up from the surface. Guilt swamped me. I ought to have kept a closer eye on him.
“He’ll get along better without us,” John said. “I don’t think I can go any farther, Schmidt.”
He tried to look wan and wilted, which isn’t difficult for him. That air of aristocratic ennui serves him well.
Schmidt made clucking noises. “Ach, poor John. We will start back at once.”
He detached his compass and Feisal said, “You won’t need that, Schmidt, just head straight for FEPEA house and tell your driver to meet you there. He’ll know where it is.”
Schmidt started collecting his gear. Both boys denied any knowledge of the magnifying glass; while Schmidt was arguing with them I said softly to John, “Well done. You put on a good show of exhaustion.”
“It wasn’t a show.”
Feisal extracted Schmidt’s magnifying glass from one of the boys and went on with the boy—Yusuf—in the direction we had taken originally. He was out of sight almost immediately, behind an outthrust spur of rock. We started toward the river, accompanied by Ahman, the other boy, who carried a few remaining bottles of water and the last of the lunch boxes. It was downhill most of the way, but the sun was high overhead and by the time we reached our destination we were all drenched in sweat, except for Ahman, who was as brisk as a goat.
The compound, for such it proved to be, was on the edge of the cultivation. Palm trees and patches of greenery surrounded various structures which were presumably designed for storage and laboratory functions. The main house was a good-sized building, constructed of local mud brick that had been repeatedly patched and repaired, but the design was unusual for that part of the world. A veranda enclosed by screened arches stretched across the front of the house. John tried the door, which was also screened.
“It’s unlocked,” he said. “Let’s get out of the sun. Have a seat.”
The shade felt heavenly. The only pieces of furniture on the veranda were a wicker armchair with faded cushions and a rickety table. Empty pots of various sizes stood on the window ledge. Schmidt collapsed onto the chair and whipped out his cell phone. He hadn’t been able to reach his driver earlier. This time he succeeded.
“He was in the restroom,” he explained, supplying a tidbit of information I didn’t need to know. “He will come at once. Let us finish the lunch while we wait, eh?”
John perched on the wide window ledge. I joined him and looked around. “The caretaker hasn’t been doing his job,” I remarked, indicating the withered vines that had been trained to climb around the arches.
“He comes every week,” said Ahman.
It was the first time he had spoken English or given any indication that he understood the language. There’s a child among you taking notes, I thought, and scolded myself for falling victim to the unconscious superiority we feel for people of other cultures. I hoped I hadn’t said anything rude about him or his country or his relatives.