Back at you, Vicky.
“When he’s good and ready,” I said. “Have some cheese.”
TEN
T he sun sank slowly in the west, as it is wont to do, the muezzins sang the praises of God, and still John had not returned. Feisal kept running out onto the balcony. I kept trying not to look at the door. Schmidt tried his best to distract Ashraf, but eventually he was reduced to mentioning dinner. Ashraf declined his invitation to join us.
“I have an appointment this evening. I will meet you at your office tomorrow at eight, Feisal.”
It was an order. Feisal acknowledged it with a surly nod, and Ashraf strode out. I collected the messages we had received and for want of anything better to do, began rereading them in the forlorn hope that we had missed something. The note from the unknown American female provided nothing new. I picked up the one from the French archaeologist and wrinkled my brow over it. My French isn’t as good as Schmidt’s. It took me a while to decipher the crabbed handwriting.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What’s this about Karnak? ‘I have received permission to enter the temple tonight after the Son et Lumière and hope that you will be able to join me.’”
“Ah, that is most interessant,” said Schmidt, perking up. “It is a rare privilege, seldom granted, to see the temple by moonlight.”
Feisal looked up from his frowning contemplation of the floor. “Rare is right. How did LeBlanc manage that?”
“He apologizes for not notifying you earlier,” I went on. “He only learned of the plan this morning. Feisal, who is in a position to arrange this?”
“Not me. Not without permission from a higher authority.”
“Ashraf?”
“I suppose so. What are you getting at?”
“I’m not sure.” I grabbed hold of my head with both hands, as if that would keep the wild ideas flooding into my brain from leaking out. “Let me think. Ashraf must have been the one who set this up. He invited LeBlanc, and maybe a few others. He didn’t invite us, though.”
“That was not kind of him,” Schmidt said, pouting. “It is a rare opportunity, a once-in-a-lifetime—”
“Exactly! So why didn’t he?”
Feisal opened his mouth. “Shut up,” I said distractedly. “Remember what I said before—that there had been no either/or in that message from the thieves? Something else was missing—a means of contact. They said they’d be in touch. Suppose they have been. Suppose that’s why Ashraf came to Luxor. To meet with one of them. At the temple of Karnak, late at night, when only a few people are around. But not us. He didn’t count on Schmidt’s wide circle of dear old friends. He doesn’t want us to be there.”
Feisal’s eyebrows wriggled. “Is paranoia rearing its ugly head?”
“Not raising its head, upstanding, yelling, and waving its arms. They have to make contact with him sooner or later. How else can they collect the ransom?”
Feisal said something under his breath. I turned on him. “What was that?”
“I said, wire transfer. You need to move up into the twenty-first century, Vicky.”
“Oh,” I said, momentarily deflated.
“No, she is right,” Schmidt declared. “He must confirm that he has received their message and will agree to their terms, nicht wahr? They would not give him a telephone number or a post restante, or any other address that could be traced. A personal meeting may be old-fashioned, but it is the safest way. When the actual exchange takes place, it will be carried out in the same manner.”
“Yes! And the ambience is perfect for the first meeting—dark and deserted, isolated—those vast spaces, huge statues and towering columns, people wandering romantically through the shadows—just enough people to make it look legitimate…” Feisal’s eyebrows continued to convey skepticism, but I had convinced myself. “If Ashraf were fool enough to bring along a squad of cops they would be spotted right away. He wouldn’t dare risk it, it would queer the deal and the next thing you know he’d get Tut’s head delivered to his door, and the price would go up.”
“Hmmm.” Feisal scratched his bristly chin. “Why didn’t he let us in on the program?”
I was pacing, waving my arms like Mr. Paranoia. It was all coming together. “Ego. The man’s an egomaniac. He thinks he can pull this off without us, take all the credit, maybe even persuade his contact to turn on his bosses and reach a private agreement. He doesn’t trust us. After all, what have we accomplished so far? Damn little. He gave us a chance, today, to prove we were making progress. We couldn’t because we still haven’t a clue.”
“Almost,” said Feisal slowly, “you convince me.”
“It can do no harm to proceed on that assumption,” Schmidt said, nodding at me. “We should certainly be present, if only for the experience.”
“And I’ll tell you who else will be present.” I was at full throttle, roaring along the track. “John. He read that note. He reached the same conclusion I—we—have. He skun out of here before Feisal and Ashraf arrived because he knew it would be more difficult to get away from four of us.”
“How can he gain entrance, though?” Schmidt asked. “LeBlanc said he will have told the guards to admit me and my party, so one must assume that only those on a select list will be allowed in.”
“There are ways,” Feisal said. “He could attend the Son et Lumière and not leave with the other viewers. There are plenty of places to hide. Or climb over the enclosure wall, or—”
“If anyone can find a way, John can,” I said. “So…we go?”
Feisal raised his shoulders in a shrug. “What have we to lose?”
I could think of several things. I refrained from enumerating them.
I t was obvious to me by then that wherever he might be, John had no intention of returning anytime soon, but Schmidt insisted on leaving a message at the desk telling him that we were having dinner at the hotel. Feisal appropriated John’s razor and certain items from his wardrobe, including a tie (regimental?), which was de rigueur in the restaurant. John hadn’t taken anything with him except his precious self, which might have suggested to a trusting soul that he had not left us in the lurch. It didn’t convince me. For all I knew, he might have a pied-à-terre and another wardrobe elsewhere in Luxor. Or he could be on a plane to Cairo, or Berlin, or Kathmandu.
We had time to kill (and Schmidt was paying), so we dallied over a five-course meal and drank a lot of wine. My initial enthusiasm had faded a bit and I began to wonder if I was on the wrong track. My scenario made perfectly good sense, but so do the plots of a lot of novels.
Schmidt, full of wine and sipping a brandy, had become a convert. He has a head like a rock, though, and it was he who brought up the unpleasant subject of possible pitfalls.
“We must make a plan,” he declared. “In case something goes amiss.”
“Something is sure to,” Feisal said morosely. He hadn’t had any wine.
“First,” said Schmidt, ignoring this, “we stick together, yes? We do not separate for any reason.”
“Fine so far,” I agreed. “Second?”
“We find Ashraf and follow him, but at a discreet distance, being sure he does not see us.”
Seemed to me we had already hit the first snag in the plan. Three people don’t lurk well, especially when Schmidt is one of the three.
“When he meets his contact,” Schmidt continued, “we stay at a distance, we do not interfere unless it appears that Ashraf may be in trouble. Then we follow the man he meets.”
“All of us?” I said dubiously.