Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [62]
The oldest man present, dark hair greasy and graying, stepped forward and thrust something under my nose. “Here it is,” he said.
I tore my eyes away from his face and glanced down into his hand. A gleam of gold shown through his fingers, and he opened his palm to reveal the most exquisite necklace I had ever seen. Lapis lazuli and brilliant red carnelian glowed against the gleam of gold metal work. He scooped up the pendant so that it draped heavily across both his hands, a stunning piece and obviously genuine. Even the clasp at the back was ornate and fine. Without thinking, I put out a finger to touch it and he snatched it back, holding it in his fist, high near his ear.
“The price has gone up,” he said unpleasantly.
I bet it had. Nothing else in here was half as good. I’d seen necklaces like this in the window of a fine jewelry store in Cairo, and the original or something very much like it in the Egyptian Museum.
“Okay, well thank you for letting me see it,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
I looked around again for a way out but I was still blocked. I chose the smallest of the four, a younger man whose eyes were on a level with my own, and gave him my best teacher stare. “Please move, I want to get by.”
He actually shifted half a step before a sharp command from Mr. Greasy with the necklace brought him back into position. I didn’t take my eyes off the young man’s face.
“I want to leave,” I said forcefully and walked right into him.
Give him credit, he wasn’t made to be a bully or a thug. He couldn’t scramble away from me fast enough, and I was almost out of the store before the man with the necklace caught up to me and grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. He thrust the necklace into my face, his fingers pressing painfully into my arm.
“You will give me fifty thousand pounds more. We have heard about what happened, and the deal has changed.”
“I don’t have fifty thousand pounds, and let go of my arm or I’ll scream.” Inside, I was already screaming, but I kept my voice steady.
He released me instantly, but thrust his face into mine. His breath smelled of tobacco and garlic.
“Maybe your sister has it then,” he said with an ugly look. “Mahmoud can go to bring her here. Then we can negotiate.”
Terror for Kyla raced through me like an electric shock. “No!” I almost shouted the word. “I don’t want your fucking necklace, and I’m leaving! Now!” I spoke as forcefully as I could, surprised and a little proud my voice did not squeak. I had never been so frightened.
He reached out a hand, and I filled my lungs in preparation for the scream of my life. But at that moment, a fifth man burst from behind the curtain in the back. “Enough!” he shouted.
He thrust himself in the middle of the group, a small old man with a forceful personality. He tore the necklace away from Mr. Greasy’s grasp and pushed it into my hands. “Here. Take it and go. The deal stands. I am sorry you were troubled.”
And before I knew it, I was back on the asphalt with the Egyptian sun streaming down over my shoulders clutching a very beautiful and obviously expensive necklace for which I’d paid not a pound. Behind me I could hear voices shouting at each other in Arabic. I thrust it into my purse and rushed back to the waiting carriages, half walking, half trotting as fast as I could. I kept expecting to hear shouts and running feet behind me. Shaking, I made it to the parking lot, spotted the white horse, and broke into a run.
Kyla was already waiting near our carriage, and the rest of the group who had been standing in a little knot in the parking lot began moving to locate their own carriages. Seeing the activity, our drivers, who were laughing