Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [45]
The note I scribbled wasn’t very coherent, but I was pretty sure it would get the point across. I put it in the safe and ran back to the lobby.
The others were heading down the gangplank when I got there, but Feisal had waited for me.
‘Hamid said he had told you.’ His warm dark eyes searched my face.
‘Yes.’
‘He should not have. It has distressed you.’
‘Of course it has! What kind of monster do you think I am?’
‘I don’t think you are a monster. That is why I did not want Hamid to tell you.’ He put a supportive arm around my shoulders. I leaned against him for a moment, and his grip tightened as a violent tremor ran through me. He didn’t know I was shaking with rage, not distress.
‘There is no need to mention this unhappy business to the other passengers,’ Feisal said.
I nodded. ‘I’m all right, Feisal. Let’s go.’
‘Herr Schmidt is not yet here. He indicated his wish to accompany us.’
A wild hope dawned in my heart. ‘We can’t wait indefinitely. He’s probably fallen asleep.’
No such luck. Beaming all over his round pink face, burbling apologies, he emerged from the elevator, complete with pith helmet, sunglasses, bag, and a variety of objects that dangled from straps criss-crossing his torso. I identified a camera, a pair of binoculars, and a canteen among other, more arcane, impedimenta.
Fewer than half the passengers had taken advantage of the opportunity to visit the royal tomb. I was relieved to see that dear old Anna had declined; in fact, only the diehards, all of them relatively young and vigorous, were there. After considering the other options – Sweet and Bright, John and Mary, Louisa, swathed in veils and trying to look mysterious, the German couple from Hamburg, Alice and Perry – Schmidt seated himself next to Larry Blenkiron and greeted him like an old friend, which, as it turned out, he was – or at least an old acquaintance, which is the same thing by Schmidt’s standards. I wondered if there was anybody in the world of art and archaeology Schmidt didn’t know. Ed Whitehead politely moved over so I could sit on Larry’s other side. It was a touching demonstration of confidence, I thought – in my harmlessness, or in his ability to stop me if I attempted to assassinate his boss. I didn’t doubt he could.
We went rattling off across the empty plain, followed by the armed escort. The sun high overhead bleached all the colour from the sand; the only contrast was the brilliant blue of the sky above. The breeze of our movement felt like the blast from an oven.
Schmidt started reminiscing about the last time he and Larry had met, at a conference on preservation and restoration. From the stained glass of medieval cathedrals to the stones of the Colosseum, scarcely a monument in the world has escaped damage from fire and flood, pollution and traffic, and the mere presence of human beings. Larry, of course, was primarily interested in Egyptian monuments and he became more animated than I had ever seen him, his voice deepening with distress as he described the devastation of the tombs.
‘The plaster, and the paintings on it, are literally falling off the walls. There has been more damage done in the last twenty years than in the preceding four thousand.’
‘But it is a wonderful thing you have done,’ Schmidt exclaimed. ‘To restore the tomb paintings of Tetisheri – ’
‘It’s only one out of many.’
‘There is also Nefertari’s tomb.’
‘The Getty people have done a splendid job with Nefertari,’ Larry agreed. ‘But if the tomb is reopened, the same thing will happen again.’
‘Then you support the idea of constructing reproductions?’ Schmidt asked. ‘For the tourists to visit, while the original tombs are open only to scholars?’
‘Yes.’ Larry caught my eye and smiled deprecatingly. ‘It does smack of elitism, doesn’t it? Don’t admit anyone – except me!’ He shifted uncomfortably; the seats were hard. ‘It’s too late for the Amarna tombs,’ he went on regretfully. ‘There