Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [9]
Karl Feder looked thoughtful. He wasn’t as familiar with Schmidt’s peculiarities as I was, but he had heard a thing or two. ‘Ah, I see. Well, my dear Vicky, do not worry. We will think of some way of preventing him.’
I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘You’re not to hurt him, Karl. No hit-and-run or broken legs.’
‘Would we do such a thing?’
‘You might not, but if I read Herr Burckhardt and his crowd aright, they wouldn’t hesitate. I’m not kidding, Karl. If you touch a hair of Schmidt’s moustache I’ll blow the whole deal wide open.’
‘I believe you,’ Karl said.
‘You damn well better. All right. If you can get Schmidt out of the way, I’ll do it. What happens next?’
‘We will handle all the arrangements. Your passport is in order, I assume? Good. Visa, tickets, and other necessary documents will be delivered to you within a few days. My secretary will make the appointments for you, but she cannot take the inoculations – hepatitis, typhoid, typhus – ’
‘Urck,’ I said. I hate shots. ‘Is all that necessary? I thought this was a luxury cruise.’
‘We cannot risk your falling ill,’ Karl said seriously. He took a thick manila envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to me. ‘I must ask you to sign a voucher acknowledging receipt of the money. We will supply a medical kit, camera, binoculars, and the like, but I assume a young lady will want to purchase her own clothing and other personal effects.’
It was a very thick envelope. Karl’s smile was very bland. I sighed. ‘We have already determined what you are, madam,’ I quoted. ‘All that is left is to determine your price.’
‘Bitte?’ said Karl.
‘Never mind.’
‘We will take care of everything,’ Karl repeated. ‘You need do nothing . . . Excuse me, what was it you said?’
He knew perfectly well what I had said. He prefers to believe a lady doesn’t use words like that.
I pushed my chair back and stood up. ‘Anything else?’
Karl reached into his pocket again. The object he withdrew was a slick, brightly coloured brochure. It had been folded once, lengthwise, to fit in his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it to me.
On the cover, under a tastefully designed title, was a photograph of the Sphinx, with the pyramids of Giza behind it. It was a gorgeous photo; the pyramids were a soft pale gold, the sky above them was a bright clear blue. The smile on the face of the Sphinx has been described in a number of ways – mysterious, enigmatic, contemplative. At that moment it seemed to me that it bore a distinct resemblance to the smug smirk on Karl Feder’s face.
V
Two weeks later I sat on a rock at Giza contemplating the real thing. I was trying to avoid the eyes of the Sphinx. It was still smirking.
The actuality wasn’t as attractive as the photograph. The photographer must have been a genius or a magician to eliminate other objects from his composition. There were lots of them, all more or less unattractive. Camels (they are not, at their best, handsome animals), tourists (ditto), guides and peddlers in dirty flapping robes, cheap souvenir shops, scaffolding and barbed wire and makeshift, ramshackle bits of fencing and construction. However, only a pedant would quibble about such minor flaws. The pyramids were wonderful. The Sphinx would have been magnificent, marred and scarred though it was, if it hadn’t been smirking. Was I enjoying the view? No, I was not.
My arms were swollen and sore from too many shots too close together, but that wasn’t what bothered me. The sun was beating down on my head and shoulders, but I didn’t mind that. My stomach felt slightly queasy, but it wasn’t from anything I had eaten.
Some distance away a small group of people had gathered round an individual who appeared to be lecturing to them. They were distinguished from the other groups that covered the plateau like hordes of locusts by the bags they had slung over their shoulders. Many of the tour groups presented their clients with such bags, so that the bright distinctive colours could help identify lost or wandering members of the group, but there were