Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [24]
“What for?” Emerson demanded suspiciously.
In a tone of exaggerated patience, she replied, “To interview possible staff members, inform M. Lacau of our new arrangement, and ask his advice about another site. Unless you would prefer to go in my stead?”
Faced with several chores he detested plus abandoning his surveillance of Howard Carter, Emerson gave in without a struggle—as she had known he would.
Ramses managed to get a word alone with her after the Vandergelts had left. “You aren’t going to look at houses for us, are you?”
“I doubt there will be time,” she replied, studying her lists. “I don’t want to be away too long. Try to prevent your father from bullying Howard.”
“Yes, Mother. You’ve something else on your mental list, haven’t you?”
She looked up at him, her face grave. “We are still under surveillance.”
“I’ve been keeping an eye out. Haven’t seen anything suspicious.”
“But you have felt it. So have I. One develops certain instincts.”
“One does,” Ramses agreed. He couldn’t help asking the question. “Have you dreamed of Abdullah lately?”
“You’ve always scoffed at those dreams.”
“Now, Mother, I never have.”
Nor had he, not in so many words. When she first spoke of those unusual, vivid dreams of their former reis, he had been happy she believed in their reality, for they comforted her. Abdullah had sacrificed his life to save hers, but the bond between them had already been strong. She and the old Egyptian had come to care for each other in a way he would once have believed impossible, considering the differences in their backgrounds and beliefs. Gratitude and strong affection, the denial of loss, might reasonably account for her need to believe the people she had loved were not gone from her forever. He couldn’t say precisely when he had begun to share her faith in her dreams. Perhaps it was the sheer strength of her belief.
“I will certainly ask him about Sethos when next I see him,” she said, straight-faced. “Until I do I will have to rely on less reliable sources. I mean to call on Mr. Smith while I am in Cairo. He wouldn’t confide information in a telegram, but a face-to-face interview may be more productive.”
Ramses didn’t doubt that. She had her methods.
“Shall I give him your regards?” she asked.
She knew how he felt about Smith, who exemplified to him the faults of the intelligence services. They didn’t give a damn about how many lives they destroyed in the pursuit of their self-defined duty. He had hated every second of the time he spent working for them. “No,” he said.
I had a busy day in Cairo, one that taxed even my energy. I had not made an appointment with M. Lacau, but I did not anticipate any difficulty in seeing him, and so it proved. I think he was so relieved to find himself dealing with me instead of with Emerson that he would have agreed to anything I asked. But in fact, he and Emerson were on reasonably good terms these days. (Emerson could not be said to be on excellent terms with very many Egyptologists.) We had preserved for the Museum some of its greatest treasures, risking our own lives in the process, and Lacau was not ungrateful. He was a distinguished-looking man, with white hair and beard, so meticulous in his habits that people said he made lists of lists. (An excellent idea, in my opinion.) He bowed me into his office with the utmost courtesy, and for a while we chatted of generalities, including the director’s recent statement about the partage (division) of artifacts discovered by foreign expeditions.
“Some arrogant excavators behave as if the entire land of Egypt were their own personal preserve,” Lacau declared. His beard bristled. “I intend to tighten the laws so that the great majority of objects remain, as they should, in Egypt.”
“Emerson is in full agreement with you, sir,” I said truthfully. “You may count on his support. And mine, of course.”
After that, M. Lacau would have acceded to my slightest wish.
My next appointments were with the young persons I was considering as potential staff members. I had selected