brief, and other times, like tonight, it was a dull ache that no amount of aspirin could touch. All he could do was try to numb the sensation. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror that backed the bottles on display behind the bar, he saw a guy slumped on a stool, with a black patch over one eye, rocking a glass of scotch against his head, and it was clear why the stools on either side of him were conspicuously empty.
It had taken longer than he expected to get things cleaned up in the conservation wing, and once he had, he’d stopped by the hospital to check on the janitor. The nurse at the front desk told him that only immediate family were allowed to visit, but she didn’t look, or sound, sanguine about Wally’s prospects. That’s when the pounding in his head had started up again.
Benny Goodman was playing on the jukebox, and the lights were low. If he went home to Mrs. Caputo’s, she’d fuss over him, and Amy would try to read him her latest book report. All he wanted now was peace and solitude.
Which was why he was surprised, and not altogether pleased, when he heard the door open and close and sensed a woman had taken the stool just two seats over. He stared down into his glass as she ordered a Campari and soda, and only glanced up at the mirror again after the bartender had delivered it.
His gaze was met by a pair of dark eyes staring directly back at him. Startled, he looked down again. Christ, the last thing he needed was someone chatting him up, and, inevitably, asking him where he’d served in the war. But why, he wondered, did she look familiar?
Benny Goodman was replaced by Tommy Dorsey before he risked another glance at the mirror. Even as he did so, she was swiveling on her stool and saying, “Excuse me, but aren’t you Professor Athan?” It sure sounded like she already knew the answer.
He had to turn his head completely in order to see her with his good eye. She was a dark-haired beauty with a tawny complexion, wearing a crisp white blouse under a tweedy jacket.
“Yes.”
“Then allow me to introduce myself,” she said in an accent that bespoke Oxford or Cambridge. “My name is Simone Rashid.”
She stretched her hand across the empty stool, and he shook it. And now he did place her: she’d been at the art museum with the older man. “I’ve come a long way to meet you.”
A long way to meet him? “Why?” he said, genuinely perplexed.
“May I?” she said, moving to the stool beside him.
But this wasn’t really a question either, as she was already settling in.
“We’re in the same general field,” she said. “Antiquities.”
“I’m not a dealer,” he said, “if that’s what you mean. I’m just a professor—an associate professor at that—at the university.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But I’ve done a bit of research—that’s my forte, to be honest—and I see you’re also one of the leading lights in Greco-Roman art.”
“Are you a college recruiter?” he said, having met one or two in his time. “Because I’m perfectly happy here, and I have no plans to leave.” Not that the OSS would let him leave even if he wanted to.
“Hardly,” she said, taking a moment to sip her drink. “I work for the Egyptian Ministry of Culture. In Cairo.”
This was getting odder by the minute, though he caught the first glimmer of what it all might be about. He pictured the glyphs on the ossuary.
“I also know that you were assigned to the Cultural Recovery Commission.”
Now it was coming into even greater focus. But he would not, could not, give anything away, so he waited her out.
“And that you’re probably working for them still,” she said with a half smile. “How am I doing so far?”
“So far,” he conceded, “you haven’t struck out.”
“I don’t know exactly what that refers to,” she replied. “Baseball, I presume? But it sounds as if I’m on the right track.”
“What is it you want from me?” The throbbing in his head
It had taken longer than he expected to get things cleaned up in the conservation wing, and once he had, he’d stopped by the hospital to check on the janitor. The nurse at the front desk told him that only immediate family were allowed to visit, but she didn’t look, or sound, sanguine about Wally’s prospects. That’s when the pounding in his head had started up again.
Benny Goodman was playing on the jukebox, and the lights were low. If he went home to Mrs. Caputo’s, she’d fuss over him, and Amy would try to read him her latest book report. All he wanted now was peace and solitude.
Which was why he was surprised, and not altogether pleased, when he heard the door open and close and sensed a woman had taken the stool just two seats over. He stared down into his glass as she ordered a Campari and soda, and only glanced up at the mirror again after the bartender had delivered it.
His gaze was met by a pair of dark eyes staring directly back at him. Startled, he looked down again. Christ, the last thing he needed was someone chatting him up, and, inevitably, asking him where he’d served in the war. But why, he wondered, did she look familiar?
Benny Goodman was replaced by Tommy Dorsey before he risked another glance at the mirror. Even as he did so, she was swiveling on her stool and saying, “Excuse me, but aren’t you Professor Athan?” It sure sounded like she already knew the answer.
He had to turn his head completely in order to see her with his good eye. She was a dark-haired beauty with a tawny complexion, wearing a crisp white blouse under a tweedy jacket.
“Yes.”
“Then allow me to introduce myself,” she said in an accent that bespoke Oxford or Cambridge. “My name is Simone Rashid.”
She stretched her hand across the empty stool, and he shook it. And now he did place her: she’d been at the art museum with the older man. “I’ve come a long way to meet you.”
A long way to meet him? “Why?” he said, genuinely perplexed.
“May I?” she said, moving to the stool beside him.
But this wasn’t really a question either, as she was already settling in.
“We’re in the same general field,” she said. “Antiquities.”
“I’m not a dealer,” he said, “if that’s what you mean. I’m just a professor—an associate professor at that—at the university.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But I’ve done a bit of research—that’s my forte, to be honest—and I see you’re also one of the leading lights in Greco-Roman art.”
“Are you a college recruiter?” he said, having met one or two in his time. “Because I’m perfectly happy here, and I have no plans to leave.” Not that the OSS would let him leave even if he wanted to.
“Hardly,” she said, taking a moment to sip her drink. “I work for the Egyptian Ministry of Culture. In Cairo.”
This was getting odder by the minute, though he caught the first glimmer of what it all might be about. He pictured the glyphs on the ossuary.
“I also know that you were assigned to the Cultural Recovery Commission.”
Now it was coming into even greater focus. But he would not, could not, give anything away, so he waited her out.
“And that you’re probably working for them still,” she said with a half smile. “How am I doing so far?”
“So far,” he conceded, “you haven’t struck out.”
“I don’t know exactly what that refers to,” she replied. “Baseball, I presume? But it sounds as if I’m on the right track.”
“What is it you want from me?” The throbbing in his head
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