idiot.”
“If it’s any consolation, he didn’t look very happy.”
“He didn’t, did he? He’s finding out that being a museum big shot isn’t all rich donors and fine art. Hey—why don’t you check the Net and see if there are any stories about the siege of the museum?”
“Sure to be,” said John. “Every other piece of trivia is.”
Reuters and the German newspapers had stories, with lots of photographs, mostly of Khifaya. His good looks, his showmanship, and most of all that pith helmet had a visual impact as impressive as that of any celebrity. He spoke with eloquence and passion and an occasional winning touch of humor. I could have sworn there were tears in those big dark eyes when he appealed to the world for justice.
“You’re drooling,” John said nastily, and switched to what he referred to as the Egyptology blogs. They were full of Khifaya too. I pulled up a chair, shoved John over, and began reading some of the comments. Opinion was divided. Some thought Egypt’s claim should be honored, some had accepted the museum’s statement that the famous bust was too fragile to be moved. Then I got distracted by other items. They ranged from the soberly professional to the utterly loony. Debates raged about everything from the construction of theGreat Pyramid to the age of the Sphinx, and ignorance of the subject didn’t prevent people from voicing their ideas.
A word caught my eye and I stopped John as he was about to scroll down.
The word was “mummy.”
It took a few minutes to pick up the thread of the discussion, which had apparently been going on for a while. Somebody had found Queen Hatshepsut—again—and somebody else said no, it couldn’t be she, because she was another mummy in another tomb, identified only by a number that didn’t strike an immediate chord, and somebody else declared that mummy number two was Nefertiti or maybe her daughter.
“I could get hooked on this,” I said, fascinated. “Look at that sketch of mummy number two. She’s copied it straight off the Berlin head.”
“The world is full of fanatics,” said John. “At least they aren’t talking about—”
My cell phone rang. I snatched it up.
“I am here,” said a doleful voice. “Shall I come there?”
“No,” John said loudly.
“Schmidt, are you all right?” I said.
“No. I am in deep distress. I am coming—”
“Stay where you are.” John grabbed the phone. “The Savoy?”
“ Aber natürlich . I always stay at the Savoy when I am in London. I am well known here, and they—”
“We are coming to you,” I said, retrieving the phone. “Stay put, Schmidt. We’ll be there in half an hour.”
“ Sehr gut. I will buy you dinner.”
A long sigh followed. I hung up in the middle of it.
“You had better change,” John said, eyeing my jeans and T-shirt critically.
“Don’t they have a grill, or someplace less formal than the main dining room?”
“There is no informal dining spot at the Savoy. Change. And hurry. Schmidt isn’t known for his patience.”
He skinned off his jeans and shirt as he spoke. By the time I had located a pair of respectable pants and a top without a rude saying printed on it he was knotting his tie.
“The Royal Marines?” I asked, studying the pattern of stripes.
“First Gloucestershire Regiment.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“My dear girl, there is no law against wearing a regimental tie.” He began transferring various items from the jacket he had worn that day into the pockets of an elegant wool-and-silk navy blazer. The last item was the fake gun. Toy or not, it was heavy enough to make the pocket sag. He studied the effect in the mirror, frowned, and transferred the gun to an inside breast pocket.
“How about getting me one of those?” I asked.
“You move around too much. Try getting one of these through airport security and you will discover that nobody finds it amusing.”
The Savoy was one of the numerous
“If it’s any consolation, he didn’t look very happy.”
“He didn’t, did he? He’s finding out that being a museum big shot isn’t all rich donors and fine art. Hey—why don’t you check the Net and see if there are any stories about the siege of the museum?”
“Sure to be,” said John. “Every other piece of trivia is.”
Reuters and the German newspapers had stories, with lots of photographs, mostly of Khifaya. His good looks, his showmanship, and most of all that pith helmet had a visual impact as impressive as that of any celebrity. He spoke with eloquence and passion and an occasional winning touch of humor. I could have sworn there were tears in those big dark eyes when he appealed to the world for justice.
“You’re drooling,” John said nastily, and switched to what he referred to as the Egyptology blogs. They were full of Khifaya too. I pulled up a chair, shoved John over, and began reading some of the comments. Opinion was divided. Some thought Egypt’s claim should be honored, some had accepted the museum’s statement that the famous bust was too fragile to be moved. Then I got distracted by other items. They ranged from the soberly professional to the utterly loony. Debates raged about everything from the construction of theGreat Pyramid to the age of the Sphinx, and ignorance of the subject didn’t prevent people from voicing their ideas.
A word caught my eye and I stopped John as he was about to scroll down.
The word was “mummy.”
It took a few minutes to pick up the thread of the discussion, which had apparently been going on for a while. Somebody had found Queen Hatshepsut—again—and somebody else said no, it couldn’t be she, because she was another mummy in another tomb, identified only by a number that didn’t strike an immediate chord, and somebody else declared that mummy number two was Nefertiti or maybe her daughter.
“I could get hooked on this,” I said, fascinated. “Look at that sketch of mummy number two. She’s copied it straight off the Berlin head.”
“The world is full of fanatics,” said John. “At least they aren’t talking about—”
My cell phone rang. I snatched it up.
“I am here,” said a doleful voice. “Shall I come there?”
“No,” John said loudly.
“Schmidt, are you all right?” I said.
“No. I am in deep distress. I am coming—”
“Stay where you are.” John grabbed the phone. “The Savoy?”
“ Aber natürlich . I always stay at the Savoy when I am in London. I am well known here, and they—”
“We are coming to you,” I said, retrieving the phone. “Stay put, Schmidt. We’ll be there in half an hour.”
“ Sehr gut. I will buy you dinner.”
A long sigh followed. I hung up in the middle of it.
“You had better change,” John said, eyeing my jeans and T-shirt critically.
“Don’t they have a grill, or someplace less formal than the main dining room?”
“There is no informal dining spot at the Savoy. Change. And hurry. Schmidt isn’t known for his patience.”
He skinned off his jeans and shirt as he spoke. By the time I had located a pair of respectable pants and a top without a rude saying printed on it he was knotting his tie.
“The Royal Marines?” I asked, studying the pattern of stripes.
“First Gloucestershire Regiment.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“My dear girl, there is no law against wearing a regimental tie.” He began transferring various items from the jacket he had worn that day into the pockets of an elegant wool-and-silk navy blazer. The last item was the fake gun. Toy or not, it was heavy enough to make the pocket sag. He studied the effect in the mirror, frowned, and transferred the gun to an inside breast pocket.
“How about getting me one of those?” I asked.
“You move around too much. Try getting one of these through airport security and you will discover that nobody finds it amusing.”
The Savoy was one of the numerous
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