Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 03 - Cairo Caper (6 page)

“Turn it off and put it back in your purse before someone comes in.”

“You did lock the door, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” he said. “I don’t know why I said that anyway. Who’s going to barge in?”

What a maroon. Hadn’t we spent most of the day fleeing assassins? And then there was the ever-charming Darcy. Did she go back to her camels or was she using her silicone boobs to float alongside of our boat waiting to board and jump me?

A slight rap and the door blew open. It was Fiona.

I struggled with the bed sheet as I covered my naked body.

“Sorry to bother you but… Oh my…” She stared at Roger’s penis, her eyebrows joining like a fuzzy caterpillar.

My bumbling lover-boy scrunched up his face, grabbed a towel, and turned away.

“No need to hurry on my account,” Fiona said and then blushed. “I need a…” She glanced at the bed. “Oh never mind. I’ll take this one.” She grabbed the MUDD tampon and sped out the door. I raced after her and brought her down in the corridor with a flying tackle. Her pith helmet flew off her head and landed on mine.

I yanked the MUDD from her hand.

“Last one, huh? I’m desperate, too,” she said.

“This is medicated.”

She scrambled out from under me. “Fine. Be that way.” She got up, snatched her pith helmet off my head, and flounced the two steps to her cabin door.

I stood in the passageway trying to process what happened. Had I really attacked another woman over a radioactive tampon? This tomb raiding was even weirder and more cutthroat than selling Miami real estate.

Turning I bumped into Roger making his way down the corridor. He was wearing one of our white robes with a hood flopping from the back.

“Like your birthday suit!” he said.

“Yikes! It had slipped my mind. I was naked as a volleyball player at a nudist colony. I put my hand over my hoohah and my forearm across my boobs in the classic naked-woman-caught-in-the-headlights pose. I spun a three-sixty. The passageway was empty. Sweet relief. I tried to push past Roger. “Let me by.”

He playfully blocked my way. “I’m going to grab us something to eat. You’ll need the energy.” He touched the tip of my nose with his finger then gently tweaked my nipple. “Be right back. Lock the door.”

Scooting around him, I dashed into our cabin, and closed the door with a reassuring click. I tucked the Multi-phasic Unidirectional Density Diviner in my purse, and hid the bag under the bed. I pulled back the coverlet and checked the sheet for stains and spiders. It was pretty clean considering it was an old sailing boat with no maid service.

Roger’s shorts and T-shirt hung from the shower rod. I rinsed my duds in the sink and draped them next to his, feeling like half of a grimy old married couple.

Three raps on the door. I opened to a grinning archaeologist bearing a tray in his hands. Two warm bottles of Egyptian beer and two sandwiches of undeterminable greens and grays, and a tiny bag of chips. “This will hold us through the night. We’ll have breakfast in Alexandria.”

Chapter Nine

We sat crossed-legged on the bed and ate in silence. I moved the ashtray on the nightstand and placed my beer within easy reach. The butt-holder reminded me that I had killed a man today. I didn’t feel bad about it and that worried me. Of course I didn’t intend to kill him. I was trying to stop him from killing Roger. But still, shouldn’t I feel something? Was I becoming hardened? Real estate brokers are not licensed to kill even in extreme circumstances. I thought about some of my former clients. Maybe there should be a special section of agents whose licenses start with double-oh.

I lifted the beer and took a swig.

Roger had filled me in on everything about his meeting with Sir Sydney except where Dorkovsky fit in.

“What’s up with that dork, Dorkovsky?”

“Try not to get on his bad side. He’s an oligarch.”

Unfortunately, I was familiar with Russian oligarchs. I sold Miami Beach mansions to a couple of them.

They aren’t political oligarchs running a country as you might recall from your high school civics class when you weren’t falling asleep. It’s a term for businessmen who took over faltering Russian government-run enterprises when the Soviet Bloc collapsed and became ruthless billionaires. Many of them are former KGB or Communist party bosses with connections to the Russian mafia. They have more money than they can spend on mega-yachts and the like so they become patrons, then collectors just for the sake of collecting.

“From the warm welcome he gave you, it seems you’re already on his bad side.”

“He hires looters to plunder burial sites for his private collection. He’s the kind of guy who’ll buy a stolen Rembrandt just to possess it even though he’ll never be able to show it. I’m his opposite number, trying to find and protect historical treasures.”

“Why is he so chummy with Sir Sydney?”

“Sydney might be humoring him. The guy doles out big bucks to places like the Museum. But Dorkovsky is smarter than Sydney and it’s too much of a coincidence for him to show up the day Sydney gives me the medallion piece. My guess is Dorkovsky got wind of my agreement with Sydney through spies or electronic surveillance and is here to follow the medallion until we find Cleopatra’s half. Dorkovsky’s latest passion is black archaeology.”

“Don’t you mean black market archaeology?”

“No. Black archaeology is the looting of archaeological sites,
not
the selling of the relics. They hoard what they find.”

He ducked into the bathroom.

“And you would be a white archaeologist?” Roger’s tight rump reflected in the bathroom mirror as he washed his hands.

“And those ninja-types belong to Dorkovsky?”

“Not his style. He’ll wait until the treasure’s found then grab it. In this case he’ll send in his team before the Society can secure the site.”

“Do you think Dorkovsky snatched the body? My ashtray-hit?”

Roger leaned out the bathroom door. “No. He’ll stay in the shadows until we locate the tomb.”

Two sharp knocks on the cabin door caused me to lurch. I wiggled under the sheet and tucked it around my breasts. If it was Fiona she was pushing my patience button. The little dame was high maintenance. Maybe I could palm her off on Petri. He’s French. Aren’t they supposed to be great lovers? She could pick his brains for her erotica.

Roger belted his robe and opened the door.

There I was thinking of Petri and he walked in. He wore a leather glove that covered his left hand and wrist and carried a draped round-bottomed birdcage. He placed it on the built-in dresser and yanked off the cloth with a flourish. A bird the size of a large crow filled most of the cage. His body was blue-gray with a dusting of white feathers on his belly. He had a black head and a huge yellow beak that looked like it could pry the cap off a Corona.

“This is a peregrine falcon. He is a brave companion,” Petri said opening the cage. “When you have located the tomb, we will release the bird. He has been trained to return to Sir Sydney to confirm your success.”

The bird stepped onto the glove.

I backed away. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just phone Sir Sydney?”

“Satellite phones can be intercepted. There are those who would interfere with the Museum’s quest if they know where we are.” He returned the falcon to the cage and laid the glove on the dresser.

The bird hunched his shoulders, clearly in a pissy mood.

Petri re-draped the cage and stepped toward the cabin door.

“Whoa! You forgot something,” I said.

“Horus is safer down here with you. I’m keeping watch on the upper deck tonight. Aside from your pretty little colleague, Fiona, I fear we can trust no one with Horus. If he were to be released too soon it could cause much confusion.”

Roger was silent. I wondered if he had expected to get the bird. He locked the door after Petri and settled back on the bed.

I took the final swig of beer, running my tongue over my teeth. They were fuzzy. I wished I’d packed mouthwash and toothpaste in my purse. The consolation was Roger wasn’t in any better condition.

“Be right back,” I slipped into the bathroom and used the pump-it toilet. By the time I came out Roger had removed the tray and was lying on the bed looking like a centerfold in
Playgirl
. I shed my towel and jumped into bed.

Lover boy pinned me with his hard body. He tenderly pushed my hair back and looked deep into my eyes. I hoped I’d be able to hold down the racket I usually made. I wasn’t sure how thin the walls were. Providing personal material for Fiona’s
Erotica for Dummies
was not on my to-do list.

“Let’s take this out on the balcony,” I said.

“Sound travels over water.” He put his tongue in my ear.

I giggled and pulled away.

“We’re two of a kind, Wendy,” Roger said. “You and I are opposite sides of the
same
coin.”

I rolled on top of him and glued my lips on his until he shut up. He nodded his understanding and accidentally banged his teeth against my upper lip.

We made sweet, silent love until moonlight rippled off the Nile and illuminated the balcony.

Chapter Ten

I dozed briefly and woke to find Roger, still naked, quietly pacing in the dark between the bed and the wide-open balcony doors. Occasionally a moonbeam would highlight his body. The hung and the restless. He stopped pacing and cocked his head. I started to speak but he waved me off with a finger to his lips.

A voice carried in from the upper deck. Whoever was up there spoke Russian. Then silence.

I felt naked for two reasons. First, I was. Second, I was unarmed. I pulled the sheets up to my chest and shivered despite the heat. I groped around on the nightstand for the marble ashtray till I felt it’s cool surface. I exhaled softly. Now I was only naked- naked.

With a light thump someone landed outside the doorway. What was it with Egyptian balconies?

Roger assumed an Inspector Clouseau-like karate stance that gave me absolutely no confidence. This wasn’t the set of
The Pink Panther
. I tightened my grip on the ashtray.

A tall figure slipped into the room. The person was backlit so I couldn’t tell much about him except that he had broad shoulders and was half a head taller than my bedmate.

“Key-yah!” Roger yelled as he jumped the prowler and took him down. They were tied in the cursing department with an equal number of Russian and English epithets coming out of the cartoon-like tangle of arms and legs rolling around. Roger would be on top for a second, then the Russian. I hesitated. I could bop Roger as easily as the intruder. The Russian yelped when he missed Roger’s head and slammed his fist into the floor.

As the Russian sucked on his wounded knuckles, Roger separated from him and jumped to his feet. The Russian did the same. Roger hopped back and forth jabbing little punches in the air but not connecting. He should have learned how to handle himself better than that watching me duke it out with Darcy.

Horus’s squawking added to the chaos. He beat his wings against the cage.

The Russian said something that sounded like
good night.
He socked Roger in the jaw and my guy went down.

A banshee couldn’t have matched the sound I made as I leaped off the bed and nailed the Russian on the noggin with the marble ashtray. He went down face-first with a thud. A black semi-automatic pistol dropped from his hand.

I helped Roger stand. He swayed in front of me. “Why’d you hit him? I was winning.”

“Right.” I stepped back and my foot landed on the gun. I held my breath. When it didn’t go off, I carefully placed it in the nightstand drawer. Ashtrays, not guns, were my thing. I switched on the nightstand light.

Roger had quit swaying and his eyes were focused. I said, “Let’s get some cord and tie this guy up.”

A coil of rope attached to a life preserver hung just outside the door. Roger grabbed it while I pushed up the prowler’s cuffs to get at his thick wrists. I tied triple-knots on each arm, and looped a double knot with a bow at his back. I didn’t have enough rope to tie his feet. There was something kinky, but not sexy, about tying up a stranger while my lover and I were naked.

Roger searched the Russian’s pockets. “Empty, except for this.” He held up a cellphone.

The cellphone buzzed softly as it vibrated. Roger studied the screen. “Cyrillic letters for SS.”

Evidently my ashtray victim had the hardest head this side of Moscow. He kicked out, landing a solid shot at the back of Roger’s knee. He fell and dropped the phone. The Russian shook off my super nifty knots, making me wish I’d spent more time learning them at camp and less time watching the boys skinny dip on their side of the lake. He grabbed his cell and dashed to the balcony.

We scrambled to our feet. Roger reached the balcony, with me a couple of feet behind him, just as the intruder catapulted over the railing into a small boat. The craft sped away into the darkness.

Roger hobbled to the bed and flopped. I locked the balcony doors although I was pretty sure we’d seen our last visitor for the night. The Asp had become
Fawlty Towers
on the Nile, all we needed were some German tourists.

I picked up my trusty ashtray and set it on the nightstand. The design for an ashtray holster skipped through my mind. I wished we had a bottle of champagne to celebrate our second balcony victory of the day. I sat on the bed and massaged Roger’s knee.

Roger, in his usual helpful manner, lay with his eyes closed and said nothing. I squeezed the sore spot behind his knee just hard enough to pop his eyes open. “What the hell was that all about? Was that guy working for Dorkovsky?”

He shook his head. “Dorkovsky wants us, or somebody, to find the medallion. Then he’ll make his move. He wouldn’t be trying to stop us. But I’m sure he’s tracking us.”

I stopped rubbing his knee and leaned over him till we were eye-to-eye. “So who were those guys? Talk to me.” It’s tough to be stern when you’re buck naked, but I was doing my best.

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “We must have an additional player in the game.”