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“And the lovely woman who brought me here.” Lourds’s eyes met hers evenly, holding them for a moment.

Warmth spread through Leslie that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. Oh, you are good, Professor Lourds. I’m going to have to be careful around you.

DiBenedetto pulled the truck into an alley only a few blocks from the open-air café where Lourds now dined with Leslie Crane. Before they’d come to a full stop, a five-year-old German Mercedes drove into the alley after them. Gallardo caught sight of the car in the side mirror.

He reached under the lightweight jacket he wore and gripped the 9 mm pistol in the shoulder holster. “Pietro,” he called over the headset.

“Yes,” Pietro’s gravelly voice responded. “It’s me. Don’t shoot.”

Relaxing a little, Gallardo kept his hand on the pistol as the Mercedes slid to a stop behind the truck. He peered through the smoky glass and saw Pietro’s impressive bulk seated behind the wheel of the luxury car.

Gallardo got out of the vehicle. DiBenedetto fell into step with him. They swung open doors on the sedan and dropped into seats.

Farok climbed out of the truck in a clean burnoose. He’d left the bloody one inside the rear compartment. For a moment, he occupied himself with carefully closing the door behind himself. Even after the back of the truck was sealed, the smell of petrol whipped through the alley. Satisfied with his handiwork, Farok sped up to his usual pace and joined them in the car. He stank of petrol as well.

“Everything set?” Gallardo asked.

Farok nodded and passed James Kale’s identification, passport, and personal effects to him. The corpse had been left stripped clean.

“Yes. Everything is set,” Farok said. “I doused the interior with the petrol and detergent, and I rigged a road flare to the door. When anyone opens the cargo area, the interior of the truck will become an inferno.”

Gallardo nodded. The petrol-and-detergent mixture was a poor man’s substitute for napalm. It would burn hot and concentrated, making immediate identification of the body very difficult—even more difficult than the loss of all his identifying papers now in their possession. The truck had been stolen last night in preparation for its use this morning. There was nothing in it that would tie back to them.

Pietro drove through the other end of the alley and pulled out onto the street, drawing angry honks from the other drivers and startling a camel.

“Cimino,” Gallardo called over the radio.

“I’m here,” Cimino said. “They’re moving again.”

“Are they still on foot?”

“Yes.”

“Drop out of the loop. Get someone else in there.”

“All right.”

Gallardo’s stomach tightened. For eight months, they’d followed the trail of the artifact that Stefano Murani had charged them with finding. The trail had finally led them from Cairo, where the artifact had only been a whisper, to Alexandria, where Gallardo should have known it probably was anyway.

The problem with illegal artifacts was that they left no trail, or a spotty trail at best. And if some of them hadn’t moved much, as this one had not—the shopkeeper who sold it reported that it had languished on a shelf in a back room for seventeen years—then the trail was masked by the passage of time as well.

Even before they’d killed the producer, three dead men lay along the bloody trail they’d followed from Cairo. All of them had been dealers in rare—and stolen—antiquities.

“They’re headed back to the studio,” Cimino said.

A hollow boom! sounded from the left, in the direction of the place they’d abandoned the truck. Turning, Gallardo saw a cloud of smoke mushroom into the air above the buildings. Sirens sounded soon after.

“Well, now,” DiBenedetto mused from the backseat, “that didn’t take long, did it? This city is filled with thieving bastards.”

“A few less of them at the moment, perhaps,” Farok chimed in.

They exchanged a high five.

Gallardo ignored the bloodthirstiness of his hirelings. It was normal for them, and it was why he employed them. He turned his thoughts to the studio room. He and his men had already been there once in preparation. They knew the layout. Going inside today would be easy.

______

“Put them there,” Leslie directed. “While we’re setting up, has anybody heard from James?”

“No, but he approved the set and the camera layout last night,” one of the young men said. “He was going to check out some new locations today.”

“Good,” Leslie said. “Tell me if he checks in.” She turned her attention to the arrangement of the objects she wanted Lourds to look at.

Seated at a small desk at the back of the large room, Lourds watched the young woman’s preparations with mounting interest. She’d obviously gone to the effort of making the presentation of the promised artifacts elaborate. They were even recording the event.

A slim man of Egyptian ancestry crossed the room with the wheeled aluminum pilot case he pulled behind him.

With an air for the theatrical that would have fitted him perfectly for life on the stage at Kom Al-Dikka, the man produced a key and slid it into the locks holding the case shut. He snapped open the locks and put the key away.

Lourds was only partially distracted by the sound of the emergency vehicles attending to a nearby problem. One of Leslie’s crew had reported that there was a vehicle fire of some kind only a few streets over. Official vehicles were, according to the kid, swarming like flies.

Moving slowly, the man reached into the case and removed six objects, placing them reverently on the desk in front of Lourds. When the man was finished, he bowed to Leslie, who thanked him; then he went to stand nearby.

Lourds looked around the room, unable to keep from smiling. Six young men and women stood with Leslie, waiting to see what he would do. He felt like a kid playing his favorite game.

“What do you find so humorous?” Leslie asked.

“This.” Lourds waved his hand at the six objects. “Every year at the university, students bring me things to read. Usually replicas, though. Not the real thing.”

“My resources run somewhat deeper than the average university student’s.” Leslie’s voice held a note of determination. She was evidently not prepared to have her investment of time and research casually tossed off.

“That they do.” And Lourds meant that as a compliment. “Still, this is rather like a stage magician at a dinner party. He hasn’t gone there to entertain, yet once other people find out what he does, they want him to do magic tricks so they can ooh and ahh over them.”

“Or maybe they want to catch him in a pratfall, landing him flat on his arse,” one of the young men volunteered. His head was shaved and he sported tattoos all over his arms.

“Is that what Ms. Crane is hoping for?” Lourds asked him. “A pratfall?”

The young man shrugged. “Dunno. I bet her a few pounds you couldn’t read ’em all. But I think she hopes you get ’em all right.”

“I don’t mind having a few extra pounds, Neil,” Leslie responded. “I’m confident Professor Lourds is exactly what Harvard claims him to be. Proficient in all known ancient languages.”

“Proficient,” Lourds corrected, “in several.” Though I can find my way through all, he amended to himself. It wasn’t bragging. He could.

“Sounds like he’s laying out his excuses, he does,” Neil said, grinning.

The building was one of the older ones in the city. Air-conditioning here was an afterthought. As a result, the room was comfortable, but not hermetically sealed like the hotel environment Lourds had left. They were in a corner office. One set of windows overlooked the gray-green Mediterranean, and the other had a fine view of downtown Alexandria. Lourds was willing to bet he could probably see Kom Al-Dikka from the window.

Leslie had told him the office had been stripped and set up to handle the television show’s production needs. A small set, lit and ready to go, occupied one side of the room, which was blocked off from the windows so they could control the light. It was decorated to look like someone’s study, with bookcases full of fake books behind the desk where Lourds had been told he’d sit. The desk was larger and better than the one he had in his office at Harvard. Covered with computer equipment that looked capable of launching spacecraft, it looked like it fit the rock star status the program aspired to lend him.

The other side of the room, and the majority of the space, was filled with cameras, boom microphones, and sound and audio equipment that lined shelves. Bundled wires snaked in all directions and looked like they were barely being kept under control. The whole room was, Lourds found, somewhat intimidating.

Lourds picked up the first item, a wooden box about six inches long by four inches wide by two inches deep. Colorful hieroglyphics tracked the top and sides. Lifting the lid, he found a small figurine of a mummy.

“Do you know what this is?” Lourds turned the small box around to display to the group of television personnel.

“A shabti,” Leslie said.

“Very good. Do you know what a shabti is?”

“A good-luck piece that was left in an Egyptian tomb.”

“Not exactly.” Lourds tapped the figure. “A shabti figurine was supposed to represent the deceased’s majordomo, someone who would work in the afterlife for him.”

“It’s one thing to know what it is,” Neil suggested, “but it’s another to read the writing.”

“It’s from chapter six of the Book of the Dead.” Lourds studied the inscription, not wanting to assume in case someone had altered the writing that should have been there. But everything was as it was supposed to be. He read the hieroglyphics easily. “ ‘If N is called up to do any work that is done there in the underworld, then the checkmarks (on the work list) are struck for him there as for a man for his (work service) duty be counted yourself at any time that might be done to cultivate the marsh, to irrigate the riverbank fields, to ferry sand west or east. “I am doing it—see, I am here,” you are to say.’ ”

Leslie glanced down at her notebook, then handed it over to Neil.

“So he got one right,” Neil said, handing the notebook back. “For all you know, he memorized that passage.”

Lourds moved on to the next item: a replicated papyrus written in Coptic, which looked entirely too familiar. He glanced up at Leslie. “This is from the coded document I translated.”

“It is,” she agreed. “Since they didn’t have a Books on Tape version, I thought I’d like to hear an audio presentation.”

Neil looked at her. “Is this the kinky thing you told me about?”

“Yes.” Her brilliant green eyes never left Lourds’s.

A challenge, then? Lourds was amused and interested to see how far she’d let him go. After all, he’d had to present the piece a fair number of times at different committees, including the dean’s house for a celebration on the translation’s acceptance. The reading, rendered with an orator’s skill that had developed naturally from Lourds’s years as a teacher, had been a major hit and had set academic tongues to wagging scandalously. She didn’t know his world at all if she thought mere words could embarrass or frighten him here.

He read the first section of the document aloud, then translated it. Leslie stopped Lourds before the first session of foreplay got serious. “All right,” she said, blushing. “You know the text. Move on to the next one.”

“Are you sure?” Lourds said. “I’m quite familiar with this.” He purposefully didn’t clarify whether he was familiar with the text . . . or the technique presented. His words were every bit as much a challenge as hers were.

“I’m sure,” she said. “I don’t want the network bigwigs twitching.”

“Wow, man,” Neil said, grinning from ear to ear. “That’s brill. Didn’t know porn could sound so . . . so . . . bitching.”

Lourds didn’t bother to correct the misrepresentation of the piece. It wasn’t intended to be porn—not exactly. It was more a diary of the writer’s experiences—a reminder of his past. But read aloud now, its use had changed. Once a listener heard words, the words as well as the meaning became subjective, and it became applied to that individual’s views on life and the moment. For Neil, it probably was porn.

The third piece was Ethiopian, written in Ge’ez, which was abugida. As a grapheme form, transcribed in signs, it denoted consonants with inherent trailing vowels. Besides Ethiopia, the form was also used by certain Canadian Native American tribes—the Algonquian, Athabascan, and Inuit—as well as the Brahmic family of languages—South Asia, Southeast Asia, Tibet, Mongolia. It had penetrated the East as far as Korea. The piece was a length of elephant tusk used by a trader to record his journey into what was then called the Horn of Africa. From what Lourds gathered from the record, it had been intended as a gift to the man’s eldest son, a marker and a challenge to go farther and dare more than his father did.

Evidently Lourds’s translation matched what Leslie had in her notes, because she kept nodding as he read.

The fourth piece seized Lourds’s attention completely. It was a ceramic bell, probably once used by a priest or shaman to call a community to prayer or announcement. It was divided into two sections: there was a clapper at the top and a reservoir for holding herbs at the bottom. A faint ginger smell clung to the piece, indicating that it had been recently used. A ring at the top invited speculation that it had hung from a shepherd’s crook or a similarly shaped staff. The piece had the burnished look of an object that had been handled and cared for continuously over many centuries, perhaps even over millennia. The reservoir might even have held oil at one time to provide an ancient lantern for the bearer.

The inscription on the bell truly set it apart from the other pieces Lourds had sitting before him. In fact, the most fascinating aspect about the bell was the writing that went around it.

He couldn’t read it. Not only that, but he’d never seen anything like it in his life.

In the alley behind the building where the television people had their rented rooms, Gallardo got out of the car. He stepped quickly to the back of the vehicle, followed by Farok and DiBenedetto.

Pietro released the trunk latch from inside. The lid rose slowly, revealing the duffels stashed within. Unzipping the top duffel, Gallardo took out a Heckler & Koch MP5. He added a specially modified silencer to the weapon as Cimino joined them.

Cimino was a thick, squat man who spent all his time in gyms. His drug of choice was steroids, and he kept himself painfully close to overuse, staying just this side of healthy and sane. His head was shaved. Aviator sunglasses bisected his face.

“They’re inside?” Gallardo asked.

“Yes.” Cimino picked up a machine pistol as well.

“Security?”

“Building only. Not much of that.” Cimino threaded a silencer into place on his weapon with practiced ease.

“Sounds good to me.” Farok armed one of the machine pistols, then dropped it into a canvas bag he slung over his shoulder.