No Rules (20 page)

He looked into her eyes and grinned, sharing the pleasure of her success, and a flash of heat stabbed straight from her fluttering heart to her pelvis, melting everything along the way. How did he do that?
And damn, did she ever want to see what else he could do to her
.

Footsteps sounded on the concrete floor of the work area. She pulled back guiltily and turned as Mr. Atallah walked in. He held a small cardboard box that he set on the low table before him. Without explanation he donned white cotton gloves and handed her a pair. As she pulled them on, he opened the flaps of the box, reached inside, and gently pulled out a white stone jar with an animal’s head for a lid. She noted his look of pride as he paused to appreciate what he held, stroking a finger along the smooth curve of the jar. Then, cradling it in both hands, he held it out for her inspection.

She opened her mouth, but managed to silence a gasp as she carefully accepted the jar. She recognized this. It was no more than six inches tall, creamy white and heavy. Alabaster, without a doubt. The stone was smooth and cool in her hand. The only decoration was the black paint that defined the eyes, mouth, and nose of the baboon head that formed the lid of the jar.

Her gaze flew to Mr. Atallah’s, who smiled serenely, then back to the jar. She turned it slowly, examining it from all angles.

It was undoubtedly real, and at least three thousand years old.

After a full minute of silence, Donovan’s patience apparently gave out. “What is it,” he asked.

“A canopic jar.” She had to clear her throat, a bit too awestruck to speak. “During mummification, the internal organs were removed and stored separately in four jars. There was one each for the stomach, lungs, liver, and intestines. The stoppers for the jars often depicted the four sons of the god Horus, with the heads of a baboon, a jackal, a hawk, and a man.”

He made a slightly disgusted face. “Someone’s guts were in that jar?”

“The lungs, I believe, in this one.” She glanced at Mr. Atallah for confirmation.

“Correct, Mrs. Hassan.” Grasping the baboon head, he lifted. Stone scraped against stone, and Jess stared at the open jar in her hands. Then peered inside.

She saw nothing in the tiny space, but Mr. Atallah was prepared, whipping out a small flashlight and shining it into the jar. Dried-up shreds filled the bottom of the jar. She let Donovan look, too.

“That was lungs? You couldn’t even fit one lung inside something that small.”

“They were dried first and wrapped in linen.” And after three or four thousand years, she imagined those bits of organic material were all that would be left.

“Where’s the rest of him?” Donovan asked.

“A good question.” She looked at Mr. Atallah. “There should be three more jars.”

In answer, he called out, “Majid.”

A young man came in pushing a wheeled table. On top, a square object no more than a foot high was covered by a black cloth. Majid said nothing, and Mr. Atallah didn’t introduce him. Jess didn’t care who he was, anyway; she only had eyes for the cloth-covered object on the table. She stood, stepping close without waiting for an invitation. She wanted a good look at this.

Mr. Atallah grasped the cloth, then slowly pulled it away, his gaze fastened on her.

She sensed he was hoping for a dramatic reaction, and if speechless wonder qualified, he must be more than satisfied. The small white box was carved from a solid block of alabaster and decorated with four figures of goddesses, one on each side, their arms outstretched to embrace the stone they were part of. Each side was covered with hieroglyphics, and inside, nested in their own compartments, sat the other three canopic jars. Amazement had her heart pounding. She’d seen similar things in pictures, and as far as she knew all relics of this quality were in museums.

She admired the carved jackal, falcon, and human heads, then gently fit the baboon-headed jar into the empty space in the box. Stone scraped lightly against stone and she winced, knowing how soft the calcite alabaster was, and nearly trembling with the effort to leave no mark on what had survived untouched for thousands of years.

The alabaster gleamed under the strong overhead lights. The jackal, falcon, baboon, and human guardians faced each other in the box, silently watching over the vital organs of a king. Jess felt a flash of guilt for having disturbed one of the jars. She didn’t believe in curses, but she had been imbued from childhood with a deep respect for history and cultures now long gone from the earth. This belonged in a museum, not in the back room of some black-market antiquities dealer.

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

As soon as she asked it, she knew she had overstepped her bounds. Mr. Atallah lost his serene gaze as his expression turned guarded. “I cannot reveal such information. If you are not convinced of its authenticity, perhaps we should not do business.” He lifted the black cloth, prepared to cover the canopic chest.

Donovan kicked her foot surreptitiously in an urgent message she didn’t need. She couldn’t lose their only lead.

“No, no,” she said, holding up a calming hand. “I understand, and that is none of my concern. I was simply amazed to find an object of such quality for sale. I believe it speaks well for your contacts.” She smiled, doing her best to look sincere and all the while hoping that when this was over they could find a way to put Mr. Atallah in prison for life. Selling the chest to a private collector was not only against Egyptian law, it was a crime against humanity, hiding a treasure rich with history that should be available to all. “I merely want to know that my husband need not fear that Interpol and Egypt’s Ministry of State for Antiquities will be hot on the trail of his gift.”

“I assure you, this is not stolen. I am merely brokering the item for the owner’s estate. The man unfortunately passed away and his widow would prefer to have the money.”

“I see.”
Bullshit.
The unfortunate truth was that museums often displayed only a small percentage of what they owned, while their storage rooms were full of items being “rested.” While this canopic chest was admittedly magnificent, the pharaoh Tutankhamun’s was more impressive yet, with tiny golden coffins holding his internal organs inside each jar. Perhaps that had caused this one to be relegated to a back room. Then all it would take was one dishonest employee giving in to temptation for it to end up at Mr. Atallah’s. It wasn’t far-fetched. Currently, with politics and the economy in turmoil, Egypt had seen a dramatic increase in stolen antiquities, a fact that caused much distress with the Ministry of State for Antiquities. One call to them, and Mr. Atallah would be busted.

She soothed her anger with images of bringing Mr. Atallah to justice, but Donovan’s thoughts seemed to have taken a different direction. “Who was it?” he asked, gesturing to the canopic jars and their grisly remains.

“The pharaoh Ramesses VIII,” Mr. Atallah told him. “You can see his cartouche here.” He pointed out the glyphs enclosed in a neat oval on the outside of the box, the symbol for a pharaoh’s name.

“Ramesses VIII,” Jess murmured aloud. There was something familiar about the name, but she couldn’t remember what. The pharaohs and their queens had been the stuff of stories that her father told, bringing the ancient kingdoms to life, but that had been years ago, and many pharaohs had ruled under the name Ramesses.

“A Twentieth Dynasty pharaoh who reigned briefly, I am told. Probably less than a year,” Mr. Atallah said.

Perhaps that was why she couldn’t remember anything about him. But still, there was something her father had told her…

“But a king is a king, is he not?”

“And a dead king is a god,” she agreed. “According to their beliefs.”

“Precisely. That means this chest is worth far more than one million dollars. I’m afraid the owner is asking for five million.”

She assumed he was right about its value, but she would have bet she could get it for two million if she wanted it. She didn’t. Her father had specified a vase, and she couldn’t get sidetracked. Not that she had any idea what meaning a vase could hold. She tried not to think of that, sticking to the only clue they had: the rabbit buys a vase.

“I’m afraid five million is more than I care to spend. And while a jar is a sort of vase, an unguent vase is more what I had in mind.” Such vases had been tall and elaborate, made of alabaster, and holding precious oils that were worth a small fortune in ancient Egypt. For that reason the contents had been some of the first things stolen from tombs, poured out into something easier to carry while the empty vase was left behind.

“It’s a shame that a discriminating collector such as your husband would miss the opportunity to own this chest,” Mr. Atallah said, looking saddened at the very thought. “Perhaps if I could convince the seller to lower the price just a bit…”

She realized he’d taken her statement as the first volley in bargaining a lower price. She held up a hand. “Please, don’t. I’m sure you can get the asking price from someone else.” He could try, anyway before they busted his ass. “I really think a vase is what he prefers. But you can be sure that he will wonder where I found it, and I will let him know that you may have other, more expensive objects to sell. That is, if you think you will?”

He smiled. “I hope to. I have only begun to receive items from this estate.”

She smiled too, pleased to hear it. Perhaps she had caught them before they could raid an entire collection in some museum storeroom. “Excellent. And will one of them perhaps be an unguent vase?”

“I am fairly certain it will, although I can’t say when I will have it.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t hard to look distressed; they could not afford to wait an indefinite amount of time. “This is quite inconvenient. My husband’s birthday is in two days. I need to purchase a gift soon.”

“That is soon,” he agreed. “But it could be a late present.”

Not with two lives at stake. But they were so close, she couldn’t lose him now. “I’m afraid not. We will be leaving for our home in Switzerland in two days’ time, to celebrate his birthday there. I must have the vase before I leave. But if you cannot get one that soon…” It was her turn to look sad over the situation. “I hope this does not mean we can’t do business. I would like him to see the excellent quality of the merchandise from this collection.”

“Yes, yes,” he murmured, no doubt thinking of a lost sale of at least one million dollars, plus whatever he could tempt her mythical husband into spending in the future. She allowed him to ponder the problem in silence. It didn’t take long.

“You must allow me to check with the seller. Perhaps he will be willing to send something immediately.”

She noted that the widow had become a “he,” but didn’t comment on it since she hadn’t believed the estate-sale story, anyway. She was about to reward him with a smile, but it occurred to her that she should be playing hard to get with her money, not acting eager to give it away. “I don’t know,” she said, with a doubtful tip of her head. “To wait for an item to be shipped could take too much time.”

“A day, no more.”

That meant it was close by, at a museum in Luxor or Cairo, almost certainly. She couldn’t wait to bring this guy down. “That is half the time I have left. What if I don’t care for the vase this estate has for sale?”

“Ah, but we will make sure that doesn’t happen. As I said, the collection is large and I have just started to look for buyers.”

She restrained a sarcastic snort. She just bet it was large, perhaps encompassing a whole museum storeroom full of New Kingdom artifacts. But that was also a problem. With that much to choose from, how was she supposed to know which vase Wally wanted her to see? And was it necessary that she buy it, or simply see it? Omega seemed to have a lot of resources, but coming up with a million in cash might be pushing it.

Her hesitation seemed to worry him. “A moment please,” he said, dismissing his assistant with a quick hand motion as he walked to an upright antique writing desk in the corner. She threw a puzzled glance at Donovan, who shrugged. Mr. Atallah opened a drop leaf, reached into a cubbyhole, then returned to them. In his hand he held a small flash drive. He walked past them to a desktop computer behind her and inserted the device. She stepped sideways, trying to see around him as he hovered close to the monitor, but could only make out a long column of numbered items she couldn’t read.

He selected one, then stepped aside, motioning to them. “Come. Tell me what you think.”

Donovan stepped to the computer with her. The monitor was filled by a close-up of an elaborate alabaster vase. The main body of the vase, or amphora, narrowed to a long neck, which then flared again at the top and was decorated with carved designs. Concentric handles flanked each side like fountains of stone flowing the full length of the vessel. She had seen pictures of such vases among the vast treasures found in Tutankhamun’s tomb, but didn’t know of others. Had someone had the nerve to steal from the treasures of King Tut himself?

There was a sure way to tell. The body of the vase bore the double cartouche of a pharaoh—two ovals, one with the glyphs that stood for his throne name, and one for his personal name. Her eyes darted to the insignia, knowing she’d recognize the name of the famous Tutankhamun if she saw it.

It wasn’t Tut. The cartouche she saw was the same one she’d just seen on the canopic chest, the throne name that Mr. Atallah said belonged to the pharaoh Ramesses VIII.

Again, the name tickled something at the back of her mind. What was it about Ramesses VIII that nagged at her memory?

The photo gave no hint. The vase had not been photographed while on display—no glass case surrounded it, and the lighting, while bright, cast shadows as if the rest of the room had no even overhead lighting. The dim recesses of a storeroom? Even a private collection, which Jess was sure was fictional, would have displayed objects under protective glass with full lighting. Who was Ramesses VIII that his treasures didn’t rate the respect other pharaohs would have been given?