The hallway stank of sweat and stale air, but it didn’t slow me down as I peered into the rooms lining the corridor. A plume of smoke revealed the man I searched for. He sat, reposed and comfortable on a low banquette, surrounded by dusty pillows, his feet crossed on a worn and dirty Turkish rug. Tall stacks of crates were piled around the room, some labeled for Bulaq, but most weren’t. I’d bet good money they were filled with trinkets, waiting to be fenced.
Egypt attracted all manner of opportunists. Peter Yardley, a fellow Englishman, worked as an antiquities officer and secretary to the consul general. But before he came to Egypt, he had worked as a mercenary, trading in secrets, drugs, and antiquities.
“Who goes there?”
I stepped into the room, and kicked the door shut. “Hello, Peter.”
A soft chuckle reached my ears. “No one calls me that but you.”
The smoke cleared, revealing Peter’s slight frame. Deep hollows in his cheeks and bloodshot eyes revealed his exhaustion. His clothing hadn’t seen a bar of soap in some time, reeking of sweat and hard liquor. An uncomfortable feeling bubbled under my skin. I hadn’t looked so different not too long ago.
“You look terrible.”
He grinned, and motioned for me to have a seat on a low chair across from him. I remained on my feet, conscious of the noise coming from the floor below. I counted three, perhaps four, different men working.
Peter’s smile dimmed and his hand dropped. “I take it this isn’t a strictly social call?”
I shook my head. There are Curators who provided illicit goods for Tradesman’s Gate. Peter ran one of the auctions, and when we used to play cards, he once told me he knew someone who knew someone who had inroads with a lady who often fenced stolen artifacts. I had relayed the information to Ricardo, and at the time, we’d wondered if it had been Lourdes. “Have you heard of any large shipments coming into Cairo recently?”
He sat back against a cushion, dark eyes narrowing. “There are always shipments coming in. Are you going to sit?”
“No.”
“Then why don’t you tell me where you’ve been these last few months. I never see you at the table anymore, Whit.”
Because I couldn’t stand playing cards, even if it was the best way to hear things.
“My luck ran out.” I pulled out the envelope tucked deep in my jacket pocket and placed it on a round table that stood close to his elbow. “Speaking of, I believe this makes us square.”
Peter fingered the corner of the envelope. “Here’s an idea—why don’t you keep this and come work for me? I never understood why you didn’t before.”
“I’m leaving Egypt.”
“Shame.”
“Everything comes to an end, eventually.” I turned to go, and as I reached the door, I said half over my shoulder, “Careful at the warehouse in Bulaq, Peter.”
“Stop.”
I froze underneath the frame. Slowly turned to face Peter who had jumped to his feet, his hand gripping a pistol. “How did you know about the warehouses?”
“Lower your gun.”
“Hayes,” Peter said, cocking the gun. “How?”
I kicked the stack of crates closest to me. Bottles of whiskey and rum were perched on the top one, and they clanked loudly, but I pointed to the bottom two. Written on its side was the location of a warehouse close to the docks. “It’s written right here, idiot.”
“Aw, shit.” Peter kept his weapon aimed at my chest. “I think you’re going to have to sit down after all. We need to have a chat, you and me.”
Without meaning to, I’d stumbled onto something I shouldn’t have seen. “You’re not going to shoot me, are you, Peter?” I asked softly.
“Not if you do what you’re told. You really only have two options. It looks like you’ll be working for me from now on. Unless you’d prefer the alternative, more dead option.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Not bloody likely.”
“Sit the hell do—”
I launched one of the bottles of whiskey straight at him. It spun and Peter instinctively fired. Glass shattered and the liquor splattered on the walls, soaking into the rug. The rich smell made my head spin. Peter was reloading his weapon, loudly yelling, but my gun was already in my hand, thumb brushing against the initials that weren’t mine.
Point, aim, shoot.
The force of the bullet snapped his head backward. Blood dripped from the hole between his brows, flanking his open mouth. He had been calling for the others, and there was no chance of my leaving alive. What was one more dead body?
I’d seen dozens.
I left without looking at the mess, the sounds of shouting from the ground floor in my wake.
Capítulo Treinta Y Uno
Everywhere I looked, something shimmered. Golden curtains that shone brightly in candlelight, paper flags with long ribbons that fluttered from the cool breeze wafting in from the open windows. The hotel was dressed in its holiday finest in preparation of the New Year. My uncle led us through the entrance to the decorated dining hall, where a waiter led us to our seats at a silver-clothed table. Persian carpets adorned the tiled floor, while the table displayed the finest china and cutlery and enormous bouquets of flowers. Elvira inspected everything with a well-trained eye, and it was only the slight widening of her gaze that betrayed her favorable impression.
We were joined by several other couples, the ladies in resplendent evening silk and satin gowns that glittered in the soft lighting, while the men wore fine pressed suits and tailored jackets, their formal dress dark and elegant.
My uncle showed up in a plain gray suit, stone-faced and thin-lipped. He hadn’t bothered to comb his hair. If I weren’t half-afraid of him, I would say the look suited him. He stood out in a sea of overly starched men, their hair slicked back from too much pomade. The stagnant air filled with a blend of expensive perfume and champagne and sweet blooms.
“That is a House of Worth gown,” Elvira whispered as one lady sat across from me. “I would bet all of my money on it.”
“You don’t gamble, and you certainly don’t have money,” I whispered back.
“I’ve sent word to your mother,” Tío Ricardo cut in, pouring acid on our conversation. “You’re welcome.”
Elvira colored slightly and managed a low gracias. She recovered quickly and changed the subject. “Se?or Marqués, tell me all about your time in Philae.”
I kicked my cousin underneath the table while my uncle looked coldly furious.
“Oh dear, what have I done now?” Elvira asked, wincing. “Are questions forbidden?”
“Don’t bring up my uncle’s work—” I hissed.
“You’ve been in Philae all this time?” one of the men asked from down the table. His accent was French. “But there’s nothing there. It’s an old holy site that’s been thoroughly excavated by now, surely.”
My uncle shrugged. “Everywhere else was taken.”
The man nodded sagely, completely buying Tío Ricardo’s nonchalance. “It’s a pity my countrymen don’t regard you more highly, I think.”
“I’ve managed well under Monsieur Maspero,” my uncle replied faintly. Then he turned toward me and said, “How do you find the menu, Inez?”