"You mean smart, good-looking, and gay? Oh, I'm sure of it."

* 46 *

Vulture's Kiss

12.

Northern Sinai Trade Route-1099 Desperately thirsty, Faaria brushed powdery sand from her lips. She glanced toward Sharif for comfort, but the way her brother was slouched over the saddle of his camel told her he was no better off. The afternoon sun baked them, and no one in the caravan had any more water. She had a single small mouthful left in the bottom of her goatskin. It wasn't enough to slake her thirst but she kept it, taking strange comfort in the knowledge that it was there, that she could drink it any time.

What fools they'd been to leave the trade route and venture into the Sinai desert on an insane pursuit, risking their lives for a few manuscripts. But Sharif was mad, and he had made the rest of them mad too, convincing Husaam al Noori that the books were worth it.

Thieves had taken them, he said, but he was certain they could be bartered with, and he knew where they hid. Near a well, he said, where they could replenish their supply for the two-day trip back north to the village of El Arish.

What a shock to fi nd the manuscripts but not the water . The well was dry. She chuckled bitterly at the irony. They came upon them dead, thieves murdered by other thieves. But, Alhamdulillah, they had been killed for the gold they carried, not for what they had hidden under the heaps of dung-smeared straw. The dead men could not have lain there long, for they had not yet attracted vultures, and the bundles of straw, of so little interest to the attackers, still protected their vellum treasures.

And here they were, Husaam al Noori, his scribe and companion Sharif al Kitab, his daughter Amhara, and herself. Cairo merchants who ought to have known better. They carried alabaster, ivory, fl ax, and now six manuscripts-and not a drop of water . They had been traveling, parched and by sheer force of will, for two days, and El Arish was nowhere in sight.

Faaria heard a soft whimper and looked over at the other camel where, in her panier, Amhara held her limp infant.

* 47 *

"My milk is dry. I have nothing left to give her," Amhara whispered hoarsely.

Faaria stared at her through sand-scraped eyes. The daughter of the caravan owner was still beautiful, even though windblown, parched, and in anguish for her child.

Amhara shook her head. "If the gods wish to punish me, I accept it, but please, not my baby."

Faaria understood. Amhara had no husband, and the dark-skinned, year-old infant had been sired-so said the camp gossip-by a Nubian camel driver who had run of f to avoid being killed. Now the young mother was unmarriageable as long as she kept her child, the proof and outcome of her transgression.

"I am so afraid," Amhara whispered and held the precious bundle to her breast. "She doesn't even cry any more."

Faaria rode close enough to see the baby, limp fi sts closed on her chest. Her little bow lips were blistered like her mother's, and her head lolled back. It seemed unlikely that she would last much longer.

Faaria sighed inwardly and reached for her goatskin. "There is not much left, not enough for us. But maybe for her..." She handed the crumpled skin across to Amhara and watched hungrily as the precious water dribbled for a few seconds into the tiny mouth, then was gone.

Gone. For all of them now . She struck her camel with the goad and lurched forward, not wanting to be thanked. If she was going to die of thirst, she didn't want to have to make polite conversation while she did so.

Was this what dying was like, she wondered. A pity. They were all so young and-if they had made it to Damascus with their alabaster and ivory-they would have been rich. They were like a family, the four of them, though Husaam al Noori was in fact their employer.

How kind fate had been to set the two half families-the widowed father with his errant daughter and the misfi t siblings-in each other's path. Life was hard after their parents' death by plague, though it was not all that promising before then either.

Sharif was delicate of form, attractive some would say, but for his deformed foot and the limp it caused him. Faaria was also somewhat fair, though her hair , red like his, made her suspect. But the fi ts of madness-at least they called it madness-set her apart from all the other women. She dreamed of birds and animals that spoke, and she * 48 *

Vulture's Kiss mistakenly told the dreams to others. They called her demented and, worse, shaytaneya, possessed of the devil, and if Husaam al Noori had not taken them in she might have one day been killed for it.

But something akin to love had developed between the merchant and Sharif, his scribe, accountant, and companion. For the assistance and comfort Sharif gave him, Husaam tolerated his boyish sister as long as she made herself useful. Today, however, she was useless.

Let me die, she prayed silently to the indif ferent sky. Not the baby, not Amhara, not Sharif. Take me. She swayed dangerously on her saddle, feverish and dizzy from exhaustion, no longer caring. She scarcely heard the voice of the drover at the forefront of the caravan call out, "Shuff. Alhamdullilah. The caravanserai!"

* 49 *

13.

Intruders Valerie trudged across the Midan al Hussein into the shabby and pungent butchers' souq where tourists were a rarity. She passed the chicken cages that were always piled up just before the cloth sellers' market and felt a moment of comfort when she came to the familiar entrance to Sammed's cafe.

Keeping the room and Sammed's goodwill on permanent retainer was one of the smartest things she had done. In the two years she had worked on cataloging the newly excavated "priest's tomb" it had been her home. It was always there when she returned from the desert, whether for supplies or a quick rendezvous with Jameela al Rashidi, wife of the Chairman of the Council of Antiquities.

Even after Jameela had lost interest and Valerie had begun to teach summers at the University of Brussels, she had held on to the room, paying the meager rent from afar. She always kept a few books, a change of clothes, and her other fedora there, just to come home to something familiar each time she was in Cairo.

"Sabah el kheer," she said to the young man who stood behind the tiny counter. "Is Sammed around?"

"Sabah el noor. " He gave the standard reply. "He's out for awhile.

Business."

Valerie knew what that meant. Sammed was making some deal. For foreign cigarettes, probably, or whiskey, which enjoyed a surprisingly large market in Cairo, Islam notwithstanding. She would touch base with him later, maybe after a trip to the hammam for a bath.

She walked around to the side of the simple mud-brick and plaster building that blended in so well with every other house in the souq, and climbed the narrow brick staircase to the upper fl oor. As she reached for the door handle, she stopped, puzzled, at the deep buzzing sound that came from inside the room. Cautiously, she opened the door.

"What the hell?"

In the corner of the single room, nude except for boxer shorts, a man lay on the narrow bed. With his head thrown back like a defeated * 50 *

Vulture's Kiss boxer, he snored vehemently. She stomped into the room.

A pair of car go pants was folded over the back of a chair , and under it hiking boots stood side by side. At the foot of the bed, on the fl oor, an open rucksack lay on its side, its contents of folded clothing visible.

Valerie detected a faint odor of beer in the room. The bastard had apparently gotten drunk and fallen asleep, sweat and all, on her clean linen. Worst of all, a killing offense, he had covered his eyes against the light with her fedora!

Valerie let her knapsack drop onto the fl oor and strode over to the bed. "Wake up!" She kicked the foot of the bed. "What the hell are you doing in my room?"

"Huh?" He woke with a start and sat up, befuddled. "What the fuck? What the hell are you doing in my room?" he echoed. As he swung around to sit on the edge of the bed, the fedora fell to the fl oor and she snatched it up.

"This is my room, so you will please take your..." she looked at his rucksack on the fl oor, "things, and get out."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, lady. We paid for this room already."

"Excuse me?" a faintly condescending voice said behind her . "Is there something we can do for you, Miss?"

Valerie spun around, as if she had been spat on.

A woman stood in the doorway, slightly shorter than herself. Late thirties, Arab or Indian, and her tailored Western clothing screamed "professional." She looked familiar, but from where? Anger shouldered out any further thought.

"What you can do for me is get out of my room."

"Come on, Najya, this dump isn' t worth fi ghting for." The man had stood up and was pulling on his pants. "Let' s just get a room in a real hotel." He zipped up his fl y and buckled his belt but seemed to see no need to put on a shirt.

Valerie could smell the odor of his skin now, pungent and male.

Najya. Now she remembered. The newscaster. As the man grabbed his knapsack and began to stuf f his clothing back into it, Valerie saw the camera case on the fl oor. She softened a little and backed toward the door. "Uh, sorry to evict you this way , but I keep the room on a * 51 *

permanent retainer. It's obvious Sammed has tried to slip one past both of us. I'll just go and get it all sorted."

She hurried down the outside staircase while they packed. Damn, she thought. This on top of everything else. She wondered who she could complain to if Sammed was still out. But when she rounded the corner to the street, she saw him, authoritative in spite of his short rotund form.

Owl-like with his large curved nose punctuating his orders, he directed two muscular Sudanese who carried bulging burlap sacks. Obviously a recent large purchase.

"Sammed!"

He glanced toward her , his momentary surprise immediately replaced by congeniality, and waved the two Sudanese inside.

"Dr. Foret. What a pleasant surprise." He extended both hands.

"Yes, I bet it is. What are those two people doing in my room? You know we had an arrangement."

He clasped his hands in front of him, as if he had just applauded something. "Yes, yes, of course we did. And I have honored it, I can assure you. But this was an extraordinary situation, with a very special person. Najya Khoury. Surely you know this journalist."

"Yes, now that you tell me, but what is she doing in the souq with the riffraff?"

"I did not inquire, but please accept my profoundest apologies. I will see to their removal immediately."

"That doesn't seem to be necessary," Valerie remarked as the two intruders descended the stairs. The man had put his shirt on fi nally, hurriedly tucked in, and he struggled with a pole in one hand and a camera on a brace on the other shoulder. A battery pack strapped around his waist tugged at his trousers, exposing a strip of the undershorts Valerie had already seen.

Najya Khoury, unruffl ed, followed him carrying a trim black fl ight bag. "I am sorry for this misunderstanding." Sammed was deferential.

"May I offer you a cold beverage before you leave. On the house, of course."

"Thank you, no," the journalist said. She held up a blue cell phone. "We have made other arrangements. We'll come back later for our refund." She glanced at Valerie. "I wish I could say it has been a pleasure, Dr. Foret, but..." Without fi nishing her sentence, she marched * 52 *

Vulture's Kiss down the narrow street toward the butchers' souq and the opening to the square.

Valerie pivoted around to Sammed. "How did she know my name?"

"Oh, Dr. Foret. Of course she knows you. She is a journalist, and you were big news when you found the priest' s tomb. The papers ran the story for weeks."

"Umm." She watched the two turn the corner to the butchers'

souq. "I suppose I was a little brusque, wasn't I?"

"Oh, certainly not." He changed the subject. "Are you here to work again on the tomb, Duktura? Will you be staying with us for awhile?"

"I don't know, really. I'm here for an emergency, family business.

But I expect I'll also need to spend some time at the museum."

She glanced again toward the narrow street where the two journalists had gone and felt a twinge of embarrassment. They were probably perfectly nice people.

* 53 *

14.

Auset Valerie approached Mahmoud al Fakhir's house, curious to see what sort of life the widowed Auset had returned to. It was a good one. Her father was clearly a prosperous man. His lar ge house combined his business and his family life in a congenial way , at least architecturally. His high-end antiques shop and his household were at once separated and deftly joined in a style of building that had housed the prosperous since the Greeks. The ryad, two stories high and built in a quadrangle around a central courtyard, nestled inconspicuously among the apartment buildings in the Zamalak section of Cairo.

As she walked around the periphery of the quadrangle, she noticed that one full side held the showrooms and commercial space of the antiques business. Two of the sides, with windows only on the second fl oor, clearly housed the family. The fourth wall, where the tops of trees and rose bushes were visible, revealed a garden at the center . Valerie thought, absurdly, of a tale of Scheherezade.

She arrived again at the west side at the private entrance, as discreet as the antiques business was public, and knocked on the door .

An elderly man opened it and stepped back, bowing slightly. Of course Mahmoud al Fakhir would have a houseman.

"As salaamu 'alaykum," she greeted him formally.

"Wa 'alaykum as salaam," he replied and led her down a corridor to the central garden.

But for the recent tragedy , it would have been idyllic.

The quadrangle was full of fruit trees and fl owering shrubs. At the center, a stone fountain bubbled up a thin stream of water that fell into an upper, then a lower bowl. Where it dribbled softly over the rim, brightly colored birds fl uttered and drank. Brick paths radiated out in four directions from the fountain and cut the garden into quarters. In the moist garden air, the fragrance of roses mixed with the stronger smell of jasmine. Directly across from where Valerie stood, Derek had one arm around Auset and held his daughter in the other.

Auset turned at the sound of her footfall and embraced her . The * 54 *

Vulture's Kiss half-Arab, half-Jew had always had a certain voluptuous beauty , but today her face was simply swollen from weeping. "Thank you. Thank you for coming," she whispered hoarsely.

"Of course," Valerie answered softly , and looked again toward Derek and his daughter. Her visits to Egypt had never coincided with his, so this was the fi rst time she had seen them together since the baby's birth. She noted a sort of reverse resemblance between them.

Nefi had shiny dark hair that hung in thick Shirley Temple curls around her face, while his was ruthlessly short. She had the same radiant eyes as her natural father, but where his sparkled with joie de vivre, Nefi 's seemed more solemn.

"Please, both of you." Auset's voice was raw. "Come and sit down here outside the kitchen." She pointed to a round glass table at the side of the garden that was already set with plates and fruit. "Fahd will bring us some breakfast."

"What a beautiful place." Valerie postponed talking about Yussif.

"It's part of your father's business, isn't it?"