Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 03 - Cairo Caper Read Free

whispered.
    All we had to do was get from Cairo to the Temple, alive. The Egyptian Antiquities Society was sure this was the site of Cleopatra’s grave. Roger was commissioned to confirm the queen and her lover Mark Antony were entombed somewhere under the Temple.
    “If Cleo’s there we’ll find her,” I said.
    He frowned, shook his head, and put his finger to his lips.
    Mister Wonderful Archaeologist could be so bossy. I hated it when he pulled rank on me. Sure he had the pedigree, but I had a great smile.
    I handed him the map and went back to repairing my face. I cleaned the mascara tread marks from my forehead, slathered on moisturized sunscreen, and 100spf sunblock lip gloss.
    Our relationship was in the first trimester of our third case. If I survived this caper I might consider making it semi-permanent. The adrenalin high of tomb raiding had become an addiction.
    Roger was obsessed with answering the prayers of those who’ve lost something of great value. When he was a kid, his baby brother was kidnapped and never found. It was his vulnerable side that held my heart captive.
    We sipped our coffee in silence. It was good and strong. Sunlight pierced the doorway and made it impossible to see outside. Suddenly a figure blocked the light, sort of. I felt like a character from a Clint Eastwood spaghetti western. In my head I heard Sergio Leone playing music and spurs jingling as a shadowed figure stepped inside the doorway. Roger dropped his foot from the stool. His body tensed.

Chapter Three
    The music stopped. The stranger was half as tall as Eastwood and dressed in a white linen suit complete with a vest. He walked directly toward us. Who was this guy? I jumped up and hefted an ashtray, my new weapon of choice, from the table. The sucker was plastic and wouldn’t stop a butterfly. Roger stood at my side, a questioning look on his kisser.
    The man extended his limp hand to Roger. With his tousled blonde hair and stylish manner, he reminded me of Niles from the Frasier television show. “You have to leave,” he said.
    That took the curls out of my hair. “Who the hell are you?”
    “My name is Petri Dische. I’m sorry for being abrupt. Let me rephrase. I’m inviting you to accompany me to the Museum. I’ve been searching everywhere for you. Your hotel is in chaos.”
    “Of all the gin joints in all the towns, in all the world, you have to walk into this one,” Roger said.
    “What the heck do you mean by that?” I asked, looking around the coffee shop.
    Roger grinned. “I always wanted to say that.”
    I thumped him on the shoulder.
    Dische smiled, his upper lip lifting a pencil-thin mustache. He moved the flap of his jacket and revealed a gun snug in a holster against his chest. “I work for Sir Sydney,” he said in a slight French accent. “He’s waiting; let’s not dawdle.”
    Roger checked his watch then looked suspiciously at Dische, “It’s early.”
    “Sir Sydney likes to be unpredictable. Walk this way.”
    I stepped behind Petri Dische putting a swish in my walk. Roger pinched my butt. I elbowed him.
    Dische spoke softly from the side of his mouth. “Stay close. Things are about to erupt in the Square. We need to get you honeymooners to safety in the Museum. We must take extra precautions as looters have mingled with the demonstrators.”
    The coral-colored two-storied Museum stood less than a hundred yards away. Crowds of young people gathered around the courtyard like a storm cloud, their voices a disquieting rumble. Our only protection was Dische, the guard Chihuahua.
    Roger, Dische, and I slipped past two military police, hands on holstered guns, and into the cool air of the Museum ground floor. I glanced at a large laminated floor plan mounted on an easel in the lobby. This floor held artifacts from the final two dynasties of Egypt, including pieces from the Valley of the Kings.
    I swallowed a lump of mob-fear, scrunched my shoulders and released. Tighten-relax was a meditation