Treasures of Egypt
Copyright © 2008
HDKingsbury

Chapter 7
The German

-0-0-0-

"How many men there are in modern life who would like to see their past burning to white ashes before them!"
Oscar Wilde, An Ideal Husband

-0-0-0-

"Oh! That man is...is insufferable!" Elizabeth muttered under her breath as she stepped into buggy that was going to take her back to camp.

"Pardon, Sitt?" the driver said. "Did you say something?"

"No. No, I was just...just talking to myself," she said, embarrassed at being caught talking to herself. She accepted the driver's help into the cab and sat down, demurely folding her hands in her lap.

"If you say so, Sitt," the driver replied.

For the rest of the trip, Elizabeth said nothing. She barely noticed anything around her as the driver navigated the narrow streets. The trip back to the Karnak temple complex was, thankfully, uneventful—no street urchins begging for baksheesh, no upset cart blocking the road—and this allowed Elizabeth the opportunity to recover from her encounter with Erik Rien. She replayed the interview in her mind, trying to determine what she might have done differently that would have made the meeting go more smoothly. She was sure that he knew something about her husband's disappearance, but for some reason, was refusing to tell her. Blast the man, but he was arrogance personified!

The buildings thinned out, and soon they were riding past the ancient temples, along the avenue of sphinxes. At last, she was back at the camp. Ra'id came running up to greet her and to help her out of the buggy. She paid the driver and headed for the hut, Ra'id at her side.

"Did you see him?" he asked, concern on his face when he saw how distraught she was.

"Yes," she said, frowning slightly. "I'm sorry to say."

"Sorry, Sitt? Did the meeting go badly?"

"A more intolerable, arrogant, conceited person I have never met!" she exclaimed, wrenching off her gloves and shoving them into her reticule. What a ridiculous affectation, dressing like a Bedouin. Imagine a European gone native like that. Then she thought about his scarred right eye, and found herself wondering about what else was hidden beneath that scarf. Enough of this nonsense. She forced herself to stop thinking about Rien. She looked inside her reticule again, intending to put the painting away, and was horrified when she realized that she'd left it back at the man's house. Could anything else go wrong?

"Has there been any word from Mr. Brackenstall while I was out?" she asked, deliberately changing the subject.

"No, Sitt."

"Very well, then. I need to freshen up. I shall rejoin you later."

Elizabeth entered the hut and shut the door behind her before leaning her back against the wall and closing her eyes. She would not let the men see her acting this way, giving in to womanly weakness. She would not let them see the tears that were welling up.

"Blast that man!" she said, choking back a sob, not knowing who she was angriest with the most at the moment—her husband, or Erik Rien.

-0-0-0-

Erik sat on an empty crate, examining a collection of funerary statues he'd recently purchased. For two days now, he had been trying to sort and catalogue them, but circumstances were not cooperating. It seemed that every time he wanted to work on unpacking, something—or someone—interrupted him. Better work quickly, before the next interruption came.

He glanced across the room at the shelf on which sat the wall painting fragment that Mrs. Brackenstall forgot to take with her when she left in such a lather the other day. He knew he should have immediately arranged to have it returned to her, but kept stalling for reasons he could not quite fathom. Certainly, she had been fairly acerbic during her visit, but she was understandably upset about her husband. Isn't that how a wife was supposed to behave in such circumstances—worried and concerned? Even if that husband was not the pick of the lot?

It was not as if she had been asking that Erik be her friend...or her Angel. Now, that was a stupid notion! Who did he think she was, his new Christine? Besides, she may not have been a beauty but she did have a certain appeal. After Christine's meekness, it was almost refreshing to talk to a woman with a little fire. But best not to think along those lines.

He wanted to laugh at himself for harboring such foolish thoughts. Five years had passed since the events at the Opera Populaire, and he was still defensive around women in general, and, it turned out, Elizabeth Brackenstall in particular. What a fool he was being! There was no need for such idiocy. She was a married woman who, in spite of the man's shortcomings, was obviously in love with her husband, and he had been a perfect boor. He had not helped matters at all and had been deliberately rude to her for no good reason.

Besides, Erik told himself, women—any women—were out of the picture. There was no chance for any sort of romantic intrigue, and most certainly not with Elizabeth Brackenstall. Even if he had been interested in her. And he hadn't been interested. Christine had been his first and last hope, and he'd learned his lesson.

It was still curious, though, that she had not called or sent word about the painting.

A'aqil opened the door to the storage room and announced, "The German is here to see you, Master."

Erik gave silent thanks for A'aqil's interruption. His thoughts had been definitely going in the wrong direction. He set the statue aside. "Riemenschneider? Here?"

"Yes, Master. He says it is merely a social call." A'aqil's expression showed that he didn't believe this for one minute.

Erik frowned. "Nothing Riemenschneider does is 'merely social'."

"I agree, Master" A'aqil said with a thoughtful nod of the head. "Shall I remain nearby?"

"Of course. I don't trust the German any further than I can throw him. Where is he now?"

"In the courtyard."

"What? Did you leave him alone with Safa?"

"Of course not, Master. We both know what a lecher Herr Riemenschneider is. I told Safa to stay in her room."

"And did she?"

"No. She, too, remembers Herr Riemenschneider. She says she isn't afraid of him."

The last comment evinced a laugh from the men, both of whom were aware of how spirited Safa could be if crossed.

"Very well," Erik said, rising from his chair. "Let us beard the lion."

-0-0-0-

Erik entered the courtyard, and found Earhart Riemenschneider sitting in the chair Elizabeth Brackenstall sat in the previous day. Superficially, the two of them were civil, even cordial, to one another; however, neither trusted the other. Erik had come to know many of the legitimate antiquities dealers in Luxor, and most of the unscrupulous ones as well. In his business, it paid to know them all. Riemenschneider belonged in the second group, and was the most successful of the lot. He was also the most unprincipled and, if crossed, could be extremely dangerous.

He was a tall man, as tall as Erik, with a high forehead and a strikingly handsome face. He was clean-shaven except for a pencil-thin mustache, and more than once Erik found himself thinking that if Lucifer ever walked the planet, he would look like Earhart Riemenschneider. The German projected the epitome of urbane civility, and to friend and enemy alike, was smooth and charming. "The Elegant Slime" is how many referred to Riemenschneider, but that label did not bother him. In fact, he reveled in it.

"Good afternoon, Herr Riemenschneider," Erik said.

The German rose and acknowledged Erik with a crisp bow of his head. "Yes, it is a good afternoon, is it not?" he replied with the slightest of accents.

"It's too hot to stand here talking. Shall we sit?"

Riemenschneider smiled, and Erik couldn't help but think of a snake lurking in the grass. "But of course," the German replied, as if the two of them were best of friends. "It is rather warm, don't you think? Perhaps your delightful servant girl would bring us something to...refresh us?"

As if on cue, Safa entered the room, asking if either of the gentlemen would like some food and drink. When she returned with the tray carrying the refreshments, Riemenschneider flirted outrageously with her.

Riemenschneider reached over and captured one of her hands with his own. "You have such lovely hands," he purred, stroking her hand and arm with his fingers. "Such delicate hands should not be confined to menial labor." He looked up at her face. "I can think of many other uses for hands as soft and as strong as yours..."

The look on the girl's face let it be known in no uncertain terms that she did not appreciate his attentions. He tried to pull her closer, chuckling as she struggled briefly against him before he let her go with a laugh, as though he meant to be playful and harmless, but he continued leering at her.

Erik started to rise from his chair, but Safa silently signaled that it was not necessary, that she could take care of herself. Erik gave an almost imperceptible nod, letting her know he understood. Besides, if for any reason she or Erik could not handle things, there was always her brother, who would take matters into his own hands if need be.

Ignoring Riemenschneider's lascivious gaze, Safa continued serving the drinks, handing the first of the iced teas to Erik, and then deliberately pouring the German's in his lap.

"Oh. I am so sorry, sir," she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. "I seem to have spilled your drink. How clumsy of me." She placed the empty glass on the tray and stared at Riemenschneider, daring him to do reply.

The German, rather than getting angry, laughed. "I like you, Safa!" he declared as if this had all been a game. "Yes, I like a girl with spirit, and you are most correct. I behaved like a perfect lout. I am certain I deserved this. Will you forgive me?"

If Erik hadn't known Riemenschneider better, he might almost have believed the German was sincere. Almost...but not quite.

"Besides, there was no harm done," Riemenschneider added. "In this heat, they will dry quickly enough," he said, pointing to his wet trousers.

Safa glared at him. "I am not sure your apology is sincere, but I will accept it nonetheless and bring you another drink," she said, and left the room.

"I like her, Rien! Would you consider selling her to me?"

Erik's eyes flashed with anger, but his voice was calm. "I'm not in the business of buying and selling human beings."

Riemenschneider looked surprised. "Why ever not? It is quite a lucrative commerce. Oh, don't look at me like that. We're both adults. We both have been around the block more than once and know how the world really operates."

"Perhaps, but my answer's still no."

"Oh, very well. Can't blame a man for trying." He pulled his cigarette case out of his pocket, placed one in an ivory holder, and lit it. He offered one to Erik, who declined.

"They're bad for the voice," Erik said.

"You can't fool me. You just don't want to expose your pretty face."

Before Erik could reply, Safa returned with fresh drinks, placed them on the table, and left. The two men sat quietly, Erik sipping his iced tea while the German blew rings in the air.

"You know, I've always been curious," said Riemenschneider. "Whatever brought you to Luxor in the first place?"

"My health," said Erik. "I came to Luxor for the curative waters."

"There are no spas here. The only water is the Nile."

Erik shrugged. "I was misinformed."

Riemenschneider leaned forward in a conspiratorial posture. "Tell me the truth. Why did you come to this godforsaken place? Did you abscond with the church funds? Run off with a nobleman's wife? I like to think you killed a man. It's the romantic in me."

"I burned down an opera house and kidnapped the soprano from the stage."

The German burst out laughing. "What on earth did you do that for?"

"Couldn't stand the music."

"Critics! You're all alike!" Riemenschneider took another drag on his cigarette. "You're not going to tell me the truth, are you? No? Serves me right for asking such personal questions."

"Yes, it does."

Riemenschneider leaned back in his chair and slowly exhaled. "You despise me, don't you?"

"If I gave you any thought, I probably would. So tell me, to what do I owe the honor of this visit? Surely, it's not because you enjoy my company."

Riemenschneider laughed again. "Hardly! A scorpion's got a better disposition; however, I have a certain admiration for you."

"Oh?"

"It's true. You have always dealt honestly with me. That is why I am cautioning you not to get involved with anything to do with Brackenstall. Yes, I know Mrs. Brackenstall came to see you yesterday."

"Are you laying claim to her, then?"

"Me? Never! I don't care for that English woman. She's too cold, too sharp-tongued. This matter has to do with the woman's husband, Mr. Leonidas Brackenstall. Do you know anything about the man?"

"Never heard of him until yesterday," Erik said, lying.

"That's not what I heard."

Erik cocked an eyebrow.

"I was told that Mr. Brackenstall called upon you last week," the German went on.

"Did this person tell you why?"

"Of course, not, Rien! What do you think, that I have spies in your household?"

Erik nodded and graciously accepted Riemenschneider's remark with a smile, even though the German couldn't see it under the scarf. Since his household consisted only of himself, A'aqil and Safa, he knew there were no spies within his walls. Any other servants—gardener, stable boy, and so forth—were day workers who were seldom admitted inside the house and therefore would have had no occasion to overhear anything said between himself and Brackenstall.

"What do you know about him?" Erik asked.

"Mister Leonidas is your typical carefree English aristocrat. He was raised with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth, and has never had to work a day in his life. He has an allowance that would keep you and me living in a style to which we could easily become accustomed, but which for him is barely enough. He is of modest intelligence, and depends upon his charm and good looks to get him by."

"Much like you?"

"Almost, but not quite. You see, not only do I have charm and good looks, but intelligence, too. Now, let me see...where was I?"

"You were telling me about Brackenstall and his wife."

"Ah, yes. Well, Brackenstall fancies himself a mover and a shaker in society circles, but the wife is the brains of the two," Riemenschneider explained. "Did you know she attended university? I remember hearing that she applied to Oxford. They allowed her to attend lectures and the like, but apparently wouldn't award her with a degree."

"Are you sure? I thought women were admitted and charged tuition."

"I'm only repeating what I've heard. Who knows? Probably afraid she'd shame her male counterparts. Her father is considered an expert in Egyptology. Studied many years with Karl Richard Lepsius—he's German, you know—for a number of years. Old Professor Cutteridge often took his little girl on expeditions with him, and instilled in her the love of this land, its history and its culture. It was here, in Egypt, that she and Brackenstall met."

"Impressive. So, she and her husband share a common interest."

"It's more than that. Leo is the youngest son of some English Lord-something-or-other Brackenstall. I suspect they have a lineage that goes back to the Norman conquest."

"That would make him a viscount," Erik groaned. Another one? Hadn't he had enough younger sons of nobility with de Chagny?

"Yes, I supposed that's the correct title. I'm sure they are quite happy. After all, the lady surely doesn't wish to give up a chance at rubbing elbows with high society, or on the possibility of one day being Lady Brackenstall—when they're not in Egypt, that is. Or maybe she stays with the young whelp because of Papa's money. But no matter. The simple fact is that Brackenstall's gotten himself in over his head with some harebrained scheme."

"You are quite mercenary in your attitude, Earhart."

"Naturally. It is the only way to be successful in life. But why are you asking all these questions about Brackenstall. Didn't he explain his situation when he called upon you?"

"Humor me and pretend he didn't," said Erik.

Riemenschneider stubbed out the butt of the spent cigarette and prepared another. "I don't have the exact details, but from what I've heard through the grapevine, it has to do with the usual—tomb robbing, buried caches of treasure, something like that. Rumors suggest it is very much along the lines of the royal tomb cache found at Qurnah a few years back. You remember the story, don't you, about how a goat belonging to Ahmed el-Rassul strayed from the herd on the cliffs near Deir el-Bahri. The whole thing started back in the early '70s. This Ahmed, when he went to look for his goat, found that it had fallen down one of the many shafts that honeycomb the nearby cliffs. Can you imagine how a poor fellah like Ahmed must have felt when he got to the bottom of the shaft and found not just his goat, but a collection of royal funerary objects?"

"According to the newspaper accounts I read, there were ancient coffins stretching as far as he could see," said Erik, "and that many of them bore the uraeus, the royal cobra."

"And there weren't just coffins and mummies. There were any number of grave goods including ushabtis and canopic jars. Ahmed and his brothers and their families lived quite handsomely for quite a few years, but, as usual, greed gave them away." Riemenschneider blew another smoke ring and watched it float away.

"Yes," said Erik. "It was in all the Luxor papers when I came here in '81. The head of the antiquities department, Gaston Maspero, learned about these articles being sold on the black market and arrested the el-Russul brothers. He used torture to force a confession from them and moved the cache to Cairo—for safe keeping."

"Yes, leave it to a Frenchman to spoil all the fun."

"And this is what you think Leonidas Brackenstall has gotten himself involved in? Another royal cache? You think he's bright enough to carry off a scheme like this, with the antiquities department on the alert for just such mischief?"

"It's possible," said Riemenschneider. "Greed and baksheesh have just as much influence among the Europeans who head the antiquities department as they do on the ordinary Egyptian farmer, and the people Brackenstall's involved with are dangerous. Very dangerous. Besides, Maspero's leaving soon. In the interim, anything can happen."

"Any names?"

The German shook his head slowly. "No names, only whispers. As surprising as this may sound, even I do not know everything. There is talk of a new player in town. A friend of a friend told me he came down from Cairo. Whoever he is, he is very secretive and mysterious—even more secretive than you, my friend."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "We're not friends, but thank you for your concern just the same."

"You're going to ignore my advice?"

"Not at all," said Erik with sham sincerity. "I know that you have only my best interests at heart. What I plan on doing is assess the situation for myself and make my own decision. As you said earlier, we're both adults. We both have been around the block more than once and know how the world really operates."

The German grinned. "You're ignoring my advice."

Erik nodded.

"Ah well," Riemenschneider said, making a gesture of washing his hands of the affair. "I tried."

-0-0-0-

Notes:

Karl Richard Lepsius was one of the founding father's of Egyptology, and studied under Champolion himself.

Deir el-Bahri is the site of the famous temple of Hatshepsut.

The uraeus is the stylized, upright form of an Egyptian cobra used as a symbol of sovereignty, royalty, deity, and divine authority in ancient Egypt.

Ushabtis are funerary figurines were placed in tombs among the grave goods and were intended to act as substitutes for the deceased, should he be called upon to do manual labor in the afterlife.

Canopic jars were used by ancient Egyptians to store various internal organs removed during the process of mummification.

The story about the el-Russul brothers is true. Gaston Maspero was real, too!