“What sort of merchandise?”
“High quality. Original.”
Her senses tingled at the last word, and she concentrated on staying calm. His style of conversation seemed to be to say something without actually saying it, but she needed to be certain what they were talking about. “The description I had in mind was ‘authentic.’ I am not interested in a high-quality imitation. My husband is a student of Egyptian history and an avid collector of ancient artifacts. He would appreciate nothing less than an authentic piece.”
“I understand. I deal with many, collectors although I am not familiar with your husband’s name.”
“I would hope not. His collection is for his own enjoyment, shared with very few people.”
Mr. Atallah seemed reassured. “An admirable policy. I assure you, I can meet your needs.”
“Hmm.” She tilted her head, beginning to enjoy the game. “If I asked for something specific, say a vase, could you still help me?”
“I expect you to be specific, Mrs. Hassan. The only question is the rather indelicate one of price.”
If it was so indelicate, his eyes shouldn’t be so alight with interest, she thought. She also thought that perhaps Donovan should have discussed this part with her. But if they were talking about authentic tomb artifacts, it wouldn’t matter what Donovan said; she knew the price would be steep. Something that made it worth robbing a museum or private collection, which was the only way to get authentic artifacts.
She reached for a cookie, making sure her large diamond ring was on display. “The price depends on the quality and rarity, of course. I expect to pay at least one million dollars.”
Donovan’s cup rattled on its saucer, and she resisted the temptation to look at him.
Mr. Atallah beamed. “A serious collector.” He nodded approvingly. “And a fortunate man to have such a thoughtful wife.”
“Thank you.” The Egyptian merchants she’d talked to hadn’t hesitated to brag about their items or themselves, so she didn’t either. “I am also well-informed on the subject and an astute businesswoman. I expect to get what I pay for.”
“Then you will be quite pleased with the merchandise I provide.”
His expression was as confident as hers. If he was the real deal, there was only one thing left to accomplish. “I expect you have some merchandise I can see? A sample of what I can expect?”
“You understand, of course, that I don’t keep an inventory of that caliber in stock.”
“Of course.” Because he risked prison for every second it was in his possession. But if Suzanne was as astute as she claimed, she wouldn’t hand over her husband’s cash so easily. “But you understand my concern for authenticity. To bring you the amount of money required, well, one does not go around Luxor with that sort of cash unless one is sure they are not being set up. No offense intended,” she rushed to add.
“No offense taken.” He sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Do you read hieroglyphics, Mrs. Hassan?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Something she suddenly regretted, because she had a feeling it would be extremely useful right now.
“Neither do I,” he admitted. “It would have helped reassure you, but no matter.” He leaned forward and set his cup down. “Perhaps I have something I could show you. Not a vase, I’m afraid, but something to demonstrate the quality of the merchandise I offer.” He stood. “If you will excuse me a moment, I will get it.”
She waited until he was gone to turn a worried look on Donovan. “He doesn’t have a vase,” she whispered.
He leaned close before answering, as if afraid they might be overheard. She hadn’t even thought about cameras and listening devices—a naive oversight on her part. “Maybe he did last week.”
“But how do we know we have the right guy? And how can I find the hostages if I don’t see the vase Wally saw?”
“I wish I could tell you,” he said, his lips barely moving. “But you’re the expert. I suggest you go along with him and get as much information as you can.”
His words barely registered. He was close, and the smell of spicy soap on his skin distracted her, fogging her mind with the memory of the last time they were this close. His mouth on hers. His hand finding her bare breast. She tried to blink it away and found herself staring at the rough texture of three-days’ growth of beard. It suited him. She was tempted to run her hand over it. Then rub her cheek against it. Maybe other parts of her, too.
Some sane part of her told her this was not the time or place.
He didn’t seem to notice her obsession with his whiskers. “Keep it up, you’re doing fantastic.”