He smiled. “I hope to. I have only begun to receive items from this estate.”
She smiled too, pleased to hear it. Perhaps she had caught them before they could raid an entire collection in some museum storeroom. “Excellent. And will one of them perhaps be an unguent vase?”
“I am fairly certain it will, although I can’t say when I will have it.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t hard to look distressed; they could not afford to wait an indefinite amount of time. “This is quite inconvenient. My husband’s birthday is in two days. I need to purchase a gift soon.”
“That is soon,” he agreed. “But it could be a late present.”
Not with two lives at stake. But they were so close, she couldn’t lose him now. “I’m afraid not. We will be leaving for our home in Switzerland in two days’ time, to celebrate his birthday there. I must have the vase before I leave. But if you cannot get one that soon…” It was her turn to look sad over the situation. “I hope this does not mean we can’t do business. I would like him to see the excellent quality of the merchandise from this collection.”
“Yes, yes,” he murmured, no doubt thinking of a lost sale of at least one million dollars, plus whatever he could tempt her mythical husband into spending in the future. She allowed him to ponder the problem in silence. It didn’t take long.
“You must allow me to check with the seller. Perhaps he will be willing to send something immediately.”
She noted that the widow had become a “he,” but didn’t comment on it since she hadn’t believed the estate-sale story, anyway. She was about to reward him with a smile, but it occurred to her that she should be playing hard to get with her money, not acting eager to give it away. “I don’t know,” she said, with a doubtful tip of her head. “To wait for an item to be shipped could take too much time.”
“A day, no more.”
That meant it was close by, at a museum in Luxor or Cairo, almost certainly. She couldn’t wait to bring this guy down. “That is half the time I have left. What if I don’t care for the vase this estate has for sale?”
“Ah, but we will make sure that doesn’t happen. As I said, the collection is large and I have just started to look for buyers.”
She restrained a sarcastic snort. She just bet it was large, perhaps encompassing a whole museum storeroom full of New Kingdom artifacts. But that was also a problem. With that much to choose from, how was she supposed to know which vase Wally wanted her to see? And was it necessary that she buy it, or simply see it? Omega seemed to have a lot of resources, but coming up with a million in cash might be pushing it.
Her hesitation seemed to worry him. “A moment please,” he said, dismissing his assistant with a quick hand motion as he walked to an upright antique writing desk in the corner. She threw a puzzled glance at Donovan, who shrugged. Mr. Atallah opened a drop leaf, reached into a cubbyhole, then returned to them. In his hand he held a small flash drive. He walked past them to a desktop computer behind her and inserted the device. She stepped sideways, trying to see around him as he hovered close to the monitor, but could only make out a long column of numbered items she couldn’t read.
He selected one, then stepped aside, motioning to them. “Come. Tell me what you think.”
Donovan stepped to the computer with her. The monitor was filled by a close-up of an elaborate alabaster vase. The main body of the vase, or amphora, narrowed to a long neck, which then flared again at the top and was decorated with carved designs. Concentric handles flanked each side like fountains of stone flowing the full length of the vessel. She had seen pictures of such vases among the vast treasures found in Tutankhamun’s tomb, but didn’t know of others. Had someone had the nerve to steal from the treasures of King Tut himself?
There was a sure way to tell. The body of the vase bore the double cartouche of a pharaoh—two ovals, one with the glyphs that stood for his throne name, and one for his personal name. Her eyes darted to the insignia, knowing she’d recognize the name of the famous Tutankhamun if she saw it.
It wasn’t Tut. The cartouche she saw was the same one she’d just seen on the canopic chest, the throne name that Mr. Atallah said belonged to the pharaoh Ramesses VIII.
Again, the name tickled something at the back of her mind. What was it about Ramesses VIII that nagged at her memory?
The photo gave no hint. The vase had not been photographed while on display—no glass case surrounded it, and the lighting, while bright, cast shadows as if the rest of the room had no even overhead lighting. The dim recesses of a storeroom? Even a private collection, which Jess was sure was fictional, would have displayed objects under protective glass with full lighting. Who was Ramesses VIII that his treasures didn’t rate the respect other pharaohs would have been given?