The question made her review everything she knew of Ramesses VIII and the tumultuous times of his reign. The two previous pharaohs had been father and son, also ruling briefly. But Ramesses VIII was not the grandson. Instead, he was the son of the pharaoh Ramesses III. It had been intriguing to speculate about the reason for the string of short reigns, so short that a direct descendant had apparently not been born to take the throne from a deceased parent. Her father had woven exciting tales of possible palace intrigue and assassinations, but it had all been fanciful theories because little was known of their personal stories. The mummy of Ramesses VIII had never been found, and the tomb set aside for him as a mere prince would not have been used once the line of succession unexpectedly came down to him. He would have required his own tomb as a pharaoh, which was…
Jess’s thoughts came to a screeching halt. His tomb! That was why she remembered him.
The canopic chest and vase had obviously come from it. Finally, she understood why her father had wanted her to buy an old vase. She was bursting to tell Donovan the implications of what she knew. They’d been right to bring her along.
Figuring it out was a rush, but with the soaring sense of victory came an urgency to accomplish her father’s mission.
“It’s perfect. I’ll take it. One million dollars,” she said.
Mr. Atallah looked startled by the sudden offer. He hesitated as if intending to counteroffer, but the price she’d stated was generous. He stumbled over his words, and finally managed, “American. Cash.”
“Of course. When can I get it?”
Things seemed to be moving too fast for him. “Uh, tomorrow. The day after, at the latest. I will, uh, notify my contact and have the piece delivered. Shall I call you when I have it?”
“Please do.” She turned to Donovan, lifting an imperious eyebrow. She found him watching her with a startled look, but he recovered quickly and recited a phone number for Mr. Atallah.
“Thank you for allowing me to see these marvelous items. I suspect my husband will be interested in purchasing other items you may acquire.”
Stroking his ego and dangling the bait of possible future sales accomplished its purpose. Mr. Atallah beamed. “I look forward to meeting him and doing business together. Perhaps you could tell me more about him over another cup of tea?”
“I’m sorry, but I have an appointment and really must be going. I take it our escorts are ready and waiting?”
He pulled out a cell phone and tapped out a rapid text as he answered her. “Yes, no problem, the car is out front.” She was already moving toward the front of the store, Donovan and Mr. Atallah falling in behind her as he kept talking. “You are as astute a businesswoman as you claimed, Mrs. Hassan. You must let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.”
How about twenty to life in a dank prison cell? “There may be, Mr. Atallah.” She smiled sweetly as she reached his jewelry-filled showroom. “We shall see. Good day, sir.”
She stepped out the door and found their police car waiting at the curb. The same police officer—if that’s what he really was—held the back door open for them and she studied his face as she smiled her thanks, determined to be able to identify him as an accessory to the theft and sale of antiquities. Inside, she took a good look at the driver, too.
Donovan slid in the backseat next to her. “I take it we’re done shopping?” he asked in a low voice.
There was so much she needed to tell him. But not until they were alone. For now, she speared him with a look that she hoped communicated satisfaction and success. “We’re done.”
They didn’t say anything else, although Donovan took his phone out and sent a couple texts that she assumed were to the other members of the team. When the car pulled to a stop, they were outside the souk where they’d been picked up. She saw the driver meet Donovan’s eyes in the mirror and nod, which seemed to be the only farewell they were going to get. Donovan got out and held the door for her to follow. As soon as he closed it again, the car disappeared into traffic.
They stood on a wide strip of pavement between the street and the outdoor mall. Donovan’s gaze darted over the constant stream of pedestrians before settling on her. “Tell me.”
It spilled out like a dam bursting, and she had to work to keep her excitement from drawing unwanted attention from people around them. “It’s the pharaoh’s cartouche, that’s what my father wanted us to see. Ramesses VIII. I couldn’t figure out why at first, and then I remembered. He’s one of the pharaohs we know very little about, but not just because he had a short reign. They never found his mummy, not even among the large cache of mummies that were moved to save them from grave robbers. He was a prince and was supposed to be buried in the Queen’s Valley—I think there’s a tomb that was started there that’s thought to be meant for him—but he ascended to the throne unexpectedly, and as a pharaoh who would be a god in the afterlife, he suddenly needed his own tomb.”