Free Dead Men's Hearts by Aaron Elkins Page B

guest.”
    “You’re not Haddon’s guest,” she said sensibly. “You’re the Horizon Foundation’s guest. You’re here to narrate a film, that’s all. You’re not an Egyptologist and don’t pretend to be one, you’re not a board member like Bruno, or the power behind a board member like Bea, and this may be our one and only free morning in Luxor. Unless you’d rather spend it learning more about Middle Egyptian hieroglyphs and epigraphic techniques, of course.”
    He raised the eyebrow that wasn’t pressed against the pillow. “Are you kidding? But how do I get out of it? What do I tell Haddon?”
    “Tell him that your wife insists on going into Luxor, and she greatly desires your company, and her every wish is your command.”
    Gideon considered this for a few moments. Then he kissed her a final time, on the spot on her nose where the wrinkle had been, rolled out of bed, and began getting back into his clothes.
    “I will,” he said, and did.

    Chapter Eight
    The distance from the front gate of the Horizon House compound to Luxor Temple was well under a mile, all of it along the avenue referred to as Shari el-Bahr on maps, but invariably called the Corniche by locals and tourists alike— as the riverfront street in every Nile town and city is called the Corniche, whatever its designated name. Remnants of the French influence die hard in Egypt. Luxor’s Corniche was a particularly handsome, tree-shaded boulevard that ran beside the Nile for the length of the city, with tourist shops and fine hotels and high-walled gardens on one side, and posh, white cruise ships moored along the quays on the other.
    At 8:45 a.m. the sun was not yet oppressive, the smog not yet risen, and the Corniche relatively quiet, the trucks and tour buses having yet to come out in force. The roadway was almost free of traffic, and what there was, was picturesque: bicycles, robed men on slow-moving donkeys or in donkey-pulled carts, and the ubiquitous, garishly pretty horse-drawn taxis called caleches (another tag-end of Napoleon’s occupation). Cars passed not once in two minutes. Instead of blaring horns, diesel engines, and screamed curses, there was only a muted clip-clopping, lazy and affable.
    On the face of it, then, the walk from Horizon House tothe great pharaonic temple of Amenhotep III should have been a relaxing and agreeable way to launch their stay in Egypt, a peaceful, fifteen-minute stroll through the middle of an exotic picture postcard.
    Exotic it certainly was; relaxing and quiet, by no means. In six years, Gideon had almost forgotten what it was like for foreigners, especially reasonably well-dressed foreigners, to walk down a street in an Egyptian tourist center. Anytime they stopped for even a few seconds to admire the view of the Nile, or to tie a shoelace, or to wonder what lay behind some ornately gated high wall, men and boys, all with goods or services to sell, appeared from nowhere to descend enterprisingly upon them.
    “Welcome in Egypt!”
    “Hello, English? Where you from?”
    “Caleche?”
    “Taxi?”
    “Felucca ride, Banana Island?”
    “Just look, not buy!”
    “Hello, Karnak, yes? I take for nothing.”
    “Come on, at least say hello. What it can hurt?”
    Sometimes laughing young men would hurl a barrage of English—probably their total arsenal—at them, seemingly just for the fun of it: “Hello! Thank you! Good evening! Bye-bye! Michael Jackson!”
    By the time they were halfway to the temple, they had learned, as all visitors sooner or later did, that in order to make any progress they had to avoid the eyes of strangers and ignore the frequent questions and greetings that came their way. For New Yorkers, thought Gideon, this would probably be nothing new, but for a couple of people accustomed to the neighborly, easygoing rhythms of the Pacific Northwest it was going to take some getting used to.
    “I feel like the original Ugly American,” Julie said to him as they quickened their pace