Free Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 03 - Cairo Caper by Barbara Silkstone Page A

Russian’s gun bulged slightly. He picked up Horus’s cage and the three of us trudged after Tickemoff.
    As we drew closer to the city, the Tick appeared to grow nervous. “You look much like tourists. Can we not cover your clothes?”
    “Put the robe on,” I said tugging it from Roger’s head where it sat like an over-sized marshmallow.
    Clenching my jaws I inched my robe gingerly over my sticky-stiff outfit. This was like rolling in sandpaper coated in superglue. I flipped the hoodie up to cover my blonde hair.
    Fiona looked like a tourist but short of putting her in a sack we were stuck. She smashed her helmet onto her head and smeared a third layer of dust over her face, trying for camouflage.
    I was running on empty except for a beer. I felt like a Hobbit. I’d shrunk four inches and shed twenty pounds. The hope of an air-conditioned Land Rover was the only thing that kept me in motion.
    Thirty minutes later we were still walking through slippery sand-dusted streets. Our guide led us to a four-story apartment building. It looked pleasant enough, but then anything that provided shade would toot my whistle. The structure was concrete and brick with balconies, dreaded Egyptian balconies.
    Tickemoff swept his arm toward the building and said with a sly smile, “We are arriving. Welcome to my home.”
    Had we just been welcomed into the parlor by the spider?

Chapter Fourteen
    We followed Tickemoff up two exterior staircases, the drifted sand made for a dicey climb. I placed my hand firmly, but carefully on the rusted handrail. Were my tetanus shots up to date?
    Tickemoff produced a key from somewhere in his folded cloak and with a flourish opened a battered green door.
    My companions gasped. The place was stunning. It was a slightly over-decorated Manhattan penthouse except this pad was located on the second floor and the collection of museum quality furnishings, though ritzy, was disorganized. It appeared to hold pieces from a mind-boggling array of periods. Gaudy Louis XIV and heavy Russian armoires, an 18 th century Italian banquette, and an Andy Warhol triptych that bore a striking resemblance to our host.
    “Is light and airy? No?” The Tick said.
    He led us through a humongous foyer and into a family room, startling a cluster of a half-dozen ladies, all petite like the Tick. The women arose up from an immaculate dining room table made of bleached cypress polished smooth with the natural details of the wood intact.
    “Seibonne shwaya, ameshou bara yal la,” Tickemoff said and grabbed the arm of the tiniest lady shoeing the others from the room. With thick black hair and deep violet eyes, she’d be a stunner with a little plucking. She smiled shyly and stood behind Tickemoff.
    My brain was denying what I could see of the apartment. The place leaned heavily into czarist-Russian, opulent with a riot of gingham and paisley. A zebra skin chair in the corner with a marble bust of Zeus on a table behind it. On a mahogany table behind the sofa rested two blue Delft porcelain bowls. A Roy Lichtenstein painting sat over the fireplace with a Ming-dynasty tiger perched below. A plasma television dominated the room. I was knee-deep in an out-of-body-experience.
    Tick introduced his female relative. “This is my sister… Jorjaokeef.”
    Roger grinned. “Georgia O’Keeffe?”
    The little man shook his head as if we were the most naïve of visitors. “No… say like one word. I will soon teach you to speak our language. Jorjaokeef is a famous artist in our village.”
    My out-of-body experience wasn’t getting any more in body.
    “May I use your toilet?” I was busting despite the lack of fluids.
    He instructed the lavender-eyed lady to escort me. Fiona tagged along.
    The bathroom was a tiled delight. Rich ceramic and gold faucets. The peddling business must be pretty lucrative. The toilet paper could use some softening, and the smell of the eucalyptus soap was overwhelming.
    Fiona chattered to me through the door