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Neil stiffened. “You can’t possibly be implying that the British Athenaeum for Egyptological Studies has anything to do with this!” He threw out his arms. “It’s a scholarly organization that has existed for nearlytwo hundred years,with an impeccable reputation for supporting the most respected research into Ancient Egyptian history. It publishes papers! And an annual journal! The members are all retired university lecturers, for goodness’ sake! They get into arguments about translations. They do not hire thugs to steal supposedly magical artifacts at gunpoint!”
Mr. Al-Ahmed cleared his throat a little. “They do take artifacts, strictly speaking.”
“That’s partage!” Neil burst out. “It’s a perfectly legal share of the finds, overseen by the Egyptian Antiquities Service! It’s notstealing!”
“That is a matter of one’s perspective,” Mrs. Al-Ahmed countered with razor-edged crispness.
“And it may do to recall that the Antiquities Service is run by a Frenchman who continues to operate a sale room out of the Egyptian Museum, where he hawks artifacts to tourists,” Ellie added with a familiar burst of indignation. “Which is alsoperfectly legal.”
“But t-those are… They’re extras. They’re items that are already… already represented in the…” Neil trailed off, his shoulders slumping.
Mr. Al-Ahmed sighed tiredly.
Adam cast Ellie a significant look. “The Mustache isn’t a retired professor.”
“No,” Constance agreed wryly. “He most certainly is not.”
“Mr. Mustache—I mean Mowbray—Forster-Mowbray,” Neil spluttered, “is not a member of the Athenaeum. He’s a… well, you know. He… represents them.”
“If that fellow knows hieratic from demotic, I will eat my hat,” Ellie asserted firmly. “He is entirely a dilettante. Why would the Athenaeum trust someone like Julian Forster-Mowbray as their liaison?”
“Money,” Mrs. Al-Ahmed asserted flatly. “If he is not a scholar, then he is connected to the money. That is why he oversees your work.”
Adam looked at Neil. “So where’s the money come from?”
“The money?” Neil echoed helplessly.
“You know—the stuff that pays your salary?” Adam elaborated in a drawl. “If your Athenaeum is all a bunch of retired professors, where’s the cash for your dig come from?”
“Oh!” Neil said. “Well, there’s a small endowment, of course, but most of the funds come through private investment.”
“Of course!” Constance straightened, eyes bright. “Your nefarious mystery organization must be funding the Athenaeum. That’s why they were able to make Julian their Johnny-on-the-spot for Neil’s dig—though why they chosehimis anyone’s guess.”
“He’s probably related to somebody,” Adam sighed tiredly. “Where he comes from, they’re always handing out easy jobs to idiot nephews.”
“Where he comes from?” Ellie asked. “You mean England?”
“I mean rich people,” Adam corrected her. “That guy’s got idiot nephew written all over him.”
“And now they are after the Staff of Moses,” Mr. Al-Ahmed said flatly.
“You are speaking of the prophet Musa?” his wife cut in, her eyebrows arching with surprise.
“Dropped into the bulrushes. Adopted by an Egyptian Princess,” Constance recited easily. “Cursed Egypt with ten terrible plagues, freed the Hebrew slaves, and drowned Pharaoh’s army in the parting of the Red Sea.”
The others stared at her.
“What?” Constance returned blithely. “I don’talwaysuse church as a chance to catch up on my adventure novels.”
“That would be the one,” Mrs. Al-Ahmed confirmed dryly.
“Let me see if I can remember all the plagues he brought with his staff,” Constance mused. “There were frogs, gnats, locusts, flies… er, pestilence?”
“Boils,” Ellie automatically corrected her.
“Turning water into blood,” Constance added. “Eternal darkness… well, a few days or so anyway… and the wholesale slaughter of helpless infants!”
An uncomfortable silence followed her words.
