“We were attacked last night when I came here to see your father. Husani, do you know where the Queen’s tomb is?”
He shook his head and started moving the baskets with more gusto. “I do not. But then you know how much your father favored puzzles. Especially since the community didn’t believe his wild claims.”
“Do you believe he found her tomb?”
He paused and glanced at Isis over his shoulder. “I believe that my father, a man who has never lied to me, believes this is so.”
“Do you know where it is?” she asked again.
“I do not, nor does my father. But you must leave Cairo, Isis. These men are dangerous.”
Thorne opened the camera bag and took out the small black notebook. “Does this look familiar?” He held it for the other man to see.
“Yes. We sell them here at my stall. The professor purchased many to jot down notes. Is this one of his?”
“Not sure,” Thorne prevaricated. He didn’t trust anyone.
The Egyptian met his eyes and merely gave a small nod before turning to Isis.
“Your father left two items with my father for safekeeping. Here.”
“Thank God.” Isis breathed deeply, then held out her hand. “We were hoping he’d left a clue of some kind. What’s this?” she asked as the other man laid a length of wood across her palm.
“It’s a broken piece of a walking stick. Don’t ask me the significance, for I do not know.”
“Seriously?” Isis took the carved stick and handed it to Thorne. “Not only is it broken, but a walking stick like this is mass-produced and sold at a hundred stalls here alone.” Frustration laced her words.
Thorne took it, hoping she wasn’t about to burst into tears. “The stick and carvings are machine made, probably in China. Nothing special about it that I can see.”
She looked hopeful. “Maybe it’s hollow and he’s written me a nice letter explaining everything.”
Thorne twisted and inspected. “Not hollow.”
“Husani, what do the glyphs say?”
“A poem for long life and prosperity.”
“Of little value?”
“Of no value at all, I’m sorry to say, little bird. It makes no sense to me, either, but my father informs me that the professor was very specific that he hold this, and the box, until he returned and to give them to no one else.”
She held it out to Thorne. “Can you get anything from this?”
“Bought somewhere close by. I don’t see any significance.”
Isis blew out a breath and handed it back to her friend. “Would you mind if I leave it here with you? I have no way to carry it safely, and I don’t want to lose it. Obviously it has some sentimental value for my father. I’ll take it back to Seattle. Maybe seeing it will jog his memory.” She paused. “What box?”
He handed her a small boxy reed basket about the size of her palm, crisscrossed with a length of grubby ribbon. An equally dirty white business-sized card was tied on top. Thorne reached over to pinch the paper between his fingers, acknowledged the stream of GPS numbers suddenly running through his head, and flipped over the card so both he and Isis could see the tyet, the hieroglyph knot hastily sketched on one side. He turned the card. The other side was blank.
Isis carefully untied the thin ribbon, stuffing it in her camera bag absently so she could lift the lid. The bright light in her eyes dulled. Inside was a ratty silk tassel, the kind that could be found on millions of Turkish rugs worldwide.
“Damn it, Daddy,” she muttered under her breath, her disappointment evident from the slump of her shoulders. “Couldn’t you just write me a note like a freaking normal person?”
“DYLAN CAME TO SEE me this morning as well,” Husani told Isis with a frown on his smooth features as he handed her a small cup of mint tea she didn’t want, then poured another for Thorne. “What’s going on, Isis?” he asked after handing Thorne a cup. “Does your presence, and that of your old friend, have anything to do with my father’s attack?”
Dylan? Her heart fluttered. “What did he want?” A small alarm dinged. The attack after their arrival in Cairo, Beniti’s attack, and now Dylan had visited Husani?
Thorne cocked a dark brow in her direction. He had very expressive eyebrows. “And he is?”
“My father’s assistant.”
“Little bird’s fiancé,” Husani said at the same time.
“Dylan was never my fiancé,” Isis quickly denied. “We dated. He wanted more; I wanted less.” Zero chemistry, nothing