My uncle jumped to his feet, his face turning a mottled red. “On what grounds?”
“For the discovery of Cleopatra, which you never reported, and whose mummy and artifacts are now missing.” He inhaled sharply, eyes narrowingin distaste. “We are holding you and your associate responsible for losing Egypt a national treasure.”
“Now, wait a minute.” My uncle took a step away from the two men intent on grabbing a hold of him. “I can explain our intention.”
“What’s clear to me is that neither of youintendedon registering the discovery,” Monsieur Maspero exclaimed. “And now I must deal with hunting Cleopatra down in the black market. I have been far too accommodating with you in the past, Ricardo, and it ends now. You and Abdullah have much to answer for.”
“You can’t take them,” I cried, throwing myself in front of Tío Ricardo. “Please, sir, you don’t have all the information.”
“Inez.”
“Calm yourself, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Maspero said. He used his chin to point in my direction, and one of his comrades took a hold of my arm and shoved me toward the couch. He pushed on my shoulders, forcing me to drop onto the cushion. “You’re becoming hysterical.”
“Don’t touch her,” Tío Ricardo growled.
Monsieur Maspero snapped his fingers. “Arrest him.”
“It wasn’t their fault,” I yelled over my uncle’s roar of outrage, jumping to my feet. “It was my mother who stole everything. Her and Mr. Fincastle!”
The room fell silent as everyone’s faces snapped in my direction. Monsieur Maspero’s impervious expression softened to one of profound pity. As if I were spouting nonsense, as if I’d just declared I lived in a castle on the moon.
“Mademoiselle,” Monsieur Maspero said gently. “Your mother is deceased. She is no more.”
“No, she’salive. She’s—”
“Come now,” Monsieur Maspero said in a brisker tone. “I will not hear such talk. Your uncle and his business associate must be held accountable for their actions.”
“But—”
One of the men tried to snatch my uncle’s wrist, but he pivoted out of reach, snarling. The other man, short with long sideburns, managed to grip Tío Ricardo’s shoulder.
My uncle threw a punch and then groaned, clutching at his arm. Blood seeped through his shirt.
“The stitches,” I exclaimed.
“Don’t make things worse for yourself,” Monsieur Maspero told my uncle coldly.
“You turn a blind eye to other archaeologists and their findings,” Tío Ricardo fumed. “Don’t pretend to run a clean enterprise. Your hands are just as dirty as the rest of theirs. Think, Maspero! There are no systems or practices in place to protect any discovery from greedy collectors and dealers. This is to saynothingof the subversive agents running rampant in the antiquities department. Don’t look at me like that—you know it’s true! Abdullah wanted to record our findings so that when someone else found Cleopatra—and inevitably destroyed the site of her tomb—there would still be some record of what it originally looked like!”
“How dare you,” Monsieur Maspero seethed. “You’ll be held in the Cairo prison throughout your questioning. And trust me when I tell you that I will be thorough.” He looked in my direction. “Good day, mademoiselle.”
I gaped at him as the two men dragged my uncle out of the room. I flew after them, wishing I had the power to stop them from arresting Tío Ricardo. But what power did I have in this situation? I had no influence, no helpful connections. My voice was a whisper against theirs. Frustration burned a path straight to my hands, and I curled them into fists, my mind racing.
What could I do? Who could I—
“Inez!Find Whitford and tell him what’s happened,” Tío Ricardo shouted as they hauled him down the corridor. “He’ll know what to do!”
Another door opened, and two men walked through, leading a tired-looking Abdullah, his skin gray. He was still so unwell, and fury detonated in my chest. My uncle let out a stream of curses at the sight of his friend, whose shoulders were slumped, his feet dragging.
I trailed after them, my heart thundering hard against my ribs. Other hotel guests opened their own doors, jaws dropping, as they stared at theparade of people walking past. My uncle didn’t let up his enraged shouting, while Abdullah stayed silent.
We reached the stairs, and they hauled both of them through the lobby, in front of scores of people milling about, enjoying the hotel amenities, booking rooms. It was then that I saw Whit near Shepheard’s entrance, standing close to a familiar figure. His arms were crossed tight against his chest, as if he was having to physically restrain himself from attacking Maspero’s men. The figure next to him threw up her hands, and I squinted as I approached, still in a furious daze.
“Can’t you do something?” the young woman cried. “Anything at all?”
I finally recognized Abdullah’s granddaughter, Farida. Her lips twisted in a grimace as Monsieur Maspero’s men forced Abdullah and my uncle into a waiting hackney cab.
Whit watched the scene with a narrowed gaze. His anger radiated off him, a fire crackling, spewing embers. “We can’t make a scene here,” he said grimly. “It’s exactly what they’d hope for.”
