Read Online Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 03 - Cairo Caper by Barbara Silkstone - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Silkstone
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buildings.
Difficult times . And I thought Roger was the master of the understatement. Our team – if you could consider a trippy librarian, an archaeologist wearing two left shoes, and a displaced Miami real estate broker a team – watched Petri walk down the skinny wooden gangway.
I removed the cover from Horus’s cage, the forgotten member of our team, so he could get some air. The falcon stretched his neck and shot me a bird look of thanks. Was it possible he was Maltese? Was it possible I’d lost the few marbles I had left?
Petri was gone for all of five minutes when the captain emerged from the wheelhouse. He shooed us off the boat waving his hands as if to dry his nail polish. We got the message and grabbed what little gear we had.
Fiona, Roger, and Horus made the shaky trek to the dock. I sat on a mooring post with Fiona at my feet clinging to the edge of my skirt. Roger paced the length of the planks. I was starting to feel like an abandoned kindergartener whose mom forgot to pick her up.
Just as the crew pushed off, Roger jumped back onto the boat and clamped his hand on the captain’s shoulder. Panic stabbed my gut. Don’t leave me here, alone.
Before I could yell what I thought of him, he leaped back onto the dock carrying three bottles of beer. I was losing it. Roger would never have abandoned me.
“The Asp is out of bottled water. Beer, it’s not just for breakfast anymore. Although today… it is.” He passed us each a bottle. It wasn’t caffeine but it would have to do.
I gulped half of mine then sat on the dock with my back against a piling. Fiona scrunched against me. Lack of sleep and beer instead of Cheerios caught up with me. I dozed in the already-broiling sun. My chin snapped off my chest when a pain in my arm wakened me.
Fiona pressed her tiny hands into my biceps. Worry lines stamped her face. The transition from traipsing through library stacks to unintentional assistant tomb raider was setting in for the little poppet. “Petri’s been gone way more than an hour.”
I checked my watch. She was right, if you considered two minutes as way more. She brushed the dust from her skirt as she stood with a hand shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare. “Is that a phallic symbol?”
She pointed to a tower in the distance then pulled a pair of hoot-owl sunglasses from her bag and wedged them under her trusty pith helmet.
I squinted to focus on the target of her finger, and then said as though I’d seen it many times, “That’s Pompey’s Pillar, where we’ll meet Petri if he doesn’t come back.” I wanted to keep her confidence up. Everything I knew about it came from my Internet jogs. The Pillar, made of red granite and over one hundred feet high, marked the center Alexandria.
Fiona jumped up and down like a kid trying to see a parade. “We need to go find Petri. He’s not coming back… here.”
“Try to look casual,” Roger said, wiping a torrent of sweat from his brow and blinking droplets from behind his sunglasses. “Relax. We’ve got to stay below the radar.”
“Let me get this straight. Two fair-haired women, an archaeologist with two left shoes, and a hostile bird in a cage are not standing out?”
“Work on patience. That’s something you sorely lack. We should give Petri more time. An hour was just a figure of speech.”
He sat down, crossed his legs and assumed a lotus position. He began mumbling a mantra. I was tempted to brain him with my ashtray.
The other half of my warm beer called my name. I guzzled it then tied the arms of the robe together and strung them between two pilings to create a shady area for me and the pith helmet who was attached to me like a barnacle to a seawall.
Desperate for a moment of Zen, I imagined myself on Miami Beach downing a Pina Colada at Joe’s Stone Crab.
Another hour passed and no Petri Dische. Roger snapped out of his meditation as I was about to smack him.
“The Frenchman should be back by now. I think we
Difficult times . And I thought Roger was the master of the understatement. Our team – if you could consider a trippy librarian, an archaeologist wearing two left shoes, and a displaced Miami real estate broker a team – watched Petri walk down the skinny wooden gangway.
I removed the cover from Horus’s cage, the forgotten member of our team, so he could get some air. The falcon stretched his neck and shot me a bird look of thanks. Was it possible he was Maltese? Was it possible I’d lost the few marbles I had left?
Petri was gone for all of five minutes when the captain emerged from the wheelhouse. He shooed us off the boat waving his hands as if to dry his nail polish. We got the message and grabbed what little gear we had.
Fiona, Roger, and Horus made the shaky trek to the dock. I sat on a mooring post with Fiona at my feet clinging to the edge of my skirt. Roger paced the length of the planks. I was starting to feel like an abandoned kindergartener whose mom forgot to pick her up.
Just as the crew pushed off, Roger jumped back onto the boat and clamped his hand on the captain’s shoulder. Panic stabbed my gut. Don’t leave me here, alone.
Before I could yell what I thought of him, he leaped back onto the dock carrying three bottles of beer. I was losing it. Roger would never have abandoned me.
“The Asp is out of bottled water. Beer, it’s not just for breakfast anymore. Although today… it is.” He passed us each a bottle. It wasn’t caffeine but it would have to do.
I gulped half of mine then sat on the dock with my back against a piling. Fiona scrunched against me. Lack of sleep and beer instead of Cheerios caught up with me. I dozed in the already-broiling sun. My chin snapped off my chest when a pain in my arm wakened me.
Fiona pressed her tiny hands into my biceps. Worry lines stamped her face. The transition from traipsing through library stacks to unintentional assistant tomb raider was setting in for the little poppet. “Petri’s been gone way more than an hour.”
I checked my watch. She was right, if you considered two minutes as way more. She brushed the dust from her skirt as she stood with a hand shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare. “Is that a phallic symbol?”
She pointed to a tower in the distance then pulled a pair of hoot-owl sunglasses from her bag and wedged them under her trusty pith helmet.
I squinted to focus on the target of her finger, and then said as though I’d seen it many times, “That’s Pompey’s Pillar, where we’ll meet Petri if he doesn’t come back.” I wanted to keep her confidence up. Everything I knew about it came from my Internet jogs. The Pillar, made of red granite and over one hundred feet high, marked the center Alexandria.
Fiona jumped up and down like a kid trying to see a parade. “We need to go find Petri. He’s not coming back… here.”
“Try to look casual,” Roger said, wiping a torrent of sweat from his brow and blinking droplets from behind his sunglasses. “Relax. We’ve got to stay below the radar.”
“Let me get this straight. Two fair-haired women, an archaeologist with two left shoes, and a hostile bird in a cage are not standing out?”
“Work on patience. That’s something you sorely lack. We should give Petri more time. An hour was just a figure of speech.”
He sat down, crossed his legs and assumed a lotus position. He began mumbling a mantra. I was tempted to brain him with my ashtray.
The other half of my warm beer called my name. I guzzled it then tied the arms of the robe together and strung them between two pilings to create a shady area for me and the pith helmet who was attached to me like a barnacle to a seawall.
Desperate for a moment of Zen, I imagined myself on Miami Beach downing a Pina Colada at Joe’s Stone Crab.
Another hour passed and no Petri Dische. Roger snapped out of his meditation as I was about to smack him.
“The Frenchman should be back by now. I think we
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