Paul introduced himself; he was too eager to wait for Schmidt. ‘This is indeed a pleasure, Mr Tregarth. The Director wrote to you, but I’m delighted to be able to express our appreciation in person.’

‘Appreciation,’ said somebody. Me, in fact.

John lowered his eyes modestly but not before I had seen the wicked glint in them.

‘Mr Tregarth was instrumental in restoring to the Oriental Institute an artifact that had been stolen,’ Paul explained. ‘One of his employees bought it, accepting the fraudulent documentation the seller presented, but when Mr Tregarth saw it he recognized the piece and contacted us.’

‘How much did he take you for?’ I inquired. Two glasses of champagne had been too many.

John’s face lengthened into a look of noble suffering, but the glint was still there, and it was still directed at me. Paul said, shocked, ‘Only what he had paid for the piece, which was minimal. He wouldn’t even accept a finder’s fee.’

‘It was nothing,’ John murmured. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

I was spared further dramatics by Larry, who called for silence so that he could make his announcement. It was brief and quiet and modest, but bureaucrats can’t do anything simply; everybody who was anybody had to make a speech. A couple of them embraced Larry, to his evident embarrassment. He concluded by presenting the new director of the new institute, a stocky, bearded young Swiss named Jean-Luis Mazarin. I had noticed him earlier, chug-a-lugging champagne. He had cause for celebration, all right. Jobs in archaeology are scarce, and this one was a scholar’s dream. It was a fitting gesture of appreciation, said Larry, for Dr Mazarin’s supervision of the restoration of Tetisheri’s tomb paintings.

Fitting, maybe; but not particularly tactful. I was surprised that the first director wasn’t an Egyptian.

But not as surprised as I had been at Paul’s gushing thanks. What was John up to now? He must have some ulterior motive, he always did. The most obvious explanation was that the Oriental Institute now owned a very well-made fake. Making them pay for it was a particularly nice touch.

The party was still in full swing when Larry edged up to me and invited me to come see his etchings. They were sketches, actually – the original hand-coloured drawings of Egyptian sites made back in the 1830s by an artist named David Roberts. I’d seen countless reproductions of them on postcards and notepaper. Even the prints sold for hundreds of dollars at auction.

The main object of interest, however, was a man, short and slim and straight. He rose from his chair when we entered Larry’s study, and although he was in civilian clothes you could see the invisible uniform. He cut Larry’s introduction short.

‘First names will suffice,’ he said, with a smile that came nowhere near his intent dark eyes. ‘Call me Achmet.’