I GREW UP ON A farm in Minnesota. Dad taught all of us how to handle a shotgun and a rifle; he didn’t hunt, but he saw nothing wrong with discouraging varmints, including the human variety, when they attacked the livestock (including the human variety). A bullet was also the quickest and most humane method of dispatching a fatally injured or rabid animal. He hated handguns, though. He claimed they were cowards’ weapons and more likely to get a person into trouble than out of it.

I suppose it’s easy to take that attitude when you’re six-five and built like a tank.

Inconsistent or not, I share his attitude. I picked the thing up with all due caution, and examined it with even greater caution. I can tell an automatic from a revolver, but that’s about the limit of my expertize. This wasn’t one of the few models I had handled. The safety was on and there was a full clip, but no extras.

The presence of the gun proved Ali had had a backup on board, which was good news. I only hoped it wasn’t meant to convey a subtle message: ‘You’re on your own, baby, don’t expect me to rush to the rescue.’

I can deliver subtle messages too. I put the gun back in the safe and closed the door. Anyhow, I couldn’t carry the damned thing on me; my clothes were all lightweight cotton and linen, there was no place I could stash it where it wouldn’t show. If I put it in my bag, either it would fall out at an inappropriate moment or it would sink to the bottom and I wouldn’t be able to locate it in a hurry.

Dad was right. The damned things were more trouble than they were worth. I hoped.

Schmidt had saved me a seat in the lounge. By what was probably not a strange coincidence, the only other person at the table was Larry. He did seem pleased to see me. Schmidt’s face had the bland, pink-cheeked innocence it wore when he was up to something. I knew what he was up to this time, and I wished him luck. I’m a loyal employee of the National Museum myself – up to a point.

‘So they let you off for a few hours?’ I said, glancing at the table where Larry’s two henchmen were sitting.

‘It’s the other way around, actually,’ Larry said with a smile. ‘I had to order Schroeder to take a break. He’s been on the phone to Luxor a dozen times, working on the arrangements for the reception.’

‘Mr Schroeder is your secretary?’ I asked.

‘Executive assistant, rather. Haven’t you met him?’

I shook my head. ‘I have,’ said Schmidt. ‘A very pleasant person. But shy, nicht?’