“It crossed my mind,” Sethos said blandly, “but I am quite sure you have found a place to stash the two forgeries of Nefertiti’s bust.”

Ramses raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think they are both forgeries?”

“Had you stumbled across the original, you and David would be on the train to Minya.”

“Unless Gunter kidnapped David before we could leave. He would not have done that unless he believes that the bust we—er—relocated from his office is the original. He denied any knowledge of Morgenstern’s whereabouts in Cairo, but he was lying.”

“Interesting,” murmured Sethos. “Run along to the shop I recommended and utilize my name should Shamal quibble. I will see you in an hour.”

Ramses was not pleased to be treated like an errand boy, but he walked out of the hotel and hailed a cab to take him to the edge of the Khan el-Khalili. He instinctively took precautions from being followed as he made his way through alleys and narrow streets to arrive at the weaver’s shop. Shamal, a particularly dark-skinned elderly man, began to squawk when Ramses explained the required expediency of the mission.

“It cannot be done today! Come back tomorrow or the next day. Macramé requires nimble fingers and artful configurations, which take time. I may be the best in Egypt, but what you desire is not easy. I must think on it.”

“You may know me better as the Brother of Demons,” Ramses said in an ominous voice, damned if he would utilize Sethos’s name to intimidate the weaver. “I do not care to listen to you whine. We will go to the back room and I will draw a sketch for you.” He narrowed his eyes. “Now, Shamal.”

Shamal’s fingers proved to be nimble enough to translate the crude drawing into jute, twine, and leather. Ramses paid him generously, accepted the parcel, and took a cab back to Shepheard’s Hotel. He was not surprised to find Sethos seated in his room.

“Find anything of interest?” Ramses asked with mock curiosity.

“I did not bother to search under the bed or in the closet,” Sethos said with a shrug. “I have better things to do—and so do you. Change into these clothes and then sit down so I can alter your appearance.”

His jaw clenched, Ramses complied.

When they beckoned a carriage at the curb outside the hotel, the driver merely glanced at the white-haired old man and his exceedingly plump assistant with a crooked nose, red ears resembling rose petals, a complexion riddled with acne, and neglected teeth. Sethos’s suit and tie were distinctively Victorian; Ramses’s attire was cheap and ill-fitting.

“To the German embassy,” Ramses simpered to the driver, “and be quick about it. Well, as quick as you can. Don’t run over anybody. Moderation, dear chap, and self-discipline. These are the keys to a harmonious life.”