“Well, yes, we must do something before there is more bloodshed,” I murmured, overwhelmed with a sense of helplessness. I felt a stab of sympathy for Fatima, who had found herself in this same situation. Morgenstern was bigger and stronger than I. He was delusional and paranoiac, a combination that might lead to a disastrous confrontation. The only element I found of some comfort was that he was not undressing while he blustered. “Listen to me, Herr Morgenstern. You know that Emerson and I are your friends, and we will act in your best interests.”

He staggered forward, put his hands on my shoulders, and gave me a prolonged kiss on my lips. Ignoring my huff of outrage, he went out the door and began to run in the direction of Thutmose’s studio. I could hear him chortling as I fought to regain my composure. There would be a scene of some sort, I thought with a sigh, although Buddle was in more danger than Emerson. I had no theory why Morgenstern had arrived at his wild accusations. I asked myself if I could have misjudged Buddle and failed to discern that he was a fanatical spy employed by the Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman empires. It did not seem probable. My next question was what to do. By now, Morgenstern was approaching the site and was focusing on Buddle, whom I hoped was positioned near Emerson. A melee might ensue, but my beloved husband would restrain Morgenstern before he carried out his intention of thrashing his illusionary opponent.

Pleased with my scenario, I turned my attention to the dig house. There were dusty tins of biscuits and potted meat in a corner of the counter. I did not find moldy bread or spoiled meat and vegetables, thus negating my conjecture that Morgenstern had eaten something that affected his mind. My eyes narrowed as I looked at the bottle of schnapps. I took a sniff and did not perceive a peculiar redolence. Prudence and a slight twinge of nausea dictated that I not taste it. I went into the bedrooms and the room he utilized as an office. The decor consisted of clutter everywhere; books, notebooks, stray papers, and discarded clothing covered the floors. The ultimate room, reputedly for storage of artifacts, was secured with a padlock. Prudence departed. I stepped back and kicked the door with all the force I could muster. To my surprise, the bolt buckled and the door loosened from its hinges. A second kick freed it completely. My only regret was that I had no audience—even my son would have been impressed.