“Yes, he is. I stopped by on my way down here. He and Daoud were eating breakfast in a reasonably amiable fashion. Herr Morgenstern addressed me by name, which I find encouraging. I shall have another session of hypnosis with him this afternoon. I believe we shall encounter no difficulty persuading him to accompany us to Amarna.”

“His presence may be irrelevant. The statue of Nefertiti has been spotted in a shop across from the museum. It behooves us to fetch it immediately.”

“What!” I exclaimed, nearly dropping the cup. “How could that be? Is it the original?”

“Lower your voice, Mother. We are not the only persons frantic to gain possession of this unique object,” Ramses said, glancing at the patrons at nearby tables. Several young women fluttered their eyelashes and giggled; Ramses does seem to have that effect on them despite his often indifferent response. “We won’t know if it is the original until I—excuse me—we examine it. If you have finished your breakfast, I suggest we engage the services of a cab and be on our way.”

I placed my napkin on the table and stood up, my heart beating fiercely and my knees gelatinous. No one took particular notice of us as we went through the lobby to the front of the hotel, where the doorman beckoned a cab. Once we were settled in the backseat, I took a deep breath and said, “How did you come to learn about this, Ramses? Did one of your—er—acquaintances share this information with you?”

“Yes, although it cost me a goodly sum. The shop is owned by a miscreant named Abubakar, and caters to the multitude of tourists who visit the museum. He claims that many of his pieces are originals, which may be true in that some members of his family are thieves and tomb robbers. He also deals with replicas. My source claims that Abubakar does not realize the significance of the Nefertiti head, and has priced it nominally.”

I leaned forward and poked the driver. “You will receive a good baksheesh if we arrive at our destination within five minutes. An encounter with the police will only slow us down, so you must obey the law. Do you understand?”

He replied with a guttural mumble as he accelerated through a busy intersection, his hand pressed against the horn in an inharmonious warning. Horses pulling carriages reared, flinging their passengers against one another, and a panicky donkey crashed its cart into a sidewalk vendor’s rack of rugs. When our driver veered onto the sidewalk to avoid a camel, fruits and vegetables flew through the air like multicolored snowballs. Although my Arabic is of the more polite variety, I had no difficulty translating the profanities (and bruised produce) hurled at us as we sped through narrow backstreets. Ramses was slumped against the upholstery, his shoulders quivering as he struggled not to laugh aloud at my wide-eyed consternation.