Page 79 of The Stolen Queen

“I did the paperwork myself. It was meant to end up here.”

“That’s concerning. I’ll have our legal department look into it.”

While Charlotte would have preferred that the news of the Cerulean Queen stay private, she didn’t mind throwing Frederick under the bus for putting the collar on display without properly vetting its provenance. And now she’d proved that it had never even made it to the Egyptian Museum. Hopefully, Omar would be able to ascertain who the owner was and force the Met to produce a proper record of sale, if one existed.

Finally, she asked Omar if he’d ever met an Egyptologist named Henry Smith. Omar smiled blandly and shook his head.

Yet another dead end.

The bazaar of Khan el-Khalili had been a hub for merchants and traders in Cairo since the fourteenth century. Many of the buildings lining the narrow streets and alleys featured stunningly intricate wood lattice screens called mashrabiya that let in indirect light while keeping the interiors cool. Charlotte had visited the area multiple times when she lived in Cairo, and it hadn’t changed at all since then. The shops sold anything and everything—colored glass lamps, copper plates encrusted with silver, western desert rugs, cotton shirts and caftans, old coins, even leather camel saddles—and the bazaar teemed with international tourists.

“What’s partage?” asked Annie as she and Charlotte neared the bazaar.

“A system set up where foreign archaeologists who discovered Egyptian antiquities received a share in the spoils,” explained Charlotte. “Any finds were divided up fifty-fifty.”

“Okay. What’s the difference between antiques and antiquities?”

“ ‘Antique’ is French for ‘old.’ Anything that’s at least one hundred years old is antique. Antiquities run from 5000 BC to about the fall of Rome, around 500 AD.”

“That’s really old.”

Charlotte led Annie to a shop window filled with tapestries and alabaster vases. A bearded man welcomed them inside and offered to show them around. “My name is Babu. Anything special you’re looking for? We have some beautiful, rare Islamic-era tiles that just came in.”

Charlotte humored him, murmuring about how lovely they were. The phone rang, and Babu stepped way to answer it.

“These tiles are beautiful,” said Annie, lightly running her finger over one.

“They should probably be in a museum.”

Annie pulled her finger away. “Aren’t there art police who go around and check what’s being sold?”

“There are too many private dealers making shady sales outside of the commercial market. It would be impossible.”

Babu returned, apologizing for the interruption. “Now tell me, what brings you to my humble store?”

“To be honest, I’m looking for someone.” She took out the wedding photo and handed it to him. “His name is Henry Smith. Have you ever seen him before? He would be in his sixties by now.”

“This is your husband?” asked Babu, looking back and forth at Charlotte and the image of her in the photograph.

“Yes. We lost track of each other ages ago, and it turns out he’s come into some money that I’d like to get to him.”

Charlotte had thought that up on the spot and was quite proud of herself, she had to admit. Annie gave a quick nod of approval.

“I don’t know him.” Babu handed back the photograph and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s unseemly, a wife looking for her husband. If he left you, I’m sure he had a good reason. Good day.”

Charlotte held her tongue. It was infuriating to think that four thousand years ago, Egyptian women had more rights than they did today, when they could easily be supplanted by a second wife if their husband so desired.

Outside on the street, Charlotte unceremoniously ripped the photo in half as Annie gasped. “It’ll be easier this way,” she said, shoving the half with her image into her handbag.

Two days ago, she never would have dreamed of defacing the photograph, as she considered it a private keepsake of her first love, albeit one she always kept hidden. With Henry alive and walking the earth, that nostalgia was turning poisonous. He had survived without finding her, taking their daughter with him, and the viciousness of her actions that afternoon was nothing compared to the fury he would face if she ever found him.

They tried a few more shops, yet each time she produced Henry’s image, the salesman shook his head, and her prompting of “He’s an Englishman in his sixties with large ears” didn’t jog any memories. She was wasting time. She’d hoped, incorrectly, it appeared, that if Henry was here in Cairo, he’d be well-known in the antiquities community and it would be an easy task to track him down.

“Why don’t you try asking about your daughter directly?” said Annie.

“Unfortunately, in Egypt, ‘Layla’ is as common as ‘Linda’ in America.”

“And the last name is Smith.” Annie sighed. “Not helpful.”

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