I shook my head, just as mystified. “Let’s get out of here,” I whispered, because I figured we’d be spotted any minute and get in serious trouble. Sadie, of course, ignored me.
“They don’t know my plan,” my father was saying. “By the time they figure it out—”
“And the children?” Amos asked. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. “What about them?”
“I’ve made arrangements to protect them,” my dad said. “Besides, if I don’t do this, we’re all in danger. Now, back off.”
“I can’t, Julius.”
“Then it’s a duel you want?” Dad’s tone turned deadly serious. “You never could beat me, Amos.”
I hadn’t seen my dad get violent since the Great Spatula Incident, and I wasn’t anxious to see a repeat of that, but the two men seemed to be edging toward a fight.
Before I could react, Sadie popped up and shouted, “Dad!”
He looked surprised when she tackle-hugged him, but not nearly as surprised as the other guy, Amos. He backed up so quickly, he tripped over his own trench coat.
He’d taken off his glasses. I couldn’t help thinking that Sadie was right. He did look familiar—like a very distant memory.
“I—I must be going,” he said. He straightened his fedora and lumbered down the road.
Our dad watched him go. He kept one arm protectively around Sadie and one hand inside the workbag slung over his shoulder. Finally, when Amos disappeared around the corner, Dad relaxed. He took his hand out of the bag and smiled at Sadie. “Hello, sweetheart.”
Sadie pushed away from him and crossed her arms. “Oh, now it’s sweetheart, is it? You’re late. Visitation Day’s nearly over! And what was that about? Who’s Amos, and what’s the Per Ankh?”
Dad stiffened. He glanced at me like he was wondering how much we’d overheard.
“It’s nothing,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “I have a wonderful evening planned. Who’d like a private tour of the British Museum?”
Sadie slumped in the back of the taxi between Dad and me.
“I can’t believe it,” she grumbled. “One evening together, and you want to do research.”
Dad tried for a smile. “Sweetheart, it’ll be fun. The curator of the Egyptian collection personally invited—”
“Right, big surprise.” Sadie blew a strand of red-streaked hair out of her face. “Christmas Eve, and we’re going to see some moldy old relics from Egypt. Do you ever think about anything else?”
Dad didn’t get mad. He never gets mad at Sadie. He just stared out the window at the darkening sky and the rain.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I do.”
Whenever Dad got quiet like that and stared off into nowhere, I knew he was thinking about our mom. The last few months, it had been happening a lot. I’d walk into our hotel room and find him with his cell phone in his hands, Mom’s picture smiling up at him from the screen—her hair tucked under a headscarf, her blue eyes startlingly bright against the desert backdrop.
Or we’d be at some dig site. I’d see Dad staring at the horizon, and I’d know he was remembering how he’d met her—two young scientists in the Valley of the Kings, on a dig to discover a lost tomb. Dad was an Egyptologist. Mom was an anthropologist looking for ancient DNA. He’d told me the story a thousand times.
Our taxi snaked its way along the banks of the Thames. Just past Waterloo Bridge, my dad tensed.
“Driver,” he said. “Stop here a moment.”
The cabbie pulled over on the Victoria Embankment.
“What is it, Dad?” I asked.
He got out of the cab like he hadn’t heard me. When Sadie and I joined him on the sidewalk, he was staring up at Cleopatra’s Needle.
In case you’ve never seen it: the Needle is an obelisk, not a needle, and it doesn’t have anything to do with Cleopatra. I guess the British just thought the name sounded cool when they brought it to London. It’s about seventy feet tall, which would’ve been really impressive back in Ancient Egypt, but on the Thames, with all the tall buildings around, it looks small and sad. You could drive right by it and not even realize you’d just passed something that was a thousand years older than the city of London.
“God.” Sadie walked around in a frustrated circle. “Do we have to stop for every monument?”