Open Sesame by Tom Holt Page B

properly and didn’t try and talk to her.
    When she’d gone, Mr Barbour sat for an hour in the dark, trying to think.
    Why should someone want to steal an egg?
    Why should Michelle Partridge, of all people, suddenly scream at him?
    - And what had possessed him to say that, of all things?
    He stood up, went into the office and dug out a black address-book. He tried phoning the British Museum, the Victoria and Albert Museum, the Horniman Museum, Dulwich, the Museum of Mankind, the Science Museum and the Iranian Embassy. He got two answering machines, but didn’t leave a message. He should have known they’d all have gone home by now.
    Instinctively he reached for the kettle and switched it on, but the sound of steam whistling in the spout made him wince and he switched it off. Instead, he poured himself a very small brandy and made it last. He wanted to phone Michelle Partridge - her number would be in the file - and ask her some questions, but perhaps that wouldn’t be a very good idea. Maybe it was time to go away again.
    Except that that wouldn’t solve anything; probably make things worse. He was as safe here as anywhere, in all likelihood; who would think of looking for Ali Baba, the palm-oil merchant, over a chemist’s shop in Southampton? He could stay here, quiet, head down. No point in counting his eggs before they hatched.
    ‘My God,’ he said suddenly. Then he turned off the lights, locked up and went home. Nobody followed him, and there wasn’t anybody hanging about in the street or sitting in a parked car. His alarms and security equipment winked friendly red eyes at him as he switched it all on - but they’d had better stuff than this at the Museum. Maybe he should try phoning the police, warning them of further daring raids on museums and art galleries. The futility of the notion made him smile.
    From under the floorboards in his bedroom, he retrieved an oily cloth parcel the size of a large shoe, and a long, curved sword in an ornate scabbard. Further futility, he knew; but they were mildly reassuring, like the seatbelts in an airliner. He leaned the sword against the wall and put the gun, loaded and cocked, under his pillow. Knowing his luck, the Pistol Fairy would come in the night and leave him a shilling for it. Which, as a defence against his present dangers, was probably about what it was worth.
    ‘Right,’ said Akram the Terrible. ‘That’s two doners, chips and curry sauce, two on their own, three teas and a Fanta. Coming right up.’
    He drew the knife over the enormous slab of meat - ‘Hey,’ the proprietor had said to him at the job interview, when he was showing what he could do, ‘where’d you learn to handle a knife like that?’ Akram had shuddered internally and replied, Smethwick - slit open the pitta breads with an involuntary flourish and shovelled in salad. The customers were staring at the TV set; probably just as well. There was something about the way Akram cut things up which could easily put a sensitive person off his food.
    When they’d gone, he found he was leaning against the back wall, and his knees were unaccountably weak. In a sense, it was just like old times; wield the knife, take the money. The truth of the matter was, it gave him the creeps. God only knew why.
    He’d only just managed to straighten himself up and pull himself together when the door opened and a delivery man came in, carrying a wooden crate.
    ‘The hen,’ he said. ‘Where’d you want it?’
    Akram looked round. ‘Keep your voice down,’ he said. ‘Just, um, put it down on the counter or something, will you?’
    ‘Sign here.’
    Akram took the pen, squiggled, and handed the clipboard back. The man gave him a funny look, and left. There was nobody about. Good.
    The job in the kebab house was simply to give him a cover and, of course, to help him keep body and soul together until the opportunity arose and he could have his revenge. That was, after all, why he was here. Or at least he