THE Hotel Himalaya had a grand breakfast, with a spectacular view of a courtyard filled with palms. Outside it was hot, polluted, and crowded, as always in Kathmandu. But how refreshing to be in a place where the climate was cool and the impeccably dressed staff greeted you by name.
“Good morning, Mr. Hanscombe,” said the maître d’ with a courteous bow. “The gentleman from Interpol is waiting. Follow me and watch your step.”
Nigel was a sucker for a big entrance. He took the steps at a leap and finished with a little pirouette. A man at the table by the window looked up from a folded newspaper, startled by the move. Despite being indoors, he was wearing a trench coat and a brimmed hat.
“Hrrm,” he said.
The nice maître d’ pulled out the opposite seat, and Nigel handed him a crisp ten-dollar bill. It was always good, he thought, to be generous with the help. Turning to the rumpled man, he said, “Are we expected to have a password of some sort?”
“Ha,” the man in the coat grunted, slapping his newspaper on the table. “Lyle.”
“I will assume that’s your name.” Nigel held out his hand. “I am Hanscombe. I’m feeling a bit peckish, Mr. Lyle, can I get us, perhaps, some custom omelets—?”
“Facts first,” Lyle growled. “Greek authorities. Theft of antiquities.”
“Do you speak in sentences or have you given up verbs for religious reasons?” Nigel asked.
Lyle’s face flinched. “Wise guy. I don’t like being pulled into little jobs like this. Could take you in too.”
“Garçon? Coffee?” Nigel called out to a passing waiter as he pulled a sky-blue-cased phone from his pocket and pressed the Power button.
It was safe to do this now.
“As you no doubt know,” Nigel said, placing the phone on the table, “two of the children have been in the news regarding a rather spectacular recovery of a treasure left by Jules Verne.”
“Noted.”
“It would seem that they would have everything a child could need,” Nigel said. “But you know what they say about children, give them an inch and they take a mile.”
Lyle snickered. “Got two kids myself.”
“I’m sure the conversation at home sparkles.” The waiter filled both coffee cups, and Nigel leaned across the table. “To answer your question, I befriended these children in Greece. As an amateur archaeologist, I am appalled at their crime. Far be it for me to recommend tactics, but it wouldn’t be unwise to have a few eyes at the Kathmandu airport.”
“Do you have proof?” the man barked.
The phone was powered up now. Nigel entered the password, accessed Bitsy’s contacts list, and scrolled until he reached MAX TILT. Then he pushed the phone across the table toward Lyle.
“You recognize this name, no?” Nigel said. “The phone belongs to a friend of his. She dropped it. And according to common international law dating back to the Code of Hammurabi . . . loosely translated, finders keepers.”
“So?”
“So, let’s say Max receives a message from this phone asking ‘Where are you?’ He will answer truthfully, as he thinks he is texting a trusted friend. Simple, no?”
Sometimes you had to spell things out to these people.
Lyle nodded, his eyebrows tented way up. “Text him.”
“Brilliant idea indeed.” Nigel raised his index finger over the phone, then stopped. “Oh, by the way, you don’t happen to know anyone here with the name Armando?”