TJ gritted her teeth and glared at him. How many times had she told that to Haddon in the last five years? Ten? Twenty?

“Dr. Haddon-” she began, but clamped her mouth shut. Not in front of strangers. Not in front of anybody. She had borne him all these years without ever once becoming really, thoroughly unglued, and she could make it through to the following September. In less than a year he would be retired, with any luck at all they would appoint her director, and it would be a bright new world.

Of course she’d be a nut case by then, but nobody but she was going to know it.

Once in the enclosure, the policemen led them to the skull, which had been turned from its upside-down position onto its right side. “Please examine it for yourself,” Saleh said. He stood aside to give them room.

The two Egyptologists looked at the skull, TJ on one knee, Haddon leaning over from the waist. The policemen stood quietly, obviously waiting for a response.

“What are we supposed to be looking for?” TJ asked.

But Haddon was quicker than she was. He pointed indignantly at the skull. “What’s this?”

With her eyes she followed the direction of his finger. There on the left side of the frontal bone, a line of letters in faded black ink barely showed against the brownish ivory of the bone. No, not letters, numbers. She leaned closer.

“F4360,” she murmured. “I’ll be damned.”

“What does this mean?” Haddon demanded, addressing the major. “Who wrote this?”

“Yes, this needs knowing,” Saleh agreed.

“It’s one of ours,” TJ said and sat back on her heels, barely able to keep from laughing. “The damn thing is from our own collection.”

The two officers exchanged a look.

Haddon stood up angrily, brushing off his knees although he had never been on them. “Do you mean to say the cursed thing is an archaeological specimen-one of our archaeological specimens?”