Sphinx

Day 8

The grounds of the pyramids of Giza opened at eight A M. With thirty minutes to wait, Erica entered the Mena House Hotel for a second breakfast. A dark-haired hostess showed her to a table on the terrace. Erica ordered coffee and melon. There were only a few other people eating, and the pool was empty of bathers. Directly in front of her, above a line of palms and eucalyptus trees, was the Great Pyramid of Khufu. With an elemental simplicity its triangular form soared upward against the morning sky.

Since Erica had heard about the Great Pyramid since she was a child, she had prepared herself to be a little disappointed when she finally confronted the monument. But such was not the case. She was already moved and awed by its majesty and symmetry. It wasn’t so much the size, although that contributed, as it was the fact that the structure represented an attempt by man to make an imprint on the implacable face of time.

Removing the Baedeker from her bag, Erica found the Great Pyramid and studied the schematic for the interior. She tried to think of Nenephta and how he’d look at the design. She realized that she probably knew something that Nenephta didn’t. Careful investigation had shown that the Great Pyramid, like most of the other pyramids, had undergone significant modification in the course of construction. In fact, it had been hypothesized that the Great Pyramid had passed through three distinct stages. In the first stage, when a much smaller structure was planned, the burial chamber was to be underground, and it had been carved from the bedrock. Then, when the structure was enlarged, a new burial chamber within the building was planned. Erica looked at this room in the diagram. It was erroneously labeled the Queen’s Chamber. Erica knew she could not visit the underground crypt unless she got special permission from the Department of Antiquities. But the Queen’s Chamber was open to the public.

She checked her watch. It was almost eight. Erica wanted to be one of the first to enter the pyramid. Once the busloads of tourists arrived, she knew it would be unpleasant in the narrow passageways.

Turning down persistent offers of donkey and camel rides, Erica walked up the road to the plateau on which the pyramid stood. The closer she got to the structure, the more monumental it became. Although she could quote statistics on the millions of tons of limestone used in building it, such statistics had never moved her. But now that she was within its shadow, she walked as if she were in a trance. Even without its original facing of white limestone, the effect of the sun on the surface of the pyramid was painfully intense.

Erica approached the cave that had been enlarged from the opening Caliph Mamum had ordered dug in A.D. 820. There were no other people in the entryway, and she went in quickly. The glaring whiteness of the day was replaced by dim shadows and weak incandescent light.

The caliph’s tunnel joined the narrow ascending passageway just beyond the granite plugs that had sealed it in antiquity and which were still in place. The ceiling of this ascending corridor was little more than four feet high, and Erica had to bend over to walk up it. In order to facilitate climbing, horizontal ribs had been set in the slippery paving. The passageway was about a hundred feet long, and when Erica emerged at the base of the grand gallery she was relieved to be able to stand upright.

The grand gallery sloped upward at the same ratio as the ascending passage. With its corbeled ceiling over twenty feet high, it was pleasantly spacious after the narrow confines of the corridor. To Erica’s right a grating covered the entrance to the descending shaft, which connected to the underground burial chamber. Ahead of her was the opening she wanted. Erica bent over again and entered the long horizontal corridor leading to the Queen’s Chamber.

Once there, she was again able to stand upright. The air was stuffy, and Erica remembered her uncomfortable feelings in Seti I’s tomb. She closed her eyes and tried to collect her thoughts. The room was without decoration, as were all the interior walls of the pyramid. She took out her flashlight and ran it around the room. The ceiling was vaulted in a chevron formation with huge slabs of limestone.

Erica opened her Baedeker to the schematic of the pyramid. She tried again to imagine what an architect like Nenephta would think if he were within the Great Pyramid, keeping in mind that even in his day the structure was over a thousand years old. From the diagram she knew that standing in the Queen’s Chamber she was directly above the original burial chamber and below the King’s Chamber. It was during the third and final modification of the pyramid that the burial chamber was designed higher in the structure. The new room was labeled King’s Chamber, and Erica decided it was time to visit it.

Bending over to enter the low passage back to the grand gallery, Erica saw that a figure was coming toward her. Passing someone in the narrow corridor would have been difficult, so she waited. With the exit momentarily blocked, she felt a rush of claustrophobia. Suddenly she was aware of the thousands of tons of rock above her. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. The air was heavy.

“Christ, it’s just an empty room,” complained a blond American tourist. He wore a T-shirt that said “Black holes are out of sight.”

Erica nodded, then started down the tunnel. When she reached the grand gallery, it was already crowded. She climbed to the top behind an obese German man and mounted the wooden steps to get to the level of the King’s Chamber passage. Then she had to duck under a low wall. The grooves for huge sealing portcullises were visible on the sides.

Erica found herself in a pink granite room about fifteen by thirty feet. The ceiling was made from nine slabs laid horizontally. In one corner was a badly damaged sarcophagus. There were about twenty people in the room, and the air was oppressive.

Again Erica tried to imagine how the structure would suggest a way to thwart tomb robbers. She examined the area of the portcullises. Perhaps that was what Nenephta meant: granite closure of the tomb. But portcullises had been used in many of the pyramids. There was nothing unique about those in the Great Pyramid. Besides, they had not been used in the Step Pyramid, and Nenephta said that the way had been used in both.

Although the King’s Chamber was a good-sized room, it was certainly not large enough to store all the funerary possessions of a pharaoh of the importance of Khufu. Erica reasoned that the other chambers had probably been used for the pharaoh’s treasures, particularly the Queen’s Chamber, which was below her, and perhaps even the grand gallery, although many Egyptologists suggested that the grand gallery was constructed to store the sealing blocks for the ascending passage.

Erica had no idea how to explain Nenephta’s comments. As with all its other mysteries, the Great Pyramid remained mute. More and more people pressed into the King’s Chamber. Erica decided she needed some air. She put away her guidebook, but before leaving the chamber she wanted to see the sarcophagus. Gently pushing her way across the room, she peered into the granite box. She knew there was a good deal of controversy about its origin, age, and purpose. It was quite small to accommodate the royal coffin, and a number of Egyptologists doubted that it was a sarcophagus at all.

“Miss Baron…” a high-pitched but resonant voice said softly.

Erica turned, stunned to hear her name. She scanned the people nearest her. No one seemed to be looking at her. Then she glanced down. An angelic-looking boy of about ten, wearing a soiled galabia, was smiling at her.

“Miss Baron?”

“Yes,” said Erica hesitantly.

“You must go to the Curio Shop to see the statue. You must go today. You must go alone.”

The boy turned and disappeared into the crowd of people.

“Wait?” called Erica. She pushed her way through the crowd and looked down the sloping grand gallery. The boy was already three-quarters of the way down. Erica began the descent, but the wooded ribs were more difficult to handle going down than coming up. The boy seemed to have no trouble, and quickly disappeared into the opening of the ascending passageway.

Erica slowed to a safe speed. She knew she’d never catch him. She thought about his message and felt a rush of excitement. The Curio Shop! Her ruse had succeeded. She’d found the statue!

With a violent tug Lahib Zayed felt himself pulled to his feet. Evangelos had an iron grip on the front part of his galabia. “Where is she?” he growled into the Arab’s frightened face.

Stephanos Markoulis, dressed casually in an open-necked shirt, put down the small bronze figure he’d been examining and turned to the two men. “Lahib, I cannot understand why, after letting me know Erica Baron came into your shop asking for the Seti statue, you hesitate to tell me where she is.”

Lahib was terrified, uncertain who scared him the most, Muhammad or Stephanos. But feeling Evangelos’ fingers tighten on his galabia, he decided it was Stephanos. “All right, I’ll tell you.”

“Let him go, Evangelos.”

The Greek released his grip abruptly so that Lahib staggered backward before regaining his balance.

“Well?” asked Stephanos.

“I don’t know where she is at the moment, but I know where she is staying. She has a room at the Winter Palace Hotel. But, Mr. Markoulis, the woman will be taken care of. We have made arrangements.”

“I would like to take care of her myself,” said Stephanos. “To be sure. But don’t worry, we’ll be back to say good-bye. Thanks for all your help.”

Stephanos motioned to Evangelos, and the two men walked out of the shop. Lahib did not move until they had gone from view. Then he ran to the door and watched them until they had disappeared.

“There is going to be big trouble here in Luxor,” said Lahib to his son when the two Greeks were out of sight. “I want you to take your mother and sister to Aswan this afternoon. As soon as the American woman appears and I give her the message, I’ll join you. I want you to go now.”

Stephanos Markoulis had Evangelos wait in the outer lobby of the Winter Palace Hotel while he approached the registration desk. The clerk was a handsome Nubian with ebony skin.

“Is there an Erica Baron staying here?” Stephanos asked.

The clerk turned to the daily ledger, running his finger down the names. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’d like to leave a message. Do you have a pen and paper?”

“Of course, sir.” The clerk graciously gave Stephanos a piece of stationery, an envelope, and a pen.

Stephanos pretended to write a message. Instead he just scribbled on the paper and sealed it in the envelope. He gave it to the clerk, who turned and put it into box 218. Stephanos thanked him and went to get Evangelos. Together they walked upstairs.

There was no answer when they knocked on the door to 218, so Stephanos had Evangelos work on the lock while he stood guard. The Victorian hardware was easy to manipulate, and they were inside the room almost as fast as if they’d had the correct key. Stephanos closed the door behind him and eyed the room. “Let’s search it,” he said. “Then we’ll wait here until she comes back.”

“Am I going to kill her immediately?” asked Evangelos.

Stephanos smiled. “No, we’ll talk to her for a little while. Only, I get to talk with her first.”

Evangelos laughed and pulled open the top drawer of the bureau. There in neat stacks were Erica’s nylon panties.

“Are you certain?” asked Yvon in disbelief. Raoul looked up from his magazine.

“Almost positive,” said Erica, enjoying Yvon’s surprise. After receiving the message in the Great Pyramid, Erica had decided to see Yvon. She knew he’d be pleased about the statue, and she was quite sure he’d be willing to take her to Luxor.

“It is almost unbelievable,” said Yvon, his blue eyes shining. “How do you know they plan to show you the Seti statue?”

“Because that’s what I asked to see.”

“You are incredible,” said Yvon. “I have been doing everything possible to find that statue, and you locate it just like that.” He waved his hand in an easy gesture.

“Well, I haven’t seen the statue yet,” said Erica. “I must get to the Curio Shop this afternoon, and I must go alone.”

“We can leave within the hour.” Yvon reached for the phone. He was surprised the statue was back in Luxor; in fact, it made him a little suspicious.

Erica stood up and stretched. “I’ve just spent the night on the train, and I’d love to shower, if you don’t mind.”

Yvon gestured toward the adjoining room. Erica took her tote bag and went into the bathroom while Yvon was talking with his pilot.

Yvon completed the plans for transportation, then checked the sound of the shower before turning to Raoul. “This possibly could be the opportunity we’ve been hoping for. But we need to be extremely careful. Now is when we must rely on Khalifa. Get in touch with him and let him know we’ll be arriving around six-thirty. Tell him that Erica will be meeting tonight with the people we want. Tell him that there will undoubtedly be trouble and that he should be prepared. And tell him that if the girl is killed, he’s finished.”

The small jet rolled slightly to the right, then banked gracefully, passing over the Nile valley in a wide curve about five miles north of Luxor. It passed through one thousand feet, then straightened on a heading due north. At the correct moment, Yvon cut the air speed, pulled up the nose, and landed smoothly over a cushion of air. The reverse thrust of the engines shook the plane and brought it down to taxi speed in a very short distance. Yvon left the controls to come back to talk with Erica while the pilot taxied toward the terminal.

“Now, let’s go over this once more,” he said, turning one of the lounge seats around to face Erica. His voice was serious, making her uncomfortably anxious. In Cairo the idea of being taken to see the Seti statue had been exciting, but here in Luxor she felt the rumblings of fear.

“As soon as we arrive,” Yvon continued, “I want you to take a separate taxi and go directly to the Curio Antique Shop. Raoul and I will wait at the New Winter Palace Hotel, suite 200. I’m positive, though, that the statue will not be at the shop.”

Erica looked up sharply. “What do you mean it won’t be there?”

“It would be too dangerous. No, the statue will be somewhere else. They will take you to it. It’s the way it’s done. But it will be all right.”

“The statue had been at Antica Abdul,” protested Erica.

“That was a fluke,” said Yvon. “The statue was in transit. This time I’m sure that they will take you somewhere else to see the statue. Try to remember exactly where, so you’ll be able to return. Then, when you are shown the statue, I want you to bargain with them. If you don’t, they will be suspicious. But remember, I’m willing to pay what they ask, provided they can guarantee delivery outside Egypt.”

“Like via the Zurich Credit Bank?” said Erica.

“How did you know that?” asked Yvon.

“Same way I knew to go to the Curio Antique Shop,” said Erica.

“And how is that?” asked Yvon.

“I’m not going to tell you,” said Erica. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Erica, this is not a game.”

“I know it’s not a game,” she said heatedly. Yvon had been making her more and more anxious. “That’s exactly why I’m not going to tell you, not yet.”

Yvon studied her, perplexed. “All right,” he said at length, “but I want you to come back to my hotel as soon as possible. We can’t allow the statue to go underground again. Tell them that the money can be on account within twenty-four hours.”

Erica nodded and looked out the window. Even though it was after six, shimmering heat still radiated from the tarmac. The plane came to a stop, and the engines died. She took a deep breath and unhooked her seat belt.

From an observation post near the commercial terminal, Khalifa watched the door to the small jet swing open. As soon as he saw Erica, he turned and walked quickly to a waiting car, checking his automatic before climbing into the driver’s seat. Certain that tonight he was going to earn his two-hundred-dollar-a-day salary, he put the car in gear and drove toward Luxor.

Inside Erica’s room at the Winter Palace, Evangelos drew his Beretta from beneath his left arm and fingered the ivory handle. “Put that thing away,” snapped Stephanos from the bed. “It makes me nervous for you to be fumbling with it. Just relax, for Christ’s sake. The girl will show up. All her stuff is here.”

Driving in town, Erica considered stopping at her hotel. There was no use carting around her camera and extra clothes. But worrying that Lahib Zayed might close his shop before she got there, she decided to go directly there, as Yvon had suggested. She had the driver stop at one end of the crowded Shari el Muntazah. The Curio Antique Shop was a half-block away.

Erica was nervous. Yvon had unknowingly magnified her misgivings about the affair. She could not help remembering that she had seen a man murdered because of this statue: what was she doing going to see it? As she drew nearer, she could see that the shop was filled with tourists, so she walked past. A few shops down, she stopped and turned, watching the entrance. Soon a group of Germans emerged, joking loudly among themselves as they joined the late-afternoon shoppers and strollers. It was now or never. Erica breathed out through pursed lips, then strode toward the shop.

After all her worry, she was surprised to find Lahib Zayed ebullient instead of furtive or surreptitious. He came out from behind the counter as if Erica were a long-lost friend. “I’m so happy to see you again, Miss Baron. I cannot tell you how happy I am.”

Erica was initially wary but Lahib’s sincerity was apparent and she allowed herself to be gently hugged.

“Would you care for some tea?”

“Thank you, but no. I came as quickly as possible after I got the message.”

“Ah, yes,” said Lahib. He clapped his hands with excitement. “The statue. You are indeed very lucky, because you are to be shown a marvelous piece. A statue of Seti I as tall as yourself.” Lahib closed an eye, estimating her height.

Erica couldn’t believe he was so blasé. It made her fears seem melodramatic and childish.

“Is the statue here?” asked Erica.

“Oh, no, my dear. We are showing it to you without the knowledge of the Department of Antiquities.” He winked. “So we must be reasonably careful. And since it is such a large and marvelous piece, we don’t dare have it here in Luxor. It is on the West Bank, but we can deliver it wherever your people wish.”

“How do I get to see it?” asked Erica.

“Very simple. But first you must understand that you have to go alone. We cannot show this type of piece to many people, for obvious reasons. If you are accompanied, or even followed, you will lose your chance to view it. Is that clear?”

“It is,” said Erica.

“Very well. All you have to do is cross the Nile and take a taxi to a small village called Qurna, which is located-”

“I know the village,” said Erica.

“That makes it easier,” Lahib laughed. “There is a small mosque in the village.”

“I know it,” said Erica.

“Ah, marvelous, then you should have no trouble at all. Arrive at the mosque tonight at dusk. One of the dealers like myself will meet you there and show you the statue. It’s as simple as that.”

“All right,” said Erica.

“One other thing,” said Lahib. “When you reach the West Bank, it’s best to hire a taxi that will wait for you below the village. Offer him an extra pound. Otherwise you’ll have trouble later getting one back to the ferry landing.”

“Thank you very much,” said Erica. Lahib’s concern pleased her.

Lahib watched Erica walk down Shari el Muntazah toward the Winter Palace Hotel. She turned once, and he waved. Then he quickly closed the door to the shop and secured it with a wooden beam. In a recess below one of the floorboards he hid his best antiques and ancient pottery. Then he locked the back door and left for the station. He was certain he’d make the seven-o’clock train for Aswan.

As Erica walked along the waterfront toward her hotel, she felt significantly better than she had before visiting the Curio Antique Shop. Her cloak-and-dagger expectations were unfounded. Lahib Zayed had been open, friendly, and thoughtful, Her only disappointment was that she couldn’t see the statue until evening. Erica looked up at the sky, estimating the time until sunset. She had another hour, plenty of time to return to the hotel to change into jeans for the journey to Qurna.

Approaching the majestic Temple of Luxor, which was now surrounded by the modern town, Erica suddenly stopped. She had not given any thought to her being followed. If she were, it would ruin the whole plan. Turning around quickly she scanned the street for her shadow. She’d completely forgotten the man. There were many pedestrians in sight, but no hooked-nose man in a dark suit. Erica checked her watch again. She had to know if she was being followed. Turning back to the temple, she quickly bought a ticket and walked through the passageway between the towers of the front pylon. Entering the court of Ramses II, majestically surrounded by a double row of papyrus columns, she turned immediately to the right and stepped into a small chapel for the god Amon. From here Erica could see the entrance as well as the courtyard. There were about twenty people milling around, photographing the statues of Ramses II. Erica decided to wait fifteen minutes. If no one appeared, she would forget her shadow.

She peered into the chapel to look at the reliefs. They had been carved during the time of Ramses II and lacked the quality of the work she’d seen at Abydos. She recognized the images of Amon, Mut, and Khonsu. When Erica turned her attention back to the courtyard, she was startled. Khalifa had rounded the edge of the pylon no more than five feet from where she was standing. He was equally surprised. He shot a hand into his jacket to grasp his pistol, but caught himself and withdrew his hand as his face contorted into a half-smile. Then he was gone.

Erica blinked. When she had recovered from the shock, she ran from the chapel and looked down the corridor behind the double row of columns. Khalifa had disappeared.

Pulling the strap of her bag up onto her shoulder, Erica hurried from the temple grounds. She knew she was in trouble, that her pursuer could ruin everything. She reached the esplanade along the Nile and looked both ways. She had to lose him, and checking her watch, she realized she was running out of time.

The only time Khalifa had not followed was when she had visited the village of Qurna and hiked over a desert ridge to the Valley of the Kings. Erica thought that she could use the route in reverse. She could go to the Valley of the Kings now, then use the trail to visit Qurna, telling her taxi to wait for her at the base of the village. Then she realized the plan was ridiculous. Probably the only reason Khalifa had not followed her to the Valley of the Kings was that he knew where she was going and did not want to subject himself to the heat and effort. He’d not been fooled. If she were to really lose Khalifa, it would have to be in a crowd of people.

Checking her watch again, she had an idea. It was now almost seven. There was a seven-thirty express train to Cairo, the same train she’d taken the previous night. The station and the platform had been jammed. It was the best idea she’d had. The only trouble was that it would keep her from seeing Yvon. Perhaps she could call from the station. Erica hailed a carriage.

As she had expected, the station was swarming with travelers, and she moved with difficulty to the ticket windows. She passed an enormous stack of reed cages filled with clucking chickens. A small herd of goats and sheep were tethered to a column, and their plaintive bleating merged with the cacophony of voices that echoed in the dusty hall. Erica bought a one-way first-class ticket to Nag Hamdi. It was seven-seventeen.

It was even more difficult to walk down the platform than it had been to get to the ticket window. Erica did not look behind her. She pushed and squeezed past crying relatives until she reached the comparative quiet alongside the first-class coaches. She climbed aboard coach two, flashing her ticket to the conductor. It was seven-twenty-three.

Erica went directly to the toilet. It was closed and locked. So was the one opposite. Without hesitation she turned into coach three and hurried down the central aisle. A toilet was free, and she entered. Locking the door and trying to breathe as little of the stench as possible, Erica undid her cotton slacks and pulled them off. Then she pulled on her jeans, banging her elbow on the sink as she wriggled into them. It was seven-twenty-nine. She heard a whistle.

Almost in a panic, she changed into a blue blouse, hastily pushed up her luxurious hair, and pulled her khaki sun hat over her head. Glancing into the mirror, she hoped her appearance had changed enough. Then she left the toilet and literally ran down the aisle to the next coach. It was second-class and more crowded. Most of the occupants had not taken their seats yet and were busy placing their belongings in the overhead racks.

Erica continued from coach to coach. When she reached third-class, she found the chickens and cattle had been loaded between the coaches and progress became impossible. Looking out, she assessed the milling crowd. It was seven-thirty-two. The train lurched and began to move as she climbed down to the platform. There was a sudden increase in the murmur of voices, and several people shouted and waved. Erica worked her way from the platform into the station, and for the first time looked for Khalifa.

The crowd began to disperse. Erica allowed the press of people to sweep her to the street. Once outside, she hurried across to a small café and took a table with a view of the station. Ordering a small coffee, she kept her eyes on the entrance.

She did not have to wait long. Pushing people rudely aside, Khalifa stormed from the station. Even from where Erica was sitting she could sense his anger as he leaped into a taxi and headed down Shari el Mahatta toward the Nile. Erica gulped down her coffee. The sun had set and dusk was falling. She was late. Picking up her bag, she hurried from the café.

“Christ almighty!” yelled Yvon. “Why am I paying you two hundred dollars a day? Can you tell me that?”

Khalifa frowned and examined the fingernails of his left hand. He knew he really did not have to suffer this tirade, but his assignment fascinated him. Erica Baron had tricked him, and he was not accustomed to losing. If he were, he would have been dead a long time ago.

“All right,” said Yvon with a disgusted tone. “What are we going to do?”

Raoul, having suggested Khalifa, felt more responsible than Khalifa himself.

“You should have someone meet the train,” said Khalifa. “She bought a ticket to Nag Hamdi, but I don’t think she actually left. I think it was all a trick to get away from me.”

“All right, Raoul, have the train met,” said Yvon decisively.

Raoul went to the phone, glad to have something to do.

“Listen, Khalifa,” said Yvon, “losing Erica has put this whole operation in jeopardy. She got her instructions from the Curio Antique Shop. Get over there and find out where she’s been sent. I don’t care how you do it, just do it.”

Without saying a word, Khalifa pushed off the bureau on which he’d been leaning and left the hotel, knowing that there was no way the shop owner was going to keep information from him unless he was willing to die.

Under the towering sandstone cliffs, the village of Qurna was already shrouded in darkness when Erica climbed the long hill from the road. The taxi she had hired for the evening waited below, its door ajar.

She trudged past the somber mud-brick houses. Cooking fires of dried dung could be seen in the courtyards, illuminating the sharply grotesque summer sleeping platforms. Erica remembered the reason they were built-cobras and scorpions-and shivered despite the warmth of the night.

The darkened mosque with its whitewashed minaret looked silver. It was about a hundred yards ahead. Erica paused to catch her breath. Looking back at the valley, she could see the lights of Luxor, particularly the high-rise New Winter Palace Hotel. A string of colored lights like Christmas decorations marked the area of the Abul Haggag mosque.

Erica was about to continue walking when there was a sudden movement in the darkness near her feet. Uttering a cry of fright, she leaped back, almost falling in the sand. She was about to run when a bark, followed by an angry growl, pierced the air. A small pack of snarling dogs suddenly surrounded her. She bent down and picked up a rock. It must have been a familiar gesture, because the dogs scattered before she could throw a stone.

About a dozen people walked by Erica as she passed through the village. They were all dressed in black gowns and black shawls, silent and faceless in the darkness. Erica realized that had she not passed through Qurna during the day, she probably would have been unable to find her way at night. A sudden raucous cry of a donkey shattered the silence, then stopped as abruptly as it had begun. From where she was walking, Erica could see the outline of Aida Raman’s house high up against the hillside. The faint glow of an oil lamp shone from her windows. Rising behind the house, Erica could see the trail to the Valley of the Kings etched against the mountains.

She was now within fifty feet of the mosque. There were no lights. Her steps slowed. She knew she was late for the rendezvous. It was not dusk; it was night. Perhaps they had decided she was not coming. Maybe she should turn and go back to her hotel or visit with Aida Raman and tell her what she had learned from the papyrus. Erica stopped and looked at the building. It appeared deserted. Then, remembering Lahib Zayed and his casual attitude, she shrugged her shoulders and started toward the door.

It opened slowly, affording a view of the courtyard. The facade of the mosque seemed to attract and reflect the starlight, and the courtyard was brighter than the street. She saw no one.

Silently Erica stepped inside, closing the door behind her. There was no sound or motion from the mosque. All she could hear was an occasional dog barking in the village below. Finally she made herself walk forward beneath one of the archways. She tried the door to the mosque. It was locked. Walking along the small portico, she knocked on the door to the imam’s quarters. There was no answer. The place was deserted.

Erica stepped back into the courtyard. They must have decided she was not coming, and she eyed the door to the street. But instead of leaving right away, she walked back under the portico and sat down, her back against the front of the mosque. In front of her the dark archway framed a view of the courtyard. Beyond the walls Erica could see the eastern sky, which brightened in anticipation of the rising moon.

Erica rummaged in her tote bag until she found a cigarette. She lit one to salvage her courage, and looked at her watch with the aid of a match. It was eight-fifteen.

As the moon rose, the shadows in the courtyard grew paradoxically darker. The longer Erica sat, the more her imagination played tricks on her. Every sound from the village made her jump. After fifteen minutes she’d had enough. She stood up and dusted off the seat of her pants. Then she walked back across the courtyard and yanked open the wooden door to the street.

“Miss Baron,” said a figure in a black burnoose. He was standing in the dirt street just outside the door to the courtyard. With the moon directly over his shoulder, Erica could not see his face. He bowed before continuing. “I beg your pardon for the delay. Please follow me.” He smiled, revealing huge teeth.

There was no more conversation. The man, who Erica guessed was a Nubian, led her up the hillside above the village. They followed one of the many trails, and the going was easy with the moonlight reflecting from the light rock and sand. They passed a few rectangular openings of tombs.

The Nubian was breathing heavily now, and it was with obvious relief that he stopped by a sloping cut into the mountainside. At the base of the slope was an entrance closed with a heavy iron grille. The number 37 hung on the gate.

“I beg your pardon, but you must wait here for just a few minutes,” said the Nubian. Before Erica could respond, he started back toward Qurna.

Erica watched the retreating figure, then glanced at the iron gate. She turned, started to say something, but the Nubian was already so far away that she would have had to shout.

Walking down the ramp, Erica grasped the iron gate and shook it. The number 37 rattled but the gate did not budge. It was locked. Erica could just make out some ancient Egyptian decoration on the walls.

She walked back up the ramp, and the anxiety she had felt before entering the Curio Antique Shop swept over her. She stood on the lip of the tomb, watching the Nubian entering the village below. In the distance a few dogs barked. Behind her she could feel the ominous presence of the overhanging mountain.

Suddenly she heard a sharp metallic click behind her. Fear made her legs weak. Then she heard an agonizing grating of steel on steel. She wanted to run but was unable to move as her imagination conjured horrid images issuing from the tomb. The iron gate closed behind her, and she heard steps. Slowly she forced herself to turn around.

“Good evening, Miss Baron,” said a figure coming up the ramp. He was dressed in a black burnoose like the Nubian’s but with the hood over his head. Beneath the hood he wore a white turban. “My name is Muhammad Abdulal.” He bowed, and Erica regained some composure. “I apologize for these delays, but unfortunately they are necessary. The statues you are about to see are very valuable and we were afraid you might have been followed by the authorities.”

Erica again realized how important it had been for her to lose her shadow.”

“Please follow me,” said Muhammad as he passed Erica and began climbing higher on the slope.

Erica cast a last glance at the village below her. She could barely make out her taxi waiting on the asphalt road. She had to hurry to catch up to Muhammad.

He turned to the left when they reached the very base of the sheer cliff. Trying to look up the rock face, Erica practically fell over backward. They walked for another fifty feet and rounded a huge boulder. Again she had to hurry after Muhammad. On the other side of the rock was a ramp similar to that for tomb 37. There was another heavy iron grille, but this time without a number. Erica stopped behind Muhammad as he fumbled with a large ring of keys. She had lost her nerve but was now equally afraid to show fear.

She had had no idea the statue would be stored in such an isolated location. The iron gate squealed on its hinges, unaccustomed to being opened.

“Please,” said Muhammad simply, motioning for Erica to enter.

It was an undecorated tomb. She turned and watched Muhammad close the door behind him. There was a resounding click as the lock engaged. Anemic moonlight filtered in through the iron bars.

Muhammad lit a single match and pushed past Erica, moving down a narrow corridor. She had no choice but to stay close behind. They moved in a small sphere of light, and she had a helpless feeling that events were far beyond her control.

They entered an antechamber. Erica could make out dim line drawings on the walls. Muhammad bent down and touched his match to an oil lamp. The light flickered, making his shadow dance among the ancient Egyptian deities on the walls.

A sharp gilded reflection caught Erica’s eye. There it was, the Seti statue! The burnished gold radiated a light more powerful than the lamp. For the moment awe conquered fear, and Erica walked over to the sculpture. Its alabaster-and-green-feldspar eyes were hypnotic, and she had to force herself to look below at the hieroglyphics. There were the cartouches of Seti I and Tutankhamen. The phrase was the same as that on the Houston statue: “Eternal life granted unto Seti I, who ruled after Tutankhamen.”

“It is magnificent,” said Erica with sincerity. “How much do you want for it?”

“We have others,” said Muhammad. “Wait until you see the others before you make your choice.”

Erica turned to look at him, intending to say she was satisfied. But she did not speak. Once again she was paralyzed by fear. Muhammad had flipped back his hood, revealing his mustache and gold-tipped teeth. He was one of the killers of Abdul Hamdi!

“We have a wonderful selection of statues in the next room,” said Muhammad. “Please.” He half-bowed and gestured toward the narrow doorway.

A cold sweat chilled her body. The grate to the tomb was locked. She had to play for time. She turned and started toward the doorway, not wanting to go deeper into the tomb, but Muhammad came up behind her. “Please,” he said, and pushed her gently forward.

Their shadows moved grotesquely on the walls as they walked down the sloping corridor. Ahead, Erica could see a recess that extended on both sides of the passageway. A stout beam ran from the floor up into the alcove. As Erica passed, she realized that the beam supported a huge stone portcullis.

Just beyond, the passageway ended and a flight of stairs hewn from the rock led steeply downward into darkness.

“How much farther?” she asked. Her voice was higher than usual.

“Just a little way.”

With the light behind her, Erica’s shadow fell onto the stairs in front of her, blocking her vision. She felt ahead with her foot. It was at that point she felt something on her back. She first thought it was Muhammad’s hand. Then she realized he had centered his foot in the small of her back.

Erica only had time to throw her hands out against the smooth walls of the stairway. The force of the kick had knocked her feet out from under her, and she began falling. She landed on her buttocks, but the stairs were so steep that she continued sliding, unable to stop her downward motion into absolute blackness.

Muhammad quickly put down his oil lamp and pulled a stone sledge from the recess. With several carefully directed blows he dislodged the supporting beam, triggering the balanced portcullis. In slow motion the forty-five-ton granite block slid down a short incline, then fell into place with a deafening crash that sealed the ancient tomb.

“No American woman got off the train at Nag Hamdi,” said Raoul, “and there was no one that even came close to Erica’s description on the train. It looks like we’ve been tricked.” He was standing at the door to the balcony. Across the river the moonlight was bright on the mountains above the necropolis.

Yvon was sitting rubbing his temples. “Am I always destined to come so close, only to see success slip through my fingers?” He turned to Khalifa. “And what has the mighty Khalifa learned?”

“There was no one at the Curio Antique Shop. The other shops were still open and there were plenty of tourists. Apparently the shop had closed right after Erica left. The proprietor’s name is Lahib Zayed, and no one seemed to know where he’d gone. And I was quite insistent.” Khalifa smiled.

“I want the Curio Antique Shop and the Winter Palace watched. I don’t care if you both have to stay up all night.”

When Yvon was alone, he walked out onto the balcony. The night was peaceful and soft. The sound from the piano in the dining room drifted up through the palms. Nervously he began pacing the small terrace.

Erica ended in a sitting position at the bottom of the stairs, with one leg tucked under her. Her hands were badly scraped, but otherwise she was unhurt. Most of the contents of her tote bag had fallen out. She tried to look around in the Stygian darkness, but she could not even see her hand directly in front of her face. Like a blind person, she groped in her bag for the flashlight. It was not there.

Struggling to her hands and knees, she felt along the paving stone. She found her camera, which seemed intact, then her guidebook, but still no flashlight. Her hand hit a wall, and she recoiled in fear. Every phobia she’d ever had about snakes, scorpions, and spiders emerged to frighten her. The image of the cobra at Abydos plagued her. Groping back along the wall until she found the corner, she felt her way back to the stairway and found the pack of cigarettes. The book of matches was pushed beneath the cellophane cover.

She struck a match and held it away from her. She was in a room about ten feet square, with two doorways, plus the stairway behind her. The walls were plastered with painted scenes of everyday life in ancient Egypt. She was in one of the tombs of the nobles.

Against the far wall Erica caught a glimpse of her flashlight before the match singed the tips of her fingers. She lit another, and in its hesitant light walked over to retrieve the flashlight. The front glass had broken, but the bulb was still in place. Erica pressed the switch and it leaped to life.

Without allowing herself time to think about her situation, she returned to the stairs, climbed to the top, and ran the beam of the flashlight around the perimeter of the portcullis. The granite plug fit into its slot with incredible precision. She pushed against it. It was cold and motionless, like the mountain itself.

Returning to the base of the stairs, she began to explore the tomb. The two doorways from the antechamber led into a burial chamber on the left and a storeroom on the right. She entered the burial chamber first. Except for a rough-hewn sarcophagus, the room was empty. The ceiling was painted dark blue with hundreds of gold five-pointed stars, and the walls were decorated with scenes from the Book of the Dead. From the back wall Erica could read whose tomb she was in. Ahmose, scribe and vizier to Pharaoh Amenhotep III.

Moving her light about the sarcophagus, Erica saw a skull lying amid rags on the floor. Hesitantly she moved closer. The eye sockets were darkened pits and the lower jaw had separated, giving the mouth an expression of continued agony. All the teeth were in place. It was not that old.

Standing over the skull, Erica realized that she was looking at the remains of a whole corpse. The body had been curled up beside the sarcophagus, as if in sleep. Ribs and vertebrae could be seen through the decaying clothing. Just under the skull Erica saw a flash of gold. Falteringly she reached down and lifted the object. It was a 1975 Yale ring. Gingerly Erica replaced it and stood up.

“Let’s see the next room,” she said out loud, hoping the sound of her voice would reassure her. She did not want to think, not yet, and as long as there were places to explore, she could keep her mind from the reality of the situation. Acting like a tourist, she passed into the next and last chamber. It was the same size as the burial chamber, and completely empty save for a few rocks and a little sand. The decorations were of everyday life, as in the antechamber, but they were unfinished. The wall to the right had been prepared for a large harvest scene, and the figures were drawn in red ocher. There was a broad band of white plaster, prepared for hieroglyphics, running along the bottom. After shining her light around the room, Erica returned to the antechamber. She was running out of things to do, and a cold fear threatened to surface. She began to pick up the rest of her things from the floor and replace them in the tote bag. Thinking she might have probably missed something, she climbed the long flight of stairs to the granite plug. An overwhelming sense of claustrophobia swept over her, and vainly trying to control her emotions, she pushed at the stone with both hands.

“Help!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. The sound reverberated against the rock faces and echoed within the depths of the tomb. Then the silence closed in on her again, smothering her with its absolute stillness. She felt as if she needed air. Her breathing became labored. She slapped the granite plug with an open palm, harder and harder, until she could feel pain. Tears welled up and overflowed her eyes, and she continued to pound the stone, sobs racking her body.

The exertion exhausted her, and she slowly sank to her knees, still crying uncontrollably. All her fears of death and abandonment rose from the recesses of her mind, causing renewed spells of sobbing and shaking. She had suddenly realized that she was buried alive!

Having faced the grim reality of her situation, Erica began to recover a modicum of rational thought. She picked up the flashlight and descended the long flight of stone steps to the antechamber. She wondered when Yvon would begin to worry that something might have happened. Once he became suspicious, he would probably go to the Curio Antique Shop, but did Lahib Zayed know where she was? Would her taxi driver ever think of reporting that he had taken an American girl to Qurna, who had failed to return? Erica had no answers to these questions, but the mere asking of them revived a glimmer of hope that supported her until her flashlight perceptibly dimmed.

She switched it off and rummaged through her bag until she found three books of matches. It wasn’t much, but while looking for the matches she came across a felt-tip pen. Touching the pen gave her an idea. She could leave some sort of message on the wall of the unfinished chamber, explaining what had happened to her. She could write it in form of hieroglyphics so that her captors would probably not recognize its significance. She did not delude herself into believing that such an act would have any value short of giving her mind something to do. But that was something. Fear had given way to despair and bitter regret. Doing something would at least distract her.

With the flashlight propped up with several rocks, Erica began to space out her message. The simpler the better, she thought. Once the spacing was accomplished, she began to outline the figures. She was about halfway through when the flashlight suddenly dimmed markedly. It came back on again, but only for a moment. Then it dimmed to a red ember.

Once again Erica refused to contemplate her plight. She struck matches to continue the hieroglyphic text. She was crouching down at the base of the wall on the right, the text running in columns from the floor to the bottom of the unfinished harvest scene. She still suffered intermittent bouts of tears as she admitted to herself that her cleverness had been just enough to get her into inescapable trouble. Everyone had warned her about the involvement, and she had listened to no one. She’d been a fool. Training in Egyptology had not equipped her to deal with criminals, especially someone like Muhammad Abdulal.

With only one pack of matches left, Erica did not want to think about how much time she had left… about how long the oxygen would last. She bent down near to the floor to draw a bird. Before she could outline the figure, the match suddenly went out. It had gone very fast, and Erica cursed in the darkness. She struck another, but as she bent to write, this also went right out. Erica lit a third and very carefully approached the area where she was working. The match burned smoothly, then suddenly wavered, as if in a wind. Licking her fingers, Erica could feel a stream of air coming from a small vertical crack in the plaster, close to the floor.

The flashlight still glowed very slightly in the darkness, and Erica used it as a beacon to fetch one of the rocks she’d used to prop it up. It was a piece of granite, probably part of the sarcophagus lid. Erica carried it over to the draft and struck another match.

Holding the meager light in her left hand, she hit the plaster in the area of the crack. Nothing happened. She continued to hit the area as hard as she could until the match went out. Then, locating the crack in the darkness by feel, Erica pounded the spot blindly for more than a minute.

Finally calming down, she lit another match. At the spot where the crack had been, now there was a small hole, big enough for her to insert her finger. There was a space beyond, and more importantly, a current of cool air. Unseeing, Erica continued to pound the area with the piece of granite, until she could feel movement beneath the stone. She lit a match. A crack now ran along the juncture of the floor and the wall before arching back to join the slowly enlarging opening. Erica concentrated on pounding this area, holding the match with her left hand. Suddenly a large piece of plaster broke free and disappeared. After a moment, Erica heard it hit the ground. The hole was now about a foot in diameter. When she tried to light another match, the air current put it out. Gingerly she stuck her hand into the hole, as if she were reaching into the mouth of a wild beast. She could feel a smooth plastered surface on the inside. Turning her palm up, she could feel a ceiling. She had discovered another room built diagonally below the room she was in.

With renewed enthusiasm Erica slowly enlarged the opening. She worked in the dark, not willing to sacrifice any more matches. Finally the hole was deep enough to allow her to stick her head in. After locating a few pebbles, she lay prone on the floor of the chamber, shoving her head into the opening. She let the pebbles go and listened for the impact. The room did not seem deep, and appeared to have a floor of sand.

Erica emptied her cigarettes from the pack and lit the paper. When it was flaming, she pushed it into the hole and let it go. The flames went out, but the ember sank in a spiral. When it landed, it was about eight feet away. Erica found more stones, and with her head in the hole she tossed them in various directions, trying to get some idea of the space. It seemed to be a square room. And what pleased Erica, there was a constant movement of air.

Sitting in the inky blackness, she debated what she should do. If she lowered herself into the room she’d found, there was a chance she would not be able to get back into the tomb she was in. But what difference did that make? The real problem was finding the courage to go into the hole. She had only half a pack of matches left.

Erica picked up her tote bag. Counting to three, she forced herself to drop it through the opening. On all fours she backed up to the wall and lowered her legs into the hole. She had an image of being swallowed. Slowly she wriggled farther and farther into space, until the tips of her toes touched a smooth plastered wall. Like a diver trying to get himself to plunge into cold water, Erica forced her body to slide through the hole into the black void. As she fell for what seemed forever, her arms flailed in the air, attempting to keep her feet first. She landed off balance but unhurt, and fell over backward on a rubble-strewn sand floor.

Fear of the unknown made her stumble to her feet, only to lose her balance again and sprawl forward. There was a tremendous amount of dust choking her. Her outstretched right hand fell on an object that she thought was a piece of wood. She held onto it, hoping it would ignite like a torch.

Finally she managed to stand up. She switched the piece of wood to her left hand in order to get her matches from her jeans pocket. But the object no longer felt like a piece of wood. Touching it with both hands, she realized she was holding a mummified forearm and hand, trailing wrappings in the darkness. With disgust she threw the object away from her.

Shaking, Erica pulled the matches from her pocket and struck one. As its light filtered outward in the dust, Erica found herself in a catacomb with bare, unadorned walls and filled with partially wrapped mummies. The bodies had been broken apart and stripped of any valuables, then rudely discarded.

Turning around slowly, Erica saw evidence that the ceiling had partially caved in. In the corner she saw a low dark doorway. Grabbing her tote bag, she struggled forward in the knee-deep debris. The match burned her fingers, and she shook it out, moving forward with her hands groping for the wall, then the doorway. She passed into the next room. Lighting another match, she found herself in a room filled with equally grotesque images. A niche in the wall was filled with decapitated mummified heads. There was evidence of more cave-ins.

On the wall opposite Erica were two widely separated doorways. She worked her way into the center of the room, and holding the match ahead of her, decided the air was coming from the smaller passage. The match went out, and she moved forward with her hands ahead of her.

Suddenly there was a great commotion. A cave-in! Erica threw herself forward against the wall, feeling particles hit her hair and shoulders.

But there was no crash. Instead the commotion in the air continued and the atmosphere became saturated with dust and high-pitched screeches. Then something landed on Erica’s shoulder. It was alive and clawing. As her hand swept the animal off her back, she touched wings. It wasn’t a cave-in. It was a million disturbed bats. She covered her head with her arm and crouched low against the wall, breathing as best she could. Gradually the bats quieted and she was able to move into the next room.

Erica slowly realized that she had fallen into a maze of tombs of the common people of ancient Thebes. The catacombs had been progressively cut into the mountainside in the form of a labyrinth to make room for the millions of dead. Sometimes they had inadvertently connected with other tombs, in this case with the tomb of Ahmose, in which Erica had been interred. The connection had been plastered over and forgotten.

Erica pushed on. Although the presence of the bats was horrifying, it was also encouraging. There had to be a connection with the outside. Eventually she tried lighting the mummy wrappings and discovered they burned briskly. In fact, Erica found that the pieces of mummies with their wrappings burned like torches, and she forced herself to pick them up. The forearms were best, because they were easy to hold. With the help of better light she worked her way through many galleries and up several levels until she felt fresh air. Dousing her torch, Erica walked the last feet by the light of the moon. When she emerged into the warm Egyptian night, she was several hundred yards from the place she had entered the mountain with Muhammad. Directly below her was the village of Qurna. There were very few lights.

For a time Erica stood trembling at the entrance to the catacomb, appreciating the moon and the stars in a way she’d never done. She knew she was enormously lucky to be alive.

The first thing she needed was a place to rest, pull herself together, and have a drink. Her throat was raw from the suffocating dust. She also wanted to wash, as if the experience clung to her like dirt, and most of all she wished to see a friendly face. The closest source of all these comforts was Aida Raman’s house. She could see it up against the hillside. A light still shone in the window.

Stepping from the seclusion of the catacomb, Erica walked warily along the base of the cliff. Until she got back to Luxor, she would take no chance on being seen by Muhammad or the Nubian. What she really wanted to do was get back to Yvon. She’d tell him as best she could the location of the statue and then get out of Egypt. She’d had enough.

When she was directly above Aida Raman’s, Erica began the descent. For the first hundred yards it was deep sand, then loose gravel, which frightened her by shifting noisily in the bright moonlight. Finally she reached the back of the house.

Erica waited for a few minutes in the shadows, watching the village. She saw no movement. Satisfied that it was all clear, she walked around the building into the courtyard and knocked at the door.

Aida Raman shouted something in Arabic. Erica responded by calling out her name and asking if she could talk with her.

“Go away,” shouted Aida through the closed door.

Erica was surprised. Aida had been so warm and friendly. “Please, Mrs. Raman,” she said through the door. “I need a drink of water.”

The door unlatched and swung open. Aida Raman was clad in the same cotton dress she had on for their first meeting.

“Thank you,” said Erica. “I’m sorry to trouble you. But I am very thirsty.”

Aida looked older than she had two days previously. Gone was the apparent humor. “All right,” she said, “but wait here by the door. You cannot stay.”

While the old woman fetched a drink, Erica looked around the room. The familiar sight was comforting. The long-handled shovel nested in its brackets. The framed photos hung neatly on the wall. Many were of Howard Carter with a turbaned Arab Erica thought had to be Raman. There was a small mirror among the photos, and Erica was shocked by her appearance.

Aida Raman brought some of the juice she’d given Erica on her first visit. Erica drank slowly. Swallowing hurt her throat.

“My family was very angry when I told them you tricked me into revealing the papyrus to you,” said Aida.

“Family?” said Erica, the drink reviving her. “I thought you said you were the last of the Ramans.”

“I am. My two sons died. But I also had two daughters, who have families. It was one of my grandsons I told about your visit. He became very angry and took the papyrus.”

“What did he do with it?” asked Erica, alarmed.

“I don’t know. He said it had to be treated very carefully and that he would put it somewhere safe. He also said that the papyrus was a curse, and that now that you have seen it, you must die.”

“Do you believe that?” Erica knew that Aida Raman was no fool.

“I don’t know. It’s not what my husband said.”

“Mrs. Raman,” Erica said, “I translated the whole papyrus. Your husband was right. There was nothing about a curse. The papyrus was written by an ancient architect for Pharaoh Seti I.”

A dog barked loudly in the village. A human voice shouted in reply.

“You must go,” said Aida Raman. “You must go in case my grandson returns. Please.”

“What is your grandson’s name?” asked Erica.

“Muhammad Abdulal.”

The news hit Erica like a slap in the face.

“You know him?” asked Aida.

“I think I met him tonight. Does he live here in Qurna?”

“No, he lives in Luxor.”

“Have you seen him tonight?” asked Erica nervously.

“Today, but not tonight. Please, you must go.”

Erica hastened to leave. She was more nervous than Aida. But at the doorway she paused. Loose ends were beginning to merge. “What kind of work does Muhammad Abdulal do?” Erica was remembering that Abdul Hamdi had written in the hidden letter in the guidebook that a government official was involved.

“He is the chief of the guard of the necropolis and he helps his father run the concession stand in the Valley of the Kings.”

Erica nodded in understanding. Chief of the guards was the perfect position from which to mastermind a black-market operation. Then Erica thought about the concession stand and Raman. “And that concession stand is the same one that your husband, Sarwat Raman, built?”

“Yes, yes, Miss Baron, please go.”

All at once everything became clear. All at once she believed she could explain everything. And it all depended on the concession stand in the Valley of the Kings.

“Aida,” said Erica with feverish excitement, “listen to me. As your husband said, there is no ‘Curse of the Pharaohs,’ and I can prove it, provided you will help. I just need time. All I ask is that you do not tell anyone, not even your family, that I have returned to see you. They will not ask, I can assure you. So all I’m begging is that you do not bring it up. Please.” Erica grasped Aida’s upper arms to emphasize her earnestness.

“You can prove my husband was right?”

“Absolutely,” said Erica.

Aida nodded her head. “All right.”

“Oh, there is something else,” said Erica. “I need a flashlight.”

“All I have is an oil lamp.”

“That will be fine,” said Erica.

As she left, Erica gave Aida a hug, but the old woman remained passive and withdrawn. Holding the oil lamp and several books of matches, Erica stood in the shadow of the house watching the village. It was deathly still. The moon had passed the zenith and was now in the western sky. The lights of Luxor were still bright with activity.

Taking the same path she had two days previously, Erica hiked up the spur of the mountain. It was a much easier climb in the moonlight than in the hot sun.

Erica knew she was violating her recent resolve to leave the rest of the mystery to Yvon and the police, but the conversation with Aida had rekindled her intoxication with the past. Going from the tomb of Ahmose down into the public catacombs had offered her a single explanation for all the disparate events, including the mystery of the inscription on the statue and the meaning of the papyrus. And with the knowledge that Muhammad Abdulal would never imagine she was free, Erica felt reasonably safe. Even if he wanted to check the Ahmose tomb, it would probably take days to raise the portcullis. Erica believed she had time, and she wanted to visit the Valley of the Kings and the concession stand of Raman. If she was right, she would discover a truth that would make Tutankhamen’s tomb pale to insignificance.

Reaching the summit of the ridge, she paused to catch her breath. The desert wind softly whistled among the naked peaks, adding to the feeling of desolation. From where she was standing she could see into the dark and barren Valley of the Kings with its network of etched paths.

Erica could see her goal. The concession stand and rest house stood out clearly on its small rocky promontory. Seeing it encouraged her, and she pushed on, descending carefully to keep from setting off small avalanches of pebbles. She did not want to disturb anyone who might be in the valley. Once she had joined the route to the ancient necropolis workers’ village, the trail flattened out and she could walk much more easily. Before entering one of the carefully scraped pathways lined with stones that ran between the tombs, Erica waited and listened. All she could hear was the wind and the occasional screech of a bat in flight.

With a light step Erica walked to the center of the valley and mounted the front steps of the concession stand. As she expected, it was tightly shuttered and locked. Walking back out onto the veranda, Erica let her line of vision trace the triangle made by Tutankhamen’s tomb, Seti I’s tomb, and the concession stand. Then she walked around to the rear of the rock building, and steeling herself against the foul odors, pushed her way into the ladies’ room. Putting a match to Aida Raman’s oil lamp, she checked out the room, following the foundation line. There was nothing strange about its construction.

Within the men’s room, the pungent smell of urine was much more intense. It came from a long urinal made from fired brick built along the front wall. Above the urinal was a two-foot-high crawl space that extended forward under the veranda; the men’s room did not abut the front foundation of the building. Erica walked toward the urinal. The lip of the crawl space was at shoulder height. Holding the oil lamp into the opening, she tried to look in, but the light penetrated for only five or six feet. She could see an opened sardine can and a few bottles strewn on the dirt floor.

With the help of the waste barrel Erica climbed up into the crawl space. She left her tote bag on the edge. Avoiding the debris, she crawled forward like a crab until she came to the front masonry wall. The smell of the toilet was worse in the confined space, and Erica’s enthusiasm rapidly waned. But having come this far, she forced herself to check the rough stone wall from one end to the other. Nothing!

Resting her head on her wrists, Erica admitted that she’d been wrong. It had seemed so clever. She sighed deeply, then tried to turn around. It was difficult, so she began to worm her way backward toward the toilet. Holding the oil lamp in one hand, she attempted to push herself backward with the other, but the earth under her was loose and gave way. She tried to gain a better purchase on the ground, and when she pushed, she felt something smooth under the dirt.

Erica twisted herself and looked down. Her right hand was touching a metallic surface. Scraping away some of the dirt, she exposed a piece of sheet metal. She put the lamp down and with both hands began to clear away the loose earth. At the perimeter of the metal she could see that it had been set down into a carved bed in the rock. She had to clear away all the dirt before she could lift the edge of the metal and work it up over the mounds of surrounding earth. Beneath the sheet of metal a yawning shaft had been cut into the bedrock.

Holding the light over the hole, Erica could see that it was about four feet deep and was the beginning of a tunnel that headed toward the front of the building. She had been right! Her head slowly rose, and she stared into the gloom. A sense of satisfaction and excitement gripped her. She knew how Howard Carter had felt in November 1922.

Quickly she pulled her tote bag into the depths of the crawl space. Then she lowered herself backward into the shallow pit and held the oil lamp to the mouth of the tunnel. It slanted downward and immediately enlarged. Taking a deep breath, she moved forward. At first she had to walk partially bent over. As she advanced, she tried to estimate the yardage. The tunnel was heading directly for Tutankhamen’s tomb.

Nassif Boulos crossed the dark empty parking area of the Valley of the Kings. He was seventeen years old and the youngest of the three nighttime guards. As he walked, he hiked up the shoulder strap of his aged rifle, which had been abandoned in Egypt during the First World War. He was angry because it was not his turn to walk up to the end of the valley and back to the guard house, where he could rest and get a drink. Once again his colleagues had taken advantage of his youth and lack of seniority by ordering him to make the rounds.

The moonlit night soon soothed his anger, leaving him merely restless and anxious for something to break the boredom of his watch. But the valley was quiet, and each of the tombs was sealed by its stout iron gate. Nassif would have loved to use his rifle against a thief, and his mind wandered into one of his fantasies in which he protected the valley against a band of brigands.

He stopped across from the entrance to Tutankhamen’s tomb. He wished the tomb were being found now instead of a half-century before. He looked up at the concession stand, because that was where he’d have been on guard in Carter’s day. He’d have hidden behind the parapet on the veranda, and no one would be able to approach the tomb without succumbing to his murderous rifle.

Looking up, Nassif noticed the door to the lavatories was ajar. He realized it had never been left open before, and he debated whether he wanted to walk up to the building. Then he looked up into the valley and decided he’d check the lavatory on the way back. While he walked, he pictured himself traveling to Cairo with a group of men he’d arrested.

Erica estimated that she should be very close to Tutankhamen’s tomb. Progress had been slow because of the rounded, uneven floor of the tunnel. In front of her there was a sharp turn to the left, and she could not see ahead until she had rounded the corner. The floor of the passageway then slanted steeply down and entered a room. With her hands pressed against the rough, rock-hewn sides of the tunnel, she inched herself downward until her feet rested on a smooth floor. She had entered an underground chamber.

Now Erica guessed she was directly below the antechamber of Tutankhamen’s tomb. She lifted the oil lamp above her head, and the light spread out, illuminating smoothly finished but unadorned walls. The room was about twenty-five feet long and fifteen feet wide, with a ceiling made of a single gigantic limestone block. As Erica’s eyes dropped to the floor, she saw an enormous tangle of skeletons, some with varying amounts of naturally mummified tissue. Holding the light a little closer, she could see that each one of the skulls had been fractured and penetrated by the blow of a heavy blunt instrument.

“My God,” whispered Erica. She knew what she was looking at. This was the remains of the massacre of the ancient workers who had dug the chamber in which she was standing.

Slowly she passed through the room with its gruesome reminder of ancient cruelty, and began to descend a long flight of steps that led to a masonry wall. Raman had opened a large hole, and Erica stepped into another, much larger room. When the light penetrated the darkness, Erica gasped for breath and steadied herself against the wall. Spread out in front of her was an archaeological fairyland. The room was supported by massive square columns. The walls were painted with exquisite images of the ancient Egyptian pantheon. In front of each deity was the image of Seti I. Erica had found the pharaoh’s treasure. Nenephta had realized that the safest spot for one treasure was below another.

Gingerly Erica advanced, holding her oil lamp so that the flickering light could play upon the myriad objects carefully stored within the room. In contrast to Tutankhamen’s small tomb, there was no disarray. Everything had its place. Entire gilded chariots were standing as if waiting to be harnessed to a horse. Huge coffers and upright chests fashioned from cedar and inlaid with ebony lined the right wall.

One small ivory chest was open, and its content-jewelry made with unparalleled elegance-had been carefully laid out on the floor. Obviously it had been a source of plunder for Raman.

Wandering around the central pillars, Erica discovered there was another stairway. This led to a further room of the same dimensions, also filled with treasure. There were several passageways leading to still more rooms.

“My God,” said Erica again, only this time with astonishment, not horror. She realized that she was in a vast complex of chambers extending downward and outward in bewildering directions.

She knew she was gazing on a treasure beyond comprehension. As she wandered on, she thought of the famous Deir el-Bahri cache discovered in the late 1800’s and carefully plundered by the Rasul family for ten years. Here the Raman family and then the Abdulal family were apparently doing the same.

Entering another room, Erica stopped. She was standing in a chamber that was relatively empty. There were four matching chests of ebony built in the form of Osiris. The decorations on the walls were from the Book of the Dead. The vaulted ceiling was painted black with gold stars. In front of Erica was a doorway carefully blocked with masonry and sealed with the ancient necropolis seals. On each side of the doorway were alabaster plinths with hieroglyphics carved in high relief along the front. Erica could read the phrase instantly. “Eternal life granted to Seti I, who rests under Tutankhamen.”

All at once it was clear to Erica that the verb was “rest,” not “rule,” and the preposition was “under,” not “after.” She also realized she was looking at the original location of the two Seti statues. They had been standing across from each other in front of the masonry wall for three thousand years.

Suddenly Erica realized that she was standing at the unopened entrance to the burial chamber of the mighty Seti I. What she had found was not just a treasure trove, but an entire pharaonic tomb. The statue of Seti she had seen had been one of the guards of the burial chamber, like the bituminized statues found in Tutankhamen’s tomb. Seti I had not been buried in the tomb constructed in a pattern of the other New Kingdom pharaohs. It had been Nenephta’s final ruse. A substitute body had been buried in the tomb publicly proclaimed to be Seti’s, when in actuality Seti had been buried in a secret tomb below Tutankhamen. Nenephta had pleased both sides. He gave the professional thieves a tomb to rob, and his sovereign protection that no other pharaoh had been given Nenephta probably also believed that even if someone stumbled into Tutankhamen’s tomb, they would never imagine that it would serve as a shield for the mighty treasure below. He had understood “the ways of the greedy and unjust.”

Shaking the lamp to check the oil, Erica decided that she’d better begin the journey back. Reluctantly she turned and retraced her footsteps, continuing to marvel at Nenephta’s scheme. He had indeed been clever, but he’d also been arrogant. Leaving the papyrus in Tutankhamen’s tomb had been the weakest link in his elaborate plan. It had provided the clue for the equally clever Raman to solve the mystery. Erica wondered if the Arab had gone to the Great Pyramid as she had, and if he noticed that the chambers had been built one on top of the other, or if on visiting one of the tombs of the nobles he had found a tomb below it.

Walking up the narrow passage, Erica thought of the enormity of the discovery, and the huge stakes involved. No wonder there had been a murder. The thought brought Erica to a stop. She wondered just how many murders there had been. For more than fifty years the secret had to have been kept. The young man from Yale… All at once Erica began to question the association of the so-called Curse of the Pharaohs. Perhaps the people had been killed to protect the secret. What about Lord Carnarvon himself?…

Reaching the uppermost chamber, Erica paused to glance at the jewelry taken from the ivory chest. Although she had been scrupulously careful not to touch anything for fear of disturbing the archaeological aspects of the tomb, she felt comfortable touching something already disturbed. She picked up a pendant with a cartouche of Seti I rendered in solid gold. She wanted to have something in case Yvon and Ahmed refused to believe her story. So she took the pendant with her as she mounted the steps to the room filled with skeletons of the luckless ancient workers.

Climbing up into the tunnel was much easier than the descent. At the end she placed the oil lamp on the dirt and pulled herself into the crawl space under the concession stand. She had to decide the best way to return to Luxor. It was just past midnight, so the chances of running into Muhammad or the Nubian were much less. Her biggest worry was the government guard who worked under Muhammad. On the asphalt road into the valley she remembered seeing a gatehouse. Consequently she could not leave via the road, but would have to take the trail back to Qurna.

Manipulating the piece of sheet metal was difficult in the confined space. Erica had to slide it over the dirt and allow it to drop into its bed. Then, with the sardine can she’d seen earlier she began to scoop the loose dirt over the metal cover.

Nassif was several hundred feet away from the concession stand when he heard the clank of metal against stone. Immediately he pulled the rifle from his shoulder and dashed toward the partially open doorway to the lavatories. With the butt of the rifle he pushed the door completely open. Moonlight filtered into the small entryway.

Erica heard the door opening and smothered the oil lamp with her hand. She was about ten feet from the edge of the men’s room. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the dark, and she could see the doorway to the vestibule. Her heart began to pound as it had when Richard entered her hotel room.

While she watched, a dark silhouette slipped into the room. Even in the partial light Erica could recognize the rifle. A feeling of panic began to grip her as the man slowly moved directly toward her. He was hunched over, moving like a cat stalking its prey.

With no idea what the man could see, Erica hugged the ground. He appeared to be looking directly at her as he reached the wall of the urinal. Then he stopped, and for what seemed like hours he stood there intently staring. Finally he reached out and grabbed a handful of loose dirt. Cocking his arm, he tossed the dirt into the recess. Erica closed her eyes as a portion of it hit her. The man repeated the action. Some of the pebbles clanked against the still-exposed sheet metal.

Nassif stood up. “Harrah,” he muttered. He was angry because he did not even get to shoot a rat.

Erica felt a small amount of relief, but noticed the man did not move away. He stood there looking at her in the darkness with his rifle back on his shoulder. Erica was perplexed until she heard the trickle of urine.

There was enough moonlight reflecting from the sail of the felucca for Erica to see the time. It was after one. The passage across the Nile was so smooth that she could have dozed. Crossing the river was the last hurdle, and she allowed her body to relax. She was sure Luxor was safe. The excitement of her discovery had superseded the harrowing experience in the tomb, and it was her anticipation of revealing her find that kept her awake.

Looking back toward the West Bank, Erica felt pleased. She’d climbed from the Valley of the Kings, passed the sleeping village of Qurna, and crossed the cultivated fields to the banks of the Nile without any problems. A confrontation with some dogs had been solved by merely bending down to pick up a stone. She stretched her tired legs.

The boat heeled against a puff of wind, and Erica looked up at the graceful curve of the sail across the star-strewn sky. She was not sure who she’d enjoy telling her discovery to the most: Yvon, Ahmed, or Richard. Yvon and Ahmed would be the most appreciative, Richard would be the most surprised. Even her mother would for once be genuinely pleased: she would never again have to make excuses at the country club for her daughter’s career choice.

Back on the East Bank, she was pleased to find the lobby of the Winter Palace Hotel deserted. She had to call out at the desk to raise a clerk.

The sleepy Egyptian, although taken aback by her appearance, gave her a key and an envelope without saying a word. Erica started up the broad carpeted stairway while the clerk looked after her, wondering what she could have been doing to get so dirty. Erica glanced at the envelope. It was Winter Palace stationery, addressed to her in a bold, heavy hand. When she reached the corridor, she put her finger into the corner of the envelope, tearing it open while she navigated around the remnants of the hotel construction. At her door, she was about to insert the key when she unfolded the letter. It was a meaningless scribble. Looking at the outside of the envelope, Erica wondered if it were some kind of joke. If so, she did not understand it or appreciate it. It was like getting a phone call and hearing the person hang up without speaking. It was somehow unnerving.

Erica looked at her door. If there was one thing she’d learned during the trip, it was that hotels were not safe places. She remembered finding Ahmed in her room, Richard’s arrival, her room being searched. With a renewed sense of uncertainty she pushed her key into the door.

Suddenly she thought she heard a noise. In her present state of mind, that was all she needed. Leaving the key dangling in its slot, Erica fled down the corridor. In her haste, her tote bag hit against a stack of building blocks with a resounding crunch. Behind her she heard her door being rapidly unlocked from within.

When Evangelos had heard the sound of the key, he had jumped up and rushed to the door. “Kill her,” shouted Stephanos, awakened by the noise. Drawing his Beretta, Evangelos whipped open the door in time to see Erica disappear down the main stairway.

She had no idea who was in her room, but she had no illusions about being protected by the sleeping clerk. Besides, he wasn’t even at the desk. She had to get to Yvon at the New Winter Palace. She ran out the back of the hotel into the garden.

In spite of his size, Evangelos could move like a hawk on the attack, especially when he concentrated. And when given an order for violence, he was like a rabid dog.

Erica ran through a flowerbed and reached the edge of the pool. Trying to run around it, she slipped on the wet tiles, falling on her side. Scrambling to her feet, she discarded her bag and began to run again. Footsteps were gaining on her.

Evangelos was close enough for an easy shot. “Stop,” he yelled, leveling his gun at Erica’s back.

Erica knew it was hopeless. There was still another fifty yards to the New Winter Palace. She stopped, exhausted, her chest heaving, and turned to look at her pursuer. He was only thirty feet away. She recognized him from the Al Azhar mosque. The huge laceration he had that day was now sutured, making him look like the Frankenstein monster. His gun was pointed at her, the muzzle hidden by an evil silencer.

Evangelos tried to decide what kind of shot he’d make. Finally, holding the gun out at arm’s length, he aimed for Erica’s neck and slowly began to pull the trigger.

Erica saw his arm extend slightly, and her eyes widened as she realized he was going to shoot even though she’d stopped as commanded. “No!”

The gun muffled by the silencer gave a soft thump. Erica felt no pain, and the image in front of her remained clear. Then the strangest thing happened. A small red flower blossomed in the center of Evangelos’ forehead, and he fell forward onto his face, the gun dropping from his hand.

Erica could not move. Her hands were motionless at her sides. Behind her she heard movement within the bushes. Then a voice: “You should not have been so clever about losing me.”

Erica slowly turned. In front of her was the man with the pointed tooth and hooked nose. “That was very close,” said Khalifa, motioning toward Evangelos. “I assume you are on your way to Monsieur de Margeau’s. You’d better hurry. There will be more trouble.”

Erica tried to speak but couldn’t. She nodded and stumbled past Khalifa, her gait unsteady on rubbery legs. She did not remember how she got to Yvon’s room.

The Frenchman opened the door, and she collapsed into his arms, mumbling about the shot, about being sealed in the tomb, about finding the statue. Yvon was calm, stroking her hair, sitting her down, telling her to start from the beginning.

She was about to begin when someone knocked at the door.

“Yes,” called Yvon, instantly alert.

“It is Khalifa.”

Yvon opened the door, and Khalifa propelled Stephanos into the room.

“You hired me to protect the girl and get the person who tried to kill her. Here he is.” Khalifa pointed toward Stephanos.

Stephanos looked at Yvon, then at Erica, who was surprised that Khalifa had been hired by Yvon to protect her, since Yvon had deliberately downplayed her risk. Erica began to feel uncomfortable.

“Look, Yvon,” said Stephanos at length. “It is ridiculous for you and me to be at odds with each other. You’re angry at me because I sold the first Seti statue to the man from Houston. But all I did was get the statue from Egypt to Switzerland. There really is no competition between us. You want to control the black market. Fine. I just want to protect my corner. I can get your stuff out of Egypt with a time-tested method. We should work together.”

Erica looked quickly at Yvon to see his reaction. She wanted to hear him laugh and tell Stephanos that he was all wrong, that he, Yvon, wanted to destroy the black market.

Yvon ran his fingers through his hair. “Why were you threatening Erica?” he asked.

“Because she had learned too much from Abdul Hamdi. I wanted to protect my route. But if you two are working together, then everything’s fine.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with Hamdi’s death and the disappearance of the second statue?” asked Yvon.

“No,” said Stephanos. “I swear it. I hadn’t even heard about the second Seti statue. That was what worried me. I was afraid I was being closed out and that Hamdi’s letter would get to the police.”

Closing her eyes, Erica let the truth sweep over her. Yvon was no crusader. His idea of controlling the black market meant controlling it for his own ends, not for the benefit of science, Egypt, or the world. His passion for antiquities superseded any moral issue. Erica had been duped, and more aggravating still, she could have been killed. Her fingernails dug into the couch. She knew she had to get away. She had to tell Ahmed about Seti’s tomb.

“Stephanos did not kill Abdul Hamdi,” said Erica suddenly. “The people who killed Abdul Hamdi are the people here in Luxor who control the source of the antiquities. The Seti statue was brought back here to Luxor. I’ve seen it and I can lead us to it.” She was careful to use the word “us.”

Yvon looked back at Erica, a little surprised by her sudden recovery. She smiled at him reassuringly. Her instincts for self-preservation gave her unexpected power. “Furthermore,” said Erica, “Stephanos’ route through Yugoslavia is far better than trying to get things from Alexandria in cotton bales.”

Stephanos nodded as he began talking with Yvon. “Smart woman. And she’s right. My method is far better than packing antiquities in cotton bales. Was that really what you had planned? My God, it would last for one or two shipments at the most.”

Erica stretched. She knew that she had to convince Yvon that she had personal interests in antiquities. “Tomorrow I can show you the location of the Seti statue.”

“Where is it?” asked Yvon.

“In one of the unmarked tombs of the nobles on the West Bank. It is very difficult to describe its location. I’ll have to show you. It’s above the village of Qurna. And there are a number of other very interesting pieces.” Erica fished in the pocket of her jeans for the gold Seti pendant. She pulled it out and tossed it casually onto a table. “My fee for finding the Seti statue will be for Stephanos to get this pendant out of the country for me.”

“This is exquisite,” Yvon said, examining the necklace.

“There are many more pieces there, some much better than that. The pendant was the one I could afford. Now, I for one would like to bathe and get some rest. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve had quite a night.” Erica went over to Yvon and gave him a kiss on the cheek. It was the hardest thing she’d done. She thanked Khalifa for helping her in the garden. Then she boldly walked to the door.

“Erica…” said Yvon calmly.

She turned. “Yes?”

There was a silence. “Perhaps you should stay here,” said Yvon. It was apparent he was debating what to do with her.

“Tonight, I’m too tired,” said Erica. The implication was obvious. Stephanos smiled behind his hand.

“Raoul,” called Yvon, “I want to make sure Miss Baron is safe tonight.”

“I think I’ll be fine,” said Erica, opening the door.

“Just to be sure,” said Yvon, “I want Raoul to go with you.”

Evangelos’ body was still lying in the moonlight by the pool as Erica and Raoul walked back toward the Winter Palace. He looked like he was sleeping, except for the pool of dark blood that ran from under his head and dripped into the water. Erica averted her face as Raoul went over and checked to see if Evangelos was really dead. Suddenly she noticed Evangelos’ semiautomatic pistol still lying on the tiles.

Erica stole a glance at Raoul. He was struggling to turn Evangelos over. Without looking at Erica, he spoke. “God, Khalifa is fantastic. He got him between the eyes.”

Erica reached down and picked up the gun. It was heavier than she expected. Her finger curled around the trigger. She detested the instrument, and it frightened her. She had never held a gun before, and the knowledge of its lethal capabilities made her tremble. She did not delude herself. She knew she could never pull the trigger, but she turned and looked at Raoul, who was standing up and brushing his hands. “He was dead before he hit the ground,” said Raoul, turning toward Erica. “Ah, I see you found his gun. Hand it to me and I’ll put it in his hand.”

“Don’t move,” said Erica slowly.

Raoul’s eyes danced back and forth between the gun and Erica’s face. “Erica what-?”

“Shut up. Take off your jacket.”

Raoul complied, tossing his blazer on the ground.

“Now, pull your shirt over your head” commanded Erica.

“Erica…” said Raoul.

“Now!” She extended Evangelos’ gun to arm’s length.

Raoul yanked his shirt from his trousers and with some difficulty pulled it over his head. Beneath his shirt he had on a sleeveless undershirt. Strapped under his left was a small pistol. Erica moved around behind him and took the gun from the holster. She threw it into the pool. Hearing it hit the water, she hesitated, fearful Raoul would be angry. Then the absurdity of the idea caught her. Of course he was going to be angry. She was holding a gun on him!

She had Raoul replace his shirt so he could see where he was going. Then she ordered him to walk around to the front of the hotel. He tried to talk, and she told him again to shut up. Erica thought how ridiculously easy it was in gangster movies to incapacitate a man by hitting nothing. If Raoul had turned around, he could have taken the gun. But he didn’t, and they walked single file through the shadows around to the front of the hotel.

Several antique street lights cast a pale glow over a row of taxis parked along the curb of the curved driveway. The drivers had long since departed for the night, their principal job being to run back and forth between the hotel and the airport. But since the last flight arrived at nine-ten P.M., there was nothing for them to do. Tourists preferred the romantic carriages for transport in and around the town.

With Evangelos’ gun trembling in her hand, Erica marched Raoul along the line of aged taxis, glancing in at the ignitions. Most of the keys were in place. She wanted to get to Ahmed, but had to decide what to do with Raoul.

The lead car was similar to the others, with the exception of tassels lining the rear window. The keys were in the ignition.

“Lie down,” commanded Erica. She was terrified someone would walk out of the hotel.

Raoul took it upon himself to step sideways onto the close-clipped lawn.

“Hurry up!” said Erica, trying to sound angry.

Leaning on his palms, Raoul lay down. He kept his hands under him, ready to spring, his confusion dissolving into anger.

“Arms out in front of you,” said Erica. She opened the door to the taxi and got in behind the vinyl-coated steering wheel. A pair of soft red plastic dice hung from the dash.

The engine turned over agonizingly slowly, belched black smoke, then caught. Keeping the gun on Raoul, Erica searched for the headlight switch and flipped it on. Then she threw the pistol on the seat next to her and put the car in gear. It lurched forward and bucked dramatically, bouncing the pistol from the seat to the floor.

Out of the corner of her eye Erica saw Raoul leap to his feet and rush toward the taxi. She played with the accelerator and clutch, trying to ease the bucking and gain speed as he jumped on the back bumper and grabbed the closed trunk.

The car was in second gear when Erica pulled out onto the broad illuminated boulevard. There was no other traffic, and she accelerated as fast as she could past the Temple of Luxor. When the motor was racing, Erica forced the gearshift into third. She had no idea of the speed because the speedometer was not functioning. In the rearview mirror she could see Raoul still clinging to the trunk. His dark hair was blowing wildly in the wind. Erica wanted to get him off the car.

She threw the steering wheel from side to side. The taxi careened in a serpentine manner, its tires screeching. But Raoul pressed himself against the back of the car and managed to hold on.

Erica put the car in fourth gear and pressed on the accelerator. The taxi leaped forward but developed a shimmy in the right-front tire. The vibration was so violent that she had to hold the steering wheel tightly with both hands as she shot past the two ministers’ houses. The soldiers on guard just smiled at seeing the shuddering taxi speed by with a man clinging to the trunk.

Jamming on the brakes, Erica brought the car to a sudden stop. Raoul slid up onto the back window. Down-shifting to first, Erica again accelerated, but Raoul continued to hang on, grasping the rear doorframes. Erica could still see him in the mirror, so she deliberately drove onto the shoulder of the road, seeking out potholes, which the car hit with jarring force. The passenger door on the right sprang open. The red dice fell from the dash.

Raoul was now lying on the trunk with his arms spanning the back window, each hand holding a doorframe through the missing windows of the rear doors. The impact with each pothole made his head and body slam up against the back of the car. He was determined to stay with Erica. He thought she’d gone crazy.

At the turnoff to Ahmed’s, the headlights of the taxi illuminated a mud-brick wall at the side of the road. Erica screeched to a stop and threw the car into reverse. The sudden stop caused Raoul to slide up on top of the car. He grabbed for a handhold, his left hand grasping the doorframe next to Erica’s face.

Erica accelerated backward, the car weaving wildly before ramming the wall. Her neck snapped back like a whip. The right-front door swung open to its limit, almost pulling it from its hinges. Raoul hung on.

Throwing the shift into first, Erica forced the car to leap forward. The sudden acceleration caused the right front door to close, slamming on Raoul’s hand.

He cried out from the pain and jerked his hand back by reflex. At the same moment, the car hit the asphalt lip of the road, and the jolt tossed Raoul into the sand by the roadside. Almost the instant he hit the ground he regained his feet. Supporting his throbbing hand, he ran after Erica, noticing that she was pulling up at a low whitewashed mud-brick house. He came to a stop as she dashed from the car toward the front door. After making sure he knew exactly where he was, he turned around and headed back to get Yvon.

Erica was afraid Raoul was right behind her when she reached Ahmed’s door. It was unlocked, and she burst through, leaving the door ajar. She had to convince Ahmed as quickly as possible of the conspiracy so that adequate police protection could be arranged.

Running directly into the living room, she was overjoyed to see Ahmed still up, conversing with a friend. “I’m being followed,” shouted Erica.

Ahmed leaped to his feet, dumbfounded when he recognized Erica.

“Quickly,” she continued, “we must have help.”

Ahmed recovered enough to dash past her and out the open doorway. Erica turned to Ahmed’s companion to ask him to summon the police. Her mouth started to open, but then her eyes widened with astonishment and fear.

Closing the door behind him, Ahmed returned and swept Erica into his arms. “It’s all clear, Erica,” he said. “It’s all clear and you are safe. Let me look at you. I don’t believe it; it is a miracle.”

But Erica didn’t respond, just strained to see over Ahmed’s shoulder. Her blood ran cold. She was looking at Muhammad Abdulal! Now both she and Ahmed would be killed. She could tell that Muhammad was equally astonished to see her, but he collected himself and unleashed a torrent of angry Arabic.

At first Ahmed ignored Muhammad’s raving. He asked Erica who had been following her, but before she could respond, Muhammad said something that triggered in Ahmed the same suppressed violence Erica had seen when he smashed the teacup. His eyes darkened and he whirled to face Muhammad. He spoke in Arabic, and at first his voice was low and threatening, but it gradually rose in pitch until he was shouting.

Erica looked back and forth between the two men, expecting Muhammad to pull out a weapon. To her relief she noticed that instead he was cowering. Apparently he took orders from Ahmed, because he sat down when Ahmed pointed to a chair. Then with relief came fear. When Ahmed turned back to Erica, she looked into his powerfully deep eyes. What was happening?

Ahmed spoke softly. “Erica, it is truly a miracle that you have returned…”

Erica’s mind was beginning to scream that something was wrong. What was Ahmed saying? What did he mean, return?

“It must be Allah’s wish that you and I should be together,” he continued, “and I am willing to accept his decision. I have been talking with Muhammad for many hours about you. I was going to come to you, to talk with you, to plead with you.”

Erica’s heart pounded; her whole sense of reality was disintegrating. “You knew about my being sealed in the tomb?”

“Yes. It was a difficult decision for me, but you had to be stopped. I ordered that you would not be hurt. I was going to come to the tomb to convince you to join us. I love you, Erica. One other time I had to give up the woman I loved. My uncle made sure I had no choice. But not this time. I want you to become part of the family-my family and Muhammad’s family.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, Erica tried to deal with all her conflicting thoughts. She could not believe what was happening and what she was hearing. Marriage? Family? Her voice was uncertain. “You are related to Muhammad?”

“Yes,” said Ahmed. He led her slowly to the couch and sat her down. “Muhammad and I are cousins. Our grandmother is Aida Raman. She is my mother’s mother.” Ahmed carefully described the complicated genealogy of their family, starting with Sarwat and Aida Raman.

When he finished speaking, Erica threw a frightened glance at Muhammad.

“Erica…” said Ahmed to regain her attention “You have been able to do something no one else has been able to do for fifty years. No one outside of the family has seen the Raman papyrus, and anyone with even the slightest idea of its existence has been dealt with. Thanks to the media, the deaths have been ascribed to some mysterious curse. It’s been most convenient.”

“And all the secrecy is to guard the tomb?” asked Erica.

Ahmed and Muhammad exchanged glances. “What tomb are you referring to?” asked Ahmed.

“The real Seti tomb under Tutankhamen’s,” said Erica.

Muhammad jumped up and treated Ahmed to another stream of harsh Arabic. Ahmed listened this time and did not shut him up. When Muhammad was finished, Ahmed turned back to Erica. His voice was still calm. “You are indeed a marvel, Erica. Now you know why the stakes are so high. Yes, we are guarding an unplundered tomb of one of the great Egyptian pharaohs. With your training you know what that means. Unbelievable wealth. So you can understand that you have put us in an embarrassing position. But if you marry me, then it is part yours and you can help clear this most spectacular archaeological find.”

Erica tried again to think of a way to escape. First she’d had to get away from Yvon, now Ahmed. And Raoul was probably going back to Yvon. There would be a horrible confrontation. The world was crazy. To stall for time she asked, “Why hasn’t the tomb been cleared already?”

“The tomb is filled with such riches that removing any required careful planning. My grandfather Raman knew it would take a generation to set up the machinery to market the treasures from such a tomb and to place the family in positions where they could control moving the priceless objects from Egypt. During the latter part of his life, we only took from the tomb enough to educate the next generation. It has only been within the last year that I have become director of the Department of Antiquities and Muhammad chief guard of the Necropolis of Luxor.”

“So it’s like the Rasul family in the nineteenth century,” said Erica.

“There is a superficial resemblance,” said Ahmed. “We are working on a very sophisticated level. The archaeological interests are being carefully considered. In fact, Erica, you could be instrumental in that aspect.”

“Was Lord Carnarvon one of the people that had to be ‘dealt with’?” asked Erica.

“I’m not certain,” said Ahmed. “It was a long time ago, but I think so.” Muhammad nodded. “Erica,” continued Ahmed, “how did you learn what you did? I mean, what made-?”

Suddenly the lights in the house went out. The moon had set and the darkness was absolute, like a tomb. Erica did not move. She heard someone pick up the phone, then slam it down. She guessed Yvon and Raoul had cut the wires.

She heard Ahmed and Muhammad speak swiftly in Arabic. Then her eyes began to accustom themselves to the darkness so she could see vague forms. A figure loomed toward her, and she shrank back. It was Ahmed, and he grasped her wrist and pulled her to her feet. She could see only his eyes and his teeth.

“I ask you again, who was following you?” His voice was an urgent half-whisper.

She tried to speak, but she stumbled over her words; she was terrified. She was caught between two horrid forces. Ahmed yanked on her wrist impatiently. Finally Erica managed to say, “Yvon de Margeau.”

Ahmed did not let go of Erica’s wrist while he conversed with Muhammad. Erica caught the gleam from the barrel of a pistol in Muhammad’s hand. She had the helpless feeling that events were again beyond her control.

Without warning Ahmed pulled Erica across the living room and down the long darkened hallway toward the rear of the house. She struggled to free her hand, unable to see and fearing she was going to trip and fall. But Ahmed’s grip was like steel. Muhammad ran behind.

They exited from the house into the courtyard, where there was slightly more light. They skirted the stable, reaching the back gate. Ahmed and Muhammad spoke quickly; then Ahmed opened the wooden door. The alley beyond was deserted and darker than the courtyard because of a double row of date palms. Muhammad carefully leaned out with his gun poised, his eyes searching the shadows. Satisfied, he stepped back, making room for Ahmed. Without releasing her wrist, Ahmed urged Erica forward, pushing her through the doorway into the alley. He followed close behind.

The first thing Erica was aware of was a sudden tightening of Ahmed’s hold on her wrist. Then she heard the report of the gun. It was the same dull thud she’d heard when she faced the crazed Evangelos. It was the sound of a gun with a silencer. Ahmed fell sideways, back through the doorway, pulling Erica off her feet on top of him. In the meager light she could see he’d been shot like Evangelos, between the eyes. Bits of brain tissue had spattered on the side of her face.

Erica pushed herself up to a kneeling position in a state of catatonia. Muhammad lunged past her, running across the alley to the safety of the rows of palm trunks. Erica blankly watched him turn and fire his pistol down the alley. Then he turned and fled in the opposite direction.

In a daze Erica stood up, her eyes riveted to the lifeless Ahmed. She backed up into the shadows until she hit against the wall of the stable. Her mouth was open and her breathing was in shallow gasps. From the front part of the house she could hear a sharp splintering sound followed by a crash that had to be the front door. Behind her she could hear Sawda nervously stir in his stable. She was immobilized.

Directly in front of her and framed by the doorway to the alley, Erica saw a crouching figure run past. Almost immediately, more shots rang out on the right. Then behind her she heard the sounds of running in the house, and her numbness began to revert to terror. She knew that it was she that Yvon wanted. He was desperate.

Erica heard the back door to the house swing open. She held her breath as a silent figure came into view. It was Raoul. She watched as he bent over Ahmed, then exited into the alley.

Erica’s paralysis lasted for another five minutes, the sound of the firefight fading in the alley. Suddenly she pushed away from the wall and stumbled back through the dark house and out the front door.

She crossed the road and ran down a passageway made of mud bricks. She passed through a yard, then another, causing a few lights to come on in her noisy wake. She crashed through debris, a chicken coop, and splashed through an open sewer. In the distance she could hear more shots and a man shouting. She ran on until she felt she was going to collapse. But it wasn’t until she stumbled onto the Nile that she allowed herself to rest. She tried to think of where to go. No one could be trusted. Since Muhammad Abdulal was chief of the guards, she was even afraid of the police.

It was at that point that Erica remembered the two houses of the ministers guarded by the casual soldiers. With effort she heaved herself to her feet and began walking south. She remained in the shadows away from the road until she had reached the guarded properties. Then, like an automation she walked out into the lighted street and rounded the front wall of the first house. The soldiers were there, conversing with each other across the fifty feet that separated the two entranceways. They both turned and watched as Erica walked directly toward the first. He was young, dressed in loose-fitting brown uniform with highly polished boots. A machine pistol hung from a shoulder strap. He moved the weapon around, and as Erica came closer, he started to say something.

With no intention of stopping, Erica walked right past the surprised youth into the grounds of the house. “O af andak!” yelled the soldier, coming after Erica.

Erica stopped. Then, after mustering her resources, she yelled as loud as possible, “Help!” and kept screaming until a light came on in the darkened house. Soon a robed figure appeared at the door-bald, overweight, and shoeless.

“Do you speak English?” asked Erica breathlessly.

“Of course,” said the man, surprised and slightly irritated.

“Do you work for the government?”

“Yes. I’m deputy assistant defense minister.”

“Do you have anything to do with antiquities?”

“Nothing.”

“Wonderful,” said Erica. “I have the most incredible story to tell you…”

The TWA 747 banked gently, then made its graceful approach to Logan Airport. With her nose pressed up against the window, Erica stared out on the vista of Boston in the late fall. It looked very good to her. She felt a true excitement about coming home.

The wheels of the huge jet touched down, sending a slight shudder through the cabin. A few passengers clapped, happy that the long transatlantic flight was at an end. As the plane taxied toward the international-arrivals building, Erica marveled at the experiences she’d had since her departure. She was a different person than when she’d left, feeling that she’d finally made the transition from the academic to the real world. And with the invitation by the Egyptian government to play a major role in clearing the tomb of Seti I, she felt confident of a promising career.

There was a final lurch as the plane came to the gate. The sounds of the engines died away, and the passengers began opening overhead storage bins. Erica stayed in her seat and looked out at the crisp New England clouds. She remembered Lieutenant Iskander’s immaculate white uniform when he’d come to see her off from Cairo. He had told her the final result of that fateful night in Luxor: Ahmed Khazzan had died from gunshot wounds-a fact she’d known from the moment he’d been hit; Muhammad Abdulal was still in a coma; Yvon de Margeau had somehow received clearance and had flown out of the country, becoming a persona non grata in Egypt; and Stephanos Markoulis had just disappeared.

It all seemed so unreal now that she was in Boston. The experience saddened her, especially about Ahmed. The experience also made her question her ability to judge people, especially because of Yvon. Even after what had happened, he had had the nerve to telephone her from Paris when she’d returned to Cairo, offering her large sums to provide inside information about the tomb of Seti I. She shook her head in dismay as she gathered her carry-on belongings.

Erica allowed herself to be carried along by the crowd. She passed through the immigration control quickly and retrieved her baggage. Then she pushed out into the waiting area.

They saw each other at the same moment. Richard ran up and hugged her as Erica dropped her bags, forcing the people behind her to step over them. They held each other without speaking, their emotions balanced. Finally Erica pulled away. “You were right, Richard. I was over my head from the start. I’m lucky to be alive.”

Richard’s eyes filled with tears, something Erica had never seen. “No, Erica, we were both right and both wrong. It just means there is a lot we need to learn about each other, and believe me, I’m willing.”

Erica smiled. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but it made her feel good.

“Oh, by the way,” said Richard, picking up her bags. “There’s a man here from Houston who wants to see you.”

“Really?” asked Erica.

“Yeah. He apparently knew Dr. Lowery, who gave him my phone number. He’s over there.” Richard pointed.

“My God,” said Erica. “It’s Jeffrey John Rice.”

As if on cue, Jeffrey Rice came over, taking off his stetson with a flourish.

“Sorry to interrupt you two at this time, but, Miss Baron, here’s your check for finding that Seti statue.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Erica. “The Egyptian government now owns the statue. You cannot buy it.”

“That’s just the point. It makes mine the only one outside of Egypt. Because of you it’s worth tons more than it was before. Houston is mighty pleased.”

Erica looked down at the ten-thousand-dollar check and burst out laughing. Richard, who did not really understand what was happening, saw her amazed expression and began laughing too. Rice shrugged, and still holding the check, led them out into the bright Boston sun.