Sphinx

Day 1

Erica Baron’s reaction was pure reflex. The muscles of her back and thighs contracted and she straightened up, twirling to face the molester. She had bent over to examine an engraved brass bowl when an open hand had thrust between her legs, grabbing at her through her cotton slacks. Although she had been the object of a number of lewd stares, and even obviously sexual comments since she had left the Hilton Hotel, she had not expected to be touched. It was a shock. It would have been a shock anywhere, but in Cairo, on her first day, it seemed that much worse.

Her attacker was about fifteen, with a jeering smile that exposed straight rows of yellow teeth. The offending hand was still extended.

Ignoring her canvas tote bag, Erica used her left hand to knock the boy’s arm to the side. Then, surprising herself even more than the boy, she clenched her right hand in a tight fist and punched the taunting face, throwing all her weight into the blow.

The effect was astonishing. The punch was like a good karate blow, hurling the surprised boy back against the rickety tables of the brass vendor’s shop. Table legs buckled, wares crashed into the cobblestone street. Another boy carrying coffee and water on a metal tray suspended by a tripod was caught in the avalanche, and he too fell, adding to the confusion.

Erica was horrified. Alone in the crowded Cairo bazaar she stood clasping her bag, unable to comprehend that she had actually hit someone. She began to shake, certain the crowds would turn on her, but uncontrollable laughter erupted around her. Even the shopkeeper, whose wares were still rolling in spirals in the street, was chuckling away, holding his sides. The boy pulled himself from the debris, and with his hand to his face, managed a smile.

“Maareish,” said the shopkeeper, which Erica later learned meant “it can’t be helped” or “it doesn’t matter.” Feigning anger, he waved his ball-peen hammer and chased the boy away. Then, after giving Erica a warm smile, he started retrieving his belongings.

Erica moved on, her heart still beating quickly from the experience, but realizing that she had a lot to learn about Cairo and about modern Egypt. She was trained as an Egyptologist, but unfortunately that meant knowledge of the ancient civilization of Egypt, not the modern one. Her specialty of New Kingdom hieroglyphic writing afforded no preparation for the Cairo of 1980. Ever since her arrival twenty-four hours previously, her senses had been assaulted mercilessly. First it was the smell: a kind of cloying aroma of lamb that seemed to pervade every corner of the city. Then it was the noise; a constant sound of automobile horns mixed with discordant Arabic music blaring from innumerable portable radios. Finally it was the feel of dirt, dust, and sand, which covered the city like the patina of a medieval copper roof, accentuating the unremitting poverty.

The episode with the boy undermined Erica’s confidence. In her mind all the smiles of the men in their skullcaps and flowing galabias began to reflect prurient thoughts. It was worse than Rome. Boys not even in their teens followed her, giggling and asking her questions in a mixture of English, French, and Arabic. Cairo was alien, more alien than she had expected. Even the street signs were all written in the decorative but incomprehensible Arabic script. Looking back over her shoulder, up Shari el Muski toward the Nile, Erica thought about returning to the western area of the city. Perhaps the whole idea of coming to Egypt on her own was ridiculous. Richard Harvey, her lover for the last three years, even her mother, Janice, had said as much. She turned again, looking into the heart of the medieval city. The street narrowed, the press of people looked overwhelming.

“Baksheesh,” said a little girl no more than six years old. “Pencils for school.” The English was crisp and surprisingly clear.

Erica looked down at the child, whose hair was hidden by the same dust that covered the street. She wore a tattered orange print dress and no shoes. Erica bent to smile at her, and suddenly gasped. Clustered around the child’s eyelashes were numerous iridescent green house flies. The little girl made no attempt to shoo them away. She just stood there unblinking, holding out her hand. Erica was immobilized.

“Safer!” A white-uniformed policeman, wearing a blue badge that said TOURIST POLICE in bold authoritative letters, pushed his way into the street toward Erica. The child melted into the crowd. The jeering boys vanished. “May I be of assistance?” he said with a distinctive English accent. “You look like you might be lost.”

“I’m looking for the Khan el Khalili bazaar,” said Erica.

“Tout à droite,” said the policeman, gesturing ahead. Then he thumped his forehead with his palm. “Excuse. It is the heat. I’ve been mixing my languages. Straight ahead, as you’d say. This is El Muski street, and ahead you will cross the main thoroughfare of Shari Port Said. Then the Khan el Khalili bazaar will be on your left. I wish you good shopping, but remember to bargain. Here in Egypt it is a sport.”

Erica thanked him and pushed on through the crowd. The minute he was gone, the jeering boys miraculously reappeared and the innumerable street vendors accosted her with their wares. She passed an open-air butcher shop hung with a long row of recently slaughtered lambs, flayed except for the heads, and covered with splotches of pink ink representing government stamps. The carcasses were hung upside down, their unseeing eyes making her flinch and the smell of the offal forcing her lunch into her throat. The stench quickly merged with the decadent smell of overripe mangoes from a neighboring fruit cart and the odor of fresh donkey dung in the street. A few paces beyond, there was the reviving sharpness of herbs and spices and the aroma of freshly brewed Arabic coffee.

The dust from the densely packed narrow street rose and filtered the sun, bleaching the strip of cloudless sky a faint, faraway blue. The sand-colored buildings on each side of the street were shuttered against the blanket of afternoon heat.

As Erica advanced deeper into the bazaar, listening to the sound of ancient wooden wheels on granite cobblestones, she felt herself slipping back in time to medieval Cairo. She sensed the chaos, the poverty, and the harshness of life. She was simultaneously frightened and excited by the throbbing raw fertility, the universal mysteries which are so carefully camouflaged and hidden by Western culture. It was life stripped naked yet mitigated by human emotion; fate was greeted with resignation and even laughter.

“Cigarette?” demanded a boy of about ten. He was dressed in a gray shirt and baggy pants. One of his friends pushed him from behind so that he stumbled closer to Erica. “Cigarette?” he asked again, launching into a kind of Arabic jig and pretending to smoke a make-believe cigarette in exaggerated mime. A tailor, busy ironing with a charcoal-filled iron, grinned, and a row of men smoking intricately embossed water pipes stared at Erica with piercing, unblinking eyes.

Erica was sorry she had worn such obviously foreign clothes. Her cotton slacks and a simple knit blouse made it clear she was a tourist. The other women in Western clothes that Erica had seen had on dresses, not pants, and most of the women in the bazaar still wore the traditional black meliyas. Even Erica’s body was different from the local women’s. Although she was several pounds heavier than she would have liked, she was a good deal slimmer than Egyptian women. And her face was far more delicate than the round, heavy features crowding the bazaar. She had wide gray-green eyes, luxuriant chestnut hair, and a finely sculptured mouth with a full lower lip that gave her a faintly pouting expression. She knew she was pretty when she worked at it, and when she did, men responded.

Now, picking her way through the crowded bazaar, she regretted she had tried to look attractive. Her attire advertised that she was not protected by local street morality, and even more important, she was alone. She was the perfect catalyst for the fantasies of all the men who watched her.

Clutching her tote bag closer to her side, Erica hurried along as the street narrowed again to cluttered byways jammed with people engaged in every conceivable type of manufacture and commerce. Overhead, carpets and cloth stretched between the buildings to cover the market area, keeping out the sun but increasing the noise and the dust. Erica hesitated again, watching the widely varied faces. The fellahin were heavyboned, with wide mouths and thick lips, dressed in the traditional galabias and skull-caps. The bedouin were the pure Arabs, with sharp features and slim, wiry bodies. The Nubians were ebony, with tremendously powerful and muscular torsos, often naked to the waist.

The surge of the crowds pushed Erica forward and carried her deeper into the Khan el Khalili. She found herself pressed up against a wide variety of people. Someone pinched her backside, but when she turned around, she couldn’t be sure who had done it. She had a following now of five or six persistent boys. She was being hounded like a rabbit in a hunt.

Erica’s goal in the bazaar had been the goldsmith section, where she wanted to buy gifts. But her resolve waned, particularly when someone’s dirty fingers ran through her hair. She’d had enough. She wanted to return to the hotel. Her passion for Egypt involved the ancient civilization with its art and mysteries. Modern urban Egypt was a little overpowering when taken in all at once. Erica wanted to get out to the monuments, like Saqqara, and above all she wanted to get to Upper Egypt, to the countryside. She knew that was going to be as she dreamed it.

At the next corner she turned to the right, stepping around a donkey that was either dead or dying. It didn’t move, and no one paid the poor beast any attention. Having studied a map of the city prior to leaving the Hilton, she guessed she should reach the square in front of the El Azhar mosque if she continued heading southeast. Pushing her way between a clump of shoppers bargaining over scrawny pigeons in reed cages, Erica broke into a jog. She could see a minaret ahead, and a sunlit square.

Suddenly Erica stopped dead in her tracks. The boy who had demanded a cigarette and who was still following her now crashed into her, but bounced off unnoticed. Erica’s eyes were riveted to a window display. There in front of her was a piece of pottery in the shape of a shallow urn. It was a morsel of ancient Egypt shining in the middle of modern squalor. Its lip was slightly chipped, but otherwise the pot was unbroken. Even the clay eyelets apparently made to hang the pot were still intact. Aware that the bazaar was filled with fakes, highly priced to attract tourists, Erica still was stunned by the bowl’s apparent authenticity. The usual fakes were carved mummiform statues. This was a splendid example of predynastic Egyptian pottery, as good as the best she had seen where she was currently employed, the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. If it were real, it would be more than six thousand years old.

Stepping back in the alleyway, Erica looked at the freshly painted sign over the window. Above were the curious squiggles of Arabic script. Below was printed Antica Abdul. The doorway to the left of the window was curtained by a dense row of heavily beaded strings. A tug on her tote bag by one of her hecklers was all the encouragement Erica needed to enter the shop.

The hundreds of colored beads made sharp, crackling noises as they fell back into place behind her. The shop was small, about ten feet wide and twice that deep, and surprisingly cool. The walls stuccoed and whitewashed, the floor covered with multiple worn Oriental carpets. An L-shaped glass-topped counter dominated most of the room.

Since no one came forward to help her, Erica hiked up the strap of her bag and bent over to look more closely at the amazing piece of pottery that she had seen through the window. It was a light tan, with delicately painted decorations in a shade somewhere between brown and magenta. Crumpled Arabic newspaper had been stuffed inside.

The heavy red-brown curtains in the back of the shop parted, and the proprietor, Abdul Hamdi, emerged, shuffling up to the counter. Erica glanced at the man and immediately relaxed. He was about sixty-five and had a pleasant gentleness of movement and expression.

“I’m very interested in this urn,” she said. “Would it be possible for me to examine it more closely?”

“Of course,” said Abdul, coming out from behind the counter. He picked up the pot and unceremoniously put it into Erica’s trembling hands. “Bring it over to the counter if you’d like.” He switched on an unadorned light bulb.

Erica gingerly put the urn on the counter and removed her tote from her shoulder. Then she picked up the pot again, slowly turning it in her fingertips to examine the decorations. Besides purely ornamental designs, there were dancers, antelopes, and crude boats. “How much is this?” Erica looked very carefully at the drawings.

“Two hundred pounds,” said Abdul, lowering his voice as if it were a secret. There was a twinkle in his eye.

“Two hundred pounds!” echoed Erica while converting currencies in her mind. That was about three hundred dollars. She decided to bargain a little while trying to determine if the pot were a fake. “I can only afford one hundred pounds.”

“One hundred eighty is my best offer,” said Abdul, as if making a supreme sacrifice.

“I suppose I could go to one hundred twenty,” said Erica, continuing to study the markings.

“Okay, for you…” He paused and touched her arm. She did not mind. “You are American?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I like Americans. Much better than Russians. For you I will do something very special. I will take a loss on this piece. I need the money because this shop is very new. So for you, one hundred and sixty pounds.” Abdul reached over and took the pot from Erica and placed it on the table. “A marvelous piece, my best. It is my last offer.”

Erica looked at Abdul. He had the heavy features of the fellahin. She noticed that under the worn jacket of his Western suit he was wearing a brown galabia.

Turning the pot over, Erica looked at the spiral drawing on the bottom and let her slightly moist thumb gently rub over the painted design. Some of the burnt-sienna pigment came off. At that moment Erica knew the pot was a fake. It was very cleverly made, but definitely not an antique.

Feeling extremely uncomfortable, Erica put the pot back on the counter and picked up her tote bag. “Well, thank you very much,” she said, avoiding looking at Abdul.

“I do have others,” said Abdul, opening a tall wooden cabinet against the wall. His Levantine instincts had responded to Erica’s initial enthusiasm, and the same instincts sensed a sudden change. He was confused but did not want to lose a customer without a fight. “Perhaps you might like this one.” He took a similar piece of pottery from the cabinet and placed it on the counter.

Erica did not want to precipitate a confrontation by telling the seemingly kind old man that he was trying to cheat her. Reluctantly she picked up the second pot. It was more oval than the first and sat on a narrower base. The designs were all left-hand spirals.

“I have many examples of this kind of pottery,” continued Abdul, setting out five other pots.

While his back was to Erica she licked her forefinger and rubbed it across the design on the second pot. The pigment did not budge.

“How much is this one?” asked Erica, trying to conceal her excitement. It was conceivable the pot in her hand was six thousand years old.

“They are all different prices according to the workmanship and the condition,” said Abdul evasively. “Why not look at them all and pick one that you like. Then we can talk about prices.”

Carefully examining each pot in turn, Erica isolated two probable authentic antiques out of seven. “I like these two,” she said, her confidence returning. For once her Egyptology expertise had a practical value. She wished Richard were there.

Abdul looked at the two pots, then at Erica. “These are not the most beautiful. Why do you prefer them to the others?”

Erica looked at Abdul and hesitated. Then she said defiantly, “Because the others are fakes.”

Abdul’s face was expressionless. Slowly a twinkle appeared in his eyes and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Finally he broke into laughter, bringing tears to his eyes. Erica found herself grinning.

“Tell me…” said Abdul with difficulty. He had to control his laughter before continuing. “Tell me how you know these are fakes.” He pointed toward the pots Erica had put aside.

“The easiest way possible. There is no stability to the pigment of the designs. The paint comes off on a wet finger. That never happens to an antique.”

Wetting his finger, Abdul tested the pigment. His finger was smudged with burnt sienna. “You are absolutely right.” He repeated the test on the two antiques. “The fooler is made the fool. Such is life.”

“How much are these two real antique pots?” asked Erica.

“They are not for sale. Someday, perhaps, but not now.”

Taped to the underside of the glass countertop was an official-looking document with government stamps from the Department of Antiquities. Antica Abdul was a fully licensed antique shop. Next to the license was a printed paper saying that written guarantees on antiquities would be supplied on request. “What do you do when a customer wants a guarantee?” asked Erica.

“I give it to them. For the tourist it makes no difference. They are happy with their souvenir. They never check.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“No, it does not bother me. Righteousness is a luxury of the wealthy. The merchant always tries to get the highest price for his wares, for himself and his family. The tourists who come in here want souvenirs. If they want authentic antiquities they know something about them. It is their responsibility. How is it that you know about pigment on ancient pottery?”

“I am an Egyptologist.”

“You are an Egyptologist! Allah be praised! Why would a beautiful woman like yourself want to be an Egyptologist? Ah, the world has passed by Abdul Hamdi. I am indeed getting old. So you have been to Egypt before?”

“No, this is my first trip. I wanted to come before, but it was too expensive. It’s been a dream of mine for some time.”

“Well, I pray that you will enjoy it. You are planning to go to Upper Egypt? To Luxor?”

“Of course.”

“I will give you the address of my son’s antique shop.”

“So he can sell me some fake pottery?” said Erica with a smile.

“No, no, but he can show you some nice things. I too have some wonderful things. What do you think of this?” Abdul lifted a mummiform figure from the cabinet and set it on the counter. It was made of wood covered with plaster and exquisitely painted. A row of hieroglyphic writing ran down the front.

“It is a fake,” said Erica quickly.

“No,” said Abdul, alarmed.

“The hieroglyphics are not real. It says nothing. It is a meaningless row of signs.”

“You can read the mysterious writing as well?”

“That is my specialty, especially writing from the time of the New Kingdom.”

Abdul turned the statue around, looking at the hieroglyphics. “I paid plenty for this piece. I’m certain it is real.”

“Perhaps the statue is real, but the writing is not. Maybe the writing was added in an attempt to make the piece appear even more valuable.” Erica attempted to wipe off some of the black color on the statue. “The pigment seems stable.”

“Well, let me show you something else.” Abdul reached within the glass-topped cabinet and extracted a small cardboard box. Removing the top of the box, he selected a number of scarabs and placed them in a row on the cabinet. With his forefinger he pushed one toward Erica.

She picked it up and examined it. It was made of a porous material, its top exquisitely carved in the form of the familiar dung beetle revered by the ancient Egyptians. Turning it over, Erica was surprised to see the cartouche of a pharaoh, Seti I. The hieroglyphic carving was absolutely beautiful.

“It is a spectacular piece,” said Erica, replacing it on the counter.

“So you wouldn’t mind having that antique?”

“Not at all. How much is it?”

“It is yours. It is a present.”

“I can’t accept such a gift. Why do you want to give me a present?”

“It is an Arabic custom. But let me warn you, it is not authentic.”

Surprised, Erica lifted the scarab to the light. Her initial impression did not change. “I think it is real.”

“No. I know it is not real because my son made it.”

“It’s extraordinary,” said Erica, looking again at the hieroglyphics.

“My son is very good. He copied the hieroglyphics from a real piece.”

“What is it made of?”

“Ancient bone. There are enormous caches of broken-up mummies in Luxor and Aswan in the ancient public catacombs. My son uses the bone to carve the scarabs. To make the cut surface look old and worn, we feed them to our turkeys. One pass through a turkey gives it a truly venerable appearance.”

Erica swallowed, fleetingly sickened by contemplating the scarab’s biological journey. But intellectual interest quickly overcame her physical response, and she turned the scarab over and over in her fingers. “I admit, I was fooled, and would be again.”

“Don’t be upset. Several of these have been taken to Paris, where the curators think they know everything, and they were tested.”

“Probably carbon-dated,” interjected Erica.

“Whatever. Anyway, they were declared truly ancient. Well, obviously the bone was ancient. Now my son’s scarabs are in museums around the world.”

A cynical laugh escaped from Erica. She knew she was dealing with an expert.

“My name is Abdul Hamdi, so please call me Abdul. What is your name?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. Erica Baron.” She placed the scarab on the counter.

“Erica, I would be pleased if you joined me for some mint tea.”

Abdul put the other pieces back into their places, then drew aside the heavy red-brown drapes. Erica had enjoyed talking with Abdul, but she hesitated a moment before picking up her bag and advancing toward the opening. The back room was about the same size as the front part of the shop, but it appeared to have no doors or windows. The walls and floor were covered with Oriental carpets, giving the area the appearance of a tent. In the center of the room were cushions, a low table, and a water pipe.

“One moment,” said Abdul. The curtain fell back into place, leaving Erica to stare at several large objects that were completely draped with cloth. She could hear the crackling noises of the beads in the front entrance, and muffled shouts as Abdul ordered tea.

“Please sit down,” Abdul said when he returned, indicating the large cushions on the floor. “It is not often I have the pleasure of entertaining a lady so beautiful and so knowledgeable. Tell me, my dear, where are you from in America?”

“Originally I’m from Toledo, Ohio,” said Erica somewhat nervously. “But I live in Boston now, or actually Cambridge, which is right next to Boston.” Erica’s eyes slowly moved around the small room. The single incandescent bulb hanging in the center gave the deep reds of the Oriental carpets an incredibly rich softness, like red velvet.

“ Boston, yes. It must be beautiful in Boston. I have a friend there. We write occasionally. Actually, my son writes. I cannot write in English. I have a letter from him here.” Abdul rummaged through a small chest by the cushions, producing a typed letter addressed to Abdul Hamdi, Luxor, Egypt. “Perhaps you know him?”

“ Boston is a very big city…” began Erica before she caught sight of the return address: Dr. Herbert Lowery, her boss. “You know Dr. Lowery?” she asked incredulously.

“I’ve met him twice and we write occasionally. He was very interested in a head of Ramses II that I had about a year ago. A wonderful man. Very clever.”

“Indeed,” said Erica, amazed that Abdul would be corresponding with such an eminent figure as Dr. Herbert Lowery, chairman of the Department of Near Eastern Studies at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. It made her considerably more at ease.

As if sensing Erica’s thoughts, Abdul fished several other letters from his little cedar chest. “Here are letters from Dubois, at the Louvre, and Caufield, at the British Museum.”

The beads clacked in the outer room. Abdul reached back and drew the curtains aside, speaking a few words of Arabic. A young boy in a once-white galabia and bare feet slipped noiselessly into the room. He was carrying one of those trays supported by a tripod. Silently he placed the glasses with metal holders next to the water pipe. He did not look up from his task. Abdul dropped a few coins onto the boy’s tray and held the curtains back for the boy to leave. Turning back to Erica, he smiled and stirred his tea.

“Is this safe for me to drink?” asked Erica, fingering her glass.

“Safe?” Abdul was surprised.

“I’ve been warned so much about drinking water here in Egypt.”

“Ah, you mean for your digestion. Yes, it is completely safe. The water boils constantly in the tea shop. Enjoy. This is a hot, parched land. It is an Arabic custom to drink tea or coffee with your friends.”

They sipped in silence. Erica was pleasantly surprised by the taste, and by the tingling freshness the drink left in her mouth.

“Tell me, Erica…” said Abdul, breaking the silence. He pronounced her name in a strange way, placing the accent on the second syllable. “Provided, of course, you do not object to my asking. Tell me why you have become an Egyptologist.”

Erica looked down into her tea. The flecks of mint slowly swirled in the warm fluid. She was accustomed to the question. She had heard it a thousand times, especially from her mother, who never could understand why a beautiful young Jewish girl who “had everything” would choose to study Egyptology and not education. Her mother had tried to change her mind, first by gentle conversation (“What are my friends going to think?”), then by forcible debate (“You’ll never be able to support yourself!”), finally by threatening to withdraw financial support. It was all in vain. Erica continued her studies, possibly in part because of her mother’s opposition, but mostly because she loved everything about the field of Egyptology.

It was true she did not think in practical terms of what kind of job would be waiting for her when she finished, and it was also true that she “lucked out” by being hired by the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, when most of her fellow students were still unemployed with little immediate hope in sight. Nonetheless she loved the study of ancient Egypt. There was something about the remoteness and the mystery, combined with incredible wealth and value of the material already discovered, that fascinated her. She was particularly fond of the love poetry, which made the ancient people come alive. It was through the poems that Erica could feel the emotion spanning the millennia, reducing the meaning of time and making her wonder if society had progressed at all.

Looking up at Abdul, Erica finally said, “I studied Egyptology because it fascinated me. When I was a little girl and my family took a trip to New York City, the only thing I remembered was seeing a mummy at the Metropolitan Museum. Then when I was in college I took a course in ancient history. I really enjoyed studying about the culture.” Erica shrugged and smiled. She knew she could never give a complete explanation.

“Very strange,” said Abdul. “For me, it is a job, better than breaking my back in the field. But for you…” He shrugged. “As long as you are happy, it is good. How old are you, my dear?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“And your husband, where is he?”

Erica smiled, fully conscious that the old man had no idea why she was smiling. The whole complex of problems surrounding Richard cascaded out of her unconscious. It was like opening a floodgate. She was almost tempted to try to explain her problems to this sympathetic stranger, but she didn’t. She had come to Egypt to get away and to use her knowledge of Egyptology. “I’m not yet married,” she said at length. “Are you interested, Abdul?” The smile returned.

“Me, interested? I’m always interested.” Abdul laughed. “After all, Islam lets the faithful have four wives. But for me I could not handle four times the joy of my only wife. Still, twenty-eight and not married. It is a strange world.”

Watching Abdul drink, Erica thought about how much she was enjoying this interlude. She wanted to remember it.

“Abdul, would you mind if I took your picture?”

“I am pleased.”

While Abdul straightened himself on his pillow and smoothed his jacket, Erica extracted her small Polaroid and attached the flash bar. A moment after the flash washed the room with unnatural light, the camera spit out the undeveloped photo.

“Ah, if only the Russian rockets would have worked as well as your camera,” said Abdul, relaxing. “Since you are the most beautiful and the youngest Egyptologist I have ever had in my shop, I would like to show you something very special.”

Abdul slowly got to his feet. Erica glanced at the photo. It was developing nicely.

“You are lucky to see this piece, my dear,” said Abdul, carefully lifting the cloth cover on an object about six feet tall.

Erica looked up and gasped. “My God,” she said in disbelief. In front of her was a life-size statue. She scrambled to her feet to look more closely. Abdul proudly stepped back like an artist unveiling his life’s work. The face was made of beaten gold reminiscent of the mask of Tutankhamen, but more finely crafted.

“It is Pharaoh Seti I,” said Abdul. He put down the cloth cover and sat, letting Erica enjoy her find.

“This is the most beautiful statue I have ever seen,” whispered Erica, gazing into the stately, calm face. The eyes were made of white alabaster set with green feldspar. The eyebrows were made of translucent carnelian. The traditional ancient Egyptian headdress was made of gold inlaid with bands of lapis lazuli. Around the neck was an opulent pectoral in the form of the vulture representing the Egyptian goddess Nekhbet. The necklace was made of gold and set with hundreds of pieces of turquoise, jasper, and lapis lazuli. The beak and the eyes were made of obsidian. At the girdle was a sheathed gold dagger whose handle was finely crafted and encrusted with precious stones. The left hand was extended, holding a mace that was also covered with inlaid jewels. The total effect was dazzling. Erica was overwhelmed. This statue was no fake, and its value was unbelievable. Indeed, any piece of the jewelry was priceless. Standing amid the warm red glow of the Oriental carpets, the statue radiated a light as pure and clear as a diamond. Slowly circling the piece, Erica finally could speak.

“Where on earth did this come from? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It came from beneath the sands of the Libyan desert, where all our treasures are hidden,” said Abdul, cooing like a proud parent. “It is only resting here for a few hours before it resumes its journey. I thought you’d like to see it.”

“Oh, Abdul. It is so beautiful, I’m speechless. Truly.” Erica came back around the front of the statue, noting for the first time the hieroglyphics cut into the base. Immediately she recognized the name of Pharaoh Seti I, contained within the enclosure called a cartouche. Then she saw another cartouche with another name. Thinking it an alternate name for Seti I, she began to translate. To her astonishment, the name was Tutankhamen. It didn’t make sense. Seti I was an extremely important and powerful pharaoh who had ruled some fifty years after the insignificant boy king Tutankhamen. The two pharaohs were in different dynasties from totally separate families. Erica was sure that she must have made a mistake, but checking again, she realized she had been right. The hieroglyphics contained both names.

The sharp crackling noise from the beads in the outer part of the shop brought Abdul instantly to his feet. “Erica, please excuse, but I must be reasonably careful.” The dark cloth cover settled back over the fabulous statue. For Erica it was like being prematurely awakened from a wonderful dream. In front of her was a nondescript shapeless mass. “Let me attend to the customers. I will be right back. Enjoy your tea… perhaps you’d like a little more?”

“No, thank you,” said Erica, who wanted to see the statue again, not drink more tea.

As Abdul shuffled over to the curtain and carefully peered out, Erica picked up the now-developed Polaroid picture. Except for missing part of Abdul’s head, the snapshot was fine. She thought about taking a shot of the statue if Abdul would agree.

Apparently whoever was outside was in no rush, because, letting the curtains go, Abdul moved back over to his cedar chest. Erica sat down on her cushion.

“Do you have a guidebook for Egypt?” asked Abdul in a quiet voice.

“Yes,” said Erica. “I managed to get a Nagel’s guide.”

“I have something better,” said Abdul, pulling a small aging book from among his correspondence. “Here is a Baedeker, 1929 edition. It is the best for touring the monuments of Egypt. I’d be pleased if you’d use it during your stay here in my country. It is far superior to the Nagel’s.”

“You are so kind,” said Erica, taking the book. “I’ll be very careful with it. Thank you.”

“It pleases me to make your visit more enjoyable,” said Abdul, walking back to the curtain, where he hesitated again. “If you have difficulty getting the book to me when you leave Egypt, return it to the man whose name and address are written in the flyleaf. I travel a lot and might not be in Cairo at the time.” He smiled and walked through to the store. The heavy drapes snapped back into place.

Erica flipped through the guidebook, noting the plethora of drawings and fold-out maps. The description of the Temple of Karnak, given Baedeker’s highest rating of four stars, was almost forty pages. It looked superb. The next chapter commenced with a series of copper engravings of Queen Hatshepsut’s temple, followed by a long description, which Erica was particularly interested in reading. She slipped the snapshot of Abdul into the book, both to mark the place and to preserve the photograph, and put both into her tote bag.

Alone in the room, she let her attention wander back to the fabulous statue of Seti I. She had all she could do to keep herself from reaching over and lifting the veil to look at the curious row of hieroglyphics. She wondered if it would really be a violation of trust if she looked at the statue. Reluctantly she decided it would be, and she was about to take out the guidebook when she heard a definite change in the muffled conversation coming from the outer part of the shop. The voices weren’t louder, but they sounded angry. At first she thought they were merely bargaining. Then the sound of shattering plate glass cut through the silence of the dimly lit room, followed by a scream that was quickly choked off. Erica felt a sensation of pure panic spread up from her chest and pound in her temples. A single voice recommenced, lower, more threatening.

As silently as possible, Erica moved over to the curtain, and imitating Abdul a few minutes earlier, spread the edges to look into the outer part of the shop. The first thing she saw was the back of an Arab dressed in a ragged, dirty galabia, holding aside the beaded strings at the entranceway, apparently watching for intruders. Then, looking a little to the left, Erica stifled a scream. Abdul was pulled backward over the broken glass-topped counter by another Arab, also dressed in a torn, dirty galabia. In front of Abdul stood a third Arab, dressed in a clean white-and-brown-striped robe and a white turban, who was brandishing a gleaming scimitar. The light from the single overhead bulb reflected its razor-sharp edge as it was raised in front of Abdul’s terrified face.

Before Erica could allow the curtain to hide the grisly scene, Abdul’s head was yanked back and the scimitar was viciously drawn across the base of his neck, slicing through the soft tissues to the spine. A gasping sound escaped from the severed windpipe before the spurting bright red blood drenched the area.

Erica’s legs buckled and she dropped to her knees, the heavy drapes masking the sound of her fall. Terrified, she scanned the room for some concealment. The cabinets? There was no time to try to get inside. Pulling herself to her feet, she pressed into the far corner between the last cabinet and the wall. It was hardly a hiding place. At best it hid her own view, like a child covering his eyes in the dark. But the beak-nosed face of the man who had held Abdul down seemed burned in her mind. She kept picturing his cruel black eyes and his snarling mouth under his mustache, revealing sharp, gold-tipped teeth.

There was more commotion from the outer part of the shop, some sounds like the movement of furniture, followed by a terrifying silence. Time passed agonizingly slowly. Then Erica heard voices coming toward her. The men were entering the back room. She almost stopped breathing, her skin crawling with fear. The Arabic conversation was right behind her. She could feel the presence of the people, could hear them moving about. There were footsteps, a thud. Someone cursed in Arabic. Then the footsteps moved away and Erica heard the familiar crackling noises of the beads in the entranceway.

Erica let out her breath but stayed pressed into the corner as if she were poised on a ledge on a thousand-foot precipice. Time passed, but she had no idea if she had waited five minutes or fifteen. Silently she counted to fifty. Still no sounds. Slowly she turned her head and backed slightly away from the corner. The room was empty, her tote bag undisturbed on the carpet, her cup of tea waiting. But the magnificent statue of Seti I was gone!

The sound of beads hitting against each other in the entranceway sent a new chill plunging down Erica’s spine. As she turned back toward the corner in a panic, her foot hit her unfinished tea. The glass fell over and tumbled free from its metal frame. The carpet absorbed the fluid and the sound until the glass rolled against the table with a dull thud. Erica pressed herself against the corner once again. She heard the heavy curtain yanked aside. Even though her eyes were closed, the could see the effect of natural light in the room. Then the light disappeared. She was alone with whoever was in the room. There were several muted noises and the sound of footsteps coming closer. She held her breath again.

Suddenly a hand with an iron grip grabbed her left arm and yanked her from the corner, pulling her stumbling into the center of the room.

The sound of the alarm clock shattered Richard Harvey’s dream, forcing him to acknowledge the arrival of another day. He had tossed and turned fitfully the whole night. The last time he remembered looking at the clock it was almost five A M He had twenty-seven scheduled patients that day at the office, and he felt like he’d been run over.

“Christ,” he said angrily as he brought his fist down on the top of the alarm clock. The force of the blow not only compressed the snooze button but also popped out the plastic cover over the dial. It had happened before, and the cover could be easily replaced into its housing, but still it tended to symbolize for Richard his life of late. Things were out of control, and he was not used to that.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, looking at the clock. Rather than deal with the alarm again, he bent over and yanked out the plug. The almost imperceptible grinding noise of the electric clock stopped. So did the sweep of the second hand. Next to the clock was a photo of Erica on skis. Instead of smiling, she was gazing into the camera with her full lower lip thrust out in that pouting expression that alternately enraged Richard and filled him with desire. He reached over and turned the picture around, breaking the spell. How could any girl as beautiful as Erica be in love with a civilization that had been dead more than three thousand years? Still, he missed her terribly, and she’d only been gone for two nights. How was he going to deal with four weeks?

Richard got up and padded to the toilet stark naked. At age thirty-four he was in very good shape. He’d always been athletic, even through medical school, and now that he’d been in private practice for three years, he still played tennis and racket ball regularly. His six-foot frame was lean and well-muscled. As Erica had told him, even his ass had definition.

From the bathroom he ventured into the kitchen, putting on water to boil and pouring a glass of juice. In the living room he opened the shutters that gave out onto Louisburg Square. The mid-October sunlight filtered down through the golden leaves of the elms, taking the chill off the air. Richard smiled wearily, deepening the lines at the corners of his eyes and accentuating his dimples. He was a pleasantly handsome man with a square, somewhat impish face under thick honey-colored hair. His blue eyes, deeply set, had a frequent twinkle.

“ Egypt. Christ, it’s like going to the moon,” Richard said forlornly to the beautiful morning. “Why the hell did she have to go to Egypt?”

He showered, shaved, dressed, and breakfasted in a long-established, efficient pattern. The only interruption of the usual routine was his socks. He didn’t have any clean socks, so he was forced to find some in the hamper. It was going to be a terrible day. Meanwhile, he could think of nothing but Erica. Finally, in desperation, he put a call through to Erica’s mother in Toledo, with whom he got along splendidly. It was eight thirty and he knew he’d catch her before she left for work.

After some small talk, Richard got to the point.

“Have you heard from Erica yet?”

“My God, Richard, she’s only been gone a day.”

“True. I just thought there was a chance. I’m worried about her. I don’t understand what’s going on. Everything was fine until we started talking about marriage.”

“Well, you should have done it a year ago.”

“I couldn’t have done it a year ago. My practice was just getting started.”

“Of course you could have. You just didn’t want to then. It’s that simple. And if you’re worried about her now, you should have kept her from going to Egypt.”

“I tried.”

“If you had tried, Richard, she’d be in Boston right now.”

“Janice, I really tried. I told her that if she went to Egypt I didn’t know what would happen to our relationship. It was going to be different.”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She said she was sorry, but that it was important for her to go.”

“It’s a stage, Richard. She’ll get over it. You’re just going to have to relax.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Janice. At least I hope so. If you hear from her, let me know.”

Richard hung up the phone, acknowledging that he didn’t feel much better. In fact, he felt a certain panic, as if Erica was slipping away from him. Impulsively he called TWA and checked on connections to Cairo, as if the mere act of doing so would make him feel closer. It didn’t, and he was already late for the office. Thinking of Erica enjoying herself while he was suffering a depression made him angry. But there was little he could do.

Erica had not been able to speak for some time. When she had looked up expecting to face the Arab killer, she had found herself standing in front of a European dressed in an expensive three-piece beige suit. They had looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity, both confused. But Erica was also terrified. As a result, it had taken a quarter of an hour for Yvon Julien de Margeau to convince her that he meant her no harm. Even then Erica had trouble speaking, because she was trembling so violently. Finally, and with great difficulty, she had communicated to Yvon that Abdul was in the outer part of the shop, either dead or dying. Yvon, who had explained that the shop had been empty when he entered, agreed to check after loudly insisting that Erica sit down. He returned quickly.

“There is no one in the shop,” said Yvon. “There is broken glass and some blood on the floor. But there is no body.”

“I want to get away from here,” said Erica. It was her first whole sentence.

“Of course,” soothed Yvon. “But first tell me what happened.”

“I want to go to the police,” continued Erica. The trembling recommenced. When she closed her eyes, she saw the image of the knife cutting into Abdul’s throat. “I saw someone killed. Just a few moments ago. It was terrible. I’ve never even seen someone injured. Please, I want to go to the police!”

With her mind beginning to function, Erica looked at the man in front of her. Tall and thin, he was in his late thirties, with a tanned and angular face. There was an air of authority about him, heightened by the intense blue of his hooded eyes. More than anything else, after seeing the ragged Arabs, Erica was reassured by his impeccable tailoring.

“I had the misfortune of watching a man murdered,” she said at length. “I looked out through the curtain and saw three men. One was in the doorway, another was holding the old man, and the other…” Erica had trouble continuing-“and the other slit the old man’s throat.”

“I see,” said Yvon thoughtfully. “What were these three men wearing?”

“I’m not sure you do see,” said Erica, raising her voice. “What were they wearing? I’m not talking about some purse-snatchers. I’m trying to tell you that I saw a man murdered. Murdered!”

“I believe you. But were these men Arabic or European?”

“They were Arab, dressed in galabias. Two of them were filthy, the other appeared considerably better off. My God, to think I came here for a vacation.” Erica shook her head and began to get up.

“Could you recognize them?” asked Yvon calmly. He put his hand on Erica’s shoulder, both to reassure her and to encourage her to remain seated.

“I’m not sure. It happened so fast. Maybe I could recognize the man with the knife. I don’t know. I never did see the face of the man by the door.” Raising her hand, Erica was amazed to see how violently it was trembling. “I’m not sure I believe any of this myself. I was talking with Abdul, who owns the store. In fact, we had been talking for some time, drinking tea. He was full of wit, a real person. God…” Erica ran her fingers through her hair. “And you say there’s no body out there?” Erica pointed through the curtain. “There really was a murder.”

“I believe you,” said Yvon. His hand still rested on Erica’s shoulder, and she felt curiously comforted.

“But why would they take the body, too?” asked Erica.

“What do you mean, too?”

“They took a statue that was right here,” said Erica, pointing. “It was a fabulous statue of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh-”

“Seti I,” interjected Yvon. “That crazy old man had the Seti statue here!” Yvon rolled his eyes in disbelief.

“You knew about the statue?” asked Erica.

“I did. In fact, I was coming here specifically to discuss it with Hamdi. How long ago did all this happen?”

“I’m not sure. Fifteen, twenty minutes. When you came in, I thought you were the killers returning.”

“Merde,” said Yvon, pulling away from Erica to pace the room. He took off his beige jacket and dropped it on one of the cushions. “So close.” He stopped pacing, turning back to Erica. “Did you actually see the statue?”

“Yes, I did. It was unbelievably beautiful, by far the most impressive piece I’ve ever seen. Even the finest of Tutankhamen’s treasures could not compare. It showed the heights that New Kingdom craftsmanship had reached by the nineteenth dynasty.”

“Nineteenth dynasty? How did you know that?”

“I’m an Egyptologist,” said Erica, regaining some of her composure.

“An Egyptologist? You do not look like an Egyptologist.”

“And how is an Egyptologist supposed to look?” asked Erica testily.

“Okay, let us just say that I would not have guessed,” Yvon said. “Was your being an Egyptologist the reason Hamdi showed you the statue?”

“I presume so.”

“Still, it was foolish. Very foolish. I cannot understand why he would be willing to take such risks. Do you have any idea what the value of that statue is?” asked Yvon almost angrily.

“Priceless,” returned Erica. “It is all the more reason to go to the police. That statue is an Egyptian national treasure. As an Egyptologist I am aware of the black market in antiquities, but I had no idea that pieces of such value were involved. Something has to be done!”

“Something has to be done!” Yvon laughed cynically. “American self-righteousness. The biggest market for antiquities is America. If the objects could not be sold, there would be no black market. It is the buyer who is ultimately at fault.”

“American self-righteousness!” said Erica indignantly. “What about the French? How can you say something like that, knowing that the Louvre is brimming with priceless objects, essentially stolen, like the Zodiac from the Temple of Dendera? People travel thousands of miles to come to Egypt, and end up looking at a plaster cast of the Zodiac.”

“It was safer for the Zodiac stone to remove it,” said Yvon.

“Come on, Yvon. You can think of a better excuse than that. It had a certain validity in the past, but not today.” Erica couldn’t believe that she had recovered enough to involve herself in a nonsensical argument. She also noticed that Yvon was incredibly attractive and that she was baiting him into some kind of emotional response.

“Okay,” said Yvon coolly, “we agree in principle. The black market must be controlled. But we disagree in method. For instance, I do not think we should go immediately to the police.”

Erica was shocked.

“So you disagree?” asked Yvon.

“I’m not sure,” stammered Erica, frustrated by her own transparency.

“I understand your concern. Let me explain to you where you are. I’m not trying to be patronizing, just realistic. This is Cairo, not New York or Paris or even Rome. I say that because even Italy is run incredibly efficiently when compared with Egypt, which is saying a lot. Cairo suffers from a gargantuan bureaucracy. Oriental intrigue and bribery are the rule, not the exception. If you go to the police with your story, you will be the prime suspect. Consequently, you will be jailed or at the very least placed under house arrest. Six months to a year could go by before even the appropriate papers are filled out. Your life will be pure hell.” Yvon paused. “Am I making any sense? I’m telling you this for your own protection.”

“Who are you?” asked Erica, reaching for her bag to get a cigarette. In truth, she did not really smoke; Richard hated it when she did, and she’d purchased a carton of cigarettes in the duty-free shop as a gesture of rebellion. But at the moment, she wanted to do something with her hands. Watching her fumble in her bag, Yvon took out a gold case and held it open. Erica took a cigarette self-consciously. He lit it with a gold Dior lighter, then took one for himself. They smoked in silence for a few moments. Erica puffed without inhaling.

“I am what you call in your country a concerned citizen,” said Yvon, brushing back his dark brown hair, which was already neatly in place. “I have deplored the destruction of antiquities and archaeological sites, and I’ve decided to do something about it. Knowledge of this Seti I statue was the biggest… what do you say…” Yvon searched for a word.

Erica tried to help by suggesting “find.”

Yvon shook his head, but he moved his hand in a circle to encourage Erica. Erica shrugged and suggested “break.”

“To solve a mystery,” added Yvon, “you need a…”

“Clue or lead,” said Erica.

“Ah, lead. Yes. It was the biggest lead. But now, I don’t know. The statue may be gone forever. Maybe you can help if you could identify the killer, but here in Cairo it will be difficult. And if you go to the police, it will be definitely impossible.”

“How did you learn about the statue in the first place?” asked Erica.

“From Hamdi himself. I’m sure he wrote to a number of people besides me,” said Yvon, looking around the room. “I came here as soon as possible. In fact, I arrived in Cairo only a few hours ago.” He walked over to one of the large wooden cabinets and pulled open the door. It was filled with small artifacts. “It would be helpful if his correspondence was here,” said Yvon, picking up a small wooden mummy figure. “Most of these pieces are fake,” he added.

“There are letters in that chest,” said Erica, pointing.

Yvon followed Erica’s finger and walked over and opened the chest.

“Very good,” said Yvon, pleased. “Perhaps there will be something in this material to help us. But I’d like to make certain there isn’t more correspondence hidden here.” He walked to the curtain and pulled it open. A small amount of daylight entered the area. “Raoul,” Yvon called loudly. The beads in the entranceway clacked. Yvon held open the curtain and Raoul entered.

He was younger than Yvon, in his late twenties, with olive skin and black hair and a carefree air of self-assured masculinity. He reminded Erica of Jean-Paul Belmondo.

Yvon introduced him, explaining that he was from the south of France and that though he spoke fluent English, his heavy accent made him a little hard to understand. Raoul shook Erica’s hand and smiled broadly. Then, ignoring Erica, the two men conversed rapidly in French before beginning to search the shop to see if there were any more records.

“This will take only a few minutes, Erica,” said Yvon, carefully going through one of the upright cabinets.

Erica sank to one of the large cushions in the center of the room. She felt numbed by the whole experience. She knew that searching the premises was illegal, but she did not protest. Instead she vacantly watched the two men. They had finished with the cabinets and were starting to take down all the carpets hanging on the walls.

While they worked, their differences were apparent. It was more than physical appearance. It was the way they moved and handled things. Raoul was blunt and direct, often relying on sheer strength. Yvon was careful and contemplative. Raoul was in constant motion, often bending, his head slightly drooped between his powerful shoulders. Yvon stood erect, and he regarded objects from a comfortable distance. He had rolled up his sleeves, revealing smooth forearms that emphasized his small sculptured hands. All at once Erica recognized what was so different about Yvon. He had the sheltered, pampered look of a nineteenth-century aristocrat. An air of elegant authority hovered over him like a halo.

With her pulse still racing, Erica abruptly found sitting intolerable. She stood up and walked over to the heavy drapes. She wanted some air but realized she was reluctant to look into the outer part of the shop, despite Yvon’s assurance that the body was gone. Finally she reached out and pulled open the curtain.

Erica screamed. Only two feet from her was a face that had whirled to look at her when she pulled open the curtain. There was a crash of pottery as the figure in the shop dropped his armload, obviously as frightened as Erica.

Raoul responded instantaneously, pushing past Erica into the front room. Yvon followed. The thief stumbled over the pottery and tried to reach the doorway, but Raoul was like a cat, and with a sharp karate chop between the shoulders brought the intruder to the floor. He rolled over, a boy about twelve.

Yvon took one look and walked back to Erica.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

Erica shook her head. “I’m not accustomed to this sort of thing.” She was still holding onto the drapes, her head down.

“Take a look at this boy,” said Yvon. “I want to be sure he wasn’t one of the three.” He put his arm around her, but she politely pushed him away.

“I’m okay,” she said, realizing she had overreacted because she had suppressed her earlier fright and then exploded at this latest happening.

Taking a deep breath, she went over and looked down at the cowering child.

“No,” she said simply.

Yvon spoke sharply in Arabic to the boy, who responded by scrambling to his feet and bolting through the entranceway, leaving the beaded strips dancing behind him. “The poverty in this place makes some of these people act like vultures. They sense when there is trouble.”

“I want to leave,” said Erica as calmly as possible. “I’m not sure where I want to go, but I want to get out of here. And I still feel the police should be told.”

Yvon reached out and put a hand on Erica’s shoulder. He spoke paternally. “The police can be informed, but without involving yourself. The decision is yours to make, but believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Egyptian jails rival those in Turkey.”

Erica studied Yvon’s steady eyes before looking down at her still-trembling hands. With the poverty and overwhelming disorder she’d already seen in Cairo, Yvon’s comments made sense. “I want to return to my hotel.”

“I understand,” said Yvon. “But please allow us to accompany you, Erica. Just let me get the letters we’ve found. It will only be a moment.” Both men disappeared through the heavy curtains.

Erica stepped over to the broken counter and stared at the mixture of shattered glass and dried blood. It was difficult to stifle a feeling of nausea, but with luck she quickly found what she was searching for-the fake scarab Abdul had given to her, the one that had been so exquisitely carved by his son. She slipped it into her pocket, at the same time gently touching the broken pottery on the floor with her toe. The two authentic antiques were among the rubble. After lasting six thousand years, they were broken needlessly, smashed on the floor of this pitiful shop by a twelve-year-old thief. The waste made her physically ill. Her gaze went back to the blood, and she had to close her eyes to check the tears. A sensitive human life snuffed out because of greed. Erica tried vainly to recall the appearance of the man who had wielded the scimitar. His features had been sharp, like the typical bedouin’s, his skin the color of burnished bronze. But she could not form a definite mental image of the man. She opened her eyes again and looked around the shop. Anger began to supplant the incipient tears. She wanted to go to the police for Abdul Hamdi so that the killer would be brought to justice. But Yvon’s admonition about the police in Cairo was undoubtedly correct. And if she couldn’t even be sure she’d recognize the killer if she saw him again, then the risk of going to the police was not worth it.

Erica bent down and picked up one of the larger shards of pottery. Her expertise was in the past, and with impressive facility her mind conjured up the image of the Seti statue, with its alabaster-and-feldspar eyes. There was no doubt in her mind that the statue had to be recovered. She had never known that objects of such importance were involved in the black market.

Erica walked over to the curtain and drew it aside. Yvon and Raoul were in the process of rolling up the floor carpets. Yvon looked up and motioned that it would be only a moment longer. Erica watched them work. Yvon was obviously interested in trying to do something about the black market. The French had done a great deal to curb looting of Egyptian treasures, at least the stuff they didn’t carry off to the Louvre. If her not going to the police could help recover the statue, then perhaps it was the best thing to do. Erica decided she’d go along with Yvon, but she knew there was a degree of rationalization in her thinking.

Leaving Raoul to replace the carpets, Yvon guided Erica out of Antica Abdul. Moving through the Khan el Khalili with Yvon was a totally different experience than trying to walk through it alone. No one bothered her. As if trying to distract her from the events of the last hour, Yvon talked continuously about the bazaar and about Cairo. He was obviously quite familiar with the history of the city. He had removed his tie, and his shirt was open at the collar.

“How about a bronze head of Nefertiti?” he asked, holding up one of the ugly tourist souvenirs he had taken from a vendor’s cart.

“Never!” said Erica, horrified. She remembered the scene after the molester had attacked her.

“You must have one.” said Yvon, beginning to bargain in Arabic. Erica tried to interfere, but he bought the statue and gave it to her with great ceremony. “A souvenir of Egypt to cherish. The only problem is, I believe they are made in Czechoslovakia.”

Smiling, Erica took the small statue. The charm of Cairo began to filter through the heat, dirt, and poverty, and she relaxed a little.

The narrow alleyway on which they were walking opened up and they stepped into the sunlight of the Al Azhar square. With a cacophony of auto horns, traffic had come to a standstill. To the right Yvon pointed out an exotic building with a square minaret and surmounted by five onion-shaped turrets. Then he turned her around. To the left, almost concealed by the traffic and an open market, was the entrance to the famous Al Azhar mosque. They walked toward the mosque, and the closer they got, the easier it became to appreciate the elaborate entrance with its two arches and intricate arabesque decorations. It was the first example of medieval Muslim architecture Erica had approached since her arrival. In truth, she did not know much about Islam, and the buildings had a particularly exotic feel for her. Yvon sensed her interest and pointed out the various minarets, particularly those with domes and stone filagree. He continued a running commentary on the mosque’s history, including which sultans had added to it.

Erica tried to concentrate on Yvon’s monologue, but it became impossible. The area directly in front of the building served as a busy market and was jammed with people. Besides, her mind kept returning to Abdul and the image of his sudden and horrible death. When Yvon changed the subject, Erica did not respond. He had to say again: “This is my car. May I give you a lift to your hotel?” It was a black Egyptian-built Fiat, relatively new, but with a full complement of dents and scrapes. “It is not a Citroën, but it is okay.”

Erica was momentarily flustered. She had not expected a private auto. A taxi would have been fine; she liked Yvon, but he was a stranger in a strange land. Her eyes betrayed her thoughts.

“Please understand my position,” said Yvon. “I feel that you were caught in a very unfortunate circumstance. I am glad I happened by, wishing only that I’d been twenty minutes earlier. I merely want to help you. Cairo can be difficult, and with the kind of experience you’ve had, it could be overwhelming. At this time of day you will not catch a taxi. There simply are not enough. Let me give you a ride to your hotel.”

“What about Raoul?” asked Erica, trying to stall.

Yvon unlocked the passenger door and opened it. Instead of trying to pressure Erica, he walked over to a turbaned Arab who had been apparently watching the car, spoke some words of Arabic, and dropped a few coins in the man’s open palm. Then he opened the driver’s door and got in, leaning across to smile up at Erica. His blue eyes appeared soft in the afternoon sun. “Don’t worry about Raoul. He can take care of himself. It’s you I am worried about. If you have the fortitude to wander around Cairo by yourself, you certainly shouldn’t mind riding with me as far as your hotel. But if not, tell me where you are staying and I’ll meet you there in the lobby. I’m not ready to give up on this Seti I statue, and you may be able to help.”

Yvon busied himself with his seat belt. Erica glanced around the square, sighed, and got into the car. “The Hilton,” she said.

The ride was not relaxing. Prior to pulling away from the curb, Yvon had donned soft kid driving gloves, pulling the leather over each finger with great care. When he did put the car in gear, it was with a vengeance, and the small auto leaped into the traffic with squealing wheels. Because of the snarled traffic, the brakes had to be applied immediately, with the result that Erica had to brace herself against the dash. And so the ride continued in sudden fits and stops, throwing Erica forward and backward. They went from what she thought was one near-accident to the next, often clearing other autos, trucks, donkey carts, and even buildings by millimeters. Animals and people fled before them as Yvon, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, drove as if he were engaged in a competitive sport. He was determined and aggressive, although he did not become angry or exasperated at the performance of others. If another car or cart snaked in front of him, he did not mind. He would wait patiently until a slot opened, then race forward.

They headed southwest out of the bustling center, passing the remains of the old city walls and the magnificent citadel of Saladin. Within the citadel the domes and minarets of the Muhammad Ali mosque soared heavenward in a bold affirmation of the worldly power of Islam. They reached the Nile at the level of the northern tip of the island of Roda. Turning to the right, they headed up the broad avenue that ran along the east bank of the mighty river. The sparkling cool blue of the water, reflecting the afternoon sunlight in a million diamonds, provided a refreshing contrast to the heat and squalor of downtown Cairo. When Erica had first seen the Nile the day before, she had been impressed by its history and the fact that its waters came from distant equatorial Africa. Today she could really understand that Cairo and all of inhabited Egypt could not exist without the river. The oppressive dust and heat proclaimed the power and harshness of the desert that pressed constantly at Cairo ’s back door, threatening like a plague.

Yvon drove directly to the front entrance of the Hilton. Leaving the keys in the car, he managed to beat the turbaned doorman to the passenger side and chivalrously helped Erica out of the car. Erica, who had just witnessed the most violent scenes of her life, smiled at the unexpected gallantry. Coming from America, she was unaccustomed to seeing such an obviously masculine man concerned with the details of courtesy. It was a unique European combination, and one which, even exhausted as she was, Erica could not help but find charming.

“I will wait for you if you would like to go to your room and freshen up before we talk,” said Yvon as they entered the busy lobby. The afternoon international flights had arrived.

“I think I need a drink first,” said Erica without a moment’s hesitation.

The temperature of the air-conditioned cocktail lounge was delicious, like sliding into a pool of crystal water. They sat in a corner booth and ordered. When the drinks came, Erica held the frosted glass of her vodka and tonic to her cheek for a moment to appreciate its coolness.

Looking at Yvon calmly sipping his Pernod, she realized how quickly he could adapt to his environment. He was as comfortable within the depths of the Khan el Khalili as he was in the Hilton. There was the same confidence, the same control. Looking more carefully at his clothes, Erica recognized how fastidiously they were tailored to his body. Comparing their elegance to Richard’s unchanging Brooks Brothers look made her smile, but she knew that Richard was not interested in clothes and that the comparison wasn’t fair.

Erica took a taste of her drink and began to relax. She took another sip, a bigger one, and breathed in deeply before swallowing. “God, what an experience,” she said. She rested her head in her hand and massaged her temples. Yvon remained silent. After a few minutes she sat up and straightened her shoulders. “What are you going to do about the Seti statue?”

“I’m going to try to find it,” said Yvon. “I must find it before it gets out of Egypt. Did Abdul Hamdi say anything to you about where it was going? Anything?”

“Only that it was in the shop for a few hours and it would soon resume its journey. Nothing else.”

“About a year ago, a similar statue appeared and-”

“What do you mean, similar?” asked Erica excitedly.

“It was a gilded statue of Seti I,” said Yvon.

“Did you actually see it, Yvon?”

“No. If I had, it would not be in Houston today. It was bought by an oil man through a bank in Switzerland. I tried to trace it, but Swiss banks are very uncooperative. I got nowhere.”

“Do you know if the Houston statue had hieroglyphics carved in the base?” asked Erica.

Yvon shook his head while lighting a Gauloise. “I haven’t the slightest idea. Why do you ask?”

“Because the statue I saw had hieroglyphics cut into the base,” said Erica, warming to the subject. “And the thing that caught my eye was the fact that there were the names of two pharaohs. Seti I and Tutankhamen!”

Inhaling deeply on his cigarette, Yvon regarded Erica questioningly. His thin lips pressed together tightly as he blew the smoke from his nostrils.

“Hieroglyphics are my specialty,” said Erica defensively.

“It’s impossible for Seti’s and Tutankhamen’s names to be on the same statue,” said Yvon flatly.

“It is strange,” continued Erica, “but there is no doubt in my mind. Unfortunately, I did not have time to translate the rest. My first thought was that the statue was a fake.”

“It was no fake,” said Yvon. “Hamdi would not have been killed for a fake. Couldn’t you have mistaken Tutankhamen’s name for another?”

“Never,” said Erica. She found a pen in her bag, drew the coronation name of Tutankhamen on her cocktail napkin, and pushed it toward Yvon defiantly. “That was carved in the base of the statue I saw.”

Looking at the drawing, Yvon smoked in thoughtful silence. Erica watched him.

“Why was the old man killed?” she said finally. “That’s what seems so senseless. If they wanted the statue, they could have taken it. Hamdi was there by himself.”

“I have no idea,” admitted Yvon, looking up from the drawing of Tutankhamen’s name. “Perhaps it has something to do with the curse of the pharaohs.” He smiled. “About a year ago I’d traced a route for Egyptian antiquities to a middleman in Beirut, who obtained the pieces from Egyptian pilgrims going to Mecca. No sooner had I made the contact than the gentleman was killed. I’m wondering if it has something to do with me!”

“Do you think he was killed for the same reasons as Abdul Hamdi?” asked Erica.

“No. Actually, he was caught between Christian and Muslim bullets. Still, I was on my way to see him when it happened.”

“It is such a senseless tragedy,” said Erica sadly, again thinking of Abdul.

“It is indeed,” agreed Yvon. “But remember, Hamdi was no innocent bystander and he knew the stakes. That statue was priceless, and in the middle of all this poverty, money can move mountains. That’s the real reason it would be a mistake for you to go to the authorities. It’s hard to find someone you can trust under the best of circumstances, and when that kind of money is involved, the police themselves may not act with honesty.”

“I’m not sure what I should do,” said Erica. “But what are your plans, Yvon?”

Taking another draw on his Gauloise, he let his gaze wander around the tastelessly decorated lounge. “Hopefully, there will be some information in Hamdi’s correspondence. It’s not much, but it’s a start. I’ve got to find out who killed him.” Turning back to Erica, his face took on a more serious expression. “I very well might need you to make the final identification. Would you do that?”

“Of course, if I can,” said Erica. “I really didn’t get a very good look at the killers, but I’d really like to help.” Erica thought about what she’d said. The words sounded so trite. But Yvon did not seem to notice. Instead, he reached across and gently grasped her wrist.

“I am very pleased,” he said warmly. “Now I must go. I’m staying at the Meridien Hotel, suite 800. That’s on the island of Roda.” Yvon paused, but his hand still lightly gripped Erica’s wrist. “I would be quite happy if you would agree to have dinner with me tonight. This day must have given you a terrible impression of Cairo, and I would like to show you the other side.”

The unexpected offer flattered Erica. Yvon was unreasonably charming and could probably dine with any one of a thousand women. His interest was obviously the statue, but her own reactions were confusing.

“Thank you, Yvon, but I’m exhausted. I’m still suffering from jet lag, and I didn’t sleep well yesterday. Some other night, perhaps.”

“We could have an early dinner. I’ll have you back here by ten. After your experience today, I just don’t think you should be sitting in your hotel room by yourself.”

Looking at her watch, Erica saw that it was not quite six P.M. Ten would not be too late, and she had to eat anyway.

“If it would not be a bother to have me back by ten, then I’d like to have dinner with you.”

Yvon tightened his grip on her wrist for an instant, then let go. “Entendu,” he said, and motioned for the check.

Richard Harvey looked down at the corpulent bulk of Henrietta Olson’s abdomen. The upper and lower sheets had been separated to expose the area of the gall bladder. The rest of Henrietta’s body was covered to preserve her dignity.

“Now, Mrs. Olson, please point to where you felt the pain,” said Richard.

A hand snaked out from beneath the sheets. With her index finger Henrietta indented her belly just under the right rib cage.

“And also back here, Doctor,” said Henrietta, rolling over on her right side and jabbing her finger in the middle of her back. “Right about here,” said Henrietta, poking Richard with her finger at the level of his kidney.

Richard rolled his eyes so that only Nancy Jacobs, his office nurse, could see, but she shook her head, feeling that Richard was being unusually short with his patients.

Richard looked up at the clock. He knew he had three more patients to see before lunch. Although his three-year-old practice of internal medicine was doing amazingly well and he liked his work, some days were a little trying. Problems relating to smoking and obesity comprised ninety percent of his cases. It was a far cry from the intellectual intensity of his residency at the general. And now, on top of this problem, was the situation with Erica. It made concentrating on problems like Henrietta’s gall bladder almost impossible.

There was a quick knock, and Sally Marinski, the receptionist, poked her head in. “Doctor, your call is on one.” Richard’s face brightened. He’d asked Sally to ring up Janice Baron, Erica’s mother.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Olson,” said Richard. “I must take this call. I’ll be right back.” He motioned for Nancy to stay.

Closing the door to his office, Richard picked up the phone and pressed the connecting button.

“Hello, Janice.”

“Richard, Erica hasn’t written yet.”

“Thanks a lot. I know she hasn’t written yet. The reason I called is to tell you I’m really going crazy. I want to know what you think I should do.”

“I don’t think you have a lot of choices right now, Richard. You’re just going to have to wait until Erica gets back.”

“Why do you think she went?” asked Richard.

“I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve never understood this Egypt thing, right from the time she announced that she was going to major in it. If her father hadn’t died, he would have been able to talk some sense into her.”

Richard paused before speaking. “I mean, I’m glad she has interests, but a hobby should not threaten the rest of your life.”

“I agree, Richard.”

There was another pause, and Richard absentmindedly toyed with his desk set. He had a question for Janice, but he was afraid to ask.

“What do you think of me going to Egypt?” he said finally.

There was a silence.

“Janice?” said Richard, wondering if the connection had been broken.

“ Egypt! Richard, you can’t leave your office like that.”

“It would be difficult, but if it’s necessary, I can do it. I can get coverage.”

“Well… maybe it’s a good idea. But I don’t know. Erica has always had a mind of her own. Did you talk to her about going?”

“No, we never discussed it. I think she just assumed I couldn’t leave right now.”

“Maybe it would show her that you care,” said Janice thoughtfully.

“Know that I care! My God, she knows I put a down payment on that house in Newton.”

“Well, that may not be exactly what Erica has in mind, Richard. I do think that the problem is that you dragged your feet too long, so maybe going to Egypt is a good idea.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do, but thanks, Janice.”

Richard replaced the receiver and looked on his blotter at the patient list for the afternoon. It was going to be a long day.

Erica leaned back as the two attentive waiters cleared away their dishes. Yvon had been so crisp and short with them that Erica had almost been embarrassed, but it was obvious that Yvon was accustomed to efficient servants with whom, the less said, the better. They had dined sumptuously by candlelight on spicy local dishes that Yvon had ordered with great authority. The restaurant was romantically although inappropriately called the Casino de Monte Bello, and it was situated on the crest of the Mukattam Hills. From where Erica was sitting on the veranda she could look east into the rugged Arabian mountains that ran across the Arabian peninsula to China. To the north she could see the spreading veins of the delta as the Nile fanned out searching for the Mediterranean, and to the south she could see the river coming from the heart of Africa like a flat, shiny snake. But by far the most impressive vista was to the west, where the minarets and domes of Cairo thrust their heads through the mist that covered the city. Stars were emerging in the darkening silver sky just like the lights of the city below. Erica was obsessed with images of the Arabian Nights. The city projected an exotic, sensuous, and mysterious quality that forced the sordid events of the day to recede.

“Cairo has a very powerful bitter charm,” said Yvon. His face was lost in the shadows until the ember of his cigarette became fiery red as he inhaled, illuminating his sharply cut features. “It has such an unbelievable history. The corruption, the brutalities, the continuity of violence, are so fantastic, so grotesque as to defy comprehension.”

“Has it changed much?” asked Erica, thinking of Abdul Hamdi.

“Less than people think. The corruption is a way of life. The poverty is the same.”

“And bribery?” asked Erica.

“That hasn’t changed at all,” said Yvon, carefully tapping his cigarette over the ashtray.

Erica took a sip of wine. “You’ve convinced me not to go to the police. I really have no idea if I could identify the killers of Mr. Hamdi, and the last thing I want to do is get caught up in a morass of Asian intrigue.”

“It’s the smartest thing you can do. Believe me.”

“But it still bothers me. I can’t help but feel I’m shirking my responsibility as a human being. I mean, to see a murder and then not do anything. But you think that my not going to the police will help your crusade against the black market?”

“Absolutely. If the authorities find out about this Seti statue before I can locate it, then any chance of its helping me penetrate the black market will be lost.” Yvon reached over and reassuringly squeezed her hand.

“While you’re trying to find the statue, will you try to find out who killed Abdul Hamdi?” Erica asked.

“Of course,” said Yvon. “But don’t misunderstand me. My motive is the statue and controlling the black market. I don’t fool myself into thinking I will be able to influence moral attitudes here in Egypt. But if I do find the killers, I will alert the authorities. Will that help assuage your conscience?”

“It will,” said Erica.

Immediately below, lights came on, illuminating the citadel. The castle fascinated Erica, evoking images of the Crusades.

“One thing you said this afternoon surprised me,” she said, turning to Yvon. “You mentioned the ‘Curse of the Pharaohs.’ Surely you don’t believe in such nonsense.”

Yvon smiled, but allowed the waiter to serve the aromatic Arabic coffee before speaking. “Curse of the Pharaohs! Let’s say I don’t dismiss such ideas totally. The ancient Egyptians spent great efforts on preserving their dead. They were renowned for their interest in the occult, and they were experts with all sorts of poisons. Alors…” Yvon sipped his coffee. “Many of the people dealing with treasures from pharaonic tombs have died mysteriously. There’s no doubt about that.”

“The scientific community has a lot of doubt,” said Erica.

“Certainly the press has been quick to exaggerate various stories, but there have been some very curious deaths related to Tutankhamen’s tomb, starting with Lord Carnarvon himself. There has to be something to it; how much, I do not know. The reason I mentioned the curse was that it seems two merchants who were good ‘leads,’ as you say, were killed just prior to my meeting with them. Coincidence? Probably.”

After their coffee they strolled along the crest of the mountain to a hauntingly beautiful ruined mosque. They didn’t speak. The beauty cradled and awed them. Yvon offered his hand as they climbed over some rocks to stand within the towering roofless walls of the once-proud building. Above, the Milky Way was splattered against the midnight-blue sky. For Erica the magical charm of Egypt lay in its past, and there in the darkness of the medieval ruins she could feel it.

On the way back to the car, Yvon put his arm around her, but he continued to talk placidly about the mosque and deposited her at the entrance to the Hilton very close to ten o’clock, as promised. Still, riding up in the elevator, Erica admitted to herself that she was mildly infatuated. Yvon was a charming and devilishly attractive man.

Reaching her room, she inserted the key, opened the door, and flipped on the light, dropping her tote bag on the luggage rack in the small foyer. She closed the door and double-latched it. The air-conditioning was on full blast, and preferring not to sleep in an artificially cooled room, she headed toward the switch near the balcony to turn it off.

Halfway there she stopped and bit back a scream. A man was sitting in her easy chair in the corner of the room. He did not move or speak. He had pure bedouin features but was carefully dressed in a gray silk European suit, white shirt, and black tie. His total immobility and piercing eyes paralyzed her. He was like a terrifying sculpture in deep bronze. Although back home Erica had fantasized how violently she would react if she were ever threatened with rape, now she did nothing. Her voice failed her; her arms hung limply.

“My name is Ahmed Khazzan,” said the figure at last in a voice that was deep and fluid. “I am the director general of the Department of Antiquities of the Egyptian Arab Republic. I apologize for this intrusion, but it is necessary.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he extracted a black leather wallet. It fell open in his outstretched hand. “My official credentials, if you wish.”

Erica’s face blanched. She had wanted to go to the police. She knew she should have gone to the police. Now she was in very deep trouble. Why had she listened to Yvon? Still paralyzed by the man’s hypnotic gaze, Erica could not speak.

“I am afraid you must come along with me, Erica Baron,” said Ahmed, standing up and walking over to her. Erica had never seen such piercing eyes. In a face objectively as handsome as Omar Sharif’s, they absorbed and terrified her.

Erica stammered incoherently, but managed to finally look away. Beads of cold sweat had appeared on her forehead. She could feel her underarms were damp. Having never been in trouble with any authorities anywhere, she was totally unnerved. Mechanically she put on a sweater and picked up her bag.

Ahmed remained silent as he opened the door into the hallway; his expression of intense concentration did not alter. Erica conjured up images of dank, horrible cells as she walked beside him through the lobby. Boston suddenly seemed very far away.

Ahmed waved at the entrance to the Hilton, and a black sedan pulled up. He opened the rear door and motioned for Erica to enter, which she did quickly, hoping that her cooperation would atone for her having failed to report Abdul’s murder. As the car drove off, Ahmed maintained the oppressive and intimidating silence, fixing Erica from time to time with his unwavering gaze.

Erica’s imagination raced in anxious circles. She thought about the United States embassy and the consulate. Should she demand the opportunity to call, and if so, what would she say? Looking out the car window, she noticed the city was still very much alive with other vehicles and pedestrians, although the great river looked like a pool of stagnant black ink.

“Where are you taking me?” asked Erica, her voice sounding strange, even to herself.

Ahmed did not answer immediately. Erica was about to ask again when he spoke. “To my office in the Ministry of Public Works. It is a short ride.”

True to his word, the black sedan soon pulled off the main street into a semicircle of concrete in front of a pillared government building. A night watchman opened the massive entrance door as they mounted the steps.

Then began a walk that seemed as long as the ride from the Hilton. With only the hollow sounds of their shoes on the stained marble floor, they crossed a bewildering number of deserted corridors, leading them deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine reaches of a prodigious bureaucracy. At last they reached the proper office. Ahmed unlocked the door and led the way through the anteroom jammed with metal desks and antique typewriters. Entering a spacious office beyond, he indicated a chair for Erica. It faced an old mahogany desk neatly arranged with carefully sharpened pencils and a new green blotter. Ahmed maintained his silence as he removed his silk jacket.

Erica felt like a cornered animal. She had expected to be taken to a room full of accusing faces where she would be subjected to the usual bureaucratic red tape, like fingerprinting. She had anticipated trouble over the fact that she did not have her passport, which the hotel people had demanded on registration, saying that it had to be stamped and would not be back for twenty-four hours. But this empty room was proving more frightening. Who would know where she was? She thought of Richard and her mother and wondered if she might make a long-distance call.

She glanced nervously around the office. It was spartanly appointed and extremely tidy. Framed photos of various archaeological monuments adorned the walls, along with a modern poster of the funerary mask of Tutankhamen. Two large maps covered the right wall. One was of Egypt, and small red-topped pins had been inserted at various locations. The other map was of the Necropolis of Thebes, with the tombs marked with Maltese crosses.

Biting her lip to hide her anxiety, Erica looked back at Ahmed. To her surprise, he was busy with an electric hot plate.

“Would you care for some tea?” he asked, turning around.

“No, thank you,” said Erica, numbed by the weird circumstances. Gradually her mind began to suggest that she had jumped to conclusions, and she thanked heaven that she had not blurted out a confession before hearing what the Arab had to say.

Ahmed poured himself a cup of tea and brought it over to the desk. Slowly stirring in two sugars, he once more brought his powerful gaze to bear on Erica. She quickly lowered her eyes to avoid the impact, speaking without looking up. “I would like to know why I have been brought to this office.”

Ahmed didn’t answer. Erica looked up to make sure he’d heard her, and as their eyes met, Ahmed’s voice lashed out like a whip.

“I want to know what you are doing in Egypt,” he said, practically shouting.

His anger took Erica by surprise, and she stumbled over her words. “I’m… I’m here… I’m an Egyptologist.”

“And you are Jewish, aren’t you?” snapped Ahmed.

Erica was smart enough to realize that Ahmed was trying to push her off balance, but she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to resist his attack. “Yes,” she said simply.

“I want to know why you are in Egypt,” repeated Ahmed, raising his voice again.

“I came here-” said Erica defensively.

“I want to know what the purpose of your trip is and who you work for.”

“I don’t work for anyone, and there was no purpose for my trip,” said Erica nervously.

“You expect me to believe there was no purpose for your trip?” Ahmed said cynically. “Come, now, Erica Baron.” He smiled, and his swarthy complexion enhanced the whiteness of his teeth.

“Of course there was a purpose,” said Erica, her voice breaking. “What I meant was that I didn’t come here for some ulterior motive.” Her voice trailed off as she remembered her complicated problems with Richard.

“You are not convincing,” said Ahmed. “Not at all.”

“I’m sorry,” said Erica. “I’m an Egyptologist. I’ve studied about ancient Egypt for eight years. I work in an Egyptology department in a museum. I’ve always wanted to come. I had had plans to come years ago, but my father’s death made it impossible. It wasn’t until this year that I could manage it. I’ve made arrangements to do a little work while I’m here, but mostly it is a vacation.”

“What kind of work?”

“I plan to do some on-site translation of New Kingdom hieroglyphics in Upper Egypt.”

“You’re not here to buy antiquities?”

“Heavens, no,” said Erica.

“How long have you known Yvon Julien de Margeau?” He leaned forward, his eyes riveted to Erica’s.

“I met him for the first time today,” Erica blurted.

“How did you meet?”

Her pulse quickened, and perspiration reappeared on her forehead. Did Ahmed know about the murder after all? A moment earlier she would have said no, but now she wasn’t certain. “We met in the bazaar,” stammered Erica. She held her breath.

“Do you know that Monsieur de Margeau has been known to purchase valuable Egyptian national treasures?”

Erica was afraid her relief was apparent. Obviously Ahmed did not know about the murder. “No,” she said. “I had no idea.”

“Do you have any comprehension,” continued Ahmed, “of the extent of the problem we face trying to stop the black market in antiquities?” He stood up and walked over to the map of Egypt.

“I have some idea,” said Erica, confounded by the multiple directions of the conversation. She still did not know why she had been brought to Ahmed’s office.

“The situation is very bad,” said Ahmed. “Take, for instance, the highly destructive theft in 1974 of ten slabs of hieroglyphic relief from the Temple of Dendera. A tragedy, a national disgrace.” Ahmed’s index finger rested on the red-topped pin stuck in the map at the location of the Temple of Dendera. “It had to be an inside job. But the case was never broken. The poverty works against us here in Egypt.” Ahmed’s voice trailed off. His face reflected strain and commitment. Carefully his index finger touched the red tops of other pins. “Each one of these indicates a major antiquities theft. If I had a reasonable-sized staff, and if I had some money to pay the guards a decent wage, then I could do something about all this.” Ahmed was speaking more to himself than to Erica. Turning, he seemed almost surprised to see her in his office. “What is Monsieur de Margeau doing in Egypt?” he asked, his anger returning.

“I don’t know,” said Erica. She thought about the Seti statue and Abdul Hamdi. She knew if she talked about the statue she’d have to talk about the murder.

“How long is he staying?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. I only met the man today.”

“But you had dinner with him tonight.”

“That’s right,” said Erica defensively.

Ahmed walked back toward the desk. He leaned forward and looked down threateningly into Erica’s gray-green eyes. She could sense his intensity and tried to return his gaze, but without much success. She did feel a little more confident, realizing that Ahmed was interested in Yvon, not her, but she was still afraid. Besides, she had lied. She knew Yvon was there for the statue.

“What did you learn about Monsieur de Margeau during your dinner?”

“That he is a charming man,” said Erica evasively.

Ahmed slammed his hand down on his desk, sending some of the carefully sharpened pencils flying and making Erica flinch.

“I’m not interested in his personality,” said Ahmed slowly. “I want to know why Yvon de Margeau is in Egypt.”

“Well, why don’t you ask him?” said Erica finally. “All I did was go to dinner with the man.”

“Do you often go to dinner with men you just meet?” asked Ahmed.

Erica studied Ahmed’s face very carefully. The question surprised her, but then, almost everything had been surprising. His voice suggested a kind of disappointment, but Erica knew that was absurd.

“I very rarely go to dinner with strangers,” she said defiantly, “but I felt immediately comfortable with Yvon de Margeau and I thought he was charming.”

Ahmed walked over to his jacket and carefully put it on. Taking the last of his tea in a gulp, he looked back to Erica. “For your own good, I would ask you to keep this conversation confidential. Now I will take you back to your hotel.”

Erica was more confused than ever. Watching Ahmed retrieve the pencils that had fallen from the desk, Erica suddenly was overcome with guilt. The man was obviously sincere in his desire to contain the black market in antiquities, and she was withholding information. At the same time, the experience with Ahmed was frightening; as Yvon had warned her, he certainly did not behave like any American officials she had known. She decided to let him take her back to the hotel without saying anything. After all, she could always contact him if she felt she had to.

Yvon Julien de Margeau had on a red silk Christian Dior robe tied loosely at the waist, exposing most of his silver-haired chest. The sliding glass doors of suite 800 were all open, allowing the cool desert breeze to rustle gently through the room. A table had been placed on the wide balcony, and from where Yvon was sitting he could look north across the Nile toward the delta. Gezira island, with its slender phallic observation tower, loomed in the mid-distance. On the right bank, Yvon could see the Hilton, and his mind kept returning to Erica. She was very different from any of the women he had known. He was both shocked and attracted by her passionate interest in Egyptology and was confused by her talk of career. After a moment he shrugged, considering her in the context with which he was most familiar. She was not the most beautiful woman he’d been with of late, and yet there was something about her that had suggested a subtle yet powerful sensuality.

On the center of the table Yvon had placed his attaché case filled with the voluminous papers he and Raoul had found at Abdul Hamdi’s. Raoul was stretched out on the couch double-checking letters Yvon had already perused.

“Alors,” said Yvon suddenly, slapping the letter he was reading with his free hand. “Stephanos Markoulis. Hamdi corresponded with Markoulis! The travel agent from Athens.”

“That could be what we are looking for,” said Raoul expectantly. “Do you think there is a threat involved?”

Yvon continued reading the text. After a few minutes he looked up. “Can’t be sure of any threat. All he says is that he is interested in the matter and he would like to come to some sort of a compromise. But he doesn’t say what the matter is.”

“He could have been referring only to the Seti statue,” said Raoul.

“Possibly, but my intuition says no. Knowing Markoulis, he would have been more direct if it only concerned the statue. It had to be more. Hamdi must have threatened him.”

“If that’s the case, Hamdi was no fool.”

“He was the ultimate fool,” said Yvon. “He’s dead.”

“Markoulis had also been in correspondence with our murdered contact in Beirut,” said Raoul.

Yvon looked up. He had forgotten about Markoulis’ connection with the Beirut contact. “I think Markoulis is where we should start. We know he deals in Egyptian antiquities. See if you can get a call through to Athens.”

Raoul lifted himself from the couch and gave the orders to the hotel operator. After a minute he said, “Telephone traffic is surprisingly light tonight, or so the operator says. There should be no trouble with the call. For Egypt, that is a miracle.”

“Good,” said Yvon, reaching out to shut his attaché case. “Hamdi corresponded with every major museum in the world, but Markoulis is still a long shot. The only real hope we have is Erica Baron.”

“And I don’t see her being much help,” said Raoul.

“I have an idea,” said Yvon, lighting a cigarette. “Erica did see the faces of two of the three men involved in the killing.”

“That might be so, but I doubt if she could recognize them again.”

“True. But I don’t think it matters, if the killers think she can.”

“I’m not following you,” said Raoul.

“Would it be possible to let the Cairo underworld know that Erica Baron watched the murder and can easily identify the killers?”

“Ah,” said Raoul, his face reflecting sudden understanding. “I see what you are thinking. Using Erica Baron as a decoy to flush the killers into the open.”

“Precisely. There’s no way the police are going to do anything about Hamdi. The Department of Antiquities won’t do anything unless they’ve heard of the Seti statue, so Ahmed Khazzan won’t be involved. He’s the only official who could make it difficult for us.”

“There’s one major problem,” said Raoul seriously.

“What is that?” asked Yvon, drawing on his cigarette.

“It’s a very dangerous course. It probably means signing a death warrant for Mademoiselle Erica Baron. I’m sure they will kill her.”

“Could one protect her?” asked Yvon, remembering Erica’s narrow waist, her warmth, and her appealing earthiness.

“Probably, if we used the right person.”

“Are you thinking of Khalifa?”

“I am.”

“He’s trouble.”

“Yes, but he’s the best. If you want to protect the girl plus get the killers, you need Khalifa. The real problem is that he’s expensive. Very expensive.”

“That I don’t mind. I want and need that statue. I’m certain it will be the fulcrum I need. In fact, at this point I believe it’s the only way. I’ve been through all of Abdul Hamdi’s stuff that we have. Unfortunately, there is almost nothing about the black market.”

“Did you really think there would be?”

“It was a little too much to ask, I admit. From what Hamdi said in his letter to me, I thought it was possible. But get Khalifa. I want him to start tailing Erica Baron in the morning. Also, I think I’ll even spend some time with her myself. I’m not sure she’s told me everything.”

Raoul regarded Yvon with a disbelieving smile.

“Okay,” said Yvon. “You know me too well. There’s something I find very attractive about the woman.”

Reaching back over his shoulder, Stephanos Markoulis flipped off the lamp. The room was bathed in the soft blue glow of the moon that fell into the room through the French doors leading to the balcony.

“Athens is such a romantic city,” said Deborah Graham, pulling away from Stephanos’ embrace. Her eyes sparkled in the half-light. She was intoxicated by the atmosphere as well as the bottle of Demestica wine that lay empty on the nearby table. Her straight blond hair tumbled over her shoulders, and with a coquettish twist of her head she pulled it behind her ears. Her blouse was unbuttoned and the whiteness of her breasts contrasted sharply with her deep Mediterranean tan.

“I agree,” said Stephanos. His large hand reached out to massage her breasts. “That’s why I choose to live in Athens. Athens is for lovers.” Stephanos had heard the expression from another girl on another night and had said to himself at the time that he wanted to use the phrase himself. Stephanos’ shirt was also open, but it was always open. He had a broad chest covered with dark hair that served to set off his collection of solid gold chains and medallions.

Stephanos was very eager to get Deborah into his bed. He had always found Australian girls to be uncommonly easy and good lays. A number of people had told him that in Australia they acted very differently, but he did not care. He was content to ascribe his luck to the romantic atmosphere and his own prowess, but mostly the latter.

“Thank you for inviting me here, Stephanos,” said Deborah sincerely.

“My pleasure,” said Stephanos, smiling.

“Would you mind if I went out on your balcony for a moment?”

“Not at all,” said Stephanos, silently groaning at the delay.

Holding her blouse together, Deborah bounced toward the French doors.

Stephanos watched the undulating movement of her buttocks beneath her faded jeans. He guessed she was about nineteen. “Don’t get lost out there,” he called.

“Stephanos, this balcony is only three feet wide.”

“I see you pick up quickly on sarcasm,” said Stephanos. All at once he felt a flicker of doubt whether Deborah was going to come through. Impatiently he lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke forcefully toward the ceiling.

“Stephanos, come out here and tell me what I’m looking at.”

“Christ,” said Stephanos to himself. Reluctantly he got up and joined her. Deborah was leaning as far out as possible, pointing down Ermon Street.

“Is that Constitution Square I can just see?”

“That’s right.”

“And that’s the corner of the Parthenon,” said Deborah, pointing in the opposite direction.

“You’ve got it.”

“Oh, Stephanos, this is beautiful.” Gazing up at him, she put her arms around his neck and looked into his broad face. She had been excited by his appearance from the first moment he’d stopped her in the Plaka. He had deep laugh lines, which gave his face character, and a heavy beard that Deborah thought enhanced his masculinity.

She was still a little afraid of having agreed to come to this stranger’s apartment, yet there was something about being in Athens and not Sydney that made it all right. Besides, the fear added to the mood, and she was already incredibly excited.

“What kind of work do you do, Stephanos?” she asked, the delay increasing her anticipation.

“Does it matter?”

“I’m just interested. But you don’t have to tell me.”

“I own a travel agency, Aegean Holidays, and I do some smuggling on the side. But mostly I chase women.”

“Oh, Stephanos. Be serious.”

“I am. I have a comfortable travel business, but I also smuggle machine parts into Egypt, antiquities out. But as I said, I mostly chase women. It’s the one thing I never get tired of.”

Deborah regarded Stephanos’ dark eyes. To her surprise, the fact that he admitted to being a womanizer enhanced the forbidden exhilaration of the experience. She threw herself against him.

Stephanos was good at almost everything he did. He could feel her inhibitions relax. With a sense of satisfaction he lifted her and carried her into the apartment. Bypassing the living room, he took her directly into the bedroom. Without resistance he removed her clothes. She looked delicious totally naked in the blue room light.

Stepping out of his own trousers, Stephanos bent down and kissed Deborah gently on the lips. She reached out, wanting him to take her.

With shattering suddenness the phone next to the bed began to ring. Stephanos switched on the light to glance at the clock. It was almost midnight. Something was wrong.

“You answer it,” commanded Stephanos.

Deborah looked at him with surprise, but quickly picked up the receiver. She said hello in English, and immediately tried to give the phone to Stephanos, saying it was an international call. Stephanos motioned for her to keep the phone and silently told her to find out who was calling. Deborah obediently listened, asked who was calling, and then put her hand over the phone.

“It’s Cairo. A Monsieur Yvon Julien de Margeau.”

Stephanos snatched the phone, his face reflecting a sudden change from seeming playfulness to calculation. Deborah shrank back, covering her nakedness. Looking at his face now, Deborah realized she’d made a mistake. She tried to gather her clothes, but Stephanos was sitting on her jeans.

“You’re not going to convince me you just wanted to have a friendly conversation in the middle of the night,” said Stephanos with uncamouflaged irritation.

“You’re right, Stephanos,” said Yvon calmly. “I wanted to ask you about Abdul Hamdi. Do you know him?”

“Of course I know the bastard. What about him?”

“Have you done any business with him?”

“That’s a pretty personal question, Yvon. What are you driving at?”

“Hamdi was murdered today.”

“That’s too bad,” said Stephanos sarcastically. “But why would that concern me?”

Deborah was still trying to rescue her jeans. Gingerly she put one hand on his back and pulled with the other. Stephanos was aware of the distraction but not the purpose. Savagely he lashed out and hit her with the back of his hand, knocking her off the other side of the bed. With trembling hands she dressed in the clothes she had.

“Do you have any idea who killed Hamdi?” asked Yvon.

“There are a lot of people who wanted that bastard dead,” said Stephanos angrily. “Myself included.”

“Did he try to blackmail you?”

“Listen, de Margeau, I don’t think I want to answer any of these questions. I mean, what is in all this for me?”

“I’m willing to trade you information. I know something you’d like to find out.”

“Try me.”

“Hamdi had a Seti I statue like the one in Houston.”

Stephanos’ face went bloodred. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted jumping to his feet, oblivious of his own nakedness. Deborah saw her chance and retrieved her jeans. Finally dressed, she cowered on the other side of the bed with her back to the wall.

“How did he get a Seti statue?” asked Stephanos, controlling his anger.

“I have no idea,” said Yvon.

“Has there been any official publicity?” asked Stephanos.

“None. I happened on the scene immediately after the murder. I got all of Hamdi’s papers and correspondence, including your last letter.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Nothing for the moment.”

“Was there anything about the black market in general? Was he trying some sort of grand exposé?”

“Um, so he did try to blackmail you,” said Yvon triumphantly. “The answer is no. There was no grand exposé. Did you kill him, Stephanos?”

“If I did, do you honestly think I’d tell you, de Margeau? Be realistic.”

“Just thought I’d ask. Actually we have a good lead. The murder was seen at close range by an expert witness.”

Stephanos stopped by the doorway, looking through the living room to the balcony, thinking. “This witness, can he identify the killers?”

“Absolutely. And he happens to be a very nicely endowed she, who also happens to be an Egyptologist. Her name is Erica Baron, and she’s at the Hilton.”

Pushing the button to disconnect, Stephanos dialed a local number. He tapped on the phone impatiently while the connection went through. “Evangelos, pack your bag. We’re going to Cairo in the morning.” He hung up before Evangelos could respond. “Shit,” he shouted to the night. At that moment he caught sight of Deborah. For an instant he was bewildered, having forgotten her presence. “Get out of here,” he yelled. Deborah scrambled to her feet and rushed from the room. Freedom in Greece appeared to be as dangerous and unpredictable as she had been told back home.

Emerging from the smoke-filled Taverne cocktail lounge, Erica blinked in the bright light of the Hilton lobby. The experience with Ahmed and the intimidating feeling of the huge government building had so unnerved her that she had decided to have a drink. She had wanted to relax, but going into the bar had not been a good idea. She had been unable to enjoy her drink in peace; several American architects had decided she was just the antidote to a boring evening. No one had been willing to believe she wanted to be alone. So she’d finished her drink and left.

Standing at the periphery of the lobby, she could feel the physical effects of the Scotch, and she stopped for a moment to allow her equilibrium to return to normal. Unfortunately the alcohol had not affected her anxiety. If anything, it had increased it, and the watchful eyes of the men in the bar had played on her incipient paranoia. She wondered if she were being followed. Slowly she let her eyes roam around the grand foyer. On one of the couches a European man was obviously looking at her over the tops of his reading glasses. A bearded Arab dressed in flowing white robes standing near a jewelry display case was also staring at her with unblinking coal-black eyes. An enormous black who looked like Idi Amin smiled at her from in front of the registration desk.

Erica shook her head. She knew her exhaustion was getting the better of her. If she were in Boston wandering around alone at midnight, she would be stared at. She took a deep breath and headed for the bank of elevators.

When she reached her door, Erica vividly remembered the shock of seeing Ahmed in her room. Her pulse quickened as she pushed open the door. Gingerly she switched on the light. Ahmed’s chair was empty. Next she looked in the bathroom. It too was empty. Double-latching the door, she noted an envelope on the floor of the foyer.

It was Hilton stationery. Walking toward the balcony, she opened the envelope and read that Monsieur Yvon Julien de Margeau had phoned and that she was to call back, regardless of the hour. Below the message was a printed square followed by the word “urgent.”

Breathing in the cool night air, Erica began to relax. The spectacular view helped. She’d never been in the desert before and was astounded to see as many stars at the horizon as directly above. Immediately in front of her the broad black ribbon of the Nile stretched out like the wet black pavement of a huge highway. In the distance she could see illuminated the mysterious sphinx, silently guarding the riddles of the past. Next to the mythical creature the fabled pyramids thrust their granular hulks skyward. Despite their antiquity, their crisp geometry suggested something futuristic, twisting the context of time around. Looking to the left, Erica could see the island of Roda, which looked like an ocean liner in the Nile. On its near tip she could see the lights of the Hotel Meridien, and her thoughts returned to Yvon. She read the message again and wondered if Yvon could possibly know about Ahmed’s visit. She also pondered if she should tell him if he didn’t already know. But she felt a strong urge not to involve herself as far as the authorities were concerned, and it seemed to her that telling Yvon about Ahmed could possibly do just that. If there were something between Ahmed and Yvon, it was their business. Yvon could handle it.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Erica asked to be connected with the Meridien Hotel, suite 800. With the receiver held between her head and shoulder, Erica removed her blouse. The cool air felt good. It took almost fifteen minutes to establish the connection, and Erica realized that the Egyptian phones were atrocious, as she had been warned.

“Hello.” It was Raoul.

“Hello. This is Erica Baron. May I speak with Yvon?”

“One moment.”

There was a pause, and Erica removed her shoes. There was a line of Cairo dust across her instep.

“Good evening,” said Yvon cheerfully.

“Hello, Yvon. I got a message to call you. It said ‘urgent.’ ”

“Well, I wanted to speak to you as soon as possible, but there is no emergency. I just had a wonderful evening tonight and I wanted to thank you.”

“That’s very nice of you to say,” said Erica, slightly flustered.

“As a matter of fact, I thought you looked very beautiful tonight, and I am very anxious to see you again.”

“You are?” asked Erica before thinking.

“Absolutely. In fact, I’d be delighted to have breakfast with you in the morning. They serve wonderful eggs here at the Meridien.”

“Thank you, Yvon,” said Erica. She had enjoyed Yvon’s company, but she had no intention of wasting her time in Egypt on a flirtation. She had come to see the objects of her years of study firsthand, and she did not want to be distracted. More important, she still had not decided exactly what her responsibility was to the fabulous statue of Seti I.

“I can have Raoul pick you up whenever you wish,” Yvon said, interrupting her thoughts.

“Thank you, Yvon, but I’m exhausted. I don’t want to get up at a certain time.”

“I understand. You could just call me when you wake up.”

“Yvon, I enjoyed myself tonight, especially after this afternoon. But I think I need some time to myself. I’d like to sightsee a little.”

“I’d be glad to show you more of Cairo,” said Yvon persistently.

Erica did not want to spend the day with Yvon. Her interest in Egypt was too personal to share. “Yvon, how about dinner again? That would be the best for me.”

“Dinner would have been included in the day, but I understand, Erica. Dinner will be fine, and I will look forward to it very much. But let’s set a time. Say, nine o’clock.”

After a friendly good-bye, Erica hung up the phone. She was surprised at Yvon’s persistence. She had not felt that she looked very good that evening. She got up and looked at herself in the bedroom mirror. She was twenty-eight, but some people thought she looked younger. She noticed again the minute wrinkles that had miraculously appeared beside her eyes on her last birthday. Then she noticed a small pimple just forming on her skin. “Damn,” she said as she tried to squeeze it. It wouldn’t squeeze. Erica looked at herself and wondered about men. She wondered what it was that they really liked.

She removed her bra, then her skirt. Waiting for the shower to run hot, she stared at the bathroom mirror. Turning her head to the side, she touched the slight bump on her nose and wondered if she should do something about it. Stepping back to get the whole effect, she was reasonably pleased with her body, although she thought she needed more exercise. Suddenly she felt very lonely. She thought about the life she had willfully left in Boston. There were problems, but maybe running away to Egypt was not the answer. She thought about Richard. With the shower running, Erica returned to the bedroom and looked at the telephone. Impulsively she put a call through to Richard Harvey and was disappointed when the operator told her it would be at least two hours, maybe more. Erica complained, and the operator said that she should be happy because the lines were not very busy. Usually it would take several days to call long distance from Cairo; it was easier to call into the city. Erica thanked her and hung up. Staring at the silent phone, she felt a sudden rush of emotion. She fought back undirected tears, knowing she was too exhausted to think about anything more until she had some sleep.

Ahmed watched the reflected lights forming patterns on the Nile as his car crossed the 26 July bridge to Gezira Island. His driver kept leaning on the horn, but Ahmed no longer tried to interfere. Drivers in Cairo believed continuous honking was as necessary as steering.

“I will be ready at eight A.M.,” said Ahmed, emerging from his car in front of his home on Shari Ismail Muhammad in the district of Zamalek. The driver nodded, made a quick U-turn, and disappeared into the night.

Ahmed’s steps were slow as he entered his empty Cairo apartment. He much preferred his small house by the Nile in his native Luxor in Upper Egypt, and he went as often as possible. But the burden of office as director of the antiquities service kept him in town more than he liked. Perhaps more than anyone, Ahmed was aware of the negative consequences of the huge bureaucracy Egypt had created. In order to encourage education, every graduate of the university was guaranteed a job in the government. Consequently there were too many people with not enough to do. Insecurity in such a system was rampant, and most individuals spent their time plotting ways of ensuring the perpetuation of their positions. If it weren’t for the subsidy from Saudi Arabia, the entire topheavy mess would crumble overnight.

Such thoughts depressed Ahmed, who had sacrificed everything in order to rise to his present position. He had set out to control the antiquities service, and now that he did, he had to face the gross inefficiencies of the department. And so far his attempts at reorganization had met with fierce opposition.

He sat on his Egyptian rococo couch and pulled some memoranda from his attaché case. He read the titles: “Revised Security Arrangements for the Necropolis of Luxor, Including Valley of the Kings” and “Underground Bombproof Storage Chambers for Tutankhamen Treasures.” He opened the first because that was the one he was particularly interested in. He had recently totally reorganized the security for the Necropolis of Luxor. It had been his first priority after reaching office.

Ahmed read the first paragraph twice before he acknowledged that his mind was not on the subject. He kept remembering Erica Baron’s exquisitely molded face. He had been startled by her beauty when he first caught sight of her in her room. It had been his plan to throw her off balance for the interrogation, but it had been he who had been initially thrown. There was a similarity, not in appearance, but in demeanor, between Erica and a woman Ahmed had fallen in love with during his three-year stay at Harvard. It had been Ahmed’s only real love affair, and being reminded of it was painful. The anguish he’d felt when leaving for Oxford still haunted him. Knowing he would never see her again made it the most difficult experience he’d ever had. And it had affected him greatly. From that time he had avoided romance so that he could accomplish the goals his family had set for him.

Leaning his head back against the wall, Ahmed allowed his memory to conjure up an image of Pamela Nelson, the girl from Radcliffe. He could see her clearly through the mist of fourteen years. Instantly he remembered those moments of awakening on a Sunday morning, the cold of Boston effectively screened out by their love. He could remember how he enjoyed watching her sleep, and how he would ever so carefully stroke her forehead and cheeks with his hand until she stirred and smiled.

Ahmed heaved himself to his feet and walked into the kitchen. He busied himself making tea, trying to escape from the memories that Erica had so effectively awakened. It seemed like only yesterday that he had left for America. His parents had taken him to the airport, full of instructions and encouragement, unaware of their son’s fears. The idea of America had been overwhelmingly exciting for a boy from Upper Egypt, but Boston had turned out to be just horribly lonely. At least until he’d met Pamela. Then it had been enchanting. Basking in Pamela’s companionship, he had hungrily devoured his studies, finishing Harvard in three years.

Bringing the tea back into the living room, Ahmed returned to his rock-hard couch. The warm fluid soothed his tense stomach. After careful thought he understood why Erica Baron reminded him of Pamela Nelson. He had sensed in Erica the same intelligence and personal generosity that Pamela had used to veil her sensuous inner self. It had been the hidden woman that Ahmed had fallen in love with. Ahmed closed his eyes and remembered Pamela’s naked body. He sat perfectly still. The only sound was the ticking of the marble clock on the buffet.

Suddenly he opened his eyes. The official portrait of a smiling Sadat erased the warm memories. The present reasserted itself, and Ahmed sighed. He then laughed at himself. Indulging in such memories was unusual for him. He knew that his responsibilities in the department and within his family offered little room for such sentimental thoughts. To get to his present position had been a struggle, and now he was very close to his ultimate goal.

Ahmed picked up the memorandum about the Valley of the Kings and again tried to read. But his mind would not cooperate; it kept wandering back to Erica Baron. He thought of her transparency during the interrogation. He knew that such responses were not weaknesses but rather evidence of sensitivity. At the same time, he was thoroughly convinced that Erica knew nothing of importance.

Suddenly Ahmed remembered the words of the assistant who had originally reported that Yvon de Margeau had dined with Erica. He’d said that de Margeau had taken her to the Casino de Monte Bello and that the setting looked very romantic.

Ahmed stood up and paced the room. He felt angry without knowing why. What was de Margeau doing in Egypt? Was he going to buy more antiquities? On his previous visits, Ahmed had not been able to keep him under adequate observation. Now there was possibly a way. If Erica’s relationship with de Margeau grew, he could follow the man through Erica.

He picked up the phone and called his second in command, Zaki Riad, and ordered him to have Erica Baron followed twenty-four hours a day, starting in the morning. He also told Riad that he wanted the individual assigned to report directly to him. “I want to know where she goes and whom she meets. Everything.”

It was an unfamiliar jangle that made Erica sit bolt upright. At first she had no idea where she was: there was a sound of water, and she was dressed only in her underpants. The harsh metallic sound recurred, and she realized she was in her hotel and that the phone was ringing. The sound of water was the shower, still running. She had fallen asleep on top of the bedspread with all the lights blazing.

Her mind was still foggy when she picked up the receiver. The operator said that her call to America was ready. After several distant sounds the phone went dead. She shouted hello several times; then, shrugging her shoulders, she hung up and went into the bathroom to turn off the shower. A casual glance in the mirror unnerved her. She looked terrible. Her eyes were red, her lids puffy, and the pimple on her chin had come to a head.

The phone rang again, and she ran back to the bedroom to pick it up.

“I’m so glad you called, dear. How was the trip?” Richard sounded pleased on the other end.

“Terrible,” said Erica.

“Terrible? What’s wrong?” Richard was instantly alarmed. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. It just hasn’t been what I expected,” said Erica. At once, sensing Richard’s overprotectiveness, she decided that it probably had been a mistake to call him. But having already committed herself, she told him about the statue and the murder, about her terror, about Yvon and then Ahmed.

“My God,” said Richard, obviously aghast. “Erica, I want you to come home immediately, the next flight!” There was a pause. “Erica, did you hear me?”

Erica pushed her hair back. Richard’s command had a negative effect. He was not in a position to give her orders, no matter what his motivation.

“I’m not ready to leave Egypt,” she said evenly.

“Look, Erica, you’ve made your point. There’s no need to drag it out, especially if you are in danger.”

“I’m not in danger,” Erica said flatly, “and what point are you referring to?”

“Your independence. I understand. You don’t have to continue your acting-out.”

“Richard, I don’t think you understand. It’s not that simple. I’m not acting-out. Ancient Egypt means a great deal to me. I’ve dreamed of visiting the pyramids since I was a child. I’m here because I want to be here.”

“Well, I think you are being foolish.”

“Frankly, I don’t think this is a proper topic for a transatlantic call. You keep forgetting that besides being a woman I’m an Egyptologist. I’ve spent eight years of my life studying for my degree, and I’m vitally interested in what I’m doing. It’s important to me.” Erica could feel herself getting angry all over again.

“More important than our relationship?” asked Richard somewhere between being hurt and being angry.

“As important as your medicine is to you.”

“Medicine and Egyptology are very different.”

“Of course, but what you forget is that people can approach Egyptology with the same commitment that you apply to medicine. But I’m not going to talk any more about this now, and I’m not coming back to Boston. Not yet.”

“Then I will come over to Egypt,” said Richard magnanimously.

“No,” said Erica simply.

“No?”

“That’s what I said-no. Do not come to Egypt. Please. If you want to do something for me, phone my boss, Dr. Herbert Lowery, and ask him to call me here as soon as possible. Apparently it is much easier to call into Egypt than out.”

“I’d be happy to call Lowery, but are you sure you don’t want me to join you?” asked Richard, amazed at the rebuff.

“I’m sure,” said Erica before saying good-bye and terminating the conversation.

When the phone rang again just after four A.M., Erica was not jolted as she had been earlier. However, she was afraid it was Richard calling back, and she let it ring several times, deciding exactly what she would say. But it wasn’t Richard. It was Dr. Herbert Lowery.

“Erica, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Dr. Lowery. Just fine.”

“Richard seemed very upset when he called about an hour ago. He said you wanted me to call.”

“That’s right, Dr. Lowery. I can explain,” said Erica, sitting up to help herself wake up. “I wanted to talk to you about something astounding, and I was told that it was easier to call into Cairo than out. Did Richard tell you anything about my first day here?”

“No. He said you’d had some trouble. That was all.”

“Trouble is hardly the word,” said Erica. She quickly sketched the events of the day for Dr. Lowery. Then, with as much detail as she could remember, she described the Seti I statue.

“Unbelievable,” said Dr. Lowery when Erica had finished. “Actually, I have seen the Houston statue. The man who bought it is indecently rich, and he had both Leonard from the Met and me flown down to Houston in his 707 to authenticate it. We both agreed it was the finest sculpture ever found in Egypt. I thought it probably came from Abydos or Luxor. Its condition was astounding. It was hard to believe it had been buried for three thousand years. Anyway, what you describe sounds like a mate.”

“Did the Houston statue have hieroglyphics cut into the base?” asked Erica.

“It did, indeed,” said Dr. Lowery. “It had some very typical religious exhortation, but it also had a very curious bit of hieroglyphics at the base.”

“So did the one I saw,” added Erica excitedly.

“It was very difficult to translate,” said Lowery, “but it said something like ‘Eternal peace granted to Seti I, who ruled after Tutankhamen.’ ”

“Fantastic,” said Erica. “The one I saw also had the names Seti I and Tutankhamen. I was sure of it, but it’s so weird.”

“I agree it doesn’t make any sense for Tutankhamen’s name to appear. In fact, Leonard and I wondered about the authenticity of the statue when we saw that. But there was no doubt it was real. Did you notice which of Seti I’s names was used?”

“I think it was his name associated with the god Osiris,” said Erica. “Wait, I can tell you for sure.” Erica suddenly remembered the scarab Abdul Hamdi had given her. She ran over to the pants she’d draped over a chair. The scarab was still in the pocket.

“Yes, it was his Osiris name,” said Erica. “I remembered it was the same as I’ve seen on a clever fake scarab. Anyway, Dr. Lowery, could you possibly get a photo of the hieroglyphics on the Houston statue and send it to me?”

“I’m sure I can. I remember the man, a Jeffrey Rice. He will be extremely interested that there is another statue like his, and I think he’ll be cooperative in exchange for the news.”

“It is a tragedy,” said Erica, “that the statue could not be studied at the site it was found.”

“Indeed,” said Dr. Lowery. “That’s the real problem with the black market. The treasure hunters destroy so much information.”

“I’ve known about the black market, but I never realized its true power,” said Erica. “I’d really like to do something about it.”

“That’s a wonderful goal. But the stakes are high, and as Abdul Hamdi learned too late, it is a deadly game.”

Erica thanked Dr. Lowery for calling, and told him that she would soon be heading up to Luxor to get to work on her translations. Dr. Lowery told her to be careful and to enjoy herself.

Hanging up, Erica relished the feeling of excitement. It made her remember why she had studied Egypt in the first place. Settling herself back to sleep, she felt all her initial enthusiasm for her trip return.