Sphinx

Day 2

Cairo awakened early. From the nearby villages the donkey carts laden with produce had begun their trek into the city before the eastern sky had even bleached from its nighttime blackness. The sounds were those of the wooden wheels, the jangle of the harness fittings, and the bells of the lambs and goats trotting into market. As the sun brightened the horizon, the animal carts were joined by a medley of petroleum-powered vehicles. Bakeries stirred and the air was filled with the delicious aroma of baking bread. By seven the taxis emerged like insects and the honking began. People appeared on the streets and the temperature climbed.

Having left her balcony door ajar, Erica was soon assaulted by the sounds of the traffic on the El Tahrir Bridge and on the broad boulevard, Korneish el-Nil, that ran along the Nile in front of the Hilton. Rolling over, she looked out at the pale blue of the morning sky. She felt much better than she had expected. Glancing at her watch, she was surprised she had not slept longer. It wasn’t even quite eight o’clock.

Erica pushed herself up to a sitting position. The fake scarab was lying on the table next to the phone. She picked it up and pressed it as if to test its reality. After a night’s rest the events of the previous day seemed like a dream.

Ordering breakfast in her room, Erica began to plan her day. She decided to visit the Egyptian Museum and view some of the Old Kingdom exhibits, then head out to Saqqara, the necropolis of the Old Kingdom capital of Mennofer. She would avoid the usual tourist habit of rushing directly to the pyramids of Giza.

Breakfast was simple: juice, melon, fresh croissants and honey, and sweet Arabic coffee. It was served elegantly on her splendid balcony. With the pyramids reflecting the sun in the distance and the Nile silently slipping by, Erica experienced a sense of euphoria.

After pouring herself more coffee, Erica brought out her Nagel’s guide to Egypt and turned to the section on Saqqara. There was much too much to see in any one day, and she intended to plan her itinerary carefully. Suddenly she remembered Abdul Hamdi’s guidebook. It was still nestled deep within her canvas tote bag. Gingerly she opened the cover, which was no longer securely attached, and gazed at the name and address in the flyleaf: Nasif Malmud, 180 Shari El Tahir. It made her think of the cruel irony of Abdul Hamdi’s last words. “I travel a lot and might not be in Cairo at the time you leave.” She shook her head, realizing that the old man had been right. Turning to the section on Saqqara, she began to compare the older Baedeker with the newer Nagel’s.

Overhead, a black falcon hovered on the wind, then plunged down on a rat scuttling through an alley.

Nine floors below, Khalifa Khalil reached over in his rented Egyptian Fiat and pressed the light button. He waited patiently until it popped out. Leaning back, he lit his cigarette with obvious pleasure, inhaling deeply. He was an angular and muscular man with a large hooked nose that seemed to pull his mouth into a perpetual sneer. He moved with restrained grace, like a jungle cat. Glancing up at the balcony of 932, he could make out his quarry. With his powerful field glasses he could see Erica very well and allowed himself to enjoy the view of her legs. Very nice, he thought, congratulating himself on obtaining such a pleasurable assignment. Erica shifted her legs toward him, and he grinned: this gave him a distinctively startling appearance, because one of his upper front incisors had been broken in such a way that it came to a sharp point. In his customary black suit and black tie, many people thought he looked like a vampire.

Khalifa was an unusually successful soldier of fortune, experiencing no problem with unemployment in the turbulent Middle East. He had been born in Damascus and raised in an orphanage. He had been trained as a commando in Iraq but had been phased out because he could not work with a team. He also lacked a conscience. He was a sociopathic killer who could be controlled only by money. Khalifa laughed happily when he thought that he was being paid the same for babysitting a beautiful American tourist as for running AK assault rifles to the Kurds in Turkey.

Scanning Erica’s neighboring balconies, Khalifa saw nothing suspicious. His orders from the Frenchman had been simple. He was to protect Erica Baron from a possible murder attempt and catch the perpetrators. Swinging his binoculars away from the Hilton, he slowly scanned the people along the banks of the Nile. He knew it could be difficult to protect against a long-distance shot by a high-powered rifle. No one looked suspicious. By reflex his hand reassuringly patted the Stechkin semiautomatic pistol holstered beneath his left arm. It was his prized possession. He had taken it from a KGB agent he’d murdered in Syria for the Mossad.

Turning back to Erica, Khalifa had trouble believing someone would want to kill such a fresh-looking girl. She was like a peach ready for picking, and he wondered if Yvon’s motives were strictly business.

Suddenly the girl stood up, gathered her books, and disappeared within her room. Khalifa lowered the glasses to view the Hilton entrance. There was the usual line of taxis and early-morning activity.

Gamal Ibrahim struggled with the El Ahram newspaper, trying to fold over the first page. He was sitting in the rear seat of a taxi he’d hired for the day, parked in the Hilton driveway on the side opposite the entrance. The doorman had complained, but had relented when he saw Gamal’s Department of Antiquities identification. On the seat next to Gamal was a blown-up passport photo of Erica Baron. Each time a woman emerged from the hotel, Gamal would compare the face with the photo.

Gamal himself was twenty-eight. He was a little more than five-feet-four and slightly overweight. Married with two children, aged one and three, he had been hired by the Department of Antiquities just prior to receiving his doctorate in public administration from the University of Cairo that spring. He started work in mid-July, but things had not gone as smoothly as he would have liked. The staff in the department was so large that the only assignments he had been given were odd jobs such as this one, following Erica Baron and reporting where she went. Gamal picked up Erica’s photo as two women emerged and entered a taxi. Gamal had never followed anyone, and he felt the job demeaning, but he was in no position to refuse, especially since he was to report directly to Ahmed Khazzan, the director. Gamal had lots of ideas for the department and felt that now he might have a chance to be heard.

Dressing sensibly for the heat she expected at Saqqara, Erica put on a light beige cotton blouse with short sleeves and cotton pants of a slightly darker shade cut full with a drawstring waist. In her tote bag she deposited her Polaroid, her flashlight, and the 1929 Baedeker guidebook. After careful comparison she had agreed with Abdul Hamdi. The Baedeker was far better than Nagel’s.

At the front desk she was able to retrieve her passport, which apparently had been duly recorded. She was also introduced to her guide for the day, Anwar Selim. Erica did not want a guide, but the hotel had suggested it, and after being tormented by hecklers the day before, she had finally relented, agreeing to pay seven Egyptian pounds for the guide and ten for the taxi and driver. Anwar Selim was a gaunt man in his middle forties, who wore a metal pin with the number 113 on the lapel of his gray suit, proving he was a government-licensed guide.

“I have a wonderful itinerary,” said Selim, who had an affectation of smiling in the middle of his sentences. “First we will visit the Great Pyramid in the coolness of the morning. Then-”

“Thank you,” said Erica, interrupting. She backed away. Selim’s teeth were in sorry shape, and his breath was capable of stopping a charging rhinoceros. “I have already planned the day. I want to go to the Egyptian Museum first for a short visit, then go on to Saqqara.”

“But Saqqara will be hot in the middle of the day,” protested Selim. His mouth was set in a hardened smile, the skin of his face taut from continuous exposure to Egyptian sun.

“I’m sure it will be,” announced Erica, trying to cut off this dialogue, “but it is the itinerary I would like to follow.”

Without altering his facial expression Selim opened the door of the battered taxi that had been retained for her. The driver was young, with a three-day stubble on his face.

As they pulled away for the short hop to the museum, Khalifa put his field glasses on the floor of the car. He allowed Erica’s taxi to pull out into the street before he started his engine, wondering if there was some way he could get some information about the guide and the taxi driver. As he put his car into gear, he noted another taxi pull out from the Hilton directly behind Erica’s. Both cars turned right at the first intersection.

Gamal had recognized Erica when she had appeared, without having to refer to the photo. Hastily he had written the guide’s number, 113, in the margin of his newspaper before telling his driver to follow Erica’s taxi.

When they reached the Egyptian Museum, Selim helped Erica out of the car, and the taxi proceeded to the shade of a sycamore to wait. Gamal had his driver stop under a nearby tree that afforded a view of Erica’s taxi. Opening his newspaper, he went back to a long article on Sadat’s proposals for the West Bank.

Khalifa parked outside the museum compound and purposely walked past Gamal’s taxi to see if he recognized the man. He did not. For Khalifa, Gamal’s movements were already suspicious, but following orders, he entered the museum behind Erica and her guide.

Erica had walked into the famed museum with great enthusiasm, but even her knowledge and interest could not overcome the oppressive atmosphere. The priceless objects looked as out-of-place in the dusty rooms as they did in the Boston Museum on Huntington Avenue. The mysterious statues and stony faces had the look of death, not immortality. The guards were dressed in white uniforms and black berets, reminiscent of the colonial era. Sweepers with thatched brooms pushed the dust from room to room without ever carrying it away. The only workers who were really busy were the repairmen who stood in small roped-off areas plastering or doing simple carpentry with tools similar to those pictured in the ancient Egyptian murals.

Erica tried to ignore the surroundings and concentrate on the more-renowned pieces. In room 32 she was astounded at the lifelike quality of the limestone statues of Rahotep, brother of Khufu, and Nofritis, his wife. They had a serene contemporary look. Erica was content to merely gaze at the faces, but her guide felt compelled to offer the full benefit of his knowledge. He told Erica what Rahotep had said to Khufu when he had first seen the statue. Erica knew it was pure fiction. Politely she told Selim to only answer her questions and that she was actually familiar with most of the objects.

As Erica rounded the Rahotep statue, her eyes wandered across the entranceway of the gallery before returning to the back of the statue. An image of a dark man with a tooth that looked like a fang hovered in her mind, but when she turned again there was no figure in the doorway. It had happened so quickly that it gave her an uneasy feeling. The events of the previous day made her wary, and as she walked around the Rahotep statue she looked at the doorway several times but the dark figure did not reappear. Instead a very noisy group of French tourists entered the room.

Motioning for Selim to leave, Erica stepped from room 32 into the long gallery that ran along the whole western edge of the building. The corridor was empty of people, but as she looked through a double arch to the northwest corner, Erica again saw a fleeting dark figure.

With Selim trying to get her to view various famous objects along the way, Erica quickly walked down the long gallery toward the spot where it intersected a similar gallery on the north side of the museum. Exasperated, Selim doggedly followed the fast-paced American, who seemed to want to view the museum at the speed of light.

She stopped abruptly just short of the intersection. Selim halted behind her, gazing around to see what could have caught her attention. She was standing next to a statue of Senmut, steward of Queen Hatshepsut, but rather than studying it, she was carefully looking around the corner into the north gallery.

“If there is something in particular you’d like to see,” said Selim, “please-”

Erica angrily motioned for Selim to be still. Stepping out into the middle of the gallery, Erica searched for the dark figure. She saw nothing, and felt a little foolish. A German couple walked by, arm in arm, arguing over the floor plan of the museum.

“Miss Baron,” said Selim, obviously struggling to be patient, “I am very familiar with this museum. If there is something you’d like to see, just ask.”

Erica took pity on the man and tried to think of something to ask him so he’d feel more useful.

“Are there any Seti I artifacts in the museum?”

Selim put his index finger on his nose, thinking. Then, without speaking, he lifted the finger in the air and motioned for Erica to follow. He led her up to the second floor to room 47 over the entrance foyer. He stood beside a large piece of exquisitely carved quartzite, labeled 388.1. “The lid to Seti I’s sarcophagus,” he said proudly.

Erica looked at the piece of stone, mentally comparing it with the fabulous statue she’d seen the day before. It wasn’t much of a comparison. She also remembered that Seti I’s sarcophagus itself had been pirated off to London and rested in a small museum there. It was painfully obvious how much the black market shortchanged the Egyptian Museum.

Selim waited until Erica looked up. He then pulled her by the hand to the entrance of another room, directing her to pay the guard at the door another fifteen plasters so that they could enter. Once in the room, Selim navigated between the long low glass cases until he reached one by the wall. “The mummy of Seti I,” said Selim smugly.

Looking down at the dried-up face, Erica felt a little sick. It was the kind of image Hollywood makeup artists strove to imitate for countless horror movies, and she noticed that the ears had fragmented and that the head was no longer attached to the torso. Instead of ensuring immortality, the remains suggested that the horror of death was permanent.

Glancing around at the other royal mummies contained within the room, Erica thought that instead of making ancient Egypt come alive, the petrified bodies emphasized the enormous time that had elapsed and the remoteness of ancient Egypt. She looked back at the face of Seti I. It looked nothing like the beautiful statue she’d seen the day before. There was no resemblance whatsoever. The statue had had a narrow jaw with a straight nose, whereas the mummy had a very wide jaw and a hawklike hooked nose. It gave her the creeps, and she shivered before turning away. Motioning to Selim to follow, she walked out of the room, eager to be leaving the dusty museum for the field.

Erica’s taxi whisked her out into the Egyptian countryside, leaving the confusion of Cairo behind. They drove south on the west bank of the Nile. Selim had tried to continue conversation by telling Erica what Ramses II had said to Moses, but had finally fallen silent. Erica did not want to hurt Selim’s feelings and had tried to ask him about his family, but the guide did not seem to want to talk about that. So they drove in silence, leaving Erica at peace to enjoy the view. She loved the color contrast between the sapphire blue of the Nile and the brilliant green of the irrigated fields. It was time for the date harvest, and they passed donkey loads of palm branches festooned with the red fruit. Opposite the industrial city of Hilwan, which was on the east side of the Nile, the asphalt road forked. Erica’s taxi careened to the right, its horn honking several times despite the fact that the road ahead was clear.

Gamal was only five or six car lengths behind. He was literally on the edge of his seat, making small talk with his driver. He had removed his gray suit jacket in deference to the heat, which he knew was only going to get worse.

Almost a quarter of a mile back, Khalifa had his radio blaring, and the discordant music filled the car. He was now convinced that Erica was already being followed, but the method was peculiar. The taxi was much too close. At the museum entrance he had gotten a good look at the occupant, who appeared to be a university student, but Khalifa had dealt with student terrorists. He knew that their simple appearance was often a cover for ruthlessness and daring.

Erica’s taxi entered a grove of palms that grew so close together it gave the appearance of a coniferous forest. A cool shade replaced the stark sunlight. They came to a halt at a small brick village. On one side was a miniature mosque. On the other was an open area with an eighty-ton alabaster sphinx, lots of pieces of broken statuary, and a huge fallen limestone statue of Ramses II. At the edge of the clearing was a small refreshment stand called the Sphinx Café.

“The fabled city of Memphis,” said Selim solemnly.

“You mean Mennofer,” said Erica, looking out at the meager remains. Memphis was the Greek name. Mennofer was the ancient Egyptian name. “I’d like to buy us all a coffee or a tea,” said Erica, seeing she’d hurt his feelings.

Walking to the refreshment stand, Erica was glad she had been prepared for pitiful remains of this once-mighty capital of ancient Egypt, because otherwise she would have been very disappointed. A large group of ragged young boys approached with their collections of fake antiquities but were effectively driven off by Selim and the taxi driver. They mounted a small veranda with round metal tables and ordered drinks. The men had coffee. Erica ordered Orangina.

Perspiration running down his face, Gamal got out of his taxi clutching his El Ahram. Although he had been initially indecisive, he finally convinced himself he needed a drink. Avoiding looking at Erica’s group, he took a table near the kiosk. After obtaining a coffee, he disappeared behind his newspaper.

Khalifa kept his telescopic sight on Gamal’s chubby torso, but he allowed the fingers of his right hand to relax. He had stopped seventy-five yards short of the Memphis clearing and had quickly unsheathed his Israeli FN sniper’s rifle. He was sitting low in the back seat of his car with the rifle barrel resting on the open driver’s window. From the moment Gamal had emerged from his car, Khalifa had had him squarely in his sights. If Gamal had made any sudden movement toward Erica, Khalifa would have shot him in the ass. It wouldn’t have killed him, but, as Khalifa told himself, it would have slowed him down considerably.

Erica did not enjoy her drink because of the swarm of flies that inhabited the veranda. They were not deflected by a waving hand, and on several occasions they had actually landed on her lips. She got up, told the men not to hurry, and wandered in the clearing. Before getting back in the taxi, Erica stopped to admire the alabaster sphinx. She wondered what kind of mysteries it would tell if it could talk. It was very ancient. It had been made during the Old Kingdom.

Back in the car, they drove on through the dense palm forest until it thinned. Cultivated fields reappeared, along with irrigation canals choked with algae and water plants. Suddenly the Step Pyramid of Pharaoh Zoser reared its familiar profile above a row of palms. Erica felt a thrill of excitement. She was about to visit the oldest stone structure built by man, and for Egyptologists the most important site in Egypt. Here the famed architect Imhotep had built a celestial stairway of six enormous steps rising to a height of about two hundred feet, inaugurating the pyramid age.

Erica felt like an impatient child on her way to the circus. She hated the delay of bouncing through a small mud-brick village before crossing a large irrigation canal. Just beyond the bridge the cultivated land stopped and the arid Libyan desert began. There was no transition. It was like going from noon to midnight without a sunset. Suddenly on either side of the road Erica saw only sand and rock and shimmering heat.

As the taxi came to a halt in the shade of a large tour bus, Erica was the first one out. Selim had to run to keep up with her. The driver opened all four doors of his small car to encourage ventilation while he waited.

Khalifa was becoming more and more confused about Gamal’s behavior. Ignoring Erica, the man had taken his newspaper into the shade of the pyramid’s enclosure wall. He had not even bothered to follow Erica inside. Khalifa deliberated for a few minutes, wondering what would be best for him to do. Thinking that Gamal’s presence could possibly be some sort of clever ruse, he elected to stick close to Erica. He removed his jacket and shifted his Stechkin semiautomatic to his right hand with his jacket draped over it.

For the next hour Erica was intoxicated by the ruins. This was the Egypt she had dreamed about. Her knowledge was capable of translating the debris of the necropolis into the prodigious achievement that it had been five thousand years previously. She knew she could not see everything in one day, and was content to touch the highlights and enjoy the unexpected, like the cobra reliefs she’d never read about. Selim finally accepted his role and stayed mostly in the shade. He was pleased, however, when Erica motioned about noon that she was ready to move on.

“There is a small café/rest house here,” said Selim hopefully.

“I’m very excited to see some of the nobles’ tombs,” said Erica. She was too excited to stop.

“The rest house is right next to the mastaba of Ti and the serapeum,” said Selim.

Erica’s eyes brightened. The serapeum was one of the most unusual ancient Egyptian monuments. Within the catacombs the mummified remains of Apis bulls had been interred with pomp and circumstance befitting kings. It had been with enormous effort that the serapeum had been dug by hand into the solid rock. Erica could understand the effort devoted to construction of human tombs, but not for the bulls. She was convinced that there was a mystery associated with the tomb of the Apis bulls that had yet to be unraveled. “I’m ready for the serapeum,” she said with a smile.

Being overweight, Gamal did not fare well in the heat. Rarely, even in Cairo, did he wander outside at midday. Saqqara at noon was almost beyond his capabilities. As his driver followed Erica’s taxi, he tried to think of ways to survive. Perhaps he could find some shade and have the driver follow Erica until she was ready to return to Cairo. Ahead, Erica’s taxi pulled up and parked at the Saqqara rest house. Looking around, Gamal remembered that when he’d visited the area as a child with his parents he had walked through a scary, dark subterranean cave for bulls. Although the cave had frightened him, he still remembered that it had been deliciously cool.

“Isn’t this the site of the serapeum?” he asked, touching his driver’s shoulder.

“Right over there,” said the driver, pointing toward the beginning of a trench that served as an access ramp.

Gamal looked over at Erica, who had gotten out of her car and was examining the row of sphinxes leading toward the ramp. All at once Gamal knew how he’d cool off. Besides, he thought, it would be fun to see the serapeum again after so many years.

Khalifa was not happy, and he ran his hand nervously through his greasy hair. He’d decided that Gamal was not the amateur he pretended to be. He was far too nonchalant. If he had only been sure of the boy’s ultimate intention, he would have shot and delivered him alive to Yvon de Margeau. But he had to wait for Gamal to make a move. The situation was more complicated and more dangerous than he had anticipated. Khalifa screwed the silencer on the barrel of his automatic and was about to get out of the car when he saw Gamal entering a trench leading to a subterranean opening. He consulted a map. It was the serapeum. Looking back at Erica happily photographing a limestone sphinx, Khalifa knew there was only one reason why Gamal would enter the serapeum first. In one of the dark, vaulted galleries or in one of the narrow passageways, Gamal was going to wait like a poisonous snake and strike when least expected. The serapeum was a perfect assassination spot.

Despite his many years of experience, Khalifa was unsure of what to do. He too could enter before Erica Baron and try to find Gamal’s hiding place, but that could be too risky. He decided he had to enter with Erica and strike first.

Erica walked down the ramp approaching the entrance. She was not fond of caves and in truth did not care for closed spaces. Even before stepping into the serapeum she could feel the damp coolness, and a tingling sensation announced the appearance of gooseflesh on her thighs. She had to force herself forward. A bedraggled Arab with a face like a hatchet took her money. The serapeum had an ominous feel.

Once inside the gloomy entrance gallery, Erica could sense the mysterious grip that aspects of ancient Egyptian culture had exerted on people through the ages. The darkened passageways looked like tunnels to the netherworld, suggesting the eerie power of the occult. Following Selim, she walked deeper and deeper into the bizarre environment. They went down an unendingly long corridor with irregular and rough-hewn walls, meagerly illuminated by infrequent low-wattage light bulbs. In the areas between the lights, dark shadows made vision difficult. Other tourists had a way of suddenly emerging out of the gloom; voices sounded hollow and echoed repeatedly. At right angles to the main corridor were separate galleries, each containing a mammoth black sarcophagus covered with hieroglyphics. Very few of the side galleries were illuminated. Erica quickly felt she had seen enough, but Selim was insistent, saying that the best sarcophagus was at the far end and that a wooden stairway had been built, so she could even see the carvings inside. Reluctantly Erica continued behind Selim. Finally they reached the gallery in question, and Selim stepped aside for Erica to pass. She reached out to grasp the wooden handrail leading to the viewing platform.

Khalifa was a bundle of raw nerves, following close behind Erica. He had released the safety catch on his semiautomatic and again held it in his right hand beneath his jacket. He’d come within a hairbreadth of shooting several tourists when they had suddenly appeared out of the darkness.

As he rounded the corner of the last gallery, he was only fifteen feet behind Erica. The moment he saw Gamal he acted by reflex. Erica was climbing the short wooden stairway built along the side of the highly polished granite sarcophagus. Gamal was on top of the platform looking down at Erica as she climbed. He had stepped back from the edge. Unfortunately for Khalifa, she was directly between him and Gamal, shielding his view and making a quick shot impossible. In a panic Khalifa surged forward, thrusting Selim to the side. He charged up the short stairway, knocking Erica down on her knees, sending her sprawling toward the surprised Gamal.

Spurts of fiery light leaped from Khalifa’s covered pistol, and the deadly slugs tore into Gamal’s chest, piercing his heart. His hands started to rise. His small features twisted in pain and confusion as he teetered and fell forward on top of Erica. Khalifa vaulted over the wooden banister, pulling his knife from his belt. Selim screamed before trying to run. The tourists on the platform still had not comprehended what had happened. Khalifa dashed across the corridor toward the electric wires responsible for the primitive lights. Gritting his teeth against a possible shock, he sliced through the wire, plunging the entire serapeum into utter darkness.

Stephanos Markoulis ordered another Scotch for himself and Evangelos Papparis. Both men were dressed in open-necked knit shirts and were sitting in a corner booth of the La Parisienne lounge in the Meridien Hotel. Stephanos was in a sour, nervous mood, and Evangelos knew his boss well enough to keep still.

“Goddamned Frenchman,” said Stephanos, looking at his watch. “He said he’d be right down, and it’s been twenty minutes.”

Evangelos shrugged. He didn’t say anything because he knew no matter what he said, it would only inflame Stephanos further. Instead he reached down and adjusted the small pistol strapped to his leg just within the top of his right boot. Evangelos was a brawny man with oversized features, particularly his brows, which made him look a little like a Neanderthal, except that his head was completely bald.

Just then Yvon de Margeau appeared in the doorway, carrying his attaché case. He was dressed in a blue blazer with an ascot, and was followed by Raoul. The two men surveyed the room.

“These rich guys always look like they’re on their way to a polo match,” said Stephanos sarcastically. He waved to catch Yvon’s attention. Evangelos shifted the table slightly to give his right hand free range of motion. Yvon saw them and walked over. He shook hands with Stephanos and introduced Raoul before sitting down.

“How was your flight?” asked Yvon with restrained cordiality as soon as they had ordered.

“Terrible,” said Stephanos. “Where are the old man’s papers?”

“You don’t spare words, Stephanos,” said Yvon with a smile. “Perhaps it is best. In any case, I want to know if you killed Abdul Hamdi.”

“If I had killed Hamdi, do you think I’d come down here to this hellhole?” said Stephanos with scorn. He despised men like Yvon who had never had to work a day in their lives.

Believing that silence could be useful with a person like Stephanos, Yvon made a big production out of opening a new pack of Gauloises. He offered them around, but Evangelos was the only taker. He reached for the cigarette, but Yvon teased him by keeping the cigarettes just out of his grasp so that he could make out the tattoo on Evangelos’ hairy, muscular forearm. It was a hula dancer with the word “Hawaii” just below it. Finally letting Evangelos take a cigarette, Yvon asked, “Do you go to Hawaii frequently?”

“I worked the freighters when I was a kid,” said Evangelos. He lit the Gauloise from a small candle on the table and sat back.

Yvon turned to Stephanos, whose impatience was showing. With careful movements Yvon lit his cigarette with his gold lighter before speaking. “No,” said Yvon. “No, I don’t think you’d come to Cairo if you’d killed Hamdi, unless you were worried about something, unless something went wrong. But to tell you the truth, Stephanos, I don’t know what to believe. You did come here very quickly. That’s a little suspicious. Besides, I have learned that Hamdi’s killers were not from Cairo.”

“Ah,” snapped Stephanos, exasperated. “Let me see if I get this right. You learn the killers weren’t from Cairo. From that information you decide that they obviously have to be from Athens. Is that your reasoning?” Stephanos turned toward Raoul. “How can you work for this man?” He tapped his forehead with his index finger.

Raoul’s dark eyes did not blink. His hands rested on his knees. He was prepared to move in a fraction of a second.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Yvon,” said Stephanos, “but you’ll have to look elsewhere for Hamdi’s killer. It wasn’t me.”

“Too bad,” said Yvon. “It would have answered a lot of questions. Do you have any thoughts as to who might have done it?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Stephanos, “but I have a feeling that Hamdi made himself a number of enemies. How about letting me see Hamdi’s papers?”

Yvon lifted his attaché case to the top of the table and put his finger on the latch. He paused. “One other question. Do you have any idea where the Seti I statue is?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Stephanos, looking hungrily at the case.

“I want that statue,” said Yvon.

“If I hear anything about it, I will let you know,” said Stephanos.

“You never gave me a chance to see the Houston statue,” said Yvon, watching Stephanos carefully.

Looking up from the case, Stephanos’ face gave a hint of surprise. “What makes you think I was involved with the Houston statue?”

“Let’s just say I know,” said Yvon.

“Did you learn that from Hamdi’s papers?” asked Stephanos angrily.

Instead of answering, Yvon flipped the latch of his case and dumped Hamdi’s correspondence onto the table. Leaning back, he casually sipped his Pernod as Stephanos quickly shuffled through the letters. He found his own to Abdul Hamdi and put it aside. “Is this all?” he asked.

“That was all we found,” answered Yvon, turning his attention back to the group.

“Did you search the place well?” asked Stephanos.

Yvon glanced over at Raoul, who nodded affirmatively. “Very well,” said Raoul.

“There has to have been more,” said Stephanos. “I cannot imagine the old bastard was bluffing. He said he wanted five thousand dollars in cash or he was going to turn the papers over to the authorities.” Stephanos went through the papers again, more slowly.

“If you had to guess, what would you think happened to the Seti statue?” asked Yvon, taking another drink of Pernod.

“I don’t know,” said Stephanos without looking up from a letter addressed to Hamdi from a dealer in Los Angeles. “But if it’s any help, I can assure you it’s still here in Egypt.”

An awkward silence prevailed. Stephanos was busy reading. Raoul and Evangelos glared at each other over their drinks. Yvon looked out the window. He too thought the Seti statue was still in Egypt. From where he was sitting, he could see the pool area, beyond which was the expanse of the Nile. In the middle of the river the Nile fountain was operating, sending a stream of water straight into the air. Multiple miniature rainbows appeared along the sides of the enormous jet of water. Yvon thought about Erica Baron and hoped that Khalifa Khalil was as good as Raoul said he was. If Stephanos had killed Hamdi and made a move against Erica, Khalifa was going to earn his pay.

“What about this American woman?” said Stephanos, seemingly reading Yvon’s thoughts. “I want to see her.”

“She’s staying at the Hilton,” said Yvon. “But she’s a bit edgy about the whole affair. So treat her gently. She’s the only connection I have with the Seti statue.”

“The statue is not my current interest,” said Stephanos, pushing the correspondence away. “But I want to talk to her, and I promise I’ll be my usual tactful self. Tell me, have you learned anything at all about this Abdul Hamdi?”

“Not much. He was originally from Luxor. He came to Cairo a few months ago to establish a new antiquities shop. He had a son who still has an antique business in Luxor.”

“Have you visited this son?” asked Stephanos.

“No,” said Yvon, rising. He’d had enough of Stephanos. “Remember to tell me if you learn anything about the statue. I can afford it.” With a slight smile, Yvon turned. Raoul stood up and followed.

“Do you believe him?” asked Raoul when they were outside.

“I don’t know what to think,” said Yvon, continuing to walk. “Whether I believe him is one question, whether I trust him is another. He is the biggest opportunist I’ve ever met, bar none. I want Khalifa to be briefed that he must be extremely careful when Stephanos meets with Erica. If he tries to hurt her, I want him shot.”

There was one fly in the room that repeatedly flew an erratic course between the two windows. It sounded noisy in the otherwise still enclosure, especially when it slammed against the glass. Erica looked around the chamber. The walls and ceiling were whitewashed. The only decoration was a smiling poster of Anwar Sadat. The single wooden door was closed.

Erica was sitting in a straight-backed chair. Above her was a light bulb suspended from the ceiling by a frayed black wire. Near the door was a small metal table and another chair like the one she was sitting on. Erica looked a mess. Her pants were torn at the right knee, with an abrasion beneath. A large stain of dried blood covered the back of her beige blouse.

Holding out her hand, she tried to judge whether her trembling was lessening. It was hard to say. At one point she had thought she was going to throw up, but the nausea had passed. Now she felt intermittent waves of dizziness, which she was able to disperse by closing her eyes tightly. There was no doubt she was still in a state of shock, but she was beginning to think more clearly. She knew, for example, that she had been taken to a police station in the village of Saqqara.

Erica rubbed her hands together, noticing that they became moist as she remembered the events in the serapeum. When Gamal first fell on her, she had thought she was trapped in a cave-in. She had made frantic attempts to free herself, but it had been impossible because of the narrow confines of the wooden stairway. Besides, the blackness had been so complete she hadn’t even been sure she had her eyes open. And then she had felt the warm, sticky fluid on her back. Only later did she find out it had been blood from the dying man on top of her.

Erica shook herself past another bout of nausea and looked up as the door opened. The same man who earlier had taken thirty minutes to fill out some sort of government form with a broken pencil reappeared. He spoke little English, but elaborately motioned Erica to follow him. The aged pistol holstered at his belt did not reassure her. She had already experienced the bureaucratic chaos Yvon had feared: obviously she was being considered a suspect rather than an innocent victim. From the moment the “authorities” had arrived on the scene, pandemonium had reigned. At one point two policemen had had such an argument over some piece of evidence that they had almost come to blows. Erica’s passport had been taken and she had been driven to Saqqara in a locked van that was as hot as an oven. She had asked on numerous occasions if she could call the American consulate but had received only shrugs in return as the men continued to argue over what to do with her.

Now Erica followed the man with the old gun through the dilapidated police station out to the street. The same van that had driven her from the serapeum to the village was waiting, its engine idling. Erica tried to ask for her passport, but instead of answering, the man hurried her inside the truck. The door was closed and locked.

Anwar Selim was already crouched on the wooden seat. Erica had not seen him since the catastrophe in the serapeum, and was so pleased to find him again she almost threw her arms around him, begging him to tell her everything was going to be all right. But as she moved into the van, he glowered at her and turned his head.

“I knew you were going to be trouble,” he said without looking at her.

“Me, trouble?” She noticed he was handcuffed, and shrank back.

The van lurched forward, and both passengers had to steady themselves. Erica felt perspiration run down her back.

“You acted strangely from the first moment,” said Selim, “especially in the museum. You were planning something. And I’m going to tell them.”

“I…” began Erica. But she did not continue. Fear clouded her brain. She should have reported Hamdi’s murder.

Selim looked at her and spit on the floor of the van.

When Erica got out of the van, she recognized the corner of El Tahrir Square. She knew she was close to the Hilton, and she wished she could go back to her room to make some calls and find help. Seeing Selim in shackles had increased her anxiety, and she wondered if she were under arrest.

She and Selim were hurried inside the General Security Police Building, which was jammed with people. Then they were separated. Erica was fingerprinted, photographed, and finally escorted to a windowless room.

Her escort smartly saluted an Arab reading a dossier at a plain wooden table. Without looking up he waved his right hand and Erica’s escort departed, closing the door quietly. Erica remained standing. There was silence except when the man turned a page. The fluorescent lights made his bald head shine like a polished apple. His lips were thin and moved slightly as he read. He was impeccably attired in a white martial uniform with a high collar. A black leather strap ran through the epaulet on the left shoulder and was attached to a broader black leather belt that supported a holstered automatic pistol. The man turned to the last page, and Erica caught sight of an American passport clipped to the dossier and hoped that she would be speaking to someone reasonable.

“Please sit down, Miss Baron,” said the policeman, still without looking up. His voice was crisp, emotionless. He had a mustache trimmed to a knifelike line. His long nose curled under at the tip.

Quickly Erica sat in the wooden chair facing the table. Beneath it she could see, next to the policeman’s polished boots, her canvas tote bag. She’d been worried that she’d seen the last of it.

The policeman put down the dossier, then picked up the passport. He opened it to the photo of Erica, and his eyes traveled back and forth between her and the photo several times. He then reached out and put the passport on the table next to the telephone.

“I am Lieutenant Iskander,” said the policeman, clasping his hands together on the table. He paused, looking intently at Erica. “What happened in the serapeum?”

“I don’t know,” stammered Erica. “I was walking up some stairs to view a sarcophagus, and then I was knocked down from behind. Then someone fell on top of me, and the lights went out.”

“Did you see who it was that knocked you down?” He spoke with a slight English accent.

“No,” said Erica. “It all happened so quickly.”

“The victim was shot. Didn’t you hear shots?”

“No, not really. I heard several sounds like someone beating a rug, but no shots.”

Lieutenant Iskander nodded and wrote something in the dossier. “Then what happened?”

“I could not get out from beneath the man who fell on me,” said Erica, remembering again the feeling of terror. “There were some shouts, I think, but I’m not really sure. I do remember that someone brought candles. They helped me up, and someone said the man was dead.”

“Is that all?”

“The guards arrived, then the police.”

“Did you look at the man who was shot?”

“Sort of. I had trouble looking at him.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No,” said Erica.

Reaching down and lifting the tote bag, Iskander pushed it over to Erica. “See if anything is missing.”

Erica checked the bag. Camera, guidebook, wallet-all seemed to be untouched. She counted her money and checked her traveler’s checks. “Everything seems to be here.”

“Then you weren’t robbed.”

“No,” said Erica. “I suppose not.”

“You are trained as an Egyptologist. Is that correct?” asked Lieutenant Iskander.

“Yes,” said Erica.

“Does it surprise you to know that the man who was killed worked for the Department of Antiquities?”

Glancing away from Iskander’s cold eyes, Erica looked down at her hands, realizing for the first time that they had been busy working at each other. She held them still, thinking. Although she felt the urge to answer Iskander’s questions rapidly, she knew that the question he’d just asked her was important, perhaps the most important of the interview. It reminded her of Ahmed Khazzan. He’d said he was director of the Department of Antiquities. Maybe he could help.

“I’m not sure how to answer,” she said finally. “It doesn’t surprise me the man worked for the Department of Antiquities. He could have been anyone. I certainly did not know him.”

“Why did you visit the serapeum?” asked Lieutenant Iskander.

Remembering Selim’s accusing comments in the van, Erica thought carefully about her answer. “The guide I’d hired for the day suggested it,” said Erica.

Opening the dossier, Lieutenant Iskander again wrote.

“May I ask a question?” asked Erica in an uncertain voice.

“Certainly.”

“Do you know Ahmed Khazzan?”

“Of course,” said Lieutenant Iskander. “Do you know Mr. Khazzan?”

“Yes, and I’d like very much to speak with him,” said Erica.

Lieutenant Iskander reached out and picked up the phone. He watched Erica as he dialed. He did not smile.

The walk seemed endless. Corridors stretched in front of her until perspective reduced them to pinpoints. And they were jammed with people. Egyptians wearing everything from silk suits to ragged galabias were lined up in front of doors or spilling out of offices. Some were sleeping on the floor, so that Erica and her escort had to step over them. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, garlic, and the greasy smell of lamb.

When Erica reached the outer office of the Department of Antiquities she remembered the multitude of desks and antique typewriters from the night before. The difference was that now they were occupied with ostensibly busy civil servants. After a short wait Erica was shown into the inner office. It was air-conditioned, and the coolness was a welcome relief.

Ahmed was standing behind the desk peering out the window. A corner of the Nile could be seen between the Hilton and the skeleton of the new Intercontinental Hotel. He turned when Erica entered.

She had been prepared to pour out her problems like an overflowing river and plead with Ahmed to help her. But something in his expression made her hold back. There was a sadness about his face. His eyes were veiled and his thick dark hair was disheveled, as if he had been repeatedly running his fingers over his scalp.

“Are you all right?” asked Erica, genuinely concerned.

“Yes,” said Ahmed slowly. His voice was hesitant, depressed. “I never imagined what the strain of running this department was going to be like.” He flopped down in his chair, eyes momentarily closed.

Before, Erica had only guessed at his sensitivity. Now she wanted to walk around the desk and comfort the man.

Ahmed’s eyes opened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please sit down.”

Erica complied.

“I’ve been briefed about what happened at the serapeum, but I’d like to hear the story in your own words.”

Erica began at the beginning. Wanting to tell everything, she even mentioned the man in the museum who had made her nervous.

Ahmed listened intently. He did not interrupt. Only after she stopped did he speak. “The man who was shot was named Gamal Ibrahim and he worked here at the Department of Antiquities. He was a fine boy.” Ahmed’s eyes glistened with tears. Seeing such an obviously strong man so moved, unlike the American men she knew, made Erica forget her own troubles. This ability to reveal emotion was a powerfully attractive quality. Ahmed looked down and composed himself before he continued. “Had you seen Gamal at all during the morning?”

“I don’t believe so,” said Erica, but not convincingly. “There is a chance I saw him at a refreshment stand in Memphis, but I’m not sure.”

Ahmed ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Tell me,” he said. “Gamal was already upon the wooden platform in the serapeum when you started up the stairs.”

“That’s right,” said Erica.

“I find that curious,” said Ahmed.

“Why?” questioned Erica.

Ahmed looked slightly flustered. “I’m just thinking,” he said evasively, “nothing makes sense.”

“I feel the same way, Mr. Khazzan. And I want to assure you that I had nothing to do with the affair. Nothing. And I think I should be able to call the American embassy.”

“You may call the American embassy,” said Ahmed, “but frankly there is no need to do so.”

“I think I need some help.”

“Miss Baron, I’m sorry you were inconvenienced today. But actually this is our problem. You can call whomever you’d like when you get back to your hotel.”

“I’m not going to be detained here?” asked Erica, almost afraid to believe what she was hearing.

“Of course not,” said Ahmed.

“That is good news,” said Erica. “But there is one other thing I must tell you about. I should have told you last night, but I was afraid. Anyway…” She breathed in deeply. “I’ve had two very strange and upsetting days. I’m not sure which was worse. Yesterday afternoon I inadvertently witnessed another murder, incredible as it may sound.” Erica involuntarily shivered. “I happened to see an old man by the name of Abdul Hamdi killed by three men, and-”

Ahmed’s chair thudded to the floor. He had been leaning back. “Did you actually see the faces?” His surprise and concern were apparent.

“Two of them, yes. The third, no,” said Erica.

“Could you identify those whom you did see?” asked Ahmed.

“Possibly. I’m not sure. But I do want to apologize about not telling you last night. I really was afraid.”

“I understand,” said Ahmed. “Don’t worry. I will take care of that. But undoubtedly we will have more questions.”

“More questions…” said Erica forlornly. “Actually, I would like to leave Egypt as soon as possible. This trip is nothing like I’d planned.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Baron,” said Ahmed, regaining the composure Erica remembered from the night before. “Under the circumstances, you will not be allowed to leave until these issues are cleared up or we are sure you cannot contribute any more. I really am sorry that you have become involved like this. But you may feel free to move about as much as you’d like-just let me know if you plan to leave Cairo. Again, you should feel free to discuss the problem with the American embassy, but remember they have little say over our internal affairs.”

“Being detained within the country is far better than being in jail,” said Erica, smiling weakly. “How long do you think it will be before I will be allowed to leave?”

“It’s hard to say. Perhaps a week. Although it might be difficult, I suggest that you try to regard your experiences here as unfortunate coincidences. I think you should try to enjoy Egypt.” Ahmed toyed with his pencils before continuing. “As a representative of the government, I’d like to offer you dinner tonight and show you that Egypt can be very pleasurable.”

“Thank you,” said Erica, genuinely moved by Ahmed’s concern, “but I’m afraid I already have plans with Yvon de Margeau.”

“Oh, I see,” said Ahmed, looking away. “Well, please accept my apologies from my government. I will have you driven to your hotel, and I promise I will be in touch.”

He stood up and shook hands with Erica across his desk. His grip was pleasantly strong and firm. Erica walked from the room, surprised that the conversation had ended so abruptly and stunned to be free.

As soon as she left, Ahmed summoned Zaki Riad, the assistant director, to his office. Riad had fifteen years’ seniority in the department but had been passed over during Ahmed’s meteoric rise to director. Although he was an intelligent, quick-witted man, his physical type was the exact opposite of Ahmed’s. He was obese, with bloated features, and his hair was as dark and tightly curled as a karakul lamb’s.

Ahmed had walked to the giant map of Egypt, turning when his assistant had seated himself. “What do you make of all this, Zaki?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” answered Zaki, wiping his brow, which sweated despite the air conditioning. He enjoyed seeing Ahmed under pressure.

“I cannot for the life of me figure out why Gamal was shot,” said Ahmed, slamming his fist against his open palm. “God, a young man with children. Do you think his death had anything to do with the fact he was following Erica Baron?”

“I cannot see how,” said Zaki, “but I guess there’s always a chance.” The last comment was intended to sting. Zaki stuck an unlit pipe in his mouth, mindless of the ashes that drifted down onto his chest.

Ahmed covered his eyes with his hand and massaged his scalp; then slowly he let his hand slide down his face to stroke his luxuriant mustache. “It just doesn’t make sense.” He turned and looked at the large map. “I wonder if there is something going on in Saqqara. Maybe some new tombs have been illicitly discovered.” He walked back and sat down behind his desk. “More disturbing, the immigration authorities notified me that Stephanos Markoulis arrived in Cairo today. As you know, he does not come here often.” Ahmed leaned forward, looking directly at Zaki Riad. “Tell me, what have the police reported about Abdul Hamdi?”

“Very little,” said Zaki. “Apparently he was robbed. The police were able to learn that the old man had recently experienced a marked change in fortune, moving his antique business from Luxor to Cairo. At the same time, he’d been able to purchase more valuable pieces. He must have had some money. So he was robbed.”

“Any idea where his money came from?” asked Ahmed.

“No, but there is someone who might. The old man does have a son in the antique business in Luxor.”

“Have the police spoken to the son?” asked Ahmed.

“Not that I know of,” said Zaki. “That would be too logical for the police. Actually, they’re not all that interested.”

“I’m interested,” said Ahmed. “Arrange air transportation for me to go to Luxor tonight. I will pay Abdul Hamdi’s son a visit in the morning. Also, send several additional guards to the Necropolis of Saqqara.”

“Are you sure this is the right time for you to leave Cairo?” asked Zaki, pointing with the stem of his pipe. “As you indicated, with Stephanos Markoulis in Cairo, something is happening.”

“Perhaps, Zaki,” said Ahmed, “but I think I need to get away and spend a day or so in my own house by the Nile. I cannot help but feel a tremendous responsibility for poor Gamal. When I feel this depressed, Luxor is an emotional balm.”

“And what about the American woman, Erica Baron?” Zaki lit his pipe with a stainless-steel lighter.

“She’s fine. She’s scared, but she seemed to have pulled herself together by the time she left. I’m not sure how I’d react if I’d witnessed two murders in twenty-four hours, especially if one of the victims fell on top of me.”

Zaki took several thoughtful puffs on his pipe before continuing. “Strange. But, Ahmed, when I asked about Miss Baron, I wasn’t inquiring about her health. I want to know if you want her followed.”

“No,” said Ahmed angrily. “Not tonight. She’s going to be with de Margeau.” Almost the instant the words left his mouth, Ahmed felt embarrassed. His emotion was out of place.

“This is not like you, Ahmed,” said Zaki, watching the director very closely. He’d known Ahmed for several years, and Ahmed had never shown any interest in women. Now, suddenly it seemed that Ahmed was jealous. Finding a potential human weakness in Ahmed made Zaki feel inwardly pleased. He’d grown to hate Ahmed’s perfect record. “Perhaps it is best if you go to Luxor for a few days. I will certainly be happy to keep things under control here in Cairo, and I will look into Saqqara personally.”

As the government car pulled up to the Hilton, Erica still could not quite believe she had been released. She opened the door before the vehicle had come to a complete stop and thanked the driver as if he’d had something to do with her release. Entering the Hilton was a little like coming home.

Once again the lobby was extremely busy. The afternoon international flights had been discharging passengers in a steady stream. Most of them were waiting perched on their luggage as the inefficient hotel tried to deal with the daily onslaught.

Erica realized how out-of-place she must look. She was hot, sweaty, and a mess. The large bloodstain was still on her back, and her cotton pants were in sorry shape, smeared with dirt and torn on her right knee. If there had been an alternate route to her room she would have taken it. Unfortunately, she had to walk directly across the large red-and-blue Oriental rug beneath the main crystal chandelier. It was like being in a spotlight, and people began to stare.

One of the men at the registration desk caught sight of her and waved with his pen, pointing in her direction. Erica quickened her step, gaining on the elevator. She pressed the button, afraid to look behind her in case someone was coming to stop her. She pushed the elevator button several more times while the floor indicator slowly came toward Ground. The door opened and she entered the car, asking the operator for the ninth floor. He nodded silently. The door began to close, but before it sealed, a hand wrapped around its lead edge, forcing the elevator man to reopen it. Erica backed against the rear of the car and held her breath.

“Hello, there,” said a large man wearing a stetson and cowboy boots. “Are you Erica Baron?”

Erica’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“My name is Jeffrey John Rice, from Houston. You are Erica Baron?” The man continued to keep the door from closing. The elevator operator stood like a stone statue.

Like a guilty child Erica nodded in affirmation.

“So nice to meet you, Miss Baron.” Jeffrey Rice held out his hand.

Erica lifted her own like an automaton. Jeffrey Rice pumped it exuberantly. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Baron. I’d like you to meet my wife.”

Without letting go of her hand, Jeffrey Rice yanked Erica from the elevator. She stumbled forward, rescuing her tote as the strap slipped off her shoulder.

“We’ve been waiting for you for hours,” said Rice, pulling Erica toward the lobby.

After four or five clumsy steps she managed to extract her hand. “Mr. Rice,” she said, coming to a stop, “I’d like to meet your wife, but some other time. I’ve had a very strange day.”

“You do look a little ragged, dear, but let’s have one drink.” He reached out again and took Erica’s wrist.

“Mr. Rice!” said Erica sharply.

“Come on, honey. We’ve come halfway around the world to see you.”

Erica looked into Jeffrey Rice’s tanned, immaculately barbered face. “What do you mean, Mr. Rice?”

“Exactly what I said. My wife and I have come from Houston to see you. We flew all night. Luckily I’ve my own plane. Least you can do is have a drink with us.”

Suddenly the name registered. Jeffrey Rice had the Houston statue of Seti I. It had been late at night when she’d spoken to Dr. Lowery, but now she remembered.

“You’ve come from Houston?”

“That’s right. Flew over. Landed a few hours ago. Now, come over and meet my wife, Priscilla.”

Erica allowed herself to be pulled back through the lobby to be introduced to Priscilla Rice, a Southern belle with a deep déecolletage and a very large diamond ring that effectively competed for sparkle with the enormous chandelier. Her Southern accent was even more pronounced than her husband’s.

Jeffrey Rice herded his wife and Erica into the Taverne Lounge. His officious manner and loud voice got rapid service, especially since he freely passed out Egyptian one-pound notes as tips. Within the dim light of the cocktail lounge Erica felt a little less conspicuous. They sat in a corner booth, where Erica’s torn and soiled clothes could not be seen.

Jeffrey Rice ordered straight bourbon for both himself and his wife and a vodka and tonic for Erica, who found herself relaxing, even laughing at the Texan’s tall stories about their experiences at customs. Erica allowed herself a second vodka and tonic.

“Well, to business,” said Jeffrey Rice, lowering his voice. “I certainly don’t want to spoil this party, but we have come a long way. Rumor has it that you’ve seen a statue of Pharaoh Seti I.”

Erica noticed that Rice’s demeanor changed dramatically. She guessed that he was a shrewd businessman beneath the playful-Texan guise.

“Dr. Lowery said that you wanted some photos of my statue, particularly of the hieroglyphics in the base. I have those photos right here.” Jeffrey Rice drew an envelope from his jacket pocket and held it straight up in the air. “Now, I’m happy to give these to you, provided you tell me where you saw the statue you told Dr. Lowery about. You see, I was planning on giving my statue to my city of Houston, but it’s not going to be so special if there’s a whole bunch of them floating around. In other words, I want to buy that statue you saw. I want to buy it bad. In fact, I’m willing to give ten thousand dollars to anyone who can just tell me where it is so that I can buy it. Yourself included.”

Putting her drink down, Erica stared at Jeffrey Rice. Having seen Cairo’s unmitigated poverty, she knew that ten thousand dollars here would have the same effect as a billion dollars in New York. It would create unbelievable pressure in the Cairo underworld. Since Abdul Hamdi’s death was doubtless related to the statue, the ten thousand dollars offered just for information could cause numerous additional deaths. It was a frightening thought.

Erica rapidly described her experience with Abdul Hamdi and the statue of Seti I. Rice listened intently, writing down Abdul Hamdi’s name. “Do you know if anyone else has seen the statue?” he asked, tilting back his stetson.

“Not that I know of,” said Erica.

“Is there anyone else that knows Abdul Hamdi had the statue?”

“Yes,” said Erica. “A Monsieur Yvon de Margeau. He’s staying at the Meridien Hotel. He indicated that Hamdi had corresponded with potential buyers around the world, so there are probably a lot of people that knew Hamdi had the statue.”

“Looks like this is going to be more fun than we expected,” said Rice, leaning across the table and patting his wife’s slim wrist. Turning back to Erica, he handed her the envelope of photos. “Do you have any idea where the statue could be?”

Erica shook her head. “No idea whatsoever,” she said, taking the envelope. Despite the poor light, she could not wait to see the pictures, so she pulled them out and looked closely at the first one.

“That’s some statue, isn’t it?” said Rice, as if he were showing Erica pictures of his firstborn child. “It makes all that Tut stuff look like a child’s toys.”

Jeffrey Rice was right. Looking at the photos, Erica admitted the statue was stunning. But she also noticed something else. As far as she could recall, the statue was identical with the one she’d seen. Then she hesitated. Looking at Rice’s statue, she saw that the right hand was holding the jewel-encrusted mace. She remembered that Abdul’s statue held the mace in its left hand. The statues were not the same, they were mirror images! Erica shuffled through the rest of the photographs. There were pictures of the statue from every angle, very good photos, obviously professional. Finally, toward the bottom of the stack, were the close-ups. Erica felt her pulse quicken when she saw the hieroglyphics. It was too dark to see the symbols clearly, but by tilting the photo she was able to see the two pharaonic cartouches. There were the names, Seti I and Tutankhamen. Amazing.

“Miss Baron,” said Jeffrey Rice, “it would be our pleasure to have you join us for dinner.” Priscilla Rice smiled warmly as her husband extended the invitation.

“Thank you,” said Erica, replacing the photos in the envelope. “Unfortunately, I already have plans. Perhaps some other evening, if you are staying in Egypt.”

“Of course,” said Jeffrey Rice. “Or you and your guests could join us tonight.”

Erica thought for a moment, then declined. Jeffrey Rice and Yvon de Margeau would mix like oil and water. Erica was about to excuse herself when she thought of something else. “Mr. Rice, how did you buy your Seti I statue?” Her voice was hesitant, since she didn’t know the propriety of the question.

“With money, my dear!” Jeffrey Rice laughed, slapping the table with an open hand. He obviously thought his joke was hilarious. Erica smiled weakly and waited, hoping there would be more.

“I heard about it from an art-dealer friend in New York. He called me up and said that there was an amazing piece of Egyptian sculpture that was going to be auctioned behind closed doors.”

“Closed doors?”

“Yeah, no publicity. Kinda hush-hush. Happens all the time.”

“Was it here in Egypt?” asked Erica.

“Nope, Zurich.”

“Switzerland,” said Erica incredulously. “Why Switzerland?”

Jeffrey Rice shrugged. “At that kind of auction you don’t ask questions. There’s a certain etiquette.”

“Do you know how it got to Zurich?” asked Erica.

“No,” said Jeffrey Rice. “As I said, you don’t ask questions. It was arranged by one of the big banks there, and they tend to be very closemouthed. All they want is the money.” Smiling, he got up and offered to escort Erica back to the elevator. He obviously had no intention of saying more.

Erica entered her room with her head reeling. Jeffrey Rice’s statements were as much to blame as the two drinks. While he had waited with her for the elevator, he had casually mentioned that the statue was not the first Egyptian antiquity he’d purchased in Zurich. He’d gotten several gold statues and a wonderful pectoral necklace, all possibly dating from the time of Seti I.

Putting the envelope with the photos down on the bureau, Erica thought about her earlier conception of the black market: somebody would find a small artifact in the sand and would sell it to someone who wanted it. Now she was forced to admit that the final transacting took place in the paneled conference rooms of international banks. It was incredible.

Erica removed her blouse, looked at the bloodstain, and impulsively threw it away. Her pants followed the blouse to the same wastebasket. Removing her bra, she noticed the blood had even soaked through to the back strap. But she could not cavalierly discard her bra. Bras were difficult for Erica to buy, and there were only a few brands that were comfortable. Before doing something rash, she opened the top drawer of the bureau to count how many she’d brought along. But instead of counting, she found herself just looking at her underclothes. Lingerie was an extravagance that Erica had allowed herself even during her financially lean years as a fulltime student. She enjoyed the reassuring feminine feel of expensive underwear. Consequently she was careful with them, and when she had unpacked, she had taken the time to lay things out neatly. But now the drawer looked different. Someone had been in her belongings!

Erica stood up and looked around the room. The bed was made, so obviously housekeeping had been in, but would they go into her clothes? It was possible. Quickly she checked the middle drawer, pulling out her Levi’s. In the side pocket were her diamond earrings, the last gift she’d received from her father. In the back pocket was her return airline ticket and the bulk of her traveler’s checks. After finding everything in its place, she heaved a sigh of relief and returned the jeans.

Looking back into the top drawer, she wondered if she could have disturbed her own belongings that morning. Walking into the bathroom, she picked up her plastic makeup bag and examined its contents. Obviously she did not organize her makeup, yet she used the various articles in an orderly fashion, dropping each into the bag after using it. Her moisturizer should have been close to the bottom; instead it was on the top. Also on the top were her birth-control pills, which she always took in the evening. Erica looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes reflected a feeling of violation, similar to that generated by the boy who had felt her up the day before. Someone had had his hands in her things. Erica wondered if she should report the incident to the hotel management. But what would she say, since nothing was taken?

Returning to the foyer, Erica nervously locked her door with the dead bolt. Then she walked over and looked out through the sliding glass door, where the fiery Egyptian sun was reaching for the western horizon. The sphinx looked like a hungry lion ready to pounce. The pyramids thrust their massive shapes against a bloodred sky. Erica wished she felt happier to be within their shadow.

Dinner with Yvon turned out to be a soothingly romantic interlude. Erica surprised herself with her resilience; despite the harrowing day and despite the guilty feeling she had had since her call to Richard, she was able to enjoy the evening. Yvon had picked her up at her hotel while the spot where the sun had set still glowed like a dying ember. They had driven south along the Nile out of the dusty heat of Cairo toward the town of Maadi. As the stars had emerged in the darkening sky, Erica’s tension had evaporated into the cool evening air.

The restaurant was called the Sea Horse, and it was situated directly on the Nile’s eastern bank. Taking advantage of the perfect Egyptian nighttime climate, the dining room was open on all four sides. Across the river and above a line of palms were the illuminated pyramids of Giza.

They dined on fresh fish and giant prawns from the Red Sea, grilled on an open fire and washed down with a chilled white wine called Gianaclis. Yvon thought it was terrible and cut it with mineral water, but Erica liked its slightly sweet, fruity taste.

She watched him drink, admiring his closely fitted dark blue silk shirt. Reminding her of her silk tops, which she prized and wore on special occasions, it should have seemed feminine, but it didn’t. In fact the silvery sheen seemed to emphasize his masculinity.

Erica herself had taken a long time to get ready, and the effort had paid off. Her freshly washed hair was loosely pulled back on the sides and held with tortoise-shell combs. She had chosen to wear a one-piece chocolate-brown jersey with a scooped neck, cap sleeves, and elastic waist. Beneath she had on hose for the first time since she had gotten off the plane. She knew that she looked as good as she could, and the whole effect pleased her as the soft Nile breeze caressed the nape of her neck.

Their conversation started lightly but soon switched to the murders. Yvon had been frustrated in his attempts to discover who had killed Abdul Hamdi. He told Erica that the only thing he’d learned was that the murderers were not from Cairo. Then Erica described her harrowing episode in the serapeum and the subsequent experience with the police.

“I wish you had allowed me to accompany you today,” said Yvon, shaking his head in wonderment when Erica had finished her story. He reached across the table and lightly pressed her hand.

“So do I,” admitted Erica, looking down at their barely touching fingers.

“I have a confession,” said Yvon softly. “When I first met you, I was only interested in the Seti statue. But now I find you irresistibly charming.” His teeth gleamed in the candlelight.

“I don’t know you well enough to know when you are teasing,” said Erica, acknowledging an adolescent thrill.

“I’m not teasing, Erica. You are very different from any woman I’ve ever met.”

Erica looked out across the darkened Nile. Faint movement on the near bank caught her eye, and she could just make out several fishermen working on a sailboat. They were apparently naked and their skin glistened like polished onyx in the darkness. With her eyes momentarily captured by the scene, Erica thought about Yvon’s comment. It sounded like such a cliché, and in that sense a little demeaning. Yet it was possible there was some truth in it, because Yvon was different from any man she’d ever met.

“The fact that you are trained as an Egyptologist,” continued Yvon, “I find fascinating, because-and I mean this as a compliment-you have an East European sensuality that I love. Besides, I think you share some of Egypt’s mysterious vibrancy.”

“I think I’m very American,” said Erica.

“Ah, but Americans have ethnic origins, and I think yours are apparent. I find it very attractive. To tell you the truth, I am tired of the cold, blond Nordic look.”

As strange as it seemed to her, Erica found herself at a loss for words. The last thing she expected or wanted was an infatuation making her emotionally vulnerable.

Yvon seemed to sense her discomfort and changed the subject while their dinner dishes were cleared. “Erica, could you possibly identify the killer in the serapeum today? Did you get to see his face?”

“No,” said Erica, “it was as if the sky had fallen in. I didn’t see anyone.”

“God, what an awful experience. I can’t think of anything worse. And falling on top of you! Unbelievable. But you know that assassinations of government officials are a daily occurrence in the Middle East. Well, at least you weren’t hurt. I know it will be difficult but I wouldn’t give it any more thought. It was just such a crazy coincidence. And coming on top of Hamdi’s death makes it that much worse. Two murders in two days. I don’t know if I could take it.”

“I know it was probably a coincidence,” said Erica, “but there is one thing that concerns me. The poor man who was shot didn’t just work for the government; he worked for the Department of Antiquities. So both victims dealt with ancient artifacts, but from supposedly opposite sides of the issue. Still, what do I know?” Erica smiled weakly.

The waiter brought out Arabic coffee and served the dessert. Yvon had ordered a coarse semolina cake coated in sugar and sprinkled with walnuts and raisins.

“One of the amazing aspects of your adventure,” said Yvon, “was that you were not detained by the police.”

“That’s not totally correct. I was detained for a number of hours, and I’m not permitted to leave the country.” Erica tasted the dessert but decided it wasn’t worth the calories.

“That’s nothing. You’re lucky you’re not in jail. I’d be willing to wager that your guide still is.”

“I think I have Ahmed Khazzan to thank for my release,” said Erica.

“You know Ahmed Khazzan?” asked Yvon. He stopped eating.

“I don’t know how to categorize our relationship,” said Erica. “After you left me last night, Ahmed Khazzan was waiting for me in my room.”

“This is true?” Yvon’s fork clattered as it hit the table.

“If you think you’re surprised, try to imagine how I felt. I thought I was being arrested for not reporting Hamdi’s murder. He took me to his office and questioned me for an hour.”

“That’s incredible,” said Yvon, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Ahmed Khazzan already knew about Hamdi’s murder?”

“I don’t know if he did or not,” said Erica. “Initially I thought he did. Why else would he have taken me to his office? But he never said anything about it, and I was afraid to bring it up.”

“Then what did he want?”

“Mostly he wanted to know about you.”

“Me!” Yvon assumed a playfully innocent expression and poked his chest with his index finger. “Erica, you have had a most amazing two days. I’ve never even met Ahmed Khazzan, and I’ve been coming here to Egypt for a number of years. What did he ask you about me?”

“He wanted to know what you are doing in Egypt.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t know.”

“You said nothing about the Seti statue?”

“No. I was afraid if I mentioned the statue, I’d be drawn into talking about Hamdi’s murder.”

“Did he say anything about the Seti statue?”

“Nothing.”

“Erica, you are fantastic.” Suddenly he leaned over the table, cradled Erica’s face in his hands, and kissed her on both cheeks.

The exuberance of the gesture dumbfounded her, and she felt herself blushing, something she hadn’t done in years. Self-consciously she took a sip of the sweet coffee. “I don’t think Ahmed Khazzan believed everything I said.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Yvon. He went back to his dessert.

“When I returned to my hotel room this afternoon, I noticed some very subtle changes in my belongings. I think my room was searched. After Ahmed Khazzan had been in there the night before, the only thing I can imagine is that the Egyptian authorities returned. My valuables weren’t touched. I wasn’t robbed. But I have no idea what they could have been looking for.”

Yvon chewed thoughtfully, looking directly at Erica. “Does your door have an extra night latch?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Use it,” said Yvon. He took another bite of dessert and swallowed thoughtfully before he spoke again. “Erica, when you visited with Abdul Hamdi, did he give you any letters or papers?”

“No,” said Erica. “He gave me a fake scarab, which looks real, and he did convince me to use his 1929 Baedeker instead of my own Nagel’s.”

“Where are these things?” asked Yvon.

“Right here,” said Erica. She reached into her tote bag and extracted the Baedeker without the cover. It had finally detached, and Erica had left it in her room. The scarab was in her coin purse.

Yvon picked up the scarab and held it close to the candle. “Are you sure this is a fake?”

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” said Erica. “I thought it was real too, but Hamdi insisted. Said his son made it.”

Yvon carefully put the scarab down and picked up the guidebook. “These Baedekers are fantastic,” he said. He flipped through the volume carefully, viewing each page. “They are the best guides ever written for the Egyptian sites, particularly Luxor.” Yvon pushed the coverless book back toward Erica. “Do you mind if I have this authenticated?” he asked, holding the scarab between his thumb and forefinger.

“You mean carbon-dated?” asked Erica.

“Yes,” said Yvon. “This looks very good to me, and it has the cartouche of Seti I. I think it’s bone.”

“You’re right about the material. Hamdi said his son carved them of bone from mummies in the ancient public catacombs. So it will date properly. He also said that they make the cut surfaces look old by feeding them to turkeys.”

Yvon laughed. “The antique industry in Egypt is extremely resourceful. Just the same, I’d like to have this scarab examined.”

“It’s fine with me, but I would like to have it back.” Erica took a last sip of coffee but ended up with bitter grounds in her mouth. “Yvon, why is Ahmed Khazzan so interested in your affairs?”

“I think I worry him,” said Yvon. “But why he spoke to you rather than to me, I cannot answer. He thinks of me as a dangerous collector of antiquities. He knows I’ve made some important acquisitions while trying to unravel the black-market routing. The fact that I am interested in doing something about the black market has no meaning. Ahmed Khazzan is part of the bureaucracy here. Rather than accept my help, they probably fear for their jobs. Besides, there is the lingering hatred of the British and the French. And I am French and a little English.”

“You are part English?” asked Erica with disbelief.

“I don’t admit it often,” said Yvon with his strong French accent. “European genealogy is more complicated than most people think. My family residence is the Château Valois near Rambouillet, which is between Paris and Chartres. My father is the Marquis de Margeau, but my mother was from the English Harcourt family.”

“Sounds a long way from Toledo, Ohio,” said Erica quietly.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I said, it sounds intriguing,” said Erica, smiling as he settled the bill.

Leaving the restaurant Yvon slipped his hand around Erica’s waist. It felt good. The evening air had cooled considerably and the almost full moon shone between the branches of the eucalyptus trees lining the road. A chorus of insects resounded in the darkness, reminding Erica of August nights as a child in Ohio. It was a comfortable memory.

“What kind of important Egyptian antiquities have you purchased?” asked Erica as they drew near to Yvon’s Fiat.

“Some wonderful pieces that I’d love to show you sometime,” said Yvon. “I’m particularly fond of several small golden statues. One of Nekhbet and another of Isis.”

“Have you purchased any Seti I pieces?” asked Erica. Yvon opened the passenger door to the car. “Possibly a necklace. Most of my pieces are from the New Kingdom, and a number could be from the time of Seti I.”

Erica entered the car and Yvon told her to use her seat belt. “I’ve done a little auto racing,” said Yvon, “and I always use them.”

“I could have guessed,” said Erica, remembering the ride the day before.

Yvon laughed. “Everyone says I drive a little fast. I enjoy it.” He reached for his driving gloves on the dash. “I suppose you know about as much about Seti I as I. It is curious. It is known very accurately when his fabulous rock-cut tomb was plundered in ancient times. The faithful priests in the twentieth dynasty were able to save his mummy, and they documented their efforts very well.”

“I saw the mummy of Seti I this morning,” said Erica.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” asked Yvon, starting the engine. “The fragile body of Seti I comes down to us essentially intact. Seti I was one of the pharaonic mummies in that fabulous cache illicitly found by the clever Rasul family at the end of the nineteenth century.” Yvon turned and leaned over the front seat to back up the car. “The Rasuls slowly exploited that find over a ten-year period before they were caught. An amazing story.” He pulled away from the restaurant and accelerated toward Cairo. “A few people still think there are some Seti I belongings to be discovered. When you visit his enormous tomb in Luxor, you’ll see places where people have obtained permits to cut tunnels during this century, trying to find a secret room. The stimulus for this has been occasional Seti pieces surfacing on the black market. But it’s not surprising to see some Seti artifacts. He probably was buried with a staggering array of possessions. And even if his tomb was stripped, they often recycled funerary objects in ancient Egypt. The stuff was probably buried and robbed over and over again down through the years. Consequently a lot of it is most likely still under ground. Very few people have any idea how many peasants currently dig for antiquities in Luxor. Every night they shift the desert sand, and occasionally they find something spectacular.”

“Like the Seti I statue?” said Erica, looking again at Yvon’s profile. He smiled and she could see the whiteness of his teeth against his tanned skin.

“Exactly,” he said. “But can you imagine what Seti’s unplundered tomb must have looked like? My God, it must have been fantastic. The treasures of Tutankhamen dazzle us today, but they were insignificant compared to Seti I’s.”

Erica knew Yvon was right, especially after seeing the statue at Abdul Hamdi’s. Seti I had been a major pharaoh who ruled an empire, Tutankhamen an insignificant boy king who probably never held any real power.

“Merde!” shouted Yvon as they hit one of the ubiquitous potholes. The car shimmied from the impact. As they entered Cairo, the road deteriorated and they had to slow down. The city began as pieces of cardboard propped up with sticks. They were the housing of the newly arrived immigrants. The cardboard gave way to sheets of metal and cloth and occasional oil barrels. Finally the shantytown was superseded by crumbly mud brick and eventually the city proper, but the feeling of poverty hung in the air like a miasma.

“Would you care to come to my suite for an after-dinner brandy?” asked Yvon.

Erica glanced over at him, trying to sort out her feelings. There was a good chance that Yvon’s offer was not as innocent as it sounded. But she was definitely attracted to him, and after the appalling day, the idea of being close to someone was very appealing. Still, physical attraction was not always a reliable guide to behavior, and Yvon was almost too good to be true. Looking at him, she admitted that he was beyond her experience. It was too much too soon.

“Thank you, Yvon,” said Erica warmly, “but I think not. Perhaps you’d like to have another drink at the Hilton.”

“But of course.” For a moment Erica felt a little disappointed Yvon wasn’t more persistent. Perhaps she was a victim of her own fantasies.

Reaching the hotel, they decided a walk would be better than the smoke-filled Taverne. Hand in hand they crossed the busy Korneish-el-Nil Boulevard to the Nile and wandered out onto the El Tahrir bridge. Yvon pointed out the Meridien Hotel on the tip of Roda island. A lone felucca silently slipped through the dappled path of moonlight on the water.

Yvon put his arm around Erica as they strolled, and Erica allowed her own hand to cover his. Again she felt self-conscious. It had been a long time since she had been with any man besides Richard.

“A Greek named Stephanos Markoulis arrived in Cairo today,” said Yvon, stopping by the balustrade. They gazed at the dancing lights reflected on the water’s surface. “And I believe he will call and try to see you.” Erica looked up questioningly.

“Stephanos Markoulis deals in Egyptian antiquities in Athens. He rarely comes to Egypt. I don’t know why he is here, but I would like to find out. Ostensibly he’s come because of Abdul Hamdi’s murder. But he might be here because of the Seti statue.”

“And he wants to see me about the murder?”

“Yes,” said Yvon. He continued to avoid looking at Erica. “I don’t know how he is involved, but he is.”

“Yvon, I don’t think I want to have any more to do with the Abdul Hamdi affair. Frankly, the whole business frightens me. I’ve told you everything I know.”

“I understand,” said Yvon soothingly, “but unfortunately, you are all I’ve got.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

Yvon turned to her. “You are the last connection to the Seti statue. Stephanos Markoulis was involved somehow with the sale of the first Seti statue to the man in Houston. I’m worried he’s involved with the present statue. You know how important it is to me to stop this rape of antiquities.”

Erica looked over toward the gay lights of the Hilton. “The man from Houston who bought the first Seti statue also arrived today. He was waiting for me in the Hilton lobby this afternoon. His name is Jeffrey Rice.”

Yvon’s mouth tightened perceptibly.

“He told me,” continued Erica, “that he was offering ten thousand dollars to anyone who could merely tell him where this second Seti statue is so he could buy it.”

“Christ,” said Yvon. “That’s going to turn Cairo into a circus. And to think I’ve been worried whether Ahmed Khazzan and the antiquities service were going to find out about the existence of this statue. Well, Erica, this means I’ve got to work fast. I can understand your feelings about involvement, but please do me the favor of seeing Stephanos Markoulis. I need to know more about what he’s up to, and you may be able to help. With Jeffrey offering that kind of money, I think we can be sure the statue is still available. And if I don’t move quickly, it too is going to disappear into some private collection. All I ask is that you see Stephanos Markoulis and then tell me what he says. Everything he says.”

Erica looked at Yvon’s pleading face. She could sense his commitment and knew how important it was that the fabulous Seti I statue be preserved for the public.

“You’re sure it will be safe?”

“Of course,” said Yvon. “When he calls, arrange to meet in a public place, so you don’t have to worry.”

“All right,” she said, “but you’ll owe me another dinner.”

“D’accord,” said Yvon, kissing Erica-this time on the lips.

Erica studied Yvon’s handsome face. A warm smile lingered at the corners of his mouth. She wondered for a moment if he wasn’t using her. Then she chided herself for her own suspiciousness. Besides, it was possible she was using him.

Returning to her room, Erica felt better than she had during the whole trip. Yvon had aroused her in a way that she had not experienced for a long time, since even the physical aspect of her relationship with Richard had not been totally satisfying for a number of months. And Yvon was capable of making his sexual desires seem secondary to a meaningful relationship. He was willing to wait, and that made her feel good. Outside her room she inserted her key quickly and swung the door open widely. Everything appeared in its place. Remembering hundreds of movies she’d seen, she wished she had made some provision to determine if someone had entered her room. Turning on the lights, she strode into the bedroom. It was empty. She checked the bathroom, smiling at her own sense of melodrama.

Then, sighing with relief, Erica gave her door a shove, and it closed with a resounding thud followed by the reassuring click of the American-made hardware. She kicked off her shoes, turned off the air conditioning, and opened the balcony door. The floodlights on the pyramids and sphinx had been turned off. Returning to her room, she took her jersey dress off over her head and hung it up. In the distance she could hear the traffic that still plied the Korneish-el-Nile, despite the hour. Otherwise the hotel was silent. It was while she was removing her eye makeup that she heard the first unmistakable sound at her door.

She stopped moving, staring at her image in the mirror. She was dressed in her bra and panties, with the eye makeup gone from one eye. In the distance the usual auto horns sounded, followed by silence. She held her breath, her ears straining. Again she heard the muted sound of metal hitting metal. Erica felt the blood drain from her face. Someone was pushing a key into the lock of her door. The realization made her turn slowly around. The night bolt on the hall door was undone. Erica was paralyzed. She couldn’t make herself lunge for the dead bolt. She was afraid that she would not be able to close it before the door was opened. The tumblers in the lock clicked again.

Then, as she watched, the doorknob began slowly to turn. Erica looked at the lock on the bathroom door. It was a mere button on the handle, and the door itself was a thin panel. Again, the isolated sound of the key being forced made her look back at the slowly turning door handle. Like a frightened animal’s her eyes raced around the room for escape. The balcony! Could she cross over to the neighboring terrace? No, she’d have to swing out over a nine-story drop. Then she remembered the telephone. She ran across the room on silent feet and yanked the receiver to her ear. She heard a distant ring. Answer, she shouted silently, please answer.

There were a few final clicks from the door, different from the others, heralding the full penetration and rotation of the key. The door was unlocked, and without another sound it cracked open, allowing a strip of harsh light from the hall to knife into the room. Erica dropped on her knees. Throwing the phone receiver onto the bed and flattening herself on the floor, she wriggled under the bed.

From beneath the spread she could just see the base of the door as it opened. A buzzing sound came from the phone. Erica knew the phone would give her away, a telltale sign she was hiding! A man came into the room, quietly closing the door behind him. As Erica watched in an agony of terror he walked toward the bed and out of Erica’s line of vision. She was afraid to move her head. Above her she heard the receiver replaced. The intruder then silently walked back into her line of vision and apparently checked the bathroom.

Cold sweat formed on Erica’s face as she watched the feet go to the closet. He was searching for her! The closet door opened, then closed. Coming back to the center of the bedroom, the man stopped, his shoes no more than five or six feet from Erica’s head. Then they come forward: step by step, stopping by the bed. She could have touched him-he was that close.

Suddenly the bedspread was pulled up, and Erica was looking up into a man’s face.

“Erica, what in the world are you doing under the bed?”

“Richard!” Erica screamed, and burst into tears.

Although Erica was still too shaken to move, Richard pulled her from beneath the bed and dusted her off.

“Really,” he said with a grin. “What are you doing under the bed?”

“Oh, Richard,” said Erica, suddenly throwing her arms around his neck. “I’m so glad it’s you. I can’t tell you how glad I am.” She pressed herself against him, holding him tight.

“I should surprise you more often,” he said happily, putting his arms around her bare back. They stood together for a few moments as Erica collected herself and dried her tears.

“Is it really you?” she said finally, looking up into his face. “I can’t believe it. Am I dreaming?”

“You’re not dreaming. It’s me. Maybe a little exhausted, but right here with you in Egypt.”

“You do look a little tired.” Erica brushed his hair off his forehead. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired. Trouble with equipment, they said. We were delayed almost four hours in Rome. But it was worth it. You look wonderful. When did you start putting makeup on only one eye?”

Erica smiled and hugged him gently. “I would have looked better if you’d given me a little more notice. How could you get the time off?” She leaned back in his arms, her hands pressed up against his chest.

“I had covered for someone a few months ago when his father died. He owed me a favor. He’ll see all the emergencies and in-house patients. The office will just have to wait. I’m afraid I wasn’t very effective anyway. I’ve missed you terribly.”

“I’ve missed you too. I guess that’s why I telephoned.”

“I was glad you did,” said Richard, kissing her forehead.

“When I asked you a year ago about possibly coming to Egypt, you said there was no way you could take the time.”

“Well…” said Richard, “I didn’t feel as confident about the practice then. But that was a year ago, and now I’m here with you, in Egypt. I have trouble believing it myself. But, Erica, what were you doing under the bed?” A smile formed in the corners of his mouth. “Did I scare you? I didn’t mean to, and I’m sorry if I did. I thought you’d be sleeping, and I wanted to come in quietly and awaken you as I used to do at home.”

“Did you scare me?” questioned Erica. She laughed sarcastically. She pushed herself away to get her white eyelet robe from the closet. “I still feel weak. I mean, you terrified me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Richard.

“How did you get a key?” Erica sat on the edge of the bed, her hands in her lap.

Richard shrugged. “I just walked in and asked for a key to 932.”

“And they just gave it to you? They didn’t ask any questions?”

“Nope. It’s not unusual in hotels. I was hoping they would, so I could really surprise you. I wanted to see your face when you first learned I was in Cairo.”

“Richard, with what I’ve been through during the last few days, it was probably the worst possible thing you could have done.” Her voice took on an edge. “In fact, it was pretty stupid.”

“Okay, okay,” said Richard, lifting his hands in mock defense. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t you think I’d be scared if you snuck into my room at midnight? Really, Richard, that’s not too much to ask. Even in Boston, that would not be wise. I don’t think you thought about my feelings at all.”

“Well, I was excited to see you. I mean, I’ve come nineteen zillion miles.” Richard’s smile began to fade. His sandy hair was tousled, and his eyes were lined with dark shadows.

“The more I think about it, the more idiotic it sounds. God, I could have had a heart attack. You scared me to death.”

“I’m sorry, I said I was sorry.”

“ ‘I’m sorry,’ ” repeated Erica testily. “I suppose saying I’m sorry is supposed to make it all okay. Well, it doesn’t. It was bad enough to witness two murders in two days, but then to be subjected to an adolescent prank! Enough is enough!”

“I thought you were glad to see me,” said Richard defensively. “You said you were glad to see me.”

“I was glad you weren’t a would-be rapist or murderer.”

“Well, that certainly makes a fellow feel welcome.”

“Richard, what in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see you. I came halfway around the world to this dusty, hot city because I wanted to show you how much I care.”

Erica opened her mouth, but she didn’t speak right away. Her irritation softened slightly. “But I specifically asked you not to come,” she said, as if speaking to a naughty child.

“I know that, but I talked it over with your mother.” Richard sat down on the bed and tried to take Erica’s hand.

“What?” she questioned, eluding his grasp. “Tell me that again.”

“Tell you what?” asked Richard, confused. He sensed her renewed anger but did not understand.

“You and my mother conspired.”

“I wouldn’t use that word. We discussed whether I should come.”

“Wonderful,” scoffed Erica. “And I’ll bet it was decided that Erica, the little girl she is, is just going through a difficult stage and that she’ll grow out of it. She just needs to be treated like a child and tolerated for the time being.”

“Look, Erica. For your information, your mother has your best interests at heart.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Erica, getting off the bed. “My mother cannot distinguish between her life and mine anymore. She’s too close and I feel as if she’s sucking the life right out of me. Can you understand that?”

“No, I can’t,” said Richard, his own irritation beginning to surface.

“I didn’t think you could. I’m beginning to think it has something to do with being Jewish. My mother is so intent on my following in her footsteps that she doesn’t bother to find out who I really am. Maybe she does want what’s best for me, but I also think she wants to justify her own life through mine. The trouble is that my mother and I are very different; we’ve grown up in different worlds.”

“The only time I think of you as a child is when you talk like this!”

“I don’t think you understand at all, Richard, not at all. You don’t even know why I’m here in Egypt. No matter how many times I’ve explained it, you refuse to comprehend.”

“I disagree. I think I know why you’re here. You’re afraid of a commitment. It’s as simple as that. You want to demonstrate your independence.”

“Richard, don’t you dare turn this around. You were the one who was afraid of a commitment. A year ago you would not even discuss marriage. Now suddenly you want a wife, a house, and a dog, and I don’t think the order makes much difference. Well, I’m not a possession, not for you, not for my mother. I’m not here in Egypt to act out my independence. If that’s what I wanted, I would have fled to one of those canned vacation spots, like the Club Med, where you don’t have to think. I’ve come to Egypt because I’ve spent eight years studying ancient Egypt and it’s my life’s work. It’s part of me as much as medicine is a part of you.”

“So you’re trying to tell me that love and family are secondary to your career.”

Erica closed her eyes and sighed. “No, not secondary. It’s just that your current conception of marriage would mean a type of intellectual abdication. You have always viewed my work as a kind of elaborate hobby. You don’t take it seriously.”

Richard tried to disagree, but Erica continued. “I’m not saying you did not like the fact that I was getting an exotic doctorate. But it wasn’t because you were happy for me. It just happened to fit some grand design you had for yourself. I think it made you feel more liberal, more intellectual.”

“Erica, I don’t think this is fair.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, Richard. I know I’m partly to blame. I never really made a point of communicating my enthusiasm for my work. If anything, I camouflaged it for fear that it would frighten you away. But it’s different now. I recognize who I am. And it doesn’t mean I don’t want marriage. It means that I don’t want the wifely role that you have in mind. And I’ve come here to Egypt to do something that involves my professional expertise.”

Richard sagged under the weight of Erica’s argument. He was too tired to fight. “If you’re so intent on being useful, why did you choose such an obscure field? I mean, really, Erica, Egyptology! New Kingdom hieroglyphics!” Richard fell back on the bed, his feet still touching the floor.

“Egyptian antiquities generate a lot more action than you’d ever imagine,” said Erica. Walking over to the bureau, she picked up the envelope containing the photos Jeffrey John Rice had given to her. “I’ve been painfully learning that fact during the last two days. Take a look at these!” Erica tossed the envelope onto Richard’s chest.

Richard sat up with obvious effort and took out the photos. He looked at them rapidly, then replaced them. “Nice statue,” he said noncommittally, falling back onto the bed.

“Nice statue?” said Erica cynically. “That could be the finest ancient Egyptian statue ever found, and I’ve witnessed two murders, at least one of which I believe involved that statue, and you just say nice.”

Richard opened one eye and looked at Erica, who was defiantly leaning against the bureau. The tops of her breasts were visible through the eyelet embroidery of her robe. Without sitting up again, Richard took the photos back out of the envelope and looked at them more carefully. “All right,” he said at length. “A nice deadly statue. But what do you mean, two murders? You didn’t see another today, did you?” Richard pushed himself up to a half-sitting position. His eyes were only half-open.

“Not only did I see it, but the victim fell on top of me. It would be difficult to be any closer and not be involved.”

Richard stared at Erica for several minutes. “I think you better come back to Boston,” he said with as much authority as he could muster.

“I’m going to stay here,” said Erica flatly. “In fact, I think I’m going to do something about the antiquities black market. I think I can help. And I’d like to keep that Seti statue from being smuggled out of Egypt.”

Immersed in deep concentration, Erica was oblivious of the passage of time. Looking at her watch, she was surprised to see it was two-thirty in the morning. She had been sitting on her balcony at the small round table she’d dragged from inside. She’d also carried out the bedside-table lamp, which cast a bright puddle of light on the table, illuminating the photos of the Houston statue.

Richard was lying on the bed in a deep sleep, still fully clothed. Erica had insisted on trying to get him a separate room, but the hotel was full. So were the Sheraton, Shepheard’s, and the Meridien. While Erica was trying to call a hotel on Gezira island, his breathing became stertorous and she realized he had passed out. Erica relented. She had not wanted him to spend the night with her because she did not want to risk making love to him. But since he was already asleep, she decided he could find himself a room in the morning.

Too overwrought to sleep herself, she had decided to work on the hieroglyphics in the photos. She was particularly interested in the short inscription containing the two pharaonic cartouches. Hieroglyphics were always difficult, since there were no vowels and directives had to be interpreted correctly. But this inscription on the Seti statue seemed more obtuse than usual, as if the original designer wanted to encode his message. Erica wasn’t even positive in which direction the inscription should be read. No matter what she did, nothing made much sense. Why would the name of the boy king Tutankhamen be carved on the effigy of a mighty pharaoh?

The best interpretation of the phrase she could make was: “Eternal rest [or peace] given [or awarded] to his majesty, king of Upper and Lower Egypt, son of Amon-Re, beloved of Osiris, Pharaoh Seti I, who rules [or governs or resides] after [or behind or under] Tutankhamen.” As far as she could remember, that was reasonably close to what Dr. Lowery had said on the phone. But she wasn’t satisfied. It seemed too simple. Certainly Seti I ruled or lived after Tutankhamen by fifty years or so. But of all the pharaohs, why hadn’t they picked Thutmose IV or one of the other great empire-builders? Also, the final preposition bothered her. She rejected “under” because there was no dynastic connection between Seti I and Tutankhamen. There were no family ties whatsoever. In fact, before Seti’s time she was reasonably sure Tutankhamen’s names had been obliterated by the usurper general, Pharaoh Horemheb. She rejected “behind” because of the insignificance of Tutankhamen. That left “after.”

Erica read the phrase out loud. Again, it sounded too simple, and for that reason mysteriously complicated. But it excited her trying to pierce a human mind that had functioned three thousand years previously.

Looking back ino the room at Richard’s sleeping form, Erica realized more than ever the gulf that separated them. Richard would never comprehend her fascination with Egypt and the fact that such intellectual excitement was an important part of her identity.

She got up from the table and carried the lamp and the photos back into the room. As the light fell on Richard’s face, with his lips parted ever so slightly, he suddenly appeared very young, like a boy. Erica remembered the beginning of their relationship and she longed for that simpler time. She really did care for him, but it was hard to face reality: Richard was always going to be Richard. His medical career kept him from viewing himself with any kind of perspective, and Erica had to face the fact that he was not going to change.

She switched off the lamp and stretched out beside him. He groaned and turned over, putting his hand on Erica’s chest. Gently she replaced it at his side. She wanted to maintain her distance, and she did not want to be touched. She thought about Yvon, who she believed treated her as an intellectual equal and a woman at the same time. Looking at Richard in the dim light, Erica realized she was going to have to tell him about the Frenchman, and Richard would be hurt. She stared up at the dark ceiling, anticipating his jealous reaction. He’d say that all Erica wanted was to run off and find a lover. He would never understand the strength of her commitment to keep the second statue of Seti I from being spirited out of the country. “You’ll see,” she whispered to Richard in the darkness. “I’m going to find that statue.” Richard groaned in his sleep and turned away.