Sphinx

Day 3

When Erica awoke the next morning, she thought she had again left the shower running, but she soon remembered Richard’s unexpected arrival and realized that he had turned on the water. Pushing a stray wisp of hair off her forehead, Erica let her head flop over on the pillow so she could see out the open balcony door. The noise of the steady traffic below blended with the sound of the shower and was as soothing as a distant waterfall. Her eyes restfully closed again while she recalled her resolves the night before. Then the sound of the shower stopped abruptly. Erica did not move. Presently Richard came padding into the room, vigorously drying his sandy hair. Carefully turning, yet pretending to be asleep, Erica looked out of half-open eyes and was surprised to see him stark naked. She watched as he finished with the towel, advanced to the open balcony door, and began studying the great pyramids and the guardian sphinx in the distance. He did have a handsome body. She looked at the graceful curve of the small of his back; she felt the suggestion of power in his well-defined legs. Erica closed her eyes, afraid that familiarity and the sexiness of Richard’s body would prove too much for her.

The next thing Erica knew she was being gently shaken awake. Opening her eyes, she looked directly into the faraway blue of Richard’s. He was smiling impishly, dressed in jeans and a fitted navy-blue knit shirt. His hair was combed as much as the natural curls would allow.

“Let’s go, sleeping beauty,” said Richard, kissing her forehead. “Breakfast will be here in five minutes.”

While she was taking a shower, Erica debated how she could be firm without sounding insensitive. She hoped Yvon would not call, and thinking of him reminded her of the Seti I statue. It was one thing to declare a crusade in the middle of the night; it was quite another actually to begin. She knew she had to have a plan of some kind if she hoped to find the sculpture. Lathering up with the harsh-smelling Egyptian soap, Erica considered for the first time the continued danger of having witnessed Abdul’s murder. Wondering why she had not considered this aspect of her position before, she rinsed off quickly and stepped out of the shower. “Of course,” she said out loud. “Any danger would depend on the killers knowing that I had been a witness. And they did not see me.”

Erica ran a comb through her damp hair to remove the tangles, and looked in the mirror. The pimple on her chin had involuted to a red blemish, and already the Egyptian sun had given her complexion an attractive glow.

Putting on her makeup, Erica tried to recall her conversation with Abdul Hamdi. He’d said the statue was resting before resuming its journey, presumably out of Egypt. Erica hoped the murder of Abdul Hamdi meant it had not left the country. Her supposition was supported by the fact that Yvon, Jeffrey Rice, or the Greek whom Yvon had talked about would have heard if the statue had resurfaced in some neutral country like Switzerland. All in all, she felt reasonably certain the statue was not only still in Egypt but also still in Cairo.

Erica inspected her makeup. It would do. She’d used just a small amount of mascara. There was something romantic about the fact that Egyptian women four thousand years ago had darkened their lashes in a similar fashion.

Richard knocked on the door. “Breakfast is being served on the veranda,” he said, assuming an English accent. He sounded too happy, thought Erica. It was going to be harder to talk with him.

Erica called through the door that she’d be out in a few minutes and then began to dress. She missed her drawstring cotton pants. She knew her jeans would be much warmer in the hot climate. Struggling with the tight legs, she thought about the Greek. She had no idea what he wanted from her, but maybe he could be a source of information. Perhaps she could exchange whatever he wanted for some inside information about how the black market worked. It was a long shot, but at least a place to begin.

Tucking in her blouse, Erica wondered if the Greek-or anyone else, for that matter-would understand the significance of the hieroglyphics she’d tried to translate the evening before. Overshadowing the missing statue was the mystery of Seti I himself. Three thousand years had passed since this ancient Egyptian had lived and breathed. Aside from conducting a very successful military campaign into the Middle East and Libya during the first decade of his reign, all Erica could remember about the mighty pharaoh was that he built an extensive temple complex at Abydos, added to the Temple of Karnak, and built the most spectacular cave tomb in the Valley of the Kings.

Recognizing that more significant information was available, Erica decided to return to the Egyptian Museum and use her professional letters of introduction. It would give her something to do while waiting for the Greek to contact her. The other person who might have information for her was the son Abdul Hamdi had mentioned, who had an antique business in Luxor. As Erica opened the bathroom door, she made up her mind. As soon as possible she was going to head up the Nile to Luxor, to Abdul Hamdi’s son. She was convinced it was the best idea she’d had.

Richard had taken it upon himself to order a large breakfast. Like the previous morning, it had been served on the balcony. Beneath silver warmers were eggs, bacon, and fresh Egyptian bread. Slices of papaya nestled in ice chips. The coffee was waiting to be poured. Richard hovered over the table like a nervous waiter adjusting the position of the flatware and napkins.

“Ah, your Highness,” said Richard, still in an English accent. “Your table is ready,” Holding back one of the chairs, he beckoned for Erica to sit. “After you,” he said, holding up each of the platters in turn.

Erica was genuinely touched. Richard had none of Yvon’s sophistication, but his behavior was appealing. As tough as he liked to act under most circumstances, Erica knew he was rather vulnerable. And she knew what she was going to tell him could hurt him. She started: “I don’t know how much you remember from our conversation last night.”

“Everything,” said Richard, holding up his fork. “In fact, before you go any further, I’d like to make a suggestion. I think we should march right over to the American embassy and tell them exactly what has happened to you.”

“Richard,” said Erica, knowing that she was being side-tracked, “the American embassy wouldn’t be able to do anything. Be realistic. Nothing really has happened to me, just around me. No, I’m not going to the American embassy.”

“All right,” said Richard. “If that’s the way you feel, then fine. Now, about the other things you said. About us.” Richard paused and fingered his coffee cup. “I admit there’s some truth in what you say about my attitude concerning your work. Well, I’d like to ask you to do something for me.” He raised his eyes to meet Erica’s. “Let’s just have a day together here, in Egypt, on your turf, so to speak. Give me a chance to see what it’s all about.”

“But, Richard…” began Erica. She wanted to talk about Yvon and her feelings.

“Please, Erica. You’ve got to admit we haven’t discussed this before. Give me a little time. We’ll talk tonight, I promise. After all, I did come all the way here. That should count for something.”

“It counts for something,” said Erica tiredly. Such emotional moments were draining for her. “But even that kind of a decision was something we should have made together. I appreciate your effort, but I still don’t think you understand why I came here. We seem to view the future of our relationship very differently.”

“That’s what we will discuss,” said Richard, “but not now. Tonight. All I’m asking is to spend a pleasant day together so I can see something of Egypt and get a feeling for Egyptology. I think I deserve that much consideration.”

“All right,” said Erica reluctantly. “But we will talk tonight.”

“Phew,” said Richard. “With that decided, let’s discuss our plans. I’d really like to see those babies.” Richard pointed with a piece of toast toward the sphinx and the pyramids of Giza.

“Sorry,” said Erica. “The day is already booked. We are going to the Egyptian Museum this morning to see what is known about Seti I, and this afternoon we are going to return to the scene of the first murder, Antica Abdul. The pyramids will have to wait.”

Erica tried to speed up their breakfast and leave the room before the inevitable phone call. But she didn’t make it. Richard was busy putting film into his Nikon as she picked up the receiver. “Hello,” she said quietly. As she’d feared, it was Yvon. She knew she should not feel guilty, but she did just the same. She had wanted to tell Richard about the Frenchman but he had cut her off.

Yvon was cheerful and full of warm words about the previous evening. Erica acquiesced at appropriate junctures, but she knew she sounded stilted.

“Erica, are you all right?” Yvon finally asked.

“Yes, yes, I’m just fine.” Erica tried to think of a way to end the conversation.

“You would tell me if something was wrong?” he asked, sounding alarmed.

“Of course,” said Erica quickly.

There was a pause. Yvon knew something was wrong.

“We both agreed last night,” said Yvon, “that we should have spent yesterday together. So how about today? Let me take you to some of the sights.”

“No thank you,” said Erica. “I have a surprise guest who arrived last night from the States.”

“No matter,” said Yvon. “Your guest is welcome.”

“The guest happens to be…” Erica hesitated. “Boyfriend” seemed so immature.

“A lover?” asked Yvon hesitantly.

“A boyfriend,” said Erica. She couldn’t think of anything more sophisticated.

Yvon slammed the phone down. “Women,” he said with anger, pressing his lips together.

Raoul looked up from his week-old Paris Match, trying not to smile. “The American girl is giving you some trouble.”

“Shut up,” said Yvon with uncharacteristic irritation. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke up at the ceiling in turbulent blue billows. He thought it was entirely possible that Erica’s guest had arrived unexpectedly. Yet there was a lingering doubt that she had purposely not told him, to lead him on.

He stubbed out his cigarette and walked over to the balcony. He was not accustomed to being upset about women. If they proved troublesome, he left. It was as simple as that. The world was full of women. He stared down at a dozen feluccas heading south before the wind. The placid view made him feel better.

“Raoul, I want Erica Baron tailed again,” he called.

“Fine,” said Raoul. “I have Khalifa on hold at the Scheherazade Hotel.”

“Try to tell him to be conservative,” said Yvon. “I don’t want any more unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Khalifa insists the man he shot had been stalking Erica.”

“The man was working for the Department of Antiquities. It’s inconceivable that he was stalking Erica.”

“Well, I assure you Khalifa is first-class. I know,” said Raoul.

“He’d better be,” said Yvon. “Stephanos expects to meet with the girl today. Warn Khalifa. There might be trouble.”

“Dr. Sarwat Fakhry can see you now,” said a robust secretary with a bulging bosom. She was about twenty and brimming with health and enthusiasm, a relief from the otherwise oppressive atmosphere of the Egyptian Museum.

The curator’s office was like a dim cave with shuttered windows. A rattling air conditioner kept the room cool. It was paneled in dark wood, like a Victorian study. One wall was dressed with a fake fireplace, certainly out of place in Cairo, the others completely covered with book-shelves. In the middle of the room was a large desk stacked with books, journals, and papers. Behind the desk sat Dr. Fakhry, who looked up over the tops of his glasses as Erica and Richard entered. He was a small nervous man, about sixty, with pointed features and wiry gray hair.

“Welcome, Dr. Baron,” he said without getting up. Erica’s letters of introduction trembled slightly in his hand. “I’m always happy to welcome someone from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. We are indebted to Reisner for his excellent work.” Dr. Fakhry was looking directly at Richard.

“I’m not Dr. Baron,” said Richard, smiling.

Erica took another step forward. “I’m Dr. Baron, and thank you for your hospitality.”

Dr. Fakhry’s look of confusion gave way to embarrassed understanding. “Excuse me,” he said simply. “From your letter of introduction I see that you are planning to do some on-site translations of New Kingdom monuments. I am pleased. There is much to be done. If I can be of any assistance, I am at your service.”

“Thank you,” said Erica. “Actually I did want to ask a favor. I am interested in some background information of Seti I. Would it be possible for me to review the museum’s material?”

“Certainly,” said Dr. Fakhry. His voice changed slightly. It was more questioning, as if Erica’s request surprised him. “Unfortunately, we don’t know very much about Seti I, as you are undoubtedly aware. In addition to the translations we have of the inscriptions on his monuments, we do have some of Seti I’s correspondence from his early campaigns in Palestine. But that’s about all. I’m certain that you can add to our knowledge with your onsite translations. Those we have are quite old, and much has been learned since they were made.”

“What about his mummy?” asked Erica.

Dr. Fakhry handed Erica’s letters back to her. The tremor increased as he extended his arm. “Yes, we do have his mummy. It was part of the Deir el-Bahri cache illicitly found and plundered by the Rasul family. It is on display upstairs.” He glanced at Richard, who smiled again.

“Was the mummy ever closely examined?” asked Erica.

“Indeed,” said Dr. Fakhry. “It was autopsied.”

“Autopsied?” asked Richard with disbelief. “How do you autopsy a mummy?”

Erica grasped Richard’s arm above the elbow. He got the message and remained silent. Dr. Fakhry continued as if he had not heard the query. “And it was recently X-rayed by an American team. I will gladly have all the material made available to you in our library.” Dr. Fakhry got to his feet and opened the office door. He walked partially bent over, giving the impression of a hunchback with his hands curled at his sides.

“One other request,” said Erica. “Do you have much material on the opening of Tutankhamen’s tomb?”

Richard passed Erica and checked out the secretary with a sly sideways glance. She was busy leaning over her typewriter.

“Ah, there we can help you,” said Dr. Fakhry as they emerged in the marbled hall. “As you know, we are planning to use some of the funds generated by the world tour of the ‘Treasures of Tutankhamen’ to build a special museum to house his artifacts. We now have a full set of Carter’s notes from what he called his ‘Journal of Entry’ on microfilm, as well as a significant collection of correspondence among Carter, Carnarvon, and others associated with the discovery of the tomb.”

Dr. Fakhry deposited Erica and Richard in the hands of a silent young man whom he introduced as Talat. Talat listened carefully to the doctor’s complicated instructions, then bowed and disappeared through a side door.

“He will bring the material we have on Seti I,” said Dr. Fakhry. “Thank you for coming in, and if I can be of further assistance, please let me know.” He shook hands with Erica, keying off an involuntary facial spasm that pulled his mouth into a sneer. He left, his hands drawn up and his fingers rhythmically clutching at nothing.

“God, what a place,” said Richard when the curator had left. “Charming fellow.”

“Dr. Fakhry happens to have done some fine work. His specialty is ancient Egyptian religion, funerary practices, and mummification methods.”

“Mummification methods! I could have guessed. I know a big church in Paris who’d hire him in a minute.”

“Try to be serious, Richard,” said Erica, smiling despite herself.

They took seats at one of the long battered oak tables that dotted the large room. Everything was covered with a fine layer of Cairo dust. Tiny footprints crossed the floor beneath Erica’s chair. Richard told her it had been a rat.

Talat brought back two large red paper envelopes, each tied with a string. He gave them to Richard, who smiled scornfully and gave them to Erica. The first was marked “Seti I, A.” Erica opened it and spread the contents on the table. They were reprints of articles about the pharaoh. A number of them were in French, a couple in German, but most were in English.

“Pssst.” Talat touched Richard’s arm.

Richard turned, surprised at the noise.

“You want scarabs from the ancient mummies. Very cheap.” Talat extended a closed hand, palm up. While he glanced over his shoulder like a pornography peddler in the fifties, his fingers slowly opened to reveal two slightly damp scarabs.

“Is this guy serious?” asked Richard. “He wants to sell some scarabs.”

“Undoubtedly they are fake,” said Erica, not pausing from her work to look up.

Richard picked one of the scarabs from Talat’s open palm.

“One pound,” said Talat. He was getting nervous.

“Erica, take a look at this. It’s a good-looking little scarab. This guy’s got balls, carrying on business here.”

“Richard, you can buy scarabs all over the place. Maybe you should wander around the museum while I get this work done.” She looked up at him to see how he’d taken her suggestion, but he wasn’t listening. He’d taken the other scarab from Talat.

“Richard,” said Erica, “don’t get fooled by the first peddler you meet. Let me see one.” She took one of the artifacts and turned it over to read the hieroglyphics on the underside. “My God,” she said.

“Do you think it’s real?” queried Richard.

“No, it’s not real, but it’s a clever fake. Too clever. It has the cartouche of Tutankhamen. I think I know who made it. Abdul Hamdi’s son. Amazing.”

Erica bought the scarab from Talat for twenty-five piasters and then sent the boy away. “I already have one made by Hamdi’s son with Seti I’s name on it.” Erica made a mental note to get the fake scarab back from Yvon. “I wonder what other pharaohs’ names he uses.”

On Erica’s insistence they went back to the articles. Richard picked up several reprints. There was silence for a half-hour. “This is the driest stuff I’ve ever read,” said Richard finally, tossing an article onto the table. “And I thought that pathology was dull. God.”

“It has to be put into context,” said Erica condescendingly. “What you’re looking at are bits and pieces that are being assembled about a powerful person who lived three thousand years ago.”

“Well, if there was a little more action in these articles, it would be a lot easier.” Richard laughed.

“Seti I reigned soon after the pharaoh who tried to change the Egyptian religion to monotheism,” Erica said, ignoring Richard’s comment. “His name was Akhenaten. The country had been plunged into chaos. Seti changed that. He was a strong ruler who managed to restore stability at home and through most of the empire. He assumed power around age thirty and ruled for approximately fifteen years. Except for some of his battles in Palestine and Libya, very few details are known about him, which is unfortunate, because he reigned during a very interesting time in Egyptian history. I’m talking about a period a little over fifty years long, from Akhenaten through Seti I. It must have been a fascinating era, full of turmoil, upheaval, and emotion. It’s just so frustrating that we don’t know more.” Erica tapped the stacks of reprints. “It was during that time that Tutankhamen ruled. And strangely enough, there was one huge disappointment in the discovery of Tutankhamen’s magnificent tomb. Despite all the treasures that were found, there were no historical documents. Not a single papyrus was found! Not one!”

Richard shrugged.

Erica realized he was trying, but he couldn’t share her excitement. She turned back to the table. “Let’s see what’s in the other folder,” she said, and slid the contents of “Seti I, B,” onto the table.

Richard perked up. There were dozens of photographs of the mummy of Seti I, including photos of X rays, a modified autopsy report, and several more reprinted articles.

“God,” said Richard, feigning a horrified expression. He picked up a photo of the face of Seti I. “This looks as bad as my cadaver in first-year anatomy.”

“It does horrify at first, but the longer you look at it, the more serene it seems.”

“Come on, Erica, it looks like a ghoul. Serene? Give me a break.” Richard picked up the autopsy report and started reading.

Erica found a full-body X ray. It looked like a Halloween skeleton with the arms crossed on the chest. But she studied it just the same. Suddenly she realized that something was strange. The arms were crossed, like all the mummies of the pharaohs, but the hands were open, not clenched. The fingers were extended. The other pharaohs had all been buried clutching the flail and the scepter, the insignia of office. But not Seti I. Erica tried to understand why.

“This is not an autopsy,” said Richard, interrupting her thoughts. “I mean, they had no internal organs. Just a shell of a body. When a post is done, the shell is only cursorily examined, unless there is some specific indication. The autopsy is really the microscopic examination of the internal organs. Here all they did was take a little bit of muscle and skin.” He took the X-ray photo from Erica and held it at arm’s length to examine it. “Lungs are clear,” said Richard, laughing. Erica didn’t get it, so Richard explained that since the lungs had been removed in antiquity, the X ray showed the chest clear. It didn’t sound so funny when he explained, and his laughter trailed off. Erica looked over Richard’s arm at the photo. Seti I’s open hands still bothered her. Something told her they were significant.

There were two printed cards in the large glass case. To pass the time Khalifa bent down to read them. One card was old and said: “Gold Throne of Tutankhamen, circa 1355 B.C.” The other card was new and said: “Temporarily Removed as Part of World Tour of Tutankhamen’s Treasures.” From where Khalifa was standing, he had a full view of Erica and Richard through the empty display case. Normally he would never approach a quarry so closely, but he was now intrigued. He’d never been on such an assignment. The day before, he’d felt that he saved Erica from certain destruction, only to be lambasted by Yvon de Margeau. De Margeau had told him he’d nailed a measly civil servant. But Khalifa knew better. The civil servant had been stalking Erica, and there was something about this fresh American woman that intrigued Khalifa. He sensed big money. If de Margeau had been as mad as he sounded, he would have fired him. But he’d kept him on the two-hundred-dollar-a-day payroll and stashed him at the Scheherazade Hotel. And now there was a new development that complicated the scene: a boyfriend named Richard. Khalifa knew that the boyfriend did not please Yvon, although the Frenchman had told him he did not believe Richard was a threat to Erica. But Yvon did tell Khalifa to be on guard, and Khalifa wondered if he should take it upon himself to get rid of Richard.

As Erica and Richard moved to the next exhibit, Khalifa stepped behind another empty case with a “Temporarily removed…” card. Hiding behind his open guidebook, he tried to catch the conversation. All he got was something about the wealth of one of the great pharaohs. But that also sounded like money talk to Khalifa, and he pressed closer. He liked the feeling of excitement and danger the proximity afforded, even though it was only imaginary danger. There was no way these people were an actual threat to him. He could kill them both in two seconds. In fact, the idea turned him on.

“Most of the really exquisite pieces are on exhibit in New York,” said Erica, “but look at that pendant there.” She pointed, and Richard yawned. “All this was buried with insignificant Tutankhamen. Try to imagine what was buried with Seti I.”

“I can’t,” said Richard, shifting his weight onto his other foot.

Erica looked up, sensing his boredom. “Okay,” she said consolingly. “You’ve been pretty good. Let’s head back to the hotel for a bite of lunch and see if I’ve gotten any messages. Then we’ll walk into the bazaar.”

Khalifa watched Erica walk away, enjoying the tight curve of her jeans. His thoughts of violence merged with others more intimate and salacious.

There was a message and a number for Erica to call when they got back to the hotel. There was also a vacant room available for Richard. He hesitated and gave Erica a pleading look before going over to the registration desk to make the arrangements. Erica retired to one of the pay telephones but had no luck with the complicated machine. She told Richard that she’d make her call from her room.

The message had been simple. “I would like the pleasure of seeing you at your earliest convenience. Stephanos Markoulis.” Erica shivered at the prospect of meeting with someone actually involved in the black market and possibly a murder. But he had sold the first Seti I statue and he could be important if she wanted to find its mate. She remembered Yvon’s admonition to choose a public place, and for the first time she was actually glad that Richard was with her.

The hotel operator was infinitely more capable than the mechanical device in the lobby. The call went through quickly. “Hello, hello.” Stephanos’ voice had a commanding quality.

“This is Erica Baron.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you for calling. I am looking forward to meeting you. We have a mutual friend, Yvon de Margeau. Charming fellow. I believe he told you that I would call and that I’d like to get together for a chat. Can we meet this afternoon, say, around two-thirty?”

“Where do you have in mind?” said Erica, mindful of Yvon’s warning. She heard a deep rumbling sound in the distance.

“It’s up to you, dear,” said Stephanos, speaking louder over the background noise.

Erica bristled at the familiarity of the word. “I don’t know,” she said, looking at her watch. It was eleven-thirty. Richard and she would probably be in the bazaar at two-thirty.

“How about right there in the Hilton?” suggested Stephanos.

“I will be in the Khan el Khalili bazaar this afternoon,” said Erica. She thought about mentioning Richard, but she decided against it. It seemed a good idea to retain some element of surprise.

“Just a minute,” said Stephanos. Erica could hear a muffled conversation. Stephanos had put his hand over the receiver. “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said in a voice that conveyed he was not sorry. “Do you know the Al Azhar mosque next to the Khan el Khalili?”

“Yes,” said Erica. She remembered Yvon pointing it out to her.

“We’ll meet there,” said Stephanos. “It’s easy to find. Two-thirty. I’m really looking forward to seeing you, dear. Yvon de Margeau had some nice things to say about you.”

Erica said good-bye and hung up. She felt distinctly uneasy and even a little afraid. But she had made up her mind to go through with it because of Yvon; she was certain he would never allow her to meet with Stephanos if there was real danger involved. Nonetheless, she wished it was over.

Dressed in loose-fitting white cotton shirt and slacks, Ahmed Khazzan felt reasonably relaxed. He still was perplexed about Gamal Ibrahim’s violent death but was able to ascribe the event to the inscrutable workings of Allah, and his sense of guilt abated. As a leader, he knew he had to face such episodes.

During the previous evening he’d made his obligatory visit to the home of his parents. He loved his mother deeply but disapproved of her decision to stay at home to care for his invalid father. His mother had been one of the first women in Egypt to obtain a university degree, and Ahmed would have preferred it if she had used her education. She was a highly intelligent woman and could have been a great help to Ahmed. His father had been critically injured in the 1956 war, the same war that had taken Ahmed’s older brother. Ahmed did not know a family in Egypt that had not been touched with tragedy from the many wars, and when he thought about it, it made him tremble with anger.

After his visit to his parents, Ahmed had slept long and well in his own rambling mud-brick home in Luxor. His housekeeper had prepared a wonderful breakfast of fresh bread and coffee. And Zaki had called, reporting that two special plainclothes agents had been dispatched to Saqqara. Everything seemed quiet in Cairo. And perhaps most important, he had successfully handled a potential family crisis. A cousin, whom he had promoted to chief guard of the Necropolis of Luxor, had become restive and wanted to move to Cairo. Ahmed had tried to reason with him, but when that did not work, he had dispensed with diplomacy, and becoming angry, had ordered him to stay. The cousin’s father, Ahmed’s uncle-in-law, had tried to intervene. Ahmed had to remind the older man that his permit to run the concession stand in the Valley of the Kings could easily be revoked. That being settled, Ahmed had been able to sit down to some paperwork. So the world seemed better and more organized than the day before.

Placing the last of the memoranda he had brought to read in his briefcase, Ahmed had a sense of accomplishment. It would have taken him twice as long to go through the same material in Cairo. It was Luxor. He loved Luxor. Ancient Thebes. For Ahmed there was magic in the air that made him feel happy and at ease.

He stood up from his chair in the large living room. His home was dazzling white stucco outside, and although rustic inside, it was spotlessly clean. The building had been made by connecting a series of existing mud-brick structures. The result was a narrow house, only twenty feet wide, but very deep, with a long hall running on the left side. A series of guestrooms opened on the right. The kitchen was in the back of the house and was quite crude, without running water. Behind the kitchen was a small courtyard bounded by a stable for his prized possession, a three-year-old black Arabian stallion he called Sawda.

Ahmed had ordered his houseman to have Sawda saddled and ready by eleven-thirty. He planned to interrogate Tewfik Hamdi, Abdul Hamdi’s son, at his antique shop before lunch. Ahmed felt it was important to do this himself. Then, after the midday heat had abated, he planned to cross the Nile and ride unannounced to the Valley of the Kings to inspect the new security system he’d put into effect. There would be time to return to Cairo in the evening.

Sawda pawed the ground impatiently when Ahmed appeared. The young stallion was like a Renaissance study, with each muscle defined in flawless black marble. His face was sharply chiseled, with flaring nostrils. His eyes rivaled Ahmed’s for their black watery depth. Once en route, Ahmed sensed the sheer power and life force in the exuberant animal beneath him. It was with difficulty that he kept the horse from exploding in a burst of thunderous speed. Ahmed knew that Sawda’s unpredictable personality mirrored his own volatile passions. Because of their similarities, sharp words spoken in Arabic and forceful use of the reins were needed to control the stallion so that rider and horse could move as one in the sun-speckled shade of the palms along the banks of the Nile.

Tewfik Hamdi’s antique shop was one of many nestled within a series of dusty crooked streets behind the ancient Temple of Luxor. They were all close to the major hotels and depended on the unsuspecting tourists for their continued existence. Most of the artifacts they sold were fakes manufactured on the West Bank. Ahmed did not know the exact location of Tewfik Hamdi’s shop, so once he got in the area, he asked.

He was told the street and the number, and he found the shop without difficulty. But it was locked. It wasn’t just closed for lunch. It was boarded up for the night.

With Sawda hitched in a patch of shade, Ahmed inquired about Tewfik in the neighboring shops. The answers were consistent. Tewfik’s shop had not been open all day, and, yes, it was strange, because Tewfik Hamdi had not missed a day in years. One proprietor added that Tewfik’s absence might have something to do with his father’s recent death in Cairo.

Heading back toward Sawda, Ahmed passed directly in front of the shop. The boarded door caught his attention. Looking more closely, Ahmed found a long fresh crack in one of the boards. It appeared as if a portion had been torn off and then replaced. Ahmed inserted his fingers between the boards and pulled. There was no movement whatsoever. Looking up at the top of the crude shutter, Ahmed noticed that the boards were nailed to the doorjamb instead of being hooked from inside. He decided that Tewfik Hamdi must have left with the expectation of being gone for some time.

Ahmed stepped back from the building, stroking his mustache. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked back toward Sawda. He thought that it probably was true that Tewfik Hamdi had gone to Cairo. Ahmed wondered how he could find out where Tewfik Hamdi lived.

En route to his horse, Ahmed met an old family friend and stopped to chat; his thoughts, however, strayed beyond the exchanged pleasantries. There was something particularly unsettling about Tewfik nailing his door shut. As soon as he could, Ahmed excused himself, skirted the commercial block, and entered the maze of open passageways that led into the area behind the shops. The noontime sun beat down and reflected off the stuccoed walls, bringing perspiration to his forehead. He felt a rivulet of sweat trickle down the small of his back.

Directly behind the antique shops, Ahmed found himself in a warren of hastily made shelters. As he continued, chickens scattered and naked young children paused in their play to stare at him. After some difficulty and several false turns, Ahmed arrived at the rear door of Tewfik Hamdi’s antique shop. Through the slats of the door he could see a small brick courtyard.

While several three-year-old boys watched, Ahmed put his shoulder against the wooden door and forced it open far enough to enter. The courtyard was about fifteen feet long, with another wooden door at the far end. An open doorway was on the left. As Ahmed returned the wooden door to its original position, he saw a dark brown rat dash from the open doorway across the courtyard into a clay drainage pipe. The air was heavy, hot, and still.

The open doorway led into a small room where Tewfik apparently lived. Ahmed stepped over the threshold. On a simple wooden table a rotting mango and a wedge of goat cheese lay covered with flies. Everything else in the room had been opened and dumped. A cabinet in the corner had its door torn off. Papers were indiscriminately thrown about. Several holes had been dug in the mud-brick walls. Ahmed surveyed the scene with mounting anxiety, trying to comprehend what had happened.

Quickly he moved from the apartment to the door into the shop. It was unlocked and swung open with an agonized rasp. Inside, it was dark. Only small pencils of light penetrated the slats of the boarded front doorway, and Ahmed paused while his eyes adjusted from the harsh sunlight. He heard the scurrying of tiny feet. More rats.

The disarray in the shop was much greater than in the sleeping room. Huge cabinets lining the walls had been pulled down, splintered, and thrown into a large pile in the center of the room. Their contents had been smashed and scattered. It was as if a cyclone had hit the shop. Ahmed had to lift portions of the broken furniture to enter. He picked his way to the center of the shop; then he froze. He’d found Tewfik Hamdi. Tortured. Dead. Tewfik had been pulled over the wooden counter, which was stained with dried blood. Each hand had been nailed palm down to the counter with a single spike, his arms spread apart. Almost all Tewfik’s fingernails had been pulled out. Then his wrists had been cut. He had been forced to watch himself bleed to death. His bloodless face was ghostly pale, and a filthy rag had been stuffed in his mouth to silence his screams, making his cheeks bulge grotesquely.

Ahmed shooed away the flies; he noticed the rats had been feasting on the corpse. The bestiality of the scene revolted him, and the fact that it had occurred in his beloved Luxor enraged him. With the rage came a fear that the sicknesses and sins of urban Cairo would spread like a plague. Ahmed knew he had to contain the infestation.

He bent down and looked into the vacant eyes of Tewfik Hamdi. They mirrored the horror they had witnessed as their own life had ebbed. But why? Ahmed stood up. The stench of death was overwhelming. Carefully he picked his way back across the debris-strewn floor to the small courtyard. The sunlight fell warm on his face, and he stood there for a moment, breathing deeply. He knew he could not return to Cairo until he knew more. His thoughts turned to Yvon de Margeau. Whenever he was around, there was trouble.

Ahmed squeezed out through the door to the alley and pulled it shut behind him. He’d decided to go directly to the main police station near the Luxor railway depot; then he’d call Cairo. Mounting Sawda, he wondered what Tewfik Hamdi had done or what he’d known to warrant such a fate.

“Wonderful shop,” said Richard as he entered from the busy alleyway. “Good selection of merchandise. I can do all my Christmas shopping here.”

Erica could not believe the emptiness of the room. Nothing remained of Antica Abdul except for some bits of broken pottery. It was as if the shop had never existed. Even the front window glass had been removed. There were no beads in the entranceway; no rugs or curtains, not a piece of cloth or cabinetry remained.

“I can’t believe this,” said Erica, walking over to where the glass topped counter had been. Bending down, she picked up a potsherd. “Across here hung a heavy drape, dividing the room.” She walked back to the rear and turned to face Richard. “I was in here when the murder happened. God, it was so awful. The killer was standing right where you are, Richard.”

Richard looked down at his feet and stepped away from the guilty spot. “Looks like the thieves stole everything,” he said. “With the poverty here, I suppose everything has a value.”

“You’re undoubtedly right,” said Erica, taking a flashlight from her tote bag, “but the place looks more than just burglarized. These holes in the walls-they weren’t here before.” She flipped on the light and looked into the depths of some of the holes.

“A flashlight!” said Richard. “You’re really prepared.”

“Anyone who comes to Egypt without a flashlight is making a mistake.”

Richard walked over to one of the fresh niches and scraped some of the loose dried mud onto the floor. “Cairo vandalism, I guess.”

Erica shook her head. “I think this place has been searched very carefully.”

Richard looked around, noting how the floor had been dug up in places. “Maybe, but so what? I mean, what could they have been looking for?”

Erica nibbled the inside of her cheek, a habit she had when concentrating. Richard’s question was reasonable. Perhaps Cairenes regularly hid money or valuables in walls or under the floor. But the violation reminded her of her own room being searched. On impulse she mounted the flash attachment on her Polaroid and took a photo of the interior of the shop.

Richard sensed Erica’s uneasiness. “Does it bother you to return here?”

“No,” said Erica. She did not want to stimulate Richard’s overprotectiveness. But in fact she did feel extremely uneasy within the remains of Antica Abdul. It emphasized the reality of Abdul Hamdi’s murder. “We’ve got ten minutes to get to the Al Azhar mosque. I want to be on time for Mr. Stephanos Markoulis.” She hurried out of the shop, glad to leave.

As they entered the crowded alleyway, Khalifa pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on. His jacket was draped again over his right hand, concealing the Stechkin semiautomatic. It was cocked. Raoul had told him that Erica was meeting Stephanos sometime during the afternoon, and he did not want to lose her in the confusion of the bazaar. The Greek was known for his ruthless violence, and Khalifa was being well-paid not to take chances.

Erica and Richard emerged from the Khan el Khalili at the west end of the crowded but sun-filled Al Azhar square. Its dusty heat made them appreciate the relative coolness of the bazaar. They headed across the square toward the ancient mosque, admiring the three needlelike minarets that rose into the pale blue sky. But the going became difficult in the milling crowds; they had to hold onto each other tightly to keep from being separated. The area directly in front of the mosque reminded Erica of Haymarket in Boston, with hundreds of vegetable and fruit vendors with their pushcarts, haggling with their customers over the price of the produce. Erica felt definite relief when she and Richard reached the mosque and slipped through the main entrance known as the Gate of the Barbers. The environment changed immediately. The sounds from the busy square did not penetrate the stone building. It was cool and somber, like a mausoleum.

“This reminds me of dressing for surgery,” said Richard with a smile as he slipped paper covers over his shoes. They walked through the entrance vestibule, peering into the open doorways leading into darkened rooms. The walls were constructed of large limestone blocks, giving the appearance of a dungeon, not a house of God. “I think,” said Erica, “I should have been a bit more specific about where in this mosque we were going to meet.”

Passing under a series of archways, she and Richard were surprised to find themselves back in bright sunlight. They were standing at the edge of a vast rectangular colonnaded court surrounded on all four sides by arcades with pointed Persian arches. It was a strange sight, because the courtyard was in the heart of Cairo, yet was empty and almost totally silent. Erica and Richard stood in the shade and speechlessly surveyed the scene of exotic keel-shaped archways with scalloped parapets topped by arabesque crenellations.

Erica was uneasy. She was nervous about meeting Stephanos Markoulis, and now the alien surroundings increased her fears. Richard took her hand and led her across the rectangular court toward an archway slightly higher than the others, topped by its own dome. As they crossed the court, Erica tried to peer into the violet shade of the surrounding porticoes. There were a few white-robed figures reclining on the limestone floor.

Evangelos Papparis moved around the marble column very slowly, keeping Erica and Richard in view. His sixth sense warned him to expect trouble. He was in the northern corner of the courtyard, deep within the shade of the arcade. Erica and Richard were now heading diagonally away from him. Evangelos was not sure that Erica was the woman he was awaiting, mostly because she was accompanied, but the description seemed to fit. So when the couple reached the entrance arch to the mihrab, he stepped back to the center of the arcade and waved his arm in a slow circular fashion, then held up two fingers. Stephanos Markoulis, standing deep in the vast columned prayer room about two hundred feet away, waved back. From their previous plans Stephanos now knew that Erica had come with another person. With this information he stepped around the column in front of him, then leaned against it, waiting. To his left was a group of Islamic students grouped around their teacher, who was reading from the Koran in a singsong.

Evangelos Papparis was about to walk down to the main entrance when he caught a glimpse of Khalifa. He pulled back into the shadows, struggling to place the profile. When he looked again, the figure was already gone, and Richard and Erica had entered the prayer area. Then Evangelos remembered. The man with the jacket suspiciously draped over his arm was Khalifa Khalil, the assassin.

Evangelos returned to the center of the arcade, but he could not see Stephanos. He was confused. Turning, he decided to see if Khalil was still in the building.

Erica had read about the Al Azhar mosque in the Baedeker, and she knew that they were looking at the original mihrab, or prayer niche. It was intricately constructed of minute pieces of marble and alabaster forming complicated geometric patterns. “This alcove faces toward Mecca,” whispered Erica.

“This place is awesome,” said Richard quietly. In the dim light, as far as he could see to the left or right was a forest of marble columns. His eyes wandered to the floor around the prayer niche, noticing it was covered with overlapping Oriental carpets.

“What is it that I smell,” he asked, sniffing.

“Incense,” said Erica. “Listen!”

There was a constant sound of muted voices, and from where they were standing they could see numerous groups of students sitting at the feet of their teachers. “The mosque is not a university any longer,” whispered Erica, “but it is still used for koranic studies.”

“I like the way he studies,” said Richard, pointing toward a sleeping figure curled up on an Oriental rug.

Erica turned and looked back through the series of arches to the sunlit courtyard. She wanted to leave. The mosque had a sinister, sepulchral atmosphere, and she decided it was an inappropriate spot to meet someone. “Come on, Richard.” She took his hand, but Richard, interested in going deeper into the pillared hall, pulled back.

“Let’s check out that tomb of Sultan Rahman you read about,” he said, halting Erica’s progress toward the sunlight.

Erica looked around at Richard. “I’d prefer…” She didn’t finish. Over Richard’s shoulder she saw a man walking toward them from between the columns. She knew it was Stephanos Markoulis.

Noticing her expression and following her line of vision, Richard turned toward the approaching figure. He could feel the tension in her hand. Knowing she wanted to meet with the man, he wondered why she was agitated.

“Erica Baron,” said Stephanos with a broad smile. “I’d recognize you in a crowd of a thousand. You are far more beautiful than Yvon suggested.” Stephanos did not try to conceal his appreciation.

“Mr. Markoulis?” questioned Erica, although there was no doubt in her mind. His unctuous manner and greasy appearance coincided with her expectations. What she didn’t expect was the large gold Christian cross around his neck. Within the mosque its sheen seemed provocative of violence.

“Stephanos Christos Markoulis,” said the Greek proudly.

“This is Richard Harvey,” said Erica, pulling Richard forward.

Stephanos glanced at Richard, then ignored him. “I would like to speak to you alone, Erica.” He extended his hand.

Ignoring Stephanos’ gesture, Erica grasped Richard’s hand more firmly. “I’d prefer Richard to stay.”

“As you wish.”

“This is a rather melodramatic spot,” said Erica.

Stephanos laughed, and the sound echoed between the columns. “Indeed, but remember, it was your idea not to meet at the Hilton.”

“I think we’d better make this short,” said Richard. He had no idea what was going on, but he did not like to see Erica upset.

Stephanos’ smile faded. He was not used to being opposed.

“What do you want to speak to me about?” said Erica.

“Abdul Hamdi,” said Stephanos matter-of-factly. “Remember him?”

Erica wanted to give as little information as possible. “Yes,” she said.

“Well, tell me what you know about him. Did he tell you anything out of the ordinary? Did he give you any letters or papers?”

“Why?” said Erica defiantly. “Why should I tell you what I know?”

“Perhaps we can help each other,” said Stephanos. “Are you interested in antiquities?”

“Yes,” said Erica.

“Well, then, I can help you. What are you interested in?”

“A large life-size Seti I statue,” said Erica, leaning forward to gauge her words’ effect on Stephanos.

If he were surprised, he did not show it. “You’re speaking about very serious business,” he said finally. “Have you any idea of the sums involved?”

“Yes,” said Erica. Actually, she had no idea. It was hard to even guess.

“Did Hamdi talk to you about such a statue?” asked Stephanos. His voice had a new seriousness.

“He did,” said Erica. The fact that she knew so little made her feel particularly vulnerable.

“Did Hamdi say from whom he’d obtained the statue or where it was going?” Stephanos’ face was deadly serious, and Erica shivered a little despite the heat. She tried to decide what Stephanos hoped to learn from her. It had to be where the statue was going before the murder. It must have been on its way to Athens! Without looking up, Erica spoke softly. “He didn’t tell me who sold him the statue…” She deliberately left the second part of Stephanos’ question unanswered. She knew she was gambling, but if it worked, then Stephanos would think she had been told some secrets. Then perhaps she could get something out of him.

But the conversation was cut short. Suddenly a massive figure materialized from the shadows behind Stephanos. Erica saw a huge bald head with a gaping knife wound that ran from the crown down over the bridge of the nose onto the right cheek. The wound looked like it had been made with a razor; despite its depth, it was barely bleeding. The man’s hand reached for Stephanos, and Erica gasped, digging her nails into Richard’s hand.

With surprising agility Stephanos reacted to Erica’s warning. He spun, falling to the right, his right leg cocked for what would have been a karate kick. At the last moment he checked himself, recognizing Evangelos.

“What happened?” asked Stephanos with alarm, regaining his feet.

“Khalifa,” rasped Evangelos. “Khalifa is in the mosque.”

Stephanos pushed the weakened Evangelos against a column for support and rapidly looked around. From beneath his left arm he extracted a tiny but lethal-looking Beretta automatic and snapped off the safety.

At the sight of the gun, Erica and Richard shrank against each other in total disbelief. Before they could respond, a bloodcurdling scream reverberated through the vast prayer hall. Because of the echoes, it was difficult to determine where it had come from. As it trailed off, the koranic murmuring stopped. There was a dreadful silence like the calm before a holocaust. No one moved. From where Erica and Richard were huddled they could see several groups of students with their teachers. They too reflected confusion and mounting fear. What was happening?

Suddenly shots rang out, and the deadly sound of ricocheting bullets echoed through the marbled enclosure. Erica and Richard as well as Stephanos and Evangelos ducked down, not even knowing in which direction the danger lay. “Khalifa!” rasped Evangelos.

Other screams penetrated the prayer room, followed by a kind of vibration. All at once Erica realized it was the sound of running feet. The groups of students had stood up and were facing north. Suddenly they turned and ran. Bearing down on her was a crowd of panicked people fleeing through the forest of columns. There were more shots. The crowd became a stampede.

Ignoring the two Greeks, Erica and Richard jumped to their feet and fled southward, racing hand in hand around the columns, trying to stay ahead of the panicky horde that pressed behind them. They ran blindly until they reached the end of the hall. A few of the students passed them, wide-eyed with terror, as if the building were on fire. Erica and Richard followed them as they ducked through a low door and ran down a stone passageway. It opened into a mausoleum; beyond was an opening where a heavy wooden door was ajar, leading to the outside. They ran out into the dusty street, where an excited crowd had already gathered. Erica and Richard did not join it, but slowed to a fast walk and left the area.

“This place is insane,” said Richard, his voice more angry than relieved. “What the hell was going on in there?” He didn’t expect an answer, and Erica did not respond. For three days in a row she had been forced to witness unexpected violence, and on each occasion the attack had seemed more closely associated with her. Coincidence was no longer a viable explanation.

Richard gripped her hand, pulling her behind him through the crowded streets. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and the Al Azhar mosque.

“Richard…” said Erica finally, holding her side. “Richard, let’s slow down.”

They stopped in front of a tailor shop. Richard’s mouth was set in anger. “This Stephanos, did you have any idea he’d be armed?”

“I was somewhat concerned about meeting him, but I-”

“Just answer the question, Erica. Did you think he would be armed?”

“I did not even consider it.” She did not like Richard’s tone of voice.

“Obviously it was something you should have considered. Anyway, who is this Stephanos Markoulis?”

“He is an antiquities dealer from Athens. Apparently he’s involved in the black market.”

“And how was the meeting, if you can call it that, arranged?”

“A friend asked me if I’d see Stephanos.”

“And who is this wonderful friend who sends you into the hands of a gangster?”

“His name is Yvon de Margeau. He’s French.”

“And what kind of friend is he?”

Erica looked at Richard’s face, now flushed with anger. Still trembling from their experience, Erica did not know how to cope with his emotion.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” she said, with mixed feelings about apologizing.

“Well,” said Richard crossly, “I could repeat what you said last night when I tried to apologize about scaring you. Saying ‘sorry’ is supposed to make everything okay, but it doesn’t. You could have gotten us killed. I think your escapade has gone far enough. We’re going to the American embassy and you’re coming back to Boston if I have to drag you on the plane by your hair.”

“Richard…” said Erica, shaking her head.

An empty taxi was slowly picking its way along the crowded streets. Richard saw the car over Erica’s shoulder and hailed it as the crowds reluctantly parted. They climbed into the back seat without speaking, and Richard told the driver to go to the Hilton Hotel. Erica felt a combination of anger and despair. If Richard had taken it upon himself to direct the driver to the American embassy, she would have gotten out of the car.

After ten minutes of silence, Richard finally spoke. His voice had mellowed slightly. “The fact is that you are not equipped for this kind of affair. You have to recognize that.”

“With my background in Egyptology,” snapped Erica, “I think I’m superbly equipped.” Locked in traffic, the taxi inched past one of Cairo’s huge medieval gates, and Erica studied it first through the side, then the rear window.

“Egyptology is the study of a dead civilization,” said Richard, lifting his hand in the air as if to pat her knee. “It has no relevance to the current problem.”

Erica looked over at Richard. “Dead civilization… no relevance.” The words confirmed Richard’s concept of her work. It was belittling and infuriating.

“You are trained as an academician,” continued Richard, “and I think you should accept that fact. This cloak-and-dagger routine is childish and dangerous. It’s a ridiculous risk for a statue, any statue.”

“This isn’t just any statue,” said Erica angrily. “Besides, the issue is much more involved than you are willing to comprehend.”

“I think it’s all too obvious. A statue worth a lot of money is unearthed. Such sums can explain all sorts of behavior. But it’s a problem for the authorities, not tourists.”

Erica clenched her teeth, bristling at the label “tourist.” As the taxi started to move more quickly, she tried to understand why Yvon had allowed her to meet with Stephanos. Nothing seemed to make any sense, and she tried to decide what to do next. She had no intention of giving up, no matter what Richard said. Abdul Hamdi seemed to be the pivot. Then she remembered his son and her earlier resolve to visit his antique shop in Luxor.

Richard leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Do you speak English?”

The driver nodded. “A little.”

“Do you know where the American embassy is?”

“Yes,” said the driver. He looked at Richard in the rearview mirror.

“We are not going to the American embassy,” said Erica, pronouncing each word carefully and loudly enough for the driver to hear.

“I’m afraid I’m going to insist,” said Richard. He turned to speak to the driver.

“You can insist on whatever you want,” Erica said evenly, “but that’s not where I’m going. Driver, stop the car.” She moved forward on the seat, pulling her tote bag onto her shoulder.

“Keep driving,” Richard instructed, trying to pull Erica back into her seat.

“Stop the taxi!” Erica shouted.

The driver complied, pulling over to the side. Erica had the door open before the car reached a standstill, and leaped to the sidewalk.

Richard followed, leaving the taxi unpaid. The irate driver drove slowly alongside as Richard overtook Erica and caught her arm. “It is time to stop this adolescent behavior,” he shouted, as if threatening an errant child. “We are going to the American embassy. You’re over your head. You’re going to get hurt.”

“Richard,” said Erica, tapping his chin with her index finger, “you go to the American embassy if you want. I’m going to Luxor. Believe me, the embassy can do nothing at all about this, even if they were so inclined. I’m going to go to Upper Egypt and do what I came here for.”

“Erica, if you persist, I’m going to leave. I’ll go back to Boston. I mean it. I’ve come all the way over here, and it doesn’t seem to matter to you. I just cannot believe it.”

Erica didn’t say anything. She just wanted him to leave.

“And if I do leave, I don’t know what will happen to our relationship.”

“Richard,” said Erica quietly, “I am going to Upper Egypt.”

With the afternoon sun low in the sky, the Nile appeared like a flat ribbon of silver. Sudden highlights sparkled from the surface where gusts of wind stirred the water. Erica had to shield her eyes from the sun to distinguish the timeless form of the pyramids. The sphinx looked as if it were made of gold. She was standing on the balcony of her room at the Hilton. It was almost time to leave. The management had been overjoyed at her decision to vacate her room, because as usual, they had overbooked. Erica had packed and her single suitcase was ready. The travel desk in the lobby had arranged a booking for her on the seven-thirty sleeper south.

The thought of the trip managed to dull the fear of the last few days and alleviate her feelings about fighting with Richard. The Temple of Karnak, the Valley of the Kings, Abu Simbel, Dendera-these were the reasons she had come to Egypt. She would go south, see Abdul’s son, but concentrate on viewing the fabled monuments at first hand. She was glad Richard had decided to leave. She would not think about their relationship until she returned home. Then they would see.

Checking the bathroom for the final time, Erica was rewarded by finding her cream rinse behind the shower curtain. She shoved it in her bag and checked the time. It was a quarter to six. She was about to leave for the train station when the phone rang. It was Yvon.

“Did you see Stephanos?” he asked cheerfully.

“I did,” said Erica. She allowed an awkward pause. She had not called because she was angry he had subjected her to such danger.

“Well, what did he say?” asked Yvon.

“Very little. It was what he did that was important. He had a gun. We had just met at the Al Azhar mosque when a huge bald man appeared who looked like he’d been beaten. He told Stephanos that someone named Khalifa was there. Then all hell broke loose. Yvon, how could you have asked me to meet such a man?”

“My God,” said Yvon. “Erica, I want you to stay in your room until I call back.”

“I’m sorry, Yvon, but I was just leaving. In fact, I’m leaving Cairo.”

“Leaving! I thought you were officially detained,” said Yvon with surprise.

“I’m not supposed to leave the country,” said Erica. “I called Ahmed Khazzan’s office and informed them I was going to Luxor. It was fine with them.”

“Erica, stay until I call back. Is your… boyfriend planning on going with you?”

“He’s returning to the States. He was as upset about meeting Stephanos as I was. Thanks for calling, Yvon. Keep in touch.” Erica hung up the phone very deliberately. She knew Yvon had used her as bait in some way. Although she believed in Yvon’s crusade against the antiquities black market, she did not like being used. The phone rang again but she ignored it.

It took over an hour for the taxi to go from the Hilton to the central railway station. Although Erica had carefully showered for the trip, within fifteen minutes her blouse was soaked with perspiration and her back stuck to the hot vinyl seat cover.

The railway station stood in a busy square behind an ancient statue of Ramses II, whose timeless appearance was in sharp contrast to the mad rush-hour commotion. The inside of the station was jammed with people, ranging from businessmen in Western clothes to farmers carrying empty produce containers. Although Erica was aware of some stares, no one tried to accost her, and she moved easily through the crowds. There was a short line in front of the sleeping-car window, and Erica had no trouble purchasing her ticket. She planned to break her trip at a small village called Balianeh and do a little sightseeing.

At the large kiosk she bought a two-day-old Herald Tribune, an Italian fashion magazine, and several popular books on the discovery of Tutankhamen’s tomb. She even bought another copy of Carter’s book, even though she’d read it many times.

The time passed quickly, and she heard her train announced. A Nubian porter with a wonderful smile took her bag and stowed it at the foot of her berth. The porter told her that they did not expect the car to be full, so she could spread her things out over two seats. She put her tote on the floor and leaned back with the Herald Tribune.

“Hello,” said a pleasant voice, slightly startling her.

“Yvon,” she said, truly surprised.

“Hello, Erica. I’m amazed I found you. May I sit down?”

Erica picked up her reading material from the seat next to her.

“I took a chance you were going south by train. All the flights had been booked for some time.”

Erica gave a half-smile. Although she was still angry, she couldn’t help but be a little flattered that Yvon had followed her, obviously with some effort. His hair was disheveled, as if he had been running.

“Erica, I want to apologize for whatever happened when you met Stephanos.”

“Nothing really happened. What bothered me was what could have happened. You must have had some idea, because you said to meet him in a public place.”

“Indeed I did, but I was only concerned because of Stephanos’ reputation with women. I didn’t want you to be subjected to any uncomfortable overtures.”

The train lurched slightly, and Yvon stood, looking up and down the aisle. Satisfied that the train was not pulling out, he sat back down.

“I still owe you a dinner,” said Yvon. “That was our deal. Please stay in Cairo. I have learned some things about the killers of Abdul Hamdi.”

“What?” asked Erica.

“That they were not from Cairo. I have some photos I’d like you to see. Perhaps you could recognize one.”

“Did you bring them?”

“No, they are at the hotel. There wasn’t time.”

“Yvon, I’m leaving for Luxor. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Erica, you can go to Luxor whenever you wish. I have a plane. I can fly you there tomorrow.”

Erica looked down at her hands. Despite her anger, despite her misgivings, she could feel her resolve weakening. At the same time, she was tired of being protected, taken care of.

“Thank you for the offer, Yvon, but I think I’ll go by train. I’ll call you from Luxor.”

There was the sound of a whistle. It was seven-thirty.

“Erica…” said Yvon, but the train began to move forward. “All right. Call from Luxor. Perhaps I’ll see you there.” He dashed down the aisle and jumped from the train, which was now picking up speed.

“Damn,” said Yvon as he watched the train slide from the station. He turned into the busy waiting room. By the exit he met Khalifa.

“Why aren’t you on that train?” snapped Yvon.

Khalifa smiled slyly. “I was told to follow the girl in Cairo. Nothing was said about taking a train to the south.”

“Christ,” said Yvon, walking toward a side door. “Follow me.”

Raoul was waiting in the car. He started the engine when he saw Yvon. Yvon held open a rear door for Khalifa then climbed in after him.

“What happened in the mosque?” asked Yvon as they pulled out into the traffic.

“Trouble,” said Khalifa. “The girl met Stephanos, but Stephanos had posted a guard. In order to protect her, I had to break up the meeting. I had no choice. It was a bad location, almost as bad as the serapeum yesterday. But in deference to your sensibilities, there was no killing. I shouted a few times and fired off a couple of shots and cleared out the whole mosque.” Khalifa laughed contemptuously.

“Thank you for considering my sensibilities. But tell me, did Stephanos threaten or make any move against Erica Baron?”

“I don’t know,” said Khalifa.

“But that was what you were supposed to find out,” said Yvon.

“I was supposed to protect the girl, then learn what I could,” said Khalifa. “Under the circumstances, protecting the girl took all my attention.”

Yvon turned his head and watched a bicyclist go by, balancing a large tray of bread on his head and making better time than they were in the car. Yvon felt frustrated. Things were going poorly, and now Erica Baron, his last hope for the Seti statue, had left Cairo. He looked at Khalifa. “I hope you’re ready to travel, because you’re going to Luxor tonight by air.”

“Whatever you say,” said Khalifa. “This job is getting interesting.”