Sphinx

Day 5

The excitement of being in Luxor woke Erica before sunrise. She ordered breakfast from room service and had it served on the balcony. With the breakfast came a telegram from Yvon: ARRIVING NEW WINTER PALACE HOTEL TODAY STOP WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU TONIGHT.

Erica was surprised. She had been so sure the telegram was going to be from Richard. And after spending the evening with Ahmed, she was confused. It was incredible to think that only last year she had been anxiously hoping Richard would propose. Now she found herself attracted to three very different men at the same time. Although it was reassuring for Erica that she could be responsive, which had been a worry when her relationship with Richard began to crack, the present situation was also unnerving. She drank the rest of her coffee in one gulp and decided to put all emotional issues out of her head. Pushing back from the table, she returned to her room and prepared for the day.

Emptying her tote bag, she repacked it with the box lunch she’d ordered at the suggestion of the hotel, the flashlight, the matches and cigarettes, and Abdul Hamdi’s 1929 Baedeker. The loose cover and other assorted papers were put on the bureau. Before she turned away, Erica again saw the name on the cover: Nasef Malmud, 180 Shari el Tahrir, Cairo. Her connection with Abdul Hamdi had not been completely severed by Tewfik’s murder! She would look up Nasef Malmud when she returned to Cairo. Carefully, she put the cover in her bag.

It was a short walk from the Winter Palace Hotel to the antiquities shops on Shari Lukanda. Some were still not open, despite the fact that there already were a number of brightly clad tourists in evidence. Erica chose one randomly and entered.

The shop was reminiscent of Antica Abdul, but with significantly more artifacts. Erica went over the more impressive specimens, isolating the real from the fake. The proprietor, a heavyset man named David Jouran, initially hovered over her, but then retreated behind his counter.

Out of dozens of allegedly prehistoric pots, Erica found only two she thought were real, and they were ordinary. She held one up. “How much?”

“Fifty pounds,” said Jouran. “The one next to that is ten pounds.”

Erica looked at the other pot. It had beautiful decorations. Too beautiful: they were spirals, but going in the wrong direction. Erica knew that predynastic pottery frequently had spirals, but they were all counterclockwise spirals. The spirals on the present pot were all clockwise. “I’m only interested in antiques. Actually, I find very few genuine pieces in here. I’m hoping to find something special.” She put down the fake pot and walked over to the counter. “I’ve been sent here to buy some particularly good antiques, preferably from the New Kingdom. I’m prepared to pay. Do you have anything to show me?”

David Jouran regarded Erica for a few moments without answering. Then he bent over, opened a small cabinet, and heaved a scarred granite head of Ramses II onto the counter. The nose was gone and the chin was cracked.

Erica shook her head. “No,” she said, looking around. “Is that the best you have?”

“For now.” Jouran put the broken statue away.

“Well, let me leave my name,” said Erica, writing on a slip of paper. “I’m staying at the Winter Palace. If you hear of any special pieces, get in touch with me.” She paused, half-expecting the man to show her something else, but he just shrugged, and after an awkward silence she left.

It was a similar story in the next five shops she entered. No one showed her anything extraordinary. The best piece she saw was a glazed ushabti figurine from the time of Queen Hatshepsut. In each shop she left her name, but she didn’t feel very hopeful. Finally she gave up and walked to the ferry landing.

It cost only a few cents to cross to the West Bank on the old boat, which was crowded with camera-toting tourists. As soon as they landed, the group was set upon by an enormous band of taxi drivers, would-be guides, and scarab salesmen. Erica boarded a dilapidated bus with a “Valley of the Kings” painted haphazardly on a piece of cardboard. When all the ferry passengers had been absorbed in one way or another, the bus left the landing.

Erica was beside herself with excitement. Beyond the flat green cultivated fields, which ended abruptly at the desert’s edge, stood the stark Theban cliffs. At their base Erica could see some of the famous monuments, like the graceful temple of Hatshepsut at Deir el-Bahri. Immediately to the right of Hatshepsut’s temple was a small village called Qurna, built into the sloping hillside. The mud-brick buildings were set in the desert beyond the irrigated fields. Most were a light tan not too dissimilar from the color of the sandstone cliffs. A few buildings were whitewashed and stood out sharply, particularly a small mosque with a stubby minaret. In among the buildings were openings cut into the bedrock. These were doorways into the myriad of ancient crypts. The people of Qurna lived among the tombs of the nobles. Many attempts had been made to relocate the villagers, but the people had tenaciously resisted.

The bus careened around a sharp turn and then bore right at a fork. Erica caught a fleeting glimpse of the mortuary temple of Seti I. There was so much to see.

The desert began with a remarkably sharp demarcation line. Desolate rock and sand without a single growing plant replaced the verdant sugarcane fields. The road ran straight until it reached the mountains; then it became serpentine, leading into a progressively narrow valley. The ovenlike heat was intense and there was no wind to relieve the feeling of oppression.

After passing a tiny rock guard station, the bus pulled up in a large parking area already filled with other buses and taxis. Despite the 100-plus temperature, the area was dense with tourists. On a small rise to the left, a concession stand was doing swift business.

Erica donned a khaki-colored hat she’d bought as protection against the sun. It was hard for her to believe that she had finally arrived in the Valley of the Kings, the site of the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamen. The valley was hemmed in by jagged mountains and dominated by a sharp, triangular peak that looked like a natural pyramid. Sheer rock faces of brown limestone dropped down into the valley and met the neat tracks lined with little stones that radiated from the parking area. At the juncture of the cliffs and the paths were the black openings of the tombs of the kings.

Although most of the passengers on the bus had repaired to the concession stand for cool drinks, Erica hurried to the entrance of Seti I’s tomb. She knew that it was the largest and most spectacular in the valley, and she wanted to visit it first, to see if she could find the name Nenephta.

Catching her breath, she stepped over the threshold into the past. Although she had known the decorations were well-preserved, once she saw them herself, their pristine hues surprised her. The paint looked as freshly applied as yesterday. She walked slowly through the entrance corridor, then down another stairway, her eyes glued to the wall decorations. There were images of Seti in the company of the entire pantheon of Egyptian deities. On the ceiling were huge vultures with stylistically outstretched wings. Voluminous hieroglyphic texts of the Book of the Dead separated the images.

Erica had to wait for a large tour group before she could pass a wooden bridge spanning a deep shaft. Looking into the depths of the well, Erica wondered if it had been constructed to thwart tomb robbers. Beyond it was a gallery supported by four robust pillars. Then there was another stairway, which had been sealed and carefully hidden in ancient times.

As she had descended ever deeper into the tomb, Erica marveled at the herculean effort it had taken to hand-carve the rock. By the time she had descended the fourth stairway and was several hundred yards into the mountain, she noticed that the air was considerably harder to breathe. She wondered what it had been like for the struggling ancient workmen. There was no ventilation despite the continuous stream of gawking visitors, and the low oxygen gave Erica a feeling of suffocation. She did not suffer from claustrophobia but was not fond of being closed in and had to consciously suppress her misgivings.

Once in the burial chamber, Erica tried to ignore her labored breathing and craned her neck to admire the astronomical motifs on the vaulted ceiling. She also noted one of the tunnels dug in relatively recent times by an individual who was certain he knew the location of additional secret rooms. Nothing had been found.

Although she was growing more and more anxious in the confines of the tomb, she convinced herself she should visit a small side room where there was a well-known representation of the sky goddess Nut, in the form of a cow. She navigated through the tourists to the doorway, but looking into the room, she could see that it was practically filled with people and decided to forgo seeing Nut. Turning suddenly, she bumped into a man entering the room behind her.

“I beg your pardon,” said Erica.

The man flashed a smile before turning and walking back into the burial chamber. Another group of tourists entered, and Erica found herself forced against her will into the small room. Desperately she tried to calm herself, but the man who had blocked her way unnerved her. She’d seen him before-black hair, black suit, and a crooked smile revealing a pointed front tooth that she remembered from the Egyptian Museum in Cairo.

Knowing that tourists frequent the same places, Erica wondered why the man made her feel alarmed. She knew she was acting absurdly and that her fear was just a combination of the weird events of the last few days plus the hot, stuffy atmosphere of the tomb. Hiking her tote strap higher on her shoulder, Erica forced herself out into the burial chamber. The man was not in sight. A small flight of steps rose to the upper part of the room, leading to the exit. Erica started up the steps, her eyes scanning the area. She had to keep herself from running. Then she stopped. Moving quickly behind one of the square pillars on her left was the same man. It was just a fleeting glimpse, but now Erica was convinced she was not imagining things, that the man was acting strangely. He was stalking her. Impulsively she mounted the remaining steps and slipped behind a column. The room contained four pillars, each facade decorated with a colored life-size relief of Seti I before one of the Egyptian gods.

Erica waited, her heart pounding, unwillingly remembering the way violence had been exploding around her during the last few days. She did not know what to expect. Then the man appeared again. He walked around the pillar in front of her, looking at the giant mural on the wall. Even though his lips were only slightly parted, Erica could see that the right-front incisor came to a sharp point. He passed without looking at her.

As soon as her legs would move, Erica first walked, then ran, retracing her steps through corridors and up the stairways until she emerged into the shocking bright sunlight. Once in the open, her panic evaporated and she felt foolish. Her certainty of the man’s evil intentions seemed like pure paranoia. She glanced back but did not return to Seti’s tomb. She’d look for the name Nenephta on another day.

It was after noon, and the concession stand and rest house were jammed. As a consequence, Tutankhamen’s comparatively meager tomb was almost empty. Earlier there had been a line to get in. Erica took advantage of the lull in the crowds and descended the famous sixteen steps to the entrance. Just before going in, she looked back toward Seti’s tomb. She saw no one. While walking down the passageway, she considered the irony that the smallest tomb of the most insignificant pharaoh of the New Kingdom was the only one found reasonably intact. And even Tutankhamen’s tomb had been broken into twice in antiquity.

As she crossed the threshold into the antechamber, she tried to recreate in her mind that wonderful day in November 1922 when the tomb was opened. How exciting it must have been when Howard Carter and his party stepped into the most dazzling archaeological treasure ever uncovered.

With her knowledge of the discovery, Erica could mentally place most of the objects found in the tomb. She knew that the life-size statues of Tutankhamen stood on either side of the burial-chamber entrance and that the three funerary beds stood against the wall. Then she remembered the strange disarray that Carter had found in the tomb. That was a mystery that never was explained. Presumably the chaos was from the tomb robbers, but why hadn’t the funerary objects been put back to their original state?

Stepping out of the way of an exiting French tour group, Erica had to wait to enter the burial chamber. While she stood there, the man in the black suit who had frightened her in Seti’s tomb entered, carrying an open guidebook. Involuntarily Erica stiffened. But she successfully fought her fear, convinced that she was just imagining things. Besides, the man did not seem to notice her as he passed. She got a good look at the hooked nose that gave him the appearance of a bird of prey.

Mustering her fortitude, she forced herself to enter the crowded burial chamber. The room was divided by a banister, and the only free spot at the railing was next to the man in the black suit. She hesitated for a moment but then walked up to the banister and looked over at Tutankhamen’s magnificent pink sarcophagus. The wall paintings in the room were insignificant when compared with the stylistic perfection of those in Seti’s tomb. As her eyes roamed the room, Erica happened to see the open page in the man’s guidebook. It was the floor plan of the Temple of Karnak. It had nothing to do with the Valley of the Kings, and all Erica’s fears returned with a rush. Quickly stepping away from the railing, Erica hurried out. Again she felt better in the sunlight and fresh air, but now she was convinced she was not paranoid.

There were no tables available in the concession stand, which stood a mere thirty feet from the entrance to Tutankhamen’s tomb, but Erica was thankful for the crowd; it made her feel safe. She sat on the low stone wall of the veranda with a cold can of juice she’d purchased and her box lunch from the hotel. She’d kept her eye on the opening of Tutankhamen’s tomb, and now as she watched, the man emerged and walked across the parking area to a small black car. He sat on the seat, leaving the door ajar, his feet on the ground. She wondered what his presence meant; if his intention had been to harm her, he’d had multiple opportunities. She concluded that he must be merely following her, perhaps working for the authorities. Erica took a deep breath and tried to ignore him. But she also decided to stay in the company of other tourists.

Her lunch consisted of several sliced lamb sandwiches, which she chewed thoughtfully while looking across the path to the nearby opening of Tutankhamen’s tomb. It helped her to relax to think of the thousands of Victorian visitors to the Valley of the Kings who had unknowingly sipped their cool lemonade ten yards from the hidden entrance to the world’s greatest buried treasure. The Seti I tomb was also reasonably close to the concession stand.

Biting into the second sandwich, she pondered the proximity of Ramses VI’s tomb to Tutankhamen’s. It was just above and slightly to the left. Erica remembered that it had been the workers’ huts built during the construction of Ramses VI’s tomb over the entrance to Tutankhamen’s which had delayed Carter’s discovery. It hadn’t been until he’d thrown a trench right into the area that he had found the sixteen descending steps.

Erica stopped eating, drawing the information together. She knew that the ancient plunderers had entered Tutankhamen’s tomb through the original entrance, because Carter had described the breaks in the door. But because of the location of the workers’ huts, the entrance to Tutankhamen’s tomb had to have been covered and forgotten by the time the construction began on Ramses VI’s tomb. This meant that Tutankhamen’s tomb had to have been plundered in the early twentieth or perhaps the nineteenth dynasty. What if Tutankhamen’s tomb had been plundered during the reign of Seti I?

Erica allowed herself to swallow. Could there be some connection between the defilement of Tutankhamen’s tomb and the fact that Tutankhamen’s name appeared on the Seti statue? While her mind wandered over these thoughts, Erica looked up and watched a lone hawk spiral on still wings.

She began putting her sandwich papers back into the box. The man in the car had not moved. A nearby table vacated, and Erica carried her belongings over to it, putting her tote bag on the ground.

Despite the heavy heat hanging over the valley like a thick blanket, Erica’s mind kept racing. What if the Seti statues had been placed inside Tutankhamen’s tomb after the tomb robbers had been caught? She immediately dismissed the idea as preposterous; it made no sense. Besides, if the statues had been in the tomb, they would have been cataloged by Carter, who had a reputation for being uncompromisingly meticulous. No, Erica knew she was on the wrong track, but she realized that the whole issue of robbers in Tutankhamen’s tomb had been given short shrift because of the enormity of Carter’s find. The fact that the boy king’s tomb had been defiled might have significance, and the idea that the tomb had been entered during the reign of Seti I was intriguing. Suddenly Erica wished she were back at the Egyptian Museum. She decided she wanted to go over Carter’s notes, which Dr. Fakhry said were on microfilm in the archives. Even if she did not learn anything astounding, it would be the subject of a good journal article. She also wondered if any of the people present during the initial opening of Tutankhamen’s tomb were still alive. She knew Carnarvon and Carter had died, and thinking of Carnarvon’s death, she remembered the “Curse of the Pharaohs” and smiled at the resourcefulness of the media and the gullibility of the public.

With her lunch finished, Erica opened the Baedeker to decide which of the many tombs she wanted to visit next. A German tour group went by, and she hurried to join. Above her the spiraling sparrow hawk abruptly dived to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.

Khalifa reached over and turned off the radio in the rented car as he watched Erica trudge deeper into the white-hot valley. “Karrah,” he cursed as he heaved himself from the shade of the auto. He could not fathom why anyone would voluntarily subject herself to such merciless heat.

As Erica crossed the extensive gardens that separated the old Winter Palace from the new hotel, she could understand why so many wealthy Victorians had chosen to winter in Upper Egypt. Although the day had been hot, once the sun had set the temperature cooled gracefully. As she skirted the swimming pool she noticed it was still being enjoyed by a bevy of American children.

It had been a wonderful day. The ancient paintings she’d seen in the tombs had been outstanding, incredible. Then, when she had returned to the hotel from the West Bank, she had found two notes, both invitations. One from Yvon and one from Ahmed. The decision had been difficult, but she had agreed to see Yvon, hoping he might have discovered new information about the statue. On the phone he had told her that they would eat in the dining room of the New Winter Palace and that he would come by for her at eight. On an impulse she had told him that she’d rather meet him there in the lobby.

Yvon was dressed in a dark blue double-breasted blazer and white slacks, his fine brown hair carefully combed. He offered Erica his arm as they entered the dining room.

The restaurant was not old, but it appeared decadent, its unharmonious decor suggesting a failed attempt at a gracious continental dining room. But Erica soon forgot her surroundings as Yvon entertained her with stories of his European childhood. The way he described his formal and very cold relationship with his parents made it sound more funny than deplorable.

“And what about you?” asked Yvon, searching for his cigarettes in his jacket.

“I come from another world.” Erica looked down and swirled her wine. “I grew up in a house in a small city in the Midwest. We had a small but very close family.” Erica pressed her lips together and shrugged.

“Ah, there’s more than that,” said Yvon with a smile. “But don’t let me be rude… and don’t feel obligated to tell me.”

Erica was not being secretive. She just didn’t think that Yvon would be interested in hearing about Toledo, Ohio. And she didn’t want to talk about her father’s death in an air crash or the fact that she had trouble getting along with her mother because they were too similar. Anyway, she preferred hearing Yvon talk.

“Have you ever been married?” asked Erica.

Yvon laughed and then studied Erica’s face. “I am married,” he said casually.

Erica averted her eyes, certain that her instantaneous disappointment would be mirrored in her pupils. She should have known.

“I even have two wonderful children,” continued Yvon, “Jean Claude and Michelle. I just never see them.”

“Never?” The idea of not seeing one’s own children was incomprehensible. Erica lifted her gaze; she was under control.

“I visit them rarely. My wife chooses to live in St. Tropez. She likes to shop and sun, both of which I find limiting. The children are at boarding school, and they like St. Tropez in the summer. So…”

“So you live in your château by yourself,” said Erica, lightening the mood.

“No, it’s a dreary place. I have a nice apartment on the Rue Verneuil in Paris.”

It was only when they were drinking coffee that Yvon was willing to discuss the statue of Seti I or Abdul’s death.

“I brought these photos for you to look at,” he said, taking five pictures from his pocket and placing them in front of Erica. “I know you saw the men who killed Abdul Hamdi for only a second, but do you recognize any of these faces?”

Taking each in turn, Erica studied the pictures. “No,” she said at length. “But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”

“I understand,” said Yvon, picking up the photographs. “It was just a possibility. Tell me, Erica, have you had any problems since you’ve come to Upper Egypt?”

“No… except I’m quite sure I’m being followed.”

“Followed?” said Yvon.

“That’s the only explanation I can think of. Today in the Valley of the Kings I saw a man I believe I first saw in the Egyptian Museum. He’s an Arab with a large hooked nose, a sneering grin, and one front tooth that comes to a point.” Erica bared her lips and pointed to her right incisor. The gesture brought a smile to Yvon’s face, although he was not pleased that she had spotted Khalifa. “This is not funny,” continued Erica. “He scared me today, pretending to be a tourist but reading the wrong page in his guidebook. Yvon,” she said, changing the subject, “what about this plane of yours? Do you have it here in Luxor?”

Yvon shook his head, confused. “Yes, of course. The plane is here in Luxor. Why do you ask?”

“Because I want to go back to Cairo. I have some work that will take about half a day.”

“When?” asked Yvon.

“The sooner the better,” said Erica.

“What about tonight?” He wanted Erica back in the city.

Erica was surprised at the offer, but she trusted Yvon, especially now that she knew he was married. “Why not?” she said.

Although she had never been in a small jet before, she had imagined there would be a lot more room than there was. She was strapped into one of the four large leather seats. In the chair next to Erica was Raoul, trying to carry on a conversation with her, but Erica was more interested in what was happening and whether they were going to get off the ground. She didn’t believe in the principles of aerodynamics. In big planes it didn’t worry her because the concept of the huge hulk ever flying was so preposterous that she refused to think about it. The smaller the plane, the more the issue was unwelcomely thrust into her awareness.

Yvon employed a pilot, but since he had trained to fly himself, he usually preferred to be at the controls. There was no air traffic and they were cleared immediately. The knifelike little jet thundered down the runway and leaped into the air as Erica’s fingers blanched.

Once they were under way, Yvon relinquished the controls and came back to talk with Erica. Beginning to relax, she said, “You mentioned that your mother was from England. Do you think she might have known the Carnarvons?”

“Why, yes. I’ve met the present earl,” said Yvon. “Why do you ask?”

“Actually, I’m interested to know if Lord Carnarvon’s daughter is still alive. Her name is Evelyn, I believe.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Yvon, “but I could find out. Why do you ask? Have you become interested in the ‘Curse of the Pharaohs’?” He grinned in the half-light of the cabin.

“Maybe,” answered Erica teasingly. “I have a theory about Tutankhamen’s tomb that I want to investigate. I’ll tell you about it when I get some more information. But if you could find out about Carnarvon’s daughter for me, I’d really appreciate it. Oh, one other thing. Have you ever heard the name Nenephta?”

“In what context?”

“In relation to Seti I.”

Yvon thought, then shook his head. “Never.”

They had to fly a complicated pattern over Cairo before they were allowed to land, but formalities were brief, since the plane had already been cleared. It was just after one A.M. when they arrived at the Meridien Hotel. The management was extremely cordial to Yvon, and although they were supposedly full, they somehow managed to find an extra room for Erica next to his penthouse suite. Yvon invited her over for a nightcap after she had settled herself.

Erica had brought only her canvas tote bag, packing a minimum of clothing, her makeup, and reading material. She’d left the guidebooks and flashlight in her room in Luxor. So there was little to do by way of “settling” herself, and she walked through the connecting door into the main room of Yvon’s suite.

He had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and was just opening a bottle of Dom Perignon when Erica entered. She took the glass of champagne, and for a moment their hands touched. Erica was suddenly conscious of his extraordinary good looks. She felt as if they had been moving toward this night since they first met. He was married, he obviously wasn’t serious, but then, neither was she. She decided to relax and let the evening take its own course. But an excited pulse began between her thighs, and to distract herself she felt impelled to talk. “What makes you so interested in archaeology?”

“It started when I was still a student in Paris. Some of my friends talked me into going to the École de Lange Oriental. I was fascinated and worked like crazy for the first time. I’d never been much of a student. I studied Arabic and Coptic. It was Egypt that interested me. I guess that’s more of an explanation than a reason. Would you like to see the view from the terrace?” He held out his hand to her.

“I’d love to,” said Erica, the pulse quickening. She wanted this. She didn’t care if he was using her, if he was simply compelled to take to bed any attractive woman he met. For the first time in her life she let herself be swept along by desire.

Yvon slid open the door, and Erica walked out under the trellis. She could smell the fragrant roses as she stared down at the whole city of Cairo spread out against the canopy of stars. The citadel with its bold minarets was still illuminated. Directly before them was the island of Gezira, surrounded by the dark Nile.

Erica could sense Yvon’s presence behind her. When she looked up at his angular face, he was studying her. Slowly he reached out and drew the tips of his fingers through her hair, then cupped the back of her head and pulled her to him. He kissed her tentatively, sensitive to her emotions, then more fully, and finally with true passion.

Erica was amazed at the intensity of her response. Yvon was the first man she had been with since knowing Richard, and she was not certain how her body would react. But now she opened her arms to Yvon, matching his excitement with her own.

Their clothes fell naturally as their bodies slowly sank to the Oriental carpet. And in the soft silent light of the Egyptian night they made love with intense abandon, the sprawling throbbing city serving as mute witness to their passion.