Sphinx

Day 7

The sound of the recorded voice coming from the small mosque built against the Temple of Luxor awoke Erica from a troubled dream. She had been running from some unseen but terrifying creature through a medium that progressively resisted her movement. When she awoke she was tangled in the bedcovers and realized she must have been tossing and turning.

She pulled herself up from the bed and opened the windows to the morning freshness. With the crisp air on her face, her nightmare vanished. She took a quick sponge bath standing in the large tub. For some reason there was no hot water, and she was actually shivering when she was through.

After breakfast Erica left the hotel to find the Curio Antique Shop. She had her tote bag with her flashlight, Polaroid camera, and guidebooks. She was comfortably dressed in new cotton slacks she’d purchased in Cairo to replace those that she’d ripped in the serapeum.

She strolled down Shari Lukanda and noted the names of the shops she’d already visited. Curio Antique Shop was not among them. One of the proprietors she recognized told her that the Curio Antique Shop was on Shari el Muntazah near the Hotel Savoy. Erica found the area and the shop very easily. Next to the Curio Shop was a store that was crudely boarded up. Although she could not read its full name, she saw the word “Hamdi” and knew what she was looking at.

Clutching her bag tightly, she entered the Curio Shop. There was a good selection of antiquities, although on closer examination she could tell they were mostly fakes. A French couple was already in the shop and bargaining fiercely for a small bronze figure.

The most interesting piece Erica saw was a black mummiform ushabti figure with a delicately painted face. Its plinth was gone, so the statue was leaning against the corner of the shelf. As soon as the French couple departed without buying the bronze, the proprietor approached Erica. He was a distinguished-looking Arab with silver-grey hair and a neat mustache.

“I am Lahib Zayed. May I help you?” he said, switching from French to English. Erica wondered what made him guess her nationality.

“Yes,” said Erica. “I’d like to look at that black Osiriform figure.”

“Ah, yes. One of my best pieces. From the tombs of the nobles.” He lifted the figure ever so gently with the tips of his fingers.

While his back was turned, Erica licked the tip of her finger. When he handed her the statue she was ready.

“Be very careful. It is a delicate piece,” said Zayed.

Erica nodded and wiped her finger back and forth. The tip of her finger was clean. The pigment was stable. She looked more closely at the carving and the manner in which the eyes were painted. That was the critical area. She was satisfied the statue was an antique.

“New Kingdom,” said Zayed holding the statue away from Erica so she could appreciate it at a distance. “I get something like this only once or twice a year.”

“How much?”

“Fifty pounds. Normally I’d ask more, but you are so beautiful.”

Erica smiled. “I’ll give you forty,” she said, knowing full well that he did not expect to get his initial price. She also knew it was a little more than she should be spending, but she thought it was important to prove that she was serious. Besides, she liked the statue. Even if it later proved to be a very clever fake, it was still decorative. They concluded the deal at forty-one pounds.

“Actually, I’m here representing a large group,” said Erica, “and I’m interested in something very special. Do you have anything?”

“I might have a few things you’d like. Perhaps I could show you in a more suitable place. Would you care for some mint tea?”

Erica felt a surge of anxiety as she stepped into the back room of the Curio Antique Shop. She had to suppress the image of Abdul Hamdi’s throat being slit. Fortunately the Curio Antique Shop was constructed differently, opening onto a courtyard with bright sunlight. It did not have the confining feeling of Antica Abdul.

Zayed called his son, a dark-haired, lanky facsimile of his father, and told him to order some mint tea for their guest.

Settling back in his chair, Zayed asked Erica the usual questions: if she liked Luxor, if she’d been to Karnak, what did she think of the Valley of the Kings? He told her how much he loved Americans. He said they were so friendly.

Erica added to herself, “… and so gullible.”

The tea came, and Zayed produced some interesting pieces, including several small bronze figurines, a battered but recognizable head of Amenhotep III, and a series of wooden statues. The most beautiful statue was a young woman with hieroglyphics down the front of her skirt and a tranquil face that defied time. She was priced at four hundred pounds. After carefully examining the artifact, Erica was quite sure it was authentic.

“I’m interested in the wooden statue, and possibly the stone head,” said Erica in a businesslike tone.

Zayed rubbed his palms together with great excitement.

“I’ll be checking with the people I represent,” said Erica. “But I know there is something they would want me to buy immediately if I were to see it.”

“What is that?” asked Zayed.

“There was a life-size statue of Seti I bought a year ago by a man in Houston. My clients have heard that a similar statue has been found.”

“I have nothing like that,” said Zayed evenly.

“Well, if you happen to hear about such a piece, I’ll be staying at the Winter Palace Hotel.” Erica wrote her name on a small piece of paper and gave it to him.

“And what about these pieces?”

“As I said, I’ll contact my clients. I do like the wooden statue, but I must check.” Erica picked up her purchase, which had been wrapped in Arabic newspaper, and walked back to the front part of the shop. She felt confident she had played her role very well. As she left, she noticed Zayed’s son bargaining with a man. It was the Arab who had been following her. Without breaking her stride or looking in his direction, Erica left the shop, but a shiver went up her spine.

As soon as his son finished with his customer, Lahib Zayed closed the front door to the shop and bolted it. “Come into the back,” he commanded his son. “That was the woman Stephanos Markoulis warned us about when he was here the other day,” he said, once they were in the security of the back room. He had even closed the old wooden door to the courtyard. “I want you to go to the central post office and call Markoulis and tell him that the American woman came into the shop and specifically asked about the Seti statue. I’ll go to Muhammad and tell him to warn the others.”

“What is going to happen to the woman?” asked Fathi.

“I think that’s rather obvious. It reminds me of that young man from Yale about two years ago.”

“Will they do the same to the woman?”

“Undoubtedly,” said his father.

Erica was appalled by the chaos in the Luxor administration building. Some of the people had been waiting so long that they were sleeping on the floor. In the corner of one hall she saw a whole family camped out as if they’d been there for days. Behind the counters the civil servants ignored the crowds and casually talked among themselves. Every desk was a heap of completed forms awaiting some impossible signature. It was awful.

By the time Erica found someone who spoke English, she learned that Luxor was not even an administration center. The Muhāfazah for the area was located in Aswan, and all the census data were stored there. Erica told the woman that she wanted to trace a man who lived on the West Bank fifty years ago. The woman looked at Erica as if she were crazy and told her it was impossible, though she might check with the police. There was always the possibility the person she sought could have had trouble with the authorities.

The police were easier to deal with than the civil servants. At least they were friendly and attentive. In fact most of the uniformed officers in the main room were watching her by the time she got to the counter. All the signs were in Arabic, so Erica just went to a location where no one else was waiting. A handsome young fellow in a white uniform came from behind one of the desks to help her. Unfortunately he did not speak English. But he found a man with the tourist police who did.

“What can I do for you?” he said with a smile.

“I’m trying to find out if one of Howard Carter’s foremen by the name of Sarwat Raman is still alive. He lived on the West Bank.”

“What?” said the policeman with disbelief. He chuckled. “I’ve had some strange requests, but this is certainly one of the more interesting. Are you talking about the Howard Carter who discovered Tutankhamen’s tomb?”

“That’s right,” said Erica.

“That was over fifty years ago.”

“I understand that,” said Erica. “I’d like to find out if he’s still alive.”

“Madam,” said the policeman, “no one even knows how many people live on the West Bank, much less how to find a specific family. But I’ll tell you what I’d do if I were you. Go over to the West Bank and visit the small mosque in the village of Qurna. The imam is an old man, and he speaks English. Maybe he could help. But I doubt it. The government has been trying to relocate the village of Qurna and get those people out of the ancient tombs. But it’s been a fight, and there’s been some antagonism. They’re not a friendly group. So be careful.”

Lahib Zayed looked both ways to make sure he was not seen before entering the whitewashed alleyway. He scurried down it and pounded on a stout wooden door. He knew Muhammad Abdulal was at home. It was the noon hour and Muhammad always napped. Lahib pounded again. He was afraid he might be seen by some stranger before he’d have a chance to enter the house.

A small peephole opened, and a bloodshot sleepy eye looked out. Then the latch was lifted and the door opened. Lahib stepped over the threshold, and the door was slammed behind him.

Muhammad Abdulal was clad in a rumpled robe. He was a large man with heavy, full features. His nostrils were flared and highly arched. “I told you never to come to this house. You’d better have a good reason for taking this risk.”

Lahib greeted Muhammad formally before speaking. “I would not have come if I did not believe it was important. Erica Baron, the American woman, came into the Curio Antique Shop this morning saying that she represented a group of buyers. She is very sharp. She knows antiquities and actually bought a small statue. Then she specifically asked for the Seti I statue.”

“Was she alone?” asked Muhammad, alert now rather than angry.

“I believe so,” said Lahib.

“And she asked specifically for the Seti statue?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, that leaves us very little choice. I’ll make the arrangements. You inform her that she can see the statue tomorrow night on the condition that she come alone and that she is not followed. Tell her to come to the Qurna mosque at dusk. We should have gotten rid of her earlier, as I wanted.”

Lahib waited to be sure Muhammad was finished before he spoke. “I’ve also had Fathi contact Stephanos Markoulis and give him the news.”

Muhammad’s hand struck out like a snake, cuffing the side of Lahib’s head. “Karrah! Why did you take it upon yourself to inform Stephanos?”

Lahib cowered, expecting another blow.

“He asked me to let him know if the woman appeared. He’s as concerned as we are.”

“You do not take orders from Stephanos,” shouted Muhammad. “You take orders from me. That must be understood. Now, get out of here and deliver the message. The American woman must be taken care of.”

The policeman had been right. Qurna was not a friendly place. As Erica trudged up the hill separating the village from the asphalt road, she did not have the feeling of welcome that was apparent in the other towns she’d visited. She saw few people, and those she did pass glared, shrinking back into the shadows. Even the dogs were mangy, snarling curs.

She had begun feeling uncomfortable in the taxi when the driver objected to going to Qurna instead of the Valley of the Kings or some other more distant destination. He had dropped her off at the base of a dirt-and-sand hill, saying that his car could not make it to the village itself.

It was blazingly hot, well over one hundred degrees, and without shade. The Egyptian sun poured down, scorching the rock and reflecting brilliantly from the light sand color of the earth. Not a blade of grass or a single weed survived the onslaught. Yet the people of Qurna refused to move. They wanted to live as their grandfathers and their great-grandfathers had down through the centuries. Erica thought that if Dante had seen Qurna he would have included it in the circles of hell.

The houses were made of mud brick either left their natural color or whitewashed. As Erica climbed higher onto the hill she could see occasional hewn openings into outcroppings of rock among the houses. These were entrances to some of the ancient tombs. A number of houses had courtyards with curious structures in them-six-foot-long platforms supported about four feet from the ground by a narrow column. They were made of dried mud and straw similar to the mud bricks. Erica had no idea what they were.

The mosque was a one-story whitewashed building with a fat minaret. Erica had noticed the building the first time she’d seen Qurna. Like the village, it was constructed of mud brick, and Erica wondered if the whole thing would wash away like a sand castle with one good rain. She entered through a low wooden door and found herself in a small courtyard, facing a shallow portico supported by three columns. To the right of the building was a plain wooden door.

Unsure of the propriety of her entering, Erica waited at the entrance to the mosque until her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness. The interior walls were whitewashed and then painted with complicated geometric patterns. The floor was covered with lavish Oriental carpets. Kneeling in front of an alcove pointing toward Mecca was an old bearded man in flowing black robes. His hands were open and held alongside his cheeks as he chanted.

Although the old man had not turned, he must have sensed Erica’s presence, because he soon bent over, kissed the page, and got up to face her.

She had no idea how to greet a holy man of Islam, so she improvised. She bowed her head slightly then spoke. “I would like to ask you about a man, an old man.”

The imam studied Erica with dark sunken eyes, then motioned her to follow. They crossed the small courtyard and entered the doorway Erica had seen. It led to a small austere room with a pallet in one end and a small table at the other. He indicated a chair for Erica and sat down himself.

“Why do you want to locate someone in Qurna?” asked the imam. “We are suspicious of strangers here.”

“I’m an Egyptologist and I wanted to find one of Howard Carter’s foremen to see if he were still alive. His name was Sarwat Raman. He lived in Qurna.”

“Yes, I know,” said the imam.

Erica felt a twinge of hope until the imam went on.

“He died some twenty years ago. He was one of the faithful. The carpets in this mosque came from his generosity.”

“I see,” said Erica with obvious disappointment. She stood up. “Well, it was a good idea. Thank you for your help.”

“He was a good man,” said the imam.

Erica nodded and walked back out into the blinding sunlight, wondering how she was going to get a taxi back to the ferry landing. As she was about to leave the courtyard, the imam called out.

Erica turned. He was standing in the doorway to his room. “Raman’s widow is still alive. Would you care to speak with her?”

“Would she be willing to talk with me?” asked Erica.

“I’m sure of it,” called the imam. “She worked as Carter’s housekeeper and speaks better English than I do.”

As Erica followed the imam higher up the hillside, she wondered how anyone could wear such heavy robes in the heat. Even as lightly dressed as she was, the small of her back was damp with perspiration. The imam led her to a whitewashed house set higher than the others in the southwestern part of the village. Immediately behind the house the cliffs rose up dramatically. To the right of the house Erica could see the beginning of a trail etched from the face of the cliff, which she guessed led to the Valley of the Kings.

The whitewashed facade of the house was covered with faded childlike paintings of railroad cars, boats, and camels. “Raman recorded his pilgrimage to Mecca,” explained the imam, knocking on the door.

In the courtyard next to the house was one of the platforms Erica had seen earlier. She asked the imam what it was.

“People sometimes sleep outside in the summer months. They use these platforms to avoid scorpions and cobras.”

Erica felt gooseflesh rise on her back.

A very old woman opened the door. Recognizing the imam, she smiled. They spoke in Arabic. When the conversation concluded, she turned her heavily lined face to Erica.

“Welcome,” she said with a strong English accent, opening the door wider for Erica to enter. The imam excused himself and left.

Like the small mosque, the house was surprisingly cool. Belying the crude exterior, the interior was charming. There was a wood floor covered with a bright Oriental carpet. The furniture was simple but well made, the walls plastered and painted. On three walls there were numerous framed photographs. On the fourth a long-handled shovel with an engraved blade.

The old woman introduced herself as Aida Raman. She told Erica proudly that she was going to be eighty years old come April. With true Arabic hospitality she brought out a cool fruit drink, explaining that it had been made from boiled water so that Erica need not fear germs.

Erica liked the woman. She had sparse dark hair brushed back from her round face and was cheerfully attired in a loose-fitting cotton dress printed with brightly colored feathers. Around her left wrist she wore an orange plastic bracelet. She smiled frequently, revealing that she had only two teeth, both on the bottom.

Erica explained that she was an Egyptologist, and Aida was obviously pleased to talk about Howard Carter. She told Erica how she had adored the man even though he was a little strange and very lonely. She recalled how much Howard Carter loved his canary and how sad he was when it had been eaten by a cobra.

As Erica sipped her drink, she found herself enthralled by the stories. It was obvious that Aida was enjoying their meeting just as much as she was.

“Do you remember the day when Tutankhamen’s tomb was opened?” asked Erica.

“Oh, yes,” said Aida. “That was the most wonderful day. My husband became a happy man. Very soon after that, Carter agreed to help Sarwat obtain the right to run the concession stand in the valley. My husband had guessed that the tourists would soon come by the millions to see the tomb Howard Carter had found. And he was right. He continued to help with the tomb, but he spent most of his effort on building the rest house. In fact, he built it almost all by himself, even though he had to work at night…”

Erica allowed Aida to ramble on for a moment, then asked, “Do you remember everything that happened the day the tomb was opened?”

“Of course,” said Aida, a little surprised at the interruption.

“Did your husband ever say anything about a papyrus?”

The old woman’s eyes instantly clouded. Her mouth moved, but there was no sound. Erica felt a surge of excitement. She held her breath, watching the old woman’s strange response.

Finally Aida spoke. “Are you from the government?”

“No,” answered Erica.

“What makes you ask such a question? Everyone knows what was found. There are books.”

Putting her drink down on the table, Erica explained to Aida the curious discrepancy between Carnarvon’s letter to Sir Wallis Budge and the fact that Carter’s notes listed no papyrus. She was not from the government, she added reassuringly. Her interest was purely academic.

“No,” said Aida after an uncomfortable pause. “There was no papyrus. My husband would never take a papyrus from the tomb.”

“Aida,” said Erica softly, “I never said your husband took a papyrus.”

“You did. You said my husband-”

“No. I just asked if he ever said anything about a papyrus. I’m not accusing him.”

“My husband was a good man. He had a good name.”

“Indeed. Carter was a demanding individual. Your husband had to be the best. No one is challenging your husband’s good name.”

There was another long pause. Finally Aida turned back to Erica. “My husband has been dead for over twenty years. He told me never to mention the papyrus. And I haven’t, even after he died. But no one has mentioned it to me either. That’s why it shocked me so much when you said it. In a way, it’s a relief to tell someone. You won’t tell the authorities?”

“No, I won’t,” said Erica. “It is up to you. So there was a papyrus and your husband took it from the tomb?”

“Yes,” said Aida. “Many years ago.”

Erica now had an idea what had happened. Raman had gotten the papyrus and sold it. It was going to be hard to trace. “How did your husband get the papyrus out of the tomb?”

“He told me he picked it up that first day when he saw it in the tomb. Everyone was so excited about the treasures. He thought it was some kind of curse, and he was afraid that they would stop the project if anyone knew. Lord Carnarvon was very interested in the occult.”

Erica tried to imagine the events of that hectic day. Carter must have initially missed seeing the papyrus in his haste to check the integrity of the wall into the burial chamber, and the others had been dazzled by the splendor of the artifacts.

“Was the papyrus a curse?” asked Erica.

“No. My husband said it wasn’t. He never showed it to any of the Egyptologists. Instead he copied small sections and asked the experts to translate them. Finally he put it all together. But he said it wasn’t a curse.”

“Did he say what it was?” asked Erica.

“No. He just said it was written in the days of the pharaohs by a clever man who wanted to record that Tutankhamen had helped Seti I.”

Erica’s heart leaped. The papyrus associated Tutankhamen with Seti I, as had the inscription on the statue.

“Do you have any idea what happened to the papyrus? Did your husband sell it?”

“No. He didn’t sell it,” said Aida. “I have it.”

The blood drained from Erica’s face. While she sat immobilized, Aida shuffled over to the shovel mounted on the wall.

“Howard Carter presented this shovel to my husband,” said Aida. She pulled the wooden shaft from the engraved metal blade. There was a hollow in the end of the handle. “This papyrus has not been touched for fifty years,” continued Aida as she struggled to extract the crumbling document. She unrolled it on the table, using the two pieces of the shovel as paperweights.

Slowly rising to her feet, Erica let her eyes feast on the hieroglyphic text. It was an official document with seals of state. Immediately Erica could pick out the cartouches of Seti I and Tutankhamen.

“May I photograph it?” asked Erica, almost afraid to breathe.

“As long as my husband’s name is not blackened,” said Aida.

“I can promise you that,” said Erica, fumbling with her Polaroid. “I won’t do anything without your permission.” She took several photos and made sure they were good enough to work from. “Thank you,” she said when she was finished. “Now, let’s put the papyrus back, but please be careful. This might be very valuable, and it could make the Raman name famous.”

“I’m more concerned about my husband’s reputation,” said Aida. “Besides, the family name dies with me. We had two sons, but both were killed in the wars.”

“Did your husband have anything else from Tutankhamen’s tomb?” asked Erica.

“Oh, no!” said Aida.

“Okay,” said Erica, “I will translate the papyrus and tell you what it says so you can decide what you want to do with it. I won’t say anything to the authorities. That will be up to you. But for now, don’t show it to anyone else.” Erica was already jealous of her discovery.

Emerging from Aida Raman’s house, she debated on how best to return to the hotel. The thought of walking five miles to the ferry landing oppressed her, and she decided to risk the trail behind Aida Raman’s house and walk to the Valley of the Kings. There she could surely get a taxi.

Although it was a hot and tiring climb to the ridge, the view was spectacular. The village of Qurna was directly below her. Just beyond the village was the stately ruin of Queen Hatshepsut’s temple, nestled against the mountains. Erica continued to the crest and looked down. The entire green valley was spread out in front of her, with the Nile snaking its way through the center. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Erica turned to the west. Directly ahead was the Valley of the Kings. From her vantage point Erica could look beyond the valley at the endless rust-red peaks of the Theban mountains as they merged with the mighty Sahara. She had a feeling of overwhelming loneliness.

Descending into the valley was comparatively easy, though Erica had to be careful about the loose ground on the steeper parts of the trail. The route merged with another path coming from the ruined Village of Truth, where Erica knew the ancient necropolis workers had lived. By the time she reached the floor of the valley, she was very warm and tremendously thirsty. Despite her wish to return to the hotel and get to work translating the papyrus, she walked toward the crowded concession stand for a drink. Climbing the steps of the building, she couldn’t help but think of Sarwat Raman.

It was an amazing story indeed. The Arab had stolen a papyrus because he was afraid it would spell out an ancient curse. He had been worried that such a curse would stop the excavation!

Erica purchased a Pepsi-Cola and found an empty chair on the veranda. She glanced around the structure of the rest house. It was made of local stone. Erica marveled that Raman had built it. She wished she could have met the man. There was one question in particular she would have liked to ask. Why hadn’t Raman found some way to return the papyrus after he learned it did not represent a curse? Obviously he did not want to sell it. The only explanation Erica could think of was that he had been afraid of the consequences. She took a large swallow of the Pepsi and pulled out one of the precious photos of the papyrus. The directives suggested it was to be read in the usual fashion, from lower right upward. She stumbled over a proper name at the beginning, almost not believing her eyes. Slowly she pronounced it to herself: “Nenephta… My God!”

Noticing a group of tourists boarding a bus, Erica thought that perhaps she could get a ride to the ferry landing with them. She put the photos back into her tote bag and quickly looked for the ladies’ room. A waiter told her the rest rooms were under the concession stand, but after finding the entrance, she was discouraged by the acrid smell of urine. She decided she could wait until she got back to the hotel. She ran down to the bus as the last passengers were getting on.

Standing at the edge of her balcony, Erica stretched her arms over her head and sighed with relief. She had finished translating the papyrus. It had not been difficult, although she was not sure she understood the meaning.

Looking out over the Nile, she watched a large luxury liner glide by. After her immersion in antiquity with the papyrus, the modern vessel looked out of place. It was like having a flying saucer land in the Boston Commons.

Erica went back to the glass-topped table she’d been working at, picked up the translation, and read it over:

I, Nenephta, chief architect for the Living God (may he live forever), Pharaoh, King of our two lands, the great Seti I, do reverently atone for the disturbance of the eternal rest of the boy king Tutankhamen within these humble walls and with these scant provisions for all eternity. The unspeakable sacrilege of the attempted plunder of Pharaoh Tutankhamen’s tomb by the stonecutter Emeni, whom we have rightfully impaled and whose remains we have scattered on the western desert for the jackals, has served a noble end. The stonecutter Emeni has opened my eyes to understand the ways of the greedy and unjust. Thus I, chief architect, now know the way to ensure eternal safety of the Living God (may he live forever), Pharaoh, King of our two lands, the great Seti I. Imhotep, architect for the Living God Zoser and builder of the Step Pyramid, and Neferhotep, architect for the Living God Khufu and builder of the Great Pyramid, used the way in their monuments, but without full understanding. Accordingly the eternal rest of the Living God Zoser and the Living God Khufu was disturbed and destroyed in the first dark period. But I, Nenephta, chief architect, understand the way, and the greed of the tomb robber. So it will be done, and the boy king Pharaoh Tutankhamen’s tomb is resealed on this day.

Year 10 of Son of Re, Pharaoh Seti I, second month of Germination, day 12.

Erica put the page down on the table. The word she’d had the most problem with was “way.” The hieroglyphic signs had suggested “method” or “pattern” or even “trick,” but the word “way” made the most sense syntactically. But what it meant eluded her.

Translating the papyrus gave Erica a great feeling of accomplishment. It also made the life of ancient Egypt come amazingly alive, and she smiled at Nenephta’s arrogance. Despite his supposed understanding of the greed of the tomb robber and the “way,” Seti’s magnificent tomb had been plundered within a hundred years of its closure, while the humble tomb of Tutankhamen had remained undisturbed for another three thousand years.

Picking up the translation again, Erica reread the section mentioning Zoser and Khufu. Suddenly she was sorry she’d not visited the Great Pyramid. At the time, she’d felt comfortably abstemious not rushing to the pyramids of Giza like all the other tourists. Now she wished she had. How could Neferhotep have used the way in constructing the Great Pyramid, but without full understanding? Erica stared off at the distant mountains. With all the mysterious meanings attributed to the shape and size of the Great Pyramid, Erica had uncovered another, more ancient one. Even in Nenephta’s time, the Great Pyramid was an ancient structure. In fact, thought Erica, Nenephta probably did not know much more about the Great Pyramid than she did. She decided to visit it. Perhaps by standing in its shadow or by walking within its depths she might comprehend what Nenephta meant by the word “way.”

Erica checked the time. She could easily make the seven-thirty sleeper to Cairo. With feverish excitement she packed her canvas tote bag with her Polaroid, the Baedeker, the flashlight, jeans, and clean underwear. Then she took a quick bath.

Before leaving the hotel she called Ahmed and told him she was going back to Cairo for a day or so because she had an insatiable desire to see the Great Pyramid of Khufu.

Ahmed was instantly suspicious. “There is so much to see here in Luxor. Can’t it wait?”

“No. All of a sudden I have to see it.”

“Are you going to see Yvon de Margeau?”

“Maybe,” said Erica evasively. She wondered if Ahmed could be jealous. “Is there something you’d like me to tell him?” She knew she was baiting him.

“No, of course not. Don’t even mention my name. Give me a call when you return.” Ahmed hung up before she could say good-bye.

As Erica boarded the train for Cairo, Lahib Zayed entered the Winter Palace Hotel. He had a confidential message for Erica saying that she would be shown a Seti I statue the following night, provided she followed certain directions. But Erica was not in her room, and he decided he’d return later, afraid of what Muhammad would do to him if he failed to give her the message.

After the train to Cairo departed, Khalifa entered the main post office and cabled Yvon de Margeau that Erica Baron was on her way to Cairo. He added that she’d been acting very strangely and he’d await further instructions at the Savoy Hotel.