by Robin Cook
“Oh, I beg your pardon. Erica Baron.” She placed the scarab on the counter.
“Erica, I would be pleased if you joined me for some mint tea.”
Abdul put the other pieces back into their places, then drew aside the heavy red-brown drapes. Erica had enjoyed talking with Abdul, but she hesitated a moment before picking up her bag and advancing toward the opening. The back room was about the same size as the front part of the shop, but it appeared to have no doors or windows. The walls and floor were covered with Oriental carpets, giving the area the appearance of a tent. In the center of the room were cushions, a low table, and a water pipe.
“One moment,” said Abdul. The curtain fell back into place, leaving Erica to stare at several large objects that were completely draped with cloth. She could hear the crackling noises of the beads in the front entrance, and muffled shouts as Abdul ordered tea.
“Please sit down,” Abdul said when he returned, indicating the large cushions on the floor. “It is not often I have the pleasure of entertaining a lady so beautiful and so knowledgeable. Tell me, my dear, where are you from in America?”
“Originally I’m from Toledo, Ohio,” said Erica somewhat nervously. “But I live in Boston now, or actually Cambridge, which is right next to Boston.” Erica’s eyes slowly moved around the small room. The single incandescent bulb hanging in the center gave the deep reds of the Oriental carpets an incredibly rich softness, like red velvet.
“Boston, yes. It must be beautiful in Boston. I have a friend there. We write occasionally. Actually, my son writes. I cannot write in English. I have a letter from him here.” Abdul rummaged through a small chest by the cushions, producing a typed letter addressed to Abdul Hamdi, Luxor, Egypt. “Perhaps you know him?”
“Boston is a very big city . . .” began Erica before she caught sight of the return address: Dr. Herbert Lowery, her boss. “You know Dr. Lowery?” she asked incredulously.
“I’ve met him twice and we write occasionally. He was very interested in a head of Ramses II that I had about a year ago. A wonderful man. Very clever.”
“Indeed,” said Erica, amazed that Abdul would be corresponding with such an eminent figure as Dr. Herbert Lowery, chairman of the Department of Near Eastern Studies at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. It made her considerably more at ease.
As if sensing Erica’s thoughts, Abdul fished several other letters from his little cedar chest. “Here are letters from Dubois, at the Louvre, and Caufield, at the British Museum.”
The beads clacked in the outer room. Abdul reached back and drew the curtains aside, speaking a few words of Arabic. A young boy in a once-white galabia and bare feet slipped noiselessly into the room. He was carrying one of those trays supported by a tripod. Silently he placed the glasses with metal holders next to the water pipe. He did not look up from his task. Abdul dropped a few coins onto the boy’s tray and held the curtains back for the boy to leave. Turning back to Erica, he smiled and stirred his tea.
“Is this safe for me to drink?” asked Erica, fingering her glass.
“Safe?” Abdul was surprised.
“I’ve been warned so much about drinking water here in Egypt.”
“Ah, you mean for your digestion. Yes, it is completely safe. The water boils constantly in the tea shop. Enjoy. This is a hot, parched land. It is an Arabic custom to drink tea or coffee with your friends.”
They sipped in silence. Erica was pleasantly surprised by the taste, and by the tingling freshness the drink left in her mouth.
“Tell me, Erica . . .” said Abdul, breaking the silence. He pronounced her name in a strange way, placing the accent on the second syllable. “Provided, of course, you do not object to my asking. Tell me why you have become an Egyptologist.”
Erica looked down into her tea. The flecks of mint slowly swirled in the warm fluid. She was accustomed to the question. She had heard it a thousand times, especially from her mother, who never could understand why a beautiful young Jewish girl who “had everything” would choose to study Egyptology and not education. Her mother had tried to change her mind, first by gentle conversation (“What are my friends going to think?”), then by forcible debate (“You’ll never be able to support yourself!”), finally by threatening to withdraw financial support. It was all in vain. Erica continued her studies, possibly in part because of her mother’s opposition, but mostly because she loved everything about the field of Egyptology.
It was true she did not think in practical terms of what kind of job would be waiting for her when she finished, and it was also true that she “lucked out” by being hired by the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, when most of her fellow students were still unemployed with little immediate hope in sight. Nonetheless she loved the study of ancient Egypt. There was something about the remoteness and the mystery, combined with incredible wealth and value of the material already discovered, that fascinated her. She was particularly fond of the love poetry, which made the ancient people come alive. It was through the poems that Erica could feel the emotion spanning the millennia, reducing the meaning of time and making her wonder if society had progressed at all.
Looking up at Abdul, Erica finally said, “I studied Egyptology because it fascinated me. When I was a little girl and my family took a trip to New York City, the only thing I remembered was seeing a mummy at the Metropolitan Museum. Then when I was in college I took a course in ancient history. I really enjoyed studying about the culture.” Erica shrugged and smiled. She knew she could never give a complete explanation.
“Very strange,” said Abdul. “For me, it is a job, better than breaking my back in the field. But for you . . .” He shrugged. “As long as you are happy, it is good. How old are you, my dear?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“And your husband, where is he?”
Erica smiled, fully conscious that the old man had no idea why she was smiling. The whole complex of problems surrounding Richard cascaded out of her unconscious. It was like opening a floodgate. She was almost tempted to try to explain her problems to this sympathetic stranger, but she didn’t. She had come to Egypt to get away and to use her knowledge of Egyptology. “I’m not yet married,” she said at length. “Are you interested, Abdul?” The smile returned.
“Me, interested? I’m always interested.” Abdul laughed. “After all, Islam lets the faithful have four wives. But for me I could not handle four times the joy of my only wife. Still, twenty-eight and not married. It is a strange world.”
Watching Abdul drink, Erica thought about how much she was enjoying this interlude. She wanted to remember it.
“Abdul, would you mind if I took your picture?”
“I am pleased.”
While Abdul straightened himself on his pillow and smoothed his jacket, Erica extracted her small Polaroid and attached the flash bar. A moment after the flash washed the room with unnatural light, the camera spit out the undeveloped photo.
“Ah, if only the Russian rockets would have worked as well as your camera,” said Abdul, relaxing. “Since you are the most beautiful and the youngest Egyptologist I have ever had in my shop, I would like to show you something very special.”
Abdul slowly got to his feet. Erica glanced at the photo. It was developing nicely.
“You are lucky to see this piece, my dear,” said Abdul, carefully lifting the cloth cover on an object about six feet tall.
Erica looked up and gasped. “My God,” she said in disbelief. In front of her was a life-size statue. She scrambled to her feet to look more closely. Abdul proudly stepped back like an artist unveiling his life’s work. The face was made of beaten gold reminiscent of the mask of Tutankhamen, but more finely crafted.
“It is Pharaoh Seti I,” said Abdul.
He put down the cloth cover and sat, letting Erica enjoy her find.
“This is the most beautiful statue I have ever seen,” whispered Erica, gazing into the stately, calm face. The eyes were made of white alabaster set with green feldspar. The eyebrows were made of translucent carnelian. The traditional ancient Egyptian headdress was made of gold inlaid with bands of lapis lazuli. Around the neck was an opulent pectoral in the form of the vulture representing the Egyptian goddess Nekhbet. The necklace was made of gold and set with hundreds of pieces of turquoise, jasper, and lapis lazuli. The beak and the eyes were made of obsidian. At the girdle was a sheathed gold dagger whose handle was finely crafted and encrusted with precious stones. The left hand was extended, holding a mace that was also covered with inlaid jewels. The total effect was dazzling. Erica was overwhelmed. This statue was no fake, and its value was unbelievable. Indeed, any piece of the jewelry was priceless. Standing amid the warm red glow of the Oriental carpets, the statue radiated a light as pure and clear as a diamond. Slowly circling the piece, Erica finally could speak.
“Where on earth did this come from? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It came from beneath the sands of the Libyan desert, where all our treasures are hidden,” said Abdul, cooing like a proud parent. “It is only resting here for a few hours before it resumes its journey. I thought you’d like to see it.”
“Oh, Abdul. It is so beautiful, I’m speechless. Truly.” Erica came back around the front of the statue, noting for the first time the hieroglyphics cut into the base. Immediately she recognized the name of Pharaoh Seti I, contained within the enclosure called a cartouche. Then she saw another cartouche with another name. Thinking it an alternate name for Seti I, she began to translate. To her astonishment, the name was Tutankhamen. It didn’t make sense. Seti I was an extremely important and powerful pharaoh who had ruled some fifty years after the insignificant boy king Tutankhamen. The two pharaohs were in different dynasties from totally separate families. Erica was sure that she must have made a mistake, but checking again, she realized she had been right. The hieroglyphics contained both names.
The sharp crackling noise from the beads in the outer part of the shop brought Abdul instantly to his feet. “Erica, please excuse, but I must be reasonably careful.” The dark cloth cover settled back over the fabulous statue. For Erica it was like being prematurely awakened from a wonderful dream. In front of her was a nondescript shapeless mass. “Let me attend to the customers. I will be right back. Enjoy your tea . . . perhaps you’d like a little more?”
“No, thank you,” said Erica, who wanted to see the statue again, not drink more tea.
As Abdul shuffled over to the curtain and carefully peered out, Erica picked up the now-developed Polaroid picture. Except for missing part of Abdul’s head, the snapshot was fine. She thought about taking a shot of the statue if Abdul would agree.
Apparently whoever was outside was in no rush, because, letting the curtains go, Abdul moved back over to his cedar chest. Erica sat down on her cushion.
“Do you have a guidebook for Egypt?” asked Abdul in a quiet voice.
“Yes,” said Erica. “I managed to get a Nagel’s guide.”
“I have something better,” said Abdul, pulling a small aging book from among his correspondence. “Here is a Baedeker, 1929 edition. It is the best for touring the monuments of Egypt. I’d be pleased if you’d use it during your stay here in my country. It is far superior to the Nagel’s.”
“You are so kind,” said Erica, taking the book. “I’ll be very careful with it. Thank you.”
“It pleases me to make your visit more enjoyable,” said Abdul, walking back to the curtain, where he hesitated again. “If you have difficulty getting the book to me when you leave Egypt, return it to the man whose name and address are written in the flyleaf. I travel a lot and might not be in Cairo at the time.” He smiled and walked through to the store. The heavy drapes snapped back into place.
Erica flipped through the guidebook, noting the plethora of drawings and fold-out maps. The description of the Temple of Karnak, given Baedeker’s highest rating of four stars, was almost forty pages. It looked superb. The next chapter commenced with a series of copper engravings of Queen Hatshepsut’s temple, followed by a long description, which Erica was particularly interested in reading. She slipped the snapshot of Abdul into the book, both to mark the place and to preserve the photograph, and put both into her tote bag.
Alone in the room, she let her attention wander back to the fabulous statue of Seti I. She had all she could do to keep herself from reaching over and lifting the veil to look at the curious row of hieroglyphics. She wondered if it would really be a violation of trust if she looked at the statue. Reluctantly she decided it would be, and she was about to take out the guidebook when she heard a definite change in the muffled conversation coming from the outer part of the shop. The voices weren’t louder, but they sounded angry. At first she thought they were merely bargaining. Then the sound of shattering plate glass cut through the silence of the dimly lit room, followed by a scream that was quickly choked off. Erica felt a sensation of pure panic spread up from her chest and pound in her temples. A single voice recommenced, lower, more threatening.
As silently as possible, Erica moved over to the curtain, and imitating Abdul a few minutes earlier, spread the edges to look into the outer part of the shop. The first thing she saw was the back of an Arab dressed in a ragged, dirty galabia, holding aside the beaded strings at the entranceway, apparently watching for intruders. Then, looking a little to the left, Erica stifled a scream. Abdul was pulled backward over the broken glass-topped counter by another Arab, also dressed in a torn, dirty galabia. In front of Abdul stood a third Arab, dressed in a clean white-and-brown-striped robe and a white turban, who was brandishing a gleaming scimitar. The light from the single overhead bulb reflected its razor-sharp edge as it was raised in front of Abdul’s terrified face.
Before Erica could allow the curtain to hide the grisly scene, Abdul’s head was yanked back and the scimitar was viciously drawn across the base of his neck, slicing through the soft tissues to the spine. A gasping sound escaped from the severed windpipe before the spurting bright red blood drenched the area.
Erica’s legs buckled and she dropped to her knees, the heavy drapes masking the sound of her fall. Terrified, she scanned the room for some concealment. The cabinets? There was no time to try to get inside. Pulling herself to her feet, she pressed into the far corner between the last cabinet and the wall. It was hardly a hiding place. At best it hid her own view, like a child covering his eyes in the dark. But the beak-nosed face of the man who had held Abdul down seemed burned in her mind. She kept picturing his cruel black eyes and his snarling mouth under his mustache, revealing sharp, gold-tipped teeth.
There was more commotion from the outer part of the shop, some sounds like the movement of furniture, followed by a terrifying silence. Time passed agonizingly slowly. Then Erica heard voices coming toward her. The men were entering the back room. She almost stopped breathing, her skin crawling with fear. The Arabic conversation was right behind her. She could feel the presence of the people, could hear them moving about. There were footsteps, a thud. Someone cursed in Arabic. Then the footsteps moved away and Erica heard the familiar crackling noises of the beads in the entranceway.
Erica let out her breath but stayed pressed into the corner as if she were poised on a ledge on a thousand-foot precipice. Time passed, but she had no idea if she had waited five minutes or fifteen. Silently she counted to fifty. Still no sounds. Slowly she turned her head and backed slightly away from the corner. The room was empty, her tote bag undisturbed on the carpet, her cup of tea waiting. But the magnificent statue of Seti I was gone!
The sound of beads hitting against each other in the entranceway sent
a new chill plunging down Erica’s spine. As she turned back toward the corner in a panic, her foot hit her unfinished tea. The glass fell over and tumbled free from its metal frame. The carpet absorbed the fluid and the sound until the glass rolled against the table with a dull thud. Erica pressed herself against the corner once again. She heard the heavy curtain yanked aside. Even though her eyes were closed, the could see the effect of natural light in the room. Then the light disappeared. She was alone with whoever was in the room. There were several muted noises and the sound of footsteps coming closer. She held her breath again.
Suddenly a hand with an iron grip grabbed her left arm and yanked her from the corner, pulling her stumbling into the center of the room.
BOSTON 8:00 A.M.
The sound of the alarm clock shattered Richard Harvey’s dream, forcing him to acknowledge the arrival of another day. He had tossed and turned fitfully the whole night. The last time he remembered looking at the clock it was almost five A M He had twenty-seven scheduled patients that day at the office, and he felt like he’d been run over.
“Christ,” he said angrily as he brought his fist down on the top of the alarm clock. The force of the blow not only compressed the snooze button but also popped out the plastic cover over the dial. It had happened before, and the cover could be easily replaced into its housing, but still it tended to symbolize for Richard his life of late. Things were out of control, and he was not used to that.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, looking at the clock. Rather than deal with the alarm again, he bent over and yanked out the plug. The almost imperceptible grinding noise of the electric clock stopped. So did the sweep of the second hand. Next to the clock was a photo of Erica on skis. Instead of smiling, she was gazing into the camera with her full lower lip thrust out in that pouting expression that alternately enraged Richard and filled him with desire. He reached over and turned the picture around, breaking the spell. How could any girl as beautiful as Erica be in love with a civilization that had been dead more than three thousand years? Still, he missed her terribly, and she’d only been gone for two nights. How was he going to deal with four weeks?
