by Robin Cook
Richard got up and padded to the toilet stark naked. At age thirty-four he was in very good shape. He’d always been athletic, even through medical school, and now that he’d been in private practice for three years, he still played tennis and racket ball regularly. His six-foot frame was lean and well-muscled. As Erica had told him, even his ass had definition.
From the bathroom he ventured into the kitchen, putting on water to boil and pouring a glass of juice. In the living room he opened the shutters that gave out onto Louisburg Square. The mid-October sunlight filtered down through the golden leaves of the elms, taking the chill off the air. Richard smiled wearily, deepening the lines at the corners of his eyes and accentuating his dimples. He was a pleasantly handsome man with a square, somewhat impish face under thick honey-colored hair. His blue eyes, deeply set, had a frequent twinkle.
“Egypt. Christ, it’s like going to the moon,” Richard said forlornly to the beautiful morning. “Why the hell did she have to go to Egypt?”
He showered, shaved, dressed, and breakfasted in a long-established, efficient pattern. The only interruption of the usual routine was his socks. He didn’t have any clean socks, so he was forced to find some in the hamper. It was going to be a terrible day. Meanwhile, he could think of nothing but Erica. Finally, in desperation, he put a call through to Erica’s mother in Toledo, with whom he got along splendidly. It was eight thirty and he knew he’d catch her before she left for work.
After some small talk, Richard got to the point.
“Have you heard from Erica yet?”
“My God, Richard, she’s only been gone a day.”
“True. I just thought there was a chance. I’m worried about her. I don’t understand what’s going on. Everything was fine until we started talking about marriage.”
“Well, you should have done it a year ago.”
“I couldn’t have done it a year ago. My practice was just getting started.”
“Of course you could have. You just didn’t want to then. It’s that simple. And if you’re worried about her now, you should have kept her from going to Egypt.”
“I tried.”
“If you had tried, Richard, she’d be in Boston right now.”
“Janice, I really tried. I told her that if she went to Egypt I didn’t know what would happen to our relationship. It was going to be different.”
“And what did she say to that?”
“She said she was sorry, but that it was important for her to go.”
“It’s a stage, Richard. She’ll get over it. You’re just going to have to relax.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Janice. At least I hope so. If you hear from her, let me know.”
Richard hung up the phone, acknowledging that he didn’t feel much better. In fact, he felt a certain panic, as if Erica was slipping away from him. Impulsively he called TWA and checked on connections to Cairo, as if the mere act of doing so would make him feel closer. It didn’t, and he was already late for the office. Thinking of Erica enjoying herself while he was suffering a depression made him angry. But there was little he could do.
CAIRO 3:30 P.M.
Erica had not been able to speak for some time. When she had looked up expecting to face the Arab killer, she had found herself standing in front of a European dressed in an expensive three-piece beige suit. They had looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity, both confused. But Erica was also terrified. As a result, it had taken a quarter of an hour for Yvon Julien de Margeau to convince her that he meant her no harm. Even then Erica had trouble speaking, because she was trembling so violently. Finally, and with great difficulty, she had communicated to Yvon that Abdul was in the outer part of the shop, either dead or dying. Yvon, who had explained that the shop had been empty when he entered, agreed to check after loudly insisting that Erica sit down. He returned quickly.
“There is no one in the shop,” said Yvon. “There is broken glass and some blood on the floor. But there is no body.”
“I want to get away from here,” said Erica. It was her first whole sentence.
“Of course,” soothed Yvon. “But first tell me what happened.”
“I want to go to the police,” continued Erica. The trembling recommenced. When she closed her eyes, she saw the image of the knife cutting into Abdul’s throat. “I saw someone killed. Just a few moments ago. It was terrible. I’ve never even seen someone injured. Please, I want to go to the police!”
With her mind beginning to function, Erica looked at the man in front of her. Tall and thin, he was in his late thirties, with a tanned and angular face. There was an air of authority about him, heightened by the intense blue of his hooded eyes. More than anything else, after seeing the ragged Arabs, Erica was reassured by his impeccable tailoring.
“I had the misfortune of watching a man murdered,” she said at length. “I looked out through the curtain and saw three men. One was in the doorway, another was holding the old man, and the other . . .” Erica had trouble continuing—“and the other slit the old man’s throat.”
“I see,” said Yvon thoughtfully. “What were these three men wearing?”
“I’m not sure you do see,” said Erica, raising her voice. “What were they wearing? I’m not talking about some purse-snatchers. I’m trying to tell you that I saw a man murdered. Murdered!”
“I believe you. But were these men Arabic or European?”
“They were Arab, dressed in galabias. Two of them were filthy, the other appeared considerably better off. My God, to think I came here for a vacation.” Erica shook her head and began to get up.
“Could you recognize them?” asked Yvon calmly. He put his hand on Erica’s shoulder, both to reassure her and to encourage her to remain seated.
“I’m not sure. It happened so fast. Maybe I could recognize the man with the knife. I don’t know. I never did see the face of the man by the door.” Raising her hand, Erica was amazed to see how violently it was trembling. “I’m not sure I believe any of this myself. I was talking with Abdul, who owns the store. In fact, we had been talking for some time, drinking tea. He was full of wit, a real person. God . . .” Erica ran her fingers through her hair. “And you say there’s no body out there?” Erica pointed through the curtain. “There really was a murder.”
“I believe you,” said Yvon. His hand still rested on Erica’s shoulder, and she felt curiously comforted.
“But why would they take the body, too?” asked Erica.
“What do you mean, too?”
“They took a statue that was right here,” said Erica, pointing. “It was a fabulous statue of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh—”
“Seti I,” interjected Yvon. “That crazy old man had the Seti statue here!” Yvon rolled his eyes in disbelief.
“You knew about the statue?” asked Erica.
“I did. In fact, I was coming here specifically to discuss it with Hamdi. How long ago did all this happen?”
“I’m not sure. Fifteen, twenty minutes. When you came in, I thought you were the killers returning.”
“Merde,” said Yvon, pulling away from Erica to pace the room. He took off his beige jacket and dropped it on one of the cushions. “So close.” He stopped pacing, turning back to Erica. “Did you actually see the statue?”
“Yes, I did. It was unbelievably beautiful, by far the most impressive piece I’ve ever seen. Even the finest of Tutankhamen’s treasures could not compare. It showed the heights that New Kingdom craftsmanship had reached by the nineteenth dynasty.”
“Nineteenth dynasty? How did you know that?”
“I’m an Egyptologist,” said Erica, regaining some of her composure.
“And how is an Egyptologist supposed to look?” asked Erica testily.
“Okay, let us just say that I would not have guessed,” Yvon said. “Was your being an Egyptologist the reason Hamdi showed you the statue?”
“I presume so.”
“Still, it was foolish. Very foolish. I cannot understand why he would be willing to take such risks. Do you have any idea what the value of that statue is?” asked Yvon almost angrily.
“Priceless,” returned Erica. “It is all the more reason to go to the police. That statue is an Egyptian national treasure. As an Egyptologist I am aware of the black market in antiquities, but I had no idea that pieces of such value were involved. Something has to be done!”
“Something has to be done!” Yvon laughed cynically. “American self-righteousness. The biggest market for antiquities is America. If the objects could not be sold, there would be no black market. It is the buyer who is ultimately at fault.”
“American self-righteousness!” said Erica indignantly. “What about the French? How can you say something like that, knowing that the Louvre is brimming with priceless objects, essentially stolen, like the Zodiac from the Temple of Dendera? People travel thousands of miles to come to Egypt, and end up looking at a plaster cast of the Zodiac.”
“It was safer for the Zodiac stone to remove it,” said Yvon.
“Come on, Yvon. You can think of a better excuse than that. It had a certain validity in the past, but not today.” Erica couldn’t believe that she had recovered enough to involve herself in a nonsensical argument. She also noticed that Yvon was incredibly attractive and that she was baiting him into some kind of emotional response.
“Okay,” said Yvon coolly, “we agree in principle. The black market must be controlled. But we disagree in method. For instance, I do not think we should go immediately to the police.”
Erica was shocked.
“So you disagree?” asked Yvon.
“I’m not sure,” stammered Erica, frustrated by her own transparency.
“I understand your concern. Let me explain to you where you are. I’m not trying to be patronizing, just realistic. This is Cairo, not New York or Paris or even Rome. I say that because even Italy is run incredibly efficiently when compared with Egypt, which is saying a lot. Cairo suffers from a gargantuan bureaucracy. Oriental intrigue and bribery are the rule, not the exception. If you go to the police with your story, you will be the prime suspect. Consequently, you will be jailed or at the very least placed under house arrest. Six months to a year could go by before even the appropriate papers are filled out. Your life will be pure hell.” Yvon paused. “Am I making any sense? I’m telling you this for your own protection.”
“Who are you?” asked Erica, reaching for her bag to get a cigarette. In truth, she did not really smoke; Richard hated it when she did, and she’d purchased a carton of cigarettes in the duty-free shop as a gesture of rebellion. But at the moment, she wanted to do something with her hands. Watching her fumble in her bag, Yvon took out a gold case and held it open. Erica took a cigarette self-consciously. He lit it with a gold Dior lighter, then took one for himself. They smoked in silence for a few moments. Erica puffed without inhaling.
“I am what you call in your country a concerned citizen,” said Yvon, brushing back his dark brown hair, which was already neatly in place. “I have deplored the destruction of antiquities and archaeological sites, and I’ve decided to do something about it. Knowledge of this Seti I statue was the biggest . . . what do you say . . .” Yvon searched for a word.
Erica tried to help by suggesting “find.”
Yvon shook his head, but he moved his hand in a circle to encourage Erica. Erica shrugged and suggested “break.”
“To solve a mystery,” added Yvon, “you need a . . .”
“Clue or lead,” said Erica.
“Ah, lead. Yes. It was the biggest lead. But now, I don’t know. The statue may be gone forever. Maybe you can help if you could identify the killer, but here in Cairo it will be difficult. And if you go to the police, it will be definitely impossible.”
“How did you learn about the statue in the first place?” asked Erica.
“From Hamdi himself. I’m sure he wrote to a number of people besides me,” said Yvon, looking around the room. “I came here as soon as possible. In fact, I arrived in Cairo only a few hours ago.” He walked over to one of the large wooden cabinets and pulled open the door. It was filled with small artifacts. “It would be helpful if his correspondence was here,” said Yvon, picking up a small wooden mummy figure. “Most of these pieces are fake,” he added.
“There are letters in that chest,” said Erica, pointing.
Yvon followed Erica’s finger and walked over and opened the chest.
“Very good,” said Yvon, pleased. “Perhaps there will be something in this material to help us. But I’d like to make certain there isn’t more correspondence hidden here.” He walked to the curtain and pulled it open. A small amount of daylight entered the area. “Raoul,” Yvon called loudly. The beads in the entranceway clacked. Yvon held open the curtain and Raoul entered.
He was younger than Yvon, in his late twenties, with olive skin and black hair and a carefree air of self-assured masculinity. He reminded Erica of Jean-Paul Belmondo.
Yvon introduced him, explaining that he was from the south of France and that though he spoke fluent English, his heavy accent made him a little hard to understand. Raoul shook Erica’s hand and smiled broadly. Then, ignoring Erica, the two men conversed rapidly in French before beginning to search the shop to see if there were any more records.
“This will take only a few minutes, Erica,” said Yvon, carefully going through one of the upright cabinets.
Erica sank to one of the large cushions in the center of the room. She felt numbed by the whole experience. She knew that searching the premises was illegal, but she did not protest. Instead she vacantly watched the two men. They had finished with the cabinets and were starting to take down all the carpets hanging on the walls.
While they worked, their differences were apparent. It was more than physical appearance. It was the way they moved and handled things. Raoul was blunt and direct, often relying on sheer strength. Yvon was careful and contemplative. Raoul was in constant motion, often bending, his head slightly drooped between his powerful shoulders. Yvon stood erect, and he regarded objects from a comfortable distance. He had rolled up his sleeves, revealing smooth forearms that emphasized his small sculptured hands. All at once Erica recognized what was so different about Yvon. He had the sheltered, pampered look of a nineteenth-century aristocrat. An air of elegant authority hovered over him like a halo.
With her pulse still racing, Erica abruptly found sitting intolerable. She stood up and walked over to the heavy drapes. She wanted some air but realized she was reluctant to look into the outer part of the shop, despite Yvon’s assurance that the body was gone. Finally she reached out and pulled open the curtain.
Erica screamed. Only two feet from her was a face that had whirled to look at her when she pulled open the curtain. There was a crash of pottery as the figure in the shop dropped his armload, obviously as frightened as Erica.
Raoul responded instantaneously, pushing past Erica into the front room. Yvon followed. The thief stumbled over the pottery and tried to reach the doorway, but Raoul was like a cat, and with a sharp karate chop between the shoulders brought the intruder to the floor. He rolled over, a boy about twelve.
Yvon took one look and walked back to Erica.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly.
Erica shook her head. “I’m not accustome
d to this sort of thing.” She was still holding onto the drapes, her head down.
“Take a look at this boy,” said Yvon. “I want to be sure he wasn’t one of the three.” He put his arm around her, but she politely pushed him away.
“I’m okay,” she said, realizing she had overreacted because she had suppressed her earlier fright and then exploded at this latest happening.
Taking a deep breath, she went over and looked down at the cowering child.
“No,” she said simply.
Yvon spoke sharply in Arabic to the boy, who responded by scrambling to his feet and bolting through the entranceway, leaving the beaded strips dancing behind him. “The poverty in this place makes some of these people act like vultures. They sense when there is trouble.”
“I want to leave,” said Erica as calmly as possible. “I’m not sure where I want to go, but I want to get out of here. And I still feel the police should be told.”
Yvon reached out and put a hand on Erica’s shoulder. He spoke paternally. “The police can be informed, but without involving yourself. The decision is yours to make, but believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Egyptian jails rival those in Turkey.”
Erica studied Yvon’s steady eyes before looking down at her still-trembling hands. With the poverty and overwhelming disorder she’d already seen in Cairo, Yvon’s comments made sense. “I want to return to my hotel.”
“I understand,” said Yvon. “But please allow us to accompany you, Erica. Just let me get the letters we’ve found. It will only be a moment.” Both men disappeared through the heavy curtains.
Erica stepped over to the broken counter and stared at the mixture of shattered glass and dried blood. It was difficult to stifle a feeling of nausea, but with luck she quickly found what she was searching for—the fake scarab Abdul had given to her, the one that had been so exquisitely carved by his son. She slipped it into her pocket, at the same time gently touching the broken pottery on the floor with her toe. The two authentic antiques were among the rubble. After lasting six thousand years, they were broken needlessly, smashed on the floor of this pitiful shop by a twelve-year-old thief. The waste made her physically ill. Her gaze went back to the blood, and she had to close her eyes to check the tears. A sensitive human life snuffed out because of greed. Erica tried vainly to recall the appearance of the man who had wielded the scimitar. His features had been sharp, like the typical bedouin’s, his skin the color of burnished bronze. But she could not form a definite mental image of the man. She opened her eyes again and looked around the shop. Anger began to supplant the incipient tears. She wanted to go to the police for Abdul Hamdi so that the killer would be brought to justice. But Yvon’s admonition about the police in Cairo was undoubtedly correct. And if she couldn’t even be sure she’d recognize the killer if she saw him again, then the risk of going to the police was not worth it.
