Sphinx

by Robin Cook

  Erica bent down and picked up one of the larger shards of pottery. Her expertise was in the past, and with impressive facility her mind conjured up the image of the Seti statue, with its alabaster-and-feldspar eyes. There was no doubt in her mind that the statue had to be recovered. She had never known that objects of such importance were involved in the black market.

  Erica walked over to the curtain and drew it aside. Yvon and Raoul were in the process of rolling up the floor carpets. Yvon looked up and motioned that it would be only a moment longer. Erica watched them work. Yvon was obviously interested in trying to do something about the black market. The French had done a great deal to curb looting of Egyptian treasures, at least the stuff they didn’t carry off to the Louvre. If her not going to the police could help recover the statue, then perhaps it was the best thing to do. Erica decided she’d go along with Yvon, but she knew there was a degree of rationalization in her thinking.

  Leaving Raoul to replace the carpets, Yvon guided Erica out of Antica Abdul. Moving through the Khan el Khalili with Yvon was a totally different experience than trying to walk through it alone. No one bothered her. As if trying to distract her from the events of the last hour, Yvon talked continuously about the bazaar and about Cairo. He was obviously quite familiar with the history of the city. He had removed his tie, and his shirt was open at the collar.

  “How about a bronze head of Nefertiti?” he asked, holding up one of the ugly tourist souvenirs he had taken from a vendor’s cart.

  “Never!” said Erica, horrified. She remembered the scene after the molester had attacked her.

  “You must have one.” said Yvon, beginning to bargain in Arabic. Erica tried to interfere, but he bought the statue and gave it to her with great ceremony. “A souvenir of Egypt to cherish. The only problem is, I believe they are made in Czechoslovakia.”

  Smiling, Erica took the small statue. The charm of Cairo began to filter through the heat, dirt, and poverty, and she relaxed a little.

  The narrow alleyway on which they were walking opened up and they stepped into the sunlight of the Al Azhar square. With a cacophony of auto horns, traffic had come to a standstill. To the right Yvon pointed out an exotic building with a square minaret and surmounted by five onion-shaped turrets. Then he turned her around. To the left, almost concealed by the traffic and an open market, was the entrance to the famous Al Azhar mosque. They walked toward the mosque, and the closer they got, the easier it became to appreciate the elaborate entrance with its two arches and intricate arabesque decorations. It was the first example of medieval Muslim architecture Erica had approached since her arrival. In truth, she did not know much about Islam, and the buildings had a particularly exotic feel for her. Yvon sensed her interest and pointed out the various minarets, particularly those with domes and stone filagree. He continued a running commentary on the mosque’s history, including which sultans had added to it.

  Erica tried to concentrate on Yvon’s monologue, but it became impossible. The area directly in front of the building served as a busy market and was jammed with people. Besides, her mind kept returning to Abdul and the image of his sudden and horrible death. When Yvon changed the subject, Erica did not respond. He had to say again: “This is my car. May I give you a lift to your hotel?” It was a black Egyptian-built Fiat, relatively new, but with a full complement of dents and scrapes. “It is not a Citroën, but it is okay.”

  Erica was momentarily flustered. She had not expected a private auto. A taxi would have been fine; she liked Yvon, but he was a stranger in a strange land. Her eyes betrayed her thoughts.

  “Please understand my position,” said Yvon. “I feel that you were caught in a very unfortunate circumstance. I am glad I happened by, wishing only that I’d been twenty minutes earlier. I merely want to help you. Cairo can be difficult, and with the kind of experience you’ve had, it could be overwhelming. At this time of day you will not catch a taxi. There simply are not enough. Let me give you a ride to your hotel.”

  “What about Raoul?” asked Erica, trying to stall.

  Yvon unlocked the passenger door and opened it. Instead of trying to pressure Erica, he walked over to a turbaned Arab who had been apparently watching the car, spoke some words of Arabic, and dropped a few coins in the man’s open palm. Then he opened the driver’s door and got in, leaning across to smile up at Erica. His blue eyes appeared soft in the afternoon sun. “Don’t worry about Raoul. He can take care of himself. It’s you I am worried about. If you have the fortitude to wander around Cairo by yourself, you certainly shouldn’t mind riding with me as far as your hotel. But if not, tell me where you are staying and I’ll meet you there in the lobby. I’m not ready to give up on this Seti I statue, and you may be able to help.”

  Yvon busied himself with his seat belt. Erica glanced around the square, sighed, and got into the car. “The Hilton,” she said.

  The ride was not relaxing. Prior to pulling away from the curb, Yvon had donned soft kid driving gloves, pulling the leather over each finger with great care. When he did put the car in gear, it was with a vengeance, and the small auto leaped into the traffic with squealing wheels. Because of the snarled traffic, the brakes had to be applied immediately, with the result that Erica had to brace herself against the dash. And so the ride continued in sudden fits and stops, throwing Erica forward and backward. They went from what she thought was one near-accident to the next, often clearing other autos, trucks, donkey carts, and even buildings by millimeters. Animals and people fled before them as Yvon, gripping the steering wheel with both hands, drove as if he were engaged in a competitive sport. He was determined and aggressive, although he did not become angry or exasperated at the performance of others. If another car or cart snaked in front of him, he did not mind. He would wait patiently until a slot opened, then race forward.

  They headed southwest out of the bustling center, passing the remains of the old city walls and the magnificent citadel of Saladin. Within the citadel the domes and minarets of the Muhammad Ali mosque soared heavenward in a bold affirmation of the worldly power of Islam. They reached the Nile at the level of the northern tip of the island of Roda. Turning to the right, they headed up the broad avenue that ran along the east bank of the mighty river. The sparkling cool blue of the water, reflecting the afternoon sunlight in a million diamonds, provided a refreshing contrast to the heat and squalor of downtown Cairo. When Erica had first seen the Nile the day before, she had been impressed by its history and the fact that its waters came from distant equatorial Africa. Today she could really understand that Cairo and all of inhabited Egypt could not exist without the river. The oppressive dust and heat proclaimed the power and harshness of the desert that pressed constantly at Cairo’s back door, threatening like a plague.

  Yvon drove directly to the front entrance of the Hilton. Leaving the keys in the car, he managed to beat the turbaned doorman to the passenger side and chivalrously helped Erica out of the car. Erica, who had just witnessed the most violent scenes of her life, smiled at the unexpected gallantry. Coming from America, she was unaccustomed to seeing such an obviously masculine man concerned with the details of courtesy. It was a unique European combination, and one which, even exhausted as she was, Erica could not help but find charming.

  “I will wait for you if you would like to go to your room and freshen up before we talk,” said Yvon as they entered the busy lobby. The afternoon international flights had arrived.

  “I think I need a drink first,” said Erica without a moment’s hesitation.

  The temperature of the air-conditioned cocktail lounge was delicious, like sliding into a pool of crystal water. They sat in a corner booth and ordered. When the drinks came, Erica held the frosted glass of her vodka and tonic to her cheek for a moment to appreciate its coolness.

  Looking at Yvon calmly sip
ping his Pernod, she realized how quickly he could adapt to his environment. He was as comfortable within the depths of the Khan el Khalili as he was in the Hilton. There was the same confidence, the same control. Looking more carefully at his clothes, Erica recognized how fastidiously they were tailored to his body. Comparing their elegance to Richard’s unchanging Brooks Brothers look made her smile, but she knew that Richard was not interested in clothes and that the comparison wasn’t fair.

  Erica took a taste of her drink and began to relax. She took another sip, a bigger one, and breathed in deeply before swallowing. “God, what an experience,” she said. She rested her head in her hand and massaged her temples. Yvon remained silent. After a few minutes she sat up and straightened her shoulders. “What are you going to do about the Seti statue?”

  “I’m going to try to find it,” said Yvon. “I must find it before it gets out of Egypt. Did Abdul Hamdi say anything to you about where it was going? Anything?”

  “Only that it was in the shop for a few hours and it would soon resume its journey. Nothing else.”

  “About a year ago, a similar statue appeared and—”

  “What do you mean, similar?” asked Erica excitedly.

  “It was a gilded statue of Seti I,” said Yvon.

  “Did you actually see it, Yvon?”

  “No. If I had, it would not be in Houston today. It was bought by an oil man through a bank in Switzerland. I tried to trace it, but Swiss banks are very uncooperative. I got nowhere.”

  “Do you know if the Houston statue had hieroglyphics carved in the base?” asked Erica.

  Yvon shook his head while lighting a Gauloise. “I haven’t the slightest idea. Why do you ask?”

  “Because the statue I saw had hieroglyphics cut into the base,” said Erica, warming to the subject. “And the thing that caught my eye was the fact that there were the names of two pharaohs. Seti I and Tutankhamen!”

  Inhaling deeply on his cigarette, Yvon regarded Erica questioningly. His thin lips pressed together tightly as he blew the smoke from his nostrils.

  “Hieroglyphics are my specialty,” said Erica defensively.

  “It’s impossible for Seti’s and Tutankhamen’s names to be on the same statue,” said Yvon flatly.

  “It is strange,” continued Erica, “but there is no doubt in my mind. Unfortunately, I did not have time to translate the rest. My first thought was that the statue was a fake.”

  “It was no fake,” said Yvon. “Hamdi would not have been killed for a fake. Couldn’t you have mistaken Tutankhamen’s name for another?”

  “Never,” said Erica. She found a pen in her bag, drew the coronation name of Tutankhamen on her cocktail napkin, and pushed it toward Yvon defiantly. “That was carved in the base of the statue I saw.”

  Looking at the drawing, Yvon smoked in thoughtful silence. Erica watched him.

  “Why was the old man killed?” she said finally. “That’s what seems so senseless. If they wanted the statue, they could have taken it. Hamdi was there by himself.”

  “I have no idea,” admitted Yvon, looking up from the drawing of Tutankhamen’s name. “Perhaps it has something to do with the curse of the pharaohs.” He smiled. “About a year ago I’d traced a route for Egyptian antiquities to a middleman in Beirut, who obtained the pieces from Egyptian pilgrims going to Mecca. No sooner had I made the contact than the gentleman was killed. I’m wondering if it has something to do with me!”

  “Do you think he was killed for the same reasons as Abdul Hamdi?” asked Erica.

  “No. Actually, he was caught between Christian and Muslim bullets. Still, I was on my way to see him when it happened.”

  “It is such a senseless tragedy,” said Erica sadly, again thinking of Abdul.

  “It is indeed,” agreed Yvon. “But remember, Hamdi was no innocent bystander and he knew the stakes. That statue was priceless, and in the middle of all this poverty, money can move mountains. That’s the real reason it would be a mistake for you to go to the authorities. It’s hard to find someone you can trust under the best of circumstances, and when that kind of money is involved, the police themselves may not act with honesty.”

  “I’m not sure what I should do,” said Erica. “But what are your plans, Yvon?”

  Taking another draw on his Gauloise, he let his gaze wander around the tastelessly decorated lounge. “Hopefully, there will be some information in Hamdi’s correspondence. It’s not much, but it’s a start. I’ve got to find out who killed him.” Turning back to Erica, his face took on a more serious expression. “I very well might need you to make the final identification. Would you do that?”

  “Of course, if I can,” said Erica. “I really didn’t get a very good look at the killers, but I’d really like to help.” Erica thought about what she’d said. The words sounded so trite. But Yvon did not seem to notice. Instead, he reached across and gently grasped her wrist.

  “I am very pleased,” he said warmly. “Now I must go. I’m staying at the Meridien Hotel, suite 800. That’s on the island of Roda.” Yvon paused, but his hand still lightly gripped Erica’s wrist. “I would be quite happy if you would agree to have dinner with me tonight. This day must have given you a terrible impression of Cairo, and I would like to show you the other side.”

  The unexpected offer flattered Erica. Yvon was unreasonably charming and could probably dine with any one of a thousand women. His interest was obviously the statue, but her own reactions were confusing.

  “Thank you, Yvon, but I’m exhausted. I’m still suffering from jet lag, and I didn’t sleep well yesterday. Some other night, perhaps.”

  “We could have an early dinner. I’ll have you back here by ten. After your experience today, I just don’t think you should be sitting in your hotel room by yourself.”

  Looking at her watch, Erica saw that it was not quite six P.M. Ten would not be too late, and she had to eat anyway.

  “If it would not be a bother to have me back by ten, then I’d like to have dinner with you.”

  Yvon tightened his grip on her wrist for an instant, then let go. “Entendu,” he said, and motioned for the check.

  BOSTON 11:00 A.M.

  Richard Harvey looked down at the corpulent bulk of Henrietta Olson’s abdomen. The upper and lower sheets had been separated to expose the area of the gall bladder. The rest of Henrietta’s body was covered to preserve her dignity.

  “Now, Mrs. Olson, please point to where you felt the pain,” said Richard.

  A hand snaked out from beneath the sheets. With her index finger Henrietta indented her belly just under the right rib cage.

  “And also back here, Doctor,” said Henrietta, rolling over on her right side and jabbing her finger in the middle of her back. “Right about here,” said Henrietta, poking Richard with her finger at the level of his kidney.

  Richard rolled his eyes so that only Nancy Jacobs, his office nurse, could see, but she shook her head, feeling that Richard was being unusually short with his patients.

  Richard looked up at the clock. He knew he had three more patients to see before lunch. Although his three-year-old practice of internal medicine was doing amazingly well and he liked his work, some days were a little trying. Problems relating to smoking and obesity comprised ninety percent of his cases. It was a far cry from the intellectual intensity of his residency at the general. And now, on top of this problem, was the situation with Erica. It made concentrating on problems like Henrietta’s gall bladder almost impossible.

  There was a quick knock, and Sally Marinski, the receptionist, poked her head in. “Doctor, your call is on one.” Richard’s face brightened. He’d asked Sally to ring up Janice Baron, Erica’s mother.
/>
  “Excuse me, Mrs. Olson,” said Richard. “I must take this call. I’ll be right back.” He motioned for Nancy to stay.

  Closing the door to his office, Richard picked up the phone and pressed the connecting button.

  “Hello, Janice.”

  “Richard, Erica hasn’t written yet.”

  “Thanks a lot. I know she hasn’t written yet. The reason I called is to tell you I’m really going crazy. I want to know what you think I should do.”

  “I don’t think you have a lot of choices right now, Richard. You’re just going to have to wait until Erica gets back.”

  “Why do you think she went?” asked Richard.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve never understood this Egypt thing, right from the time she announced that she was going to major in it. If her father hadn’t died, he would have been able to talk some sense into her.”