by Robin Cook
Richard paused before speaking. “I mean, I’m glad she has interests, but a hobby should not threaten the rest of your life.”
“I agree, Richard.”
There was another pause, and Richard absentmindedly toyed with his desk set. He had a question for Janice, but he was afraid to ask.
“What do you think of me going to Egypt?” he said finally.
There was a silence.
“Janice?” said Richard, wondering if the connection had been broken.
“Egypt! Richard, you can’t leave your office like that.”
“It would be difficult, but if it’s necessary, I can do it. I can get coverage.”
“Well . . . maybe it’s a good idea. But I don’t know. Erica has always had a mind of her own. Did you talk to her about going?”
“No, we never discussed it. I think she just assumed I couldn’t leave right now.”
“Maybe it would show her that you care,” said Janice thoughtfully.
“Know that I care! My God, she knows I put a down payment on that house in Newton.”
“Well, that may not be exactly what Erica has in mind, Richard. I do think that the problem is that you dragged your feet too long, so maybe going to Egypt is a good idea.”
“I don’t know what I’ll do, but thanks, Janice.”
Richard replaced the receiver and looked on his blotter at the patient list for the afternoon. It was going to be a long day.
CAIRO 9:10 P.M.
Erica leaned back as the two attentive waiters cleared away their dishes. Yvon had been so crisp and short with them that Erica had almost been embarrassed, but it was obvious that Yvon was accustomed to efficient servants with whom, the less said, the better. They had dined sumptuously by candlelight on spicy local dishes that Yvon had ordered with great authority. The restaurant was romantically although inappropriately called the Casino de Monte Bello, and it was situated on the crest of the Mukattam Hills. From where Erica was sitting on the veranda she could look east into the rugged Arabian mountains that ran across the Arabian peninsula to China. To the north she could see the spreading veins of the delta as the Nile fanned out searching for the Mediterranean, and to the south she could see the river coming from the heart of Africa like a flat, shiny snake. But by far the most impressive vista was to the west, where the minarets and domes of Cairo thrust their heads through the mist that covered the city. Stars were emerging in the darkening silver sky just like the lights of the city below. Erica was obsessed with images of the Arabian Nights. The city projected an exotic, sensuous, and mysterious quality that forced the sordid events of the day to recede.
“Cairo has a very powerful bitter charm,” said Yvon. His face was lost in the shadows until the ember of his cigarette became fiery red as he inhaled, illuminating his sharply cut features. “It has such an unbelievable history. The corruption, the brutalities, the continuity of violence, are so fantastic, so grotesque as to defy comprehension.”
“Has it changed much?” asked Erica, thinking of Abdul Hamdi.
“Less than people think. The corruption is a way of life. The poverty is the same.”
“And bribery?” asked Erica.
“That hasn’t changed at all,” said Yvon, carefully tapping his cigarette over the ashtray.
Erica took a sip of wine. “You’ve convinced me not to go to the police. I really have no idea if I could identify the killers of Mr. Hamdi, and the last thing I want to do is get caught up in a morass of Asian intrigue.”
“It’s the smartest thing you can do. Believe me.”
“But it still bothers me. I can’t help but feel I’m shirking my responsibility as a human being. I mean, to see a murder and then not do anything. But you think that my not going to the police will help your crusade against the black market?”
“Absolutely. If the authorities find out about this Seti statue before I can locate it, then any chance of its helping me penetrate the black market will be lost.” Yvon reached over and reassuringly squeezed her hand.
“While you’re trying to find the statue, will you try to find out who killed Abdul Hamdi?” Erica asked.
“Of course,” said Yvon. “But don’t misunderstand me. My motive is the statue and controlling the black market. I don’t fool myself into thinking I will be able to influence moral attitudes here in Egypt. But if I do find the killers, I will alert the authorities. Will that help assuage your conscience?”
“It will,” said Erica.
Immediately below, lights came on, illuminating the citadel. The castle fascinated Erica, evoking images of the Crusades.
“One thing you said this afternoon surprised me,” she said, turning to Yvon. “You mentioned the ‘Curse of the Pharaohs.’ Surely you don’t believe in such nonsense.”
Yvon smiled, but allowed the waiter to serve the aromatic Arabic coffee before speaking. “Curse of the Pharaohs! Let’s say I don’t dismiss such ideas totally. The ancient Egyptians spent great efforts on preserving their dead. They were renowned for their interest in the occult, and they were experts with all sorts of poisons. Alors . . .” Yvon sipped his coffee. “Many of the people dealing with treasures from pharaonic tombs have died mysteriously. There’s no doubt about that.”
“The scientific community has a lot of doubt,” said Erica.
“Certainly the press has been quick to exaggerate various stories, but there have been some very curious deaths related to Tutankhamen’s tomb, starting with Lord Carnarvon himself. There has to be something to it; how much, I do not know. The reason I mentioned the curse was that it seems two merchants who were good ‘leads,’ as you say, were killed just prior to my meeting with them. Coincidence? Probably.”
After their coffee they strolled along the crest of the mountain to a hauntingly beautiful ruined mosque. They didn’t speak. The beauty cradled and awed them. Yvon offered his hand as they climbed over some rocks to stand within the towering roofless walls of the once-proud building. Above, the Milky Way was splattered against the midnight-blue sky. For Erica the magical charm of Egypt lay in its past, and there in the darkness of the medieval ruins she could feel it.
On the way back to the car, Yvon put his arm around her, but he continued to talk placidly about the mosque and deposited her at the entrance to the Hilton very close to ten o’clock, as promised. Still, riding up in the elevator, Erica admitted to herself that she was mildly infatuated. Yvon was a charming and devilishly attractive man.
Reaching her room, she inserted the key, opened the door, and flipped on the light, dropping her tote bag on the luggage rack in the small foyer. She closed the door and double-latched it. The air-conditioning was on full blast, and preferring not to sleep in an artificially cooled room, she headed toward the switch near the balcony to turn it off.
Halfway there she stopped and bit back a scream. A man was sitting in her easy chair in the corner of the room. He did not move or speak. He had pure bedouin features but was carefully dressed in a gray silk European suit, white shirt, and black tie. His total immobility and piercing eyes paralyzed her. He was like a terrifying sculpture in deep bronze. Although back home Erica had fantasized how violently she would react if she were ever threatened with rape, now she did nothing. Her voice failed her; her arms hung limply.
“My name is Ahmed Khazzan,” said the figure at last in a voice that was deep and fluid. “I am the director general of the Department of Antiquities of the Egyptian Arab Republic. I apologize for this intrusion, but it is necessary.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he extracted a black leather wallet. It fell open in his outstretched hand. “My official credentials, if you wish.”
Erica’s face blanched. She had wanted to go to the police. Sh
e knew she should have gone to the police. Now she was in very deep trouble. Why had she listened to Yvon? Still paralyzed by the man’s hypnotic gaze, Erica could not speak.
“I am afraid you must come along with me, Erica Baron,” said Ahmed, standing up and walking over to her. Erica had never seen such piercing eyes. In a face objectively as handsome as Omar Sharif’s, they absorbed and terrified her.
Erica stammered incoherently, but managed to finally look away. Beads of cold sweat had appeared on her forehead. She could feel her underarms were damp. Having never been in trouble with any authorities anywhere, she was totally unnerved. Mechanically she put on a sweater and picked up her bag.
Ahmed remained silent as he opened the door into the hallway; his expression of intense concentration did not alter. Erica conjured up images of dank, horrible cells as she walked beside him through the lobby. Boston suddenly seemed very far away.
Ahmed waved at the entrance to the Hilton, and a black sedan pulled up. He opened the rear door and motioned for Erica to enter, which she did quickly, hoping that her cooperation would atone for her having failed to report Abdul’s murder. As the car drove off, Ahmed maintained the oppressive and intimidating silence, fixing Erica from time to time with his unwavering gaze.
Erica’s imagination raced in anxious circles. She thought about the United States embassy and the consulate. Should she demand the opportunity to call, and if so, what would she say? Looking out the car window, she noticed the city was still very much alive with other vehicles and pedestrians, although the great river looked like a pool of stagnant black ink.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Erica, her voice sounding strange, even to herself.
Ahmed did not answer immediately. Erica was about to ask again when he spoke. “To my office in the Ministry of Public Works. It is a short ride.”
True to his word, the black sedan soon pulled off the main street into a semicircle of concrete in front of a pillared government building. A night watchman opened the massive entrance door as they mounted the steps.
Then began a walk that seemed as long as the ride from the Hilton. With only the hollow sounds of their shoes on the stained marble floor, they crossed a bewildering number of deserted corridors, leading them deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine reaches of a prodigious bureaucracy. At last they reached the proper office. Ahmed unlocked the door and led the way through the anteroom jammed with metal desks and antique typewriters. Entering a spacious office beyond, he indicated a chair for Erica. It faced an old mahogany desk neatly arranged with carefully sharpened pencils and a new green blotter. Ahmed maintained his silence as he removed his silk jacket.
Erica felt like a cornered animal. She had expected to be taken to a room full of accusing faces where she would be subjected to the usual bureaucratic red tape, like fingerprinting. She had anticipated trouble over the fact that she did not have her passport, which the hotel people had demanded on registration, saying that it had to be stamped and would not be back for twenty-four hours. But this empty room was proving more frightening. Who would know where she was? She thought of Richard and her mother and wondered if she might make a long-distance call.
She glanced nervously around the office. It was spartanly appointed and extremely tidy. Framed photos of various archaeological monuments adorned the walls, along with a modern poster of the funerary mask of Tutankhamen. Two large maps covered the right wall. One was of Egypt, and small red-topped pins had been inserted at various locations. The other map was of the Necropolis of Thebes, with the tombs marked with Maltese crosses.
Biting her lip to hide her anxiety, Erica looked back at Ahmed. To her surprise, he was busy with an electric hot plate.
“Would you care for some tea?” he asked, turning around.
“No, thank you,” said Erica, numbed by the weird circumstances. Gradually her mind began to suggest that she had jumped to conclusions, and she thanked heaven that she had not blurted out a confession before hearing what the Arab had to say.
Ahmed poured himself a cup of tea and brought it over to the desk. Slowly stirring in two sugars, he once more brought his powerful gaze to bear on Erica. She quickly lowered her eyes to avoid the impact, speaking without looking up. “I would like to know why I have been brought to this office.”
Ahmed didn’t answer. Erica looked up to make sure he’d heard her, and as their eyes met, Ahmed’s voice lashed out like a whip.
“I want to know what you are doing in Egypt,” he said, practically shouting.
His anger took Erica by surprise, and she stumbled over her words. “I’m . . . I’m here . . . I’m an Egyptologist.”
“And you are Jewish, aren’t you?” snapped Ahmed.
Erica was smart enough to realize that Ahmed was trying to push her off balance, but she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to resist his attack. “Yes,” she said simply.
“I want to know why you are in Egypt,” repeated Ahmed, raising his voice again.
“I came here—” said Erica defensively.
“I want to know what the purpose of your trip is and who you work for.”
“I don’t work for anyone, and there was no purpose for my trip,” said Erica nervously.
“You expect me to believe there was no purpose for your trip?” Ahmed said cynically. “Come, now, Erica Baron.” He smiled, and his swarthy complexion enhanced the whiteness of his teeth.
“Of course there was a purpose,” said Erica, her voice breaking. “What I meant was that I didn’t come here for some ulterior motive.” Her voice trailed off as she remembered her complicated problems with Richard.
“You are not convincing,” said Ahmed. “Not at all.”
“I’m sorry,” said Erica. “I’m an Egyptologist. I’ve studied about ancient Egypt for eight years. I work in an Egyptology department in a museum. I’ve always wanted to come. I had had plans to come years ago, but my father’s death made it impossible. It wasn’t until this year that I could manage it. I’ve made arrangements to do a little work while I’m here, but mostly it is a vacation.”
“What kind of work?”
“I plan to do some on-site translation of New Kingdom hieroglyphics in Upper Egypt.”
“You’re not here to buy antiquities?”
“Heavens, no,” said Erica.
“How long have you known Yvon Julien de Margeau?” He leaned forward, his eyes riveted to Erica’s.
“I met him for the first time today,” Erica blurted.
“How did you meet?”
Her pulse quickened, and perspiration reappeared on her forehead. Did Ahmed know about the murder after all? A moment earlier she would have said no, but now she wasn’t certain. “We met in the bazaar,” stammered Erica. She held her breath.
“Do you know that Monsieur de Margeau has been known to purchase valuable Egyptian national treasures?”
Erica was afraid her relief was apparent. Obviously Ahmed did not know about the murder. “No,” she said. “I had no idea.”
“Do you have any comprehension,” continued Ahmed, “of the extent of the problem we face trying to stop the black market in antiquities?” He stood up and walked over to the map of Egypt.
“I have some idea,” said Erica, confounded by the multiple directions of the conversation. She still did not know why she had been brought to Ahmed’s office.
“The situation is very bad,” said Ahmed. “Take, for instance, the highly destructive theft in 1974 of ten slabs of hieroglyphic relief from the Temple of Dendera. A tragedy, a national disgrace.” Ahmed’s index finger rested on the red-topped pin stuck in the map at the location of the Temple of Dendera. “It had to be an inside job. But the case wa
s never broken. The poverty works against us here in Egypt.” Ahmed’s voice trailed off. His face reflected strain and commitment. Carefully his index finger touched the red tops of other pins. “Each one of these indicates a major antiquities theft. If I had a reasonable-sized staff, and if I had some money to pay the guards a decent wage, then I could do something about all this.” Ahmed was speaking more to himself than to Erica. Turning, he seemed almost surprised to see her in his office. “What is Monsieur de Margeau doing in Egypt?” he asked, his anger returning.
“I don’t know,” said Erica. She thought about the Seti statue and Abdul Hamdi. She knew if she talked about the statue she’d have to talk about the murder.
“How long is he staying?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. I only met the man today.”
“But you had dinner with him tonight.”
“That’s right,” said Erica defensively.
Ahmed walked back toward the desk. He leaned forward and looked down threateningly into Erica’s gray-green eyes. She could sense his intensity and tried to return his gaze, but without much success. She did feel a little more confident, realizing that Ahmed was interested in Yvon, not her, but she was still afraid. Besides, she had lied. She knew Yvon was there for the statue.
“What did you learn about Monsieur de Margeau during your dinner?”
“That he is a charming man,” said Erica evasively.
Ahmed slammed his hand down on his desk, sending some of the carefully sharpened pencils flying and making Erica flinch.
“I’m not interested in his personality,” said Ahmed slowly. “I want to know why Yvon de Margeau is in Egypt.”
“Well, why don’t you ask him?” said Erica finally. “All I did was go to dinner with the man.”
“Do you often go to dinner with men you just meet?” asked Ahmed.
Erica studied Ahmed’s face very carefully. The question surprised her, but then, almost everything had been surprising. His voice suggested a kind of disappointment, but Erica knew that was absurd.
