by Robin Cook
“I very rarely go to dinner with strangers,” she said defiantly, “but I felt immediately comfortable with Yvon de Margeau and I thought he was charming.”
Ahmed walked over to his jacket and carefully put it on. Taking the last of his tea in a gulp, he looked back to Erica. “For your own good, I would ask you to keep this conversation confidential. Now I will take you back to your hotel.”
Erica was more confused than ever. Watching Ahmed retrieve the pencils that had fallen from the desk, Erica suddenly was overcome with guilt. The man was obviously sincere in his desire to contain the black market in antiquities, and she was withholding information. At the same time, the experience with Ahmed was frightening; as Yvon had warned her, he certainly did not behave like any American officials she had known. She decided to let him take her back to the hotel without saying anything. After all, she could always contact him if she felt she had to.
CAIRO 11:15 P.M.
Yvon Julien de Margeau had on a red silk Christian Dior robe tied loosely at the waist, exposing most of his silver-haired chest. The sliding glass doors of suite 800 were all open, allowing the cool desert breeze to rustle gently through the room. A table had been placed on the wide balcony, and from where Yvon was sitting he could look north across the Nile toward the delta. Gezira island, with its slender phallic observation tower, loomed in the mid-distance. On the right bank, Yvon could see the Hilton, and his mind kept returning to Erica. She was very different from any of the women he had known. He was both shocked and attracted by her passionate interest in Egyptology and was confused by her talk of career. After a moment he shrugged, considering her in the context with which he was most familiar. She was not the most beautiful woman he’d been with of late, and yet there was something about her that had suggested a subtle yet powerful sensuality.
On the center of the table Yvon had placed his attaché case filled with the voluminous papers he and Raoul had found at Abdul Hamdi’s. Raoul was stretched out on the couch double-checking letters Yvon had already perused.
“Alors,” said Yvon suddenly, slapping the letter he was reading with his free hand. “Stephanos Markoulis. Hamdi corresponded with Markoulis! The travel agent from Athens.”
“That could be what we are looking for,” said Raoul expectantly. “Do you think there is a threat involved?”
Yvon continued reading the text. After a few minutes he looked up. “Can’t be sure of any threat. All he says is that he is interested in the matter and he would like to come to some sort of a compromise. But he doesn’t say what the matter is.”
“He could have been referring only to the Seti statue,” said Raoul.
“Possibly, but my intuition says no. Knowing Markoulis, he would have been more direct if it only concerned the statue. It had to be more. Hamdi must have threatened him.”
“If that’s the case, Hamdi was no fool.”
“He was the ultimate fool,” said Yvon. “He’s dead.”
“Markoulis had also been in correspondence with our murdered contact in Beirut,” said Raoul.
Yvon looked up. He had forgotten about Markoulis’ connection with the Beirut contact. “I think Markoulis is where we should start. We know he deals in Egyptian antiquities. See if you can get a call through to Athens.”
Raoul lifted himself from the couch and gave the orders to the hotel operator. After a minute he said, “Telephone traffic is surprisingly light tonight, or so the operator says. There should be no trouble with the call. For Egypt, that is a miracle.”
“Good,” said Yvon, reaching out to shut his attaché case. “Hamdi corresponded with every major museum in the world, but Markoulis is still a long shot. The only real hope we have is Erica Baron.”
“And I don’t see her being much help,” said Raoul.
“I have an idea,” said Yvon, lighting a cigarette. “Erica did see the faces of two of the three men involved in the killing.”
“That might be so, but I doubt if she could recognize them again.”
“True. But I don’t think it matters, if the killers think she can.”
“I’m not following you,” said Raoul.
“Would it be possible to let the Cairo underworld know that Erica Baron watched the murder and can easily identify the killers?”
“Ah,” said Raoul, his face reflecting sudden understanding. “I see what you are thinking. Using Erica Baron as a decoy to flush the killers into the open.”
“Precisely. There’s no way the police are going to do anything about Hamdi. The Department of Antiquities won’t do anything unless they’ve heard of the Seti statue, so Ahmed Khazzan won’t be involved. He’s the only official who could make it difficult for us.”
“There’s one major problem,” said Raoul seriously.
“What is that?” asked Yvon, drawing on his cigarette.
“It’s a very dangerous course. It probably means signing a death warrant for Mademoiselle Erica Baron. I’m sure they will kill her.”
“Could one protect her?” asked Yvon, remembering Erica’s narrow waist, her warmth, and her appealing earthiness.
“Probably, if we used the right person.”
“Are you thinking of Khalifa?”
“I am.”
“He’s trouble.”
“Yes, but he’s the best. If you want to protect the girl plus get the killers, you need Khalifa. The real problem is that he’s expensive. Very expensive.”
“That I don’t mind. I want and need that statue. I’m certain it will be the fulcrum I need. In fact, at this point I believe it’s the only way. I’ve been through all of Abdul Hamdi’s stuff that we have. Unfortunately, there is almost nothing about the black market.”
“Did you really think there would be?”
“It was a little too much to ask, I admit. From what Hamdi said in his letter to me, I thought it was possible. But get Khalifa. I want him to start tailing Erica Baron in the morning. Also, I think I’ll even spend some time with her myself. I’m not sure she’s told me everything.”
Raoul regarded Yvon with a disbelieving smile.
“Okay,” said Yvon. “You know me too well. There’s something I find very attractive about the woman.”
ATHENS 11:45 P.M.
Reaching back over his shoulder, Stephanos Markoulis flipped off the lamp. The room was bathed in the soft blue glow of the moon that fell into the room through the French doors leading to the balcony.
“Athens is such a romantic city,” said Deborah Graham, pulling away from Stephanos’ embrace. Her eyes sparkled in the half-light. She was intoxicated by the atmosphere as well as the bottle of Demestica wine that lay empty on the nearby table. Her straight blond hair tumbled over her shoulders, and with a coquettish twist of her head she pulled it behind her ears. Her blouse was unbuttoned and the whiteness of her breasts contrasted sharply with her deep Mediterranean tan.
“I agree,” said Stephanos. His large hand reached out to massage her breasts. “That’s why I choose to live in Athens. Athens is for lovers.” Stephanos had heard the expression from another girl on another night and had said to himself at the time that he wanted to use the phrase himself. Stephanos’ shirt was also open, but it was always open. He had a broad chest covered with dark hair that served to set off his collection of solid gold chains and medallions.
Stephanos was very eager to get Deborah into his bed. He had always found Australian girls to be uncommonly easy and good lays. A number of people had told him that in Australia they acted very differently, but he did not care. He was content to ascribe his luck to the romantic atmosphere and his own prowess, but mostly the latter.
“Thank you for inviting me here, Steph
anos,” said Deborah sincerely.
“My pleasure,” said Stephanos, smiling.
“Would you mind if I went out on your balcony for a moment?”
“Not at all,” said Stephanos, silently groaning at the delay.
Holding her blouse together, Deborah bounced toward the French doors.
Stephanos watched the undulating movement of her buttocks beneath her faded jeans. He guessed she was about nineteen. “Don’t get lost out there,” he called.
“Stephanos, this balcony is only three feet wide.”
“I see you pick up quickly on sarcasm,” said Stephanos. All at once he felt a flicker of doubt whether Deborah was going to come through. Impatiently he lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke forcefully toward the ceiling.
“Stephanos, come out here and tell me what I’m looking at.”
“Christ,” said Stephanos to himself. Reluctantly he got up and joined her. Deborah was leaning as far out as possible, pointing down Ermon Street.
“Is that Constitution Square I can just see?”
“That’s right.”
“And that’s the corner of the Parthenon,” said Deborah, pointing in the opposite direction.
“You’ve got it.”
“Oh, Stephanos, this is beautiful.” Gazing up at him, she put her arms around his neck and looked into his broad face. She had been excited by his appearance from the first moment he’d stopped her in the Plaka. He had deep laugh lines, which gave his face character, and a heavy beard that Deborah thought enhanced his masculinity.
She was still a little afraid of having agreed to come to this stranger’s apartment, yet there was something about being in Athens and not Sydney that made it all right. Besides, the fear added to the mood, and she was already incredibly excited.
“What kind of work do you do, Stephanos?” she asked, the delay increasing her anticipation.
“Does it matter?”
“I’m just interested. But you don’t have to tell me.”
“I own a travel agency, Aegean Holidays, and I do some smuggling on the side. But mostly I chase women.”
“Oh, Stephanos. Be serious.”
“I am. I have a comfortable travel business, but I also smuggle machine parts into Egypt, antiquities out. But as I said, I mostly chase women. It’s the one thing I never get tired of.”
Deborah regarded Stephanos’ dark eyes. To her surprise, the fact that he admitted to being a womanizer enhanced the forbidden exhilaration of the experience. She threw herself against him.
Stephanos was good at almost everything he did. He could feel her inhibitions relax. With a sense of satisfaction he lifted her and carried her into the apartment. Bypassing the living room, he took her directly into the bedroom. Without resistance he removed her clothes. She looked delicious totally naked in the blue room light.
Stepping out of his own trousers, Stephanos bent down and kissed Deborah gently on the lips. She reached out, wanting him to take her.
With shattering suddenness the phone next to the bed began to ring. Stephanos switched on the light to glance at the clock. It was almost midnight. Something was wrong.
“You answer it,” commanded Stephanos.
Deborah looked at him with surprise, but quickly picked up the receiver. She said hello in English, and immediately tried to give the phone to Stephanos, saying it was an international call. Stephanos motioned for her to keep the phone and silently told her to find out who was calling. Deborah obediently listened, asked who was calling, and then put her hand over the phone.
“It’s Cairo. A Monsieur Yvon Julien de Margeau.”
Stephanos snatched the phone, his face reflecting a sudden change from seeming playfulness to calculation. Deborah shrank back, covering her nakedness. Looking at his face now, Deborah realized she’d made a mistake. She tried to gather her clothes, but Stephanos was sitting on her jeans.
“You’re not going to convince me you just wanted to have a friendly conversation in the middle of the night,” said Stephanos with uncamouflaged irritation.
“You’re right, Stephanos,” said Yvon calmly. “I wanted to ask you about Abdul Hamdi. Do you know him?”
“Of course I know the bastard. What about him?”
“Have you done any business with him?”
“That’s a pretty personal question, Yvon. What are you driving at?”
“Hamdi was murdered today.”
“That’s too bad,” said Stephanos sarcastically. “But why would that concern me?”
Deborah was still trying to rescue her jeans. Gingerly she put one hand on his back and pulled with the other. Stephanos was aware of the distraction but not the purpose. Savagely he lashed out and hit her with the back of his hand, knocking her off the other side of the bed. With trembling hands she dressed in the clothes she had.
“Do you have any idea who killed Hamdi?” asked Yvon.
“There are a lot of people who wanted that bastard dead,” said Stephanos angrily. “Myself included.”
“Did he try to blackmail you?”
“Listen, de Margeau, I don’t think I want to answer any of these questions. I mean, what is in all this for me?”
“I’m willing to trade you information. I know something you’d like to find out.”
“Try me.”
“Hamdi had a Seti I statue like the one in Houston.”
Stephanos’ face went bloodred. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted jumping to his feet, oblivious of his own nakedness. Deborah saw her chance and retrieved her jeans. Finally dressed, she cowered on the other side of the bed with her back to the wall.
“How did he get a Seti statue?” asked Stephanos, controlling his anger.
“I have no idea,” said Yvon.
“Has there been any official publicity?” asked Stephanos.
“None. I happened on the scene immediately after the murder. I got all of Hamdi’s papers and correspondence, including your last letter.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Nothing for the moment.”
“Was there anything about the black market in general? Was he trying some sort of grand exposé?”
“Um, so he did try to blackmail you,” said Yvon triumphantly. “The answer is no. There was no grand exposé. Did you kill him, Stephanos?”
“If I did, do you honestly think I’d tell you, de Margeau? Be realistic.”
“Just thought I’d ask. Actually we have a good lead. The murder was seen at close range by an expert witness.”
Stephanos stopped by the doorway, looking through the living room to the balcony, thinking. “This witness, can he identify the killers?”
“Absolutely. And he happens to be a very nicely endowed she, who also happens to be an Egyptologist. Her name is Erica Baron, and she’s at the Hilton.”
Pushing the button to disconnect, Stephanos dialed a local number. He tapped on the phone impatiently while the connection went through. “Evangelos, pack your bag. We’re going to Cairo in the morning.” He hung up before Evangelos could respond. “Shit,” he shouted to the night. At that moment he caught sight of Deborah. For an instant he was bewildered, having forgotten her presence. “Get out of here,” he yelled. Deborah scrambled to her feet and rushed from the room. Freedom in Greece appeared to be as dangerous and unpredictable as she had been told back home.
CAIRO 12:00 MIDNIGHT
Emerging from the smoke-filled Taverne cocktail lounge, Erica blinked in the bright light of the Hilton lobby. The experience with Ahmed and the intimidating feeling of the huge government build
ing had so unnerved her that she had decided to have a drink. She had wanted to relax, but going into the bar had not been a good idea. She had been unable to enjoy her drink in peace; several American architects had decided she was just the antidote to a boring evening. No one had been willing to believe she wanted to be alone. So she’d finished her drink and left.
Standing at the periphery of the lobby, she could feel the physical effects of the Scotch, and she stopped for a moment to allow her equilibrium to return to normal. Unfortunately the alcohol had not affected her anxiety. If anything, it had increased it, and the watchful eyes of the men in the bar had played on her incipient paranoia. She wondered if she were being followed. Slowly she let her eyes roam around the grand foyer. On one of the couches a European man was obviously looking at her over the tops of his reading glasses. A bearded Arab dressed in flowing white robes standing near a jewelry display case was also staring at her with unblinking coal-black eyes. An enormous black who looked like Idi Amin smiled at her from in front of the registration desk.
Erica shook her head. She knew her exhaustion was getting the better of her. If she were in Boston wandering around alone at midnight, she would be stared at. She took a deep breath and headed for the bank of elevators.
When she reached her door, Erica vividly remembered the shock of seeing Ahmed in her room. Her pulse quickened as she pushed open the door. Gingerly she switched on the light. Ahmed’s chair was empty. Next she looked in the bathroom. It too was empty. Double-latching the door, she noted an envelope on the floor of the foyer.
It was Hilton stationery. Walking toward the balcony, she opened the envelope and read that Monsieur Yvon Julien de Margeau had phoned and that she was to call back, regardless of the hour. Below the message was a printed square followed by the word “urgent.”
Breathing in the cool night air, Erica began to relax. The spectacular view helped. She’d never been in the desert before and was astounded to see as many stars at the horizon as directly above. Immediately in front of her the broad black ribbon of the Nile stretched out like the wet black pavement of a huge highway. In the distance she could see illuminated the mysterious sphinx, silently guarding the riddles of the past. Next to the mythical creature the fabled pyramids thrust their granular hulks skyward. Despite their antiquity, their crisp geometry suggested something futuristic, twisting the context of time around. Looking to the left, Erica could see the island of Roda, which looked like an ocean liner in the Nile. On its near tip she could see the lights of the Hotel Meridien, and her thoughts returned to Yvon. She read the message again and wondered if Yvon could possibly know about Ahmed’s visit. She also pondered if she should tell him if he didn’t already know. But she felt a strong urge not to involve herself as far as the authorities were concerned, and it seemed to her that telling Yvon about Ahmed could possibly do just that. If there were something between Ahmed and Yvon, it was their business. Yvon could handle it.
