by Robin Cook
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Erica asked to be connected with the Meridien Hotel, suite 800. With the receiver held between her head and shoulder, Erica removed her blouse. The cool air felt good. It took almost fifteen minutes to establish the connection, and Erica realized that the Egyptian phones were atrocious, as she had been warned.
“Hello.” It was Raoul.
“Hello. This is Erica Baron. May I speak with Yvon?”
“One moment.”
There was a pause, and Erica removed her shoes. There was a line of Cairo dust across her instep.
“Good evening,” said Yvon cheerfully.
“Hello, Yvon. I got a message to call you. It said ‘urgent.’ ”
“Well, I wanted to speak to you as soon as possible, but there is no emergency. I just had a wonderful evening tonight and I wanted to thank you.”
“That’s very nice of you to say,” said Erica, slightly flustered.
“As a matter of fact, I thought you looked very beautiful tonight, and I am very anxious to see you again.”
“You are?” asked Erica before thinking.
“Absolutely. In fact, I’d be delighted to have breakfast with you in the morning. They serve wonderful eggs here at the Meridien.”
“Thank you, Yvon,” said Erica. She had enjoyed Yvon’s company, but she had no intention of wasting her time in Egypt on a flirtation. She had come to see the objects of her years of study firsthand, and she did not want to be distracted. More important, she still had not decided exactly what her responsibility was to the fabulous statue of Seti I.
“I can have Raoul pick you up whenever you wish,” Yvon said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Thank you, Yvon, but I’m exhausted. I don’t want to get up at a certain time.”
“I understand. You could just call me when you wake up.”
“Yvon, I enjoyed myself tonight, especially after this afternoon. But I think I need some time to myself. I’d like to sightsee a little.”
“I’d be glad to show you more of Cairo,” said Yvon persistently.
Erica did not want to spend the day with Yvon. Her interest in Egypt was too personal to share. “Yvon, how about dinner again? That would be the best for me.”
“Dinner would have been included in the day, but I understand, Erica. Dinner will be fine, and I will look forward to it very much. But let’s set a time. Say, nine o’clock.”
After a friendly good-bye, Erica hung up the phone. She was surprised at Yvon’s persistence. She had not felt that she looked very good that evening. She got up and looked at herself in the bedroom mirror. She was twenty-eight, but some people thought she looked younger. She noticed again the minute wrinkles that had miraculously appeared beside her eyes on her last birthday. Then she noticed a small pimple just forming on her skin. “Damn,” she said as she tried to squeeze it. It wouldn’t squeeze. Erica looked at herself and wondered about men. She wondered what it was that they really liked.
She removed her bra, then her skirt. Waiting for the shower to run hot, she stared at the bathroom mirror. Turning her head to the side, she touched the slight bump on her nose and wondered if she should do something about it. Stepping back to get the whole effect, she was reasonably pleased with her body, although she thought she needed more exercise. Suddenly she felt very lonely. She thought about the life she had willfully left in Boston. There were problems, but maybe running away to Egypt was not the answer. She thought about Richard. With the shower running, Erica returned to the bedroom and looked at the telephone. Impulsively she put a call through to Richard Harvey and was disappointed when the operator told her it would be at least two hours, maybe more. Erica complained, and the operator said that she should be happy because the lines were not very busy. Usually it would take several days to call long distance from Cairo; it was easier to call into the city. Erica thanked her and hung up. Staring at the silent phone, she felt a sudden rush of emotion. She fought back undirected tears, knowing she was too exhausted to think about anything more until she had some sleep.
CAIRO 12:30 A.M.
Ahmed watched the reflected lights forming patterns on the Nile as his car crossed the 26 July bridge to Gezira Island. His driver kept leaning on the horn, but Ahmed no longer tried to interfere. Drivers in Cairo believed continuous honking was as necessary as steering.
“I will be ready at eight A.M.,” said Ahmed, emerging from his car in front of his home on Shari Ismail Muhammad in the district of Zamalek. The driver nodded, made a quick U-turn, and disappeared into the night.
Ahmed’s steps were slow as he entered his empty Cairo apartment. He much preferred his small house by the Nile in his native Luxor in Upper Egypt, and he went as often as possible. But the burden of office as director of the antiquities service kept him in town more than he liked. Perhaps more than anyone, Ahmed was aware of the negative consequences of the huge bureaucracy Egypt had created. In order to encourage education, every graduate of the university was guaranteed a job in the government. Consequently there were too many people with not enough to do. Insecurity in such a system was rampant, and most individuals spent their time plotting ways of ensuring the perpetuation of their positions. If it weren’t for the subsidy from Saudi Arabia, the entire topheavy mess would crumble overnight.
Such thoughts depressed Ahmed, who had sacrificed everything in order to rise to his present position. He had set out to control the antiquities service, and now that he did, he had to face the gross inefficiencies of the department. And so far his attempts at reorganization had met with fierce opposition.
He sat on his Egyptian rococo couch and pulled some memoranda from his attaché case. He read the titles: “Revised Security Arrangements for the Necropolis of Luxor, Including Valley of the Kings” and “Underground Bombproof Storage Chambers for Tutankhamen Treasures.” He opened the first because that was the one he was particularly interested in. He had recently totally reorganized the security for the Necropolis of Luxor. It had been his first priority after reaching office.
Ahmed read the first paragraph twice before he acknowledged that his mind was not on the subject. He kept remembering Erica Baron’s exquisitely molded face. He had been startled by her beauty when he first caught sight of her in her room. It had been his plan to throw her off balance for the interrogation, but it had been he who had been initially thrown. There was a similarity, not in appearance, but in demeanor, between Erica and a woman Ahmed had fallen in love with during his three-year stay at Harvard. It had been Ahmed’s only real love affair, and being reminded of it was painful. The anguish he’d felt when leaving for Oxford still haunted him. Knowing he would never see her again made it the most difficult experience he’d ever had. And it had affected him greatly. From that time he had avoided romance so that he could accomplish the goals his family had set for him.
Leaning his head back against the wall, Ahmed allowed his memory to conjure up an image of Pamela Nelson, the girl from Radcliffe. He could see her clearly through the mist of fourteen years. Instantly he remembered those moments of awakening on a Sunday morning, the cold of Boston effectively screened out by their love. He could remember how he enjoyed watching her sleep, and how he would ever so carefully stroke her forehead and cheeks with his hand until she stirred and smiled.
Ahmed heaved himself to his feet and walked into the kitchen. He busied himself making tea, trying to escape from the memories that Erica had so effectively awakened. It seemed like only yesterday that he had left for America. His parents had taken him to the airport, full of instructions and encouragement, unaware of their son’s fears. The idea of America had been overwhelmingly exciting for a boy from Upper Egypt, but Boston had turned out to be just horribly lonely. At least until he’d met Pamela. Then it had been encha
nting. Basking in Pamela’s companionship, he had hungrily devoured his studies, finishing Harvard in three years.
Bringing the tea back into the living room, Ahmed returned to his rock-hard couch. The warm fluid soothed his tense stomach. After careful thought he understood why Erica Baron reminded him of Pamela Nelson. He had sensed in Erica the same intelligence and personal generosity that Pamela had used to veil her sensuous inner self. It had been the hidden woman that Ahmed had fallen in love with. Ahmed closed his eyes and remembered Pamela’s naked body. He sat perfectly still. The only sound was the ticking of the marble clock on the buffet.
Suddenly he opened his eyes. The official portrait of a smiling Sadat erased the warm memories. The present reasserted itself, and Ahmed sighed. He then laughed at himself. Indulging in such memories was unusual for him. He knew that his responsibilities in the department and within his family offered little room for such sentimental thoughts. To get to his present position had been a struggle, and now he was very close to his ultimate goal.
Ahmed picked up the memorandum about the Valley of the Kings and again tried to read. But his mind would not cooperate; it kept wandering back to Erica Baron. He thought of her transparency during the interrogation. He knew that such responses were not weaknesses but rather evidence of sensitivity. At the same time, he was thoroughly convinced that Erica knew nothing of importance.
Suddenly Ahmed remembered the words of the assistant who had originally reported that Yvon de Margeau had dined with Erica. He’d said that de Margeau had taken her to the Casino de Monte Bello and that the setting looked very romantic.
Ahmed stood up and paced the room. He felt angry without knowing why. What was de Margeau doing in Egypt? Was he going to buy more antiquities? On his previous visits, Ahmed had not been able to keep him under adequate observation. Now there was possibly a way. If Erica’s relationship with de Margeau grew, he could follow the man through Erica.
He picked up the phone and called his second in command, Zaki Riad, and ordered him to have Erica Baron followed twenty-four hours a day, starting in the morning. He also told Riad that he wanted the individual assigned to report directly to him. “I want to know where she goes and whom she meets. Everything.”
CAIRO 2:45 A.M.
It was an unfamiliar jangle that made Erica sit bolt upright. At first she had no idea where she was: there was a sound of water, and she was dressed only in her underpants. The harsh metallic sound recurred, and she realized she was in her hotel and that the phone was ringing. The sound of water was the shower, still running. She had fallen asleep on top of the bedspread with all the lights blazing.
Her mind was still foggy when she picked up the receiver. The operator said that her call to America was ready. After several distant sounds the phone went dead. She shouted hello several times; then, shrugging her shoulders, she hung up and went into the bathroom to turn off the shower. A casual glance in the mirror unnerved her. She looked terrible. Her eyes were red, her lids puffy, and the pimple on her chin had come to a head.
The phone rang again, and she ran back to the bedroom to pick it up.
“I’m so glad you called, dear. How was the trip?” Richard sounded pleased on the other end.
“Terrible,” said Erica.
“Terrible? What’s wrong?” Richard was instantly alarmed. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. It just hasn’t been what I expected,” said Erica. At once, sensing Richard’s overprotectiveness, she decided that it probably had been a mistake to call him. But having already committed herself, she told him about the statue and the murder, about her terror, about Yvon and then Ahmed.
“My God,” said Richard, obviously aghast. “Erica, I want you to come home immediately, the next flight!” There was a pause. “Erica, did you hear me?”
Erica pushed her hair back. Richard’s command had a negative effect. He was not in a position to give her orders, no matter what his motivation.
“I’m not ready to leave Egypt,” she said evenly.
“Look, Erica, you’ve made your point. There’s no need to drag it out, especially if you are in danger.”
“I’m not in danger,” Erica said flatly, “and what point are you referring to?”
“Your independence. I understand. You don’t have to continue your acting-out.”
“Richard, I don’t think you understand. It’s not that simple. I’m not acting-out. Ancient Egypt means a great deal to me. I’ve dreamed of visiting the pyramids since I was a child. I’m here because I want to be here.”
“Well, I think you are being foolish.”
“Frankly, I don’t think this is a proper topic for a transatlantic call. You keep forgetting that besides being a woman I’m an Egyptologist. I’ve spent eight years of my life studying for my degree, and I’m vitally interested in what I’m doing. It’s important to me.” Erica could feel herself getting angry all over again.
“More important than our relationship?” asked Richard somewhere between being hurt and being angry.
“As important as your medicine is to you.”
“Medicine and Egyptology are very different.”
“Of course, but what you forget is that people can approach Egyptology with the same commitment that you apply to medicine. But I’m not going to talk any more about this now, and I’m not coming back to Boston. Not yet.”
“Then I will come over to Egypt,” said Richard magnanimously.
“No,” said Erica simply.
“No?”
“That’s what I said—no. Do not come to Egypt. Please. If you want to do something for me, phone my boss, Dr. Herbert Lowery, and ask him to call me here as soon as possible. Apparently it is much easier to call into Egypt than out.”
“I’d be happy to call Lowery, but are you sure you don’t want me to join you?” asked Richard, amazed at the rebuff.
“I’m sure,” said Erica before saying good-bye and terminating the conversation.
When the phone rang again just after four A.M., Erica was not jolted as she had been earlier. However, she was afraid it was Richard calling back, and she let it ring several times, deciding exactly what she would say. But it wasn’t Richard. It was Dr. Herbert Lowery.
“Erica, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Dr. Lowery. Just fine.”
“Richard seemed very upset when he called about an hour ago. He said you wanted me to call.”
“That’s right, Dr. Lowery. I can explain,” said Erica, sitting up to help herself wake up. “I wanted to talk to you about something astounding, and I was told that it was easier to call into Cairo than out. Did Richard tell you anything about my first day here?”
“No. He said you’d had some trouble. That was all.”
“Trouble is hardly the word,” said Erica. She quickly sketched the events of the day for Dr. Lowery. Then, with as much detail as she could remember, she described the Seti I statue.
“Unbelievable,” said Dr. Lowery when Erica had finished. “Actually, I have seen the Houston statue. The man who bought it is indecently rich, and he had both Leonard from the Met and me flown down to Houston in his 707 to authenticate it. We both agreed it was the finest sculpture ever found in Egypt. I thought it probably came from Abydos or Luxor. Its condition was astounding. It was hard to believe it had been buried for three thousand years. Anyway, what you describe sounds like a mate.”
“Did the Houston statue have hieroglyphics cut into the base?” asked Erica.
“It did, indeed,” said Dr. Lowery. “It had some very typical religious exhortation, but it also had a very curious bit of hieroglyphics at the base.”
“So did the one I saw
,” added Erica excitedly.
“It was very difficult to translate,” said Lowery, “but it said something like ‘Eternal peace granted to Seti I, who ruled after Tutankhamen.’ ”
“Fantastic,” said Erica. “The one I saw also had the names Seti I and Tutankhamen. I was sure of it, but it’s so weird.”
“I agree it doesn’t make any sense for Tutankhamen’s name to appear. In fact, Leonard and I wondered about the authenticity of the statue when we saw that. But there was no doubt it was real. Did you notice which of Seti I’s names was used?”
“I think it was his name associated with the god Osiris,” said Erica. “Wait, I can tell you for sure.” Erica suddenly remembered the scarab Abdul Hamdi had given her. She ran over to the pants she’d draped over a chair. The scarab was still in the pocket.
“Yes, it was his Osiris name,” said Erica. “I remembered it was the same as I’ve seen on a clever fake scarab. Anyway, Dr. Lowery, could you possibly get a photo of the hieroglyphics on the Houston statue and send it to me?”
