by Robin Cook
“The fabled city of Memphis,” said Selim solemnly.
“You mean Mennofer,” said Erica, looking out at the meager remains. Memphis was the Greek name. Mennofer was the ancient Egyptian name. “I’d like to buy us all a coffee or a tea,” said Erica, seeing she’d hurt his feelings.
Walking to the refreshment stand, Erica was glad she had been prepared for pitiful remains of this once-mighty capital of ancient Egypt, because otherwise she would have been very disappointed. A large group of ragged young boys approached with their collections of fake antiquities but were effectively driven off by Selim and the taxi driver. They mounted a small veranda with round metal tables and ordered drinks. The men had coffee. Erica ordered Orangina.
Perspiration running down his face, Gamal got out of his taxi clutching his El Ahram. Although he had been initially indecisive, he finally convinced himself he needed a drink. Avoiding looking at Erica’s group, he took a table near the kiosk. After obtaining a coffee, he disappeared behind his newspaper.
Khalifa kept his telescopic sight on Gamal’s chubby torso, but he allowed the fingers of his right hand to relax. He had stopped seventy-five yards short of the Memphis clearing and had quickly unsheathed his Israeli FN sniper’s rifle. He was sitting low in the back seat of his car with the rifle barrel resting on the open driver’s window. From the moment Gamal had emerged from his car, Khalifa had had him squarely in his sights. If Gamal had made any sudden movement toward Erica, Khalifa would have shot him in the ass. It wouldn’t have killed him, but, as Khalifa told himself, it would have slowed him down considerably.
Erica did not enjoy her drink because of the swarm of flies that inhabited the veranda. They were not deflected by a waving hand, and on several occasions they had actually landed on her lips. She got up, told the men not to hurry, and wandered in the clearing. Before getting back in the taxi, Erica stopped to admire the alabaster sphinx. She wondered what kind of mysteries it would tell if it could talk. It was very ancient. It had been made during the Old Kingdom.
Back in the car, they drove on through the dense palm forest until it thinned. Cultivated fields reappeared, along with irrigation canals choked with algae and water plants. Suddenly the Step Pyramid of Pharaoh Zoser reared its familiar profile above a row of palms. Erica felt a thrill of excitement. She was about to visit the oldest stone structure built by man, and for Egyptologists the most important site in Egypt. Here the famed architect Imhotep had built a celestial stairway of six enormous steps rising to a height of about two hundred feet, inaugurating the pyramid age.
Erica felt like an impatient child on her way to the circus. She hated the delay of bouncing through a small mud-brick village before crossing a large irrigation canal. Just beyond the bridge the cultivated land stopped and the arid Libyan desert began. There was no transition. It was like going from noon to midnight without a sunset. Suddenly on either side of the road Erica saw only sand and rock and shimmering heat.
As the taxi came to a halt in the shade of a large tour bus, Erica was the first one out. Selim had to run to keep up with her. The driver opened all four doors of his small car to encourage ventilation while he waited.
Khalifa was becoming more and more confused about Gamal’s behavior. Ignoring Erica, the man had taken his newspaper into the shade of the pyramid’s enclosure wall. He had not even bothered to follow Erica inside. Khalifa deliberated for a few minutes, wondering what would be best for him to do. Thinking that Gamal’s presence could possibly be some sort of clever ruse, he elected to stick close to Erica. He removed his jacket and shifted his Stechkin semiautomatic to his right hand with his jacket draped over it.
For the next hour Erica was intoxicated by the ruins. This was the Egypt she had dreamed about. Her knowledge was capable of translating the debris of the necropolis into the prodigious achievement that it had been five thousand years previously. She knew she could not see everything in one day, and was content to touch the highlights and enjoy the unexpected, like the cobra reliefs she’d never read about. Selim finally accepted his role and stayed mostly in the shade. He was pleased, however, when Erica motioned about noon that she was ready to move on.
“There is a small café/rest house here,” said Selim hopefully.
“I’m very excited to see some of the nobles’ tombs,” said Erica. She was too excited to stop.
“The rest house is right next to the mastaba of Ti and the serapeum,” said Selim.
Erica’s eyes brightened. The serapeum was one of the most unusual ancient Egyptian monuments. Within the catacombs the mummified remains of Apis bulls had been interred with pomp and circumstance befitting kings. It had been with enormous effort that the serapeum had been dug by hand into the solid rock. Erica could understand the effort devoted to construction of human tombs, but not for the bulls. She was convinced that there was a mystery associated with the tomb of the Apis bulls that had yet to be unraveled. “I’m ready for the serapeum,” she said with a smile.
Being overweight, Gamal did not fare well in the heat. Rarely, even in Cairo, did he wander outside at midday. Saqqara at noon was almost beyond his capabilities. As his driver followed Erica’s taxi, he tried to think of ways to survive. Perhaps he could find some shade and have the driver follow Erica until she was ready to return to Cairo. Ahead, Erica’s taxi pulled up and parked at the Saqqara rest house. Looking around, Gamal remembered that when he’d visited the area as a child with his parents he had walked through a scary, dark subterranean cave for bulls. Although the cave had frightened him, he still remembered that it had been deliciously cool.
“Isn’t this the site of the serapeum?” he asked, touching his driver’s shoulder.
“Right over there,” said the driver, pointing toward the beginning of a trench that served as an access ramp.
Gamal looked over at Erica, who had gotten out of her car and was examining the row of sphinxes leading toward the ramp. All at once Gamal knew how he’d cool off. Besides, he thought, it would be fun to see the serapeum again after so many years.
Khalifa was not happy, and he ran his hand nervously through his greasy hair. He’d decided that Gamal was not the amateur he pretended to be. He was far too nonchalant. If he had only been sure of the boy’s ultimate intention, he would have shot and delivered him alive to Yvon de Margeau. But he had to wait for Gamal to make a move. The situation was more complicated and more dangerous than he had anticipated. Khalifa screwed the silencer on the barrel of his automatic and was about to get out of the car when he saw Gamal entering a trench leading to a subterranean opening. He consulted a map. It was the serapeum. Looking back at Erica happily photographing a limestone sphinx, Khalifa knew there was only one reason why Gamal would enter the serapeum first. In one of the dark, vaulted galleries or in one of the narrow passageways, Gamal was going to wait like a poisonous snake and strike when least expected. The serapeum was a perfect assassination spot.
Despite his many years of experience, Khalifa was unsure of what to do. He too could enter before Erica Baron and try to find Gamal’s hiding place, but that could be too risky. He decided he had to enter with Erica and strike first.
Erica walked down the ramp approaching the entrance. She was not fond of caves and in truth did not care for closed spaces. Even before stepping into the serapeum she could feel the damp coolness, and a tingling sensation announced the appearance of gooseflesh on her thighs. She had to force herself forward. A bedraggled Arab with a face like a hatchet took her money. The serapeum had an ominous feel.
Once inside the gloomy entrance gallery, Erica could sense the mysterious grip that aspects of ancient Egyptian culture had exerted on people through the ages. The darkened passageways looked like tunnels to the netherworld, suggesting the eerie power of the occult. Following Selim, she walked deeper and deeper into
the bizarre environment. They went down an unendingly long corridor with irregular and rough-hewn walls, meagerly illuminated by infrequent low-wattage light bulbs. In the areas between the lights, dark shadows made vision difficult. Other tourists had a way of suddenly emerging out of the gloom; voices sounded hollow and echoed repeatedly. At right angles to the main corridor were separate galleries, each containing a mammoth black sarcophagus covered with hieroglyphics. Very few of the side galleries were illuminated. Erica quickly felt she had seen enough, but Selim was insistent, saying that the best sarcophagus was at the far end and that a wooden stairway had been built, so she could even see the carvings inside. Reluctantly Erica continued behind Selim. Finally they reached the gallery in question, and Selim stepped aside for Erica to pass. She reached out to grasp the wooden handrail leading to the viewing platform.
Khalifa was a bundle of raw nerves, following close behind Erica. He had released the safety catch on his semiautomatic and again held it in his right hand beneath his jacket. He’d come within a hairbreadth of shooting several tourists when they had suddenly appeared out of the darkness.
As he rounded the corner of the last gallery, he was only fifteen feet behind Erica. The moment he saw Gamal he acted by reflex. Erica was climbing the short wooden stairway built along the side of the highly polished granite sarcophagus. Gamal was on top of the platform looking down at Erica as she climbed. He had stepped back from the edge. Unfortunately for Khalifa, she was directly between him and Gamal, shielding his view and making a quick shot impossible. In a panic Khalifa surged forward, thrusting Selim to the side. He charged up the short stairway, knocking Erica down on her knees, sending her sprawling toward the surprised Gamal.
Spurts of fiery light leaped from Khalifa’s covered pistol, and the deadly slugs tore into Gamal’s chest, piercing his heart. His hands started to rise. His small features twisted in pain and confusion as he teetered and fell forward on top of Erica. Khalifa vaulted over the wooden banister, pulling his knife from his belt. Selim screamed before trying to run. The tourists on the platform still had not comprehended what had happened. Khalifa dashed across the corridor toward the electric wires responsible for the primitive lights. Gritting his teeth against a possible shock, he sliced through the wire, plunging the entire serapeum into utter darkness.
CAIRO 12:30 P.M.
Stephanos Markoulis ordered another Scotch for himself and Evangelos Papparis. Both men were dressed in open-necked knit shirts and were sitting in a corner booth of the La Parisienne lounge in the Meridien Hotel. Stephanos was in a sour, nervous mood, and Evangelos knew his boss well enough to keep still.
“Goddamned Frenchman,” said Stephanos, looking at his watch. “He said he’d be right down, and it’s been twenty minutes.”
Evangelos shrugged. He didn’t say anything because he knew no matter what he said, it would only inflame Stephanos further. Instead he reached down and adjusted the small pistol strapped to his leg just within the top of his right boot. Evangelos was a brawny man with oversized features, particularly his brows, which made him look a little like a Neanderthal, except that his head was completely bald.
Just then Yvon de Margeau appeared in the doorway, carrying his attaché case. He was dressed in a blue blazer with an ascot, and was followed by Raoul. The two men surveyed the room.
“These rich guys always look like they’re on their way to a polo match,” said Stephanos sarcastically. He waved to catch Yvon’s attention. Evangelos shifted the table slightly to give his right hand free range of motion. Yvon saw them and walked over. He shook hands with Stephanos and introduced Raoul before sitting down.
“How was your flight?” asked Yvon with restrained cordiality as soon as they had ordered.
“Terrible,” said Stephanos. “Where are the old man’s papers?”
“You don’t spare words, Stephanos,” said Yvon with a smile. “Perhaps it is best. In any case, I want to know if you killed Abdul Hamdi.”
“If I had killed Hamdi, do you think I’d come down here to this hellhole?” said Stephanos with scorn. He despised men like Yvon who had never had to work a day in their lives.
Believing that silence could be useful with a person like Stephanos, Yvon made a big production out of opening a new pack of Gauloises. He offered them around, but Evangelos was the only taker. He reached for the cigarette, but Yvon teased him by keeping the cigarettes just out of his grasp so that he could make out the tattoo on Evangelos’ hairy, muscular forearm. It was a hula dancer with the word “Hawaii” just below it. Finally letting Evangelos take a cigarette, Yvon asked, “Do you go to Hawaii frequently?”
“I worked the freighters when I was a kid,” said Evangelos. He lit the Gauloise from a small candle on the table and sat back.
Yvon turned to Stephanos, whose impatience was showing. With careful movements Yvon lit his cigarette with his gold lighter before speaking. “No,” said Yvon. “No, I don’t think you’d come to Cairo if you’d killed Hamdi, unless you were worried about something, unless something went wrong. But to tell you the truth, Stephanos, I don’t know what to believe. You did come here very quickly. That’s a little suspicious. Besides, I have learned that Hamdi’s killers were not from Cairo.”
“Ah,” snapped Stephanos, exasperated. “Let me see if I get this right. You learn the killers weren’t from Cairo. From that information you decide that they obviously have to be from Athens. Is that your reasoning?” Stephanos turned toward Raoul. “How can you work for this man?” He tapped his forehead with his index finger.
Raoul’s dark eyes did not blink. His hands rested on his knees. He was prepared to move in a fraction of a second.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Yvon,” said Stephanos, “but you’ll have to look elsewhere for Hamdi’s killer. It wasn’t me.”
“Too bad,” said Yvon. “It would have answered a lot of questions. Do you have any thoughts as to who might have done it?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Stephanos, “but I have a feeling that Hamdi made himself a number of enemies. How about letting me see Hamdi’s papers?”
Yvon lifted his attaché case to the top of the table and put his finger on the latch. He paused. “One other question. Do you have any idea where the Seti I statue is?”
“Unfortunately, no,” said Stephanos, looking hungrily at the case.
“I want that statue,” said Yvon.
“If I hear anything about it, I will let you know,” said Stephanos.
“You never gave me a chance to see the Houston statue,” said Yvon, watching Stephanos carefully.
Looking up from the case, Stephanos’ face gave a hint of surprise. “What makes you think I was involved with the Houston statue?”
“Let’s just say I know,” said Yvon.
“Did you learn that from Hamdi’s papers?” asked Stephanos angrily.
Instead of answering, Yvon flipped the latch of his case and dumped Hamdi’s correspondence onto the table. Leaning back, he casually sipped his Pernod as Stephanos quickly shuffled through the letters. He found his own to Abdul Hamdi and put it aside. “Is this all?” he asked.
“That was all we found,” answered Yvon, turning his attention back to the group.
“Did you search the place well?” asked Stephanos.
Yvon glanced over at Raoul, who nodded affirmatively. “Very well,” said Raoul.
“There has to have been more,” said Stephanos. “I cannot imagine the old bastard was bluffing. He said he wanted five thousand dollars in cash or he was going to turn the papers over to the authorities.” Stephanos went through the papers again, more slowly.
“If you had to guess, what would you think happened to the Seti statue?” asked Yvon, taking another drin
k of Pernod.
“I don’t know,” said Stephanos without looking up from a letter addressed to Hamdi from a dealer in Los Angeles. “But if it’s any help, I can assure you it’s still here in Egypt.”
An awkward silence prevailed. Stephanos was busy reading. Raoul and Evangelos glared at each other over their drinks. Yvon looked out the window. He too thought the Seti statue was still in Egypt. From where he was sitting, he could see the pool area, beyond which was the expanse of the Nile. In the middle of the river the Nile fountain was operating, sending a stream of water straight into the air. Multiple miniature rainbows appeared along the sides of the enormous jet of water. Yvon thought about Erica Baron and hoped that Khalifa Khalil was as good as Raoul said he was. If Stephanos had killed Hamdi and made a move against Erica, Khalifa was going to earn his pay.
“What about this American woman?” said Stephanos, seemingly reading Yvon’s thoughts. “I want to see her.”
“She’s staying at the Hilton,” said Yvon. “But she’s a bit edgy about the whole affair. So treat her gently. She’s the only connection I have with the Seti statue.”
“The statue is not my current interest,” said Stephanos, pushing the correspondence away. “But I want to talk to her, and I promise I’ll be my usual tactful self. Tell me, have you learned anything at all about this Abdul Hamdi?”
“Not much. He was originally from Luxor. He came to Cairo a few months ago to establish a new antiquities shop. He had a son who still has an antique business in Luxor.”
“Have you visited this son?” asked Stephanos.
“No,” said Yvon, rising. He’d had enough of Stephanos. “Remember to tell me if you learn anything about the statue. I can afford it.” With a slight smile, Yvon turned. Raoul stood up and followed.
