by Robin Cook
“Do you believe him?” asked Raoul when they were outside.
“I don’t know what to think,” said Yvon, continuing to walk. “Whether I believe him is one question, whether I trust him is another. He is the biggest opportunist I’ve ever met, bar none. I want Khalifa to be briefed that he must be extremely careful when Stephanos meets with Erica. If he tries to hurt her, I want him shot.”
SAQQARA VILLAGE 1:48 P.M.
There was one fly in the room that repeatedly flew an erratic course between the two windows. It sounded noisy in the otherwise still enclosure, especially when it slammed against the glass. Erica looked around the chamber. The walls and ceiling were whitewashed. The only decoration was a smiling poster of Anwar Sadat. The single wooden door was closed.
Erica was sitting in a straight-backed chair. Above her was a light bulb suspended from the ceiling by a frayed black wire. Near the door was a small metal table and another chair like the one she was sitting on. Erica looked a mess. Her pants were torn at the right knee, with an abrasion beneath. A large stain of dried blood covered the back of her beige blouse.
Holding out her hand, she tried to judge whether her trembling was lessening. It was hard to say. At one point she had thought she was going to throw up, but the nausea had passed. Now she felt intermittent waves of dizziness, which she was able to disperse by closing her eyes tightly. There was no doubt she was still in a state of shock, but she was beginning to think more clearly. She knew, for example, that she had been taken to a police station in the village of Saqqara.
Erica rubbed her hands together, noticing that they became moist as she remembered the events in the serapeum. When Gamal first fell on her, she had thought she was trapped in a cave-in. She had made frantic attempts to free herself, but it had been impossible because of the narrow confines of the wooden stairway. Besides, the blackness had been so complete she hadn’t even been sure she had her eyes open. And then she had felt the warm, sticky fluid on her back. Only later did she find out it had been blood from the dying man on top of her.
Erica shook herself past another bout of nausea and looked up as the door opened. The same man who earlier had taken thirty minutes to fill out some sort of government form with a broken pencil reappeared. He spoke little English, but elaborately motioned Erica to follow him. The aged pistol holstered at his belt did not reassure her. She had already experienced the bureaucratic chaos Yvon had feared: obviously she was being considered a suspect rather than an innocent victim. From the moment the “authorities” had arrived on the scene, pandemonium had reigned. At one point two policemen had had such an argument over some piece of evidence that they had almost come to blows. Erica’s passport had been taken and she had been driven to Saqqara in a locked van that was as hot as an oven. She had asked on numerous occasions if she could call the American consulate but had received only shrugs in return as the men continued to argue over what to do with her.
Now Erica followed the man with the old gun through the dilapidated police station out to the street. The same van that had driven her from the serapeum to the village was waiting, its engine idling. Erica tried to ask for her passport, but instead of answering, the man hurried her inside the truck. The door was closed and locked.
Anwar Selim was already crouched on the wooden seat. Erica had not seen him since the catastrophe in the serapeum, and was so pleased to find him again she almost threw her arms around him, begging him to tell her everything was going to be all right. But as she moved into the van, he glowered at her and turned his head.
“I knew you were going to be trouble,” he said without looking at her.
“Me, trouble?” She noticed he was handcuffed, and shrank back.
The van lurched forward, and both passengers had to steady themselves. Erica felt perspiration run down her back.
“You acted strangely from the first moment,” said Selim, “especially in the museum. You were planning something. And I’m going to tell them.”
“I . . .” began Erica. But she did not continue. Fear clouded her brain. She should have reported Hamdi’s murder.
Selim looked at her and spit on the floor of the van.
CAIRO 3:10 P.M.
When Erica got out of the van, she recognized the corner of El Tahrir Square. She knew she was close to the Hilton, and she wished she could go back to her room to make some calls and find help. Seeing Selim in shackles had increased her anxiety, and she wondered if she were under arrest.
She and Selim were hurried inside the General Security Police Building, which was jammed with people. Then they were separated. Erica was fingerprinted, photographed, and finally escorted to a windowless room.
Her escort smartly saluted an Arab reading a dossier at a plain wooden table. Without looking up he waved his right hand and Erica’s escort departed, closing the door quietly. Erica remained standing. There was silence except when the man turned a page. The fluorescent lights made his bald head shine like a polished apple. His lips were thin and moved slightly as he read. He was impeccably attired in a white martial uniform with a high collar. A black leather strap ran through the epaulet on the left shoulder and was attached to a broader black leather belt that supported a holstered automatic pistol. The man turned to the last page, and Erica caught sight of an American passport clipped to the dossier and hoped that she would be speaking to someone reasonable.
“Please sit down, Miss Baron,” said the policeman, still without looking up. His voice was crisp, emotionless. He had a mustache trimmed to a knifelike line. His long nose curled under at the tip.
Quickly Erica sat in the wooden chair facing the table. Beneath it she could see, next to the policeman’s polished boots, her canvas tote bag. She’d been worried that she’d seen the last of it.
The policeman put down the dossier, then picked up the passport. He opened it to the photo of Erica, and his eyes traveled back and forth between her and the photo several times. He then reached out and put the passport on the table next to the telephone.
“I am Lieutenant Iskander,” said the policeman, clasping his hands together on the table. He paused, looking intently at Erica. “What happened in the serapeum?”
“I don’t know,” stammered Erica. “I was walking up some stairs to view a sarcophagus, and then I was knocked down from behind. Then someone fell on top of me, and the lights went out.”
“Did you see who it was that knocked you down?” He spoke with a slight English accent.
“No,” said Erica. “It all happened so quickly.”
“The victim was shot. Didn’t you hear shots?”
“No, not really. I heard several sounds like someone beating a rug, but no shots.”
Lieutenant Iskander nodded and wrote something in the dossier. “Then what happened?”
“I could not get out from beneath the man who fell on me,” said Erica, remembering again the feeling of terror. “There were some shouts, I think, but I’m not really sure. I do remember that someone brought candles. They helped me up, and someone said the man was dead.”
“Is that all?”
“The guards arrived, then the police.”
“Did you look at the man who was shot?”
“Sort of. I had trouble looking at him.”
“Had you ever seen him before?”
“No,” said Erica.
Reaching down and lifting the tote bag, Iskander pushed it over to Erica. “See if anything is missing.”
Erica checked the bag. Camera, guidebook, wallet—all seemed to be untouched. She counted her money and checked her traveler’s checks. “Everything seems to be here.”
“Then you weren’t robbed.”
“No,” said Erica. �
��I suppose not.”
“You are trained as an Egyptologist. Is that correct?” asked Lieutenant Iskander.
“Yes,” said Erica.
“Does it surprise you to know that the man who was killed worked for the Department of Antiquities?”
Glancing away from Iskander’s cold eyes, Erica looked down at her hands, realizing for the first time that they had been busy working at each other. She held them still, thinking. Although she felt the urge to answer Iskander’s questions rapidly, she knew that the question he’d just asked her was important, perhaps the most important of the interview. It reminded her of Ahmed Khazzan. He’d said he was director of the Department of Antiquities. Maybe he could help.
“I’m not sure how to answer,” she said finally. “It doesn’t surprise me the man worked for the Department of Antiquities. He could have been anyone. I certainly did not know him.”
“Why did you visit the serapeum?” asked Lieutenant Iskander.
Remembering Selim’s accusing comments in the van, Erica thought carefully about her answer. “The guide I’d hired for the day suggested it,” said Erica.
Opening the dossier, Lieutenant Iskander again wrote.
“May I ask a question?” asked Erica in an uncertain voice.
“Certainly.”
“Do you know Ahmed Khazzan?”
“Of course,” said Lieutenant Iskander. “Do you know Mr. Khazzan?”
“Yes, and I’d like very much to speak with him,” said Erica.
Lieutenant Iskander reached out and picked up the phone. He watched Erica as he dialed. He did not smile.
CAIRO 4:05 P.M.
The walk seemed endless. Corridors stretched in front of her until perspective reduced them to pinpoints. And they were jammed with people. Egyptians wearing everything from silk suits to ragged galabias were lined up in front of doors or spilling out of offices. Some were sleeping on the floor, so that Erica and her escort had to step over them. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, garlic, and the greasy smell of lamb.
When Erica reached the outer office of the Department of Antiquities she remembered the multitude of desks and antique typewriters from the night before. The difference was that now they were occupied with ostensibly busy civil servants. After a short wait Erica was shown into the inner office. It was air-conditioned, and the coolness was a welcome relief.
Ahmed was standing behind the desk peering out the window. A corner of the Nile could be seen between the Hilton and the skeleton of the new Intercontinental Hotel. He turned when Erica entered.
She had been prepared to pour out her problems like an overflowing river and plead with Ahmed to help her. But something in his expression made her hold back. There was a sadness about his face. His eyes were veiled and his thick dark hair was disheveled, as if he had been repeatedly running his fingers over his scalp.
“Are you all right?” asked Erica, genuinely concerned.
“Yes,” said Ahmed slowly. His voice was hesitant, depressed. “I never imagined what the strain of running this department was going to be like.” He flopped down in his chair, eyes momentarily closed.
Before, Erica had only guessed at his sensitivity. Now she wanted to walk around the desk and comfort the man.
Ahmed’s eyes opened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please sit down.”
Erica complied.
“I’ve been briefed about what happened at the serapeum, but I’d like to hear the story in your own words.”
Erica began at the beginning. Wanting to tell everything, she even mentioned the man in the museum who had made her nervous.
Ahmed listened intently. He did not interrupt. Only after she stopped did he speak. “The man who was shot was named Gamal Ibrahim and he worked here at the Department of Antiquities. He was a fine boy.” Ahmed’s eyes glistened with tears. Seeing such an obviously strong man so moved, unlike the American men she knew, made Erica forget her own troubles. This ability to reveal emotion was a powerfully attractive quality. Ahmed looked down and composed himself before he continued. “Had you seen Gamal at all during the morning?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Erica, but not convincingly. “There is a chance I saw him at a refreshment stand in Memphis, but I’m not sure.”
Ahmed ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Tell me,” he said. “Gamal was already upon the wooden platform in the serapeum when you started up the stairs.”
“That’s right,” said Erica.
“I find that curious,” said Ahmed.
“Why?” questioned Erica.
Ahmed looked slightly flustered. “I’m just thinking,” he said evasively, “nothing makes sense.”
“I feel the same way, Mr. Khazzan. And I want to assure you that I had nothing to do with the affair. Nothing. And I think I should be able to call the American embassy.”
“You may call the American embassy,” said Ahmed, “but frankly there is no need to do so.”
“I think I need some help.”
“Miss Baron, I’m sorry you were inconvenienced today. But actually this is our problem. You can call whomever you’d like when you get back to your hotel.”
“I’m not going to be detained here?” asked Erica, almost afraid to believe what she was hearing.
“Of course not,” said Ahmed.
“That is good news,” said Erica. “But there is one other thing I must tell you about. I should have told you last night, but I was afraid. Anyway . . .” She breathed in deeply. “I’ve had two very strange and upsetting days. I’m not sure which was worse. Yesterday afternoon I inadvertently witnessed another murder, incredible as it may sound.” Erica involuntarily shivered. “I happened to see an old man by the name of Abdul Hamdi killed by three men, and—”
Ahmed’s chair thudded to the floor. He had been leaning back. “Did you actually see the faces?” His surprise and concern were apparent.
“Two of them, yes. The third, no,” said Erica.
“Could you identify those whom you did see?” asked Ahmed.
“Possibly. I’m not sure. But I do want to apologize about not telling you last night. I really was afraid.”
“I understand,” said Ahmed. “Don’t worry. I will take care of that. But undoubtedly we will have more questions.”
“More questions . . .” said Erica forlornly. “Actually, I would like to leave Egypt as soon as possible. This trip is nothing like I’d planned.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Baron,” said Ahmed, regaining the composure Erica remembered from the night before. “Under the circumstances, you will not be allowed to leave until these issues are cleared up or we are sure you cannot contribute any more. I really am sorry that you have become involved like this. But you may feel free to move about as much as you’d like—just let me know if you plan to leave Cairo. Again, you should feel free to discuss the problem with the American embassy, but remember they have little say over our internal affairs.”
“Being detained within the country is far better than being in jail,” said Erica, smiling weakly. “How long do you think it will be before I will be allowed to leave?”
“It’s hard to say. Perhaps a week. Although it might be difficult, I suggest that you try to regard your experiences here as unfortunate coincidences. I think you should try to enjoy Egypt.” Ahmed toyed with his pencils before continuing. “As a representative of the government, I’d like to offer you dinner tonight and show you that Egypt can be very pleasurable.”
“Thank you,” said Erica, genuinely moved by Ahmed’s concern, “but I’m afraid I already have plans with Yvon de Margeau.”
“Oh, I
see,” said Ahmed, looking away. “Well, please accept my apologies from my government. I will have you driven to your hotel, and I promise I will be in touch.”
He stood up and shook hands with Erica across his desk. His grip was pleasantly strong and firm. Erica walked from the room, surprised that the conversation had ended so abruptly and stunned to be free.
As soon as she left, Ahmed summoned Zaki Riad, the assistant director, to his office. Riad had fifteen years’ seniority in the department but had been passed over during Ahmed’s meteoric rise to director. Although he was an intelligent, quick-witted man, his physical type was the exact opposite of Ahmed’s. He was obese, with bloated features, and his hair was as dark and tightly curled as a karakul lamb’s.
Ahmed had walked to the giant map of Egypt, turning when his assistant had seated himself. “What do you make of all this, Zaki?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” answered Zaki, wiping his brow, which sweated despite the air conditioning. He enjoyed seeing Ahmed under pressure.
“I cannot for the life of me figure out why Gamal was shot,” said Ahmed, slamming his fist against his open palm. “God, a young man with children. Do you think his death had anything to do with the fact he was following Erica Baron?”
“I cannot see how,” said Zaki, “but I guess there’s always a chance.” The last comment was intended to sting. Zaki stuck an unlit pipe in his mouth, mindless of the ashes that drifted down onto his chest.
Ahmed covered his eyes with his hand and massaged his scalp; then slowly he let his hand slide down his face to stroke his luxuriant mustache. “It just doesn’t make sense.” He turned and looked at the large map. “I wonder if there is something going on in Saqqara. Maybe some new tombs have been illicitly discovered.” He walked back and sat down behind his desk. “More disturbing, the immigration authorities notified me that Stephanos Markoulis arrived in Cairo today. As you know, he does not come here often.” Ahmed leaned forward, looking directly at Zaki Riad. “Tell me, what have the police reported about Abdul Hamdi?”
