by Robin Cook
“Very little,” said Zaki. “Apparently he was robbed. The police were able to learn that the old man had recently experienced a marked change in fortune, moving his antique business from Luxor to Cairo. At the same time, he’d been able to purchase more valuable pieces. He must have had some money. So he was robbed.”
“Any idea where his money came from?” asked Ahmed.
“No, but there is someone who might. The old man does have a son in the antique business in Luxor.”
“Have the police spoken to the son?” asked Ahmed.
“Not that I know of,” said Zaki. “That would be too logical for the police. Actually, they’re not all that interested.”
“I’m interested,” said Ahmed. “Arrange air transportation for me to go to Luxor tonight. I will pay Abdul Hamdi’s son a visit in the morning. Also, send several additional guards to the Necropolis of Saqqara.”
“Are you sure this is the right time for you to leave Cairo?” asked Zaki, pointing with the stem of his pipe. “As you indicated, with Stephanos Markoulis in Cairo, something is happening.”
“Perhaps, Zaki,” said Ahmed, “but I think I need to get away and spend a day or so in my own house by the Nile. I cannot help but feel a tremendous responsibility for poor Gamal. When I feel this depressed, Luxor is an emotional balm.”
“And what about the American woman, Erica Baron?” Zaki lit his pipe with a stainless-steel lighter.
“She’s fine. She’s scared, but she seemed to have pulled herself together by the time she left. I’m not sure how I’d react if I’d witnessed two murders in twenty-four hours, especially if one of the victims fell on top of me.”
Zaki took several thoughtful puffs on his pipe before continuing. “Strange. But, Ahmed, when I asked about Miss Baron, I wasn’t inquiring about her health. I want to know if you want her followed.”
“No,” said Ahmed angrily. “Not tonight. She’s going to be with de Margeau.” Almost the instant the words left his mouth, Ahmed felt embarrassed. His emotion was out of place.
“This is not like you, Ahmed,” said Zaki, watching the director very closely. He’d known Ahmed for several years, and Ahmed had never shown any interest in women. Now, suddenly it seemed that Ahmed was jealous. Finding a potential human weakness in Ahmed made Zaki feel inwardly pleased. He’d grown to hate Ahmed’s perfect record. “Perhaps it is best if you go to Luxor for a few days. I will certainly be happy to keep things under control here in Cairo, and I will look into Saqqara personally.”
CAIRO 5:35 P.M.
As the government car pulled up to the Hilton, Erica still could not quite believe she had been released. She opened the door before the vehicle had come to a complete stop and thanked the driver as if he’d had something to do with her release. Entering the Hilton was a little like coming home.
Once again the lobby was extremely busy. The afternoon international flights had been discharging passengers in a steady stream. Most of them were waiting perched on their luggage as the inefficient hotel tried to deal with the daily onslaught.
Erica realized how out-of-place she must look. She was hot, sweaty, and a mess. The large bloodstain was still on her back, and her cotton pants were in sorry shape, smeared with dirt and torn on her right knee. If there had been an alternate route to her room she would have taken it. Unfortunately, she had to walk directly across the large red-and-blue Oriental rug beneath the main crystal chandelier. It was like being in a spotlight, and people began to stare.
One of the men at the registration desk caught sight of her and waved with his pen, pointing in her direction. Erica quickened her step, gaining on the elevator. She pressed the button, afraid to look behind her in case someone was coming to stop her. She pushed the elevator button several more times while the floor indicator slowly came toward Ground. The door opened and she entered the car, asking the operator for the ninth floor. He nodded silently. The door began to close, but before it sealed, a hand wrapped around its lead edge, forcing the elevator man to reopen it. Erica backed against the rear of the car and held her breath.
“Hello, there,” said a large man wearing a stetson and cowboy boots. “Are you Erica Baron?”
Erica’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
“My name is Jeffrey John Rice, from Houston. You are Erica Baron?” The man continued to keep the door from closing. The elevator operator stood like a stone statue.
Like a guilty child Erica nodded in affirmation.
“So nice to meet you, Miss Baron.” Jeffrey Rice held out his hand.
Erica lifted her own like an automaton. Jeffrey Rice pumped it exuberantly. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Baron. I’d like you to meet my wife.”
Without letting go of her hand, Jeffrey Rice yanked Erica from the elevator. She stumbled forward, rescuing her tote as the strap slipped off her shoulder.
“We’ve been waiting for you for hours,” said Rice, pulling Erica toward the lobby.
After four or five clumsy steps she managed to extract her hand. “Mr. Rice,” she said, coming to a stop, “I’d like to meet your wife, but some other time. I’ve had a very strange day.”
“You do look a little ragged, dear, but let’s have one drink.” He reached out again and took Erica’s wrist.
“Mr. Rice!” said Erica sharply.
“Come on, honey. We’ve come halfway around the world to see you.”
Erica looked into Jeffrey Rice’s tanned, immaculately barbered face. “What do you mean, Mr. Rice?”
“Exactly what I said. My wife and I have come from Houston to see you. We flew all night. Luckily I’ve my own plane. Least you can do is have a drink with us.”
Suddenly the name registered. Jeffrey Rice had the Houston statue of Seti I. It had been late at night when she’d spoken to Dr. Lowery, but now she remembered.
“You’ve come from Houston?”
“That’s right. Flew over. Landed a few hours ago. Now, come over and meet my wife, Priscilla.”
Erica allowed herself to be pulled back through the lobby to be introduced to Priscilla Rice, a Southern belle with a deep déecolletage and a very large diamond ring that effectively competed for sparkle with the enormous chandelier. Her Southern accent was even more pronounced than her husband’s.
Jeffrey Rice herded his wife and Erica into the Taverne Lounge. His officious manner and loud voice got rapid service, especially since he freely passed out Egyptian one-pound notes as tips. Within the dim light of the cocktail lounge Erica felt a little less conspicuous. They sat in a corner booth, where Erica’s torn and soiled clothes could not be seen.
Jeffrey Rice ordered straight bourbon for both himself and his wife and a vodka and tonic for Erica, who found herself relaxing, even laughing at the Texan’s tall stories about their experiences at customs. Erica allowed herself a second vodka and tonic.
“Well, to business,” said Jeffrey Rice, lowering his voice. “I certainly don’t want to spoil this party, but we have come a long way. Rumor has it that you’ve seen a statue of Pharaoh Seti I.”
Erica noticed that Rice’s demeanor changed dramatically. She guessed that he was a shrewd businessman beneath the playful-Texan guise.
“Dr. Lowery said that you wanted some photos of my statue, particularly of the hieroglyphics in the base. I have those photos right here.” Jeffrey Rice drew an envelope from his jacket pocket and held it straight up in the air. “Now, I’m happy to give these to you, provided you tell me where you saw the statue you told Dr. Lowery about. You see, I was planning on giving my statue to my city of Houston, but it’s not going to be so special if there’s a whole bunch of them floating around. In other words, I want to buy that statue you saw. I want to buy it b
ad. In fact, I’m willing to give ten thousand dollars to anyone who can just tell me where it is so that I can buy it. Yourself included.”
Putting her drink down, Erica stared at Jeffrey Rice. Having seen Cairo’s unmitigated poverty, she knew that ten thousand dollars here would have the same effect as a billion dollars in New York. It would create unbelievable pressure in the Cairo underworld. Since Abdul Hamdi’s death was doubtless related to the statue, the ten thousand dollars offered just for information could cause numerous additional deaths. It was a frightening thought.
Erica rapidly described her experience with Abdul Hamdi and the statue of Seti I. Rice listened intently, writing down Abdul Hamdi’s name. “Do you know if anyone else has seen the statue?” he asked, tilting back his stetson.
“Not that I know of,” said Erica.
“Is there anyone else that knows Abdul Hamdi had the statue?”
“Yes,” said Erica. “A Monsieur Yvon de Margeau. He’s staying at the Meridien Hotel. He indicated that Hamdi had corresponded with potential buyers around the world, so there are probably a lot of people that knew Hamdi had the statue.”
“Looks like this is going to be more fun than we expected,” said Rice, leaning across the table and patting his wife’s slim wrist. Turning back to Erica, he handed her the envelope of photos. “Do you have any idea where the statue could be?”
Erica shook her head. “No idea whatsoever,” she said, taking the envelope. Despite the poor light, she could not wait to see the pictures, so she pulled them out and looked closely at the first one.
“That’s some statue, isn’t it?” said Rice, as if he were showing Erica pictures of his firstborn child. “It makes all that Tut stuff look like a child’s toys.”
Jeffrey Rice was right. Looking at the photos, Erica admitted the statue was stunning. But she also noticed something else. As far as she could recall, the statue was identical with the one she’d seen. Then she hesitated. Looking at Rice’s statue, she saw that the right hand was holding the jewel-encrusted mace. She remembered that Abdul’s statue held the mace in its left hand. The statues were not the same, they were mirror images! Erica shuffled through the rest of the photographs. There were pictures of the statue from every angle, very good photos, obviously professional. Finally, toward the bottom of the stack, were the close-ups. Erica felt her pulse quicken when she saw the hieroglyphics. It was too dark to see the symbols clearly, but by tilting the photo she was able to see the two pharaonic cartouches. There were the names, Seti I and Tutankhamen. Amazing.
“Miss Baron,” said Jeffrey Rice, “it would be our pleasure to have you join us for dinner.” Priscilla Rice smiled warmly as her husband extended the invitation.
“Thank you,” said Erica, replacing the photos in the envelope. “Unfortunately, I already have plans. Perhaps some other evening, if you are staying in Egypt.”
“Of course,” said Jeffrey Rice. “Or you and your guests could join us tonight.”
Erica thought for a moment, then declined. Jeffrey Rice and Yvon de Margeau would mix like oil and water. Erica was about to excuse herself when she thought of something else. “Mr. Rice, how did you buy your Seti I statue?” Her voice was hesitant, since she didn’t know the propriety of the question.
“With money, my dear!” Jeffrey Rice laughed, slapping the table with an open hand. He obviously thought his joke was hilarious. Erica smiled weakly and waited, hoping there would be more.
“I heard about it from an art-dealer friend in New York. He called me up and said that there was an amazing piece of Egyptian sculpture that was going to be auctioned behind closed doors.”
“Closed doors?”
“Yeah, no publicity. Kinda hush-hush. Happens all the time.”
“Was it here in Egypt?” asked Erica.
“Nope, Zurich.”
“Switzerland,” said Erica incredulously. “Why Switzerland?”
Jeffrey Rice shrugged. “At that kind of auction you don’t ask questions. There’s a certain etiquette.”
“Do you know how it got to Zurich?” asked Erica.
“No,” said Jeffrey Rice. “As I said, you don’t ask questions. It was arranged by one of the big banks there, and they tend to be very closemouthed. All they want is the money.” Smiling, he got up and offered to escort Erica back to the elevator. He obviously had no intention of saying more.
Erica entered her room with her head reeling. Jeffrey Rice’s statements were as much to blame as the two drinks. While he had waited with her for the elevator, he had casually mentioned that the statue was not the first Egyptian antiquity he’d purchased in Zurich. He’d gotten several gold statues and a wonderful pectoral necklace, all possibly dating from the time of Seti I.
Putting the envelope with the photos down on the bureau, Erica thought about her earlier conception of the black market: somebody would find a small artifact in the sand and would sell it to someone who wanted it. Now she was forced to admit that the final transacting took place in the paneled conference rooms of international banks. It was incredible.
Erica removed her blouse, looked at the bloodstain, and impulsively threw it away. Her pants followed the blouse to the same wastebasket. Removing her bra, she noticed the blood had even soaked through to the back strap. But she could not cavalierly discard her bra. Bras were difficult for Erica to buy, and there were only a few brands that were comfortable. Before doing something rash, she opened the top drawer of the bureau to count how many she’d brought along. But instead of counting, she found herself just looking at her underclothes. Lingerie was an extravagance that Erica had allowed herself even during her financially lean years as a fulltime student. She enjoyed the reassuring feminine feel of expensive underwear. Consequently she was careful with them, and when she had unpacked, she had taken the time to lay things out neatly. But now the drawer looked different. Someone had been in her belongings!
Erica stood up and looked around the room. The bed was made, so obviously housekeeping had been in, but would they go into her clothes? It was possible. Quickly she checked the middle drawer, pulling out her Levi’s. In the side pocket were her diamond earrings, the last gift she’d received from her father. In the back pocket was her return airline ticket and the bulk of her traveler’s checks. After finding everything in its place, she heaved a sigh of relief and returned the jeans.
Looking back into the top drawer, she wondered if she could have disturbed her own belongings that morning. Walking into the bathroom, she picked up her plastic makeup bag and examined its contents. Obviously she did not organize her makeup, yet she used the various articles in an orderly fashion, dropping each into the bag after using it. Her moisturizer should have been close to the bottom; instead it was on the top. Also on the top were her birth-control pills, which she always took in the evening. Erica looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes reflected a feeling of violation, similar to that generated by the boy who had felt her up the day before. Someone had had his hands in her things. Erica wondered if she should report the incident to the hotel management. But what would she say, since nothing was taken?
Returning to the foyer, Erica nervously locked her door with the dead bolt. Then she walked over and looked out through the sliding glass door, where the fiery Egyptian sun was reaching for the western horizon. The sphinx looked like a hungry lion ready to pounce. The pyramids thrust their massive shapes against a bloodred sky. Erica wished she felt happier to be within their shadow.
CAIRO 10:00 P.M.
Dinner with Yvon turned out to be a soothingly romantic interlude. Erica surprised herself with her resilience; despite the harrowing day and despite the guilty feeling she had had since her call to Richard, she was able to enjoy the evening. Yvon had picked her up at her hotel while the spot whe
re the sun had set still glowed like a dying ember. They had driven south along the Nile out of the dusty heat of Cairo toward the town of Maadi. As the stars had emerged in the darkening sky, Erica’s tension had evaporated into the cool evening air.
The restaurant was called the Sea Horse, and it was situated directly on the Nile’s eastern bank. Taking advantage of the perfect Egyptian nighttime climate, the dining room was open on all four sides. Across the river and above a line of palms were the illuminated pyramids of Giza.
They dined on fresh fish and giant prawns from the Red Sea, grilled on an open fire and washed down with a chilled white wine called Gianaclis. Yvon thought it was terrible and cut it with mineral water, but Erica liked its slightly sweet, fruity taste.
She watched him drink, admiring his closely fitted dark blue silk shirt. Reminding her of her silk tops, which she prized and wore on special occasions, it should have seemed feminine, but it didn’t. In fact the silvery sheen seemed to emphasize his masculinity.
Erica herself had taken a long time to get ready, and the effort had paid off. Her freshly washed hair was loosely pulled back on the sides and held with tortoise-shell combs. She had chosen to wear a one-piece chocolate-brown jersey with a scooped neck, cap sleeves, and elastic waist. Beneath she had on hose for the first time since she had gotten off the plane. She knew that she looked as good as she could, and the whole effect pleased her as the soft Nile breeze caressed the nape of her neck.
Their conversation started lightly but soon switched to the murders. Yvon had been frustrated in his attempts to discover who had killed Abdul Hamdi. He told Erica that the only thing he’d learned was that the murderers were not from Cairo. Then Erica described her harrowing episode in the serapeum and the subsequent experience with the police.
“I wish you had allowed me to accompany you today,” said Yvon, shaking his head in wonderment when Erica had finished her story. He reached across the table and lightly pressed her hand.
