Sphinx

by Robin Cook

  “So do I,” admitted Erica, looking down at their barely touching fingers.

  “I have a confession,” said Yvon softly. “When I first met you, I was only interested in the Seti statue. But now I find you irresistibly charming.” His teeth gleamed in the candlelight.

  “I don’t know you well enough to know when you are teasing,” said Erica, acknowledging an adolescent thrill.

  “I’m not teasing, Erica. You are very different from any woman I’ve ever met.”

  Erica looked out across the darkened Nile. Faint movement on the near bank caught her eye, and she could just make out several fishermen working on a sailboat. They were apparently naked and their skin glistened like polished onyx in the darkness. With her eyes momentarily captured by the scene, Erica thought about Yvon’s comment. It sounded like such a cliché, and in that sense a little demeaning. Yet it was possible there was some truth in it, because Yvon was different from any man she’d ever met.

  “The fact that you are trained as an Egyptologist,” continued Yvon, “I find fascinating, because—and I mean this as a compliment—you have an East European sensuality that I love. Besides, I think you share some of Egypt’s mysterious vibrancy.”

  “I think I’m very American,” said Erica.

  “Ah, but Americans have ethnic origins, and I think yours are apparent. I find it very attractive. To tell you the truth, I am tired of the cold, blond Nordic look.”

  As strange as it seemed to her, Erica found herself at a loss for words. The last thing she expected or wanted was an infatuation making her emotionally vulnerable.

  Yvon seemed to sense her discomfort and changed the subject while their dinner dishes were cleared. “Erica, could you possibly identify the killer in the serapeum today? Did you get to see his face?”

  “No,” said Erica, “it was as if the sky had fallen in. I didn’t see anyone.”

  “God, what an awful experience. I can’t think of anything worse. And falling on top of you! Unbelievable. But you know that assassinations of government officials are a daily occurrence in the Middle East. Well, at least you weren’t hurt. I know it will be difficult but I wouldn’t give it any more thought. It was just such a crazy coincidence. And coming on top of Hamdi’s death makes it that much worse. Two murders in two days. I don’t know if I could take it.”

  “I know it was probably a coincidence,” said Erica, “but there is one thing that concerns me. The poor man who was shot didn’t just work for the government; he worked for the Department of Antiquities. So both victims dealt with ancient artifacts, but from supposedly opposite sides of the issue. Still, what do I know?” Erica smiled weakly.

  The waiter brought out Arabic coffee and served the dessert. Yvon had ordered a coarse semolina cake coated in sugar and sprinkled with walnuts and raisins.

  “One of the amazing aspects of your adventure,” said Yvon, “was that you were not detained by the police.”

  “That’s not totally correct. I was detained for a number of hours, and I’m not permitted to leave the country.” Erica tasted the dessert but decided it wasn’t worth the calories.

  “That’s nothing. You’re lucky you’re not in jail. I’d be willing to wager that your guide still is.”

  “I think I have Ahmed Khazzan to thank for my release,” said Erica.

  “You know Ahmed Khazzan?” asked Yvon. He stopped eating.

  “I don’t know how to categorize our relationship,” said Erica. “After you left me last night, Ahmed Khazzan was waiting for me in my room.”

  “This is true?” Yvon’s fork clattered as it hit the table.

  “If you think you’re surprised, try to imagine how I felt. I thought I was being arrested for not reporting Hamdi’s murder. He took me to his office and questioned me for an hour.”

  “That’s incredible,” said Yvon, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Ahmed Khazzan already knew about Hamdi’s murder?”

  “I don’t know if he did or not,” said Erica. “Initially I thought he did. Why else would he have taken me to his office? But he never said anything about it, and I was afraid to bring it up.”

  “Then what did he want?”

  “Mostly he wanted to know about you.”

  “Me!” Yvon assumed a playfully innocent expression and poked his chest with his index finger. “Erica, you have had a most amazing two days. I’ve never even met Ahmed Khazzan, and I’ve been coming here to Egypt for a number of years. What did he ask you about me?”

  “He wanted to know what you are doing in Egypt.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “That I didn’t know.”

  “You said nothing about the Seti statue?”

  “No. I was afraid if I mentioned the statue, I’d be drawn into talking about Hamdi’s murder.”

  “Did he say anything about the Seti statue?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Erica, you are fantastic.” Suddenly he leaned over the table, cradled Erica’s face in his hands, and kissed her on both cheeks.

  The exuberance of the gesture dumbfounded her, and she felt herself blushing, something she hadn’t done in years. Self-consciously she took a sip of the sweet coffee. “I don’t think Ahmed Khazzan believed everything I said.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Yvon. He went back to his dessert.

  “When I returned to my hotel room this afternoon, I noticed some very subtle changes in my belongings. I think my room was searched. After Ahmed Khazzan had been in there the night before, the only thing I can imagine is that the Egyptian authorities returned. My valuables weren’t touched. I wasn’t robbed. But I have no idea what they could have been looking for.”

  Yvon chewed thoughtfully, looking directly at Erica. “Does your door have an extra night latch?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Use it,” said Yvon. He took another bite of dessert and swallowed thoughtfully before he spoke again. “Erica, when you visited with Abdul Hamdi, did he give you any letters or papers?”

  “No,” said Erica. “He gave me a fake scarab, which looks real, and he did convince me to use his 1929 Baedeker instead of my own Nagel’s.”

  “Where are these things?” asked Yvon.

  “Right here,” said Erica. She reached into her tote bag and extracted the Baedeker without the cover. It had finally detached, and Erica had left it in her room. The scarab was in her coin purse.

  Yvon picked up the scarab and held it close to the candle. “Are you sure this is a fake?”

  “Looks good, doesn’t it?” said Erica. “I thought it was real too, but Hamdi insisted. Said his son made it.”

  Yvon carefully put the scarab down and picked up the guidebook. “These Baedekers are fantastic,” he said. He flipped through the volume carefully, viewing each page. “They are the best guides ever written for the Egyptian sites, particularly Luxor.” Yvon pushed the coverless book back toward Erica. “Do you mind if I have this authenticated?” he asked, holding the scarab between his thumb and forefinger.

  “You mean carbon-dated?” asked Erica.

  “Yes,” said Yvon. “This looks very good to me, and it has the cartouche of Seti I. I think it’s bone.”

  “You’re right about the material. Hamdi said his son carved them of bone from mummies in the ancient public catacombs. So it will date properly. He also said that they make the cut surfaces look old by feeding them to turkeys.”

  Yvon laughed. “The antique industry in Egypt is extremely resourceful. Just the same, I’d like to have this scarab examined.”

  “It’s fine with me, but I would like to have
it back.” Erica took a last sip of coffee but ended up with bitter grounds in her mouth. “Yvon, why is Ahmed Khazzan so interested in your affairs?”

  “I think I worry him,” said Yvon. “But why he spoke to you rather than to me, I cannot answer. He thinks of me as a dangerous collector of antiquities. He knows I’ve made some important acquisitions while trying to unravel the black-market routing. The fact that I am interested in doing something about the black market has no meaning. Ahmed Khazzan is part of the bureaucracy here. Rather than accept my help, they probably fear for their jobs. Besides, there is the lingering hatred of the British and the French. And I am French and a little English.”

  “You are part English?” asked Erica with disbelief.

  “I don’t admit it often,” said Yvon with his strong French accent. “European genealogy is more complicated than most people think. My family residence is the Château Valois near Rambouillet, which is between Paris and Chartres. My father is the Marquis de Margeau, but my mother was from the English Harcourt family.”

  “Sounds a long way from Toledo, Ohio,” said Erica quietly.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I said, it sounds intriguing,” said Erica, smiling as he settled the bill.

  Leaving the restaurant Yvon slipped his hand around Erica’s waist. It felt good. The evening air had cooled considerably and the almost full moon shone between the branches of the eucalyptus trees lining the road. A chorus of insects resounded in the darkness, reminding Erica of August nights as a child in Ohio. It was a comfortable memory.

  “What kind of important Egyptian antiquities have you purchased?” asked Erica as they drew near to Yvon’s Fiat.

  “Some wonderful pieces that I’d love to show you sometime,” said Yvon. “I’m particularly fond of several small golden statues. One of Nekhbet and another of Isis.”

  “Have you purchased any Seti I pieces?” asked Erica. Yvon opened the passenger door to the car. “Possibly a necklace. Most of my pieces are from the New Kingdom, and a number could be from the time of Seti I.”

  Erica entered the car and Yvon told her to use her seat belt. “I’ve done a little auto racing,” said Yvon, “and I always use them.”

  “I could have guessed,” said Erica, remembering the ride the day before.

  Yvon laughed. “Everyone says I drive a little fast. I enjoy it.” He reached for his driving gloves on the dash. “I suppose you know about as much about Seti I as I. It is curious. It is known very accurately when his fabulous rock-cut tomb was plundered in ancient times. The faithful priests in the twentieth dynasty were able to save his mummy, and they documented their efforts very well.”

  “I saw the mummy of Seti I this morning,” said Erica.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” asked Yvon, starting the engine. “The fragile body of Seti I comes down to us essentially intact. Seti I was one of the pharaonic mummies in that fabulous cache illicitly found by the clever Rasul family at the end of the nineteenth century.” Yvon turned and leaned over the front seat to back up the car. “The Rasuls slowly exploited that find over a ten-year period before they were caught. An amazing story.” He pulled away from the restaurant and accelerated toward Cairo. “A few people still think there are some Seti I belongings to be discovered. When you visit his enormous tomb in Luxor, you’ll see places where people have obtained permits to cut tunnels during this century, trying to find a secret room. The stimulus for this has been occasional Seti pieces surfacing on the black market. But it’s not surprising to see some Seti artifacts. He probably was buried with a staggering array of possessions. And even if his tomb was stripped, they often recycled funerary objects in ancient Egypt. The stuff was probably buried and robbed over and over again down through the years. Consequently a lot of it is most likely still under ground. Very few people have any idea how many peasants currently dig for antiquities in Luxor. Every night they shift the desert sand, and occasionally they find something spectacular.”

  “Like the Seti I statue?” said Erica, looking again at Yvon’s profile. He smiled and she could see the whiteness of his teeth against his tanned skin.

  “Exactly,” he said. “But can you imagine what Seti’s unplundered tomb must have looked like? My God, it must have been fantastic. The treasures of Tutankhamen dazzle us today, but they were insignificant compared to Seti I’s.”

  Erica knew Yvon was right, especially after seeing the statue at Abdul Hamdi’s. Seti I had been a major pharaoh who ruled an empire, Tutankhamen an insignificant boy king who probably never held any real power.

  “Merde!” shouted Yvon as they hit one of the ubiquitous potholes. The car shimmied from the impact. As they entered Cairo, the road deteriorated and they had to slow down. The city began as pieces of cardboard propped up with sticks. They were the housing of the newly arrived immigrants. The cardboard gave way to sheets of metal and cloth and occasional oil barrels. Finally the shantytown was superseded by crumbly mud brick and eventually the city proper, but the feeling of poverty hung in the air like a miasma.

  “Would you care to come to my suite for an after-dinner brandy?” asked Yvon.

  Erica glanced over at him, trying to sort out her feelings. There was a good chance that Yvon’s offer was not as innocent as it sounded. But she was definitely attracted to him, and after the appalling day, the idea of being close to someone was very appealing. Still, physical attraction was not always a reliable guide to behavior, and Yvon was almost too good to be true. Looking at him, she admitted that he was beyond her experience. It was too much too soon.

  “Thank you, Yvon,” said Erica warmly, “but I think not. Perhaps you’d like to have another drink at the Hilton.”

  “But of course.” For a moment Erica felt a little disappointed Yvon wasn’t more persistent. Perhaps she was a victim of her own fantasies.

  Reaching the hotel, they decided a walk would be better than the smoke-filled Taverne. Hand in hand they crossed the busy Korneish-el-Nil Boulevard to the Nile and wandered out onto the El Tahrir bridge. Yvon pointed out the Meridien Hotel on the tip of Roda island. A lone felucca silently slipped through the dappled path of moonlight on the water.

  Yvon put his arm around Erica as they strolled, and Erica allowed her own hand to cover his. Again she felt self-conscious. It had been a long time since she had been with any man besides Richard.

  “A Greek named Stephanos Markoulis arrived in Cairo today,” said Yvon, stopping by the balustrade. They gazed at the dancing lights reflected on the water’s surface. “And I believe he will call and try to see you.” Erica looked up questioningly.

  “Stephanos Markoulis deals in Egyptian antiquities in Athens. He rarely comes to Egypt. I don’t know why he is here, but I would like to find out. Ostensibly he’s come because of Abdul Hamdi’s murder. But he might be here because of the Seti statue.”

  “And he wants to see me about the murder?”

  “Yes,” said Yvon. He continued to avoid looking at Erica. “I don’t know how he is involved, but he is.”

  “Yvon, I don’t think I want to have any more to do with the Abdul Hamdi affair. Frankly, the whole business frightens me. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “I understand,” said Yvon soothingly, “but unfortunately, you are all I’ve got.”

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  Yvon turned to her. “You are the last connection to the Seti statue. Stephanos Markoulis was involved somehow with the sale of the first Seti statue to the man in Houston. I’m worried he’s involved with the present statue. You know how important it is to me to stop this rape of antiquities.”

  Erica looked over toward the gay lights of the Hilton. “The man from Houston who bought the first Seti statue also arri
ved today. He was waiting for me in the Hilton lobby this afternoon. His name is Jeffrey Rice.”

  Yvon’s mouth tightened perceptibly.

  “He told me,” continued Erica, “that he was offering ten thousand dollars to anyone who could merely tell him where this second Seti statue is so he could buy it.”

  “Christ,” said Yvon. “That’s going to turn Cairo into a circus. And to think I’ve been worried whether Ahmed Khazzan and the antiquities service were going to find out about the existence of this statue. Well, Erica, this means I’ve got to work fast. I can understand your feelings about involvement, but please do me the favor of seeing Stephanos Markoulis. I need to know more about what he’s up to, and you may be able to help. With Jeffrey offering that kind of money, I think we can be sure the statue is still available. And if I don’t move quickly, it too is going to disappear into some private collection. All I ask is that you see Stephanos Markoulis and then tell me what he says. Everything he says.”

  Erica looked at Yvon’s pleading face. She could sense his commitment and knew how important it was that the fabulous Seti I statue be preserved for the public.

  “You’re sure it will be safe?”

  “Of course,” said Yvon. “When he calls, arrange to meet in a public place, so you don’t have to worry.”

  “All right,” she said, “but you’ll owe me another dinner.”

  “D’accord,” said Yvon, kissing Erica—this time on the lips.

  Erica studied Yvon’s handsome face. A warm smile lingered at the corners of his mouth. She wondered for a moment if he wasn’t using her. Then she chided herself for her own suspiciousness. Besides, it was possible she was using him.

  Returning to her room, Erica felt better than she had during the whole trip. Yvon had aroused her in a way that she had not experienced for a long time, since even the physical aspect of her relationship with Richard had not been totally satisfying for a number of months. And Yvon was capable of making his sexual desires seem secondary to a meaningful relationship. He was willing to wait, and that made her feel good. Outside her room she inserted her key quickly and swung the door open widely. Everything appeared in its place. Remembering hundreds of movies she’d seen, she wished she had made some provision to determine if someone had entered her room. Turning on the lights, she strode into the bedroom. It was empty. She checked the bathroom, smiling at her own sense of melodrama.