by Robin Cook
Day 3
CAIRO 8:00 A.M.
When Erica awoke the next morning, she thought she had again left the shower running, but she soon remembered Richard’s unexpected arrival and realized that he had turned on the water. Pushing a stray wisp of hair off her forehead, Erica let her head flop over on the pillow so she could see out the open balcony door. The noise of the steady traffic below blended with the sound of the shower and was as soothing as a distant waterfall. Her eyes restfully closed again while she recalled her resolves the night before. Then the sound of the shower stopped abruptly. Erica did not move. Presently Richard came padding into the room, vigorously drying his sandy hair. Carefully turning, yet pretending to be asleep, Erica looked out of half-open eyes and was surprised to see him stark naked. She watched as he finished with the towel, advanced to the open balcony door, and began studying the great pyramids and the guardian sphinx in the distance. He did have a handsome body. She looked at the graceful curve of the small of his back; she felt the suggestion of power in his well-defined legs. Erica closed her eyes, afraid that familiarity and the sexiness of Richard’s body would prove too much for her.
The next thing Erica knew she was being gently shaken awake. Opening her eyes, she looked directly into the faraway blue of Richard’s. He was smiling impishly, dressed in jeans and a fitted navy-blue knit shirt. His hair was combed as much as the natural curls would allow.
“Let’s go, sleeping beauty,” said Richard, kissing her forehead. “Breakfast will be here in five minutes.”
While she was taking a shower, Erica debated how she could be firm without sounding insensitive. She hoped Yvon would not call, and thinking of him reminded her of the Seti I statue. It was one thing to declare a crusade in the middle of the night; it was quite another actually to begin. She knew she had to have a plan of some kind if she hoped to find the sculpture. Lathering up with the harsh-smelling Egyptian soap, Erica considered for the first time the continued danger of having witnessed Abdul’s murder. Wondering why she had not considered this aspect of her position before, she rinsed off quickly and stepped out of the shower. “Of course,” she said out loud. “Any danger would depend on the killers knowing that I had been a witness. And they did not see me.”
Erica ran a comb through her damp hair to remove the tangles, and looked in the mirror. The pimple on her chin had involuted to a red blemish, and already the Egyptian sun had given her complexion an attractive glow.
Putting on her makeup, Erica tried to recall her conversation with Abdul Hamdi. He’d said the statue was resting before resuming its journey, presumably out of Egypt. Erica hoped the murder of Abdul Hamdi meant it had not left the country. Her supposition was supported by the fact that Yvon, Jeffrey Rice, or the Greek whom Yvon had talked about would have heard if the statue had resurfaced in some neutral country like Switzerland. All in all, she felt reasonably certain the statue was not only still in Egypt but also still in Cairo.
Erica inspected her makeup. It would do. She’d used just a small amount of mascara. There was something romantic about the fact that Egyptian women four thousand years ago had darkened their lashes in a similar fashion.
Richard knocked on the door. “Breakfast is being served on the veranda,” he said, assuming an English accent. He sounded too happy, thought Erica. It was going to be harder to talk with him.
Erica called through the door that she’d be out in a few minutes and then began to dress. She missed her drawstring cotton pants. She knew her jeans would be much warmer in the hot climate. Struggling with the tight legs, she thought about the Greek. She had no idea what he wanted from her, but maybe he could be a source of information. Perhaps she could exchange whatever he wanted for some inside information about how the black market worked. It was a long shot, but at least a place to begin.
Tucking in her blouse, Erica wondered if the Greek—or anyone else, for that matter—would understand the significance of the hieroglyphics she’d tried to translate the evening before. Overshadowing the missing statue was the mystery of Seti I himself. Three thousand years had passed since this ancient Egyptian had lived and breathed. Aside from conducting a very successful military campaign into the Middle East and Libya during the first decade of his reign, all Erica could remember about the mighty pharaoh was that he built an extensive temple complex at Abydos, added to the Temple of Karnak, and built the most spectacular cave tomb in the Valley of the Kings.
Recognizing that more significant information was available, Erica decided to return to the Egyptian Museum and use her professional letters of introduction. It would give her something to do while waiting for the Greek to contact her. The other person who might have information for her was the son Abdul Hamdi had mentioned, who had an antique business in Luxor. As Erica opened the bathroom door, she made up her mind. As soon as possible she was going to head up the Nile to Luxor, to Abdul Hamdi’s son. She was convinced it was the best idea she’d had.
Richard had taken it upon himself to order a large breakfast. Like the previous morning, it had been served on the balcony. Beneath silver warmers were eggs, bacon, and fresh Egyptian bread. Slices of papaya nestled in ice chips. The coffee was waiting to be poured. Richard hovered over the table like a nervous waiter adjusting the position of the flatware and napkins.
“Ah, your Highness,” said Richard, still in an English accent. “Your table is ready,” Holding back one of the chairs, he beckoned for Erica to sit. “After you,” he said, holding up each of the platters in turn.
Erica was genuinely touched. Richard had none of Yvon’s sophistication, but his behavior was appealing. As tough as he liked to act under most circumstances, Erica knew he was rather vulnerable. And she knew what she was going to tell him could hurt him. She started: “I don’t know how much you remember from our conversation last night.”
“Everything,” said Richard, holding up his fork. “In fact, before you go any further, I’d like to make a suggestion. I think we should march right over to the American embassy and tell them exactly what has happened to you.”
“Richard,” said Erica, knowing that she was being side-tracked, “the American embassy wouldn’t be able to do anything. Be realistic. Nothing really has happened to me, just around me. No, I’m not going to the American embassy.”
“All right,” said Richard. “If that’s the way you feel, then fine. Now, about the other things you said. About us.” Richard paused and fingered his coffee cup. “I admit there’s some truth in what you say about my attitude concerning your work. Well, I’d like to ask you to do something for me.” He raised his eyes to meet Erica’s. “Let’s just have a day together here, in Egypt, on your turf, so to speak. Give me a chance to see what it’s all about.”
“But, Richard . . .” began Erica. She wanted to talk about Yvon and her feelings.
“Please, Erica. You’ve got to admit we haven’t discussed this before. Give me a little time. We’ll talk tonight, I promise. After all, I did come all the way here. That should count for something.”
“It counts for something,” said Erica tiredly. Such emotional moments were draining for her. “But even that kind of a decision was something we should have made together. I appreciate your effort, but I still don’t think you understand why I came here. We seem to view the future of our relationship very differently.”
“That’s what we will discuss,” said Richard, “but not now. Tonight. All I’m asking is to spend a pleasant day together so I can see something of Egypt and get a feeling for Egyptology. I think I deserve that much consideration.”
“All right,” said Erica reluctantly. “But we will talk tonight.”
“Phew,” said Richard. “With that decided, let’s discuss our plans. I’d really like to see those babies.” Richard pointed with a piece of toast towa
rd the sphinx and the pyramids of Giza.
“Sorry,” said Erica. “The day is already booked. We are going to the Egyptian Museum this morning to see what is known about Seti I, and this afternoon we are going to return to the scene of the first murder, Antica Abdul. The pyramids will have to wait.”
Erica tried to speed up their breakfast and leave the room before the inevitable phone call. But she didn’t make it. Richard was busy putting film into his Nikon as she picked up the receiver. “Hello,” she said quietly. As she’d feared, it was Yvon. She knew she should not feel guilty, but she did just the same. She had wanted to tell Richard about the Frenchman but he had cut her off.
Yvon was cheerful and full of warm words about the previous evening. Erica acquiesced at appropriate junctures, but she knew she sounded stilted.
“Erica, are you all right?” Yvon finally asked.
“Yes, yes, I’m just fine.” Erica tried to think of a way to end the conversation.
“You would tell me if something was wrong?” he asked, sounding alarmed.
“Of course,” said Erica quickly.
There was a pause. Yvon knew something was wrong.
“We both agreed last night,” said Yvon, “that we should have spent yesterday together. So how about today? Let me take you to some of the sights.”
“No thank you,” said Erica. “I have a surprise guest who arrived last night from the States.”
“No matter,” said Yvon. “Your guest is welcome.”
“The guest happens to be . . .” Erica hesitated. “Boyfriend” seemed so immature.
“A lover?” asked Yvon hesitantly.
“A boyfriend,” said Erica. She couldn’t think of anything more sophisticated.
Yvon slammed the phone down. “Women,” he said with anger, pressing his lips together.
Raoul looked up from his week-old Paris Match, trying not to smile. “The American girl is giving you some trouble.”
“Shut up,” said Yvon with uncharacteristic irritation. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke up at the ceiling in turbulent blue billows. He thought it was entirely possible that Erica’s guest had arrived unexpectedly. Yet there was a lingering doubt that she had purposely not told him, to lead him on.
He stubbed out his cigarette and walked over to the balcony. He was not accustomed to being upset about women. If they proved troublesome, he left. It was as simple as that. The world was full of women. He stared down at a dozen feluccas heading south before the wind. The placid view made him feel better.
“Raoul, I want Erica Baron tailed again,” he called.
“Fine,” said Raoul. “I have Khalifa on hold at the Scheherazade Hotel.”
“Try to tell him to be conservative,” said Yvon. “I don’t want any more unnecessary bloodshed.”
“Khalifa insists the man he shot had been stalking Erica.”
“The man was working for the Department of Antiquities. It’s inconceivable that he was stalking Erica.”
“Well, I assure you Khalifa is first-class. I know,” said Raoul.
“He’d better be,” said Yvon. “Stephanos expects to meet with the girl today. Warn Khalifa. There might be trouble.”
“Dr. Sarwat Fakhry can see you now,” said a robust secretary with a bulging bosom. She was about twenty and brimming with health and enthusiasm, a relief from the otherwise oppressive atmosphere of the Egyptian Museum.
The curator’s office was like a dim cave with shuttered windows. A rattling air conditioner kept the room cool. It was paneled in dark wood, like a Victorian study. One wall was dressed with a fake fireplace, certainly out of place in Cairo, the others completely covered with book-shelves. In the middle of the room was a large desk stacked with books, journals, and papers. Behind the desk sat Dr. Fakhry, who looked up over the tops of his glasses as Erica and Richard entered. He was a small nervous man, about sixty, with pointed features and wiry gray hair.
“Welcome, Dr. Baron,” he said without getting up. Erica’s letters of introduction trembled slightly in his hand. “I’m always happy to welcome someone from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. We are indebted to Reisner for his excellent work.” Dr. Fakhry was looking directly at Richard.
“I’m not Dr. Baron,” said Richard, smiling.
Erica took another step forward. “I’m Dr. Baron, and thank you for your hospitality.”
Dr. Fakhry’s look of confusion gave way to embarrassed understanding. “Excuse me,” he said simply. “From your letter of introduction I see that you are planning to do some on-site translations of New Kingdom monuments. I am pleased. There is much to be done. If I can be of any assistance, I am at your service.”
“Thank you,” said Erica. “Actually I did want to ask a favor. I am interested in some background information of Seti I. Would it be possible for me to review the museum’s material?”
“Certainly,” said Dr. Fakhry. His voice changed slightly. It was more questioning, as if Erica’s request surprised him. “Unfortunately, we don’t know very much about Seti I, as you are undoubtedly aware. In addition to the translations we have of the inscriptions on his monuments, we do have some of Seti I’s correspondence from his early campaigns in Palestine. But that’s about all. I’m certain that you can add to our knowledge with your onsite translations. Those we have are quite old, and much has been learned since they were made.”
“What about his mummy?” asked Erica.
Dr. Fakhry handed Erica’s letters back to her. The tremor increased as he extended his arm. “Yes, we do have his mummy. It was part of the Deir el-Bahri cache illicitly found and plundered by the Rasul family. It is on display upstairs.” He glanced at Richard, who smiled again.
“Was the mummy ever closely examined?” asked Erica.
“Indeed,” said Dr. Fakhry. “It was autopsied.”
“Autopsied?” asked Richard with disbelief. “How do you autopsy a mummy?”
Erica grasped Richard’s arm above the elbow. He got the message and remained silent. Dr. Fakhry continued as if he had not heard the query. “And it was recently X-rayed by an American team. I will gladly have all the material made available to you in our library.” Dr. Fakhry got to his feet and opened the office door. He walked partially bent over, giving the impression of a hunchback with his hands curled at his sides.
“One other request,” said Erica. “Do you have much material on the opening of Tutankhamen’s tomb?”
Richard passed Erica and checked out the secretary with a sly sideways glance. She was busy leaning over her typewriter.
“Ah, there we can help you,” said Dr. Fakhry as they emerged in the marbled hall. “As you know, we are planning to use some of the funds generated by the world tour of the ‘Treasures of Tutankhamen’ to build a special museum to house his artifacts. We now have a full set of Carter’s notes from what he called his ‘Journal of Entry’ on microfilm, as well as a significant collection of correspondence among Carter, Carnarvon, and others associated with the discovery of the tomb.”
Dr. Fakhry deposited Erica and Richard in the hands of a silent young man whom he introduced as Talat. Talat listened carefully to the doctor’s complicated instructions, then bowed and disappeared through a side door.
“He will bring the material we have on Seti I,” said Dr. Fakhry. “Thank you for coming in, and if I can be of further assistance, please let me know.” He shook hands with Erica, keying off an involuntary facial spasm that pulled his mouth into a sneer. He left, his hands drawn up and his fingers rhythmically clutching at nothing.
“God, what a place,” said Richard when the curator had left. “Charming fellow.”
“Dr. Fakhry ha
ppens to have done some fine work. His specialty is ancient Egyptian religion, funerary practices, and mummification methods.”
“Mummification methods! I could have guessed. I know a big church in Paris who’d hire him in a minute.”
“Try to be serious, Richard,” said Erica, smiling despite herself.
They took seats at one of the long battered oak tables that dotted the large room. Everything was covered with a fine layer of Cairo dust. Tiny footprints crossed the floor beneath Erica’s chair. Richard told her it had been a rat.
Talat brought back two large red paper envelopes, each tied with a string. He gave them to Richard, who smiled scornfully and gave them to Erica. The first was marked “Seti I, A.” Erica opened it and spread the contents on the table. They were reprints of articles about the pharaoh. A number of them were in French, a couple in German, but most were in English.
“Pssst.” Talat touched Richard’s arm.
Richard turned, surprised at the noise.
“You want scarabs from the ancient mummies. Very cheap.” Talat extended a closed hand, palm up. While he glanced over his shoulder like a pornography peddler in the fifties, his fingers slowly opened to reveal two slightly damp scarabs.
“Is this guy serious?” asked Richard. “He wants to sell some scarabs.”
“Undoubtedly they are fake,” said Erica, not pausing from her work to look up.
