by Robin Cook
Richard picked one of the scarabs from Talat’s open palm.
“One pound,” said Talat. He was getting nervous.
“Erica, take a look at this. It’s a good-looking little scarab. This guy’s got balls, carrying on business here.”
“Richard, you can buy scarabs all over the place. Maybe you should wander around the museum while I get this work done.” She looked up at him to see how he’d taken her suggestion, but he wasn’t listening. He’d taken the other scarab from Talat.
“Richard,” said Erica, “don’t get fooled by the first peddler you meet. Let me see one.” She took one of the artifacts and turned it over to read the hieroglyphics on the underside. “My God,” she said.
“Do you think it’s real?” queried Richard.
“No, it’s not real, but it’s a clever fake. Too clever. It has the cartouche of Tutankhamen. I think I know who made it. Abdul Hamdi’s son. Amazing.”
Erica bought the scarab from Talat for twenty-five piasters and then sent the boy away. “I already have one made by Hamdi’s son with Seti I’s name on it.” Erica made a mental note to get the fake scarab back from Yvon. “I wonder what other pharaohs’ names he uses.”
On Erica’s insistence they went back to the articles. Richard picked up several reprints. There was silence for a half-hour. “This is the driest stuff I’ve ever read,” said Richard finally, tossing an article onto the table. “And I thought that pathology was dull. God.”
“It has to be put into context,” said Erica condescendingly. “What you’re looking at are bits and pieces that are being assembled about a powerful person who lived three thousand years ago.”
“Well, if there was a little more action in these articles, it would be a lot easier.” Richard laughed.
“Seti I reigned soon after the pharaoh who tried to change the Egyptian religion to monotheism,” Erica said, ignoring Richard’s comment. “His name was Akhenaten. The country had been plunged into chaos. Seti changed that. He was a strong ruler who managed to restore stability at home and through most of the empire. He assumed power around age thirty and ruled for approximately fifteen years. Except for some of his battles in Palestine and Libya, very few details are known about him, which is unfortunate, because he reigned during a very interesting time in Egyptian history. I’m talking about a period a little over fifty years long, from Akhenaten through Seti I. It must have been a fascinating era, full of turmoil, upheaval, and emotion. It’s just so frustrating that we don’t know more.” Erica tapped the stacks of reprints. “It was during that time that Tutankhamen ruled. And strangely enough, there was one huge disappointment in the discovery of Tutankhamen’s magnificent tomb. Despite all the treasures that were found, there were no historical documents. Not a single papyrus was found! Not one!”
Richard shrugged.
Erica realized he was trying, but he couldn’t share her excitement. She turned back to the table. “Let’s see what’s in the other folder,” she said, and slid the contents of “Seti I, B,” onto the table.
Richard perked up. There were dozens of photographs of the mummy of Seti I, including photos of X rays, a modified autopsy report, and several more reprinted articles.
“God,” said Richard, feigning a horrified expression. He picked up a photo of the face of Seti I. “This looks as bad as my cadaver in first-year anatomy.”
“It does horrify at first, but the longer you look at it, the more serene it seems.”
“Come on, Erica, it looks like a ghoul. Serene? Give me a break.” Richard picked up the autopsy report and started reading.
Erica found a full-body X ray. It looked like a Halloween skeleton with the arms crossed on the chest. But she studied it just the same. Suddenly she realized that something was strange. The arms were crossed, like all the mummies of the pharaohs, but the hands were open, not clenched. The fingers were extended. The other pharaohs had all been buried clutching the flail and the scepter, the insignia of office. But not Seti I. Erica tried to understand why.
“This is not an autopsy,” said Richard, interrupting her thoughts. “I mean, they had no internal organs. Just a shell of a body. When a post is done, the shell is only cursorily examined, unless there is some specific indication. The autopsy is really the microscopic examination of the internal organs. Here all they did was take a little bit of muscle and skin.” He took the X-ray photo from Erica and held it at arm’s length to examine it. “Lungs are clear,” said Richard, laughing. Erica didn’t get it, so Richard explained that since the lungs had been removed in antiquity, the X ray showed the chest clear. It didn’t sound so funny when he explained, and his laughter trailed off. Erica looked over Richard’s arm at the photo. Seti I’s open hands still bothered her. Something told her they were significant.
There were two printed cards in the large glass case. To pass the time Khalifa bent down to read them. One card was old and said: “Gold Throne of Tutankhamen, circa 1355 B.C.” The other card was new and said: “Temporarily Removed as Part of World Tour of Tutankhamen’s Treasures.” From where Khalifa was standing, he had a full view of Erica and Richard through the empty display case. Normally he would never approach a quarry so closely, but he was now intrigued. He’d never been on such an assignment. The day before, he’d felt that he saved Erica from certain destruction, only to be lambasted by Yvon de Margeau. De Margeau had told him he’d nailed a measly civil servant. But Khalifa knew better. The civil servant had been stalking Erica, and there was something about this fresh American woman that intrigued Khalifa. He sensed big money. If de Margeau had been as mad as he sounded, he would have fired him. But he’d kept him on the two-hundred-dollar-a-day payroll and stashed him at the Scheherazade Hotel. And now there was a new development that complicated the scene: a boyfriend named Richard. Khalifa knew that the boyfriend did not please Yvon, although the Frenchman had told him he did not believe Richard was a threat to Erica. But Yvon did tell Khalifa to be on guard, and Khalifa wondered if he should take it upon himself to get rid of Richard.
As Erica and Richard moved to the next exhibit, Khalifa stepped behind another empty case with a “Temporarily removed . . .” card. Hiding behind his open guidebook, he tried to catch the conversation. All he got was something about the wealth of one of the great pharaohs. But that also sounded like money talk to Khalifa, and he pressed closer. He liked the feeling of excitement and danger the proximity afforded, even though it was only imaginary danger. There was no way these people were an actual threat to him. He could kill them both in two seconds. In fact, the idea turned him on.
“Most of the really exquisite pieces are on exhibit in New York,” said Erica, “but look at that pendant there.” She pointed, and Richard yawned. “All this was buried with insignificant Tutankhamen. Try to imagine what was buried with Seti I.”
“I can’t,” said Richard, shifting his weight onto his other foot.
Erica looked up, sensing his boredom. “Okay,” she said consolingly. “You’ve been pretty good. Let’s head back to the hotel for a bite of lunch and see if I’ve gotten any messages. Then we’ll walk into the bazaar.”
Khalifa watched Erica walk away, enjoying the tight curve of her jeans. His thoughts of violence merged with others more intimate and salacious.
* * *
There was a message and a number for Erica to call when they got back to the hotel. There was also a vacant room available for Richard. He hesitated and gave Erica a pleading look before going over to the registration desk to make the arrangements. Erica retired to one of the pay telephones but had no luck with the complicated machine. She told Richard that she’d make her call from her room.
The message had been simple. “I would like the pleasure of seeing you at your earliest convenience. Stephanos Markoulis.
” Erica shivered at the prospect of meeting with someone actually involved in the black market and possibly a murder. But he had sold the first Seti I statue and he could be important if she wanted to find its mate. She remembered Yvon’s admonition to choose a public place, and for the first time she was actually glad that Richard was with her.
The hotel operator was infinitely more capable than the mechanical device in the lobby. The call went through quickly. “Hello, hello.” Stephanos’ voice had a commanding quality.
“This is Erica Baron.”
“Ah, yes. Thank you for calling. I am looking forward to meeting you. We have a mutual friend, Yvon de Margeau. Charming fellow. I believe he told you that I would call and that I’d like to get together for a chat. Can we meet this afternoon, say, around two-thirty?”
“Where do you have in mind?” said Erica, mindful of Yvon’s warning. She heard a deep rumbling sound in the distance.
“It’s up to you, dear,” said Stephanos, speaking louder over the background noise.
Erica bristled at the familiarity of the word. “I don’t know,” she said, looking at her watch. It was eleven-thirty. Richard and she would probably be in the bazaar at two-thirty.
“How about right there in the Hilton?” suggested Stephanos.
“I will be in the Khan el Khalili bazaar this afternoon,” said Erica. She thought about mentioning Richard, but she decided against it. It seemed a good idea to retain some element of surprise.
“Just a minute,” said Stephanos. Erica could hear a muffled conversation. Stephanos had put his hand over the receiver. “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said in a voice that conveyed he was not sorry. “Do you know the Al Azhar mosque next to the Khan el Khalili?”
“Yes,” said Erica. She remembered Yvon pointing it out to her.
“We’ll meet there,” said Stephanos. “It’s easy to find. Two-thirty. I’m really looking forward to seeing you, dear. Yvon de Margeau had some nice things to say about you.”
Erica said good-bye and hung up. She felt distinctly uneasy and even a little afraid. But she had made up her mind to go through with it because of Yvon; she was certain he would never allow her to meet with Stephanos if there was real danger involved. Nonetheless, she wished it was over.
LUXOR 11:40 A.M.
Dressed in loose-fitting white cotton shirt and slacks, Ahmed Khazzan felt reasonably relaxed. He still was perplexed about Gamal Ibrahim’s violent death but was able to ascribe the event to the inscrutable workings of Allah, and his sense of guilt abated. As a leader, he knew he had to face such episodes.
During the previous evening he’d made his obligatory visit to the home of his parents. He loved his mother deeply but disapproved of her decision to stay at home to care for his invalid father. His mother had been one of the first women in Egypt to obtain a university degree, and Ahmed would have preferred it if she had used her education. She was a highly intelligent woman and could have been a great help to Ahmed. His father had been critically injured in the 1956 war, the same war that had taken Ahmed’s older brother. Ahmed did not know a family in Egypt that had not been touched with tragedy from the many wars, and when he thought about it, it made him tremble with anger.
After his visit to his parents, Ahmed had slept long and well in his own rambling mud-brick home in Luxor. His housekeeper had prepared a wonderful breakfast of fresh bread and coffee. And Zaki had called, reporting that two special plainclothes agents had been dispatched to Saqqara. Everything seemed quiet in Cairo. And perhaps most important, he had successfully handled a potential family crisis. A cousin, whom he had promoted to chief guard of the Necropolis of Luxor, had become restive and wanted to move to Cairo. Ahmed had tried to reason with him, but when that did not work, he had dispensed with diplomacy, and becoming angry, had ordered him to stay. The cousin’s father, Ahmed’s uncle-in-law, had tried to intervene. Ahmed had to remind the older man that his permit to run the concession stand in the Valley of the Kings could easily be revoked. That being settled, Ahmed had been able to sit down to some paperwork. So the world seemed better and more organized than the day before.
Placing the last of the memoranda he had brought to read in his briefcase, Ahmed had a sense of accomplishment. It would have taken him twice as long to go through the same material in Cairo. It was Luxor. He loved Luxor. Ancient Thebes. For Ahmed there was magic in the air that made him feel happy and at ease.
He stood up from his chair in the large living room. His home was dazzling white stucco outside, and although rustic inside, it was spotlessly clean. The building had been made by connecting a series of existing mud-brick structures. The result was a narrow house, only twenty feet wide, but very deep, with a long hall running on the left side. A series of guestrooms opened on the right. The kitchen was in the back of the house and was quite crude, without running water. Behind the kitchen was a small courtyard bounded by a stable for his prized possession, a three-year-old black Arabian stallion he called Sawda.
Ahmed had ordered his houseman to have Sawda saddled and ready by eleven-thirty. He planned to interrogate Tewfik Hamdi, Abdul Hamdi’s son, at his antique shop before lunch. Ahmed felt it was important to do this himself. Then, after the midday heat had abated, he planned to cross the Nile and ride unannounced to the Valley of the Kings to inspect the new security system he’d put into effect. There would be time to return to Cairo in the evening.
Sawda pawed the ground impatiently when Ahmed appeared. The young stallion was like a Renaissance study, with each muscle defined in flawless black marble. His face was sharply chiseled, with flaring nostrils. His eyes rivaled Ahmed’s for their black watery depth. Once en route, Ahmed sensed the sheer power and life force in the exuberant animal beneath him. It was with difficulty that he kept the horse from exploding in a burst of thunderous speed. Ahmed knew that Sawda’s unpredictable personality mirrored his own volatile passions. Because of their similarities, sharp words spoken in Arabic and forceful use of the reins were needed to control the stallion so that rider and horse could move as one in the sun-speckled shade of the palms along the banks of the Nile.
Tewfik Hamdi’s antique shop was one of many nestled within a series of dusty crooked streets behind the ancient Temple of Luxor. They were all close to the major hotels and depended on the unsuspecting tourists for their continued existence. Most of the artifacts they sold were fakes manufactured on the West Bank. Ahmed did not know the exact location of Tewfik Hamdi’s shop, so once he got in the area, he asked.
He was told the street and the number, and he found the shop without difficulty. But it was locked. It wasn’t just closed for lunch. It was boarded up for the night.
With Sawda hitched in a patch of shade, Ahmed inquired about Tewfik in the neighboring shops. The answers were consistent. Tewfik’s shop had not been open all day, and, yes, it was strange, because Tewfik Hamdi had not missed a day in years. One proprietor added that Tewfik’s absence might have something to do with his father’s recent death in Cairo.
Heading back toward Sawda, Ahmed passed directly in front of the shop. The boarded door caught his attention. Looking more closely, Ahmed found a long fresh crack in one of the boards. It appeared as if a portion had been torn off and then replaced. Ahmed inserted his fingers between the boards and pulled. There was no movement whatsoever. Looking up at the top of the crude shutter, Ahmed noticed that the boards were nailed to the doorjamb instead of being hooked from inside. He decided that Tewfik Hamdi must have left with the expectation of being gone for some time.
Ahmed stepped back from the building, stroking his mustache. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked back toward Sawda. He thought that it probably was true that Tewfik Hamdi had gone to Cairo. Ahmed wondered how he could find out where Tewfik Hamdi lived.
En route to his h
orse, Ahmed met an old family friend and stopped to chat; his thoughts, however, strayed beyond the exchanged pleasantries. There was something particularly unsettling about Tewfik nailing his door shut. As soon as he could, Ahmed excused himself, skirted the commercial block, and entered the maze of open passageways that led into the area behind the shops. The noontime sun beat down and reflected off the stuccoed walls, bringing perspiration to his forehead. He felt a rivulet of sweat trickle down the small of his back.
Directly behind the antique shops, Ahmed found himself in a warren of hastily made shelters. As he continued, chickens scattered and naked young children paused in their play to stare at him. After some difficulty and several false turns, Ahmed arrived at the rear door of Tewfik Hamdi’s antique shop. Through the slats of the door he could see a small brick courtyard.
While several three-year-old boys watched, Ahmed put his shoulder against the wooden door and forced it open far enough to enter. The courtyard was about fifteen feet long, with another wooden door at the far end. An open doorway was on the left. As Ahmed returned the wooden door to its original position, he saw a dark brown rat dash from the open doorway across the courtyard into a clay drainage pipe. The air was heavy, hot, and still.
The open doorway led into a small room where Tewfik apparently lived. Ahmed stepped over the threshold. On a simple wooden table a rotting mango and a wedge of goat cheese lay covered with flies. Everything else in the room had been opened and dumped. A cabinet in the corner had its door torn off. Papers were indiscriminately thrown about. Several holes had been dug in the mud-brick walls. Ahmed surveyed the scene with mounting anxiety, trying to comprehend what had happened.
Quickly he moved from the apartment to the door into the shop. It was unlocked and swung open with an agonized rasp. Inside, it was dark. Only small pencils of light penetrated the slats of the boarded front doorway, and Ahmed paused while his eyes adjusted from the harsh sunlight. He heard the scurrying of tiny feet. More rats.
