Sphinx

by Robin Cook

  The disarray in the shop was much greater than in the sleeping room. Huge cabinets lining the walls had been pulled down, splintered, and thrown into a large pile in the center of the room. Their contents had been smashed and scattered. It was as if a cyclone had hit the shop. Ahmed had to lift portions of the broken furniture to enter. He picked his way to the center of the shop; then he froze. He’d found Tewfik Hamdi. Tortured. Dead. Tewfik had been pulled over the wooden counter, which was stained with dried blood. Each hand had been nailed palm down to the counter with a single spike, his arms spread apart. Almost all Tewfik’s fingernails had been pulled out. Then his wrists had been cut. He had been forced to watch himself bleed to death. His bloodless face was ghostly pale, and a filthy rag had been stuffed in his mouth to silence his screams, making his cheeks bulge grotesquely.

  Ahmed shooed away the flies; he noticed the rats had been feasting on the corpse. The bestiality of the scene revolted him, and the fact that it had occurred in his beloved Luxor enraged him. With the rage came a fear that the sicknesses and sins of urban Cairo would spread like a plague. Ahmed knew he had to contain the infestation.

  He bent down and looked into the vacant eyes of Tewfik Hamdi. They mirrored the horror they had witnessed as their own life had ebbed. But why? Ahmed stood up. The stench of death was overwhelming. Carefully he picked his way back across the debris-strewn floor to the small courtyard. The sunlight fell warm on his face, and he stood there for a moment, breathing deeply. He knew he could not return to Cairo until he knew more. His thoughts turned to Yvon de Margeau. Whenever he was around, there was trouble.

  Ahmed squeezed out through the door to the alley and pulled it shut behind him. He’d decided to go directly to the main police station near the Luxor railway depot; then he’d call Cairo. Mounting Sawda, he wondered what Tewfik Hamdi had done or what he’d known to warrant such a fate.

  CAIRO 2:05 P.M.

  “Wonderful shop,” said Richard as he entered from the busy alleyway. “Good selection of merchandise. I can do all my Christmas shopping here.”

  Erica could not believe the emptiness of the room. Nothing remained of Antica Abdul except for some bits of broken pottery. It was as if the shop had never existed. Even the front window glass had been removed. There were no beads in the entranceway; no rugs or curtains, not a piece of cloth or cabinetry remained.

  “I can’t believe this,” said Erica, walking over to where the glass topped counter had been. Bending down, she picked up a potsherd. “Across here hung a heavy drape, dividing the room.” She walked back to the rear and turned to face Richard. “I was in here when the murder happened. God, it was so awful. The killer was standing right where you are, Richard.”

  Richard looked down at his feet and stepped away from the guilty spot. “Looks like the thieves stole everything,” he said. “With the poverty here, I suppose everything has a value.”

  “You’re undoubtedly right,” said Erica, taking a flashlight from her tote bag, “but the place looks more than just burglarized. These holes in the walls—they weren’t here before.” She flipped on the light and looked into the depths of some of the holes.

  “A flashlight!” said Richard. “You’re really prepared.”

  “Anyone who comes to Egypt without a flashlight is making a mistake.”

  Richard walked over to one of the fresh niches and scraped some of the loose dried mud onto the floor. “Cairo vandalism, I guess.”

  Erica shook her head. “I think this place has been searched very carefully.”

  Richard looked around, noting how the floor had been dug up in places. “Maybe, but so what? I mean, what could they have been looking for?”

  Erica nibbled the inside of her cheek, a habit she had when concentrating. Richard’s question was reasonable. Perhaps Cairenes regularly hid money or valuables in walls or under the floor. But the violation reminded her of her own room being searched. On impulse she mounted the flash attachment on her Polaroid and took a photo of the interior of the shop.

  Richard sensed Erica’s uneasiness. “Does it bother you to return here?”

  “No,” said Erica. She did not want to stimulate Richard’s overprotectiveness. But in fact she did feel extremely uneasy within the remains of Antica Abdul. It emphasized the reality of Abdul Hamdi’s murder. “We’ve got ten minutes to get to the Al Azhar mosque. I want to be on time for Mr. Stephanos Markoulis.” She hurried out of the shop, glad to leave.

  As they entered the crowded alleyway, Khalifa pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on. His jacket was draped again over his right hand, concealing the Stechkin semiautomatic. It was cocked. Raoul had told him that Erica was meeting Stephanos sometime during the afternoon, and he did not want to lose her in the confusion of the bazaar. The Greek was known for his ruthless violence, and Khalifa was being well-paid not to take chances.

  Erica and Richard emerged from the Khan el Khalili at the west end of the crowded but sun-filled Al Azhar square. Its dusty heat made them appreciate the relative coolness of the bazaar. They headed across the square toward the ancient mosque, admiring the three needlelike minarets that rose into the pale blue sky. But the going became difficult in the milling crowds; they had to hold onto each other tightly to keep from being separated. The area directly in front of the mosque reminded Erica of Haymarket in Boston, with hundreds of vegetable and fruit vendors with their pushcarts, haggling with their customers over the price of the produce. Erica felt definite relief when she and Richard reached the mosque and slipped through the main entrance known as the Gate of the Barbers. The environment changed immediately. The sounds from the busy square did not penetrate the stone building. It was cool and somber, like a mausoleum.

  “This reminds me of dressing for surgery,” said Richard with a smile as he slipped paper covers over his shoes. They walked through the entrance vestibule, peering into the open doorways leading into darkened rooms. The walls were constructed of large limestone blocks, giving the appearance of a dungeon, not a house of God. “I think,” said Erica, “I should have been a bit more specific about where in this mosque we were going to meet.”

  Passing under a series of archways, she and Richard were surprised to find themselves back in bright sunlight. They were standing at the edge of a vast rectangular colonnaded court surrounded on all four sides by arcades with pointed Persian arches. It was a strange sight, because the courtyard was in the heart of Cairo, yet was empty and almost totally silent. Erica and Richard stood in the shade and speechlessly surveyed the scene of exotic keel-shaped archways with scalloped parapets topped by arabesque crenellations.

  Erica was uneasy. She was nervous about meeting Stephanos Markoulis, and now the alien surroundings increased her fears. Richard took her hand and led her across the rectangular court toward an archway slightly higher than the others, topped by its own dome. As they crossed the court, Erica tried to peer into the violet shade of the surrounding porticoes. There were a few white-robed figures reclining on the limestone floor.

  Evangelos Papparis moved around the marble column very slowly, keeping Erica and Richard in view. His sixth sense warned him to expect trouble. He was in the northern corner of the courtyard, deep within the shade of the arcade. Erica and Richard were now heading diagonally away from him. Evangelos was not sure that Erica was the woman he was awaiting, mostly because she was accompanied, but the description seemed to fit. So when the couple reached the entrance arch to the mihrab, he stepped back to the center of the arcade and waved his arm in a slow circular fashion, then held up two fingers. Stephanos Markoulis, standing deep in the vast columned prayer room about two hundred feet away, waved back. From their previous plans Stephanos now knew that Erica had come with another person. With this information he stepped around the column in front of him, then leaned against it, waiting. To hi
s left was a group of Islamic students grouped around their teacher, who was reading from the Koran in a singsong.

  Evangelos Papparis was about to walk down to the main entrance when he caught a glimpse of Khalifa. He pulled back into the shadows, struggling to place the profile. When he looked again, the figure was already gone, and Richard and Erica had entered the prayer area. Then Evangelos remembered. The man with the jacket suspiciously draped over his arm was Khalifa Khalil, the assassin.

  Evangelos returned to the center of the arcade, but he could not see Stephanos. He was confused. Turning, he decided to see if Khalil was still in the building.

  Erica had read about the Al Azhar mosque in the Baedeker, and she knew that they were looking at the original mihrab, or prayer niche. It was intricately constructed of minute pieces of marble and alabaster forming complicated geometric patterns. “This alcove faces toward Mecca,” whispered Erica.

  “This place is awesome,” said Richard quietly. In the dim light, as far as he could see to the left or right was a forest of marble columns. His eyes wandered to the floor around the prayer niche, noticing it was covered with overlapping Oriental carpets.

  “What is it that I smell,” he asked, sniffing.

  “Incense,” said Erica. “Listen!”

  There was a constant sound of muted voices, and from where they were standing they could see numerous groups of students sitting at the feet of their teachers. “The mosque is not a university any longer,” whispered Erica, “but it is still used for koranic studies.”

  “I like the way he studies,” said Richard, pointing toward a sleeping figure curled up on an Oriental rug.

  Erica turned and looked back through the series of arches to the sunlit courtyard. She wanted to leave. The mosque had a sinister, sepulchral atmosphere, and she decided it was an inappropriate spot to meet someone. “Come on, Richard.” She took his hand, but Richard, interested in going deeper into the pillared hall, pulled back.

  “Let’s check out that tomb of Sultan Rahman you read about,” he said, halting Erica’s progress toward the sunlight.

  Erica looked around at Richard. “I’d prefer . . .” She didn’t finish. Over Richard’s shoulder she saw a man walking toward them from between the columns. She knew it was Stephanos Markoulis.

  Noticing her expression and following her line of vision, Richard turned toward the approaching figure. He could feel the tension in her hand. Knowing she wanted to meet with the man, he wondered why she was agitated.

  “Erica Baron,” said Stephanos with a broad smile. “I’d recognize you in a crowd of a thousand. You are far more beautiful than Yvon suggested.” Stephanos did not try to conceal his appreciation.

  “Mr. Markoulis?” questioned Erica, although there was no doubt in her mind. His unctuous manner and greasy appearance coincided with her expectations. What she didn’t expect was the large gold Christian cross around his neck. Within the mosque its sheen seemed provocative of violence.

  “Stephanos Christos Markoulis,” said the Greek proudly.

  “This is Richard Harvey,” said Erica, pulling Richard forward.

  Stephanos glanced at Richard, then ignored him. “I would like to speak to you alone, Erica.” He extended his hand.

  Ignoring Stephanos’ gesture, Erica grasped Richard’s hand more firmly. “I’d prefer Richard to stay.”

  “As you wish.”

  “This is a rather melodramatic spot,” said Erica.

  Stephanos laughed, and the sound echoed between the columns. “Indeed, but remember, it was your idea not to meet at the Hilton.”

  “I think we’d better make this short,” said Richard. He had no idea what was going on, but he did not like to see Erica upset.

  Stephanos’ smile faded. He was not used to being opposed.

  “What do you want to speak to me about?” said Erica.

  “Abdul Hamdi,” said Stephanos matter-of-factly. “Remember him?”

  Erica wanted to give as little information as possible. “Yes,” she said.

  “Well, tell me what you know about him. Did he tell you anything out of the ordinary? Did he give you any letters or papers?”

  “Why?” said Erica defiantly. “Why should I tell you what I know?”

  “Perhaps we can help each other,” said Stephanos. “Are you interested in antiquities?”

  “Yes,” said Erica.

  “Well, then, I can help you. What are you interested in?”

  “A large life-size Seti I statue,” said Erica, leaning forward to gauge her words’ effect on Stephanos.

  If he were surprised, he did not show it. “You’re speaking about very serious business,” he said finally. “Have you any idea of the sums involved?”

  “Yes,” said Erica. Actually, she had no idea. It was hard to even guess.

  “Did Hamdi talk to you about such a statue?” asked Stephanos. His voice had a new seriousness.

  “He did,” said Erica. The fact that she knew so little made her feel particularly vulnerable.

  “Did Hamdi say from whom he’d obtained the statue or where it was going?” Stephanos’ face was deadly serious, and Erica shivered a little despite the heat. She tried to decide what Stephanos hoped to learn from her. It had to be where the statue was going before the murder. It must have been on its way to Athens! Without looking up, Erica spoke softly. “He didn’t tell me who sold him the statue . . .” She deliberately left the second part of Stephanos’ question unanswered. She knew she was gambling, but if it worked, then Stephanos would think she had been told some secrets. Then perhaps she could get something out of him.

  But the conversation was cut short. Suddenly a massive figure materialized from the shadows behind Stephanos. Erica saw a huge bald head with a gaping knife wound that ran from the crown down over the bridge of the nose onto the right cheek. The wound looked like it had been made with a razor; despite its depth, it was barely bleeding. The man’s hand reached for Stephanos, and Erica gasped, digging her nails into Richard’s hand.

  With surprising agility Stephanos reacted to Erica’s warning. He spun, falling to the right, his right leg cocked for what would have been a karate kick. At the last moment he checked himself, recognizing Evangelos.

  “What happened?” asked Stephanos with alarm, regaining his feet.

  “Khalifa,” rasped Evangelos. “Khalifa is in the mosque.”

  Stephanos pushed the weakened Evangelos against a column for support and rapidly looked around. From beneath his left arm he extracted a tiny but lethal-looking Beretta automatic and snapped off the safety.

  At the sight of the gun, Erica and Richard shrank against each other in total disbelief. Before they could respond, a bloodcurdling scream reverberated through the vast prayer hall. Because of the echoes, it was difficult to determine where it had come from. As it trailed off, the koranic murmuring stopped. There was a dreadful silence like the calm before a holocaust. No one moved. From where Erica and Richard were huddled they could see several groups of students with their teachers. They too reflected confusion and mounting fear. What was happening?

  Suddenly shots rang out, and the deadly sound of ricocheting bullets echoed through the marbled enclosure. Erica and Richard as well as Stephanos and Evangelos ducked down, not even knowing in which direction the danger lay. “Khalifa!” rasped Evangelos.

  Other screams penetrated the prayer room, followed by a kind of vibration. All at once Erica realized it was the sound of running feet. The groups of students had stood up and were facing north. Suddenly they turned and ran. Bearing down on her was a crowd of panicked people fleeing through the forest of columns. There were more shots. The crowd
became a stampede.

  Ignoring the two Greeks, Erica and Richard jumped to their feet and fled southward, racing hand in hand around the columns, trying to stay ahead of the panicky horde that pressed behind them. They ran blindly until they reached the end of the hall. A few of the students passed them, wide-eyed with terror, as if the building were on fire. Erica and Richard followed them as they ducked through a low door and ran down a stone passageway. It opened into a mausoleum; beyond was an opening where a heavy wooden door was ajar, leading to the outside. They ran out into the dusty street, where an excited crowd had already gathered. Erica and Richard did not join it, but slowed to a fast walk and left the area.

  “This place is insane,” said Richard, his voice more angry than relieved. “What the hell was going on in there?” He didn’t expect an answer, and Erica did not respond. For three days in a row she had been forced to witness unexpected violence, and on each occasion the attack had seemed more closely associated with her. Coincidence was no longer a viable explanation.

  Richard gripped her hand, pulling her behind him through the crowded streets. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and the Al Azhar mosque.

  “Richard . . .” said Erica finally, holding her side. “Richard, let’s slow down.”

  They stopped in front of a tailor shop. Richard’s mouth was set in anger. “This Stephanos, did you have any idea he’d be armed?”

  “I was somewhat concerned about meeting him, but I—”

  “Just answer the question, Erica. Did you think he would be armed?”

  “I did not even consider it.” She did not like Richard’s tone of voice.

  “Obviously it was something you should have considered. Anyway, who is this Stephanos Markoulis?”

  “He is an antiquities dealer from Athens. Apparently he’s involved in the black market.”