Sphinx

by Robin Cook

  Khalifa lit one cigarette, and then another, allowing the smoke to snake up past his hooked nose. He was standing apart from the chaos at a place where he could view the entire platform as well as the main exit. A few late passengers scurried to catch the train as it began to pull out of the station. There was no sign of Erica. When he finished his cigarette, Khalifa left the building by the main entrance. He headed for the central post office to make a call to Cairo. Something was wrong.

  ABYDOS 11:30 A.M.

  Erica walked from one incredible room to the next as she explored the temple of Seti I. At last she could experience all the electrifying mystery of Egypt. The relief work was magnificent. She planned to return to Abydos in several days to do some serious translation work on the wealth of hieroglyphic inscription that covered the walls of the temple complex. For the moment she just scanned the texts to see if the name Tutankhamen ever appeared among Seti’s inscriptions. It didn’t, except in the room called the Gallery of Kings, where almost all the ancient Egyptian pharaohs were listed in chronological order.

  As she walked through the inner chambers, where the roofing slabs were still in place, she used her flashlight to view the hieroglyphics.

  Silently Erica repeated an abbreviated translation of the phrase on the Seti I statue: “Eternal rest granted to Seti I, who rules after Tutankhamen.” She admitted the phrase did not make any more sense to her standing in Seti I’s temple than it did on the balcony of the room in the Hilton. Rummaging in her bag, Erica pulled out the photo of the hieroglyphic inscription on the statue. She looked about the temple for any similar combination of signs. It was a slow process and ultimately unrewarding. At first she couldn’t even find Seti’s name written in the same way as it was on the statue, linked to the god Osiris. In the temple it usually identified him with the god Horus.

  Morning melted happily into afternoon, leaving Erica oblivious of the heat and of her appetite. It was after three when she passed through the chapel of Osiris into the god’s inner sanctuary. It had once been a splendid hall whose roof had been supported by ten columns. Now sun drenched the room with light, illuminating the magnificent reliefs associated with the cult of Osiris, the god of the dead.

  There were no other tourists in the ruined hall, and Erica moved slowly, undisturbed in her appreciation of the craftsmanship of the sculptured murals. At the far end of the empty hall she came to a low doorway. Inside it was dark. Consulting her Baedeker, she found the room beyond was described simply as a chamber with four columns.

  Scoffing at her own misgivings, Erica took out her flashlight and ducked under the low door. Slowly she let the beam of light play upon the walls, columns, and ceiling of the deathly silent room. With great care she picked her way over the irregular floor and moved around the heavy columns. Against the far wall were the openings to the three chapels of Isis, Seti I, and Horus. Eagerly Erica entered the chapel of Seti I; its location within the sanctuary of Osiris was encouraging.

  No daylight penetrated the small chapel. Erica’s flashlight illuminated only a small area. The rest of the room was lost in darkness. She started to run the light around the room, but almost immediately glimpsed amid the hieroglyphics a cartouche of Seti I exactly as it had been written on the statue. It was Seti identified with Osiris.

  Erica scanned the hieroglyphics in the neighborhood of the cartouche, guessing the text ran vertically from left to right. Without translating word for word, she quickly understood that the small chapel had been completed after Seti’s death and had been used in the Osiris ritual. Then she came to something strange. It appeared to be a proper name. Incredible. Proper names did not appear on pharaonic monuments. Erica pieced together the sounds. Ne-neph-ta.

  Erica moved the beam of light to the floor, preparing to put her bag down. She wanted a photo of the curious name. She started to bend over, but then froze. Within the circle of light was a cobra, its head raised and body arched, its forked tongue lashing out like a miniature whip, its yellow eyes with black slitlike pupils staring at her with deadly concentration. Erica was paralyzed with fear. It wasn’t until the snake moved by lowering its head and sliding off its perch that Erica was able to look behind her toward the low door of the chapel. After another glance at the retiring snake, she fled out into the sunlight and returned to the ticket booth on shaky legs.

  The guard thanked Erica for the information and told her that they’d been trying to kill that cobra for many years. The sanctuary of Osiris was then closed temporarily.

  Despite the episode with the snake, it was with reluctance that she left the site for the drive back to Balianeh. It had been a wonderful day. Her only disappointment was that she’d have to wait for a photograph of the name Nenephta. Erica intended to cross-reference that name and wondered if it was one of Seti I’s viziers.

  The train for Luxor departed only five minutes late. Erica settled into her seat with the Tutankhamen books, but her attention was drawn to the scenery outside. The Nile valley began to narrow so that in places it was easy to see from one side of the area of cultivated fields to the other. As the sun neared the western horizon, Erica began to notice the people returning to their homes. Children riding on water buffalo. Men leading donkeys straining beneath their burdens. Erica could see into courtyards and wondered if the people in their mud-brick houses felt security and love like in the pastoral myths—or were they continuously aware of their precarious hold on life? In a sense, their lives were timeless, a borrowed moment of time.

  At Nag Hammadi the train crossed the Nile from the West Bank to the East Bank and entered a long stretch of sugarcane that blocked any view of the countryside. Erica returned to her books, picking up The Discovery of the Tomb of Tutankhamen, by Howard Carter and A. C. Mace. She began reading, and despite her familiarity with the book, was immediately entranced. It was a recurrent surprise that the dry and meticulous Carter wrote with a genuine flair. The excitement of the discovery was communicated from every page, and Erica found herself reading faster and faster, as if it were a thriller.

  As they occurred in the book, Erica studied the superb collection of photos taken by Harry Burton. She found the plate showing two life-size bituminized statues of Tutankhamen that guarded the sealed entrance to the burial chamber particularly interesting. Comparing them to the Seti statue, she comprehended for the first time that she was one of the few people who knew the Seti statues were a matched pair. That was very significant, because the probability of finding two such statues was very small, while the chance of other artifacts now being unearthed in the same location was very great. Suddenly Erica recognized that the site where the Seti statues had been found could be as important archaeologically as the statues themselves. Perhaps locating the site was a more reasonable goal than finding the statue. Erica looked out the window at the blur of the sugarcane, thinking.

  Probably the best way of learning where the statues had been discovered was for her to pose as a serious antiquities buyer for the Museum of Fine Arts. If she could convince people she was willing to pay top dollar, she might be shown some valuable pieces. If more Seti material appeared, perhaps she could learn the source. There were a lot of ifs. But it was a plan, particularly if Abdul Hamdi’s son could not provide further information.

  The conductor came through the train announcing Luxor. Erica felt a thrill of anticipation. She knew that Luxor is to Egypt what Florence is to Italy: the jewel. Outside the station, there was another surprise. The only taxis left were horsedrawn carriages. Smiling with pleasure, Erica already loved Luxor.

  When she arrived at the Winter Palace Hotel she discovered why it had been so easy to get a reservation despite the number of tourists. The hotel was being renovated, and to get to her room she had to walk down a carpetless hall on the second floor covered with piles of building blocks, sand, and plaster. Only a few of the rooms were b
eing used. But the renovation did not dampen her spirits. She loved the hotel. It had an elegant Victorian charm. Across the formal garden was the New Winter Palace Hotel. In contrast to the building she was in, it was a modern high-rise structure with little character. She was pleased to be where she was. Instead of air conditioning, Erica’s room had an extraordinarily high ceiling complete with a slow-moving large-bladed fan. A pair of French doors opened onto a graceful wrought-iron balcony that looked over the Nile.

  There was no shower; the tiled bathroom was dominated by a huge porcelain bathtub that Erica immediately filled to the top. She had just managed to step into the refreshing water when the antique phone jangled in the other room. For a moment she debated not answering it. Then curiosity overcame inconvenience, and grabbing a towel from the rack, she walked into the bedroom and picked up the receiver.

  “Welcome to Luxor, Miss Baron.” It was Ahmed Khazzan.

  For a moment his voice brought back all her fears. Even though she had decided to pursue the statue of Seti, she felt she had left the violence and dangers behind in Cairo. Now the authorities seemed to have already tracked her down. Still, his tone was friendly.

  “I hope you enjoy your stay,” he said.

  “I’m sure I will,” answered Erica. “I did notify your office.”

  “Yes, I got the message. That’s why I’m calling. I asked the hotel to tell me when you arrived so that I could welcome you. You see, Miss Baron, I have a home in Luxor. I come here as frequently as possible.”

  “I see,” said Erica, wondering where the conversation was leading.

  Ahmed cleared his throat. “Well, Miss Baron, I was wondering if you would care to have dinner with me tonight.”

  “Is this an official or social invitation, Mr. Khazzan?”

  “Purely social. I can have a carriage pick you up at seven thirty.”

  Erica debated rapidly. It seemed quite innocuous. “All right. I’d be delighted.”

  “Wonderful,” said Ahmed, obviously pleased. “Tell me, Miss Baron, do you like to ride?”

  Erica shrugged. In truth she hadn’t ridden a horse for a number of years. But as a child she had loved it, and the idea of seeing the ancient city on horseback appealed to her. “Yes,” she said tentatively.

  “Even better,” said Ahmed. “Wear something you can ride in and I’ll show you a little of Luxor.”

  Holding on for her life, Erica let the black stallion have his head as they reached the edge of the desert. The animal responded with a surge of speed and thundered up the small sand hill, galloping along the crest of the ridge for almost a mile. Finally Erica reined him in to wait for Ahmed. The sun had just set, but it was light and Erica could look down onto the ruins of the Temple of Karnak. Across the river the mountains of Thebes rose sharply beyond the irrigated fields. She could even make out some of the entranceways to the tombs of the nobles.

  Erica was hypnotized by the scene, and the heaving animal between her legs made her feel as if she had been transported into the past. Ahmed rode up beside her but did not speak. He sensed her thoughts and did not want to interrupt. Erica stole a quick glance at his sharp profile in the soft light. He was dressed in loose-fitting white cotton, with the shirt open to mid-chest and the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His black, shining hair was tousled by the wind, and tiny drops of perspiration lined his forehead.

  Erica was still surprised by his invitation and unable to forget his official capacity. He had been cordial since her arrival, but not communicative. She wondered if his intent still lay with Yvon de Margeau.

  “Beautiful here, isn’t it?” he said at last.

  “Gorgeous,” said Erica. She struggled with the stallion, now eager to move on.

  “I love Luxor.” He turned to Erica, his face serious yet puzzled.

  Erica was certain he was going to say something more, but he just looked at her for several minutes and then turned back to the vista over the Nile. As they watched in silence, the shadows within the ruins deepened, heralding the coming night.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “You must be starved. Let’s have our dinner.”

  They rode back toward Ahmed’s rustic house, skirting the Temple of Karnak and riding along the Nile. They passed a felucca landing, where the men were singing softly while furling their sails for the night. When they arrived at Ahmed’s house, Erica helped with the horses. Then they both washed their hands in a wooden tub in the courtyard before going inside.

  Ahmed’s housekeeper had prepared a feast and served it in the living room. Erica’s favorite was ful, a dip made of beans, lentils, and eggplant. It was covered with sesame oil and subtly seasoned with garlic, peanuts, and caraway. Ahmed was surprised she’d not had it before. The main course was fowl, which Erica thought was cornish hen. Ahmed explained it was hamama, or pigeon. It had been grilled over charcoal.

  Within his home Ahmed relaxed and conversation became easy. He asked Erica hundreds of questions about growing up in Ohio. She felt a little self-conscious when she described her Jewish background, and was surprised that it made no difference to Ahmed. He explained that in Egypt the confrontation was a political issue and involved Israel, not Jews. People did not think of them as synonymous.

  Ahmed was particularly interested in Erica’s apartment in Cambridge, and he had her describe all sorts of trivial details. Only when she had finished did he tell her he had gone to Harvard. As the meal progressed, she found him reserved but not secretive. He was willing to talk about himself if asked. He had a wonderful way of speaking, with a slight English accent from his days at Oxford, where he had gotten his doctorate. He was a sensitive man, and after Erica asked if he had dated any American girls, he told her about Pamela, with such feeling that Erica felt tears welling in her eyes. Then he shocked her with the ending. He had left Boston for England and just cut off the relationship.

  “You mean you never corresponded?” asked Erica with disbelief.

  “Never,” said Ahmed quietly.

  “But why?” pleaded Erica. She loved happy endings and abhorred unhappy ones.

  “I knew that I had to come back here, to my country,” said Ahmed, looking away. “I was needed here. I was expected to run the antiquities service. At that time, there was no room for romance.”

  “Have you ever seen Pamela again?”

  “No.”

  Erica took a sip of her tea. The story about Pamela awakened uncomfortable feelings about men and abandonment. Ahmed did not seem the type. She wanted to change the subject. “Did any of your family visit you in Massachusetts?”

  “No . . .” Ahmed paused, then added, “Actually, my uncle did come to the States just before I left.”

  “No one visited, and you didn’t go home for three years?”

  “That’s right. It’s a bit far, going from Egypt to Boston.”

  “Weren’t you lonely and homesick?”

  “Terribly, until Pamela.”

  “Did your uncle meet Pamela?”

  Ahmed exploded. He threw his teacup against the wall, and it shattered in a hundred pieces. Erica was stunned.

  The Arab dropped his head in his hands, and she could hear his heavy breathing. An awkward silence prevailed, as Erica sat torn between fear and empathy. She wondered about Pamela and the uncle. What had happened that could still evoke such passion?

  “Forgive me,” Ahmed said, his head still bowed.

  “I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” said Erica putting down her teacup. “Perhaps I’d better return to my hotel.”

  “No, don’t go, please,” said Ahmed, lifting his head. His face was flushed. “It isn’t your fault. It’s just that I’ve been under a c
ertain strain. Don’t go. Please.” Ahmed jumped up to refresh Erica’s tea and got another cup for himself. Then, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, he brought out some antiquities that the department had recently confiscated.

  Erica admired them, especially a beautifully carved wooden figure. She began to feel more comfortable. “Have any articles from Seti I been confiscated from the black market?” She carefully put the pieces on a nearby table.

  Ahmed looked at her for several minutes, thinking. “No, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no real reason, except that I visited Seti’s temple at Abydos today. By the way, are you familiar with a problem they have there with a cobra?”

  “Cobras are a potential problem at all the sites, especially in Aswan. I suppose we really should warn the tourists. But it isn’t a problem at the more popular sites. It can’t compare with our difficulties with the black market. Only four years ago there was a major looting of carved blocks from the Temple of Hathor at Dendera, in broad daylight!”

  Erica nodded her understanding. “If nothing else, this trip has underlined for me the destructive power of the black market. In fact, along with my translation work, I’ve decided to try to do something about it.”

  Ahmed looked up suddenly. “It’s a dangerous business. I don’t recommend it at all. To give you an idea, about two years ago a young idealistic American fellow came over here from Yale with similar goals. He disappeared without a trace.”

  “Well,” said Erica, “I’m no hero. I just have some very tame ideas. I wanted to ask if you knew the location of Abdul Hamdi’s son’s antique shop here in Luxor.”

  Ahmed averted his face. The spectacle of Tewfik Hamdi’s tortured body flashed in his mind. When he turned back to Erica, his face was strained. “Tewfik Hamdi, like his father, has recently been murdered. There is some trouble going on which I do not understand, but which my department and the police are investigating. You have already had your share of difficulties, so I implore you to concentrate on your translation work.”