Sphinx

by Robin Cook

  With her lunch finished, Erica opened the Baedeker to decide which of the many tombs she wanted to visit next. A German tour group went by, and she hurried to join. Above her the spiraling sparrow hawk abruptly dived to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.

  Khalifa reached over and turned off the radio in the rented car as he watched Erica trudge deeper into the white-hot valley. “Karrah,” he cursed as he heaved himself from the shade of the auto. He could not fathom why anyone would voluntarily subject herself to such merciless heat.

  LUXOR 8:00 P.M.

  As Erica crossed the extensive gardens that separated the old Winter Palace from the new hotel, she could understand why so many wealthy Victorians had chosen to winter in Upper Egypt. Although the day had been hot, once the sun had set the temperature cooled gracefully. As she skirted the swimming pool she noticed it was still being enjoyed by a bevy of American children.

  It had been a wonderful day. The ancient paintings she’d seen in the tombs had been outstanding, incredible. Then, when she had returned to the hotel from the West Bank, she had found two notes, both invitations. One from Yvon and one from Ahmed. The decision had been difficult, but she had agreed to see Yvon, hoping he might have discovered new information about the statue. On the phone he had told her that they would eat in the dining room of the New Winter Palace and that he would come by for her at eight. On an impulse she had told him that she’d rather meet him there in the lobby.

  Yvon was dressed in a dark blue double-breasted blazer and white slacks, his fine brown hair carefully combed. He offered Erica his arm as they entered the dining room.

  The restaurant was not old, but it appeared decadent, its unharmonious decor suggesting a failed attempt at a gracious continental dining room. But Erica soon forgot her surroundings as Yvon entertained her with stories of his European childhood. The way he described his formal and very cold relationship with his parents made it sound more funny than deplorable.

  “And what about you?” asked Yvon, searching for his cigarettes in his jacket.

  “I come from another world.” Erica looked down and swirled her wine. “I grew up in a house in a small city in the Midwest. We had a small but very close family.” Erica pressed her lips together and shrugged.

  “Ah, there’s more than that,” said Yvon with a smile. “But don’t let me be rude . . . and don’t feel obligated to tell me.”

  Erica was not being secretive. She just didn’t think that Yvon would be interested in hearing about Toledo, Ohio. And she didn’t want to talk about her father’s death in an air crash or the fact that she had trouble getting along with her mother because they were too similar. Anyway, she preferred hearing Yvon talk.

  “Have you ever been married?” asked Erica.

  Yvon laughed and then studied Erica’s face. “I am married,” he said casually.

  Erica averted her eyes, certain that her instantaneous disappointment would be mirrored in her pupils. She should have known.

  “I even have two wonderful children,” continued Yvon, “Jean Claude and Michelle. I just never see them.”

  “Never?” The idea of not seeing one’s own children was incomprehensible. Erica lifted her gaze; she was under control.

  “I visit them rarely. My wife chooses to live in St. Tropez. She likes to shop and sun, both of which I find limiting. The children are at boarding school, and they like St. Tropez in the summer. So . . .”

  “So you live in your château by yourself,” said Erica, lightening the mood.

  “No, it’s a dreary place. I have a nice apartment on the Rue Verneuil in Paris.”

  It was only when they were drinking coffee that Yvon was willing to discuss the statue of Seti I or Abdul’s death.

  “I brought these photos for you to look at,” he said, taking five pictures from his pocket and placing them in front of Erica. “I know you saw the men who killed Abdul Hamdi for only a second, but do you recognize any of these faces?”

  Taking each in turn, Erica studied the pictures. “No,” she said at length. “But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”

  “I understand,” said Yvon, picking up the photographs. “It was just a possibility. Tell me, Erica, have you had any problems since you’ve come to Upper Egypt?”

  “No . . . except I’m quite sure I’m being followed.”

  “Followed?” said Yvon.

  “That’s the only explanation I can think of. Today in the Valley of the Kings I saw a man I believe I first saw in the Egyptian Museum. He’s an Arab with a large hooked nose, a sneering grin, and one front tooth that comes to a point.” Erica bared her lips and pointed to her right incisor. The gesture brought a smile to Yvon’s face, although he was not pleased that she had spotted Khalifa. “This is not funny,” continued Erica. “He scared me today, pretending to be a tourist but reading the wrong page in his guidebook. Yvon,” she said, changing the subject, “what about this plane of yours? Do you have it here in Luxor?”

  Yvon shook his head, confused. “Yes, of course. The plane is here in Luxor. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I want to go back to Cairo. I have some work that will take about half a day.”

  “When?” asked Yvon.

  “The sooner the better,” said Erica.

  “What about tonight?” He wanted Erica back in the city.

  Erica was surprised at the offer, but she trusted Yvon, especially now that she knew he was married. “Why not?” she said.

  * * *

  Although she had never been in a small jet before, she had imagined there would be a lot more room than there was. She was strapped into one of the four large leather seats. In the chair next to Erica was Raoul, trying to carry on a conversation with her, but Erica was more interested in what was happening and whether they were going to get off the ground. She didn’t believe in the principles of aerodynamics. In big planes it didn’t worry her because the concept of the huge hulk ever flying was so preposterous that she refused to think about it. The smaller the plane, the more the issue was unwelcomely thrust into her awareness.

  Yvon employed a pilot, but since he had trained to fly himself, he usually preferred to be at the controls. There was no air traffic and they were cleared immediately. The knifelike little jet thundered down the runway and leaped into the air as Erica’s fingers blanched.

  Once they were under way, Yvon relinquished the controls and came back to talk with Erica. Beginning to relax, she said, “You mentioned that your mother was from England. Do you think she might have known the Carnarvons?”

  “Why, yes. I’ve met the present earl,” said Yvon. “Why do you ask?”

  “Actually, I’m interested to know if Lord Carnarvon’s daughter is still alive. Her name is Evelyn, I believe.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Yvon, “but I could find out. Why do you ask? Have you become interested in the ‘Curse of the Pharaohs’?” He grinned in the half-light of the cabin.

  “Maybe,” answered Erica teasingly. “I have a theory about Tutankhamen’s tomb that I want to investigate. I’ll tell you about it when I get some more information. But if you could find out about Carnarvon’s daughter for me, I’d really appreciate it. Oh, one other thing. Have you ever heard the name Nenephta?”

  “In what context?”

  “In relation to Seti I.”

  Yvon thought, then shook his head. “Never.”

  They had to fly a complicated pattern over Cairo before they were allowed to land, but formalities were brief, since the plane had already been cleared. It was just after one A.M. when they arrived at the Meridien Hotel. The management was extremely cordial to Yvon, and although they were supposedly full, they
somehow managed to find an extra room for Erica next to his penthouse suite. Yvon invited her over for a nightcap after she had settled herself.

  Erica had brought only her canvas tote bag, packing a minimum of clothing, her makeup, and reading material. She’d left the guidebooks and flashlight in her room in Luxor. So there was little to do by way of “settling” herself, and she walked through the connecting door into the main room of Yvon’s suite.

  He had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and was just opening a bottle of Dom Perignon when Erica entered. She took the glass of champagne, and for a moment their hands touched. Erica was suddenly conscious of his extraordinary good looks. She felt as if they had been moving toward this night since they first met. He was married, he obviously wasn’t serious, but then, neither was she. She decided to relax and let the evening take its own course. But an excited pulse began between her thighs, and to distract herself she felt impelled to talk. “What makes you so interested in archaeology?”

  “It started when I was still a student in Paris. Some of my friends talked me into going to the École de Lange Oriental. I was fascinated and worked like crazy for the first time. I’d never been much of a student. I studied Arabic and Coptic. It was Egypt that interested me. I guess that’s more of an explanation than a reason. Would you like to see the view from the terrace?” He held out his hand to her.

  “I’d love to,” said Erica, the pulse quickening. She wanted this. She didn’t care if he was using her, if he was simply compelled to take to bed any attractive woman he met. For the first time in her life she let herself be swept along by desire.

  Yvon slid open the door, and Erica walked out under the trellis. She could smell the fragrant roses as she stared down at the whole city of Cairo spread out against the canopy of stars. The citadel with its bold minarets was still illuminated. Directly before them was the island of Gezira, surrounded by the dark Nile.

  Erica could sense Yvon’s presence behind her. When she looked up at his angular face, he was studying her. Slowly he reached out and drew the tips of his fingers through her hair, then cupped the back of her head and pulled her to him. He kissed her tentatively, sensitive to her emotions, then more fully, and finally with true passion.

  Erica was amazed at the intensity of her response. Yvon was the first man she had been with since knowing Richard, and she was not certain how her body would react. But now she opened her arms to Yvon, matching his excitement with her own.

  Their clothes fell naturally as their bodies slowly sank to the Oriental carpet. And in the soft silent light of the Egyptian night they made love with intense abandon, the sprawling throbbing city serving as mute witness to their passion.

  Day 6

  CAIRO 8:35 A.M.

  Erica awoke in her own bed. She dimly remembered Yvon saying that he preferred to sleep alone. Turning over, thinking of the evening, she was amazed to find she felt no guilt.

  When she emerged from her room it was about nine. Yvon was sitting on the balcony dressed in a blue-and-white-striped robe, reading the El Ahram newspaper in Arabic. The rays of the morning sun were broken into pieces by the trellis, splattering the area with bits of bright color like an impressionist painting. Breakfast lay waiting under silver serving dishes.

  He got up when he saw her and embraced her warmly.

  “I’m very glad we came to Cairo,” he said, holding out her chair.

  “So am I,” said Erica.

  It was a pleasant meal. Yvon had a subtle humor that Erica enjoyed immensely. But after the last piece of toast, she was impatient to continue her investigation.

  “Well, I’m off to the museum,” she said, folding her napkin.

  “Would you care for some company?” asked Yvon.

  Erica looked across at him, remembering Richard’s impatience. She did not want to feel rushed. It was better to go alone.

  “To be truthful, the kind of work I want to do is going to be a bit boring. Unless you want to spend the morning in the archives, I prefer to go by myself.” Erica reached across the table and touched Yvon’s arm.

  “Fine,” he said. “But I’ll have Raoul give you a ride.”

  “It’s not necessary,” she protested.

  “Compliments of the French,” said Yvon cheerfully.

  Dr. Fakhry led Erica into a small stuffy cubicle off the main room of the library. On a single table against the wall was a microfilm reader.

  “Talat will bring the film you desire,” said Dr. Fakhry.

  “I appreciate your help very much,” Erica told him.

  “What is it you are looking for?” queried Dr. Fakhry. His right hand suddenly shook spasmodically.

  “I’m interested in the robbers who broke into Tutankhamen’s tomb in ancient times. I don’t think that aspect of the discovery has been given the attention it deserves.”

  “Tomb robbers?” he questioned, then shuffled from the room.

  Erica sat down in front of the microfilm reader and drummed her fingers on the table. She hoped that the Egyptian Museum had as much material as possible. Talat appeared and gave Erica a shoe box full of film. “You buy scarab, lady?” he whispered.

  Without even answering, Erica began to look through the microfilm canisters, conveniently labeled in English with cards from the Ashmolean Museum, which houses the original documents. She was genuinely surprised at the wealth of the material and made herself comfortable, since she was clearly going to be there for a while.

  Flipping on the reader, Erica inserted the first roll of film. Fortunately Carter had written his journal in a compulsively neat script. Erica skimmed to the section describing the stonecutters’ huts. There was no doubt that they had been built directly over the entranceway to Tutankhamen’s tomb. Erica was now positive that the robbers had to have plundered Tutankhamen’s tomb before the reign of Ramses VI.

  She continued skimming until she came to the section where Carter listed the reasons he was sure before he discovered Tutankhamen’s tomb that it existed. The piece of evidence that Erica found the most fascinating was a blue faience cup with the cartouche of Tutankhamen, found by Theodore Davis. No one had ever wondered why the little cup was found hidden under a rock on the hillside.

  When the first spool was finished, Erica put on the next. She was now reading about the discovery itself. Carter described at length the way the outer and inner doors of the tomb had been closed again in antiquity with a seal of the necropolis; the original Tutankhamen seal could only be found at the base of each door. Carter explained in detail why he was certain the doors had been breached and resealed twice, but offered no explanation why.

  Closing her eyes, Erica rested for a few moments. Her imagination took her back to the solemn ceremony when the young pharaoh was interred. Then her mind tried to conjure up the tomb robbers. Had they been confident during their robbery, or had they been terrified at the possibility of angering the guardians of the netherworld? Then she thought about Carter. What was it like when he entered the tomb for the first time? From the notes Erica confirmed that he had been accompanied by his assistant, Callender; Lord Carnarvon; Carnarvon’s daughter; and one of the foremen, named Sarwat Raman.

  For the next several hours Erica scarcely moved. She could sense Carter’s feeling of awe and mystery. With painstaking detail he described the location of each object: the alabaster lotiform cup and a nearby oil lamp took several pages. As she studied the material on the cup and the lamp, Erica remembered something she’d read elsewhere. On his lecture tour after the discovery, Carter had mentioned that the curious orientation of these two objects led him to conjecture that they were clues to some greater mystery that he hoped would be unraveled following a complete examination of the tomb. He’d gone on
to say that the group of gold rings he had found discarded in cavalier manner suggested that the intruders were surprised in the middle of their brigandage.

  Looking up from the machine, Erica realized that Carter assumed that the tomb had been burglarized twice, since it had been opened twice. But that was indeed an assumption, and there might be another equally plausible explanation.

  After an initial reading of Carter’s field notes, Erica put into the microfilm reader a roll of film labeled “Lord Carnarvon: Papers and Correspondence.” What she found was mostly business letters concerning his support of the archaeological endeavors. She advanced the film rapidly until the dates coincided with the discovery of the tomb itself. As she expected, the volume of Carnarvon’s correspondence increased once Carter had reported finding the entrance stairway. Erica stopped at a long letter Carnarvon had written to Sir Wallis Budge of the British Museum on December 1, 1922. In order to get the entire letter in one frame, it had been reduced considerably in size. Erica had to strain to read the script. The handwriting also wasn’t as neat as Carter’s. In the letter Carnarvon had excitedly described the “find” and listed many of the famous pieces Erica had seen in the traveling Tutankhamen exhibit. She read along quickly until a sentence leaped out at her. “I have not opened the boxes, and don’t know what is in them; but there are some papyrus letters, faience, jewelry, bouquets, candles on ankh candlesticks.” Erica looked at the word “papyrus.” As far as she knew, no papyrus had been found in Tutankhamen’s tomb. In fact, that had been one of the disappointments. It had been hoped that Tutankhamen’s tomb would have afforded some insight into the troubled era in which he lived. But without documents, that hope had been destroyed. But here Carnarvon was describing a papyrus to Sir Wallis Budge.