Sphinx

by Robin Cook

  Erica went back to Carter’s notes. She reread all the entries made the day the tomb was opened and for the following two days: Carter did not mention any papyrus. In fact, he alluded to his disappointment that there were no documents. Strange. Going back to Carnarvon’s letter to Budge, Erica was able to cross-reference with Carter’s notes every other article he mentioned. The single discrepancy was the papyrus.

  When Erica finally emerged from the dreary museum, it was early afternoon. She walked slowly toward the busy Tahrir Square. Although her stomach was empty, she wanted to accomplish one more errand before returning to the Meridien Hotel. From her tote bag she withdrew the cover of the Baedeker and read the name and address, Nasef Malmud, 180 Shari el Tahrir.

  Crossing the massive square was an accomplishment in itself, since it was filled with dusty buses and crowds of people. At the corner of Shari el Tahrir she turned left.

  “Nasef Malmud,” she said to herself. She did not know what to expect. Shari el Tahrir was one of the more fashionable boulevards, with smart European-style shops and office buildings; 180 was a modern marble-and-glass high-rise.

  Nasef Malmud’s office was on the eighth floor. Riding in an empty elevator, Erica remembered the long midday break and was afraid she would not be able to see Nasef Malmud until later in the afternoon. But his office door was ajar and she walked in, noting the sign that said “Nasef Malmud, International Law: Import-Export Division.”

  The reception area of the office was deserted. Smart Olivetti typewriters on mahogany desks proclaimed a flourishing business.

  “Hello,” called Erica.

  A stocky man appeared in a doorway, dressed in a carefully tailored three-piece suit. He was about fifty and would not have looked out of place strolling in the financial section of Boston.

  “Can I help you?” he asked in a businesslike voice.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Nasef Malmud,” answered Erica.

  “I am Nasef Malmud.”

  “Would you have a few moments to talk with me?” asked Erica.

  Nasef looked back into his office, pursing his lips. He had a pen in his right hand, and it was obvious he was in the middle of something. Turning back to Erica, he spoke as if he’d not quite made up his mind. “Well, for a few minutes.”

  Erica entered the spacious corner office with a view up Shari el Tahrir to the square and the Nile beyond. Nasef eased himself into his high-backed desk chair and waved Erica to a seat nearby. “What can I do for you, young lady?” he asked, putting the tips of his fingers together.

  “I wanted to inquire about a man named Abdul Hamdi.” Erica stopped to see if there was any response. There wasn’t. Malmud waited, thinking there was more. But when Erica did not continue, he said, “The name is not familiar. In which context might I know this individual?”

  “I was wondering if by chance Abdul Hamdi was a client of yours,” said Erica.

  Malmud removed his reading glasses and put them on his desk. “If he were a client, I’m not sure why I would be willing to disclose such information,” he said without malice. He was a lawyer and as such was more interested in receiving information than giving it.

  “I have some news about the man that would interest you if he was a client.” Erica tried to be equally evasive.

  “How did you get my name?” he asked.

  “From Abdul Hamdi,” said Erica, knowing that it was a slight permutation of the truth.

  Malmud studied Erica for a moment, went into the outer office, then returned with a manila file. Sitting behind the desk, he replaced his reading glasses and opened the file. It contained a single sheet of paper, which he took a minute to scan.

  “Yes, it seems that I do represent Abdul Hamdi.” He looked expectantly across at Erica over his glasses.

  “Well, Abdul Hamdi is dead.” Erica decided not to use the word “murdered.”

  Malmud thoughtfully regarded Erica, then reread the paper in his hand. “Thank you for the information. I will have to investigate my responsibilities to his estate.” He stood up and extended his hand, forcing a rapid conclusion to the interview.

  While walking to the door, Erica spoke. “Do you know what a Baedeker is?”

  “No,” he said, hurrying her through the outer office.

  “Have you ever owned a Baedeker guidebook?” Erica paused at the doorway.

  “Never.”

  Yvon was waiting when she returned to the hotel. He had another series of photos for Erica to examine. One man looked vaguely familiar, but she could not be sure. She felt the chances of her being able to recognize the killers were pretty slim, and tried to say as much to Yvon, but he just insisted, “I’d prefer if you’d try to cooperate rather than telling me how to proceed.”

  Walking out onto the beautiful balcony, Erica remembered the night before. Yvon’s interest now seemed strictly business, and she was glad she had at least gone into the affair with her eyes open. His desires had been momentarily satisfied and his attention had reverted to the Seti statue.

  Erica accepted the reality with equanimity, but it made her want to leave Cairo and return to Luxor. She walked back into the suite and told Yvon her plans. Initially he complained, but she derived a certain pleasure in denying him his way. He was obviously unaccustomed to such treatment. But in the end he relented, even offering Erica the use of his plane. He would follow her, he said, as soon as he could.

  Returning to Luxor was a joy. Despite the memory of the man with the sharp tooth, Erica felt infinitely more comfortable in Upper Egypt than she did in the raw brutality of Cairo. When she arrived at the hotel, she found a number of messages from Ahmed, asking her to call. She put them by the phone. Walking over to the French doors to the balcony, she threw them open. It was just after five, and the afternoon sun had lost most of its heat.

  Erica drew a bath to rinse off the dust and fatigue of travel, although the plane trip had been comfortingly short. When she got out of the tub she called Ahmed, who seemed both relieved and happy to hear from her.

  “I was very worried,” said Ahmed. “Especially when the hotel said you had not been seen.”

  “I went to Cairo overnight. Yvon de Margeau took me by plane.”

  “I see,” said Ahmed. There was an awkward pause as Erica remembered that he had acted strangely about Yvon since their first conversation.

  “Well,” said Ahmed finally, “I’m calling to see if you’d enjoy visiting the Temple of Karnak tonight. There is a full moon, and the temple will be open until midnight. It is worth seeing.”

  “I’d like that very much,” said Erica.

  They made arrangements for Ahmed to pick her up at nine o’clock. They’d visit the Temple of Karnak, then eat. Ahmed said he knew a small restaurant on the Nile that was owned by a friend. He promised her that she’d like it, then hung up.

  Erica dressed in her brown scoop-necked jersey dress. With her deepening tan and the light streaks in her hair, it made her feel very feminine. She ordered a glass of wine from room service and sat down on the balcony with the Baedeker, holding the torn cover in front of her.

  The name carefully written on the inside of the separated cover of Abdul Hamdi’s guidebook was Nasef Malmud. There had been no mistake. Why had Malmud lied? She picked up the book and examined it carefully. It was a well-constructed volume, actually sewn, not just glued. It had many diagrams and line drawings of the various monuments. Erica flipped through the pages, stopping frequently to look at an illustration or read a short section. There were also a few fold-out maps: one of Egypt, one of Saqqara, and one of the Necropolis of Luxor. She examined them in turn.

  When she tried to refold the map of Luxor, she had difficul
ty returning it to its previous shape. Then she noticed the paper felt different from the other maps. Looking more closely, she saw it was printed on two sheets laminated together. Erica held the book up so that the map was between her eye and the setting sun: some sort of document was fused to the back of the map of the Necropolis of Luxor.

  Going back inside the room, Erica closed one of the doors to the balcony, and placing the map against the glass, allowed the sun to backlight it. She could make out the letter sealed inside. The print was faint and small, but in English and legible. It was addressed to Nasef Malmud.

  Dear Mr. Malmud:

  This letter is written by my son, who expresses my words. I cannot write. I am an old man, so if you read this letter, do not grieve my fate. Instead use the information enclosed against those individuals who have decided to silence me rather than pay. The following routing is the way in recent years that all the most valuable ancient treasures have been removed from our country. I had been hired by a foreign agent (whose name I choose to withhold) to infiltrate the routing in order to allow him to obtain the treasures for himself.

  Once a valuable piece has been found, Lahib Zayed and his son Fathi of the Curio Antique Shop send photos to prospective buyers. Those interested come to Luxor and view the pieces. Once a deal is made, the buyer must place the money on account with the Zurich Credit Bank. The piece is then routed north by small boats and delivered to the office of Aegean Holidays, Ltd., in Cairo, proprietor Stephanos Markoulis. The antiquities are there placed within the luggage of unsuspecting tour groups (large pieces disassembled) and flown with the tour group to Athens by Jugoslwenski Airlines. Airline personnel are paid to leave specific luggage on the aircraft for continuation to Belgrade and Ljubjana. Pieces are sent overland to Switzerland for transfer.

  A newer route has recently been established via Alexandria. The cotton export firm Futures, Ltd., controlled by Zayed Naquib, packs antiquities in bales and sends them to Pierce Fauve Galleries, Marseilles. This route is untested as of the writing of this letter.

  Your faithful servant,

  Abdul Hamdi

  Erica folded the map back into the Baedeker. She was stunned. Without doubt the Seti statue Jeffrey Rice had purchased had gone through the Athens connection, as she had guessed when she met with Stephanos Markoulis. It was clever, because tour-group luggage was never subjected to the same examination as the baggage of an individual traveler. Who’d guess that a sixty-three-year-old lady from Joliet would be carrying priceless Egyptian antiquities in her pink Samsonite suitcase?

  Walking back onto the balcony, Erica leaned on the railing. The sun had reluctantly dipped behind the distant mountains. In the middle of the irrigated fields on the West Bank stood the colossi of Memnon, veiled in lavender shadow. She wondered what she should do. She thought about giving the book to either Ahmed or Yvon—probably Ahmed. But maybe she should wait until she was ready to leave Egypt. That would be the safest. Important as exposing the black-market routing was, Erica was also interested in the Seti I statue itself and the location in which it had been dug up. With excitement she dreamed of what else could be found at such a site. She did not want her own investigations cut off by the police.

  Erica tried to be realistic about the danger of keeping the book. It was obvious now that the old man had been a blackmailer and things had closed in on him. It was equally obvious that Erica had been a last-minute addition to his plans. No one actually knew she had any information, and until a few minutes earlier, neither had she. She resolved again to ignore the information until she was ready to leave the country.

  While evening crept slowly over the Nile valley, Erica reviewed her plans. She would continue her role as museum buyer and visit the Curio Antique Shop, which, for all she knew, she had already seen, since she did not remember the various names. Then she would try to find out if Sarwat Raman, Carter’s foreman, was still alive. He’d have to be at least in his late seventies. She wanted to talk with someone who had entered Tutankhamen’s tomb on that first day, and ask about the papyrus Carnarvon had described in his letter to Sir Wallis Budge. In the meantime, she hoped Yvon would make the promised inquiries about Lord Carnarvon’s daughter.

  “That’s the Chicago House,” said Ahmed, pointing to an impressive structure on the right. Their carriage was taking them peacefully up Shari el Bahr, along the treelined edge of the Nile. The rhythmic sound of the horses’ hooves was comforting, like the fall of waves on a stone beach. It was very dark because the full moon had not yet crested the palms and desert ridges. The slight wind that blew from the north was not enough to disturb the mirrorlike surface of the Nile.

  Ahmed was again impeccably dressed in white cotton. When Erica looked at his deeply tanned face, she could see only his brilliant eyes and white teeth.

  The more time she spent with Ahmed, the more confused she became about his reasons for seeing her. He was friendly and warm, and yet he maintained a sharp distance. The only time he had touched her was to help her climb into the carriage, holding her hand and giving the small of her back a very slight push.

  “Have you ever been married?” asked Erica, hoping to learn something about the man.

  “No, never,” said Ahmed curtly.

  “I’m sorry,” said Erica. “I suppose it isn’t any of my business.”

  Ahmed lifted his arm and put it behind Erica on the top of the seat. “It’s all right. There’s no secret.” His voice was fluid again. “I’ve not had time for romance, and I suppose I became spoiled when I was in America. Things are not quite the same here in Egypt. But that’s probably just an excuse.”

  They passed a group of fancy Western houses built on the Nile bank, surrounded by high whitewashed walls. In front of each gate was a soldier in battle uniform with a machine pistol. But the soldiers were not attentive. One had even put his weapon on top of the wall to talk with a passerby.

  “What are these buildings?” asked Erica.

  “They are the houses of some ministers,” said Ahmed.

  “Why are they guarded?”

  “Being a minister can be dangerous in this country. You can’t please everyone.”

  “You’re a minister,” said Erica, concerned.

  “Yes, but the people unfortunately don’t care so much about my department.” They rode in silence as the first rays of moonlight fell through the rustling palms.

  “That’s the Department of Antiquities office for Karnak,” said Ahmed, pointing to a waterfront building. Directly ahead, Erica could see the massive first pylons of the great Temple of Amon lit by the rising moon. They rode up to the entrance and climbed from the carriage. Walking up the short processional way lined with ram-headed sphinxes, Erica was spellbound. The half-light created by the rising moon hid the ruined aspect of the temple, making it appear still in use.

  They had to walk carefully through the deep purple shadows of the entranceway to gain the main courtyard. Abruptly Ahmed took Erica’s hand as they crossed the broad courtyard and passed into the great hypostyle hall. It was like being transported into the past.

  The hall was a forest of massive stone columns that soared into the night sky. Most of the ceiling was gone, and shafts of moonlight plunged down, washing the pillars and their extensive hieroglyphic texts and bold reliefs with silver light.

  They didn’t talk; they just wandered hand in hand. After a half-hour Ahmed pulled Erica out through a side entrance and walked her back to the first pylon. On the north side was a brick stairway that took them the 140 feet to the top of the temple. From there Erica could see the entire mile-square area of Karnak. It was awe-inspiring.

  “Erica . . .”

  She turned. Ahmed’s head was tilted to the side, his eyes enjoying her.
r />   “Erica, I find you very beautiful.”

  She liked compliments, but they always made her feel a little self-conscious. She averted her eyes as Ahmed reached out and gently ran the tips of his fingers over her forehead. “Thank you, Ahmed,” she said simply.

  Looking up, she noticed Ahmed was still studying her. She could sense some kind of conflict. “You remind me of Pamela,” he said finally.

  “Oh?” said Erica. Reminding him of a former girlfriend was not what she wanted to hear about, but she could tell that Ahmed meant it as a compliment. She smiled weakly and looked off into the moonlit distance. Perhaps her similarity to Pamela was the reason Ahmed was seeing her.

  “You are more beautiful. But it is not your appearance that reminds me of her; it is your openness and warmth.”

  “Look, Ahmed, I’m not sure I understand. Last time we were together I asked some innocent question about Pamela and whether your uncle had met her, and you blew up. Now you insist on talking about her. I don’t think that’s very fair.”

  They stood in silence for a while. Ahmed’s intensity was intriguing but also a little frightening, and the memory of the shattered teacup was sharp.

  “Do you think you could ever live in a place like Luxor?” asked Ahmed without taking his eyes from the Nile.

  “I don’t know,” said Erica. “The thought never occurred to me. It is very beautiful.”