Sphinx

by Robin Cook

  “It’s more than beautiful. It’s timeless.”

  “I’d miss Harvard Square.”

  Ahmed laughed, relieving the tension. “Harvard Square. What a crazy place. By the way, Erica, I have thought about your decision to try to do something about the black market. I’m not sure my warning was strong enough. It really frightens me to think of your becoming involved. Please don’t. I cannot bear the idea of anything happening to you.”

  He leaned forward and gently kissed her on the temple. “Come. You must see Hatshepsut’s obelisk in the moonlight.” And taking her hand, he led her back down the brick stairway.

  Dinner was marvelous. Having walked for over an hour within the splendor of Karnak, they did not start their meal until after eleven. The small Nile-side restaurant was built under an umbrella of tall date palms. The dates were almost ready for picking, and the globular red fruit was held up in the trees by pouches of netting.

  The specialty of the restaurant was kebabs made with green peppers, onion, and lamb marinated in garlic, parsley, and mint. The dish was garnished with peeled tomatoes and artichokes, and served on a bed of rice. It was an open-air restaurant and obviously popular with the emergent middle class of Luxor, whose conversations were accompanied by hand gestures and laughter. No tourists were in evidence.

  Ahmed had become considerably more relaxed since their conversation on the pylon. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully when Erica told him about her recently completed Ph.D. dissertation on “The Syntactical Evolution of New Kingdom Hieroglyphics.” He laughed with pleasure when she told him that she used ancient Egyptian love poetry as her primary source. Using love poetry as the basis for such an esoteric thesis was wonderfully ironic.

  Erica asked Ahmed about his childhood. He told her he had been very happy growing up in Luxor. That was why he liked to return. It wasn’t until he had been sent to Cairo that his life had become complicated. He told her that his father had been wounded and his older brother killed in the 1956 war. His mother had been one of the first women from the area to obtain both a high-school and college degree. She had tried to work in the Department of Antiquities, but at that time she couldn’t because of her sex. Now she lived in Luxor and worked part-time for a foreign bank. Ahmed said he had a younger sister who was trained as a lawyer and worked for the Department of the Interior in the customs division.

  After dinner they had small cups of Arabic coffee. There was a natural lull in the conversation as Erica decided to ask a question. “Is there any central registry here in Luxor so that if someone tried to find another individual, they’d know where to look?”

  Ahmed did not answer immediately. “We did try to have a census a few years ago, but I’m afraid it was not very successful. The information they obtained would be available in the government building next to the central post office. Otherwise, there is the police. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” said Erica evasively. She debated telling Ahmed about her interest in the ancient tomb robbers of Tutankhamen, but she was afraid he might try to stop her, or worse, laugh at her if she told him she was looking for Sarwat Raman. When she thought about it, it did seem a bit far-fetched. The last reference she had for the man was fifty-seven years ago.

  It was at that moment that Erica saw the man in the dark suit. She could not see his face because his back was to her. But the way he sat hunched over his food was familiar. He was one of the few people not in Arabic clothing. Ahmed sensed her reaction and asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing,” said Erica, coming out of her trance. “Really nothing.”

  But it was disturbing. Being with Ahmed cast grave doubts on her explanation that the man in the dark suit worked for the authorities. Who was he?

  Day 7

  LUXOR 8:15 A.M.

  The sound of the recorded voice coming from the small mosque built against the Temple of Luxor awoke Erica from a troubled dream. She had been running from some unseen but terrifying creature through a medium that progressively resisted her movement. When she awoke she was tangled in the bedcovers and realized she must have been tossing and turning.

  She pulled herself up from the bed and opened the windows to the morning freshness. With the crisp air on her face, her nightmare vanished. She took a quick sponge bath standing in the large tub. For some reason there was no hot water, and she was actually shivering when she was through.

  After breakfast Erica left the hotel to find the Curio Antique Shop. She had her tote bag with her flashlight, Polaroid camera, and guidebooks. She was comfortably dressed in new cotton slacks she’d purchased in Cairo to replace those that she’d ripped in the serapeum.

  She strolled down Shari Lukanda and noted the names of the shops she’d already visited. Curio Antique Shop was not among them. One of the proprietors she recognized told her that the Curio Antique Shop was on Shari el Muntazah near the Hotel Savoy. Erica found the area and the shop very easily. Next to the Curio Shop was a store that was crudely boarded up. Although she could not read its full name, she saw the word “Hamdi” and knew what she was looking at.

  Clutching her bag tightly, she entered the Curio Shop. There was a good selection of antiquities, although on closer examination she could tell they were mostly fakes. A French couple was already in the shop and bargaining fiercely for a small bronze figure.

  The most interesting piece Erica saw was a black mummiform ushabti figure with a delicately painted face. Its plinth was gone, so the statue was leaning against the corner of the shelf. As soon as the French couple departed without buying the bronze, the proprietor approached Erica. He was a distinguished-looking Arab with silver-grey hair and a neat mustache.

  “I am Lahib Zayed. May I help you?” he said, switching from French to English. Erica wondered what made him guess her nationality.

  “Yes,” said Erica. “I’d like to look at that black Osiriform figure.”

  “Ah, yes. One of my best pieces. From the tombs of the nobles.” He lifted the figure ever so gently with the tips of his fingers.

  While his back was turned, Erica licked the tip of her finger. When he handed her the statue she was ready.

  “Be very careful. It is a delicate piece,” said Zayed.

  Erica nodded and wiped her finger back and forth. The tip of her finger was clean. The pigment was stable. She looked more closely at the carving and the manner in which the eyes were painted. That was the critical area. She was satisfied the statue was an antique.

  “New Kingdom,” said Zayed holding the statue away from Erica so she could appreciate it at a distance. “I get something like this only once or twice a year.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty pounds. Normally I’d ask more, but you are so beautiful.”

  Erica smiled. “I’ll give you forty,” she said, knowing full well that he did not expect to get his initial price. She also knew it was a little more than she should be spending, but she thought it was important to prove that she was serious. Besides, she liked the statue. Even if it later proved to be a very clever fake, it was still decorative. They concluded the deal at forty-one pounds.

  “Actually, I’m here representing a large group,” said Erica, “and I’m interested in something very special. Do you have anything?”

  “I might have a few things you’d like. Perhaps I could show you in a more suitable place. Would you care for some mint tea?”

  Erica felt a surge of anxiety as she stepped into the back room of the Curio Antique Shop. She had to suppress the image of Abdul Hamdi’s throat being slit. Fortunately the Curio Antique Shop was constructed differently, opening onto a courtyard with bright sunlight. It did not have the confining feeling of Antica Abdul.

  Zayed called his
son, a dark-haired, lanky facsimile of his father, and told him to order some mint tea for their guest.

  Settling back in his chair, Zayed asked Erica the usual questions: if she liked Luxor, if she’d been to Karnak, what did she think of the Valley of the Kings? He told her how much he loved Americans. He said they were so friendly.

  Erica added to herself, “ . . . and so gullible.”

  The tea came, and Zayed produced some interesting pieces, including several small bronze figurines, a battered but recognizable head of Amenhotep III, and a series of wooden statues. The most beautiful statue was a young woman with hieroglyphics down the front of her skirt and a tranquil face that defied time. She was priced at four hundred pounds. After carefully examining the artifact, Erica was quite sure it was authentic.

  “I’m interested in the wooden statue, and possibly the stone head,” said Erica in a businesslike tone.

  Zayed rubbed his palms together with great excitement.

  “I’ll be checking with the people I represent,” said Erica. “But I know there is something they would want me to buy immediately if I were to see it.”

  “What is that?” asked Zayed.

  “There was a life-size statue of Seti I bought a year ago by a man in Houston. My clients have heard that a similar statue has been found.”

  “I have nothing like that,” said Zayed evenly.

  “Well, if you happen to hear about such a piece, I’ll be staying at the Winter Palace Hotel.” Erica wrote her name on a small piece of paper and gave it to him.

  “And what about these pieces?”

  “As I said, I’ll contact my clients. I do like the wooden statue, but I must check.” Erica picked up her purchase, which had been wrapped in Arabic newspaper, and walked back to the front part of the shop. She felt confident she had played her role very well. As she left, she noticed Zayed’s son bargaining with a man. It was the Arab who had been following her. Without breaking her stride or looking in his direction, Erica left the shop, but a shiver went up her spine.

  As soon as his son finished with his customer, Lahib Zayed closed the front door to the shop and bolted it. “Come into the back,” he commanded his son. “That was the woman Stephanos Markoulis warned us about when he was here the other day,” he said, once they were in the security of the back room. He had even closed the old wooden door to the courtyard. “I want you to go to the central post office and call Markoulis and tell him that the American woman came into the shop and specifically asked about the Seti statue. I’ll go to Muhammad and tell him to warn the others.”

  “What is going to happen to the woman?” asked Fathi.

  “I think that’s rather obvious. It reminds me of that young man from Yale about two years ago.”

  “Will they do the same to the woman?”

  “Undoubtedly,” said his father.

  Erica was appalled by the chaos in the Luxor administration building. Some of the people had been waiting so long that they were sleeping on the floor. In the corner of one hall she saw a whole family camped out as if they’d been there for days. Behind the counters the civil servants ignored the crowds and casually talked among themselves. Every desk was a heap of completed forms awaiting some impossible signature. It was awful.

  By the time Erica found someone who spoke English, she learned that Luxor was not even an administration center. The Muhāfazah for the area was located in Aswan, and all the census data were stored there. Erica told the woman that she wanted to trace a man who lived on the West Bank fifty years ago. The woman looked at Erica as if she were crazy and told her it was impossible, though she might check with the police. There was always the possibility the person she sought could have had trouble with the authorities.

  The police were easier to deal with than the civil servants. At least they were friendly and attentive. In fact most of the uniformed officers in the main room were watching her by the time she got to the counter. All the signs were in Arabic, so Erica just went to a location where no one else was waiting. A handsome young fellow in a white uniform came from behind one of the desks to help her. Unfortunately he did not speak English. But he found a man with the tourist police who did.

  “What can I do for you?” he said with a smile.

  “I’m trying to find out if one of Howard Carter’s foremen by the name of Sarwat Raman is still alive. He lived on the West Bank.”

  “What?” said the policeman with disbelief. He chuckled. “I’ve had some strange requests, but this is certainly one of the more interesting. Are you talking about the Howard Carter who discovered Tutankhamen’s tomb?”

  “That’s right,” said Erica.

  “That was over fifty years ago.”

  “I understand that,” said Erica. “I’d like to find out if he’s still alive.”

  “Madam,” said the policeman, “no one even knows how many people live on the West Bank, much less how to find a specific family. But I’ll tell you what I’d do if I were you. Go over to the West Bank and visit the small mosque in the village of Qurna. The imam is an old man, and he speaks English. Maybe he could help. But I doubt it. The government has been trying to relocate the village of Qurna and get those people out of the ancient tombs. But it’s been a fight, and there’s been some antagonism. They’re not a friendly group. So be careful.”

  Lahib Zayed looked both ways to make sure he was not seen before entering the whitewashed alleyway. He scurried down it and pounded on a stout wooden door. He knew Muhammad Abdulal was at home. It was the noon hour and Muhammad always napped. Lahib pounded again. He was afraid he might be seen by some stranger before he’d have a chance to enter the house.

  A small peephole opened, and a bloodshot sleepy eye looked out. Then the latch was lifted and the door opened. Lahib stepped over the threshold, and the door was slammed behind him.

  Muhammad Abdulal was clad in a rumpled robe. He was a large man with heavy, full features. His nostrils were flared and highly arched. “I told you never to come to this house. You’d better have a good reason for taking this risk.”

  Lahib greeted Muhammad formally before speaking. “I would not have come if I did not believe it was important. Erica Baron, the American woman, came into the Curio Antique Shop this morning saying that she represented a group of buyers. She is very sharp. She knows antiquities and actually bought a small statue. Then she specifically asked for the Seti I statue.”

  “Was she alone?” asked Muhammad, alert now rather than angry.

  “I believe so,” said Lahib.

  “And she asked specifically for the Seti statue?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, that leaves us very little choice. I’ll make the arrangements. You inform her that she can see the statue tomorrow night on the condition that she come alone and that she is not followed. Tell her to come to the Qurna mosque at dusk. We should have gotten rid of her earlier, as I wanted.”

  Lahib waited to be sure Muhammad was finished before he spoke. “I’ve also had Fathi contact Stephanos Markoulis and give him the news.”

  Muhammad’s hand struck out like a snake, cuffing the side of Lahib’s head. “Karrah! Why did you take it upon yourself to inform Stephanos?”

  Lahib cowered, expecting another blow.

  “He asked me to let him know if the woman appeared. He’s as concerned as we are.”

  “You do not take orders from Stephanos,” shouted Muhammad. “You take orders from me. That must be understood. Now, get out of here and deliver the message. The American woman must be taken care of.”

  NECROPOLIS OF LUXOR VILLAGE OF QURNA 2:15 P . M .

  The policeman had been right. Qurna was not a friendly pl
ace. As Erica trudged up the hill separating the village from the asphalt road, she did not have the feeling of welcome that was apparent in the other towns she’d visited. She saw few people, and those she did pass glared, shrinking back into the shadows. Even the dogs were mangy, snarling curs.

  She had begun feeling uncomfortable in the taxi when the driver objected to going to Qurna instead of the Valley of the Kings or some other more distant destination. He had dropped her off at the base of a dirt-and-sand hill, saying that his car could not make it to the village itself.

  It was blazingly hot, well over one hundred degrees, and without shade. The Egyptian sun poured down, scorching the rock and reflecting brilliantly from the light sand color of the earth. Not a blade of grass or a single weed survived the onslaught. Yet the people of Qurna refused to move. They wanted to live as their grandfathers and their great-grandfathers had down through the centuries. Erica thought that if Dante had seen Qurna he would have included it in the circles of hell.

  The houses were made of mud brick either left their natural color or whitewashed. As Erica climbed higher onto the hill she could see occasional hewn openings into outcroppings of rock among the houses. These were entrances to some of the ancient tombs. A number of houses had courtyards with curious structures in them—six-foot-long platforms supported about four feet from the ground by a narrow column. They were made of dried mud and straw similar to the mud bricks. Erica had no idea what they were.

  The mosque was a one-story whitewashed building with a fat minaret. Erica had noticed the building the first time she’d seen Qurna. Like the village, it was constructed of mud brick, and Erica wondered if the whole thing would wash away like a sand castle with one good rain. She entered through a low wooden door and found herself in a small courtyard, facing a shallow portico supported by three columns. To the right of the building was a plain wooden door.

  Unsure of the propriety of her entering, Erica waited at the entrance to the mosque until her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness. The interior walls were whitewashed and then painted with complicated geometric patterns. The floor was covered with lavish Oriental carpets. Kneeling in front of an alcove pointing toward Mecca was an old bearded man in flowing black robes. His hands were open and held alongside his cheeks as he chanted.