Sphinx (14 page)

 

The walk seemed endless. Corridors stretched in front of her until perspective reduced them to pinpoints. And they were jammed with people. Egyptians wearing everything from silk suits to ragged galabias were lined up in front of doors or spilling out of offices. Some were sleeping on the floor, so that Erica and her escort had to step over them. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, garlic, and the greasy smell of lamb.

When Erica reached the outer office of the Department of Antiquities she remembered the multitude of desks and antique typewriters from the night before. The difference was that now they were occupied with ostensibly busy civil servants. After a short wait Erica was shown into the inner office. It was air-conditioned, and the coolness was a welcome relief.

Ahmed was standing behind the desk peering out the window. A corner of the Nile could be seen between the Hilton and the skeleton of the new Intercontinental Hotel. He turned when Erica entered.

She had been prepared to pour out her problems like an overflowing river and plead with Ahmed to help her. But something in his expression made her hold back. There was a sadness about his face. His eyes were veiled and his thick dark hair was disheveled, as if he had been repeatedly running his fingers over his scalp.

“Are you all right?” asked Erica, genuinely concerned.

“Yes,” said Ahmed slowly. His voice was hesitant, depressed. “I never imagined what the strain of running this department was going to be like.” He flopped down in his chair, eyes momentarily closed.

Before, Erica had only guessed at his sensitivity. Now she wanted to walk around the desk and comfort the man.

Ahmed's eyes opened. “I'm sorry,” he said. “Please sit down.”

Erica complied.

“I've been briefed about what happened at the serapeum, but I'd like to hear the story in your own words.”

Erica began at the beginning. Wanting to tell everything, she even mentioned the man in the museum who had made her nervous.

Ahmed listened intently. He did not interrupt. Only after she stopped did he speak. “The man who was shot was named Gamal Ibrahim and he worked here at the Department of Antiquities. He was a fine boy.” Ahmed's eyes glistened with tears. Seeing such an obviously strong man so moved, unlike the American men she knew, made Erica forget her own troubles. This ability to reveal emotion was a powerfully attractive quality. Ahmed looked down and composed himself before he continued. “Had you seen Gamal at all during the morning?”

“I don't believe so,” said Erica, but not convincingly. “There is a chance I saw him at a refreshment stand in Memphis, but I'm not sure.”

Ahmed ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Tell me,” he said. “Gamal was already upon the wooden platform in the serapeum when you started up the stairs.”

“That's right,” said Erica.

“I find that curious,” said Ahmed.

“Why?” questioned Erica.

Ahmed looked slightly flustered. “I'm just thinking,” he said evasively, “nothing makes sense.”

“I feel the same way, Mr. Khazzan. And I want to assure you that I had nothing to do with the affair. Nothing. And I think I should be able to call the American embassy.”

“You may call the American embassy,” said Ahmed, “but frankly there is no need to do so.”

“I think I need some help.”

“Miss Baron, I'm sorry you were inconvenienced today. But actually this is our problem. You can call whomever you'd like when you get back to your hotel.”

“I'm not going to be detained here?” asked Erica, almost afraid to believe what she was hearing.

“Of course not,” said Ahmed.

“That is good news,” said Erica. “But there is one other thing I must tell you about. I should have told you last night, but I was afraid. Anyway . . .” She breathed in deeply. “I've had two very strange and upsetting days. I'm not sure which was worse. Yesterday afternoon I inadvertently witnessed another murder, incredible as it may sound.” Erica involuntarily shivered. “I happened to see an old man by the name of Abdul Hamdi killed by three men, and—”

Ahmed's chair thudded to the floor. He had been leaning back. “Did you actually see the faces?” His surprise and concern were apparent.

“Two of them, yes. The third, no,” said Erica.

“Could you identify those whom you did see?” asked Ahmed.

“Possibly. I'm not sure. But I do want to apologize about not telling you last night. I really was afraid.”

“I understand,” said Ahmed. “Don't worry. I will take care of that. But undoubtedly we will have more questions.”

“More questions . . .” said Erica forlornly. “Actually, I would like to leave Egypt as soon as possible. This trip is nothing like I'd planned.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Baron,” said Ahmed, regaining the composure Erica remembered from the night before. “Under the circumstances, you will not be allowed to leave until these issues are cleared up or we are sure you cannot contribute any more. I really am sorry that you have become involved like this. But you may feel free to move about as much as you'd like—just let me know if you plan to leave Cairo. Again, you should feel free
to discuss the problem with the American embassy, but remember they have little say over our internal affairs.”

“Being detained within the country is far better than being in jail,” said Erica, smiling weakly. “How long do you think it will be before I will be allowed to leave?”

“It's hard to say. Perhaps a week. Although it might be difficult, I suggest that you try to regard your experiences here as unfortunate coincidences. I think you should try to enjoy Egypt.” Ahmed toyed with his pencils before continuing. “As a representative of the government, I'd like to offer you dinner tonight and show you that Egypt can be very pleasurable.”

“Thank you,” said Erica, genuinely moved by Ahmed's concern, “but I'm afraid I already have plans with Yvon de Margeau.”

“Oh, I see,” said Ahmed, looking away. “Well, please accept my apologies from my government. I will have you driven to your hotel, and I promise I will be in touch.”

He stood up and shook hands with Erica across his desk. His grip was pleasantly strong and firm. Erica walked from the room, surprised that the conversation had ended so abruptly and stunned to be free.

As soon as she left, Ahmed summoned Zaki Riad, the assistant director, to his office. Riad had fifteen years' seniority in the department but had been passed over during Ahmed's meteoric rise to director. Although he was an intelligent, quick-witted man, his physical type was the exact opposite of Ahmed's. He was obese, with bloated features, and his hair was as dark and tightly curled as a karakul lamb's.

Ahmed had walked to the giant map of Egypt, turning when his assistant had seated himself. “What do you make of all this, Zaki?”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” answered Zaki, wiping his brow, which sweated despite the air conditioning. He enjoyed seeing Ahmed under pressure.

“I cannot for the life of me figure out why Gamal was shot,” said Ahmed, slamming his fist against his open palm. “God, a young man with children. Do you think
his death had anything to do with the fact he was following Erica Baron?”

“I cannot see how,” said Zaki, “but I guess there's always a chance.” The last comment was intended to sting. Zaki stuck an unlit pipe in his mouth, mindless of the ashes that drifted down onto his chest.

Ahmed covered his eyes with his hand and massaged his scalp; then slowly he let his hand slide down his face to stroke his luxuriant mustache. “It just doesn't make sense.” He turned and looked at the large map. “I wonder if there is something going on in Saqqara. Maybe some new tombs have been illicitly discovered.” He walked back and sat down behind his desk. “More disturbing, the immigration authorities notified me that Stephanos Markoulis arrived in Cairo today. As you know, he does not come here often.” Ahmed leaned forward, looking directly at Zaki Riad. “Tell me, what have the police reported about Abdul Hamdi?”

“Very little,” said Zaki. “Apparently he was robbed. The police were able to learn that the old man had recently experienced a marked change in fortune, moving his antique business from Luxor to Cairo. At the same time, he'd been able to purchase more valuable pieces. He must have had some money. So he was robbed.”

“Any idea where his money came from?” asked Ahmed.

“No, but there is someone who might. The old man does have a son in the antique business in Luxor.”

“Have the police spoken to the son?” asked Ahmed.

“Not that I know of,” said Zaki. “That would be too logical for the police. Actually, they're not all that interested.”

“I'm interested,” said Ahmed. “Arrange air transportation for me to go to Luxor tonight. I will pay Abdul Hamdi's son a visit in the morning. Also, send several additional guards to the Necropolis of Saqqara.”

“Are you sure this is the right time for you to leave Cairo?” asked Zaki, pointing with the stem of his pipe. “As you indicated, with Stephanos Markoulis in Cairo, something is happening.”

“Perhaps, Zaki,” said Ahmed, “but I think I need to get away and spend a day or so in my own house by the Nile. I cannot help but feel a tremendous responsibility for poor Gamal. When I feel this depressed, Luxor is an emotional balm.”

“And what about the American woman, Erica Baron?” Zaki lit his pipe with a stainless-steel lighter.

“She's fine. She's scared, but she seemed to have pulled herself together by the time she left. I'm not sure how I'd react if I'd witnessed two murders in twenty-four hours, especially if one of the victims fell on top of me.”

Zaki took several thoughtful puffs on his pipe before continuing. “Strange. But, Ahmed, when I asked about Miss Baron, I wasn't inquiring about her health. I want to know if you want her followed.”

“No,” said Ahmed angrily. “Not tonight. She's going to be with de Margeau.” Almost the instant the words left his mouth, Ahmed felt embarrassed. His emotion was out of place.

“This is not like you, Ahmed,” said Zaki, watching the director very closely. He'd known Ahmed for several years, and Ahmed had never shown any interest in women. Now, suddenly it seemed that Ahmed was jealous. Finding a potential human weakness in Ahmed made Zaki feel inwardly pleased. He'd grown to hate Ahmed's perfect record. “Perhaps it is best if you go to Luxor for a few days. I will certainly be happy to keep things under control here in Cairo, and I will look into Saqqara personally.”

 

As the government car pulled up to the Hilton, Erica still could not quite believe she had been released. She opened the door before the vehicle had come to a complete stop and thanked the driver as if he'd had something to do with her release. Entering the Hilton was a little like coming home.

Once again the lobby was extremely busy. The afternoon international flights had been discharging passengers in a steady stream. Most of them were waiting perched on their luggage as the inefficient hotel tried to deal with the daily onslaught.

Erica realized how out-of-place she must look. She was hot, sweaty, and a mess. The large bloodstain was still on her back, and her cotton pants were in sorry shape, smeared with dirt and torn on her right knee. If there had been an alternate route to her room she would have taken it. Unfortunately, she had to walk directly across the large red-and-blue Oriental rug beneath the main crystal chandelier. It was like being in a spotlight, and people began to stare.

One of the men at the registration desk caught sight of her and waved with his pen, pointing in her direction. Erica quickened her step, gaining on the elevator. She pressed the button, afraid to look behind her in case someone was coming to stop her. She pushed the elevator button several more times while the floor indicator
slowly came toward Ground. The door opened and she entered the car, asking the operator for the ninth floor. He nodded silently. The door began to close, but before it sealed, a hand wrapped around its lead edge, forcing the elevator man to reopen it. Erica backed against the rear of the car and held her breath.

“Hello, there,” said a large man wearing a stetson and cowboy boots. “Are you Erica Baron?”

Erica's mouth opened, but no words came out.

“My name is Jeffrey John Rice, from Houston. You are Erica Baron?” The man continued to keep the door from closing. The elevator operator stood like a stone statue.

Like a guilty child Erica nodded in affirmation.

“So nice to meet you, Miss Baron.” Jeffrey Rice held out his hand.

Erica lifted her own like an automaton. Jeffrey Rice pumped it exuberantly. “It's a pleasure, Miss Baron. I'd like you to meet my wife.”

Without letting go of her hand, Jeffrey Rice yanked Erica from the elevator. She stumbled forward, rescuing her tote as the strap slipped off her shoulder.

“We've been waiting for you for hours,” said Rice, pulling Erica toward the lobby.

After four or five clumsy steps she managed to extract her hand. “Mr. Rice,” she said, coming to a stop, “I'd like to meet your wife, but some other time. I've had a very strange day.”

“You do look a little ragged, dear, but let's have one drink.” He reached out again and took Erica's wrist.

“Mr. Rice!” said Erica sharply.

“Come on, honey. We've come halfway around the world to see you.”

Erica looked into Jeffrey Rice's tanned, immaculately barbered face. “What do you mean, Mr. Rice?”

“Exactly what I said. My wife and I have come from Houston to see you. We flew all night. Luckily I've my own plane. Least you can do is have a drink with us.”

Suddenly the name registered. Jeffrey Rice had the
Houston statue of Seti I. It had been late at night when she'd spoken to Dr. Lowery, but now she remembered.

“You've come from Houston?”

“That's right. Flew over. Landed a few hours ago. Now, come over and meet my wife, Priscilla.”

Erica allowed herself to be pulled back through the lobby to be introduced to Priscilla Rice, a Southern belle with a deep déecolletage and a very large diamond ring that effectively competed for sparkle with the enormous chandelier. Her Southern accent was even more pronounced than her husband's.

Jeffrey Rice herded his wife and Erica into the Taverne Lounge. His officious manner and loud voice got rapid service, especially since he freely passed out Egyptian one-pound notes as tips. Within the dim light of the cocktail lounge Erica felt a little less conspicuous. They sat in a corner booth, where Erica's torn and soiled clothes could not be seen.

Jeffrey Rice ordered straight bourbon for both himself and his wife and a vodka and tonic for Erica, who found herself relaxing, even laughing at the Texan's tall stories about their experiences at customs. Erica allowed herself a second vodka and tonic.

“Well, to business,” said Jeffrey Rice, lowering his voice. “I certainly don't want to spoil this party, but we have come a long way. Rumor has it that you've seen a statue of Pharaoh Seti I.”

Erica noticed that Rice's demeanor changed dramatically. She guessed that he was a shrewd businessman beneath the playful-Texan guise.

“Dr. Lowery said that you wanted some photos of my statue, particularly of the hieroglyphics in the base. I have those photos right here.” Jeffrey Rice drew an envelope from his jacket pocket and held it straight up in the air. “Now, I'm happy to give these to you, provided you tell me where you saw the statue you told Dr. Lowery about. You see, I was planning on giving my statue to my city of Houston, but it's not going to be so special if there's a whole bunch of them floating around. In other words, I want to buy that statue you saw. I want to buy
it bad. In fact, I'm willing to give ten thousand dollars to anyone who can just tell me where it is so that I can buy it. Yourself included.”

Putting her drink down, Erica stared at Jeffrey Rice. Having seen Cairo's unmitigated poverty, she knew that ten thousand dollars here would have the same effect as a billion dollars in New York. It would create unbelievable pressure in the Cairo underworld. Since Abdul Hamdi's death was doubtless related to the statue, the ten thousand dollars offered just for information could cause numerous additional deaths. It was a frightening thought.

Erica rapidly described her experience with Abdul Hamdi and the statue of Seti I. Rice listened intently, writing down Abdul Hamdi's name. “Do you know if anyone else has seen the statue?” he asked, tilting back his stetson.

“Not that I know of,” said Erica.

“Is there anyone else that knows Abdul Hamdi had the statue?”

“Yes,” said Erica. “A Monsieur Yvon de Margeau. He's staying at the Meridien Hotel. He indicated that Hamdi had corresponded with potential buyers around the world, so there are probably a lot of people that knew Hamdi had the statue.”

“Looks like this is going to be more fun than we expected,” said Rice, leaning across the table and patting his wife's slim wrist. Turning back to Erica, he handed her the envelope of photos. “Do you have any idea where the statue could be?”

Erica shook her head. “No idea whatsoever,” she said, taking the envelope. Despite the poor light, she could not wait to see the pictures, so she pulled them out and looked closely at the first one.

“That's some statue, isn't it?” said Rice, as if he were showing Erica pictures of his firstborn child. “It makes all that Tut stuff look like a child's toys.”

Jeffrey Rice was right. Looking at the photos, Erica admitted the statue was stunning. But she also noticed something else. As far as she could recall, the statue was
identical with the one she'd seen. Then she hesitated. Looking at Rice's statue, she saw that the right hand was holding the jewel-encrusted mace. She remembered that Abdul's statue held the mace in its left hand. The statues were not the same, they were mirror images! Erica shuffled through the rest of the photographs. There were pictures of the statue from every angle, very good photos, obviously professional. Finally, toward the bottom of the stack, were the close-ups. Erica felt her pulse quicken when she saw the hieroglyphics. It was too dark to see the symbols clearly, but by tilting the photo she was able to see the two pharaonic cartouches. There were the names, Seti I and Tutankhamen. Amazing.

“Miss Baron,” said Jeffrey Rice, “it would be our pleasure to have you join us for dinner.” Priscilla Rice smiled warmly as her husband extended the invitation.

“Thank you,” said Erica, replacing the photos in the envelope. “Unfortunately, I already have plans. Perhaps some other evening, if you are staying in Egypt.”

“Of course,” said Jeffrey Rice. “Or you and your guests could join us tonight.”

Erica thought for a moment, then declined. Jeffrey Rice and Yvon de Margeau would mix like oil and water. Erica was about to excuse herself when she thought of something else. “Mr. Rice, how did you buy your Seti I statue?” Her voice was hesitant, since she didn't know the propriety of the question.

“With money, my dear!” Jeffrey Rice laughed, slapping the table with an open hand. He obviously thought his joke was hilarious. Erica smiled weakly and waited, hoping there would be more.

“I heard about it from an art-dealer friend in New York. He called me up and said that there was an amazing piece of Egyptian sculpture that was going to be auctioned behind closed doors.”

“Closed doors?”

“Yeah, no publicity. Kinda hush-hush. Happens all the time.”

“Was it here in Egypt?” asked Erica.

“Nope, Zurich.”

“Switzerland,” said Erica incredulously. “Why Switzerland?”

Jeffrey Rice shrugged. “At that kind of auction you don't ask questions. There's a certain etiquette.”

“Do you know how it got to Zurich?” asked Erica.

“No,” said Jeffrey Rice. “As I said, you don't ask questions. It was arranged by one of the big banks there, and they tend to be very closemouthed. All they want is the money.” Smiling, he got up and offered to escort Erica back to the elevator. He obviously had no intention of saying more.

 

Erica entered her room with her head reeling. Jeffrey Rice's statements were as much to blame as the two drinks. While he had waited with her for the elevator, he had casually mentioned that the statue was not the first Egyptian antiquity he'd purchased in Zurich. He'd gotten several gold statues and a wonderful pectoral necklace, all possibly dating from the time of Seti I.

Putting the envelope with the photos down on the bureau, Erica thought about her earlier conception of the black market: somebody would find a small artifact in the sand and would sell it to someone who wanted it. Now she was forced to admit that the final transacting took place in the paneled conference rooms of international banks. It was incredible.

Erica removed her blouse, looked at the bloodstain, and impulsively threw it away. Her pants followed the blouse to the same wastebasket. Removing her bra, she noticed the blood had even soaked through to the back strap. But she could not cavalierly discard her bra. Bras were difficult for Erica to buy, and there were only a few brands that were comfortable. Before doing something rash, she opened the top drawer of the bureau to count how many she'd brought along. But instead of counting, she found herself just looking at her underclothes. Lingerie was an extravagance that Erica had allowed herself even during her financially lean years as a fulltime student. She enjoyed the reassuring feminine feel of expensive underwear. Consequently she was careful
with them, and when she had unpacked, she had taken the time to lay things out neatly. But now the drawer looked different. Someone had been in her belongings!

Erica stood up and looked around the room. The bed was made, so obviously housekeeping had been in, but would they go into her clothes? It was possible. Quickly she checked the middle drawer, pulling out her Levi's. In the side pocket were her diamond earrings, the last gift she'd received from her father. In the back pocket was her return airline ticket and the bulk of her traveler's checks. After finding everything in its place, she heaved a sigh of relief and returned the jeans.

Looking back into the top drawer, she wondered if she could have disturbed her own belongings that morning. Walking into the bathroom, she picked up her plastic makeup bag and examined its contents. Obviously she did not organize her makeup, yet she used the various articles in an orderly fashion, dropping each into the bag after using it. Her moisturizer should have been close to the bottom; instead it was on the top. Also on the top were her birth-control pills, which she always took in the evening. Erica looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes reflected a feeling of violation, similar to that generated by the boy who had felt her up the day before. Someone had had his hands in her things. Erica wondered if she should report the incident to the hotel management. But what would she say, since nothing was taken?

Returning to the foyer, Erica nervously locked her door with the dead bolt. Then she walked over and looked out through the sliding glass door, where the fiery Egyptian sun was reaching for the western horizon. The sphinx looked like a hungry lion ready to pounce. The pyramids thrust their massive shapes against a bloodred sky. Erica wished she felt happier to be within their shadow.