Sphinx (25 page)

“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 difficulty 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.

“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.”

“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?”