Robin Cook - Sphinx

Biting her lip to hide her anxiety, Erica looked back at Ahmed. To her surprise, he was busy with an electric hot plate.

“Would you care for some tea?” he asked, turning around.

“No, thank you,” said Erica, numbed by the weird circumstances. Gradually her mind began to suggest that she had jumped to conclusions, and she thanked heaven that she had not blurted out a confession before hearing what the Arab had to say.

Ahmed poured himself a cup of tea and brought it over to the desk. Slowly stirring in two sugars, he once more brought his powerful gaze to bear on Erica. She quickly lowered her eyes to avoid the impact, speaking without looking up. “I would like to know why I have been brought to this office.”

Ahmed didn’t answer. Erica looked up to make sure he’d heard her, and as their eyes met, Ahmed’s voice lashed out like a whip.

“I want to know what you are doing in Egypt,” he said, practically shouting.

His anger took Erica by surprise, and she stumbled over her words. “I’m… I’m here… I’m an Egyptologist.”

“And you are Jewish, aren’t you?” snapped Ahmed.

Erica was smart enough to realize that Ahmed was trying to push her off balance, but she wasn’t sure she was strong enough to resist his attack. “Yes,” she said simply.

“I want to know why you are in Egypt,” repeated Ahmed, raising his voice again.

“I came here-” said Erica defensively.

“I want to know what the purpose of your trip is and who you work for.”

“I don’t work for anyone, and there was no purpose for my trip,” said Erica nervously.

“You expect me to believe there was no purpose for your trip?” Ahmed said cynically. “Come, now, Erica Baron.” He smiled, and his swarthy complexion enhanced the whiteness of his teeth.

“Of course there was a purpose,” said Erica, her voice breaking. “What I meant was that I didn’t come here for some ulterior motive.” Her voice trailed off as she remembered her complicated problems with Richard.

“You are not convincing,” said Ahmed. “Not at all.”

“I’m sorry,” said Erica. “I’m an Egyptologist. I’ve studied about ancient Egypt for eight years. I work in an Egyptology department in a museum. I’ve always wanted to come. I had had plans to come years ago, but my father’s death made it impossible. It wasn’t until this year that I could manage it. I’ve made arrangements to do a little work while I’m here, but mostly it is a vacation.”

“What kind of work?”

“I plan to do some on-site translation of New Kingdom hieroglyphics in Upper Egypt.”

“You’re not here to buy antiquities?”

“Heavens, no,” said Erica.

“How long have you known Yvon Julien de Margeau?” He leaned forward, his eyes riveted to Erica’s.

“I met him for the first time today,” Erica blurted.

“How did you meet?”

Her pulse quickened, and perspiration reappeared on her forehead. Did Ahmed know about the murder after all? A moment earlier she would have said no, but now she wasn’t certain. “We met in the bazaar,” stammered Erica. She held her breath.

“Do you know that Monsieur de Margeau has been known to purchase valuable Egyptian national treasures?”

Erica was afraid her relief was apparent. Obviously Ahmed did not know about the murder. “No,” she said. “I had no idea.”

“Do you have any comprehension,” continued Ahmed, “of the extent of the problem we face trying to stop the black market in antiquities?” He stood up and walked over to the map of Egypt.

“I have some idea,” said Erica, confounded by the multiple directions of the conversation. She still did not know why she had been brought to Ahmed’s office.

“The situation is very bad,” said Ahmed. “Take, for instance, the highly destructive theft in 1974 of ten slabs of hieroglyphic relief from the Temple of Dendera. A tragedy, a national disgrace.” Ahmed’s index finger rested on the red-topped pin stuck in the map at the location of the Temple of Dendera. “It had to be an inside job. But the case was never broken. The poverty works against us here in Egypt.” Ahmed’s voice trailed off. His face reflected strain and commitment. Carefully his index finger touched the red tops of other pins. “Each one of these indicates a major antiquities theft. If I had a reasonable-sized staff, and if I had some money to pay the guards a decent wage, then I could do something about all this.” Ahmed was speaking more to himself than to Erica. Turning, he seemed almost surprised to see her in his office. “What is Monsieur de Margeau doing in Egypt?” he asked, his anger returning.

“I don’t know,” said Erica. She thought about the Seti statue and Abdul Hamdi. She knew if she talked about the statue she’d have to talk about the murder.

“How long is he staying?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. I only met the man today.”

“But you had dinner with him tonight.”

“That’s right,” said Erica defensively.

Ahmed walked back toward the desk. He leaned forward and looked down threateningly into Erica’s gray-green eyes. She could sense his intensity and tried to return his gaze, but without much success. She did feel a little more confident, realizing that Ahmed was interested in Yvon, not her, but she was still afraid. Besides, she had lied. She knew Yvon was there for the statue.

“What did you learn about Monsieur de Margeau during your dinner?”

“That he is a charming man,” said Erica evasively.

Ahmed slammed his hand down on his desk, sending some of the carefully sharpened pencils flying and making Erica flinch.

“I’m not interested in his personality,” said Ahmed slowly. “I want to know why Yvon de Margeau is in Egypt.”

“Well, why don’t you ask him?” said Erica finally. “All I did was go to dinner with the man.”

“Do you often go to dinner with men you just meet?” asked Ahmed.

Erica studied Ahmed’s face very carefully. The question surprised her, but then, almost everything had been surprising. His voice suggested a kind of disappointment, but Erica knew that was absurd.

“I very rarely go to dinner with strangers,” she said defiantly, “but I felt immediately comfortable with Yvon de Margeau and I thought he was charming.”

Ahmed walked over to his jacket and carefully put it on. Taking the last of his tea in a gulp, he looked back to Erica. “For your own good, I would ask you to keep this conversation confidential. Now I will take you back to your hotel.”

Erica was more confused than ever. Watching Ahmed retrieve the pencils that had fallen from the desk, Erica suddenly was overcome with guilt. The man was obviously sincere in his desire to contain the black market in antiquities, and she was withholding information. At the same time, the experience with Ahmed was frightening; as Yvon had warned her, he certainly did not behave like any American officials she had known. She decided to let him take her back to the hotel without saying anything. After all, she could always contact him if she felt she had to.

Yvon Julien de Margeau had on a red silk Christian Dior robe tied loosely at the waist, exposing most of his silver-haired chest. The sliding glass doors of suite 800 were all open, allowing the cool desert breeze to rustle gently through the room. A table had been placed on the wide balcony, and from where Yvon was sitting he could look north across the Nile toward the delta. Gezira island, with its slender phallic observation tower, loomed in the mid-distance. On the right bank, Yvon could see the Hilton, and his mind kept returning to Erica. She was very different from any of the women he had known. He was both shocked and attracted by her passionate interest in Egyptology and was confused by her talk of career. After a moment he shrugged, considering her in the context with which he was most familiar. She was not the most beautiful woman he’d been with of late, and yet there was something about her that had suggested a subtle yet powerful sensuality.