Robin Cook - Sphinx

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?”