Robin Cook - Sphinx

“No,” said Erica. “He gave me a fake scarab, which looks real, and he did convince me to use his 1929 Baedeker instead of my own Nagel’s.”

“Where are these things?” asked Yvon.

“Right here,” said Erica. She reached into her tote bag and extracted the Baedeker without the cover. It had finally detached, and Erica had left it in her room. The scarab was in her coin purse.

Yvon picked up the scarab and held it close to the candle. “Are you sure this is a fake?”

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” said Erica. “I thought it was real too, but Hamdi insisted. Said his son made it.”

Yvon carefully put the scarab down and picked up the guidebook. “These Baedekers are fantastic,” he said. He flipped through the volume carefully, viewing each page. “They are the best guides ever written for the Egyptian sites, particularly Luxor.” Yvon pushed the coverless book back toward Erica. “Do you mind if I have this authenticated?” he asked, holding the scarab between his thumb and forefinger.

“You mean carbon-dated?” asked Erica.

“Yes,” said Yvon. “This looks very good to me, and it has the cartouche of Seti I. I think it’s bone.”

“You’re right about the material. Hamdi said his son carved them of bone from mummies in the ancient public catacombs. So it will date properly. He also said that they make the cut surfaces look old by feeding them to turkeys.”

Yvon laughed. “The antique industry in Egypt is extremely resourceful. Just the same, I’d like to have this scarab examined.”

“It’s fine with me, but I would like to have it back.” Erica took a last sip of coffee but ended up with bitter grounds in her mouth. “Yvon, why is Ahmed Khazzan so interested in your affairs?”

“I think I worry him,” said Yvon. “But why he spoke to you rather than to me, I cannot answer. He thinks of me as a dangerous collector of antiquities. He knows I’ve made some important acquisitions while trying to unravel the black-market routing. The fact that I am interested in doing something about the black market has no meaning. Ahmed Khazzan is part of the bureaucracy here. Rather than accept my help, they probably fear for their jobs. Besides, there is the lingering hatred of the British and the French. And I am French and a little English.”

“You are part English?” asked Erica with disbelief.

“I don’t admit it often,” said Yvon with his strong French accent. “European genealogy is more complicated than most people think. My family residence is the Château Valois near Rambouillet, which is between Paris and Chartres. My father is the Marquis de Margeau, but my mother was from the English Harcourt family.”

“Sounds a long way from Toledo, Ohio,” said Erica quietly.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I said, it sounds intriguing,” said Erica, smiling as he settled the bill.

Leaving the restaurant Yvon slipped his hand around Erica’s waist. It felt good. The evening air had cooled considerably and the almost full moon shone between the branches of the eucalyptus trees lining the road. A chorus of insects resounded in the darkness, reminding Erica of August nights as a child in Ohio. It was a comfortable memory.

“What kind of important Egyptian antiquities have you purchased?” asked Erica as they drew near to Yvon’s Fiat.

“Some wonderful pieces that I’d love to show you sometime,” said Yvon. “I’m particularly fond of several small golden statues. One of Nekhbet and another of Isis.”

“Have you purchased any Seti I pieces?” asked Erica. Yvon opened the passenger door to the car. “Possibly a necklace. Most of my pieces are from the New Kingdom, and a number could be from the time of Seti I.”

Erica entered the car and Yvon told her to use her seat belt. “I’ve done a little auto racing,” said Yvon, “and I always use them.”

“I could have guessed,” said Erica, remembering the ride the day before.

Yvon laughed. “Everyone says I drive a little fast. I enjoy it.” He reached for his driving gloves on the dash. “I suppose you know about as much about Seti I as I. It is curious. It is known very accurately when his fabulous rock-cut tomb was plundered in ancient times. The faithful priests in the twentieth dynasty were able to save his mummy, and they documented their efforts very well.”

“I saw the mummy of Seti I this morning,” said Erica.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” asked Yvon, starting the engine. “The fragile body of Seti I comes down to us essentially intact. Seti I was one of the pharaonic mummies in that fabulous cache illicitly found by the clever Rasul family at the end of the nineteenth century.” Yvon turned and leaned over the front seat to back up the car. “The Rasuls slowly exploited that find over a ten-year period before they were caught. An amazing story.” He pulled away from the restaurant and accelerated toward Cairo. “A few people still think there are some Seti I belongings to be discovered. When you visit his enormous tomb in Luxor, you’ll see places where people have obtained permits to cut tunnels during this century, trying to find a secret room. The stimulus for this has been occasional Seti pieces surfacing on the black market. But it’s not surprising to see some Seti artifacts. He probably was buried with a staggering array of possessions. And even if his tomb was stripped, they often recycled funerary objects in ancient Egypt. The stuff was probably buried and robbed over and over again down through the years. Consequently a lot of it is most likely still under ground. Very few people have any idea how many peasants currently dig for antiquities in Luxor. Every night they shift the desert sand, and occasionally they find something spectacular.”

“Like the Seti I statue?” said Erica, looking again at Yvon’s profile. He smiled and she could see the whiteness of his teeth against his tanned skin.

“Exactly,” he said. “But can you imagine what Seti’s unplundered tomb must have looked like? My God, it must have been fantastic. The treasures of Tutankhamen dazzle us today, but they were insignificant compared to Seti I’s.”

Erica knew Yvon was right, especially after seeing the statue at Abdul Hamdi’s. Seti I had been a major pharaoh who ruled an empire, Tutankhamen an insignificant boy king who probably never held any real power.

“Merde!” shouted Yvon as they hit one of the ubiquitous potholes. The car shimmied from the impact. As they entered Cairo, the road deteriorated and they had to slow down. The city began as pieces of cardboard propped up with sticks. They were the housing of the newly arrived immigrants. The cardboard gave way to sheets of metal and cloth and occasional oil barrels. Finally the shantytown was superseded by crumbly mud brick and eventually the city proper, but the feeling of poverty hung in the air like a miasma.

“Would you care to come to my suite for an after-dinner brandy?” asked Yvon.

Erica glanced over at him, trying to sort out her feelings. There was a good chance that Yvon’s offer was not as innocent as it sounded. But she was definitely attracted to him, and after the appalling day, the idea of being close to someone was very appealing. Still, physical attraction was not always a reliable guide to behavior, and Yvon was almost too good to be true. Looking at him, she admitted that he was beyond her experience. It was too much too soon.

“Thank you, Yvon,” said Erica warmly, “but I think not. Perhaps you’d like to have another drink at the Hilton.”

“But of course.” For a moment Erica felt a little disappointed Yvon wasn’t more persistent. Perhaps she was a victim of her own fantasies.

Reaching the hotel, they decided a walk would be better than the smoke-filled Taverne. Hand in hand they crossed the busy Korneish-el-Nil Boulevard to the Nile and wandered out onto the El Tahrir bridge. Yvon pointed out the Meridien Hotel on the tip of Roda island. A lone felucca silently slipped through the dappled path of moonlight on the water.