Robin Cook - Sphinx

“Of course,” said Erica quickly.

There was a pause. Yvon knew something was wrong.

“We both agreed last night,” said Yvon, “that we should have spent yesterday together. So how about today? Let me take you to some of the sights.”

“No thank you,” said Erica. “I have a surprise guest who arrived last night from the States.”

“No matter,” said Yvon. “Your guest is welcome.”

“The guest happens to be…” Erica hesitated. “Boyfriend” seemed so immature.

“A lover?” asked Yvon hesitantly.

“A boyfriend,” said Erica. She couldn’t think of anything more sophisticated.

Yvon slammed the phone down. “Women,” he said with anger, pressing his lips together.

Raoul looked up from his week-old Paris Match, trying not to smile. “The American girl is giving you some trouble.”

“Shut up,” said Yvon with uncharacteristic irritation. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke up at the ceiling in turbulent blue billows. He thought it was entirely possible that Erica’s guest had arrived unexpectedly. Yet there was a lingering doubt that she had purposely not told him, to lead him on.

He stubbed out his cigarette and walked over to the balcony. He was not accustomed to being upset about women. If they proved troublesome, he left. It was as simple as that. The world was full of women. He stared down at a dozen feluccas heading south before the wind. The placid view made him feel better.

“Raoul, I want Erica Baron tailed again,” he called.

“Fine,” said Raoul. “I have Khalifa on hold at the Scheherazade Hotel.”

“Try to tell him to be conservative,” said Yvon. “I don’t want any more unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Khalifa insists the man he shot had been stalking Erica.”

“The man was working for the Department of Antiquities. It’s inconceivable that he was stalking Erica.”

“Well, I assure you Khalifa is first-class. I know,” said Raoul.

“He’d better be,” said Yvon. “Stephanos expects to meet with the girl today. Warn Khalifa. There might be trouble.”

“Dr. Sarwat Fakhry can see you now,” said a robust secretary with a bulging bosom. She was about twenty and brimming with health and enthusiasm, a relief from the otherwise oppressive atmosphere of the Egyptian Museum.

The curator’s office was like a dim cave with shuttered windows. A rattling air conditioner kept the room cool. It was paneled in dark wood, like a Victorian study. One wall was dressed with a fake fireplace, certainly out of place in Cairo, the others completely covered with book-shelves. In the middle of the room was a large desk stacked with books, journals, and papers. Behind the desk sat Dr. Fakhry, who looked up over the tops of his glasses as Erica and Richard entered. He was a small nervous man, about sixty, with pointed features and wiry gray hair.

“Welcome, Dr. Baron,” he said without getting up. Erica’s letters of introduction trembled slightly in his hand. “I’m always happy to welcome someone from the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. We are indebted to Reisner for his excellent work.” Dr. Fakhry was looking directly at Richard.

“I’m not Dr. Baron,” said Richard, smiling.

Erica took another step forward. “I’m Dr. Baron, and thank you for your hospitality.”

Dr. Fakhry’s look of confusion gave way to embarrassed understanding. “Excuse me,” he said simply. “From your letter of introduction I see that you are planning to do some on-site translations of New Kingdom monuments. I am pleased. There is much to be done. If I can be of any assistance, I am at your service.”

“Thank you,” said Erica. “Actually I did want to ask a favor. I am interested in some background information of Seti I. Would it be possible for me to review the museum’s material?”

“Certainly,” said Dr. Fakhry. His voice changed slightly. It was more questioning, as if Erica’s request surprised him. “Unfortunately, we don’t know very much about Seti I, as you are undoubtedly aware. In addition to the translations we have of the inscriptions on his monuments, we do have some of Seti I’s correspondence from his early campaigns in Palestine. But that’s about all. I’m certain that you can add to our knowledge with your onsite translations. Those we have are quite old, and much has been learned since they were made.”

“What about his mummy?” asked Erica.

Dr. Fakhry handed Erica’s letters back to her. The tremor increased as he extended his arm. “Yes, we do have his mummy. It was part of the Deir el-Bahri cache illicitly found and plundered by the Rasul family. It is on display upstairs.” He glanced at Richard, who smiled again.

“Was the mummy ever closely examined?” asked Erica.

“Indeed,” said Dr. Fakhry. “It was autopsied.”

“Autopsied?” asked Richard with disbelief. “How do you autopsy a mummy?”

Erica grasped Richard’s arm above the elbow. He got the message and remained silent. Dr. Fakhry continued as if he had not heard the query. “And it was recently X-rayed by an American team. I will gladly have all the material made available to you in our library.” Dr. Fakhry got to his feet and opened the office door. He walked partially bent over, giving the impression of a hunchback with his hands curled at his sides.

“One other request,” said Erica. “Do you have much material on the opening of Tutankhamen’s tomb?”

Richard passed Erica and checked out the secretary with a sly sideways glance. She was busy leaning over her typewriter.

“Ah, there we can help you,” said Dr. Fakhry as they emerged in the marbled hall. “As you know, we are planning to use some of the funds generated by the world tour of the ‘Treasures of Tutankhamen’ to build a special museum to house his artifacts. We now have a full set of Carter’s notes from what he called his ‘Journal of Entry’ on microfilm, as well as a significant collection of correspondence among Carter, Carnarvon, and others associated with the discovery of the tomb.”

Dr. Fakhry deposited Erica and Richard in the hands of a silent young man whom he introduced as Talat. Talat listened carefully to the doctor’s complicated instructions, then bowed and disappeared through a side door.

“He will bring the material we have on Seti I,” said Dr. Fakhry. “Thank you for coming in, and if I can be of further assistance, please let me know.” He shook hands with Erica, keying off an involuntary facial spasm that pulled his mouth into a sneer. He left, his hands drawn up and his fingers rhythmically clutching at nothing.

“God, what a place,” said Richard when the curator had left. “Charming fellow.”

“Dr. Fakhry happens to have done some fine work. His specialty is ancient Egyptian religion, funerary practices, and mummification methods.”

“Mummification methods! I could have guessed. I know a big church in Paris who’d hire him in a minute.”

“Try to be serious, Richard,” said Erica, smiling despite herself.

They took seats at one of the long battered oak tables that dotted the large room. Everything was covered with a fine layer of Cairo dust. Tiny footprints crossed the floor beneath Erica’s chair. Richard told her it had been a rat.

Talat brought back two large red paper envelopes, each tied with a string. He gave them to Richard, who smiled scornfully and gave them to Erica. The first was marked “Seti I, A.” Erica opened it and spread the contents on the table. They were reprints of articles about the pharaoh. A number of them were in French, a couple in German, but most were in English.

“Pssst.” Talat touched Richard’s arm.

Richard turned, surprised at the noise.

“You want scarabs from the ancient mummies. Very cheap.” Talat extended a closed hand, palm up. While he glanced over his shoulder like a pornography peddler in the fifties, his fingers slowly opened to reveal two slightly damp scarabs.