Robin Cook - Sphinx

There was a message and a number for Erica to call when they got back to the hotel. There was also a vacant room available for Richard. He hesitated and gave Erica a pleading look before going over to the registration desk to make the arrangements. Erica retired to one of the pay telephones but had no luck with the complicated machine. She told Richard that she’d make her call from her room.

The message had been simple. “I would like the pleasure of seeing you at your earliest convenience. Stephanos Markoulis.” Erica shivered at the prospect of meeting with someone actually involved in the black market and possibly a murder. But he had sold the first Seti I statue and he could be important if she wanted to find its mate. She remembered Yvon’s admonition to choose a public place, and for the first time she was actually glad that Richard was with her.

The hotel operator was infinitely more capable than the mechanical device in the lobby. The call went through quickly. “Hello, hello.” Stephanos’ voice had a commanding quality.

“This is Erica Baron.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you for calling. I am looking forward to meeting you. We have a mutual friend, Yvon de Margeau. Charming fellow. I believe he told you that I would call and that I’d like to get together for a chat. Can we meet this afternoon, say, around two-thirty?”

“Where do you have in mind?” said Erica, mindful of Yvon’s warning. She heard a deep rumbling sound in the distance.

“It’s up to you, dear,” said Stephanos, speaking louder over the background noise.

Erica bristled at the familiarity of the word. “I don’t know,” she said, looking at her watch. It was eleven-thirty. Richard and she would probably be in the bazaar at two-thirty.

“How about right there in the Hilton?” suggested Stephanos.

“I will be in the Khan el Khalili bazaar this afternoon,” said Erica. She thought about mentioning Richard, but she decided against it. It seemed a good idea to retain some element of surprise.

“Just a minute,” said Stephanos. Erica could hear a muffled conversation. Stephanos had put his hand over the receiver. “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said in a voice that conveyed he was not sorry. “Do you know the Al Azhar mosque next to the Khan el Khalili?”

“Yes,” said Erica. She remembered Yvon pointing it out to her.

“We’ll meet there,” said Stephanos. “It’s easy to find. Two-thirty. I’m really looking forward to seeing you, dear. Yvon de Margeau had some nice things to say about you.”

Erica said good-bye and hung up. She felt distinctly uneasy and even a little afraid. But she had made up her mind to go through with it because of Yvon; she was certain he would never allow her to meet with Stephanos if there was real danger involved. Nonetheless, she wished it was over.

Dressed in loose-fitting white cotton shirt and slacks, Ahmed Khazzan felt reasonably relaxed. He still was perplexed about Gamal Ibrahim’s violent death but was able to ascribe the event to the inscrutable workings of Allah, and his sense of guilt abated. As a leader, he knew he had to face such episodes.

During the previous evening he’d made his obligatory visit to the home of his parents. He loved his mother deeply but disapproved of her decision to stay at home to care for his invalid father. His mother had been one of the first women in Egypt to obtain a university degree, and Ahmed would have preferred it if she had used her education. She was a highly intelligent woman and could have been a great help to Ahmed. His father had been critically injured in the 1956 war, the same war that had taken Ahmed’s older brother. Ahmed did not know a family in Egypt that had not been touched with tragedy from the many wars, and when he thought about it, it made him tremble with anger.

After his visit to his parents, Ahmed had slept long and well in his own rambling mud-brick home in Luxor. His housekeeper had prepared a wonderful breakfast of fresh bread and coffee. And Zaki had called, reporting that two special plainclothes agents had been dispatched to Saqqara. Everything seemed quiet in Cairo. And perhaps most important, he had successfully handled a potential family crisis. A cousin, whom he had promoted to chief guard of the Necropolis of Luxor, had become restive and wanted to move to Cairo. Ahmed had tried to reason with him, but when that did not work, he had dispensed with diplomacy, and becoming angry, had ordered him to stay. The cousin’s father, Ahmed’s uncle-in-law, had tried to intervene. Ahmed had to remind the older man that his permit to run the concession stand in the Valley of the Kings could easily be revoked. That being settled, Ahmed had been able to sit down to some paperwork. So the world seemed better and more organized than the day before.

Placing the last of the memoranda he had brought to read in his briefcase, Ahmed had a sense of accomplishment. It would have taken him twice as long to go through the same material in Cairo. It was Luxor. He loved Luxor. Ancient Thebes. For Ahmed there was magic in the air that made him feel happy and at ease.

He stood up from his chair in the large living room. His home was dazzling white stucco outside, and although rustic inside, it was spotlessly clean. The building had been made by connecting a series of existing mud-brick structures. The result was a narrow house, only twenty feet wide, but very deep, with a long hall running on the left side. A series of guestrooms opened on the right. The kitchen was in the back of the house and was quite crude, without running water. Behind the kitchen was a small courtyard bounded by a stable for his prized possession, a three-year-old black Arabian stallion he called Sawda.

Ahmed had ordered his houseman to have Sawda saddled and ready by eleven-thirty. He planned to interrogate Tewfik Hamdi, Abdul Hamdi’s son, at his antique shop before lunch. Ahmed felt it was important to do this himself. Then, after the midday heat had abated, he planned to cross the Nile and ride unannounced to the Valley of the Kings to inspect the new security system he’d put into effect. There would be time to return to Cairo in the evening.

Sawda pawed the ground impatiently when Ahmed appeared. The young stallion was like a Renaissance study, with each muscle defined in flawless black marble. His face was sharply chiseled, with flaring nostrils. His eyes rivaled Ahmed’s for their black watery depth. Once en route, Ahmed sensed the sheer power and life force in the exuberant animal beneath him. It was with difficulty that he kept the horse from exploding in a burst of thunderous speed. Ahmed knew that Sawda’s unpredictable personality mirrored his own volatile passions. Because of their similarities, sharp words spoken in Arabic and forceful use of the reins were needed to control the stallion so that rider and horse could move as one in the sun-speckled shade of the palms along the banks of the Nile.

Tewfik Hamdi’s antique shop was one of many nestled within a series of dusty crooked streets behind the ancient Temple of Luxor. They were all close to the major hotels and depended on the unsuspecting tourists for their continued existence. Most of the artifacts they sold were fakes manufactured on the West Bank. Ahmed did not know the exact location of Tewfik Hamdi’s shop, so once he got in the area, he asked.

He was told the street and the number, and he found the shop without difficulty. But it was locked. It wasn’t just closed for lunch. It was boarded up for the night.

With Sawda hitched in a patch of shade, Ahmed inquired about Tewfik in the neighboring shops. The answers were consistent. Tewfik’s shop had not been open all day, and, yes, it was strange, because Tewfik Hamdi had not missed a day in years. One proprietor added that Tewfik’s absence might have something to do with his father’s recent death in Cairo.