Robin Cook - Sphinx

Heading back toward Sawda, Ahmed passed directly in front of the shop. The boarded door caught his attention. Looking more closely, Ahmed found a long fresh crack in one of the boards. It appeared as if a portion had been torn off and then replaced. Ahmed inserted his fingers between the boards and pulled. There was no movement whatsoever. Looking up at the top of the crude shutter, Ahmed noticed that the boards were nailed to the doorjamb instead of being hooked from inside. He decided that Tewfik Hamdi must have left with the expectation of being gone for some time.

Ahmed stepped back from the building, stroking his mustache. Then he shrugged his shoulders and walked back toward Sawda. He thought that it probably was true that Tewfik Hamdi had gone to Cairo. Ahmed wondered how he could find out where Tewfik Hamdi lived.

En route to his horse, Ahmed met an old family friend and stopped to chat; his thoughts, however, strayed beyond the exchanged pleasantries. There was something particularly unsettling about Tewfik nailing his door shut. As soon as he could, Ahmed excused himself, skirted the commercial block, and entered the maze of open passageways that led into the area behind the shops. The noontime sun beat down and reflected off the stuccoed walls, bringing perspiration to his forehead. He felt a rivulet of sweat trickle down the small of his back.

Directly behind the antique shops, Ahmed found himself in a warren of hastily made shelters. As he continued, chickens scattered and naked young children paused in their play to stare at him. After some difficulty and several false turns, Ahmed arrived at the rear door of Tewfik Hamdi’s antique shop. Through the slats of the door he could see a small brick courtyard.

While several three-year-old boys watched, Ahmed put his shoulder against the wooden door and forced it open far enough to enter. The courtyard was about fifteen feet long, with another wooden door at the far end. An open doorway was on the left. As Ahmed returned the wooden door to its original position, he saw a dark brown rat dash from the open doorway across the courtyard into a clay drainage pipe. The air was heavy, hot, and still.

The open doorway led into a small room where Tewfik apparently lived. Ahmed stepped over the threshold. On a simple wooden table a rotting mango and a wedge of goat cheese lay covered with flies. Everything else in the room had been opened and dumped. A cabinet in the corner had its door torn off. Papers were indiscriminately thrown about. Several holes had been dug in the mud-brick walls. Ahmed surveyed the scene with mounting anxiety, trying to comprehend what had happened.

Quickly he moved from the apartment to the door into the shop. It was unlocked and swung open with an agonized rasp. Inside, it was dark. Only small pencils of light penetrated the slats of the boarded front doorway, and Ahmed paused while his eyes adjusted from the harsh sunlight. He heard the scurrying of tiny feet. More rats.

The disarray in the shop was much greater than in the sleeping room. Huge cabinets lining the walls had been pulled down, splintered, and thrown into a large pile in the center of the room. Their contents had been smashed and scattered. It was as if a cyclone had hit the shop. Ahmed had to lift portions of the broken furniture to enter. He picked his way to the center of the shop; then he froze. He’d found Tewfik Hamdi. Tortured. Dead. Tewfik had been pulled over the wooden counter, which was stained with dried blood. Each hand had been nailed palm down to the counter with a single spike, his arms spread apart. Almost all Tewfik’s fingernails had been pulled out. Then his wrists had been cut. He had been forced to watch himself bleed to death. His bloodless face was ghostly pale, and a filthy rag had been stuffed in his mouth to silence his screams, making his cheeks bulge grotesquely.

Ahmed shooed away the flies; he noticed the rats had been feasting on the corpse. The bestiality of the scene revolted him, and the fact that it had occurred in his beloved Luxor enraged him. With the rage came a fear that the sicknesses and sins of urban Cairo would spread like a plague. Ahmed knew he had to contain the infestation.

He bent down and looked into the vacant eyes of Tewfik Hamdi. They mirrored the horror they had witnessed as their own life had ebbed. But why? Ahmed stood up. The stench of death was overwhelming. Carefully he picked his way back across the debris-strewn floor to the small courtyard. The sunlight fell warm on his face, and he stood there for a moment, breathing deeply. He knew he could not return to Cairo until he knew more. His thoughts turned to Yvon de Margeau. Whenever he was around, there was trouble.

Ahmed squeezed out through the door to the alley and pulled it shut behind him. He’d decided to go directly to the main police station near the Luxor railway depot; then he’d call Cairo. Mounting Sawda, he wondered what Tewfik Hamdi had done or what he’d known to warrant such a fate.

“Wonderful shop,” said Richard as he entered from the busy alleyway. “Good selection of merchandise. I can do all my Christmas shopping here.”

Erica could not believe the emptiness of the room. Nothing remained of Antica Abdul except for some bits of broken pottery. It was as if the shop had never existed. Even the front window glass had been removed. There were no beads in the entranceway; no rugs or curtains, not a piece of cloth or cabinetry remained.

“I can’t believe this,” said Erica, walking over to where the glass topped counter had been. Bending down, she picked up a potsherd. “Across here hung a heavy drape, dividing the room.” She walked back to the rear and turned to face Richard. “I was in here when the murder happened. God, it was so awful. The killer was standing right where you are, Richard.”

Richard looked down at his feet and stepped away from the guilty spot. “Looks like the thieves stole everything,” he said. “With the poverty here, I suppose everything has a value.”

“You’re undoubtedly right,” said Erica, taking a flashlight from her tote bag, “but the place looks more than just burglarized. These holes in the walls-they weren’t here before.” She flipped on the light and looked into the depths of some of the holes.

“A flashlight!” said Richard. “You’re really prepared.”

“Anyone who comes to Egypt without a flashlight is making a mistake.”

Richard walked over to one of the fresh niches and scraped some of the loose dried mud onto the floor. “Cairo vandalism, I guess.”

Erica shook her head. “I think this place has been searched very carefully.”

Richard looked around, noting how the floor had been dug up in places. “Maybe, but so what? I mean, what could they have been looking for?”

Erica nibbled the inside of her cheek, a habit she had when concentrating. Richard’s question was reasonable. Perhaps Cairenes regularly hid money or valuables in walls or under the floor. But the violation reminded her of her own room being searched. On impulse she mounted the flash attachment on her Polaroid and took a photo of the interior of the shop.

Richard sensed Erica’s uneasiness. “Does it bother you to return here?”

“No,” said Erica. She did not want to stimulate Richard’s overprotectiveness. But in fact she did feel extremely uneasy within the remains of Antica Abdul. It emphasized the reality of Abdul Hamdi’s murder. “We’ve got ten minutes to get to the Al Azhar mosque. I want to be on time for Mr. Stephanos Markoulis.” She hurried out of the shop, glad to leave.

As they entered the crowded alleyway, Khalifa pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on. His jacket was draped again over his right hand, concealing the Stechkin semiautomatic. It was cocked. Raoul had told him that Erica was meeting Stephanos sometime during the afternoon, and he did not want to lose her in the confusion of the bazaar. The Greek was known for his ruthless violence, and Khalifa was being well-paid not to take chances.