Robin Cook - Sphinx

“Yes,” said Erica. Actually, she had no idea. It was hard to even guess.

“Did Hamdi talk to you about such a statue?” asked Stephanos. His voice had a new seriousness.

“He did,” said Erica. The fact that she knew so little made her feel particularly vulnerable.

“Did Hamdi say from whom he’d obtained the statue or where it was going?” Stephanos’ face was deadly serious, and Erica shivered a little despite the heat. She tried to decide what Stephanos hoped to learn from her. It had to be where the statue was going before the murder. It must have been on its way to Athens! Without looking up, Erica spoke softly. “He didn’t tell me who sold him the statue…” She deliberately left the second part of Stephanos’ question unanswered. She knew she was gambling, but if it worked, then Stephanos would think she had been told some secrets. Then perhaps she could get something out of him.

But the conversation was cut short. Suddenly a massive figure materialized from the shadows behind Stephanos. Erica saw a huge bald head with a gaping knife wound that ran from the crown down over the bridge of the nose onto the right cheek. The wound looked like it had been made with a razor; despite its depth, it was barely bleeding. The man’s hand reached for Stephanos, and Erica gasped, digging her nails into Richard’s hand.

With surprising agility Stephanos reacted to Erica’s warning. He spun, falling to the right, his right leg cocked for what would have been a karate kick. At the last moment he checked himself, recognizing Evangelos.

“What happened?” asked Stephanos with alarm, regaining his feet.

“Khalifa,” rasped Evangelos. “Khalifa is in the mosque.”

Stephanos pushed the weakened Evangelos against a column for support and rapidly looked around. From beneath his left arm he extracted a tiny but lethal-looking Beretta automatic and snapped off the safety.

At the sight of the gun, Erica and Richard shrank against each other in total disbelief. Before they could respond, a bloodcurdling scream reverberated through the vast prayer hall. Because of the echoes, it was difficult to determine where it had come from. As it trailed off, the koranic murmuring stopped. There was a dreadful silence like the calm before a holocaust. No one moved. From where Erica and Richard were huddled they could see several groups of students with their teachers. They too reflected confusion and mounting fear. What was happening?

Suddenly shots rang out, and the deadly sound of ricocheting bullets echoed through the marbled enclosure. Erica and Richard as well as Stephanos and Evangelos ducked down, not even knowing in which direction the danger lay. “Khalifa!” rasped Evangelos.

Other screams penetrated the prayer room, followed by a kind of vibration. All at once Erica realized it was the sound of running feet. The groups of students had stood up and were facing north. Suddenly they turned and ran. Bearing down on her was a crowd of panicked people fleeing through the forest of columns. There were more shots. The crowd became a stampede.

Ignoring the two Greeks, Erica and Richard jumped to their feet and fled southward, racing hand in hand around the columns, trying to stay ahead of the panicky horde that pressed behind them. They ran blindly until they reached the end of the hall. A few of the students passed them, wide-eyed with terror, as if the building were on fire. Erica and Richard followed them as they ducked through a low door and ran down a stone passageway. It opened into a mausoleum; beyond was an opening where a heavy wooden door was ajar, leading to the outside. They ran out into the dusty street, where an excited crowd had already gathered. Erica and Richard did not join it, but slowed to a fast walk and left the area.

“This place is insane,” said Richard, his voice more angry than relieved. “What the hell was going on in there?” He didn’t expect an answer, and Erica did not respond. For three days in a row she had been forced to witness unexpected violence, and on each occasion the attack had seemed more closely associated with her. Coincidence was no longer a viable explanation.

Richard gripped her hand, pulling her behind him through the crowded streets. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between them and the Al Azhar mosque.

“Richard…” said Erica finally, holding her side. “Richard, let’s slow down.”

They stopped in front of a tailor shop. Richard’s mouth was set in anger. “This Stephanos, did you have any idea he’d be armed?”

“I was somewhat concerned about meeting him, but I-”

“Just answer the question, Erica. Did you think he would be armed?”

“I did not even consider it.” She did not like Richard’s tone of voice.

“Obviously it was something you should have considered. Anyway, who is this Stephanos Markoulis?”

“He is an antiquities dealer from Athens. Apparently he’s involved in the black market.”

“And how was the meeting, if you can call it that, arranged?”

“A friend asked me if I’d see Stephanos.”

“And who is this wonderful friend who sends you into the hands of a gangster?”

“His name is Yvon de Margeau. He’s French.”

“And what kind of friend is he?”

Erica looked at Richard’s face, now flushed with anger. Still trembling from their experience, Erica did not know how to cope with his emotion.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” she said, with mixed feelings about apologizing.

“Well,” said Richard crossly, “I could repeat what you said last night when I tried to apologize about scaring you. Saying ‘sorry’ is supposed to make everything okay, but it doesn’t. You could have gotten us killed. I think your escapade has gone far enough. We’re going to the American embassy and you’re coming back to Boston if I have to drag you on the plane by your hair.”

“Richard…” said Erica, shaking her head.

An empty taxi was slowly picking its way along the crowded streets. Richard saw the car over Erica’s shoulder and hailed it as the crowds reluctantly parted. They climbed into the back seat without speaking, and Richard told the driver to go to the Hilton Hotel. Erica felt a combination of anger and despair. If Richard had taken it upon himself to direct the driver to the American embassy, she would have gotten out of the car.

After ten minutes of silence, Richard finally spoke. His voice had mellowed slightly. “The fact is that you are not equipped for this kind of affair. You have to recognize that.”

“With my background in Egyptology,” snapped Erica, “I think I’m superbly equipped.” Locked in traffic, the taxi inched past one of Cairo’s huge medieval gates, and Erica studied it first through the side, then the rear window.

“Egyptology is the study of a dead civilization,” said Richard, lifting his hand in the air as if to pat her knee. “It has no relevance to the current problem.”

Erica looked over at Richard. “Dead civilization… no relevance.” The words confirmed Richard’s concept of her work. It was belittling and infuriating.

“You are trained as an academician,” continued Richard, “and I think you should accept that fact. This cloak-and-dagger routine is childish and dangerous. It’s a ridiculous risk for a statue, any statue.”

“This isn’t just any statue,” said Erica angrily. “Besides, the issue is much more involved than you are willing to comprehend.”

“I think it’s all too obvious. A statue worth a lot of money is unearthed. Such sums can explain all sorts of behavior. But it’s a problem for the authorities, not tourists.”

Erica clenched her teeth, bristling at the label “tourist.” As the taxi started to move more quickly, she tried to understand why Yvon had allowed her to meet with Stephanos. Nothing seemed to make any sense, and she tried to decide what to do next. She had no intention of giving up, no matter what Richard said. Abdul Hamdi seemed to be the pivot. Then she remembered his son and her earlier resolve to visit his antique shop in Luxor.