Robin Cook - Sphinx

Erica looked down at her hands. Despite her anger, despite her misgivings, she could feel her resolve weakening. At the same time, she was tired of being protected, taken care of.

“Thank you for the offer, Yvon, but I think I’ll go by train. I’ll call you from Luxor.”

There was the sound of a whistle. It was seven-thirty.

“Erica…” said Yvon, but the train began to move forward. “All right. Call from Luxor. Perhaps I’ll see you there.” He dashed down the aisle and jumped from the train, which was now picking up speed.

“Damn,” said Yvon as he watched the train slide from the station. He turned into the busy waiting room. By the exit he met Khalifa.

“Why aren’t you on that train?” snapped Yvon.

Khalifa smiled slyly. “I was told to follow the girl in Cairo. Nothing was said about taking a train to the south.”

“Christ,” said Yvon, walking toward a side door. “Follow me.”

Raoul was waiting in the car. He started the engine when he saw Yvon. Yvon held open a rear door for Khalifa then climbed in after him.

“What happened in the mosque?” asked Yvon as they pulled out into the traffic.

“Trouble,” said Khalifa. “The girl met Stephanos, but Stephanos had posted a guard. In order to protect her, I had to break up the meeting. I had no choice. It was a bad location, almost as bad as the serapeum yesterday. But in deference to your sensibilities, there was no killing. I shouted a few times and fired off a couple of shots and cleared out the whole mosque.” Khalifa laughed contemptuously.

“Thank you for considering my sensibilities. But tell me, did Stephanos threaten or make any move against Erica Baron?”

“I don’t know,” said Khalifa.

“But that was what you were supposed to find out,” said Yvon.

“I was supposed to protect the girl, then learn what I could,” said Khalifa. “Under the circumstances, protecting the girl took all my attention.”

Yvon turned his head and watched a bicyclist go by, balancing a large tray of bread on his head and making better time than they were in the car. Yvon felt frustrated. Things were going poorly, and now Erica Baron, his last hope for the Seti statue, had left Cairo. He looked at Khalifa. “I hope you’re ready to travel, because you’re going to Luxor tonight by air.”

“Whatever you say,” said Khalifa. “This job is getting interesting.”

“Balianeh in one hour,” said the porter through the curtain of her berth.

“Thank you,” said Erica, sitting up and pulling back the drape covering a small window. Outside, it was very early daybreak. The sky was a light purple and she could see low desert mountains in the distance. The train was moving rapidly, with slight to-and-fro movements. The tracks ran right along the edge of the Libyan desert.

Erica washed at her small sink and put on a bit of makeup. The night before, she’d tried to read one of the books on Tutankhamen that she’d purchased at the station, but the train’s movements had cradled her instantly asleep. It was some time in the middle of the night that she had awakened long enough to turn off the reading light.

They served an English breakfast in the dining car as the first tentative rays of sunlight cleared the eastern horizon. As she watched, the sky changed from purple to a clear light blue. It was incredibly beautiful.

Sipping her coffee, Erica felt as if a burden had lifted from her shoulders; in its place was a euphoric sense of freedom. She felt as if the train were hurtling her back in time, back to ancient Egypt and the land of the pharaohs.

It was a little after six when she detrained at Balianeh. Very few passengers got off, and the train departed as soon as the last foot touched the platform. With some difficulty Erica checked her suitcase at a baggage window, then walked out of the station into the bright bustle of the small rural town. There was a gaiety in the air. The people seemed much happier than the oppressive crowds of Cairo. But it was hotter. Even this early in the morning Erica could feel the difference.

There were a number of old taxis waiting in the shade of the station. Most of the drivers were asleep, their mouths gaping. But when one spotted Erica, they all got up and began chattering. Finally a slender fellow was pushed forward. He had a large untrimmed mustache and a ragged beard, but he seemed pleased with his luck and made a bow in front of Erica before opening the door to his 1940-ish taxi.

He knew a few words of English, including “cigarette.” Erica gave him a few and he immediately agreed to serve as her driver, promising to return her to the station to catch the five-P.M. connection to Luxor. The cost was five Egyptian pounds.

They headed north out of the town, then turned away from the Nile to the west. With his portable radio lashed to the dash so that its aerial could stick out of the missing window on the right, the driver smiled his contentment. On either side of the road stretched a sea of sugarcane, broken by an occasional oasis of palm trees.

They crossed a foul-smelling irrigation ditch and passed through the village of El Araba el Mudfuna. It was a sorry collection of mud-brick huts built just beyond the reach of the cultivated fields. There were few people in evidence except for a group of women dressed in black carrying large water jars on their heads. Erica looked at them again. They were wearing veils.

A few hundred yards beyond the village the driver halted and pointed ahead. “Seti,” he said without taking the cigarette from his mouth.

Erica climbed out of the car. So here it was. Abydos. The place Seti I chose to build his magnificent temple. Just as Erica started to get out her guidebook, she was set upon by a group of youths selling scarabs. She was the first tourist of the day, and only by paying her fifty-piaster entrance fee and advancing into the temple proper could she free herself from their insistent chatter.

With the Baedeker in hand she sat on a limestone block and read the section on Abydos. She was familiar with the site but wanted to be certain which sections had been decorated with hieroglyphics during the reign of Seti I. The temple had been finished by Seti’s son and successor, Ramses II.

Unaware of Erica’s plans to visit Abydos, Khalifa stood on the platform at Luxor waiting for the passengers to disembark. The train had pulled in on time and was greeted by a huge throng who eagerly pressed in on the train. There was a lot of commotion and shouting, particularly by the hawkers selling fruit and cold drinks through the windowless openings of the third-class coaches to the passengers continuing on to Aswan. Those people detraining and those boarding jostled each other in a mounting frenzy because whistles began to blow. Egyptian trains ran on time.

Khalifa lit one cigarette, and then another, allowing the smoke to snake up past his hooked nose. He was standing apart from the chaos at a place where he could view the entire platform as well as the main exit. A few late passengers scurried to catch the train as it began to pull out of the station. There was no sign of Erica. When he finished his cigarette, Khalifa left the building by the main entrance. He headed for the central post office to make a call to Cairo. Something was wrong.

Erica walked from one incredible room to the next as she explored the temple of Seti I. At last she could experience all the electrifying mystery of Egypt. The relief work was magnificent. She planned to return to Abydos in several days to do some serious translation work on the wealth of hieroglyphic inscription that covered the walls of the temple complex. For the moment she just scanned the texts to see if the name Tutankhamen ever appeared among Seti’s inscriptions. It didn’t, except in the room called the Gallery of Kings, where almost all the ancient Egyptian pharaohs were listed in chronological order.