Robin Cook - Sphinx

“Welcome to Luxor, Miss Baron.” It was Ahmed Khazzan.

For a moment his voice brought back all her fears. Even though she had decided to pursue the statue of Seti, she felt she had left the violence and dangers behind in Cairo. Now the authorities seemed to have already tracked her down. Still, his tone was friendly.

“I hope you enjoy your stay,” he said.

“I’m sure I will,” answered Erica. “I did notify your office.”

“Yes, I got the message. That’s why I’m calling. I asked the hotel to tell me when you arrived so that I could welcome you. You see, Miss Baron, I have a home in Luxor. I come here as frequently as possible.”

“I see,” said Erica, wondering where the conversation was leading.

Ahmed cleared his throat. “Well, Miss Baron, I was wondering if you would care to have dinner with me tonight.”

“Is this an official or social invitation, Mr. Khazzan?”

“Purely social. I can have a carriage pick you up at seven thirty.”

Erica debated rapidly. It seemed quite innocuous. “All right. I’d be delighted.”

“Wonderful,” said Ahmed, obviously pleased. “Tell me, Miss Baron, do you like to ride?”

Erica shrugged. In truth she hadn’t ridden a horse for a number of years. But as a child she had loved it, and the idea of seeing the ancient city on horseback appealed to her. “Yes,” she said tentatively.

“Even better,” said Ahmed. “Wear something you can ride in and I’ll show you a little of Luxor.”

Holding on for her life, Erica let the black stallion have his head as they reached the edge of the desert. The animal responded with a surge of speed and thundered up the small sand hill, galloping along the crest of the ridge for almost a mile. Finally Erica reined him in to wait for Ahmed. The sun had just set, but it was light and Erica could look down onto the ruins of the Temple of Karnak. Across the river the mountains of Thebes rose sharply beyond the irrigated fields. She could even make out some of the entranceways to the tombs of the nobles.

Erica was hypnotized by the scene, and the heaving animal between her legs made her feel as if she had been transported into the past. Ahmed rode up beside her but did not speak. He sensed her thoughts and did not want to interrupt. Erica stole a quick glance at his sharp profile in the soft light. He was dressed in loose-fitting white cotton, with the shirt open to mid-chest and the sleeves rolled to the elbows. His black, shining hair was tousled by the wind, and tiny drops of perspiration lined his forehead.

Erica was still surprised by his invitation and unable to forget his official capacity. He had been cordial since her arrival, but not communicative. She wondered if his intent still lay with Yvon de Margeau.

“Beautiful here, isn’t it?” he said at last.

“Gorgeous,” said Erica. She struggled with the stallion, now eager to move on.

“I love Luxor.” He turned to Erica, his face serious yet puzzled.

Erica was certain he was going to say something more, but he just looked at her for several minutes and then turned back to the vista over the Nile. As they watched in silence, the shadows within the ruins deepened, heralding the coming night.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “You must be starved. Let’s have our dinner.”

They rode back toward Ahmed’s rustic house, skirting the Temple of Karnak and riding along the Nile. They passed a felucca landing, where the men were singing softly while furling their sails for the night. When they arrived at Ahmed’s house, Erica helped with the horses. Then they both washed their hands in a wooden tub in the courtyard before going inside.

Ahmed’s housekeeper had prepared a feast and served it in the living room. Erica’s favorite was ful, a dip made of beans, lentils, and eggplant. It was covered with sesame oil and subtly seasoned with garlic, peanuts, and caraway. Ahmed was surprised she’d not had it before. The main course was fowl, which Erica thought was cornish hen. Ahmed explained it was hamama, or pigeon. It had been grilled over charcoal.

Within his home Ahmed relaxed and conversation became easy. He asked Erica hundreds of questions about growing up in Ohio. She felt a little self-conscious when she described her Jewish background, and was surprised that it made no difference to Ahmed. He explained that in Egypt the confrontation was a political issue and involved Israel, not Jews. People did not think of them as synonymous.

Ahmed was particularly interested in Erica’s apartment in Cambridge, and he had her describe all sorts of trivial details. Only when she had finished did he tell her he had gone to Harvard. As the meal progressed, she found him reserved but not secretive. He was willing to talk about himself if asked. He had a wonderful way of speaking, with a slight English accent from his days at Oxford, where he had gotten his doctorate. He was a sensitive man, and after Erica asked if he had dated any American girls, he told her about Pamela, with such feeling that Erica felt tears welling in her eyes. Then he shocked her with the ending. He had left Boston for England and just cut off the relationship.

“You mean you never corresponded?” asked Erica with disbelief.

“Never,” said Ahmed quietly.

“But why?” pleaded Erica. She loved happy endings and abhorred unhappy ones.

“I knew that I had to come back here, to my country,” said Ahmed, looking away. “I was needed here. I was expected to run the antiquities service. At that time, there was no room for romance.”

“Have you ever seen Pamela again?”

“No.”

Erica took a sip of her tea. The story about Pamela awakened uncomfortable feelings about men and abandonment. Ahmed did not seem the type. She wanted to change the subject. “Did any of your family visit you in Massachusetts?”

“No…” Ahmed paused, then added, “Actually, my uncle did come to the States just before I left.”

“No one visited, and you didn’t go home for three years?”

“That’s right. It’s a bit far, going from Egypt to Boston.”

“Weren’t you lonely and homesick?”

“Terribly, until Pamela.”

“Did your uncle meet Pamela?”

Ahmed exploded. He threw his teacup against the wall, and it shattered in a hundred pieces. Erica was stunned.

The Arab dropped his head in his hands, and she could hear his heavy breathing. An awkward silence prevailed, as Erica sat torn between fear and empathy. She wondered about Pamela and the uncle. What had happened that could still evoke such passion?

“Forgive me,” Ahmed said, his head still bowed.

“I’m sorry if I said something wrong,” said Erica putting down her teacup. “Perhaps I’d better return to my hotel.”

“No, don’t go, please,” said Ahmed, lifting his head. His face was flushed. “It isn’t your fault. It’s just that I’ve been under a certain strain. Don’t go. Please.” Ahmed jumped up to refresh Erica’s tea and got another cup for himself. Then, in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, he brought out some antiquities that the department had recently confiscated.

Erica admired them, especially a beautifully carved wooden figure. She began to feel more comfortable. “Have any articles from Seti I been confiscated from the black market?” She carefully put the pieces on a nearby table.

Ahmed looked at her for several minutes, thinking. “No, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no real reason, except that I visited Seti’s temple at Abydos today. By the way, are you familiar with a problem they have there with a cobra?”

“Cobras are a potential problem at all the sites, especially in Aswan. I suppose we really should warn the tourists. But it isn’t a problem at the more popular sites. It can’t compare with our difficulties with the black market. Only four years ago there was a major looting of carved blocks from the Temple of Hathor at Dendera, in broad daylight!”