Robin Cook - Sphinx

Erica nodded her understanding. “If nothing else, this trip has underlined for me the destructive power of the black market. In fact, along with my translation work, I’ve decided to try to do something about it.”

Ahmed looked up suddenly. “It’s a dangerous business. I don’t recommend it at all. To give you an idea, about two years ago a young idealistic American fellow came over here from Yale with similar goals. He disappeared without a trace.”

“Well,” said Erica, “I’m no hero. I just have some very tame ideas. I wanted to ask if you knew the location of Abdul Hamdi’s son’s antique shop here in Luxor.”

Ahmed averted his face. The spectacle of Tewfik Hamdi’s tortured body flashed in his mind. When he turned back to Erica, his face was strained. “Tewfik Hamdi, like his father, has recently been murdered. There is some trouble going on which I do not understand, but which my department and the police are investigating. You have already had your share of difficulties, so I implore you to concentrate on your translation work.”

Erica was stunned by the news of Tewfik Hamdi. Another murder! She tried to think of what that could mean, but by now her long day had begun to take its toll. Ahmed noticed her fatigue and offered to accompany her to her hotel, to which Erica readily agreed. They reached the hotel before eleven, and after thanking Ahmed for his hospitality, Erica retired, carefully locking herself within her room.

She undressed slowly, anticipating bed. While removing her makeup, she thought about Ahmed. His intensity impressed her, and despite his outburst, she’d thoroughly enjoyed the evening. With her bedtime ritual accomplished, she crawled beneath the sheets. Just before sleep overcame her, she thought about Ahmed and Pamela; she wondered… But her last thought was a name from the ancient past: Nenephta.

The excitement of being in Luxor woke Erica before sunrise. She ordered breakfast from room service and had it served on the balcony. With the breakfast came a telegram from Yvon: ARRIVING NEW WINTER PALACE HOTEL TODAY STOP WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU TONIGHT.

Erica was surprised. She had been so sure the telegram was going to be from Richard. And after spending the evening with Ahmed, she was confused. It was incredible to think that only last year she had been anxiously hoping Richard would propose. Now she found herself attracted to three very different men at the same time. Although it was reassuring for Erica that she could be responsive, which had been a worry when her relationship with Richard began to crack, the present situation was also unnerving. She drank the rest of her coffee in one gulp and decided to put all emotional issues out of her head. Pushing back from the table, she returned to her room and prepared for the day.

Emptying her tote bag, she repacked it with the box lunch she’d ordered at the suggestion of the hotel, the flashlight, the matches and cigarettes, and Abdul Hamdi’s 1929 Baedeker. The loose cover and other assorted papers were put on the bureau. Before she turned away, Erica again saw the name on the cover: Nasef Malmud, 180 Shari el Tahrir, Cairo. Her connection with Abdul Hamdi had not been completely severed by Tewfik’s murder! She would look up Nasef Malmud when she returned to Cairo. Carefully, she put the cover in her bag.

It was a short walk from the Winter Palace Hotel to the antiquities shops on Shari Lukanda. Some were still not open, despite the fact that there already were a number of brightly clad tourists in evidence. Erica chose one randomly and entered.

The shop was reminiscent of Antica Abdul, but with significantly more artifacts. Erica went over the more impressive specimens, isolating the real from the fake. The proprietor, a heavyset man named David Jouran, initially hovered over her, but then retreated behind his counter.

Out of dozens of allegedly prehistoric pots, Erica found only two she thought were real, and they were ordinary. She held one up. “How much?”

“Fifty pounds,” said Jouran. “The one next to that is ten pounds.”

Erica looked at the other pot. It had beautiful decorations. Too beautiful: they were spirals, but going in the wrong direction. Erica knew that predynastic pottery frequently had spirals, but they were all counterclockwise spirals. The spirals on the present pot were all clockwise. “I’m only interested in antiques. Actually, I find very few genuine pieces in here. I’m hoping to find something special.” She put down the fake pot and walked over to the counter. “I’ve been sent here to buy some particularly good antiques, preferably from the New Kingdom. I’m prepared to pay. Do you have anything to show me?”

David Jouran regarded Erica for a few moments without answering. Then he bent over, opened a small cabinet, and heaved a scarred granite head of Ramses II onto the counter. The nose was gone and the chin was cracked.

Erica shook her head. “No,” she said, looking around. “Is that the best you have?”

“For now.” Jouran put the broken statue away.

“Well, let me leave my name,” said Erica, writing on a slip of paper. “I’m staying at the Winter Palace. If you hear of any special pieces, get in touch with me.” She paused, half-expecting the man to show her something else, but he just shrugged, and after an awkward silence she left.

It was a similar story in the next five shops she entered. No one showed her anything extraordinary. The best piece she saw was a glazed ushabti figurine from the time of Queen Hatshepsut. In each shop she left her name, but she didn’t feel very hopeful. Finally she gave up and walked to the ferry landing.

It cost only a few cents to cross to the West Bank on the old boat, which was crowded with camera-toting tourists. As soon as they landed, the group was set upon by an enormous band of taxi drivers, would-be guides, and scarab salesmen. Erica boarded a dilapidated bus with a “Valley of the Kings” painted haphazardly on a piece of cardboard. When all the ferry passengers had been absorbed in one way or another, the bus left the landing.

Erica was beside herself with excitement. Beyond the flat green cultivated fields, which ended abruptly at the desert’s edge, stood the stark Theban cliffs. At their base Erica could see some of the famous monuments, like the graceful temple of Hatshepsut at Deir el-Bahri. Immediately to the right of Hatshepsut’s temple was a small village called Qurna, built into the sloping hillside. The mud-brick buildings were set in the desert beyond the irrigated fields. Most were a light tan not too dissimilar from the color of the sandstone cliffs. A few buildings were whitewashed and stood out sharply, particularly a small mosque with a stubby minaret. In among the buildings were openings cut into the bedrock. These were doorways into the myriad of ancient crypts. The people of Qurna lived among the tombs of the nobles. Many attempts had been made to relocate the villagers, but the people had tenaciously resisted.

The bus careened around a sharp turn and then bore right at a fork. Erica caught a fleeting glimpse of the mortuary temple of Seti I. There was so much to see.

The desert began with a remarkably sharp demarcation line. Desolate rock and sand without a single growing plant replaced the verdant sugarcane fields. The road ran straight until it reached the mountains; then it became serpentine, leading into a progressively narrow valley. The ovenlike heat was intense and there was no wind to relieve the feeling of oppression.

After passing a tiny rock guard station, the bus pulled up in a large parking area already filled with other buses and taxis. Despite the 100-plus temperature, the area was dense with tourists. On a small rise to the left, a concession stand was doing swift business.