Robin Cook - Sphinx

There were no tables available in the concession stand, which stood a mere thirty feet from the entrance to Tutankhamen’s tomb, but Erica was thankful for the crowd; it made her feel safe. She sat on the low stone wall of the veranda with a cold can of juice she’d purchased and her box lunch from the hotel. She’d kept her eye on the opening of Tutankhamen’s tomb, and now as she watched, the man emerged and walked across the parking area to a small black car. He sat on the seat, leaving the door ajar, his feet on the ground. She wondered what his presence meant; if his intention had been to harm her, he’d had multiple opportunities. She concluded that he must be merely following her, perhaps working for the authorities. Erica took a deep breath and tried to ignore him. But she also decided to stay in the company of other tourists.

Her lunch consisted of several sliced lamb sandwiches, which she chewed thoughtfully while looking across the path to the nearby opening of Tutankhamen’s tomb. It helped her to relax to think of the thousands of Victorian visitors to the Valley of the Kings who had unknowingly sipped their cool lemonade ten yards from the hidden entrance to the world’s greatest buried treasure. The Seti I tomb was also reasonably close to the concession stand.

Biting into the second sandwich, she pondered the proximity of Ramses VI’s tomb to Tutankhamen’s. It was just above and slightly to the left. Erica remembered that it had been the workers’ huts built during the construction of Ramses VI’s tomb over the entrance to Tutankhamen’s which had delayed Carter’s discovery. It hadn’t been until he’d thrown a trench right into the area that he had found the sixteen descending steps.

Erica stopped eating, drawing the information together. She knew that the ancient plunderers had entered Tutankhamen’s tomb through the original entrance, because Carter had described the breaks in the door. But because of the location of the workers’ huts, the entrance to Tutankhamen’s tomb had to have been covered and forgotten by the time the construction began on Ramses VI’s tomb. This meant that Tutankhamen’s tomb had to have been plundered in the early twentieth or perhaps the nineteenth dynasty. What if Tutankhamen’s tomb had been plundered during the reign of Seti I?

Erica allowed herself to swallow. Could there be some connection between the defilement of Tutankhamen’s tomb and the fact that Tutankhamen’s name appeared on the Seti statue? While her mind wandered over these thoughts, Erica looked up and watched a lone hawk spiral on still wings.

She began putting her sandwich papers back into the box. The man in the car had not moved. A nearby table vacated, and Erica carried her belongings over to it, putting her tote bag on the ground.

Despite the heavy heat hanging over the valley like a thick blanket, Erica’s mind kept racing. What if the Seti statues had been placed inside Tutankhamen’s tomb after the tomb robbers had been caught? She immediately dismissed the idea as preposterous; it made no sense. Besides, if the statues had been in the tomb, they would have been cataloged by Carter, who had a reputation for being uncompromisingly meticulous. No, Erica knew she was on the wrong track, but she realized that the whole issue of robbers in Tutankhamen’s tomb had been given short shrift because of the enormity of Carter’s find. The fact that the boy king’s tomb had been defiled might have significance, and the idea that the tomb had been entered during the reign of Seti I was intriguing. Suddenly Erica wished she were back at the Egyptian Museum. She decided she wanted to go over Carter’s notes, which Dr. Fakhry said were on microfilm in the archives. Even if she did not learn anything astounding, it would be the subject of a good journal article. She also wondered if any of the people present during the initial opening of Tutankhamen’s tomb were still alive. She knew Carnarvon and Carter had died, and thinking of Carnarvon’s death, she remembered the “Curse of the Pharaohs” and smiled at the resourcefulness of the media and the gullibility of the public.

With her lunch finished, Erica opened the Baedeker to decide which of the many tombs she wanted to visit next. A German tour group went by, and she hurried to join. Above her the spiraling sparrow hawk abruptly dived to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.

Khalifa reached over and turned off the radio in the rented car as he watched Erica trudge deeper into the white-hot valley. “Karrah,” he cursed as he heaved himself from the shade of the auto. He could not fathom why anyone would voluntarily subject herself to such merciless heat.

As Erica crossed the extensive gardens that separated the old Winter Palace from the new hotel, she could understand why so many wealthy Victorians had chosen to winter in Upper Egypt. Although the day had been hot, once the sun had set the temperature cooled gracefully. As she skirted the swimming pool she noticed it was still being enjoyed by a bevy of American children.

It had been a wonderful day. The ancient paintings she’d seen in the tombs had been outstanding, incredible. Then, when she had returned to the hotel from the West Bank, she had found two notes, both invitations. One from Yvon and one from Ahmed. The decision had been difficult, but she had agreed to see Yvon, hoping he might have discovered new information about the statue. On the phone he had told her that they would eat in the dining room of the New Winter Palace and that he would come by for her at eight. On an impulse she had told him that she’d rather meet him there in the lobby.

Yvon was dressed in a dark blue double-breasted blazer and white slacks, his fine brown hair carefully combed. He offered Erica his arm as they entered the dining room.

The restaurant was not old, but it appeared decadent, its unharmonious decor suggesting a failed attempt at a gracious continental dining room. But Erica soon forgot her surroundings as Yvon entertained her with stories of his European childhood. The way he described his formal and very cold relationship with his parents made it sound more funny than deplorable.

“And what about you?” asked Yvon, searching for his cigarettes in his jacket.

“I come from another world.” Erica looked down and swirled her wine. “I grew up in a house in a small city in the Midwest. We had a small but very close family.” Erica pressed her lips together and shrugged.

“Ah, there’s more than that,” said Yvon with a smile. “But don’t let me be rude… and don’t feel obligated to tell me.”

Erica was not being secretive. She just didn’t think that Yvon would be interested in hearing about Toledo, Ohio. And she didn’t want to talk about her father’s death in an air crash or the fact that she had trouble getting along with her mother because they were too similar. Anyway, she preferred hearing Yvon talk.

“Have you ever been married?” asked Erica.

Yvon laughed and then studied Erica’s face. “I am married,” he said casually.

Erica averted her eyes, certain that her instantaneous disappointment would be mirrored in her pupils. She should have known.

“I even have two wonderful children,” continued Yvon, “Jean Claude and Michelle. I just never see them.”

“Never?” The idea of not seeing one’s own children was incomprehensible. Erica lifted her gaze; she was under control.

“I visit them rarely. My wife chooses to live in St. Tropez. She likes to shop and sun, both of which I find limiting. The children are at boarding school, and they like St. Tropez in the summer. So…”

“So you live in your château by yourself,” said Erica, lightening the mood.

“No, it’s a dreary place. I have a nice apartment on the Rue Verneuil in Paris.”