Robin Cook - Sphinx

The reception area of the office was deserted. Smart Olivetti typewriters on mahogany desks proclaimed a flourishing business.

“Hello,” called Erica.

A stocky man appeared in a doorway, dressed in a carefully tailored three-piece suit. He was about fifty and would not have looked out of place strolling in the financial section of Boston.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a businesslike voice.

“I’m looking for Mr. Nasef Malmud,” answered Erica.

“I am Nasef Malmud.”

“Would you have a few moments to talk with me?” asked Erica.

Nasef looked back into his office, pursing his lips. He had a pen in his right hand, and it was obvious he was in the middle of something. Turning back to Erica, he spoke as if he’d not quite made up his mind. “Well, for a few minutes.”

Erica entered the spacious corner office with a view up Shari el Tahrir to the square and the Nile beyond. Nasef eased himself into his high-backed desk chair and waved Erica to a seat nearby. “What can I do for you, young lady?” he asked, putting the tips of his fingers together.

“I wanted to inquire about a man named Abdul Hamdi.” Erica stopped to see if there was any response. There wasn’t. Malmud waited, thinking there was more. But when Erica did not continue, he said, “The name is not familiar. In which context might I know this individual?”

“I was wondering if by chance Abdul Hamdi was a client of yours,” said Erica.

Malmud removed his reading glasses and put them on his desk. “If he were a client, I’m not sure why I would be willing to disclose such information,” he said without malice. He was a lawyer and as such was more interested in receiving information than giving it.

“I have some news about the man that would interest you if he was a client.” Erica tried to be equally evasive.

“How did you get my name?” he asked.

“From Abdul Hamdi,” said Erica, knowing that it was a slight permutation of the truth.

Malmud studied Erica for a moment, went into the outer office, then returned with a manila file. Sitting behind the desk, he replaced his reading glasses and opened the file. It contained a single sheet of paper, which he took a minute to scan.

“Yes, it seems that I do represent Abdul Hamdi.” He looked expectantly across at Erica over his glasses.

“Well, Abdul Hamdi is dead.” Erica decided not to use the word “murdered.”

Malmud thoughtfully regarded Erica, then reread the paper in his hand. “Thank you for the information. I will have to investigate my responsibilities to his estate.” He stood up and extended his hand, forcing a rapid conclusion to the interview.

While walking to the door, Erica spoke. “Do you know what a Baedeker is?”

“No,” he said, hurrying her through the outer office.

“Have you ever owned a Baedeker guidebook?” Erica paused at the doorway.

“Never.”

Yvon was waiting when she returned to the hotel. He had another series of photos for Erica to examine. One man looked vaguely familiar, but she could not be sure. She felt the chances of her being able to recognize the killers were pretty slim, and tried to say as much to Yvon, but he just insisted, “I’d prefer if you’d try to cooperate rather than telling me how to proceed.”

Walking out onto the beautiful balcony, Erica remembered the night before. Yvon’s interest now seemed strictly business, and she was glad she had at least gone into the affair with her eyes open. His desires had been momentarily satisfied and his attention had reverted to the Seti statue.

Erica accepted the reality with equanimity, but it made her want to leave Cairo and return to Luxor. She walked back into the suite and told Yvon her plans. Initially he complained, but she derived a certain pleasure in denying him his way. He was obviously unaccustomed to such treatment. But in the end he relented, even offering Erica the use of his plane. He would follow her, he said, as soon as he could.

Returning to Luxor was a joy. Despite the memory of the man with the sharp tooth, Erica felt infinitely more comfortable in Upper Egypt than she did in the raw brutality of Cairo. When she arrived at the hotel, she found a number of messages from Ahmed, asking her to call. She put them by the phone. Walking over to the French doors to the balcony, she threw them open. It was just after five, and the afternoon sun had lost most of its heat.

Erica drew a bath to rinse off the dust and fatigue of travel, although the plane trip had been comfortingly short. When she got out of the tub she called Ahmed, who seemed both relieved and happy to hear from her.

“I was very worried,” said Ahmed. “Especially when the hotel said you had not been seen.”

“I went to Cairo overnight. Yvon de Margeau took me by plane.”

“I see,” said Ahmed. There was an awkward pause as Erica remembered that he had acted strangely about Yvon since their first conversation.

“Well,” said Ahmed finally, “I’m calling to see if you’d enjoy visiting the Temple of Karnak tonight. There is a full moon, and the temple will be open until midnight. It is worth seeing.”

“I’d like that very much,” said Erica.

They made arrangements for Ahmed to pick her up at nine o’clock. They’d visit the Temple of Karnak, then eat. Ahmed said he knew a small restaurant on the Nile that was owned by a friend. He promised her that she’d like it, then hung up.

Erica dressed in her brown scoop-necked jersey dress. With her deepening tan and the light streaks in her hair, it made her feel very feminine. She ordered a glass of wine from room service and sat down on the balcony with the Baedeker, holding the torn cover in front of her.

The name carefully written on the inside of the separated cover of Abdul Hamdi’s guidebook was Nasef Malmud. There had been no mistake. Why had Malmud lied? She picked up the book and examined it carefully. It was a well-constructed volume, actually sewn, not just glued. It had many diagrams and line drawings of the various monuments. Erica flipped through the pages, stopping frequently to look at an illustration or read a short section. There were also a few fold-out maps: one of Egypt, one of Saqqara, and one of the Necropolis of Luxor. She examined them in turn.

When she tried to refold the map of Luxor, she had difficulty returning it to its previous shape. Then she noticed the paper felt different from the other maps. Looking more closely, she saw it was printed on two sheets laminated together. Erica held the book up so that the map was between her eye and the setting sun: some sort of document was fused to the back of the map of the Necropolis of Luxor.

Going back inside the room, Erica closed one of the doors to the balcony, and placing the map against the glass, allowed the sun to backlight it. She could make out the letter sealed inside. The print was faint and small, but in English and legible. It was addressed to Nasef Malmud.

Dear Mr. Malmud:

This letter is written by my son, who expresses my words. I cannot write. I am an old man, so if you read this letter, do not grieve my fate. Instead use the information enclosed against those individuals who have decided to silence me rather than pay. The following routing is the way in recent years that all the most valuable ancient treasures have been removed from our country. I had been hired by a foreign agent (whose name I choose to withhold) to infiltrate the routing in order to allow him to obtain the treasures for himself.

Once a valuable piece has been found, Lahib Zayed and his son Fathi of the Curio Antique Shop send photos to prospective buyers. Those interested come to Luxor and view the pieces. Once a deal is made, the buyer must place the money on account with the Zurich Credit Bank. The piece is then routed north by small boats and delivered to the office of Aegean Holidays, Ltd., in Cairo, proprietor Stephanos Markoulis. The antiquities are there placed within the luggage of unsuspecting tour groups (large pieces disassembled) and flown with the tour group to Athens by Jugoslwenski Airlines. Airline personnel are paid to leave specific luggage on the aircraft for continuation to Belgrade and Ljubjana. Pieces are sent overland to Switzerland for transfer.