Robin Cook - Sphinx

Erica added to herself, “… and so gullible.”

The tea came, and Zayed produced some interesting pieces, including several small bronze figurines, a battered but recognizable head of Amenhotep III, and a series of wooden statues. The most beautiful statue was a young woman with hieroglyphics down the front of her skirt and a tranquil face that defied time. She was priced at four hundred pounds. After carefully examining the artifact, Erica was quite sure it was authentic.

“I’m interested in the wooden statue, and possibly the stone head,” said Erica in a businesslike tone.

Zayed rubbed his palms together with great excitement.

“I’ll be checking with the people I represent,” said Erica. “But I know there is something they would want me to buy immediately if I were to see it.”

“What is that?” asked Zayed.

“There was a life-size statue of Seti I bought a year ago by a man in Houston. My clients have heard that a similar statue has been found.”

“I have nothing like that,” said Zayed evenly.

“Well, if you happen to hear about such a piece, I’ll be staying at the Winter Palace Hotel.” Erica wrote her name on a small piece of paper and gave it to him.

“And what about these pieces?”

“As I said, I’ll contact my clients. I do like the wooden statue, but I must check.” Erica picked up her purchase, which had been wrapped in Arabic newspaper, and walked back to the front part of the shop. She felt confident she had played her role very well. As she left, she noticed Zayed’s son bargaining with a man. It was the Arab who had been following her. Without breaking her stride or looking in his direction, Erica left the shop, but a shiver went up her spine.

As soon as his son finished with his customer, Lahib Zayed closed the front door to the shop and bolted it. “Come into the back,” he commanded his son. “That was the woman Stephanos Markoulis warned us about when he was here the other day,” he said, once they were in the security of the back room. He had even closed the old wooden door to the courtyard. “I want you to go to the central post office and call Markoulis and tell him that the American woman came into the shop and specifically asked about the Seti statue. I’ll go to Muhammad and tell him to warn the others.”

“What is going to happen to the woman?” asked Fathi.

“I think that’s rather obvious. It reminds me of that young man from Yale about two years ago.”

“Will they do the same to the woman?”

“Undoubtedly,” said his father.

Erica was appalled by the chaos in the Luxor administration building. Some of the people had been waiting so long that they were sleeping on the floor. In the corner of one hall she saw a whole family camped out as if they’d been there for days. Behind the counters the civil servants ignored the crowds and casually talked among themselves. Every desk was a heap of completed forms awaiting some impossible signature. It was awful.

By the time Erica found someone who spoke English, she learned that Luxor was not even an administration center. The Muhāfazah for the area was located in Aswan, and all the census data were stored there. Erica told the woman that she wanted to trace a man who lived on the West Bank fifty years ago. The woman looked at Erica as if she were crazy and told her it was impossible, though she might check with the police. There was always the possibility the person she sought could have had trouble with the authorities.

The police were easier to deal with than the civil servants. At least they were friendly and attentive. In fact most of the uniformed officers in the main room were watching her by the time she got to the counter. All the signs were in Arabic, so Erica just went to a location where no one else was waiting. A handsome young fellow in a white uniform came from behind one of the desks to help her. Unfortunately he did not speak English. But he found a man with the tourist police who did.

“What can I do for you?” he said with a smile.

“I’m trying to find out if one of Howard Carter’s foremen by the name of Sarwat Raman is still alive. He lived on the West Bank.”

“What?” said the policeman with disbelief. He chuckled. “I’ve had some strange requests, but this is certainly one of the more interesting. Are you talking about the Howard Carter who discovered Tutankhamen’s tomb?”

“That’s right,” said Erica.

“That was over fifty years ago.”

“I understand that,” said Erica. “I’d like to find out if he’s still alive.”

“Madam,” said the policeman, “no one even knows how many people live on the West Bank, much less how to find a specific family. But I’ll tell you what I’d do if I were you. Go over to the West Bank and visit the small mosque in the village of Qurna. The imam is an old man, and he speaks English. Maybe he could help. But I doubt it. The government has been trying to relocate the village of Qurna and get those people out of the ancient tombs. But it’s been a fight, and there’s been some antagonism. They’re not a friendly group. So be careful.”

Lahib Zayed looked both ways to make sure he was not seen before entering the whitewashed alleyway. He scurried down it and pounded on a stout wooden door. He knew Muhammad Abdulal was at home. It was the noon hour and Muhammad always napped. Lahib pounded again. He was afraid he might be seen by some stranger before he’d have a chance to enter the house.

A small peephole opened, and a bloodshot sleepy eye looked out. Then the latch was lifted and the door opened. Lahib stepped over the threshold, and the door was slammed behind him.

Muhammad Abdulal was clad in a rumpled robe. He was a large man with heavy, full features. His nostrils were flared and highly arched. “I told you never to come to this house. You’d better have a good reason for taking this risk.”

Lahib greeted Muhammad formally before speaking. “I would not have come if I did not believe it was important. Erica Baron, the American woman, came into the Curio Antique Shop this morning saying that she represented a group of buyers. She is very sharp. She knows antiquities and actually bought a small statue. Then she specifically asked for the Seti I statue.”

“Was she alone?” asked Muhammad, alert now rather than angry.

“I believe so,” said Lahib.

“And she asked specifically for the Seti statue?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, that leaves us very little choice. I’ll make the arrangements. You inform her that she can see the statue tomorrow night on the condition that she come alone and that she is not followed. Tell her to come to the Qurna mosque at dusk. We should have gotten rid of her earlier, as I wanted.”

Lahib waited to be sure Muhammad was finished before he spoke. “I’ve also had Fathi contact Stephanos Markoulis and give him the news.”

Muhammad’s hand struck out like a snake, cuffing the side of Lahib’s head. “ Karrah! Why did you take it upon yourself to inform Stephanos?”

Lahib cowered, expecting another blow.

“He asked me to let him know if the woman appeared. He’s as concerned as we are.”

“You do not take orders from Stephanos,” shouted Muhammad. “You take orders from me. That must be understood. Now, get out of here and deliver the message. The American woman must be taken care of.”

The policeman had been right. Qurna was not a friendly place. As Erica trudged up the hill separating the village from the asphalt road, she did not have the feeling of welcome that was apparent in the other towns she’d visited. She saw few people, and those she did pass glared, shrinking back into the shadows. Even the dogs were mangy, snarling curs.