Robin Cook - Sphinx

“All right,” said Yvon with a disgusted tone. “What are we going to do?”

Raoul, having suggested Khalifa, felt more responsible than Khalifa himself.

“You should have someone meet the train,” said Khalifa. “She bought a ticket to Nag Hamdi, but I don’t think she actually left. I think it was all a trick to get away from me.”

“All right, Raoul, have the train met,” said Yvon decisively.

Raoul went to the phone, glad to have something to do.

“Listen, Khalifa,” said Yvon, “losing Erica has put this whole operation in jeopardy. She got her instructions from the Curio Antique Shop. Get over there and find out where she’s been sent. I don’t care how you do it, just do it.”

Without saying a word, Khalifa pushed off the bureau on which he’d been leaning and left the hotel, knowing that there was no way the shop owner was going to keep information from him unless he was willing to die.

Under the towering sandstone cliffs, the village of Qurna was already shrouded in darkness when Erica climbed the long hill from the road. The taxi she had hired for the evening waited below, its door ajar.

She trudged past the somber mud-brick houses. Cooking fires of dried dung could be seen in the courtyards, illuminating the sharply grotesque summer sleeping platforms. Erica remembered the reason they were built-cobras and scorpions-and shivered despite the warmth of the night.

The darkened mosque with its whitewashed minaret looked silver. It was about a hundred yards ahead. Erica paused to catch her breath. Looking back at the valley, she could see the lights of Luxor, particularly the high-rise New Winter Palace Hotel. A string of colored lights like Christmas decorations marked the area of the Abul Haggag mosque.

Erica was about to continue walking when there was a sudden movement in the darkness near her feet. Uttering a cry of fright, she leaped back, almost falling in the sand. She was about to run when a bark, followed by an angry growl, pierced the air. A small pack of snarling dogs suddenly surrounded her. She bent down and picked up a rock. It must have been a familiar gesture, because the dogs scattered before she could throw a stone.

About a dozen people walked by Erica as she passed through the village. They were all dressed in black gowns and black shawls, silent and faceless in the darkness. Erica realized that had she not passed through Qurna during the day, she probably would have been unable to find her way at night. A sudden raucous cry of a donkey shattered the silence, then stopped as abruptly as it had begun. From where she was walking, Erica could see the outline of Aida Raman’s house high up against the hillside. The faint glow of an oil lamp shone from her windows. Rising behind the house, Erica could see the trail to the Valley of the Kings etched against the mountains.

She was now within fifty feet of the mosque. There were no lights. Her steps slowed. She knew she was late for the rendezvous. It was not dusk; it was night. Perhaps they had decided she was not coming. Maybe she should turn and go back to her hotel or visit with Aida Raman and tell her what she had learned from the papyrus. Erica stopped and looked at the building. It appeared deserted. Then, remembering Lahib Zayed and his casual attitude, she shrugged her shoulders and started toward the door.

It opened slowly, affording a view of the courtyard. The facade of the mosque seemed to attract and reflect the starlight, and the courtyard was brighter than the street. She saw no one.

Silently Erica stepped inside, closing the door behind her. There was no sound or motion from the mosque. All she could hear was an occasional dog barking in the village below. Finally she made herself walk forward beneath one of the archways. She tried the door to the mosque. It was locked. Walking along the small portico, she knocked on the door to the imam’s quarters. There was no answer. The place was deserted.

Erica stepped back into the courtyard. They must have decided she was not coming, and she eyed the door to the street. But instead of leaving right away, she walked back under the portico and sat down, her back against the front of the mosque. In front of her the dark archway framed a view of the courtyard. Beyond the walls Erica could see the eastern sky, which brightened in anticipation of the rising moon.

Erica rummaged in her tote bag until she found a cigarette. She lit one to salvage her courage, and looked at her watch with the aid of a match. It was eight-fifteen.

As the moon rose, the shadows in the courtyard grew paradoxically darker. The longer Erica sat, the more her imagination played tricks on her. Every sound from the village made her jump. After fifteen minutes she’d had enough. She stood up and dusted off the seat of her pants. Then she walked back across the courtyard and yanked open the wooden door to the street.

“Miss Baron,” said a figure in a black burnoose. He was standing in the dirt street just outside the door to the courtyard. With the moon directly over his shoulder, Erica could not see his face. He bowed before continuing. “I beg your pardon for the delay. Please follow me.” He smiled, revealing huge teeth.

There was no more conversation. The man, who Erica guessed was a Nubian, led her up the hillside above the village. They followed one of the many trails, and the going was easy with the moonlight reflecting from the light rock and sand. They passed a few rectangular openings of tombs.

The Nubian was breathing heavily now, and it was with obvious relief that he stopped by a sloping cut into the mountainside. At the base of the slope was an entrance closed with a heavy iron grille. The number 37 hung on the gate.

“I beg your pardon, but you must wait here for just a few minutes,” said the Nubian. Before Erica could respond, he started back toward Qurna.

Erica watched the retreating figure, then glanced at the iron gate. She turned, started to say something, but the Nubian was already so far away that she would have had to shout.

Walking down the ramp, Erica grasped the iron gate and shook it. The number 37 rattled but the gate did not budge. It was locked. Erica could just make out some ancient Egyptian decoration on the walls.

She walked back up the ramp, and the anxiety she had felt before entering the Curio Antique Shop swept over her. She stood on the lip of the tomb, watching the Nubian entering the village below. In the distance a few dogs barked. Behind her she could feel the ominous presence of the overhanging mountain.

Suddenly she heard a sharp metallic click behind her. Fear made her legs weak. Then she heard an agonizing grating of steel on steel. She wanted to run but was unable to move as her imagination conjured horrid images issuing from the tomb. The iron gate closed behind her, and she heard steps. Slowly she forced herself to turn around.

“Good evening, Miss Baron,” said a figure coming up the ramp. He was dressed in a black burnoose like the Nubian’s but with the hood over his head. Beneath the hood he wore a white turban. “My name is Muhammad Abdulal.” He bowed, and Erica regained some composure. “I apologize for these delays, but unfortunately they are necessary. The statues you are about to see are very valuable and we were afraid you might have been followed by the authorities.”

Erica again realized how important it had been for her to lose her shadow.”

“Please follow me,” said Muhammad as he passed Erica and began climbing higher on the slope.

Erica cast a last glance at the village below her. She could barely make out her taxi waiting on the asphalt road. She had to hurry to catch up to Muhammad.

He turned to the left when they reached the very base of the sheer cliff. Trying to look up the rock face, Erica practically fell over backward. They walked for another fifty feet and rounded a huge boulder. Again she had to hurry after Muhammad. On the other side of the rock was a ramp similar to that for tomb 37. There was another heavy iron grille, but this time without a number. Erica stopped behind Muhammad as he fumbled with a large ring of keys. She had lost her nerve but was now equally afraid to show fear.