Sphinx (29 page)

Almost in a panic, she changed into a blue blouse, hastily pushed up her luxurious hair, and pulled her khaki sun hat over her head. Glancing into the mirror, she hoped her appearance had changed enough. Then she left the toilet and literally ran down the aisle to the next coach. It was second-class and more crowded. Most of the occupants had not taken their seats yet and were busy placing their belongings in the overhead racks.

Erica continued from coach to coach. When she reached third-class, she found the chickens and cattle had been loaded between the coaches and progress became impossible. Looking out, she assessed the milling crowd. It was seven-thirty-two. The train lurched and began to move as she climbed down to the platform. There was a sudden increase in the murmur of voices, and several people shouted and waved. Erica worked her way from the platform into the station, and for the first time looked for Khalifa.

The crowd began to disperse. Erica allowed the press of people to sweep her to the street. Once outside, she hurried across to a small café and took a table with a view of the station. Ordering a small coffee, she kept her eyes on the entrance.

She did not have to wait long. Pushing people rudely aside, Khalifa stormed from the station. Even from where Erica was sitting she could sense his anger as he leaped into a taxi and headed down Shari el Mahatta toward the Nile. Erica gulped down her coffee. The sun had set and dusk was falling. She was late. Picking up her bag, she hurried from the café.

* * *

“Christ almighty!” yelled Yvon. “Why am I paying you two hundred dollars a day? Can you tell me that?”

Khalifa frowned and examined the fingernails of his left hand. He knew he really did not have to suffer this tirade, but his assignment fascinated him. Erica Baron had tricked him, and he was not accustomed to losing. If he were, he would have been dead a long time ago.

“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.

She had had no idea the statue would be stored in such an isolated location. The iron gate squealed on its hinges, unaccustomed to being opened.

“Please,” said Muhammad simply, motioning for Erica to enter.

It was an undecorated tomb. She turned and watched Muhammad close the door behind him. There was a resounding click as the lock engaged. Anemic moonlight filtered in through the iron bars.

Muhammad lit a single match and pushed past Erica, moving down a narrow corridor. She had no choice but to stay close behind. They moved in a small sphere of light, and she had a helpless feeling that events were far beyond her control.

They entered an antechamber. Erica could make out dim line drawings on the walls. Muhammad bent down and touched his match to an oil lamp. The light flickered, making his shadow dance among the ancient Egyptian deities on the walls.

A sharp gilded reflection caught Erica's eye. There it was, the Seti statue! The burnished gold radiated a light more powerful than the lamp. For the moment awe conquered fear, and Erica walked over to the sculpture. Its alabaster-and-green-feldspar eyes were hypnotic, and she had to force herself to look below at the hieroglyphics.
There were the cartouches of Seti I and Tutankhamen. The phrase was the same as that on the Houston statue: “Eternal life granted unto Seti I, who ruled after Tutankhamen.”

“It is magnificent,” said Erica with sincerity. “How much do you want for it?”

“We have others,” said Muhammad. “Wait until you see the others before you make your choice.”

Erica turned to look at him, intending to say she was satisfied. But she did not speak. Once again she was paralyzed by fear. Muhammad had flipped back his hood, revealing his mustache and gold-tipped teeth. He was one of the killers of Abdul Hamdi!

“We have a wonderful selection of statues in the next room,” said Muhammad. “Please.” He half-bowed and gestured toward the narrow doorway.

A cold sweat chilled her body. The grate to the tomb was locked. She had to play for time. She turned and started toward the doorway, not wanting to go deeper into the tomb, but Muhammad came up behind her. “Please,” he said, and pushed her gently forward.

Their shadows moved grotesquely on the walls as they walked down the sloping corridor. Ahead, Erica could see a recess that extended on both sides of the passageway. A stout beam ran from the floor up into the alcove. As Erica passed, she realized that the beam supported a huge stone portcullis.

Just beyond, the passageway ended and a flight of stairs hewn from the rock led steeply downward into darkness.

“How much farther?” she asked. Her voice was higher than usual.

“Just a little way.”

With the light behind her, Erica's shadow fell onto the stairs in front of her, blocking her vision. She felt ahead with her foot. It was at that point she felt something on her back. She first thought it was Muhammad's hand. Then she realized he had centered his foot in the small of her back.

Erica only had time to throw her hands out against
the smooth walls of the stairway. The force of the kick had knocked her feet out from under her, and she began falling. She landed on her buttocks, but the stairs were so steep that she continued sliding, unable to stop her downward motion into absolute blackness.

Muhammad quickly put down his oil lamp and pulled a stone sledge from the recess. With several carefully directed blows he dislodged the supporting beam, triggering the balanced portcullis. In slow motion the forty-five-ton granite block slid down a short incline, then fell into place with a deafening crash that sealed the ancient tomb.