Sphinx (13 page)

 

Stephanos Markoulis ordered another Scotch for himself and Evangelos Papparis. Both men were dressed in open-necked knit shirts and were sitting in a corner booth of the La Parisienne lounge in the Meridien Hotel. Stephanos was in a sour, nervous mood, and Evangelos knew his boss well enough to keep still.

“Goddamned Frenchman,” said Stephanos, looking at his watch. “He said he'd be right down, and it's been twenty minutes.”

Evangelos shrugged. He didn't say anything because he knew no matter what he said, it would only inflame Stephanos further. Instead he reached down and adjusted the small pistol strapped to his leg just within the top of his right boot. Evangelos was a brawny man with oversized features, particularly his brows, which made him look a little like a Neanderthal, except that his head was completely bald.

Just then Yvon de Margeau appeared in the doorway, carrying his attaché case. He was dressed in a blue blazer with an ascot, and was followed by Raoul. The two men surveyed the room.

“These rich guys always look like they're on their way to a polo match,” said Stephanos sarcastically. He waved to catch Yvon's attention. Evangelos shifted the table slightly to give his right hand free range of motion. Yvon
saw them and walked over. He shook hands with Stephanos and introduced Raoul before sitting down.

“How was your flight?” asked Yvon with restrained cordiality as soon as they had ordered.

“Terrible,” said Stephanos. “Where are the old man's papers?”

“You don't spare words, Stephanos,” said Yvon with a smile. “Perhaps it is best. In any case, I want to know if you killed Abdul Hamdi.”

“If I had killed Hamdi, do you think I'd come down here to this hellhole?” said Stephanos with scorn. He despised men like Yvon who had never had to work a day in their lives.

Believing that silence could be useful with a person like Stephanos, Yvon made a big production out of opening a new pack of Gauloises. He offered them around, but Evangelos was the only taker. He reached for the cigarette, but Yvon teased him by keeping the cigarettes just out of his grasp so that he could make out the tattoo on Evangelos' hairy, muscular forearm. It was a hula dancer with the word “Hawaii” just below it. Finally letting Evangelos take a cigarette, Yvon asked, “Do you go to Hawaii frequently?”

“I worked the freighters when I was a kid,” said Evangelos. He lit the Gauloise from a small candle on the table and sat back.

Yvon turned to Stephanos, whose impatience was showing. With careful movements Yvon lit his cigarette with his gold lighter before speaking. “No,” said Yvon. “No, I don't think you'd come to Cairo if you'd killed Hamdi, unless you were worried about something, unless something went wrong. But to tell you the truth, Stephanos, I don't know what to believe. You did come here very quickly. That's a little suspicious. Besides, I have learned that Hamdi's killers were not from Cairo.”

“Ah,” snapped Stephanos, exasperated. “Let me see if I get this right. You learn the killers weren't from Cairo. From that information you decide that they obviously have to be from Athens. Is that your reasoning?”
Stephanos turned toward Raoul. “How can you work for this man?” He tapped his forehead with his index finger.

Raoul's dark eyes did not blink. His hands rested on his knees. He was prepared to move in a fraction of a second.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, Yvon,” said Stephanos, “but you'll have to look elsewhere for Hamdi's killer. It wasn't me.”

“Too bad,” said Yvon. “It would have answered a lot of questions. Do you have any thoughts as to who might have done it?”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” said Stephanos, “but I have a feeling that Hamdi made himself a number of enemies. How about letting me see Hamdi's papers?”

Yvon lifted his attaché case to the top of the table and put his finger on the latch. He paused. “One other question. Do you have any idea where the Seti I statue is?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Stephanos, looking hungrily at the case.

“I want that statue,” said Yvon.

“If I hear anything about it, I will let you know,” said Stephanos.

“You never gave me a chance to see the Houston statue,” said Yvon, watching Stephanos carefully.

Looking up from the case, Stephanos' face gave a hint of surprise. “What makes you think I was involved with the Houston statue?”

“Let's just say I know,” said Yvon.

“Did you learn that from Hamdi's papers?” asked Stephanos angrily.

Instead of answering, Yvon flipped the latch of his case and dumped Hamdi's correspondence onto the table. Leaning back, he casually sipped his Pernod as Stephanos quickly shuffled through the letters. He found his own to Abdul Hamdi and put it aside. “Is this all?” he asked.

“That was all we found,” answered Yvon, turning his attention back to the group.

“Did you search the place well?” asked Stephanos.

Yvon glanced over at Raoul, who nodded affirmatively. “Very well,” said Raoul.

“There has to have been more,” said Stephanos. “I cannot imagine the old bastard was bluffing. He said he wanted five thousand dollars in cash or he was going to turn the papers over to the authorities.” Stephanos went through the papers again, more slowly.

“If you had to guess, what would you think happened to the Seti statue?” asked Yvon, taking another drink of Pernod.

“I don't know,” said Stephanos without looking up from a letter addressed to Hamdi from a dealer in Los Angeles. “But if it's any help, I can assure you it's still here in Egypt.”

An awkward silence prevailed. Stephanos was busy reading. Raoul and Evangelos glared at each other over their drinks. Yvon looked out the window. He too thought the Seti statue was still in Egypt. From where he was sitting, he could see the pool area, beyond which was the expanse of the Nile. In the middle of the river the Nile fountain was operating, sending a stream of water straight into the air. Multiple miniature rainbows appeared along the sides of the enormous jet of water. Yvon thought about Erica Baron and hoped that Khalifa Khalil was as good as Raoul said he was. If Stephanos had killed Hamdi and made a move against Erica, Khalifa was going to earn his pay.

“What about this American woman?” said Stephanos, seemingly reading Yvon's thoughts. “I want to see her.”

“She's staying at the Hilton,” said Yvon. “But she's a bit edgy about the whole affair. So treat her gently. She's the only connection I have with the Seti statue.”

“The statue is not my current interest,” said Stephanos, pushing the correspondence away. “But I want to talk to her, and I promise I'll be my usual tactful self. Tell me, have you learned anything at all about this Abdul Hamdi?”

“Not much. He was originally from Luxor. He came to Cairo a few months ago to establish a new antiquities
shop. He had a son who still has an antique business in Luxor.”

“Have you visited this son?” asked Stephanos.

“No,” said Yvon, rising. He'd had enough of Stephanos. “Remember to tell me if you learn anything about the statue. I can afford it.” With a slight smile, Yvon turned. Raoul stood up and followed.

“Do you believe him?” asked Raoul when they were outside.

“I don't know what to think,” said Yvon, continuing to walk. “Whether I believe him is one question, whether I trust him is another. He is the biggest opportunist I've ever met, bar none. I want Khalifa to be briefed that he must be extremely careful when Stephanos meets with Erica. If he tries to hurt her, I want him shot.”

 

There was one fly in the room that repeatedly flew an erratic course between the two windows. It sounded noisy in the otherwise still enclosure, especially when it slammed against the glass. Erica looked around the chamber. The walls and ceiling were whitewashed. The only decoration was a smiling poster of Anwar Sadat. The single wooden door was closed.

Erica was sitting in a straight-backed chair. Above her was a light bulb suspended from the ceiling by a frayed black wire. Near the door was a small metal table and another chair like the one she was sitting on. Erica looked a mess. Her pants were torn at the right knee, with an abrasion beneath. A large stain of dried blood covered the back of her beige blouse.

Holding out her hand, she tried to judge whether her trembling was lessening. It was hard to say. At one point she had thought she was going to throw up, but the nausea had passed. Now she felt intermittent waves of dizziness, which she was able to disperse by closing her eyes tightly. There was no doubt she was still in a state of shock, but she was beginning to think more clearly. She knew, for example, that she had been taken to a police station in the village of Saqqara.

Erica rubbed her hands together, noticing that they became moist as she remembered the events in the serapeum. When Gamal first fell on her, she had thought she
was trapped in a cave-in. She had made frantic attempts to free herself, but it had been impossible because of the narrow confines of the wooden stairway. Besides, the blackness had been so complete she hadn't even been sure she had her eyes open. And then she had felt the warm, sticky fluid on her back. Only later did she find out it had been blood from the dying man on top of her.

Erica shook herself past another bout of nausea and looked up as the door opened. The same man who earlier had taken thirty minutes to fill out some sort of government form with a broken pencil reappeared. He spoke little English, but elaborately motioned Erica to follow him. The aged pistol holstered at his belt did not reassure her. She had already experienced the bureaucratic chaos Yvon had feared: obviously she was being considered a suspect rather than an innocent victim. From the moment the “authorities” had arrived on the scene, pandemonium had reigned. At one point two policemen had had such an argument over some piece of evidence that they had almost come to blows. Erica's passport had been taken and she had been driven to Saqqara in a locked van that was as hot as an oven. She had asked on numerous occasions if she could call the American consulate but had received only shrugs in return as the men continued to argue over what to do with her.

Now Erica followed the man with the old gun through the dilapidated police station out to the street. The same van that had driven her from the serapeum to the village was waiting, its engine idling. Erica tried to ask for her passport, but instead of answering, the man hurried her inside the truck. The door was closed and locked.

Anwar Selim was already crouched on the wooden seat. Erica had not seen him since the catastrophe in the serapeum, and was so pleased to find him again she almost threw her arms around him, begging him to tell her everything was going to be all right. But as she moved into the van, he glowered at her and turned his head.

“I knew you were going to be trouble,” he said without looking at her.

“Me, trouble?” She noticed he was handcuffed, and shrank back.

The van lurched forward, and both passengers had to steady themselves. Erica felt perspiration run down her back.

“You acted strangely from the first moment,” said Selim, “especially in the museum. You were planning something. And I'm going to tell them.”

“I . . .” began Erica. But she did not continue. Fear clouded her brain. She should have reported Hamdi's murder.

Selim looked at her and spit on the floor of the van.

 

When Erica got out of the van, she recognized the corner of El Tahrir Square. She knew she was close to the Hilton, and she wished she could go back to her room to make some calls and find help. Seeing Selim in shackles had increased her anxiety, and she wondered if she were under arrest.

She and Selim were hurried inside the General Security Police Building, which was jammed with people. Then they were separated. Erica was fingerprinted, photographed, and finally escorted to a windowless room.

Her escort smartly saluted an Arab reading a dossier at a plain wooden table. Without looking up he waved his right hand and Erica's escort departed, closing the door quietly. Erica remained standing. There was silence except when the man turned a page. The fluorescent lights made his bald head shine like a polished apple. His lips were thin and moved slightly as he read. He was impeccably attired in a white martial uniform with a high collar. A black leather strap ran through the epaulet on the left shoulder and was attached to a broader black leather belt that supported a holstered automatic pistol. The man turned to the last page, and Erica caught sight of an American passport clipped to the dossier and hoped that she would be speaking to someone reasonable.

“Please sit down, Miss Baron,” said the policeman,
still without looking up. His voice was crisp, emotionless. He had a mustache trimmed to a knifelike line. His long nose curled under at the tip.

Quickly Erica sat in the wooden chair facing the table. Beneath it she could see, next to the policeman's polished boots, her canvas tote bag. She'd been worried that she'd seen the last of it.

The policeman put down the dossier, then picked up the passport. He opened it to the photo of Erica, and his eyes traveled back and forth between her and the photo several times. He then reached out and put the passport on the table next to the telephone.

“I am Lieutenant Iskander,” said the policeman, clasping his hands together on the table. He paused, looking intently at Erica. “What happened in the serapeum?”

“I don't know,” stammered Erica. “I was walking up some stairs to view a sarcophagus, and then I was knocked down from behind. Then someone fell on top of me, and the lights went out.”

“Did you see who it was that knocked you down?” He spoke with a slight English accent.

“No,” said Erica. “It all happened so quickly.”

“The victim was shot. Didn't you hear shots?”

“No, not really. I heard several sounds like someone beating a rug, but no shots.”

Lieutenant Iskander nodded and wrote something in the dossier. “Then what happened?”

“I could not get out from beneath the man who fell on me,” said Erica, remembering again the feeling of terror. “There were some shouts, I think, but I'm not really sure. I do remember that someone brought candles. They helped me up, and someone said the man was dead.”

“Is that all?”

“The guards arrived, then the police.”

“Did you look at the man who was shot?”

“Sort of. I had trouble looking at him.”

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“No,” said Erica.

Reaching down and lifting the tote bag, Iskander pushed it over to Erica. “See if anything is missing.”

Erica checked the bag. Camera, guidebook, wallet—all seemed to be untouched. She counted her money and checked her traveler's checks. “Everything seems to be here.”

“Then you weren't robbed.”

“No,” said Erica. “I suppose not.”

“You are trained as an Egyptologist. Is that correct?” asked Lieutenant Iskander.

“Yes,” said Erica.

“Does it surprise you to know that the man who was killed worked for the Department of Antiquities?”

Glancing away from Iskander's cold eyes, Erica looked down at her hands, realizing for the first time that they had been busy working at each other. She held them still, thinking. Although she felt the urge to answer Iskander's questions rapidly, she knew that the question he'd just asked her was important, perhaps the most important of the interview. It reminded her of Ahmed Khazzan. He'd said he was director of the Department of Antiquities. Maybe he could help.

“I'm not sure how to answer,” she said finally. “It doesn't surprise me the man worked for the Department of Antiquities. He could have been anyone. I certainly did not know him.”

“Why did you visit the serapeum?” asked Lieutenant Iskander.

Remembering Selim's accusing comments in the van, Erica thought carefully about her answer. “The guide I'd hired for the day suggested it,” said Erica.

Opening the dossier, Lieutenant Iskander again wrote.

“May I ask a question?” asked Erica in an uncertain voice.

“Certainly.”

“Do you know Ahmed Khazzan?”

“Of course,” said Lieutenant Iskander. “Do you know Mr. Khazzan?”

“Yes, and I'd like very much to speak with him,” said Erica.

Lieutenant Iskander reached out and picked up the phone. He watched Erica as he dialed. He did not smile.