With Evangelos’ gun trembling in her hand, Erica marched Raoul along the line of aged taxis, glancing in at the ignitions. Most of the keys were in place. She wanted to get to Ahmed, but had to decide what to do with Raoul.
The lead car was similar to the others, with the exception of tassels lining the rear window. The keys were in the ignition.
“Lie down,” commanded Erica. She was terrified someone would walk out of the hotel.
Raoul took it upon himself to step sideways onto the close-clipped lawn.
“Hurry up!” said Erica, trying to sound angry.
Leaning on his palms, Raoul lay down. He kept his hands under him, ready to spring, his confusion dissolving into anger.
“Arms out in front of you,” said Erica. She opened the door to the taxi and got in behind the vinyl-coated steering wheel. A pair of soft red plastic dice hung from the dash.
The engine turned over agonizingly slowly, belched black smoke, then caught. Keeping the gun on Raoul, Erica searched for the headlight switch and flipped it on. Then she threw the pistol on the seat next to her and put the car in gear. It lurched forward and bucked dramatically, bouncing the pistol from the seat to the floor.
Out of the corner of her eye Erica saw Raoul leap to his feet and rush toward the taxi. She played with the accelerator and clutch, trying to ease the bucking and gain speed as he jumped on the back bumper and grabbed the closed trunk.
The car was in second gear when Erica pulled out onto the broad illuminated boulevard. There was no other traffic, and she accelerated as fast as she could past the Temple of Luxor. When the motor was racing, Erica forced the gearshift into third. She had no idea of the speed because the speedometer was not functioning. In the rearview mirror she could see Raoul still clinging to the trunk. His dark hair was blowing wildly in the wind. Erica wanted to get him off the car.
She threw the steering wheel from side to side. The taxi careened in a serpentine manner, its tires screeching. But Raoul pressed himself against the back of the car and managed to hold on.
Erica put the car in fourth gear and pressed on the accelerator. The taxi leaped forward but developed a shimmy in the right-front tire. The vibration was so violent that she had to hold the steering wheel tightly with both hands as she shot past the two ministers’ houses. The soldiers on guard just smiled at seeing the shuddering taxi speed by with a man clinging to the trunk.
Jamming on the brakes, Erica brought the car to a sudden stop. Raoul slid up onto the back window. Down-shifting to first, Erica again accelerated, but Raoul continued to hang on, grasping the rear doorframes. Erica could still see him in the mirror, so she deliberately drove onto the shoulder of the road, seeking out potholes, which the car hit with jarring force. The passenger door on the right sprang open. The red dice fell from the dash.
Raoul was now lying on the trunk with his arms spanning the back window, each hand holding a doorframe through the missing windows of the rear doors. The impact with each pothole made his head and body slam up against the back of the car. He was determined to stay with Erica. He thought she’d gone crazy.
At the turnoff to Ahmed’s, the headlights of the taxi illuminated a mud-brick wall at the side of the road. Erica screeched to a stop and threw the car into reverse. The sudden stop caused Raoul to slide up on top of the car. He grabbed for a handhold, his left hand grasping the doorframe next to Erica’s face.
Erica accelerated backward, the car weaving wildly before ramming the wall. Her neck snapped back like a whip. The right-front door swung open to its limit, almost pulling it from its hinges. Raoul hung on.
Throwing the shift into first, Erica forced the car to leap forward. The sudden acceleration caused the right front door to close, slamming on Raoul’s hand.
He cried out from the pain and jerked his hand back by reflex. At the same moment, the car hit the asphalt lip of the road, and the jolt tossed Raoul into the sand by the roadside. Almost the instant he hit the ground he regained his feet. Supporting his throbbing hand, he ran after Erica, noticing that she was pulling up at a low whitewashed mud-brick house. He came to a stop as she dashed from the car toward the front door. After making sure he knew exactly where he was, he turned around and headed back to get Yvon.
Erica was afraid Raoul was right behind her when she reached Ahmed’s door. It was unlocked, and she burst through, leaving the door ajar. She had to convince Ahmed as quickly as possible of the conspiracy so that adequate police protection could be arranged.
Running directly into the living room, she was overjoyed to see Ahmed still up, conversing with a friend. “I’m being followed,” shouted Erica.
Ahmed leaped to his feet, dumbfounded when he recognized Erica.
“Quickly,” she continued, “we must have help.”
Ahmed recovered enough to dash past her and out the open doorway. Erica turned to Ahmed’s companion to ask him to summon the police. Her mouth started to open, but then her eyes widened with astonishment and fear.
Closing the door behind him, Ahmed returned and swept Erica into his arms. “It’s all clear, Erica,” he said. “It’s all clear and you are safe. Let me look at you. I don’t believe it; it is a miracle.”
But Erica didn’t respond, just strained to see over Ahmed’s shoulder. Her blood ran cold. She was looking at Muhammad Abdulal! Now both she and Ahmed would be killed. She could tell that Muhammad was equally astonished to see her, but he collected himself and unleashed a torrent of angry Arabic.
At first Ahmed ignored Muhammad’s raving. He asked Erica who had been following her, but before she could respond, Muhammad said something that triggered in Ahmed the same suppressed violence Erica had seen when he smashed the teacup. His eyes darkened and he whirled to face Muhammad. He spoke in Arabic, and at first his voice was low and threatening, but it gradually rose in pitch until he was shouting.
Erica looked back and forth between the two men, expecting Muhammad to pull out a weapon. To her relief she noticed that instead he was cowering. Apparently he took orders from Ahmed, because he sat down when Ahmed pointed to a chair. Then with relief came fear. When Ahmed turned back to Erica, she looked into his powerfully deep eyes. What was happening?
Ahmed spoke softly. “Erica, it is truly a miracle that you have returned . . . .”
Erica’s mind was beginning to scream that something was wrong. What was Ahmed saying? What did he mean, return?
“It must be Allah’s wish that you and I should be together,” he continued, “and I am willing to accept his decision. I have been talking with Muhammad for many hours about you. I was going to come to you, to talk with you, to plead with you.”
Erica’s heart pounded; her whole sense of reality was disintegrating. “You knew about my being sealed in the tomb?”
“Yes. It was a difficult decision for me, but you had to be stopped. I ordered that you would not be hurt. I was going to come to the tomb to convince you to join us. I love you, Erica. One other time I had to give up the woman I loved. My uncle made sure I had no choice. But not this time. I want you to become part of the family—my family and Muhammad’s family.”
Closing her eyes for a moment, Erica tried to deal with all her conflicting thoughts. She could not believe what was happening and what she was hearing. Marriage? Family? Her voice was uncertain. “You are related to Muhammad?”
“Yes,” said Ahmed. He led her slowly to the couch and sat her down. “Muhammad and I are cousins. Our grandmother is Aida Raman. She is my mother’s mother.” Ahmed carefully described the complicated genealogy of their family, starting with Sarwat and Aida Raman.
When he finished speaking, Erica threw a frightened glance at Muhammad.
“Erica . . .” said Ahmed to
regain her attention “You have been able to do something no one else has been able to do for fifty years. No one outside of the family has seen the Raman papyrus, and anyone with even the slightest idea of its existence has been dealt with. Thanks to the media, the deaths have been ascribed to some mysterious curse. It’s been most convenient.”
“And all the secrecy is to guard the tomb?” asked Erica.
Ahmed and Muhammad exchanged glances. “What tomb are you referring to?” asked Ahmed.
“The real Seti tomb under Tutankhamen’s,” said Erica.
Muhammad jumped up and treated Ahmed to another stream of harsh Arabic. Ahmed listened this time and did not shut him up. When Muhammad was finished, Ahmed turned back to Erica. His voice was still calm. “You are indeed a marvel, Erica. Now you know why the stakes are so high. Yes, we are guarding an unplundered tomb of one of the great Egyptian pharaohs. With your training you know what that means. Unbelievable wealth. So you can understand that you have put us in an embarrassing position. But if you marry me, then it is part yours and you can help clear this most spectacular archaeological find.”
Erica tried again to think of a way to escape. First she’d had to get away from Yvon, now Ahmed. And Raoul was probably going back to Yvon. There would be a horrible confrontation. The world was crazy. To stall for time she asked, “Why hasn’t the tomb been cleared already?”
“The tomb is filled with such riches that removing any required careful planning. My grandfather Raman knew it would take a generation to set up the machinery to market the treasures from such a tomb and to place the family in positions where they could control moving the priceless objects from Egypt. During the latter part of his life, we only took from the tomb enough to educate the next generation. It has only been within the last year that I have become director of the Department of Antiquities and Muhammad chief guard of the Necropolis of Luxor.”
“So it’s like the Rasul family in the nineteenth century,” said Erica.
“There is a superficial resemblance,” said Ahmed. “We are working on a very sophisticated level. The archaeological interests are being carefully considered. In fact, Erica, you could be instrumental in that aspect.”
“Was Lord Carnarvon one of the people that had to be ‘dealt with’?” asked Erica.
“I’m not certain,” said Ahmed. “It was a long time ago, but I think so.” Muhammad nodded. “Erica,” continued Ahmed, “how did you learn what you did? I mean, what made—?”
Suddenly the lights in the house went out. The moon had set and the darkness was absolute, like a tomb. Erica did not move. She heard someone pick up the phone, then slam it down. She guessed Yvon and Raoul had cut the wires.
She heard Ahmed and Muhammad speak swiftly in Arabic. Then her eyes began to accustom themselves to the darkness so she could see vague forms. A figure loomed toward her, and she shrank back. It was Ahmed, and he grasped her wrist and pulled her to her feet. She could see only his eyes and his teeth.
“I ask you again, who was following you?” His voice was an urgent half-whisper.
She tried to speak, but she stumbled over her words; she was terrified. She was caught between two horrid forces. Ahmed yanked on her wrist impatiently. Finally Erica managed to say, “Yvon de Margeau.”
Ahmed did not let go of Erica’s wrist while he conversed with Muhammad. Erica caught the gleam from the barrel of a pistol in Muhammad’s hand. She had the helpless feeling that events were again beyond her control.
Without warning Ahmed pulled Erica across the living room and down the long darkened hallway toward the rear of the house. She struggled to free her hand, unable to see and fearing she was going to trip and fall. But Ahmed’s grip was like steel. Muhammad ran behind.
They exited from the house into the courtyard, where there was slightly more light. They skirted the stable, reaching the back gate. Ahmed and Muhammad spoke quickly; then Ahmed opened the wooden door. The alley beyond was deserted and darker than the courtyard because of a double row of date palms. Muhammad carefully leaned out with his gun poised, his eyes searching the shadows. Satisfied, he stepped back, making room for Ahmed. Without releasing her wrist, Ahmed urged Erica forward, pushing her through the doorway into the alley. He followed close behind.
The first thing Erica was aware of was a sudden tightening of Ahmed’s hold on her wrist. Then she heard the report of the gun. It was the same dull thud she’d heard when she faced the crazed Evangelos. It was the sound of a gun with a silencer. Ahmed fell sideways, back through the doorway, pulling Erica off her feet on top of him. In the meager light she could see he’d been shot like Evangelos, between the eyes. Bits of brain tissue had spattered on the side of her face.
Erica pushed herself up to a kneeling position in a state of catatonia. Muhammad lunged past her, running across the alley to the safety of the rows of palm trunks. Erica blankly watched him turn and fire his pistol down the alley. Then he turned and fled in the opposite direction.
In a daze Erica stood up, her eyes riveted to the lifeless Ahmed. She backed up into the shadows until she hit against the wall of the stable. Her mouth was open and her breathing was in shallow gasps. From the front part of the house she could hear a sharp splintering sound followed by a crash that had to be the front door. Behind her she could hear Sawda nervously stir in his stable. She was immobilized.
Directly in front of her and framed by the doorway to the alley, Erica saw a crouching figure run past. Almost immediately, more shots rang out on the right. Then behind her she heard the sounds of running in the house, and her numbness began to revert to terror. She knew that it was she that Yvon wanted. He was desperate.
Erica heard the back door to the house swing open. She held her breath as a silent figure came into view. It was Raoul. She watched as he bent over Ahmed, then exited into the alley.
Erica’s paralysis lasted for another five minutes, the sound of the firefight fading in the alley. Suddenly she pushed away from the wall and stumbled back through the dark house and out the front door.
She crossed the road and ran down a passageway made of mud bricks. She passed through a yard, then another, causing a few lights to come on in her noisy wake. She crashed through debris, a chicken coop, and splashed through an open sewer. In the distance she could hear more shots and a man shouting. She ran on until she felt she was going to collapse. But it wasn’t until she stumbled onto the Nile that she allowed herself to rest. She tried to think of where to go. No one could be trusted. Since Muhammad Abdulal was chief of the guards, she was even afraid of the police.
It was at that point that Erica remembered the two houses of the ministers guarded by the casual soldiers. With effort she heaved herself to her feet and began walking south. She remained in the shadows away from the road until she had reached the guarded properties. Then, like an automation she walked out into the lighted street and rounded the front wall of the first house. The soldiers were there, conversing with each other across the fifty feet that separated the two entranceways. They both turned and watched as Erica walked directly toward the first. He was young, dressed in loose-fitting brown uniform with highly polished boots. A machine pistol hung from a shoulder strap. He moved the weapon around, and as Erica came closer, he started to say something.
With no intention of stopping, Erica walked right past the surprised youth into the grounds of the house. “O af andak!” yelled the soldier, coming after Erica.
Erica stopped. Then, after mustering her resources, she yelled as loud as possible, “Help!” and kept screaming until a light came on in the darkened house. Soon a robed figure appeared at the door—bald, overweight, and shoeless.
“Do you speak English?” asked Erica breathlessly.
“Of course,” said the man, surprised and slight
ly irritated.
“Do you work for the government?”
“Yes. I’m deputy assistant defense minister.”
“Do you have anything to do with antiquities?”
“Nothing.”
“Wonderful,” said Erica. “I have the most incredible story to tell you . . . .”
BOSTON
The TWA 747 banked gently, then made its graceful approach to Logan Airport. With her nose pressed up against the window, Erica stared out on the vista of Boston in the late fall. It looked very good to her. She felt a true excitement about coming home.
The wheels of the huge jet touched down, sending a slight shudder through the cabin. A few passengers clapped, happy that the long transatlantic flight was at an end. As the plane taxied toward the international-arrivals building, Erica marveled at the experiences she’d had since her departure. She was a different person than when she’d left, feeling that she’d finally made the transition from the academic to the real world. And with the invitation by the Egyptian government to play a major role in clearing the tomb of Seti I, she felt confident of a promising career.
There was a final lurch as the plane came to the gate. The sounds of the engines died away, and the passengers began opening overhead storage bins. Erica stayed in her seat and looked out at the crisp New England clouds. She remembered Lieutenant Iskander’s immaculate white uniform when he’d come to see her off from Cairo. He had told her the final result of that fateful night in Luxor: Ahmed Khazzan had died from gunshot wounds—a fact she’d known from the moment he’d been hit; Muhammad Abdulal was still in a coma; Yvon de Margeau had somehow received clearance and had flown out of the country, becoming a persona non grata in Egypt; and Stephanos Markoulis had just disappeared.
It all seemed so unreal now that she was in Boston. The experience saddened her, especially about Ahmed. The experience also made her question her ability to judge people, especially because of Yvon. Even after what had happened, he had had the nerve to telephone her from Paris when she’d returned to Cairo, offering her large sums to provide inside information about the tomb of Seti I. She shook her head in dismay as she gathered her carry-on belongings.