“Something has to be done!” Yvon laughed cynically. “American self-righteousness. The biggest market for antiquities is America. If the objects could not be sold, there would be no black market. It is the buyer who is ultimately at fault.”

“American self-righteousness!” said Erica indignantly. “What about the French? How can you say something like that, knowing that the Louvre is brimming with priceless objects, essentially stolen, like the Zodiac from the Temple of Dendera? People travel thousands of miles to come to Egypt, and end up looking at a plaster cast of the Zodiac.”

“It was safer for the Zodiac stone to remove it,” said Yvon.

“Come on, Yvon. You can think of a better excuse than that. It had a certain validity in the past, but not today.” Erica couldn’t believe that she had recovered enough to involve herself in a nonsensical argument. She also noticed that Yvon was incredibly attractive and that she was baiting him into some kind of emotional response.

“Okay,” said Yvon coolly, “we agree in principle. The black market must be controlled. But we disagree in method. For instance, I do not think we should go immediately to the police.”

Erica was shocked.

“So you disagree?” asked Yvon.

“I’m not sure,” stammered Erica, frustrated by her own transparency.

“I understand your concern. Let me explain to you where you are. I’m not trying to be patronizing, just realistic. This is Cairo, not New York or Paris or even Rome. I say that because even Italy is run incredibly efficiently when compared with Egypt, which is saying a lot. Cairo suffers from a gargantuan bureaucracy. Oriental intrigue and bribery are the rule, not the exception. If you go to the police with your story, you will be the prime suspect. Consequently, you will be jailed or at the very least placed under house arrest. Six months to a year could go by before even the appropriate papers are filled out. Your life will be pure hell.” Yvon paused. “Am I making any sense? I’m telling you this for your own protection.”

“Who are you?” asked Erica, reaching for her bag to get a cigarette. In truth, she did not really smoke; Richard hated it when she did, and she’d purchased a carton of cigarettes in the duty-free shop as a gesture of rebellion. But at the moment, she wanted to do something with her hands. Watching her fumble in her bag, Yvon took out a gold case and held it open. Erica took a cigarette self-consciously. He lit it with a gold Dior lighter, then took one for himself. They smoked in silence for a few moments. Erica puffed without inhaling.

“I am what you call in your country a concerned citizen,” said Yvon, brushing back his dark brown hair, which was already neatly in place. “I have deplored the destruction of antiquities and archaeological sites, and I’ve decided to do something about it. Knowledge of this Seti I statue was the biggest… what do you say…” Yvon searched for a word.

Erica tried to help by suggesting “find.”

Yvon shook his head, but he moved his hand in a circle to encourage Erica. Erica shrugged and suggested “break.”

“To solve a mystery,” added Yvon, “you need a…”

“Clue or lead,” said Erica.

“Ah, lead. Yes. It was the biggest lead. But now, I don’t know. The statue may be gone forever. Maybe you can help if you could identify the killer, but here in Cairo it will be difficult. And if you go to the police, it will be definitely impossible.”

“How did you learn about the statue in the first place?” asked Erica.

“From Hamdi himself. I’m sure he wrote to a number of people besides me,” said Yvon, looking around the room. “I came here as soon as possible. In fact, I arrived in Cairo only a few hours ago.” He walked over to one of the large wooden cabinets and pulled open the door. It was filled with small artifacts. “It would be helpful if his correspondence was here,” said Yvon, picking up a small wooden mummy figure. “Most of these pieces are fake,” he added.

“There are letters in that chest,” said Erica, pointing.

Yvon followed Erica’s finger and walked over and opened the chest.

“Very good,” said Yvon, pleased. “Perhaps there will be something in this material to help us. But I’d like to make certain there isn’t more correspondence hidden here.” He walked to the curtain and pulled it open. A small amount of daylight entered the area. “Raoul,” Yvon called loudly. The beads in the entranceway clacked. Yvon held open the curtain and Raoul entered.

He was younger than Yvon, in his late twenties, with olive skin and black hair and a carefree air of self-assured masculinity. He reminded Erica of Jean-Paul Belmondo.

Yvon introduced him, explaining that he was from the south of France and that though he spoke fluent English, his heavy accent made him a little hard to understand. Raoul shook Erica’s hand and smiled broadly. Then, ignoring Erica, the two men conversed rapidly in French before beginning to search the shop to see if there were any more records.

“This will take only a few minutes, Erica,” said Yvon, carefully going through one of the upright cabinets.

Erica sank to one of the large cushions in the center of the room. She felt numbed by the whole experience. She knew that searching the premises was illegal, but she did not protest. Instead she vacantly watched the two men. They had finished with the cabinets and were starting to take down all the carpets hanging on the walls.

While they worked, their differences were apparent. It was more than physical appearance. It was the way they moved and handled things. Raoul was blunt and direct, often relying on sheer strength. Yvon was careful and contemplative. Raoul was in constant motion, often bending, his head slightly drooped between his powerful shoulders. Yvon stood erect, and he regarded objects from a comfortable distance. He had rolled up his sleeves, revealing smooth forearms that emphasized his small sculptured hands. All at once Erica recognized what was so different about Yvon. He had the sheltered, pampered look of a nineteenth-century aristocrat. An air of elegant authority hovered over him like a halo.

With her pulse still racing, Erica abruptly found sitting intolerable. She stood up and walked over to the heavy drapes. She wanted some air but realized she was reluctant to look into the outer part of the shop, despite Yvon’s assurance that the body was gone. Finally she reached out and pulled open the curtain.

Erica screamed. Only two feet from her was a face that had whirled to look at her when she pulled open the curtain. There was a crash of pottery as the figure in the shop dropped his armload, obviously as frightened as Erica.

Raoul responded instantaneously, pushing past Erica into the front room. Yvon followed. The thief stumbled over the pottery and tried to reach the doorway, but Raoul was like a cat, and with a sharp karate chop between the shoulders brought the intruder to the floor. He rolled over, a boy about twelve.

Yvon took one look and walked back to Erica.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

Erica shook her head. “I’m not accustomed to this sort of thing.” She was still holding onto the drapes, her head down.

“Take a look at this boy,” said Yvon. “I want to be sure he wasn’t one of the three.” He put his arm around her, but she politely pushed him away.

“I’m okay,” she said, realizing she had overreacted because she had suppressed her earlier fright and then exploded at this latest happening.

Taking a deep breath, she went over and looked down at the cowering child.

“No,” she said simply.

Yvon spoke sharply in Arabic to the boy, who responded by scrambling to his feet and bolting through the entranceway, leaving the beaded strips dancing behind him. “The poverty in this place makes some of these people act like vultures. They sense when there is trouble.”