“Yes, it was his Osiris name,” said Erica. “I remembered it was the same as I’ve seen on a clever fake scarab. Anyway, Dr. Lowery, could you possibly get a photo of the hieroglyphics on the Houston statue and send it to me?”

“I’m sure I can. I remember the man, a Jeffrey Rice. He will be extremely interested that there is another statue like his, and I think he’ll be cooperative in exchange for the news.”

“It is a tragedy,” said Erica, “that the statue could not be studied at the site it was found.”

“Indeed,” said Dr. Lowery. “That’s the real problem with the black market. The treasure hunters destroy so much information.”

“I’ve known about the black market, but I never realized its true power,” said Erica. “I’d really like to do something about it.”

“That’s a wonderful goal. But the stakes are high, and as Abdul Hamdi learned too late, it is a deadly game.”

Erica thanked Dr. Lowery for calling, and told him that she would soon be heading up to Luxor to get to work on her translations. Dr. Lowery told her to be careful and to enjoy herself.

Hanging up, Erica relished the feeling of excitement. It made her remember why she had studied Egypt in the first place. Settling herself back to sleep, she felt all her initial enthusiasm for her trip return.

Cairo awakened early. From the nearby villages the donkey carts laden with produce had begun their trek into the city before the eastern sky had even bleached from its nighttime blackness. The sounds were those of the wooden wheels, the jangle of the harness fittings, and the bells of the lambs and goats trotting into market. As the sun brightened the horizon, the animal carts were joined by a medley of petroleum-powered vehicles. Bakeries stirred and the air was filled with the delicious aroma of baking bread. By seven the taxis emerged like insects and the honking began. People appeared on the streets and the temperature climbed.

Having left her balcony door ajar, Erica was soon assaulted by the sounds of the traffic on the El Tahrir Bridge and on the broad boulevard, Korneish el-Nil, that ran along the Nile in front of the Hilton. Rolling over, she looked out at the pale blue of the morning sky. She felt much better than she had expected. Glancing at her watch, she was surprised she had not slept longer. It wasn’t even quite eight o’clock.

Erica pushed herself up to a sitting position. The fake scarab was lying on the table next to the phone. She picked it up and pressed it as if to test its reality. After a night’s rest the events of the previous day seemed like a dream.

Ordering breakfast in her room, Erica began to plan her day. She decided to visit the Egyptian Museum and view some of the Old Kingdom exhibits, then head out to Saqqara, the necropolis of the Old Kingdom capital of Mennofer. She would avoid the usual tourist habit of rushing directly to the pyramids of Giza.

Breakfast was simple: juice, melon, fresh croissants and honey, and sweet Arabic coffee. It was served elegantly on her splendid balcony. With the pyramids reflecting the sun in the distance and the Nile silently slipping by, Erica experienced a sense of euphoria.

After pouring herself more coffee, Erica brought out her Nagel’s guide to Egypt and turned to the section on Saqqara. There was much too much to see in any one day, and she intended to plan her itinerary carefully. Suddenly she remembered Abdul Hamdi’s guidebook. It was still nestled deep within her canvas tote bag. Gingerly she opened the cover, which was no longer securely attached, and gazed at the name and address in the flyleaf: Nasif Malmud, 180 Shari El Tahir. It made her think of the cruel irony of Abdul Hamdi’s last words. “I travel a lot and might not be in Cairo at the time you leave.” She shook her head, realizing that the old man had been right. Turning to the section on Saqqara, she began to compare the older Baedeker with the newer Nagel’s.

Overhead, a black falcon hovered on the wind, then plunged down on a rat scuttling through an alley.

Nine floors below, Khalifa Khalil reached over in his rented Egyptian Fiat and pressed the light button. He waited patiently until it popped out. Leaning back, he lit his cigarette with obvious pleasure, inhaling deeply. He was an angular and muscular man with a large hooked nose that seemed to pull his mouth into a perpetual sneer. He moved with restrained grace, like a jungle cat. Glancing up at the balcony of 932, he could make out his quarry. With his powerful field glasses he could see Erica very well and allowed himself to enjoy the view of her legs. Very nice, he thought, congratulating himself on obtaining such a pleasurable assignment. Erica shifted her legs toward him, and he grinned: this gave him a distinctively startling appearance, because one of his upper front incisors had been broken in such a way that it came to a sharp point. In his customary black suit and black tie, many people thought he looked like a vampire.

Khalifa was an unusually successful soldier of fortune, experiencing no problem with unemployment in the turbulent Middle East. He had been born in Damascus and raised in an orphanage. He had been trained as a commando in Iraq but had been phased out because he could not work with a team. He also lacked a conscience. He was a sociopathic killer who could be controlled only by money. Khalifa laughed happily when he thought that he was being paid the same for babysitting a beautiful American tourist as for running AK assault rifles to the Kurds in Turkey.

Scanning Erica’s neighboring balconies, Khalifa saw nothing suspicious. His orders from the Frenchman had been simple. He was to protect Erica Baron from a possible murder attempt and catch the perpetrators. Swinging his binoculars away from the Hilton, he slowly scanned the people along the banks of the Nile. He knew it could be difficult to protect against a long-distance shot by a high-powered rifle. No one looked suspicious. By reflex his hand reassuringly patted the Stechkin semiautomatic pistol holstered beneath his left arm. It was his prized possession. He had taken it from a KGB agent he’d murdered in Syria for the Mossad.

Turning back to Erica, Khalifa had trouble believing someone would want to kill such a fresh-looking girl. She was like a peach ready for picking, and he wondered if Yvon’s motives were strictly business.

Suddenly the girl stood up, gathered her books, and disappeared within her room. Khalifa lowered the glasses to view the Hilton entrance. There was the usual line of taxis and early-morning activity.

Gamal Ibrahim struggled with the El Ahram newspaper, trying to fold over the first page. He was sitting in the rear seat of a taxi he’d hired for the day, parked in the Hilton driveway on the side opposite the entrance. The doorman had complained, but had relented when he saw Gamal’s Department of Antiquities identification. On the seat next to Gamal was a blown-up passport photo of Erica Baron. Each time a woman emerged from the hotel, Gamal would compare the face with the photo.

Gamal himself was twenty-eight. He was a little more than five-feet-four and slightly overweight. Married with two children, aged one and three, he had been hired by the Department of Antiquities just prior to receiving his doctorate in public administration from the University of Cairo that spring. He started work in mid-July, but things had not gone as smoothly as he would have liked. The staff in the department was so large that the only assignments he had been given were odd jobs such as this one, following Erica Baron and reporting where she went. Gamal picked up Erica’s photo as two women emerged and entered a taxi. Gamal had never followed anyone, and he felt the job demeaning, but he was in no position to refuse, especially since he was to report directly to Ahmed Khazzan, the director. Gamal had lots of ideas for the department and felt that now he might have a chance to be heard.