Dressing sensibly for the heat she expected at Saqqara, Erica put on a light beige cotton blouse with short sleeves and cotton pants of a slightly darker shade cut full with a drawstring waist. In her tote bag she deposited her Polaroid, her flashlight, and the 1929 Baedeker guidebook. After careful comparison she had agreed with Abdul Hamdi. The Baedeker was far better than Nagel’s.

At the front desk she was able to retrieve her passport, which apparently had been duly recorded. She was also introduced to her guide for the day, Anwar Selim. Erica did not want a guide, but the hotel had suggested it, and after being tormented by hecklers the day before, she had finally relented, agreeing to pay seven Egyptian pounds for the guide and ten for the taxi and driver. Anwar Selim was a gaunt man in his middle forties, who wore a metal pin with the number 113 on the lapel of his gray suit, proving he was a government-licensed guide.

“I have a wonderful itinerary,” said Selim, who had an affectation of smiling in the middle of his sentences. “First we will visit the Great Pyramid in the coolness of the morning. Then-”

“Thank you,” said Erica, interrupting. She backed away. Selim’s teeth were in sorry shape, and his breath was capable of stopping a charging rhinoceros. “I have already planned the day. I want to go to the Egyptian Museum first for a short visit, then go on to Saqqara.”

“But Saqqara will be hot in the middle of the day,” protested Selim. His mouth was set in a hardened smile, the skin of his face taut from continuous exposure to Egyptian sun.

“I’m sure it will be,” announced Erica, trying to cut off this dialogue, “but it is the itinerary I would like to follow.”

Without altering his facial expression Selim opened the door of the battered taxi that had been retained for her. The driver was young, with a three-day stubble on his face.

As they pulled away for the short hop to the museum, Khalifa put his field glasses on the floor of the car. He allowed Erica’s taxi to pull out into the street before he started his engine, wondering if there was some way he could get some information about the guide and the taxi driver. As he put his car into gear, he noted another taxi pull out from the Hilton directly behind Erica’s. Both cars turned right at the first intersection.

Gamal had recognized Erica when she had appeared, without having to refer to the photo. Hastily he had written the guide’s number, 113, in the margin of his newspaper before telling his driver to follow Erica’s taxi.

When they reached the Egyptian Museum, Selim helped Erica out of the car, and the taxi proceeded to the shade of a sycamore to wait. Gamal had his driver stop under a nearby tree that afforded a view of Erica’s taxi. Opening his newspaper, he went back to a long article on Sadat’s proposals for the West Bank.

Khalifa parked outside the museum compound and purposely walked past Gamal’s taxi to see if he recognized the man. He did not. For Khalifa, Gamal’s movements were already suspicious, but following orders, he entered the museum behind Erica and her guide.

Erica had walked into the famed museum with great enthusiasm, but even her knowledge and interest could not overcome the oppressive atmosphere. The priceless objects looked as out-of-place in the dusty rooms as they did in the Boston Museum on Huntington Avenue. The mysterious statues and stony faces had the look of death, not immortality. The guards were dressed in white uniforms and black berets, reminiscent of the colonial era. Sweepers with thatched brooms pushed the dust from room to room without ever carrying it away. The only workers who were really busy were the repairmen who stood in small roped-off areas plastering or doing simple carpentry with tools similar to those pictured in the ancient Egyptian murals.

Erica tried to ignore the surroundings and concentrate on the more-renowned pieces. In room 32 she was astounded at the lifelike quality of the limestone statues of Rahotep, brother of Khufu, and Nofritis, his wife. They had a serene contemporary look. Erica was content to merely gaze at the faces, but her guide felt compelled to offer the full benefit of his knowledge. He told Erica what Rahotep had said to Khufu when he had first seen the statue. Erica knew it was pure fiction. Politely she told Selim to only answer her questions and that she was actually familiar with most of the objects.

As Erica rounded the Rahotep statue, her eyes wandered across the entranceway of the gallery before returning to the back of the statue. An image of a dark man with a tooth that looked like a fang hovered in her mind, but when she turned again there was no figure in the doorway. It had happened so quickly that it gave her an uneasy feeling. The events of the previous day made her wary, and as she walked around the Rahotep statue she looked at the doorway several times but the dark figure did not reappear. Instead a very noisy group of French tourists entered the room.

Motioning for Selim to leave, Erica stepped from room 32 into the long gallery that ran along the whole western edge of the building. The corridor was empty of people, but as she looked through a double arch to the northwest corner, Erica again saw a fleeting dark figure.

With Selim trying to get her to view various famous objects along the way, Erica quickly walked down the long gallery toward the spot where it intersected a similar gallery on the north side of the museum. Exasperated, Selim doggedly followed the fast-paced American, who seemed to want to view the museum at the speed of light.

She stopped abruptly just short of the intersection. Selim halted behind her, gazing around to see what could have caught her attention. She was standing next to a statue of Senmut, steward of Queen Hatshepsut, but rather than studying it, she was carefully looking around the corner into the north gallery.

“If there is something in particular you’d like to see,” said Selim, “please-”

Erica angrily motioned for Selim to be still. Stepping out into the middle of the gallery, Erica searched for the dark figure. She saw nothing, and felt a little foolish. A German couple walked by, arm in arm, arguing over the floor plan of the museum.

“Miss Baron,” said Selim, obviously struggling to be patient, “I am very familiar with this museum. If there is something you’d like to see, just ask.”

Erica took pity on the man and tried to think of something to ask him so he’d feel more useful.

“Are there any Seti I artifacts in the museum?”

Selim put his index finger on his nose, thinking. Then, without speaking, he lifted the finger in the air and motioned for Erica to follow. He led her up to the second floor to room 47 over the entrance foyer. He stood beside a large piece of exquisitely carved quartzite, labeled 388.1. “The lid to Seti I’s sarcophagus,” he said proudly.

Erica looked at the piece of stone, mentally comparing it with the fabulous statue she’d seen the day before. It wasn’t much of a comparison. She also remembered that Seti I’s sarcophagus itself had been pirated off to London and rested in a small museum there. It was painfully obvious how much the black market shortchanged the Egyptian Museum.

Selim waited until Erica looked up. He then pulled her by the hand to the entrance of another room, directing her to pay the guard at the door another fifteen plasters so that they could enter. Once in the room, Selim navigated between the long low glass cases until he reached one by the wall. “The mummy of Seti I,” said Selim smugly.

Looking down at the dried-up face, Erica felt a little sick. It was the kind of image Hollywood makeup artists strove to imitate for countless horror movies, and she noticed that the ears had fragmented and that the head was no longer attached to the torso. Instead of ensuring immortality, the remains suggested that the horror of death was permanent.