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.

The walk seemed endless. Corridors stretched in front of her until perspective reduced them to pinpoints. And they were jammed with people. Egyptians wearing everything from silk suits to ragged galabias were lined up in front of doors or spilling out of offices. Some were sleeping on the floor, so that Erica and her escort had to step over them. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, garlic, and the greasy smell of lamb.

When Erica reached the outer office of the Department of Antiquities she remembered the multitude of desks and antique typewriters from the night before. The difference was that now they were occupied with ostensibly busy civil servants. After a short wait Erica was shown into the inner office. It was air-conditioned, and the coolness was a welcome relief.

Ahmed was standing behind the desk peering out the window. A corner of the Nile could be seen between the Hilton and the skeleton of the new Intercontinental Hotel. He turned when Erica entered.

She had been prepared to pour out her problems like an overflowing river and plead with Ahmed to help her. But something in his expression made her hold back. There was a sadness about his face. His eyes were veiled and his thick dark hair was disheveled, as if he had been repeatedly running his fingers over his scalp.

“Are you all right?” asked Erica, genuinely concerned.

“Yes,” said Ahmed slowly. His voice was hesitant, depressed. “I never imagined what the strain of running this department was going to be like.” He flopped down in his chair, eyes momentarily closed.