“She’s fine. She’s scared, but she seemed to have pulled herself together by the time she left. I’m not sure how I’d react if I’d witnessed two murders in twenty-four hours, especially if one of the victims fell on top of me.”

Zaki took several thoughtful puffs on his pipe before continuing. “Strange. But, Ahmed, when I asked about Miss Baron, I wasn’t inquiring about her health. I want to know if you want her followed.”

“No,” said Ahmed angrily. “Not tonight. She’s going to be with de Margeau.” Almost the instant the words left his mouth, Ahmed felt embarrassed. His emotion was out of place.

“This is not like you, Ahmed,” said Zaki, watching the director very closely. He’d known Ahmed for several years, and Ahmed had never shown any interest in women. Now, suddenly it seemed that Ahmed was jealous. Finding a potential human weakness in Ahmed made Zaki feel inwardly pleased. He’d grown to hate Ahmed’s perfect record. “Perhaps it is best if you go to Luxor for a few days. I will certainly be happy to keep things under control here in Cairo, and I will look into Saqqara personally.”

As the government car pulled up to the Hilton, Erica still could not quite believe she had been released. She opened the door before the vehicle had come to a complete stop and thanked the driver as if he’d had something to do with her release. Entering the Hilton was a little like coming home.

Once again the lobby was extremely busy. The afternoon international flights had been discharging passengers in a steady stream. Most of them were waiting perched on their luggage as the inefficient hotel tried to deal with the daily onslaught.

Erica realized how out-of-place she must look. She was hot, sweaty, and a mess. The large bloodstain was still on her back, and her cotton pants were in sorry shape, smeared with dirt and torn on her right knee. If there had been an alternate route to her room she would have taken it. Unfortunately, she had to walk directly across the large red-and-blue Oriental rug beneath the main crystal chandelier. It was like being in a spotlight, and people began to stare.

One of the men at the registration desk caught sight of her and waved with his pen, pointing in her direction. Erica quickened her step, gaining on the elevator. She pressed the button, afraid to look behind her in case someone was coming to stop her. She pushed the elevator button several more times while the floor indicator slowly came toward Ground. The door opened and she entered the car, asking the operator for the ninth floor. He nodded silently. The door began to close, but before it sealed, a hand wrapped around its lead edge, forcing the elevator man to reopen it. Erica backed against the rear of the car and held her breath.

“Hello, there,” said a large man wearing a stetson and cowboy boots. “Are you Erica Baron?”

Erica’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“My name is Jeffrey John Rice, from Houston. You are Erica Baron?” The man continued to keep the door from closing. The elevator operator stood like a stone statue.

Like a guilty child Erica nodded in affirmation.

“So nice to meet you, Miss Baron.” Jeffrey Rice held out his hand.

Erica lifted her own like an automaton. Jeffrey Rice pumped it exuberantly. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Baron. I’d like you to meet my wife.”

Without letting go of her hand, Jeffrey Rice yanked Erica from the elevator. She stumbled forward, rescuing her tote as the strap slipped off her shoulder.

“We’ve been waiting for you for hours,” said Rice, pulling Erica toward the lobby.

After four or five clumsy steps she managed to extract her hand. “Mr. Rice,” she said, coming to a stop, “I’d like to meet your wife, but some other time. I’ve had a very strange day.”

“You do look a little ragged, dear, but let’s have one drink.” He reached out again and took Erica’s wrist.

“Mr. Rice!” said Erica sharply.

“Come on, honey. We’ve come halfway around the world to see you.”

Erica looked into Jeffrey Rice’s tanned, immaculately barbered face. “What do you mean, Mr. Rice?”

“Exactly what I said. My wife and I have come from Houston to see you. We flew all night. Luckily I’ve my own plane. Least you can do is have a drink with us.”

Suddenly the name registered. Jeffrey Rice had the Houston statue of Seti I. It had been late at night when she’d spoken to Dr. Lowery, but now she remembered.

“You’ve come from Houston?”

“That’s right. Flew over. Landed a few hours ago. Now, come over and meet my wife, Priscilla.”

Erica allowed herself to be pulled back through the lobby to be introduced to Priscilla Rice, a Southern belle with a deep déecolletage and a very large diamond ring that effectively competed for sparkle with the enormous chandelier. Her Southern accent was even more pronounced than her husband’s.

Jeffrey Rice herded his wife and Erica into the Taverne Lounge. His officious manner and loud voice got rapid service, especially since he freely passed out Egyptian one-pound notes as tips. Within the dim light of the cocktail lounge Erica felt a little less conspicuous. They sat in a corner booth, where Erica’s torn and soiled clothes could not be seen.

Jeffrey Rice ordered straight bourbon for both himself and his wife and a vodka and tonic for Erica, who found herself relaxing, even laughing at the Texan’s tall stories about their experiences at customs. Erica allowed herself a second vodka and tonic.

“Well, to business,” said Jeffrey Rice, lowering his voice. “I certainly don’t want to spoil this party, but we have come a long way. Rumor has it that you’ve seen a statue of Pharaoh Seti I.”

Erica noticed that Rice’s demeanor changed dramatically. She guessed that he was a shrewd businessman beneath the playful-Texan guise.

“Dr. Lowery said that you wanted some photos of my statue, particularly of the hieroglyphics in the base. I have those photos right here.” Jeffrey Rice drew an envelope from his jacket pocket and held it straight up in the air. “Now, I’m happy to give these to you, provided you tell me where you saw the statue you told Dr. Lowery about. You see, I was planning on giving my statue to my city of Houston, but it’s not going to be so special if there’s a whole bunch of them floating around. In other words, I want to buy that statue you saw. I want to buy it bad. In fact, I’m willing to give ten thousand dollars to anyone who can just tell me where it is so that I can buy it. Yourself included.”

Putting her drink down, Erica stared at Jeffrey Rice. Having seen Cairo’s unmitigated poverty, she knew that ten thousand dollars here would have the same effect as a billion dollars in New York. It would create unbelievable pressure in the Cairo underworld. Since Abdul Hamdi’s death was doubtless related to the statue, the ten thousand dollars offered just for information could cause numerous additional deaths. It was a frightening thought.

Erica rapidly described her experience with Abdul Hamdi and the statue of Seti I. Rice listened intently, writing down Abdul Hamdi’s name. “Do you know if anyone else has seen the statue?” he asked, tilting back his stetson.

“Not that I know of,” said Erica.

“Is there anyone else that knows Abdul Hamdi had the statue?”

“Yes,” said Erica. “A Monsieur Yvon de Margeau. He’s staying at the Meridien Hotel. He indicated that Hamdi had corresponded with potential buyers around the world, so there are probably a lot of people that knew Hamdi had the statue.”

“Looks like this is going to be more fun than we expected,” said Rice, leaning across the table and patting his wife’s slim wrist. Turning back to Erica, he handed her the envelope of photos. “Do you have any idea where the statue could be?”

Erica shook her head. “No idea whatsoever,” she said, taking the envelope. Despite the poor light, she could not wait to see the pictures, so she pulled them out and looked closely at the first one.