The Fiat drove across the traffic-snarled city toward the Citadel, a complex of mosques and military buildings. Saxon’s heart fell. An army would not be able to find him in the labyrinth of narrow streets around the Citadel.

Hassan’s car pulled up to the entrance of a nondescript building. The sign out front said, in English and Arabic, POLICE STATION.

Hassan and his men hustled Saxon out of the car, through a dimly lit lobby into a small windowless room smelling of sweat and stale cigarette smoke. The only furniture was a metal table and two chairs. Light came from a single overhead bulb.

Saxon was only partially relieved. He knew that in Egypt people who go into police stations sometimes didn’t come out.

He was told to sit down and hand over his billfold. He was left alone for a few minutes. Then Hassan appeared with a balding, grizzled man who had a cigarette dangling from his thick lips. The newcomer unbuttoned the suit jacket that was tight across his ample belly and eased into the chair to face Saxon. He mashed his cigarette into an ashtray filled with butts and snapped his fingers. Hassan handed him the billfold, which he opened as if it were a rare book.

He looked at the ID. “Anthony Saxon,” he said.

“Yes,” Saxon replied. “And you?”

“I am Inspector Sharif. This is my station.”

“May I ask why I am here, Inspector?”

The inspector slapped the billfold down. “I ask the questions.”

Saxon nodded.

The inspector jerked his thumb at Hassan. “Why did you want to meet with this man?”

“I didn’t,” Saxon said. “I talked to somebody named Hassan. This is obviously not he.”

The inspector grunted. “Correct. This man is Officer Abdul. Why did you want to see Hassan? He is a thief.”

“I thought he might be able to lead me to property stolen from the BaghdadMuseum.”

“So you wished to receive stolen goods,” the inspector said.

“I would have returned the property to the museum. You can talk to the real Hassan if you want to check my story.”

The inspector shot a knowing glance at Abdul. “Not possible,” he said to Saxon. “Hassan is dead.”

“Dead? I talked to him yesterday on the phone. What happened?”

Carefully watching Saxon’s reaction, the inspector said, “Murdered. Very big mess. You’re sure you don’t know about this?”

“Yes. Very sure.”

The inspector lit up a Cleopatra cigarette and blew twin plumes of smoke through his nostrils. “I believe you. Now you may ask questions.”

“How did you know I was going to meet Hassan?”

“Simple. You are in his appointment book. We look up your name. You’re very famous writer. Everybody reads your books.”

“I wish more people read them,” Saxon said, with a faint smile.

The inspector shrugged. “Why is a big writer interested in a thief?”

Saxon doubted whether the inspector would understand the obsession that had launched him on a journey throughout Europe, the Middle East, and South America in his quest to solve one of the puzzles of the ages. There were times he didn’t understand it himself. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I believed that Hassan could have helped me find a woman.”

“Ah,” the inspector said. He turned to Officer Abdul. “A woman.”

“Hassan had an antiquity that could have helped me with a book I’m writing and a film I hope to produce on the Queen of Sheba.”

“Sheba,” the inspector said with disappointment. “A dead woman.”

“Dead and not dead. Like Cleopatra.”

“Cleopatra was a great queen.”

“Yes. And so was Sheba. As beautiful as the day.”

The door opened to admit another man. Unlike the rotund and grubby inspector, he was tall and slim. He was dressed in a pale olive suit that had razor creases in the trousers. Sharif got up from his chair and stood at attention.

“The man said, “Thank you, Inspector. You and your officer may go.”

The inspector snapped off a salute and left the room with the officer.

The man eased into the inspector’s chair and placed a manila file on the table. He stared at Saxon with amusement on his narrow face.

“I’m told you like the camel market,” the man said in perfect English.

“I admire the way camels hold their heads high. They remind me of aristocrats who have fallen on hard times.”

“Interesting,” the man said. “My name is Yousef. I am with the Interior Ministry.”

Saxon knew that the Interior Ministry was synonymous with national security.

“You’re very kind to come out here.”

“Kindness had little to do with this situation.” He opened the folder. “This is the file of the real Hassan.” His manicured fingers extracted several sheets of paper stapled together, which he slid across to Saxon. “And this is the list of antiquities.”

Saxon read the list, which was in English. “This corresponds to the list published by the BaghdadMuseum.”

“Then I am afraid you are too late.” Yousef sat back and tented his fingers. “The items were removed by the army. They are in the possession of a representative from UNESCO. The day after the transfer, Hassan was tortured and murdered.” Yousef drew his finger across his throat.

“If he didn’t have any antiquities, why did he tell me he had them?”

“A thief steals more than once. He may have felt he could dupe a rich foreigner.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“We are working on it.”

“Who was the UNESCO representative?”

“An Italian woman. Her name is Carina Mechadi.”

“Do you know if she is still in Cairo?”

“She left on a ship with the antiquities some days ago. She is taking them to the United States under an arrangement with the Baghdad government.”

The wind went out of Saxon’s sails. He had been so close to his goal. “May I be allowed to go now?”

“Anytime you wish.” Yousef rose from his chair. “There is always a woman at the heart of every case.”

“Miss Mechadi?”

He shook his head. “Sheba.”

The Egyptian flashed an opaque smile and held the door open. Saxon drove back to the Marriott Hotel. Back in his room, he made some telephone calls and reached a contact at UNESCO, who confirmed that Carina Mechadi was on her way to America.

Saxon went over to the window and looked out on the timeless Nile and the sparkling lights of the ancient city. He recalled Yousef’s smile at the mention of his quest for the ghost of a woman who died three thousand years ago.

After a moment of thought, he picked up the phone again and made reservations for a flight to the United States. Then he began to pack.

His long journey in search of the perfect woman had carried him to the most remote and dangerous places on the globe. He wasn’t about to give up now.

Chapter 8

THE CONTAINERSHIPOcean Adventure could hold nearly two thousand cargo containers, but even at seven thousand tons and a length of five hundred feet it was a pygmy compared with newer box ships that were as long as three football fields laid end to end. The finer points of spatial relativism were lost on Carina Mechadi as she strode along the ship’s long deck huddled against the bone-chilling rawness of the North Atlantic.

Since boarding at Salerno, Carina had arisen early each morning and descended from her cabin on the third level of the bridge house to go on a brisk walk before breakfast. Her compulsion was fueled by an unnecessary obsession with keeping her lithe figure in shape and to sooth her impatience at reaching her destination. The number of laps varied according to the weather, which ranged from raw dampness to the bitingly cold air off the coast of Newfoundland.

The Ocean Adventure inspired little of the romance immortalized by Joseph Conrad’s tales of the doughty tramp steamers that plied the world’s oceans in a bygone age. The ship was a seagoing platform that carried steel container units twenty feet long by about eight feet tall. They were stacked six high and covered most of the deck, except for fore and aft, and narrow aisles on either side. Hundreds more containers were stored belowdecks.