Sphinx by Robin Cook Page A

the citadel. The castle fascinated Erica, evoking images of the Crusades.
    â€œOne thing you said this afternoon surprised me,” she said, turning to Yvon. “You mentioned the ‘Curse of the Pharaohs.’ Surely you don’t believe in such nonsense.”
    Yvon smiled, but allowed the waiter to serve the aromatic Arabic coffee before speaking. “Curse of the Pharaohs! Let’s say I don’t dismiss such ideas totally. The ancient Egyptians spent great efforts on preserving their dead. They were renowned for their interest in the occult, and they were experts with all sorts of poisons. Alors  . . .” Yvon sipped his coffee. “Many of the people dealing with treasures from pharaonic tombs have died mysteriously. There’s no doubt about that.”
    â€œThe scientific community has a lot of doubt,” said Erica.
    â€œCertainly the press has been quick to exaggerate various stories, but there have been some very curious deaths related to Tutankhamen’s tomb, starting with Lord Carnarvon himself. There has to be something to it; how much, I do not know. The reason I mentioned the curse was that it seems two merchants who were good ‘leads,’ as you say, were killed just prior to my meeting with them. Coincidence? Probably.”
    After their coffee they strolled along the crest of the mountain to a hauntingly beautiful ruined mosque. They didn’t speak. The beauty cradled and awed them. Yvon offered his hand as they climbed over some rocks to stand within the towering roofless walls of the once-proud building. Above, the Milky Way was splattered against the midnight-blue sky. For Erica the magical charm of Egypt lay in its past, and there in the darkness of the medieval ruins she could feel it.
    On the way back to the car, Yvon put his arm around her, but he continued to talk placidly about the mosque and deposited her at the entrance to the Hilton very close to ten o’clock, as promised. Still, riding up in the elevator, Erica admitted to herself that she was mildly infatuated. Yvon was a charming and devilishly attractive man.
    Reaching her room, she inserted the key, opened the door, and flipped on the light, dropping her tote bag on the luggage rack in the small foyer. She closed the door and double-latched it. The air-conditioning was on full blast, and preferring not to sleep in an artificially cooledroom, she headed toward the switch near the balcony to turn it off.
    Halfway there she stopped and bit back a scream. A man was sitting in her easy chair in the corner of the room. He did not move or speak. He had pure bedouin features but was carefully dressed in a gray silk European suit, white shirt, and black tie. His total immobility and piercing eyes paralyzed her. He was like a terrifying sculpture in deep bronze. Although back home Erica had fantasized how violently she would react if she were ever threatened with rape, now she did nothing. Her voice failed her; her arms hung limply.
    â€œMy name is Ahmed Khazzan,” said the figure at last in a voice that was deep and fluid. “I am the director general of the Department of Antiquities of the Egyptian Arab Republic. I apologize for this intrusion, but it is necessary.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he extracted a black leather wallet. It fell open in his outstretched hand. “My official credentials, if you wish.”
    Erica’s face blanched. She had wanted to go to the police. She knew she should have gone to the police. Now she was in very deep trouble. Why had she listened to Yvon? Still paralyzed by the man’s hypnotic gaze, Erica could not speak.
    â€œI am afraid you must come along with me, Erica Baron,” said Ahmed, standing up and walking over to her. Erica had never seen such piercing eyes. In a face objectively as handsome as Omar Sharif’s, they absorbed and terrified her.
    Erica stammered incoherently, but managed to finally look away. Beads of