Sphinx by Robin Cook Page B

cold sweat had appeared on her forehead. She could feel her underarms were damp. Having never been in trouble with any authorities anywhere, she was totally unnerved. Mechanically she put on a sweater and picked up her bag.
    Ahmed remained silent as he opened the door into the hallway; his expression of intense concentration did not alter. Erica conjured up images of dank, horrible cells as she walked beside him through the lobby. Boston suddenly seemed very far away.
    Ahmed waved at the entrance to the Hilton, and a black sedan pulled up. He opened the rear door and motioned for Erica to enter, which she did quickly, hoping that her cooperation would atone for her having failed to report Abdul’s murder. As the car drove off, Ahmed maintained the oppressive and intimidating silence, fixing Erica from time to time with his unwavering gaze.
    Erica’s imagination raced in anxious circles. She thought about the United States embassy and the consulate. Should she demand the opportunity to call, and if so, what would she say? Looking out the car window, she noticed the city was still very much alive with other vehicles and pedestrians, although the great river looked like a pool of stagnant black ink.
    â€œWhere are you taking me?” asked Erica, her voice sounding strange, even to herself.
    Ahmed did not answer immediately. Erica was about to ask again when he spoke. “To my office in the Ministry of Public Works. It is a short ride.”
    True to his word, the black sedan soon pulled off the main street into a semicircle of concrete in front of a pillared government building. A night watchman opened the massive entrance door as they mounted the steps.
    Then began a walk that seemed as long as the ride from the Hilton. With only the hollow sounds of their shoes on the stained marble floor, they crossed a bewildering number of deserted corridors, leading them deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine reaches of a prodigious bureaucracy. At last they reached the proper office. Ahmed unlocked the door and led the way through the anteroom jammed with metal desks and antique typewriters. Entering a spacious office beyond, he indicated a chair for Erica. It faced an old mahogany desk neatly arranged with carefully sharpened pencils and a new green blotter. Ahmed maintained his silence as he removed his silk jacket.
    Erica felt like a cornered animal. She had expected to be taken to a room full of accusing faces where she would be subjected to the usual bureaucratic red tape,like fingerprinting. She had anticipated trouble over the fact that she did not have her passport, which the hotel people had demanded on registration, saying that it had to be stamped and would not be back for twenty-four hours. But this empty room was proving more frightening. Who would know where she was? She thought of Richard and her mother and wondered if she might make a long-distance call.
    She glanced nervously around the office. It was spartanly appointed and extremely tidy. Framed photos of various archaeological monuments adorned the walls, along with a modern poster of the funerary mask of Tutankhamen. Two large maps covered the right wall. One was of Egypt, and small red-topped pins had been inserted at various locations. The other map was of the Necropolis of Thebes, with the tombs marked with Maltese crosses.
    Biting her lip to hide her anxiety, Erica looked back at Ahmed. To her surprise, he was busy with an electric hot plate.
    â€œWould you care for some tea?” he asked, turning around.
    â€œNo, thank you,” said Erica, numbed by the weird circumstances. Gradually her mind began to suggest that she had jumped to conclusions, and she thanked heaven that she had not blurted out a confession before hearing what the Arab had to say.
    Ahmed poured himself a cup of tea and brought it over to the desk. Slowly stirring in two sugars, he once more brought his powerful gaze to bear on Erica. She quickly lowered her eyes to avoid