The Navigator by Clive Cussler, Paul Kemprecos

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 Baghdad Museum.”

    “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