Sphinx by Robin Cook Page B

Seti statue?” asked Stephanos, controlling his anger.
    â€œI have no idea,” said Yvon.
    â€œHas there been any official publicity?” asked Stephanos.
    â€œNone. I happened on the scene immediately after the murder. I got all of Hamdi’s papers and correspondence, including your last letter.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do with it?”
    â€œNothing for the moment.”
    â€œWas there anything about the black market in general? Was he trying some sort of grand exposé?”
    â€œUm, so he did try to blackmail you,” said Yvon triumphantly. “The answer is no. There was no grand exposé. Did you kill him, Stephanos?”
    â€œIf I did, do you honestly think I’d tell you, de Margeau? Be realistic.”
    â€œJust thought I’d ask. Actually we have a good lead. The murder was seen at close range by an expert witness.”
    Stephanos stopped by the doorway, looking through the living room to the balcony, thinking. “This witness, can he identify the killers?”
    â€œAbsolutely. And he happens to be a very nicely endowed she, who also happens to be an Egyptologist. Her name is Erica Baron, and she’s at the Hilton.”
    Pushing the button to disconnect, Stephanos dialed a local number. He tapped on the phone impatiently while the connection went through. “Evangelos, pack your bag. We’re going to Cairo in the morning.” He hung up before Evangelos could respond. “Shit,” he shouted to the night. At that moment he caught sight of Deborah. Foran instant he was bewildered, having forgotten her presence. “Get out of here,” he yelled. Deborah scrambled to her feet and rushed from the room. Freedom in Greece appeared to be as dangerous and unpredictable as she had been told back home.

 
CAIRO 12:00 MIDNIGHT
    Emerging from the smoke-filled Taverne cocktail lounge, Erica blinked in the bright light of the Hilton lobby. The experience with Ahmed and the intimidating feeling of the huge government building had so unnerved her that she had decided to have a drink. She had wanted to relax, but going into the bar had not been a good idea. She had been unable to enjoy her drink in peace; several American architects had decided she was just the antidote to a boring evening. No one had been willing to believe she wanted to be alone. So she’d finished her drink and left.
    Standing at the periphery of the lobby, she could feel the physical effects of the Scotch, and she stopped for a moment to allow her equilibrium to return to normal. Unfortunately the alcohol had not affected her anxiety. If anything, it had increased it, and the watchful eyes of the men in the bar had played on her incipient paranoia. She wondered if she were being followed. Slowly she let her eyes roam around the grand foyer. On one of the couches a European man was obviously looking at her over the tops of his reading glasses. A bearded Arab dressed in flowing white robes standing near a jewelry display case was also staring at her with unblinking coal-black eyes. An enormous black who looked like Idi Amin smiled at her from in front of the registration desk.
    Erica shook her head. She knew her exhaustion wasgetting the better of her. If she were in Boston wandering around alone at midnight, she would be stared at. She took a deep breath and headed for the bank of elevators.
    When she reached her door, Erica vividly remembered the shock of seeing Ahmed in her room. Her pulse quickened as she pushed open the door. Gingerly she switched on the light. Ahmed’s chair was empty. Next she looked in the bathroom. It too was empty. Double-latching the door, she noted an envelope on the floor of the foyer.
    It was Hilton stationery. Walking toward the balcony, she opened the envelope and read that Monsieur Yvon Julien de Margeau had phoned and that she was to call back, regardless of the hour. Below the message was a printed square followed by the word