“It’s Cairo. A Monsieur Yvon Julien de Margeau.”

Stephanos snatched the phone, his face reflecting a sudden change from seeming playfulness to calculation. Deborah shrank back, covering her nakedness. Looking at his face now, Deborah realized she’d made a mistake. She tried to gather her clothes, but Stephanos was sitting on her jeans.

“You’re not going to convince me you just wanted to have a friendly conversation in the middle of the night,” said Stephanos with uncamouflaged irritation.

“You’re right, Stephanos,” said Yvon calmly. “I wanted to ask you about Abdul Hamdi. Do you know him?”

“Of course I know the bastard. What about him?”

“Have you done any business with him?”

“That’s a pretty personal question, Yvon. What are you driving at?”

“Hamdi was murdered today.”

“That’s too bad,” said Stephanos sarcastically. “But why would that concern me?”

Deborah was still trying to rescue her jeans. Gingerly she put one hand on his back and pulled with the other. Stephanos was aware of the distraction but not the purpose. Savagely he lashed out and hit her with the back of his hand, knocking her off the other side of the bed. With trembling hands she dressed in the clothes she had.

“Do you have any idea who killed Hamdi?” asked Yvon.

“There are a lot of people who wanted that bastard dead,” said Stephanos angrily. “Myself included.”

“Did he try to blackmail you?”

“Listen, de Margeau, I don’t think I want to answer any of these questions. I mean, what is in all this for me?”

“I’m willing to trade you information. I know something you’d like to find out.”

“Try me.”

“Hamdi had a Seti I statue like the one in Houston.”

Stephanos’ face went bloodred. “Jesus Christ!” he shouted jumping to his feet, oblivious of his own nakedness. Deborah saw her chance and retrieved her jeans. Finally dressed, she cowered on the other side of the bed with her back to the wall.

“How did he get a Seti statue?” asked Stephanos, controlling his anger.

“I have no idea,” said Yvon.

“Has there been any official publicity?” asked Stephanos.

“None. I happened on the scene immediately after the murder. I got all of Hamdi’s papers and correspondence, including your last letter.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Nothing for the moment.”

“Was there anything about the black market in general? Was he trying some sort of grand exposé?”

“Um, so he did try to blackmail you,” said Yvon triumphantly. “The answer is no. There was no grand exposé. Did you kill him, Stephanos?”

“If I did, do you honestly think I’d tell you, de Margeau? Be realistic.”

“Just 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?”

“Absolutely. 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. For an 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.

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 was getting 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 “urgent.”

Breathing in the cool night air, Erica began to relax. The spectacular view helped. She’d never been in the desert before and was astounded to see as many stars at the horizon as directly above. Immediately in front of her the broad black ribbon of the Nile stretched out like the wet black pavement of a huge highway. In the distance she could see illuminated the mysterious sphinx, silently guarding the riddles of the past. Next to the mythical creature the fabled pyramids thrust their granular hulks skyward. Despite their antiquity, their crisp geometry suggested something futuristic, twisting the context of time around. Looking to the left, Erica could see the island of Roda, which looked like an ocean liner in the Nile. On its near tip she could see the lights of the Hotel Meridien, and her thoughts returned to Yvon. She read the message again and wondered if Yvon could possibly know about Ahmed’s visit. She also pondered if she should tell him if he didn’t already know. But she felt a strong urge not to involve herself as far as the authorities were concerned, and it seemed to her that telling Yvon about Ahmed could possibly do just that. If there were something between Ahmed and Yvon, it was their business. Yvon could handle it.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Erica asked to be connected with the Meridien Hotel, suite 800. With the receiver held between her head and shoulder, Erica removed her blouse. The cool air felt good. It took almost fifteen minutes to establish the connection, and Erica realized that the Egyptian phones were atrocious, as she had been warned.

“Hello.” It was Raoul.

“Hello. This is Erica Baron. May I speak with Yvon?”

“One moment.”

There was a pause, and Erica removed her shoes. There was a line of Cairo dust across her instep.

“Good evening,” said Yvon cheerfully.

“Hello, Yvon. I got a message to call you. It said ‘urgent.’ ”

“Well, I wanted to speak to you as soon as possible, but there is no emergency. I just had a wonderful evening tonight and I wanted to thank you.”