Being overweight, Gamal did not fare well in the heat. Rarely, even in Cairo, did he wander outside at midday. Saqqara at noon was almost beyond his capabilities. As his driver followed Erica’s taxi, he tried to think of ways to survive. Perhaps he could find some shade and have the driver follow Erica until she was ready to return to Cairo. Ahead, Erica’s taxi pulled up and parked at the Saqqara rest house. Looking around, Gamal remembered that when he’d visited the area as a child with his parents he had walked through a scary, dark subterranean cave for bulls. Although the cave had frightened him, he still remembered that it had been deliciously cool.
“Isn’t this the site of the serapeum?” he asked, touching his driver’s shoulder.
“Right over there,” said the driver, pointing toward the beginning of a trench that served as an access ramp.
Gamal looked over at Erica, who had gotten out of her car and was examining the row of sphinxes leading toward the ramp. All at once Gamal knew how he’d cool off. Besides, he thought, it would be fun to see the serapeum again after so many years.
Khalifa was not happy, and he ran his hand nervously through his greasy hair. He’d decided that Gamal was not the amateur he pretended to be. He was far too nonchalant. If he had only been sure of the boy’s ultimate intention, he would have shot and delivered him alive to Yvon de Margeau. But he had to wait for Gamal to make a move. The situation was more complicated and more dangerous than he had anticipated. Khalifa screwed the silencer on the barrel of his automatic and was about to get out of the car when he saw Gamal entering a trench leading to a subterranean opening. He consulted a map. It was the serapeum. Looking back at Erica happily photographing a limestone sphinx, Khalifa knew there was only one reason why Gamal would enter the serapeum first. In one of the dark, vaulted galleries or in one of the narrow passageways, Gamal was going to wait like a poisonous snake and strike when least expected. The serapeum was a perfect assassination spot.
Despite his many years of experience, Khalifa was unsure of what to do. He too could enter before Erica Baron and try to find Gamal’s hiding place, but that could be too risky. He decided he had to enter with Erica and strike first.
Erica walked down the ramp approaching the entrance. She was not fond of caves and in truth did not care for closed spaces. Even before stepping into the serapeum she could feel the damp coolness, and a tingling sensation announced the appearance of gooseflesh on her thighs. She had to force herself forward. A bedraggled Arab with a face like a hatchet took her money. The serapeum had an ominous feel.
Once inside the gloomy entrance gallery, Erica could sense the mysterious grip that aspects of ancient Egyptian culture had exerted on people through the ages. The darkened passageways looked like tunnels to the netherworld, suggesting the eerie power of the occult. Following Selim, she walked deeper and deeper into the bizarre environment. They went down an unendingly long corridor with irregular and rough-hewn walls, meagerly illuminated by infrequent low-wattage light bulbs. In the areas between the lights, dark shadows made vision difficult. Other tourists had a way of suddenly emerging out of the gloom; voices sounded hollow and echoed repeatedly. At right angles to the main corridor were separate galleries, each containing a mammoth black sarcophagus covered with hieroglyphics. Very few of the side galleries were illuminated. Erica quickly felt she had seen enough, but Selim was insistent, saying that the best sarcophagus was at the far end and that a wooden stairway had been built, so she could even see the carvings inside. Reluctantly Erica continued behind Selim. Finally they reached the gallery in question, and Selim stepped aside for Erica to pass. She reached out to grasp the wooden handrail leading to the viewing platform.
Khalifa was a bundle of raw nerves, following close behind Erica. He had released the safety catch on his semiautomatic and again held it in his right hand beneath his jacket. He’d come within a hairbreadth of shooting several tourists when they had suddenly appeared out of the darkness.
As he rounded the corner of the last gallery, he was only fifteen feet behind Erica. The moment he saw Gamal he acted by reflex. Erica was climbing the short wooden stairway built along the side of the highly polished granite sarcophagus. Gamal was on top of the platform looking down at Erica as she climbed. He had stepped back from the edge. Unfortunately for Khalifa, she was directly between him and Gamal, shielding his view and making a quick shot impossible. In a panic Khalifa surged forward, thrusting Selim to the side. He charged up the short stairway, knocking Erica down on her knees, sending her sprawling toward the surprised Gamal.
Spurts of fiery light leaped from Khalifa’s covered pistol, and the deadly slugs tore into Gamal’s chest, piercing his heart. His hands started to rise. His small features twisted in pain and confusion as he teetered and fell forward on top of Erica. Khalifa vaulted over the wooden banister, pulling his knife from his belt. Selim screamed before trying to run. The tourists on the platform still had not comprehended what had happened. Khalifa dashed across the corridor toward the electric wires responsible for the primitive lights. Gritting his teeth against a possible shock, he sliced through the wire, plunging the entire serapeum into utter darkness.
Stephanos Markoulis ordered another Scotch for himself and Evangelos Papparis. Both men were dressed in open-necked knit shirts and were sitting in a corner booth of the La Parisienne lounge in the Meridien Hotel. Stephanos was in a sour, nervous mood, and Evangelos knew his boss well enough to keep still.
“Goddamned Frenchman,” said Stephanos, looking at his watch. “He said he’d be right down, and it’s been twenty minutes.”
Evangelos shrugged. He didn’t say anything because he knew no matter what he said, it would only inflame Stephanos further. Instead he reached down and adjusted the small pistol strapped to his leg just within the top of his right boot. Evangelos was a brawny man with oversized features, particularly his brows, which made him look a little like a Neanderthal, except that his head was completely bald.
Just then Yvon de Margeau appeared in the doorway, carrying his attaché case. He was dressed in a blue blazer with an ascot, and was followed by Raoul. The two men surveyed the room.
“These rich guys always look like they’re on their way to a polo match,” said Stephanos sarcastically. He waved to catch Yvon’s attention. Evangelos shifted the table slightly to give his right hand free range of motion. Yvon saw them and walked over. He shook hands with Stephanos and introduced Raoul before sitting down.
“How was your flight?” asked Yvon with restrained cordiality as soon as they had ordered.
“Terrible,” said Stephanos. “Where are the old man’s papers?”
“You don’t spare words, Stephanos,” said Yvon with a smile. “Perhaps it is best. In any case, I want to know if you killed Abdul Hamdi.”
“If I had killed Hamdi, do you think I’d come down here to this hellhole?” said Stephanos with scorn. He despised men like Yvon who had never had to work a day in their lives.
Believing that silence could be useful with a person like Stephanos, Yvon made a big production out of opening a new pack of Gauloises. He offered them around, but Evangelos was the only taker. He reached for the cigarette, but Yvon teased him by keeping the cigarettes just out of his grasp so that he could make out the tattoo on Evangelos’ hairy, muscular forearm. It was a hula dancer with the word “Hawaii” just below it. Finally letting Evangelos take a cigarette, Yvon asked, “Do you go to Hawaii frequently?”