With her lunch finished, Erica opened the Baedeker to decide which of the many tombs she wanted to visit next. A German tour group went by, and she hurried to join. Above her the spiraling sparrow hawk abruptly dived to pounce on some unsuspecting prey.

Khalifa reached over and turned off the radio in the rented car as he watched Erica trudge deeper into the white-hot valley. “Karrah,” he cursed as he heaved himself from the shade of the auto. He could not fathom why anyone would voluntarily subject herself to such merciless heat.

As Erica crossed the extensive gardens that separated the old Winter Palace from the new hotel, she could understand why so many wealthy Victorians had chosen to winter in Upper Egypt. Although the day had been hot, once the sun had set the temperature cooled gracefully. As she skirted the swimming pool she noticed it was still being enjoyed by a bevy of American children.

It had been a wonderful day. The ancient paintings she’d seen in the tombs had been outstanding, incredible. Then, when she had returned to the hotel from the West Bank, she had found two notes, both invitations. One from Yvon and one from Ahmed. The decision had been difficult, but she had agreed to see Yvon, hoping he might have discovered new information about the statue. On the phone he had told her that they would eat in the dining room of the New Winter Palace and that he would come by for her at eight. On an impulse she had told him that she’d rather meet him there in the lobby.

Yvon was dressed in a dark blue double-breasted blazer and white slacks, his fine brown hair carefully combed. He offered Erica his arm as they entered the dining room.

The restaurant was not old, but it appeared decadent, its unharmonious decor suggesting a failed attempt at a gracious continental dining room. But Erica soon forgot her surroundings as Yvon entertained her with stories of his European childhood. The way he described his formal and very cold relationship with his parents made it sound more funny than deplorable.

“And what about you?” asked Yvon, searching for his cigarettes in his jacket.

“I come from another world.” Erica looked down and swirled her wine. “I grew up in a house in a small city in the Midwest. We had a small but very close family.” Erica pressed her lips together and shrugged.

“Ah, there’s more than that,” said Yvon with a smile. “But don’t let me be rude… and don’t feel obligated to tell me.”

Erica was not being secretive. She just didn’t think that Yvon would be interested in hearing about Toledo, Ohio. And she didn’t want to talk about her father’s death in an air crash or the fact that she had trouble getting along with her mother because they were too similar. Anyway, she preferred hearing Yvon talk.

“Have you ever been married?” asked Erica.

Yvon laughed and then studied Erica’s face. “I am married,” he said casually.

Erica averted her eyes, certain that her instantaneous disappointment would be mirrored in her pupils. She should have known.

“I even have two wonderful children,” continued Yvon, “Jean Claude and Michelle. I just never see them.”

“Never?” The idea of not seeing one’s own children was incomprehensible. Erica lifted her gaze; she was under control.

“I visit them rarely. My wife chooses to live in St. Tropez. She likes to shop and sun, both of which I find limiting. The children are at boarding school, and they like St. Tropez in the summer. So…”

“So you live in your château by yourself,” said Erica, lightening the mood.

“No, it’s a dreary place. I have a nice apartment on the Rue Verneuil in Paris.”

It was only when they were drinking coffee that Yvon was willing to discuss the statue of Seti I or Abdul’s death.

“I brought these photos for you to look at,” he said, taking five pictures from his pocket and placing them in front of Erica. “I know you saw the men who killed Abdul Hamdi for only a second, but do you recognize any of these faces?”

Taking each in turn, Erica studied the pictures. “No,” she said at length. “But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”

“I understand,” said Yvon, picking up the photographs. “It was just a possibility. Tell me, Erica, have you had any problems since you’ve come to Upper Egypt?”

“No… except I’m quite sure I’m being followed.”

“Followed?” said Yvon.

“That’s the only explanation I can think of. Today in the Valley of the Kings I saw a man I believe I first saw in the Egyptian Museum. He’s an Arab with a large hooked nose, a sneering grin, and one front tooth that comes to a point.” Erica bared her lips and pointed to her right incisor. The gesture brought a smile to Yvon’s face, although he was not pleased that she had spotted Khalifa. “This is not funny,” continued Erica. “He scared me today, pretending to be a tourist but reading the wrong page in his guidebook. Yvon,” she said, changing the subject, “what about this plane of yours? Do you have it here in Luxor?”

Yvon shook his head, confused. “Yes, of course. The plane is here in Luxor. Why do you ask?”

“Because I want to go back to Cairo. I have some work that will take about half a day.”

“When?” asked Yvon.

“The sooner the better,” said Erica.

“What about tonight?” He wanted Erica back in the city.

Erica was surprised at the offer, but she trusted Yvon, especially now that she knew he was married. “Why not?” she said.

Although she had never been in a small jet before, she had imagined there would be a lot more room than there was. She was strapped into one of the four large leather seats. In the chair next to Erica was Raoul, trying to carry on a conversation with her, but Erica was more interested in what was happening and whether they were going to get off the ground. She didn’t believe in the principles of aerodynamics. In big planes it didn’t worry her because the concept of the huge hulk ever flying was so preposterous that she refused to think about it. The smaller the plane, the more the issue was unwelcomely thrust into her awareness.

Yvon employed a pilot, but since he had trained to fly himself, he usually preferred to be at the controls. There was no air traffic and they were cleared immediately. The knifelike little jet thundered down the runway and leaped into the air as Erica’s fingers blanched.

Once they were under way, Yvon relinquished the controls and came back to talk with Erica. Beginning to relax, she said, “You mentioned that your mother was from England. Do you think she might have known the Carnarvons?”

“Why, yes. I’ve met the present earl,” said Yvon. “Why do you ask?”

“Actually, I’m interested to know if Lord Carnarvon’s daughter is still alive. Her name is Evelyn, I believe.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Yvon, “but I could find out. Why do you ask? Have you become interested in the ‘Curse of the Pharaohs’?” He grinned in the half-light of the cabin.

“Maybe,” answered Erica teasingly. “I have a theory about Tutankhamen’s tomb that I want to investigate. I’ll tell you about it when I get some more information. But if you could find out about Carnarvon’s daughter for me, I’d really appreciate it. Oh, one other thing. Have you ever heard the name Nenephta?”

“In what context?”

“In relation to Seti I.”

Yvon thought, then shook his head. “Never.”

They had to fly a complicated pattern over Cairo before they were allowed to land, but formalities were brief, since the plane had already been cleared. It was just after one A.M. when they arrived at the Meridien Hotel. The management was extremely cordial to Yvon, and although they were supposedly full, they somehow managed to find an extra room for Erica next to his penthouse suite. Yvon invited her over for a nightcap after she had settled herself.