Looking up from the machine, Erica realized that Carter assumed that the tomb had been burglarized twice, since it had been opened twice. But that was indeed an assumption, and there might be another equally plausible explanation.

After an initial reading of Carter’s field notes, Erica put into the microfilm reader a roll of film labeled “Lord Carnarvon: Papers and Correspondence.” What she found was mostly business letters concerning his support of the archaeological endeavors. She advanced the film rapidly until the dates coincided with the discovery of the tomb itself. As she expected, the volume of Carnarvon’s correspondence increased once Carter had reported finding the entrance stairway. Erica stopped at a long letter Carnarvon had written to Sir Wallis Budge of the British Museum on December 1, 1922. In order to get the entire letter in one frame, it had been reduced considerably in size. Erica had to strain to read the script. The handwriting also wasn’t as neat as Carter’s. In the letter Carnarvon had excitedly described the “find” and listed many of the famous pieces Erica had seen in the traveling Tutankhamen exhibit. She read along quickly until a sentence leaped out at her. “I have not opened the boxes, and don’t know what is in them; but there are some papyrus letters, faience, jewelry, bouquets, candles on ankh candlesticks.” Erica looked at the word “papyrus.” As far as she knew, no papyrus had been found in Tutankhamen’s tomb. In fact, that had been one of the disappointments. It had been hoped that Tutankhamen’s tomb would have afforded some insight into the troubled era in which he lived. But without documents, that hope had been destroyed. But here Carnarvon was describing a papyrus to Sir Wallis Budge.

Erica went back to Carter’s notes. She reread all the entries made the day the tomb was opened and for the following two days: Carter did not mention any papyrus. In fact, he alluded to his disappointment that there were no documents. Strange. Going back to Carnarvon’s letter to Budge, Erica was able to cross-reference with Carter’s notes every other article he mentioned. The single discrepancy was the papyrus.

When Erica finally emerged from the dreary museum, it was early afternoon. She walked slowly toward the busy Tahrir Square. Although her stomach was empty, she wanted to accomplish one more errand before returning to the Meridien Hotel. From her tote bag she withdrew the cover of the Baedeker and read the name and address, Nasef Malmud, 180 Shari el Tahrir.

Crossing the massive square was an accomplishment in itself, since it was filled with dusty buses and crowds of people. At the corner of Shari el Tahrir she turned left.

“Nasef Malmud,” she said to herself. She did not know what to expect. Shari el Tahrir was one of the more fashionable boulevards, with smart European-style shops and office buildings; 180 was a modern marble-and-glass high-rise.

Nasef Malmud’s office was on the eighth floor. Riding in an empty elevator, Erica remembered the long midday break and was afraid she would not be able to see Nasef Malmud until later in the afternoon. But his office door was ajar and she walked in, noting the sign that said “Nasef Malmud, International Law: Import-Export Division.”

The reception area of the office was deserted. Smart Olivetti typewriters on mahogany desks proclaimed a flourishing business.

“Hello,” called Erica.

A stocky man appeared in a doorway, dressed in a carefully tailored three-piece suit. He was about fifty and would not have looked out of place strolling in the financial section of Boston.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a businesslike voice.

“I’m looking for Mr. Nasef Malmud,” answered Erica.

“I am Nasef Malmud.”

“Would you have a few moments to talk with me?” asked Erica.

Nasef looked back into his office, pursing his lips. He had a pen in his right hand, and it was obvious he was in the middle of something. Turning back to Erica, he spoke as if he’d not quite made up his mind. “Well, for a few minutes.”

Erica entered the spacious corner office with a view up Shari el Tahrir to the square and the Nile beyond. Nasef eased himself into his high-backed desk chair and waved Erica to a seat nearby. “What can I do for you, young lady?” he asked, putting the tips of his fingers together.

“I wanted to inquire about a man named Abdul Hamdi.” Erica stopped to see if there was any response. There wasn’t. Malmud waited, thinking there was more. But when Erica did not continue, he said, “The name is not familiar. In which context might I know this individual?”

“I was wondering if by chance Abdul Hamdi was a client of yours,” said Erica.

Malmud removed his reading glasses and put them on his desk. “If he were a client, I’m not sure why I would be willing to disclose such information,” he said without malice. He was a lawyer and as such was more interested in receiving information than giving it.

“I have some news about the man that would interest you if he was a client.” Erica tried to be equally evasive.

“How did you get my name?” he asked.

“From Abdul Hamdi,” said Erica, knowing that it was a slight permutation of the truth.

Malmud studied Erica for a moment, went into the outer office, then returned with a manila file. Sitting behind the desk, he replaced his reading glasses and opened the file. It contained a single sheet of paper, which he took a minute to scan.

“Yes, it seems that I do represent Abdul Hamdi.” He looked expectantly across at Erica over his glasses.

“Well, Abdul Hamdi is dead.” Erica decided not to use the word “murdered.”

Malmud thoughtfully regarded Erica, then reread the paper in his hand. “Thank you for the information. I will have to investigate my responsibilities to his estate.” He stood up and extended his hand, forcing a rapid conclusion to the interview.

While walking to the door, Erica spoke. “Do you know what a Baedeker is?”

“No,” he said, hurrying her through the outer office.

“Have you ever owned a Baedeker guidebook?” Erica paused at the doorway.

“Never.”

Yvon was waiting when she returned to the hotel. He had another series of photos for Erica to examine. One man looked vaguely familiar, but she could not be sure. She felt the chances of her being able to recognize the killers were pretty slim, and tried to say as much to Yvon, but he just insisted, “I’d prefer if you’d try to cooperate rather than telling me how to proceed.”

Walking out onto the beautiful balcony, Erica remembered the night before. Yvon’s interest now seemed strictly business, and she was glad she had at least gone into the affair with her eyes open. His desires had been momentarily satisfied and his attention had reverted to the Seti statue.

Erica accepted the reality with equanimity, but it made her want to leave Cairo and return to Luxor. She walked back into the suite and told Yvon her plans. Initially he complained, but she derived a certain pleasure in denying him his way. He was obviously unaccustomed to such treatment. But in the end he relented, even offering Erica the use of his plane. He would follow her, he said, as soon as he could.

Returning to Luxor was a joy. Despite the memory of the man with the sharp tooth, Erica felt infinitely more comfortable in Upper Egypt than she did in the raw brutality of Cairo. When she arrived at the hotel, she found a number of messages from Ahmed, asking her to call. She put them by the phone. Walking over to the French doors to the balcony, she threw them open. It was just after five, and the afternoon sun had lost most of its heat.

Erica drew a bath to rinse off the dust and fatigue of travel, although the plane trip had been comfortingly short. When she got out of the tub she called Ahmed, who seemed both relieved and happy to hear from her.