“What are these buildings?” asked Erica.

“They are the houses of some ministers,” said Ahmed.

“Why are they guarded?”

“Being a minister can be dangerous in this country. You can’t please everyone.”

“You’re a minister,” said Erica, concerned.

“Yes, but the people unfortunately don’t care so much about my department.” They rode in silence as the first rays of moonlight fell through the rustling palms.

“That’s the Department of Antiquities office for Karnak,” said Ahmed, pointing to a waterfront building. Directly ahead, Erica could see the massive first pylons of the great Temple of Amon lit by the rising moon. They rode up to the entrance and climbed from the carriage. Walking up the short processional way lined with ram-headed sphinxes, Erica was spellbound. The half-light created by the rising moon hid the ruined aspect of the temple, making it appear still in use.

They had to walk carefully through the deep purple shadows of the entranceway to gain the main courtyard. Abruptly Ahmed took Erica’s hand as they crossed the broad courtyard and passed into the great hypostyle hall. It was like being transported into the past.

The hall was a forest of massive stone columns that soared into the night sky. Most of the ceiling was gone, and shafts of moonlight plunged down, washing the pillars and their extensive hieroglyphic texts and bold reliefs with silver light.

They didn’t talk; they just wandered hand in hand. After a half-hour Ahmed pulled Erica out through a side entrance and walked her back to the first pylon. On the north side was a brick stairway that took them the 140 feet to the top of the temple. From there Erica could see the entire mile-square area of Karnak. It was awe-inspiring.

“Erica…”

She turned. Ahmed’s head was tilted to the side, his eyes enjoying her.

“Erica, I find you very beautiful.”

She liked compliments, but they always made her feel a little self-conscious. She averted her eyes as Ahmed reached out and gently ran the tips of his fingers over her forehead. “Thank you, Ahmed,” she said simply.

Looking up, she noticed Ahmed was still studying her. She could sense some kind of conflict. “You remind me of Pamela,” he said finally.

“Oh?” said Erica. Reminding him of a former girlfriend was not what she wanted to hear about, but she could tell that Ahmed meant it as a compliment. She smiled weakly and looked off into the moonlit distance. Perhaps her similarity to Pamela was the reason Ahmed was seeing her.

“You are more beautiful. But it is not your appearance that reminds me of her; it is your openness and warmth.”

“Look, Ahmed, I’m not sure I understand. Last time we were together I asked some innocent question about Pamela and whether your uncle had met her, and you blew up. Now you insist on talking about her. I don’t think that’s very fair.”

They stood in silence for a while. Ahmed’s intensity was intriguing but also a little frightening, and the memory of the shattered teacup was sharp.

“Do you think you could ever live in a place like Luxor?” asked Ahmed without taking his eyes from the Nile.

“I don’t know,” said Erica. “The thought never occurred to me. It is very beautiful.”

“It’s more than beautiful. It’s timeless.”

“I’d miss Harvard Square.”

Ahmed laughed, relieving the tension. “Harvard Square. What a crazy place. By the way, Erica, I have thought about your decision to try to do something about the black market. I’m not sure my warning was strong enough. It really frightens me to think of your becoming involved. Please don’t. I cannot bear the idea of anything happening to you.”

He leaned forward and gently kissed her on the temple. “Come. You must see Hatshepsut’s obelisk in the moonlight.” And taking her hand, he led her back down the brick stairway.

Dinner was marvelous. Having walked for over an hour within the splendor of Karnak, they did not start their meal until after eleven. The small Nile-side restaurant was built under an umbrella of tall date palms. The dates were almost ready for picking, and the globular red fruit was held up in the trees by pouches of netting.

The specialty of the restaurant was kebabs made with green peppers, onion, and lamb marinated in garlic, parsley, and mint. The dish was garnished with peeled tomatoes and artichokes, and served on a bed of rice. It was an open-air restaurant and obviously popular with the emergent middle class of Luxor, whose conversations were accompanied by hand gestures and laughter. No tourists were in evidence.

Ahmed had become considerably more relaxed since their conversation on the pylon. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully when Erica told him about her recently completed Ph.D. dissertation on “The Syntactical Evolution of New Kingdom Hieroglyphics.” He laughed with pleasure when she told him that she used ancient Egyptian love poetry as her primary source. Using love poetry as the basis for such an esoteric thesis was wonderfully ironic.

Erica asked Ahmed about his childhood. He told her he had been very happy growing up in Luxor. That was why he liked to return. It wasn’t until he had been sent to Cairo that his life had become complicated. He told her that his father had been wounded and his older brother killed in the 1956 war. His mother had been one of the first women from the area to obtain both a high-school and college degree. She had tried to work in the Department of Antiquities, but at that time she couldn’t because of her sex. Now she lived in Luxor and worked part-time for a foreign bank. Ahmed said he had a younger sister who was trained as a lawyer and worked for the Department of the Interior in the customs division.

After dinner they had small cups of Arabic coffee. There was a natural lull in the conversation as Erica decided to ask a question. “Is there any central registry here in Luxor so that if someone tried to find another individual, they’d know where to look?”

Ahmed did not answer immediately. “We did try to have a census a few years ago, but I’m afraid it was not very successful. The information they obtained would be available in the government building next to the central post office. Otherwise, there is the police. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” said Erica evasively. She debated telling Ahmed about her interest in the ancient tomb robbers of Tutankhamen, but she was afraid he might try to stop her, or worse, laugh at her if she told him she was looking for Sarwat Raman. When she thought about it, it did seem a bit far-fetched. The last reference she had for the man was fifty-seven years ago.

It was at that moment that Erica saw the man in the dark suit. She could not see his face because his back was to her. But the way he sat hunched over his food was familiar. He was one of the few people not in Arabic clothing. Ahmed sensed her reaction and asked, “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Erica, coming out of her trance. “Really nothing.”

But it was disturbing. Being with Ahmed cast grave doubts on her explanation that the man in the dark suit worked for the authorities. Who was he?