The police were easier to deal with than the civil servants. At least they were friendly and attentive. In fact most of the uniformed officers in the main room were watching her by the time she got to the counter. All the signs were in Arabic, so Erica just went to a location where no one else was waiting. A handsome young fellow in a white uniform came from behind one of the desks to help her. Unfortunately he did not speak English. But he found a man with the tourist police who did.

“What can I do for you?” he said with a smile.

“I’m trying to find out if one of Howard Carter’s foremen by the name of Sarwat Raman is still alive. He lived on the West Bank.”

“What?” said the policeman with disbelief. He chuckled. “I’ve had some strange requests, but this is certainly one of the more interesting. Are you talking about the Howard Carter who discovered Tutankhamen’s tomb?”

“That’s right,” said Erica.

“That was over fifty years ago.”

“I understand that,” said Erica. “I’d like to find out if he’s still alive.”

“Madam,” said the policeman, “no one even knows how many people live on the West Bank, much less how to find a specific family. But I’ll tell you what I’d do if I were you. Go over to the West Bank and visit the small mosque in the village of Qurna. The imam is an old man, and he speaks English. Maybe he could help. But I doubt it. The government has been trying to relocate the village of Qurna and get those people out of the ancient tombs. But it’s been a fight, and there’s been some antagonism. They’re not a friendly group. So be careful.”

Lahib Zayed looked both ways to make sure he was not seen before entering the whitewashed alleyway. He scurried down it and pounded on a stout wooden door. He knew Muhammad Abdulal was at home. It was the noon hour and Muhammad always napped. Lahib pounded again. He was afraid he might be seen by some stranger before he’d have a chance to enter the house.

A small peephole opened, and a bloodshot sleepy eye looked out. Then the latch was lifted and the door opened. Lahib stepped over the threshold, and the door was slammed behind him.

Muhammad Abdulal was clad in a rumpled robe. He was a large man with heavy, full features. His nostrils were flared and highly arched. “I told you never to come to this house. You’d better have a good reason for taking this risk.”

Lahib greeted Muhammad formally before speaking. “I would not have come if I did not believe it was important. Erica Baron, the American woman, came into the Curio Antique Shop this morning saying that she represented a group of buyers. She is very sharp. She knows antiquities and actually bought a small statue. Then she specifically asked for the Seti I statue.”

“Was she alone?” asked Muhammad, alert now rather than angry.

“I believe so,” said Lahib.

“And she asked specifically for the Seti statue?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, that leaves us very little choice. I’ll make the arrangements. You inform her that she can see the statue tomorrow night on the condition that she come alone and that she is not followed. Tell her to come to the Qurna mosque at dusk. We should have gotten rid of her earlier, as I wanted.”

Lahib waited to be sure Muhammad was finished before he spoke. “I’ve also had Fathi contact Stephanos Markoulis and give him the news.”

Muhammad’s hand struck out like a snake, cuffing the side of Lahib’s head. “Karrah! Why did you take it upon yourself to inform Stephanos?”

Lahib cowered, expecting another blow.

“He asked me to let him know if the woman appeared. He’s as concerned as we are.”

“You do not take orders from Stephanos,” shouted Muhammad. “You take orders from me. That must be understood. Now, get out of here and deliver the message. The American woman must be taken care of.”

The policeman had been right. Qurna was not a friendly place. As Erica trudged up the hill separating the village from the asphalt road, she did not have the feeling of welcome that was apparent in the other towns she’d visited. She saw few people, and those she did pass glared, shrinking back into the shadows. Even the dogs were mangy, snarling curs.

She had begun feeling uncomfortable in the taxi when the driver objected to going to Qurna instead of the Valley of the Kings or some other more distant destination. He had dropped her off at the base of a dirt-and-sand hill, saying that his car could not make it to the village itself.

It was blazingly hot, well over one hundred degrees, and without shade. The Egyptian sun poured down, scorching the rock and reflecting brilliantly from the light sand color of the earth. Not a blade of grass or a single weed survived the onslaught. Yet the people of Qurna refused to move. They wanted to live as their grandfathers and their great-grandfathers had down through the centuries. Erica thought that if Dante had seen Qurna he would have included it in the circles of hell.

The houses were made of mud brick either left their natural color or whitewashed. As Erica climbed higher onto the hill she could see occasional hewn openings into outcroppings of rock among the houses. These were entrances to some of the ancient tombs. A number of houses had courtyards with curious structures in them-six-foot-long platforms supported about four feet from the ground by a narrow column. They were made of dried mud and straw similar to the mud bricks. Erica had no idea what they were.

The mosque was a one-story whitewashed building with a fat minaret. Erica had noticed the building the first time she’d seen Qurna. Like the village, it was constructed of mud brick, and Erica wondered if the whole thing would wash away like a sand castle with one good rain. She entered through a low wooden door and found herself in a small courtyard, facing a shallow portico supported by three columns. To the right of the building was a plain wooden door.

Unsure of the propriety of her entering, Erica waited at the entrance to the mosque until her eyes adjusted to the relative darkness. The interior walls were whitewashed and then painted with complicated geometric patterns. The floor was covered with lavish Oriental carpets. Kneeling in front of an alcove pointing toward Mecca was an old bearded man in flowing black robes. His hands were open and held alongside his cheeks as he chanted.

Although the old man had not turned, he must have sensed Erica’s presence, because he soon bent over, kissed the page, and got up to face her.

She had no idea how to greet a holy man of Islam, so she improvised. She bowed her head slightly then spoke. “I would like to ask you about a man, an old man.”

The imam studied Erica with dark sunken eyes, then motioned her to follow. They crossed the small courtyard and entered the doorway Erica had seen. It led to a small austere room with a pallet in one end and a small table at the other. He indicated a chair for Erica and sat down himself.

“Why do you want to locate someone in Qurna?” asked the imam. “We are suspicious of strangers here.”

“I’m an Egyptologist and I wanted to find one of Howard Carter’s foremen to see if he were still alive. His name was Sarwat Raman. He lived in Qurna.”

“Yes, I know,” said the imam.

Erica felt a twinge of hope until the imam went on.

“He died some twenty years ago. He was one of the faithful. The carpets in this mosque came from his generosity.”

“I see,” said Erica with obvious disappointment. She stood up. “Well, it was a good idea. Thank you for your help.”

“He was a good man,” said the imam.

Erica nodded and walked back out into the blinding sunlight, wondering how she was going to get a taxi back to the ferry landing. As she was about to leave the courtyard, the imam called out.