Erica rummaged in her tote bag until she found a cigarette. She lit one to salvage her courage, and looked at her watch with the aid of a match. It was eight-fifteen.
As the moon rose, the shadows in the courtyard grew paradoxically darker. The longer Erica sat, the more her imagination played tricks on her. Every sound from the village made her jump. After fifteen minutes she’d had enough. She stood up and dusted off the seat of her pants. Then she walked back across the courtyard and yanked open the wooden door to the street.
“Miss Baron,” said a figure in a black burnoose. He was standing in the dirt street just outside the door to the courtyard. With the moon directly over his shoulder, Erica could not see his face. He bowed before continuing. “I beg your pardon for the delay. Please follow me.” He smiled, revealing huge teeth.
There was no more conversation. The man, who Erica guessed was a Nubian, led her up the hillside above the village. They followed one of the many trails, and the going was easy with the moonlight reflecting from the light rock and sand. They passed a few rectangular openings of tombs.
The Nubian was breathing heavily now, and it was with obvious relief that he stopped by a sloping cut into the mountainside. At the base of the slope was an entrance closed with a heavy iron grille. The number 37 hung on the gate.
“I beg your pardon, but you must wait here for just a few minutes,” said the Nubian. Before Erica could respond, he started back toward Qurna.
Erica watched the retreating figure, then glanced at the iron gate. She turned, started to say something, but the Nubian was already so far away that she would have had to shout.
Walking down the ramp, Erica grasped the iron gate and shook it. The number 37 rattled but the gate did not budge. It was locked. Erica could just make out some ancient Egyptian decoration on the walls.
She walked back up the ramp, and the anxiety she had felt before entering the Curio Antique Shop swept over her. She stood on the lip of the tomb, watching the Nubian entering the village below. In the distance a few dogs barked. Behind her she could feel the ominous presence of the overhanging mountain.
Suddenly she heard a sharp metallic click behind her. Fear made her legs weak. Then she heard an agonizing grating of steel on steel. She wanted to run but was unable to move as her imagination conjured horrid images issuing from the tomb. The iron gate closed behind her, and she heard steps. Slowly she forced herself to turn around.
“Good evening, Miss Baron,” said a figure coming up the ramp. He was dressed in a black burnoose like the Nubian’s but with the hood over his head. Beneath the hood he wore a white turban. “My name is Muhammad Abdulal.” He bowed, and Erica regained some composure. “I apologize for these delays, but unfortunately they are necessary. The statues you are about to see are very valuable and we were afraid you might have been followed by the authorities.”
Erica again realized how important it had been for her to lose her shadow.”
“Please follow me,” said Muhammad as he passed Erica and began climbing higher on the slope.
Erica cast a last glance at the village below her. She could barely make out her taxi waiting on the asphalt road. She had to hurry to catch up to Muhammad.
He turned to the left when they reached the very base of the sheer cliff. Trying to look up the rock face, Erica practically fell over backward. They walked for another fifty feet and rounded a huge boulder. Again she had to hurry after Muhammad. On the other side of the rock was a ramp similar to that for tomb 37. There was another heavy iron grille, but this time without a number. Erica stopped behind Muhammad as he fumbled with a large ring of keys. She had lost her nerve but was now equally afraid to show fear.
She had had no idea the statue would be stored in such an isolated location. The iron gate squealed on its hinges, unaccustomed to being opened.
“Please,” said Muhammad simply, motioning for Erica to enter.
It was an undecorated tomb. She turned and watched Muhammad close the door behind him. There was a resounding click as the lock engaged. Anemic moonlight filtered in through the iron bars.
Muhammad lit a single match and pushed past Erica, moving down a narrow corridor. She had no choice but to stay close behind. They moved in a small sphere of light, and she had a helpless feeling that events were far beyond her control.
They entered an antechamber. Erica could make out dim line drawings on the walls. Muhammad bent down and touched his match to an oil lamp. The light flickered, making his shadow dance among the ancient Egyptian deities on the walls.
A sharp gilded reflection caught Erica’s eye. There it was, the Seti statue! The burnished gold radiated a light more powerful than the lamp. For the moment awe conquered fear, and Erica walked over to the sculpture. Its alabaster-and-green-feldspar eyes were hypnotic, and she had to force herself to look below at the hieroglyphics. There were the cartouches of Seti I and Tutankhamen. The phrase was the same as that on the Houston statue: “Eternal life granted unto Seti I, who ruled after Tutankhamen.”
“It is magnificent,” said Erica with sincerity. “How much do you want for it?”
“We have others,” said Muhammad. “Wait until you see the others before you make your choice.”
Erica turned to look at him, intending to say she was satisfied. But she did not speak. Once again she was paralyzed by fear. Muhammad had flipped back his hood, revealing his mustache and gold-tipped teeth. He was one of the killers of Abdul Hamdi!
“We have a wonderful selection of statues in the next room,” said Muhammad. “Please.” He half-bowed and gestured toward the narrow doorway.
A cold sweat chilled her body. The grate to the tomb was locked. She had to play for time. She turned and started toward the doorway, not wanting to go deeper into the tomb, but Muhammad came up behind her. “Please,” he said, and pushed her gently forward.
Their shadows moved grotesquely on the walls as they walked down the sloping corridor. Ahead, Erica could see a recess that extended on both sides of the passageway. A stout beam ran from the floor up into the alcove. As Erica passed, she realized that the beam supported a huge stone portcullis.
Just beyond, the passageway ended and a flight of stairs hewn from the rock led steeply downward into darkness.
“How much farther?” she asked. Her voice was higher than usual.
“Just a little way.”
With the light behind her, Erica’s shadow fell onto the stairs in front of her, blocking her vision. She felt ahead with her foot. It was at that point she felt something on her back. She first thought it was Muhammad’s hand. Then she realized he had centered his foot in the small of her back.
Erica only had time to throw her hands out against the smooth walls of the stairway. The force of the kick had knocked her feet out from under her, and she began falling. She landed on her buttocks, but the stairs were so steep that she continued sliding, unable to stop her downward motion into absolute blackness.
Muhammad quickly put down his oil lamp and pulled a stone sledge from the recess. With several carefully directed blows he dislodged the supporting beam, triggering the balanced portcullis. In slow motion the forty-five-ton granite block slid down a short incline, then fell into place with a deafening crash that sealed the ancient tomb.
“No American woman got off the train at Nag Hamdi,” said Raoul, “and there was no one that even came close to Erica’s description on the train. It looks like we’ve been tricked.” He was standing at the door to the balcony. Across the river the moonlight was bright on the mountains above the necropolis.