The open doorway led into a small room where Tewfik apparently lived. Ahmed stepped over the threshold. On a simple wooden table a rotting mango and a wedge of goat cheese lay covered with flies. Everything else in the room had been opened and dumped. A cabinet in the corner had its door torn off. Papers were indiscriminately thrown about. Several holes had been dug in the mud-brick walls. Ahmed surveyed the scene with mounting anxiety, trying to comprehend what had happened.
Quickly he moved from the apartment to the door into the shop. It was unlocked and swung open with an agonized rasp. Inside, it was dark. Only small pencils of light penetrated the slats of the boarded front doorway, and Ahmed paused while his eyes adjusted from the harsh sunlight. He heard the scurrying of tiny feet. More rats.
The disarray in the shop was much greater than in the sleeping room. Huge cabinets lining the walls had been pulled down, splintered, and thrown into a large pile in the center of the room. Their contents had been smashed and scattered. It was as if a cyclone had hit the shop. Ahmed had to lift portions of the broken furniture to enter. He picked his way to the center of the shop; then he froze. He’d found Tewfik Hamdi. Tortured. Dead. Tewfik had been pulled over the wooden counter, which was stained with dried blood. Each hand had been nailed palm down to the counter with a single spike, his arms spread apart. Almost all Tewfik’s fingernails had been pulled out. Then his wrists had been cut. He had been forced to watch himself bleed to death. His bloodless face was ghostly pale, and a filthy rag had been stuffed in his mouth to silence his screams, making his cheeks bulge grotesquely.
Ahmed shooed away the flies; he noticed the rats had been feasting on the corpse. The bestiality of the scene revolted him, and the fact that it had occurred in his beloved Luxor enraged him. With the rage came a fear that the sicknesses and sins of urban Cairo would spread like a plague. Ahmed knew he had to contain the infestation.
He bent down and looked into the vacant eyes of Tewfik Hamdi. They mirrored the horror they had witnessed as their own life had ebbed. But why? Ahmed stood up. The stench of death was overwhelming. Carefully he picked his way back across the debris-strewn floor to the small courtyard. The sunlight fell warm on his face, and he stood there for a moment, breathing deeply. He knew he could not return to Cairo until he knew more. His thoughts turned to Yvon de Margeau. Whenever he was around, there was trouble.
Ahmed squeezed out through the door to the alley and pulled it shut behind him. He’d decided to go directly to the main police station near the Luxor railway depot; then he’d call Cairo. Mounting Sawda, he wondered what Tewfik Hamdi had done or what he’d known to warrant such a fate.
“Wonderful shop,” said Richard as he entered from the busy alleyway. “Good selection of merchandise. I can do all my Christmas shopping here.”
Erica could not believe the emptiness of the room. Nothing remained of Antica Abdul except for some bits of broken pottery. It was as if the shop had never existed. Even the front window glass had been removed. There were no beads in the entranceway; no rugs or curtains, not a piece of cloth or cabinetry remained.
“I can’t believe this,” said Erica, walking over to where the glass topped counter had been. Bending down, she picked up a potsherd. “Across here hung a heavy drape, dividing the room.” She walked back to the rear and turned to face Richard. “I was in here when the murder happened. God, it was so awful. The killer was standing right where you are, Richard.”
Richard looked down at his feet and stepped away from the guilty spot. “Looks like the thieves stole everything,” he said. “With the poverty here, I suppose everything has a value.”
“You’re undoubtedly right,” said Erica, taking a flashlight from her tote bag, “but the place looks more than just burglarized. These holes in the walls-they weren’t here before.” She flipped on the light and looked into the depths of some of the holes.
“A flashlight!” said Richard. “You’re really prepared.”
“Anyone who comes to Egypt without a flashlight is making a mistake.”
Richard walked over to one of the fresh niches and scraped some of the loose dried mud onto the floor. “Cairo vandalism, I guess.”
Erica shook her head. “I think this place has been searched very carefully.”
Richard looked around, noting how the floor had been dug up in places. “Maybe, but so what? I mean, what could they have been looking for?”
Erica nibbled the inside of her cheek, a habit she had when concentrating. Richard’s question was reasonable. Perhaps Cairenes regularly hid money or valuables in walls or under the floor. But the violation reminded her of her own room being searched. On impulse she mounted the flash attachment on her Polaroid and took a photo of the interior of the shop.
Richard sensed Erica’s uneasiness. “Does it bother you to return here?”
“No,” said Erica. She did not want to stimulate Richard’s overprotectiveness. But in fact she did feel extremely uneasy within the remains of Antica Abdul. It emphasized the reality of Abdul Hamdi’s murder. “We’ve got ten minutes to get to the Al Azhar mosque. I want to be on time for Mr. Stephanos Markoulis.” She hurried out of the shop, glad to leave.
As they entered the crowded alleyway, Khalifa pushed off the wall he’d been leaning on. His jacket was draped again over his right hand, concealing the Stechkin semiautomatic. It was cocked. Raoul had told him that Erica was meeting Stephanos sometime during the afternoon, and he did not want to lose her in the confusion of the bazaar. The Greek was known for his ruthless violence, and Khalifa was being well-paid not to take chances.
Erica and Richard emerged from the Khan el Khalili at the west end of the crowded but sun-filled Al Azhar square. Its dusty heat made them appreciate the relative coolness of the bazaar. They headed across the square toward the ancient mosque, admiring the three needlelike minarets that rose into the pale blue sky. But the going became difficult in the milling crowds; they had to hold onto each other tightly to keep from being separated. The area directly in front of the mosque reminded Erica of Haymarket in Boston, with hundreds of vegetable and fruit vendors with their pushcarts, haggling with their customers over the price of the produce. Erica felt definite relief when she and Richard reached the mosque and slipped through the main entrance known as the Gate of the Barbers. The environment changed immediately. The sounds from the busy square did not penetrate the stone building. It was cool and somber, like a mausoleum.
“This reminds me of dressing for surgery,” said Richard with a smile as he slipped paper covers over his shoes. They walked through the entrance vestibule, peering into the open doorways leading into darkened rooms. The walls were constructed of large limestone blocks, giving the appearance of a dungeon, not a house of God. “I think,” said Erica, “I should have been a bit more specific about where in this mosque we were going to meet.”
Passing under a series of archways, she and Richard were surprised to find themselves back in bright sunlight. They were standing at the edge of a vast rectangular colonnaded court surrounded on all four sides by arcades with pointed Persian arches. It was a strange sight, because the courtyard was in the heart of Cairo, yet was empty and almost totally silent. Erica and Richard stood in the shade and speechlessly surveyed the scene of exotic keel-shaped archways with scalloped parapets topped by arabesque crenellations.
Erica was uneasy. She was nervous about meeting Stephanos Markoulis, and now the alien surroundings increased her fears. Richard took her hand and led her across the rectangular court toward an archway slightly higher than the others, topped by its own dome. As they crossed the court, Erica tried to peer into the violet shade of the surrounding porticoes. There were a few white-robed figures reclining on the limestone floor.