The first thing Erica was aware of was a sudden tightening of Ahmed’s hold on her wrist. Then she heard the report of the gun. It was the same dull thud she’d heard when she faced the crazed Evangelos. It was the sound of a gun with a silencer. Ahmed fell sideways, back through the doorway, pulling Erica off her feet on top of him. In the meager light she could see he’d been shot like Evangelos, between the eyes. Bits of brain tissue had spattered on the side of her face.
Erica pushed herself up to a kneeling position in a state of catatonia. Muhammad lunged past her, running across the alley to the safety of the rows of palm trunks. Erica blankly watched him turn and fire his pistol down the alley. Then he turned and fled in the opposite direction.
In a daze Erica stood up, her eyes riveted to the lifeless Ahmed. She backed up into the shadows until she hit against the wall of the stable. Her mouth was open and her breathing was in shallow gasps. From the front part of the house she could hear a sharp splintering sound followed by a crash that had to be the front door. Behind her she could hear Sawda nervously stir in his stable. She was immobilized.
Directly in front of her and framed by the doorway to the alley, Erica saw a crouching figure run past. Almost immediately, more shots rang out on the right. Then behind her she heard the sounds of running in the house, and her numbness began to revert to terror. She knew that it was she that Yvon wanted. He was desperate.
Erica heard the back door to the house swing open. She held her breath as a silent figure came into view. It was Raoul. She watched as he bent over Ahmed, then exited into the alley.
Erica’s paralysis lasted for another five minutes, the sound of the firefight fading in the alley. Suddenly she pushed away from the wall and stumbled back through the dark house and out the front door.
She crossed the road and ran down a passageway made of mud bricks. She passed through a yard, then another, causing a few lights to come on in her noisy wake. She crashed through debris, a chicken coop, and splashed through an open sewer. In the distance she could hear more shots and a man shouting. She ran on until she felt she was going to collapse. But it wasn’t until she stumbled onto the Nile that she allowed herself to rest. She tried to think of where to go. No one could be trusted. Since Muhammad Abdulal was chief of the guards, she was even afraid of the police.
It was at that point that Erica remembered the two houses of the ministers guarded by the casual soldiers. With effort she heaved herself to her feet and began walking south. She remained in the shadows away from the road until she had reached the guarded properties. Then, like an automation she walked out into the lighted street and rounded the front wall of the first house. The soldiers were there, conversing with each other across the fifty feet that separated the two entranceways. They both turned and watched as Erica walked directly toward the first. He was young, dressed in loose-fitting brown uniform with highly polished boots. A machine pistol hung from a shoulder strap. He moved the weapon around, and as Erica came closer, he started to say something.
With no intention of stopping, Erica walked right past the surprised youth into the grounds of the house. “O af andak!” yelled the soldier, coming after Erica.
Erica stopped. Then, after mustering her resources, she yelled as loud as possible, “Help!” and kept screaming until a light came on in the darkened house. Soon a robed figure appeared at the door-bald, overweight, and shoeless.
“Do you speak English?” asked Erica breathlessly.
“Of course,” said the man, surprised and slightly irritated.
“Do you work for the government?”
“Yes. I’m deputy assistant defense minister.”
“Do you have anything to do with antiquities?”
“Nothing.”
“Wonderful,” said Erica. “I have the most incredible story to tell you…”
The TWA 747 banked gently, then made its graceful approach to Logan Airport. With her nose pressed up against the window, Erica stared out on the vista of Boston in the late fall. It looked very good to her. She felt a true excitement about coming home.
The wheels of the huge jet touched down, sending a slight shudder through the cabin. A few passengers clapped, happy that the long transatlantic flight was at an end. As the plane taxied toward the international-arrivals building, Erica marveled at the experiences she’d had since her departure. She was a different person than when she’d left, feeling that she’d finally made the transition from the academic to the real world. And with the invitation by the Egyptian government to play a major role in clearing the tomb of Seti I, she felt confident of a promising career.
There was a final lurch as the plane came to the gate. The sounds of the engines died away, and the passengers began opening overhead storage bins. Erica stayed in her seat and looked out at the crisp New England clouds. She remembered Lieutenant Iskander’s immaculate white uniform when he’d come to see her off from Cairo. He had told her the final result of that fateful night in Luxor: Ahmed Khazzan had died from gunshot wounds-a fact she’d known from the moment he’d been hit; Muhammad Abdulal was still in a coma; Yvon de Margeau had somehow received clearance and had flown out of the country, becoming a persona non grata in Egypt; and Stephanos Markoulis had just disappeared.
It all seemed so unreal now that she was in Boston. The experience saddened her, especially about Ahmed. The experience also made her question her ability to judge people, especially because of Yvon. Even after what had happened, he had had the nerve to telephone her from Paris when she’d returned to Cairo, offering her large sums to provide inside information about the tomb of Seti I. She shook her head in dismay as she gathered her carry-on belongings.
Erica allowed herself to be carried along by the crowd. She passed through the immigration control quickly and retrieved her baggage. Then she pushed out into the waiting area.
They saw each other at the same moment. Richard ran up and hugged her as Erica dropped her bags, forcing the people behind her to step over them. They held each other without speaking, their emotions balanced. Finally Erica pulled away. “You were right, Richard. I was over my head from the start. I’m lucky to be alive.”
Richard’s eyes filled with tears, something Erica had never seen. “No, Erica, we were both right and both wrong. It just means there is a lot we need to learn about each other, and believe me, I’m willing.”
Erica smiled. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but it made her feel good.
“Oh, by the way,” said Richard, picking up her bags. “There’s a man here from Houston who wants to see you.”
“Really?” asked Erica.
“Yeah. He apparently knew Dr. Lowery, who gave him my phone number. He’s over there.” Richard pointed.
“My God,” said Erica. “It’s Jeffrey John Rice.”
As if on cue, Jeffrey Rice came over, taking off his stetson with a flourish.
“Sorry to interrupt you two at this time, but, Miss Baron, here’s your check for finding that Seti statue.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Erica. “The Egyptian government now owns the statue. You cannot buy it.”
“That’s just the point. It makes mine the only one outside of Egypt. Because of you it’s worth tons more than it was before. Houston is mighty pleased.”
Erica looked down at the ten-thousand-dollar check and burst out laughing. Richard, who did not really understand what was happening, saw her amazed expression and began laughing too. Rice shrugged, and still holding the check, led them out into the bright Boston sun.
