“Sabaah ilkheer,” Saxon said. Good morning.
“Sabaah innuur, Mr. Saxon. I am Hassan.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“You want to do business?” Hassan said. The offer should have made Saxon suspicious. Egyptians liked to linger over tea before talking business. But his eagerness overpowered his judgment.
“I’m told you might be able to help me find a certain lost property.”
“Maybe,” Hassan said. “If you can pay the price.”
“I will pay whatever is reasonable,” Saxon said. “When might I see this property?”
“I can show it to you now. I have a car. Come with me.”
Saxon hesitated. The Cairo underworld sometimes had ties to shadowy political groups. He thought it prudent to size Hassan up before he put himself in the stranger’s hands.
“Let’s go to Fishawi’s. We can talk and get to know each other,” he suggested. The popular outdoor café was near Cairo’s main bazaar and its oldest mosque.
Hassan frowned. “Too many people.”
“Yes, I know,” Saxon said.
Hassan nodded. He led the way out of the market to a battered white Fiat that was drawn up to the curb. He opened the door for Saxon.
“I’ll follow you in my car,” Saxon said.
He walked across the street and slipped behind the wheel of his rental car. He inserted the key in the ignition to start the engine just as another car squealed to a stop next to his.
Two men in black suits jumped out of the car and bulled their way into his vehicle. One sat in the back and the other next to Saxon. Both leveled guns at Saxon’s head.
“Drive,” said the man in the front passenger seat.
Saxon’s innards turned to ice water. But he reacted with characteristic calm. He had experienced many close calls in his years as an explorer and adventurer. He started the car, pulled away from the curb, and obeyed the order to follow Hassan’s car. He kept his mouth shut. Questions would only antagonize his uninvited passengers.
The Fiat drove across the traffic-snarled city toward the Citadel, a complex of mosques and military buildings. Saxon’s heart fell. An army would not be able to find him in the labyrinth of narrow streets around the Citadel.
Hassan’s car pulled up to the entrance of a nondescript building. The sign out front said, in English and Arabic, POLICE STATION.
Hassan and his men hustled Saxon out of the car, through a dimly lit lobby into a small windowless room smelling of sweat and stale cigarette smoke. The only furniture was a metal table and two chairs. Light came from a single overhead bulb.
Saxon was only partially relieved. He knew that in Egypt people who go into police stations sometimes didn’t come out.
He was told to sit down and hand over his billfold. He was left alone for a few minutes. Then Hassan appeared with a balding, grizzled man who had a cigarette dangling from his thick lips. The newcomer unbuttoned the suit jacket that was tight across his ample belly and eased into the chair to face Saxon. He mashed his cigarette into an ashtray filled with butts and snapped his fingers. Hassan handed him the billfold, which he opened as if it were a rare book.
He looked at the ID. “Anthony Saxon,” he said.
“Yes,” Saxon replied. “And you?”
“I am Inspector Sharif. This is my station.”
“May I ask why I am here, Inspector?”
The inspector slapped the billfold down. “I ask the questions.”
Saxon nodded.
The inspector jerked his thumb at Hassan. “Why did you want to meet with this man?”
“I didn’t,” Saxon said. “I talked to somebody named Hassan. This is obviously not he.”
The inspector grunted. “Correct. This man is Officer Abdul. Why did you want to see Hassan? He is a thief.”
“I thought he might be able to lead me to property stolen from the BaghdadMuseum.”
“So you wished to receive stolen goods,” the inspector said.
“I would have returned the property to the museum. You can talk to the real Hassan if you want to check my story.”
The inspector shot a knowing glance at Abdul. “Not possible,” he said to Saxon. “Hassan is dead.”
“Dead? I talked to him yesterday on the phone. What happened?”
Carefully watching Saxon’s reaction, the inspector said, “Murdered. Very big mess. You’re sure you don’t know about this?”
“Yes. Very sure.”
The inspector lit up a Cleopatra cigarette and blew twin plumes of smoke through his nostrils. “I believe you. Now you may ask questions.”
“How did you know I was going to meet Hassan?”
“Simple. You are in his appointment book. We look up your name. You’re very famous writer. Everybody reads your books.”
“I wish more people read them,” Saxon said, with a faint smile.
The inspector shrugged. “Why is a big writer interested in a thief?”
Saxon doubted whether the inspector would understand the obsession that had launched him on a journey throughout Europe, the Middle East, and South America in his quest to solve one of the puzzles of the ages. There were times he didn’t understand it himself. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “I believed that Hassan could have helped me find a woman.”
“Ah,” the inspector said. He turned to Officer Abdul. “A woman.”
“Hassan had an antiquity that could have helped me with a book I’m writing and a film I hope to produce on the Queen of Sheba.”
“Sheba,” the inspector said with disappointment. “A dead woman.”
“Dead and not dead. Like Cleopatra.”
“Cleopatra was a great queen.”
“Yes. And so was Sheba. As beautiful as the day.”
The door opened to admit another man. Unlike the rotund and grubby inspector, he was tall and slim. He was dressed in a pale olive suit that had razor creases in the trousers. Sharif got up from his chair and stood at attention.
“The man said, “Thank you, Inspector. You and your officer may go.”
The inspector snapped off a salute and left the room with the officer.
The man eased into the inspector’s chair and placed a manila file on the table. He stared at Saxon with amusement on his narrow face.
“I’m told you like the camel market,” the man said in perfect English.
“I admire the way camels hold their heads high. They remind me of aristocrats who have fallen on hard times.”
“Interesting,” the man said. “My name is Yousef. I am with the Interior Ministry.”
Saxon knew that the Interior Ministry was synonymous with national security.
“You’re very kind to come out here.”
“Kindness had little to do with this situation.” He opened the folder. “This is the file of the real Hassan.” His manicured fingers extracted several sheets of paper stapled together, which he slid across to Saxon. “And this is the list of antiquities.”
Saxon read the list, which was in English. “This corresponds to the list published by the BaghdadMuseum.”
“Then I am afraid you are too late.” Yousef sat back and tented his fingers. “The items were removed by the army. They are in the possession of a representative from UNESCO. The day after the transfer, Hassan was tortured and murdered.” Yousef drew his finger across his throat.
“If he didn’t have any antiquities, why did he tell me he had them?”
“A thief steals more than once. He may have felt he could dupe a rich foreigner.”