27

The pilot announced that it was 10:00 p.m. local time, and that the plane would be on the ground in a few minutes.

Annja recalled little of the actual flight, having slept through most of it. She’d been awake, briefly, for the touchdown and refueling in Frankfurt, and for the few minutes it had taken her to wolf down the meal the airline had provided—she just couldn’t recall what she’d eaten.

She’d traveled coach, as business class was full and the roll of money she’d taken wasn’t quite enough to cover first-class. She could have charged the trip to her credit card and gotten a more comfortable seat and more room to stretch out her legs in the second row, but on principle she decided to let the terrorist’s money pay for the ticket. And so she was crowded near the back.

She still seethed with anger over everything that had happened. Her foul mood was stoked by the crick in her neck and from being a sardine in the tail of the plane. Why were so many people going to Egypt today? And why did they all have to book this flight? Despite being stiff, she felt better than she had for the previous few days. Her ribs no longer throbbed, and the ache in her ankle was manageable. She still looked like a wreck—with her black eye and bruised face she couldn’t get upset that the flight attendant fussed over her the couple of times Annja had woken up. At least Annja had been able to ignore her seat mate, who’d carefully asked, only once, if her husband had beaten her.

Cairo International Airport looked like a giant Christmas display from the air. Annja found it beautiful and wouldn’t have minded if they’d been forced to circle a few times. A crew member told her they would be arriving at Terminal 2, and that the airport was about nineteen miles from downtown.

Annja knew that it was a relatively new airport, at least this part of it, and that it serviced a great many airlines from Europe and America, and was a stopover to many other places. Domestic flights were limited to Terminal 1, a much older part of the complex.

She found a shuttle that would whisk her into the heart of Cairo, and she leaned back against the seat and let the small bus rock her. She wasn’t physically tired anymore, having slept so many hours on the plane. But she was emotionally worn-out.

She asked the driver to recommend a hotel; it didn’t have to be five-star accommodations, but she desired something nice and comfortable. After several days with the Sydney police, and after being shot at so often, she wanted to be pampered—if only for a few hours.

He dropped her at the Four Seasons on Giza Street on the west bank of the Nile. Her room, plush in shades of chocolate, beige and eggshell, looked like a sanctuary. It was worth every penny it would cost her. She only planned to spend one, or maybe two nights there, and they accepted American credit cards.

She stood at the window, wearing the complimentary fluffy robe she’d found in the closet after a long hot bubble bath. It was just past midnight. From this height she had remarkable views of the Great Pyramids, awash in soft lights, and the city’s zoological and botanical gardens. In spite of the circumstances she found herself happy to be back in Egypt. She couldn’t help but be excited every time she visited.

The bellman had told her the Four Seasons boasted a casino, fitness center, swimming pool and hot tub. She could order a massage, which she did, and could have her clothes cleaned, which she also took him up on. There was nothing fresh in her suitcase to wear—so she gave him everything.

“And don’t hold back on the detergent,” she’d told him. She had briefly wondered what the laundry staff would think when they came across the blood splatters.

She stood at the window for nearly half an hour, transfixed and relaxed. And she was certain she could have stood there longer, had the bellman not returned with the masseur. He’d explained that most of the hotel’s services were available around the clock. Annja tipped him well and let a pug-nosed man with upper arms the size of hams work on her for the next hour. The man did not speak English, but he well understood to leave her mending ribs alone.

Knowing that she could not begin her hunt for Dr. Hamam until later in the morning, Annja tucked herself into the incredibly comfortable king-size bed. Somehow—despite the hours of sleep on the plane—she managed to drift off again.

IN CLEAN CLOTHES and feeling remarkably well, Annja eyed herself in the mirror. The bruises on her face were several days old and were fading. She used the makeup in her suitcase to cover up the worst of the marks. It wasn’t vanity; Annja simply wanted to look presentable on her information hunt.

Though she was desperate to find Dr. Hamam, she’d allowed herself the luxury of resting last night merely because of the late hour. Because he’d left Sydney days before her, the element of a race was gone—he’d already won that part of it. He had to know his pet terrorist was caught, so he certainly had time to go into hiding or set up his defenses. He might consider himself untouchable because he had not yet been linked to the goings-on in Sydney. But Annja was going to bring him to some fashion of justice.

Had her laptop not been destroyed, she would have surfed the Internet after being released by the police, hoping to pick up tidbits about his possible whereabouts and to learn more about the man. She intended to look for the hotel’s business-services center right after breakfast. She would use their computers to do a little digging there. Or she could just look in the phone book and call a few of the universities, or call one of the museums—certainly people there had heard of Dr. Gahiji Hamam, probably knew him well.

There was also an impressive library not far away.

“Yeah, I think the library.” She hadn’t visited one lately; the Internet had been her main research tool. And she couldn’t say why she was entertaining the notion now. It just seemed to be the right thing to do.

“The library, then, but after breakfast.”

She knew only a little about Hamam at the moment—that he was one of the top Egyptologists in the world, that he’d authored several books, that his students seemed to be terribly loyal and that he’d once taught at a university in Cairo. He’d flown here from Sydney, so Annja hoped he wasn’t too far away, that he hadn’t in turn booked another flight to who knew where. Annja prayed she could find him soon and gain her answers and her vengeance.

The hotel restaurant was impressive, and offered a menu that made Annja’s mouth water. She couldn’t make up her mind on what smoothie to drink, and so she ordered two—something called Jet Lag, which was said to be made of yogurt, orange juice, bananas, assorted fruits and orange-blossom honey, and an Alexandria Breeze—pineapple, tamarind, honey and coconut. Both went down quickly.

She followed those with an ample breakfast of Egyptian fatayer bread with black honey and kechta cream, hash topped with tameya, sausage and poached eggs and a plate of local cheeses. The waiter seemed pleased and awed by her ability to put away the mound of food in such a short time. While she ate, she studied a few tourist brochures she’d taken from the stand by the front desk.

She already knew a lot about Egypt, an archaeologist’s paradise. Located on the banks of the Nile River, Cairo sat just south of where the river divided itself. The brochure explained that the oldest section of the city sat to the east, and that the western section was modeled after the city of Paris during the mid-nineteenth century and was noted for its wide streets and public gardens.

Annja always found the older section more appealing with its crowded residential areas, ancient mosques and small, twisting streets. Would she find Dr. Hamam there? She doubted the professor had much use for the newer areas.

She knew that bridges linked the islands of Roda and Gezira and the suburbs of Imbabah and Giza. Just west of Giza on the plateau stretched Memphis, the ancient necropolis with its three large pyramids.

“Where are you, Dr. Hamam? Are you somewhere in al-Qahirah?” Annja used the official name of the city. “And what are you up to?” Annja paid for her meal and got directions to the largest library. She walked quickly, her stomach full and her ankle hardly a bother anymore.

Cairo encompassed various districts and once independent historic villages and towns, and altogether claimed a population in excess of fifteen million. It could be much easier finding a very tiny needle in a very big haystack than finding Dr. Hamam in one of the most populous cities on the planet, she thought.

As she walked, taking in all the sights, sounds and the odors of various restaurants, she enjoyed the fact that perhaps more than any other city Cairo was a trip through time. The pyramids, Heliopolis and the Sphinx represented the ancient world, and then there was Saladin’s Citadel, the Cairo Tower, the Mosque of Amr ibn al-A’as, the Hanging Church, as well as all the modern constructions.

Annja took the subway after a few more blocks, and sat in the first train car. The first two cars were reserved for women only. She emerged a block from the library. The city had a varied transportation network, from its myriad roads—which seemed as crowded as New York City’s streets—to its subway system, boats and ferries and trains. Taxis honked at her, trying to get her attention; she knew that was a common way to attract potential customers.

The library was impressive, and she could have spent the entire day there. More like days, she thought. But she went right to work and found a listing of universities. Several had Hamam listed as a past professor or a visiting lecturer, and one old directory listed him as a department head.

Hamam had studied abroad, she learned, gaining his master’s degree from the University of Washington, and working several digs in Egypt and elsewhere before gaining his Ph.D. in Egyptology from Yale. Among his accomplishments was mapping the Theban West Bank through the use of hot-air balloons, and rediscovering the Valley of the Kings, where the tombs of Ramses II’s sons were found. His various methods were attributed to producing reams of archaeological data.

Along the way he and his assistants had recovered artifacts, jewelry and mummies, and his books detailed many of the findings of the West Bank and the Valley of the Kings.

She also found a complete list of his works, which she took a photocopy of, as well as a listing of articles—the one titled “Australian Influence in Ancient Egyptian Culture” caught her eye. Though she was not allowed to copy that because the journal it was in was brittle, she did get to carefully read it, and took it as a rambling piece that Hamam was lucky to get published. The Internet was good for research, but Annja knew that his article, and many of the others she scanned, would not have been available on it.

When she got back to the United States, she vowed to do more of her research in libraries and to cut back on her time online. The computer was convenient, but she’d forgotten just how much she relished the feel of the books and paper and above all of that, the smell of places such as this.

In the Australian article Hamam discussed hieroglyphs found in New South Wales that were in the style of some of the early Egyptian dynasties. Because this particular style was so archaic and able to be translated only by a handful of Egyptologists, people from multiple continents dismissed them as aboriginal scrawling or complete forgeries.

Hamam maintained they were indeed genuine, dated to the Third Dynasty, and chronicled the story of long ago explorers who became shipwrecked, and whose leader—Lord Djes-eb—died not far from the coast. Hamam believed that the expedition was ordered by Khufu, whom he claimed as an ancestor. He also claimed that another, later expedition was sent by Ra-Jedef, one of the reigning kings of the Upper and Lower Nile. Hamam contended that the expedition ordered by Khufu traveled to Australia and made it back, and that it was the subsequent one financed by Ra-Jedef that met with tragedy. Hamam further stated that the shipwrecked Djes-eb was likely a son of Ra-Jedef. There were other Egyptian names mentioned, all of them a blur of letters and hyphens to Annja.

“So no wonder he wanted to lord it over an Egyptian dig in Australia,” Annja mused. “He thinks he’s descended from Khufu and that maybe some of his ancestors took a trip down under and carved some of the hieroglyphics north of Sydney.”

“Shh!” one of the librarians warned.

Annja continued to search for references to Dr. Hamam, finding several articles where he discussed various exhibits at the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. With a little more digging, she learned that that particular museum was the repository for the most extensive collection of ancient Egyptian relics in the world—nearly 150,000 of them on display, and perhaps four times that many more locked away in its storerooms.

The hair prickled on the back of Annja’s neck. Something about the mention of the museum made her uneasy, but more troubling was that she couldn’t explain why.

A young but prim-looking librarian who’d noticed her studying “all things Gahiji Hamam,” pointed her to the reference section, and from there down a narrow corridor to an old microfiche machine. It was in a room that was dark because of ceiling-high bookshelves that blocked part of the windows, deep maroon carpeting and a three-bulbed overhead lamp where only one of the bulbs glowed.

It wasn’t an area for the public, Annja gathered, seeing carts with books stacked in them, file cabinets along one wall and a coat rack that was full and had umbrellas leaning against the wall next to it.

“I will bring you more on Gahiji. Do you know how to use one of these?” She pointed to the microfiche reader. The librarian was clearly a native from her appearance and accent, but her English was impeccable.

Annja nodded and waited, thoughts shifting from Egyptians in Australia to Dr. Hamam and the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. She realized she was being given special treatment, a stranger, and obviously an American, ushered into a staff room, and all because a prim-looking librarian saw her studying the revered Dr. Hamam.

He stole relics from the university museum in Sydney, Annja told herself. “There’s no proof, but I know it. And I think he’ll do the same thing here, at the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities. But why? Why why why?” And if the poisoning in Sydney was his twisted way of covering his tracks and distracting authorities while he made his getaway, would he poison people here, too? She felt sick at the thought.

It was one of the largest cities in the world!

“He didn’t need to poison anyone in Sydney to steal the artifacts,” Annja whispered. “There has to be more to—”

“Here, ma’am, you might find these interesting.” The librarian startled her, depositing a yellow box on the table next to her. “These go back about twenty to twenty-five years, when Gahiji, like me, was quite a bit younger, to when he first started his building project. It is not in the city, this great building of his, but the local papers covered it a little back then until he hired security to keep people away and built up the land around it so it’s not easy to spot. Tourists would certainly go there if they knew about it. The place isn’t exactly hidden, but it’s certainly off what some call the beaten path.”

Annja put the librarian in her midthirties, so if the building project started twenty-five years ago she would have been about ten.

“Have you ever met Dr. Hamam?” she asked.

The librarian smiled sadly. “Gahiji was a brilliant man then, and more so now, I understand. I know that from all the books he has written that I replace on the shelves, and from all the news articles I have cataloged through the years.” She paused. “Yes, I met him. My father took me to the site a few times at the project’s beginning, once when Gahiji was there.”

“And…” Annja prompted.

“He was exceedingly cordial and shared some cool, sweetened tea with me that he had in a thermos. He talked to me of the glorious Egypt of ancient times.”

Annja threaded the material in the machine, and began to read. “Oh, my, in all my poking around on the archaeology sites, I’d never seen this.”

“I doubt you’d ever find that on the Internet.” The librarian adjusted her glasses. “After those first few articles, it was all hush-hush. There were rumors Gahiji paid high-up newspapermen to look the other way. Oh, there are certainly people who know of it, as he must have quite the staff working there—and perhaps living there. But they know to keep their mouths shut.”

“It’s a palace,” Annja said.

“It is that,” the librarian agreed. “And those are just pictures taken partway into its construction. I imagine it’s quite a bit more beautiful than what you see there. My father was one of the architects, and that is why he took me to the site. He was proud of his participation in it, and he wanted me to see.”

“And did you go back again? After meeting Dr. Hamam that first time?”

She shook her head. “My father was fired the very next day. I heard him talking to my mother, saying that Gahiji was angry that he’d brought me to the site. My father called him Gahiji, not Dr. Hamam. I think they were friends, but all the architects called him Gahiji then. He said Gahiji did not want any more eyes than necessary on his home.” She paused. “My father, of course, did not tell me my presence was to blame for his dismissal.”

Annja stared at the woman, not knowing what to say.

“But it is good my father lost that job. The three other architects died shortly after the project was finished. Some of the contractors, too, from what I’d heard. I did not pay much attention to death when I was young. My father thought it something like the curse on the archaeologists who first discovered Tut’s tomb. Silly superstition.”

“You don’t like him, do you, Gahiji Hamam?” Annja asked.

“He is a very powerful, very wealthy man. And, no, I do not like him.” The librarian drew her finger to her lips, gave Annja a nod and left her to her reading.

“I will find him here, in his secret palace,” Annja said, eyes buried in the hood of the machine. “And, no, I do not like him, either.”