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beginning to search the shop to see if there were any more records.
    â€œThis will take only a few minutes, Erica,” said Yvon, carefully going through one of the upright cabinets.
    Erica sank to one of the large cushions in the center of the room. She felt numbed by the whole experience. She knew that searching the premises was illegal, but she did not protest. Instead she vacantly watched the two men. They had finished with the cabinets and were starting to take down all the carpets hanging on the walls.
    While they worked, their differences were apparent. It was more than physical appearance. It was the way they moved and handled things. Raoul was blunt and direct, often relying on sheer strength. Yvon was careful and contemplative. Raoul was in constant motion, often bending, his head slightly drooped between his powerful shoulders. Yvon stood erect, and he regarded objectsfrom a comfortable distance. He had rolled up his sleeves, revealing smooth forearms that emphasized his small sculptured hands. All at once Erica recognized what was so different about Yvon. He had the sheltered, pampered look of a nineteenth-century aristocrat. An air of elegant authority hovered over him like a halo.
    With her pulse still racing, Erica abruptly found sitting intolerable. She stood up and walked over to the heavy drapes. She wanted some air but realized she was reluctant to look into the outer part of the shop, despite Yvon’s assurance that the body was gone. Finally she reached out and pulled open the curtain.
    Erica screamed. Only two feet from her was a face that had whirled to look at her when she pulled open the curtain. There was a crash of pottery as the figure in the shop dropped his armload, obviously as frightened as Erica.
    Raoul responded instantaneously, pushing past Erica into the front room. Yvon followed. The thief stumbled over the pottery and tried to reach the doorway, but Raoul was like a cat, and with a sharp karate chop between the shoulders brought the intruder to the floor. He rolled over, a boy about twelve.
    Yvon took one look and walked back to Erica.
    â€œAre you all right?” he asked softly.
    Erica shook her head. “I’m not accustomed to this sort of thing.” She was still holding onto the drapes, her head down.
    â€œTake a look at this boy,” said Yvon. “I want to be sure he wasn’t one of the three.” He put his arm around her, but she politely pushed him away.
    â€œI’m okay,” she said, realizing she had overreacted because she had suppressed her earlier fright and then exploded at this latest happening.
    Taking a deep breath, she went over and looked down at the cowering child.
    â€œNo,” she said simply.
    Yvon spoke sharply in Arabic to the boy, who responded by scrambling to his feet and bolting through the entranceway, leaving the beaded strips dancingbehind him. “The poverty in this place makes some of these people act like vultures. They sense when there is trouble.”
    â€œI want to leave,” said Erica as calmly as possible. “I’m not sure where I want to go, but I want to get out of here. And I still feel the police should be told.”
    Yvon reached out and put a hand on Erica’s shoulder. He spoke paternally. “The police can be informed, but without involving yourself. The decision is yours to make, but believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Egyptian jails rival those in Turkey.”
    Erica studied Yvon’s steady eyes before looking down at her still-trembling hands. With the poverty and overwhelming disorder she’d already seen in Cairo, Yvon’s comments made sense. “I want to return to my hotel.”
    â€œI understand,” said Yvon. “But please allow us to accompany you, Erica. Just let me get the letters we’ve found. It will only be a moment.” Both men disappeared through the heavy curtains.
    Erica stepped over to the broken counter and stared at