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the mixture of shattered glass and dried blood. It was difficult to stifle a feeling of nausea, but with luck she quickly found what she was searching for—the fake scarab Abdul had given to her, the one that had been so exquisitely carved by his son. She slipped it into her pocket, at the same time gently touching the broken pottery on the floor with her toe. The two authentic antiques were among the rubble. After lasting six thousand years, they were broken needlessly, smashed on the floor of this pitiful shop by a twelve-year-old thief. The waste made her physically ill. Her gaze went back to the blood, and she had to close her eyes to check the tears. A sensitive human life snuffed out because of greed. Erica tried vainly to recall the appearance of the man who had wielded the scimitar. His features had been sharp, like the typical bedouin’s, his skin the color of burnished bronze. But she could not form a definite mental image of the man. She opened her eyes again and looked around the shop. Anger began to supplant the incipient tears. She wanted to go to the police for Abdul Hamdiso that the killer would be brought to justice. But Yvon’s admonition about the police in Cairo was undoubtedly correct. And if she couldn’t even be sure she’d recognize the killer if she saw him again, then the risk of going to the police was not worth it.
    Erica bent down and picked up one of the larger shards of pottery. Her expertise was in the past, and with impressive facility her mind conjured up the image of the Seti statue, with its alabaster-and-feldspar eyes. There was no doubt in her mind that the statue had to be recovered. She had never known that objects of such importance were involved in the black market.
    Erica walked over to the curtain and drew it aside. Yvon and Raoul were in the process of rolling up the floor carpets. Yvon looked up and motioned that it would be only a moment longer. Erica watched them work. Yvon was obviously interested in trying to do something about the black market. The French had done a great deal to curb looting of Egyptian treasures, at least the stuff they didn’t carry off to the Louvre. If her not going to the police could help recover the statue, then perhaps it was the best thing to do. Erica decided she’d go along with Yvon, but she knew there was a degree of rationalization in her thinking.
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    Leaving Raoul to replace the carpets, Yvon guided Erica out of Antica Abdul. Moving through the Khan el Khalili with Yvon was a totally different experience than trying to walk through it alone. No one bothered her. As if trying to distract her from the events of the last hour, Yvon talked continuously about the bazaar and about Cairo. He was obviously quite familiar with the history of the city. He had removed his tie, and his shirt was open at the collar.
    â€œHow about a bronze head of Nefertiti?” he asked, holding up one of the ugly tourist souvenirs he had taken from a vendor’s cart.
    â€œNever!” said Erica, horrified. She remembered the scene after the molester had attacked her.
    â€œYou must have one.” said Yvon, beginning to bargainin Arabic. Erica tried to interfere, but he bought the statue and gave it to her with great ceremony. “A souvenir of Egypt to cherish. The only problem is, I believe they are made in Czechoslovakia.”
    Smiling, Erica took the small statue. The charm of Cairo began to filter through the heat, dirt, and poverty, and she relaxed a little.
    The narrow alleyway on which they were walking opened up and they stepped into the sunlight of the Al Azhar square. With a cacophony of auto horns, traffic had come to a standstill. To the right Yvon pointed out an exotic building with a square minaret and surmounted by five onion-shaped turrets. Then he turned her around. To the left, almost concealed by the traffic and an open market, was the entrance to the famous Al Azhar mosque. They walked toward the mosque,