15

The doors were locked after 8:00 p.m., so Hamam used his key card to enter the building. The hall before him was shadowy, as only every fourth bank of overhead lights was on at this late hour to conserve electricity. “The tomb,” the other professors who frequented the offices at night referred to it. Hamam was amused by the reference.

There were only two other instructors here this evening, both from the arts department; he’d spotted their cars in the parking lot. Their offices were on the floor above his, at the opposite end of the hall. They were no doubt working late grading term essays that students had started turning in over the past few days. Hamam had essays on his desk, too, but he had no plans to peruse them. He would be gone from the university before he was supposed to hand grades over to the department head.

Hamam enjoyed the gloominess of this building at night; he thought the dimness made it seem properly eerie and gave the place a little character. Modern structures were usually so sterile and uninteresting, nothing like the ruins he relished, or his home north of Cairo. He listened to his own footfalls as he went, the leather soles of his expensive Italian shoes gliding across the recently polished floor, the heels clicking slowly and rhythmically. The night janitor had already passed by; Hamam could smell the residue of the cleaning supplies. He would not have to put up with the man’s overly loud classical selections. It wasn’t that Hamam didn’t appreciate a good orchestra. He truly did. But the janitor’s taste tended toward popular baroque, and the orchestras hailed from cities such as Boston and Cincinnati, lacking the musical refinement of the European symphonies with their most excellent conductors.

He fumbled in his pocket for his office keys. While the building’s outer doors had been fitted with mechanisms to read key cards, Hamam doubted the university would ever spend the money to replace the simple locks on the individual offices and storage rooms. He smiled—in a week or so the university’s funds and locks would be irrelevant.

Hamam’s movements were ritualistic. He opened the door with his left hand, reached in and flicked on the light with his right. Two steps in and he hung his hat on the hook on the wall. A quick turn and he shut the door behind him and flipped the latch to lock it. Unlike many of the other professors in this building and in the others throughout the campus, Hamam never left his door open.

“I expected you some time ago.”

Hamam’s normally stoic mask was gone in an instant, replaced by wide-eyed astonishment. He gasped, and then his surprise turned to anger, his fists clenching so tight his knuckles whitened.

The high-backed chair at his desk had been turned to face the window, so Hamam could not have noticed that someone was sitting in it.

“I’ve been here for more than an hour, Gahiji.” The voice was sonorous. The speaker waited a moment and then slowly swiveled the chair so he could stare across the desk at Hamam. “Nearly two, I think.” He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. Like the professor, he was a small man, but he was not quite as thin, and the skin on his face was taut, the lower half of it looking shiny and wet from scarring. His hair was shoulder length, oiled and neatly tied at the back of his head. He had on a gray suit coat, the cut of it and material looking expensive. Beneath it he wore a black T-shirt with a slightly frayed collar.

“Sayed,” Hamam said. “I told you never to come here.” The professor’s eyes were thin slits, and his face was flushed with anger. He clenched and unclenched his fists and drew his shoulders back. “I am paying you enough that you can damn well follow my instructions.”

A silence settled between them, neither man wanting to break it. From outside—Sayed had opened the window—a car horn sounded. A moment later there was a burst of young laughter from students walking past on a nearby sidewalk. Sayed leaned forward, the desk chair creaking. Finally, he spoke.

“My apologies, Gahiji, for intruding into your academic world.” The words were flat and did not seem heartfelt, and they did little to soothe Hamam’s ire.

“You were never to set foot at the university,” Hamam softly raged. “Never to be seen in any public places on this continent. Never to be seen publicly with me.”

“Because you do not want to be seen with an international terrorist?”

“Yes,” Hamam said. “I’m paying you well.”

“Indeed. I am satisfied with the amount.”

Another silence settled, this longer than the first. Again, Sayed finally broke it.

“The world thinks I am in England or Ireland, yes? Interpol places me somewhere near London. Bombing soccer fields and buses and underground trains.” Sayed leaned back in the chair now, making it squeak even louder. “The world thinks I am there because of the news reports, maybe, but the American television woman knows I am here instead. She and the man with the camera saw me yesterday at your camp.” Sayed stood, the fabric of his jacket falling gracefully against his frame.

“Dig, Sayed. It is called a dig, not a camp.”

Sayed shrugged indifferently.

“And the issue of the American archaeologist is being resolved,” Hamam continued. “Isn’t that correct?”

He strode farther into his office and waited for Sayed to come around to the front of the desk. Sayed took the simple wooden chair intended for students, and Hamam eased himself into the high-backed chair, placing his hands on the arms of it as if it were a throne. “The men that you acquired on my behalf have killed the cameraman and sent me his cameras and laptop. I have destroyed all evidence of your presence.”

“The body burned, I assume, this cameraman. My associates are always tidy,” Sayed said.

“Burned, I was told, yes. Incinerated shortly after the deed. No trace remains of the man or any of his belongings. The police have no clues, beyond the bodies of your associates.”

“And they cannot be traced to us. But the woman…” Sayed’s eyes burned, the first real emotion he’d shown since Hamam had come in. “The woman still lives.”

“Your remaining men—”

“Have not reported to me of her demise. Nor have they reported to you.” Sayed raised his eyebrows in question.

“No, I’ve not heard from any of them.”

“And three of them will never be heard from again. Killed at the hotel—by her, apparently. The bodies you mentioned,” Sayed made a tsk-tsking sound. “It is not good for my business that those I hire are killed. It makes recruiting others a little more difficult and a little more expensive.”

“You’re asking me for more money?” Hamam asked.

Sayed raised his hands and feigned an expression of bewilderment. Then his icy countenance returned. “Not yet, Gahiji. As you’ve said, I’ve been paid well so far. And as I’ve said…I am satisfied.”

Hamam toyed with some of the objects on his desk—a pen holder, calendar, a paperweight shaped like a pyramid. “I’ve arranged the trucks,” he said quietly.

Sayed nodded.

“They should be more than adequate.”

“And painters?”

“Already handled. They should have finished earlier today.”

“I will need to inspect them and load them, and I wish to do this now.”

“They are in an old industrial building not far from the heart of downtown. Here is the address.” Hamam took a sheet of paper from his in basket, noted that it was a flyer for an upcoming student art show and turned it over. He scribbled an address on the back in pencil and passed it to Sayed.

“Good,” Sayed purred. “And these trucks, they will handle the weight and pressure?”

It was Hamam’s turn to nod.

“Very good indeed.”