Except for the lack of the fantastic predynastic pot, the shop looked essentially the same. Since most of the so-called antiquities were fake, Rahul just kept on replacing them from his sources as they sold.

The shop appeared unattended as Shawn entered, the glass-beaded strings clacking into place behind him. For a moment Shawn wondered if Rahul would still be there, but any concern evaporated as the man quickly emerged through the dark drapes separating a pillow-strewn sitting area from the front part of the shop. Rahul motioned a greeting with a slight tilting of his head as he stepped behind an old glass-topped counter. He was a heavy-boned, full-lipped former fellahin who’d transitioned easily into an adroit businessman. Without a word, Shawn advanced a few steps and stared into the shopkeeper’s dark, fathomless eyes. Almost immediately, Rahul’s eyebrows knitted and then wrinkled upward with recognition.

“Dr. Daughtry?” Abdul questioned. He leaned slightly forward to get a better look.

“Rahul,” Shawn replied, “I’m shocked that you remember me, much less my name after all these years.”

“How could I not?” Rahul said, rushing from behind his counter and pumping Shawn’s hand. “I remember all my clients, particularly those from famous museums.”

“You have clients at other museums?” The shop was so modest it seemed farfetched.

“Of course, of course,” Rahul intoned. “Whenever I get something special, which isn’t too often, I communicate with whom-ever I think would be the most interested. It’s so easy now with the Internet.”

While Rahul hastened out into the alleyway by pushing through the beads and barking orders in Arabic, Shawn marveled at the speed of globalization. It seemed to him the Internet and the ancient Khan el-Khalili should have been worlds apart. Obviously, such was not the case.

A moment later, Rahul reentered the shop and gestured for Shawn to pass beyond into the seating area at the rear of the store. Oriental carpets covered the floor and the walls. Large, heavy brocade pillows dominated the space. A hookah stood to the side, along with a number of stacked, faded cardboard boxes. A bare lightbulb dangled from the ceiling. On a small wooden table were a few faded photographs, one of a large man in typical Egyptian dress who resembled Rahul. Rahul followed Shawn’s line of sight.

“A photo of my uncle, given to me recently by my mother. Almost twenty years ago he owned this shop.”

“He does look like family,” Shawn commented. “Did you buy the shop from him?”

“No, from his wife. He was my mother’s brother, but he got himself mixed up in an antiquities scandal involving a very important find: an intact tomb. His association cost him his life. He was killed here in the shop.”

“My goodness,” Shawn voiced. “I’m so sorry to have brought it up.”

“In this business one cannot be too careful. Allah be praised that I have had no such trouble.”

In the next instant the heavy curtain was drawn aside and a barefoot young boy appeared with a tray and two glasses in metal holders, each filled with steaming-hot tea. Without a word the boy placed the tray on the floor next to Shawn and Rahul, then retreated back through the curtains. All the while Rahul maintained a lively chatter about how pleased he was to enjoy a visit from Shawn.