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Paul Marchant walked along the street of the village bordering the Giza Plateau, dodging local villagers, tourists, hawkers, small cars, and piles of camel dung, oblivious to the sales pitches of the vendors. He turned toward the ticket booth in front of the Sphinx, bought a pass, and made his way over the wooden pathway leading to the opening to the monument’s enclosure. But he didn’t go in.
He’d have access to the real secrets of the Sphinx. This thought spurred him past the enclosure and up the hill toward the pyramids. He wondered if Michael was already here. Marchant had followed him to La Guardia Airport on New Year’s Day, keeping his distance. Michael Levy hadn’t seen him, at least he didn’t think so. Michael had gotten on a plane to Israel. Why Israel? Maybe it was some family visit. Anyway, Michael would be in Egypt for the conference. His name was on the program.
After Marchant had watched Michael board his plane, Marchant tried to break into his apartment. Getting inside the building had been simple, but he had no skill in picking locks and didn’t want to share his business with anyone who did. But Michael had probably taken anything of importance with him, and it was easier to get into hotel rooms. He’d give Michael’s room a good search once he arrived.
About halfway up the hill, Marchant sat down on the stone wall surrounding one of the tunnels. Closed off by a grate, the tunnel dropped straight down into the sand beneath. Pretending to fish a stone out of his shoe, he peeked over the edge down into the dark pit scattered with litter. He pictured the ground-penetrating radar map in his mind and tried to superimpose it over the land surrounding him. Where did this shaft lead and where exactly was the chamber? He was finding it difficult to pinpoint, but he knew it was close, somewhere beneath him, within a few hundred meters.
Tonight he’d meet Mueller somewhere in the middle of Cairo. Marchant wondered if he’d meet the big cheeses immediately or if Mueller was going to play cat and mouse with him a little more, just to make himself feel more important. Whatever Marchant had to put up with was well worth the reward. He was the only man who really understood the math and language codes. Otherwise they wouldn’t have come to him.
☥☥☥
That same afternoon, Michael Levy made his way through Egyptian customs. The conference was still a couple of weeks away, so he’d been prepared to take a cab from the airport. He had been surprised, therefore, to find a driver waiting for him. The drive was slow, but he enjoyed the hustle and bustle of Cairo. When he arrived at the Mena House, he asked to see the manager first. Michael had shipped a box with museum labels to the hotel, hoping the reputation of the institution in Egypt would ensure its safe arrival. International cargo was never completely safe. He’d taken the risk, not wanting to schlep his books and slide show all over Israel. He was relieved to find them waiting for him.
After handing a hefty tip to the manager, he carried the box back to the lobby where his luggage sat. Two bellhops took his burdens from him, ignoring his protests that he could manage alone, and led him to his room in the annex, a room with his favorite pyramid view. After the bellhops lined up his luggage beside the closet, and after another hefty tip, Michael was alone.
He felt a bit disoriented. On all his previous trips to Egypt, he’d arrived after at least a ten-hour plane ride from an entirely different time zone. Since he’d just come from Israel, he was fresh and full of energy. He wanted to punctuate the moment somehow, to set the stage for this final phase of his journey. He settled into the armchair and crossed his legs under him, preparing to meditate. But a better idea occurred to him. He should go visit the Sphinx. What better place to declare his spiritual intent? He grabbed his hat and headed out. In the hotel lobby, he caught a glimpse of Paul Marchant. Michael raised his hand in greeting.
Marchant’s face clouded for an instant, then he nodded back at Michael and smiled.
What an odd duck, Michael thought. He wondered for the hundredth time if Marchant held a key. He hoped not. He would be tricky to work with.
Michael decided to walk across the plateau to prepare himself for his visit to the grand matriarch of Egypt. He always thought of the Sphinx as female. He walked quickly up the hill and purchased a ticket at the nearby gate. The familiar exhilaration overtook him as he strolled toward the massive stone pyramids rising in front of him. Careful not to smile at the many hawkers offering camel rides, turquoise-colored scarabs, calendars, postcards, and bottled water, he made his way around the pyramids and toward the causeway. The sun was halfway down the western sky and the temperature had dropped a little. Michael took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of dust and stone, even the camel dung. He was home. He was in Egypt.
He slowed as he walked down the hill toward the small conical head of the Sphinx that stuck out from her enclosure. Rounding the Sphinx enclosure, he stopped to run his hand over a large piece of granite lying discarded close by. It was carved with multiple contoured angles, smooth as glass. Copper chisels couldn’t have done that. Not much on this plateau could have been carved with crude Stone Age tools, but this didn’t stop his colleagues at the museum from believing that was how they’d all been made.
Michael walked over to the gate and took his place in line. Already he felt the statue alive before him. A deep purr radiated from her, filling his chest, the sound of an enormous lioness. His heart swelled. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his hand around a small lump of lapis lazuli.
Welcome, my son.
The words sounded deep in his mind and his eyes teared involuntarily. Michael looked down to blink them away.
The time is near. I have much to tell you.
A woman in a long dress and headscarf stood by the opening. She nodded to him and pointed out the already familiar entryway. Michael wanted to find a corner in the granite antechamber and sink down on the alabaster floor, allowing it to support him as he gave himself over to the great mother lioness speaking to him even now, but he knew this would only attract attention, so he followed the small crowd up onto the viewing platform. He rounded the corner and there she stood, majestic, magnetic, vibrating with a deep resonant power.
Mother. The word came unbidden to his mind. He saw her turn and look at him and the impact of that gaze knocked him into a seat against the wall. Luckily, no one was close by. It was late and the monument would be closing soon. With a small part of his mind, he noticed that the crystal key hanging around his neck, concealed beneath his shirt, had started to tingle, vibrating in harmony with the Sphinx.
Mother, I need your help. I can’t do this without you.
My vigil is almost finished. The six are gathering.
Please, show me the way.
Go to him now.
Michael rose without hesitation and started to walk away. But then he remembered his manners. He glanced around. No one was watching. He took a step forward and gently dropped his piece of lapis over the edge of the platform. Then he walked down the steps and out of the Sphinx enclosure toward the village.
Michael fished the small piece of paper with directions to Tahir’s house out of his pocket. He walked to the first block and looked at the street corner. The street wasn’t named. He searched the front of the first building. There were no numbers either. Funny he hadn’t noticed this before. He crossed the street, narrowly avoiding a cart packed with open boxes of spices, and walked past the stores, their windows crammed with replicas of antiques, Egyptian scarves, jewelry, and postcards. Down the next street, he spotted the shop next to a vacant lot that seemed to be the home of two white donkeys. Michael walked past them and took the two front steps of the shop in one bound.
Three men looked up sharply from their customers. Michael stepped back, chagrined that his excitement had got the better of him, and took in his surroundings. The walls were mirrored and filled with shelves of colorful perfume bottles, gold, blue, red, and green. He caught the gleam of gold from farther in the room. The floors were tile, covered with intricate but faded rugs. Customers sat on dark wooden benches.
“May I bring you something to drink?” One of the men had finished with his sale and approached him.
“No, thank you. I’m looking for Tahir Nur Ahram.”
“Tahir. He is my uncle. A great man. His home is next door.” The man gestured to the west wall of the store.
“Thank you.” This time Michael took the steps one at a time and walked to the house next to the shop. It was multi-tiered with balconies on every floor, similar to the one he’d just left in Israel. He knocked on a heavy wooden door.
After a minute, the door opened. A boy, somewhere in his mid-teens, dressed in blue jeans, T-shirt, and sandals, looked Michael up and down, then spoke in English, “May I help you?”
“My name is Michael Levy. I’m looking for Tahir Nur Ahram.”
“My father is away in the south on a tour.”
“I see.” Michael’s chest fell.
“But he’ll be home late Thursday.”
“May I come to visit him?”
“Friday in the evening is the best time.”
Michael thanked the boy and turned to make his way back to the hotel.
He wanted to go back through the plateau, but the guards were just closing the gate, so he flagged down a taxi. The Sphinx was silent, dozing in the gathering twilight. A cab finally arrived and after a brief haggle over price, Michael got in. As the taxi turned around on the busy street, he noticed a man lounging next to the ticket booth. He wore a Fedora over a hooked nose. Something about him seemed familiar. Had he seen him at the airport? Was he just an innocent tourist out for his first experience of Giza or was he a tail? Michael would have to keep an eye out for this guy.
☥☥☥
Late the next night, Paul Marchant crouched near the low buildings next to the Sphinx ticket booth waiting for Mueller. About twenty scrawny cats picked through the Dumpsters across the street from him. He turned his eyes away from their meager meal and scanned the street. Just a few locals walking home. The shops were closed for the most part. During their meeting the previous evening, Mueller hadn’t revealed anything new. They’d reviewed the maps, discussed the math, although Marchant was certain it had all gone over Mueller’s head. Marchant wondered if he were being watched or videotaped. After they talked, they were served hot hibiscus tea and stuffed grape leaves. Mueller seemed anxious for Marchant to partake. Assuming he would not be poisoned, he’d grudgingly eaten a few bites. Then Mueller told him to be waiting near the Sphinx the next night, sometime around midnight.
Marchant had been here since eleven. He shifted his weight to ease the dull ache in his knees, then heard the crunch of tires turning off the street toward the building and moved back to avoid the headlights. He followed a jeep down the road behind the wall. The vehicle was obviously new, green with black roll bars instead of a roof. It looked like army issue, an impression reinforced by the glint of a machine gun held by a chiseled man dressed in khaki pants and shirt.
Mueller swung out of the backseat and walked toward him. “Ready?”
“Yes.” Marchant was equally abrupt.
Mueller pulled a sash out of his back pocket. “Just a precaution,” he said, as he fit the blindfold around Marchant’s head and tied it snugly over his eyes. Marchant allowed himself to be led to the jeep and guided into the backseat. Mueller got in beside him.
The jeep backed up and drove down a smooth road for about one hundred yards, then turned to the right. Marchant knew they’d driven around the sound and light show area and were headed out of the bus parking lot toward the plateau. The jeep lurched to the side and Marchant grabbed the bar next to him just in time, stifling a protest. He heard the grinding of gears and the roar of the engine, then he was thrust back in his seat as they climbed a hill.
After two similar turns and a trip up and down another hill, he lost any sense of direction. He wondered if they were going out into the desert to a secret entrance or if Mueller had directed his men to drive in circles just beside the plateau to confuse him. After a few more twists and turns, the jeep came to a halt and the engine cut off.
“You can get out now,” Mueller’s voice was close in his ear. Once Marchant was standing, someone took his arm. “Wait here.” It was Mueller’s voice, apparently directed at the jeep driver. Then he felt pressure on his arm and they walked a few steps. More pressure pulled him to a stop. Suddenly, a hand pushed his head down. “The ceiling is low. We’re going down some steps.”
Marchant steadied himself on the wall to his left, crouched down, and slowly began descending, counting as he went. Thirteen steps went straight down, then there was a turn to the right, and they climbed down again. He counted three such turns, and then a rush of air hit him, smelling of dust and, oddly enough, moisture. He sensed space around him. Mueller took a firm hold on his arm and they started to walk forward. Marchant listened intently to the sounds. Their footsteps echoed from a distant wall and he thought he heard the sound of flowing water. They were in a large underground cavern or room.
After about two hundred feet, Mueller told him to duck again. “Just like going into the pyramid.”
Marchant assumed the familiar duck-walk posture and went through what felt like a tunnel. He fought the sudden claustrophobic fear of being crushed below tons of earth, forcing himself to keep going. Soon he emerged into a second chamber. The floor was smooth beneath his feet, maybe stone. He heard Mueller scramble out behind him. Then the blindfold was pulled from his eyes.
Marchant blinked in the glare of the electric lights mounted around the room, willing his eyes to adjust rapidly. The walls on each side were lined with pillars, and in front of each pillar were large statues of Neters. First, the tall muscular Anubis stood with his black dog’s head looking avidly toward the entrance they had just emerged from. He saw Osiris, Horus, and Ptah. On the opposite side were their counterparts, Isis, Hathor, and Sekhmet. The floor was alabaster with an intricate inlaid blue and gold tile forming a six-pointed star within another six-pointed star with six circles at each point contained within a square.
“Of course,” Marchant muttered. He stepped forward. At the end of this underground temple, two massive white alabaster pillars marked where the entrance to the Holy of Holies should be. But instead of an open door, a shimmering blue sheet of some kind, like a fog full of fireflies, blocked the entrance.
Marchant silently asked for permission to enter the temple and paused for an answer. He thought he saw Anubis’s huge head nod once and felt an inner affirmation. Reverently, his head slightly bowed, he made his way past the long line of watching Neters and stopped a few feet in front of the six steps that led up to the inner sanctum of the temple. Here he could see the blue sheet was not cloth, but an energy field of some type, just as he’d been told. The field pulsated gently, giving off tiny golden star bursts. He had expected to feel prickling on his skin, irritating like static electricity, but standing before this magnificent curtain of energy was soothing, like being in front of a waterfall.
Marchant turned to the walls on either side, searching for clues. A scene depicted Thoth with an ibis head holding out an ankh to Seshat, whose head was decorated with a seven-petaled flower. She stood with her arms extended in front of her, palms down. Next to them was Ma’at, whose head was topped with a feather. There were no hieroglyphs of any kind.
Moving from the walls, he returned to his position in front of the curtain. He closed his eyes and listened deeply for a sound, a frequency, any hint of the resonance of this guardian energy. After a minute, a sound began in his mind, faint at first, then growing in volume. He matched the sound with his own voice and began to hum softly. He opened his eyes and watched the energy. Slowly, he increased his volume, but nothing happened.
Marchant closed his eyes and listened again. He had the right tone. Then he felt a warm glow in his right pocket. The key. He reached into his pocket and took the stone in his hand, placing the root of the crystal against the energy center in his palm and the point aligning with his index and middle finger. Again, he hummed the tone, steadily increasing the volume. A small spark of light appeared in the center of the energy field and spiraled out to the edges. He heard a gasp from behind him. He’d completely forgotten anyone else was in the room. Again he hummed the tone, louder this time. Another burst of energy spiraled through the field and the color began to shift from a deep royal blue to robin’s egg. He could see the room behind the curtain emerging.
“All right,” Mueller’s voice grated on his finely tuned nerves. “That’s enough for now.” The energy field snapped back to its deep blue color, completely obscuring the room behind it.
Marchant reached out to it, then turned on Mueller, infuriated. “This is delicate work. You must not interrupt me like that again.”
Mueller looked amused for a second, then his face assumed the familiar mask. “I have my orders, Mr. Marchant.”
Marchant struggled visibly to master himself, then nodded. “As you say. Besides, it is not the time.”
“What do you need to further your work?” Mueller asked.
“Photographs of these walls.” Marchant pointed to the identical panels on each side of the energy shield.
“This can be arranged. Anything else?”
“And the floor.”
“We can give you computer access to these files, read only.”
“That will do.”
Mueller held up the blindfold. “Ready when you are, Mr. Marchant.”
Marchant took a deep breath, swallowing his fury. Why was Mueller so mockingly calling him by his last name now? Because he’d seen Marchant knew what he was doing? He swore a silent oath he would come back. Somehow he would find the entrance and come to this temple alone. Anything was possible in Egypt with the right amount of baksheesh. He needed to work away from this barbarian. He bowed his head, submitting to the blindfold for the moment.
☥☥☥
Mueller woke early the next morning after only a couple hours of sleep. He shook the grogginess off in the shower and went to his favorite restaurant for a cup of Turkish coffee. He thought about the night’s events as he sipped the murky liquid, wondering if they would gain access today. Perhaps this was the endgame. The organization would have access to the technology it needed. If what the eggheads said was down there really worked, he’d get a huge promotion. Hell, he could even retire. Maybe he’d buy some island near Micronesia. Their victory would end all the pockets of resistance in the Third World. Order would finally prevail and he could relax on his own estate. He’d travel, maybe pay back some old scores.
Now fully awake, he headed back to the compound to make his report. Mr. Spender was waiting along with two Egyptians. The first man was dressed in an Egyptian military uniform and sat drinking a cup of chai. The other was familiar, the real, not the nominal, head of the antiquities police. Mr. Spender pointed to a fourth chair around the table and Mueller sat down.
“Was our mission a success?”
“Yes, sir.” Mueller slid a large manila envelope across the table to Spender. “Here is the recording and the crystal. I switched it during the ride home with the duplicate we made. I’m certain he didn’t notice. He was too wrapped up in his own schemes.”
“Tell us what happened.”
Mueller told how Marchant had examined the raised reliefs on either side of the curtain, how he’d chanted, but had needed the crystal to make the energy field begin to shift. “I stopped him before the field completely disappeared. He asked for access to pictures of the panels and the design on the floor. I told him he could see the files, read only.”
“And how did he use the crystal?”
“He held it in his right hand, point out, like this.” Mueller demonstrated with a pen that was lying on the table. He knew better than to touch the crystal around Spender.
Spender rubbed his hands together. “Perhaps we are done with Paul Marchant. Gentlemen?”
The other men nodded and Spender picked up the phone next to him. “Bring a car around front.” They walked down the hall, a procession of power. Spender almost had a spring in his step.
A BMW with darkened windows was waiting for them outside. They got in and headed for the Giza plateau. The roads were crowded, as usual, but they arrived at the antiquities police office in just under half an hour and made their way by jeep to the entrance to the site. Inside the chamber, Mueller took his position next to the door, melting discreetly into the background. The three men walked past the watching Neters without a glance.
“Shall I do the honors, General Ahmed?” Spender asked the military officer in a quiet voice.
Mueller could hear every word. The acoustics of the chamber were perfect.
Spender took the tape recorder out of the envelope and rewound the tape. He positioned the crystal in his right hand and hit the play button. Marchant’s voice filled the chamber and Spender pointed the crystal at the royal blue energy field. Nothing happened.
Spender rewound the tape and turned up the volume. Again the energy curtain did not respond. Cursing under his breath, Spender tried a third time, stepping closer, almost touching the field with the crystal. Again, nothing.
“Perhaps we should chant. Maybe the live voice is required.”
The three men stood in a line before the blocked entrance. Spender replayed the tape and after a minute, the three joined in. The energy field remained an opaque navy blue. Even the gold energy bursts stopped.
“God damn it,” Spender said. “Karl.” He wheeled around.
“Yes, sir.” Mueller took a few steps toward the group, suddenly acutely aware of the statue of Anubis.
“What did you leave out? Think, man.”
“Nothing, sir. He stood in the exact same spot you’re in and held the crystal exactly as you are. I was very careful in my observations.”
Muttering, Spender turned toward the energy curtain again and repeated the procedure several more times with no results. “God damn the man. I’ll strangle him with my own hands.” He kicked at the wall next to him.
Mueller studied the floor.
Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep breath, Spender turned to the other two men. “Any theories?”
“Time,” General Ahmed said. “Perhaps the field must be opened at a certain time. Let’s come back in the early morning and try again.”
“It’s worth a try. Other ideas?”
“Is the recording distorted in some way? Can we clean it up, get a perfect duplicate of the voice?” the head of the antiquities police asked.
“Karl?”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“Tonight then, gentlemen.”
☥☥☥
On Thursday evening, Michael was walking toward the Mena House. Since he had to wait for his meeting with Tahir, he’d decided to fulfill some business obligations and had spent the evening with a family who was well connected to the Cairo Museum. Dinner in a wealthy neighborhood near the Nile had been pleasant, if conventional both in manners and Egyptian theory. He had asked his cabdriver to drop him off a good ten blocks from the hotel so he could walk off the heavy meal. The shops were still open even close to eleven o’clock, hoping to bring in the tourists who were returning to their rooms. He walked past a teahouse, where men sat outside playing backgammon, hookah pipes next to them. An argument had broken out at one of the tables and the men were shouting at each other, faces red, but Michael knew from experience that it was all just for show. As soon as someone won the game, all the players would break into song and hug each other in celebration. Then the whole drama would be repeated, an argument over some play, almost coming to blows, then another celebration.
Ahead he saw a merchant pacing the sidewalk in front of his shop with a sharp eye out for customers. Rather than be dragged into his shop, Michael took the next alleyway and found himself walking past houses, most closed up tight. As he rounded the next corner to walk back up to the street, a car came screeching to a halt in front of him, cutting him off. Before he could turn around, someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms. A blindfold was forced over his head, then he was shoved into the car. Another squeal of tires threw him against the seat.
“Who are you? What do you want?” The men were European or American. He’d seen that much before they’d blindfolded him. He thought the car was a steel-blue Mercedes. “I’m well known in Egypt. You’ll—”
“Shut up, Mr. Levy. We know exactly who you are and that you checked into the Mena House alone.”
The accent was American.
“What do you want with me?”
A hand grabbed Michael’s throat.
“We’ll do the talking.”
The fingers tightened and Michael nodded. The man released his throat, and Michael tried not to cough.
“We know why you’re here, Mr. Levy. And we know what you carry.”
Michael stilled, praying the fingers would not start searching his pockets. He desperately wished he’d followed his instincts and left the crystal in the hotel safe, but he wasn’t by any means certain it would be safe there.
There was a short, bitter laugh. “Don’t worry. I’m not after that. We wouldn’t stoop to murder to take the artifact, like you.”
Michael blinked beneath his blindfold, confused.
“Go near her, and I will kill you.”
“Who?”
“I think you know, Mr. Levy. You tried to contact her before you left New York.”
Anne. They had to mean Anne. They still think I was involved in Cynthia’s murder, he thought.
“But we have to work together—” Michael heard the car door open. The tires hummed louder over the dirt road. Suddenly, he was shoved and this time he couldn’t stop the scream as he fell from the car.
Braced for a hard landing, he was surprised to feel something soft beneath him. Then the reek hit him. He tore off his blindfold and looked around wildly. All he saw were lights through a cloud of dust. He looked down. He was sitting in a large pile of dung. Next to it was a stable bursting with horses and camels. One gray stallion stretched his nose through the gate of the stall and blew air noisily through his nostrils. Two camels lay against a far wall, mildly gazing at him as they methodically chewed mouthfuls of hay.
“Shit.” Michael stood and started picking bits of straw from his suit. Beneath the straw was dung, now smeared all over the buttocks and down the leg of his best suit. “Shit!” Michael took a few tentative steps. At least the pile had broken his fall. He was unhurt. He walked off toward his hotel, planning to avoid the lobby.