Dr. Reid Farmer enjoyed the chilly pre-dawn air as he stood on the lip of the excavation and tried not to stare directly at where the acetylene cutting torch burned through the steel door. The Egyptian welder had cut his way up one side, across the top, and was now working his way down the steel door’s right side.
Reid toed a potsherd—one of millions that littered the valley floor—and concentrated on Maxine Kaplan’s distant voice on the satellite phone.
“It took all day yesterday,” Reid replied to her question. “We were able to expose the entire doorway. You should have received the JPEGS I emailed. The door was originally covered by a single stone sheet, almost a cladding. That was smashed long ago. The fragments were still in situ at the foot of the door. Those are the angular pieces on the ground in photo thirteen.”
“And the damage to the steel door? What do you make of that?” Kaplan asked.
“Ma’am, after a close inspection of the dents, I’d say someone wanted to make it look like a battering ram hit it. It’s a good job, the indentations look old. Also present—which you can see in photo sixteen—are what look like metal chisel marks. They, too, have been aged, probably through some chemical means, maybe an acid wash.”
“You assume they have been faked?”
“Whatever this is, it’s not an Eighteenth Dynasty tomb. I’m no metallurgist by any means, but a sheet of steel like this wasn’t being manufactured until the Industrial Age at the earliest. Whoever put this door on this tomb wasn’t an ancient Egyptian.” He paused. “I’m estimating another fifteen minutes before we’ll have cut through.”
“Dr. Farmer, if that tomb is what we think it is, you must take every scientific precaution. Record every detail of your investigation with excruciating accuracy. This is the single most important data recovery you’ve ever undertaken, and as good as you are, expect to be raked over the coals by your peers. Treat this as if it were the tomb of Ramses.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He glanced over his shoulder at the two-man camera crew, and then at the closest Toyota four-wheel-drive with its boxes of tinfoil, plastic tarping, ziplock baggies, soil-sample bags, packing, and boxes. There, too, were Tyvek suits—specially ordered by Skientia to minimize modern contamination of the tomb before pollen, phytolith, DNA, Carbon-14, and other samples were obtained. The latest gadgets for field analysis, including microscopes, handheld XFR machines, infrared and ultraviolet cameras, a ground-penetrating radar, and thermal imagers had been included. Overkill for a standard archaeological excavation.
“One last thing, Dr. Farmer. You remember the rider that you signed on your contract? The confidentiality statement?”
“I do.”
“You are not to communicate your findings to any of your colleagues. Not family, nor friends. No one.”
“I understand.” Even though he didn’t. If they’d been scammed, they surely could have taken the con job to whatever law enforcement agency had jurisdiction.
He glanced over. Yusif—a welder’s mask held before his face—was crouched, peering over the welder’s shoulder. He held up five fingers and nodded in the direction of the door.
“I have to go,” Reid said. “Yusif says we’ll be through in five minutes.”
“Remember, Doctor. Everything must be meticulously recorded. If we’re right, you’re about to embark on the most fascinating day of your career.”
The connection was cut, and Reid stared thoughtfully at the satellite phone. That didn’t sound like a woman worried about covering up a con job.
“Sahib!” Yusif called, waving with his free arm. “We are through. We can pry it open now with bars.”
Reid’s crew were puffing on the last of their cigarettes, rising, laughing as they talked.
“Better get the plastic sheeting out of the truck,” Reid ordered. “If we’re going to minimize contamination, we’re going to want to cover that opening even as we pry that section of door back.”
Yusif finished taping the roll of plastic to the top of the metal door just below the stone lintel and the cut steel. The enigmatic TEMPUS DEVINCERO seemed to mock them.
Skientia had translated it as “I conquered time.”
Slipping his bar into the cut, Reid waited for Yusif’s nod, then levered the nearly detached center out. As he did, Yusif slipped the heavy plastic down behind the gap. Meanwhile, Reid kept moving down the door, using his bar to widen the gap. The weight of the door began to take over, bending the two connecting tabs at the bottom.
With the help of several others, they eased the flat piece of metal to the ground. Yusif carefully sealed the sides of the doorway, securing the plastic to the steel surface.
“What the . . . ?” Reid stared at the back of the door. A series of weights pivoted on links attached to locking lugs that, when closed and latched, had protruded beyond the side of the door. The thing reminded him of the sort of mechanism that locked a modern master safe.
“That is not ancient Egyptian,” Yusif said flatly.
As the cameraman recorded the exposed locking mechanism, Yusif elevated a thick eyebrow. “So, sahib, are you ready to don your suit and take that final step into immortality?” He jerked a nod toward the tomb entrance.
A tickle of unease ran through Reid’s gut. “Uh, you don’t think there’s any other surprises in there, do you? Deadfalls, pits, swinging axes, booby traps . . . ancient Egyptian curses?”
“That’s not the lost ark, and you’re not Indiana Jones.” Yusif’s smile rearranged his thick beard. “But this is Egypt, and they did anything they could to dissuade grave robbers.”
“And what’s an archaeologist?”
“The difference between an archaeologist and a grave robber, sahib, is the company they keep, and the money they make. Grave robbers are so much better paid.”
“Ancient traps don’t make that distinction.”
“Sorry,” Yusif told him with a shrug. “Now, let’s get the dead-air tunnel set up and your contamination suit out of its bag. I can’t wait to find out what sort of traps they have laid for you.”
“Your concern touches me.”
“Welcome to the new Egypt. We now have free speech. As long as you only say the right things.”