by Kevin Ashman
‘What do you think is in there?’ he asked.
‘Don’t know,’ sighed Becky, ‘but this gets stranger and stranger. Come on, let’s take a look.’
Slowly they walked to the polythene tent and unzipped the opening before stepping into the space within. The black cables led to another ring of lights surrounding a stone sarcophagus, as well as feeding a row of multi sockets on a nearby folding table. They both approached the sarcophagus, careful not to trip over the trailing cables and peered into the space within. Becky held her breath, not quite sure what she expected to see, but was slightly disappointed when she saw it was just the dried remains of another human body. This one had not been artificially mummified and did not have the typical wrappings you would expect from a king of Amenemhat’s stature. In fact, it seemed that the body within had simply dried naturally in the stale dry air of the tomb over the previous three millennia.
‘Strange,’ said Becky, and walked slowly around the sarcophagus, examining the body closely.
‘What is?’ asked John.
‘This sarcophagus is made for a king,’ said Becky. ‘Just look at the hieroglyphics. It screams royalty, yet this person whoever she was, is nothing more than some sort of commoner.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked John.
‘No mummification or funeral goods and she seemed to have been dressed in some sort of simple linen shroud.’
‘Priestess?’ asked John.
‘Possibly, but even they wore jewellery of some kind. This body is devoid of any ornamentation.’
‘Perhaps Samari’s men took it?’
‘Possibly,’ said Becky, before continuing around to the far side and leaning into the coffin. ‘Look what happens when I do this.’ She gently squeezed the flesh on the back of the corpse’s hand between her fingers before releasing it again. The skin slowly returned to the position it had been in originally.
‘That’s mad,’ said John. ‘With skin that old, surely that should have crumbled to dust?’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Becky. ‘There seems to be some latent moisture in the cadaver. Perhaps they have injected some sort of preservative to maintain the extraordinary detail. I wonder what this is for?’ She ran her finger along a cable that looped into the coffin from the table of machines, before it disappeared through a hole formed into the body’s chest. John turned and traced the cable back to the connected machine. The laptop screen was dark, with the standby light flashing lazily at the bottom. Alongside the laptop was a bright blue plastic box with a retracting handle along the top. Instantly it reminded him of the type of icebox he had often used to take beers to the beach, but this one was obviously electronic and had a sloping lid containing dials, readouts and switches. Down one side, several coils of clear tubing were connected to tiny valves piercing the plastic, and though it wasn’t plugged in, John could see that whatever the purpose was, it was certainly medical. He returned to the laptop and rubbed his finger across the mouse pad. The screen eased into life and showed him a black and white readout of a solid line across the screen, just below a similar red line.
‘What is it?’ asked Becky.
‘Some sort of monitor,’ answered John over his shoulder, ‘and something that reminds me of an icebox.’
Becky joined him at the table and looked at the two machines.
‘I know what that is,’ she said, ‘at least I think I do, but it makes no sense.’
‘What is it?’ asked John.
‘It can’t be,’ said Becky, deep in thought as she examined the strange machine.
‘Becky, will you explain what you’re on about,’ said John, ‘you are beginning to piss me off.’
‘Her hands,’ said Becky suddenly, with a worried tone to her voice, ‘I need to see her hands.’ She walked quickly back to the coffin, closely followed by John who stood on the opposite side. Becky looked in the coffin. Both hands of the dead body were palms up and she reached in to turn one over. It moved surprisingly easily for a corpse, but there was nothing untoward.
‘Turn that one over,’ she said; pointing at the body’s other hand.
‘What are we looking for?’ he asked.
‘Just do it,’ said Becky, ‘but be careful, you don’t break anything.’
‘Too late with this one,’ said John as he reached inside, ‘it seems like she’s already lost an index finger at some stage.’
‘Just don’t do any more damage,’ said Becky. ‘We are scientists, not bloody vandals.’
John turned it over and stared in confusion at the back of the corpse’s hand.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, ‘why would they do that?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Becky, ‘but I’m getting scared now.’
They both looked down again and though the hand was a virtual claw, one of Samari’s men had obviously inserted a needle in the place where a vein would normally have been and secured it in place with a piece of sticky bandage. The end still exposed was connected to a small plastic tube, sealed with a tiny hinged-lid.
‘That’s the sort of thing they use when a doctor gives you injections,’ said John. ‘Why would they give a corpse injections?’
‘I don’t think it’s for injections,’ said Becky, her eyes staring wildly at John. ‘That blue machine on the table; I’ve seen something similar before. I was visiting a friend in hospital who has renal failure. If I’m correct, then that’s a portable dialysis machine. Oh, my god, John, I think they intend trying to pump blood into this body.’
‘That’s preposterous,’ said John. ‘Any veins would have collapsed hundreds of years ago.’ He retrieved his pencil once more and leaned into the coffin. ‘The natural mummification process has kept the body in remarkably good condition for three thousand years, but that is exactly what it is, a dead, and dried out corpse.’ As he said the last word, he shoved the point of his pencil deep into the stomach cavity of the body. Behind them, something beeped once and Becky spun around in fright.
‘What was that?’ she gasped.
‘The computer,’ said John, ‘look at the screen.’
Where there had been a flat red line, there was now a peak where the line had jumped momentarily, forming the shape of a miniature volcano on the screen. They both turned to stare back down at the body in silence, before John finally spoke.
‘That’s impossible,’ he said quietly.
‘Do it again,’ said Becky slowly.
John leaned over and pressed the pencil against the skin of the mummy. Becky turned and stared at the screen. Nothing happened.
‘Press harder,’ she said.
‘Becky, this is stupid…’ said John.
‘Just do it,’ snapped Becky, ‘but this time, harder.’
John leaned over and pressed the pencil in another place. The skin of the mummy bent inwards, until suddenly the pencil broke through into the dried flesh beneath. Again, the computer beeped and another spike appeared on the screen.
‘Oh, shit,’ moaned Becky, ‘that’s impossible.’
‘Let’s not get carried away, here,’ said John. ‘There has to be a scientific reason for this.’
‘I know,’ said Becky, ‘but whatever it is, it scares the shit out of me.’
A distant sound made them both turn their heads toward the doorway.
‘They’re coming back,’ said John. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
With John leading the way, they left the polythene tent and ran out of the chamber to hide in the darkened tunnels outside. Within seconds, the two men passed their hiding place and re-entered the burial chamber, locking the door behind them. John turned on his torch and shone it into Becky’s face. Her eyes were wide and the fear in them was intense.
‘Are you okay, Becky?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not. Get me out of here.’
----
Two hours later, John was sitting at the dressing table in Becky’s hotel room. The young woman had been in the bathroom for over h
alf an hour, and for most of that time, John could hear the sound of the shower. Finally she emerged dressed in a hotel robe, with a towel wrapped around her head.
‘Do you feel better?’ he asked.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘Sorry about that, but for some reason it completely freaked me out. I felt as if I was, I don’t know, contaminated I suppose. I know it’s stupid, but I just had to clean that room off me. Does that make sense?’
‘No, not really,’ said John with a smile.
‘I don’t suppose it does,’ said Becky, ‘I still can’t get my head around it.’
‘Neither can I,’ said John, ‘but there has to be a perfectly good reason for all this. Look, I could really do with a shower myself. I’ve made a couple of calls and my contact is bringing my things over as we speak. Could you book a room for me? I’d do it myself, but you are the one with the legitimate credit card.’
‘Of course,’ said Becky. ‘Sorry, John, I know I am acting like an idiot, but I’ll pull myself together, I promise. There’s a second robe in the wardrobe, so you grab your own shower and I’ll see if room service can rustle us up a couple of club sandwiches.’
‘At four in the morning?’
‘It’s worth a try,’ said Becky, as she threw a clean towel toward him, ‘go on, you stink of that tomb.’
----
Two hundred miles away, a convoy of vehicles made their way through the night, heading toward Faiyum. At its centre, a large container lorry carried a metal and glass chamber, linked to a range of state of the art machinery. A row of security guards sat on either side of the chamber, each not sure what it was they were going to collect, but each happy with the vast bonus they had been paid for the job.
In a car behind, sat a haematologist, along with a nurse, an eminent surgeon and one of the country’s most respectable Egyptologists. In the cab of the lorry, a tall unshaven man wearing a leather jacket accompanied the driver. A mobile phone rang and the passenger reached into his pocket to retrieve the device.
‘Hi, Leatherman,’ he said, reading the name from the display.
‘Hello, Mossburgh,’ said the voice, ‘just checking up. How’s everything going?’
‘Great,’ said Mossburgh, ‘we’ve picked up the equipment as well as the passengers. We are running a bit late but should be there by midday.’
‘Good. I suggest you park up outside of town until dark and then move in about midnight. Everything is arranged and the transfer should be quick. Is everyone fully briefed?’
‘As much as they need to be at the moment,’ said Mossburgh, ‘they don’t know the final details and won’t until the last moment.’
‘Good. Make sure the chamber is covered when you move it. As far as the security guards are concerned, it’s just a mummy we’re taking. They’re on the payroll, but the less people know the truth, the better.’
‘Will do,’ said Mossburgh, ‘anything else?’
‘Not really, just make sure any of the local workers know the implications if any of them blab.’
‘I will. How about our friend, Samari? How did he take it?’
‘As well as can be expected, I suppose, but don’t worry about him, I can deal with Samari. Is everything ready back in London?’
‘Yeah, there’s a fully equipped lab waiting back at the lodge. We have a private plane on standby and all the papers we need to send the artefact out of the country.’
‘And customs?’
‘All taken care of. Enough palms have been greased to fund a small nation. All we have to do is land the plane at the private airfield and present the paperwork. Everything will fly through.’
‘Excellent. You carry on but keep me informed.’
‘Leave everything to me;’ said Mossburgh, ‘this time tomorrow, we will be on our way back with the cargo intact. See you then.’ He put the phone down and settled back into his seat. There was still a long drive ahead of them.
----
Becky and John sat at either end of her dressing table, both wrapped in white bathrobes. A tray with two empty plates was sitting on the edge of the bed and they both had a cup of steaming coffee in front of them.
‘That’s better,’ said Becky after taking a few sips.
‘You know,’ said John thoughtfully as he stirred his coffee, ‘we may be jumping the gun here. All we have so far is a jumble of circumstantial evidence without any coherent links to put them all together.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Becky. ‘Look; we’ve been dancing around the issue for the past half hour. I think we are both too scared of looking ridiculous to state what was staring us in the face.’
‘Which was?’
‘You know what,’ said Becky, ‘for some reason, Samari and his cronies seem intent on trying to transfuse blood into that corpse. Now, under normal circumstances that would be preposterous and completely futile, but these are not normal circumstances.’
‘Go on,’ said John.
‘Look,’ said Becky, ‘it may be some sick experiment from a bunch of lunatics, or even some mad ritual by religious fanatics. I don’t know and I frankly don’t care, but the thing is, whichever way you twist this, there is one fact that we can’t ignore.’
‘Which is?’
‘When you pushed your pencil into the body, it registered pain.’
‘Bullshit,’ said John.
‘Well, it registered something,’ snapped Becky. ‘Whether it was pain, pressure, nerve reaction, I don’t know, but whatever it was, it registered on a monitor over three metres away. No matter how I try to work this out, I can’t get away from that simple fact.’
‘Becky, think what you are saying here. You saw that body as clearly as I did. No matter which way you look at this, it was at least two thousand years old and probably much older. There is no possible way in any realm of science that body could register feeling of any sort. It is impossible.’
‘But you saw it as well,’ said Becky.
‘I saw something,’ said John, ‘but I don’t know what. For all I know it could have been a motion device fitted beneath the body, or even some type of electrical wave detector picking up my own body’s magnetic field. The possibilities are endless.’
‘And the dialysis machine?’
‘Look, I’m not saying I have all the answers here, but I do think we need time to sift through what we found, and make calculated, well thought out conclusions. With what we have found out so far, I think we may have enough to at least force the Cairo museum to launch an investigation into Samari, and hopefully that may go some way to clear your father’s name.’
‘And how do we prove that, exactly?’ asked Becky. ‘As far as they will be concerned, it will just be my word against one of their own. Why would they believe me or you for that matter?’
‘They don’t have to believe us, Becky. All we need to do is tell them exactly where the entrance is, or even the tomb robber’s tunnel, and they can send an investigatory team within days. Once they find the catacombs, our stories will stand up and you can clear your dad’s name.’
‘You really think they will believe us?’ asked Becky.
‘They will when I show them this,’ said John and pulled out the Ankh pendant from his robe pocket.
‘John, that’s the pendant from the tomb,’ gasped Becky. ‘You can’t just take something like that without full documentation and permission from the authorities. That’s grave robbing.’
‘Just call it an insurance policy,’ said John. ‘I don’t intend to keep it, but I will use it to prove to the authorities that we found something. They will be put into a no-win situation. Either they will pronounce it genuine and will have to take us seriously, or they will declare it a fake. If they do that, we will be free to sell it to the highest bidder on the open market.’
‘But if it is declared false, who would buy it?’ asked Becky, taking it from John’s hands and examining it closely.
‘Listen, the private collectors are no mugs. They will see this is the real th
ing and I reckon it is worth fifty grand plus. Either way, whatever the decision by the Cairo museum, we come out of it in front. What do you say?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Becky, ‘but I want to do some more research. We need to get out of Egypt as soon as possible and gather our thoughts in the safety of our own country. I’ve only been here three days and I want to get out of here already. For some reason, Egypt doesn’t seem the warm welcoming place I have been used to.’
‘I agree,’ said John. ‘Anyway, I’m going to go to my room. Tomorrow after breakfast, I’ll make arrangements with my contacts to leave the country the way I came in. You get a flight as soon as you can, and I’ll make contact with you back in London.’
‘How long will you be?’ asked Becky
‘If all goes well; about ten days. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.’ He stood up and walked to the door. ‘Try to get some sleep, Becky and don’t have any nightmares about that mummy. I’m sure there is a perfectly good explanation.’
‘I’m sure there is,’ said Becky, ‘Good night, John.’
‘Goodnight, Becky,’ said John and left the room, closing the door behind him.
----
Chapter Eight
Itjawi - 1245 BC
The Caverns of Sekhmet
Sekhmet had retreated once more into the shadows of the cavern to continue her story.
‘I don’t remember much of that time, Ramesses,’ she said, ‘but that night, I remember like it was yesterday. It was just before the wet season and my father had gone hunting with the other men. I remember that it was extremely hot, not just because of the temperature, but because I was ill, seriously ill. I had the sleeping sickness that plagued our people at that time of year. Many of us had it and it was usual to lose many children to the disease. Nobody knew what caused it, but my body was covered with the tiny bites from the flying insects that plagued us during that time. The sickness comes in waves, and if you survive it the first time, then you have a better chance of living. But I was not expected to survive; such was the extent of my illness. I remember my father kissing me goodbye before he left. He knew that I would probably be dead when he came back, but there were others to feed and he had no choice. My mother sang the song of the dead over my sweating body and burnt the bark of the smoke tree, hoping the fumes would chase out the evil spirits, but all knew that I would be dead by morning.’
