by Nick Thacker
THE REALITY WAS THAT RACHEL RASCHER worked for the Egyptian government, itself a feat few foreign-born citizens had accomplished. She had studied, trained, researched, and published her way into acceptance as a renowned Egyptologist, her knowledge and intuition regarding the history of the ancient world second to none.
And it had been this same intuition that had launched her on the hunt she had embarked upon so many years ago.
Rachel Rascher was German, hailing from a long line of proud German ancestors, from even before Kaiser Wilhelm I’s reign of the Kingdom of Prussia began. She grew up hearing the stories and legends of her heritage, of the great kings and rebels who wanted to build a great nation out of the scattered empires of the northern part of the continent.
She had developed an interest in anthropology, specifically the genealogy of her own people, in grade school. That interest carried her through school and into the work force, where she established herself as a politically savvy, brilliant-minded scientist. Ultimately, she had established herself as the newest Head in a short line of Ministry appointees for the Egyptian cabinet, in her case in charge of the Prehistory Division within the Ministry of Antiquities.
Her roles there were varied, but she was given enough freedom to pursue projects that the rest of the Ministry deemed unworthy of significant investment. As her role involved the security for and retrieval of lost antiquities of Egyptian origin, she was given a small allotment of soldiers from the Egyptian Army and Mukhabarat as a personal police force, as well as an impressive number of scientists, researchers, and laboratory specialists. She had autonomy in hiring and firing personnel, and the other cabinet members rarely pried into the Prehistory Division’s business. Egyptian History was a hot topic for academic researchers, but it was a dead-end for those with political interest. She had the freedom — and the isolation — to work on her projects on her terms.
It had taken her nearly a decade, but she had finally gotten her team built in a way that her staff was on the same page as her, understanding what their true goal was, and what she was asking of them in order to achieve it. It was a noble goal, one her people agreed with and sought to accomplish, and she felt a strong sense of loyalty from every one of her direct reports.
Dr. Ezekiel Shaw was one of those reports, a man whose loyalty and integrity surpassed even his technical abilities. He was a wonderful asset to her team, and he had become her closest ally over the past year. Furthermore, he seemed to be even more passionate about their goal than she was.
“The Book of Bones in your journal is a copy of a copy, Rachel,” he said. “Your great-grandfather could have mistaken some of the wording, or at least the syntax. And our copy from the urn may fare no better under closer scrutiny. Even still — it could be that Plato was given incorrect information.”
“It could be,” she said. “But we’re here, are we not?” She raised a hand, palm-up, and swung it around the cellar-like stone wall, trying to prove her point.
She knew he was a believer, and he wouldn’t need to be persuaded. He was playing devil’s advocate, but she knew their loyalty to her, and the mission, was strong. None of her employees would need further persuading. It was too late to back out now anyway, as they were so close to achieving everything they had ever dreamed of.
She had established her office in one of many small underground rooms in the Hall of Records’ antechambers, each of them connected by a labyrinthine set of hallways that angled and turned back themselves as they wound around a large, central space. Her government had classified the set of stone chambers and hallways a ‘crypt,’ although they hadn’t found any bodies or remnants of burial ceremonies upon entering. To Rachel, who grew up as an outsider to Egyptian history, it seemed rather typical — the Egyptian government was motivated to present to the world a stable country, one without the social unrest and terroristic undercurrents that she knew plagued the land. They wanted peace, simplicity, and plenty of tourism.
By calling the Hall of Records a ‘crypt,’ they could ignore its existence and simultaneously repel any requests from outside excavations that wanted more access.
The Hall of Records, therefore, had been kept a secret from the public since its discovery, as the Egyptian government already had trouble with theft and desecration of ancient sites, and it was likely they wanted to further understand what this place was, who had built it, and who it was intended for before revealing any information about it. Typically that sort of research would take decades, as the funding would have to be provided by ‘leftover’ monies from other, more important government concerns.
So Rachel had made sure the research of this newly discovered ‘crypt’ fell to her. The journal, and her great-grandfather’s translation of Plato’s account, as well as the copy of the Book of Bones that had been found pointed to this site as the Hall’s final resting place, ‘beneath the earth’ and ‘at the end of a set of twisting passageways.’
She knew without a doubt they were inside those passageways now — the antechambers to the great Hall of Records. She also knew, thanks to the Book of Bones, where the Hall was located. Her team had excavated the antechambers, installed lighting, run Ethernet and cat-6e cabling, and set up crude but functional offices and laboratories in the ‘crypt’s’ interior. They had mapped the corridors, rooms, and chambers they so far had access to, even giving each of them a door and a sign depicting the room’s number.
And they had, of course, found the entranceway to the Hall. They knew what room served as the final chamber that led to the actual Hall, and they knew that behind one more slab of unmovable stone lay the answers she sought. She knew what was behind the door, inside the temple and the great Hall of Records itself.
The problem now was in figuring out how to open it.
9
Journal Entry
March 17, 1941
MY MEN HAVE BEEN DISPATCHED TO CAIRO, to embark upon an auspicious endeavor that could prove fatal to my family’s goals. It is crucial to determine the location of the Hall, however, no matter the cost.
Der Fuehrer seems to be growing restless, and his SS officers are feeling more zealous.
My mission remains, however, unchanged. My family has worked toward this goal for centuries, and I will not allow it to die a slow, forgotten death.
Solon tells of a vast fortune to be had; this great ‘Hall of Records’ he so eloquently describes to the philosopher. ‘Only the pure can enter,’ he claims, though to my knowledge no one has yet accomplished this feat.
The Hall will no doubt recount the labors of our people, our ancestors’ plights as they fled certain destruction. The myth of their existence is but fantasy to most of my colleagues, though the remnants and repercussions of their knowledge and power is alive and well, even to this day.
To find and prove their value to our modern world is to find and prove to my family, once and for all, that our mission has not been in vain.
Plato’s original text writes of the original motives of my predecessors. To find what they have hidden means everything. It means more than what my great country is fighting for, even. It means more than any plight of my government’s armies.
10
Graham
NESTLED IN THE HEART OF THE STOCKHOLM metropolitan area, Långholmen is an island and neighborhood oasis surrounded by thick city development. Originally an island used as a secure location for the city’s prison, the neighborhood eventually converted the prison into a hotel and hostel for travelers who want to see and explore the greener side of Stockholm.
Professor Graham Lindgren had loved the island since he was a boy, often remarking to his parents that he would one day settle there. At the time, the island was barren, rocky, and mostly devoid of anything particularly noteworthy. In the mid-seventies, when the prison was closed and renovated, the new, trendy neighborhood grew up around it. Graham, upon looking for an apartment a few years ago, had been delighted to learn that the island was more than habitable — it was one of the mo
st in-demand residential districts in Stockholm.
His apartment was small, but it backed up to a lush garden and sat within sight of water — the Riddarfjarden. The garden was enjoyed for its beauty by visitors and residents alike, and Graham had often spent evenings sitting on the back patio, looking down at the garden and out over the Riddarfjarden, thinking about some problem or another.
Tonight, however, it was a very specific problem, and he didn’t have the luxury of sitting on the porch to ponder it. He bustled around the small apartment, hardly noticing the beautiful sunset and perfect weather. The breeze coming in from his open windows only served to remind him of the speed with which he needed to move, of the quickly diminishing amount of time he had left.
The apartment was in shambles, boxes and binders of his life’s work stacked in haphazard piles in every corner. He ran around the desk in the front office, a converted living room, trying to get his things together. What he was looking for, he wasn’t entirely sure. What he needed to find was unclear.
Photographs of Lindgren standing next to university presidents, world-renowned researchers, and other distinguished figures stood propped up on the three massive bookcases lining the wall of the office. Hard, dark oak, the shelves had taken nearly four men a hour to maneuver up the three flights of stairs. They were now filled with all the books of his life: the first tomes he’d read as a young boy that had inspired his career — everything from nonfiction titles like Lost Trails, Lost Cities, by Brian Fawcett about the adventures of his father, Percy Fawcett, to the Lester Dent pulp fiction novels — as well as more academic interests, some of which had his own name on the spine.
He was a lifelong fan of learning, whether it was related to his day job or not. He loved reading, and he had amassed quite a collection of hardcover books in his 63 years of life.
But books were the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. He stumbled over a stack of documents, a box of materials he’d borrowed from his last appointment at the university, but caught his balance on the bannister that led upstairs to the two bedrooms.
His girlfriend Bridgette was visiting her parents for the weekend, so he was alone in the house. Still, he felt rushed, as if someone was pulling him along. Or pushing.
That’s when he glanced at the stacks he’d placed on the couch in the study, across from his desk. He often spent afternoons there, curled up with a book when the summertime sun prohibited him from walking the gardens or watching the boats out front. The books and looseleaf notebooks were scattered about the space, no discernible organization to them. He had thrown them there hours ago, assuming they were of no use to his current quest.
Perhaps there’s something there I need, he thought.
He racked his brain. There were no obvious connections or he would already have realized it. These books were philosophical, not practical, treatises on religion and power and politics, not matters of hard science.
He had assumed he’d needed something ‘tangible,’ an answer that made sense in scientific terms. He knew the answer should be here. He had a veritable library of information in his home, so if the answer they were looking for was not in his stash of hard-copy materials than it would exist somewhere in his online catalog of research papers.
It’s just a matter of time, he told himself. The answer is out there.
He gave up on the books on the couch — they might lead him the right direction, but he no longer had the luxury of time. He needed to find out now what the missing piece to all of this was.
He heard a knock on his door. Nearly inaudible, just a set of raps that made him freeze immediately. He could hear the gentle sounds of the hikers out in the garden, the birds flitting back and forth as they searched for their dusk meal, and the tourists, laughing and conversing in one of the three cafes within walking distance.
But the knock on the door seemed louder than everything else. It pierced his ears, pierced his core. Even though he had been expecting it, it was still somehow the most startling sound he’d ever heard, and in this moment he wasn’t sure what to do about it.
The knock came again. No voice to go alongside it, no person on the other side to announce their presence.
But he knew they were there. He knew they would wait. Patiently.
They knew his schedule, and they knew he was alone.
He shuddered, feeling the goosebumps rise on the back of his neck.
I’m out of time.
He walked to the door, still shaking. He considered not opening the door, but he knew that was stupid. There was nowhere to hide, and they surely knew he was home. Besides, there was no other way out of the apartment unless he wanted to risk a multi-story fall from his balcony.
He unlatched the lock and turned the handle. He pulled the door toward him, allowing the cooling evening air to rush inside.
“Good evening, professor,” the man on the threshold said. “Ms. Rascher tells me that you have been ignoring her calls. May I come in?”
11
Sarah
JENNIFER ORTIZ. JENNIFER WAS ANOTHER OF her assistants, older than the others but still working on her first undergraduate degree. She was a hard worker, earning her place on the team, but Sarah had been a bit cold to her from the beginning of the trip. She felt Jennifer was a bit of a ‘teacher’s pet,’ a know-it-all who liked being the best and the smartest in the class.
Admittedly, Sarah was probably a bit harsh on the girl, and she also knew it had nothing to do with the young woman’s attitude.
“Hey Jen,” Alexander said as Jennifer walked in, his voice warm and friendly.
Instead, it had everything to do with the fact that it was clear to the entire four-person crew that Jennifer Ortiz had a major crush on Alexander Whipple.
Sarah swallowed, hoping her cheeks hadn’t reddened. Her dark skin would mostly hide it if they had, but she didn’t want to take the chance.
“Al — Alex. Hi.” Jennifer stood there, smiling and swooning over the tall, drop-dead gorgeous undergraduate dominating the scene in the interior of the tent. “I just — I just…” she cleared her throat. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were in here, Alex,” she muttered.
Bull, Sarah thought. That’s why you came in.
“What’s up, Jen?” Sarah asked, not doing well to hide the fact that she was irritated at the interruption.
“Dr. Lindgren,” Jennifer began, “I wanted to ask about, uh, our next…”
Her face fell, and Sarah knew immediately what was happening. Talking about money was awkward, especially for these younger kids who had no idea what it was like to have a rent, a car payment, student loans, medical bills for a parent —
“Will you be cutting our checks on time this month?” Alex asked, interrupting her thoughts. It was an abrupt question, but he asked it in a tactful, respectful way.
She looked at her students. Both intelligent, studious, and valuable to her work.
Both also very expensive.
“Yes, uh, well, I believe we might have to —”
Alex put a hand up. “Dr. Lindgren, I —”
“Sarah.”
“Sarah,” Alex said. “I don’t want to make things awkward. I understand that things are tight, so I wanted to let you know that I would be heading back to Cairo in a week. I’ve truly enjoyed my time here, but —”
“No,” Sarah said, taking a small step forward. “No, don’t do that. Both of you —” she looked at them again, taking time to study each of their faces. As irritating as she thought Jen could be, she was a killer student and had a future in whatever field she’d land in. “I value you both too much. We’re close here, I can feel it.”
Jen and Alex waited.
“I’m going to pay you on time. I promise you that. Stick it out and let’s get through the next month. If nothing turns up by then, we’ll call it.”
You can’t afford to pay them both, she thought. Much less all three.
The three students she’d brought with her — Alex, Jennifer, and a
nerdy graduate student named Russell — were each being paid a reasonable hourly rate plus per diem, but the university’s funding of her pet project had run out a month ago. She’d been bootstrapping the operation with her savings account, credit cards, and the petty amount she received from her publisher.
By her rough calculations, she could afford to pay them all once more, but that would mean she’d be eating a bit lighter by the end of the month.
“It’s really not a problem, Sarah,” Alex said. “I have work lined up there, and if it takes the burden off you here, then —”
Sarah shook her head. “You’re both free to leave whenever you want, you know that. But please don’t think that I want you to. You’re part of this team, and I need you. I’ll pay you, and I don’t want either of you worrying about it for another second.”
She felt her heart begin to beat faster. She’d meant every word, but it was still a tough call — if she finished her work here, successfully, things would work out.
But if she didn’t — if there was no evidence to suggest that human life in the Americas flourished long before the established date academia had assigned — she was going to spend the next few years of her life grading papers as a teaching assistant for a graduate student.
Or worse, if there is such a thing.
She knew what they were both thinking: just call your father. He can help us.
They were right, and that just made it worse. If her old man was anything, it was a decent, compassionate human being, and a wonderful father. He’d drop everything for her and her team without question.
She hated that it was true. She wanted success on her own terms, not with the help of her famous father. Her research needed to be her own, not his. But if she couldn’t figure out how to make things work here, there would be no research to turn in.
