‘No,’ the young man answered, ‘but not only is it bad for your health, it is harmful for the people around you.’
Husseini shook his head. ‘Incredible,’ he exclaimed. ‘You think like an American.’
‘I have to,’ the other man answered, without batting an eye.
Husseini leaned back in his seat, taking a deep drag of his cigarette and blowing the smoke out of the window along with a cloud of steamy breath.
‘What else did Abu Ahmid say to you?’
Oddly, the young man didn’t even glance at him; he simply reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.
‘He told me to give you this and ask you if you know him.’
Husseini roused himself from the strange torpor he had slipped into and reached out to take the envelope, something he had not anticipated at all.
He opened it and saw that it contained three photographs of the same person, as a child, an adolescent and a young man.
The young man continued to stare straight ahead into the void of the black night. Once more, he mechanically repeated, ‘Abu Ahmid wants to know if you know him.’
Husseini continued to look at the photographs in silence, at first without grasping their meaning and then, as if struck by lightning, with an agonized expression, his eyes glistening. ‘It could be . . . but it’s not possible . . . Could it be . . . my son? Is that who it is? Is it my son?’
‘That’s who it is, Abu Ghaj. Abu Ahmid says it’s your son.’
‘Where is he?’ he asked with his head bowed, as tears began streaming down his cheeks.
‘I don’t know.’
Husseini tenderly fondled the pictures of the boy he had for so long believed dead. Many years ago, Abu Ahmid had sent him a little coffin with the unrecognizable remains of a child who had been mutilated by a mortar during the bombing of a refugee camp. He was the little boy in the first photo. It was thus that Husseini had always thought of him, wondering what he would have been like as an adolescent, as a young man, if only he hadn’t been cruelly denied his future. But in reality Abu Ahmid had kept the boy hidden away secretly for years, just waiting for the day when he could be used as a hostage . . . And now the day had arrived to force him, Omar al Husseini, to obey without question. That’s why Abu Ahmid was so confident that his orders would be carried out . . .
Now, with his son in the hands of the most cynical, ruthless man he had ever known, Husseini could not even consider suicide as a viable way out . . . He was trapped.
‘Abu Ahmid says that the boy is fine and not to worry.’
A tomb-like silence descended in the cold car.
It was the young man who again picked up the conversation. ‘Is something wrong, Abu Ghaj?’ His mechanical words rang with a tone of derision.
Husseini dried his tears on his sleeve and gave back the photographs.
‘Abu Ahmid says you can keep them,’ the young man explained.
‘I don’t need them,’ answered Husseini. ‘His face has always been etched on my soul.’
The young man took the envelope and finally turned to face him. Husseini was able to meet his eyes for an instant, but all he really encountered was an immobile, glacial glare.
‘Your soul is distressed but, believe me, what you feel is infinitely better than nothing, than complete emptiness. I’m about to die, perhaps, but I have never had a father or a mother, nor do I have any brothers or sisters. I don’t even have any friends . . . No one will mourn me. It will be as if I’d never existed. Goodbye, Abu Ghaj.’
He walked back to his car. After he had driven away, Husseini kept staring for a long time at the tracks his Reeboks had left in the snow, as if deposited by some uncanny dream creature. Finally, he started the engine and drove off.
WILLIAM BLAKE descended slowly into the underground tomb, waited until Sarah had lowered herself down and then turned on the light. He started moving towards the place where he had been removing the debris and discovered the wooden board.
‘The secret of this tomb lies right here,’ he said, facing Sarah, ‘but before we go on, I want you to answer my questions. No one can hear us down here; Sullivan’s ears are full of the sound of the generator and the winch.’
Sarah leaned up against the wall and said nothing.
‘You knew we were in Israel and didn’t say anything to me. You are also aware that Maddox is involved in more than mineral prospecting. There were two armed men in battle gear with him last night when you got back and you were on his heels, shadowing him with the ATV right up to that point.’
‘Whatever I hid from you up until now has been for your own good. Knowing where we are would only have stirred up your curiosity, and that meant putting you in danger, given the circumstances.’
You could have helped me avoid a wild-goose chase. I thought I was in Egypt.’
‘Egypt’s only a few miles to the east
‘The Egypt I’m talking about is on the Nile.’
‘And knowing what Maddox is up to would only have made things more dangerous for you.’
‘I don’t give a damn. I want to know everything, and that means about you too. We’ve made love. Don’t you think it’s about time we levelled with each other?’
‘No, I don’t. And I still think you shouldn’t get involved in this business. You already have a mystery to solve. One should be enough for you.’
Blake glared at her. The situation was getting a bit tense and the air started to feel close. ‘If you don’t answer my questions, I’ll tell Maddox that you followed him last night and that you sneaked into his office the other day to copy some files from his computer.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Oh, yes, I would. Plus I can prove it, because I’ve got a copy of the master you reproduced. Believe me, it’s not worth the risk. I’m not bluffing, Sarah.’
‘You son of a bitch!’
‘This is nothing. I’m capable of much more.’
Sarah moved closer to him. ‘Do you seriously think you can influence me with your threats? Just keep this in mind, honey. You can’t count on anybody in this camp except me. If your presence happened to get a little inconvenient for any reason, no one would think twice about killing you and getting rid of your body under a couple of hasty shovelfuls of sand and gravel. Maddox wouldn’t bat an eye, and Pollock would gladly give him a hand.’
‘You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. But I didn’t have a choice about coming here.’
‘Sure you did. You could have stayed in Chicago, found a new life for yourself . . . but there’s no use talking now. Things are looking pretty bad around here. I’ll tell you what I can. Our government was planning a secret operation and had decided to use one of the Warren Mining Corporation camps as their base. One reason for this choice was the fact that Alan Maddox had worked for the government before becoming the manager of Warren Mining. The operation has failed, so to speak, although, as fate would have it, the actual goal was nevertheless achieved. Unfortunately, the entire matter has caused a great deal of resentment in the Israeli intelligence force – who happen to be indispensable to the American government in this country – because they were kept completely in the dark about the whole matter. At this point, no one trusts anyone any more and, besides, Maddox’s idea of having you work on this excavation has turned into a headache all round.’
‘Why did Maddox send for me anyway? Is it true that they really have financial problems or did you just make the whole thing up?’
‘It seems to have been simply one of Maddox’s brainstorms. He’s absolutely infatuated with Egyptology. I have my own theory: our government obviously guaranteed Maddox healthy remuneration for his efforts, but this money was supposed to be put into the company to save it from bankruptcy. When he discovered this damn tomb, he figured he could kill two birds with one stone, personally pocketing the proceeds from the treasures, apart from a more or less equal share going to Sullivan and Gordon. I bet they even tried to make some sort of deal with
you.’
‘That’s right. But I didn’t go for it.’
‘The problem is that the whole situation in this part of the world is degenerating fast and we are in for some major trouble. There’s no more time for all your painstaking archaeological work. If you want my opinion, clear away the rubble from that damn landslide by getting the men to work day and night; catalogue your findings and get the hell out of here – if you can. When this whole thing’s over, I’ll look you up and we can enjoy some more peaceful time together and maybe even get to know each other a little better. Who knows? I’m still game . . .’
Blake remained silent, gazing into her eyes, trying to control his feelings, the fear and all the uncertainty her words had stirred up. Lowering his head, all he could muster was, ‘Thanks.’
He went back as far as the entrance and signalled Sullivan to send in the workmen and lower the winch.
Once again, he set about removing the rubble, but not without some major professional qualms. Each time he saw a piece of wood from the mysterious board hauled out on a workman’s shovel and tossed into the big dump bucket attached to the winch he got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, but he had no choice. If he had opted to work instead with a brush and trowel it would have taken weeks and he realized that his time was drastically limited. He only interrupted the job for a half-hour lunch break, climbing up into the fresh air and sitting down with Sarah in the shade of the tent to eat a chicken sandwich and drink a beer. As he was about to go back down into the tomb, he noticed a cloud of dust approaching from the direction of the camp. Gradually he was able to make out what it was: one of the mining company vehicles. It pulled up at the entrance to the little work site, the door flew open and out hopped Alan Maddox.
‘Surprise, surprise,’ said Blake. ‘To what could I possibly owe the honour of this visit to my dig site?’
‘Hi there, Sarah,’ proffered Maddox, seeing the girl still seated not far away. Turning to Blake, he added, ‘Got some news. The results of the radiocarbon tests on the samples we sent in for analysis have come back. It cost a fortune, but they did it in record time. I just thought you would want to have the results as soon as possible.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ said Blake, without any attempt at hiding his excitement. ‘Can I see them?’
‘That’s what I came for,’ said Maddox, handing him a still-sealed envelope.
Blake opened it and hurriedly pulled out the sheet of paper with the test results. He read them aloud:
‘Wood sample: mid XIII cent. BC, +/ – 50 years
Leather sample: early VI cent. BC, +/ – 30 years’
Maddox watched him nervously, waiting for his reaction. ‘Well? What kind of news is it, anyway?’
Blake shook his head. ‘It’s a very precise finding, but I just can’t figure it out—’
‘Why? What does it mean?’
All the factors that I have thus far taken into consideration lead me to date this tomb some time between the twelfth and thirteenth centuries bc, and the radiocarbon dating of the wood from the panel confirms my theory. But the results for the leather date the sample at the beginning of the sixth century bc and that just doesn’t make sense.’
‘Someone broke into the tomb six centuries before Christ to rob it. What’s so strange about that?’
‘Just that. It wasn’t robbed. What, then, brought our mysterious visitor into the tomb?’
Maddox stood in silence for a few moments, as if pondering this strange set of circumstances.
‘Thirsty?’ Blake asked him. ‘There’s some water and the orange juice should still be cold.’
‘No, thanks, I’ve already had something to drink. By the way, Blake, how much time do you think you’ll need to clear away the rubble from the landslide?’
‘Not much,’ said Blake. ‘Maybe by tomorrow evening . . .’
‘And then what will you do, open the sarcophagus?’
Blake nodded yes.
‘I definitely want to be present when you do it. Send for me, Blake. I want to be down there with you when you open that damned lid.’
‘All right, Mr Maddox. Thanks for coming by. If that’s all, I’d like to get back to work.’
Maddox had a brief discussion with Sullivan, said goodbye to Sarah, hopped back into his Jeep and left. Blake had himself lowered into the tomb so he could continue.
Sarah joined him shortly. ‘Do you really intend to open the sarcophagus tomorrow evening?’
‘Quite possibly’
‘How do you plan on doing it?’
‘The top slab sticks out about ten centimetres all the way around. All we need are four blocks of wood and four hydraulic jacks. We will use two more blocks to slide the lid down onto the ground. Do you think we can find what we need around the camp?’
‘I’ll take care of it this evening. If we have to, we can always use the jacks from the Jeeps. They should do the job.’
By this point the workmen had already uncovered most of the board and gradually, as more debris was removed, on the eastern side of the tomb a kind of door frame appeared, through which rubble and debris kept falling.
Blake drew nearer and pointed his torch at the frame.
‘What’s this?’ Sarah asked.
Scrutinizing first the frame and then the board, which had been almost completely cleared of debris, Blake was suddenly overcome by a strange excitement. ‘Maybe I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘Hand me the tape measure.’
Sarah took a tape measure out of the tool kit and handed it to him. Blake climbed up the heap of debris, slipping back down several times before managing to reach the frame structure and measure it. Next, he came back down and measured the width of the board.
‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘It’s exactly as I thought. This board was originally positioned vertically in such a way as to close that opening . . .’
‘So then, at some later time, someone made it fall to permanently seal off the entrance to the tomb,’ Sarah broke in.
‘Right. And I bet, when we’ve removed the board, we’ll also find the latches that held it in place. Tell the workmen to be careful and damage the board as little as possible when they remove the debris.’
He picked up a shovel and began digging at the side of the sarcophagus, while the men continued to work on the side where the board was. He was starting to hit lighter material now, sand mostly, mixed with pebbles as big as grains of corn, and the removal operation began proceeding at a quicker pace than he had anticipated.
Sarah also was possessed by a mounting excitement that wouldn’t allow her to simply stand idly by and observe. She began filling buckets and emptying them into the dump container, revealing amazing reserves of physical energy. She was sweating so hard that her light cotton shirt began sticking to her body, revealing even more of her physical attributes, causing her supple tan skin to glow in the shadows of the burial site, like the patina of an ancient statue. Both of them had tied handkerchiefs over their mouths to keep out the thick dust that the work of the four people was raising from the heap of rubble; too much for the vacuum to adequately draw outside.
Blake suddenly stopped and took a little whisk broom and a brush from the tool kit, then began removing the dust that had coated the surface of the sarcophagus.
‘What do you see?’ asked Sarah.
‘The stone of the sarcophagus is inscribed. All the way down to the base, it looks like.’
Sarah left the workmen to their task and joined Blake, kneeling down beside him.
‘Light the lantern and give me some bright light,’ he said as he continued to clean the calcareous surface, first with the little whisk broom and then with the fine paintbrush. Sarah did as she was told and stood observing her companion as he delicately fingered the fine grooves cut into the stone. The bright light revealed a line of hieroglyphs that still displayed traces of the original colours wielded by the ancient scribes: ochre, indigo, black and yellow.
‘What does it mean?’ Sarah asked.
‘What do you mean?’ the girl enquired.
‘This isn’t a horizontal sequence of signs; each one is rather the top of a buried vertical line. I won’t be able to make any sense out of it until we reach the floor. Let’s get to work.’
Blake picked up his shovel again and managed to dig out a space between the heap of debris and the side of the sarcophagus that was big enough for him to manoeuvre into. He began cleaning the surface to see what the inscriptions said.
When he had finished the cleaning operation, he realized that the scribe must have been the same one who had made the other inscriptions found in the tomb, the same one who had written the Breasted papyrus.
He began reading and Sarah observed his reaction as his eyes coursed along the lines written from top to bottom. When he stopped, she approached him. He had a puzzled expression on his face, almost distressed, as if the text had thrown his mind into great confusion. Sarah placed her right hand on his shoulder and looked him straight in the eye.
‘What does it say, William? What does the inscription mean?’
Blake shook his head. ‘I can’t say for sure . . . If what I’m thinking were true, it would be so outrageous that—’
‘Why? Will, come on, tell me what it says!’
The workmen noticed the agitated tone of the girl’s voice and turned towards her, letting their shovels hang limply at their sides. Blake made a gesture intended to halt her insistence. But all he said was, ‘Take a couple of pictures while I copy out the text. I have to be sure . . . have to be sure . . . And it’s not easy. A person can always make a mistake . . . We’ll talk about it later. Help me, now.’
Pharaoh Page 15
