Pharaoh

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Won’t you tell me what you’ve read in the inscription?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. After I’ve opened the sarcophagus.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Me too.’

  They passed in front of the area with the boulders and then the inscribed rocks. They had almost reached the stretch of hammada that covered the tomb of Ras Udash.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe, other times I feel like I have a hole in my stomach. Shitty.’

  ‘You’ve got to be strong. It’s a crucial day and you worked all night.’

  ‘What do you think they’re going to do to me?’

  ‘I don’t think they have any reason to hurt you. Maddox originally offered you money. I think you should accept it. They’ll put you on the Falcon and drop you off in Chicago. They’ll wire a nice sum of money to a Swiss bank and that’s that. I wouldn’t worry if I were you.’

  ‘I’ll try. But I keep on thinking about how difficult this whole situation has become.’

  They stopped at the site and got out, waiting for the other two vehicles to arrive: the first with Maddox and Sullivan, the second with the workers and Walter Gordon.

  Whey they arrived, Sullivan locked the wheels of the Jeep, then slipped out the winch cable, inserted it into the pulley and attached it to the plate covering the tomb. He lifted it and moved it to the side.

  ‘If you want to go down, I’m ready,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ said Blake, ‘drop the ladder down and then the tools. When you’ve lowered everything, come down yourself, because we’ll need your help.’

  As soon as the ladder rested on the bottom of the tomb, he went down, followed by Sarah. The workers were next and Maddox and Sullivan last.

  ‘If Mr Gordon wants to see, he’d better wait until we open the sarcophagus. There are already too many of us in here. We might break something.’

  The stagnant air of the tomb was immediately filled with the odour of sweat and the atmosphere soon became oppressive.

  Blake arranged four wooden blocks as shims at the corners of the sarcophagus and then placed a truck jack on top of each one. He lay wooden boards on the jacks, two parallel to the long sides of the sarcophagus and two along the short sides.

  Using a spirit level, he adjusted the shims under the jacks until the four boards were completely horizontal. On the north side of the sarcophagus he positioned a piece of tubular scaffolding to act as a ramp, setting a wooden plank coated with grease on it for the purpose of sliding the lid of the sarcophagus to the ground when the time came to remove it entirely.

  When the support mechanism was finished, squared and levelled, Blake put two workers at the southern corners of the sarcophagus. Sullivan and Sarah stood ready at the northern corners.

  ‘Now, be very careful,’ Blake said. ‘This is not the right equipment for the job, but we don’t have anything else, so we’ll have to make do. We need to try to push the four jacks upwards slowly and steadily, otherwise we might break the slab. The wood underneath and on top will cushion any uneven pushing, so we shouldn’t have too much trouble.

  ‘I’ll be guiding you step by step, but you’ll all have to keep an eye on the person facing you and the one beside you, and apply an even, constant pressure on the lever of the jack. Look to me for any signal. Every push should stop at the end of its stroke and start again upon my order.

  ‘Be careful. The first push is crucial, because it’s the one that will detach the lid from its support. If necessary, the two jacks on the north side can be pushed upwards later to create a slanted surface so that the slab can slide towards the ramp to the ground. But this is something we’ll consider when I’ve seen the inside of the sarcophagus. Any questions?’

  No one spoke. Blake drew a deep breath. ‘Ready?’

  The workers too could feel the tension pervading the cramped space of the tomb. Maddox, who was already dripping under his arms and at the nape of his neck, nervously wiped a handkerchief across his brow and under his chin.

  Blake looked at the sarcophagus and the support system he’d built, then fixed his eyes on Sarah, who was exactly in front of him. There was violent emotion in them, and yet he seemed possessed by total calm. He had the look of someone who was playing the biggest game of his life, but was doing so in the coldblooded fashion that circumstances required.

  ‘Now!’ he said.

  And he started to lower his hands, moving slowly and steadily. Sarah, Sullivan and the two workers pushed the lever downwards, following the movement of his hands. The shims groaned and the limestone lid creaked as it was coaxed away from its resting place after three thousand years of immobility. The four arms continued to descend, while Blake moved his own hands to coordinate their movement, like an orchestra conductor keeping time for his musicians.

  The levers were at the end of their stroke and Blake examined the lid that had been lifted a few centimetres. The slab had not been recessed into the sarcophagus, it had simply been set on the edges. For an instant he could detect a vague smell of resinous substances, then just the odour of dust thousands of years old. His brow was sweating profusely and his shirt was soaking. The two workers looked like ancient statues, only a few beads of sweat glistening on foreheads framed by keffiyehs. They were accustomed to the extremes of the desert.

  ‘Now the second push,’ he said. ‘Raise the lever to the end and pay attention to the movement of my arm when I give the signal to go down. Are you all right, Sarah? Do you want Mr Gordon to take your place?’ he asked, noting a flash of uncertainty in her eyes.

  ‘Everything’s OK, Blake. I’m ready.’

  ‘Good. Then, careful . . . go!’ He started to lower his left arm slowly to guide the movement of the four arms that were pushing the levers. The wood creaked again and the slab was raised another three centimetres. Sarah drew a nearly inaudible sigh of relief.

  Blake observed the columns of the jacks: they were extended to about half of their stroke. He took the blocks of wood and placed them between the lid and the sarcophagus in order to unload the jacks and increase the shims under the bases.

  ‘Ingenious,’ said Maddox. ‘You are very clever, Blake.’

  ‘I’m used to handling emergencies, that’s all. I don’t trust these jacks and I don’t want to draw the pistons out of the cylinders too much further. I prefer raising the bases. With any luck, in a little while we will have completed the first stage without any difficulties.’

  He had Gordon lower the bucket with more wooden planks and laid them at the bases of the jacks until they were lifted seven or eight centimetres. Then he returned the boards to their positions and readjusted the squares and the levels. When everything was ready, he signalled to the others to get back into position and to place their hands on the levers of the jacks.

  Maddox moved towards Sarah’s end. ‘Let me do it,’ he said. ‘You’re tired.’

  Sarah offered no resistance and went to lean against the wall. Her shirt was drenched and sticking to her body, as if she’d been immersed in water.

  Blake signalled with his hand again and the four levers were slowly lowered at the same time, then stopped at the end of their stroke. Blake could now see the inside wall of the sarcophagus thanks to the ambient light that reached down about thirty centimetres.

  He repeated the movement a fourth time and raised the shims underneath the lid. The moment had come to look inside.

  ‘Would you like to be the first, Mr Maddox?’ he asked.

  Maddox shook his head. ‘No. You’ve led this whole operation brilliantly, Professor Blake. It’s only right that you be the first.’

  Blake nodded, took a torch and got on a stool to illuminate the inside of the sarcophagus. He searched an instant for Sarah’s eyes before peering into the open tomb of the Pharaoh of the sands.

  There was the b
ody of a man inside, completely wrapped in bandages, but there was no trace of the canopic jars that should have contained the viscera. Perhaps embalming had been carried out hastily.

  The face bore a typical Egyptian mask with a bronze-and-enamel Nemes headdress, but it did not portray a conventional or mannered image. The face was incredibly realistic, as if the artist had been working from a live model rather than respecting the dictates of some remote Amarnian style.

  A sharp, wilful nose, strong jawbone and two thick eyebrows under a slightly wrinkled forehead gave those solemn features an aura of uncompromising yet troubled might.

  Crossed over the chest, his arms gripped two extremely unusual objects: a curved acacia-wood staff and a bronze serpent with slightly gilded scales.

  From his right elbow hung a solid gold ankh and on his heart was a tourmaline scarab.

  Blake realized immediately that this object was within his reach and, after some hesitation, stretched his arm inside. The space was not big enough to get his head between the lid and the sarcophagus, and so he had to make several attempts, lowering his hand a few millimetres each time so as not to cause any damage.

  He suddenly felt the smooth curved surface of the scarab, clasped it between his fingers and withdrew it from the tomb.

  He turned it slowly in his hand to expose the bottom part to the light. It bore an inscription in hieroglyphics:

  This he interpreted without any doubt as the word: MOSES.

  He felt faint and started to sway.

  Sarah ran to help him. ‘Are you all right, Blake?’

  ‘He’s under too much stress,’ said Maddox. ‘Give him a glass of water.’

  Blake shook his head. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said, just nerves. You take a look too. It . . . it’s extraordinary.’ Then, leaning his back against the sarcophagus, he slowly lowered himself to the ground.

  Maddox got on the stool, turned on the torch and looked inside.

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  SELIM KADDOUMI stopped the car in the Water Tower Place parking lot, took his brown leather briefcase, pulled up the collar of his coat and proceeded along the street. Turning down Michigan Avenue, he felt the icy blast of wind in his face and thought of the warm nights along the banks of the Nile so far away. He wondered what would await him over the next twenty-four hours.

  He hurried towards the entrance and was greeted by the artificial atmosphere of the mall, the monotone music of the waterfalls that fell into each other amid the lavishness of green plastic plants. He took the escalator to the second floor. Those falls fascinated him and he enjoyed observing the shimmering coins on the bottom of each of the marble pools.

  Someone had told him that it was a custom of tourists to throw a coin into one of the great fountains of Rome so that they would be sure to return to the eternal city. But what sense did it make to throw coins into those fountains? People came back every day to shop anyway. There were some aspects of Western society that still escaped him.

  He took the elevator to the third floor and walked into the Italian bookstore there. He began looking along the shelves until he came across the art books. He set the case down on the floor and started leafing through a splendid volume in a black and gold cover on the baptistery in Florence. The title on the spine read Mirabilia Italiae, Marvels of Italy.

  Soon another man appeared, set down an identical case and started examining a book of Piranesi prints. Selim placed back his book and took the other case, leaving his own behind before wandering to another shelf. He chose a guide to Italy entitled Off the Beaten Track, paid for it and left without looking back.

  He returned to the elevator, went down to the second floor and descended the escalator to the atrium, where the falls poured into each other down to the ground floor. When he got out onto the street, the air was even icier and he felt a sharp, almost painful spasm in his lungs. Coughing, he hurried to his car in the parking lot and got in. He set the case down on the passenger seat and opened it. There was an envelope with ten stacks, each with twenty one-thousand dollar bills, and a ticket for Cairo on British Airways.

  Soon he was on the expressway headed towards O’Hare. It was drizzling but the rain soon turned to sleet, and small pearls of ice silently bounced off the windscreen.

  OMAR AL HUSSEINI left the lobby of Water Tower Place with the brown leather case and headed towards a telephone booth. He put a quarter in the slot and dialled a number.

  ‘Chicago Tribune,’ answered a female voice.

  ‘Give me the news department, please.’

  ‘Excuse me, could I have your name, please?’

  ‘Just do it, damn it. This is an emergency.’

  The operator was silent for a moment. ‘All right. One moment, please.’

  A jingle played over the phone while he waited, then a man’s voice answered. ‘News.’

  ‘Listen. In five minutes FedEx will be delivering a dark grey package addressed to your editorial department. There’s a video cassette inside. Look at it immediately. It’s a matter of life and death for thousands of people. I repeat: this is a matter of life and death for many thousands of people. It’s no joke.’

  ‘What—’

  Husseini hung up and went to the parking lot. He started up his car and drove towards the Gothic-styled Chicago Tribune building. After a quarter of a mile he stopped, faking a breakdown because there was nowhere to park in that area.

  Armed with a jack and the spare tyre, he saw a FedEx van stop in front of the Tribune building and a man get out with a grey package. He took a powerful pair of binoculars from his pocket and framed the entrance. A man with white hair quickly made his way towards the delivery man, signed the receipt, tore open the package and took out the video cassette it contained.

  Husseini put back the jack and the spare tyre just as a police car pulled up beside him.

  ‘Need some help?’ said the policeman, sticking his head out of the window.

  ‘No, thanks, Officer, just a flat tyre. All taken care of. Thank you.’

  He got back in his car and returned home as fast as he could to wait for the evening news.

  Night was descending upon the streets of the city like a harbinger of death.

  ALAN MADDOX emerged from the tomb and approached Gordon who was sitting under a length of canvas that Sullivan had stretched between the ground and the roof of the Jeep.

  ‘Go down there, Gordon. Go down and look. It’s incredible. In my entire life, I’ve never known such a feeling. There’s . . . there’s a man in there who’s been sleeping for three thousand years. And yet his mask emanates an overwhelming vitality, a real . . . presence. I stared at his chest all wrapped in bandages and for a moment I thought I saw him breathing.’

  Gordon eyed him in bewilderment. Maddox was almost unrecognizable. His face was smeared with dust and sweat, his shirt was soaking and his eyes looked as if he had undergone enormous strain. Gordon said nothing, but cautiously climbed down the rungs of the ladder.

  Soon Blake came out into the open, followed by Sarah. For a moment he looked at the sun, which was starting to set, then turned to Maddox.

  ‘We’ve finished.’

  Maddox looked at his watch. ‘The time flew. We were down there for hours and it seemed like just a few minutes.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Gordon came out.

  Well?’ asked Maddox.

  Astonishing. Absolutely astonishing.’

  What are you going to do now?’ asked Maddox.

  ‘Nothing else today,’ answered Blake. ‘If you want, you can go back to the camp. I’ll stay here for a little while to make sure that the workers seal the sarcophagus well. Exposure to air might damage the mummy. I’ll meet up with you for dinner.’

  ‘OK,’ said Maddox. ‘I sure need a shower.’

  Blake descended back into the tomb. The lid was resting on the wedges and was raised on the edge of the sarcophagus by almost thirty centimetres. He waited for the workers to cover it with a sheet of plastic and remai
ned after they had gone back up. He climbed onto the scaffolding and pointed the torch inside the sarcophagus. The face carved into the wood assumed an even more disturbing appearance behind the confused transparency of the plastic, as if it were immersed in a milky liquid.

  Blake stared at it intensely for a long time, as if hypnotized by the magnetic expression. He jumped when Sarah’s voice called to him, ‘Is everything all right down there?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  He climbed down the scaffolding and approached the ladder, but before going up he turned his glance to the sarcophagus, murmuring, ‘You deceived everyone . . . But why? . . . Why?’

  Sullivan waited for him to come out and then closed the hole back up with the iron plate and covered it with sand. Then he started up his Jeep and drove off with the workers.

  It was starting to get dark.

  ‘Should we be on our way too?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Let me have a smoke,’ answered Blake. ‘I need to relax.’

  Sarah sat on a rock and Blake lit a cigarette as he leaned back against the side of the Jeep.

  ‘Did what you see confirm what you were thinking?’ she asked after several seconds of silence.

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘I had promised you.’ Blake turned towards her. His eyes were shining, as if he were about to cry.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I know who the man buried in that tomb is.’

  ‘I realized that when I saw you read the hieroglyphics carved into the scarab. You seemed struck by lightning. Is it that distressing?’

  ‘More than distressing. It’s beyond belief. Sarah, what’s down there is the mummy of Moses.’

  Sarah shook her head incredulously. ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘I had my first hunch when I first saw those rock carvings: a staff and a serpent . . . a man with his arms raised in front of a fire . . .’

  ‘The burning bush?’