Pyramid: A Novel

by David Gibbins

  “I’d guessed you might be.”

  She swerved into an alleyway lined with dingy metalworking shops, swerved again into a smaller alley with men squatting along the side, smoking and talking in low voices, and then came to a halt in front of a decaying wooden doorway in the shadows beneath a balcony. The man squatting in the alley beside the entrance nodded at her, peered suspiciously at Jack and Jeremy, and then unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  “That’s my friend Abdul,” Rebecca said quietly, leading them into a gloomy passageway. “He’s the one who showed me the way to the tunnel entrance.”

  “What tunnel?” Jack said.

  “Patience, Dad. Here first.”

  They reached another door, and Rebecca knocked. A small boy opened it, grinning broadly when he saw Rebecca. He ushered them in, and then locked and bolted the door behind them. The room looked like a living room, with shoes lined up beside the door, a table covered with schoolbooks and papers, and the typical furnishings of a well-appointed Arab household. The boy went over to the far wall and pushed aside an ungainly looking wooden bureau, the base sliding easily on rollers. Behind it was another door, and the boy beckoned them through. The space beyond was dark, with only a crack of light visible at the far end. He flicked on a light switch, led them to a door with a lit space beyond, and ushered them in.

  Jack had already guessed where they were going from the smell. It was the same smell he remembered from the storerooms of the Cairo Museum and the Geniza chamber: the smell of ancient artifacts and decay, of millennia-old dust and the organic matter that built up in long-sealed tombs. It was as if he were entering an Aladdin’s Cave of antiquities, with artifacts of every description filling every available space: pottery vessels of all types and periods, oil lamps, metalwork, bronze armor, and weapons, much of it intact and in spectacular condition. It was as if all the top museums of the world had been shorn of their best exhibits of Near Eastern and biblical antiquities, and yet Jack knew that none of this material had ever seen the light of day in a museum, that it had all been spirited out of tombs and dark places unknown to archaeologists and destined for the international black market in antiquities.

  A small wizened man appeared, white bearded and wearing a robe and a tatty red fez. His bloodshot eyes lit up when he saw Rebecca, and he took her hands, clasped them between his own, and shook them. Then he let her go and clicked his fingers at the boy, who went off the way they had come. He turned to the other two, and his eyes alighted on Jack. “So, you must be the famous Jack Howard,” he said, rolling the words slowly, his English thickly accented. “You think you know what happened to the temple menorah, eh? Well, I know where the rest of the treasure lies. Maybe you give a little, I give a little, and I will tell you.” He laughed, a low cackle. “You have a fine figure of a daughter, eh? She has the makings of a tomb raider. I think nobody messes with her.”

  Jack looked at him coldly. “Nobody messes with her,” he repeated.

  The man peered at Jack, and then waved an arm in the air dismissively. “Yes, yes, we know all about that. She has a bodyguard, yes, your man Ben-Gurion? We could have made him disappear, but we are all friends, yes? You are in the business of antiquities, Jack Howard, and I am a businessman too, and we can help each other. It has been this way in Jerusalem for more than a thousand years, ever since my ancestors began selling pieces of the holy cross to the Crusaders.”

  Rebecca turned and glared at Jack. “You had me followed?”

  Jack continued to hold the man’s gaze. “Precisely for this reason.”

  The boy returned with a tray of little glasses of tea, which he offered around. Jack took one, dropped a sugar cube into it, and sipped the strong liquid. He replaced it on the tray. “So, I take it you are an antiquities dealer?”

  The man opened his arms expansively. “I am Abdullah al-Harasi. My shop is one of the best known along the Via Dolorosa. I am licensed by the antiquities authority, and everything I sell in my shop comes with an export permit. Every day I sell to tourists: coins, lamps, little pottery vessels, mementoes of antiquity that bring them closer to whichever prophet or messiah they hold dear, inshallah. I sell to them, that is, when there is not another war looming. Business has been difficult these last months.”

  “And this is your storeroom?” Jack said.

  Abdullah opened his arms wider. “This is where I keep my prize items, for select customers.”

  Jack knew that those words were a thinly veiled code for artifacts excavated illegally and sold to those who could get antiquities out of the country without a license. He hoped that Rebecca had not gotten herself in too deep. The uninitiated could easily be seduced into an agreement over a glass of tea. If some kind of deal had been struck, it might be difficult to extract themselves without things getting ugly. The antiquities black market was a murky underworld that only those experienced in its ways could negotiate without coming to serious grief. Even David’s surveillance team could not prevent what might go on behind closed doors. For a moment Jack felt culpable, responsible. His decision to let Rebecca come to Jerusalem at this time might have been more fallout from his quest in Sudan and Egypt, preoccupying him when better judgement might have prevailed.

  Rebecca finished her tea and replaced the cup. “Abdullah brought me here after I’d visited the antiquities dealers asking if anyone had Egyptian antiquities that might have been found in Jerusalem.”

  Abdullah reached under the table next to him and took out a square object about twice the width of his hand. “By good fortune I had just what she wanted, eh?” He held the object up so that Jack and Jeremy could see. It was like a miniature icon, an ancient frame of hardwood surrounding a plaque of beaten gold about ten centimeters across. Abdullah held it under the bare light-bulb that lit up the room. To his astonishment, Jack saw the Aten sun symbol in the upper right corner, the radiating arms with upturned hands extending from it.

  “Akhenaten,” he murmured, moving for a better view. “It can only be Akhenaten.”

  “There’s a hieroglyphic cartouche below,” Rebecca said. “And you can see partial clusters of hieroglyphs on the left-hand side that show that this plaque was actually cut out of a larger sheet of gold, a decorative cover for a curved surface.”

  Jack’s mind was racing. He had seen something like this before, only a few days ago. And the hieroglyphs in the complete cartouche were identical to those that Hiebermeyer had found in the tomb of the general in the mummy necropolis, on the wall painting that recounted his achievements: a sheaf of corn, two half circles, two birds. “That’s the Egyptian word for the Israelites,” he exclaimed. “This is incredible.”

  “Turn it over, Abdullah,” Rebecca said.

  He did so, and on the back Jack saw an inscription in black ink, like a museum acquisition label. He immediately felt a cold shiver down his spine. If this was a stolen antiquity from a museum, then they were in even deeper waters. He peered at it and read it out. “Jerusalem, 27 April 1864, CRW, RE.”

  “This was once a possession of General Gordon of Khartoum,” Abdullah said.

  Jack looked at him in disbelief. “Gordon of Khartoum? How do you know?”

  “Because my great-grandfather got it from him.”

  Jack stared at the letters again, racking his brain. Of course. “CRW. That’s Charles Richard Wilson, surely. RE means Royal Engineers. Wilson was employed by the Survey of Palestine in the 1860s. He surveyed extensively in Jerusalem and had an abiding interest in archaeology.”

  “Later General Sir Charles Wilson,” Rebecca said. “I worked that out too, and I looked him up. He was intelligence chief during the campaign to rescue Gordon from Khartoum in 1884, and a close personal friend of Gordon himself.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Abdullah said, holding up one hand and counting off the names. “Wilson. Warren. Gordon. Kitchener. All of them British officers who came to Palestine to map the land for Queen Victoria, but who became obsessed with antiquities and the ancient past. Men li
ttle different from you and me, Jack Howard.” He turned the artifact over in his hands as he eyed Jack. “You wish to purchase this? For your museum? It did not come to my family cheap. But for you, a bargain price.”

  Jack raised his hands. “Not this time.”

  Abdullah considered it again, and then handed it to him. “Accept this as my gift. In hopes of future business, inshallah. If you ever wish to sell the artifacts from your shipwreck finds, I offer myself as your agent. My clients include the richest Russian oligarchs, those of Jewish background who now have interests in Israel and can ship antiquities unseen back to the mother country. You could be a rich man, Jack Howard. You could reclaim the Howard family fortunes. Think of your daughter’s education. Of her future.”

  Jack placed the object firmly back in the Abdullah’s hands. “I’m grateful for your offer and your hospitality. But you know my position.”

  “Ah, yes. Archaeology versus treasure hunting. Artifacts consigned out of sight from an excavation to a museum store, or artifacts made available for anyone to own and enjoy. But there is a bridge, my friend, and we can meet in the middle.”

  “You know I can’t be associated with an unprovenanced artifact acquired from an antiquities dealer. All our museum exhibits are finds from our own excavations.”

  “We could photograph it,” Jeremy said.

  Abdullah wagged a finger, suddenly looking less amiable. “No photography.”

  Jack turned to Rebecca. “Do you have anything more you want me to see?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe. But you might not think it’s safe for me. Without an escort.”

  Abdullah cackled and twisted his hands in the air. “Fathers, daughters, eh? I have four of them. Two are doctors, one is a police colonel, and one is in my business. One day the women will rule Jerusalem, eh? It is the men who have made such a mess of this place over the last two thousand years. Men of the Roman army, of the jihad, of the Crusades; the British, the Zionists, and the fundamentalists today. Look at the Al-Aqsa mosque. The authorities prevent Jews from worshipping at their holiest site, the platform of the temple. Jews must crowd against the edges, praying at the Western Wall, digging tunnels into the rock to get as close as they can, but no farther. If women were in charge, they would be more accommodating, eh? As accommodating as you and I could be in our business, Jack Howard. Think of my offer. You know how to contact me. Inshallah.”

  “Thank you for helping my daughter.”

  Abdullah waved his hand dismissively. “Go now. Follow your daughter. She has a good nose for treasure. My son will show you out.”

  —

  Ten minutes later they were again hurrying through the labyrinth of the Old City, along streets and alleys that Jack recognized as leading toward the Western Wall and the site of the Temple Mount archaeological project. Rebecca slowed down and gave him a piercing look. “I still can’t believe you had me followed.”

  “David Ben-Gurion’s team is the best there is. They’re all ex–Israeli special forces surveillance experts, several of them Palestinian Arabs who know how to blend in.”

  “Not very well if Abdullah knew about your guy.”

  “David would have wanted them to see him. Abdullah can puff himself up like a caliph, but he knows perfectly well that with any hint of trouble, David could shut down his entire business. He’s allowed to carry on only because there’s a delicate balance to be maintained. The authorities stand back from business activities that they know are shady but have been part of the culture of this place for hundreds of years. And what Abdullah didn’t know is that three of the Arabs squatting in the street outside were David’s men. David had guessed where you’d be taking me from his earlier surveillance and had provided me with a phone with an emergency beacon. If I’d activated it, the response would have been instantaneous.”

  Rebecca looked away. “I just wish you’d told me.”

  “That would have defeated the purpose, wouldn’t it? You would have tried to shake him. That’s probably what I would have done at your age.”

  “The difference between us is that my mother was from one of the oldest Camorra families in Naples. I know how to handle myself with these kinds of people. Remember how my mother died? They thought she was about to shop them to the police, and she suddenly became one family member too many. I know about boundaries and what happens if you cross them.”

  Jeremy coughed. “It’s a pity we don’t have photos of that artifact.”

  Rebecca sighed, dug in her trousers pocket, and pulled out her phone and held it up so they could see as she scrolled through a series of images that showed the golden sheet from numerous angles in close-up. “You didn’t think I was going to leave without that, did you? As Abdullah said, he’s the father of four daughters, and I know how to tug on those strings. During my previous visit, I told him I felt faint and asked for a glass of water. His son wasn’t at his beck and call because he was at school, so Abdullah left me alone in the storeroom for a few minutes.”

  Jeremy gave Jack a rueful glance. “Nice one, Rebecca.”

  She held the phone up to Jack. “Well? What do you really think?”

  Jack’s mind had been in a tumult since they had left Abdullah’s lair. “The last time I saw anything like that was on the floor of the Red Sea with Costas five days ago.”

  “You’re certain it’s genuine?” Jeremy asked.

  Jack nodded. “Absolutely. And more than that, I’m sure that Maurice would confirm that it comes from the golden facing of an Egyptian war chariot. After our find in the Red Sea, I spent enough time looking at the chariot fragments and depictions with Maurice to be certain of it.”

  “Any theories?”

  “About how a piece of a chariot of Akhenaten mentioning the Israelites ends up in Jerusalem?” Jack ducked sideways under an awning to avoid a passing army patrol, and the other two stopped beside him. “Well, it’s most likely to have been contemporary, brought here at the time of Akhenaten’s reign or soon afterward. Maurice told me that a pharaoh’s cartouche and any other identifying features were often beaten out of armor and other military embellishments after his death, to be replaced by those of his successor. The one way you might expect an artifact like this to survive is on the battlefield, as a consequence of an Egyptian defeat where the spoils were picked up by the victor. Akhenaten wasn’t a great campaigning pharaoh, and in fact we know of only one major set-piece encounter, though it is one that can be counted as a resounding defeat, perhaps the worst disaster an Egyptian army ever suffered.”

  “The loss of the chariot army in the Red Sea,” Jeremy said.

  “It’s the only plausible scenario.”

  “But if the Israelites had already fled from their cliff-top encampment, how do you account for the recovery of this object?”

  “Somebody stayed behind to watch,” Jack said. “Moses would have wanted confirmation that the deed was done, that his people could continue their trek northeast toward the Holy Land without the risk of further Egyptian attack. We know there must have been Israelite eyewitnesses because of the account of the destruction of the chariot army in the Book of Exodus, something we now know is based closely on fact. Lanowski’s study of the Landsat imagery suggests that there could have been an old path leading down to the beach that Costas and I explored between our dives, immediately below the point where the chariot army had careered off the cliff and brought down a landslide with it. Imagine a couple of Israelite spies making their way down among the carnage afterward and finding a decorated wrecked chariot in the shallows, maybe that of a general. They could have recognized a hieroglyphic reference to the Israelites and wrenched that off to take back to Moses as evidence, an artifact that might later have been treasured as one of the small number of objects brought from Egypt to the Holy Land.”

  “Where it remained secretly buried somewhere until Wilson got his hands on it,” Jeremy said.

  Jack turned to Rebecca. “Did he tell you anything more about its sourc
e?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “One of Mamma’s uncles told me that in the antiquities black market, asking any kind of question about artifact origins is a big taboo and will see you ending up like she did with a bullet in the back of your head. But I believe Abdullah’s story. I’ve studied Gordon’s Reflections in Palestine. He spent the best part of a year here in 1883, carrying out some very exacting exploration in and around Jerusalem but also undergoing something of a religious epiphany. He’d resigned from his governorship in the Sudan in a state of dismay about the lack of government support for his initiatives to help the people there. He never suspected that he’d be invited back the following year or end up where history has immortalized him. He was a close friend of Wilson, of Warren, and of the young Kitchener and the other British engineer officers who had worked on the survey of Palestine. I believe that this artifact might have been one of a number that he collected from them to take back to Jerusalem as part of his attempt to unlock the mysteries of this place, a project he could immerse himself in after his perceived failure in Sudan. I believe that following his abrupt recall to Sudan, he may have entrusted them to someone here, and after his death with nobody to claim them they were dispersed and sold. This one ended up in the hands of Abdullah’s great-grandfather, also an antiquities dealer.”

  “Then how come he still has it?” Jeremy said. “It’s a long time for a dealer to sit on something that would have considerable value, even as gold bullion.”

  “That happens,” Rebecca replied. “In Naples, artifacts are sometimes cached away for years, even decades, waiting for the right time for a sale, for the right person or an upturn in the market.”

  “Abdullah may have been waiting for something more,” Jack said pensively, looking at Rebecca. “He may have been waiting to dangle it in front of someone who might be tempted to go where he was unable to go, to find the place where Wilson had actually discovered the artifact and to see what else might lie there.”