The Shroud Key

by Vincent Zandri

  “After all this time, Chase,” he says. “After all these years, the answer was right in front of our noses. All we had to do was consult the shroud and all you had to do was find the other half of the mirror. It seems as if God finally wants us to finish the job we started nearly ten years ago.”

  “Think we can find a way to access these underground chambers, Professor?” I say.

  “If we can find the key.”

  “What key?”

  He lifts his head up, sets the magnifying glass down onto the maps.

  “A key, a trigger, or a button-like device that will cause a secret door to open in the floor or the wall, or even an empty sarcophagus.”

  “Secret door,” Sameh says like a question. “Sounds like something from out of a movie…Tomb Raider.”

  The professor shrugs, rolls his eyes.

  “All the same,” he says, “trap doors do exist not only in the third pyramid but in all the great pyramids, and not all of them have been discovered. But the one we must find in the third pyramid will almost certainly lead down to the chambers depicted on the 1978 shroud CAD drawing.”

  “But how exactly do we find this door much less its key?” Sameh asks.

  “It’s more or less found us,” the professor says, pressing his index finger on the top-most portion of the CAD-rendered tunnel. “You see here, where the tunnel meets the top floor of the now empty tomb?”

  We all eye the tip of his index finger where it points to on the map.

  “That spot is not a piece of the tomb’s floor, but the tomb itself. Or so I believe.”

  “Menkaure’s sarcophagus,” I deduce.

  “Precisely what I’m thinking,” the professor smiles. “Think of it as X marks the spot.”

  Dinner is consumed quickly and silently. Soon as it’s over, the four of us gather to figure out a plan of attack.

  But here’s the thing: The plan, as I see it anyway, isn’t really much of a plan.

  We will head into the chamber after midnight when the lights are extinguished and the guards are asleep. It’s true, even guarding one of the most revered ancient wonders of the world can be a real snooze. Sleeping guards or not, gaining access to the third pyramid and the tombs housed deep inside, will require subduing of the guards and, naturally, stealing the keys to an old fashioned padlocked gate (up until recent years, the Giza pyramids weren’t locked up at all during off hours!).

  “But what about interior security?” I ask. “Hidden cameras, alarms, silent and not so silent?”

  We all turn to the fixer.

  “So what exactly are we dealing with, Sameh?” I push. “I was under the assumption pyramid security had gone way south now that the radical bandits are in charge of the show.”

  “On the contrary, the free-for-all days have come to an end at the pyramids,” Sameh begins to explain. “Here is the bad news: Since the last time either of your gentlemen led an expedition in Giza, strict security improvements have been made. The entire plateau is surrounded and protected by a twenty kilometer fence that’s equipped with cameras, alarms, and motion detectors. The camera’s feed more than twenty-four high-definition television monitors inside a control room which is located at the pyramid tourist entrance. The monitors are observed for suspicious activity twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. The fence is more than four meters high and cannot possibly be scaled or jumped over without attracting attention since it is dotted with infrared sensors and even more motion detectors.”

  And here I was thinking all it would take to gain access to the Third Pyramid was to beat up a couple of guards. I feel my heart sink.

  “So what’s the good news?” Anya poses on behalf of us all.

  Sameh’s sour face begins to beam with a smile.

  “Since the 2010 revolution and the taking over of control by the radical religious element, pyramid security funding has been cut significantly.”

  “By just how much?” Andre begs.

  “All electronic surveillance devices are turned off at midnight in order to save on expenses. Fact is, many strict followers of Islam have even toyed with tearing the pyramids down since they represent the celebration of pagan Gods which is a mortal sin against Allah.”

  “But this all makes sense,” Andre says bitterly. “Since I’ve been here working at gunpoint, mind you, the government has been shutting down the electricity, and shutting down the water service sometimes on a daily basis. We’re in the Middle East and Egypt is plagued by gas shortages for God’s sakes. Not to mention food shortages, medical supply shortages, even bread shortages. All this, of course, wreaked havoc on the dig.”

  “A dig that was going nowhere anyway,” I add.

  “Indeed the case,” Andre smiles. “I was running a false dig at gunpoint. But they didn’t know it was false. So it was important to give them the impression that the site was legitimate. My life, and in some ways, the life and death of Jesus depended upon it.”

  Sameh raises a cautious hand.

  “But we will still have to contend with the fence and with armed guards who, despite the cutbacks, patrol the area day and night.”

  “If those men who kidnapped you work for the same boss as those pyramid guards do, Professor,” I add, “chances are they might even be expecting us.”

  “So how exactly shall we plan on getting into the Third Pyramid?” Anya asks.

  “That’s the major league question isn’t it?” I say.

  For a moment we listen to the whistle of the wind gently blowing across the desert. Until Andre raises up his right hand, as if to say, Eureka! Or Bingo! anyway. Slowly, dramatically, raising both his hands up to the stars, he steps out into the desert and begins to recite a not altogether unrecognizable bit of epic poetry, but also a piece that the writer in me recognizes right away.

  “Broken in war, set back by fate,” he sings, his voice travelling across the desert flats, “the leaders of the Greek host, as years went by, contrived, with Pallas’ help, a horse as big as a mountain. They wove its sides with planks of fir, pretending this was an offering for their safe return. At least, so rumor had it. But inside they packed, in secret, into the hollow sides, the fittest warriors; the belly’s cavern, huge as it was, was filled with men in armor.”

  He turns, his smiling teeth reflecting the light of the stars, and comes back to us from out of the desert. Returns triumphantly, I should say.

  “Excuse me,” Anya says. “But is this going to be another one of your Biblical lectures, Dr. Andre? The one’s where you spout off some parable and we’re supposed to guess what it is you’re getting at? Because frankly I don’t think anyone is in the mood and we’re not a just another group of students who—”

  “—No, no, no,” he insists, shaking his head hard. “Nothing like that. Actually, the plan I have in mind dates back to the ancient Greeks and The Fall of Troy, and we have Virgil to thank for it. After ten brutal years of trying to break through the walls of Troy it finally occurred to them that if they built a giant horse and offered it up as a gift, they might actually get through the gates. But here’s the catch: Hiding inside the horse was a big surprise.”

  “The fittest warriors,” I add. “They were hiding inside the horse.”

  “I see,” Anya says. “So we’re going to build a horse.”

  Andre shoots her a look.

  “Now I know why we divorced,” he says.

  “Okay, kids,” I break in, “enough with the squabbles. Time’s wasting. The professor is making a lot of sense. We don’t risk trying to break through the fence and being caught. Instead, we pretend we are actually expected at the Pyramids as archaeologists and academics.”

  “I get it now,” Anya offers. “It’s not altogether different from how we got into the Turin Cathedral to have an impossible audience with the shroud.”

  “But this one will be different in one very important respect,” I add.

  “And that is?” the college English teacher begs.

  “We won’t be
able to rely on the help of one of Checco’s insiders. We’re going to have to do some convincing to some potentially nasty bandits all on our own.”

  Out the corner of my eye, I see Andre fumbling through the many pockets of his bush vest. Eventually, he pulls out what looks to me like a laminated ID card with a neck strap attached to it.

  “Credentials,” he states proudly. “Archaeological credentials. A bit out of date, but I could always fane ignorance. Besides, we try and get through the front gate at half-past midnight, they’ll probably be drunk or stoned on hash or both.”

  “Muslims don’t partake,” Anya says. “It’s against their religion.”

  “Some don’t partake. At least, in public. Emphasis on some.”

  “So then,” I say, my eyes on Sameh, “do you think that by presenting ourselves as an archaeological team wishing to work at night to avoid the crowds might work?”

  He nods.

  “Possibly. But we don’t have an appointment and if we aren’t on the manifest, there’s a good chance they will turn us away and then immediately sick their friends on us. And then there’s the possibility of them recognizing Dr. Manion as the archaeologist who just got away from their bandit buddies.”

  “I understand that,” I say. “But do you think it’s possible that we can at least make it through the gate, even if the professor manages to keep a low profile?”

  “It’s definitely possible.”

  I lower my head, stare at the LED-lit sandy floor, while I contemplate getting through the front gate without getting myself or anyone else killed.

  Then, raising my head, “How much ammo we got left? I think we’re gonna need all we can get.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  An hour later, we are packed up and back inside the Land Cruiser making our way along the desert road on our way towards Giza and the pyramids. The time is eight-thirty on a starry evening. The kind of high-definition clear night that makes you feel like you can reach up and touch the stars.

  Over the course of sixty minutes we’ve revised and tweaked our plan until we have something that just might work. Rather than attempt to hide ourselves under the cover of darkness, we are being very open about our intentions. Which are nothing other than entering into the site of the ancient pyramids as legitimate archaeologists and television professionals investigating unknown passages at the bottom of the Third Pyramid crypt. The plot? We are filming a two-part special for the History Channel called the Mysteries of the Menkaure’s Mini Pyramid.

  Before entering into the Giza Plateau, we head back to the same Giza garage that provided us with the Land Cruiser. The tall, bearded, blue-jeans wearing Nisbah is there to greet us while Sameh talks with him about a special, immediate turn-around project. That is, retrofitting the Land Cruiser with some new detailing and some special protection. For these things, we are willing to pay a great deal. Rather, Anya’s dead dad is willing to put up the funds.

  At the same time, Sameh makes a few calls to some people who specialize in outfitting archaeological and television crews.

  “If we’re going to be presenting ourselves as serious television people,” Sameh says, “we’d better look like television people.”

  “Trojan horse, Sameh,” I say. “Make it real.”

  Two hours later the Land Cruiser is ready to ride once more. A new logo has been added to each door. It’s a single pyramid painted in bright red paint. Inscribed inside the pyramid in bright blue letters are the words, Pharaoh Productions. The vehicle has not only been outfitted with a bullet-proof windshield and rear window, a special plate made up of quarter inch steel has been welded to the bottom, just in case we should encounter an unexpected improvised explosive device. Stored in the back of the 4X4 are some of the tools of the television trade: cameras both big and small, tripods, lighting and sound equipment, boom stands, and various other props. Placed beside that equipment are all the tools that Andre would require if he were truly embarking on an archaeological dig inside the Third Pyramid. An assortment of shovels, Maglites, coal scoops, dust pans, a good old fashioned shaker screen, an electronic transit mapping device, weighing and measuring tools, and even a cordless hammer drill are included in the mix.

  Then there are the hidden tools of my trade.

  Stored in padlocked metal boxes underneath the equipment, are the four AK47s Sameh provided us with earlier, plus new ammo magazines. Added to the collection are two new RPG rounds for the reusable manual launcher, two more 9mm automatics and accompanying nine-round clips, plus four night vision goggles, and new two-way radios.

  The final touch is our new clothes, courtesy of Nisbah’s first cousin who runs an Egyptian cotton export operation on the outskirts of Giza. Each of us has been issued a new khaki safari jacket a piece that bears the Pharaoh Productions logos. For head gear, new Pharaoh Productions baseball caps. Stored inside each of our chest pockets are laminated credentials that contain photo IDs and press passes. We also have a forged letters from the US Embassy that have been stamped by the Egyptian government stating our intention to film on the pyramid grounds on behalf of the History Channel. How Sameh and Nisbah are able to put this Trojan horse operation together in such a short time is both a testament to a race of people who bore the innate organizational talent to build the ancient pyramids and also to the old saying about money talking and bullshit walking.

  “What if one of the guards decides to call the History Channel in New York to verify our presence?” Anya begs while slipping into her safari jacket. “What if he were to contact the government about our intrusion?”

  Sameh’s face lights up.

  “I’ve already thought of that. The number printed on the letter will dial not the History Channel necessarily but a special friend who will make believe he is a big shot at the History Channel. As for the government, we will simply have to take our chances.”

  A good friend from Florence comes immediately to mind.

  “Checco,” I say, winking at Sameh.

  “Indeed,” he nods. “Without Checco and my associate, Nisbah, we could not possibly have put all this together in such a short amount of time. Amazing what can happen when you are blessed by Allah.”

  “Yes, God be praised,” Andre says. “And thank God for my wealthy ex-wife. But what about getting past the front door? If the guards aren’t expecting us, they’re liable to turn us back no matter whom we ask them to call for verification. That is, unless you plan on shooting our way through which, in my archaeological mind, would be entirely counter-productive. Not to mention, really bloody dangerous.” He frowns and presses the back of his hand up against the underside of his chin. “I’ve about had it up to here with playing with guns and bombs.”

  “Our friend Checco has a made a few calls on our behalf,” Sameh assures. “Trust me when I say, the guards will be expecting us.”

  “But will they believe us?” I say, thumbing the clip release on my 9mm, checking the load, then thumbing the safety on after cocking a fresh round into the chamber.

  Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of the newly refurbished Land Cruiser being fired up, as Nisbah proceeds to back it out of the garage and onto the lot.

  “Belief in our intentions is not guaranteed,” Sameh says. “But I will leave such things up to God.”

  “And fate,” Anya says turning and heading out through the open overhead garage door.

  My beating heart pulsing on my sleeve, I follow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  It’s going on midnight when we pull up to the main entry for the Giza pyramids. While the colorful pyramid spotlighting has been turned off, the entry facility is still lit up like a Christmas tree with pole and wall-mounted LED security lighting. Sameh pulls up to a security shack and stops the Land Cruiser so that the front grill faces a red and black vertically striped crossing gate.

  The guard manning the brightly lit, glass and concrete block-walled shack is wearing the black beret, scarf, and white shirt of a government soldier.
He’s packing a 9mm automatic on his hip. Mounted to the wall behind him are four AK47s at the ready. Before Sameh can even get the window down, two more soldiers step up to the gate and eyeball us through the windshield.

  The window slides open, the guard sneering at us.

  “How can I help you?” he says in deep-throated English.

  Sameh reaches into his chest pocket, pulls out his papers, hands them to the guard.

  “We’re making a documentary for the History Channel,” he informs, confidence in his tone, the deepest respect in his delivery.

  “What is the History Channel?” asks the guard, holding the letter in his hand, but his eyes remaining glued to Sameh’s.

  “It’s a cable television channel in the west. Lots of stories about ancient sites from all over the globe. Stories that involve the pyramids are especially popular, for obvious reasons. I’m sure we’re not the first film crew and archaeological team to make television here.”

  The soldier stares down at the letter. He reads it, turns it over, sees that nothing is written on the back. Then, holding the letter outside the open window, he waves it at the two guards standing in front of us, and barks something out in Arabic.

  “What’s he saying?” I ask under my breath.

  “Hopefully he’s not saying, ‘Shoot the lying, spying infidels on the spot,’” Anya says from the back.

  “No time for joking,” scolds Andre who is seated beside her. He’s scrunched down, his Pharaoh Productions baseball cap pulled down tightly over his head as if trying to hide or keep a much needed low profile anyway.

  Sameh says, “He’s asked them if they know anything about a crew arriving at such an odd hour.”

  The guard on the left suddenly nods, and speaks.

  Sameh says, “That guard on the right said he believes someone called not long ago warning of our arrival. But he didn’t pay much attention to it.”

  The soldier in the guard shack shouts something in anger at the soldier on the right.