The Forbidden Tomb

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘I realize that, which is why—’

  Ulster cut him off. ‘That being said, I fully understand your need for answers, so I’m willing to speak in hypotheticals. How much do you actually know about the Archives?’

  ‘Only what you’ve told me and what I’ve read online.’

  ‘Then you know that the main goal of the Archives is not to hoard artifacts. Instead, it strives to bridge the schism that exists between scholars and collectors. In order to gain admittance to the facility, a visitor must bring something of value, such as an ancient artifact or unpublished research that might be useful to others. In return, we provide access to some of the finest relics in the world. On rare occasions, we allow objects to be loaned out to people who are unable to make it to Küsendorf, but in those cases, we require something extra special as collateral.’ Ulster smiled. ‘And if they donate something extraordinary, I’m willing to personally deliver the item they requested.’

  Cobb read between the lines. Obviously the nameless benefactor who had set up his initial meeting with Ulster had donated something substantial because the Archives were willing to loan out a copy of a map that very few people even knew existed. ‘Hypothetically, can you give me an example of extraordinary?’

  Ulster smiled even wider. ‘Oh, I don’t know – perhaps detailed information about a missing train and photographic evidence of everything that was recovered. Something like that would generate a lot of goodwill, don’t you think?’

  55

  Wednesday, November 5

  Giza, Egypt

  (12 miles southwest of Cairo)

  Forty-five hundred years ago, the newly constructed Great Pyramid of Giza was revered as the final resting place of the pharaoh Khufu. Only the most noble of visitors were permitted entrance into the sacred grounds. It was an honor reserved for royalty.

  Today, anyone can tour the ancient structure.

  All it takes is a ticket.

  Tourists come from far and wide to stand in the shadows of the Giza pyramids and to marvel at the Great Sphinx. To most, they are simply remnants of a bygone era whose only significance is their ability to withstand the rigors of time. Only a precious few see them for what they really are: monuments to honor fallen gods.

  Though she had been to Egypt on several occasions, Sarah had never seen the pyramids in person. Her perception of the area was based entirely on what she had seen on postcards and in movies. It was quickly apparent that these promotional images had been shot from strategic angles at ideal moments in time because the reality of the scene in front of her was almost startling in contrast.

  She had always pictured the pyramids as secluded temples with miles of barren desert separating them from any form of civilization. She quickly realized that the urban sprawl from nearby Cairo had overwhelmed the once quaint village of Giza – which was now the second largest suburb in the world with more than two and a half million people – and this unexpected growth had forced a collision between the ancient and modern worlds. As ridiculous as it sounds, it was now possible to tour the Great Pyramid of Giza, an architectural masterpiece that was hailed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, and then walk across the street for dinner at Pizza Hut.

  Sarah was fascinated – and disappointed – by the dichotomy. ‘This is unbelievable. It’s not at all like I thought it would be.’

  Cobb shrugged but wasn’t surprised. ‘They put a Starbucks in China’s Forbidden City. Why should this be any different?’

  Sarah stood near the base of the Great Pyramid and lifted her gaze toward the sky, taking in the towering peak that stood more than 450 feet above her. ‘It’s not just the Pizza Hut. It’s . . . I mean, look at this thing! It’s crumbling as I speak!’

  Sadly, her description was accurate. The smooth casing that originally blanketed the sides of the pyramid had been torn off centuries ago. In 1356, Sultan An-Nasir Nasir-ad-Din al-Hasan ordered that the polished limestone exterior be used to build mosques in Cairo, and the removal of the pyramid’s outer layer had left it vulnerable ever since.

  Exposed to the desert winds, the stone had become cracked and broken. Chunks of rock had fallen from the massive two-ton slabs that lined the sides, littering the ground with boulders of various sizes. The flat, pristine slopes were now jagged and stepped. It had taken centuries, but the elements had ravaged the surface of the pyramids.

  The condition of the ruins, everything from the crumbling façade of the pyramids to the missing nose on the Great Sphinx, made Cobb reconsider what they had discovered underneath Alexandria. If the Giza Plateau had been allowed to fall into such disrepair, what did it say about the tunnel they had found? It seemed that the pictograph on the underground wall had been cared for in a way that the Great Pyramid had not.

  But why?

  And by whom?

  Cobb would have to ponder those questions later. At the moment, he needed to focus on the task at hand. ‘You’re sure your friend will meet us here?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘He’ll show – despite the warning.’

  The US State Department had recently issued an alert to avoid the most popular tourist spots in Egypt. It wasn’t that Americans were being targeted, per se, but US officials weren’t entirely comfortable with the bombing in Alexandria and the mobs of demonstrators expressing their displeasure over the current political climate. It would only take a tiny spark to set off a full-blown revolution, and the last thing the American embassy needed was a group of sightseers getting caught up in the civil unrest – with the whole world watching on CNN.

  Cobb scanned the plaza as a busload of tourists made their way into the grounds. ‘And you’re sure you’ll recognize him after all these years?’

  ‘Trust me, I’ll know him. He always looks dapper.’

  ‘Dapper?’

  She smiled and nodded. ‘See what I mean?’

  Cobb turned and followed her gaze. He saw a well-groomed man looking back at them, his broad smile accentuated by a canary yellow bow tie and matching suspenders.

  ‘Subtle,’ Cobb whispered.

  Sarah shuffled aside as the group passed, leaving one man standing in front of her. ‘Seymour, you never disappoint.’

  The man beamed. ‘Thank you, my dear. I do make an effort.’

  She turned to Cobb. ‘Jack, this is Seymour Duggan. He’s the best bloodhound I’ve ever worked with and a genuinely good guy.’

  Seymour thanked her for the compliment by doffing an imaginary cap before he extended his hand toward Cobb. ‘Pleased to meet you. I hope I can help.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Cobb said, but he was doubtful.

  At first blush, Seymour looked more like an accountant than a CIA asset. Skinny and balding, his diminutive frame was covered by an impeccable linen suit. His loud tie matched both his suspenders and the handkerchief that he was using to dab his brow. There was also the matter of his accent, which was definitely non-American.

  ‘Kiwi?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ Seymour said. ‘Born and raised in Christchurch, on the eastern side of the island. Have you ever been?’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘The closest I’ve been is Australia.’

  ‘Scared of hobbits, are you?’

  It was Seymour’s attempt at a joke.

  Cobb didn’t laugh. ‘No.’

  Sarah, on the other hand, found the whole exchange incredibly entertaining. Still, she knew better than to let the awkwardness linger for too long. ‘Seymour started in the New Zealand Intelligence Corps. Based on his record, MI6 requested that he be loaned out to help with their caseload. That’s how he came to our attention. A few years later he was retired from duty in England and given an official cover in Helsinki through a joint effort with the CIA.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Cobb wondered.

  Seymour smiled. ‘Believe it or not, they had me posing as an auditor for the Internal Revenue Service. I was supposedly there to ensure that those with dual citizenship had filed their tax returns correctly.’
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  ‘Hard to imagine,’ Cobb joked. If he had all night, he couldn’t have thought of a more perfect cover. ‘What brought you to Egypt?’

  ‘The climate – I find the cold intolerable.’ Seymour smiled as he looked around the pyramid complex. Despite his claims, he continued to mop the sweat from his face. ‘What a lovely day. Getting out of the apartment is such a nice change of pace. Pity I don’t do it more often. Excursions like this are a welcomed treat.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. But I have to ask: if your apartment is in Cairo, why meet all the way out here?’

  Seymour had anticipated the question. ‘First, you can’t walk across the street in Cairo right now without someone wondering what you’re up to. The bombing in Alexandria saw to that. Everyone’s on high alert – the authorities and the general public. Coming out here was the best way to stay off the radar. Here, none of us stands out.’

  Cobb was tempted to make a crack about Seymour’s choice of attire, because it definitely stood out, but he ultimately decided to keep the comment to himself.

  ‘More importantly,’ he continued, ‘I asked to meet you here because Giza was one of the last places in Egypt where your target, Cyril Manjani, was seen alive.’

  56

  The first thing that Jasmine noticed was the ringing in her head. The unavoidable tone enveloped her, drowning out not only sounds but her senses as well.

  She instinctively brought her hands to her ears, hoping to block out the incessant noise. When her fingers touched the bandage that covered her temple, a creeping sensation of pain began to take hold. It was a deep, steady throbbing that blended perfectly with the cacophony inside her skull. She knew they were one and the same.

  Lying in the dark, she moved her hands around her head, searching for the source of her suffering. The cloth dressing was dry so at least she wasn’t bleeding. She strained to open her eyes, but her eyelids felt heavy. The simple act of blinking required tremendous effort, and even then her dimly lit surroundings were little more than a blur.

  The thick cobwebs in her mind made it tough to focus.

  Just breathe, she thought.

  The air was warm and dry. Every breath felt gritty against the parched lining of her throat. She could smell the faintest wisp of smoke, and she knew that flame, not electricity, was lighting the room.

  She licked her cracked lips and forced herself to swallow.

  Her stomach rolled unnaturally. It wasn’t hunger; more like her body’s desperate attempt to fend off a foreign toxin. She fought hard against the nausea, hoping it would pass as she continued to gather her wits.

  It took some time before she could open her eyes, and once she did, she confirmed her suspicions about the smoke. High above the room, a heavy clay pot of burning oil dangled from a rope of braided reeds. The flickering light was faint and could barely reach the nearest wall. The rest of the space was shrouded in darkness.

  Jasmine’s mind raced as she tried to recall the last thing she could remember.

  A solitary hut in the desert.

  Walking desperately through the sand.

  The nomads that came to her aid.

  And the monsters that killed them.

  The muscles in her arms and shoulders ached and her joints were stiff, as if they hadn’t been used for days. A dull burning spread throughout her body as she drew her blistered feet toward her chest. The sound of iron chains being dragged across the stone floor left her troubled and confused. She reached down her legs and felt the cold metal that bound each ankle.

  She couldn’t imagine why she had been shackled.

  Or could she?

  Slowly, pieces of her adventure started to reemerge.

  She knew she had been searching for something deep under the city of Alexandria. She remembered crawling through an unmarked opening into the hidden space beyond, all the while trespassing into areas that were off-limits to anyone but the Egyptian authorities. She quickly considered the very real possibility that she had been imprisoned for her actions. She dismissed the notion just as quickly, knowing that even the Ministry of State for Antiquities wouldn’t throw an American in a dungeon for a minor offense. And they certainly wouldn’t kill a bunch of nomads to recapture her.

  No, there had to be another explanation.

  As she tried to replay the events in her head, she could hear Garcia’s voice in her ear, telling her that they weren’t alone in the cisterns. She remembered Cobb and McNutt doubling back to investigate while she and Sarah pressed on. Eventually Sarah left her side and headed further into the darkness while she stayed behind to continue her examination of the wall. Then she saw a shadow on the wall and—

  Oh my God. I was attacked in the tunnels.

  Memories of the assault came flooding back to her.

  There was nothing she could have done to stop it.

  The assailant had been big and strong and agile.

  She was overwhelmed in a matter of seconds.

  Haunted by the feeling of helplessness, she staggered to her feet and studied the wall ahead. It wasn’t made of cut stone blocks like the walls of the cisterns. It looked more like poured cement, though the crumbling texture meant that it had aged considerably. She thought back to the support pillars she had found in the tunnel and wondered if this too was Roman concrete.

  As she stepped closer, she saw that it wasn’t cement or concrete of any kind. Instead, the wall was comprised of tightly packed sun-dried bricks – similar to the construction of the desert hut but more uniform and refined. The mortar between them was nearly invisible, giving the wall a monolithic feel.

  From experience, she knew that such materials were common not only in Egypt, but throughout the Middle East as well. The only distinguishing feature of the brick was the acrid scent it left on her fingers.

  For some reason, it reminded her of the sea.

  Even more confusing was the strange sense that she had been transported back in time. The art of drying clay and mud into rough blocks has been practiced for thousands of years. It went hand in hand with the ancient style of oil lamp she had already noticed. Even the iron fetters fastened around her ankles appeared to be forged by hand, rather than stamped by modern machinery.

  This place – whatever it was – hadn’t changed in centuries.

  Rather than succumb to her fear, she channeled it. The ancient lamp was beyond her reach, but the length of chain at her feet gave her freedom to move about the room. Using what little light she had, she began to systematically probe the boundaries for any chance of escape. She quickly made a startling discovery.

  It wasn’t a door, a window, or an exit of any kind.

  It was the unexpected sight of a man.

  In the dark corner on the opposite side of the room, the emaciated figure lay curled on the floor. His clothes were soiled and tattered. His sun-kissed flesh was beaten and bruised. Scruffy, unshaven whiskers covered his face, and dried blood from his nose coated his upper lip.

  Jasmine hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. ‘Hello?’

  It was a word that was almost universally understood in any language. She would worry about translating his response later – if there was a response.

  But there wasn’t.

  She tried again, this time slightly louder. ‘Hello?’

  Not only did the man not answer, he hadn’t moved an inch. He was perfectly motionless, lying still on the floor.

  Summoning her courage, Jasmine moved closer to check for signs of life, but the limits of her chain stopped her short of her destination. She leaned as close as she could, searching for a muscle twitch or the steady rise and fall of his chest – any sign to indicate that the man was still alive.

  But there was none.

  The only thing she saw were the shackles around his feet.

  They were a perfect match to hers.

  57

  Cobb glanced around the Giza Plateau. He wondered if the news about Manjani would force them to investigate every n
ook and cranny of the pyramids. He had to admit that he was looking forward to the day when he could tour an ancient landmark just for kicks, rather than a life-or-death mission.

  ‘Dr Manjani was spotted here? I thought he lost his team in the desert?’

  ‘He did,’ Seymour replied as he dabbed his brow with his handkerchief, ‘but a few weeks before their disappearance, they assembled here in Giza.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  Seymour nodded as he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket. He tapped the screen several times until he found the file that he was looking for. ‘They were meeting with this man – a Dr Shakir Farid, of Al-Azhar University in Cairo.’

  Cobb and Sarah studied the image that had been pulled from the school’s website. Farid’s eyes were bright and his smile looked natural. He seemed more like a grandfather reacting to a school play than a professor sitting for a school photo.

  ‘Why did they meet Farid?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Given the proposed length of their expedition and the foreign backgrounds of the students, they all needed official documentation. Manjani was granted a work visa because he was heading up the team, but the others needed an Egyptian professor to sponsor their student visas. That’s where Farid came in. They all had dinner together in Giza so that he could meet everyone before the dig. He even paid for their meals before they were given a private tour of the pyramids.’

  Unfamiliar with Seymour’s work, Cobb wasn’t willing to take everything at face value, so he decided to test him on his methods. ‘I know the names of the students were listed in news reports – which, I’m guessing, is what led you to their visas. But how do you know that Farid paid for dinner?’

  Seymour was up to the challenge. ‘Five double rooms and one single were reserved at a local hotel in Giza. All of these rooms were charged to Manjani’s credit card. However, the cards kept on file for incidentals belonged to the rooms’ actual occupants. Four of these cards were used that day within a ten-block radius of the hotel for toiletries, souvenirs, and the like. But no one, including Manjani, had a charge for dinner.’