The Cursed Pharaoh (The Hank Boyd Origins Book 1)

by Matthew James

  No one speaks the rest of the way. We just quietly watch the sun begin its descent over the western sky. It won’t be dark for a few more hours, giving us some time at the dig. Thankfully, we have large construction lights being erected as we speak. They’ll let us work into the night if necessary but mainly they’re there for security purposes. There’s no external electricity where we’re going and it would be easy for someone to slip by unnoticed.

  Our driver’s phone rings, taking everyone’s attention away from the passing landscape and onto a conversation that only one of us can understand. I watch as Ben’s eyes narrow, mentally translating what is being said. The conversation is quick, ending after less than thirty seconds. Speaking to Ben while watching the road, our friend nods and turns back to us.

  “That was Abe. He said we have permission to work through the night. His sources tell him that there are grumblings within the city since Zill Allah’s failed attempt on our lives. He fears that they may strike sooner than he originally thought.”

  I nod. “Okay then…” I look at Dad. “Not bad for my first international trip, huh?” His face turns to worry. “I’m kidding, Dad.” I give him a gentle elbow. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m actually enjoying our time together.”

  His eyes widen.

  “Not the whole almost dying thing, I mean. I meant seeing the world and feeling like an actual archaeologist. I honestly never thought I’d ever be here. I figured I’d be stuck in an office the rest of my life, banging my head against a wall.” I look out my window and see the three pyramids. Wow… “It’s growing on me…”

  Glancing at Dad’s reflection in my window, I see the worry on his face disappear for a moment, replaced with a prideful smile. I know he’s been eagerly waiting for me to feel the way he does about history. I’ve always loved it but not at as deep of a level as him. For me, since joining up with him, it’s only been a job, not a calling. Then again, it wasn’t like I chose this life. My dreams were crushed with my shoulder and I was quickly forced to make a detour. How else should I have reacted?

  Cheerfully?

  Bubbly?

  No, I was pissed and vengeful towards life, and anyone in my way felt it. Especially my father. He’d done nothing but support me, knowing I’d lost everything, including what could’ve been millions of dollars in salary and endorsement deals. My life was set forever but before I could even sniff the major leagues it was ripped away from me.

  I became a living, breathing, scorn-filled mess.

  I’m pulled out of the memory by the utterances of our driver as he mumbles something under his breath. Ben asks him something, getting a quick nod back.

  “We are almost there, my friends.”

  I lean around the driver’s head, through the front, dust-covered windshield and see them in all their glory. The Pyramids of Giza, led by the grandest of the three, Khufu. Standing over 450-feet tall, the Great Pyramid of Giza, is easily the largest ever built—that we know of…

  If history has taught me anything so far, it’s that nothing is ever set in, well, stone. We know very little about the ancient structures around the globe and I won’t pretend to know for a fact that the one here is the biggest. Plus, it’s kind of cool to think of another, more massive pyramid somewhere else.

  Amazingly, a road cuts right in between Khufu and its neighbor, Khafre. We leave the city limits, which are nestled right up against the Giza complex. It’s an odd sight, seeing a modern-ish city sitting directly next to a trio of structures dating back 4,500 years.

  My skin breaks out in goosebumps as our driver leads us through. It’s like nothing I’ve seen before. On my right, outside Dad’s window, is the majestic Khufu, surrounded by row after row of much smaller secondary tombs—a true ‘land of the dead.’

  To the left, outside my own window, is the second largest pyramid, belonging to Khufu’s son, Khafre. In front of the larger-than-life tomb is its guardian, the Great Sphinx of Giza. The oldest known monumental sculpture in Egypt, the creature faces east, laying like a lion would. In fact, its body is thought to be that of a lion but, interestingly enough, it has the face of a human.

  “Did you know,” Dad says, breaking the spell put on me by the surrounding necropolis, “that some believe the sphinx to be older than even the pyramids themselves? Originally, Egyptologists believed it to be built by Khafre since it sits just in front of his pyramid but there are numerous hypotheses that state that when his father, Khufu, reigned, the statue was already here. The age of the surrounding quarry lends to the theory.”

  “Built by who then?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “An even more ancient civilization, perhaps?”

  Not taking the bait, I smile. I already know that the ancient Egyptians are the oldest known people of the region. But there are some who believe that they garnered much of their ways from another race of people. One of the possible locations of Atlantis was supposed to be near here, due west into the Sahara. It’s even in their mythology—a land to the west. Thoth, the Egyptian deity of writing and math, was said to come from a kingdom to the west.

  If you believe in that kind of thing…

  The main road turns right, around the backside of Khufu, but instead of following it, we turn west onto a secondary road, now traveling along the north side of Khafre. Its peak, while not as high as Khufu, is still quite a way up and sitting atop it is the remains of some of the original casing stones—the finishing touch on all the pyramids. Most are gone now, leaving us with their step-like appearance we all know now.

  Man, what it must’ve looked like back in the day! I think, visualizing its true design. At its peak, would’ve been a gold-plated pyramidion, or benben stone, built to reflect the sun’s rays. It would’ve been the first thing to have been stolen after the kingdom’s fall. Where it is now, no one knows—lost in time—or possibly part of someone’s private collection.

  Even the Washington Monument in D.C., the country’s most famous Egyptian obelisk, has a capstone. Only, it’s made of aluminum and used as a lightning rod. Yes, the ancients have truly inspired all.

  Then, I think back to what Dad said, about how the Egyptians may have been inspired by someone else. Could it be true? Could they have been inspired to build their monuments based on another culture’s example?

  A question for another day.

  Turning off the westbound road, we follow another one south, around Khafre…and that’s when I see it. “Menkaure,” I whisper to myself. The king’s pyramid is directly in front of us. If we were to leave the road, we’d end up smashed against its northern flank. It’s the smallest of the three and from what we’ve figured out so far, a true mystery of history.

  “The site is further to the south of his pyramid,” Ben says, “another mile, or so.”

  Nodding, I watch as we skirt around it, banking to the west some.

  “It was left unfinished,” Dad says, seeing my awestruck face. “Construction was stopped due to his sudden death.”

  “But why does it look like it’s been demolished?” I ask, saddened by its state. A massive vertical slice has been taken out of its northern face, making it look like the world’s largest coin slot.

  “Because it was,” Ben replies, “or rather, an attempted was made. One of Saladin’s sons tried to bring down all three of the pyramids, wanting to erase evidence of the old ways.”

  “Saladin?” I ask, recognizing the name. “The first sultan of Egypt?”

  “One and the same,” Ben replies. “In the 12th century, his second son, a man named, Uthman, began with the smallest of the Giza pyramids but quickly realized the feat would be impossible. The stones were just too darn heavy to move. Thankfully, his reign only lasted five years and his successor moved on with other goals.”

  “Too bad…” I say, honestly feeling terrible about the destruction of such a beautiful thing. “Would’ve been nice to see it in better shape.”

  “I agree,” Dad says, patting my leg. “Unfortunately, not everyone f
eels the same as us.”

  The way he said us really hits home. It’s like he’s starting to see me as an equal and not, well, me. Smiling, I look out my window as we pass Menkaure’s false resting place, reinvigorated, and pumped with what might happen next.

  We’re about to unearth the lost king’s remains and retell history for the ages.

  As long as we don’t get killed, that is.

  6

  Tora Prison, Supermax Wing

  Chief Ghannam sat at the glass partition alone, instructing his armed escorts to wait in the other room. It would be the first time he’d seen Eslam Abdul-Sharif since his trial. Abe didn’t want his deputies to see him break down, or worse, go crazy.

  Known for his cool head and professional demeanor, Abe was also known for his strict policies and tenaciousness. He was feared by those who lived outside the law and respected by those that existed within it. He was the perfect replacement for Mido, a man who had been the exact opposite.

  What Abe neglected to tell Dr. Boyd and his team, was that his older brother was fully engrossed with the underworld, happily taking payments from those that needed the police to look the other way. He’d even done business with Eslam and Hamza in the past—none of which Abe knew about until Mido’s death. Reports came out shortly after he was killed and they weren’t pretty.

  To say the least, Abe thought, getting uncomfortable.

  Mido was taken care of because of an accidental run-in with Zill Allah, forcing him to arrest and charge three of their members. If there weren’t other officers around, he’d probably have let them walk. But as it was, they were present, including his younger brother, Abe.

  One of those arrested was Hamza’s grandfather. While older, the man was still a very capable man. But once within the walls of Tora Prison, the eldest Abdul-Sharif was quickly dispatched by an unknown inmate, his throat slashed while he slept.

  That was the official news report anyway.

  What really happened was that Mido took the opportunity to rid himself of one of the most influential men in Cairo, having one of the guards kill the man during his late-night rounds.

  Eventually, the finer details leaked out to Hamza somehow and he went after Mido for revenge, killing him in just as brutal of a fashion. There was little evidence supporting the claim but Abe knew it was him. The slash marks easily matched two of Hamza’s prior victims, two deaths that Mido himself covered up.

  His greed led to his demise.

  It took Abe years to weed out Mido’s internal supporters from within the department and as the years went by, the city became that much more hospitable. But there were still some horrible people out there, including the younger Abdul-Sharif. He was still number one on Abe’s most wanted list. If what was happening to the Boyds was, indeed, Hamza’s doing, it might just be the link he needed to finally take him down.

  A door opened somewhere, hardening Abe’s somber face. He straightened his posture and waited for the man responsible for his mental anguish. Motion to his right caught his attention as he saw Eslam step into view. Abe’s presence stopped the man in his tracks.

  Standing still as a statue, Eslam waited for his incarcerator to make the first move. As Abe calmly lifted the telephone from its mount, Esalm made his way over and cautiously sat. Slowly, he lifted the phone on his side.

  “Abdelrahman,” Eslam said.

  “Esalm,” Abe replied.

  The next few seconds passed in silence as both men looked deep into the other’s eyes. Abe knew it would be awkward and terribly uncomfortable after all these years but he agreed that it needed to be done.

  “Hamza?” Eslam simply asked.

  Abe nodded. “And Zill Allah.”

  Eslam’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man sitting across from him. Like his, Abe’s hair was grayer than the last time they’d seen each other. Both still sported large beards, also grayer in color. Remarkably, each man could’ve been the other’s brother in another lifetime, looking like family.

  “What about them?” Eslam asked.

  “What is their endgame?”

  Eslam leaned back in his chair. “Why come to me now—after almost a decade?”

  Abe stammered through his reply. “There have been some…some new developments that may concern them.” He looked hard at him. “Historical ones…”

  Eslam’s eyes widened just a hair but it was enough for Abe to know he understood his meaning.

  “I need to know what will be found south of Menkaure’s pyramid. If it’s what’s expected, I need to know how to stop it.”

  Eslam chose his next words carefully. “As much as I’d like to help you, I can’t. I have an oath to uphold, just as you do with the law.”

  “This isn’t about your beliefs or my procedures,” Abe said, “this is about the survival of the human race. Please,” he begged, “you must tell me what they will find. There are good men going in there and I can’t cover up an excavation as groundbreaking as this. The last thing you or I need is more press surrounding our families.”

  Eslam stood and lowered the phone about to hang up. Thinking again, he raised it back to his ear. “They will only find death, Abdelrahman.”

  He again pulled the phone from his ear but paused, staring into the eyes of his son’s pursuer. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what happened.”

  “You’re sorry?” Abe asked, laughing at the ridiculousness of it. “You murdered my Sara!” He jumped to his feet, pounding a meaty fist on the metal table. It gonged, making Eslam flinch.

  “You may not believe me, or even care too,” Eslam softly continued, “but, yes, I am. While we may have been enemies, your wife was not. I do not regret my decision, only the outcome.”

  “I’m not sure you apologizing for her death while not apologizing for the attempt on mine does much good right now, Eslam.”

  “Would you trade places with her?” Eslam asked. “Or how about your son?”

  “Of course, I would.”

  “Then you understand what I would do for Hamza. Our methods are much different but our motives are not. You want my son to suffer as you have.” He leaned into the glass, looking deeper into Abe’s eyes. “Ever wonder why I came after you instead of Hamza?”

  Abe didn’t reply so Eslam continued.

  “I knew what would happen if he failed in killing you.”

  “I’d kill him,” Abe said.

  Eslam nodded, his face soft and exhausted. He then hung up the receiver and walked away, leaving Abe in shock. Had a decade in prison softened Eslam that much, or was the apology something that had been brewing in him the entire time? Could this conversation have happened years ago?

  Abe would never forgive the man for what he’d done…but he did agree with the motives behind it. Eslam, no matter how evil and murderous a man, was just trying to protect his child.

  Walking away from the partition, Abe was still stunned with what had transpired. While most of what was said was personal and off topic, there was one thing that came out of it that related to the dig.

  They will only find death.

  Excavation Site

  The site isn’t exactly what I expected. Then again, I’ve never seen a full-fledged dig before, so I’m not exactly sure what I thought I’d see. This is just a sloping hill with a staircase emerging from it. Four large construction lights surround the open earth, pointed inward, providing enough light to work by.

  “Well,” I say, looking at the armed men, “at least Abe followed through with his part of the deal.”

  The two men guarding the decline nod at us as we pass, understanding that only six people are allowed access. Dad, Ben, me, as well as Abe, Aziz, and Yasin… We are the only humans on this planet with clearance. Even the guards aren’t allowed unless there’s a conflict. It’s a surreal feeling being a part of something so small and intimate.

  “Yes and no,” Dad says, glancing to me as well, carefully shambling down the loose sand. “There’s a reason why they’re here, rememb
er. I’d rather that reason not exist at all.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Ben agrees. “Armed guards normally mean there are armed assailants lurking about.”

  Huh… I never thought about it like that.

  “Dr. Fehr!”

  The three of us stop as we approach the stairs leading down to the tomb entrance. Turning, we see two locals come into view. I’m expecting security to stop them but they don’t, letting them pass without so much as a glance.

  This must be the—

  “The Nassirs,” Dad whispers, confirming my supposition.

  “Aziz, Yasin...” Ben says. “This is Dr. William Boyd and his son, Hank. They are here from Washington and in charge of this site.”

  “You’re the American contacts at the Smithsonian?” Yasin asks, looking me up and down.

  “They are, yes,” Ben replies.

  Aziz eagerly shakes our hands, personally introducing himself to us. He’s very excited but also looks bushed. The man looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

  Yasin, on the other hand, doesn’t so much as look our way, instead, his focus is on the world around us. It’s odd behavior for sure. Aziz is super-focused and ready to go. His cousin looks distracted.

  “Expecting someone?” I ask, getting Yasin’s attention.

  “Yes, actually,” he replies, motioning to the armed men. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Never mind them,” Ben says, moving aside so Aziz can pass. “Show us what you found and then we’ll determine whether it’s safe to proceed with the excavation.” He turned but stopped, looking over his shoulder to Dad. Technically, my father is the boss but we both know Ben is better suited to take the lead on this one. Dad will act as supervisor for the most part. Ben’s personal relationship with the Nassirs will definitely make everything move along smoother.

  No reason to switch it up now.

  Thinking the same thing, Dad nods and follows close behind them. I go next with Yasin lagging behind some. He’s spooked for sure and I’m starting to get the feeling that he knows why.