Masks of the Lost Kings (Suzy da Silva Series)

by Tom Bane

  Its two arms bore the head of Sekhmet, the lioness god, her calm gaze representing the two eyes of Ra, the Sun god. For a few moments Suzy couldn’t move, then she leaned forward and peered at it so her nose almost touched it. No one else took any notice of her, all of them equally enthralled by the many treasures laid out before them. This gave her the chance to examine the back of the throne, without becoming a distraction herself. On the back-plate behind the ornate gilt carving of the lion paw feet and decoration, was a scene of Tutankhamun and his young bride, Ankhesamun, both wearing feathered headdresses beneath the rays of the Aten sun-disk. Suzy moved away from the throng at the front and scanned the back of the throne. There, in plain view, was the name of Tutankhaten, the boy-king’s original name, before he changed it to assuage his critics and curry the favor of the powerful Amun priesthood. So the Sun Cult had not been entirely dead, she mused. With the throne placed against a wall, and his courtiers unable to see the back, his original name was kept alive but as a carefully guarded secret. This also helped explain the oblique reference to the lion, which Suzy had read about. From the earliest of times, a lion’s mane had been associated with the rays of the sun. So even though Tutankhamun changed his name to venerate the moon, the Sun Cult of his father was still alive and well. Suddenly the boy king seemed rather more complex than his youthful innocence suggested.

  Excited by these subtle but deliberate solar references, Suzy moved to the next display case. Here she studied the ecclesiastical chair and, again, hidden on its backrest, there was the sign of the sun disc again. This time it was surrounded by fifty-two upright serpents, theorized to represent the weeks of the year.

  While sitting above the clouds in the Horus executive jet, Suzy had been revising her knowledge of Cairo’s artifacts. She knew there were at least 1,700 items on display just from the tomb of Tutankhamun, so now that she was actually here, she had to be selective and stay focused on the most important ones. After consulting another wall map, she headed next along the upper corridor to the last room at the middle of the block, Room Three.

  In front of her was one of the twentieth century’s most famous sights. From behind thick security glass, the golden death mask of Tutankhamun looked out at those who faced it, vivid in detail and reflecting its own laser-like light.

  People were huddled together in front of the mask, jostling for a better view. Unable to get near, Suzy walked round to the rear of the mask. From behind it looked like a cross between a lion’s mane and a bee’s tail, with a sting where the nemes headdress came to a pointed tail. There were inscriptions all around the collar from the Egyptian Book of the Dead. Finding a space at the front of the mask display, Suzy stared hard, losing all sense of passing time, transfixed by the beauty of the three thousand-year-old face before her. As she looked, she thought of part of the mysterious message that Professor Logan had sent her.

  Where the feathered snake crosses, lies the numbers of the Gods, the Lord’s number, a human number.

  The feathered snake was a Mayan god called Quetzlcoatl, but she noticed that, on Tutankhamun’s death mask, the nemes headdress bore the vulture and the serpent. Perhaps that was an allusion in the cryptic message. Suzy pressed her nose up against the security cubicle to get a closer look, not realizing that her breath was steaming up the glass.

  “Madam, please step back,” a guard ordered, his voice snapping her from her trance. She was sure there was a secret hidden within this fabulous gold mask but she could not figure out what it was. And even with her simple scarf disguise, she couldn’t risk hanging around long enough for Getsu to catch up with her.

  Over the guard’s shoulder she thought she caught a glimpse of a slight figure sidestepping behind a pillar. She drew back through the crowd to get a better view but a group of busy tourists blocked her path. Elbowing her way through the mass of bodies, she hurried back down the corridor. The sight of the back of a man’s head with black cropped hair passing through the west wing exit sparked her gaze. He looked Japanese. Was it Getsu, she wondered. Prowling like a cheetah through the long grass of the crowds, she reached the door, another herd of tourists were pushing their way in. The echoing mayhem of different languages was distracting. If it was Getsu, he had certainly chosen the best cover. Then she saw him, sporting a baseball cap.

  “Aha!” She cried, pouncing and swiping his cap from his head.

  A startled young Japanese man whirled around and frowned at her. Shit! She scolded herself and returned his cap to him. All the eyes in the room turned round to meet hers, alarmed by her antisocial behavior. She needed to make a quick exit.

  She hurried back out into the fresh air of the square beneath the palm trees and, sitting on a wall, took several deep breaths through the fine mesh material of her scarf. The heat of the day was already beginning to build. She reflected on what she’d seen in the museum and felt a little disappointed that she hadn’t been able to spot anything out of the ordinary about Tut’s death mask. Maybe her hunch was wrong and there were no more secrets hidden there.

  After a few minutes she patrolled around the museum’s perimeter hoping for inspiration, but nothing came to her. Instead she still felt that creepy sensation that she was being watched all the time. She didn’t care what the professor said; she couldn’t put up with this tension any longer. She had to get out of Cairo. Going to the airport seemed too obvious and anyway she would then have to show her passport. No, she couldn’t risk the airport. She needed to find another route out of the city.

  Pulling her veil over her face, Suzy made her way to the metro train, heading down the stairway to the shiny platform, she headed for one of the designated women-only carriages. Inside the underground metro was as cool as an autumn breeze, a welcome respite from the dusty heat, she sank into her seat as the reassuring hum of the train engine increased and the tunnel lights whizzed by like comforting fireflies, she forced her eyelids to resist the temptation to fall asleep to the gentle rocking motion. She was heading for the Sayeda Zeinab Mosque, having consulted her guidebook that it was the only mosque exclusively for women. She could then make an escape knowing that no man could follow her.

  Six feet away, Getsu watched her from beneath the black veil of a full-length cotton burka. He looked like any other anonymous, devout Muslim woman. His training made it second nature not just to follow unobserved but also to pick up on his quarry’s emotions and he sensed her intentions.

  Within twenty minutes, Suzy was asleep beneath the water table of Cairo, juddering through the twisting tunnels of the city’s underground railway. Not for the first time, her combination of Muslim veil and western cargo pants drew curious, sometimes disapproving stares. By the magic of serendipity she woke up at her stop, almost catching her bag as the train’s doors slammed shut. She was relieved to see no other passengers on the platform, apart from a few Muslim women chastely concealed in black burkas.

  Climbing the steps of the metro, she reached a grandiose square dominated by the wailing overtures of the loudspeaker mullah and the towering white minaret of the Mosque, a smorgasbord of Versace, Chanel and Givenchy perfumes filled the air, as the womenfolk of Cairo did their best to elevate their status despite their conservative clothing. Suzy wandered through the crowds attracting some bemused downward glances, realizing that discretion was required, Suzy added a wrap-around skirt to her wardrobe to hide her boots and pants, she passed a cluster of begging children and, without thinking, handed some coins to them. Like a gaggle of geese, she dashed across the square followed by a V-line of tiny children, all clamoring for more. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, she ducked down a side street alongside the mosque to give them the slip, but it wasn’t that easy. The children followed one by one, glued to her every footstep and all talking to her at once. How could she get rid of them? A cheesy looking stall displaying row upon row of contraband “DEZINER TRAINERS” and fake Rolexes gave her a bright idea. She hunted for a pair of pump trainers that looked the right size, paid for them and then called ove
r one of the bigger boys. Realizing he had been selected, the others fell away in search of fresh prey.

  Suzy gave the boy her backpack, telling him in her stumbling Arabic that she would return in thirty minutes with baksheesh. He looked keen enough but she knew she was taking a risk as she walked away, leaving him with all her worldly possessions, tucking the new trainers inside her loose shirt as she went. The women’s entrance to the mosque led to the mausoleum of the granddaughter of the prophet, Mohammed. Women came to the mosque to seek her baraka, her blessing, in matters of fortune and health.

  The mausoleum lay to the west of the mosque, surrounded by a gilded, yellow copper enclosure and topped with an unusual tin dome. The guard checked her up and down and asked her to remove her desert boots, leaving them on the steps with everyone else’s.

  Inside the mosque, the quiet and serenity provided a blanket of calm. Light filled the round central atrium and Suzy felt safe, tempted simply to stay there, hiding from the world. After taking in the view, she looked around for possible ways out. The place was vast and there were doors everywhere. She poked around for several minutes, but every doorway seemed to lead back into the central atrium, like all roads lead to Damascus. After what seemed an eternity, she found a promising side courtyard that seemed unattended. Taking the trainers out of her shirt, she pushed her feet inside, tore off her cheap skirt and testing out her new soles, bounced on top of a waste bin. Reaching to grip the top of the stone wall, she heaved herself up and dropped over the wall into the side street, landing on the balls of her feet.

  She looked around and was surprised to find it was the same street where she had left her backpack with the boy. Her bag was still there, but there was no boy standing guard. Her heart sank. Had she lost everything? She snatched it up and rummaged through it, surprised to see that her belongings were still inside. How strange. The street was virtually empty so she laid some coins under a rock, hoping the boy would return for his surprise later. Walking back, she emerged into the main square just as a large coach pulled up. The destination board proclaimed, “Luxor.” What great luck, her guardian angel was watching over her. She climbed in, followed by a woman in a black burka, and the driver waited until they had found their seats. The doors hissed shut and the bus cruised out of Cairo in air-conditioned comfort. Exhausted, Suzy closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was dark when the coach halted outside Luxor’s Sheraton Hotel. Someone shook Suzy’s shoulder and she awoke with a start to see the driver standing beside her seat, looming over her and blocking her exit. He reeked of stale sweat and tobacco. She flinched, and then bolted upright, blinking away sleep. Looking around, she realized everyone else had left; she was the only passenger left. She tried to stand up but the driver put out a hand and jammed her back into her seat. There was no one outside the window on her side of the coach.

  “You pay now,” he said, pushing his open palm up under her face. “You pay.”

  “OK,” Suzy said, pushing him away. “I’ll pay you.”

  He stood back for a moment and grinned as he watched her fumbling in the tight pocket of her pants before pulling out one of the twenty-dollar bills Horus had sent her. He took it from her and held his hand out again.

  “More.”

  Suzy pulled out one more note and gave it to him. She didn’t mind paying a bit more. And she hadn’t expected to get a free ride, but she didn’t like the way he was threatening her. He took the note from her and held his hand out again.

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  “No,” Suzy said, taking a firm grip of her bag and standing up. “Too much.”

  The man held his ground, puffing his chest up and pushing his bulging stomach against her, trying to force her back into her seat. Suzy was ready and, with one deft foot sweep, she sent him flying back into the seat opposite, gasping for breath. Without a word she turned, walked off the bus and entered the hotel.

  “Where’s the bar?” she asked a woman behind a customer service desk.

  “The Nile terrace bar is just that way, Madam,” the woman said, giving Suzy’s scruffy clothes a disparaging look before fixing her best customer service smile across her face.

  Suzy walked straight through to the lounge and sank into one of the comfortable seats in the corner furthest from anyone else, grateful for the low lighting, which made her less conspicuous among the other well-dressed drinkers. A semi-circle of cushioned sofas and chaise longues surrounded a jazz pianist who tinkled out a low melody and everyone was talking in muted voices like a Harlem speakeasy. A central glitter ball sent splashes of moving light onto the walls and bouncing off the ormolu wall mirrors.

  “Good evening, Madam.” A waiter materialized beside her, placing a drinks mat and a bowl of Kalamata olives on the table. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “A caipirinha, please,” she said, wondering if the barman had ever even heard of this classic Brazilian cocktail.

  “Certainly, Madam.”

  She stared through the darkened glass windows toward the peaceful waters of the Nile, fringed with evening revelers sitting at the beach bar. The moon seemed to be glowing red, probably from all the desert sand in the skies. How nice it would be to be on holiday and able to relax and enjoy such a beautiful view in peace.

  “Your caipirinha, Madam,” the waiter said as he set down the glass in front of her, “with fresh lime.”

  Taking tiny sips of the impeccably mixed drink, time flowed by like the great river Nile, and she was able to think through her next steps. The first priority was to get a room for the night. If she booked into a hotel like this, she would have to produce her passport, but that shouldn’t be a problem; no one here would connect her name with the visit to the pyramids nearly five hundred miles away. It would also use up a lot of the cash the Horus Company had given her, but she didn’t feel like tramping around the streets of a strange city late at night looking for somewhere cheaper. If Horus complained about her extravagance then she would have to find a way to pay them back later.

  Leaving some money on the table, she made her way out to reception and booked herself a room, paying cash up front. As she waited to be given her key she saw the headline on an English language evening paper lying on top of the desk: Intruders Raid Great Pyramid! Police Call for Witnesses.

  She averted her gaze, not wanting to draw anyone’s attention to the story. She wondered why there was no mention of any murders. Perhaps the police were keeping it low-key at this stage. In her anxiety she remembered the boots she had left in the mosque, and imagined another headline, “Murdering Archaeologist Ditches Bloodstained Boots at Sacred Mosque”—that would be considered highly offensive. The receptionist interrupted her thoughts, handing her a key and wishing her a good stay. Having secured her bed for the night, she realized she was hungry and decided to go out into the streets to see if she could find something cheap to eat.

  The night air was still as hot as a blowtorch, as she waltzed out of the hotel, relieved to see that the bus she’d fought her way off had disappeared. It seemed the Sheraton was bang in the center of this temple town. Looking around, she could see the top of the giant stone columns of the Temple of Luxor just yards away.

  Although Luxor’s waterfront had been spruced up for the tourist trade, once off the main street, the pretense gave way to peeling paintwork and crumbling back alleys, clumps of sagging electric cables and buzzing transformers looked like any other anonymous town. Most shops were still open and several cafés had spread their tables and chairs out along the streets, selling food, drink and sugar dolls. The dolls were cast out of pink sugar and came in two shapes. One was a horseman with his sword raised, modeled on Antar, a legendary Arab hero, or more likely the ancient falcon-headed god, Horus. The other figure was a lady with a conical base, a tight waist, bulging breasts and hands on hips. She wore a crepe skirt and a circular paper hat, a disc that surrounded her like a halo.

  Suzy didn’t like the idea of sitting at
any of the cafés and bought some food from a stall so she could eat as she strolled around, taking a diversion through the giant sandstone colonnades of the temple of Luxor, built in honor of Amun in the fourteenth century BC by Amenhotep III. Carved reliefs had been added several decades after Amenhotep’s death, during the reign of Tutankhamun, showing the boy-king at Karnak temple praying in front of the gods’ceremonial boats. These would then have been raised on poles and carried, accompanied by much singing and clapping, to the temple gate. At that time, Karnak was linked to the Nile by a canal and the ceremonial boats were put on riverboats and towed to Luxor, helped by a crowd who pulled ropes along the shore. After studying the carvings for ten minutes, Suzy had finished her supper and walked back to the now bustling streets.

  The further she got from the hotel, the more thronged the streets became and she noticed an air of celebration all around her. It wasn’t until she had decided to make her way back to the Sheraton that she realized there actually was a carnival underway. Nervous-looking security forces had started to appear in the midst of the rowdy crowd, but they seemed to be losing control of the proceedings. The noise was building and Suzy felt herself shoved from behind.

  “Quick,” someone shouted, “here they come.”

  The crowd surged forward harder. The black-uniformed police blew their whistles and the crowd blew theirs. Cheers erupted and a procession began to move, floats and tractors, trucks and jeeps appearing at the end of the street, all decked out in honor of the town’s patron saint. Then a tractor turned the corner pulling something with a sail. As it drew closer, Suzy struggled to the front of the crowd to get a better look. The wooden boat being carried around the town was just like the drawings she’d seen in the temple, complete with sail. It was a scaled-down version of the lateen-rigged Nile boat, used since the time of the pharaohs. Raised up on wheels, it was being towed past her. Behind she could see two more boats carrying a horde of children. Sweets were being thrown to them from the crowds.