The Amun Chamber

by Daniel Leston

  She was persistent. He gave her that.

  “Yes, that’s correct. But you have to remember that—”

  “Then I just don’t understand how you can so readily dismiss Queen Olympia as a viable possibility.” Her tone was becoming confrontational. “In point of fact, Professor, you really have no concrete evidence that excludes her, do you?”

  This was becoming borderline insulting.

  He hesitated before answering, the impatience in his voice stemming more from the weariness of a long day than outright annoyance. “No, not solid evidence, Miss DeCaylus,” he said, no longer smiling, “just good common sense.”

  A nervous ripple of laughter swept the room. His cutting response was more instinctual than intentional—and seeing her sudden flush of embarrassment, he regretted it. She shrank into her seat, her eyes somewhat confused.

  To spare her further discomfort, he addressed his explanation to the audience as a whole. “As Queen Olympia outlived her illustrious son by a fair number of years,” he said, “it seems quite unlikely she came to share Phillip’s final resting place. Nor would it have been her wish to do so, for her hatred for Phillip is well documented. In truth, it’s even more that just probable that she was an instigating factor in his assassination. Within the context of this background, I can’t imagine her having any desire to spend eternity at his side.” A quick glance at his wrist told him it was already five o’clock, well past his scheduled wrap-up. “Now if there are no further questions, I think we should call it a day. You’ve been a very attentive audience, and I thank you for your patience.”

  Acknowledging the applause, David gathered his notes off the lectern. It had been long day, albeit one made interesting by an unexpected encounter with a name he’d almost given up on. Reminded of this, he spun and scanned the now dwindling crowd. Many had already left. Not surprising, the young woman was one of them. Well, so much for first impressions. He snapped his briefcase shut, thinking perhaps it was for the best. After all, he reasoned, what were the actual chances of her being kin to that uncooperative, old bastard in Boston, anyway?

  * * *

  It was approaching six-thirty that evening when David pulled the cassette from the dictation machine and locked the office door. With the completion of today’s presentation, his brief stay at Cornell was now over. Though all the paperwork took longer than anticipated, he considered it a necessary courtesy; Cornell’s hospitality had been nothing short of first-rate. He took a last look around, then placed the cassette and tagged key on the outer desk. The woman assigned to him from the secretarial pool had promised to type up everything in the morning and see to its proper distribution.

  Outside, the late afternoon sun dipped towards the horizon, long shadows spreading across the quadrangle. Due to enforced water conservation, the tailored lawns were fast becoming brown and parched. Since no appreciable rain had fallen since late May, this was now the longest drought in living memory. He lit a cigarette as he walked, savoring the feel of the sun’s rays on his face. The absence of all lecturing responsibilities was something of a rush, one he fully intended to enjoy. Four whole days remained before his return flight to Greece. Yet how to enjoy them? He really must devote some thought to this!

  David believed himself in reasonable shape for a man just two months shy of his thirty-third birthday. At just over six feet, he still retained a lean, athletic physique—and near as he could tell, the same full head of dark hair he enjoyed as a teenager. Unappreciated by him, for he never really considered such things, his tanned features were strong and angular, almost verging on handsome. At least, most of his women friends seemed to think so.

  His temporary on-campus residence was one of several apartments reserved for prominent, visiting alumni and university guests. As a guest-lecturer, he fell into the latter category. Dr. Richard Andrews, the current Dean of Cornell, had personally arranged for the accommodation. Being an old, family friend, he’d gone out of his way to make David’s brief stay as enjoyable as possible.

  Thinking on this, David smiled as he walked. His close relationship with Richard spanned better than twenty years, beginning when he was just a youngster growing up outside Dayton, Ohio. In a curious sort of way, it was a friendship he’d inherited through his late father. Both men had soldiered together in Nam—and when David, at fourteen, lost both his parents and younger brother in a tragic car accident, it was Richard who stepped up to the plate, basically becoming a surrogate father. He owed Richard big time. More than he could ever repay.

  The apartment building loomed ahead, reminding him there were decisions yet to be made. He butted his cigarette on the steps; then went inside, punching the elevator for the fourth floor. First up was the nagging question of what in hell he intended doing for the next four days? So make up your mind already, he chided himself. How hard can it be? When no fresh ideas leaped to mind, he shifted to a more immediate problem. What—if anything—should he do about the attractive woman in the lecture hall?

  Once inside his apartment, he began the mental process of thrashing through all pros and cons of even attempting to track her down. Since the beginning of the tour, a major goal of his was to arrange a meeting of some sort with a man named Jacob DeCaylus. So far, it was proving impossible. After one initial phone conversation, the old gentleman refused all further contact with David. He’d tried three more times over the same number of weeks, but to no avail; Jacob’s private secretary was a proverbial brick firewall. Which left this Elizabeth woman—someone he suspected wasn’t even related. And even if she was—a very big ‘if’—there was the clear problem of her age. Just how much could she be expected to know? Hell, the DeCaylus letters were written over sixty years ago!

  Yet it really was sort of weird, he admitted, her popping up like this out of the blue. And on the last day of his tour, no less! In a strange way, it was almost like—like what? Fate? He shook his head in annoyance. He didn’t believe in fate. He peeled off his jacket and tie, believing he was perhaps too tired for rational thought. What he needed was an earned time-out.

  David showered for a full ten minutes, much longer than was his habit. The pulsating spray helped rejuvenate him, peeling away the day’s accumulated tensions. With his equilibrium restored, he toweled off and sat on the edge of the bed. On impulse, he then picked up the bedside phone and dialed Richard’s number.

  After all, what did he have to lose?

  The dean’s familiar voice answered on the fourth ring. In the background were subdued voices mingling with the faint strains of the classical music his old friend so dearly enjoyed. “Sounds like your dinner party is in full swing, Richard.”

  “Davey! Hoped it might be you! I tried to catch you at your office not two minutes ago. You back at the apartment?”

  “Just got in,” he replied, grinning as he stretched back on the bed. Richard only called him ‘Davey’ after his second martini. “Sorry I couldn’t make it this afternoon. The lecture ran a bit long. Please give my apologizes to Elise.”

  “I’ll do that, of course, but we were still hoping you might find your way clear. Have you eaten yet? She says she’ll be more than happy to—”

  “Thanks again, but no. I grabbed a bite earlier—plus I still have all my packing to do.” It was only half a lie. The bulk of his packing was pretty much all done. “Tell you the reason I called, though . . . Wonder if maybe you could do me a small favor?”

  “Certainly. Just name it.”

  “There’s a woman on campus that I’m guessing is either a university guest or one of your alumni. She attended my last presentation this afternoon. Think you can help me track her down? I really would like to speak with her.”

  “I’ll do my best. Shouldn’t be too big a problem. Give me a name and I’ll have my secretary dig into it first thing tomorrow. You can pick up what I have in the morning. How’s that work for you? You haven’t changed your mind about joining me for coffee then, have you?”

  “Of course not. That name,
by the way, is Elizabeth DeCaylus. I’ll give you the proper spelling. It’s a little bit—“

  “Did you say Elizabeth was at your lecture?”

  “You know her?”

  Quite well, actually. I’m only surprised she was there today. Describe her to me. It’s most unlikely, but perhaps we’re talking about two different people.”

  He did as Richard asked.

  “No, that’s her, all right. Well, I’ll be damned!”

  David frowned into the phone. “What’s the problem? Why does her attending my presentation surprise you?”

  “Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t. She’s been doing post-graduate work towards her PHD, but pulled out of all her classes about ten days ago. Her father passed away rather suddenly—stroke of some sort, I think—and I imagine she’s having a rather tough go. No other family to speak of. In fact, if memory serves, she lost her mother when she was just a baby.”

  “Siblings?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. None living, anyway.”

  David could relate to her situation. He reached for his cigarettes. “I have to say, Richard, you never cease to amaze. Do you know this much about all of your students and alumni?”

  The older man laughed.

  “Not hardly,” he replied. “It’s just that—” he paused, “well, Elizabeth’s father was a very influential figure here at Cornell. One of our most prominent alumnus—and financially, one of our most generous, I might add.”

  It was David’s turn to chuckle. “I think I get the picture.”

  “The hell you do, Davey. We both know I’m not the mercenary bugger you sometimes like to paint me. But seriously, both Elise and I are very fond of her—which now reminds me that you really haven’t told me what your interest is in her. Or should I even have to ask? In anyone’s book, she’s a very beautiful woman.”

  “No argument there, but it goes a shade deeper. What I need to find out is whether or not she’s in any way related to an old Boston industrialist by the name of Jacob DeCaylus. You may have heard of him; apparently some kind of recluse, by all accounts. He originally started out in shipping, then branched into other fields—banking, electronics—you name it.” He hesitated, sensing something wrong at the other end. “A problem?”

  The dean cleared his throat. “Well, I guess it’s my fault, but I just assumed you knew who I was referring to. You see, Jacob DeCaylus is—I mean was—Elizabeth’s father.”

  “Her father?” Disbelieving, David sat up on the bed. “The man I’m looking for must be in his mid-eighties, if he’s a day.”

  “Nevertheless, it’s true. I do hope his passing hasn’t created problems for you. I assume you had some business with—” He stopped, clearly distracted by a woman’s voice. “Listen, can we finish this up in the morning? Elise tells me I’ve got some guests to see off. She’s already showing me her patented frown, if you know what I mean.”

  “That’s fine, Richard. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  David was slow replacing the phone. Was it really a problem—or in some macabre sort of way, a fortuitous opportunity? It could go either way. With old Jacob out of the picture, the answer now rested entirely with his daughter.

  * * *

  The piercing ring of his bedside alarm jarred David awake just a half hour after sunrise. He gave it a blank stare for several seconds; then silenced the annoyance with a stab of his hand. With reluctance, he focused his eyes about the familiar room. He still felt tired, but knew the fault was his own. After his brief phone conversation with Richard, he’d remained up until well after midnight, reading through each of the DeCaylus letters one last time as the long-awaited rain pelted noisily on his window. Now he was paying the price, he thought with a weary yawn.

  He took his time shaving, using the opportunity to mull over his situation. When finished he knew what he was going to do. The big question, however, was whether or not it made good sense? He really had to wonder.

  As far as David was concerned, the active study and practice of pure archaeology was the prime focus in his life. He couldn’t conceive of any circumstance that might change this. Archaeology was his abiding passion—source of his greatest joy—and his single-minded goal since early childhood. To this day, in fact, he recalled with perfect clarity the very moment in time when this decision was reached.

  He was only ten when it happened.

  It was a warm, spring afternoon; and on a fortuitous whim he chose to take a short-cut home over a neighbor’s newly plowed field. And there, scarcely four furrows in from the fence, he discovered something wonderful. It was a flint arrowhead, perfect in every detail with edges as sharp and true as the day it was created. The pure excitement of just holding it in his hand was unforgettable; the knowledge that he was the first to touch it in many hundreds—perhaps even thousands—of years was a feeling he would always treasure. He was hooked from that moment forward, an addiction he never regretted.

  And his career in archaeology had proved satisfying beyond words to express. Looking back, he couldn’t have wished for more. Yet for all his success over the past years, the monetary rewards of his chosen profession weren’t really that substantial—and it certainly never led to the privileged life-style he presently enjoyed. But that was where luck came into play. In truth, it was only the publication of his historical novel ‘Shadows Of The Son’ that gave him the resources and freedom to now do pretty much as he pleased. Though a first effort work of fiction—drawn from his knowledge of the ancient world—the book surprised everyone by quickly becoming an international bestseller.

  But this occurred over three years ago. Now his agent and publisher were both pressuring him hard for another manuscript. The problem was, he had nothing to offer. Nor was he sure he even wished to invest all the time and commitment it would entail. As much as he profited from his recent sojourn into the literary world, he was fast resigning himself to a simple truth: if he was ever to tackle another piece of fiction, then the historical inspiration would, of necessity, have to be very compelling.

  Like perhaps the DeCaylus letters?

  Dressed and ready, David placed the stack of yellowed papers from the bedside table back into his briefcase. Four whole months had passed since they came into his possession, yet his persistent fascination with them remained undiminished. But was their unusual premise sufficient to develop and carry an entire novel? Much more detective work was needed.

  It was still early when he loaded the last of his suitcases into the rented car. The overnight rain had degenerated into a faltering drizzle, patches of blue beginning to break through the overcast. His appointment with Richard was still two hours away, more than enough time to enjoy a hearty breakfast.

  * * *

  Dean Andrews’ comfortable, walnut-paneled office overlooked the campus quadrangle, and as he gazed out through his bay window he was clearly pleased at how the closely clipped grass was already responding to the previous night’s rain. “A very long overdue blessing, indeed,” he said aloud, swiveling his leather chair back around to face David across the polished, antique desk. “It really couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  The dean smiled appreciatively as his secretary carried in a small tray. A matronly figure of quiet efficiency, Margaret had been with him for as long as anyone could remember. After depositing their coffees on the desk, she gave David a welcoming wink before returning to the outer office.

  Andrews was a slender, aristocratic-looking man with thinning white hair. A full thirty years older than David, his rather severe, aquiline features and bushy eyebrows belied an active sense of humor. Obviously content with his life and duties at Cornell, his congenial smile was for many his most charming feature.

  David regarded him fondly as they both sipped at their coffee. “Your responsibilities here must really agree with you, Richard. What’s it been now, eleven years?”

  “Twelve, actually.”

  “Hard to believe. You don’t look any different now than yo
u did during your years at the University of Michigan. So what’s your secret?”

  “Elise,” he replied without the least hesitation. “And it’s no secret to anyone, I can assure you,” he added with a chuckle. “She tells me what to eat, when to eat; she’s even pestering me to take up tennis lessons, if you can believe it.”

  “Then she’s obviously doing a good job. Maybe next time I’m back in the States we can play a few sets.”

  Now reminded of their reason for getting together, the dean’s affable expression grew more serious. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate your inclusion of Cornell in this tour. It’s given a great boost to our archaeology department. I’m told we had to turn people away from every single one of your presentations. It must be very satisfying for you.”

  David lifted his shoulders; then let them drop. This was true, he thought, but there was a nagging suspect side to all this enthusiasm. “The turnout was very gratifying, I’ll grant you, but—” He paused, a hesitant look on his face.

  “But what?”

  “Well, I admit I sometimes questioned just who it was, exactly, that many of those people actually came to see. Was it the guest-lecturing professor? Or the recently acclaimed novelist?”

  The dean came as close to scowling as he was capable, dismissing this with a toss of his hand. “Ridiculous! They came to hear one of the leading experts in his field—and you damn well know it!” He took a second to collect himself; then added, “I can’t imagine you could even harbor such a foolish notion.”

  This was meant as a compliment, of course, and taken as such. Though he would never intentionally denigrate David’s literary success, the dean’s unspoken opinion on the subject was known; he considered it to be interesting, certainly, but peripheral in every way to the younger man’s true vocation.

  David allowed himself a proper moment of silence before changing the subject. “By the way, Richard, I should tell you I sent a fax off to Edith yesterday informing her I’m leaving all the tour material and slides with your library. We never got around to discussing it before I left Greece, but I’m very sure she’ll approve.”