The Amun Chamber

by Daniel Leston

  He reacted instinctively to Elizabeth’s screamed warning, throwing himself to the left. By doing so, he narrowly escaped the path of a bullet. Cement chips exploded from the floor, spraying fragments into his face as he rolled clear. The tall one had recovered sufficiently to retrieve the gun. Elizabeth had clearly fouled his first shot; then paid the price for her interference. Shoved forcibly aside, she lay dazed on the floor. Now Abdel’s hawk-faced henchman was again taking aim—and this time there was damn little David could do but watch as his finger tightened on the trigger.

  But it never happened.

  A sudden shattering of glass froze the man’s hand. Startled, he immediately looked up at the smashed window, only to cry out as another gun was fired, ripping a bullet into his upper shoulder. Arms flailing, he crashed backwards to the floor.

  David’s eyes were also drawn by the breaking window. Now it took a long moment for everything to register. The gunshot clearly came from the alley outside. But fired by who? This made no sense! There was no time to try figuring it out. Scrambling to Elizabeth, he lifted her bodily to her feet. She was shaken, but appeared otherwise unhurt. His first priority was to get her the hell out of here.

  He rushed her outside and bodily pushed her into the car. The lane was still empty, but this wouldn’t last. The shots were too loud to have gone unheard. He leaped behind the wheel, hurriedly thrusting the keys into the ignition. The engine caught on the first turn and he threw it into gear, tramping the accelerator. The car lurched forward, gathering momentum as he raced towards the end of the block. Without braking, he cut a hard right at the corner, the tires suddenly squealing as they left the dirt and hit solid pavement. Only then did he snap on the headlights.

  Now David was aware of a burning sensation in his side. He probed the area with his hand, finding the pain only intensified at his touch. Puzzled, he glanced down at his palm. Apparently, the first bullet came closer to killing him than he realized, for the wet smear across his hand was blood. With all his adrenaline pumping, he never felt a thing.

  Elizabeth also saw his hand.

  “Jesus, David! You’ve been shot!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Several hours later, Elizabeth remained awake in her suite, astounded at the extraordinary calm that had descended upon her. Considering all that happened, she knew she should be hysterical. Yet strangely, it wasn’t the case. Instead, part of her actually felt more alive than ever before. It was illogical, she thought, but there was no denying the sensation.

  She sat up and lit another cigarette, noting her hand scarcely trembling at all anymore. The sudden violence had initially terrified her. Now she felt merely numbed by the whole experience. Much of her recovery, she knew, was attributable to the shot of whisky David forced her to swallow in his room; not a remedy she sought; yet she appreciated the results.

  Thankfully, David’s wound proved far less serious than the profusion of blood first indicated. The path of the bullet created little more than a shallow crease under his ribcage, requiring only the application of antiseptic ointment and a makeshift bandage. In a way, she was even glad he chose not to seek a doctor, for the physical act of tending to him gave her something immediate and pressing to occupy her mind when she most needed it. Nor did she question his refusal to report any of this to the police. There was nothing to be gained, he assured her, for any kind of investigation would be meaningless, serving no practical purpose. Besides which, what possible explanation could either of them give for even being in that warehouse?

  My God! What have I gotten myself into?

  She inhaled the smoke deeply, shaking her head at all the harsh words and anger she threw at David before leaving his room. Most of it was undeserved; her nerves were frayed, her judgment clouded by the near-hysteria of almost seeing him killed before her very eyes. Most, but not all! She still felt betrayed. How dare he conclude her grandfather probably associated with thieves and smugglers—and God knows what else. It was insulting. Ridiculous!

  And if David really had been killed?

  The thought chilled her. What if that bullet—

  She crushed out the cigarette, knowing herself far too tired to reconcile all her conflicting emotions. Sleep should improve her perspective.

  * * *

  A brilliant sun was just emerging above the tawny, limestone cliffs of the distant Muqattam Hills as an agitated Hassan parked opposite the entrance of Shepheard’s Hotel. It was exactly five-fifteen when he turned off the ignition. As hoped, Heikal was nowhere to be seen. His early arrival was intentional, for he needed the extra minutes to organize his thoughts and finalize a critical decision. He had spent the past several hours driving aimlessly along the broad avenues of the east bank, struggling with the complexities of his dire situation. Now he nervously studied his reflection in the rearview mirror, assessing the damage of his long night of turmoil. Even at a glance, it was considerable; his eyes were mere reddish slits, the dark circles beneath puffy from lack of sleep. He snapped open the glove compartment and pulled out his sunglasses. With any luck, Heikal wouldn’t wonder about them. He wore them often.

  As much as Hassan wished otherwise, only two paths were open to him. And therein lay the heart of his problem, for neither was safe, each entailing terrible personal risks. Either he told Heikal immediately—or never. There was no middle ground, no room to maneuver. And once chosen, there could be no turning back. The whole thing was a fucking double-edged sword, both edges poised at his throat!

  For the past few years, Hassan’s worst nightmare was the possibility of Heikal one day discovering how he’d cheated Oristano. If Heikal ever got an inkling of the arrangement Manning made with old Sharif three years before, then it would only be a matter of time before Hassan’s involvement was revealed. And the thought of that eventuality sent icy chills up his spine. He knew how Heikal rewarded treachery; his brand of justice was always certain, always painfully lethal. Now fate seemed determined to make his nightmare come true. Looking up, he saw the big man approaching, his time expired.

  He made his decision as Heikal opened the passenger door and slid inside. Risky though it was, he’d say nothing of the professor’s near-fatal encounter with Abdel Khafaghi and his henchmen. Considering what went down, he was going to gamble everything on his belief Manning wouldn’t dare try anything so foolish a second time.

  “Let’s go,” said Heikal, gesturing with his hand. “If possible, I want to find a spot with an unobstructed view of both the Sheraton lobby and that side exit to the parking lot.” He glanced over as Hassan revved the engine and swung into the street. “I take it nothing happened after I left?”

  Hassan affected an expression of complete boredom.

  “Not a thing, Sabir.”

  * * *

  David’s phone rang mere seconds after he stepped from the shower. A quick glance at his bedside clock confirmed it was scarcely six-thirty. He wrapped a towel around his middle and sat on the bed, picking up on the forth ring. The voice on the other end surprised him. It was Ahmed Rashidi.

  “Good morning, sir. I deeply apologize for such an early call, but I was afraid I might not otherwise reach you. Have you and Miss DeCaylus made plans for today?”

  “Nothing we can’t change. In fact, I was going to give Lewis a call later this morning on the off-chance you might’ve turned something up.”

  “That’s the reason for my call. I was extremely fortunate to find Burkhart’s pay records late last night. We haven’t had much time to go through it, of course, but it appears to contain useful information. We would like to see you and Elizabeth as soon as possible, if that’s all right. Dr. Gobeir suggests we meet in the Cairo Museum.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Very good. Shall we say ten o’clock? He has the use of a small office off the North Gallery, though I suspect it may be difficult for you to locate. The easiest solution is for me to meet you at the entrance to the New Kingdom Hall.”

  “We’ll be there.”
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br />   David felt encouraged as he replaced the phone. Rashidi’s apparent reluctance to give details was understandable. But if the tone of his voice was any indicator, they’d definitely found something promising. How else was he to interpret their eagerness to get together?

  He resisted the urge to immediately dial Elizabeth. It was still too early—and God knew she needed all the sleep available after last night’s debacle. He still couldn’t believe his stupidity. The fault was entirely his. He should’ve foreseen the possibility of some kind of mix-up; after all, Bayoumi specifically warned him of trouble inside the Khafaghi family. Christ, what the hell was he thinking? Taking her was beyond just foolhardy—it was inexcusable! By rights, he could understand if she went out and booked the next flight back to the states.

  And maybe she intends doing just that!

  He would know soon enough.

  Keeping the bandage protected in the shower had been tricky, but a quick check in the bathroom mirror showed it was still relatively dry and secure. No sign of fresh bleeding. It was unlikely anyone would notice it beneath his shirt. If Elizabeth was still onboard, he must caution her against saying anything about the incident—at least for now, anyway. Getting involved in a shooting was hardly the respectable image they wanted to present to Gobeir.

  While shaving he again wondered about the shot fired from the alley window. It happened so quickly, too fast for anything more than a fleeting impression to register. Yet he did catch a faint glimpse of the man. When the gun fired, the accompanying flash was instantaneous—but damn if he didn’t experience a faint glimmer of recognition. Was it just his imagination, or had he seen that face somewhere before?

  And then there was the question of motive.

  If he understood why the man saved his life, it just might jog his memory. And one thing was certain; it was definitely no accident. Not only was it deliberate, but it was expertly done—even down to first smashing the glass to distract the man’s attention. Nor was it blind luck, in David’s opinion, that the tall one was only wounded and not killed outright. Whoever did this was clearly no amateur.

  A professional?

  He lowered his razor, considering the implication of his own analysis. All the evidence did lean in this direction. But if true, then it raised yet another question. Just who exactly was being spied on from the alley? Was it Abdel Khafaghi—or him and Elizabeth?

  * * *

  They were among the first to enter the Cairo Museum when the ornate iron gates swung open at eight-thirty. Built a full century before, the vast edifice housing Egypt’s antiquities looked every bit its age; and it was obvious even to the untrained eye the famed museum was woefully inadequate to present its enormous collection.

  They walked through the great Rotunda where statuary of the most colossal size was displayed, then proceeded from one gallery to another, slowly working their way through the many halls of treasure spanning all the dynasties of Egypt’s remarkable past. Being familiar with the museum’s innumerable artifacts, David acted as Elizabeth’s guide, steering her to those exhibits he thought would most interest her. She was noticeably impressed, but her thoughts and focus were obviously elsewhere. If he was forgiven for last night, she had yet to say it.

  More likely than not, she was still unsure, herself.

  At ten o’clock they were standing before the white marble statue of Thutmose III, Pharoah of the Egyptian empire at its zenith, when Rashidi approached through the milling crown. “So good to see you both again,” he said, shaking their hands. “May I take you to Dr. Gobeir? The office we’ve been using isn’t very big, but the museum was kind enough to put it at his disposal when he retired. Let me show you the way.”

  Considering the general overcrowding of the rest of the building, the modest room came as no surprise. If anything, its cramped aspect was even less appealing than the tiny office Omar Bayoumi called home. Lacking a window to the outside, its only source of illumination was a six-foot fluorescent fixture suspended from the high ceiling. Gobeir was waiting for them. As greetings were given, Rashidi immediately excused himself, saying he had some additional research to wrap up, the purpose of which Gobeir would shortly explain.

  “Please excuse the accommodations,” the older man said good-humoredly, “but it’s the best we have.” He ushered them towards two metal chairs arranged before an equally undistinguished desk. A large notepad and bound book lay on its worn surface. “I’ve something here you’ll both want to look over. This is Burkhart’s account ledger, covering all his site expenses right up to the second week of October 1956. And you’ll be pleased to know, Elizabeth, your grandfather’s name shows up.” He paused; opening the book to an inserted marker, then spun it around for their perusal. “Though Burkhart apparently had some difficulty with the spelling, there’s no question as to identity.”

  They scanned the names, locating ‘Lionel Dekaylas’ written in faded, blue ink. In addition, there were nine other names; five of mixed European extraction, four clearly Egyptian. Two lines below was a capsule accounting of Burkhart’s additional work force of unskilled native labor. Here the men were listed simply by quantity, in this particular week a respectable total of fifty-three diggers. Of these, the only one recorded by name was the headman, one N. Mehra.

  David raised his head. “Any chance we can get a copy of all this?”

  “I anticipated this, old boy. Understand, it’s completely against museum policy, but I managed to pull a few strings with the front office. I’m taking this over later this morning for scanning. They’ve promised me two printed copies before closing.”

  David nodded, impressed by Gobeir’s influence and connections. It obviously paid to have friends in high places. “I take it you’ve read through this already?”

  “Only once—and then rather quickly, I’m afraid.”

  “About these other nine names, are they consistent throughout?”

  “Pretty much. At least where it seems to matter.” He slid a sheet over. “Here, I wrote them down in my preliminary notes. By the way, this also tells us that Elizabeth’s grandfather only worked at the site up through the end of June, which I found to be a bit of a surprise.”

  “That is surprising,” David agreed. “Makes you wonder why he would leave a paying job, doesn’t it?”

  Gobeir lifted his shoulders. “Regarding these other names,” he continued, “my initial findings are interesting, but on the whole, less than encouraging. It looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us. Quite frankly, I hoped to identify more than just three.”

  David read through the short list. Three were underlined. Two others had notations scribbled alongside.

  Selim Ismail

  Bruno Haussman (Ger. nat’l? Unlikely)

  Gabriella Becatti

  Mohamed Wahby

  Guy Stewart (? – check Raymond)

  Lewis Badawi

  Paul Cameron

  Mahmoud el Badri

  Richard Bowden

  “These you identified, any of them still alive?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  David pulled out his own small notepad. “I’d like to start with these three, if you don’t mind. Can you give me a quick run-down on who they were? Let’s start with Selim Ismail.”

  “Very briefly, Ismail was a most remarkable gentleman by anyone’s standards. He taught for many years at Cairo University, later becoming a director for the Government Ministry of Antiquities. He died back in 1994, I believe.”

  “And Mohamed Wahby?”

  “An equally talented scholar, although not as generally well-known. His primary field of expertise was native Christian art. He had a long association with the National Coptic Museum here in Cairo before old age forced his retirement about nine years ago. He passed away a short time later.”

  “What about this Paul Cameron?”

  Gobeir’s face brightened.

  “Ah, now here we have one of those ‘interesting’ little findings I referred to earlier. For our
purposes, I believe Cameron has to be scrutinized the closest.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “When I first began reading through the ledger, I was struck by a rather curious observation. It didn’t hit me immediately—but you both look for yourselves. Skim through the weekly payrolls. See, I’ve marked the last six for you. Tell me if you don’t detect an odd little pattern.”

  David did so, sharing it with Elizabeth as he leafed through the entries made in Burkhart’s neat, methodical handwriting. After reading only four, it was apparent what Gobeir was referring to. He asked her, “Do you see it?”

  “Yes, I think so,” she replied. “It’s the positioning of the names. Cameron’s always comes just before my grandfather’s in every listing. It hasn’t varied once.”

  “That’s it exactly, my dear,” beamed the older man. “And now look again. Even though the names don’t change from one week to the next, they’re never in any particular order. It’s almost random. The only real consistency throughout is the recurring linkage between Cameron and your grandfather. Now if he made his list alphabetically, then it would make perfect sense—but this clearly wasn’t his method. The names are quite haphazard, almost as if he simply sat down and listed his people as they came to mind. So, why is it, do you think, he always put Paul and Lionel together?”

  Elizabeth picked up on his logic immediately.

  “Because they were close friends? It has to be, right? Burkhart considered them almost as a single unit. When he thought of one, the other immediately came to mind.”

  “That’s the only explanation I could come up with—and I think the proof of this is the first pay week in July. Take a look.”

  David found the page. Not only was Lionel gone, but so was Cameron’s name. “They left the excavation at the same,” he said aloud. “Yes, I’d say it’s pretty convincing evidence.” He paused. “So how much do you know about Cameron?”

  “Quite a bit, actually. He taught history for a period at the American University. Mind you, I won’t pretend we had anything more than a passing acquaintanceship, but it doesn’t surprise me at all to learn he once worked at Tell El Amarna. Field archaeology was never his area of expertise, but I know it held a fascination for him.” He stopped to pull a book from his desk drawer. “Here, I borrowed this from our library before you arrived. As you can see, Cameron was an authority on Egypt’s ancient beliefs and religious practices. I believe he authored a few other books, as well, but the subject matter was the same.”