The Amun Chamber

by Daniel Leston

  It was entitled ‘The Gods of Ancient Egypt’, and a quick glance at the inside cover told David it had a single printing in 1952. “But you say he’s now dead, right?”

  “Regrettably, yes. The poor chap died about a dozen years ago. A cancer of the throat, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Did he leave any family?”

  “That I can’t say. He was a widower when I knew him. About any children, I just don’t know. But it’s certainly something we’ll have to check out.”

  Yes, David thought, they did have their work cut out for them.

  He set the book aside and looked again at the list of names. “According to this, Lewis, we’re down to six unidentified people. I see you made a notation beside the name Bruno Haussman. ”

  “Oh, you mean about him not likely to be a German national? Just a little deductive reasoning on my part. Considering the dig site was Tell El Amarna, it seems unlikely this fellow was a German citizen—you know, what with the Borchardt uproar and all. I’m reasonably certain our government’s prohibition on German archaeologists was still in effect at the time. Therefore I’m assuming he was either an American or British citizen.”

  “Good point. Now what about—”

  “Wait a second,” interrupted Elizabeth. “A prohibition on German nationals? What’s all this mean?”

  Gobeir apologized by saying, “That was inconsiderate of me. I should’ve explained it better, my dear. You see, Tell El Amarna has attracted its share of looters and scoundrels for over a full century. And the most notorious among these—at least as far as Egypt is concerned—was a man by the name of Ludwig Borchardt, the founder and first Director of the German Institute of Archaeology. Back in 1912, when the site was still relatively unexcavated, Borchardt unearthed the now world famous bust of Queen Nefertiti. So entranced was he by the masterpiece, he chose not to inform the Egyptian authorities. Instead, he secretly smuggled it back to his native Berlin. When this got out, all German archaeologists were banned from working inside Egypt.”

  “I see,” said Elizabeth, “Is that part of the reason the Antiquities Department was so sensitive to rumors surrounding the Burkhart dig?”

  “Yes, I suspect it played a part.”

  While listening to this exchange, David used the opportunity re-copy the names onto his own notepad. Now he wondered about Gobeir’s other notation. “You have a question mark written beside the name Guy Stewart—that and the name ‘Raymond’. What’s this mean?”

  “Again, more speculation. Though the name Guy Stewart means nothing to me, I’m fairly certain I’ve run across the name Raymond Stewart before. And unless I’m dead wrong, it had something or other to do with Tell El Amarna. It might well be nothing, but I thought it worth having Ahmed check out. He’s been on it since six this morning. Quite frankly, I expected him back by—” He stopped, pivoting in his chair as Rashidi opened the door. “Well, and speak of the devil. Your timing is excellent, Ahmed. I was just explaining what you were up to. So then, was I right about Raymond Stewart?”

  Rashidi looked decidedly pleased with himself. “Absolutely, sir. It seems we may have our first break.”

  “That’s what I like to here. Come, pull up a chair and tell us.”

  He quickly did so. “You were quite correct, sir, about a ‘Raymond’ Stewart connection to Tell El Amarna—but not about it being in the context of archaeology. At least not technically, anyway . . .”

  “Really? Explain.”

  “Well, I went through all the earlier Tell El Amarna excavation records I could find—Petrie, Pendlebury, just to name a few—and came up empty. It was only then I came across a museum survey map someone had slipped inside one of the boxes. It was dated 1958 and produced by a Raymond Stewart. It seems he worked strictly as a survey engineer, regularly employed by the museum to better understand the dimensions and topography of all our better-known sites.”

  “So, if he was hired by us, then we must have detailed paperwork on him, right?”

  Rashidi shook his head.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. That’s what I also assumed. I checked it out. The reason is he was hired ‘on loan’, so to speak, through a London based agency, one recommended by the British Department of Antiquities. They’re the ones who will have all his personnel records.” He smiled. “But with all your contacts in England, we should be able to establish fairly quickly whether or not Guy and Raymond are related.”

  “Good work, Ahmed,” said Gobeir. “We can get a fax off to my old school chum, Sir Edward Lanier, before the day’s out. He still heads up their advisory board as far as I know.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “And let’s also include the names Haussman, Becatti, and Bowden, as well. Lanier doubtless has access to all his department’s sponsorship and funding records, so there’s no telling what else he might come up with.”

  “You don’t want to include the Egyptian names?”

  “No, I think not. Let’s not overload the old fellow unnecessarily—at least not until we’ve had a chance to explore all the possibilities ourselves here in Cairo.” He paused; then looked at David. “All of this with your permission, of course.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me, Lewis. For myself, I’d like a shot at the American University’s early faculty lists. You have any contacts there?”

  “Indeed, yes. I take it you’re thinking about the Cameron connection. That would be a logical first step. I’ll put in a call right now to their Personnel Director and see what can be arranged.”

  “We’ll need a plausible cover story.”

  “I imagine so,” mused Gobeir. “Something relatively straightforward, I should think. No sense giving away any more than we need to.” He considered for a second, then said, “Why don’t I say we’re collaborating on some sort of historical paper? You can always elaborate as you see fit once you’re there.”

  “Good enough.”

  Satisfied, the older man swung his attention back to Rashidi. “Which now leaves Selim Ismail’s many years at Cairo University. What do you think, Ahmed? Is this something you’re best suited to pursue? It is your alma mater . . .”

  Rashidi agreed.

  “I can head right over as soon we’re done putting the fax together. As to the university, they know me well enough, so I shouldn’t have any problems. If necessary, I can always fall back on the same cover-story.”

  “Then we have our start. I see no reason why we can’t—”

  “There’s just one more thing, Lewis,” said David. “A favor, actually. Do you happen to have access to a private safe?”

  “Not here, no. I do have one in my study at home.”

  “Then we want you to put the disk in it for the immediate future.” He extracted the case from his pocket and handed it over. “Unless you have a better idea, we don’t know any other way to protect it.”

  “I haven’t really thought on it, but I suppose it only makes good sense, doesn’t it? Now getting back to what I was saying—”

  “Aren’t you boys forgetting someone?” interrupted Elizabeth. “Surely there must be something I can do to help?”

  Gobeir chuckled as he removed his reading glasses.

  “My dear, I can’t tell you how happy I am you asked. In fact, I was rather hoping to enlist your assistance right here in the museum library. I’ve already earmarked a fairly extensive list of source material and related matter that needs looking into—and these old eyes of mine need all the help they can get. It’s a laborious task, but very necessary if we’re to track down and identify these six people. Ahmed can set you up right now, if that’s acceptable? I’ll join you there as soon as I’m able.”

  “My pleasure, Lewis,” smiled Elizabeth. “I’m ready to go.”

  * * *

  While Gobeir placed his call to the American University, David paid a quick visit to Bayoumi’s office on the off chance his friend might recognize one of the names. It would be unlikely, but he saw no harm in trying; their relationship was such that the Assistant Curat
or wouldn’t press for explanations when none was forthcoming.

  Not unexpectedly, Bayoumi drew a blank.

  He did, however, offer an interesting observation on the long career of the late Dr. Mohamed Wahby. Although Wahby’s association with the National Coptic Museum was a matter of public record, his contributions towards the staffing of the fledgling Society of Coptic Archaeology had gone largely unheralded. Back in the fifties and sixties, the careers of many young Egyptian archaeologists benefited from his experience and guidance. Might not Lewis Badawi or Mahmoud el Badri be among these? It was Bayoumi’s suggestion a search of the latter organization’s membership records might prove worthwhile.

  David thanked him for the promising lead; then left before his friend thought to inquire about the coppersmith, Zahir. The altercation with Abdel Khafaghi would have to remain an awkward secret for the time being.

  Back in Gobeir’s office, he learned his appointment at the American University was set for one o’clock. It was already noon, but their campus bordered the southern edge of Tahrir Square, scarcely a quarter mile away. Having time to spare, he told him of Bayoumi’s idea concerning the Society of Coptic Archaeology. Gobeir listened with interest, yet gave the distinct impression of being less than enthusiastic.

  Curious as to why, David asked, “Is there something about this that bothers you? You look doubtful.”

  “Doubtful? Why, not a bit, old boy. On the contrary, I think it’s a very good idea. If anything, I’m only sorry I didn’t think of it myself.”

  He wasn’t completely convincing.

  “You sure that’s all, Lewis?”

  Gobeir hesitated a brief moment, then said, “Well, to be honest, I guess I’m just a little surprised you brought someone else into this. The decision is entirely yours to make, of course—and please don’t take me wrong, for Bayoumi is certainly a very fine and learned man.”

  David saw the misunderstanding.

  “Lewis, it’s not what you think. Omar knows absolutely nothing about the gold disk. He’s just a valued friend. I wouldn’t think of revealing any of this to him—or to anyone else, for that matter—until the four of us have a chance to resolve everything to our complete satisfaction. Believe me, I’ve no illusions about what would happen if word of the disk ever gets out.”

  Gobeir appeared relieved to hear this. And more than a little embarrassed.

  “I really am sorry,” he apologized. “I should’ve assumed as much, and not leaped to so hasty a conclusion. Please forgive me. Like you, David, my deepest concern is we keep a firm lid on all this for as long as possible.”

  “No problem. My sentiments exactly.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Even though it was the traditional Muslim day of rest, David found the wide boulevards branching out from the heart of the city as congested as ever. Despite the intense heat, he drove with the window closed, for the air was replete with the choking fumes given off by cheap-grade petrol. As always, the packed vehicles were a mixture of both ancient and modern, everything from humble donkey carts and battle-scarred buses all the way up to the most expensive European cars. Typically, all drivers displayed their natural disregard for pedestrians as they aggressively competed for right-of-way.

  A block south of Tahrir Square, he turned left onto Sharia Shaykh and quickly spotted Ewart Memorial Hall, the famed concert theater that served as the American University’s main entrance. From there signs in both Arabic and English directed him into an empty lot. By his watch it was exactly one o’clock when he parked and walked into a modern, brick building.

  The university’s Personnel Department occupied the entire left wing of the first floor, much of it laid out in the contemporary open-sided cubicles currently passing for offices. At first glance, all appeared deserted.

  “Anyone here?”

  A rather casually dressed young man of about twenty popped up from behind a dividing partition; then attempted a more businesslike appearance by brushing down his rolled shirtsleeves. “I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, using his fingers to tidy his hair. “How may I help you, sir?”

  David introduced himself.

  “Ah, then you’re the American gentleman working with Dr. Gobeir. I was told you’d be around.” He shook David’s hand, smiling. “I’ve been instructed to assist you in every way possible. As you can see, there’s little activity here Friday afternoons. If you wish to begin, please consider me at your service.”

  David opened by requesting a copy of the university’s faculty list, beginning in 1945 until the year 1970, an arbitrary cut-off point inserted to save time. If any of the names were to show up, it surely would by then. The young man complied with a complete printout, plus personnel’s master file on the late Paul Cameron. The latter couldn’t be photocopied without written authorization, but this presented no problem.

  His next request wasn’t so easily met, for no similar listing of the university’s graduates prior to 1958 was ever entered into their computer records. The data existed, he was told, but would have to be reviewed manually off reels of microfilm. Again, he picked an arbitrary year, asking for the reels that went back to 1935.

  While his eager helper sought out the material, he selected a desk near an open window and began perusing Cameron’s file. Born in 1929, he had degrees from Edinburgh University and King’s College in London, qualifying him to teach philosophy of religion as well as archaeology. A curious combination, he thought, but hardly pertinent to their investigation. Of more interest were the two entries in his Personal Data Form. For his place of residence he’d given an address on Sharia Nubar, S.W. Lazughi Square—and then listed a dependent daughter named Ruth Anne Cameron. Bingo! The entry was dated 4/13/53 and never updated. Presumably this meant the information remained valid throughout the rest of his tenure.

  Encouraged, David now turned his attention to the faculty list printout, mindful of the possibility Lionel’s surname might not be the only one misspelled in Burkhart’s ledger. But nothing remotely close to the six ‘unknowns’ in his notepad showed up. He set the computer sheets aside as the young man returned with a portable microfilm reader and a box of films.

  This part wasn’t going to be easy.

  It was fast closing on four o’clock when he finally inserted the last reel and began advancing the film. The scanning of each took much longer than anticipated, the myriad of names eventually becoming a tedious blur. With no success up to this point, he felt tempted to call it quits. He’d actually done well. After all, not only did he established Cameron left a daughter, but he also had both a name and a—Whoa! That’s when he saw it. Momentarily unsure it wasn’t a trick of his tired eyes, he blinked and looked again. But there was no mistake.

  He waved his helper back over.

  “Something I can help you with, Professor?”

  “Tell me, does the university still keep personal data files on its early graduates?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, there’s one I’d like to look through.”

  “Just give me a year and a name and I’ll—”

  “1957.”

  “And the man’s name?”

  “It’s a woman. Gabriella Becatti.”

  * * *

  It was fifteen minutes past closing when David finally arrived back at the museum. He drove around to the west side and parked in the lot reserved for employees. Alerted by Gobeir to his possible late return, the security people admitted him without any hassle.

  He found Gobeir and Elizabeth concluding an equally tedious afternoon in the library offices. Each looked tired and disappointed, for their painstaking search through the archive material unearthed virtually nothing of any relevance. How Rashidi faired at Cairo University was yet to be learned. Gobeir expected him back at any time.

  David told them of his findings. In his opinion, the only real glimmer of hope lay in his discovery that Cameron had a daughter. “If he and Lionel were the close friends we believe,” he said, “then she might b
e able to tell us what went on during those few months and weeks. Assuming, of course, she’s still alive. She might well not be.”

  “And also assuming,” cut in Gobeir, “Ruth was even in Egypt in the first place. Remember, Paul was a widower—and probably was back when he moved here from England. Not to throw a wet blanket on this, but what’s to say he even brought her? Leaving a child in the relative safety of England wouldn’t have been uncommon in those days.”

  “I don’t think he did,” said David. “I mean, what would be the point of listing a next of kin without entering where he or she could be found? Logically, the only answer is a second address was unnecessary. She was right here with him in Cairo.”

  Gobeir saw his point. “And what about the address he did give?”

  “A dead-end. It was on Sharia Nubar, off Lazughi Square. There’s nothing there now but blocks of government buildings. Near as I can tell, Cameron’s residence was roughly where the Ministry of Finance now stands.”

  The old scholar sighed, pinching his lower lip. “So much for that then. We’ll just have to give this a lot more thought.”

  Elizabeth asked, “And you say there’s nothing useable on this Becatti woman?”

  “I wish there was,” replied David, “but like Cameron, her home address is next to useless. She lived in the old Imbabah section of the city, but that area of the west bank was transformed into concrete office and apartment blocks well over thirty years ago. The major focus of her studies was Egyptology, but unless she applied her training towards a career of some kind, I’m afraid it’s going to be a bastard finding her.”