The Amun Chamber

by Daniel Leston

  “I believe the answer may be simple,” he said, again assisting David to his feet. “As Sharif says, Hassan was a street-wise opportunist, a man who lived by his wits. If he chanced to see you somewhere in Cairo, his curiosity would most assuredly be piqued, don’t you agree? After all, you once provided him with a profitable transaction. I suspect he hoped you might be the source of yet another.”

  This made sense.

  “What should be of far more concern to you,” Haleem continued, “is the identity of Hassan’s associate in all this. A man of such strength—one who ruthlessly kills his own partner to better his own chance for escape—is someone I think worthy of being feared.”

  “Is this what you believe happened?”

  “It appears so, yes. The evidence speaks for itself. Lahib is out checking the streets as we speak. With any luck, he may find a witness who saw the fellow flee. And if not—” He shrugged, then looked at Sharif. “So, what do you wish done with this miserable one’s body?”

  The old patriarch gave a disdainful flick of his hand.

  “Get something to wrap him in,” he instructed. “After midnight, dump him well outside the city.” He turned back to David. “If I were you, I would take Haleem’s warning to heart, my friend.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Good. Then let me return to our other business. You said before all this you would consider my obligation to you met if I presented your case to the unnamed person on your list—and this even if the person chooses to decline any meeting?”

  David nodded.

  “Then so be it. Though I cannot guarantee the results you wish, I will speak favorably on your behalf.”

  “In light of what’s just happened,” said David, “I would’ve guessed the opposite. Why, Sharif?”

  The old man’s expression was unreadable.

  “It is conceivable you might fail in your goal,” he replied, “but I am not prepared to bet against you. Besides, my friend, should the big devil who did this continue to follow you—and your meeting be arranged—perhaps Haleem and I can use the opportunity to snare the bastard in a trap. I may be old and approaching death, but I am not lacking in pride. It offends me deeply that someone thinks he can commit murder in my home with impunity. He must be taught otherwise.” He paused. “As to any meeting, give me until this time tomorrow, and let me see what can be done. If I’m successful, then you will be contacted with all appropriate instructions.”

  * * *

  The fan-like remnants of the setting sun still clung to the desert horizon when the white citroen returned David to Gezirah Island. Despite the lingering throb in his head and neck, he felt cautiously optimistic as he crossed the lobby and pushed for the eleventh floor. Against all logic, he hoped Sharif might somehow work out a meeting, for it really did seem an impossibility. After all, why would anyone willingly admit to having been involved in the theft and selling of illicit artifacts? Still, failure wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate.

  Of more immediate concern to him was Elizabeth.

  He glanced at his watch as he got off the elevator, wondering how she took his long absence. Not very well, he imagined. He anticipated some anger, for his note really explained nothing. He sighed as he walked down the empty hall and knocked on her door. To his surprise, it was Gobeir who abruptly pulled it open, a sudden look of enormous relief covering his round face.

  “It’s David!” he shouted over his shoulder. “He’s back!”

  Elizabeth raced into his arms. “Oh, thank God you’re all right! I’ve been half out of my mind with worry!”

  She pulled him inside.

  Confused, he saw Rashidi was also here, looking equally relieved. “Ahmed, what’s going on? What happened?”

  “That’s what we want to know, Professor. Elizabeth was convinced you were abducted. Quite frankly, Dr. Gobeir and I were beginning to think the same.”

  It took only a few moments for David to fully appreciate what had transpired. It wasn’t so much the brief note that panicked Elizabeth, it was the ashtray full of unfiltered cigarette butts inside his smoke filled room. It said one or more people had waited for him all day—and after what happened last night, what else was she to conclude but abduction? Or even worse! Fearing this to be true, she phoned Gobeir in Heliopolis.

  “Needless to say,” said Gobeir, “I reached Ahmed and we drove straight over. She told us about this—this Abdel fellow. And for the life of me, old boy, I still don’t understand why the deuce you thought it necessary to hide it from us. Did you think us so squeamish we would back away from—”

  “That wasn’t the reason. But you both may want to rethink your commitment once you hear what I have to say. In fact, maybe you better all sit down for this. I’m afraid things have taken a rather ugly turn.”

  * * *

  It was a somber group that finally went down to the main hotel restaurant for a late meal. To Gobeir and Rashidi’s credit, both of them appeared willing to accept—at least for the present—Haleem’s theory, choosing to press on with the investigation. Surprising to David, even Elizabeth seemed disinclined to alter their goal. She was tougher and more resilient than he realized, for he honestly anticipated her desire to call it quits. Perhaps what kept her going, he thought, was their shared hope Sharif might actually put them in touch with someone who knew firsthand the definitive truth about her grandfather.

  By mutual consent it was decided to pair off tomorrow morning into two teams; Gobeir and David to pursue a possible Coptic connection, letting Elizabeth accompany Rashidi to the Dar al Kutub, the National Library. Rashidi had earlier developed a promising lead at Cairo University. While going through the school’s research center, he came across a lengthy paper from 1960 co-authored by the late Selim Ismail and a man by the name of Mahmoud el Badri. The surname ‘el-Badri’ was relatively common, but there could be little doubt he was the man on their list. By government law, Rashidi explained, a copy of all works published inside Egypt—along with a detailed bibliographic record of each author—must be kept on permanent file. Even if Mahoud el-Badri never published anything else, this single work should be sufficient.

  It was well after eleven when they finally called it a night.

  As tired as David felt, there remained one more task to complete.

  Back in his room, he stretched out on the bed and began his first full reading of Burkhart’s ledger. Of only one thing was he absolutely certain: the gold disk, itself, did not come from Tell El Amarna. The site made no sense from several standpoints, not the least of which was the simple fact of the site’s continual excavation up to the present day. No, he thought; the sarcophagus of Alexander the Great must’ve gone some place else. But to where? And of almost equal fascination to David was the question of just how it was accomplished. To secretly remove such a massive and revered treasure from the very heart of ancient Alexandria had to have been an extremely daunting task.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alexandria, Egypt, 71 C.E.

  Standing under the moon’s pale light, Satepihu heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction as his eyes swept over the shimmering, black waters beneath the narrow balcony of his private chambers. Amun had truly fulfilled His promise, he thought, for the annual Nile flood was already one of the highest in living memory. Though the hour was late, he could see the blessed inundation covering the summer-hot land had filled distant Lake Mareotis to capacity—and thus the wide quay leading up to the temple compound from the city’s many canals was both swollen and deep.

  More than deep enough to serve His divine purpose.

  It had taken Satepihu eight long years of struggle and planning to bring his great task to fruition. The hour was now at hand, the sacred mission he undertook for Amun close to culmination. All that remained was for him to issue his final order, setting everything into motion. To this end, he turned and stepped back into his private chambers.

  Patiently waiting for him were the three people he most treasured, the three ‘chosen ones�
�� who had labored equally long and hard towards the fulfillment of Amun’s mission. The three men sat cross-legged on the marble floor, forming an arc in front of the cushioned chair reserved for the aged High Priest. Their solemn faces—each so different in the flickering light cast by the room’s single candle—looked up at him with deep reverence as he took his place.

  Satepihu inclined his head in greeting, his eyes turning as always to Nebnefer, the young scribe who was his tireless right arm over all these long years of planning. He was the first—and unquestionably the most important—choice made by Satepihu to join him in this great endeavor. Though each man present had been carefully selected for his ability to perform a specific function, none held more critical responsibility in the overall preparations than did Nebnefer.

  “As this will be our last gathering together,” said Satepihu, “I wish to know where all our hard efforts have brought us. If any of you feel anything is not exactly as it should be, I must know tonight. Am I understood?”

  The three men inclined their heads.

  “Then I will hear first from you, Paneb. Has the work progressed as well as you anticipated when last we met?”

  “It has, master,” said the oldest of the three. Not as lean as the other two men, his face and solid arms were much darker, the result of a lifetime toiling under the hot sun. “In truth, I believe we are ahead of the schedule Amun set before us. For this, I thank Nebnefer, for the last fifty slaves he sent to me were strong and easily trained, many of them already experienced in the art of cutting stone. I am most confident that everything will be ready.”

  Satisfied, Satepihu shifted his eyes to the third man. Unlike Nebnefer and Paneb, Menna was dressed in a military fashion, his coarse woolen tunic secured around his narrow waist by a wide belt of thick leather. “And what have you to report?” he asked. “Is all as it should be?”

  “It is, master,” Menna replied, a look of self-assurance on his hawk-like face. “My men are fully equipped and ready to serve at your command. I have trained them to the very best of my ability. Nothing more needs to be done. It took these past four years to shape them into proper soldiers, but I know they can be relied upon to perform any task I set before them.”

  The High Priest nodded his approval.

  “I am well pleased,” he said, a rare smile touching his lips. “Now I would hear what Nebnefer has to tell us.” He paused. “Firstly, my young friend, tell me about the galley, itself. Has it yet left Memphis?”

  “Three days ago, master,” said the slim scribe. Though he appeared hardly more than a youth, there was no denying the strength behind his stern, ascetic features, nor the high intelligence emanating from his intense, dark eyes. “Despite its great size, the Horus was fully loaded with grain, just as you commanded. The temple officials at the Memphis granaries were surprised, but I have since been informed your orders were obeyed without question.”

  “And how soon will the Horus arrive at our quay?”

  Nebnefer made a mental calculation. “Two more days, at most,” he said. “The Nile’s current is still strong.”

  Satepihu hesitated, but only briefly. “Then let us set the time for three nights hence. Are we then agreed all is in readiness?”

  “I can think of nothing left undone, master,” said Nebnefer. “By your order, fully half of our temple priests, scribes and servants were given ten days leave to visit their families in either the city or the countryside. They were happy to comply. The ones remaining are only those I most trust. With the forty men Menna will bring in after dark, we will have more than enough people to do what must be accomplished.”

  “So it shall be done,” Satepihu said to all three men. “May Amun’s divine blessing be upon us.”

  Cairo, Egypt – The present

  Though Saturday morning began auspiciously enough, by late afternoon David’s group of four found little cause to celebrate when they again gathered to assess their day’s progress. After considerable time spent in the Coptic Museum—plus additional hours at the more modern Society of Coptic Archaeology—David and Gobeir were able to strike yet one more name from the list. As had the late Dr. Wahby, a gentleman by the name of Lewis Kader Badawi also enjoyed a long association with both of these organizations, and in fact even sat on the latter’s board of directors from 1977 until his death in 1998. A review of the files left little doubt that he was the same man who worked with Wahby at Tell El Amarna.

  As frustrating as this was, Rashidi and Elizabeth’s findings at the National Library only underscored the tragic timing of their investigation. Mahmoud el Badri, amateur archaeologist and author of many scholarly papers, had passed away only this past February at the age of ninety-one.

  Barely six months ago!

  The arrival of Sir Edward Lanier’s return fax from England only served to further dishearten them; for though it confirmed Gobeir’s speculation about a possible family relationship between the two Stewarts—brothers, as it turned out—it also stated unequivocally that both Guy and Raymond had passed away four years ago in a west London retirement home. As regards the other names in Gobier’s fax, Lanier regretted having no information to offer.

  Their list of people had dwindled to only two viable names; two lone possibilities left by which to solve the riddle of Lionel DeCaylus. Richard Bowden and Gabriella Becatti. But which of these was old Sharif at such pains to protect?

  And why?

  The beginning of the answer came at nightfall via the phone in David’s room. As before, the messenger was Yasir Haleem—and he wasted no time giving his instructions. “Please listen carefully, Professor. Can I assume you have a rented car at your disposal?”

  “I do.”

  “The color?”

  “Dark green.”

  “And how familiar are you with the Mosque of Amr Ibn al’As?”

  David paused to think. “Only the location,” he said. “Never been inside.”

  “This will suffice. There are two entrances on the enclosure’s long, north wall. By ten o’clock tomorrow morning, both you and your woman companion must be parked as close as possible to the westernmost door. It is the one with a minaret to the right of the entrance. There you will be contacted. Do you fully understand?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I think it best I go alone after what—”

  “That is not up for negotiation, Professor. In point of fact, her presence with you was specifically requested. Do you accept, or not?”

  David did.

  “Then there’s no more to say. If Allah wills—inshallah—I hope you find the answers you seek.”

  * * *

  On the following morning, a traffic-scarred municipal bus rattled and swayed its way south towards the suburb of Misr Al-Qadimah. The hassled driver, a man with twelve long years of experience, was patiently ignoring a noisy altercation between two of his many passengers. A less seasoned employee might be tempted to intervene in this minor fracas, but the veteran driver knew the wisdom of remaining aloof, choosing instead to merely monitor the situation through his rearview mirror and hope the commotion would eventually subside of its own accord.

  While taking this passive approach, he noticed a comely woman in a blue dress and matching headscarf slowly make her way towards him up the crowded aisle. In the past few years he’d come to know her well, and thus he became curious of her intention. Every Sunday morning without fail, this woman boarded his vehicle outside the north-western slum of Matariyah—and with equal consistency her destination never varied from one week to the next. So why then, he now wondered, was she coming forward fifteen minutes before her regular stop? Being a somewhat compassionate man, it crossed his mind that perhaps she was ill, or simply confused—yet she appeared to be neither as she reached his side.

  Puzzled, he asked, “Fee eh?”

  “Wa’if, minfadlak.” the woman said in a firm voice, gesturing to the side of the street. “Iftah el bab.”

  “Hena—?
” The driver stared at her, surprised by such a strange request. He knew she was a Coptic woman, so why did she want to be put off here, of all places? The nearest building of any consequence was the old mosque of—”

  “Aywa!” she insisted. “Hena, tismah!”

  Despite his policy to never make unscheduled stops, he acquiesced with a weary shake of his head. This determined imraa obviously knew what she wanted. Pumping hard on the brakes, he swung over to the curb and opened the door.

  “Mshakreen awwe,” she said, thanking him for his forbearance.

  A choking swirl of dust and exhaust fumes kicked up as the bus departed, but the woman was already walking away, nimbly adjusting her headscarf to the glaring sunlight as she hurried towards the huge, walled enclosure off to her left. To reach it she must pass through a section of low, mud brick buildings, and there was no time to waste. By her wristwatch, it was already nine-forty, leaving her only twenty minutes to reach the opposite side of the mosque.

  She paid little heed to the many vendors, shopkeepers, and barefoot children in her haste to pass through. It was a squalid area by western standards, but hardly what she called total deprivation. Real poverty was something she knew intimately, for she lived with it every day of her life. Thirty-two years old, she was a practicing nurse who worked by choice in the outlying shanty settlements of the despised Zabaleen, the uncounted immigrant people living off the city’s garbage.

  There was true poverty!

  The primitive lanes widened into actual streets as she approached the mosque’s crenulated exterior walls. Here she paused, focusing her mind on the task at hand. Her instructions were clear: locate a parked green car with two Americans inside, a dark-haired man and a woman.

  It was ten o’clock when she started down the enclosure’s north wall. As she expected, the bricked street bordering the medieval structure was almost empty of traffic. The majority of the early faithful had already departed, not to gather again until the approach of noon. Whoever fixed the hour had chosen well. Several vehicles remained parked outside the westernmost entrance, only one fitting the description. Two passengers sat inside. Without hesitation, she strode directly towards the man behind the wheel.