The Amun Chamber

by Daniel Leston

  “I’m Sister Leila Mahfouz,” she informed him in English, “and I believe you’re expecting me. I’ve been instructed to serve as your guide this morning.” She opened the rear door. “May I?”

  “By all means,” said David. “Can you tell us where we’re going?”

  “The Monastery of St. Mercurius,” she answered, sliding in. “And we really should hurry. Mother Ghali is not someone who likes being kept waiting for—” She stopped, momentarily silenced by the two startled faces that now spun around and stared at her. “What is it?” she asked. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Did you say . . . Mother Ghali?

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The . . . Mother Ghali?”

  The nun smiled.

  “To the best of my knowledge, there is no other. Forgive me, for I assumed you both knew. And we don’t wish to keep her waiting. Although there are many who believe her a living saint, I can attest that patience is not one of her many virtues.”

  * * *

  The venerable Monastery of St. Mercurius encompassed three ancient churches; it’s enclosed grounds situated in Misr al-Qadimah, the longest settled area in all of Cairo. Bordered on the north by a vast tract of Christian cemeteries, the medieval complex was encircled by a high, mud-brick wall with only one entrance accommodating both tourists and worshippers alike.

  Following Sister Leila’s directions, they drove inside and parked amongst a noisy gathering of dusty taxis and off-loading buses. Here the nun ushered them through the recently restored Church of the Virgin, bringing them out to a very small—and clearly very private—gated courtyard adjoining a sizeable convent. Inside, a slight figure in an antique wheelchair waited for them; and it took only one look to slow David and Elizabeth in their tracks, for few people in the civilized world could fail to recognize the silver-haired woman known to virtually tens of millions as the Angel of the Zabaleen.

  “My God, it really is her,” whispered Elizabeth in shock. “David, this has got to be some kind of crazy mistake!”

  He didn’t believe so. On the contrary, as he approached the elderly woman he recalled Sharif”s words. A person held in the very highest respect; someone whose confidence he would never violate.

  Now it all made perfect sense.

  “Good morning, Professor Manning,” said Mother Ghali in a clear and strong voice. She extended a slim, arthritic hand, her pale gray eyes sparkling in the bright light. Though her sun-darkened face was imprinted with a web-like network of fine wrinkles, it took no imagination to see she once possessed great beauty. “As I suspect you’ve already surmised, I’m the former Gabriella Becatti you’ve been seeking.”

  He took the offered hand, careful not to put undue pressure on the misshapen fingers. “I’m honored to meet you, Mrs. Ghali,” he said. “We very much appreciate your giving us a little of your time.”

  “Our mutual friend speaks well of you,” she said. “I only pray I can be of some benefit.” She then turned to Elizabeth, smiling with unfeigned pleasure. “And you, child, must certainly be the granddaughter of Lionel DeCaylus. I can see a very distinct family resemblance through the eyes and brow—and most definitely in your shared coloring. Quite lovely! I bid you welcome.”

  “You’re very kind, ma’am.”

  “Not at all, my dear. I’m delighted to meet both of you.” She gestured them towards the long bench facing her wheelchair. “Please, do make yourselves comfortable.”

  They did as she requested.

  “And you, too, Leila,” she quickly added, lifting her eyes to the surprised nun. “What I have to say today is as much for your ears as theirs. It is a confession of sorts, and one long overdue.” She paused, her eyes still fixed on Leila. “Know that I make no apologies for what I will now reveal, but nor do I wish to go to my grave leaving false illusions about my past. I have a tale that needs to be told. Judge my youthful transgressions harshly if you must, Leila, but please have the courtesy of hearing me through. I ask no more from you—all three of you—than you listen with an open heart.”

  * * *

  Not quite three hundred feet east of the sunlit courtyard, a pensive Haleem stood in a shaded aisle off the nave of the Church of the Virgin, pondering Lahib’s report. Of the many cars entering the enclosure behind Manning’s rented Renault, only four were possible matches for the dark blue vehicle seen parked up the street from Sharif’s residence two nights before. It wasn’t much to work with, he knew, but at least it was something. Now he regretted not bringing more men for surveillance. Two might not be enough. He cast a dubious eye at Lahib, asking, “Is Ali positive there are only four?”

  “That’s all,” said the young man. “He wrote down the license plates, like you said. I told him to stay with them until I return.”

  “And two of them arrived with only one man inside?”

  Lahib nodded.

  Haleem was encouraged. Perhaps this might yet work. “Go back and verify this. If true, I want those two cars watched the closest. And don’t be too obvious about it. Is Ali using his camera?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then go. Stay with him. You know what to do.”

  Haleem then stepped outside by way of the church’s side exit. There he lit a cigarette, concentrating his eyes on the gated courtyard marked off-limits to tourists. His vantage point gave him a clear view of the four people seated within, and he wondered just what it was the convent’s great lady was saying. True, it was none of his business. Yet, still and all, one couldn’t help but be curious.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “My family came to Egypt in 1938,” said Mother Ghali, addressing herself primarily to David. “I was only three years old at the time, my brother seven. Our father, Arnaldo Becatti, was a graduate of the Royal College of Art in London, a man deeply fascinated with all things Egyptian—so much so he became very proficient in the reading of both hieroglyphics and early Coptic script. Due to his sound educational qualifications, the British Archaeological Survey hired him as an epigrapher. I mention this only in passing, for the point is my parents grew to love this country, making our stay permanent.

  “When my father died prematurely in 1955, he did so in the knowledge his two children would have worthy careers of their own. I was then working towards a degree in Egyptology, my brother already married and a practicing engineer. The loss was a great sadness for us. For our mother, it was devastating. Not a strong woman to begin with, she never recovered from the shock. Her health went into a rapid decline, and within a matter of months she was also gone.”

  She imparted this double tragedy as a simple statement of fact, her voice and face precluding any expressions of sympathy.

  “In many ways,” she continued, “I was much like my father, inheriting both his love for Egypt plus a fair portion of his artistic talents. Some of my fondest memories are of the many hours of patient instruction I took at his side, learning the technical skills of his craft.” Having said this, she lifted her right hand, turning the gnarled fingers in the bright sunlight. “You smile, Professor. Is it because you find it hard to believe this was once the hand of a credible draughtsman and graphic artist?”

  “Not at all,” he replied. “I was only thinking this explains the little mystery surrounding you and Burkhart’s pay ledger.”

  “Mystery?”

  “Why your name even appeared at all. You were still only a student during your time at Tell El Amarna, yet you were listed on his payroll. Was it because Burkhart hired you as an epigrapher?”

  She smiled. “Quite correct. But there was much more to it. What really attracted me to the site was, to put it delicately, a young girl’s witless and irrational infatuation for one of her university professors. To admit this aloud after all these years is an embarrassment to me, but it must be told. Since you possess Burkhart’s records, I assume you already have Paul’s name.”

  “Professor Cameron?”

  “The same. You see, I was young and inexperienced in the ways
of the world. He was a widower, a man twice my age. But when has logic and common sense ever influenced a young woman in love? When blinded by infatuation, one perceives with the heart and not the mind, a condition that can only lead to disaster.” She paused, her eyes seeming to reflect back on this long ago time. “I honestly believed what I felt for him was reciprocated, and him simply not a man who openly expressed his deeper emotions. It never occurred to me I was throwing myself at a man with no desire for marriage—not even when he took a sabbatical from teaching and joined Burkhart’s excavation.” She turned to Elizabeth, asking, “Did you know your grandfather and Paul were very close?”

  “It’s something we suspected,” she replied, “but couldn’t confirm.”

  “They were good friends well before Tell El Amarna, my dear. Lionel visited Paul’s home here in Cairo often. When times were difficult for your grandfather, Paul would always put him up until he found work and got back on his feet. Such was their close friendship. And doubtless it was Lionel who influenced Paul’s decision to join him at Tell El Amarna that summer of 1956.

  “For myself, if Paul’s unexpected sabbatical gave me cause to question our relationship, my concerns were erased when I later received his letter. Burkhart was in need of an artist and epigrapher, and based on Paul’s recommendation the job was mine if I wanted it. Unfortunately, I chose to read far more into this than was actually there. I foolishly interpreted it to mean Paul regretted our separation, and this his way of reuniting us. No argument could convince me otherwise.”

  “Someone tried?”

  “Oh, yes. My brother, for one. He knew of my infatuation, and was furious to learn I intended leaving university. To his credit, he did everything he could to dissuade me—but I was headstrong, and refused to heed his good advice. Thus it was that five days later a Nile steamer dropped me off at the village of al-Till, the debarkation point for anyone wishing to reach the site. Though I had sent word ahead of my arrival, no one met me on the docks. In retrospect, this was actually prophetic, for it wasn’t long thereafter when I finally came to know the bitter truth—I was no more to Paul than a convenient dalliance. Oddly enough, my dear, this painful realization came to me from an unexpected source, the details of which I will return to shortly. For now, suffice it to say, scarcely two weeks after my arrival I packed up my few belongings and left on the first available boat back to Cairo.”

  “About your brief time there,” interrupted David. “Do you—”

  The old woman’s raised hand cut him short. “I appreciate you have many questions you wish answered,” she said, “but please allow me to tell this in my own way.” Her patient smile removed the sting from this firm rebuke. “You must trust I will answer all in due time, professor.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” he said by way of apology.

  “As fate had it,” she continued, “I wasn’t alone on my return to the city. One of Burkhart’s inner circle, a man named Bruno Haussman, was also aboard. During my time at Tell El Amarna, our paths rarely crossed. Since his function was in the acquisition and control of supplies, he frequently made forays to and from Cairo. To our mutual misfortune, one of these happened to coincide with my own hasty departure.” She hesitated in her story. “I understand Sharif revealed to you some of Haussman’s illegal activities, is this not so?”

  David nodded.

  “And did he say how Haussman met his end?”

  “The details were . . . sketchy.”

  “I expect this was intentional. Sharif is most protective where old friends are concerned; and after all this time, I certainly qualify. But I digress from my story. ”

  As she told it, the young Gabriella’s return trip to Cairo was uneventful save for one unexpected development. Preoccupied as she was with personal problems, her feminine instincts somehow failed to alert her to a troublesome situation. Looking back, she blamed herself for not recognizing Haussman’s sudden friendliness towards her for what it was—and by not outright rejecting his first few advances, she inadvertently encouraged him to persist.

  Their ship arrived in Cairo after sunset and berthed on the east bank quay of Bulaq. Due to the lateness of the hour—and still numbed by her break-up with Paul—she listened to Haussman’s advice to seek accommodations at a dockside hotel. He recommended the Magnus, an establishment he most frequented. Surely, he reasoned, this was far preferable to her crossing Bulaq alone after dark.

  Unsuspecting of his intentions, she saw no reason to disagree.

  Haussman wasn’t a man to waste time. Under the ruse of them later going out for a meal, he asked Gabriella to collect him in his room once she was settled. Two hours would suit him, he said, for this gave him time to attend to a trifling business matter. This agreed to, she found her room to be across the hall and one door up. Inside, a single window at the foot of her bed looked down upon a dimly-lit street of small shops—and it was through this she observed the puzzling nature of his so-called ‘trifling’ matter. One of the few shops still open, she saw, was that of rug merchant, and she saw Haussman standing alone by its entrance. Her curiosity was further piqued when another man came out and stood near him. Neither looked at the other, but words were definitely exchanged. Seconds later, both men were admitted through a side door into the building. Though this struck her as rather odd behavior, she assigned no particular importance to it.

  Only later was its significance fully appreciated.

  “I eventually heard him return,” said Mother Ghali, “for the hotel walls were ridiculously thin. And he was whistling, which wasn’t like him at all. When I went to his room, I scarcely recognized him as the same man; he’d clearly been drinking, his hair disheveled, his shirt loose and unbuttoned—and this someone always so fastidious in his appearance. Of the two suitcases he checked in with, the larger was pushed under the bed, the smaller opened on a chair. Visible inside the latter was the uncovered handle of a revolver.

  “I tried to refuse his offer of a drink, but one was already poured in a second glass. He wanted to talk, he said, insistently pressing it into my hand. What was the harm of a small libation between friends, he asked, particularly when we were soon to go our separate ways? Since the glass contained scarcely more than a swallow, I foolishly took it rather than offend, wondering how I was going to politely extricate myself from his room.

  “That the whiskey contained a strong narcotic, I have no doubt, for the numbing effect was nearly instantaneous. I recall thinking how disorientated I was, and how uncomfortable I felt at his leering grin. The next I knew, he was making explicit references about my relationship with Paul, telling me our not-so-secret affair had provided an otherwise bored crew at Tell El Amarna with much amusement. When I appeared shocked, he only laughed, saying I surely knew of the many derisive jokes this had inspired.”

  Tears now brimmed the old woman’s eyes.

  “Such was the effect of the drink that I—I didn’t immediately realize his hands were on me. I tried pushing him away, but had no strength in my arms. It was like a terrible dream acted out in slow motion. When I tried for the door, he grabbed my wrist and threw me back into the room with ease. I struck the edge of the bed as I fell, shoving it to one side. Sprawled there on the thin carpet, I could only stare up at him, unable even to cry out as he slowly unbuckled his belt and—and—” She paused, blinking back the tears. “I remember he clamped a hand over my mouth, but I was incapable of screaming. Whatever the drug was, it—” She shuddered, the retelling too painful for her to finish.

  Sister Leila now reached forward, impulsively covering the distressed woman’s trembling hand with her own. “Haussman . . . he raped you?”

  “There on the floor, Leila—like the vile animal he truly was!”

  Nor did young Gabriella’s ordeal end once Haussman took his pleasure.

  Afterwards half-carried the dazed girl back to her own room, warning her against making any pretense that the time she spent with him was anything but voluntary. It would be a foolish and
futile exercise, he said; and besides, what evidence was there to suggest he did anything against her nature? Had she been beaten, her clothing torn in defense of her honor? Not hardly! And even more telling, why did none of the hotel’s other occupants hear her nonexistent screams? Seeing the young woman had no answer, a confident Haussman left her to reflect on the practical wisdom of his self-serving advice.

  “The experience was shattering,” said Mother Ghali. “Even now, the memory of his smirking face fills me with revulsion. A sin though it be, I have no forgiveness in my heart for what he did. If given the opportunity, I believe I was capable of committing murder that night. Every fiber of my being cried out for retribution, revenge for the horror so shamelessly inflicted upon me. To simply let him walk away unscathed from this heinous act was for me tantamount to being violated yet again. This I could not allow. I remember staring at my own reflection in the bureau mirror, my hand clutching a pair of scissors—and to this day I don’t know what I might’ve done if fate hadn’t then drawn my eyes to several blades of straw entangled in my hair. They were no longer than my finger—and the significance of them struck me like a revelation. I knew exactly what they were! They told me Haussman’s deep secret, his vulnerability! I realized I didn’t have to shed his blood to get my revenge. There was another way. An infinitely better way!”

  Confused, David lifted his shoulders, needing more than this to comprehend.

  “You see,” she explained, “at Burkhart’s excavation we kept to a strict routine where each evening was spent studying all the various finds from the day’s dig. Whatever materials were unearthed were spread out on long trestle tables for detailed examination. In the case of pottery shards, for example, joins would be made where possible; types and classifications distinguished, and finally, detailed sketches made of any items deemed worthy of permanent record. One of my duties was to create those drawings, plus assist in the careful crating of the most valuable pieces for shipment back to Cairo. To protect these fragile items, we packed them in course straw. Except for sand, it’s the cheapest and most readily available material to be found in all of Egypt—and we always chopped it into uniform lengths of eight or nine centimeters to meet our needs.”