The Amun Chamber

by Daniel Leston

  “Roughly the length of a finger.”

  “Exactly, Professor. And as I knew firsthand the sort of creature Haussman was, I didn’t doubt for a moment there were stolen artifacts stuffed inside his larger suitcase. Sometime prior to my arrival, I think he probably opened it for quick examination; then hastily shoved it back under his bed, careless to clean up those few pieces of straw that spilled onto the carpet.

  “My first thought, of course, was to notify the authorities. But would there be time? After witnessing his strange behavior on the back street, it struck me a sale was already arranged. If I didn’t act quickly, the evidence might be long gone before I could bring the police to Haussman’s room. Without actual evidence, I could no more prove him a thief than I could a rapist. This was my dilemma as the last hours of night ebbed away.”

  It was only with the rising sun that an answer presented itself.

  Mere seconds before her own planned departure from the hotel, Gabriella heard a minor commotion in the outer hall. At first it sounded to her like two people speaking in garbled voices; but when she cracked her door to look, she saw it was Haussman, alone, muttering to himself as he exited his room. If anything, he was more disheveled than before. By his sorry appearance she suspected he drank even more over the long night. Now, apparently hung over, he was perhaps seeking relief in the form of food or fresh air. It was only after he staggered down the hall did she realize he never locked his door. Whether it was an oversight, or whatever, it was an opportunity she couldn’t let slip away. Entering his room, she pulled the suitcase from beneath his bed and then hurried down to the lobby, trying to appear calm even though her heart was in her throat. Her luck held as she checked out; not only was Haussman nowhere to be seen, but the clerk didn’t notice she now carried two suitcases and not the single she had when she registered the previous night.

  It all seemed so easy . . .

  “But I was wrong,” said Mother Ghali. “When I walked out the front entrance, I actually believed I was going to make it. How foolish of me to think it could be that simple—for not a stone’s throw away stood Haussman. Early though it was, the street was already filling with dockworkers and trades people, but we spotted each other instantly. At first he appeared only amused. Then he must’ve seen the second suitcase, for an expression of utter rage came over his face.”

  When Mother Ghali paused, Elizabeth leaned forward, caught up in the drama of it all. “So what did you do?”

  Despite the obvious strain of reliving this distant memory, the old woman turned to her in surprise, almost in amusement. “Do, my dear? Why, I did exactly what any sane person would!”

  She ran like hell.

  Her desperate need to lose her pursuer in the crowded street was far easier attempted than done, for she quickly found the many pedestrians were more hindrance than good camouflage. Too, what should’ve been her natural advantage of youth and agility were largely negated by the burden of two suitcases.

  Redoubling her efforts, she pushed and shoved with more urgency, incurring angry looks from those unable or unwilling to give way. Her frustration rose, for her physical inability to force a path must inevitably lead to being overtaken. Her only hope was to somehow break away from this indifferent mass of humanity.

  And quickly!

  Her prayer seemed answered as she ducked around some stalled workman, for there on her left was an alley jutting away at a right angle from the congested river-front. She darted to it, barely avoiding collision with an old sheikh pushing a wheeled stand—then dashed down the cobbled lane towards the next intersecting thoroughfare. Had Haussman seen her? The sound of running feet behind her said yes as she threw herself into yet another crowd.

  This second street was more to her liking. Not nearly as packed, it gave her considerably room to maneuver. Better yet, the traffic appeared to be all flowing one way. An unexpected exception, however, was a startled boy carrying two large geese under his arms. Suddenly confronted by a running woman—and a foreigner, no less—the surprised youth delayed sidestepping an instant too long. The resulting impact spun both of them around, jarring loose his two squawking charges to the amusement of those who saw. The boy’s momentary lapse cost her precious seconds, Haussman rapidly closing in on her.

  “I didn’t need to look back,” she said, “to know I completely underestimated his stamina and determination. Adding to my panic, I heard shouting up ahead where a bottleneck was developing. The people were moving slower, bunching up. With Haussman gaining ground, I could only pray for the congestion to somehow disperse. But it wasn’t to be. Construction work was underway where the next alleyway intersected the street. Part of an unfinished wall had given way, taking a section of scaffolding with it as it fell. Bricks and broken debris were tumbled everywhere. Workmen tried to clear a path, but not fast enough to suit those waiting to get by. I fought my way to the front only to be pinned against a freight carter’s wagon, its driver struggling to control his horses. It was then a panting Haussman grabbed my wrist from behind, squeezing so hard I released my hold on his suitcase.

  “His eyes were murderous, Professor—and no one around me saw the gun he pressed into my ribs. His face said it all. In his twisted mind I was as good as dead; any resistance from me and I was certain he’d pull the trigger right there, regardless of the consequences.” She again hesitated, searching for the right words to explain what she did next. “I guess when one is faced with the surety of imminent death, all anyone is ever really capable of are irrational acts of desperation. To this day I’m still unclear what prompted me to push Haussman’s suitcase with my foot, shoving it between the wagon’s high, wooden wheels. I do know it was no clever ruse to affect an escape. If anything, it was an action born of pure anger, a subconscious attempt to somehow deny him his victory . . .”

  David knew her wrong on both counts. Her survival instincts had been right on the money, for putting Haussman’s suitcase in immediate jeopardy was the most logical thing she could’ve possibly done.

  “Only God and I know my actions weren’t meant to be the instrument of his death. How could I have foreseen the restless surge of the crowd at this moment of his indecision? Nor could I predict the carter’s horses would take this moment to rear up, further rocking the overburdened wagon. It was the latter that tipped the scales in my favor, for a look of panic suddenly filled his eyes. Forced to choose between retrieving his precious booty or killing me, his greed overcame his anger. He dropped to the street, thrusting his arm and shoulder beneath the wagon’s bed. But the suitcase had slid further under than either of us knew. Frantic to reach it, he foolishly extended himself deeper just as—as—”

  The vivid memory of it brought fresh tears to her eyes.

  In halting words, she described her horror as the carter cracked his short whip, driving the horses forward. And Haussman also heard, for he attempted to extricate himself as the wagon lurched forward. But he wasn’t fast enough, and the solid wheel rode completely over him at an angle, crushing his upper chest and almost totally severing his arm. Pandemonium broke out as the wagon rolled ahead sufficient to expose the body. She never knew what became of the gun. Perhaps it was kicked away in the ensuing rush of curious gawkers. She only knew no one questioned her right to the suitcase as she picked it up and slipped away into the milling crowd.

  “In retrospect,” she said, “my big mistake was in not immediately going to the local authorities to explain what occurred. Instead, I told no one; not even my brother when I arrived at our family home. In my defense, I was in a state of shock, too shaken and confused to assess what my actual role was in Haussman’s gruesome end. Fear, guilt, humiliation; so many emotional factors came into play that I sought refuge in a kind of mental denial. Save for the fact of the suitcase secreted away in my room, I might even have convinced myself it was all a horrible dream.

  “My refusal to confront reality came to an abrupt end when the account of Haussman’s gruesome demise reached the local newspa
pers. It hinted at a probable ruling of accidental death, based on evidence and testimony so far gathered. However, it concluded by saying the official investigation would remain open, for it was hoped more eyewitnesses might yet come forward. As it turned out, none ever did, but the possibility so frightened me that I finally opened the suitcase. I needed to reassure myself his death sprang solely from his own innate greed and wickedness. And in this I wasn’t disappointed. Inside, carefully packed in straw, were four exquisite alabaster statuettes. All were clearly identified by cartouches as being of Queen Nefertiti. The question then became, whatever was I to do with them?”

  Her solution was to do nothing.

  As days passed and became weeks, her silence proved an enveloping trap with no apparent escape. Would the shame and horror of her rape be lessened by telling the police? She thought not. Her entire world consisted of a close-knit European community living inside a foreign capital, so why submit herself to the gossip and notoriety which must surely follow? Nor was there any guarantee the authorities would even believe her. She could produce the pillaged artifacts, but what did she have to support her allegation of rape? Was it not more plausible to believe she and Haussman were both thieves, and his death no accident at all? It seemed a losing proposition from all angles. No, she concluded, the statuettes must remain hidden away, the truth kept secret forever.

  Having told what for her was the most traumatic part of her story, Mother Ghali now disclosed the balance rather quickly. At the urging of her brother, the young woman re-entered the university that fall. Though she worked hard and eventually received her degree, she found her former passion for ancient studies was greatly diminished. Instead, her enthusiasm took an entirely new direction, one that ultimately became so fulfilling as to consume the rest of her days.

  His name was Dr. Tadrus Ghali.

  She first became aware of the dedicated, young Egyptian physician through Coptic friends at the university. A gifted and somber man, Tadrus Ghali was much respected for his tireless work with Cairo’s destitute—most particularly with the impoverished Christian immigrants known as the Zabaleen then arriving in ever-increasing numbers from the villages of Upper Egypt. Existing in squalid shantytowns on the outer fringes of the city, they came to look upon Dr. Ghali as a true godsend. And so he become for Gabriella, as well. Inexorably drawn to this compassionate soul from the moment of their first meeting, she was both awed and humbled by his selfless nature, and in him she finally realized the love and purpose she sought in life.

  They were eventually married, though few attended the ceremony. Neither her brother nor Tadrus’ family approved of the union. In fact, just days after the wedding, a lawyer sent by her brother delivered a cash settlement on her share of their parent’s home. It was his way of saying she was no longer a part of his life. As upsetting as this was, however, some good came from this estrangement, for she and Tadrus used the money to establish their first modest clinic in the northeastern slums of Matariyah.

  “In those days, Professor, there was no government aid to the very poor as we now occasionally receive. No medical or educational facilities, no provisions of any kind to alleviate their suffering. We relied solely on the charity of private citizens—and this when Egypt was experiencing great economic strife. It was a constant struggle to procure even the most basic of medicines. And too, I recall the terrible cost to his own health my beloved Tadrus paid just to keep the clinic open from one week to the next. I assisted him in his work to the best of my abilities, of course, even becoming a competent nurse and teacher. But there were only so many hours in each day, never enough to meet the need. Short of begging in the streets from merchants and shopkeepers, from where was the money to come? The despair and physical drain on my husband eventually became so great that I feared for his very life. It was at this point I finally accepted what must be done. By only one means could I save both him and our poor mission. ”

  “The four statuettes?”

  She sighed. “Because of Haussman, I knew exactly where to go and who I must see. The Magnus was hardly a place I could forget. Close to seven years had passed, yet I found nothing changed. I even recognized the rug dealer as the same shadowy figure I saw from my window on that long ago night. As I’m sure you’ve surmised, it was Sharif Khafaghi. The shop was merely a front for his real business. When I showed him one of the four pieces in his back room, it wasn’t difficult for us to reach an agreement.”

  The old woman paused; then said, “Please believe my beloved Tadrus had no part in what I did,” she said. “He was totally blameless, for he never knew of their existence. I told him the money was an unexpected donation from an old acquaintance of my late father. Understand, for me to willing dispose of artifacts onto the black-market went against everything I had been taught, yet how was I to reconcile such high idealism with the ugly reality of ragged children living in filth and despair? In the face of this kind of obscenity, I have no regrets for what I did.”

  “Nor should you,” whispered Sister Leila as she now knelt beside the wheelchair. “What you did was no sin,” she said, speaking for all of them. “You acted out of love and compassion—and when I think of all the thousands of lives you’ve helped over these many years I can only thank a merciful God you were there for us . . .”

  Mother Ghali smiled gratefully at the younger woman, and when she finally turned back to David there was an inner peace in her lined face not previously seen. “It was only after Tadrus passed away in 1983 that I was forced to sell the remaining three statuettes; for it was in this period the fellahin from the countryside began flooding into Cairo by the tens of thousands, straining all of our overburdened facilities to the breaking point. Though Sharif will deny it, he paid far more for each than I had any right to expect. I know this to be true—just as I know he is responsible even to this day for a great many of the anonymous donations our missions receive.”

  Somehow this didn’t surprise David.

  “From the very first sale,” she said, “I’m sure Sharif somehow knew exactly where the money was going. Without his generosity, much of what we’ve accomplished since Tadrus’ death wouldn’t have been possible. Thus I could hardly refuse listening to his request that I speak with you—though to his credit, he put no pressure upon me to agree. The decision was entirely mine, and I must admit my first instincts leaned towards not doing so.”

  “Yet you did,” said David. “May we ask what changed your mind?”

  “Two reasons,” she replied. “Firstly, I thought it was probably my last real opportunity to ease my conscious before meeting my maker. After all, honest confession is always good for the soul. And secondly,” she added, now smiling at Elizabeth, “it was because of you, my dear. When Sharif informed me you were the woman with Professor Manning, I knew there was simply no way I could deny you.”

  “Me?” Elizabeth blinked. “I—I don’t understand.”

  “You will recall I earlier omitted telling what finally made me accept Paul never intended marrying me. That ‘unexpected source’ I referred to was none other than your grandfather. It was Lionel who took me aside at Tell El Amarna, telling me in the gentlest manner possible that I truly had no future with Paul. As close as these two men were, his conscience wouldn’t allow him to stand by and see me so ill-used and deceived—even if telling me the truth meant losing a long friendship he valued highly. This was the sort of man your grandfather was. He spoke to me from the depths of his heart—like a troubled father would to a wayward daughter—and this is something I have never allowed myself to forget.”

  Mother Ghali sighed, moving her head in obvious sadness. “It is a deep sorrow to me that I never learned of Lionel’s tragic death in Alexandria until roughly forty years after the fact. Ironically, this knowledge came to me only when I was invited to attend a small memorial service in the late nineties for Paul, held at the American University. As a result, I doubly grieved that day, for I had to accept I could never repay your grandfather’s great
kindness. Thus when I heard from Sharif of some absurd evidence linking Lionel to looting at Burkhart’s dig, I saw this as the last chance I would ever have to finally square a long overdue debt. Painful though it promised to be, how could I, of all people, not give the truth to Lionel’s granddaughter? Believe what I tell you, my dear, when I say he was a good and decent man. Any evidence to the contrary is—simply put—nothing more than a patent lie! He was as far removed from the likes of a Bruno Haussman as day is to night. Do I make myself perfectly understood?”

  “Loud and clear,” beamed a smiling Elizabeth. The happiness in her voice belied her welling tears. “And thank you. I can’t tell you how very much I needed to hear this.”

  David knew better than anyone what this meant to her.

  But he picked up on something else, as well.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but did you just say you were invited to the memorial service?” He could think of only one person who would’ve known of her early affair with Paul—or, for that matter, the circumstances surrounding Lionel’s death. “Is it possible the invitation came from Paul’s daughter?”

  The old woman gave a quick nod.

  “Indeed, it did,” she said. “Which now reminds me, Professor, you have more questions you wish answered. Since you’ve been patient enough to hear me out, please feel free to ask whatever you wish.”

  David reached for his notepad. “If I may, let’s start there with Ruth Cameron.”