The Amun Chamber

by Daniel Leston

  “True enough, so the only explanation I can think of is Lionel had stumbled across an intriguing myth or legend of his own, one he thought worthy to explore. Why the hell else would he be so taken by this as to thoughtlessly damage a valuable book—and particularly one belonging to a close friend?”

  Gobeir accepted the logic.

  “All right, let’s say that’s the case, but where does it leave us? How the deuce can we ever determine what got him all stirred up? Lionel spent damn near a decade wandering around Egypt. Can you imagine the number of obscure stories he must’ve encountered in all this time? There’s not a single region in the entire country which isn’t seeped in local legends and such.”

  The old scholar was right, of course. Looked at from this perspective, it would be like finding a needle in the proverbial haystack. Or maybe not! Perhaps there was a way to trim this down to something more manageable. David turned back to Mrs. Lefebvre who had sat patiently through this quick discussion, doubtless trying to make sense of what she was hearing.

  “Ruth, you said Lionel wasn’t alone when he came here in August. What can you tell us about the other man? Was he British, American, or maybe—”

  “An Egyptian gentleman, he was,” she answered, “although I never really caught his name. I’m sorry, but he was only here the one time, don’t you see?”

  “You never saw him before this?”

  She shook her head. “Nor after.”

  “But he did arrive with Lionel?”

  “Oh, most definitely.”

  “Do you recall if your father knew him?”

  After a few seconds of thought, she said, “Yes, it did appear so. I was with him when the two men arrived and remember no introductions being made.” She lifted her thin shoulders. “I suppose this means none were necessary.”

  “Could you describe him?”

  The woman looked doubtful. “Only that he was a good deal younger than Lionel. Late twenties, maybe? Perhaps younger. I’m only guessing, mind you. Then you’re a teenager, everyone seems old.”

  “Anything else you can think of?”

  Trying to do better, her brow knit in concentration. “Now there was just one other thing—but of what possible use it might be to you, I can’t imagine. He appeared to have a noticeable problem of some sort with his leg.”

  “Problem?”

  “Well, it’s kind of difficult to describe, really . . .”

  “A limp, perhaps? Did he use a cane?”

  “No cane,” she said. “But it seemed he had some difficulty getting around. Not so much a limp as just being very cautious—you know, tentative like—when he walked, favoring one leg over the other, if you can imagine.” She shrugged. “I know this isn’t much, but does it help you at all?”

  David had no answer.

  Nor did anyone else.

  They reviewed their findings while driving back into the heart of Alexandria. No one was enthusiastic. What little they learned from Ruth Lefebvre was more aggravating than enlightening; unconnected bits and pieces of information telling them nothing beyond the fact their copy of the police report was probably incomplete.

  For himself, David felt the frustration of being caught in a maze. What did he and Elizabeth have to show for their efforts? Damn little! Perhaps it really was impossible to pick up Lionel’s trail after all these years. He’d hoped for a lot more from Ruth; at the very least, something clear and tangible they could act upon. What she gave them was a glimpse of a man who may—or may not—have been enthralled with myths and legends. That and a young Egyptian with a limp!

  It was twilight when they parked in the hotel lot and went inside. They agreed they would first freshen up, then go out for something to eat. A good meal and a solid night’s rest was probably what everyone needed right now. Tomorrow was soon enough to start reshuffling all the pieces. Either that or call it quits.

  In his room, he splashed cold water over his face, wondering how and where to begin again. He knew they were all looking to him for some kind of direction. The problem was, he was flat out of ideas. Feeling depressed, he unwrapped a clean glass and poured himself a double shot of whisky from the honor bar. The phone rang before he had a chance to even taste it. Irritated, he set the drink down as he answered.

  “David—? That you?”

  It took a moment for him to recognize the voice. The static on the line didn’t help. It was Nikolaos Travlos in Salonika. “Yes, it’s me, Nick. You’ll have to speak up some. We’ve got a really lousy connection.”

  “Dammit, David, I’ve been trying to track you down since yesterday afternoon. Why the hell didn’t you tell someone where you were going? I’ve spent damn near—”

  “Nick, what are you talking about? Edith knows exactly where we—” He stopped, feeling a sudden cold tightening in his stomach. “Is it Edith? Tell me what’s happened?”

  The line went ominously silent for a long moment.

  “I’m really sorry, David, but I guess there’s just no good way to say this. Edith passed away sometime late Wednesday night or early Thursday morning. It was her heart—at least that’s what the medical people are telling us. It wasn’t until yesterday that her housekeeper came in and discovered her lying in the hall.” He paused. “God, I’m so sorry.”

  Shaken, David eased himself onto the edge of the chair. More than stunned, he felt physically sick. Wednesday night? That long ago? How could this—

  “I’m sure you must’ve known her wishes regarding burial,” continued Nick. “She spelled it out in her will. Immediate cremation, no embalming; under the circumstances, the university felt it had no choice but to—well, we thought it best to go ahead and—”

  “Just say it, Nick.”

  “David, the cremation was performed this afternoon.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The intrusive noise came to his ear as if from a very great distance, an inexplicable sound having absolutely no connection to his vivid dream. So what was making the damn noise? It grew louder, more annoying and persistent, slowly pulling him ever closer to—

  David finally awoke with a start, jolted back to consciousness by what he now recognized as a ringing telephone. The bright daylight flooding his room was a mild shock. The last he remembered it was just past two o’clock. Getting up from the couch, he staggered over and lifted the receiver.

  It was Elizabeth. “Were you still sleeping?”

  “Yes, I—I guess I must’ve been.”

  “I was beginning to think maybe you went out.” A long pause. “May I come over?”

  “Sure,” he said, thinking it odd she felt it necessary to ask. “Just give me a minute or so to clean up, okay?”

  “I’ve got coffee. Thought you could probably use some.”

  “Sounds good.” He rubbed at the crick in his neck, trying to get his thoughts together. Before he could ask the time, she was gone. He stripped off his wrinkled shirt and unlatched the door.

  He found his wristwatch on the bathroom sink, telling him it was almost noon. It didn’t seem possible. The mirror only confirmed how he felt, like his head had been pulled through a knothole. He let the water run cold before washing his face. The shock of it helped ease the pounding throb behind his eyes. Much of last night was a foggy blur.

  But not the dream. It remained fresh and clear.

  He was a kid again, standing with the support of Richard Andrews in the funeral home. The remembered pain of it; the horror of having to look at those three coffins, knowing he’d never again see his parents and little brother . . . all still so vivid in his mind. He sighed. It was a frightening thing, he thought, how the brain can retrieve and pervert memories—and seemingly for no other purpose than to torture on multiple levels.

  A knock came at the door as he reached for a towel. Over his shoulder, he called, “Come on in. It’s open.”

  He heard her enter.

  Elizabeth had coffee poured when he came out. The half-consumed bottle of whiskey was still on the coffee tab
le. It was a telling statement in itself, but one she was choosing to ignore. “If you’re hungry,” she said, “I can order something brought up?”

  “This will do fine for now. Maybe later.”

  He took a fresh shirt from the bureau drawer and slipped it on, aware she was following him obliquely with her eyes, doubtless trying to gauge his condition. Her concern was appreciated, but unnecessary. He put his hands on her shoulders, pulling her close. “I’m okay, really,” he assured her. “I’m not so frail as all that.”

  Her face relaxed into a weak smile.

  “I know,” she said. “It’s just that Edith was such a dear, lovely woman. I’d have to be blind not to see how much she meant to you.”

  He acknowledged the sympathy by placing a light kiss of her forehead. “She was eighty-six,” he said. “And maybe even a little more, if truth be told. She sometimes joked about putting the occasional birthday on hold.” Releasing her, he sat down on the couch. “The point is, I should’ve been better prepared for the inevitable. But I really wasn’t. I guess I wanted to believe she was going to outlast everyone. Pretty dumb of me, don’t you think?”

  No. More like normal, I’d say.” She hesitated; then asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve phoned Nick back?”

  “Not yet. I promised to reach him sometime today.” He drained half the cup in two swallows. “When I do, I’m telling him I’ll be staying here in Egypt for an indefinite time. As I said last night, one of the stipulations of Edith’s will was that no memorial service be held for her until two full months after her passing. She didn’t want a weepy funeral. Any legal matters will just have to be put on hold until I return.”

  Elizabeth had no immediate response. If she approved, or disapproved, of his decision, it wasn’t evident. Instead, she folded her arms, her look thoughtful. Finally, she asked, “Are you sure it’s the right thing to do? I know Nick is a good friend of yours, but I somehow doubt he’ll understand.”

  David nodded once in agreement. “No, I suppose not,” he said. “But I’ve really given this a lot of thought, and it’s what I’m going to do.”

  “I hope it’s not because you feel you have to, David. You’re under no obligation to me, or to anyone else.”

  “Let’s just say there are many reasons.” It wasn’t something he wanted to dwell on. “I would be lying if I said you weren’t a big factor in this, because you obviously are. But a lot of it is Edith, too. Archaeology was the single greatest force in her life; her passion, her sole reason for being. A discovery like your grandfather made was what she lived for—and I have to believe she’d want nothing more than us finish what we’ve started.”

  Seeing that Elizabeth appeared willing to accept this at face value, he changed the subject, asking, “Have you talked with Lewis or Ahmed this morning?”

  “About a half hour ago. They wanted to give you some time to yourself, so they’re going over to Police Central Records—or whatever it’s called—to see it they can come up with anything more in Lionel’s file. Under the circumstances, I thought it made good sense. But they might not have left yet. If you want, maybe I can still catch them.”

  “No, let them take care of it,” he said, getting back up on his feet. “How about we go for a walk? I think what I really need is a healthy dose of sea air.”

  “And afterwards, maybe a bit to eat?”

  “Yeah, that too.”

  * * *

  For the better part of an hour they walked barefoot on the white sands, hand in hand, more in silence than not. Both had much to occupy their thoughts, the long crescent beach of East Harbor perfectly suited for contemplation.

  Curving like the blade of a great scimitar, the warm sands stretched from Alexandria’s Liberation Square all the way out to old Fort Qait Bai, the fifteenth-century Turkish fortress where the ancient lighthouse of Pharos once stood. To their right, a brilliant sun reflected off the shimmering sea, so bright it physically hurt one’s eyes to long watch the many bathers who splashed and frolicked in the shallow surf. The more daring of them, mostly teenage boys, swam further out, their bobbing heads rising and falling on the blue surface with the natural rhythm of the incoming swells.

  It was a scene of idyllic leisure and tranquility, but one David felt unable to share. He grieved inside far more than he wanted Elizabeth to know, his sense of guilt too difficult to explain. He focused on the blurred horizon, picturing Edith in his mind as he last saw her, wondering if she might be alive today but for his haste to get to Egypt. The evidence said yes. According to Nick, she died literally within hours of his departure. Knowing the frailty of her heart, he should’ve seen it coming. Surely there must’ve been warning signs in her voice or manner, some faint clue he should’ve picked up on.

  And now it was too late.

  A gentle squeeze on his hand told him Elizabeth was talking to him and he not listening. “Say again? I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere.”

  “I see that,” she said, her look forgiving. “I was just wondering out loud what we can possibly do at this point. We haven’t talked about it, but it seems we’ve pretty much run out of any more ideas to explore. I so hoped finding Cameron’s daughter would somehow put us on the right track.”

  “You’re not alone. It’s what we all hoped for. Unfortunately, the only thing we really gleaned from her was Cameron’s reason for leaving the dig site. Beyond this, everything’s as murky as ever.”

  She surprised him by saying, “For me, I think even more so.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, it’s probably only me, but doesn’t it sometimes feel like every time we turn around we keep getting conflicting information, totally different snap-shots of what should be the same man?”

  “You mean Lionel?”

  “In an odd way, it’s almost as if we’ve been given glimpses of two—or even three—different people. Ever since this started I’ve been trying to piece together a mental picture of my grandfather. You know, what his life was like, and all. And so far, it’s just not working for me. So much of what he did just doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

  He was interested. “Such as?”

  “Well, a lot of little things,” she said. “It’s like the more we learn, the more bizarre and illogical his behavior becomes. For example, take Ruth’s explanation of why they left Tell El Amarna. Paul’s reason makes perfect sense, but how does it explain Lionel? Unless he lied to literally everyone, he was always in desperate need of work—so why would he just up and quit? It’s like we’re the ones who have this distorted view of him, and then we keep getting confused when his actions somehow don’t fit the mold we’ve created. It’s all so very—” She stopped, puzzled by David’s expression. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  He stared at her in silence, a smile building on his face. Now he wondered how in hell he could’ve missed something this incredibly obvious. We’ve been trying to jam a square peg into a round hole! Of course! It has to be the answer!

  “David, are you feeling all right?”

  “Elizabeth, you’re absolutely brilliant!”

  Now it was her turn to stare. But before she could ask, he grabbed her arm, pulling her back towards the hotel. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got work to do!”

  * * *

  It was two-forty in the afternoon when Gobeir and Rashidi finally returned from Police Central Records. Visibly exhausted, the elder handed David a single sheet of paper before sitting heavily on the couch. “I wish we had better news,” he said as Rashidi gave him a glass of cold water, “but I’m afraid this is all we came up with. That’s a copy of the investigating officer’s personal notes from 1956. Unfortunately, it tells us nothing much beyond what we already knew.”

  David began reading, finding little of interest until he reached mid-page. Aloud, he asked, “What’s this about Lionel having stayed at a second hotel—the Marhaba?”

  “Well, yes, I admit that did come as bit of a surprise. The local officer in charge says that some weeks prio
r to his stay at the King Edward, Lionel actually spent considerable time at a slightly more reputable establishment over at West Harbor. The dates are all there. Curiously, when at the Marhaba, he was registered under his real name, not using the alias ‘Parker’ as he later did at the Edward. Now what can be made of that, do you suppose?”

  David read further, much more pleased than his expression let on. If anything, this only reinforced what he now believed. The dates certainly corresponded. According to the officer’s investigation, Lionel checked into the Marhaba on July 2; then checked out on August 3, one day before he showed up in Al Gami.

  “Oh, I think we can deduce a great deal from this, Lewis. In fact, there’s nothing here that should surprise us at all.”

  “Come again?” Gobeir raised a bushy eyebrow, shifting his eyes between David and Elizabeth. “Has something happened here you two haven’t told us?”

  Elizabeth only smiled, leaving the explanation to David.

  “It’s just a whole new way of looking at this,” he said. “Let’s start with these dates. Up until now we never knew how long Lionel was in Alexandria prior to his death—or even more important, when exactly he laid hands on the gold disk. I think now we do. This answers both questions.”

  Intrigued, Rashidi joined Gobeir on the couch.

  “I’m puzzled, Professor,” he said. “How does this information fix the time of his discovery? Are you saying he brought the disk with him from Tell El Amarna?”

  “Not at all. This paper says quite the opposite—although he did bring something vital to him from Burkhart’s dig.”

  I don’t follow . . .”

  “Look at it this way, Ahmed. The one firm fact we’ve always had was that when Lionel discovered the disk he was so terrified by something—or someone—he registered into the King Edward under an assumed name, right? And with damned good reason, as it turned out. So, why then didn’t he use an alias when he was staying at the Marhaba? I think the answer is patently obvious. At the time, he hadn’t yet found it.”