The first leg of their journey took them into Abar al-Kanayis, a rural farming community thirty-five miles inland. On the practical suggestion of Mahmoud Wassef, a brief stop was advisable if for no other reason than to fill their ample water containers from the village’s artesian wells. Here too, they could obtain the very freshest fruits and vegetables to supplement their limited diet.
The gradual transition from fertile coast to semi-desert was already complete when David led them into town. Thriving in an otherwise arid landscape of sandy soil and low scrub, it was apparent the small town owed its very existence to the deep government wells. The life-giving water was pumped from over a thousand feet below; then funneled outward through a rather impressive network of concrete flumes feeding hundreds of green acres snatched from the desert. He filled the extra water containers while the others ventured into the local marketplace, making the necessary purchases.
Another twenty miles south brought them to the expected military checkpoint where the paved road came to an abrupt end.
Here an armed soldier in brown fatigues flagged them down at a wooden barrier, ordering the vehicles to park alongside a low, metal building that served as a makeshift barracks. Adjoining it was a squat, brick office recently painted with whitewash. Gobeir went inside to present their passes. The rest of them stood and watched as three more soldiers began an inspection of the jeep and truck.
Their thoroughness wasn’t something David had anticipated. “Think they’ll search our personal belongings?” he asked Rashidi, keeping his voice low.
“I really doubt they’ll go this far, Professor. They’re simply following the basic security measures placed after our recent round of difficulties with Libya. Practically speaking, the Libyan border isn’t all that far away.”
“How will they react to the rifle and revolvers?”
Rashidi was unconcerned. “It shouldn’t alarm them, particularly since we’ve made no effort at concealment. I suspect very few ever travel into the western desert without some form of protection.”
His appraisal of the situation proved correct.
Inspection completed, the three men ambled back towards the barracks without comment. Gobeir returned with their passes a few minutes later, and the first soldier raised the gate, waving them through. Ahead of them lay a hundred miles of rough, gravel road, plus a bare desert landscape seeming to stretch out into infinity.
Two grueling hours later, David eased the jeep onto a shoulder of white sand.
To his left was an ungraded track branching away from the main road in a straight line to the southeast. He shut off the engine and glanced again at the map as Rashidi pulled the truck up behind.
“You sure this is the Darb Hilleir?” asked Elizabeth. “It looks hardly navigable, let alone a road.”
“Afraid so. That last sign back there was for the government well at Bir el-Basur. According to this, there’s nothing else it could be. Here, see for yourself.”
She declined the offer. “I’ll leave it for you guys to work out. As long as we’re stopped, I’m going to prepare a meal. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starved.”
They ate in the back of the truck, using the patchwork covering as shade from the sun. It was already past noon, the searing heat rising off the baked desert in visible waves. Afterwards, Elizabeth washed out the dishes while Rashidi refilled their canteens and checked the level in the radiators. David and Gobeir used the time to stretch their legs and confer over the map. Before leaving Matruh they assumed their best chance of locating Yousef’s valley was to cut east on the Darb Hillier for approximately thirty miles, then strike straight south across open country. Now David wasn’t so sure of their calculations.
Extracting a pencil from his shirt pocket, he said, “Maybe we should re-think this a little bit, Lewis.”
“In what way?”
David sketched a faint line on the map.
“Look here. Yousef told us his people left Ain el-Khashab near Qara and headed due west towards the ancient cisterns above Deir Kohla, which is only about another thirty miles down from our present position. If we assume they moved their herds in a relatively straight line, then they must’ve crossed south of the Darb Hillier somewhere about here.” He drew a circle, marking his guess. “I figure that’s less than fifty miles away, right?”
Gobeir nodded. “I think I see what you’re getting at. The hill the Bedouin called Gabal el-Qasr was roughly half-way through their journey . . .”
“Exactly. Which means if we stay too long on this track we run the risk of over-shooting our mark. That valley might be a lot closer than we originally thought. The more I look at this limestone plateau marked here, the more convinced I am this is where we should be heading.”
Gobeir perused the map thoughtfully, blocking out the reflected glare with his cloth hat. “You might well be right,” he said finally. “If the topography doesn’t improve, then it won’t make much difference. Let’s face it, it’s going to be tough going no matter where we break off. If thirty miles seems too much, then how far do you figure?”
“Wish I knew. My gut feeling tells me anything over twenty could be a serious mistake. I’d like to try and pick up this high plain marked here near the western-most edge. What do you think?”
“Looks good to me, old boy. I never argue with a man’s instincts.”
The long afternoon was just beginning to wan when they finally reached the limestone plateau. Their approach from the northwest had taken them across extremely difficult terrain—so rough that on several occasions it was even questionable as to whether or not the heavy truck would actually make it. Alternating between stretches of drifting sand and gravel slopes of loose rocks, the bleak landscape proved only borderline passable. But the pay-off for their efforts was now clearly visible through the binoculars.
The hill was neither as high nor as impressive as David expected, yet there could be little doubt of it being Gabal el-Qasr. Bathed in the yellow light of a slowly declining sun, the natural formation stood starkly alone in the emptiness of the broad plain—and true to the vivid imagery of old Yousef’s recollection, the ragged crown of rock at its crest did indeed lend comparison to some ancient and long-abandoned fortress.
And there was more.
When he shifted the binoculars to the right and re-focused, he clearly saw a twisting wall of stone rising up across the horizon. Lying no more than four miles to the south of the hill was the leading edge of a higher plateau.
“I’ll be damned,” he whispered under his breath. Everything was exactly where the old man said it would be!
* * *
Some twenty miles to the northeast, Oristano stood beside the lead Land Rover and trained his binoculars across the flat undulations of the bleached landscape. He was acutely conscious of the sinking sun. At most, he estimated less than four hours remained before sunset. Was this enough time to put him where he wanted to be? He was beginning to have serious doubts.
Lowering his binoculars, he again studied McQuinty’s topographical map. Things weren’t progressing as he’d hoped. It would take maybe three hours just to intersect with the Darb Hillier—and possibly another just to reach where he suspected Manning was at this moment. He shook his head in growing exasperation.
The day had proved tiresome beyond belief. In order to avoid the military checkpoint south of Abar el Kanayis, he and Heikal had driven south from Matruh on the seldom used Masrab Khalda, a brutish gravel road which would’ve eventually taken them all the way down to Qara had they not swung off and headed west across open country. But as difficult and time-consuming as the Khala had been, it was as nothing compared to the rocky desert track they were presently following. Called the Masrab Dal on the map, it was—in Oristano’s opinion—little more than a glorified camel trail.
He refolded the map and stuffed it back into the open glove compartment. If things weren’t bad enough, they were now being held up by yet another delay. A steering problem had develop
ed in the second Land Rover, though just how serious it was remained to be seen.
He strode back to find out.
McQuinty had parked on a flat stretch of ground, attempting to effect repairs. Lying beneath the engine with his skinny legs braced against the bumper, he was banging away at something with a hammer. Heikal stood leaning on the dusty hood, an expression of impatience etched on his blunt features. Oristano questioned him with a look, but the big Egyptian only lifted his wide shoulders in ignorance of the other man’s progress.
“So what’s the story, McQuinty?”
The clatter ceased and the old man squirmed back out, pulling himself to his feet. He looked decidedly pleased with himself as he slapped dust from his grimy jeans. “Nothing to fret over,” he said. “It’s all taken care of, mates. It was jest what I figured. A hunk of rock got itself wedged up between the tie-rods and axle. The tire must’ve kicked it up somewhere’s back apiece. She’s all ready to go again.”
“Any serious damage?”
“Nope. Leastways nothin’ I kin see, anyway. But that’s only ‘cause we caught it in time. Bit of luck, that. Another mile or two and it might’ve given us a real peck of trouble, us being a helluva long way from anywhere, and all. Why, many’s the time I seen rocks like that snap a perfectly good tie-rod clean in—” He stopped short, suddenly suspicious of the secretive looks being exchanged between the other two men. “Say now,” he said, “is there something here yuh boys ain’t telling me?”
Oristano smiled as he lit a cigarette.
“Like you say, we’re a long way from anywhere.” He shifted his eyes to Heikal and gave a slight nod of his head. “So I guess it makes this about as good a place as any for us to part company, don’t you think?”
“What’s that?” McQuinty frowned in confusion. “Yuh kinda lost—”
Heikal snatched the hammer from the little man’s hand, then seized the front of his shirt and dragged him bodily over to the bank of a shallow wash no more than six feet wide.
“Are yuh fuckin’ crazy!” shrieked the old-timer, thrashing to no avail. “What in the blue blazes do yuh think--”
A hard shove from Heikal propelled him backwards off the sharp edge, slamming him against the opposite bank with a violent jolt. Here the little man slid to the bottom and sat like a discarded toy, legs splayed out and arms hanging at his sides. Too dazed to move, he gasped for air as pockets of loosened sand and debris sifted down onto his hair and shoulders.
Oristano looked across at him, a Beretta now in his left hand. He removed a full clip of .22 longs from his shirt pocket, then snapped it into the handle. To Heikal, he said, “I saw a shovel in the back of the other truck. Get it. It’s not likely he’ll be found, but why run the risk.”
McQuinty lifted his eyes to the sound of the voice, blinking without real comprehension as Oristano leisurely raised his arm.
Shovel—?
He heard the first shot. The bullet caught him low in the throat, spraying a thin jet of blood into the dry sand as it exited the back of his neck. The second shot—the one he didn’t hear—followed a split second later, opening a clean, round hole just above the bridge of his nose.
* * *
The entrance was exactly as old Yousef described, a natural rift in the steep rock face of the higher plateau—and due to its twisted configuration, almost totally concealed from casual view. Unless one was aware of its existence, David thought, few would recognize the narrow opening for what it actually was.
Driving both vehicles through didn’t appear to present any serious challenge, for though the pass itself was scarcely twelve feet wide between twenty-foot cliffs, the ground was flat and free of obstructing boulders. If anything, it was a marked improvement over the rocky plain they’d just traversed.
As a precautionary measure, however, Rashidi took the rifle and scouted ahead on foot. Though it was unlikely anyone could’ve beaten them here, the combination of high cliffs and narrow confines made it ideally suited for ambush. Common sense dictated it be checked out before proceeding.
While waiting for his return, David climbed onto the jeep’s hood and surveyed the terrain behind them one last time. In some respects the approach of evening had actually improved visibility; the near horizon no longer appeared distorted through the binoculars, for the shimmering heat-haze hanging so tenaciously across the tawny landscape was finally dissipating. But he saw nothing out of the ordinary. If anyone was following them, they were nowhere close. Satisfied, he leaped down as Rashidi returned.
“What have we got, Ahmed?”
“Well, the wadi is there, all right. The breach leading in stays much as you see it for roughly another thirty yards before opening up. It’s wide enough for both vehicles. From what I can make out, the valley runs straight south for at least four or five miles. Maybe more, it’s difficult to tell.”
“Any tracks of any kind?”
Rashidi shook his head. “There’s no indication anyone’s traveled through here in recent times, though it’s quite possible there might be another entrance we just don’t know about.” He paused. “If we were in a race to reach this spot, Professor, my guess is we’ve apparently won.”
It was as David hoped.
“Then let’s head on through while we still have enough light to find a protected campsite. I’d rather not spend the night exposed out here in the open if we can avoid it.”
Despite Rashidi’s favorable impression, they weren’t about to drive through empty-handed. David broke open the box of shells and loaded both revolvers, then looped his belt through one of the leather holsters. Offered a choice between the second revolver and the semi-automatic, Gobeir took the former, saying, “Better if Ahmed keepthe rifle. Not much sense me carrying it at my age. I’m afraid I don’t have the eyes for it anymore. I just hope none of this will be necessary.”
It was a sentiment they all shared.
David and Elizabeth led the way in the jeep. It was noticeably warmer between the cliffs. Having absorbed the sun’s energy throughout the day, the exposed stone now radiated off its accumulated heat much like a metal plate newly removed from fire. He maneuvered with care, using the jeep’s lowest gear to pick his way through the narrow twists and turns. Where not yet completely shrouded in dark shadow, the stark walls were russet-colored in the dwindling light, and he was watchful for any sounds or movement from above.
But the silence was complete—almost like a tomb—and the only movement to catch his eye was a fleeting glimpse of birds soaring high overhead. They were ravens, a common enough sight in Egypt’s desert country, he knew, yet the first he’d spotted since leaving Matruh. If he was superstitious, he might well take this as an auspicious sign, for according to legend, when Alexander became lost crossing this same arid landscape some twenty-three centuries before, the gods sent a flight of ravens to guide his way.
A final turn brought them out into the valley opening, and he automatically slowed to a stop in appreciation of its vaguely forbidding appearance. Lying beneath the red-tinged sky of approaching nightfall, it stretched out before them like a ragged and asymmetrical tear in the sterile waste; desolate, yet strangely beautiful, as well. At most, he estimated it was no more than a half mile at it’s widest. To the west it was bordered by tapering hills of sand and broken rock, and to the east by high, staggered outcroppings of vertical limestone—the latter untouched by invading shadows and still aglow in the bright rays of sunset.
Rashidi pulled up beside him. The last barrier between them and the valley floor was a long, sandy downgrade, which might spell trouble. To get a better look, Gobeir pushed open his door and stood on the running board. It was apparently a lot steeper than he felt comfortable with, but there was no other way down. Of more concern to David was the failing light. Full nightfall was now less than thirty minutes away, and a quick scan through his binoculars indicated the valley was probably even longer than Rashidi first estimated.
He walked the glasses over to Gobeir, directing
his attention to a distant bluff that he guessed to be about six miles out. “I may be wrong, Lewis, but it looks to me like it extends even beyond that far ridge. See it shift away to the right?”
Gobeir adjusted the focus.
“Rather hard to tell,” he said, “but yes, it does appear so.” He glanced at his wrist. “If we intend finding out, we better get a move on, old boy.”
David agreed.
He slipped the jeep into low, easing it over the crest and down the lengthy slope. Only when he reached the bottom without difficulty did Rashidi follow, using the jeep’s tracks as a guide.
From there, they made decent time on the valley floor.
Flat and solid, it was a plain in itself, remarkably smooth with very few rocks of any appreciable size to impede their way. Surprisingly, the heat still held even though a full three quarters of the wadi was already covered in shadow. A dry, westerly wind gusted off the darkening hills, whipping up small dust devils of loose sand. David snapped on his headlights, knowing it was going to be close; they couldn’t risk driving much longer over unfamiliar terrain.
Minutes slipped by, the sun continuing to fall.
Roughly six miles out, the valley floor narrowed, revealing it did indeed dogleg to the right, pursuing a westerly track.
Seeing nothing so far to distract them, they followed it, driving with increasing caution beneath the base of a high, craggy bluff. Within less than a mile they could go no further, for the valley came to an abrupt end in the form of an oddly shaped basin scooped out of the surrounding plateau. Unless some passage or extension had somehow eluded them along the way, they were at the valley’s limit.
The Amun Chamber Page 26
