“Absolutely not. No matter what Dr. Gobeir’s state of mind, I can’t see him posing any physical threat.”
“I hope you’re right.” Truthfully, it wasn’t Lewis so much that worried him. There was something about the configuration beneath the spring that just seemed too damn familiar. He now looked again at Elizabeth, saying, “I’ll try and make this as quick as possible. You going to be okay?”
“Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Count on it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
David held the lantern high while heading in, finding the size and configuration of the tunnel’s black interior pretty much identical to the opening. It was arch-shaped, the ceiling barely inches above his head, the sculpted floor flat and free of debris. There was no doubt Lewis had crawled through here, for the grim evidence was unmistakable; not only was the floor still wet, but the trail was further delineated by intermittent smears of fresh blood. So much so, in fact, he now considered the possibility that perhaps the old man might already be dead.
A few minutes slipped by.
He continued on, the sway of the softly hissing lantern casting dark and undulating shadows across the otherwise featureless walls. Rashidi hadn’t lied, he thought, for the narrow passageway remained as described. It curved progressively up and inward on a shallow grade, leading him ever deeper into the escarpment. To what eventual end, he couldn’t begin to imagine. A tomb, certainly. But did it actually hold the body of Alexander the Great? The mere thought of it kicked up his heart rate, warning him he must keep such mind-boggling speculations in abeyance.
All easier said than done!
Of less mystery to him was the engineering marvel of the tomb’s construction. Knowing what he now did, he fully appreciated the skill of both its concept and execution, visualizing exactly how it was accomplished. The key that made everything possible had to be the enormous natural fissure up on the limestone bluff. Working from its very bottom, he imagined the ancient workers must’ve dug a sizable tunnel straight into the heart of the escarpment, hauling all of the debris topside. At some predetermined point, the main chamber itself would’ve been created, including this narrow access tunnel leading back into the basin’s desert spring. Once all of this was complete—the tomb presumably occupied—the accumulated rubble from the entire project was then backfilled into the fissure. The final act before sealing it off would’ve been the slaughter of those unfortunate slaves, a calculating effort to guarantee total secrecy for the ages. And it would’ve done just that, David figured, but for the incredible perseverance and intuition of one Lionel DeCaylus.
The tunnel began to straighten, and ahead he saw something Rashidi had failed to mention. Intrigued, he held the lantern straight out as he approached. It was an opened door, of all things, constructed of thick, cedar planking. The aromatic scent of the ancient wood still remained strong. It was designed to match the ached contours of the passage, one side solidly attached to the stone wall by iron hinges. Down near the bottom was a bloody smear, doubtless marking where Lewis had pushed it inward when he passed through. As to the door’s purpose, he could only surmise; since no provisions were made for any kind of locking device, a simple moisture barrier seemed the most probable explanation.
But it was the black void beyond that captured his attention.
Cautious, he moved forward, finding himself inside a rectangular chamber of impressive proportions—so large, in fact, the feeble range of his kerosene lantern was inadequate to reveal it all. He estimated the ceiling to be at least twice his height, the width every bit of twenty-five feet. How far back it went, he couldn’t yet see.
He stood in silence, trying to absorb it all.
Though the central area was basically empty, a large number of dark shapes were discernable all along both sides. Lifting the lantern high, he stepped over to his right to investigate. As he did so, the smell of old cedar again reached his nostrils, but this time intermingled with it was the faint, musty scent of something less pleasant. Now he saw their origin. The closest objects were evenly spaced rows of wooden chests, perhaps sixty or more—and just behind them, closer to the wall, were the desiccated and moldering remains of numerous individuals, all lying side by side in a row.
Yet another massacre?
Unsure, he brought the light closer, seeing these were no lowly slaves. By their appearance, the bodies were either soldiers or priestly guards. More probably, the latter. All wore thick sandals, their shriveled torsos uniformly clad in short-sleeved tunics of what was once fine, white linen. Most telling of all, by each man’s side lay the long spear of traditional Egyptian antiquity.
A ritual honor guard, perhaps?
David stepped back and raised the lid of one of the larger chests—then blinked in utter astonishment. Stacked within was pile upon pile of decayed leather pouches, each flashing with the unmistakable glint of gold. He checked the next chest over. Then yet another. Incredibly, the contents were identical. Every chest was filled with ancient gold coins—all classical Greek or Ptolemaic—and of such a staggering quantity as to numb the mind. Good God, Almighty! In this single chamber alone was treasure beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings!
A slight tilt of the lantern now told him something else was in here, as well. And whatever the hell it was, it had to be big.
Damn big!
The evidence for this conclusion was a huge section of cosmetic repair work done to the chamber’s near side. At first glance, he almost missed it, for the ancient masons had plastered it over in such a manner as to make it hardly noticeable. This was obviously the entrance point from the bottom of the fissure—but what the hell necessitated digging a shaft of such large dimensions? It was at least ten feet square. Since a shaft just one quarter this size would’ve been more than adequate to bring in these many chests, it clearly had to be to accommodate something considerably larger.
Like maybe a sarcophagus?
A faint noise caught his ear, reminding him again of why he was here. In his reverie of discovery, he’d almost forgotten his real mission. He looked around, uncertain from where the sound came, again cautioning himself to remain focused.
The sound repeated. Not quite as loud as before, but definitely emanating from somewhere further down the length of the chamber. Revolver in hand, he headed in that direction, the lantern’s light penetrating the gloomy dark ahead of him. The noise became more distinct, its origin unquestionably human, best described as intermittent groans of pain. He soon found its source.
The chamber ended at two massive, cedar doors, each easily six feet wide and running full to the ceiling. Sadly, Lewis lay face down before them, his outstretched hands still pressed against their unyielding surface in a frozen gesture of abject defeat. Cognizant of the light, the old man now ceased to moan as David set the lantern down beside him. One of his hands, David saw, was totally denuded of fingers, explaining why the bloody imprint on the previous door had looked so grotesquely reminiscent of an animal’s paw. He sighed as he knelt by the wretched figure; then gently rolled him over, dreading what he would see.
Forty feet back, unseen eyes watched all this unfold.
Believing his opportunity had finally come, Oristano silently stood from behind a parallel row of chests on the left side of the chamber. Careful to make no sound, he moved stealthfully into the open. The circle of light from the lantern was well ahead of him, thus darkness was still his cover. Clutched in his hands was a fortuitous gift. It was a newly acquired weapon of lethal potential—and one that indirectly came to him from his intended victim.
Until David’s arrival, Oristano had staggered along in blind confusion for what seemed hours. Exactly how he reached this room was still a puzzle to him. It was only with the approaching lantern that he even saw the chests he could hide behind. And in view of what else he found there, he deemed this nothing less than the greatest possible stroke of good luck. Fate had provided him the means for sweet revenge. Convinced of this, he heft
ed the spear in his hand and crept slowly towards his unsuspecting prey.
Still holding the revolver, David cradled Gobeir’s head on his arm, appalled at the condition of the old man’s face. The once-familiar features were now shredded beyond recognition, the resulting loss of blood appalling. He’d seen his share of wounds before, but this was nothing less than the handiwork of a sadistic monster. Surely there must be a special place in hell for that sick bastard!
Equally distressing to David was the haunted look in Lewis’ eyes. It spoke volumes of his suffering—and, too, it was a disturbing indicator of his present mental state. There was absolutely no recognition in his gaze, only something akin to abject horror.
“It’s over, Lewis,” he said. “You’re going to be all right.”
The lips moved tremulously.
“Wh—what did you—?”
“Just lay still. I’m going to get you help, okay?”
“Who are—are—?”
“It’s David—David Manning.”
The eyes were puzzled, confused. With effort, he tried to focus. “It really is you,” he murmured. “How—how can this be? I don’t understand.”
“I’ve come to bring you out, Lewis.”
“Out where—?” He swallowed, his eyes wandering, his voice stronger with his rising agitation. “There is no out for me! Don’t you see? None of—of—this should’ve happened! I failed—I—” He paused, catching his breath. “I must make atonement! Leave me! I—I couldn’t even save Ahmed from those—those—”
“But you didn’t fail, Lewis. Listen to me. Ahmed is alive. Do you understand what I’m saying? He’s alive.”
It took several seconds, but this finally seemed to register.
“Alive—?”
“I swear it. He’s hurt, but he’s going to make it.”
A look of joy came to his mangled face.
Yet strangely, it didn’t last. A sudden and inexplicable flash of terror widened his eyes. Puzzled by this, David was caught unprepared as Lewis suddenly lurched upward, shoving him with surprising strength. The reason became immediately apparent—for stabbing downward from behind, an iron point of a spear narrowly missed him by just inches. Meant for his back, it instead sunk deep into Lewis’ chest.
Stunned, David was too slow to react.
Enraged at being denied, Oristano jerked the shaft free and swung the end around in a wicked arc. The bloody tip seared across David’s thumb and wrist, sending the revolver spinning from his hand. Grinning to see this, Oristano then lunged like a wild man, trying to skewer David to the floor as he crawled backwards. “It’s mine!” he screamed. “All of it is mine!”
Still down, David dodged first one way, then another, desperate to avoid the repeated thrusts. Oristano was aiming for his chest, and twice almost succeeded. His attempts to catch hold of the shaft failed, the jabs coming far too fast. He must somehow get back on his feet! If not, he hadn’t a prayer.
Impatient to finish this, Oristano came closer than was prudent, throwing his upper body into what he hoped would be the final, killing stab.
David saw it coming—and, too, his one chance.
He pivoted enough to escape the tapered blade that creased his midriff; then kicked out at Oristano’s leg. The heel of his boot made contact below the knee, but not solid enough to break bone. As the man grimaced in pain, David rolled away—but before he got to his feet, Oristano was again on him, this time wielding the spear like a club. Unable to escape, David felt the full force of it across his upper shoulder, and such was the shocking pain of the blow that he came perilously close to blacking out as he collapsed onto his back.
It was Oristano’s scream of frustration that pulled him back.
The ancient shaft had broken on impact! Brittle with age, the wood had snapped several inches below the iron tip, the blade end skittering away towards the center of the chamber. David’s reprieve was only momentary, however, for Oristano now chose another method of killing. Taking quick advantage of his prey’s weakened state, Oristano pounced on him, forcing the broken shaft across his throat as he straddled his middle. David managed to get his hands underneath, but found his strength no match for the steady pressure exerted by the man’s full weight. The wooden rod pressed inexorably lower, squeezing off his windpipe. Only seconds more, he knew, and his throat was certain to be crushed!
Sensing victory, a too-eager Oristano now made the mistake of overkill. In an attempt to increase his leverage even more, he leaned further forward than was necessary. Aware of this sudden shift in weight, David used it to his advantage. With all the latent strength he could muster, he heaved upward, using his hips and knee to catapult the man over his head.
David gulped deep breaths as he struggled back to his knees. He was disorientated, yet knew Oristano had rolled somewhere back towards the two massive doors. Only when he turned to see did he grasp the potential consequences of this.
The revolver was back there!
The realization came too late. A triumphant Oristano was already back on his feet, the located Enfield clutched in his hand. His twisted face was obscene in the lantern’s yellowish light as he raised his arm and fired off a shot.
David dove sideways even as the trigger was pulled, his only thought being to escape the bullet’s path. The explosive report of the shot echoed through the chamber, so loud he felt it reverberating in the stone floor. And he felt something else, as well! Inadvertently, he’d rolled alongside the iron blade of the broken spear. Yet it would do him no good. Oristano had no intention of letting him off a second time. Not from just fifteen feet away! He was already taking aim, this time fixing him in his sights.
But an intrusive sound made Oristano blink, confusion staying his hand.
It was muffled, distant, yet clearly the sound of approaching footsteps—and Oristano edged himself back against the huge doors, his eyes darting between his helpless victim and the chamber’s dark entrance. In his bewilderment, he failed to see David’s fingers enfold the few inches of shaft still attached to the spear’s tip.
Oristano’s hand wavered in indecision. It was enough for David. Somersaulting forward, he whipped his arm up and around, throwing the blade as hard as he could. Oristano’s second shot came at the moment of release—too late to alter what was already done. Taken by surprise, he’d fired at a moving target, missing completely. David’s aim was truer, for his target hadn’t moved.
It was unlikely Oristano even saw the spinning projectile until the very instant of impact. The tapered blade caught him square in the throat, passing through with such force that the iron tip embedded itself deep into the door’s wood. Blood ran from the ripped opening; first in a gushing flow, then gradually slower as he died. His arms dropped loose at his sides, the revolver slipping from his slack hand.
The shuffle of footsteps grew louder.
David picked up the revolver and crawled the short distance to where Lewis lay on his side. The old man’s head was facing the lantern with an open and fixed stare. Yet the glazed eyes saw nothing. His skin was cold, the flesh already beginning to stiffen.
“Professor—?”
He turned to the urgent voice, the light of another lantern now illuminating the far end of the chamber. At the entrance was Rashidi, supported by Wassef. Walking beside them was another man holding a lantern in one hand and a revolver in the other. David stood to meet them.
“I’m here, Ahmed.”
“Those shots?”
“It’s all over.”
They came forward, their grim looks drawn first to the spectacle of Oristano, and then to Gobeir. Holstering his gun, Wassef knelt hurriedly to the still form, feeling for a pulse that wasn’t there. His large face was visibly grieved. “I can’t find—”
“He’s dead, Mahmoud,” said David. “I’m sorry.”
Wassef sighed, then looked expectantly at Rashidi, his expression showing where his new allegiance lay. “Tell me your wishes, sir.”
Though Rashidi also gri
eved, he accepted the mantle of authority that was apparently now his by right. He gestured towards Oristano. “Start by helping Ammar take that jackal down. Then tell your other man it’s now safe to bring in Miss DeCaylus. It isn’t necessary for her to see this. Nor Lewis, for that matter. Find something to cover his features.”
While this was being done, he said to David, “I think you suspected this man was in here all along. Was that why you had Elizabeth remain back with me?”
“It seemed a real possibility.”
“One you couldn’t chance?”
He nodded; then lifted his hand, showing the revolver. “Is this something I should still hang onto, Ahmed?”
Rashidi seemed almost surprised by the question. “Only if you wish, Professor,” he said. “You have nothing to fear from me or my people. I owe you my life and more. On this you have my solemn word.”
When Elizabeth was brought in, David told her everything that had transpired, leaving out no gory detail of Lewis or Oristano. He was confident in her strength, wanting nothing between them.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked. “I saw no other way?”
“Barely,” she replied, yet hugged him close.
Rashidi now ordered the massive doors pulled open. “I think perhaps it’s time you both see what lies within,” he said. “Come and judge for yourselves if all you’ve endured was worthwhile.”
The offer was irresistible.
Taking Elizabeth’s hand, David lifted the Lantern and proceeded through the now gaping portal. But after only a few steps inside, he stopped dead in his tracks, as stunned as Elizabeth by what lay before them. This innermost chamber was equally huge—and at its center stood an enormous, wheeled catafalque of breathtaking beauty, one seemingly constructed entirely of gold.
“Tell me I’m dreaming,” Elizabeth whispered in awe. Glittering in the unnatural light, it appeared more fantasy than substance. “I—I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”
The Amun Chamber Page 35
