Goldsands

by William Maltese

  They reached the top of a rise, and Abdul pointed toward the derrick erected immediately below them. The last thing Gil had expected to find here, even with all that the sheikh talked about oil, was this startling evidence of twenty-first-century civilization; its sounds were suddenly audible where earlier they had been contained within the natural cupping of the land in which it sat. “I've been sent down to check on several exploratory wells being sunk between Luxor and Aswân,” Abdul said. “Imagine my pleasant surprise to find one right here, almost on top of your dig."

  There was something about what Gil heard and what he saw that assaulted his sensibilities. His disconcerting feeling was only increased by a small stone that caught his attention at that very moment. He bent to pick it up from its position at his feet, turning it over in his fingers. It was a pre-dynastic animal figurine of chipped flint shaped like a bird—possibly a falcon. His experienced eye knew immediately that it had been crudely fashioned a few thousand years earlier by human hands. That once discarded or misplaced piece of rock seemed more at home in the desolate landscape than the oil derrick ever possibly could.

  "Find something from the past?” Abdul asked, reaching for the small chip and taking it from Gil, examining it in the flat of his palm. “Amazing how often these bits and pieces filter up through the desert sand.” He returned the flint falcon after a few seconds. “Dealing with the past is a luxury you can afford but that Egypt no longer can,” he said. “A country ceases to be much concerned with men who lived and died five thousand years ago when there are thousands in Cairo today who might soon die if there isn't some way to show them a better life tomorrow. And oil can do that for them, Gil. Oil will do that for them. You see this derrick as an intrusion,” he said. “Ah, don't deny it! I see it on your face. You're holding on to that little flint bird for dear life, and you're asking yourself how many of those same little animal figurines, how many shards of pre-dynastic pottery, how many pieces of prehistoric bones and dried lumps of feces all of this has destroyed already. In addition, you're wondering how much more will be destroyed the minute oil is found, and more people come hurrying in to sink more wells, using more bulldozers and more earthmovers to build more pipelines and more refineries."

  "Yes, I guess you're right,” Gil admitted. “That is how I do see it."

  "Of course you do,” Abdul said. “You see it that way, firstly, because you're an archaeologist who has chosen to devote your life to the past, and naturally you're disturbed by any intrusion of the twenty-first century into what you consider your own private bailiwick. Secondly, you're a citizen of a country whose wealth can assure you your present and future well-being; so, you're afforded the sheer luxury of dabbling in other countries’ pasts. But of what practical use to the present-day Egyptians is all that gold from King Tut's tomb that your grandmother and grandfather, and that Peter's grandfather, helped bring to light?” His question left Gil disbelieving that Abdul was serious. “I mean,” the sheikh continued, “the total meltdown value of all that gold is nothing compared to the money that could be brought in from a single oil well. And think how much more that oil money can benefit modern Egypt than all the past and present pharaonic gold."

  "I think you're confusing worth with dollars and cents,” Gil accused.

  "There is no practical worth but dollars and cents to a modern Egyptian faced with starvation,” Abdul stated.

  "But a country's past is its chief heritage,” Gil insisted.

  "You can't eat artifacts,” Abdul reminded. Which Gil found not only cynical but disturbing, coming as it did from a member of Egypt's moneyed and educated class. Had Abdul been one of those starving multitude about whom the sheikh was talking, his attitude wouldn't have been so shocking. The poor were no different today than they had been when they'd been creeping nightly into the Valley of the Kings to loot the tombs. Tomb robbers had become so prevalent by the late Twentieth Dynasty that the remains of Ramses III had been taken to and from numerous resting places by faithful priest intent upon preserving his sacred mummy. No less than thirteen royal mummies had been moved into the tomb of Queen Inhapi for safekeeping, still others to the tomb of Amenophis II, and even more unceremoniously dumped for their own protection into a hole not far from the funerary temple of Queen Hatshepsût. If hungry men could so easily despoil the bodies and fortunes of kings considered gods in their own time, what could be expected from those hungry men of twenty-first century Egypt? However, Gil had expected Abdul to be far more enlightened.

  "You can't eat crude oil, either,” Gil reminded.

  "Yes, but we're more able to convert it into foodstuff."

  "You're actually trying to tell me that this,” Gil said, motioning toward the exploratory drilling operation in progress below them, “is being done more to feed Egypt's many poor than to line the pockets of its few already very rich?"

  "Line my pockets, you mean?” Abdul asked, unable to keep the smile off his face.

  "Well, if the pants fit...!” Gil said. Abdul should know better than to insinuate King Tut's gold would be of more benefit if melted down into coins and distributed to the poor. Too few people would have benefited that way, because only too quickly the gold would have been dispersed, far and wide. In a museum, treasures could be enjoyed by millions for far longer than all of the oil in the ground was ever going to last. Besides, treasures like those of Tut weren't Egypt's alone. They belonged to the world community, to all nations, and it was exceedingly shortsighted of Abdul not to admit that he recognized that fact.

  "Granted, I, personally, hope to see a substantial profit out of all of this,” Abdul admitted, “as do my associates. But benefits are bound to filter down. In fact, it would behoove us to make sure they do if we want to preserve what wealth we have managed, and will manage, to accumulate. Millions of today's poor aren't likely to have any more respect for those of us living in great wealth than their grave-robber ancestors had for dead pharaohs with so many valuables-on-hand."

  Gil would have said more, but he was distracted by the emergence of a Jeep from behind one of the buildings clustered about the derrick below. He turned to find Abdul checking his watch.

  "Their security is not what it should be,” the sheikh said almost to himself. “How long would you say we've been standing here?” The question was rhetorical, because he didn't wait for an answer. “It's only now that they've decided to investigate. In the interim, I could have done extensive damage with a hand-held rocket launcher.” He seemed suddenly to realize he might be upsetting Gil needlessly with hints of sabotage. “Although it's highly unlikely the enemy is going to waste valuable time and energy on every exploratory well we've set up, isn't it? It's far easier for them to wait and see whether oil comes in and attempt their mischief then."

  The bodyguard with them made himself readily visible to the approaching Jeep, his submachine gun aimed downward to indicate that he was offering no challenge to the heavily armed men in the vehicle. “Galal Baseeli,” Abdul said, introducing one of the three arrivals to Gil. “Galal is in charge of site security.” If Abdul saw Galal's handling of his duty as less than satisfactory, he apparently was prepared to discuss it with the man in far less public circumstances. “I'm merely showing Professor Goldsands the sights,” the sheikh explained. “He's attached to a party of archaeologists working in the area around here. Galal inclined his head slightly in Gil's direction. The Arab was dressed in a quasi-military uniform without insignia; his face was disfigured by a nasty scar that puckered the entire length of his right cheek from eye to jaw line. His eyes were about the coldest two pinpoints of black ice Gil had ever seen.

  The Jeep and its occupants didn't linger, and Abdul soon turned Gil back toward their own vehicle. “I'm hungry,” he said. “How about you?” Gil could have jumped back on the bandwagon regarding the merits of pharaonic gold as opposed to modern crude oil, but he didn't. Abdul seemed just as desirous of steering clear of that bone of contention by proceeding to describe, in glowing terms, his
villa at Aswân.

  They lunched under an awning stretched between four poles. It offered suitable shade for Gil and Abdul, as well as for the three guards. The latter ate in one-man shifts from a far less grand menu than that of their employer and their employer's guest. “You will come visit me in Aswân soon?” Abdul persisted while the leftovers were being packed and the awning hauled down. “I'll invite Peter, too, giving you both the chance to get into surroundings a little more conducive to romance than a house full of fellow earth sifters."

  "I doubt he'll come,” Gil said, wondering if a change of scenery would really do him and Peter any good. It might. Peter's comments upon seeing the neck piece, and his dramatic exit at the time, must certainly have caused talk about the possibility of there being a bit more between Gil and Peter than a purely professional relationship; Reginald had shown remarkable restraint in not trying to probe Gil for any additional information. Peter's continued cool attitude might have been merely an effort to keep down any further camp gossip.

  "Oh, Peter will come if you do,” Abdul guaranteed, starting the motor while his men finished storing the last of the equipment.

  The drive back was shorter than Gil had imagined it would be and brought home just how close the twenty-first century was in its intrusion upon the echoes of those earlier centuries laid witness to by these barren desert sands. The whole group, Peter included, was on the veranda outside when the Land Rover pulled up.

  "Try not to look so much as if we're on the point of confronting your irate parents after you've stayed out way passed curfew, will you?” Abdul said with a wide grin once they were out of the Land Rover and headed toward all the curious faces. “It's okay to make Peter a little jealous, although I'm not out to get a busted jaw from you making too perfect an effort."

  "Shhhhh!” Gil hissed, afraid someone would overhear. But the only thing apparently overhead was Gil's hiss—which had everyone immediately looking curious as regarded whatever Abdul might have said to warrant it.

  "Hey, you two, do you want me to see if there's anything left over from lunch to feed you?” Reginald graciously offered, probably figuring someone was going to have to start the conversation, and it might as well be he.

  "We've had a little something already,” Gil replied, curious as to why he couldn't master even that simple statement without feeling and sounding flustered.

  "Drove into the nearest desert McDonald's, did you?” Peter asked, with obvious sarcasm. Gil didn't look at him, afraid there wouldn't be any obvious signs of the jealousy Gil really wanted to see.

  "I really must be going, anyway,” Abdul said.

  "Already?” Gil asked and then realized how that must have sounded. It was just that he felt so much better when Abdul was around. Gil didn't want to lose the little support he had.

  "You should be thankful Sheikh Jerada was able to take even a few minutes out of his busy schedule to stop by,” Peter said. If Gil glanced at Peter in response, it was only for a second—too short a time to put any real meaning to the expression on Peter's face. “Things keeping you pretty busy, these days, are they, Sheikh?” Peter asked.

  "You know the old bit about all work and no play,” Abdul replied good-naturedly.

  "Right!” Peter answered, as much as saying he knew very well to what kind of play Abdul was referring.

  "Speaking of all work, Peter,” Abdul said, in far more control than either Gil or Peter seemed to be, “I was thinking maybe you and Gil might like to take the opportunity to join me for a little rest and relaxation at my villa in Aswân sometime soon."

  "Well, that is terribly decent of you, old boy,” Peter said, although he made it sound as if he really didn't find it that decent at all. “However, we've only a total of two months to do a frightfully lot of work around here. Not that Gil probably won't be able to find some spare time, but what with my being director—” He paused to give the gibe additional emphasis. “—I'm afraid I'm left rather strapped, most of the time, when it comes to getting away."

  "Surely you can manage half a day, now and again?” Abdul persisted.

  "Maybe, but those are likely, I suspect, going to be devoted to right-here down-time in order to recoup my wits and energy,” Peter answered, “not to bumping over the headache-producing rutty road between here and Idfu, let alone braving the migraine-enhancing donkey path between Idfu and Aswân."

  "I'll send my helicopter for you,” Abdul replied magnanimously—which brought an echoing "Helicopter?" from Reginald who was obviously far more impressed than Peter seemed to be.

  "That's very kind of you,” Peter said; the pause between Reginald's exclamation and Peter's thanks was the only indication that Peter wasn't possibly really as blasé as he might appear in the face of Abdul's generosity.

  "Just think about, it,” Abdul said. “I've a few falcons with me at Aswân that my trainers are dying to show off to someone besides me."

  "I'll see what I can arrange,” Peter said begrudgingly.

  "Good!” Abdul replied, obviously pleased with that hard-won concession. “I'll get back to you, then, and see what the three of us can arrange. Right now, I've really got to be going.” He nodded to the others present and extended his hand to take a slight hold of Gil's arm. “Walk with me to my car, will you?” he asked, smiling as if things were working out perfectly. Gil really didn't want to respond to the sheikh's pull, but he couldn't see any way of getting out of it, receiving very little comfort from the reassuring squeeze of Abdul's fingers. “See,” the sheikh said softly after they were out of earshot. “The two of you will find Aswân more private for romantic things than here."

  "If Peter goes to Aswân, it will only be because of those damned hawks you've once again held out in enticement,” Gil stated, once again more than a little jealous of those fucking birds.

  "Ah!” Abdul replied. “That may be the rationale he gives himself, but we know better, don't we?"

  "Do we?” Gil questioned how Abdul could be so positive when Gil remained so full of doubt.

  "Trust me!” Abdul said with seemingly all the confidence in the world. He opened the door of the Land Rover and climbed in, turning toward Gil through the open window. “You do trust me, don't you? Hey, didn't we go through this routine once before?"

  "So, I trust you,” Gil said, unable to keep from smiling at Abdul's good humor. He did wonder, though, if the sheikh knew just how badly Gil did want to trust him, how badly Gil did want to believe Abdul's promises regarding Peter.

  "Good!” Abdul said. “So, bend down here and give me a wet and sloppy kiss.” He smiled widely at Gil's resulting expression. “Just kidding,” the sheikh amended. “A couple of European air kisses will suffice."

  "Abdul, I...” Gil stammered, feeling all of those eyeballs zooming in on them from the veranda. In the end, Gil bent down and gave the sheikh what he asked for and left Abdul laughing aloud. “Don't ever go before cameras, will you, Gil?” the sheikh said between punctuating chuckles. “You can't take direction worth a damn."

  Abdul gave a parting wave, and Gil watched until the Land Rover disappeared. He steeled himself to face Peter and was disappointed when he turned to find Peter had already abandoned the rest of the group and had gone into the house.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LUCK AND ACCIDENT: at Thebes in 1922 when, after much hesitation and several revisions of plans, Howard Carter decided to spend that one last winter of excavation in the Valley of the Kings and located Tutankhamen's tomb in the late fall; at Thebes when, after eight weeks of futile work, one of the workers of H.E. Winbock's excavation of Meket-Re's long-looted tomb noticed stone chips trickle into a crevice and discovered twenty-four brightly painted models depicting life in ancient Egypt; at Herakonpolis in 1897 when, after just settling in at the site, James Quibell directed one of his men to begin digging and uncovered a copper statue of the Sixth Dynasty King, Pepy I; and near Hierakonpolis when, without really looking, Gil Goldsands glanced down at a section of sand and saw the protruding pi
ece of white limestone fragmentized from a First Dynasty ceremonial mace head.

  He didn't believe it, even glancing away twice and looking back again just to make sure it was actually there, thinking maybe desert sunlight somehow deceptively reflected off the nearby oil derrick, or accompanying buildings, and played tricks with the tan-colored ground cover. The white object remained, however, and Gil knelt beside it. The oil rig's already-on-its-way security team had spotted him far more quickly, this time (had Abdul berated Galal Baseeli about the lax security of last time?). Upon his sand-spraying arrival, Galal had to recognize Gil as the same man who had been there before with Abdul, but the Arab eyed the archaeologist with genuine suspicion. Calmly, Gil explained that he'd come to look for pieces of artifacts possibly unearthed by the bulldozers that had worked the area during oil-derrick construction. Actually, though, Gil hadn't come expecting to find anything; he didn't say that. In truth, he wasn't really sure why he had come—unless it had been the promise held out by that small falcon of chipped flint he'd picked up, when with the sheikh, on that same sandy bluff. Or, maybe, it just had something to do with the strange attraction, like a windmill to Don Quizote, which the derrick held out to him. The black-metal filigreed tower continued to be an intrusion upon Gil's world. It had no place in the territory he had staked out. This place belonged more to past centuries, during which oil had not been drilled from the ground but had been ladled from surface seepage ... a time in which oil hadn't been used for combustion engines but to waterproof the cradle in which the baby Moses had floated down the Nile.

  He showed Galal the chunk of limestone just rescued from the sand at their feet. It was but a fragment broken from a larger whole piece, but Gil's trained eye knew what the whole had once looked like, because the engraving on this fragment duplicated the engraving on the famous Scorpion mace head found by Quibell at Hierakonpolis in 1898. The latter ceremonial mace head, used more as an insignia of pomp and circumstance than an actual weapon, showed the protodynastic Scorpion King wearing the white crown of Egypt and ritually breaking ground for a canal, his courtiers looking on while a bearer squatted before the king with a larger basket to accept the resulting dirt. The companion piece Gil held in his hand contained only one small fraction of that same picture—nothing more than a portion of the pharaoh's legs, a portion of the offering basket and a portion of the digging tool. The scorpion insignia, found on the more complete mace head, was lost here. Gil desperately surveyed the ground around him, hoping against hope to find even one more mace fragment. The way the bulldozers had raked the immediate area, though, the rest of the splintered artifact could easily have been shifted just about anywhere. When Galal insisted Gil leave, Gil mentally pinpointed the spot of his discovery, and then obliged the security officer's request.