Maalyck smiled and nodded. “I do. It was, at the time, the most clever thing I had ever seen.”
Kotler laughed. “Well, I think we have another case of misdirection here. It’s the language of this translation. ‘Pierce the veil.’ If the sword is the key, and we’re to enter through the mouth of Credne, then it seems reasonable that we have both a key and a keyhole.”
Maalyck leaned back, surprised. “That never occurred to me! Nor to my colleagues!”
“I could be wrong,” Kotler said, shaking his head. “But it fits. Fortunately it will be very easy to test this theory. All we have to do is put the blade of this sword into Credne’s mouth, and push.”
Maalyck was smiling. "Then it will be exciting when you test your theory."
Kotler laughed. “Well, I’d love nothing more than to be a part of this, but from what I hear the Egyptian government has most of these sites locked down at the moment. It would take months, maybe years to be cleared.”
“Years,” Maalyck said, nodding. “It took years.”
Kotler shook his head, perplexed. “What do you mean?”
“On my recommendation,” Maalyck said, “you were placed on the approvals list nearly three years ago. As the discoverer of the brass hall, and with your long history of contributions to the archaeological community, you are a recognized authority, according to the Egyptian government. If Dr. Warren had not died before sending his letter, you would have been notified by the council that it was considering you for a position with the research team for this site.”
Maalyck smiled as he took a letter out of his bag, handing it to Kotler.
It was a letter of invitation from the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities, officially endorsed by the Egyptian government.
“I’m here to offer you the position. We would like you to lead the new team, in uncovering and exploring the tomb of Credne.”
Chapter Four
Being here was dangerous.
For years now, the Egyptian government had enforced a lockdown on this and many other dig sites, restricting access with military-level security. The orders were "shoot to kill." No warning shots were given.
Ammon knew the risks, but failure brought dangers of its own. He needed access to this site. And he had certain advantages.
He had plenty of money for bribes, which would help. But this did not give him free access. He would need to proceed carefully, to avoid doing anything that would call the sort of attention to himself that would force the government’s hand. They could turn their heads when it came to bribery and trespassing, but only if they maintained plausible deniability.
At this stage, Ammon had to play by the rules, as did his partners. Which meant that he could not rely entirely on his contacts here to protect him if things went awry. Not all of these men were part of the order. Not yet.
Ammon crept among the stones and debris. He clung close to the mountainside, letting the deep shadows do the work of keeping him hidden. He was making a survey run around the site, probing to see if his intel was correct. It had been several years since Ammon had last been here. It had been nearly two years since his source had seen the site as well, and memories were often untrustworthy. So far, however, Ammon was finding all of the landmarks his source had indicated. The entrance was close by.
Since 2011, and the Egyptian revolution, the government had tightened its control over specific historical sites, in certain regions, preventing access by robust vetting and security. This was spurred, in part, by the destruction of the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities, in Cairo. During the revolution, the museum was raided, and many artifacts were damaged or stolen. Among these, two of the ancient mummies were destroyed. It was one of the darkest moments in the modern era of archaeology, and nearly a decade later the impact was still being felt.
In some ways, it opened the door for the order to further its plans. But the heavy security and restriction of movement and exploration had also slowed progress.
Ammon moved stealthily, eventually finding the path his source had indicated. An iron gate spanned the gap that had been carved into the rock face. Ammon had been told to expect this.
It was a formidable blockade, notably as it included an armed guard—one of the Egyptian military, assigned to prevent anyone from entering.
Ammon whistled, signaling his approach, and stepped into the circle of the security light. The guard dutifully raised his weapon and told him to halt. He didn’t shout, but his voice was firm, his intention unmistakable.
Ammon raised his hands over his head and ensured that his face was visible in the light.
The guard looked from side to side, and then lowered his weapon, gesturing for Ammon to join him at the small, wooden shed next to the gate. A guardhouse, of sorts, though it contained only a few odds and ends, primarily a clipboard and some office supplies. There was not even a stool to sit upon.
Ammon stepped into the shadows beside guardhouse.
“Ahlan wa sahlan,” Ammon said.
“Ahlan bīk,” the guard replied. He continued, in Egyptian, “You have brought me what you promised?”
Ammon nodded and took an envelope out of his pocket.
The guard opened it, counting, then shook his head as he put it inside his coat. “Wait here.”
He stepped away, into the darkness, and Ammon waited.
He was not nervous, but he was cautious. He knew what was coming, and had planned for it.
Two men accompanied the guard back to his post. They had their weapons raised and demanded that Ammon put his hands up and face them.
“My friends,” Ammon said, obeying their orders. “I have not forgotten you. I have brought gifts for you as well.”
This was the standard shakedown. The bribes would need to be extended to the guard's compatriots. It was customary. And one of these men was the guard's commanding officer. His bribe must be bigger than that of the other two, which was also customary.
Ammon gestured, silently asking permission to lower his hands. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, and carefully removed two more envelopes from his pocket, offering them to the two men.
They inspected their envelopes, and without a word, all three men turned and left. The original guard paused only long enough to unlock the gate and leave it standing open.
Ammon would have one hour. No more. He must make his entrance, do his work, and leave this place before that time counted down, or risk being locked inside. This would inevitably end in his death, as he'd be "discovered" by the guards at some point, who would be obliged to shoot him for trespassing.
Ammon intended to be long gone by that time.
This ingress had been created by the original exploratory team, two decades earlier. They had used small, shaped explosive charges to carve a path into the mountain, to reach the site where the brass hall had been discovered. It was slow and dangerous work and had taken much of the twenty years since the tomb's discovery. And perhaps all for nothing, as the researchers had soon after found themselves stymied by the unstable geology of this region. The brass hall itself remained locked behind a wall of fallen stone, half the mountainside acting as a barrier to entry.
They had found other sites in their progress, however. These mountains were apparently honeycombed with vaults and rooms, many of which contained ancient Celtic artifacts. Some also held Egyptian treasures—making them entirely subject to Egyptian governance.
Ammon needed access to one particular vault.
He would have preferred to enter via the shaft, through which the vault had initially been discovered. But this had been blocked and sealed for nearly five years, as the research team had managed to cut an access to the vault from below. There had been suspicion of thieves gaining access via the shaft, and so it had been sealed, along with any path to it. This was the only way in now.
Ammon carefully picked his way up the stone slope, and once he reached the opening to the vault, he crept inside, stooping to crawl through the low-ceilinged entrance.
He turned on his small flashlight, illuminating the sloped stone of the entrance.
He emerged inside the vault, surrounded by artifacts of stone and brass, all cataloged and labeled by the researchers. It was an odd sight, as if someone had built a museum exhibit in a cave in the middle of nowhere.
This was the safest location for all of it, these days. Protected by miles of stone and the might of the Egyptian military, only those brave enough—or insane enough—could gain access, and at significant risk and expense. Most thieves felt it was not worth the time and effort. Anything stolen from this vault would be difficult to sell.
Ammon was no thief, however. He had an objective. And it would be worth the risk.
Standing within the vault, he oriented himself according to his mental map, a combination of his previous experience here and of what records he could uncover about the layout of this place. It all had to be carried in his head. He could not risk carrying a real map, or anything that would indicate what he was after. He had risked enough by sneaking the blade in.
He took this out now, withdrawing it from a custom scabbard sewn to the side of his coat, and stood facing the door. Before him, the face—a brass visage of the Druidic god, Credne—had its eyes and mouth closed. Ammon placed his hand on the face and pushed.
As it sank back into the door, its eyes and mouth opened. An eerie and frightening sight, but Ammon had known it would happen. It was necessary. It revealed the lock.
He held up the blade.
It was a replica of the sword recovered from the brass hall, two decades earlier. It was made to exacting specifications, even including the nicks and chips in the blade. It had no hilt, however. This would have added bulk and made the blade more challenging to conceal.
Ammon held the blade, resting it on his palm and aligning it with the opening of Credne's mouth. He then inserted the blade into the mouth, feeling some small resistance at first but continuing to push until it would go no further. He could feel the mechanisms engage as he pushed, a symphony of satisfying clicks and gentle resistance.
There was the sound of stone moving against stone, and Ammon stepped aside, taking shelter under a nearby archway, in case the ceiling caved in.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
Stepping closer to the door, Ammon pushed, but it did not budge. No matter how hard he tried, the door remained firmly closed.
He stood back from it, examining it closer, frustrated to have come so far only to be denied entry.
Had he been wrong? Had this been a mistake? He had invested so much into this, had risked so much. Was it for nothing?
That was when he noticed the moonlight.
It had been pitch black in the vault when he entered. He lit the space with his flashlight, which sat off to the side now, casting its beam on the wall next to the door, the spill of its light creating a dim reflection on Credne's brass face. Ammon had reached out to touch that face, wondering about his mistake, and noticed a faint, blue cast on his arm.
He turned off the flashlight, and let his eyes adjust.
There. Ammon saw it clearly now. Motes of dust floated and danced in a beam of moonlight, emitted from the ceiling, casting a tight circle on the floor.
He looked up and saw that a new shaft had appeared above him. A stone in the ceiling had moved, opening a crack wide enough for moonlight to enter the chamber. It was faint but visible. In the daylight, it would be a bright beam in the relative darkness of the vault.
Ammon looked at the floor, where the beam of light struck. There, carved into the stone, was a pattern. It twisted and curved, rose and fell. It was little different from the design that spanned the rest of the floor of this space, but with the moonlight striking it Ammon could see that it was, in fact, distinct.
He took out his mobile phone, and took several photos, sending them to a folder in cloud storage. He then deleted the images, in case he was captured, and his phone was confiscated. He would examine these later.
For now, he had to admit at least partial defeat. The blade of the sword had indeed worked as a key, just as he’d suspected. But it hadn’t opened the door. It had only managed to reveal a new riddle.
Ammon removed the blade, and with the sound of stone grinding the beam of moonlight disappeared. He used the light of his phone to retrieve the flashlight and turn it back on. He tucked the sword blade back into its hiding place within the folds of his coat and left the vault.
The gate still stood open, and no guards were in sight. Ammon exited and hurried away, once again clinging to the darkness and the deep shadow of the mountain. He moved as silently and cautiously as possible, hiding among the stones if there was any sign that someone might be near. His bribes had given him only enough safe passage to enter and exit the vault. The guards would not hesitate to shoot him, now that their contract had ended.
Nearly two hours later he arrived in his room, at a small, abandoned inn he had purchased on the far outskirts of the village. He locked his door and sat at the table he used as a desk. He cleared some of the reference books and other items, and placed the sword before him, under the light. He debated what he should do.
He had counted on gaining access through that doorway. He had been right, about the door and the sword. This excursion had cost him dearly, but it had confirmed what he knew. The order would at least be pleased to hear that. He hoped.
It was not enough. The gateway to the Otherworld of the Tuatha dé Danann remained closed to him and to the order. Now, however, he believed he knew what was missing.
He needed the real sword of Credne. And that was in the possession of the Museum. Specifically, it was in the possession of Dr. Martook Maalyck.
Ammon’s old rival. The favorite. The prodigy who had caused Ammon to be banished from the site before completing his work.
Ammon began making new plans. He would need to explain his failure to the order. He would need to request more money, for more bribes. He would make a second attempt. And this time, he would be truly armed.
He would have a sword.
Part II
Chapter Five
John F. Kennedy International Airport
Kotler still felt bemused by it all, even as he took a seat in the airport lounge. His flight would leave in just over an hour, and he meant to make use of the time to finish up a few last-minute tasks. He'd made preparations, canceled some overlapping engagements, and arranged for people to cover for him in various functions. The most difficult was his hiatus from his consulting work with Historic Crimes.
He'd taken breaks from case work with the FBI in the past, but this was different. This time he wasn't running, wasn't trying to escape some problematic emotional event or recover from being abducted or tortured. This time, he allowed himself to admit, there was the distinct possibility that he was leaving Historic Crimes for good.
He hadn’t yet decided.
For two years he had helped Agent Roland Denzel and the FBI to solve crimes related to history. It had been a rollercoaster, for sure. In that time he'd been shot, tortured, and manipulated. He’d been endlessly chased by armed mercenaries, and had barely escaped with his life on a number of occasions. For two years he’d somehow, through wit and luck, managed to survive.
In that time he had also formed a friendship with one of the most remarkable men he'd ever met. Agent Roland Denzel had become a vital part of Kotler’s life, and his dearest friend. Though he knew Roland would be wildly uncomfortable discussing it.
Kotler had also become a vital part of an organization that was doing good work in the world. Historic Crimes, though inappropriately named, was a unique and inspiring concept in law enforcement. Kotler had to admit, he liked being able to apply his expertise and knowledge to puzzles brought to him by the FBI. There had been personal costs, however. Because of this work, Kotler had suffered losses that still ached within him.
Still, the work was fascinating, and through it Kotler felt he was doing something truly good in the wo
rld. Danger would always be part of it, but that wasn’t necessarily a reason to walk away.
And, of course, through this work he'd met Liz Ludlum.
If he were being honest, Roland and Liz were the two people who gave him the most pause, when considering a transition. Leaving his consulting position with the FBI wouldn't necessarily end these relationships, but it would make them more challenging to maintain. Burying his head in the sand and stone of Egypt, exploring an enigmatic and out-of-place archaeological enigma, would become a full-time occupation.
It would change things.
But that’s what this hiatus was all about. He would figure it out. Things would work out fine, one way or another. This trip was about discovering which path was next for him, whether he wanted to step into this role, to make this change in his life and career, or to stay on the path he’d traveled for the past two years. It was about exploring who he really wanted to be.
It would work out fine.
He had just opened an email to a New York colleague when someone dropped a heavy duffel bag on the floor beside him.
Kotler looked up, startled.
“Roland?”
“Surprise,” Denzel said flatly. Then smiled.
“What are you doing here?” Kotler asked.
“Well, first off, it wasn’t easy figuring out where you were. I should have known you’d be in a fancy airport lounge instead of out in the terminal with the commoners.”
“I have a membership,” Kotler blinked, a bit dumbfounded.
“I don’t, but luckily they take credit cards.”
“Roland …”
“I’m going with you,” Denzel said, smirking. He dropped into the chair across from Kotler. “I took some vacation, and I’m going to Egypt. Got it cleared with their government and the museum and everything.”
Kotler shook his head. “I’m … what?”
“Unless you don’t want me there?” Denzel asked.
Kotler shook his head grinned. “Oh, I think having you on a dig would be just about the most amusing thing I can think of. But I’m just … surprised.”
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