Journey of the Pharaohs - NUMA Files Series 17 (2020)
Page 32
“And the Writings of Qsn?” Morgan asked. “And the kid who flew them to Spain?”
Kurt paused for a moment. “That was the hardest part to figure,” he admitted. “By all accounts, the writings are legitimate. But when they were actually discovered and where they truly came from is impossible to know. What they were doing on that plane is easier to figure. The Granzinis were hoping to get them to a buyer in France who would verify their authenticity. But after the shoot-out in Arizona, they were being hunted by the FBI. They needed to move the broken tablets before they got caught red-handed with them since the tablets would tie them to the murder of the archeologists. They probably should have just dumped them in the lake, but that would have meant giving up on a large payday, something they would need if they were about to relocate to another country. Sadly, all the usual channels of shipping were closed to them. All but one.”
“Jake Melbourne,” Morgan said. “They wanted him to fly it. The fact that he ended up dead suggests he said no.”
“They shot him and convinced their nephew to do it,” Joe said.
“Seems that way,” Kurt said. “According to the FBI file on Cordova, Jake Melbourne was a friend of his and was teaching him to fly in exchange for free maintenance work on the plane.”
It looked as if they’d solved a couple of long-standing mysteries, but Morgan was hung up on the original quest. “If the Writings of Qsn are legitimate, that means Herihor’s treasure and everything he stole from the other Pharaohs is still out there.”
“It’s a compelling story,” Kurt admitted, “but it requires some interpretation. In the end, all the Writings of Qsn really tells us is that a group of Egyptians, working under Herihor, embarked on a journey that took them far from Egypt. They went by sea and then across open land, finally ending up in a canyon. But that canyon could be anywhere. It could be West Africa or Central America or somewhere in Europe. It could even be here in the U.S., but there’s no real evidence to suggest that. Even the well-known article in the Phoenix Gazette lists sources in the Smithsonian that the institute has no record of ever being employed there.”
“Another hoax,” Joe said.
“Believe only half of what you read,” Morgan said.
“And none of what you see.”
Kurt watched Morgan Manning for some kind of reaction. A half-dozen emotions crossed her face in a matter of moments. First came disbelief, then anger. For an instant, she looked like she could chew through steel, then her face softened and she began to laugh. “The joke’s on Barlow, isn’t it? He should have stayed in the mercenary business. It would have been safer for him.”
“It would have at that,” Kurt said.
“Now what?” Joe asked.
Kurt grinned. “Now we turn this over to the proper authorities, head back to D.C. and bring the curtain down on this entire production.”
Joe shook his head. Morgan offered a salty grin. Kurt didn’t mind. He just shrugged and turned for the exit.
CHAPTER 65
Kurt, Joe and the Trouts returned to Washington, with Morgan coming along for the ride. At a debriefing in the NUMA conference room, Rudi confirmed the capture of Xandra and Fydor, who were easily linked to the assassination attempt in Washington and the attack on the Glen Canyon Dam.
“Have they confessed?” Morgan asked.
“Xandra, the sister, hasn’t said a word,” Rudi explained, “but Fydor spilled the whole story within thirty minutes of being apprehended.”
“How’d they get caught?” Kurt asked.
“They docked the powerboat without paying the manager of the marina,” Rudi said. “He followed them to the parking lot to get a credit card, but by the time he got there they were in the process of stealing a car—his car. The plate numbers were given to the state police, who caught up with them at a truck stop near Flagstaff. Electronic gear and other evidence will pin them to both crimes.”
“That’s two dangerous characters off the street,” Kurt noted.
“And when the survivors of Robson’s gang are extradited to the UK, they’ll be off the street as well,” Morgan said. “For a long, long time.”
The debriefing wrapped up and the participants made plans to go their own ways.
Joe was off to Spain to learn more about Stefano Cordova, the young man who’d flown across the Atlantic shortly before Lindbergh. Paul and Gamay were heading to Australia for a proper vacation, choosing the destination partly because it was as far as possible from anything Egyptian. Morgan was scheduled to fly back to London immediately, until Kurt convinced her to postpone her flight for at least one day.
“What’s in it for me?” she asked, walking him back to his office.
“A gourmet dinner at a spot overlooking the river,” Kurt said.
“What’s the name of this restaurant?” she said. “I dine at only the best establishments.”
“It doesn’t have a name,” Kurt said, opening the door to his office and noticing that the stack of paper in his in-box had grown even higher than when he last looked. He walked by the desk just to see what was on top.
“If that’s true,” Morgan replied, “what kind of menu can I expect?”
“Pizza or cheeseburgers.”
She frowned. “Doesn’t sound very gourmet to me.”
“Either selection comes with a bottle of Opus One,” he said. “A bottle I’ve been saving for just such an occasion.”
That brought a smile to her face. “In that case, I accept. Since we’re talking about your place, I hope that means I won’t have to wear any shoes once I’m there.”
Kurt grinned. “No shoes, no problem.” He was leafing through the paperwork, intending to leave it all for another day, when he spotted something interesting. He plucked a single-page report from the pile and began to scan the contents.
“What’s that?” Morgan asked.
“Paul’s chemical analysis of the sandstone fragment we found in Melbourne’s plane,” Kurt said. “The fragment that was part of the Writings of Qsn.”
She leaned closer. “What does it say?”
Kurt first read the findings to himself and then summarized for her. “It says the stone was quarried somewhere in the Colorado River Basin, most likely western New Mexico or northern Arizona.”
“Well, that’s interesting,” she said.
“It is,” Kurt replied, putting the report through the shredder. “Very interesting indeed.”
Epilogue
Navajo Nation, Arizona
Four months later
A parade of agents came through northern Arizona in the months after the attack on the Glen Canyon Dam. The FBI sent most of them, but representatives from the National Parks Service’s Bureau of Land Management, the State Department and the FAA all made appearances at one time or another.
Reporters from the major networks came, followed by journalists from national magazines and local news outlets. Most of them asked the same questions. Few of them listened to the answers.
By late December, the air had turned cold and the first snow of the season had dusted the vermillion ground with a coating of white. By then, the wrecked Black Hawk helicopter, the movie props and the vintage Kissel automobile had all been removed, the various agents had gone back to Washington and the journalists had moved on, chasing different stories in other parts of the country.
With the quiet of the canyon restored, Eddie Toh-Yah and his grandfather went out on horseback early one morning. They rode slowly, picking their way over the frozen ground, leaving the high country and descending into a remote part of the canyon, fifteen miles from Silver Box Ravine.
“You seem happy to have all the commotion behind us,” Eddie said.
“This land is supposed to be quiet,” his grandfather told him. “The ancestors prefer it.”
Eddie figured there was a message for him in that and he remained silent for a long time after. In truth, he preferred the quiet, listening to the sound of the horses’ hooves on the ground, the call
of a hawk in the distance.
As much as he enjoyed it out here on the range, he was surprised to be riding with his grandfather. The old man was frail, he rarely left home these days, let alone for a difficult ride in the cold of winter.
“It’s been a long time since you invited me on a ride,” Eddie said. “Care to tell me where we’re going?”
“No,” his grandfather said. “But we’re almost there.” He pulled the horse up and dismounted awkwardly, tying the reins to a scrub bush at the edge of the ravine and taking a small pack from the saddle. “Follow me.”
Eddie got off his horse, tied him and then rushed to catch up with his grandfather, who was proving surprisingly spry negotiating the rough terrain.
They climbed up the west slope of the ravine until his grandfather found a notch in the face of the rock. It looked to Eddie like nothing more than a crack in the face of the cliff, but his grandfather squeezed through and disappeared.
Eddie followed and found himself in what was known as a slot canyon, with walls that were shades of crimson streaked with orange and tan.
Eddie stayed quiet as he followed his grandfather through the labyrinth-like curves. A quarter mile in, they came to an opening that had clearly been carved by man-made tools. It led inside the cliff.
His grandfather lit an old Coleman lantern, turned up the wick and then stepped through.
Eddie followed once again, this time walking into a square-cut room with markings on the walls. In the flickering light, Eddie saw symbols he didn’t recognize and depictions of strange creatures, half human, half animal.
He knew better than to ask at this point. His grandfather was showing him something he needed to see for himself.
They continued on, climbing up a steep ramp and arriving in a vast, open space several times larger than the movie set in Silver Box Ravine. It was clear to Eddie that this space had been hewn from the rock. The effort must have taken years with tools of only bronze and stone.
Moving forward, he saw that the excavation had left columns of stone to support the ceiling. Arranged carefully around the columns Eddie saw statues, sculpture and other carvings. He walked past mummified bodies of strange animals that lined the central path. He followed his grandfather to the far end, where a niche had been carved in the rock in the shape of a pyramid.
Fifteen ancient coffins were lined up beneath it side by side. They gleamed in the light, gold and blue and other brilliant colors. The sarcophaguses were free of debris or even any dust. Above them, embedded into the ceiling, were gemstones arranged like the stars of the night. So precise were the astronomical designs that Eddie had no trouble picking out Orion’s Belt and the Big Dipper.
Eddie’s grandfather used a long thin taper to light some incense. As the aroma of sage and piñon wafted through the room, he began lighting candles, one at the base of each golden sarcophagus. As the flickering light grew, it reflected off mirrors placed above each of the sarcophaguses, illuminating the faces carefully crafted on each.
“Grandfather,” Eddie whispered. “Is this what I think it is?”
As the fourteenth candle was lit, Eddie’s grandfather spoke. “These are the People of the Sun. They came here many generations before the white men. Your great ancestors knew them.”
“These are the Egyptian Pharaohs,” Eddie said. “The treasure Kurt was looking for.”
Eddie’s grandfather corrected him. “Your friend said he cared not for the treasure but for the men who were after the treasure. He has them now.”
Eddie realized that was true. “Why did you bring me here?”
“Today is the winter solstice,” his grandfather said. “The day of the short sun. A sun these faces long to see. I come here every year, twice a year, to light these candles. Every summer solstice, as well. My grandfather did the same thing. And should you choose to carry on the tradition, your grandchildren will one day be asked to care for these travelers who found rest in our land.”
“You want me to—”
“It has been entrusted to us to care for these ancient ones,” his grandfather said. “But I’m too old to do this much longer. It falls to you … If you wish it.”
Eddie studied the treasure around him. He thought about the history of these people and his own small place in the world. Then his mind focused on the great honor that was being offered to him.
Without a word, he stepped forward, took the taper from his grandfather’s hand and dipped it to light the final candle.
THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam’s Sons 2020
Published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph 2020
Copyright © Sandecker, RLLP, 2020
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Jacket artwork by Lee Gibbons
Images: © Shutterstock
ISBN: 978-1-405-94105-1
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
BY THE SAME AUTHORS
CAST OF CHARACTERS
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
/>
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
EPILOGUE
COPYRIGHT