The Pyramid Prophecy

by Caroline Vermalle

  She settled into one of the upholstered armchairs facing the large stone fireplace. Logs hissed and cracked; flames lit up the room with a mellow glow. She liked taking refuge in Cornwall whenever the chaos of London became too distracting, and so she had warned her colleagues that, for several days, she would be working from home. Andrew Sheets had made the usual hurtful comment, which had made her all the more desperate to spend some time in the family home. She dreaded the Nefertiti auction in Paris with that bully. He spoiled everything for her. Wasn’t there a way to get rid of him for good?

  One problem at a time, she thought, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke and feeling the warmth of the fire on her skin.

  Franklin's discoveries had come in the nick of time, but would Jim and Gayle still see the disgraced detective as a credible source? Florence needed something more tangible, something beyond any doubt, to convince her bosses.

  She needed the smoking gun.

  Once again, she returned to the same conclusion: Room X. If Max cracked the path to the secret chamber, and if she brought that evidence to the table, she would have a bigger seat. But there was a dead end there too.

  She flipped through the report on Seth's murder, but seeing nothing new, tossed it aside. She caught sight of the small shrew’s mummy sitting above the fireplace. An extinct species, DeBok had said. Crocidura balsamifera. She wondered what the ancient Egyptians would have called the little mammal? Crocidura balsamifera. The name made her think of Nymphaea caerulea, the name of the plant found in Room X and mentioned in the report. Suddenly, it struck Florence that in all the excitement about the mask, they had omitted to explore the relevance of the plant.

  What was this flower doing at the scene of a murder?

  Nymphaea caerulea. Florence perused the worn and faded volumes of her father’s library and extracted the two volumes that she was looking for, Edouard Spachs’ Histoire Naturelle des Végétaux from 1848, and a well-thumbed and battered 1959 edition of the New Larousse Encyclopedia of Mythology. Flipping through the yellowed pages of the books, she discovered that the flowers were those of the blue water lily, or blue lotus. They were a powerful symbol in ancient Egypt’s mythology: the coming together of mortal man and the gods.

  But most interestingly, they were also a staple in Ancient Egypt’s high society parties. The plants, soaked in wine, were known to act as a relaxant, an aphrodisiac, and even a mild psychedelic.

  The blue lotus, a mind-altering drug?

  Florence’s heart began to race as a new picture formed in her mind. Could Hassan and Al-Shamy have lured Seth and Jessica into the pyramid, offering them an unforgettable night, the likes of which were known only to the kings and high priests of ancient Egypt? Could a hedonistic once-in-a-lifetime chance to sample the delights of the sacred lotus in the very building that had witnessed the ancient rites have been too much to resist, only for something to go horribly wrong?

  In all the trashy tabloid pieces about the young couple, there was no whiff of drugs, but Florence had been to enough high society parties to know that drugs were always around, if not at the center of the festivities, then at the periphery.

  She quickly returned to the pages to the autopsy report to see if any traces of substances had been found in Seth's body. But the text was opaque, filled with medical jargon and numbers that meant nothing to her.

  She would need someone to translate it for her into something that made sense to her and, more importantly, to a television audience. She recalled a family friend, Dr. Mahmoud Maleh, a surgeon with a practice on Harley Street who was so highly regarded by his Arabic-speaking clients that they traveled from their homes in the Middle East just for a consultation, no matter how minor the ailment. Florence photographed the pages with her phone and sent them to him, with a message asking for his help and promising that if anything came of it, he would be sure to feature in the finished film.

  So much was happening that Florence did not see the time pass. Ideas came to her in a frenzy, and she did not want to rest in case she lost momentum. Her face bathed in the blue glow of her laptop screen, she was so consumed by new ideas, that she didn’t even notice that the fire had died and night had fallen around her. From the beginning, they had focused their search on the people, but what if, instead, they followed the flowers?

  The blue lotus, which had once grown plentifully along the banks of the Nile, was now much rarer. To get a hundred of them like in Room X, one would have to go to specialized farms in Egypt or in Thailand.

  Florence bet on Egypt and after a quick search found the number of a Cairo-based wedding planner, counting on the fact that even though it was late, a wedding planner would be answering the phone. Her hunch proved right, and she was soon spinning the tale of a dear and wealthy friend who was insisting on hundreds of those flowers at her ceremony and did she have any idea of any suppliers who could handle such a large order and ship it to Cairo? It took her less than ten minutes to get the contact details of three lotus farms who could.

  She fired a round of emails, sank back into the luxurious softness of her chair and rested her feet on a low table amongst the clutter of half-finished cups of tea. As she put her head back and closed her eyes, she paused at the threshold of slumber, eagerly waiting for the dreams that though many and varied, were always monopolized by one overarching presence.

  Max Hausmann.

  She fought sleep to dial his number. Sill no answer.

  The dull sense of foreboding that had become a constant passenger whenever she thought of Max, was now more vivid than ever.

  45

  The flashlight had put up a good fight; now it was nothing more than a flickering halo of sickly orange light.

  Max had been in the tunnel for 51 hours, 34 minutes and 6 seconds. At least his watch was still working.

  The two young looters were curled up alongside him on the dirt floor. Once they had understood that the tunnel had collapsed and there was no way to get out, they had huddled together through the choking dust.

  A natural, desperate instinct, thought Max.

  He contemplated the circumstances and paths that had brought them all to the same place, and the extraordinary events of their brief time together. In the end, their differences had been stripped away. All three were thirsty and hungry, and their lungs whistled in unison, like stricken bellows that fed a dying furnace. At first, they had kept terror at bay by shouting and digging at the rock and sand with their bare hands, their picks lost in the melee. The silence of their subterranean tomb had been all the more overwhelming, for what at first they took for silence, was in fact a subterranean hum of scratching and scuttling; unseen beasts slithered or scampered amongst the bones and remains of the others who had been entombed in the earth long before.

  But like the waning power of the flashlight, hope had faded, and their strength too. Despair and hunger, too, had been consumed. When there had still been some light, they had seen a rat, but they were too weary to make the effort to catch it, a fact they regretted later. Slowly but surely, they resigned themselves to their fate in this world that lay on the fringes of death, a world that was made of thirst and fear. A no man's land between life and the terrifying invisible.

  * * *

  Now all that was left was acceptance.

  “I never told her that I loved her.”

  Unexpectedly and from out of the darkness, Spidey spoke.

  “We were meant to go to London. I promised her I would take her there. I told her that I would do anything to get her out of here. Everything was arranged, all we needed was the money. It was her idea, the tunnel. But I don’t blame her. I would have done anything for her. Anything. I wouldn’t be afraid to die if it was to protect her, but now… now she’ll be all on her own against them.”

  The darkness gave birth to unknown sounds. A rat, a draft, a man’s soul breaking.

  “What's her name?” Max asked, barely able to get the words out through his desiccated throat and mouth.

  �
�Naya.”

  Max savored the name for a moment, as if Naya's spirit could be invoked to sustain them for a little longer. Spidey continued to talk, and Max allowed himself to imagine it all. She was beautiful, Spidey had said. Not as pretty as the girls on TV, but with a fragile strength that made her infinitely more attractive. When Max asked him what he meant, Spidey said that he did not have the words to explain it better, that only by seeing her Max would understand.

  Max thought of Sixtine, and he wondered what name he would put to that unique something, that little bit more of soul, body, or pure energy that had become bound to his heart, like a benevolent virus. Even with his all his degrees and diplomas, and with all the languages he spoke, he too was at a loss for the right word.

  “Naya’s father doesn’t think I’m worthy. He wants her to marry some rich bastard who doesn’t even see her, you know? Not like I do. He'll beat her, of that I'm sure, just like his father beat his mother. But he is rich, and I have nothing, so her parents forbade her to see me. That was when she spoke about London and the treasures in the tunnels. It was the only way out. So I pretended that I was proud to make tunnels but in truth, I only did it because I loved her. I’ve loved since the first day I saw her. And I’ve never even told her.”

  “Shut up, Spidey,” the other young thief growled. “If you had, so what? It wouldn’t have changed a thing.”

  Spidey lay silent for a moment, then whispered, “You are wrong, Ahmed. It would have changed things. At least we would have claimed what was between us, made it our own. We would have been rich.”

  Max heard the sobbing again, and he understood. Too often men chased imagined treasures at the expense of things of infinitely more value, even when easily within their grasp. He lay staring into the infinite shadow of the tunnel and pondered the boy’s words. He thought of the raw, bright sensation he had felt when he had met Sixtine, a feeling still intact in the depths of his bruised chest, and wondered what would remain of it once he had breathed his last.

  It is said that when death comes, the human body sheds twenty-one grams, as if at that final moment, one last thing takes flight, seeking refuge in the next world. Some say it’s the soul.

  Max hoped it was love.

  Suddenly, he wondered if the air in the tunnel had finally run out, for, in the depths of the darkness, a faint gray silhouette appeared. As a wave of calm washed over him, the shadow took form, and he saw her so clearly that he instinctively reached out for her. Her emerald eyes sparkled as she came closer to him. But then, just as suddenly, she was gone, and the darkness had returned, as black and empty as before.

  Max was shaken out of his shock by the murmurs, then the shouts of Ahmad and Spidey. Still searching for signs of the apparition, it took him a few seconds to comprehend what was happening. By the time he did, Spidey was screaming with all his might.

  The rope had moved.

  46

  Han entered the hotel suite without a sound. He sat down on one of the chairs in the corner of the room, so as not to interrupt Sixtine and Franklin. He waited, his back straight, his face perfectly relaxed. He had something to tell Sixtine.

  The mission she had entrusted to him, while small, had yielded unexpected rewards. He suspected that Sixtine would suffer from what he had to say. But she needed to hear it.

  There were only three days left before the sale of Nefertiti at Sotheby's.

  The sun was creeping behind the anthracite facade of the Metropolitan Cathedral, casting shadows across the carpet. Sixtine was pacing in front of the windows, her bare feet sending up plumes of dust motes that gave form to the shafts of light. She listened intently to Franklin, stretched out on a couch, his voice strained from too much talking.

  For six hours, he had spoken about the strange world of antiquities. He was a natural mentor, in the way that only those genuinely engaged in their subject can be. He was equally excited about the vagaries of the law, the hierarchy of the shady bureaucracies in treasure-rich countries, or the vital pieces of tradecraft gained from years of experience. He had also schooled Sixtine on the fundamentals of speed training, a technique borrowed from martial arts, and Franklin’s personal favorite, the art of the thief.

  Sixtine listened. She asked questions, made him repeat details, facts, methods. Since the blackout and warning at the museum three days before, she had barely slept.

  The pace had been punishing and Franklin’s focus, despite his best efforts, was beginning to drift. Sixtine suggested that they take a break for the night and Franklin retired to a room on the same floor, promising to return early the next day so that they could continue.

  “You can go too, Han. There is no need for you to stay,” Sixtine said.

  “Before I go, Miss, I have some information which I think I need to share,” Han said, delicately. “First, I checked with your banker, and everything is in order. I also obtained an invitation to the reception organized by Mr. Yohannes DeBok in Paris the day before the sale at Sotheby's. I have already notified the flight crew.”

  Sixtine was busy lighting candles all over her suite and smiled distractedly as Han ticked off the tasks that she had set for him.

  “But, about the pilot of the helicopter.”

  Sixtine stopped abruptly and looked up. “Did you find him? Is he alive?”

  “Alive, yes. But for how much longer, I cannot be sure.” Sixtine was surprised to hear Han’s voice thick with disapproval, rather than concern for the welfare of what could be their most important source of information.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He drinks. Enough for me to doubt the truth of his story.”

  Sixtine smiled. Han’s mild manner was always tested most by men who seemed bent on self-destruction. “Which is…”

  “Before I tell you, I have to warn you that his allegations must be–”

  “Okay, Han. I get it, he’s not to be trusted. Now, what did he say?”

  A pained look came over the butler’s face, “He claims that Seth paid him, in person, to make the helicopter disappear.”

  Sixtine's face remained devoid of any emotion for a moment. The doubt and outrage that she ought to feel, that this drunkard’s tale justly demanded, didn’t materialize. Little by little, the light went out of her eyes, and instead of rage, she heard a dull blankness in her own disembodied voice. “So Seth paid to stage his own disappearance and mine?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “But, Han...”

  The old man saw the realization slowly seep into her core. More than anything in the world, he would have liked to stem the pain. What he didn’t say, was that he had checked the drunkard’s claims: they were very likely true.

  “And me?” Sixtine asked, her lip trembling, “Did he say that I was in on it?”

  Slowly, carefully, Han nodded.

  Sixtine emerged from the water and filled her lungs with air. She felt a tingling in her hands and feet, and her limbs had begun to feel stiff, so long had she remained without oxygen. As her chest heaved and her body fought to replenish itself, she stretched out in the marble tub, with her head and shoulders out of the water. Her gray hair was draped across her breasts, and the tattoo on her belly rippled beneath the water as her tears mixed with the faintly scented water that streamed down her face.

  Why was she crying? Was it because Jessica, whose death she was doing everything to avenge, this supposed innocent virgin sacrificed upon the altar of someone’s greed or insanity, had herself not hesitated to break the heart of the person who had raised her? What had become of her in this no-man's land of time that her own memory refused to let her see?

  “Oh my God, Gigi…”

  The very thought of the anguished nights that Gigi must have endured filled her with deep remorse. And yet she knew that the source of her tears lay not in the shame she now felt, but, instead, from the realization that something was missing.

  As painful as it would have been, she knew that if being part of Seth’s plan had been some form of d
eclaration of the love that she felt for him, then surely it could have been excused. After all, to leave behind the attachments of a previous life for a few weeks or for eternity, was that not the ultimate proof of absolute, unqualified love?

  But Sixtine knew that this was not true. She now knew what it was that had been missing in all those months of mourning since her husband's murder. What was absent was the pain that comes from the death of love, the endless sadness, the burning nostalgia for the happy days, the days before.

  Seth was dead and yet Sixtine had experienced nothing but horror and revenge. As she felt the beat of her heart slow, she could no longer turn away from the truth that had been hiding in plain sight all along.

  Whatever she had felt for Seth, it was not everlasting love. What had it been, then? Was it the reason she had hesitated at the altar in the church? And again and again, the same question reared its ugly head: why had Seth chosen her?

  Her face still dripping with bitter tears, dressed only in a bathrobe, she picked up the hotel phone and called Gigi. The old lady, whose voice was sometimes lost in the cries of all the caged birds she kept, told her the words which, since the death of her mother, had always comforted her.

  Everything will be alright, dear.

  Sixtine did not tell her about her disappearance or the helicopter. She did not speak either of her plans or of the dark impulses for vengeance that had poisoned her blood since the museum. She just talked about the weather and the color of the heavens above the city and how they opened up to let the light through, even when the rain came pouring down. In these simple exchanges, there was an immense tenderness, a kindness that filled the void that Seth’s love could not fill. Talking with her aunt was a balm over an open wound. She felt once more the same familiar caress, the stroke of a feather that made her arm tremble, the tiny breath that seeped into everything around her, telling her that, despite the loneliness of this hotel room, she would never be alone.