CHAPTER EIGHT
I fulfill the law and the law demands your blood. I am the crocodile, the catastrophe, the devourer, the necessity. Impaled on my teeth, you shall be blessed for you will glimpse the truth. I am only the secrets of your own dark heart, you lust, your greed, your anger, your flesh. As long as you breathe, I shall exist to snatch you from yourself, to grind your bones and chew your flesh, to tear the darkness from your heart. I am the living power of water, the cry that catches in your throat, the sob that shatters stone.
On my teeth you smell the stink of flesh. To you I seem a living horror. But I tell you in truth, I am your own soul and it is with great sorrow that I crush the life you have made.
--Excerpt from "Becoming the Crocodile", Egyptian Book of the Dead, as translated by Normandi Ellis
Bernstein teetered on the uneven top of a small chunk of collapsed ceiling, hanging onto the tunnel doorway with one hand and brushing dirt and grime off the inscription above it with the other. As more and more of the caked-on grunge came off the time-smoothed hieroglyphics, Bernstein exchanged a worried look with Hamid.
"I don't like what I'm seeing, here," he told the Egyptian. He tossed the brush down to Hamid, then ran his finger over the carved figures, making sure once more that his initial translation had been correct. No matter how many times he went over the markings, though, he ended up with the same thing. And it wasn't good.
Eric and Doug had met up with him a little while ago, catching the archaeologist and his Egyptian colleague just before their lunch break. The two young men had filled them in on the discovery they'd just made, and then Eric had shown them his hand. Bernstein, of course, had been appalled—at the injury itself, of course, but also by the fact that Eric had blatantly disregarded his explicit instructions regarding safety. Eric, of course, had waved off the concern, assuring him that it was just a small cut, but Bernstein was still annoyed. Maybe Eric had been lucky this time, but worse accidents could easily happen, if people didn't take care. Sending the two off to the first aid cabinet in the mess tent, Bernstein scowled after them.
"Youth, my friend," Hamid chuckled, trying to mollify him. "Youth and curiosity, and that wonderful feeling of immortality that goes with them. You remember that, surely?"
Bernstein had scowled again, but then smiled at his friend, saying, "Youth is wasted on the young, and curiosity killed the cat. You've heard those, as well."
Hamid laughed, clapping his friend on the back and steering him back towards the pyramid entrance.
"Come along, John! Let's go and see what those two have discovered. It sounds intriguing!"
Bernstein and Hamid had traipsed back into the temple, down the passageway and on through the great hall, finally entering the temple cavern. They saw the tunnel entrance at once, for Eric and Doug had focused the work lights directly at the entrance, illuminating it clearly. The young men had described in great detail the door, the tunnel, and the grotto-like room beyond. They had faithfully described the stepping stones, the strange statue, and the reddish gunk that had poured from it when Eric had stepped on the keystone. But they had also remembered to mention the glyphs above the tunnel entrance, and that was what Bernstein wanted to examine first. He was well past the point in his life where he went rushing into situations without first knowing what he was doing. True, he was bull-headed and impatient, and undeniably a man of action, but he liked to get his homework done before he commenced that action. He wasn't about to go running down that tunnel and out to see the bleeding—or crying, or pissing, or whatever—statue, before he first knew what the pyramid builders had to say about it.
And so here they were, the two aging adventurers, standing on rocks from the temple's collapsed ceiling, and puzzling over five-thousand-year-old riddles. Because, unfortunately, that's all that Bernstein could make of the glyphs, no matter how many times he pondered them.
"So, John, what does it say?"
Bernstein scratched his head, tucking the fine-bristled brush back into his pants pocket and stepping down off the rock before answering Hamid.
"It doesn't make much sense, my friend. Talks about a promise from Anubis to his servant, who I assume is the Scorpion King, a curse that will bring a plague upon their enemies, and a vow made in blood. Kind of reminds me of the saying 'Despair, all ye who enter here,'" he added, looking back up at the word pictures.
"But the exact translation is…" Hamid prompted.
"Word for word, it says, 'Enter here the chamber of Anubis, the vault of the curse, and with your cup gather the floodtide of destruction. He who drinks from the cup, I curse, and mark him for death. With this last, worst plague I deliver over a bleeding Egypt to my servant.'"
"Well, that doesn't sound too good, does it?" The Egyptian man sounded concerned, but his words were understated, as usual.
"No, not at all, and I don't like the fact that Eric got the damn stuff from the statue all over himself, either. Who knows what it was, or what it was for?"
"Are we going to go down and take a look?" Hamid asked, not looking too happy about the prospect, but willing to go along with whatever Bernstein decided.
"I suppose we ought to at least take a look," Bernstein finally replied, sounding grim. "But be careful, and don't touch anything, and for God's sake, let's remember what just happened to Eric. For now, we're just going to look at that statue from a distance until we can get a sample of the fluid and get it analyzed."
Nodding, Hamid stepped aside as Bernstein unhooked his flashlight from his belt loop and turned it on, leading the way into the tunnel. Cautiously, the Egyptian lit his own flashlight and moved to follow.
The youngish man lay supine on the bed, sheets twisted in disarray over his well-muscled legs, leaving his broad back and shoulders bare to the night air. His brownish-blonde hair was mussed by sleep, and his well-chiseled mouth was slightly open, a soft snore vibrating through his lips. His arms were stretched out over his head, hands clutching the soft goose down pillow in a death grip, as if he could simply squeeze a good night's rest out of the fluffy feathers. The apartment was dark, and a slight breeze from the overhead fan dispelled the musty smell of disuse that lingered in the air. He seldom used the place, although it was officially his permanent residence—usually only coming here to sleep a few nights in between his frequent trips abroad. That was what brought him here now. He had returned only yesterday from an assignment in Kazakhstan, and was looking forward to a week's rest before being sent off to Jordan.
The shrill ring of the phone pierced the stillness, and he jumped, jolted out of a sound sleep, hands slapping and searching on the night stand for the offending instrument. After several fumbling grabs, he finally managed to ungracefully remove the handset, and silence the strident noise. Trying in vain to line the phone up with his ear, he muttered a curse under his breath, but finally got the stupid, noisy thing aligned.
"Yeah?" The word was mumbled into the mouthpiece, muffled by the pillow that was still scrunched up under his head.
"Connelly? Are you awake?" The voice on the other end of the line was annoyingly energetic and cheerful.
"Oh, yeah—sure I'm awake. I'm always wide awake at three in the morning. Who the hell is this?" His voice still held a trace of sleepiness, but annoyance gave it a sharp edge.
"This is Anderson. I just called to tell you that your leave has been cancelled. You need to be at headquarters by seven this morning to get your new orders. You'll be going on a little trip for us."
"Shit. I just got back from a little trip, or had you forgotten?" Like it or not, and he was inclined to not, Connelly had a feeling that he'd slept his quota for the night. "What can't wait? Or be given to someone else?" There was no answer. Tiredly, he sat up and ran his hand through his hair, which promptly fell back into his face. Rubbing his eyes, he struggled to wake up completely. "Okay, okay, what's going on?"
"We've got a situation developing in Sudan," the disembodied voice of Anderson answered him. "One of our operatives in Libya has reported that there's been some contact with the terrorist cell he's watching there. Several phone calls have gone through to the head honcho of that particular cell, and there's some excitement over them."
"So what does a terrorist cell in Libya have to do with Sudan?" A second later, he added, "Except for the fact that they're all a bunch of crazy bastards?"
"From what our agent has learned, the calls originated from an archaeological site out in the Sudanese desert, near the Ethiopian border. Whatever they've got going out there is pretty interesting to the 'crazy bastards.'"
"Well, what the hell could they be doing way the hell out there? Training attack camels?" Connelly knew that there could be any number of things a group of radical, shit-for-brains terrorists could be doing out in the middle of nowhere, but at three in the morning, he didn't care to think about the possibilities. They could range from training recruits, to assembling a nuclear bomb, to planning the end of the world. Or they could be shoveling camel shit. But wait, something didn't quite fit…
"Hold on a second. This contact was from someone at an archaeological site? What would a bunch of archaeologists be doing that would interest a terrorist? Digging up the Ark of the Covenant? Didn't they see the movie about that one?"
"Very funny, Connelly," Anderson sounded annoyed. "It's an American team running the excavation out there. And an international team of scientists. Big news—possibly one of the biggest finds of the century. Fortune and glory, and all that. Don't you ever watch the news?"
"Not on the Discovery Channel," Connelly scowled. "So what am I supposed to do out there?"
"The CIA needs to have someone on site, just in case. To keep an eye on whatever's being dug up, and to keep an eye on anyone acting like they might be connected with our Libyan pals. Oh, and to maybe protect our fellow Americans." Anderson sighed. "Look, just come to headquarters at seven. We'll fill you in on everything." There was silence for a couple of seconds, then, "Oh, and Connelly—I'd be packed for some hot, dry conditions if I were you. Looks like you'll be getting a really good, up-close look at some nice old dead things, or whatever it is they're digging up out there."
"Great. Just what I wanted to do on my week off," Connelly said, his voice dripping sarcasm, but Anderson had already hung up, and his words simply bounced off the dial tone.
Matt Connelly tossed the phone back onto the nightstand with a muffled curse. Leaning back against the headboard, he steamed, now totally awake and without hope of getting back to sleep before morning. Cussing louder, he picked up his much-abused pillow, punched it once, and then hurled it against the opposite wall, knocking over a chair on the way. Great. He'd be visiting Sudan. Just what he wanted to do to relax from his little trip to the former Soviet Union. Nothing like sand and camel dung to make Russia look like a vacation paradise.
Heathrow was crowded at this time of day, and the press of bodies only added to Charles' nervousness. He clutched the large, square case to his chest, doing his best to protect it from any unnecessary jostling. Eyes darting back and forth, he worked his way to the security checkpoint that separated the gate areas from the main terminal. Please, please let Robert be there, he prayed silently, a few beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He did not want to send this case through the scanners, or draw unnecessary attention to it at all. Like you're doing right now by hanging onto it like it was solid gold? Consciously loosening his grip on the case, he tried valiantly to relax and assume a look of casual confidence. He failed miserably, only succeeding in looking like he needed to find the nearest restroom, and quickly, at that. Robert, his embassy contact, had assured him that he had connections at the airport that would allow them to pass through the checkpoint with little or no scrutiny, and Charles hoped that he was right.
Up ahead, the hallway narrowed and he could see the open frames of several metal detectors, along with the requisite security equipment. And, God bless him, there was Robert, motioning for Charles to come over to where he was standing, next to one of the security officers.
"You're late," Robert complained, checking his watch.
"Yes; well, I had some last minute problems with the museum board," Charles explained.
"Never mind," Robert cut him off with an impatient gesture. "This is Tom, head of security here, and he's going to escort us through the checkpoint."
Nodding at the short, balding officer, Charles stepped through the gate that Tom held open for him. Nervously, he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his brow. Tom frowned.
"You all right?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'll be just wonderful as soon as we get on the plane."
"Maybe I'd better take a peek inside that case, just to make sure everything's okay," Tom was clearly having second thoughts about letting Charles through the checkpoint unmolested. He reached for the black case, and Charles quickly snatched it away, clutching it even more tightly than before.
"Tom, he's fine—I can vouch for him. Nothing in that case except some old museum artifact that he's grown a little too attached to," Robert calmed, placing a soothing hand on Tom's beefy shoulder. Still dubious, Tom nevertheless waved Charles past. As Robert went to follow, though, Tom held him back.
"You better keep an eye on him, friend. He looks like he's about to have an attack of some sort, and I want him out of this airport before that happens."
Robert smiled and nodded. He was certainly not going to let Charles out of his sight. Neither Charles, nor the case he was clutching. That was a sure thing.
"Not to worry, Tom," he assured his crony. "I'll be watching him very closely." Shaking the officer's hand, he strolled nonchalantly after Charles, who looked like he was racing for the gate.
"Charles." His voice was pitched low, but it carried, and the tone was a commanding one. "Slow down."
Up ahead, Charles slowed, and finally stopped, waiting for Robert to catch up. Nervously, he shifted from foot to foot, obviously anxious to be on his way again.
"You need to calm down, Charles," said Robert. "I've already told you that this would not be a problem. Airport security was child's work, and Customs in Cairo won't be much more difficult."
"Yes, well, all the same, I'll be much happier when we arrive at the hotel in Cairo this evening," Charles replied, a hint of a whine in his voice.
"You have made arrangements from Cairo to travel to Sudan and reach the site?" Robert asked.
"Yes, everything's been arranged," Charles assured. "We arrive in Cairo tonight, and then we'll be there for a few days before boarding the train for Sudan. I have some business to take care of at the Museum of Antiquities before we leave for the site. Bernstein will just have to wait a little bit for his delivery."
"And the trip from Cairo to the site? How long will that be?"
"Should take just a few days more. A day and a half on the train, a short layover in Khartoum, and then a quick helicopter ride to the site. Assuming, of course, that everything goes as planned."
"Things seldom go exactly as planned, my friend," Robert cautioned, with a slight smile. "But I'll do my best to make sure that if your plans go awry, it's not the fault of Customs."
"Thank you, Robert," Charles smiled wanly. "I owe you for this."
"Yes," Robert agreed. "You do."
Eliana sat on the sand, huddled in the blanket she'd brought with her, letting the desert wind play around her face and loosen tendrils of hair from the ponytail she'd dragged her hair into earlier that evening. She lifted her face to the breeze and closed her eyes, enjoying the coolness of the night. She sat there for a long time, simply enjoying the feel and smell of the desert, and listening to the sounds of life all around her. It soothed her to some degree, for she had been feeling irritable and restless all day, uncharacteristically snapping at the students and avoiding the others, where possible.
She would have liked to pretend that she didn't know why this mood had come over her and refused to leave, but she was all too aware of the reason why. For some nights, now, Eliana's sleep had been dream-free and undisturbed, and although this would seem to make for better rest and an improved mood, in fact exactly the opposite was true. Oddly, every night since she'd talked with Ardeth in her tent, Eliana had slept deeply, and dreamlessly. She'd not slept so soundly since arriving at the site. And each morning, she awoke feeling alone, and achingly lonely, and…bereft. Not since before she'd arrived on the desert had she spent the night alone in her mind, without the priest joining her in some way during the dark hours. Now, he seemed to have disappeared entirely from her subconscious, and Eliana mourned the loss, illogical though it was to feel so abandoned. It was almost as though a piece of her own soul had gone missing as well.
A gentle hand fell upon her shoulder, and she jumped, startled.
"Eliana? Are you all right?" Ardeth had approached silently, as usual, graceful as a desert cat, and although his sudden appearance startled her, she was no longer frightened of him. She smiled up at him, though her smile was a sad one.
"Just feeling a little blue," she told him, her voice low and quiet. "I thought that sitting out here might cheer me up a bit, but it's not really working."
"I have often found that being alone in the desert at night can have just the opposite effect," Ardeth quietly agreed, folding his hands behind his back and looking up at the canopy of stars overhead. His black robe billowed gently in the soft breeze. "Instead of giving comfort, its vastness simply exaggerates one's feeling of isolation and insignificance."
She stared at him, amazed to find that he had almost read her mind. In the space of mere minutes, he had read her mood with uncanny accuracy, and in itself, that connection with another human being brought its own comfort. Gesturing for him to sit down next to her, Eliana smiled again, although this time it was a bit broader.
"Sit down, Ardeth. Keep me company for a while. Maybe if we're both out here, the desert won't seem so big, or so empty.
He hesitated for a moment; then quietly sat down by her side, leaning forward and wrapping his black-robed arms around his bent knees. Neither spoke, but neither felt the need to speak. The cold, white light of the stars still shone high above them, riding the curve of the night sky, but somehow the feeling was less remote and diminishing than before. Reaching over, Eliana took Ardeth's hand and squeezed it, a simple, uncomplicated gesture of the tentative friendship they had begun.
"Thanks," she said, and turned her face back up to the night sky, closing her eyes once more. Ardeth said nothing in return, but sat looking at her face in profile, feeling another little chunk of his heart fall away.
In the Med Jai camp to the north, the horses were being led in for the evening. It had been a long day, and the horses were tired and more skittish than usual. The Med Jai tending them this evening was tired, too, and jumped a bit when a scorpion skittered up to his foot. Cursing loudly in Arabic, he kicked the offensive insect away with his leather toe of his boot. The horse he was leading, a spirited stallion, reared at the sudden movement and noise, whinnying loudly, hooves pawing the air. Turning to the horse, the Med Jai ran a soothing hand over its velvet nose and whispered a soft, calming word. Still agitated, the horse stamped once with its powerful hoof, and just missed crushing a dung beetle that raced along on the ground. The scarab, resilient creature that it was, paused long enough to make sure that the danger was past, and then went on its way.