THE SMITING TEXTS_Anson Hunter_Egyptology action adventure thrillers Read online

  Chapter 3

  “YOU WANT me to what?”

  “Help us find what appears to be an ancient weapon,” she said.

  “Ancient weapon?”

  “I know it sounds incredible,” the academic said.

  “It does, even in my alternative, parallel universe.”

  “Yet, astonishingly, this is what our authorities have been forced to consider.”

  “You’re going to have to unpack that a bit,” he said.

  The man in the big blue suit, who bulked up the small meeting table, and who sat flanked by young, careful-faced men, spoke up.

  “Very few of us believe in remote killing, of the kind you’ve been describing, anyway, but we all believe in remote listening. We have intelligence that something ancient, called ‘the mother of revenge’ is being levelled against our country from the land of the Nile.”

  “Maybe it’s a pharaonic submarine,” Anson said helpfully.

  “Why not?” Dr Melinda Skilling said with a mocking smile, “some alternative theorists seem willing to believe that the ancient Egyptians possessed helicopters, fixed-wing aircraft and armoured tanks, but submarines probably weren’t of much use in the shallower reaches of the Nile.”

  This Egyptologist could dig in more ways than one, he observed.

  He understood her allusion.

  “You mean those mysterious symbols under a lintel in the Temple of Osiris in Abydos that seem to show an arsenal of modern weapons?” he said. “I may be alternative, but I’m not a crank. Nor am I a fan of aliens, or of pyramid and sphinx builders from Atlantis, although I like the way they exasperate Egyptologists. I’m sure there’s a more mundane explanation for the symbols and so I’ll leave that to you.”

  “I don’t do mundane, Anson. I’d rather be working on the exhibition I’m curating than doing mundane, but the intelligence wires are humming and it’s apparently alarmed our government enough to request professional advice.”

  “Then why ask me?”

  “You’re special, not only because of your grasp of arcane Egyptian knowledge and practice, but because of your standpoint. I must confess that mainstream academics, restrained by what has been termed the ‘agnostic reflex’, are somewhat in the position of outsiders looking in, careful to keep an objective distance from Egyptian religion, mystical texts and esoteric practices. You, on the other hand, are a phenomenologist, one who believes that you must grant value and credibility to the sacred and engage with it experientially in order to appreciate it fully. I have a certain sympathy for that position.”

  A certain sympathy. Was she trying to be nice? Perhaps. She’d certainly earned points from him for her candour.

  But the blunt instrument in the big blue suit didn’t try for points. His words came down on Anson like a mallet.

  “Frankly, to many people you’re just a wild theorist. And that gives you a lot more freedom to operate in. Nobody listens to you - and nobody watches you. We can hide behind you.”

  “You couldn’t.”

  Big Suit, possessed of a pair of healthily clear blue eyes, had the feel of the military about him, a relative of former US General ‘Stormin’ Norman’ Schwarzkopf of Gulf War history perhaps?

  This guy couldn’t hide himself behind a pyramid.

  “So you need my lack of respectability,” Anson said. “That’s something I’ve earned. Why should I spread it around? And what is it exactly that you want me to do?”

  “This must remain highly confidential, but we’d like to retain you as a consultant to take a tour group to Egypt.”

  “I do that all the time. But I usually take fringe groups.”

  “We’ll be fringe, all right,” said the big man. “Not mainstream at all. Your tour group will be comprised of intelligence community people. Think of it as a kind of archaeological dig for information.”

  “Intelligence heavies on a fact-gathering mission in Egypt, led by an alternative theorist? It’s bound to succeed. Look, archaeology and detective work are sister professions, but you’re going to have to give me a few more clues. Where do we start?”

  “Very soon.”

  “No, I said where? What evidence do you have? And from what source?”

  The man, whose name was Bloem, shrugged, moving mountains under the shoulders of his coat.

  “That’s on a need-to-know basis, I’m afraid.”

  “I need to know. What exactly am I looking for?”

  “We need you to join us in a race to stop a strike against us by some ancient and unknown weapon, or maybe to uncover something that may be masked as a symbolic threat. The term ‘smiting’ has been used. This weapon will be used against America especially, but also threatens our Western allies.”

  Anson whistled. “The smiting of America! Using the ultimate dirty bomb. That’s unfair. You knew that would get my interest…” It did more than interest him. It electrified him. Were they serious? Did intelligence community paranoia go this far? Maybe I’m not the only one, after all, who has respect for unseen realities.

  Suddenly, as he went with that thought, a lifetime of theoretical abstraction collided in a blinding flash with the real world of national interests, conflict, geopolitics and the whole damned thing. Here was a real-world enterprise that an outsider like him could only have dreamt about, and, irradiating it all was the vision like the Holy Grail of some kind of validation at the end.

  Was it possible that he might not have to gnash his teeth in outer darkness forever, after all?

  Chapter 4

  MELINDA GAVE Big Suit a nod.

  He looked uneasy. “There’s a piece of unpleasant, personal news we must break to you before we go any further,” he said.

  “You didn’t like my talk?”

  “It’s your father.”

  “What about him?”

  “I regret to tell you, your father has met with harm. There’s been a homicide in Egypt. I’m sorry.”

  Anson goggled for a while and then said.

  “I’m glad you decided to tell me. How? Where? Why? And all the other interrogative pronouns.”

  “Word has reached us through our Cairo embassy. I can’t tell you much about how it happened. We are wondering though if it has a bearing on the issue that faces us.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The timing of it. And the fact that Emory Hunter has probably turned over more of Egypt than almost anybody.”

  “Where exactly did it happen?”

  “At a tourist site in Saqqara. There was a shooting.”

  “It happened inside the tomb of the vizier Mereruka,” Melinda said.

  “My father died inside a tomb? That’s quite a shock – for my father too. Tombs were machines for the afterlife. And my father didn’t believe in one.”

  “Your father and I were never close,” Melinda said, “but he was a colleague and our university and nation is still reaping the benefits of his great work. This is a shock to us. Please accept our sympathies.”

  He gave a resigned grunt.

  “My father, gone – permanently this time. The last step on the continuum of estrangement.” He fell into reflection for a while. “Excuse me if I postpone the grieving process. Where has my father been working lately?”

  “Your father was something of an Egyptologist-at-large and has worked, and still tended to roam, all over Egypt, but more recently he’s worked in the Faiyum Oasis region,” she said.

  “The Fayoum? I didn’t think there was much interest in it these days.”

  “Not a great deal. It had its heyday with the excavation of the pyramid and temple of Amenemhat III, who was buried there, alongside his legendary Great Labyrinth that was said by the Greeks to be a wonder of the world.”

  “Yes, the scant remains of which were discovered by Flinders Petrie in the eighteen nineties. An enigmatic one, Pharaoh Amenemhat, a genius and an innovator, who rebuilt Egypt after the fall of the Old Kingdom and the chaos of the First Intermediate Period.” He gave a self-
deprecating smile. “Listen to me, trading ancient history with a paid-up academic. But it’s Amenemhat’s quirky genius that intrigues me. As well as showing amazing inventiveness with his land reclamation schemes, Amenemhat’s pyramid complex held more tomb traps than an Indiana Jones movie – with an array of concealed trapdoors, dead-end passages and sliding panels. And he didn’t stop there. He had his entire burial chamber carved out of a single, stupendous block of quartzite weighing 110 tons, like a lidless box. The Egyptians deified Amenemhat after his lifetime and they revered him in the region for thousands of years to come. But I can’t quite see my father’s interest in the place.”

  “Professor Hunter did find something in the Fayoum - the ruins of a late period temple…”

  Anson shrugged indifferently.

  “I’m not sure the Fayoum gets us anywhere. Which brings me back to my original question. Where do we start?” Blue Suit coughed. “We were hoping you could help there.”

  “Egypt is a big place and, while I don’t mind showing people around, a group of sightseers is unlikely to trip over anything salient, except an uneven flagstone somewhere. How do you know that this thing, whatever it is – let’s call it a locus of power – isn’t already here on American soil, or on its way here?”

  They were dying to exchange uneasy looks, but they controlled themselves.

  “We’re hoping we’ve had early wind of this development and that it may be too early for anything to have reached here yet, but we don’t know for sure.” “Then I suggest a rather rapid audit of any new arrivals or proposed arrivals from Egypt. Any exhibitions from Egypt touring?” The Egyptologist nodded. “We have of course considered that,” she said. “The upcoming exhibition at the National Gallery is the only one coming out from Egypt. It’s called: ‘Immortal Egypt - Eternity in Art’. I’m curator.”

  “What’s on show?”

  “Sarcophagi, sculptures, pottery…”

  “Pottery? I don’t suppose there are any obvious execration texts scrawled over jars or pots? No? Worth a try. I’d like to see the catalogue.”

  “It’s being printed, but I can give you an electronic copy, a PDF of the artwork. Here’s a look.” She opened up a file on a laptop and gave him a glimpse on the screen of stone sarcophagi, golden images of gods, red clay pots of all shapes and sizes and one remarkably elegant jar in milky, almost translucent alabaster, uninscribed, but covered with images of gods in fine relief.

  “Anything else arrived in America, or that’s in the offing? I mean anything.”

  “Well… there is the temple on the Potomac.”

  “The what? More unpacking, please – which reminds me I must confirm my hotel.”

  “It’s the temple your father found. It’s been given as a special gift from Egypt to America to thank us for our services to Egyptology, in particular the work of your father, but also for our country’s help in funding the construction of the new Egyptian Museum in the shadow of the pyramids.” She paused. “Such a gift has a precedent. You know the famous temple of Dendur, erected in the Sackler Wing of the Metropolitan Museum in New York? Of course you do. Well you probably know that the Smithsonian, among others, put in a big pitch for it back in the late sixties in a famous tug of war between several institutions, nicknamed the Dendur Derby. Others, such as Memphis, Tennessee, and Cairo, Illinois, hoped they could swing the decision on the basis of their names alone, but failed. The Smithsonian proposed to transplant the Egyptian temple onto the banks of the Potomac in Washington DC, a wonderful idea, but there were fears that the riverside setting and humid climate might reduce the friable stone to sand and stumps within 30 years, so they lost out and the Met’s indoor submission won the prize instead. We’ve learned the lesson. We’re going to put our temple on the banks of the Potomac under a glass pyramid. It’s a very late period temple, but a charming structure. Not unlike the Met’s example.”

  She brought up a picture on the screen of the Dendur temple, nestling under light from a slanting glass wall at the Metropolitan Museum, New York. It had a stone portal in front of a small courtyard and pro-naos with twin papyriform pillars that led to a vestibule and sanctuary. “The Fayoum temple is a lot like this, a sandstone structure from the late period, but in the purest pharaonic tradition and informed by the sublime symmetry of Egypt. We’ve photographed the individual blocks to help in our assembly – covered with reliefs of a pantheon of gods.” She showed a few of the blocks on screen.

  He glimpsed the head of Sekhmet, the fearsome lioness goddess, the snout and ears of Seth, the god of chaos, eagle-headed Monthu, the god of war…

  “Where exactly did he find it?”

  She clicked to a map. It showed the discovery site north of the lake on a plain that was roughly quadrilateral in shape.

  He examined the map, a dubious look in his eyes.

  She now brought up a landscape photograph on screen.

  “Here’s how the site looked when your father found it.” The photograph showed a newly uncovered field of stone blocks cleared of surrounding sand. “Totally demolished. Not one stone of the temple was found on top of the other. Six hundred and fifty two blocks of around six tons each covered with reliefs of the gods, with the largest pieces weighing more than 6.5 tons. They were packed in crates to be transported by freighter to the United States.”

  “Quite an interesting Lego challenge.”

  “Yes, and interestingly, as with many outpost temples, such as that at the Mirgissa fortress in Nubia, there were vessels, pots and jars, found underneath. No execration texts have turned up, however. The newly discovered pottery forms part of the museum exhibition opening at The National Gallery of Art.”

  “There are still things worrying me about this whole enterprise. I am perfectly able to believe in the supramundane, in unseen realities that you may call metaphysical forces, but even my poorly developed sense of incredulity is being a little strained.”

  “By what?”

  “By the question: who is behind this perceived threat?”

  “Muslim extremists, no doubt,” Bloem said. He said it as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

  “Then here’s the thing. Demonic power or magic, if we can call threat formulae that, is supposed to be anathema to Muslims. Except for Sufi Muslims – Sufi beliefs are deeply rooted in the magic of the old religion which they hide under the veil of Islam.”

  “Then what about that curse against Sharon that you showed us earlier?” Bloem said, challenging him. “I assume a Muslim perpetrated that.”

  Anson gave a slightly guilty smile.

  “I threw that in for sensation. Although it’s certainly in the tradition of Egyptian execration texts, it’s more of a hostile prayer calling on God. It doesn’t prove any belief in the malefic powers of ancient Egypt.”

  “Then we’re up against Sufis. That’s if this ‘mother of revenge’ really has anything to do with mumbo jumbo, or is just something hiding behind that label.”

  Big Bloem was going to remain a big doubter, Anson predicted.

  “Sufis are generally a moderate influence and maintain a low profile,” he said. “So what we’re talking about is a contradiction. A Sufi who, for whatever reason, has rejected the peaceful tenets of Sufism and turned radical. Only a Sufi Muslim could conceivably believe that Egyptian esoteric formulae could have any effect. That gives us a clue. Start looking for somebody in Egyptian archaeology, or outside of it, who has a Sufi background and a very deep sense of grievance. Maybe America did something bad to him once, or Israel did it, or both. I suggest while we’re having our holiday on the Nile, your intelligence people do some digging.”

  One of the careful men made a note. Bloem glared. “We won’t exactly be having a holiday. It’s a convenient cover that allows us to put ourselves out there and see what we can learn. Many other investigations are going on and we’ll be on the spot if things develop.”

  “But you want a tour?”

  Bloem did the seismic shift with his
shoulders again.

  “Yes, in a manner of speaking, but it’s part of an investigation and not quite as hit and miss as you’re suggesting. There’s another thing you should know. Someone, who may have clues as to the nature of this threat, is very likely to seek you out in Egypt.”

  “Go on.”

  “A hermit monk. He lives, or lived, in the desert, in the Wadi Natrun. Today he’s in hiding.”

  Melinda said: “He’s a Coptic monk and a friend of your father’s. His name is Daniel, but your father just called him Abuna - which of course, means ‘father’.” She probably put this in for the benefit of the others.

  Bloem continued.

  “We suspect the monk’s disappearance is somehow connected to the fate of your father.”

  “My irreligious father and a monk. That’s quite a stretch.”

  “They were close confidants,” Melinda said. “Why, I can’t say. I believe they go back a long way.”

  “My father always baffled me. Let’s move on and talk about the itinerary. This is the fun part where we get to choose the excursions. Do you propose a standard tour, or my magical mystery tour of sacred sites where I convince you of the metaphysical powers and convictions of the ancient Egyptians?”

  “You tell us. While we’re under obvious time pressure, we need to pace ourselves so that we allow time for things to develop and the chance for contact to be made. This monk was once an Egyptologist himself and no doubt has connections. We need to give him time to hear that you’re in Egypt, to come out of hiding and to get to you.”

  “Who’s in my tour group?”

  “Just those of us here,” Melinda said, “although I won’t actually be touring with you. I will catch up with you later. I have meetings in Cairo with the Supreme Council of Antiquities and the Ministry of Culture about the exhibition and the temple inauguration. I’m also meeting up in Luxor with our university’s major sponsor from the SACER Foundation and perhaps we can all catch up there. I’ll be sending a young Egyptian woman, Kalila, in my place. She’s brilliant at ancient languages and will also be your tour organizer and interpreter. Kalila is a Christian Copt and a keen post-graduate Egyptology student who has worked in Egypt with your father. She’ll meet you in Cairo.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m sure you’ll understand that it might look a bit strange if I took one of your tours.”