by Melissa Yi
Tucker thought about it. "We need backup. I'll text everyone here where we're going and who we're meeting."
"They're sleeping, and he wants to meet us before they read their messages. All they'll know is where to search for our dead bodies afterward."
"We're meeting in a public place. Abdul Munir Riad Square. You remember the place where we first changed buses, near the Hotel of Horus?"
"Sort of. I remember the IED better."
We stared at each other. Finally, he said, "I really want to solve this, Hope. I don't think he's dangerous. Egypt is capitalistic, that's all. Rudy explained it to me. They usually won't mug you or steal your stuff. They look you in the eye. They want to work for money and get paid. They hustle, they may harass you, but it's not violent."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "An IED is more than a hustle, Tucker. I can't stop you?"
He shook his head. "I'm going, Hope. I'm texting our friends as backup, and I'm heading. You can stay here. Maybe that's better anyway."
"Are you nuts?"
Like I'd let my fiancé meet an informant alone. Even if it meant suicide for both of us. I texted my own crew: Kevin, my parents, Grandma, Tori, and even though he'd blocked me, Ryan. Hi. Heading to Abdul Munir Riad Square. Thinking of you. "Let's go."
We arrived ten minutes early, in front of a yellow and blue bus terminal sign still showing the same happy bearded dude. I twitched. The last time I saw this sign, we'd run into an IED.
A familiar man in sunglasses, jeans, and a rain jacket turned toward us.
"Tucker." I touched his elbow.
Tucker patted my hand and continued texting. "Just a sec."
"Tucker, he's here."
Abdallah Hussein's sunglasses hid his eyes, but I recognized the bulbous tip of his nose. He wore rubber boots that splashed the water in the square.
"Such a pleasure to meet you," said Abdallah, holding out his hand to me first. He had better manners than Luke Becker.
I took Abdallah's hand. His skin felt wet and slightly cold. He'd been waiting a while. His sunglasses slipped, and I noticed more wrinkles around his eyes and mouth up close, although he smiled nicely.
"You too," I said, giving him a once over to see if he wore the cobra fanny pack. Hard to tell under that rain jacket.
"The pleasure's all ours!" said Tucker. "Could we get you something to drink?"
Abdallah pursed his lips. "I would rather remain outside. Fewer ears."
"That's true." Tucker regarded him with respect, and we fell into step with him, with Tucker in the middle, already complimenting Abdallah's past work with museums and his research paper from four years ago.
I wore a rain jacket too, but it was semipermeable. My pants had already gotten soaked, and my hands started to sting from the rain. How long did we have to stroke this guy's ego?
Not long, as it turned out. Abdallah said, "You're too kind. I know you're wondering why Ms. Becker called me to the hospital on Wednesday."
"Absolutely," said Tucker. I nodded agreement as I blinked the rain out of my eyes.
Abdallah smiled, displaying an even set of teeth. "I am prepared to answer all your questions, as long as I'm compensated for my time, as any professional would be. We discussed a fee."
I stopped walking, even though I ended up right beside a tourist in an orange shirt taking a selfie beside a florist's display of red, white, mauve and candy floss-blue posies.
"I heard your fee," said Tucker calmly, halting beside me. "Are you able to give us some information first, as a sign of good faith?"
Abdallah stalked away from the tourist, and we followed him. Tucker didn't even flinch as Abdallah's boots splashed water on both of us. We strode west, deeper into the square. Toward the Nile. I suspected that the rain had driven most people away, although buses continued to pull up to the station, their engines grumbling and coughing exhaust.
Abdallah turned on us. "What kind of proof do you require? I've taken the trouble to meet with you when I could have continued my research on Akhenaten."
"Very true," Tucker agreed. "We appreciate it greatly. I was curious if you're able to explain the contents of the bag, or if they're still in your possession?"
Abdallah faced us. He was a few inches taller than Tucker, which made him half a foot taller than me.
"We're students," I explained.
Abdallah's upper lip curled. "Yes, of course. Student doctors from Canada."
I shook my head. "It doesn't mean we're rich. It means we owe people money. But we have connections, Mr. Hussein. We can help you talk to people in Canada, maybe other researchers who will appreciate your work and who might want you to help them with their exhibits, or speak on tour." Okay, I didn't know anyone like that, but Tucker might. And I could try to network with people both here and in Canada to make it so.
"That's a kind speech, but I can't eat your words. I require compensation for my time, as already discussed."
A pigeon fluttered its wings and landed on a statue in front of us, cocking its head to see if we'd feed it.
"If we do 'compensate' you, will you give us the cobra bag?" I asked him, straight out.
Abdallah sighed, pivoted toward Tucker, and held out his hand, palm up.
Tucker placed some Egyptian bills in it.
"Tucker!" I grabbed his arm, too late.
Abdallah had already palmed the bills, tallied them with a grimace, and pocketed them. "I'm sure you can do better than this, but I will offer you some information as a show of faith. Ms. Becker asked me to restore something to its rightful place."
I frowned. "That's very vague. Surely you can tell us more than that."
Abdallah scowled at me. "Your man has given me the equivalent of bus fare."
"Hey," said Tucker.
"Return bus fare," Abdallah allowed, and checked his watch. "Others have been far more generous. I should have known better than to deal with children."
"Please," said Tucker. "We're taking care of actual children. There's a little boy who's very sick in hospital. We're trying to raise money for him, so I don't have much to spare."
Abdallah raised one eyebrow, obvious even above his sunglasses. "What happened to the boy?"
I didn't want to break patient confidentiality, but this was the first question Abdallah had asked that didn't directly relate to money. "He thought he'd been bitten by a scorpion, and then he was … "
"Suffocated. They had to dig him out of the sand," Tucker finished.
Abdallah's spine straightened. "I see. Where was the boy found?"
Tucker shook his head. "The family didn't tell me. I'm not sure. He's in hospital now, though. He survived, but he may have, ah, damaged his brain."
Abdallah checked his watch. "I have to go."
"Wait! You haven't told us about the cobra pouch." I reached for Abdallah's arm, realized I probably shouldn't touch him aside from the proffered handshake, and dropped my arms back to my sides.
"I've got it, Hope." Tucker held up another bill. A large American one.
Abdallah's nostrils flared. "'O gold! O flesh of the god!'" His hand flashed.
"Hey!" Tucker stared at his now-empty fingers. "I didn't say you could have it."
Abdallah had already pocketed the bill and turned to go. "Thank you for my fee. My children will appreciate it."
Tucker stalked alongside him, matching him stride for stride. "I could call the police. I could tell them you stole my money."
Abdallah nearly laughed. "I have your texts agreeing to the consultation fee, which exceeded your payment. If anyone should complain, it's me."
"What consultation?" I shouted, but Abdallah hailed a black car and jumped in the passenger seat. The car took off, splashing us as I took a photo of its license plate.
28
I studied the license plate photo before I showed it to Tucker. "Blurry. Did you get a better one?"
"No. Mine's even worse." Strangely, Tucker didn't sound upset as he thumbed his phone.
"We
ll, do you want to try and sic the police on the guy and get your U.S. dollars back, or did you really already agree to his 'fee' by text?"
"Hang on, Hope, he gave us a clue with his last line. I know it from somewhere. It's like a line from a poem. Ugh, just lost my connection."
I quickly searched the phrase and scored a direct hit, which I read aloud. "'O gold! O gold! […] O flesh of the god! O flesh of the god! O fine gold! O fine gold!' Holy crap, that's—"
Tucker snapped his fingers. "Yes! That's what's written on the lid of Nedjemankh's tomb! I never got to see it at the Met, and they've repatriated it here."
My brain lagged a few crucial steps behind, especially this early in the morning. "Right. That's one of the artifacts you wanted to see, along with King Tut's coffins." I skimmed my screen. "Let me catch up. Nedjemankh was a senior priest at the end of the Ptolemaic Dynasty, around 100 BCE. They thought Egyptian gods were made of gold, so his two-metre wood coffin is coated in gold. His coffin was smuggled out of the country in 2011, during Arab Spring, using falsified papers."
Tucker and I exchanged a look.
"Stolen treasure," I whispered aloud. "And wait—after the IED, Muhamed translated this as 'the body of a god,' but Becker was quoting the 'flesh of the god.' Gold. 'O fine gold.' The Egyptian gods metaphorically made flesh with this gold coffin, until someone took it away."
"Not a coincidence that the Beckers came for the repatriation," said Tucker.
"You think Phillip Becker came to steal it?" I scrunched up my face. Hard to imagine an 87-year-old cat burglar and his daughter performing Mission: Impossible on a two-metre long gold coffin. Too heavy.
He half-laughed. "Seems unlikely."
"So then what?" I started pacing in the square, trying to think as my shoes stamped through the water.
What did we know for sure? Nedjemankh's coffin was stolen during a mass looting in 2011 and sold to the Met. Phillip insisted on returning to Egypt with his daughter at the same time as the coffin's repatriation. Days before the ceremony, an IED exploded near the GEM, killing him. The daughter passed on Phillip's cobra bag to Abdallah, who hinted about gold and Nedjemankh before disappearing.
Nedjemankh definitely couldn't fit in that little cobra bag. What else would?
Something so important that his daughter needed to pass it on almost upon his death bed?
Something small and crucial.
"Why did Gizelda Becker give Abdallah the cobra bag?" I asked Tucker. "He doesn't work for the GEM or the Egyptian Museum regularly. He's not a world expert. And he sure isn't trustworthy."
"It could have been Phillip Becker who trusted him," Tucker said slowly. "Phillip was the world traveller who loved Egyptian history. Maybe Phillip even met him in 2011. Abdallah looked old enough to steal in 2011 and falsify the documents."
I nodded, thinking of the wrinkles etched in the Egyptologist's face. "That part makes sense. Phillip met Abdallah and recruited him in 2011. Phillip trusted him for years and told his daughter he was a good man. So when Phillip died on Thursday, Gizelda gave Abdallah Hussein the cobra bag. That's a big time lag, though. Abdallah left the academic track and published his last paper four years ago. So how was he making money in the meantime?"
Tucker grimaced. "Some crooked archaeologists help looters figure out what's worth selling."
"That's it!" I shook my phone. "Nedjemankh was sold in 2017. An art dealer in Paris sold it to the Met for 3.5 million euros, or 4 million dollars U.S."
"Hang on, Hope. Abdallah might have helped forge the papers in 2011, getting a small cut. I don't think he would have benefited from the big payoff."
I sighed and regarded my phone. "Yeah, if he had, he wouldn't be so desperate for a 'fee' from us 'children.'"
"Speaking of children, you think he knew anything about Hadi?"
"Hmm. Harder to tell with the sunglasses, but I got the feeling he was pimping us, not the other way around."
"Me too," said Tucker.
"I feel like … " I hesitated. My arms itched, making me restless. "I feel like something terrible is going to happen."
Tucker paused for a minute before he answered. "Me too."
I shivered and linked my fingers with his. The rain blew into my face. I felt like I'd never get warm again.
29
My stomach dropped into my soggy running shoes when, as we waited for the bus, my phone lit up.
too late
my daddy
help
I called back right away. "Amal!"
All I got was a man speaking a string of Arabic, so I handed my phone to Tucker.
He shook his head as he listened. "This one's her dad's phone. Voice mail box is full. Try again."
I dialled again and again. No answer.
I texted Amal back before I showed Tucker our conversation.
He bent over to read the texts, so soaked that his hair stuck straight to his skull, his hair gel and hood notwithstanding. It made him look like a different person. Younger. More vulnerable. "Let me see if Rudy or someone will tell us where they transferred Hadi. We'll head down to that hospital and make sure everything's all right."
As I listened to him, my arms trembled. Even the skin felt wrong, tight and itchy, and my pants stuck to my legs in a way that made me want to rip them off in the middle of the bus station.
"I can go without you," said Tucker, reading my mind.
"I want to come," I said, rubbing my arms. "I think—I know this sounds weird, but I think the rain is bothering my skin. I have eczema, and I don't know how clean this rain is."
"Not clean," he said immediately. "The World Bank ranked Cairo as the most polluted city in the world in 2007. We'd better get you washed off."
"Isn't it bothering you?"
He shook his head. "I never get rashes. I just get shot." He glanced at me out of the corners of his eyes, grinning.
I punched his arm. "Don't joke about that! It's horrible!" Chinese people know enough not to tempt fate. Did I really have to retrain this guy?
While he pinged various people for Hadi's hospital, I headed to the bathroom to wash off.
"With bottled water," said Tucker, his eyebrows drawn together.
It seemed like a highfalutin' thing to do, but desperate times. I took a water bottle to the bus station bathroom and soaped and rinsed with tap water before rinsing with the good stuff. I offered a few Egyptian pounds to the woman who handed me paper towels while I argued with my own brain.
Amal's in trouble.
No, her dad.
Is it too late?
It's okay, we'll find Hadi, and Amal and her father are probably with him.
Don't worry.
I'm worried.
Okay, worry about this. Why did Abdallah point us toward Nedjemankh's coffin? It's already been repatriated. An open and shut case (literally).
I don't know. What was in that cobra bag?
I don't know. Why did Gizelda Becker give it to Abdallah Hussein?
I don't know.
I dried my arms and grabbed my phone for some quick research. Looting, tomb raiding, grave robbing—whatever you want to call it—started way before Indiana Jones and Lara Croft. A papyrus from Ramses IX describes the court's punishment for thieves over 3000 years ago.
Of course governments tried to stop tomb raiding. The Geneva convention banned "illicit trade in cultural property" in 1970. In 1983, Egypt passed a law that any artifact found on their soil, obtained legally or illegally, automatically belongs to the state. In fact, Egypt lays claim to all national archaeological finds in perpetuity, unless you can supply a clear record of legal sale.
Therein lies the problem. If our suspicions were correct, all Abdullah had to do was to falsify records for Nedjemankh to get the coffin out of the country. Egyptian officials later traced its path to the United Arab Emirates, then on to Germany for restoration, before it was sold to the Met by an art dealer in Paris in July 2017.
The Parisian dealer and his husband were arr
ested last month. Phillip Becker and Abdallah Hussein's names never came up.
I felt the toilet attendant's eyes boring into my back, so I thanked her and stepped back into the station's hallway, where groups of people lined up for tickets, chatted with friends, and/or fiddled with their phones while they sat on their luggage.
Tucker found me first. "Hey. Rudy just sent me the hospital name. It's not that far, actually. We can be there within the hour. You think you can handle that?"
"For sure." I studied him. No rock 'n' roll sign this time. His eyes looked, well, haunted. "You okay?"
He shook his head. "I've been reading about the looting, and it's either locals who need the money—"
I nodded. I couldn't blame them.
"—or organized crime razing the sites with bulldozers, hiring archaeologists to maximize their profit, on top of what they're already making from drug smuggling and arms dealing."
I winced at the pain in his voice and touched his hand. I don't expect any better, but Tucker and Ryan still believe in human goodness.
"Bulldozers destroy everything, including the artifacts, so sometimes they use kids to reach the smallest tunnels and burial shafts."
I wrapped my arms around myself as they started to itch again. The puzzle pieces finally locked together in my brain. I wanted to scream, but somehow shoved my larynx into speech. "Maybe scorpions live down there."
He nodded.
"And definitely sand. Lots of sand that would collapse on you, especially if heavy machinery was digging out the site."
The memory of Amal's little voice rang in my ears.
My brothers can go out and work, but not me.
Hadi worked in the tunnels, either stealing artifacts for his family or for whatever crime syndicate, and now he lay close to death.
I swallowed. My throat rasped. I'd washed with my water instead of drinking it. "Okay, here's the deal. It can't get any worse. That's the good news. We've already reached the nadir of human nature. We're going to help Hadi get better. Let me call Amal again."