“Take a look at this! Is this a power cable?”
Paul held a short ropelike extension made of some type of pliable material. It went outwards from the side of the box and had four metal prongs on its end.
“I’ll be damned. I’d say that’s a plug. An ancient plug. Until today, I’d have said that was impossible. Now I’m not so sure.”
Paul agreed. “I’d say this place redefines the word impossible.”
“No shit, my friend.”
Paul was shooting pictures of the shelves when Mark gave a shout from the back of the chamber. “You need to see this.”
The object that had once sat on the furthest stone pedestal to the rear of the room had been moved. It was a metal cylinder resembling a pocket telescope and it was sitting upright on the floor right next to the pedestal. In its place sat a jar eighteen inches high and six inches in diameter – a jar with the carved head of a man on its lid. Two vertical plumes extended out as a sort of hat above the man’s head.
“Well, well,” Paul said. “It seems we’ve finally found an Egyptian connection. Is it a canopic jar?”
“That’s what it looks like, but it’s clearly not. The Egyptians had only four canopic jars, each holding one of a dead king’s organs, and each one with a different lid in the figure of a god. I think this one was created to look like a canopic jar, but why? Every pharaoh had only four jars; I’ve never heard of a fifth.”
Mark held up the jar and pointed to the sculptured lid. “See this guy? Any idea who this is?”
Paul looked at it closely. “Not a clue. I’ve read a lot about ancient Egypt, but I’m certainly no expert.”
“I’m not either, but I took enough courses to recognize this fellow. He’s pretty well known, actually. He’s not one of the gods that appears on the real canopic jars, so that’s not what this is.
“Paul, meet Amun. Except for that brief period when Akhenaten and Tut practiced monotheism, Amun was numero uno of all the gods of Egypt.”
Paul raised the vessel to eye level and tried the lid; it was sealed tightly.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked Amun.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Paul’s earlier contribution of two hundred thousand dollars to the Guatemalan Ministry of Archaeology had been enhanced by cash – a lot more hundred-dollar bills. Those went in the minister’s pocket. MRG, the Mesoamerican Research Group headed by Dr. Mark Linebarger, was not involved in that side of things. That company merely enjoyed the fruits of Paul’s labor – the concession to explore Piedras Negras.
Once they’d discovered the Hall of Records, there was no more keeping this a secret. They had to notify the authorities quickly. This project was simply too big and potentially too controversial. Word was bound to spread. One of them had to stay behind and guard the site. Mark was the logical choice to fly to Guatemala City. He was the face of MRG, the concession holder for Piedras Negras.
Thanks to Paul’s contributions, the minister was delighted to grant a meeting with the famous archaeologist Mark Linebarger. The minister added another person to the meeting – the only college-educated archaeologist on his staff. Mark ran a PowerPoint showing over a hundred photographs of the glyph-covered wall and the room behind it.
Some things they’d found at Piedras Negras were omitted too. Although the pictures of the wall covered in colorful hieroglyphs spoke for themselves, Mark didn’t specifically mention Olmec-Maya or Olmec-Egyptian ties. Nothing was said about Atlantis or the names “Hall of Records” and “Crypt of the Ancients.” And there were no photos of the Amun-headed jar. In fact, it wasn’t even in the crypt anymore – they’d removed it for safekeeping the night they found it.
At first Mark had disagreed with Paul’s opinion on what to say at the meeting with them. “I’m not comfortable doing things this way. We have to be totally up front, totally transparent. This is an archaeological site under the minister’s control; we have to make a full disclosure.”
Paul finally convinced Mark. Even though Paul’s suggestions were neither transparent nor honest, it had to be done his way. Mark would tell only part of the story.
Paul’s logic made sense. “We’re in a third-world country whose entire archaeological budget’s almost nothing. There’s only one paid archaeologist on the entire ministry staff – they’re stretched paper-thin because of budgetary constraints. They spend most of their effort and resources on the well-known sites like Tikal. They physically can’t act quickly when an exciting new site is discovered. The truth is, anything exciting we turn over will most likely disappear into the hands of some well-connected, willing collector.”
And so they crafted a new story. Paul’s part in the find was changed. Now it was Mark who had actually found the BYU archaeologist’s journal. He and Paul, a wealthy investor from New York whom he’d met on the tour, joined forces afterwards under Mark’s company MRG to explore Piedras Negras and look for the cave.
The minister and his archaeologist said nothing during the presentation. When Mark finished, the staff archaeologist said, “You found a wall full of hieroglyphs. Are they Egyptian?”
Mark’s answer was truthful but incomplete. “I know Mesoamerican archaeology very well – I’ve written several books about it. What I know about Egypt I studied in undergraduate school. Do the glyphs look Egyptian to me? Yes, they do. Can I say conclusively they are? No. That’ll take an expert and a lot of research to determine.”
“Inside the room you found thirteen pedestals, each with a metal object on it. From the pictures, they appear in remarkably good condition. But they must be incredibly old – is that not correct? Can you speak more about those and give us your ideas on what civilization might have created them?”
“I’m a scientist. I prefer to deal in facts and things I can prove. I don’t engage in speculation or theories. So my answer is, I have no idea what they are, how old they are, or where they came from. They look very sophisticated, and some have complex gears and parts. Learning more about those things will be one of our top priorities.”
The minister spoke next. “I want to know more about the shelves of metal sheets covered in characters. I realize this is far from scientific, but have you heard of the fabled Hall of Records that legend says people from Atlantis built at Piedras Negras? Could these be books from an ancient civilization?”
Careful. “Atlantis? I have to say that I haven’t spent much time thinking about Atlantis. I recall some story about their creating libraries for their doomed civilization’s records. Wasn’t one of those supposedly in Giza? Does the myth say there’s one here too?”
That was an easy way to dodge the question. And his answer was completely true.
The minister replied, “As I recall, there were supposedly three Atlantean Halls of Records. One was at Giza, another in the islands around Bimini, and one here in Mesoamerica. It’s a fantasy, I know,” he said with a dismissive laugh. “But what if it were real?”
The minister’s job was a politically appointed position. He was a friend of the president, but he had no formal training in archaeology or science. If he had, he wouldn’t have brought up Atlantis for fear of ridicule. But the minister wasn’t convinced Atlantis was a fable.
At this point, neither am I, Mark reflected to himself.
He gestured to the man sitting next to him. “I’m an archaeologist – a scientist like this man here. I deal in facts, evidence and proof. If I can find something to convince me Atlantis existed – if this room we’ve found is the Hall of Records – I’ll be the first to admit it. Right now I have no idea what it is. I’m anxious to learn more about it!”
After Mark’s presentation, the minister dismissed his archaeologist with a stern admonition to keep this to himself. Despite the order, Mark was certain their secret would be leaked within minutes. The archaeologist had been fascinated by the news – there was no way he’d keep it quiet.
Good thing Paul stayed behind. Hope he’s got his pistol ready. I’d be sur
prised if he doesn’t have company before I get back there tomorrow.
Mark spent the next half hour outlining his proposal for exploration and research of the cavern. Using floatplanes to move supplies back and forth to the remote site, they’d refurbish the Brigham Young archaeological shacks, create a research center and laboratory, and staff it with scientists and archaeology students.
“A noble undertaking” – the minister stopped him at last – “but sadly we have no means to fund such an enterprise.”
“If you’ll allow us a year’s extension of our concession and approve our plan, my company will pay for everything.”
He explained that the Mesoamerican Research Group was prepared to pay over a million dollars for equipment and improvements. Once their concession ended, everything would be donated to the Guatemalan Ministry of Archaeology. It was an offer the minister couldn’t refuse.
As he listened to Mark’s presentation, the minister realized how big this was. This could be one of the most significant discoveries in Guatemalan history and possibly the most incredible ever in Latin America. The minister and his department would no longer lack for recognition or money to operate. People would flock to Guatemala – tourists, scientists, TV crews – and he would become famous.
He accepted Mark’s offer on the spot. He praised them effusively. “Thank you for your work, for keeping us informed of your progress, and for your offer to provide a laboratory to learn more about it. I look forward to working with you. Your one-year extension is approved. Representatives from the ministry and I will visit the site soon.”
Mark was elated. “Give us a few weeks to get the laboratory established and you’ll get the grand tour.” That time would allow Paul and Mark to make sure everything was set when the authorities arrived.
As soon as his office door was closed, the minister walked to his desk and flipped off the tape recorder sitting underneath a sheaf of papers. He picked up his desk phone and dialed a number.
“Paco, I made the recording as you asked. Their discovery is more amazing than you could ever imagine.” He listened to the man’s response.
The minister replied, “Of course, sir. I will meet you at the usual place in thirty minutes.”
He rummaged through a desk drawer, brought out a half-pint tequila bottle and took a long pull. He put the recording cassette in his pocket, walked out of his office and told his assistant he was going to lunch.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Paul established an office in Mexico City for the Mesoamerican Research Group. Using an executive suites arrangement, he paid monthly for a fax and phone line, email account and the nonexclusive use of a secretary-cum-receptionist who would answer the phone in the company’s name. There were no employees and no business, but the foundation appeared to be an established operation.
Within a few days the Minister of Archaeology mailed a formal agreement extending the Piedras Negras concession and approving the research facility. Per Mark’s instructions, the office receptionist scanned it, emailed it to Paul and filed the original.
The morning he saw the email, Paul told Mark the extension had arrived and began to read it.
“What?” he exclaimed.
Mark looked up from his equipment list. “Something wrong?”
“There are a couple of things here that I bet you didn’t agree to. Did you agree to allow a full-time representative from the ministry on site?”
“No way. That was never mentioned. Is that a requirement?”
“Yes. He also requires us to have the research facility up and running in thirty days. That’s when our little helper will arrive.”
Mark was angry. “Shit! We don’t need some government hack watching our every move. We have work to do here…”
“Didn’t you expect something like this? I did – I was surprised when you came back and didn’t mention it. We’re two hundred miles from Guatemala City. With lousy roads and no infrastructure, it takes twenty-four hours for someone to get out here. I can see the minister wanting a representative on site.”
“What about the thirty-day requirement to be up and running? Can we do it?”
“We have to. Even with the extension, we only have twenty months. We have to move fast. It would just have been better not to have a watchman. We just have to deal with it.”
They ramped up everything. With significantly increased activity, news would quickly spread about what was happening at Piedras Negras. It was imperative to keep the cavern and the research facility safe, so they increased the number of guards per shift and gave them both an automatic rifle and a pistol.
It took three thousand dollars to make what would have been a month-long project take just a week. The phone company quickly built a temporary tower at the river’s edge. Now next to the ancient statue of Bird Monster there was a modern monument to current technology, providing adequate phone and Internet service.
Paul went to Tuxtla Gutierrez and bought hundreds of items on their checklist while Mark placed orders for complex scientific equipment on the Internet. All of the equipment was delivered to a freight broker at the Tuxtla airport who hired floatplanes to bring the goods to the riverbank. Some days there were three planes, others only one, depending on how much material there was to haul.
A team of laborers flew in to build a new building, hook up generators, build outdoor toilets, showers, water collecting and everything else the facility would need.
Three weeks after it all started, Paul and Mark sat in the new structure one evening, a bottle of good rum and two glasses between them.
“Cheers,” Paul said, raising his glass for a clink. “Damn good job.”
By now only minor pieces of equipment were still in transit. They’d installed microscopes, oscilloscopes, cameras, soil cores, metal detectors, ground-penetrating radars and dozens more pieces of equipment Mark thought they might need. They’d spent over a million dollars of Paul’s virtually limitless funds so far, with more to come. And they had created a state-of-the-art laboratory.
The next morning the real work began. They started by carefully removing two items from the cavern – the astrolabe instrument and the Amun-headed jar. Mark tackled the machine and told Paul how to remove the lid of the vessel.
Paul used a swab with solvent, lightly rubbing it over and over on the black tar that sealed the lid. Mark glanced up after half an hour and saw Paul take hold of the lid as if he was going to unscrew it.
“Wait! Don’t do it that way!”
“Just trying to see if it’s loose yet. This is getting a little tiresome.”
Mark understood Paul’s desire to speed things up, but his was the scientific mind. “If this urn is eighteenth-dynasty Egyptian, it’s three and a half millennia old. We have to treat it like it’s an eggshell – carefully and gingerly. This solvent will wear down the tar eventually. It may take you all day; take a break now and then. When it’s loose enough, you’ll know it without turning it.”
Mark was looking at some dials on the astrolabe instrument a few hours later when he heard Paul’s exclamation.
“It’s off!”
“Bring it over here,” Mark instructed. They set the lid aside and directed a light into the jar. There were two things inside – one was a dark, desiccated lump about the size of a golf ball lying in the bottom. Mark probed it with a pick, saw it was loose and tipped the urn. The lump rolled out onto a cloth along with a tiny scarab – a painted beetle the size of a dime.
“What are these?” Paul asked.
“Since the urn was obviously created to resemble a canopic jar, I’d guess it was once a human organ. It’s so dried up it’s hard to tell. The other thing’s a scarab. Not sure what it’s doing in there. I’ll check that out too.”
The next morning Mark decided what to do with the lump from the jar. He’d dissect it, put shavings into a container and take them to Tuxtla. They’d go by FedEx to his associate in Toronto for DNA testing.
“Given that this is almost cert
ainly an Egyptian jar, and we have a wall full of Egyptian hieroglyphs, I want to find out what this is, if it’s organic and testable, and if it matches anything in the DNA of pharaohs. There’s an enormous amount of DNA that’s been collected from the kings of ancient Egypt. If we get a match, maybe we can learn more about how and why this jar’s here. The scarab that was in the jar is a clue – it’s most likely a heart scarab. The embalmers placed scarabs in the chest cavity in place of the king’s heart.”
“Why?”
“Without a heart, the pharaoh wouldn’t go to heaven. That’s what makes this so strange. If this organ turns out to be a heart and this is a heart scarab, then someone sealed the fate of a king three thousand years ago. This could be a big deal – that’s why I’m sending it to Toronto. It’d be a lot easier to use a DNA lab in Mexico City, but we can’t risk it. My assistant will keep this quiet until I tell her what to do next.”
Mark met the afternoon floatplane and went to Tuxtla Gutierrez. He took a taxi to the FedEx office, dropped off the package and was back at Piedras Negras by dark.
Five days later Mark got an email from the Minister of Archaeology. “Our friend’s on his way. His name’s Francisco Garcia. Have we bought the red carpet to welcome him?”
Paul laughed. “I know neither one of us is looking forward to having a babysitter, but it may not be as bad as you think. Maybe he’ll lend a hand and help us out. Otherwise we can give him a chair and tell him to sit and watch.”
He knew it was a long shot, but Paul searched online for Francisco Garcia from Guatemala. It was like searching for John Smith in the USA, and he got what he’d expected – over a hundred thousand hits. He narrowed his search, including various terms, and finally had a relatively meager eleven pages of possibilities. Of course, he had no idea if this man was from Guatemala at all or what his occupation might be.
The Crypt Trilogy Bundle Page 43