by Nick Thacker
Behind Julie, Mrs. E, and Alex, the metal door at the end of the corridor was opening.
“Hold your fire!” a voice shouted.
Agent Sharpe.
Ben recognized the man’s voice, and when he turned back around he saw the Interpol agent standing next to the man holding a gun in Ben’s face.
“Wait! Don’t shoot!” he said again. He pushed the man’s rifle down, stepping up and into the smaller corridor.
The door behind Ben opened fully, and he heard someone shuffle out. He turned around, his back now to the gunman and Agent Sharpe. He saw a woman — short, a bit stout, but with a youthful face that was bright and cheerful. She stepped fully out the open door, and Ben could see that there was another man standing directly behind her.
And he, too, was holding a weapon.
“Welcome, Gareth,” the woman said. “This must be your team. The Civilian Special Operations, I believe?”
Reggie didn’t speak.
“I hope you are ready to learn what all this fuss has been about. Please, come in.” She motioned for the five of them to follow her, but Reggie didn’t budge.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Until you tell me where Sarah is.”
The woman smiled. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll tell you what — I’ll make you an even better offer: come in and see what she’s been helping us with. She’s been helping her father figure out a crucial part of our research. They are both unharmed, and would be quite excited to see you.”
Reggie frowned, then looked at Ben. Ben shrugged, just as he felt the barrel of a rifle press into the small of his back. Agent Sharpe was suddenly standing next to him.
“You can’t get us out of this?” Ben asked Sharpe. “You know we’re innocent.”
Sharpe looked over at Ben.
“What?” Ben asked. “Can’t you just make a call? Tell everyone here what’s going on, and that we haven’t done anything wrong?”
Sharpe examined his face, then with a heavy sigh, dropped his shoulders. He lifted his pistol slowly, then held it up to the back of Ben’s head. “Sorry, Harvey. I — I can’t.”
Ben’s mind was racing. What the hell is happening? He turned his gaze back to the smiling woman.
“Thank you, Agent Sharpe,” she said. “Your work is greatly appreciated.”
She knows him?
Then, as afterthought: she’s working with him?
Ben felt his temper beginning to build. They thought they had all been chased here, when in fact they had simply been corralled here. They had been chased into a trap, and that trap had just closed.
“My team will follow all of you — Mr. Sharpe included — inside, and lock the door. I hope you understand that our security here is mostly to prevent tourists from wandering around in places they are not safe. This corridor —” she held up her hand at the rock-cut hallway — “is fresh, and although our engineers have assured me of its integrity, they are certainly no Aryan builders.”
She turned around and began walking back inside, the man standing behind her stepping out of the way.
Mrs. E and Alex walked inside as well, followed by Julie.
I guess we really don’t have a choice, Ben thought.
Reggie sighed, but he didn’t fight. Ben knew the man wanted answers — but more than that, he wanted Sarah back.
71
Ben
BEN FELT THE GROWING ANGER in him fighting against the genuine curiosity he was feeling.
This place… it’s amazing, he thought.
He wasn’t an archeologist, and he’d never been much an historian. The closest claim to either of those titles was a distant niece he had who was working toward a successful career as an archeologist. Still, there was something about this place that told him they were treading into uncharted territory. The walls, the ceiling, the floors — all of it was cut from the same stone, and all of it had an earthy, empty, dead quality to it.
Like walking through a tomb, he thought.
He’d been in plenty of caves — mostly against his better judgement — and this place had the same feel as an underground cavern. The humidity was higher, but the temperature was thankfully lower than the sweltering desert outside. It wasn’t perfect, but it was comfortable.
“This area is the antechamber for the Great Hall,” the woman said, narrating their journey through the dimly lit hallways. Ben noticed that the lighting was supplied by mounted bulbs that hung from their chains, all the power running through extension cables and piles of cords. “The Great Hall, of course, is beneath the Great Sphinx itself. It has been lost to time, but that is mostly due to the work of Egyptians themselves, who have done a remarkable job erasing its existence from the global record. It has taken me nearly all of my career here to convince the government to allow my team and me to excavate and explore the Hall.”
Julie picked up her pace and reached a spot just behind the woman. “What are you talking about?”
“There will be time for that,” she said. “But we need to hurry, as the final trial is about to begin. I’ll explain on the way.”
The final what?
The woman continued talking as she led them down the corridors. “I have been in charge of the Ministry of Antiquities’ Prehistory Division for four years now. My mission was to rejuvenate and protect the ancient history of the Egyptian people, but what that really means is that I’m in charge of ensuring a steady income stream from tourism.
“However, I was interested in not only protecting our great monuments and artifacts, but expanding them. My family knew of a long-hidden hall, filled with the recorded accounts of a great civilization, far more ancient than the Egyptians. They worked their entire lives to find the ‘Great Hall of Records,’ but ultimately failed. Their work, however, will not go undone. When I took the job, I used the information and knowledge I had collected over the years to find this place and begin the excavation. Eventually, I knew the Great Hall would reveal itself to me.”
“We’re in the Great Hall of Records?” Reggie asked.
She shook her head. “No — this is the antechamber, or chambers. We’ve converted it to our office space, and kept its true identity hidden from the government.”
“Why?”
“Because the government isn’t interested in the truth,” she said, quickly. “The government is interested in money. And stability. And preserving the belief that Egypt is the first great civilization.”
“You don’t think they are?” Julie asked.
She smiled. “I do not. The ancient Egyptians were no more than a band of roving barbarians. Their ‘kingdom’ was nothing before my ancestors came. They taught the Egyptians how to farm, how to learn, how to navigate. They taught them how to be a civilization. Their architecture, belief systems, religion — all of it — was learned. What the Egyptians want to believe is a lie. A lie that’s been fed to the rest of the world since the rediscovery of the Great Pyramids.”
Ben could sense that they’d struck a nerve with the woman, and that she was either about to launch into an elaborate diatribe or just get angrier and shut down.
But he wanted her to talk, so egging her on was worth the risk.
“The Egyptians built the pyramids, though,” Ben said. “So why would anyone believe that someone else —”
“The Egyptians learned to build the pyramids from someone,” the woman snapped. “They didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to start erecting the tallest building the world had ever known — or would know for centuries beyond. They were taught. Like everything else they’re credited for, they learned it.”
“From who?” Ben asked.
“From my ancestors.”
“And who, exactly, are they?”
The woman stopped, now standing in the middle of a long hallway. Ben could see offices set inside rock-cut rooms. Strings of single-bulb light fixtures hung in each room. Most of the offices were closed, large metal doors mounted over the original openings, but the chambers
he could see into were sparse and undecorated, with only a computer and desk in the space.
“My ancestors are the original inhabitants of the Holy Land. They are the original proprietors of the Garden of Eden. They are the one, true race of pure humans, designed by God in God’s image. They were the chosen people, meant to populate the earth and procure their place as the ‘rightful ones.’”
Ben’s eyes widened as she spoke. She actually believes this crap? “That’s… that’s the sort of stuff that got Hitler into some trouble,” he said.
The woman glared at him. “My great-grandfather would agree.”
Ben frowned.
“He was a brilliant scientist, hired by Hitler and his party to observe, study, and experiment with different strains of genetic material. Of course, at the time, genetics was a very new field —“
“I think they called it eugenics,” Ben said, not trying to hide the disdain in his voice.
“Call it what you will,” the woman continued. “My great-grandfather was part of one of the original teams that worked for Heinrich Himmler. He created many of the tests to study the effects of hypothermia and how to combat it.”
“And how many people did he kill in those experiments?” Reggie asked.
The woman swung around to face him. “His research led us to much of the medical knowledge we have today.”
“His research led to innocent men, women, and children being murdered for absolutely no —“
“Enough,” she said. “The past is the past. I am interested in the future. My work here is nearly complete, but for one small piece.”
Ben flicked his eyes down at her. “You mean you’ve found the actual Hall of Records?” he asked, looking around. “Not just this big, empty tomb?”
She nodded. “Of course. It is as real as the ground we are standing on.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Ben asked. “What’s the missing piece?”
She looked back at him as her voice dropped a few decibels. “We don’t… have a way to open it.”
72
Reggie
REGGIE WATCHED THE WOMAN with a growing sense of unease. He was already angry — his leg hurt like hell and was beginning to bleed all over his pant leg — and Agent Sharpe, the Interpol guy, had apparently been double-crossing them the whole time.
Worse, he still had no idea where these whackjobs were keeping Sarah and her father, and time was running out. This woman, apparently some high-ranking German-born government official, was now wasting their time talking about Nazis and her ancestors.
On a normal day, Reggie would be at least intrigued by a discussion about World War II history; he would at least be willing to take the moral high ground and listen politely if he were ever in an argument with someone trying to clear the Nazis’ bad name.
But today was not a normal day.
He watched Ben and Julie, then Mrs. E and the newcomer, the young guy named Alex. Alex was the only one among them who appeared scared, the fear on his face hard to miss. The others, however, were equally as afraid — he knew they were just better at hiding it.
Ben seemed to want to keep the woman talking; for what reason he did not know. Reggie was ready to move, to take action, but there was nothing they could do without earning himself another gunshot wound and putting Sarah in even more danger.
Come on, Ben, he thought, willing his friend to wrap it up. Let’s see what she’s got planned.
As if reading his mind, the woman turned and faced him, directly. “You’re Gareth?” she asked.
He nodded, his face contorted in pain. “That’s me,” he said. “The one bleeding out.”
She smiled as if he’d just told her he needed a Band-Aid. “We can get that wrapped up,” she said, motioning toward one of the soldiers. The man left the room and returned a moment later with a roll of gauze he threw at Reggie.
The woman continued. “But first — I’m assuming you want to see Dr. Lindgren?”
He felt his heart speed up a few beats as he finished wrapping the gauze around his bleeding thigh. Yes. He nodded.
“She’s waiting for us. The last trial is about to begin, and since it’s rare we have an audience, I thought we could wait until we were all assembled.”
Reggie frowned. What is this ‘trial’ she’s talking about? It was the second time she’d mentioned it, and it was still unclear just what in the world they were working on down here.
“Right this way,” she said.
Reggie limped forward a few steps but his leg was growing weaker and the pain stronger. Ben was suddenly at his side, and he helped him along. They rounded another corner and Reggie saw a long, dimly lit hallway standing in front of them. The woman led them down about halfway and then into a larger rectangular room.
A double set of folding tables, each eight feet long and three wide, had been set up side-by-side to form a larger, almost square table. Cheap plastic folding chairs had been placed around it.
“It’s not much of a conference room,” she said. “But we don’t really have a lot of conferences.”
Reggie also saw a bright orange extension cord trailing into the room, ending just underneath a television stand, on which was mounted a massive flatscreen TV. The television was on, but the screen was blank.
The woman nodded to one of the big men that had followed them in and he hustled over to the television, first rolling it out in front of the table and then pressing a few buttons on the back side of it. Reggie was deposited into a chair by Ben, who took a seat between him and Julie. He felt the slight relief of taking the weight off his injured leg, then the immediate searing of pain as his blood worked overtime to try to heal the wound. His brain did its part, releasing endorphins and adrenaline into his system to combat the effects of the pain.
But it wasn’t helpful; Reggie knew that by masking the true damage, he’d be more apt to overdo it, injuring himself further. And if the gauze wasn’t able to stop the bleeding soon, he’d bleed out in the basement of the Sphinx.
At least we’re already in a tomb, he thought.
The man fiddled with the television a bit more, then an image appeared onscreen: a dark, empty room. It looked exactly the same as the room they were currently in, save for one curious feature.
Rather than a set of tables in the center, the room they were watching had a small stand, on top of which rested a bell-shaped object. It looked like some sort of vase, made of ceramic or clay. Reggie could see that there was a smaller opening in the top, circular in shape.
Where have I seen that before?
The shape wasn’t exactly like that of a bell; it was elongated and instead of its base being the widest section, the object tapered off again a bit, coming to a smaller circle on which the rest of the object sat.
He recalled what the woman had told them. My ancestors… my family… history… Nazis…
Nazis.
He sat upright, sucking in a breath as the pain lanced up his leg.
“What’s wrong?” Julie asked. “Your leg?”
“No — I mean, yeah. Hurts like nothing else, but that’s not what —“ he turned to find the woman standing at the end of the table, still smiling.
“Are you ready for the trial?” she asked.
“What is that?” Reggie asked her.
“That room you are viewing is the room right at the end of the hallway. It’s —“
“I’m not talking about the room, lady. What the hell is that thing in —“
She continued, completely oblivious to the outburst. “— And that wall on the opposite side is actually the doorway, we believe, to the Great Hall. Our scans show a massive, hollow space just beyond.”
“What is the bell on top of that stand?” Reggie asked. “Is that the bell?”
“The bell?” Ben asked.
Mrs. E and Alex were seated across the table from them, with the soldiers and Agent Sharpe standing around it. Reggie tried to see a way out, but there was none. They were outmanned and outgunned.
Even his trusty watch, which he’d used before in a pinch, wouldn’t be of much use.
“Die Glocke,” Reggie said. “The Bell. A Nazi research project, said to be some sort of magical device.”
“It’s not magical at all,” the woman said. “It’s science.”
Reggie continued. “People said it was all sort of things — they said it could levitate, that it could fly, that it used red mercury to function, that it was alien technology. It’s never been proven, because it’s never been found. But most people believe that it existed, and that it was some sort of weapon — part of a class of top-secret advanced weaponry the Nazis were researching called ‘Wunderwaffe.”
“Wonder Waffles?” Ben asked.
“Close,” Reggie said. “‘Miracle Weapons,’ actually. The V-2 rockets are an example of the weapons to come from the program. Die Glocke, ‘The Bell,’ was said to have been one of them.”
“It is real,” the woman said. “But what you are looking at is a copy. The original is in a museum in Athens.”
Julie coughed. “Wait — what museum?”
Reggie saw Agent Sharpe tense up. His face was a mask, but his eyes were hinting at something.
“The National Museum of Archeology in Athens.”
“That’s… that’s where all those people…”
Reggie knew what she was talking about. He’d heard the news reports as well, read the articles. It was international news for a week, before the vicious cycle of information wars took over again. 137 dead. So many people…
“That event was one of the last ones to use the synthetic compound we were working on,” the woman explained. “It had its imperfections, but it was also quite enlightening. It allowed my team to further their research by a few weeks, and I believe we’ll be able to create a perfect copy of the original compound and continue with our final event —“
“Wait,” Reggie said, holding his temples. His head was pounding and his leg was throbbing, but he pressed on. “Hold on a second. Compound? What research? But what the hell are these ‘trials’ you keep mentioning? Is this what the Nazis were really doing with this… bell?”