“Dr. Wicherly, the rules about handling objects…” said McCorkle, a warning note in his voice.
“It’s quite all right,” said Menzies. “Dr. Wicherly is an Egyptologist. I’ll take responsibility.”
“Of course,” said McCorkle, a little put out. Nora had the feeling that McCorkle took a kind of proprietary interest in these old collections. They were his, in a way, as he was one of the few people ever to see them.
Wicherly went from one shelf to the next, his mouth practically watering. “Why, they even have a Neolithic collection from the Upper Nile! Good Lord, take a look at this ceremonial thatof!” He held up a foot-long stone knife, flaked from gray flint.
McCorkle cast an annoyed glance at Wicherly. The archaeologist laid the knife back in its place with the utmost care, then reshrouded it in plastic.
They came to another iron-bound door, which McCorkle had some difficulty opening, trying several keys before finding the correct one. The door groaned open at last, the hinges shedding clouds of rust.
Beyond lay a small room filled with sarcophagi made of painted wood and cartonnage. Some were without lids, and inside, Nora could make out the individual mummies—some wrapped, some unwrapped.
“The mummy room,” said McCorkle.
Wicherly rushed in ahead of the rest. “Good heavens, there must be a hundred in here!” He swept a plastic sheet aside, exposing a large wooden sarcophagus. “Look at this!”
Nora went over and peered at the mummy. The linen bandages had been ripped from its face and chest, the mouth was open, the black lips shriveled and drawn back as if crying out in protest at the violation. In its chest stood a gaping hole, the sternum and ribs torn out.
Wicherly turned toward Nora, eyes bright. “Do you see?” he said in an almost reverential whisper. “This mummy was robbed. They tore off the linen to get at precious amulets hidden in the wrappings. And there—where that hole is—was where a jade and gold scarab beetle had been placed on the chest. The symbol of rebirth. Gold was considered the flesh of the gods, because it never tarnished. They ripped it open to take it.”
“This can be the mummy we put in the tomb,” Menzies said. “The idea—Nora’s idea—was that we show the tomb as it appeared while being robbed.”
“How perfect,” said Wicherly, turning a brilliant smile to Nora.
“I believe,” McCorkle interrupted, “that the tomb entrance was against that wall.” Dropping his bag on the floor, he pulled the plastic sheeting away from the shelves covering the far wall, exposing pots, bowls, and baskets, all filled with black shriveled objects.
“What’s that inside?” Nora asked.
Wicherly went over to examine the objects. After a silence, he straightened up. “Preserved food. For the afterlife. Bread, antelope joints, fruits and vegetables, dates—preserved for the pharaoh’s journey to the afterworld.”
They heard a growing rumble coming through the walls, followed by a muffled squeal of metal, then silence.
“The Central Park West subway,” McCorkle explained. “The 81st Street station is very close.”
“We’ll have to find some way to dampen that sound,” Menzies said. “It destroys the mood.”
McCorkle grunted. Then he removed an electronic device from the bag and aimed it at the newly exposed wall, turned, aimed again. Then he pulled out a piece of chalk, made a mark on the wall. Taking a second device from his shirt pocket, he laid it against the wall and slid it across slowly, taking readings as he went.
Then he stepped back. “Bingo. Help me move these shelves.”
They began shifting the objects to shelves on the other walls. When the wall was at last bare, McCorkle pulled the shelf supports from the crumbling plaster with a set of pliers and put them to one side.
“Ready for the moment of truth?” McCorkle asked, a gleam in his eye, good humor returning.
“Absolutely,” said Wicherly.
McCorkle removed a long spike and hammer from his bag, positioned the spike on the wall, gave it a sharp blow, then another. The sounds echoed in the confined space and plaster began falling in sheets, exposing courses of brick. He continued to drive the spike in, dust rising… and then suddenly the spike slid in to the hilt. McCorkle rotated it, giving it a few side blows with the hammer, loosening the brick. A few more deft blows knocked free a large chunk of brickwork, leaving a black rectangle. He stepped back.
As he did so, Wicherly darted forward. “Forgive me if I claim explorer’s privilege.” He turned back with his most charming smile. “Any objections?”
“Be our guest,” said Menzies. McCorkle frowned but said nothing.
Wicherly took his flashlight and shined it into the hole, pressing his face to the gap. A long silence ensued, interrupted by the rumble of another subway train.
“What do you see?” asked Menzies at last.
“Strange animals, statues, and gold—everywhere the glint of gold.”
“What in heck?” said McCorkle.
Wicherly glanced back at him. “I was being facetious—quoting what Howard Carter said when he first peered into King Tut’s tomb.”
McCorkle’s lips tightened. “If you’ll step aside, please, I’ll have this open in a moment.”
McCorkle stepped back up to the gap, and with a series of expertly aimed blows of the spike, loosened several rows of bricks. In less than ten minutes, he had opened a hole big enough to step through. He disappeared inside, came back out a moment later.
“The electricity isn’t working, as I suspected. We’ll have to use our flashlights. I’m required to lead the way,” he said with a glance at Wicherly. “Museum regulations. Might be hazards in there.”
“The mummy from the Black Lagoon, perhaps,” said Wicherly with a laugh and a glance at Nora.
They stepped carefully inside, then stopped to reconnoiter. In the glow of their flashlight beams, a great stone threshold was visible, and beyond, a descending staircase carved out of rough limestone blocks.
McCorkle moved toward the first step, hesitated, then gave a slightly nervous chuckle. “Ready, ladies and gents?”
9
Captain of homicide Laura Hayward stood silently in her office, looking at the untidy forest that seemed to sprout from her desk, from every chair, and to spill over to the floor—chaotic heaps of papers, photographs, tangles of colored string, CDs, yellowing telex sheets, labels, envelopes. The outward disarray, she mused, was a perfect mirror of her inner state of mind.
Her beautiful layout of evidence against Special Agent Pendergast, with all its accusatory paraphernalia of colored strings, photos, and labels, was no more. It had fit together so well. The evidence had been subtle but clean, convincing, utterly consistent. An out-of-the-way spot of blood, some microscopic fibers, a few strands of hair, a knot tied in a certain way, the chain of ownership of a murder weapon. The DNA tests didn’t lie, the forensics didn’t lie, the autopsies didn’t lie. They all pointed to Pendergast. The case against him was that good.
Maybe too good. And that, in a nutshell, was the problem.
A tentative knock came at the door and she turned to see the figure of Glen Singleton, local precinct captain, hovering outside. He was in his late forties; tall, with the sleek, efficient movements of a swimmer, a long face, and an aquiline profile. He wore a charcoal suit that was far too expensive and well cut for an NYPD captain, and every other week he dropped $120 at the barbershop in the lobby of the Carlyle to have his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed to perfection. But these were signs of personal fastidiousness, not a cop on the take. And despite the sartorial affectations, he was a damned good cop, one of the most decorated on active duty in the force.
“Laura, may I?” He smiled, displaying an expensive row of perfect teeth.
“Sure, why not?”
“We missed you at the departmental dinner last night. Did you have a conflict?”
“A conflict? No, nothing like that.”
“Really? Then I can’t understand why you’d pass up a chance to e
at, drink, and be merry.”
“I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t really in the mood to be merry.”
There was an awkward silence while Singleton looked around for an empty chair.
“Sorry about the mess. I was just doing…” Her voice trailed off.
“What?”
Hayward shrugged.
“That’s what I was afraid of.” Singleton hesitated briefly, seemed to come to some decision, then shut the door behind him and stepped forward.
“This isn’t like you, Laura,” he said in a low voice.
So it’s going to be like that , thought Hayward.
“I’m your friend, and I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he went on. “I have a pretty good idea what you were ‘just doing,’ and you’re asking for trouble by doing it.”
Hayward waited.
“You developed the case in textbook fashion. You handled it perfectly. So why are you beating yourself up about it now?”
She gazed steadily at Singleton for a moment, trying to control the surge of anger that she knew was directed more at herself than him.
“Why? Because the wrong man’s in jail. Agent Pendergast didn’t murder Torrance Hamilton, he didn’t murder Charles Duchamp, and he didn’t murder Michael Decker. His brother, Diogenes, is the real murderer.”
Singleton sighed. “Look. It’s clear that Diogenes stole the museum’s diamonds and kidnapped Viola Maskelene. There are statements from Lieutenant D’Agosta, that gemologist, Kaplan, and Maskelene herself to that effect. But that doesn’t make him a murderer. You have absolutely no proof of that. On the other hand, you’ve done a great job proving Agent Pendergast did commit those murders. Let it go.”
“I did the job I was supposed to do, and that’s the problem. I was set up. Pendergast was framed.”
Singleton frowned. “I’ve seen plenty of frame jobs in my career, but for this to work, it would have to have been impossibly sophisticated.”
“D’Agosta told me all along that Diogenes Pendergast was framing his brother. Diogenes collected all the physical evidence he needed during Pendergast’s convalescence in Italy—blood, hair, fibers, everything. D’Agosta insisted Diogenes was alive; that he was the kidnapper of Viola Maskelene; that he was behind the diamond theft. He was right about those things, and it makes me think he might be right about everything else.”
“D’Agosta messed up big-time!” Singleton snapped. “He betrayed my trust, and yours. I’ve no doubt that the disciplinary trial will confirm his dismissal from the force. You really want to tie your wagon to that star?”
“I want to tie my wagon to the truth. I’m responsible for putting Pendergast on trial for his life, and I’m the only one who can undo it.”
“The only way to do that is to prove somebody else is the murderer. Do you have a single shred of evidence against Diogenes?”
Hayward frowned. “Margo Green described her assailant as—”
“Margo Green was attacked in a darkened room. Her testimony would never hold up.” Singleton hesitated. “Look, Laura,” he said in a gentler voice. “Let’s not bullshit each other here. I know what you’re going through. Hooking up with someone on the force is never easy. Breaking up with them is even harder. And with Vincent D’Agosta in the middle of this case, I don’t wonder you feel a touch of—”
“D’Agosta and I are ancient history,” Laura interrupted. “I don’t appreciate that insinuation. And for that matter, I don’t appreciate this visit of yours.”
Singleton picked up a pile of papers from the guest chair, placed them on the floor, and sat down. He bowed his head, propped his elbows on his knees, sighed, then looked up.
“Laura, “ he said, “you’re the youngest female homicide captain in the history of the NYPD. You’re twice as good as any man at your level. Commissioner Rocker loves you. The mayor loves you. Your own people love you. You’re going to be commissioner someday—you’re that good. I didn’t come here at anyone’s behest, I came here on my own. To warn you that you’ve run out of time on this. The FBI is moving ahead with their case against Pendergast. They think he killed Decker, and they aren’t interested in inconsistencies. What you’ve got is a hunch, nothing more… and it’s not worth throwing away your career on a hunch. Because that’s what will happen if you go up against the FBI on this—and lose.”
She looked at him steadily, took a deep breath. “So be it.”
10
The small group descended the dust-laden staircase of the Tomb of Senef, their shoes leaving prints as in a coating of fresh snow.
Wicherly paused, shining his light around. “Ah. This is what the Egyptians called the God’s First Passage along the Sun’s Path.” He turned toward Nora and Menzies. “Are you interested, or will I be making a bore of myself?”
“By all means,” said Menzies. “Let’s have the tour.”
Wicherly’s teeth gleamed in the dim light. “The problem is, much of the meaning of these ancient tombs still eludes us. They’re easy enough to date, though—this seems a fairly typical New Kingdom tomb, I’d say late XVIIIth Dynasty.”
“Right on target,” said Menzies. “Senef was the vizier and regent to Thutmosis IV.”
“Thank you.” Wicherly absorbed the compliment with evident satisfaction. “Most of these New Kingdom tombs had three parts—an outer, middle, and inner tomb, divided into a total of twelve chambers, which together represented the passage of the Sun God through the underworld during the twelve hours of night. The pharaoh was buried at sunset, and his soul accompanied the Sun God on his solar barque as he made the perilous journey through the underworld toward his glorious rebirth at dawn.”
He shone his light ahead, illuminating a dim portal at the far end. “This staircase would have been filled with rubble, ending in a sealed door.”
They continued descending the staircase, at last reaching a massive doorway topped by a lintel carved with a huge Eye of Horus. Wicherly paused, shining his light on the Eye and the hieroglyphics surrounding it.
“Can you read these hieroglyphics?” asked Menzies.
Wicherly grinned. “I make a pretty good show of it. It’s a curse.” He winked slyly at Nora. “To any who cross this threshold, may Ammut swallow his heart.”
There was a short silence.
McCorkle issued a high-pitched chuckle. “That’s all?”
“To the ancient tomb robber,” said Wicherly, “that would be enough—that’s a heck of a curse to an ancient Egyptian.”
“Who is Ammut?” Nora asked.
“The Swallower of the Damned.” Wicherly pointed his flashlight on a dim painting on the far wall, depicting a monster with a crocodilian head, the body of a leopard, and the grotesque hindquarters of a hippo, squatting on the sand, mouth open, about to devour a row of human hearts. “Evil words and deeds made the heart heavy, and after death Anubis weighed your heart on a balance scale against the Feather of Maat. If your heart weighed more than the feather, the baboon-headed god, Thoth, tossed it to the monster Ammut to eat. Ammut journeyed into the sands of the west to defecate, and that’s where you’d end up if you didn’t lead a good life—a shite, baking in the heat of the Western Desert.”
“That’s more than I needed to hear, thank you, Doctor,” said McCorkle.
“Robbing a pharaoh’s tomb must have been a terrifying experience for an ancient Egyptian. The curses put on any who entered the tomb were very real to them. To cancel the power of the dead pharaoh, they didn’t just rob the tomb, they destroyed it, smashing everything. Only by destroying the objects could they disperse their malevolent power.”
“Fodder for the exhibit, Nora,” Menzies murmured.
After the briefest hesitation, McCorkle stepped across the threshold, and the rest followed.
“The God’s Second Passage,” Wicherly said, shining his light around at the inscriptions. “The walls are covered with inscriptions from the Reunupertemhru, the Egyptian Book of the Dead.”
“Ah! How interestin
g!” Menzies said. “Read us a sample, Adrian.”
In a low voice, Wicherly began to intone:
The Regent Senef, whose word is truth, saith: Praise and thanksgiving be unto thee, Ra, O thou who rollest on like unto gold, thou Illuminer of the Two Lands on the day of thy birth. Thy mother brought thee forth on her hand, and thou didst light up with splendor the circle which is traveled over by the Disk. O Great Light who rollest across Nu, thou dost raise up the generations of men from the deep source of thy waters…
“It’s an invocation to Ra, the Sun God, by the deceased, Senef. It’s pretty typical of the Book of the Dead.”
“I’ve heard about the Book of the Dead,” Nora said, “but I don’t know much about it.”
“It was basically a group of magical invocations, spells, and incantations. It helped the dead make the dangerous journey through the underworld to the Field of Reeds—the ancient Egyptian idea of heaven. People waited in fear during that long night after the burial of the pharaoh, because if he buggered up somehow down in the underworld and wasn’t reborn, the sun would never rise again. The dead king had to know the spells, the secret names of the serpents, and all kinds of other arcane knowledge to finish the journey. That’s why it’s all written on the walls of his tomb—the Book of the Dead was a set of crib notes to eternal life.”
Wicherly chuckled, shining his beam over four registers of hieroglyphics painted in red and white. They stepped toward them, raising clouds of deepening gray dust. “There’s the First Gate of the Dead,” he went on. “It shows the pharaoh getting into the solar barque and journeying into the underworld, where he’s greeted by a crowd of the dead… Here in Gate Four they’ve encountered the dreaded Desert of Sokor, and the boat magically becomes a serpent to carry them across the burning sands… And this! This is very dramatic: at midnight, the soul of the Sun God Ra unites with his corpse, represented by the mummified figure—”
“Pardon my saying so, Doctor,” McCorkle broke in, “but we’ve still got eight rooms to go.”
Pendergast [07] The Book of the Dead Page 5