Four Ways to Pharaoh Khufu

by Alexander Marmer

  “Inspector?” questioned the detective.

  “Can anybody provide his description?” Inspector Suliman continued speaking over his subordinate, seeming not to hear him.

  “Inspector, the American left his hotel information.”

  “What?” the inspector was incredulous. “Why would he do that?”

  Detective Hussein replied slowly and deliberately, “Inspector, the American is staying at the Cairo Downtown Hotel in room number thirty-six.”

  Rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, the inspector smiled widely and shook his head. He could not believe it would be that easy. His only possible suspect was within his reach. The American may or may not have the stele. The Inspector, however, did not want to start an international incident, especially while he was still suffering from the fallout of the accusations from the smuggling incident. Since the American had so kindly left his coordinates, catching him was not his immediate concern. He would have time for that after he followed up on his other lead.

  Locating the stele before it left the country was key or the chances of recovering it would go from slim to none. Not wanting to waste any more valuable time, Inspector Suliman directed his detective to go the post office listed on the receipt and get as much information as possible.

  Soon thereafter his loyal Detective Hussein called. “The clerk at the DHL post office remembered Schulze when I showed him Schulze’s picture ID that I got out of his wallet. The clerk remembered him because at the time he was privately amused that Schulze was mailing some papyruses; actually just cheap imitations made out of banana leaves and commonly sold at the local souvenir shops. He recalled Schulze commenting that he was mailing the souvenirs to his daughter back in Germany. I’ve got a copy of the confirmation slip with the destination address listed as Berlin, Germany,” Detective Hussein slowly concluded his oral report.

  Chapter 9

  Cairo Downtown Hotel, Cairo, Egypt

  Tuesday, September 19

  6:00 a.m.

  Michael Doyle’s hotel room phone rang loudly. Michael was cuddled up in the finest Egyptian cotton sheets, relishing a deep sleep. The events of the previous day had taken a great toll on him, and the night’s rest was much needed.

  The phone rang again.

  Awakening was unexpected as if somebody had turned on a TV. First appeared a color picture and with it the sounds, the smells and the feeling of presence. Michael looked around the room. The hotel he was staying in was a renovated old colonial building from the British era. He was in a large, concisely furnished room with very high ceilings and a beautiful polished wood floor. One wall had a set of three small windows covered by elegant burgundy drapes. In the middle of the wall between two of the windows was a door leading to an iron balcony. Next to the door was a rickety antique-looking armchair. The twin-sized bed was adorned with two side tables; one had a telephone, a clock and a lamp. These simple furnishings completed the room’s decorations.

  Still only half-awake, Michael reached over and turned on the lamp. The hands on the old table clock displayed six o’clock. The phone rang again as Michael stared at it in disbelief. He rubbed his eyes several times, trying to adjust them to the amber light coming from the bronze antique-looking lamp. Who would be calling me on this phone? Nobody even knows the number. Although more coherent thoughts were gradually crawling into his sleep-addled mind, none could explain this unexpected, early-morning phone call.

  Suddenly the phone went silent.

  Michael wearily sat on the edge of his bed. A minute went by without the phone making any sound. Everything stood still. Glancing at the phone, Michael let his body plunge into the soothing layers of his bed. Ten seconds later, as if somebody had kept the exact count, the damn phone rang again, just as loud and jarring as the first time. His curiosity won out. Supporting the weight of his body with his left elbow, Michael reached for the phone, “Yes,” he said quietly.

  On the other end of the line, a hoarse male voice with a strong Arab accent asked, “Mr. Doyle?”

  “Yes,” Michael replied, curious. “Who is this?”

  “Cairo Police. This is Inspector Suliman,” the voice stated firmly. Before Michael could interject anything else, the Inspector continued, “Mr. Doyle, I need you to come to the police station to clear up a few formalities.”

  Michael suddenly realized what this was all this about.

  “Is this about the German who had difficulty breathing inside the Great Pyramid?”

  “Yes, precisely,” the Inspector replied immediately.

  Michael felt uneasy. What do they know? Had they finally discovered that he had been poisoned? Do I really wanna be involved in that mess? Still unsure what the police knew, Michael decided to play it safe and not to disclose anything Schulze had told him before becoming unconscious inside the Grand Gallery. At least, not until Michael could shed a light on what was really going on.

  “How did you get my number?” asked Michael, puzzled.

  “From the hospital,” the inspector immediately responded.

  Oh, yes, that’s right. I left it there for Schulze’s wife. Damn it. Michael felt that now, with the irony of fate, his dreams of walking in the steps of the ancient pharaohs were slowly slipping away from him.

  “Mr. Doyle, I need to ask you a few questions,” continued the Inspector, oblivious to Michael’s shattering dreams. “A police car is already on its way to your hotel.”

  A thought came to Michael’s mind and he blurted it out, “I need to contact the American Embassy first.”

  “There is no need for that formality,” said the inspector. He paused for a moment before slowly continuing in a soft, calm voice. “This is not an interrogation; I just need to clarify a couple of details about the German engineer. That’s all. It’s really just a formality.”

  That’s all? Easier said than done. A trip to the Cairo police station was not exactly in Michael’s sightseeing plans. Throughout the years, leading up to his visit, Michael had heard plenty about the famous Egyptian police and their unorthodox activities through newspaper headlines. The Cairo police uniforms are white: clean and pure. But unlike their uniforms, the same cannot be said about the force. For that matter, virtually every local newspaper stains the uniform with articles about police brutality. Almost every Cairo citizen has a story about the police, be it of bribery, abuse or even torture. Several months before his trip, three officers were investigated on murder charges for allegedly beating a man to death. Naturally, all of the charges were dropped. In another incident, a fourteen-year-old boy died after being detained by the police. The boy’s family claimed he had been badly beaten, although officers denied any misconduct. Human rights groups mirror the claims that Egyptian police abuse is prevalent, however, the government says that such claims are exaggerated. That being said, Michael had read that most people in Egypt are, if not scared, then certainly wary, of the police. Nobody wants to get on the wrong side of the law.

  “OK, I will get ready,” Michael sighed and hung up the phone. He heard heavy pounding on the wooden door of his hotel room. “Mr. Doyle, police!” The voice behind the door stated imperiously.

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be right out,” Michael answered irritably. Wow, that was quick! These guys don’t play around. Suddenly, he realized that during his entire conversation with the inspector, the police were already inside the hotel and standing outside his room. Michael donned his favorite blue HBO Sopranos T-shirt and a pair of grey shorts with cargo pockets. He had barely pulled on his blue Nike sneakers before the heavy pounding behind the door resumed. Unbelievable! That guy has no patience whatsoever!

  Michael opened the door while crouching in a continued attempt to lace up his Nikes.

  “Are you Mister Michael Doyle?” inquired the middle-aged, overweight, balding policeman in a heavy Middle-Eastern accent as he stood over Michael in the doorway.

  �
��Yes,” said Michael and then with a smirk he added, “Wow, everybody knows my name around here. I’m famous in Egypt.”

  The face of the policeman remained unchanged and completely devoid of emotion.

  “I’m just trying to make a joke,” added Michael. However, in truth, joking was the last thing on his mind at this moment. If somebody knows your name, that means you are in trouble, a piece of insight he had picked up from day one of his U.S. Army Basic Training course. The old but true aphorism ‘out of sight, out of mind’ proved to be the best notion. Michael assumed the same would be true here as well.

  “You spoke to my inspector, right?” asked the policeman, despite the fact that both knew that the conversation had taken place moments before.

  “Yes,” Michael answered, trying to play along, even though his explicit unwillingness was hardly masked.

  “Good. I’m Chief Detective Ashraf Hussein, and I will give you a ride to the police station.”

  “Yes, sure,” Michael said, “looks like I don’t have much of a choice now, do I?” He followed the detective out of the hotel and got into the back seat of the waiting scratched and dented police car.

  The crisp, fresh morning air whipped through the open window of the old Chevy as it accelerated through Midan Tahrir square. As it passed the famous Cairo museum, Michael mused, that would have been a much better place to be headed. He could not help but feel like a prisoner as he sat in the back seat of the vehicle right behind the detective. The only thing missing was a pair of metal braces tightly cuffed around his wrists behind his back. An uneasy feeling captivated Michael’s entire attention. He realized that it had most definitely been a bad idea to not contact the American Embassy, but realized that it was far too late try to convince his driver to transport him to the American Embassy instead.

  It was just thirty minutes past six in the morning, but the streets of Cairo were already in full motion. Two of the most popular Egyptian tour destinations are Cairo and the Great Pyramid. Even so, Cairo itself is somehow lost in these tours because the city seems too dusty, hot and noisy. The Cairo museum is the only part that truly receives constant admiration. That being said, in reality Cairo is an interesting city. Although one must get accustomed to it, Old Cairo, the birthplace of Cairo, is worth spending a lot of time exploring as well. As the Chevy penetrated the old city, Michael admired the ancient architecture through the back window of the derelict police car.

  Wanting to remain calm, Michael let his mind wander by watching the passing scenery. The boundaries of the old city were clearly outlined by ancient crumbling walls. Two preserved towers of the Roman fortress Babylon towered above them. On this very spot, at this subjugated fortress, the Arab conqueror Amr ibn al-As erected the city Fustat in 641, the roots of modern Cairo. Cairo’s official name is Al-Qahira, although the name informally used by most Egyptians is “Masr” which is derived from the original name of Egypt's first Arab capital Fustat, Misr al-Fustat: literally, the city of the tents.

  Cairo was a grand city when many of the world’s largest metropolises were still in their infancy. Yet, even as the years have passed, Cairo still remains a city shrouded in excitement and mystery: full of dark secrets and bright celebrations. Cairo definitely can be called the city of contrasts as it often mixes the many cultures of the world with the many ages of the world. Travelers are greeted by French cuisine, German new age culture and American enterprises, all while embracing Egyptian heritage stretching from the dawn of civilization. Cairo mixes modern religion with ancient traditions as easily as her streets accommodate modern Mercedes and donkey-drawn carts.

  Early morning was the perfect time to get around the city without getting stuck in the bustle of the notorious city traffic. Michael assumed this was probably the reason the police inspector had sent a car at that early hour. Michael rubbed his eyes warily. “Do you know the reason why the inspector wanted to see me?” he asked, focusing on the back of the detective’s head.

  “No, my orders were to bring you to the police station,” the policeman firmly answered.

  When they reached a large bazaar, Detective Hussein was forced to slow down. Located in the center of the city and not far from the Cairo museum, the Khan el-Khalili, the oldest and largest market of Cairo, blared and screamed. The Detective struggled to navigate through the sprawling market. He laid on his horn, but the market vendors completely ignored the police sedan as they wheeled out their colorful merchandise. Leaning out his window, Detective Hussein began barking several orders at the locals. This maneuver seemed to be working, as the vendors finally and slowly moved out of the way. Soon the battered police car was skimming through the bazaar at an accelerating rate.

  Despite his current predicament, Michael was enjoying the view as he peered through the smudged side window. The market exuded a truly amazing atmosphere with its labyrinth of bustling alleys lined with merchants displaying bright traditional crafts. Michael imagined himself wandering behind the shop fronts into the concealed cramped workshops, where craftsmen produce lanterns, inlaid boxes, water pipes and brassware using traditional techniques. Khan el-Khalili merchants are masters at the art of haggling, and even the locals joke that they can never get the local prices.

  Finally, the police sedan pulled over and stopped. The detective opened his door, pulled his bulky frame out and opened Michael’s door, waving him out. As Michael exited the vehicle, the detective pointed to an old, rusty metal door attached to the building they had parked beside.

  “That’s the entrance. The inspector is waiting for you.”

  Chapter 10

  Alexandria, Egypt

  Tuesday, September 19

  1:45 a.m.

  A dark, clear night hung over the city of Alexandria, the “Pearl of the Mediterranean” as the locals call it. Founded by Alexander the Great in 331 B.C., Alexandria is the second largest city in Egypt. Its ancient status as a beacon of culture was symbolized by the Pharos, the legendary lighthouse, once lauded as one of the Seven Ancient Wonders of the world. Today, however, Alexandria is a dusty, seaside Egyptian town with an overinflated population of about five million. Fortuitously, its current status as Egypt’s leading port keeps business buzzing. Tourists still flock to its beaches during the summertime and explore the Citadel of Qaitbay, built in 1480 with the Pharos’ last remnant stones.

  Beneath its dark blanket of sky, the city slept as Asim sat in the back seat of a distinctive black and yellow Soviet-era Lada taxi. The sleeping city was of little concern to Asim as his entire focus was on the screen of his Personal Digital Assistant, which Chief Jibade had personally given to him. It was an earlier version of the PDA, so it did not have Internet capabilities; however, it was preloaded with maps, pictures and several text files. The Chief explained that he preferred to use the older PDAs because they lacked Internet capabilities, preventing them from being traced or, even worse, hacked. Thus, the outdated equipment guaranteed the security of the information stored on it.

  The street where Asim’s driver, the Chief’s personal chauffeur, chose to park their taxi was empty at this hour. A lone traffic signal intermittently blinked its amber yellow light. As they listened to the muffled, traditional Middle Eastern music on the radio, the driver slowly fell half asleep. Asim glanced out the windshield. The Alexandrian Library’s distinctive design, a tilting disc rising from the ground, could be made out from several hundred meters away. Intended both as a commemoration and an emulation of the original library, the Bibliotheca Alexandrina was inaugurated in 2002 near the site of its ancient world famous predecessor. The original library, founded by Alexander the Great in the third century B.C, housed as many as 700,000 manuscripts: the whole mass of knowledge accumulated by all the ancient philosophers, scientists, and poets. Some of the ancient sources suggest that Julius Caesar accidentally burned the library down during his visit to Alexandria in 48 B.C.

  Satisfied the street was empty, Asim shi
fted his eyes back to his PDA screen that clearly displayed two men’s faces and their respective names: Günther Schulze and Karl-Heinz Fischer.

  One of the faces Asim already knew well: Günther Schulze. For the past couple of hours, Asim had reminisced about poisoning Schulze and savored his thoughts about the excruciating pain Schulze had experienced before his death. While he was pleased with this victory, at the same time Asim was disappointed that no traces of the stele’s whereabouts had been found. Asim had never met the man in the second picture. He hoped this meeting would go as well as the one with Schulze.

  After relaying the information about Schulze, his Chief had commanded him to go to Alexandria. The road trip from Cairo through the desert to Alexandria had taken three long hours. True to its name, the Desert Road literally crossed the desert. It was both faster and less crowded than taking the Agriculture Road. Asim could not understand why he had to travel all the way to Alexandria, of all places, considering the theft of the stele had occurred in the Great Pyramid near Cairo. But as a loyal follower of his chief, Asim always executed his commands without question. If the chief directed him to be here, then Asim must be here.

  Asim opened a text file attached to Schulze’s photo and began to read:

  Günther Schulze: male, 52 years old

  Home address: Friedrich Ebert Straße 23, Berlin, Germany

  Last known place of work: French company, AirCo. Engineer.

  Suspected of stealing an ancient artifact.

  Asim next turned to the text file for Karl-Heinz Fischer and read his personal information:

  Karl-Heinz Fischer: male, 60 years old