The Templar Cross t-2

by Paul Christopher

  "After you, gentlemen," murmured Alhazred. Holliday went down first, the stone on either side brushing his shoulders. At the bottom of the shallow flight of steps there was an extremely narrow corridor.

  It was colder here than the chamber behind them-the dry sterile cold of death and the passage of time. They were deep enough so that the tunnel-like corridor was in bedrock, the walls still bearing the chisel marks of the quarrymen who had excavated it thousands of years before.

  The spotlight beam threw long, bobbing shadows in front of Holliday as he walked. At the end of the passage, about a hundred feet or so from the limestone stairs, was a second antechamber, empty once again, the walls decorated with carved hieroglyphics. As Alhazred appeared with the light, Holliday saw that the same set of symbols was repeated over and over again.

  "The owl means beloved," explained Alhazred. "The seated man is a scribe. Surrounded by a cartouche, a royal border, those are the symbols that form Imhotep's name. I almost fainted when I first saw them. I knew the name immediately, of course," the man added, obvious pride in his voice.

  "Was there a door from the antechamber into the room beyond?" Rafi asked, playing the beam of the big flashlight around. "A seal?"

  The walls of the antechamber were alive with brightly colored paintings, mostly scenes of everyday life: gathering water from irrigation channels, milling wheat, fishing in lily- covered ponds and marshes.

  The figures in the paintings all seemed to be women and children, all richly dressed. The floor of the room looked freshly swept. A doorway yawned emptily at the far end of the living-room-sized chamber hewn out of solid rock. As the beam swept over the open doorway Holliday could see a hodgepodge clutter of what looked like furniture. Alhazred spoke.

  "There was a plaster seal and a hemp line wrapped around the two handles of double doors. The doors were cedar, sheathed in gold."

  "Whose seal was pressed into the plaster?"

  "The same as the glyphs. Imhotep's; there is no doubt."

  "I wonder who buried him," Rafi said quietly. He went to the wall on his left, peering at the repeated name of Imhotep. In some repetitions there was another set of glyphs within the cartouche, repeated each time as well. Rafi pointed it out and commented on it. "A woman's name," he said, looking carefully. "Het-shep-sit."

  "Do you know what it means?" Holliday asked.

  "Glory of her Father," translated Rafi.

  "Imhotep's daughter, then," responded Holliday.

  "Almost certainly," said Alhazred.

  "I didn't even know he was married," said Holliday.

  "The daughter could well have been illegitimate," said Rafi. "There's a four-glyph word after her name: H'mt-a. It's the word for a female slave."

  "My thoughts as well," added Alhazred. "We should move on. The next rooms are the most important."

  Rafi obviously wanted to linger for a moment, peering at the walls of the large room, but he turned toward the open doorway.

  "What happened to the doors?" Rafi asked.

  "Unfortunately they were destroyed when we opened the tomb rooms. The sheathing was removed and has been stored for safekeeping," answered Alhazred.

  The next room was a clutter of jumbled furniture and artifacts, tumbled together like junk in an attic. Holliday could see small statues and models of chariots and houses, several small ship models, piles of ornately decorated boxes, tables, chairs, stools, and dozens of alabaster jars. It looked as though everything in the room had been looted then pushed to the side, allowing egress into the next room.

  "I'm afraid Elhadji and his colleagues aren't the most careful of workers. In fact it was Elhadji who destroyed the gold doors opening up the burial chamber."

  You were the boss, thought Holliday. Why didn't you stop him?

  They stepped into the burial chamber. Holliday and Rafi stopped in their tracks as Alhazred shone the beam of the spotlight around the room. In the center of the chamber was an enormous stone sarcophagus, obviously quarried from the living rock. The lid of the giant coffin leaned against its side.

  The sides of the ossuary were carved with images of the old gods: crocodile-headed Ammit; cat-headed Bast and Khefy, the Scarab King, god of the Dawn. There was winged Isis, keeper of the Dead; Maahes, the Lion Prince, son of Bast and Selket, the Scorpion Queen. Wepwawet, the Jackal god. Munevis, the Sacred Bull. Horus, son of Isis, the falcon-headed god, and finally Ra, the Sun and the Creator of life, the greatest god of all. Each of them was there, carved in stone or drawn in vivid colors on the walls, looking as though they had been painted only yesterday.

  The entire wall at the head of the sarcophagus was given over to a single large fresco of a ship, double-ended with high prow and stern, powered by three huge sails and a hundred oars of gold. A single figure, much larger than the others, carrying a clay tablet in one hand and an odd-looking crossed stick in the other, stood at the bow of the ship, hands upraised like an ancient priest giving blessings to his flock.

  The ship had been depicted at the mouth of some great river, perhaps the Nile, the banks thick with tall evergreens, the shoreline populated with people wearing light kilts, their upper bodies bare, their hair long, their arms and chests tattooed, all seeming to worship the man in the ship. Above the scene a stylized sun with a single beam of light looked down, the beam piercing the raised right hand of the priest figure.

  "It is my opinion that the painting depicts Imhotep's mystical voyage to the land of Punt. The evergreen trees suggest that Punt was actually in Lebanon, the source of much of the cedar used by the ancient Egyptians."

  Alhazred swung the spotlight beam toward the foot of the massive coffin and suddenly everything exploded in a soft buttery yellow glow. Holliday and Rafi found themselves staring at a two-and-a-half-foot-thick and ten-foot-long wall of solid gold, gleaming like the greedy dream of some long-ago King Midas.

  "Four tons of gold," said Alhazred. "It took us three months to get it here." Again there was pride in his voice. He walked across the room to the enormous pile of bullion. He stared at it in the light from the lantern, the reflected light glittering in his eyes. Holliday was more interested in the sarcophagus. He crossed to it and looked, then stared up at the painting of the ship on the wall.

  "I thought you wanted to ask me a question," said Rafi, moving partway across the burial chamber.

  Alhazred looked at his wristwatch.

  "Perhaps some other time," said the Lebanese man. "It's getting late."

  "Where's his body?" Holliday asked.

  Alhazred turned.

  "Removed for safekeeping," he said.

  "I would have thought it would be safe enough here," answered Holliday.

  "Not once the sarcophagus was opened," answered Alhazred.

  "Did the mummy have a gold death mask like Tutankhamen's?" Holliday asked.

  "Yes, as a matter of fact he did," said Alhazred. Holliday saw that his face was flushing, either from embarrassment or anger. "In point of fact the entire inner coffin was sheathed in gold."

  "Like the doors," said Holliday, smiling.

  "Yes," answered Alhazred tersely. "Like the doors."

  "Presumably the inner coffin was removed for safekeeping," said Holliday, his voice bland.

  "Yes," said Alhazred, his teeth gritted. "I think we should be on our way," he added.

  "Whatever you say," said Holliday brightly. "Come on, Rafi, our captor the archaeologist thinks it's time to go."

  Rafi nodded, although it was clear from the look on his face that he could have stayed in the ancient tomb for hours more. They went back the way they'd come, Alhazred behind them, going back through the antechamber to the burial room and along the narrow corridor, their footsteps ringing on the rough-quarried stone at their feet. They climbed the shallow steps to the bottom of the shaft, then went up the creaking ladder to the interior of the beehive enclosure.

  Holliday and Rafi scuttled out of the tomb under Alhazred's watchful eye and stood up in the dying light of the s
un. It was dusk, and getting cooler, although the heat was still enough to make them gasp after the chill of the stone below-ground. Alhazred appeared and he and Elhadji carefully replaced the trapdoor, rubbing a final layer of sand into the cracks around the edges to disguise the hidden entrance.

  They drove back to the camp in silence. Holliday couldn't believe what he'd discovered. If anything the implications were even more important and shattering than his discovery of the Templar treasure the year before, but this was certainly no time to discuss it with Rafi.

  They arrived back at the camp just as darkness fell. Alhazred let them out of the 4?4 in front of their tent.

  "I thought perhaps that I would have you to my quarters for dinner tonight so we could discuss what you saw today, but I have changed my mind." He nodded curtly to the two men. "Perhaps we will see each other sometime tomorrow and talk about your friend Peggy."

  Alhazred put the truck in gear and drove off. Holliday and Rafi ducked into the tent.

  "He's a phony, isn't he?" Rafi said.

  "Absolutely," Holliday said and nodded. "A total fraud."

  Then they heard the helicopters.

  17

  They made a sound like the hesitant whispering of giant metronomes, a double chattering roar dropping out of the darkening sky like a flight of monstrous steel locusts. From the multiple rotor sounds there were at least four of them. Even without seeing the choppers Holliday knew they were big, most likely Sikorsky S-92s or Italian-made Augusta Merlins.

  "What the hell is going on?" Rafi yelled, raising his voice above the screaming thunder.

  "The camp is under attack!" answered Holliday. Four helicopters that size could transport almost a hundred men in total, more than enough to take on the Tuaregs.

  Holliday headed for the entrance to the tent. Before he could reach it, a man appeared in black combat BDUs, a black balaclava covering his face and a short-barreled MP5 machine gun in his hand. He had an automatic pistol in a quick-release holster on his right thigh, a gigantic combat knife in a Velcro sheath on his left leg and lightweight body armor on his chest. As he burst through the tent flap he raised the MP5. Holliday pretended it was the Army- Navy game and drop-kicked the commando between the legs.

  The man screamed and staggered, the machine gun stitching a line of bullet holes across the camel-skin ceiling. Holliday kicked the commando a second time, just as hard, and the man toppled backward. Barely pausing, Holliday dropped with one leg bent, smashing the fallen man with his knee, crushing his nose. Holliday then reached down, swept the commando knife from its breakaway sheath and plunged it between the commando's chin and the top edge of his body armor, bringing the serrated blade across both carotid arteries and the windpipe. Blood fountained, splashing the front of Holliday's shirt. The commando made a sound like air being let out of a bicycle tire and died.

  Rafi stared at the carnage, mouth gaping open, eyes wide. Holliday grabbed the MP5, then ripped open the quick-release holster on the dead man's thigh. A brand-new Beretta M9, the military version of their standard 9mm automatic. He pulled back the slide and tossed it to Rafi. The young Israeli looked as though he had a poisonous snake in his hand.

  "Point and shoot," said Holliday. "Safety's on the left. You know it's on when you see the little red button, just like now. Flip it down and shoot anyone who looks at you wrong. Understand?"

  Rafi nodded mutely.

  There was a ripping sound behind them. Holliday and Rafi both turned. Like something out of an old Western film a blade appeared in the side of the tent and ripped downward. Unbidden, Rafi raised the big black automatic pistol and Holliday saw his thumb flip down the safety. A face appeared. Holliday expected to see another balaclava-wearing commando. Instead the face was that of Emil Abdul Tidyman, the traitorous smuggler.

  "This way!" he ordered urgently. The knife ripped down to the base of the tent. "Come! Now! The camp is being attacked!"

  "Why should we come with you?" Rafi asked, the gun still pointing straight at the man. From where he stood Holliday could see that Rafi's grip on the weapon was firm and unwavering. The gun wasn't shaking. Holliday smiled bleakly. The lesson had been learned. It seemed that Rafi had overcome his squeamishness.

  "There are five big helicopters out there. More than a hundred heavily armed men." Tidyman said. "Unless you come with me, you will die."

  "With you we'll live?" Holliday asked.

  "I know a way out of here," said Tidyman.

  "Why should we trust you?" Rafi asked.

  "Because I'm the only chance you've got."

  Rafi turned and glanced quickly at Holliday, the weapon in his hand still immobile. Holliday gave him a quick nod. He knew Tidyman was right. With nowhere to go a hundred enemies was too many; they'd be slaughtered along with the rest of the Tuaregs. For a moment he considered who the attackers might be and then put the thought out of his mind. There would be time for that kind of analysis later. If they managed to survive, that is.

  "Lead the way," he said to Tidyman.

  Rafi lowered the M9. Tidyman's face withdrew from the floor-to-ceiling slit in the wall. Rafi and Holliday followed the Egyptian out into the cloaking darkness.

  Tidyman was dressed in military attire, all black like the commandos but with a beret instead of a balaclava. He carried a holstered pistol but no other arms. Leading the way he crept between the hutlike tents, working his way toward the sheep and goat enclosure on the western side of the camp.

  Behind them there were bursts of sporadic gunfire and the choked screams of dying men. Camels shrieked, panicking and tearing at their picket lines, unable to do anything more than stagger into each other with their hobbled legs. Fires sprang up as tracers burst against the tents and rifle grenades found their targets.

  Holliday caught a flicker of movement on his left and turned. A figure rose up out of the darkness, an indigo-robed Tuareg-Elhadji. He was carrying a straight sword, four feet long with a simple wooden crosspiece and grip, the nicked blade glinting as it swept down in a deadly arc.

  Holliday had a brief flashing memory of a black-turbaned Taliban officer wielding an immense curved pulwar in the ruins of a village just outside Kandahar years before; he did exactly what he'd done then: ducked. He rolled to one side, keeping low to avoid Elhadji's backstroke, then came up on his knees, tearing the commando knife out of its sheath and sweeping it into the fluttering of the Tuareg's robes, cutting through the fabric and slicing into the tendons at the back of his legs, crippling him. As Elhadji fell he managed to slide a lethal-looking dagger from his right sleeve, bringing it up toward Holliday's stomach. Holliday reared back but he knew it was too late; the Tuareg was going to gut him.

  A single shot rang out and Elhadji was thrown backward, the right side of his face disintegrating, his turban unraveling in a mess of blood, brains and hair. Holliday looked up. Rafi stood over him, one hand extended, the other holding the smoking pistol.

  "Point and shoot, right?" the Israeli archaeologist said, grimacing.

  "Point and shoot," Holliday said, taking Rafi's extended hand and pulling himself up.

  "Come on!" Tidyman hissed.

  They reached the sand rampart and struggled upward after Tidyman. Reaching the summit, Holliday looked back. Much of the camp was on fire now, and Holliday could see the silhouettes of the Tuaregs etched against the flames. Lines of tracers marked the attacking commando force, and from the spitting spiderweb of light Holliday could see that the attackers were herding the native force against the far eastern wall.

  As Holliday watched he saw a new line of fire from the top of the far rampart. The firing came from at least a score of heavy weapons. It was an ambush; a squad had been lying in wait, catching the Tuaregs in a deadly cross fire.

  Holliday turned again. They were in exactly the spot they'd been that morning, except now the area between the rampart and the almost invisible runway was blocked by five hulking helicopters in red and white livery. They were Augusta-Westland Merlins, as Holli
day had thought. A Merlin variant had just been tested as a replacement for the president's Flight One. Holliday knew they had just about the longest range of any medium-sized transport chopper on the market.

  Tidyman crouched and Holliday followed suit, pulling Rafi down with him. Standing, they'd be perfect targets, silhouetted against the rising flames behind them.

  "What now?" Holliday whispered to Tidyman.

  "There," said the Egyptian, pointing along the parapet. "Keep low."

  Tidyman began to run along the sand- pile wall, heading for the northeast corner of the structure. Holliday followed, keeping low as he'd been instructed, checking every few seconds to see if anyone left with the helicopters had seen them. Rafi brought up the rear. The only thing obstructing their run was the body of a Tuareg guard, his throat slit by one of the commandos. They stepped over his body and followed after Tidyman.

  They reached the corner of the wall and the Egyptian pointed down to the ditch below them. Waiting on the other side of the dry moat was a Russian jeep, an open version of the old UAZ-469 Goat they'd purchased in Mersa Matruh. There was a big machine gun on a pivot mount in the rear. It looked a lot like the Libyan army vehicle they'd seen patrolling that afternoon, but much older.

  "Can you work that?" Tidyman asked, pointing at the big machine gun, his whisper hoarse.

  "Probably," said Holliday, peering down. It looked like an American MP-40 but even bigger, probably a Soviet-era Russian Kord. But a machine gun was a machine gun, and the Russians had always had a knack for making their weapons simple, strong and easy to use. That's why the AK- 47 was the Coca-Cola of automatic rifles.

  "You'd better be able to shoot it," warned the Egyptian. "Those helicopters are in our way and they're sure to have left someone back to guard them."

  "Behind you!" Rafi yelled.

  Holliday swiveled, bringing up the machine pistol he'd stripped off the dead commando in the tent. A commando was charging up the hill, another man right behind him. As Holliday fired the charging man looked up.