The Third Gate jl-1

by Lincoln Child

  He felt a tug at his elbow. It was Rush. Logan turned and stepped inside.

  The ancient structure was crowded even at this early hour, but the sweaty throngs had not yet warmed the stone galleries. After the fierce sunlight, the interior of the museum seemed exceedingly dark. They made their way through the ground floor, past innumerable statuary and stone tablets. Despite signs bearing warnings against camera usage and forbidding the touching of artifacts, Logan noticed that-even now-many of the exhibits were still open to the air rather than hermetically sealed, and showed signs of extensive handling. Passing the last of the galleries, they mounted a broad flight of stairs to the first floor. Here were row upon row of sarcophagi, laid out on stone plinths like sentinels of the shadow world. Along the walls were glass-fronted cabinets containing funerary objects of gold and faience, the cases locked with simple seals of lead and wire.

  “Mind if I take a moment to inspect the grave goods of Ramses III?” Logan asked, pointing toward a doorway. “I believe it’s down that passage. I recently read in the Journal of Antiquarian Studies of a certain alabaster canopic vase one could use to summon-”

  But Rush smiled apologetically, pointed at his watch, and merely urged Logan on.

  They made their way to another staircase-this one narrower, missing its banister-and climbed to the next floor. It was much quieter here, the galleries devoted to more scholarly collections: inscribed stelae; fragments of papyri, faded and decaying. The lighting was dim, the stone walls grimy. Once Rush stopped to consult a tiny floor plan he pulled from his pocket, hand-sketched on a scrap of paper.

  Logan peered curiously around half-open doors. He saw stacks of papyrus scrolls, shelved floor to ceiling in niches like so many wine bottles in a sommelier’s vault. Another room held a collection of masks of ancient Egyptian gods: Set, Osiris, Thoth. The sheer volume of artifacts and priceless treasures, the weight of so much antiquity on all sides, was almost oppressive.

  They turned a corner and Rush stopped before a closed wooden door. Inscribed in gold letters so faded as to be almost indecipherable were the words Archives III: Tanis-Sehel-Fayum. Rush glanced back briefly at Logan, then over his shoulder and down the empty hall. And then he opened the door and ushered Logan inside.

  The room beyond was even darker than the hallway. A series of windows arrayed just below the high ceiling grudgingly admitted shafts of sunlight, heavily filtered through countless years of grime. There was no other illumination. Bookcases covered all four walls, stuffed to bursting with ancient journals, bound manuscripts, moldy leather-covered notebooks, and thick bundles of papyri, fastened together with desiccated leather stitching and in apparent disarray.

  As Rush closed the door behind them, Logan took a step into the room. It smelled strongly of wax and decaying paper. This was precisely the kind of place he could find himself very much at home in: a clearinghouse for the distant past, a repository of secrets and riddles and strange chronicles, all waiting patiently to be rediscovered and brought into the light. He had spent more than his fair share of time in such rooms. And yet his experience was primarily in medieval abbeys and cathedral crypts and the restricted collections of university libraries. The artifacts here-the histories and the narratives, and the dead language most of them were written in-were very, very much older.

  In the center of the room was a single research table, long and narrow, surrounded by a half-dozen chairs. The room had been so dark and still that Logan had believed them to be alone. But now, as his eyes adjusted, he noticed a man in Arab garb seated at the table, his back to them, hunched over an ancient scroll. He had not moved at their entrance, and did not move now. He appeared completely engrossed in his reading.

  Rush took a step forward to stand beside Logan. Then he quietly cleared his throat.

  For a long moment, the figure did not move. Then he turned slightly in their direction. The old man-for it was clear to Logan he was an elderly scholar-did not bother to make eye contact; rather, he simply acknowledged the new presences. He was dressed in a formal but rather threadbare gray thawb, with faded cotton pants and a hooded linen robe that partially concealed a plain black-and-white patterned ghutra fringing his forehead. Beside him, a tiny cup of Turkish coffee sat on a worn earthenware coaster.

  Logan felt an inexplicable stab of annoyance at this presence. Rush had clearly brought him here to consult some private document: How were they going to keep their business confidential from an elderly scholar, even one who was so insolent as to barely acknowledge them?

  Then-to Logan’s surprise-the old man pushed his chair away from the desk and, very deliberately, stood up to face them. He was wearing a pair of old reading glasses, cracked and dusty, and his seamed face was hidden behind the folds of the hood. He stood, regarding them, eyes indistinguishable behind the ancient spectacles.

  “I’m sorry we’re late,” Rush said.

  The man nodded. “That’s all right. This scroll was just getting interesting.”

  Logan looked from one to the other in confusion. The stranger standing before them had replied in perfect English-American English, in fact, with the faintest whiff of a Boston accent.

  Now, slowly and carefully, the old man pulled back his hood, revealing a shock of brilliant white hair combed carefully beneath the ghutra. He took off the glasses, folded them, and slipped them into a pocket of his robe. A pair of eyes stared back at Logan. Even in the faint light of the archives, they were as pale blue as a swimming pool on the first fresh day of summer vacation.

  Suddenly, Logan understood. The man he was looking at was Porter Stone.

  4

  Logan took a step backward. He saw Rush’s hand approach his elbow and instinctively brushed it aside. Already the shock was passing, replaced by curiosity.

  “Dr. Logan,” Stone said, “I’m sorry to surprise you like this. But, as you can no doubt appreciate, I am forced to keep the very lowest of profiles.”

  He smiled, but the smile did not extend as far as his eyes. Those eyes were far more piercing, more brilliant, than the pointillist photo on the cover of Fortune had conveyed. Behind them clearly burned not only a fierce intelligence but an unslakable hunger-for antiquities or wealth or merely knowledge, Logan could not surmise. The man was taller than he’d expected. But the frame beneath the Arab garb was just as thin as the photos in the press had led him to believe.

  Stone nodded to Rush. As the doctor turned to lock the door, Stone shook Logan’s hand, then gestured for him to have a seat. Logan drew no particular impression from the handshake-just a fierce energy out of keeping with such a gaunt frame and almost effeminate features.

  “I didn’t expect to find you here, Dr. Stone,” he said as he sat down. “I thought you kept yourself far removed from your projects these days.”

  “That is what I would like people to believe,” Stone replied. “And for the most part, it’s true. But old habits die hard. There are times even now when I can’t resist doing a little digging, getting my hands dirty.”

  Logan nodded. He understood perfectly.

  “Besides, whenever possible I prefer to talk personally to key members of a new team-especially on a project as important as this one. And of course, I was very curious to meet you face-to-face.”

  Logan was aware the blue eyes were still scrutinizing him. There was something almost pitiless in their intensity: here was someone who had taken the measure of many, many men.

  “So I’m a key part of the team?” Logan asked.

  Stone nodded. “Naturally. Although, to be honest, I hadn’t expected you to be. You’re something of a late addition.”

  Rush took a seat across the table from them. Stone put aside the scroll he’d been reading, revealing a narrow folder beneath it. “I knew of your work, of course. I’d read your monograph on the Walking Draugen of Trondheim.”

  “That was an interesting case. And it was nice to be able to publish-I’m so rarely allowed to.”

  Stone smiled his understandin
g. “And it seems we already have something in common, Dr. Logan.”

  “Call me Jeremy, please. What might that be?”

  “Pembridge Barrow.”

  Logan sat up in surprise. “You don’t mean to say you read-”

  “I did indeed,” Stone replied.

  Logan looked at the treasure hunter with fresh respect. Pembridge Barrow had been one of Stone’s smaller, but historically more spectacular, discoveries: a burial pit in Wales that contained the remains of what most scholars agreed was the first-century English queen Boadicea. She had been found buried in an ancient war chariot, surrounded by weapons, golden armbands, and other trinkets. In making the find, Stone had solved a mystery that had plagued English historians for centuries.

  “As you know,” Stone continued, “the scholarly elite always maintained Boadicea met her end at the hands of the Roman legions in Exeter, or perhaps Warwickshire. But it was your own graduate dissertation-in which you argued she survived those battles to be buried with full warrior’s honors-that led me to Pembridge.”

  “Based on projected movements of Roman search parties far removed from the Watling Road,” Logan replied. “I guess I should feel honored.” He was impressed with Stone’s thoroughness.

  “But I didn’t summon you here to speak of that. I wanted you to understand just what you’re getting yourself involved in.” Stone leaned forward. “I’m not going to ask you to sign a blood oath or anything so melodramatic.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.”

  “Besides, somebody in your unique line of work can be trusted to keep a confidence.” Stone leaned back again. “Have you heard of Flinders Petrie?”

  “The Egyptologist? He discovered the New Kingdom at Tell el-Amarna, right? And the Merneptah stele, among other things.”

  “That’s right. Very good.” Stone and Rush exchanged a significant glance. “Then you probably know that he was that rarest of Egyptologists: a true scholar, endowed with a limitless appetite for learning. In the late 1800s, when everybody else was frantically digging up treasure, he was searching for something else: knowledge. He loved to stray from the obvious dig sites-the pyramids and the temples-searching far up the Nile for potsherds or bits of clay pictographs. In many ways, he made Egyptology a respectable science, discouraging looting and haphazard documentation.”

  Logan nodded. So far, this was all relatively common knowledge.

  “By 1933, Petrie was the grand old man of British archaeology. He’d been knighted by the king. He’d offered to donate his head to the Royal College of Surgeons so that his unique brilliance could be studied in perpetuity. He and his wife retired permanently to Jerusalem, where he could spend his twilight years among the ancient ruins he loved so much. And so the story ends.”

  A brief silence fell over the archives. Stone pulled out the grimy spectacles, fiddled with them a moment, placed them on the table.

  “Except that it doesn’t end. Because in 1941-after years of sedentary retirement-Petrie abruptly left Jerusalem, bound for Cairo. He told none of his old colleagues at the British School of Archaeology about this new expedition of his-and there can be no doubt that it was an expedition. He took a bare minimum of staff: two or three at most, and those I suspect only because of his age and growing infirmity. He made no request for grants; it would appear he sold several of his most prized artifacts to finance the trip. None of these things were in character for Petrie-but strangest of all was his haste. He had always been known for careful, deliberate scholarship. But this trip to Egypt, with North Africa already deep in the throes of war, was the polar opposite of deliberation. It seems to have been frantic-almost desperate.”

  Stone paused to take a sip from the tiny cup of coffee. The air was briefly perfumed with the scent of qahwa sada.

  “Where exactly Petrie went-why he went-was not known. What was known is that he returned to Jerusalem five months later, alone, funds depleted. He would not speak of where he’d been. His air of desperation remained, yet the journey had sorely weakened an already enfeebled body. He died not long afterward in Jerusalem, in 1942, apparently while raising funds for yet another return to Egypt.”

  Stone replaced the cup on its earthenware coaster, then glanced at Logan.

  “None of that is in the historical record,” Logan said. “How did you find this out?”

  “How do I find anything out, Dr. Logan?” Stone spread his hands. “I peer into the dark corners others don’t bother to examine. I search public and private records, hunting for that one lost document accidentally shoved behind the others and forgotten. I read anything and everything I can get my hands on-including, I might add, obscure graduate dissertations.”

  Logan put one hand to his heart, made a mock bow.

  “People talk about the secret of my Midas touch.” Stone uttered these last words contemptuously. “What tripe. There’s no secret beyond plain hard work. The fortune I made from the Spanish Plate Fleet gave me the resources to do things my way: send scholars and investigators to all corners of the world, searching quietly for that tantalizing gap in the historical record, that scrap of ancient rumor, that might prove to be of interest-and, perhaps, more than just of interest.”

  As quickly as it came, the bitterness left Stone’s voice. “In the case of Flinders Petrie, I obtained a battered diary, purchased as part of a lot in an Alexandrian bazaar. The diary had been kept by a research assistant of Petrie’s during his last years in Jerusalem: a young man who wasn’t asked to go along on that final expedition and afterward, in vexation, joined the army. He died in the Battle of the Kasserine Pass. Of course the story described in his diary piqued my interest. What could have possessed Petrie-who cared little for treasure, who had earned a large measure of scholarly fame, not to mention every right to enjoy an old age of ease-to leave the comfort of his home and enter a war zone at almost ninety years of age? It was a mystery.” Stone paused. “But you must understand, Dr. Logan: I have a hundred, two hundred, such mysteries in the vault of my research lab in Kent. Some I discovered myself; others I have paid well to have unearthed. They are all interesting. But my time is finite. I will not commit to a project until I feel confident I have sufficient knowledge to guarantee success.”

  The Midas touch, Logan thought. Aloud, he said, “I take it, then, this research assistant of Petrie’s wasn’t the last word on the subject?”

  Stone smiled again faintly, and, as he returned Logan’s gaze, the stark, appraising look returned to his eyes. “Petrie’s housekeeper. One of my associates learned of her existence, traced her whereabouts, and interviewed her shortly before her death, in a hospice for the aged in Haifa. This was six years ago. She was rambling, semi-lucid. But under gentle questioning, she clearly recalled one particular afternoon in 1941, when Petrie was displaying a portion of his vast collection of antiquities to a guest. It was a guest of no importance, and Petrie entertained in this fashion frequently. In any case, on this particular occasion the housekeeper clearly recalled Petrie and the nameless guest exploring the contents of a wooden crate from one of the Egyptologist’s earliest excursions up the Nile. All of a sudden Petrie sat bolt upright, as if galvanized by an electric shock. He stammered for a minute. Then he quickly got rid of his visitor with some excuse. And then he closed and locked the door to his study-something he had never done before. That’s what made the housekeeper remember the incident. Within days, he departed on his final trip to Egypt.”

  “He found something,” Logan said, “in his storehouse of artifacts.”

  Stone nodded. “Something that had been lying there, in plain sight, all along. Or more likely, never carefully examined before the day that guest arrived-Petrie had amassed such a large collection that he barely knew its extent.”

  “And I’m assuming-since we’re here-that you found that artifact.”

  “I found it,” Stone said slowly.

  “May I ask how?”

  “You may not.” If this was meant as a joke, it didn’t show. “My m
ethods are, shall we say, proprietary? Suffice to say it was a long, arduous, vexing, boring-and expensive-task. If you assumed I spent a lot of money to discover the journal and the housekeeper-and I did-I spent twenty times as much to learn what it was Petrie uncovered on that day in 1941. But I am willing to share the artifact with you-briefly.” And Stone reached for the cup of coffee, raised it to his lips.

  Logan waited, expecting Stone to produce some carefully sealed relic case, or perhaps instruct Dr. Rush to retrieve an artifact from some secret corner of the dusty room. But instead, Stone simply took a sip from the tiny cup. Then he nodded at the worn coaster on the table, now stained with a faint damp ring of coffee.

  “Pick it up,” he said.

  5

  For a moment, Logan hesitated. He wasn’t sure he understood. Stone merely returned his gaze, cup in hand, his expression unreadable.

  Logan began to reach for the worn coaster, paused, then extended his hand-gingerly-and picked it up. As he did so he realized it was not earthenware, after all, but a thin piece of limestone, badly chipped at the edges. Turning it over, he saw faint pictographs drawn in pale brown ink.

  “Not the original, of course,” Stone said. “But an exact copy.” He paused. “Do you know what it is?”

  Logan turned it over in his hands. “It looks like an ostracon.”

  “Bravo!” Stone turned toward Rush. “Ethan, this man impresses me more by the minute.” He looked back at Logan. “If you know it’s an ostracon, then you’ll also know its purpose.”