Death of a Pharaoh

  Thoth put away his files and prepared to make his report to the Supreme Council of the Gods.

  Chapter Ten

  Federal Courthouse, Philadelphia: 08:28 EDT September 13, 2016

  As a Senior Partner at the prestigious Philadelphia law firm of Rosenberg, Spelman & Associates, twenty years had passed since David Spelman crawled out of bed at the crack of dawn on a Monday morning to hold the first spot in line before the doors opened at the Federal Courthouse on Market Street. He was fortunate to get such an early appointment and only because he and the Chief Magistrate Judge were brothers at the same Masonic Lodge. Still it wasn't a guarantee of success. Judge Henderson would hear his arguments and he was notoriously reluctant to issue such orders. To complicate matters he would only have fifteen minutes to make his case before His Honor was due in court.

  The call from the Falcon Foundation came as no surprise considering the matter at hand. David knew no other lawyer in Pennsylvania who could match his experience in cases of religious freedom. In 1997, he formed part of the high-powered legal team that represented the Archbishop of San Antonio, Patrick Flores in the landmark Supreme Court case City of Boerne v. Flores. Although the Archbishop lost the case when the court, in an opinion by Justice Anthony Kennedy, declared the Religious Freedom Protection Act unconstitutional, David knew he had found his life's calling.

  Two years later, they invited him as a witness to address the Senate Committee on the Judiciary during hearings on religious liberty protection. He helped draft Pennsylvania's subsequent Religious Freedom Protection Act that had withstood all constitutional challenges and in 2004, he won the first injunction in the state prohibiting an autopsy on religious grounds. Almost all of his cases have been on behalf of Jewish families, although suits brought by Evangelical Christians determined to home school their children were becoming a significant part of his practice.

  Despite all his success, the prospect of arguing for the religious rights of the High Priestess of an ancient Egyptian cult that few people even knew existed daunted him. A Google search by one of his assistants could only find cryptic references on a few oddball websites that also sold rock crystals that allegedly generated cosmic power. Still he was the eternal optimist and asked his driver to remain near the front entrance with the engine running, no matter how many parking tickets he might receive.

  The doors opened promptly at 8:30 am and David Spelman soon cursed himself for not remembering to remove his watch, belt, keys and the gold Star of David he wore on a chain around his neck before trying to pass through the sensitive metal detector that was a fixture in every courthouse since 9-11. Silence greeted the third attempt but the others robbed him of two precious minutes of time. He raced to the elevator bank and pressed the button for the 12th floor.

  He was still catching his breath when Judge Henderson finished reading the request and threw it down in a manner that did not auger well for the possibility it might prosper.

  "Counselor," the judge began, "I am well aware of your reputation in these matters but do you really expect me to issue a temporary restraining order to prevent the autopsy of a murder victim due to her religious beliefs when I have never even heard of these so-called Servants of the Door Mat."

  "Servants of Ma'at, your Honor," David corrected him politely.

  "Whatever. You know full well, that no one has ever won a suit against a public agency in the case of a homicide. Maybe if she was Jewish and there was a petition from the family but it says here that she only has a grandson, who isn't even represented as a movant. The only name I see is one Herbert Lewis of the Falcon Foundation. You're going to have to be a hell of a lot more convincing than that Mr. Spelman," he insisted as he glanced at his watch, "and you’ve got five minutes left."

  "Your honor, Mrs. Carter was the CEO of the Falcon Foundation and Mr. Lewis has a signed power of attorney. The foundation is one of the largest charitable organizations in the world with combined assets of more than $80 billion."

  "Granted,” he conceded, “she may well control more money than the Vatican but unlike the Catholics she doesn't have a billion followers."

  "I have sworn affidavits from several members, Your Honor," he admitted as he reached into his briefcase.

  "Save yourself the trouble Counselor. If you are about to show me that there are a dozen followers in Oregon living in a commune, wearing long skirts and Birkenstocks, it will not suffice to convince me that these Servants of Ma'at are a minority religion for constitutional purposes."

  David had not wanted to play his last card but the judge gave him no choice. He placed the thick manila file on the desk.

  "Your Honor, these are more than a hundred notarized affidavits signed by, among others, two members of the Federal cabinet, several eminent jurists, four Ambassadors, prominent business leaders and one famous actor. They all swear that they are long-time members of the Servants of Ma'at and that Fannie Carter was their spiritual leader."

  Judge Sullivan picked up the file and began to read the names on the affidavits. He whistled in amazement before he had flipped through the first dozen.

  "For everyone's sake, you better hope that the MEO doesn't challenge because if this information becomes public knowledge then most of these upstanding citizens will be looking at a sudden career change."

  "Your Honor, that is precisely the point. I doubt that a sitting member of the Supreme Court, as in the case of Justice Myers whose affidavit is included, would risk everything for a religion that wasn't worth defending."

  "Justice Myers?"

  The judge shuffled through the pile looking for the name.

  Spelman remained silent, knowing that he was suddenly much closer to winning.

  "I clerked for Justice Myers years ago and you have just provided me with a reason to recuse myself if this insanity ever goes to court. You win Mr. Spelman. I'll ask my secretary to prepare the paperwork and I'll sign it at lunch."

  "Your Honor. My apologies but the autopsy is scheduled to begin as we speak. I believe the situation would permit you to issue an oral injunction considering the immediate risk of irreparable damage to the body of Mrs. Carter."

  The judge sentenced David with an exasperated look then pressed his intercom. "Marsha, get me the Chief Medical Examiner on the line. Tell him that it is urgent then ask the Clerk of Court to come to my chambers. Oh and you better let the bailiff know that I'll be a few minutes late."

  The judge turned to his visitor, "Anything else Mr. Spelman?"

  "No. Thank you, your Honor. Quite enough for one day, I should think."

  Dr. Thomas Scott finished the external examination of the 75-year-old African American woman on the autopsy table and reached for a scalpel to start the Y incision when the phone rang on the wall. He was tempted to ignore the call and let it go to his voicemail but it presented him with an excuse to get another cup of coffee.

  "Tom? Jason here. Are you on the Carter autopsy?"

  "Yes sir. I just finished the external."

  "Have you done the Y yet?"

  "No, I was just about to start. What's up boss, another petition for a private?

  "Judge Henderson has issued an injunction prohibiting us from performing the autopsy. Of course we will challenge but in the meantime you are not to touch the body. Understand?" he warned. "Her representative, Mr. Lewis is waiting in my office right now and he will soon be there with a gurney and a hearse. The judge has ordered us to release the body and any personal effects immediately."

  "Jesus Christ, Jason. This is a homicide not a fall in the bathtub," he reminded his supervisor. "Where is this going to end?"

  "For Pete's sake, Tom. Get off your high horse for once. You will obey the order or you’ll be found in contempt of court and you'll also be looking for another job," the Chief Medical Examiner almost shouted over the phone. "Prepare the body for transport; I'll accompany Mr. Lewis down."

  The sleek Bombardier executive jet pulled up to the private hanger at Northeast Philadelphia Air
port just a few minutes before 11.00 am. Herbert Lewis stood on the tarmac dressed in a black suit and tie. He waited patiently while the two Rolls-Royce turbofan engines shut down and the cabin door cracked open. One of the Vizier's security agents exited first followed by Chief Mbaye looking tired after the long trip from Senegal via the Canary Islands.

  "Herbert, it pleases me to see you but not under such tragic circumstances," the chief confessed.

  "My Lord Vizier, we are grateful to have your presence and your guidance in difficult times."

  "I have arranged for tea while we wait for the hearse. We can expect it at any moment. The Ambassador's driver just called to say that he will arrive on schedule. If you please Lord Vizier, follow me, the workers must remove a piece of the galley in order for the casket to clear the fuselage."

  Once inside the small but elegant waiting lounge the Chief asked, "Tell me about Nkosana, how is he holding up?"

  "He knows nothing yet. The transfer of powers was successful but we decided not to approach him until after the Regency Council meets."

  "Most wise, Herbert,” he allowed. "Have you any news about the investigation? Do we know who committed this despicable crime?"

  "Sadly, very little," Herbert responded. "The police have reports of a strange car in the neighborhood near the Pharaoh's residence but there were no eye witnesses nor were any shell casings found near the body. It is without a doubt the work of a professional. Lord Thoth saw the face of the assassin through the Pharaoh’s last dream report and he has informed us that it was not the same person who murdered Princess Eshe."

  "Do you think it had anything to do with the trading irregularities that your IT team has detected in recent months?"

  "It could very well. The volume of the Foundation's trading activities has become so important that it is increasingly more difficult to hide our moves."

  They could see the hearse as it slowly rounded the corner.

  Herbert got up to leave. The Chief grabbed his hand to stop him for a moment. "Is Nkosana prepared for the task ahead?"

  "I think so my Lord."

  Mbaye relaxed his grip.

  Herbert excused himself to supervise the transfer of the hearse to the aircraft.

  Moments later the Ambassador of the Arab Republic of Egypt arrived in an unmarked limousine. Chief Mbaye was at the door of the car to receive him.

  "Excellency, as always it is my honor to greet you both as a brother and as a fellow Servant of Ma'at."

  "My Lord Vizier, it pains my heart to have to see you in our moment of grief."

  "Is everything prepared in Switzerland?"

  "Yes, my Lord. The cryogenics lab is on standby; the entire process will take less than a month."

  It was a vast improvement, the chief thought. Fannie was the first pharaoh who would not be mummified, as had all of her predecessors including her father. Scientific advances in the past few years now allowed them to guarantee the preservation of the body under optimum conditions for many generations with less invasive methods. Since it was not their intention to ever try to reanimate the body, as current experiments with cryogenics hoped, the still unproven technology was perfect for their needs."

  "What about Mustafa?"

  "He will meet me at the airport in Cairo when I arrive from Switzerland. He will arrange the transportation of the body to the new Royal Crypt and will begin to prepare the ceremonies so that the Pharaoh may begin her journey to meet Osiris."

  "Thank you my friend. Our Pharaoh could not be in better hands."

  At that moment, a customs officer arrived to inspect the documentation as the pilot had just filed the new flight plan with a departure scheduled within the hour.

  "Officer, I am the Ambassador of the Arab Republic of Egypt and the cargo of this aircraft is traveling under diplomatic pouch as will attest this document signed by your Assistant Secretary of State for African Affairs. All passengers hold diplomatic passports. Thank you for your time but your services will not be required. My counselor assistant will accompany you into the office to provide a copy of the documentation."

  Once the officer left, the Ambassador turned and embraced the Chief kissing him on both cheeks. "May the Gods protect you Lord Vizier and long live the True Pharaoh."

  "May Horus watch over your precious cargo!” he pleaded then added, “I will see you in Cairo."

  Chapter Eleven

  Professor Sonkin’s residence, downtown Pittsburgh: 10:59 EDT September 13, 2016

  Dmitri Sonkin stuck out his tongue at the pitiful reflection staring back at him from the bathroom mirror in the well-appointed master bathroom of his upscale condominium. It was coated. He felt like shit and the fact that he had barely slept in the past four days only added to his misery. It was 11.00 am but he was still in his dressing gown; unshaved and unkempt.

  He hadn’t been back to his office since he’d ordered the mugging of a little old lady, someone’s great aunt for all he knew, and a black woman to boot. It was one of the more despicable acts of his miserable existence; not that his life had been without its share of dastardly deeds. He was certainly no saint but asking a thug to beat up a defenseless senior citizen was a new low, even by his own down-in-the-gutter standards. Still, she had left him no choice. She was ruining the plan and had to be stopped. Part of his anxiety, he knew, was because he actually liked her even if they had never met face-to-face. After all, she unwittingly saved his bacon twelve years ago when he’d stumbled upon her existence just when dozens of irate clients threatened to take him to court. It was not a pleasant memory.

  As a Professor of Applied Mathematics at Mellon Carnegie University, he had spent most of his career researching predictability in complex systems. He adored order; even chaos had a pattern. He didn’t believe in luck, leprechauns in your pocket or divine intervention. He was a scientist for Christ’s sake, a committed atheist. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t anything you couldn’t express in a mathematical formula.

  A year before she appeared, he had risked his reputation, his account at the Pittsburgh Supercomputing Center and millions of dollars of his clients’ money to try and develop a sophisticated model to predict trends in commodity prices and the stock market. Colleagues around the world warned him that it was impossible to capture the full detail of the underlying system even with the aid of the newest generation of supercomputers. The world's economy was too complicated, a veritable universe of opposing forces far too sensitive to even the slightest perturbation and therefore impossible to quantify. There was just too much data to process.

  Dmitri refused to listen and felt vindicated when his predictive model seemed to work at first. Within a year, he had forged a reputation among a growing list of corporate clients and investment professionals. He started to make money again and then it all fell apart. The formula didn't work after all. He had merely hit a run of luck. It was pure coincidence that his predictions tracked the market. He ran the simulations repeatedly, like some mad scientist desperate to find the antidote to the self-inflicted mutations caused by his crazed ambition.

  Eventually he was forced to accept what he knew deep in his heart. He was no more able to predict trends in the stock market than the man who sold him the newspaper every morning. At that moment, Dmitri found himself on the edge of professional and financial ruin. The situation might have even led to criminal charges. On top of it all, he was in the middle of a bitter divorce with his bitch of a wife whose sleazy lawyer had recently taken aim at his consulting income.

  Soon he was living in a cheap cockroach infested apartment, driving a second hand clunker, paying child support for the three brats who didn’t even want to see him anymore and refusing to take calls from his clients as their losses mounted. He couldn't sleep, his weight dropped and his blood pressure was on the verge of popping a vein like one of those plastic thermometers they put in Thanksgiving turkeys. Fortunately, he had tenure or the Dean would have fired him as the complaints piled up.

  His salvation
jumped out of the data just when everything appeared hopeless. For weeks, he had been desperately reviewing reports of abnormally high correlations between the changes in economic cycles and the trading records at major investment funds and brokers. Berkshire Hathaway appeared high on every list until he stumbled upon a completely unknown non-profit fund with more than $80 billion under management and a perfect trading record. It hardly seemed possible and even more improbable was the fact that if they indeed had a perfect system then why wasn’t their $80 billion, ten or a hundred times larger? The trustee of the fund was a prominent African American lawyer in Philadelphia but there was no information about who decided their investment policy. They scrupulously avoided positions that required the filing of detailed disclosures with the Security and Exchanges Commission.

  Sonkin contacted a former teaching assistant who owed him big time. While doing postgraduate studies, he had been caught hacking into the university’s computer system and changing students' grades for money. Dmitri vouched for him, saying that he had actually asked him to test the security of the system. The campus police exonerated the hacker based on Dmitri’s testimony and found him a good job with one of his clients. The computer whiz tracked all the trades to the same internet connection. It had a remarkably sophisticated firewall, especially for a home account but it proved no match for the hacker. That same afternoon, Dmitri had the name and address of the registered owner and he immediately hired a private investigator to find out everything possible about the individual.

  Once he started to get real-time echoes of the subject’s trading activities from his hacker employee, he distilled the trades into trends and passed them on to his clients as the product of his flawed mathematical model. Before long, they forgot about their previous loses as the profits rolled in. His colleagues were still skeptical especially since he refused to submit his research to peer review; a posture that essentially burned him in the academic community. He couldn’t have cared less. He was getting rich. Within eighteen months, he signed more than 2,000 subscribers to his monthly trends report at anywhere from $2,000 to $5,000 per year. Annual revenues were north of $6,000,000 and climbing. Best of all, his blood-sucking slut of an ex-wife wouldn’t get a penny.