Death of a Pharaoh

  “Let’s do it,” Ryan ordered.

  “I propose Tuesday of next week. It gives us just enough time to make the arrangements.”

  “Then I have six days to come up with a plan. I don’t want to disappoint my council.”

  “Expectations will be high.”

  “Thanks for the added pressure,” he joked. Anything else?”

  “The matter of the coronation,” Herbert added. “How are the classes going?”

  “Very well, wouldn’t you say Chief Mbaye?”

  “Indeed, my Lord, indeed.”

  “On the flight, I received an update from your loyal Servant tasked with the construction of the new Royal Tomb. The complex includes a throne room where your coronation will take place. He assures me that everything will be ready on time. The body of your grandmother will arrive from Switzerland in three weeks. All that remains is the transfer of the mummies of your predecessors to the new necropolis.”

  “Is that complicated?”

  “Normally, it is an operation we would have completed in several phases and under cover of one of the many sandstorms common in the area in March or April. Unfortunately, your Grandmother’s murder forced us to advance the timetable by several months. In addition, our old enemy Sanctus Verum, has shown too much interest in the site of the old tomb. We fear that the location is close to being compromised.”

  “What is the interest of Sanctus Verum in a bunch of mummies?”

  Herbert and Chief Mbaye exchanged glances.

  “Do you remember everything your grandmother told you the day you got out of prison?” Herbert asked.

  Ryan tried to recall if she had mentioned mummies. It seemed a lifetime ago and so much had happened since then. It was hard to believe only two weeks had passed. Suddenly it dawned on him.

  “They are looking for Jesus’ body aren’t they?”

  “Yes, my Lord and they will stop at nothing to find it.”

  “Do they want to destroy it?”

  “I doubt it. The real danger to them is the fact that we know their religion is based on a lie. Jesus never rose to heaven, at least not in the manner they believe and we have the body to prove it.”

  “I can see how they would fear the truth,” Ryan confessed.

  “The danger to us, my Lord, is that their obsession to locate the holy relic may lead them to discover that you didn’t die sixteen years ago,” Chief Mbaye added. “Remember, the fanatic who leads them killed your mother and believed you perished with her.”

  Ryan lost his appetite and set the fork back on his plate. He realized the extent of the forces arrayed against them. He looked at the two men sitting across from him, together they summed over one hundred and sixteen years of life and experience. Ryan was still three away from his second decade. He was going to have to do some growing up and fast.

  “Let’s hope the Consortium and the Catholic Church never meet and decide to work together,” Ryan prayed aloud.

  The trio was silent as they imagined a possibility they all knew to be unfathomable.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Desert near Saqqara, Egypt: 12:05 EET September, 30, 2016

  Hassan sat immobile, perched in the small wooden saddle padded with only his thin blanket. An hour ago, he’d hooked the end of his switch on a corner of his robe and held it aloft to provide a small patch of shade against the merciless mid-day sun. His camel was content to chew her cud quietly and he was certain that they could have remained in the same position until nightfall as they both had all they needed.

  Hassan was a Guardian, a member of an ancient clan of the Habiru sworn to protect the hidden tomb of the True Pharaohs. No gravedigger had ever defiled the secret entrance known only to the elders of his tribe. Those who had the misfortune to come too close died with their blood staining the unforgiving desert sand. Legend says that a Guardian was so silent and so quick with the blade of his dagger that no intruder had ever even seen death coming.

  He had been watching the European since early morning. Before dawn, he discovered the tracks of the small truck that left the man the day before along with about 500 kilos of equipment, judging by the lighter imprints when the vehicle drove back. He heard the small generator long before the trail led him to the camp not far from an ancient well that belonged to his people.

  A generation ago, he could have slit the man’s throat just for drinking his water without permission. Sadly, in modern Egypt no one respected the ancient laws of the desert. Besides, killing a foreigner would only bring the attention of the police and his people preferred minimum contact with the authorities. It had been that way for centuries. So much so that just to get a passport when the Falcon Foundation sent him to America for military training five years earlier, had been a bureaucratic nightmare. He was the first and only member of his family to fly on an airplane. He came back six months ago, just after his twenty-second birthday. On his return, they made him what the Americans would call a Captain in charge of an elite squad of trackers and marksmen that included his younger brother, Gamal. His father was very proud of both of them.

  The first of the Europeans arrived four years ago while he was away. They were the advance team for a Swiss based NGO that provided desert tribes, like his, with training and funds for small-scale irrigation projects and the tapping of ancient streams and aquifers far below the desert sands. At first, they welcomed them; water was the most precious commodity for his people.

  Before long, their numbers grew to more than a hundred and the Tribal Council became worried. They soon built a small village complete with storage sheds, barracks, a recreational center and two high capacity diesel generators deposited by military helicopters. Obviously, they enjoyed excellent relations at the highest levels of the government. All of them were men, not out of the ordinary for a rural project in a Muslim country, and even though they wore civilian clothes, they looked and acted like military personnel. Among them were two priests and they celebrated what Catholics called mass every morning. Attendance was almost 100% according to their spies outside the camp and Hassan knew that such devotion was not normal for soldiers.

  A few months ago, the Europeans began to send teams farther and farther from their headquarters. It soon became evident that they were methodically surveying the entire area and within weeks they would be operating much too close to the forbidden zone. When a group of elders visited to express their concerns, the foreigners explained to them that they were merely mapping the tributaries of a complex underground river system. Someday their efforts would be of great benefit to the tribe they assured them.

  It was enough to warrant a consultation with the Chief of Security of the Falcon Foundation and his advice to them was to try to get some evidence of the true nature of their explorations. Until yesterday, the Swiss always sent out teams in small groups of two or three. This was the first time that any of them made camp alone. It was an opportunity. Hassan wasn’t certain how he would accomplish it but knew he had to get inside that tent and maybe even a laptop.

  The seed of a plan began to form in his mind during the long hours in the saddle on the edge of the sand dune. He imagined that a hundred men alone in the desert might begin to miss the pleasures of the flesh. Since there were no women, he was certain that more than a few of them turned to each other for relief. It was only normal. As a young teenager living in a conservative society with no possibility of relations with a woman until marriage, he too had practiced furtive sex with his friends. They never discussed it openly but no one thought anything of it.

  In America, it had been so easy to find women. He soon discovered that his name suited him well: Hassan, the beautiful! He was strong and tall with dark curly hair, bronzed skin, deep brown eyes and a smile that caused the girls in the shops to blush and fumble his change. When he walked down the streets of Houston, heads would turn and they weren’t always just on the shoulders of women. One of his cousins, who found work with the Swiss, noticed that a few of the men were very friendly
to him. He was young, and nearly as good-looking as Hassan. When he worked without a shirt, he felt many admiring eyes on his strong back. The next day Hassan would bait the trap.

  The well was in a depression about two hundred yards from the European’s tent. The man could see the approach from every direction but he would need to climb a small dune to watch anyone at the trough. Hassan knew he had been seen as soon as he arrived on his camel. He dismounted and stood with his back to the tent while his camel drank. It was early but already hot and Hassan took off his robe to refresh himself with the water. He slowly poured the contents of the bag over his head and down his chest. When he bent to refill the skin, he noticed the glint of a pair of binoculars. He pretended not to have seen while he nonchalantly untied the string of his trousers and took a long leisurely piss. When he finished, the binoculars had only moved slightly downward. He smiled to himself. That afternoon he made camp not far from the well but not close enough to invite a visit. Before dark, he went back to the well and again he bathed in the cool water but this time he was naked from head to toe and his prey was back to watch the show.

  Under cover of night, he snuck within a few yards of the tent. There was a lantern hung inside on the far wall. The man had his back to Hassan working at a small desk. He waited patiently. After two hours, the European got up and removed his clothes. He heard the creak of the cot when he lay down. There was only silence for a moment but soon Hassan could see the unmistakable movements that assured him his intuition had been right. Tomorrow he would take it to the next level.

  He returned in the morning to bathe at the well. This time he took a small bottle of soap and as often happens with men the act of lathering his crotch made him erect. He knew he was being watched and in a strange way, it made it more exciting. Hassan was certain they both enjoyed his performance. That afternoon he suddenly appeared at the door of the tent. The man was working on a laptop and didn’t even hear Hassan. He was startled but quickly recovered. He came toward him wary but smiling. He wore a shirt with the buttons open and khaki shorts. He was in his late twenties, maybe thirty with blond hair, blue eyes and a muscular build. His skin was ruddy from too much sun.

  “Sprechen sie deutsch?” he asked.

  “Ingleesh?” Hassan pleaded in the worst accent possible.

  “I speak English too,” he replied. “My name is Franz,” he told him while he pointed to his chest.

  “Me, Hassan,” he grunted feeling like some B movie Tarzan.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Me too.”

  They eyed each other with caution for a moment until the foreigner finally spoke again.

  “Would you like some tea?”

  “Thank you,” Hassan was at pains not to let him know he spoke fluently.

  The man offered a chair but Hassan indicated he was more comfortable on the ground. Franz busied himself lighting a gas burner that looked to be military issue. While he waited for the water to boil, he dug into a cooler and brought out two granola bars like those Hassan had enjoyed in the United States. He was obviously aware of the importance of hospitality.

  “I am a surveyor,” he announced while he poured the tea into metal cups.

  “What is sirbeyur?”

  “I make maps, do you understand ‘map’?”

  “Yes, Bedouin do not need maps.”

  “I am Swiss. We need maps,” he chuckled. It was a pleasant laugh.

  Hassan smiled. “Are you here long time?” he asked.

  “Another week,” he replied.

  Hassan thought it would be enough. He finished his tea and abruptly stood up.

  He came back later that afternoon.

  “I bathe at well,” he announced then pointed to his new friend. “Wash back, help Hassan?”

  He was certain the man almost choked he swallowed so hard.

  Franz coughed to clear his throat then said, “Of course!”

  He dutifully followed the Bedouin to the trough. Hassan removed his clothes without even a hint of shyness then poured a bucket of water over his head.

  “Shampoo,” he announced then handed Franz the small plastic bottle.

  Hassan lowered his dripping head and Franz obliged by massaging in the liquid. He was gentle. Hassan raised his eyes slightly and noticed the man was getting hard. He reached for the water to rinse his head then stripped off his pants and turned his back to Franz. He handed him the soap over his left shoulder.

  Franz slowly began to wash his broad shoulders. He took his time then began to move down stopping at the small of his back. Hassan noticed his hesitation so he reached behind and guided Franz’ hand lower. He could feel him trembling with excitement as he soaped his buttocks, venturing timidly between his strong thighs. After a moment, Hassan turned to face him wearing nothing but a broad smile and an even bigger erection.

  “You help Hassan again, yes?”

  Franz fell to his knees in a flash.

  Hassan had never experienced oral sex from a man. It felt wonderful. He was certain that it wasn’t Franz’ first time. How else could he be so good at it?

  When he finished, he casually sloshed his crotch with water then gathered up his clothes.

  “Good bath,” he pronounced then turned and climbed up the dune. He was certain that he now had the man exactly where he needed him.

  That evening he waited for Franz to retire. He quietly slipped through the flap of the tent. Franz stared at his shadow with a mixture of fear and desire. Hassan removed his robe and let it fall in a heap at his feet. He was naked underneath. Franz crouched to repeat his earlier triumph but Hassan put his hands on his shoulders and twisted indicting that he wanted something else. Franz reached over to open a small drawer in the bedside table and brought out a tube of lotion. He removed his boxers and rolled over.

  Twenty minutes later Hassan collapsed on Franz’ back utterly exhausted; unable and unwilling to move for fear the magic would end. He tilted his head and listened to his newfound lover’s heart racing and his eyes became misty with tears of joy. It was at least a minute before he could speak.

  “You like?” he asked shyly.

  “Richtig!” Franz answered in German.

  Hassan assumed that was good. The cot protested when they both shifted posture. Hassan rolled on his back while Franz snuggled beside him, his head resting on his chest. Hassan ran his fingers through his soft hair marveling at how the texture was so different from his own. Neither of them spoke, words seemed inadequate and within twenty minutes, Franz was asleep.

  His trust deeply moved Hassan. Only a day earlier they had been potential enemies. He watched mesmerized as Franz’ head rose and fell in rhythm to his own breathing. He was convinced he could now get any information he wanted but at the same time the powerful feelings he had just experienced confused him. He had been with several women in the United States but it had never felt like this. It didn’t bother him that he might be attracted to a man. He was much too confident of his own masculinity to worry about something as trivial as plumbing. Rather, he was concerned that it might complicate his mission. He was a Guardian. It meant more than life itself, more than great sex and even more than love.

  He extracted himself from under Franz and gently lowered his head to the pillow. He stirred slightly but didn’t wake. Hassan dressed then with one last look at the sleeping face, he slipped out of the tent and returned to his encampment.

  Hassan lay on his blanket but sleep evaded his mind. He stared at the stars above him. They were what he missed more than anything else when he was in America. There you could barely see the stars with all the light pollution, as they called it. In the desert the sky was ablaze with twinkling lights, you felt you could reach out and touch them.

  He prayed for guidance and as he brought his palms to his face, he could smell Franz and it felt as welcome as a newborn baby’s first breath. How could he get what he needed without having to kill him? He assumed that most people could never understand what it meant for two people t
o overcome all the barriers of language, culture, history and even fear to lay together under such dramatic circumstances. How was it possible in just a few hours that two strangers could share such deep feelings? Could it be that as two men the void was so great, so heart wrenchingly frightening that in their act of defiance against all that society considered normal, they somehow managed to forge a temporary universe to protect them from the harsh world outside their couplings?

  Hassan had never doubted himself before. He had even killed once without a second thought. Now, he was not so certain he could slit the throat of a man who could use it to give so much pleasure. Surely, what they had done to each other could only be a precious gift from the Gods. He prayed to Osiris for a plan that would allow him to accomplish his duty yet spare the life of the man he had held in his arms such a short time ago.

  Hassan knew that Franz had a weapon. He spotted the pistol in the drawer by the bed. Yet Franz allowed himself to fall asleep giving a perfect stranger all the advantage. The actions of a foolish man or of one who knew he was safe in the other’s hands. Where did such trust come from? He could have killed him so easily but Hassan knew he wouldn’t. It was one thing to spill his seed on the ground as he had with his friends while they tended flocks of goats; it was something else to deposit it freely inside another at the completion of an act of true friendship, perhaps even of love. They had created a bond and Hassan knew that the Gods would forgive him for being merciful. He began to make a plan.

  The nearest message point was not far. He could be back before dawn. His camel protested when he started to tighten the saddle straps. Her nostrils flared as she caught Franz’ scent on his body.

  “Don’t be jealous,” he admonished her, “you are still my favorite four-legged ride.”

  Hassan navigated by the stars and within an hour he pulled up only a few strides short of the small pile of stones that any passerby might have missed, even in the light of day. He wrote a short note in his ancient language and buried it under the top stone that he tilted sideways to indicate he had been there. One of his men would see the message shortly after dawn. By the time he reported to the village and returned with reinforcements, it would be well after noon. Hassan turned his camel back toward his camp. He barely felt the chill of the night air, warmed as he was by the pleasant memories of their lovemaking. He longed to see Franz again and he prayed that his plan would work.