Death of a Pharaoh

  He returned to the tent two hours after sunrise. Franz was awake and preparing breakfast. Once again, he didn’t even hear Hassan until he was standing behind him.

  “How did you sleep?” Hassan inquired.

  Franz turned not with a smile but with a look of relief as if he had woken fearing that last night had been only a dream. The Swiss stepped forward and embraced him with the intensity of someone who lacked words to express his feelings. Hassan held him tightly, knowing what he was about to say might destroy everything.

  “Are you here to find the mummies?” he demanded.

  Franz pulled back and looked into his eyes.

  “Your English has improved greatly in such a short time,” he commented without even a hint of reprobation.

  “That was a tactic to gain an early advantage,” Hassan assured him.

  “It worked,” he conceded, “but the nude shower was much more effective.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes, we are searching for one mummy.”

  “Whose?”

  “I am not certain,” he responded, “they have not told me.”

  “I believe you seek the body of the man you know as Jesus Christ.”

  Franz’s face contorted with shock.

  “Nein, that is impossible,” he assured him. “There can be no body!”

  “My people have lived here for over two thousand five hundred years. We are the Guardians of the Tomb of the True Pharaohs. There are over 170 mummies in the crypt and one of them is named Jesus. He was your Messiah but he was also our Pharaoh. After his death, a team of brave men kidnapped his body and brought it back to Egypt. He was mummified according to our tradition and he has lain here ever since.”

  Franz collapsed into a chair as if he no longer had the strength to stand and buried his hands in his head.

  “If what you say is true then why are you telling me?” he implored.

  “I knew right away that you were looking for more than water. I had to be honest with you to earn your trust so that I can save you.”

  Franz looked up, “Save me from…?”

  Before he finished the question, Hassan had his dagger across his throat.

  “It is my duty to kill you,” he confessed in an anguished voice.

  Franz closed his eyes, resigned to his fate.

  “But I cannot,” he confided and lowered the knife. “Let me spare your life?” he begged.

  Franz struggled to catch his breath again. He nodded yes.

  “Good there is much to do. My men will be here just after noon. We must make it look like there was a struggle before I captured you.”

  The surveyor stood up in defeat.

  Hassan grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a long passionate kiss. Then he ripped his shirt open. Franz seemed confused.

  “If we put our hearts into it we can destroy this place in less than an hour.” He winked as he pushed Franz playfully into the tent.

  He was wrong. It only took thirty minutes and the tent looked like the aftermath of an earthquake. The sex was more urgent this time but still as wonderful as the evening before. After they finished, they held each other while Hassan listened for the sound of anyone approaching.

  “What will happen to me?” Franz asked as he buried his nose in Hassan’s right armpit.

  It tickled.

  “First, I must abuse you and not in that way you seem to like so much,” he smiled. “You are my prisoner and when my men arrive, you can’t look like a she camel in heat.”

  “Only if you tell me that you love me first,” Franz insisted.

  “I love you,” he promised just before he punched him in the face bloodying his upper lip.

  When Hassan finished roughing him up, Franz had a cut above his left eye, a swollen lip and very realistic scrapes on several ribs. They would soon bruise.

  “Can you forgive me?” Hassan begged with a sheepish look.

  “I do,” he assured him. “Where will they take me?”

  “To my village and there you will tell all that you know. Then I will ask the people we work for to give you a new life wherever you want to go. They can be trusted and you will be safe.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  “I serve my Pharaoh. It will be his decision. But should fate rule against our happiness then when I marry I will name my first son Marzuq, which means Blessed by God; just as we have been every moment since we met.”

  Hassan kissed him gently, careful not to hurt the cut on his lip. “Besides, Franz would be too difficult to explain.”

  Father Marco received a message from the garrison commander in Egypt that evening. The capture of a member of the team was a grave development. So far, no one had sent ransom demands. They might torture him but Father Marco was certain the man had no knowledge of their final objective; he had nothing to reveal. Perhaps he was already dead. The report indicated that he went down fighting, they found blood at the scene. It would be better if they did kill him so Father Marco wouldn’t need to arrange it himself. Anyone incompetent enough to fall into the hands of the enemy or who lacked the commitment to ensure he was not taken alive was not worthy of being a soldier in his great crusade.

  He dictated a memo certifying that Franz Glauser had asked him to donate his pension and life insurance to the Church should anything happen to him. He pre-dated it to just before the team’s departure for Egypt. When they confirmed his death, it was not a matter of if, he’d have the Holy Father write a personal note to his family. His service file indicated that only a younger brother survived him. He’d wait a month to be certain that he didn’t turn up alive in a video sent to Al-Jazeera by some group of turbaned fanatics looking for easy cash.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chief Mbaye’s compound, Dakar, Senegal: 14:09 GMT October, 2, 2016

  Two days before the meeting of the Royal Council, Ryan spoke secretly with Herbert.

  “Was it difficult to convince him to come on board?”

  “He was sympathetic to our cause.”

  “Had he ever heard of our organization?”

  “I doubt it. For that reason, I asked your loyal Servant, His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales to meet with Mr. Golding to extend your request. They are close friends.”

  “Is his mother, the Queen, my servant as well?”

  “My Lord, we have had thousands of years to make certain that our people are in all the right places. Need I say more?”

  “Who would bow to whom?” he asked. “I mean if we ever met in person?” At times Ryan was still trying to wrap his head around what it meant to be True Pharaoh.

  “Depends if the two of you are alone or not,” Herbert admitted.

  The thought boggled his mind but he tried to concentrate on the matter at hand. Ryan remembered reading articles about the Nobel Prize winning economist when he boned up on commodity trading back at the hotel in Philadelphia. Dr. Golding’s research on the impact of reduced competition in world commodity markets, mostly a product of corporate concentration in his view, had convinced the Swedish committee two years earlier. He was a vital cog in Ryan’s plan.

  “Will he be ready for the meeting?” he asked his Vizier.

  “He has put together a task force and they have made great strides. He will need to work until the very last minute but is confident he will have everything ready on time.”

  “I am very grateful.”

  “The jet will be on standby to bring him and his team to Dakar the morning of the meeting. Their presence must remain a secret. He will brief you in private after his arrival.”

  Chief Mbaye’s compound, Dakar, Senegal: 20:28 GMT October, 4, 2016

  “My Lord, they are ready for us,” Herbert announced then added, “Nervous?”

  “Compared to this, sneaking into Maria Fanelli’s bedroom for my first time was a walk in the park,” Ryan responded.

  As they stepped outside, he could hear the sound of several djembe drums coming from the gardens
. It was the rhythm of Africa and Ryan knew instantly that it was a part of him. Ethan, Zach and Tony waited outside the hall. He smiled at them as they bowed their heads. He braced himself for the coming moments and reminded himself to walk as he assumed that a King should.

  When they entered the large dining hall, everyone present was on one knee with their heads bowed.

  “Long live the True Pharaoh!” a voice shouted and everyone repeated the words together.

  The Chief stepped forward, “My Lord, your council awaits.”

  He led Ryan to a large chair at the head of the long table. The others rose and the number of faces that he knew from CNN was astonishing. It could have been a meeting at Davos. He recognized at least two Heads of State, a smattering of Prime Ministers, a former Secretary-General of the United Nations and the current Secretary-General of NATO. He tried to hide his surprise. He noticed the Attorney General of the United States half way down the room and nodded in recognition.

  “Please be seated, Ladies and Gentlemen,” Ryan requested. Herbert sat at his right and Chief Mbaye on his left.

  “Lord Pharaoh, if it pleases, we will get right to work,” the Chief suggested. “We have taken extraordinary measures to keep this meeting a secret but the sooner we finish our business, the better.”

  Ryan nodded in agreement.

  “The first item on our agenda is the report by the Lord Vizier and until recently Chief of Security of the Falcon Foundation, Herbert Lewis.”

  The Vizier stood up and walked to a small podium to the side of a large projection screen.

  “Lord Pharaoh, My Lords, Excellencies, we have spent the last three weeks investigating the nature of the threat that was first revealed with the murder of Her Majesty, Fannie II.”

  He hesitated for a moment and Ryan realized that her death still affected him.

  “Each of you has a copy of our findings but with your permission, I will provide a brief summary,” he continued.

  Most of the report was similar to what Herbert had already advanced to Ryan. It was the audacity of the Consortium’s plans and the global scope of the alliance that shocked everyone present.

  “…we estimate that within one year, the Consortium will control the world’s major sources of petroleum, steel, gold, silver, copper, most other strategic minerals and 80% of food staples such as wheat, rice and sugar. They already have significant power over market prices and our economists estimate that their manipulations have increased the price of Brent crude by 22% and wheat by 57% in the past year alone. As a direct consequence, they have sliced more than two points off global GDP.”

  He paused to take a sip of water.

  “At this rate they will prolong the current recession another six quarters. If allowed to continue, by fourth quarter 2017 an estimated thirty nations will default on their sovereign debt igniting an unprecedented crisis in the banking sector. The subsequent collapse in the world’s stock markets would allow the Consortium to acquire entire industries at bargain basement prices,” he warned.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, they are much closer to their objectives than any of us could have imagined. Once they reach their goals, we suspect they plan to create a cascading series of artificial shortages that will initiate an insane spiral of rising prices, hyperinflation and a return to the Middle Ages for the world’s economy. Our calculations suggest that more than 400 million people would die of hunger in the following two years and that global life expectancy rates would decline by more than a decade. Quite frankly, we are all that stands between them and hell on earth.”

  While Herbert Lewis gathered up his papers, all eyes were on Ryan. He was acutely aware that this was his defining moment, just as Churchill and John F. Kennedy had faced theirs. He slowly rose from his chair. The silence was deafening, a prelude either to glory or to shame. He swallowed hard.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I propose we kick some Consortium ass.”

  It was not what anyone had expected. The members of the Royal Council glanced at each other, uncertain how to react. Ryan waited while a nervous chatter spread among the audience.

  Herbert leaned over and whispered, “I hope that you know what you are doing!”

  Ryan raised his hands to silence the crowd.

  “My friends, the success of their immoral designs depends on the rule of supply and demand. Right now, they are feeling confident. In my opinion, that makes them vulnerable. Last week, I requested a trusted expert to prepare a secret report on what would happen to their plan if the prices of one or two key commodities such as petroleum, gold, silver or wheat were to tumble by almost 50% in a short period.”

  He had their undivided attention once again.

  “Dr. Golding, please deliver your conclusions,” the Pharaoh instructed.

  A rather disheveled looking man in his late sixties shuffled to the podium. It was obvious he hadn’t slept much since the Pharaoh enlisted his cooperation. He opened a thick file and nervously donned his thin-framed reading glasses.

  “My Lord Pharaoh, as per your instructions we conducted an audit of the derivatives market for petroleum and gold, with settlement dates in the next thirty days. We discovered a major cluster in the period of October 19th to the 21st,” he paused so everyone could digest the imminence of the dates.

  “My team attributes 87% of these investments to the Consortium. There are aspects that make this timeframe particularly interesting. Perhaps as a reflection of their growing confidence, all the instruments are highly leveraged. There are an unusually large number of futures contracts as opposed to more prudent options contracts and, finally, almost 75% of the derivatives due in that week are cash-settled futures. In effect, the Consortium is vulnerable.”

  Murmurs of excitement greeted his remarks. He continued.

  “At current prices for gold and petroleum, their average profit stands at 17.3%. Excellent for just 90 days but if we can create a panic selling market in the two days prior to their settlement dates, resulting in an average drop of 30%, the Consortium would be forced to finance margin calls worth at least five trillion dollars according to my calculations. Quite simply, Lord Pharaoh, Excellencies, we would bankrupt them.”

  His affirmation garnered a boisterous round of applause. Ryan returned to the podium.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I propose that we now divide into smaller groups by geographic region while dinner is served. Mr. Golding and his team will spread among you to decide how best to coordinate our attack with all the means at our disposal, including every penny of the Falcon Fund.”

  It was past 2 am when Ryan stood at the door and personally thanked every member of the council for his or her contribution. The plan dubbed Operation Baal, after the Egyptian God of Thunder, came together beyond all expectations. The European Central Bank would dump almost 30% of their bullion reserves on world markets in less than 48 hours beginning October 19thst. The President of the United States, through his Attorney General, agreed to sign an Executive Order on the same day offering to sell 63% of that nation’s strategic oil reserves; almost a three month supply for the world’s largest economy. At the same time, the governments of Saudi Arabia and Qatar pledged to increase oil field production by an extraordinary 25%. They would iron out further measures in the weeks ahead but few among them doubted that their actions would have the desired effect. They were unanimous in their praise as they bid farewell to their Pharaoh.

  When the last limousine departed for the airport, Chief Mbaye turned to Ryan, “That was a masterful performance, my Lord. Your grandmother would be very proud.”

  “Thank you Chief. But we are not out of the woods yet. If the plan works, we will wound the Consortium, perhaps even fatally, but an injured animal is also the most dangerous. They won’t easily abandon their dream of world domination. With the help of the Gods, we will win a major battle but I wonder at what price?”

  The unanimous acceptance of Operation Baal by the Royal Council energized Ryan and made it even more difficult for him t
o hide his feelings toward Mariam the next morning as he repeated the ancient phrases after her. The exercise forced him to stare at her luscious lips as she carefully formed each word. He wondered what Lord Thoth would think that night when his dream file updated.

  He looked at his watch. Three hours had passed in a flash. He was due for lunch with Herbert and the team to discuss the arrangements for the launch of Operation Baal. He hated to leave her but duty called.

  Herbert, Chief Mbaye, Ethan, Zach and Tony were all waiting at the table when he jogged in.

  “Sorry guys, Ancient Rites 101,” he apologized.

  “More like Anatomy 101,” Zach mumbled to laughter all around.

  Chief Mbaye tried to look appropriately shocked.

  “I take it the lessons go well, my Lord,” Herbert ventured.

  “Bet he can’t remember a single phrase right now,” Tony challenged.

  “Gentlemen, please, he is our Pharaoh,” Herbert scolded. “Have you asked her out yet?”

  Snickers exploded from everyone. Even Chief Mbaye couldn’t control himself.

  “Very funny!” Ryan remarked. “Can’t a king get a little respect around here?”

  “Of course, my Lord, forgive us,” Herbert begged trying to look serious, “it’s just we all have big money riding on how long it will take you to ask Chief Mbaye for permission to take her on a date.”

  “I need permission?”

  “Until you are eighteen or crowned, whichever comes first,” Chief Mbaye fibbed.