Death of a Pharaoh

  A table with a gaggle of young attractive French girls tried every trick in their repertoire to get his attention. They had been making suggestive comments and giggling to each other for more than an hour. He tried to look scandalized as any devout Muslim might but they weren’t buying it. It only stoked their ardor and he was grateful when his brother arrived with an update. They seemed to like his younger sibling even more and maybe they would lose interest when he left.

  In reality, Hassan could only think of Franz. He missed him. They had seen each other in passing since his capture and never alone. Everyone applauded his decision to trust the foreigner. The information he freely gave about Father Marcos contributed much to the success of the previous operation. The plan was to send him to the Foundation’s headquarters in Philadelphia to join a task force recently formed to manage the threat posed by Sanctus Verum. All that remained was the approval of the Pharaoh. He would meet with Franz immediately after his coronation and use his powers to ensure he was sincere and posed no threat to the organization. Hassan was certain that would be the case. He was happy for his friend. He knew it was the will of the Gods.

  Operating Theater, Secret Location, Cairo, 14.43 EET November 3, 2016

  Pablo Fernandez sat in the observer’s lounge hunched so close to the window overlooking the large aseptic chamber below him that his breath caused the glass to fog up on occasion. He too rejoiced at the news of the young Pharaoh’s return to consciousness and by all accounts unaffected by the ordeal. He had prayed for hours to his beloved Christ of the Souls and was delighted he had listened.

  They were at a delicate stage in the restoration and the bottle of cava he brought from Spain would have to wait a few more days. Below him, a team of forensic pathologists examined the body of the Pharaoh Jesus after its careful removal from the massive stone sarcophagus. He had not left the secret laboratory since the mummy arrived two days ago. In three weeks, they would donate the elegant building to the Ministry of Antiquities as a state of the art facility for the study of mummified remains. For now, it was more secure than the Presidential Palace.

  Actually, nobody left. The entire team bunked in cots arranged on the top floor to avoid human traffic that might have attracted attention. Many of the attending specialists were internationally renowned scientists and their presence in Egypt would be noticed. The conversation at meals was light and casual, an unspoken agreement to rest gravity from the extraordinary situation. Everyone was a Servant of Ma’at; many were Christian and a few, like him, were even Catholics. The organization didn’t care about a person’s religion. It only insisted that a member must be a person of faith and accept the True Pharaoh as the lawful representative on earth of their God. Atheists, agnostics and followers of satanic cults could not be Servants of Ma’at. Still it was impossible for anyone on the team, regardless of their religion, to ignore the fact that the remains on the table were the only tangible proof in the history of mankind that a God actually existed. It wasn’t only a question of faith anymore.

  At that exact moment, a microbiologist, Dr. Saatvik Mukherjee from Mumbai, removed layers of ancient linen in order to take a swab of the lower right arm where sensitive scans had detected a patch of mold. Pablo leaned even closer to the angled window. He was only six feet above the operating table and enjoyed a perfect view. The arms were crossed over the chest, as had been the tradition for royal mummies for thousands of years. Saatvik worked with skill and patience. He cleared an area about six inches square, placing the discarded linen in a tray for later study.

  Eight people were present in the operating theatre and another two joined Pablo in the lounge. There was an audible gasp when he pulled the last layer away to reveal the forearm. The skin was dark and leathery. They could all see the puncture wound between the ulna and radius bones just above the wrist. Dr. Riccardo Anasetti from Perugia University in Umbria made the sign of the cross and Pablo found himself following suit. The silence was sepulchral. They were all witnesses to the greatest moment in archeological history, yet the world would never know.

  Dr. Mukherjee took a swab of the affected area then covered the exposed zone with sterile gauze. Experts were on standby to analyze the sample and recommend a treatment. Members of the team had developed a synthetic linen pulp that would bind to the old wrappings. It had an almost identical composition except for the addition of a chemical that allowed it to harden on exposure to ultraviolet light. The result would appear very much like the ancient linen.

  Pablo expected the team to complete the restoration in two days. Spotters for the Guardians had identified Swiss surveillance teams in Alexandria near the offices of the custom broker listed on the export permit granted in his name. Sanctus Verum had swallowed the bait. A heavy security operation would escort the original stone sarcophagus containing an unidentified non-royal mummy from the 2nd Century BC to the port and load it on the ship. Meanwhile the new coffin with the mummy of the Pharaoh Jesus would travel in a modest lorry to the Port of Said to be boarded on a vessel bound for Barcelona; listed as the personal effects of a Spanish diplomat returning home after a three-year posting in Egypt. The goods would travel by diplomatic pouch. So far, everything was transpiring according to plan.

  The final element was a small article scheduled for publication the next day in La Voz de Galicia, a regional newspaper in the northwestern autonomous region of the same name. It described the project sponsored by an American University to excavate primitive Visigoth era tombs underneath the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. The church was world renowned as a place of Christian pilgrimage to venerate the purported remains of Saint James the Apostle.

  Although the reporter did not name the Falcon Foundation, she mentioned Pablo Fernandez as the lead archeologist. He was certain Sanctus Verum would put the pieces together and presume they were taking Jesus there. Popular legends such as one that suggested the body of the Apostle had miraculously arrived on the shores of Galicia in a stone boat would only help lead them to that conclusion. They would have the right country but the wrong location.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Palace of the Holy Office, Vatican City: 10.32 CEST November 4, 2016

  The cost of housing the Swiss group in downtown Cairo finally paid off. Father Marco examined the copy of the export permit allowing the archeologist, Pablo Fernandez, to export a mummy to Spain for scientific study. The Spaniard was a long-time Servant of the Antichrist Pharaoh. A clerk of the Coptic faith working in the Ministry of Antiquities uncovered the document almost by accident. They were lucky that it was more complete than most and included the name of the customs broker in Alexandria.

  The current location of the body was unknown, although his operatives continued to scour the city. He had already dispatched a crack team to Valencia on the Mediterranean coast in Spain to prepare for the arrival. He doubted they intended to hide the remains there. The Cathedral in that city was linked with legends of the Holy Grail and a much-visited chapel there contained an artifact believed by many to be the stone chalice Jesus used at the Last Supper. Father Marco thought the connection too obvious. The Servants of Ma’at were cleverer than that. Spain contained numerous religious sites associated with early Christian tradition and he had less than ten days to discover exactly where they planned to bury him.

  He sent an email to the Papal Nuncio in Madrid directing him to contact the vast Catholic network in that country and advise them to remain vigilant for any reference to the heretic organization. He added the name of the archeologist to the list of people and terms that required instant notification to his office in Rome. Father Marco rather liked the Spanish. They were a devout and fervently Marian people. However, all their Popes had been lascivious pigs and Cardinal Borja had attempted to usurp the papacy with the Egyptian Rahotep’s blasphemous report. He admired the efficacy of their Holy Inquisition but even that wasn’t enough. Only Rome was worthy of being the final resting place for his Savior.

  Safe House, Le Plateau, Dakar,
Senegal, 15:32 GMT November 7, 2016

  With everyone recovered from the fright and with less than a week before his coronation, Ryan met with Ethan and Zach to review the final plans for his trip to Egypt. He resolved, against the advice of his security team, to accompany the body of Jesus to its final resting place in Spain before continuing on to Cairo. He thought it was the decent thing to do and if it was him in the coffin, he would want someone to be there despite logistical complications. The good thing about being pharaoh was once he made a decision everyone fell in line and made it happen.

  Ethan planned to travel ahead to Spain while Ryan and Zach took a private jet from Dakar to Tunis where they would board a hired yacht that would take them as close as possible to the island of Mallorca. There a Spanish flagged boat would be waiting in order to circumvent passport control. They planned to don wetsuits and mingle with a crowd of tourists exploring an underwater cave then sail back with them to the port of Mallorca.

  They would continue on a charter aircraft to Barcelona where Ethan would meet them with a car and security. Their final destination was less than two hours northwest of the airport. They should arrive a few hours before the coffin. The entombment would take place early the next morning and two hours later, they would all be on a private jet bound for Cairo.

  Mariam, Tony and other staff from Dakar would arrive in Egypt on regular commercial flights. Some eighty members of the Regency Council would gather at the new hotel with Herbert Lewis and Ryan’s special guests Susan, Alex and Diego. His high school buddies knew nothing other than the fact that Ryan had invited them and that under the circumstances absolute discretion was a must.

  Unfortunately, neither his adoptive parents nor David could attend. As an illegal immigrant, Manuel couldn’t get a passport and Ethan decided that bringing Ricky was too great a risk. Ryan’s parents considered adopting Manuel in order to regularize his status in the United States. They had grown fond of both the boys.

  Flocks of pigeons took flight in waves of indignation, like a winged parting of the seas, as Father Marco marched past the Turia Fountain in Valencia’s expansive Plaza de la Virgen. He put aside his meetings for an hour to come and pray to the Lady of the Helpless, the patron saint of the city. Her vocation was not a reflection of his current frame of mind but it was always politic to pay a courtesy call on the local Saints. She had a reputation for granting supplications. He prayed for her to help him locate the secret resting place for Jesus’ body. Surely, as his mother she would also want to know. The devout filled the church mumbling their wishes then lighting candles as a luminous reminder that would echo their entreaties for hours. With such crowds, she must have a good track record. Even though the Catholic Church had depended on it for centuries, it was impossible to fool the people all the time. Eventually, you had to deliver and it seemed that she did.

  Every year in March, her faithful created a giant floral cloak to show their gratitude for her favors. Workers dangling on ropes from a large wooden frame, placed bundles of carnations offered by an endless stream of Valencians dressed in sumptuous traditional costumes. The organizers coordinated the colors of the flowers in advance and eventually they formed an elaborate design as ephemeral as the fantastic wood and papier-mâché statues build in squares all over the city then burnt on the eve of the Feast of Saint Joseph. He had to admit that the Spanish were unmatched in their ability to combine faith and folklore.

  He had one more stop before he returned to the modest residence for Dominican priests where he stayed. He turned left through the Door of the Apostles into the cool interior of the Cathedral of Santa Maria and brushed past the annoying groups of tourists that were a necessary evil in temples all over the world. It was a veritable obstacle course each day in the Vatican to ensure that no one captured his image. As the director of Sanctus Verum, he preferred anonymity.

  He followed the indications to the Chapel of the Holy Chalice that many believed housed the cup used by Jesus at the Last Supper. Saint Lawrence purportedly brought the chalice to Spain from Rome in the 3rd Century. The somber atmosphere was in direct contrast to the exuberance of the Virgin’s church. The sacred relic sat in a glass-enclosed niche in a stone altarpiece. The vessel itself was made of dark red agate and mounted on a bejeweled golden base. Studies confirmed that it originated from the Middle East and dated from the 1st Century BC. Of the many cups venerated as the Holy Grail, this was the most likely contender and even had the seal of approval of the Vatican. The last two Popes served communion from the chalice during visits to the Cathedral.

  Father Marco strolled by the artifact bathed in ethereal yellow light and found himself drawn by the power of the legend. Could this truly be the chalice Christ held in his own hands? The churches of Europe hosted innumerable sacred relics, many brought back by gullible Crusaders. The Shroud of Turin was perhaps the most famous example. Some said there were enough slivers of the True Cross in existence to rebuild the original. All of them venerated through the centuries, in man’s unquenchable thirst for a tangible connection to the life and passion of Jesus.

  As impressive as the Holy Grail was at three meters distance, it paled in comparison to the fact that the actual body of Christ was due to arrive the next morning. He had already supervised the deployment of his team in the port, at the customs hall and at all major exits out of the city. He was determined not to let the coffin out of his hands this time, until he was certain of its final destination.

  As he left the church, he decided against hailing a taxi. The hostel was only seven blocks from the Cathedral. The exercise would relieve some of the tension that had built up since the coffin escaped from his grasp in Egypt. The Holy Father was not pleased. He enjoyed the Pope’s confidence and a level of autonomy unprecedented in the curia. However, such trust was always dependent on results. Only a handful knew his true position and for the first time since his appointment, the Curia had him under scrutiny. He couldn’t afford another fiasco.

  His worry accompanied him like a Sword of Damocles all the way back to the residence, marked only by a discreet plaque. He rang the bell, waited far too short a time then insisted again with impatience. The plump laywoman, who ran the residence, arrived out of breath holding a feather duster but still greeted him with deference. The room was spartan, as these places often were, but immaculate in its state of cleanliness. A crucifix hung above the bed and a framed photograph of the current Pope kept watch over his laptop on the small desk. He hadn’t bothered to hide his money or Vatican passport, who would possibly break the eighth commandment in a Catholic hostel under the stern gaze of the pontiff?

  He hadn’t expected such a rapid response from The Lady of the Helpless. Among the dozens of emails cluttering his inbox, was one from the Information Office of the Diocese of Tuy in the north of Spain. As the writer indicated, the name of the archeologist, Pablo Fernandez, triggered the communication. It referred to a press release that appeared in local papers describing the restoration of several Visigoth era tombs under the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela where the remains of Saint James the Apostle were believed buried.

  The popular destination for pilgrims from around the world seemed a long way from the Egyptologist’s normal areas of research in Luxor and Saqqara. Father Marcos wondered why would he be involved in the excavation of crypts that probably only contained the bones of some obscure bishop or archdeacon? At the very most, he might dig up some fetuses aborted over the centuries from the wayward couplings of priests and nuns. The discovery of the infant skeletons in the graveyards of medieval convents around Europe, never failed to titillate the public.

  The answer came to him like a bolt of lightning and he fell on his knees to give thanks to the Holy Virgin Mary. The Servants of Ma’at intended to hide Jesus under the tomb of his most beloved Apostle. He was certain. Now his men would only need to follow the truck. He remembered when he walked the Road to Santiago as a teenager. Galicia was isolated from the rest of the Iberian Peninsula by ranges of ancien
t mountains and there was only one major route for heavy loads. It would be easy to track. He rejected any idea of attempting a hijacking during the journey. Far better to let his enemy think they had successfully laid him to rest in Santiago then all he had to do was snatch him back at his leisure.

  In this case, the old saying that all roads led to Rome, had never seemed truer. He would splurge on his favorite Spanish wine that evening to celebrate, a bottle of Remirez de Ganuza Gran Reserva 2004 from La Rioja that he first tasted at a dinner offered by Spain’s Ambassador to the Holy See. It was a heavenly vintage fit for the body of Christ.

  Port of Valencia, Spain, morning of November 10, 2016

  The container ship from Egypt docked in the Port of Valencia the next day. In the course of the sea voyage from Alexandria, agents of the Servants of Ma’at constructed a large wooden crate to camouflage the coffin. Father Marco knew this because one of the Filipino cooks on the crew suddenly took ill in Cairo, induced by a hefty bribe. A Polish sailor, one of his operatives, possessed the requisite papers and took his place. He sent daily reports by email and although security was tight in the hold where they kept the sarcophagus, he overheard one of the carpenters talking about a large box.

  Father Marco was convinced they planned to use the empty stone coffin as a decoy. He had provided his agent with a miniature tracking device, but in the end he thought it too risky. Dozens of his men covered the docks in Valencia and with the knowledge that the final destination was Santiago de Compostela, he preferred not to tip his hand. He managed to bribe a clerk, a devout Catholic woman, in the Spanish handling agent’s office who confirmed that an address near the Cathedral in Santiago appeared on the manifest. He only had to wait until the shipment cleared customs then his men would spring into action.