The Seventh Plague

by James Rollins

  He spoke to Badawi. “Your report said you found a collection of small rocks in the man’s stomach, all the same size and shape.”

  “Yes. About as big as quail eggs.”

  “You also found pieces of what you believed to be tree bark.”

  “That’s correct. I suspect hunger drove him to eat whatever he could find in the desert, to perhaps dull the pangs from starvation.”

  “Or maybe their presence was due to another reason.”

  “What reason?” Safia asked as she held Jane.

  Derek stepped back. “I’ll need more tests to confirm my suspicion. Skin biopsies, definitely a toxicological study of those gastric contents.” In his head, he ran through everything he wanted done. “But most importantly, I’ll want a scan of his brain.”

  “What are you thinking?” Safia pressed him.

  “From the state of the body—its ancient appearance, the peculiarly preserved nature of the remains—I think Professor McCabe has been mummified.”

  Badawi flinched, looked both aggrieved and affronted. “I can assure you that no one has molested this man’s body after his death. No one would dare.”

  “You misunderstand me, Dr. Badawi. I don’t think he was mummified after his death.” He looked to Safia. “But before.”

  4:32 P.M.

  Five hours later, Derek crouched over a battery of computer screens. Above his head, a bay of windows overlooked an MRI suite, with its long table and giant white magnetic tube.

  Due to bureaucratic delays, they could not transport Professor McCabe’s body back to England until tomorrow, so Derek had sought to gain what details he could from the body before any further decomposition occurred. He had already collected skin biopsies and hair samples and had the coroner seal and box up the strange gastric contents: the odd quail-egg-sized stones and pieces of what appeared to be undigested bark. Badawi had also arranged for Derek to use a neighboring hospital’s MRI facility.

  He studied the results of the second scan. On the screen was a parasagittal image of Professor McCabe’s head, showing a lateral cross section of the man’s skull. The arch of the cranium, the bony nasal bridge, and the eye sockets were all crisply defined by the device’s strong magnetic forces and radio waves. But within the skull, the brain itself was a featureless gray wash—not what he’d normally expect.

  “These results look even less clear than the first pass through the machine,” Safia said at his shoulder.

  He nodded. The first scan had at least shown some details of the brain’s surface, such as the wrinkling of the cerebrum’s outer gyri and sulci. Still, dissatisfied with the lack of further detail, Derek had asked for a second imaging scan before the body was returned to the morgue. But these results showed even fewer internal features.

  Derek straightened. “I don’t know if it’s a calibration issue with this particular machine or if postmortem decay has already degraded the architecture of Professor McCabe’s brain.”

  “What about another scan?”

  He shook his head, staring at the empty MRI scanner. The professor’s body had already been returned to the morgue. “From here, our best hope is to conserve what we can before there’s further decomposition. I’ve asked the coroner to collect cerebrospinal fluid and to remove the brain so it can be preserved and set in formalin for proper examination once we return to London.”

  Safia’s brows pinched worriedly. “Does Jane know about all of this?”

  “I got her permission before she retired to the hotel.”

  After identifying her father’s remains and filling out the proper paperwork, Jane had become more drawn and pale. Still, Derek had told her all he wanted to have done before the body was returned to England for burial. She had agreed, wanting answers as much as he, probably more so. Still, she had no desire to observe such matters firsthand. There were plainly limits to even her stoic resolve.

  Safia sighed. “Then that sounds like all we can do for now.”

  He stretched a crick from his back and nodded. “I’m going to head back to the morgue and make sure everything’s in order. Perhaps you can pop in on Jane and see how—”

  A phone rang, cutting him off. The lone technician in the room picked up the receiver, spoke briefly, then turned to Derek. “It is the coroner. He asks to speak to you.”

  Frowning, Derek took the receiver. “This is Dr. Rankin.”

  “You must come immediately,” Badawi said in a rush, his voice sounding desperate. “You must see this yourself.”

  Derek tried asking a few questions, but Badawi refused to give any further details, only stressing the urgency of his return to the morgue. Derek finally hung up the phone and explained the situation to Safia.

  “I’m coming with you,” she said.

  The two of them exited the hospital and headed down the two blocks toward the morgue. The sun was blinding after the hours spent indoors, the heat nearly unbearable. Each breath threatened to scald his lungs.

  As they traversed the crowded streets, Safia seemed little bothered by the scorching temperature, striding easily beside him. “Derek, you mentioned that you believed something was done to Harold, some process that could explain the strange state of his body. What did you mean about him being mummified before he died?”

  Derek had wanted to avoid this conversation, silently admonishing himself for speaking out of turn earlier. His words had clearly only added to Jane’s anxiety, and until proven to be true, he should not have raised the matter.

  He felt his face grow hotter now, and not from the heat. “It’s only a conjecture—and a wild one at that. It was imprudent of me to voice such a suspicion prematurely.”

  “Still, tell me what you were talking about.”

  He sighed. “It’s called self-mummification, where someone deliberately prepares his or her body in such a way as to preserve their flesh after death. It’s a practice most commonly seen among monks in the Far East. Specifically Japan and China. But the ritual has also been noted in certain cults in India and among ascetic sects in the Middle East.”

  “But why undergo that? It sounds like a form of suicide.”

  “On the contrary. For most participants, it’s a spiritual act, a path to immortality. The preserved remains of those who have undergone such a transition are revered by their sects. The mummified bodies are believed to be miraculous vessels capable of bestowing special powers upon their worshippers.”

  Safia made a scoffing, dismissive noise.

  Derek shrugged. “It’s not just remote cults. Even Catholics believe the incorruptibility of a corpse’s body to be one of the proofs of sainthood.”

  Safia glanced at him. “If that’s all true, how does someone go about mummifying themselves?”

  “It varies between cultures, but there are some common elements. First, it’s a long process, taking years. It starts by shifting one’s diet, avoiding all grains, and eating a specific regimen of nuts, pine needles, berries, and a resin-rich tree bark. In fact, ancient practitioners of this art in Japan, known as sokushinbutsu—or Buddhas in the flesh—call their diet mokujikyo, or ‘tree-eating.’ ”

  “So was it the coroner’s mention of finding bark in Harold’s stomach that started you on this train of thought?”

  “That, and the fact that small stones were also found in his belly. X-rays of sokushinbutsu mummies also reveal small river stones in their guts.”

  “But how does any of this process preserve a body after death?”

  “It’s believed certain herbs, toxins, and resins, once infused into bodily tissues by chronic consumption, have an antimicrobial effect, inhibiting bacterial growth after death and basically acting like a natural embalming fluid.”

  Safia looked sickened by this thought.

  “The final step in this process is usually to enshrine yourself into a burial chamber with a small opening to allow in air. In Japan, the monks undergoing this process would chant and ring a bell until they died. Then those outside would seal the tomb, wa
it three years, then open it to see if the monk was successful.”

  “To check if the body was uncorrupted?”

  He nodded. “If it was, they would smoke the body with incense to further ensure its preservation.”

  “And you think Harold did this to himself?”

  “Or he was forced to undergo this process by his captors. Either way, the ritual was not complete. I’d estimate Harold’s procedure was started only two or three months ago.”

  “If you’re right, then proving this was done to him might give us some clue to who kidnapped that survey team.”

  “And it might offer hope that others are still alive. Perhaps they’re being held captive and undergoing this same slow process. Including Jane’s brother, Rory. If we can find them quickly enough, they could be treated in time to make a full recovery.”

  Safia’s lips tensed for a few breaths, then she asked, “Do you think you could identify the type of bark—or the tree it came from? It could help pinpoint where the others are being held.”

  “I hadn’t even thought of that. But, yes, it’s possible.”

  By now they had reached the morgue and climbed the steps to the main doors. Once inside, the air felt a hundred degrees cooler. A small woman, dressed in green scrubs, hurried across the lobby toward them, plainly recognizing them.

  She nodded to Derek, then Safia. “Dr. Badawi asked me to take you directly to him.”

  Before the woman could turn away, Derek noted the fear shining in the woman’s eyes. Maybe she was intimidated by her boss, but Derek suspected it was something else. He found himself hurrying after her, wondering what had gone wrong.

  She led them down a set of stairs to another section of the morgue and took them to a bench-lined observation room that looked out upon a pathology lab. Beyond the window, a stainless steel table occupied the room’s center with a halogen lamp hanging above it. Both the morgue and the neighboring hospital were affiliated with Cairo University’s school of medicine. Clearly this was a teaching suite meant for students to observe actual autopsies.

  But at the moment, the only audience in attendance was Derek and Safia, along with their escort. Out in the lab, a small group milled around the table, all in scrubs with their faces obscured behind paper masks. Badawi noted their arrival. He raised an arm and shifted a wireless microphone to his hidden lips. His words reached them through a small speaker above the observation window.

  “I do not know the meaning of this, but before I continue with removing and preserving the subject’s brain, I wanted you to witness what we’ve found. I’ve also taken the liberty of filming the same.”

  “What did you find?” Derek asked, shouting a bit. The escort pointed to an intercom next to the window. He stepped there and repeated the question.

  Badawi waved his team away from the table. The body of the sixty-year-old archaeologist lay naked under the glare of the halogens, with only a small cloth over his privates for modesty. A second damp surgical towel covered the top of his skull. The table was angled such that the corpse’s head pointed toward the window.

  “We already collected the samples of cerebrospinal fluid as you requested,” Badawi explained, “and had just started the process to gain access to the brain for removal.”

  The coroner removed the cloth to reveal his team had already peeled back the scalp and circumferentially sawed open the cranium. Badawi lifted off the back of the skull, where he must have gingerly returned it in place after first accessing the brain.

  Derek glanced sidelong at Safia to make sure she was okay with observing this process. She stood a bit too stiffly with her hands clutched at her waist, but she remained in place.

  Badawi placed the section of skull to the side and stepped away. Now exposed, the two gray-pink lobes of the brain glistened under the lamps, draped by folds of meningeal tissue.

  Derek found it incomprehensible that here, exposed for all to see, was the source of his mentor’s genius. He remembered the long conversations with his friend deep into the night, covering everything from the latest scientific articles to which soccer teams had the best chances at the World Cup. The man had a laugh like a wounded bear and a temper to match. He could also be one of the kindest men, and the love for his wife and two children was both bottomless and unshakable.

  Now that’s all gone . . .

  Badawi’s voice through the tinny speaker drew him back to the moment. Derek missed the first few words. “—see this. It was only chance that we happened to note this phenomenon.”

  Note what?

  Badawi motioned to one of his team. The man doused the surgical lamp, then darkened the room’s overhead lights. It took several blinks before Derek could believe what he was seeing.

  Safia let out a gasp, confirming she was seeing it, too.

  From the ruins of his mentor’s skull, the brain and meningeal tissues softly glowed in the darkness, a pinkish hue, like the first blush of dawn.

  “It was brighter earlier,” Badawi explained. “The effect is already fading.”

  “What’s causing it?” Safia asked, voicing the very question echoing in Derek’s own skull.

  Derek struggled to understand. He remembered his conversation earlier with Safia, how one of the goals of self-mummification was to create an incorruptible vessel, an immortal chalice capable of preserving the miraculous.

  Is that what I’m witnessing?

  Safia turned to him. “No more testing. We need that body bagged up and sealed. I want everything ready for transport back to London immediately.”

  Derek blinked a few times at her abrupt manner, noting the new urgency in her voice. “But we can’t ship Professor McCabe’s remains until tomorrow.”

  “I’ll pull a few strings,” she said confidently.

  “Still,” Derek warned, “whatever is happening here is beyond anything I’ve seen. I’ll need more help.”

  She swung toward the door. “I know someone.”

  “Who?”

  “An old friend who owes me a favor.”

  2

  May 30, 11:45 A.M. EDT

  Washington, D.C.

  Painter Crowe sat behind his desk, staring at a mirage out of his past.

  Safia al-Maaz’s image filled his monitor’s screen. The last time he had seen her was a decade ago, in the sun-blasted deserts of the Rub ‘al Khali, the vast Empty Quarter of Arabia. Stirrings of old feelings washed through him, especially when she smiled. Her eyes sparked with amusement; she was plainly happy to see him, too.

  The two had first met when Painter was still a field agent for Sigma Force, back when the newly minted agency was still under the directorship of Painter’s former mentor, Sean McKnight. The covert group—operating under the auspices of DARPA, the Defense Department’s research-and-development agency—was composed of former Special Forces soldiers who had been retrained in various scientific disciplines to act as field agents for DARPA.

  A decade later, Painter now filled Sigma’s directorship—but that wasn’t all that had changed.

  Safia reached to an ear and brushed back a lock of her dark hair. “That’s new,” she said, letting her fingers linger by her ear.

  He touched the same patch of his own hair, which had gone a snowy white from a traumatic event a while back. It remained in sharp contrast with his black hair, like a snowy feather tucked behind his ear. If nothing else, it served to accent his Pequot Indian heritage.

  He lifted one eyebrow. “I imagine I have a few wrinkles to go along with this, too.”

  Before he could drop his hand, she noted another change. “Is that a ring I see?”

  He grinned, turning the gold band around his finger. “What can I say? Someone finally agreed to marry me.”

  “She’s lucky to have you.”

  “No, I’m the lucky one.” He lowered his hand and turned the focus on her. “So how’s Omaha doing?”

  She sighed and gave an exasperated roll of her eyes at the mention of her husband, Dr. Omaha Dunn, an Ame
rican archaeologist who had somehow won the affections of this brilliant woman.

  “He’s off with his brother, Danny, on a dig in India. He’s been out there a bloody month. I’ve been trying to reach him, but as usual he’s holed up somewhere where communication is spotty at best.”

  “So that’s why you called me,” he said, feigning a wounded air. “Always your second choice.”

  “Not in this case.” Her attitude turned more serious, worry shadowing her features. With pleasantries finished, Safia addressed the reason behind her urgent call. “I need your help.”

  “Of course, anything.” He straightened in his chair. “What’s wrong?”

  She glanced down, possibly searching for a place to start. “I don’t know if you’re aware that the British Museum has been overseeing a salvage project in northern Sudan.”

  He rubbed his chin. That sounds familiar, but why? Then it struck him. “Wasn’t there some sort of mishap early on?”

  She nodded. “One of our initial survey groups disappeared out in the desert.”

  Reminded now, he remembered receiving an intelligence report about the matter. “As I recall, the general consensus was that the team had crossed paths with rebels in the area and had met a foul end.”

  She frowned. “Or so we all thought. Then ten days ago, the leader of the group—Professor Harold McCabe—reappeared, stumbling out of the deep desert. He died before he could reach a hospital. It took almost a week before the locals were able to identify him by his fingerprints. In fact, I just returned two days ago from Egypt. He was a dear friend, and I wanted to accompany his body back to London.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  She looked down. “I also went there hoping there might be some clue to the fate of the others, including Harold’s son who was part of the expedition.”

  “Was there?”

  She sighed. “No, in fact, I only uncovered more mysteries. Harold’s body was found to be in an inexplicable state. One of the museum’s experts who came with me believes Harold might have been subjected to some sort of self-mummification process intended to preserve his flesh after death.”