The Case of the Purloined Pyramid

by Sean McLachlan

  “God protect them!” Moustafa gasped.

  ***

  He arrived at work feeling ill. It seemed like the whole city had gone insane. The memory of those bloody truncheons swinging down would not leave his mind.

  Mr. Wall had already opened up the shop. No customers had come, and he sat at a desk in the corner studying the strange German notebook. When Moustafa entered, he snapped the notebook closed.

  “I’m afraid you’ll be on your own for a while. I need to see Herr Schäfer about this. Perhaps he can unravel a bit of this mystery.”

  “Be careful. The protestors are out in force. They’re angry after losing one of their own.”

  Probably more than one now, Moustafa thought.

  “I’ve handled worse,” Mr. Wall said, grabbing his cane and doffing his hat before heading out the door.

  Moustafa watched him go, worry plucking at his heart. That man assumed that because he spoke Arabic and showed more kindness than other Europeans that he had nothing to fear, but Moustafa knew that for some of his countrymen, that wasn’t enough to make Mr. Wall safe in these streets.

  ***

  Despite his bravado, Augustus kept a sharp eye out on the crowd as he hurried down Ibn al-Nafis Street. The loungers in the café across from his house stared at him as usual, but instead of open curiosity, he saw a mixture of guarded faces and frowns. Others in the crowd didn’t seem to notice him at all. He’d already become a common sight in the neighborhood, and most Cairenes, too busy with their own affairs, had no time to waste on a strange-looking foreigner.

  Augustus noticed the blind beggar who had brought Faisal to his house sitting against a wall on a tattered reed mat with his begging bowl in front of him. Augustus walked over and put a half piastre coin into his bowl. A public display of generosity couldn’t hurt his standing in the neighborhood.

  “Thank you, Englishman,” the beggar said, not turning his face toward him.

  Augustus paused. “How did you know it was me?”

  “You walk like a European, and you are the only European who regularly walks down this street.”

  “You have sharp ears, Osman ibn Akbar ibn Mubarak al-Hajji.”

  The old man smiled. “Faisal said you were a strange one. Europeans generally forget our names.”

  “I am no longer European. Europe and I have parted ways.”

  The beggar’s smile widened and took on an indulgent air. “Are you one of those Europeans who come here wanting to be more Arab than the Arabs? I have heard of those. There was one who led the fight against the Turks, an Englishman like you I believe, but he went home in the end.”

  “My home is here now.”

  “So you say. May God protect you.”

  “Thank you. Good day.” Augustus turned to go.

  “It was his idea,” Osman ibn Akbar called after him.

  Augustus stopped and turned back. “Excuse me?”

  “Faisal told me what happened. It was his idea to apologize. He asked me to come with him because he was afraid.”

  “He seems to have overcome his fear.”

  “He told me that too,” the beggar said, then paused. “I am old and will die soon.”

  “May God grant you long life.”

  “He already has. Now I can feel it coming to a close, and where will Faisal get his breakfast then?”

  Augustus looked at him a moment, and then turned and continued on his way.

  As he headed for the main streets in order to catch a tram, he sensed a growing unease in the back of his mind. Something on the edge of his perception was not right, and while it hadn’t made it fully into his consciousness, his senses had picked it up.

  He’d learned not to ignore that sensation. Every soldier who wants to live learns to trust his instincts.

  He scanned the crowd. Everything looked normal.

  No, wait. A young Egyptian man turned away when Augustus looked in his direction. Was that one of the fellows he had taught a lesson to on his first night here?

  Augustus wasn’t sure. The man didn’t have a shaved head and a scar, so it wasn’t Hassan, but it certainly could be one of his gang.

  Augustus quickened his pace. He was still several minutes away from the main street with the tram line and, hopefully, some police. He turned a corner, jogged for a few yards as he wove through the crowd, then stopped and turned.

  The man was just coming around the corner. Their eyes locked.

  Seeing the game was up, the man met his gaze with a bold sneer. They stood several yards apart, and the passing crowd kept hiding the man from view. Augustus scanned the crowd nervously, worried that there might be more.

  Yes, there was another next to that fruit seller, glaring at him. When Augustus caught the man’s eye, he raised his cane.

  “Do you remember this, my good fellow?” he said, even though the man was too far to hear him.

  The man spat.

  Augustus’s eyes flicked in the direction of the first one and couldn’t locate him.

  That worried Augustus more than if the man had been charging him, knife in hand.

  Augustus turned and hurried on his way. He shouldered through the crowd, which grew thicker as the way narrowed, and nearly bumped straight into Hassan.

  The thug’s hand went to his pocket. Augustus gripped his cane with both hands, ready to unsheathe the sword hidden within. A few people glanced in their direction, but mostly everyone continued to move past in both directions, intent on their own business.

  “You might want to reconsider, my good man,” Augustus told Hassan. “You didn’t come out the winner last time, and there’s no street urchin to plead your case today.”

  Hassan treated him to a wicked grin. “And who is here to plead yours?”

  The thief pointed a finger at Augustus and shouted. “Look at this damned Englishman, coming to spy on us! He just bought the Rifaat house on Ibn al-Nafis Street, and you know why? Because he’s only the first! They plan on taking over the entire neighborhood and kicking us out!”

  “Stop talking nonsense!” Augustus replied in a loud voice. “Who’s going to believe a common thief like you?”

  Looking around at the faces now turned in his direction, Augustus spotted more than a few who looked like they did.

  “You dare call me a thief? You’re the thief, you and your whole evil race. You come here and take all our crops. You even take our people to go fight in your wars. You’ve been robbing this country for years, and now you’ve stolen our beloved Sa’ad Zaghloul!”

  That got Augustus even more dark looks. People began to stop and gather. Hassan addressed the crowd.

  “When he moved in, I overheard him speaking to that Turkish solicitor. The Turk boasted that within a year he’d sell all the houses on Ibn al-Nafis Street. He said this Englishman wouldn’t be alone for long. Soon all his neighbors would be Europeans, and the mosque would be turned into a bar.”

  “That Turk is a Muslim!” a shopkeeper in a pale blue turban scoffed. “I’ve met him. He’d never do that.”

  “Yeah, and what do you care about the mosque, Hassan?” a water seller called out. “You haven’t darkened its door in years.”

  A few people laughed at that, although no one who was close enough for Hassan to see. Augustus realized that Faisal wasn’t the only person in the neighborhood who feared this man.

  Hassan, seeing he had overstepped, changed tactics.

  “So why is he here then? Tell me that! When have we ever had a foreigner living in this neighborhood? And how many foreigners have you met who speak perfect Arabic? He’s a spy! The British know we are fighting for our freedom, and so they put this spy in an Egyptian neighborhood to listen in on us!”

  “If the British wanted to spy on you, they’d send an Egyptian, you idiot,” Augustus snapped.

  “No Egyptian would betray his people that way!” Hassan declared. Augustus was impressed with his performance. The thug might even be convincing himself.

  “Yes, they’d
only rob them like you do,” Augustus shot back.

  That brought more laughter. It also brought some scowls.

  “Who are you to come here and insult us?” an old man said.

  “And why do you wear a mask?” another questioned.

  “I was injured in the war,” Augustus said, his shoulders tensing.

  “It’s true.” A burly laborer nodded. “I heard the boys talking about it.”

  “That’s just a lie he told them,” Hassan sneered. “It’s to hide his identity!”

  “Then the mask would be over my entire face, you moron,” Augustus replied coolly. That elicited a few laughs.

  Hassan treated him to a sly smile.

  “Let’s see if you’re telling the truth,” he said, and reached for the mask.

  Augustus smacked him on the hand with the cane. An instant later, he realized he’d fallen into Hassan’s trap.

  “He assaulted me!” Hassan said, clutching his hand like it had just been broken.

  “Grab him!” someone shouted.

  Several hands lunged for him. Augustus whirled in a circle, swinging his cane and knocking the crowd back, then turned to Hassan just in time to see the thief’s fist flying straight for his face. Augustus managed to dodge enough that a punch that should have knocked him out cold only glanced off his cheek. Even so, he staggered back, his face singing with pain.

  Someone pinioned his arms and was immediately thrown off by someone else.

  “Leave him alone. He’s done nothing!” a man said. Augustus recognized one of the loungers who always drank tea in the café across from his house. A couple of his companions crowded around him and tried to shield Augustus from the circle of angry men.

  “But Ali! You’re as much for independence as anybody. Your own son sent around the petition we all signed.”

  “My son is an educated boy studying at Al-Azhar University. I’ve raised him better than to attack a neighbor.”

  “He’s not a neighbor. He’s a spy!” Hassan said. Several others grumbled in agreement.

  “I sit across from his house in the Sultan El Moyyad Café every day, and I have never seen any evidence of his spying. You, Hassan, just want an excuse to loot his house.”

  “And why not?” someone shouted. “All his wealth is stolen from Egyptians anyway.”

  “Enough of this!” one of Ali’s friends said. “If we raise our hand against a neighbor because he’s British, who is next? The French? The Italians? The Copts?”

  “All the foreigners should be thrown out. The Copts too!”

  “The Copts are Egyptian,” Ali said, “and my son says they are in the front lines of the protests.”

  “God preserve your son from being shot by European vermin such as this!”

  The crowd pressed in, but Ali and his café friends pushed them back.

  Ali forced a way through the crowd and hustled Augustus out of the angry circle.

  “Go!” he shouted while his friends argued with the crowd.

  Augustus hurried away. He did not run, because he didn’t want the mob to smell blood and give chase, but he walked as quickly as he could. He dreaded going back to his neighborhood now. Hassan was ten times as dangerous as he had been before.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Augustus arrived at Heinrich Schäfer’s home exhausted and shaken. A servant let him in and brought him to Heinrich’s drawing room, a cozy little place with a few comfortable chairs, a coffee table, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on every wall.

  When his friend saw the state he was in, he dropped the volume he was reading and leaped to his feet. “Are you all right?”

  “Spot of trouble with the mob,” Augustus replied, slumping into an armchair.

  “There’s been fighting with the police in three districts. It’s a good day to stay home and write.”

  “I don’t have that luxury,” Augustus said, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket.

  “You’re investigating the murder in your house? I see you’ve kept your old habits from Alexandria.”

  “The police don’t have time to do it themselves. Plus, there’s more to it than a simple murder. Much more. That’s why I’m here to speak with you.”

  “I’ll help in any way I can, of course. You look a state.” Heinrich moved over a drinks trolley. “A bit of brandy will set you right.”

  Augustus waved away the offer. “None for me, thank you. I think I’m going to stay off it for a while.”

  The scholar gave him a curious look. “Really? Why?”

  “Well to be honest, I think I might be drinking a bit too much. You know how the doctor prescribed me a dose of opium in the evenings to help me sleep?”

  “And do you remember what I said about that?” Heinrich said, sitting back down.

  “Oh, don’t be paranoid. Doctors prescribe opium all the time. It’s harmless in small doses. In any case, I’ve been dissolving it in a small glass of wine. Better than smoking it and stinking up the place. It ruins the wine, sadly, but I find it brings on sleep more quickly—blessed, dreamless sleep. Or if I do dream, it’s of beautiful things.”

  “So you say, but what seems to be the problem?”

  “Well, it appears that once I go into a stupor I drain the entire bottle! I’ve done it twice now. And if that’s not bad enough, last night I took to sleepwalking. I went to the kitchen and cleaned out the pantry.”

  Heinrich Schäfer started packing his pipe. “Perhaps you should stop taking opium.”

  “But my dreams. Opium is the only thing that doesn’t send me straight back to the trenches in my sleep.”

  “There’s a certain psychologist from Vienna who has been researching dreams.”

  “I’ve read a bit of his stuff. I most certainly do not harbor a secret desire to have carnal relations with my mother.”

  “I am not saying I agree with all his theories, but I do believe he is correct in saying that dreams are the key to the subconscious. I think you need to face your dreams, Augustus.”

  “Why? All I’m dreaming is what I faced in the trenches. I faced that for three bloody years.”

  “And you haven’t made your peace with it, hence the nightmares and the need for opium.”

  Augustus raised a hand. “Stick with what you know, my friend. You are the world’s foremost expert on Egyptian art, and that is why I’m here.”

  Augustus filled him in on all he and Moustafa had discovered. Once he finished, he handed the notebook to Heinrich. The art historian sat in his armchair studying it for several minutes, smoking his pipe, his brow furrowed in concentration. Augustus waited patiently. This was another thing the war had taught him—you do not rush a man doing an important job.

  At last, Heinrich looked up at his friend. Awe and fear mingled in his features.

  “This is a remarkable discovery!”

  “So our hunch about the Great Pyramid inscription is correct?”

  “Yes, and so much more! Your assistant read the hieroglyphs correctly, but there was something he missed because he has not had access to the latest literature.”

  “Moustafa complains constantly that he doesn’t get enough time with books.”

  “He can have access to my library whenever he wishes, and I mean that. The more intelligent natives need to be encouraged. That’s the best way to create a flourishing colony. My own nation has not learned this. Look at what we did in German South West Africa. We slaughtered the Herero people, and now the colony is mired in poverty and ignorance.”

  “Moustafa’s education can wait for another day. I’m a little more concerned with what you’ve discovered in that notebook.”

  Heinrich tapped the page. “Several things. First and most importantly, I have found a few clues to this underground area Moustafa told you about.”

  “So it isn’t a parable for the underworld?”

  “Yes and no. Moustafa was correct that it referred to an actual underground chamber, or series of chambers, but the place seems to be a physical stand-in fo
r the passage through the land of the dead that all ancient Egyptians had to make. Unfortunately, the fragments they have so far recovered do not reveal more.”

  “Can you theorize?”

  Heinrich took another puff of his pipe. “If I were to make a guess, I would say that the underground complex to which they refer was some sort of highly sacred temple. Only a few high priests and the pharaoh himself would be allowed to enter. It would have been built by prisoners of war, who would have then been killed to keep its contents secret.”

  “Charming.”

  “There are many similar cases throughout history in many cultures. From what I can glean, the pharaoh would have been the chief priest of this temple, in charge of performing powerful magic known only to a select few. Just what they were doing with these spells remains a mystery, one which these occultists would be most eager to discover.”

  “Occultists? There was quite a bit of pyramid power nonsense in that notebook. And what of those symbols on the cover?”

  Heinrich turned it to face him, tapping his finger on the stylized letter T. “In my line of work, I get all sorts of marginal people besieging me with questions. I try to avoid them because they distract me from important work, but they persist. One of the most persistent groups is this one, the Thule Society.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Nor had I until a year ago. A whole crop of occult societies have bloomed in my nation ever since the war turned against us. They’re like poisonous mushrooms. This one seems more active and better funded than most. That oaf at the German Club was only one of several members I have met. Another fellow approached me just a couple of months ago asking to see my notebooks of inscriptions. I tried to brush him off, but he was most persistent.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Klaus Baumer. At least that was the name he gave me. It didn’t quite roll off his tongue the way it should. He said he was an archaeologist, and he did have some knowledge, but more that of an educated layman than a true scientist. He claimed to have a doctorate from Berlin and to have run excavations in Anatolia and Palestine. I believed that less than I believed his name.”

  “These pseudoscientists always take on fake credentials,” Augustus scoffed. “Do you know where he is?”