The Case of the Purloined Pyramid

by Sean McLachlan

  Clunk. Clunk.

  Moustafa’s mind raced. The temptation rose in him to whirl around and throw the shovel at Herr Neumann’s head. If he threw it right, he might cut right through that scrawny neck. How he would love to see that ugly head bounce down the corridor like those footballs the ANZACs used to kick down the streets during the war. The diplomat walked only a few paces behind, following with care like the rest of them. It would be an easy throw, although in the next instant Moustafa himself would die, and Mr. Wall too.

  That was of little importance. They were dead men anyway. It would be better to die fighting than risk the humiliation of a death like Baumer’s.

  But he knew that he could not do it. Curiosity pulled him forward, the same curiosity that had made him leave his village all those years ago, the same curiosity that made him pester Mr. Clarke with questions and risk his job to sneak peeks at Monsieur Dupris’s books. He had to know what lay at the end of this corridor. The history of his people lay hidden here, the secrets of Africa’s greatest civilization. It didn’t matter if no one else present would appreciate it or that he would never live to tell his countrymen what he had learned. He had to know for himself.

  As Moustafa continued his slow path down the grand hallway, he marveled at the workmanship of the statues flanking him. All the gods and goddess of ancient Egypt were there—Ptah and Bastet, Sekhmet and Neith. He saw a rare statue of Khnum, the ram-headed god of the earth who had fashioned men out of the clay of the Nile and who had given the great Khufu his praenomen. He even saw crocodile-headed Sobek. As they passed that god of the Nile, he heard Mr. Wall chuckle behind him, “We’ve certainly gotten ourselves in a fix this time, old man.”

  Moustafa got the impression his employer was talking to the statue, not him.

  So this was how he would end his life, getting killed either by a trap or a bullet in a glorious ancient temple accompanied by a bunch of European madmen? He had hoped for something better.

  The searching light of the electric torches illuminated something up ahead. Gold gleamed in the faint light. The corridor was finally coming to an end. Beyond he could dimly see that it opened up into a large chamber. Moustafa had to resist the urge to rush ahead to see it. At the last minute, he remembered himself and continued his slow progress with the shovel.

  Clunk. Clunk.

  He almost didn’t see it in time. The flagstone gave way under the pressure of his shovel. Moustafa leaped back just as a large stone dropped from the ceiling and hit the floor with a crash. The entire hallway reverberated from the impact.

  Moustafa stumbled back. Dust poured from the ceiling, and he heard an ominous crackling all around him.

  Coughing and blinking his eyes as they teared up from the grit, Moustafa looked around. The stone was a full-size building block, a good two hundred pounds. He would have been smashed into pulp. Around it spidered a network of cracks in the flagstones. Cracks had appeared on the walls and ceiling too.

  “All you all right?” Mr. Wall said, coming up beside him.

  Moustafa nodded. “This corridor doesn’t look stable. I thought it was all bedrock on the Giza Plateau.”

  “There are faults here and there,” Mr. Wall said. “See those seams? These walls are facades, and the roof a lintel. They probably hide cracked and weakened stone.”

  “I should have noticed that, but I had eyes only for the floor.”

  “And I daresay these beautiful statues.”

  Otto shouted something in German.

  “What did he say?” Moustafa asked.

  “He said another stone like that might bring the entire roof down around our ears, and I must say I agree. Please don’t do that again, or I might be forced to sack you.”

  “Considering the working conditions at this job, I doubt you’ll find a replacement.”

  “True enough.”

  “Stop chattering like a pair of old women and get moving,” Neumann said, gesturing with his pistol.

  Moustafa picked up the handle of the shovel, which had broken off when the stone came down. The handle was splintered and useless.

  “Give me another shovel.”

  “Move,” Neumann ordered.

  “No.”

  Neumann raised his pistol.

  “Wait,” Mr. Wall said. “Fetch me my walking stick. It’s just at the top of the pit outside. It’s metal and will work well as a probe. I can put more pressure on a single spot than I could with a shovel.”

  Neumann hesitated for a moment, then nodded and said something in German to one of the workmen, who ran off down the corridor.

  When the man returned with the cane, Mr. Wall said, “Let me take the lead.”

  Moustafa didn’t argue and neither, to his surprise, did Neumann. They were so close to their goal it probably didn’t matter who took the risks now. They’d be disposed of soon enough.

  Mr. Wall pushed hard on each flagstone, and then he tested them with his foot, ready to leap back.

  They made it to the end of the corridor and beheld the chamber at its end. Before them stood a great altar covered with the desiccated remains of loaves of bread and what might have once been fruit. Behind the altar stood a beautiful alabaster statue of Isis with a dress and eyes made of gold foil. It was the gold that had first caught their torchlight. Flanking her stood Osiris and Anubis. The pure white stone shone in the light with a warm glow. In niches all around the room stood alabaster statues of pharaohs. Moustafa recognized the cartouches of Khufu and his predecessor Snefru. Turning his gaze around the room, he went back in time through the great III Dynasty of Huni and Khaba and Sekhemkhet to Djoser, builder of the first step pyramid at Saqqara. The names of all but Huni were written in the square serekh, a stylized drawing of a palace, for the cartouche had not yet come into fashion. Beyond Djoser stood a statue of his predecessor Sanakhte, founder of the III Dynasty, and then the little-known rulers of the II Dynasty. On the far wall stood the earliest pharaoh of a united Egypt, the legendary Narmer.

  Moustafa’s gaze roved around the room for more statues. Virtually nothing was known about the predecessors of Narmer, and he hoped to see their likenesses and names, but sadly the builders did not think them worthy of inclusion.

  Then his heart raced at the implication. This proved Narmer really was the unifier of Upper and Lower Egypt and the land’s first true pharaoh. This had been argued back and forth in the academic journals for years. A long debate was finally put to rest in this chamber.

  Moustafa turned back to the Europeans to find them as entranced as he was. Even the soldiers looked overawed, although perhaps more by the gold decoration on the statue of Isis than by the chamber’s historical significance.

  “What a pity Baumer didn’t live to see the final proof of all we knew to be true,” Neumann said.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Mr. Wall asked.

  “Here are the true representations of the early pharaohs. As you can see, they were white, with noble Aryan features.”

  “You donkey’s ass!” Moustafa shouted. “These statues are made of alabaster. Of course they’re white. When I was digging at Abusir in the 1913 season I came across fifty ushabti made of faience. Does that prove the ancient Egyptians were blue?”

  “Bah, you know nothing of real history.” Neumann turned and gazed at the altar, which was covered with hieroglyphs. “What does this say?”

  Moustafa shook his head. This carbuncle claimed he didn’t know anything about history but needed him to translate the inscription?

  Nevertheless he approached the altar, drawn by the old text. Mr. Wall joined him. Neumann stood just behind them with his pistol at the ready. Otto stood a little to the right with the submachine gun and the two soldiers a bit behind.

  Moustafa studied the writing for a moment and started to read. “Oh, Isis, protector of my house, hear me! Through my power I heal the sick and make the meek stand proud. I bring power to the land of the sedge and the bee. From the northern waters to the southern cataracts, I rule
.”

  “Oh, you missed something there, Moustafa,” Mr. Wall said, pointing with his cane. Moustafa noticed that for some reason he gripped it by its end and pointed with the head. “That line there doesn’t say ‘make the meek stand proud.’ It says ‘make the forgetful remember their noble birthright.’”

  “Really?” Neumann said, stepping forward. “Which line?”

  “That one,” Mr. Wall said, pointing with the head of his cane.

  Moustafa stared at the line. It said no such thing.

  Mr. Wall pulled back his cane, gripped the head, and did a remarkable thing. He twisted the cane and pulled a sword out from it.

  With a single thrust, he ran Neumann straight through. In the same movement, he spun around just as Otto was aiming the submachine gun and struck the gun with the metal shaft of the cane. The gun jerked to the side and fired a burst of bullets that stitched a line of pockmarks into the wall.

  Mr. Wall yanked the sword out of Neumann, smacked Otto upside the head with the shaft of his cane, and then stabbed him.

  The veteran got stunned by the blow to the head but had enough awareness to dodge to the side and was only scraped along the ribs by the blade.

  Then Moustafa was too busy with his own fight to see what his boss did next. He ducked down, grabbed Neumann’s gun, and without taking the time to rise pumped a bullet into one of the workmen. The German doubled over, clutching his belly, and Moustafa rolled away to avoid a shot from the other man. A hot pain along his shoulder told him he hadn’t quite made it. He fired again, but his shot went wild, and the workman backpedaled, firing a bullet that hummed by Moustafa’s ear and planted itself into the leg of a statue.

  Another burst of submachine gun fire, and a rain of stone fragments fell from the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, Moustafa saw his boss and Otto struggling for the weapon.

  Moustafa fired at the workman three times in rapid succession. The man was already bolting down the hallway, shouting for help. The first shot missed. The second thudded into his back and the man stumbled. The third shot cut a leg out from under him and he landed hard on the floor.

  Moustafa turned to the fight beside him just in time to see Otto kick Mr. Wall in the knee and make him drop to the floor, losing his grip on the submachine gun. They stood only a step away. Moustafa leaped at them and before Otto could bring his weapon to bear, Moustafa had the pistol up against his temple.

  Otto froze. The submachine gun dropped to the floor with a clatter.

  Mr. Wall scooped it up, then suddenly turned and fired a burst down the hallway.

  The man Moustafa had wounded had turned around and was just aiming his rifle at them when he caught a full burst from the submachine gun to his chest. Blood burst all around, spattering the statues of the gods and even the starry sky painted on the ceiling.

  “Attack! Get in their trenches, men, and secure the communication lines!” Mr. Wall shouted, running down the corridor.

  “Captain! Major! Whatever you once were, we have a prisoner!”

  Mr. Wall stopped and turned.

  Moustafa thought fast. “We’re trapped alone in the enemy trench, sir, just the two of us. But we have this prisoner. We might be able to use him to escape.”

  “And bring the plans back to HQ. Good idea.”

  “Take your sword cane, sir. It’s a clever trick, and you wouldn’t want to be without it when you walk the streets of Cairo.” Moustafa clapped his hand over his mouth at this slip.

  “Cairo, um . . .” Mr. Wall looked confused, gazed around him for a moment, and retrieved his sword cane. Otto stared at him, his expression turning from confusion to understanding to sympathy.

  “The war is over, Kamerad,” the veteran said in a soft voice. “Enjoy your rest before the next one starts.”

  The sound of running feet echoed down the hall. Moustafa pushed Otto to the side of the room so they would be out of sight. Mr. Wall hesitated for a moment, looking around him before he followed.

  Moustafa glanced at his shoulder. It was only a graze and did not bleed too much. He’d be all right for the moment.

  Except for the unknown number of Germans blocking their only path to escape.

  And Mr. Wall trembling all over and slowly sinking to the floor.

  “Are you hit?” Moustafa asked.

  “Hit?”

  “Are you injured?”

  “How could I be? The war is over. Then why the guns? Why this strange trench? I don’t need this.” Mr. Wall dropped the submachine gun.

  Otto tensed. Moustafa pressed the muzzle of the pistol against his head to keep him from temptation and looked Mr. Wall in the eye.

  “The war is not over. We are trapped in an enemy trench with a German prisoner. The only way out is that way, and the Germans are blocking it with a superior force. If we want to get the plans back to HQ, we must negotiate our way out of here. They don’t know we have the plans, so they might let us go. This man is an officer so they will listen to him. I don’t speak German, and we can’t trust Otto, I mean this officer, to say the right thing. You speak German. You must negotiate with them.”

  “We’re still fighting? I don’t understand. Isn’t it 1919?”

  Moustafa hated doing this, but he had to be cruel in order for them to have a chance at survival.

  “No, Mr. Wall, I mean, sir. It’s 1917, and I am a colonial soldier assigned to help you on this mission. You must speak with them.”

  Suddenly the doorway and altar were bathed in light.

  Gripping Otto tight, Moustafa glanced down the corridor. The Germans had placed several electric torches on the floor facing them. With the glare of the light, what lay beyond them was shrouded in darkness. No doubt they hid there with their rifles, waiting. They would have a clear shot while Moustafa and his boss would be shooting blind.

  Assuming he could get his Mr. Wall’s mind back together enough for him to be any more use in this fight.

  Mr. Wall straightened up, gripping the submachine gun once more. He pulled out the magazine and checked it before snapping it back into place. Moustafa tried to remember how many rounds the magazine held and tried to estimate how many shots it had already fired. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought there couldn’t be more than one or two more bursts left in it. And Moustafa probably had only a couple of bullets in his pistol. The two rifles lay exposed to fire and thus out of reach.

  Mr. Wall called out in German and was greeted with silence. He called out again. Moustafa glanced at their prisoner, to find him looking back at him, studying him. Moustafa glared at him and pressed the gun harder against his temple. Otto only chuckled. Moustafa could feel his wounded arm, the one gripping Otto, slowly weakening. He wondered if the German noticed it too.

  A call came from down the hall. Otto gave a brief reply, mentioning Neumann’s name.

  There was a pause. Moustafa looked nervously from his prisoner to his boss. He could tell Mr. Wall was a thousand miles away. He did not see what was really around him. Moustafa couldn’t worry about that now. At least in this state he could fight.

  Finally another call came from down the hallway. It sounded like assent.

  “They say we can pass as long as we leave them the temple and drop off Otto unharmed in the desert. This is a temple?”

  “The Germans have invaded Egypt, sir. What will they do with the temple? Bury it again? They know its secret is not safe as long as we live.”

  “Yes, they’ll come after us, but perhaps we’ll make it out into the open desert before they do.”

  Moustafa nodded. Mr. Wall may not be clear on where he was, but he grasped the essentials well enough.

  “There’s a hotel less than a mile from here. Do you think anyone there heard the shots?” Moustafa asked.

  “Hard to tell. All the shots were fired underground.”

  “If the Germans think the people in the hotel haven’t noticed the firefight, they’ll probably try to kill us at the first opportunity.”

  “Best to a
ssume that in any case.”

  Moustafa let out a sigh. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  They edged around the corner and into view, keeping Otto in front of them as a human shield. No shots came. As they passed one of the discarded rifles, Moustafa moved to pick it up but got stopped by a barked command in German.

  “Let’s not push our luck,” Mr. Wall replied.

  They moved slowly forward, trying to hide behind Otto as much as they could. Despite the gash on his side, the German didn’t seem badly hurt.

  “How many are there?” Mr. Wall whispered.

  “I don’t know. Four, I think. Maybe a few more.”

  “Only four? Are we at an isolated outpost? A listening station?”

  “Just focus on what is at hand, sir. I’ll explain everything later.”

  Otto cut in. “You’re not actually in battle. You’re—”

  Moustafa silenced him by nudging him in the head with the muzzle of the pistol.

  Mr. Wall shouted something to their invisible opponents and then translated for Moustafa’s sake. “I told them to move back. What are all these statues?”

  “Focus on the enemy, sir.”

  Moustafa tried to peer beyond the light of the electric torches sitting on the floor. He thought he caught some movement.

  They passed the torches and could see better. Five Germans, each carrying a rifle, were about twenty paces from them, edging back and darting from one statue to the next for cover. Moustafa felt terribly exposed. If they decided Otto’s life wasn’t worth saving, they could kill them all with a single volley.

  The Germans backed off to the entrance and moved up the sides of the pit and out of sight.

  “Let’s move with care,” Mr. Wall said. “They’re up to something. I can feel it.”

  “Do you remember your bag, sir?” Moustafa said with a whisper.

  “My bag? Oh yes. That has the plans. Um, no. It has—”