Silver Tomb (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 2)

by P J Thorndyke

  “Get that too,” Lazarus said. “We’ll need all the room we can get.”

  “We?” asked Katarina. “Oh, God, I’m really not going to like this, am I?”

  They stowed the mummy behind a wall of empty packing cases and hurried back to the empty coffin. “Hop in then,” Lazarus said.

  “I don’t believe I’m doing this,” Katarina mumbled as she clambered in. She smoothed her dress around her legs to make room for Lazarus who got in after her.

  “Help me with the lid,” he said.

  They could hear voices coming closer. One of them was Petrie’s still valiantly trying to give them more time. They struggled with the lid, hauling it up and over them, sliding it into place in the slots allotted.

  The voices of the arriving party filled the room. They listened in perfect darkness. It was intensely claustrophobic. Lazarus could feel Katarina’s hot breath on his cheek. Her body was pressed close to his, only marginally insulated by the folds of her skirt and petticoats. Her perfume was a pleasant mask to the stale age-old scents of cedar wood and bitumen and he tried not to think of the coffin’s previous occupant lying in there for centuries upon centuries.

  “Why in the name of Sam Hill is one of the crates busted open?” somebody said. The voice was American and Lazarus detected the southern twang in its accent.

  “There was some ah... confusion about the shipment,” said Petrie. “It was feared that the crates had been marked wrong and it was necessary to open them and check.”

  “Where are your colleagues from the museum?”

  “They’ve gone, sir. Satisfied that all was in order.”

  “And only the one crate was opened?”

  “Certainly. It was not necessary to open all of them. Just the one to check that this was the Khedive’s gift to the Confederacy. There was a danger that it had been mixed up with a different shipment destined for some other place.”

  There was a long pause while the Southerner considered Petrie’s words. Lazarus bit his knuckles, willing him to accept the story. He could feel the muscles in Katarina’s body against him, tense and hard.

  “Alrighty. Get this case packed up and all of the other ones marked in blue loaded aboard. We’re late as it is.”

  There was the sound of footsteps walking away, and then came the slam of the lid being put back on the case and fresh nails hammered in around its edges. Then, they found themselves being lifted up into the air and carried away with a swaying gait.

  It was a long walk until they were set down, and an even longer wait while the rest of the crates were loaded. They were left in the depths of an eerie stillness. Lazarus counted the seconds for at least a few minutes before he dared to open his mouth but, as usual, Katarina beat him to it.

  “How long are you planning on keeping me in this packing crate?” Her voice was a hot, harsh whisper in his ear.

  “Wait until we take off.”

  “Christ! Why?”

  “Because I intend to commandeer this airship and I want it clear of the city first should anything happen. Enough innocent people have died already because of Lindholm.”

  The wait was long, hot and torturous. Outside they could hear the band strike up, first the Egyptian national anthem and then a stuttering version of ‘Dixie’ to the applause of the crowd. Muffled speeches were heard and Lazarus wondered if it was the Khedive speaking or Evelyn Baring. Eventually there appeared to be signs of movement within the airship. They felt no lift off the ground or any swaying to speak of, but the airship was so huge that the feeling of momentum was not to be expected. But the sounds of the crowd seemed to melt away as if in a dream and Lazarus got the feeling that they were rising, high, high up into the air.

  “Now!” he whispered to Katarina. “Get your feet up and push!”

  They jammed their feet against the lid of the coffin and thrust out with all their strength. The lid pushed against the top of the crate and slowly they could feel the nails giving way. Lazarus was already sweating in the close confines of the coffin, but the strain made him break out afresh, and he heard the blood throbbing in his ears. Finally, the lid popped free in the middle and then it was only a matter of shifting the pressure to loosen the top and bottom of the lid.

  They heaved off the lids of the crate and coffin and gasped as the sweet, cool air of the cargo hold filled their lungs. Katarina was the first out, ruffling her dress and checking her revolver chambers. Lazarus got to his feet within the coffin and jammed his bowler on his head before drawing his gun.

  “Couldn’t you have left that damned hat behind?” said Katarina. “We barely had enough space as it was.”

  “Just because I’m hijacking an airship,” Lazarus said, “it doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t be dressed like a gentleman.”

  The cargo hold was filled with boxes and crates but there was not a soul about. Narrow, oblong windows let in light around the edges of the hold and clouds could be seen drifting past, telling them that they were indeed up in the air on a course for the C.S.A.

  “Lindholm will probably be on the bridge,” said Katarina.

  “Not so fast,” said Lazarus. “There will be a ton of soldiers between us and the bridge. Our best way of getting Lindholm out is to bring down the airship.”

  “Bring it down?”

  “You weren’t intending to fly the thing to Moscow, were you?”

  A brief look crossed Katarina’s face which suggested that she might have considered it.

  “This isn’t some Interceptor-class airship like the Santa Bella,” he told her. “You need a crew of at least twenty to make this thing reach any destination. And I don’t fancy our chances of press-ganging the whole crew into our service. No, it has to be brought down somehow and then we can spirit Lindholm away on the desert wind after I torch each and every last one of his creations.”

  “Engine room’s that way,” Katarina said, nodding behind him.

  “The best way is to sabotage the helium supply if we can’t get to the controls.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” said Katarina. “The pipes usually run through the gondola.”

  They moved to the opposite side of the cargo hold and opened the door to the corridor leading to the engine room. It was one with a large wheel lock like on a navy cruiser. Lazarus peered out into the corridor. There was another door up ahead, which was ajar. The corridor was lit by gas lamps. They crept up to the door and halted when they heard voices from behind it.

  Peering through the gap, Lazarus could see lots of grey-uniformed men lounging around in what looked like an off-duty room. Some were playing cards while others were reading dime novels and drinking coffee from military issue tin cups.

  “Some sort of guard room,” Lazarus said, backing up and motioning Katarina to do the same. “No way through there.”

  “Isn’t there another way around?”

  “That’s the only door leading away from the cargo hold. I think the idea is to have men between the hold and the engine room to stop plans like ours.”

  “Well what now? The only other way in or out of the cargo hold is through the cargo doors.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Lazarus.

  Katarina groaned as she cottoned on to what he was thinking.

  They headed back to the hold and Lazarus began fiddling with the screws on one of the windows. “I’m not sure what’s directly above us, but we’ll just have to chance it that most of the soldiers are on the lower decks. We can cross over and drop down into the engine room. Give me a leg up.”

  The window came loose and the hold was filled with a gush of arid desert air. Using Katarina’s interlocked hands as a step, Lazarus heaved himself up and out of the window. The view below nearly made him lose his breakfast. The ramshackle suburbs of Cairo looked like a toy town on the flat, arid plains that surrounded the city. The Nile slithered below like a great green serpent, its glistening scales dotted with flies that were in fact the sails and smoke of vessels traversing its length. He could e
ven see the pyramids at Gizah, the shadow of the colossal balloon drifting across the sands towards them like a grey ghost returning to its tomb.

  Collecting his wits, he reached to grab hold of the bar ladder that was within reach of the window and led from one deck to another. He hauled the rest of his body out. His feet slipped on the window sill, and for a terrifying moment he dangled precariously above the desert, the wind whipping past and nearly taking his bowler hat off.

  “Careful!” cried out Katarina.

  He almost thanked her for her concern but decided not to waste time on words and began climbing. Below him Katarina made her way out onto the ladder, her skirt billowing like a sail. The windows on the upper deck were much larger, and Lazarus peered into one as inconspicuously as possible. It would not do to meet the eyes of a crewmember enjoying the view. They appeared to be on the outside of some sort of board room, which thankfully was empty. A long, highly polished walnut table stretched the length of the room. A bookcase lined the far wall and there was even a chandelier dangling above the table.

  Lazarus broke a pane and reached in to unlock the window. The top slid down and he scrambled in, landing on soft carpet. Katarina accepted his help as he grasped her around the corset and lifted her in. They shut the window behind them, although the wind still whistled in through the pane Lazarus had broken.

  “As we’re up here,” Katarina said, “we may as well head for the bridge. It’s closer than the engine room and most of the guards are below us.”

  “Agreed,” said Lazarus, opening the door to the corridor that ran the length of the gondola. It was deserted and they headed fore, down the wood-paneled corridor towards the bridge.

  Surprisingly, there were no guards at the doorway. They opened the door and looked in on a wide room with a panoramic view of the clouds. Several men stood with their backs to them in front of banks of controls.

  “All right, you fellows!” said Lazarus in a loud voice that made them all jump. “We’ve got you covered, now hands up and step away from the controls!”

  The faces of the captain and his officers were a picture as Lazarus and Katarina made them line up against one of the windows. They all wore uniforms of the Confederacy, except one who was dressed in a grey frock coat with no insignias. A long leather apron was attached to the front of it with brass buttons. The man was elderly, with ear-length gray hair and an unkempt beard. There was something in his eyes that unnerved Lazarus; either it was the expression of a psychopath who had no fear of a man pointing a gun at him, or of a man who was confident he was being underestimated. Lazarus wasn’t sure which scenario worried him more.

  “Now,” said Katarina, assuming charge of the situation. “We are going to take this airship down and you lot are going to do it for us. Who’s the captain?”

  “That’s me, ma’am,” said a man wearing a cap with the insignia of an anchor in a wreath above his leather visor. “Let’s just stay calm, shall we? There’s no need for hysterics.”

  “Do as I say and you’ll have no cause to get hysterical,” she snapped back. “I’m holding you personally responsible for getting this ship on the ground. If any of your officers decide to get heroic, then you’re the one who will end up with a bullet in his brain.”

  The man in the frock coat and apron laughed at this. “No, I don’t think you’ll be putting any bullets in our good captain, my dear.”

  Katarina peered into his face. “Dr. Lindholm, I presume? We’ll be having a chat later, you and I, but first I want this ship landed.”

  “I’ve not the damndest idea who you two are,” said Lindholm, “but I imagine you were part of that party that recently trespassed on my dig and destroyed weeks of my work. We shall indeed have a chat later, but this airship will not deviate from its course.”

  Katarina was not one to be tested. “Do you think I won’t shoot the captain dead because I fear we won’t be able to land without him? Well I can assure you that I won’t have my bluff called.”

  “Not at all,” said Lindholm. I believe you won’t shoot him because Amenhotep the First won’t let you.”

  Katarina blinked. “Why on earth would some dead pharaoh stop me?”

  Lindholm’s smile broadened. “Because he’s standing right behind you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  In which our heroes battle the un-dead at ten thousand feet

  Amenhotep the First was indeed standing behind them. Part of him, anyway. The rest was a mass of gears and pistons, powered by a mechanite furnace. They hadn’t heard him approach and Lazarus wondered how long it took to get these mechanical mummies fired up and running. It couldn’t have come from the cargo hold. Lindholm must have a few of these things prowling the decks as added security.

  “Weapons, if you please,” Dr. Lindholm said.

  They looked down at what passed for hands on the mechanized mummy. One was a sickle-shaped blade and the other ended in a six-cylinder Jericho gun. Presumably both were detachable.

  “Amenhotep’s dexterity is a little clumsy when it comes to anything other than killing so you can hand them to me directly,” Dr. Lindholm added.

  They passed over their guns, each looking as sheepish as the other felt. “I don’t get it, Lindholm,” Lazarus said. “Why mummies? Why spend all this effort on Egypt? I’ve seen mechanicals in the Confederate States. They don’t look all that different to this. Better even.” He cast a grimace of distaste at the wrinkled, withered face of the mummy, lolling on its reinforced skeleton.

  Lindholm’s look was chilling. “Who are you? You sound like a limey. What took you to my homeland? Some sort of spy mission?”

  “I work for the British government.”

  “A spy. That explains your meddling in my affairs here. And in answer to your question, yes, we do have our mechanicals, fine examples of my own work, some of them. But there is one crucial element which is not apparent at face value. The mechanics are flawless. The fault lies in the organic pilots. In short, they are mortal.”

  “I got that,” said Lazarus. “And I can see that you’ve reanimated these mummies using some kind of galvanic battery. But what is to stop them from being killed like any other organic?”

  “Galvanic battery!” hooted Lindholm. “Nothing so primitive, sir! Mummies present a scientific anomaly. They possess a property understood by the ancient Egyptians in the form of spiritualism, and one that today’s science can barely scratch the surface of.”

  “The ancient Egyptians never intended their mummified remains to be reanimated,” said Lazarus. “They saw them merely as corporeal houses for the soul.”

  “I see I am dealing with an educated man, spy though you may be,” said Lindholm. “Then perhaps you are aware of the ancient Egyptian concepts of ‘Ka’ and ‘Ba’.”

  “Yes, the Ka is the vital spark, or life as it were. Much like the soul in Judeo-Christian theology, it lives on after death but is confined to the tomb, inhabiting the mummy or effigies of the deceased. The Ba is the personality and is the part of the soul that is judged by the gods. Only when judgment is passed, can Ka and Ba be reunited and the complete soul make its transition to the afterlife. The delay caused by this judgment is the reason for mummification; the postponing of decay to prolong the Ba’s chances of returning to reunite with the Ka.

  “Quite correct, if a little spiritual for my tastes,” said Lindholm. “Through my studies I have discovered that both Ka and Ba do in fact exist.”

  Lazarus raised his eyebrow skeptically. “You have ascertained the existence of the soul?” It was unthinkable. Millennia of theological debate suddenly resolved by this Confederate scientist. And yet, he has brought the dead back to life.

  “Soul?” Lindholm pondered, tugging on his side whiskers with a gloved hand. “Not as such. You see, there is a science behind all this, I do assure you. And the word ‘soul’ is a gross simplification, I’m afraid. The Ka and the Ba are more like energy sources, and like all energy sources they have only to be tapped to be mastered. E
nergy does not deteriorate over time, as I’m sure you know. Change form, yes, but the ancient Egyptians perfected the art of preventing that change. Those old priests left me their legacy in their own simple way and now I, the scientist—which is the priest of the modern age, you understand—have picked up the gauntlet.”

  “You do realize that we will do all that we can to ensure this airship never reaches American shores,” Lazarus told him.

  Lindholm smiled. “You are in no position to make threats, sir.” A thought suddenly seemed to occur to him and a brief expression of uncertainty crossed his face. “How many of you are there? Just the two of you?”

  Lazarus and Katarina smiled and said nothing, both enjoying this little triumph over the maniac’s ego.

  Lindholm turned to his mummy. “Search the ship! Look everywhere. If you find any more stowaways, kill them!”

  The monster shambled off down the corridor. Before Lindholm had a chance to turn back to his captives, Katarina slammed the heel of her boot against the iron door, swinging it shut. Lazarus barreled into Lindholm, knocking him sprawling before any of the officers could draw their weapons. Katarina spun the wheel lock just in time before the hulk of the creature, realizing it had been locked out, returned and slammed itself against the bridge door.

  Side arms were drawn and leveled at Lazarus, who battled with Lindholm for control of his pistol. Nobody pulled any triggers for fear of hitting the esteemed scientist. Lazarus had his hand around the barrel of the Enfield, and Lindholm held the butt. His finger stretched around the trigger. A shot went off, missing Lazarus’s scalp by inches, instead hitting the bulkhead with a loud ‘doinggg!’ sound.

  “Don’t hit any of the windows, for God’s sake!” cried out the captain.

  Lazarus shifted his grip and swung the gun around over Lindholm’s right shoulder. Two more shots went off accidentally before Lindholm gathered his wits and sunk his teeth into Lazarus’s arm at the elbow. Lazarus cried out and drove his knee into the doctor’s thigh, nearly breaking the bone. The man went down with a scream of agony, and Lazarus finished him with a downwards slam of his elbow to the forehead.