Journey of the Pharaohs - NUMA Files Series 17 (2020)

by Cussler, Clive

  Robson held up his hands almost defensively. “All right, all right, fine. Whatever you say. Just finish the translation. If any of us are going to get a piece of this treasure, we need to know where he went.”

  The professor sighed and turned back to the hieroglyphics. “The Worshippers of Aten had a singular obsession,” he explained, “and that was to dwell with the sun always. Like all religions, the ultimate desire was to reunite with their god. Their search for Heaven meant finding the place where the Sun God rested during the night.”

  “Something tells me they’re going to be sorely disappointed when they figure out there’s no such place,” Robson said.

  “Indeed,” the professor remarked. He went back to the paper and continued translating. “They followed the sun for twenty days as it led them across the sea. On the twenty-first day a storm hit. Several ships were lost as they tried to shelter in a rocky cove.” He paused. “This must be where DeMars found the wrecked boats, the ones that made him think Egyptians had colonized France.”

  “So DeMars was right. The treasure is somewhere in France.”

  “No,” the professor said. “The fleet did not stay there.” He resumed translating. “The fleet traveled past the Great Rock That Guards Eternity. Out beyond all things. They go as Aten guides them, searching from his Resting Realm.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means the fleet continued following the setting sun, traveling west.”

  Here, for the first time, Professor Cross found a set of glyphs that he could not make sense of. He’d never seen their like before. He skipped them and said nothing to Robson. “Great beasts of the water were spotted, spouting steam—he must mean whales.”

  “Go on.”

  “Nets of fish … Some men weakening … Third full moon … Lack of wind and the oarsmen grow tired …” The professor paused. “They were getting their food from the sea as they traveled. Quite ingenious. But men weakening suggests scurvy. That and the third full moon suggests they’d been at sea for eight weeks, probably more.”

  “And the oarsmen,” Robson said. “Are you telling me they were rowing all this time?”

  “Not all the time,” the professor said. “Lack of wind and tired oarsmen. They must have used sails when they could and rowed when there was no breeze. Extended time without wind makes me think they were in the doldrums. An area of the Atlantic Ocean where winds can slack for weeks at a time. The great European sailing ships often ended up stranded that way. If caught there too long, the men did what they could to spark the winds, including tossing horses overboard, which is why some call that area the Horse Latitudes.”

  Robson stood up. “Hold on, Professor. You’re telling me this lot went halfway across the Atlantic Ocean?”

  The professor nodded. “We know they were off the coast of France heading in a westerly direction. We know they passed the Great Rock That Guards Eternity—that has to mean Gibraltar. From there, they followed the setting sun for weeks, tracking it day after day after day. That would take them west and south. At some point the wind stopped and they rowed. Lucky for them, their ships were much smaller and lighter than those of the Spaniards centuries later. But based on this, they could hardly be anywhere but the mid-Atlantic.”

  Robson’s eyes narrowed as if trying to detect a lie. “Don’t play games with me, Professor. You might wear fancy clothes and use big words, but I know who you are. A con knows a con.”

  “I’m not playing with you,” the professor insisted. “I’m trying to enlighten you.”

  He looked back at the paper one more time. He was two-thirds of the way to the bottom. He returned to reading and explaining. “After a sacrifice, the winds returned. On the day of the fourth moon, they made landfall. Here, there are crocodiles like those of the Nile. Herihor has declared this a poisoned land as these creatures are the Servants of Sobek.”

  The professor interrupted himself before Robson could. “Sobek was a crocodile god and an enemy of Aten.” He continued on, paraphrasing now. “They made landfall in a drier place and Herihor ordered them to burn their ships—just like Cortés.”

  For the second time, Professor Cross came upon a set of glyphs he’d never seen. This time he admitted it. “These must be printed incorrectly.”

  “They’re not,” Robson said. “It’s a digital copy.”

  “I’ll have to do more research, then,” Professor Cross said. “I certainly don’t recognize them. And yet, I think that tells us something in and of itself.”

  “Such as?”

  “All languages change over time,” he explained. “If these glyphs were some new creation of this offshoot band and there is no record of them in the classic Egyptian writings, then it proves that there was no further contact between the two groups. It tells us that once Herihor’s fleet left Egypt, they never returned.”

  Robson was losing patience. “Cut to the chase, Professor. Where did they end up?”

  Professor Cross read further. Much of the next section was about men of bronze who traded with them, animals not known in Egypt, including great woolen beasts whose skins were used as clothing when the sky turned white and fell with bitterness, and strange foods. And it was about losses.

  As he read, Professor Cross could not help but see these Egyptians traveling through North America, encountering Native Americans, herds of buffalo, snow falling from a white sky—things they would have never known in Egypt.

  He read tales of the ground turning to stone and imagined it was frost. They set up camps and scouted. They hunted and traded. Still, they continued to follow the sun. Still, they continued to seek the Resting Place of Aten.

  He pitied them now, thinking how they would follow the sun forever, like a child searching for the end of the rainbow. Perhaps that was why these tablets were written by Qsn, the Sparrow, the Creature of Sadness.

  He wondered if their fanaticism would end in disaster or would it bring them all the way around the earth to cross the Pacific, taking them through Asia, India and eventually back to the Middle East and familiar ground. His heart raced as he considered he might have been reading about the very first circumnavigation of the world twenty-five hundred years before Magellan.

  And then he read of their joyous final discovery, a canyon whose walls were steep and red and angled in such a way as to cradle the setting sun. There they could watch Aten rise, see him light up the world and cross the sky. There they could watch him descend back to earth. It was described as a majestic canyon unlike any in the known world.

  “In a vision,” the professor said, reading again, “Herihor was told he had found the place of rest.”

  He wondered if it was a decision to stave off a mutiny or if Herihor himself had fallen ill and could go no farther. Perhaps it was a compromise, a valley reminiscent of the Valley of the Kings but aligned with the path of Aten up above. It must have seemed as close to Heaven as those mortal men would ever get.

  “The last glyphs tell of them carving tombs out of the rock to rival those of Egypt. But that these tombs were designed to remain hidden from all the world, keeping the Pharaohs and their belongings safe from grave robbers.”

  “Too bad they didn’t count on us,” Robson said. “Now, tell me where they are. I won’t ask again.”

  “It has to be America,” the professor whispered. “They found Aten’s sanctuary and buried the Pharaoh’s treasure in America.”

  Robson appeared doubtful. “Come on, Professor. Even I know that’s not possible.”

  “Not only is it possible,” Cross said, “it makes perfect sense. These were fanatics, leaving civilization behind and chasing their god. Nothing stopped them—not storms, not lack of wind, not months at sea, not scurvy. When they arrived on land, they didn’t declare victory. They went on foot and traveled by wheeled cart, carrying their treasure, domesticating beasts along the way. They endured winter, crossed a continent and continued going. They weren’t simply going to pick a random place and stop. They were looki
ng for Heaven, for the spectacular.”

  He looked back at the text. “But upon discovering a canyon as deep as a mountain, with walls of different colors and a narrow river flowing through it, they’d found a place so majestic they knew they’d reached their destination, the Sanctuary of Aten. Seeing the sun cradled in its arms as it set in the west was the final proof.”

  Robson continued to look on suspiciously, but the professor knew he was beginning to see.

  “Where do you think that is?” the professor asked. “After everything they went through, what vision of their god’s splendor would be enough to make them stop and declare victory?”

  Robson thought hard. Finally, he spoke. “The Grand Canyon,” he said, half guessing, half stating. “In America.”

  The professor couldn’t have been prouder if the answer had come from one of his best students at Cambridge. “That’s right,” he said. “They laid the Pharaohs of Egypt to rest in the Grand Canyon—in America.”

  CHAPTER 43

  MV Tunisian Wind, somewhere on the North Sea

  Solomon Barlow was in his stateroom on the Tunisian Wind when Robson called in on the encrypted satellite phone.

  Barlow answered immediately and paced the well-appointed cabin as Robson explained the professor’s theory that the Egyptian treasures had been shipped to America. It seemed astounding to him—too astounding to be true. “The whole idea is absurd,” he said. “The professor must be lying.”

  “Why would he lie?” Robson said. “He wants to see this treasure unearthed as badly as we do.”

  Barlow thought about their long relationship with the professor, how it had grown from a simple deal of cash-for-information to a partnership where the respected university scholar keyed them in on things that few others knew about. The professor had been easy to corrupt—in fact, he’d all but done it to himself. As Barlow recalled, it was Professor Cross who’d first floated the idea of finding the lost Pharaohs and their missing treasure, it was he who’d fed them clues along the way. Despite all that, Cross remained a man of society and was unlikely to side with Barlow and his criminals in the end.

  “He could be trying to throw us off the track,” Barlow said. “Make us waste our time running around in America while he talks to MI5, tells them the truth, then directs them to the treasure. That way, he could immunize himself from guilt and end up acting as the lead expert in studying everything that’s found.”

  “You’re misreading him,” Robson insisted. “The professor isn’t a fool. He knows we’d kill him if he steered us wrong. Besides, if he was going to lie to us, don’t you think he’d have come up with a location that was easier to believe? A spot in southern Egypt or central Africa? The number one rule of a good lie is to bend it as close as possible to the truth. This is so far off the mark, it has to be true.”

  “You trust him?” Barlow asked.

  “No,” Robson said. “But I know what he wants and we can trust him to act on that.”

  Robson’s uncouth manner often rubbed Barlow the wrong way, but his uncultured upbringing brought with it street smarts that were an asset to be utilized. Robson came from a world of con men, petty thieves and scammers. He could sniff out half-truths and lies like a pig sniffs for truffles.

  “All right,” Barlow said. “I’ll trust your judgment for now. But operating in America is going to be far more difficult than running around Europe or the Third World. We’ll be at a disadvantage. We’re going to need more men, especially with all the losses we’ve had lately.”

  “You can get a small army from Omar Kai,” Robson said.

  Kai was a mercenary they’d worked with before. Barlow considered him a little flamboyant, but he was the easiest sort to hire because he was fearless and always broke.

  “Omar is a good choice,” Barlow admitted. “But I’m more interested in finding someone to deal with NUMA. And Kurt Austin in particular. He and his friends have a nasty habit of appearing where they are least wanted—or expected. At this very moment they’re on their way back to America. A few hours ago, I considered that a small victory, but it goes to the other side of the ledger now. It puts Austin on his home turf. It’ll make him even harder to deal with the next time he interferes.”

  “You may want to get rid of him,” Robson suggested. “Hit him before he can gum up the works.”

  Killing Austin would be a prudent step, but assassination was a different game, a different skill, than soldiering. Neither Robson nor Omar Kai were really suited for the task. Barlow would have to outsource the job.

  “I’ll look into it,” Barlow said. “In the meantime, get yourself to America. And bring Professor Cross with you. We might need him. And we certainly don’t want him running his mouth to anyone.”

  “Not to worry,” Robson said. “He’s already in my tender loving care.”

  Barlow cut the link and stood there for a moment, pausing before making the next move. He knew at least a dozen people who would kill for money but very few who would take the job when they heard that the operation would take place in America and would involve eliminating a United States government employee.

  One by one, he crossed potential candidates off the list until he ended up with a single name, the only person he could think of who might be both capable of pulling it off and willing to risk it. “The Toymaker,” he whispered to himself.

  Tapping the screen on his phone, he scanned through a section of contacts. Under the cryptic heading TOYMAKER, he found an email address that existed only on the dark web—a section of the internet that required special software to access. This dark web was where the criminals of the cyberworld met, the equivalent of a shadow-filled alley in a lawless virtual city.

  Using his own encryption software, Barlow sent a message. It would set up an anonymous link and allow him to make an offer to the Toymaker. If the job was accepted, details about the targets would be given and money transferred.

  The Toymaker would get half up front and Barlow would wait for news of the kill before transferring the rest of the money. Theoretically, the Toymaker ran the risk of not being paid the second installment. But if there was one person in the world who never got shorted on the back end of a business deal, it was this anonymous assassin who killed with impunity.

  Barlow typed out a message. A simple inquiry. He pressed SEND.

  A response arrived in less than an hour.

  The Toymaker was interested.

  CHAPTER 44

  NUMA headquarters, Washington, D.C.

  After the long flight home and a few hours in his own bed, Kurt found himself wide awake at four in the morning. He’d grown accustomed to the European time and now on the East Coast it felt more like the middle of the day.

  Never one to lie in bed if he wasn’t sleeping, Kurt got up, showered and drove to the NUMA headquarters, a modern glass and steel building overlooking the Potomac.

  He used his key card to enter the parking garage beneath the building and rode the secured elevator up to the seventh floor. A short walk led to his office and a desk covered with studies, reports and proposals.

  There was enough paperwork on his desk to have taken the lives of several trees. His in-box was stacked a foot high. “That’s what I get for going on vacation.”

  Not interested in attacking the backlog of work, Kurt shut off the light, closed the door and made his way upstairs, arriving on the floor reserved for Hiram Yaeger and his computers.

  Though it was still early, Kurt wasn’t surprised to find Hiram in the office. NUMA’s resident computer genius preferred to work in the quiet of the morning before everyone else arrived with questions and requests.

  When Kurt arrived, Hiram was sitting at his console, working on intricate coding instructions. He was surrounded by three large computer screens, each one filled with numbers and symbols. It looked to Kurt like digital graffiti.

  Kurt knocked softly on the wall to alert Hiram to his presence without startling him. “You’d be good enough to tell me if
the whole world was a virtual reality simulation, right?”

  Hiram swiveled in his chair and leaned back. “What makes you think I’d know? I couldn’t even find your missing plane.”

  Kurt walked over beside Hiram’s desk, pulled a chair out and spun it around backward before sitting down. He leaned on the backrest as he spoke to Hiram. “No shame in that. The whole world assumed that plane fell into the Atlantic ninety years ago.”

  “All the same,” Hiram said, “it’s our job to figure out things the rest of the world gets wrong. That’s why I’m working on this new program. I need to enable our computers to make leaps of logic that are actually illogical. It’s a more complicated task than you’d think.”

  “You should have Joe help out. He’s a master of the illogical.”

  Hiram nodded. “Maybe you’re right. He was the one who figured out it was Melbourne’s plane. Do you still think it might lead you to the Pharaoh’s treasure?”

  “That depends,” Kurt said. “What can you and Max tell me about Jake Melbourne?”

  Max was the supercomputer Hiram had built from scratch. A one-of-a-kind design that Hiram continually updated to incorporate all the latest advances, Max had the fastest processors, most advanced computer chips and most complex programming, all designed and created in-house by Hiram and funded by NUMA’s large technology budget.

  Having built Max from the ground up, Hiram had become very attached to his creation. He’d named it Max but gave it a female persona and added a voice—and, at one point, a holographic body—that sounded a lot like his wife.

  Leaning back, Hiram tilted his chin toward the ceiling. “Max,” he said, “give us a basic rundown on Jake Melbourne, the famous pilot.”

  “Stand by,” a sultry voice replied via hidden speakers. “Also, please offer Kurt a complimentary beverage. Based on the thermal reading of his skin, he’s mildly dehydrated.”