In no time at all, the marriage which had bound together a husband and a wife also bound Franklin to these people; strangers became friends. He immersed himself in their joy, drank, ate, sang and laughed out loud. Franklin soon forgot his conversation with the shadow in the tomb, spending the rest of the night surrounded by the dead but dancing with the living. The faces around him spun and shone with joy and the air crackled with fireworks and the promise of what might be. Infected by their jubilation, he almost managed to forget the other bride, the one that had been buried alive, and the golden mask that had cursed him.
23
In a small bedroom of his crowded apartment, Nasser Moswen was fast asleep.
He dreamt he was locked in Room X inside the pyramid of Cheops. He was banging his fists against the wall in a desperate attempt to be heard and rescued; but his efforts were producing no sound, drowned by the noise of other powerful blows that seemed to shake the entire structure. And he could hear screams too. In the airtight chamber, Moswen was starting to run out of air. His panic was rising, his fists were hammering at the walls, his cries were becoming more terrified. Suddenly, he saw a hole in the wall; out of desperation he looked through. Could it lead to a way out?
But what he saw chilled his blood: row upon row of rooms similar to his own, each holding a man and a woman, naked and bloody, scratching, eating, disemboweling, or stabbing each other in an apparent frenzy to survive. Where there were survivors, they each continued their struggle against a door that would not yield.
Moswen woke with a muffled cry and turned to hug his seven-year-old son, who slept between him and his wife. The contact with his flesh and blood reassured him for a moment, until he realized with horror that the heavy blows of his nightmare were real.
Someone was beating against the door of his apartment.
He barely managed to read the time on the clock next to his bed when he heard the splintering crash of the door frame, and heavy footfalls rushing over the threshold.
Moswen called out to his wife as he jumped out of bed, scooping his son up in his arms, and then ran to the room where his two older sons were sleeping.
Behind him, he heard his wife shout, “You have no right! You have no right!”
But before he could react, two police officers had blocked the door of the boys' room and pushed him back. After being satisfied that the terrified man and his three young children posed no threat, they motioned towards their superior who had been waiting amongst what remained of Nasser Moswen’s front door.
It was Mohammed Hassan.
Despite his sixty years, Captain Hassan prided himself on his strict and strenuous exercise regime; it resulted in a physique that was the envy of men half his age. His athletic build was particularly impressive in his khaki uniform, which he knew accentuated the broadness of his shoulders and the depth of his chest. His white hair was thick and showed no signs of receding, providing a dramatic contrast to prominent, jet black eyebrows. He also had a seductive smile and a curiously sharp voice which, combined, suggested a sensitivity and empathy which he totally lacked. This deception was useful in his work; so many poor people had been fooled.
Of course, Moswen knew better. He knew that behind the smile and the calm voice lay the awful, impending moment that could mean the difference between life and death.
“What is the meaning of this?” Moswen stuttered.
A considerable crash made him jump, and the whole apartment tremble. A dressing table was tossed to the floor, the anguished cries of Moswen’s wife lost in the shattering of glass.
The policemen had started their search.
“Nasser,” Hassan said, slowly and softly. “We've known each other for a long time, you and me. I know you're not going to waste my time.”
All through the apartment, cupboards were being wrenched open, drawers were being pulled out, their contents emptied contemptuously amongst the broken glass on the floor. Moswen's smallest son, still in his arms, had started to cry, while the others trembled, too afraid to move.
Moswen tried to speak, but nothing came out the way he intended. “No, no, it's not what you think, I have nothing…”
One of the policemen strode into the room and handed an envelope to Hassan. The captain opened it carefully and deliberately, all the while examining the look on Moswen’s terrified face. With a flourish, he extracted a bundle of crisp, new, green bills.
Five thousand US dollars.
“And this? What is this?” Hassan asked.
“What?” For a moment, the fear in Moswen’s breast was replaced by fury. “That is not mine. I swear, I've never had this money, what is the meaning of this?”
“What if I were to say that it came from a man by the name of Seth Pryce? What would that mean? After all, we found neither his clothes nor his wallet in the pyramid.”
“No, I swear, I don’t know him!”
“Al-Shamy and I have known for a long time about your private tours of the pyramids, accompanied by certain, shall we say, influential friends. But perhaps that is unfair; I suppose it would be incorrect to call them friends, but if they help one to live well, then we are bound to get on well with them, not so?”
Hassan let the implication linger, before coming to the moment that Moswen had dreaded. “We always let it go, because Al-Shamy is not immune to its rewards either, but now, Moswen, a murder?”
“No!”
“I imagine that it must have been very profitable. A secret chamber! Even better than the good old room of the King, isn’t it? It sounds more ‘VIP’ to me! So how exactly did it work?” He held up the money. “Perhaps he decided to renegotiate at the last minute, standing there at the pyramid, with all your expenses and costs, you couldn’t possibly allow that to happen. What if word got out? And so you said to yourself, Come on, nobody will know. And the girl? Well, I suppose you left her there because you did not want to dirty your hands more than necessary? It would all be perfectly understandable.”
“I never touched anyone and Pryce was never a customer. Mohammed, you know that I could never do such a thing!” Moswen pleaded.
Hassan contemplated the stack of banknotes as if checking to make sure that he had counted correctly. The noise of the search had ceased. It was deadly silent in the apartment, apart from the sound of broken glass crunching beneath a boot. A policeman whispered something in Hassan's ear. The old captain was silent for a moment, and then walked over and sat down on one of the children’s beds, putting his arm around the shoulders of the oldest boy. He drew him close to him. It could have been the gesture of a caring grandfather, or uncle.
Moswen felt sick.
“Nasser. This bundle of bills, it belongs to Seth Pryce, doesn’t it?”
“No. I told you, I've never seen it before,” Moswen choked.
“I will rephrase my question because I want to be sure that you understand me well.” Hassan looked from Moswen to the boy at his side and ruffled his hair. “You have a choice: you tell me where we can find what you know we are looking for, or this bundle of bills will very soon become impeccable evidence linking Seth Pryce to his killer.”
Moswen understood. The children's room seemed to be spinning. There was no choice at all. The sum of the decisions made in recent years had caught up with him, and their weight was crushing. His life no longer belonged to him. He saw his eldest tremble under Hassan’s arm. He heard his wife's sobs in the other room. He felt the fingers of his youngest son in his hand; he could feel a pulse that beat so vigorously, so full of that life that was yet to be lived.
That was all that mattered, after all.
That was the end he had feared for so long. He felt his lips uttering the words that, for so long, he had sworn he would never speak. “In the bathroom. Behind the mirror.”
Hassan immediately got up, leaving Moswen and his children under the watchful gaze of his men. Moswen lowered his eyes, glancing down at his hand which held his son's small fist, and tried to burn this moment in the depths of
his heart. He heard the steps of the policemen reach the end of the corridor. Their efforts to detach the mirror, open the hatch and take out the seven small, wooden boxes. The triumph in their voices.
The antiquities stolen from the Egyptian Museum had been found.
The policemen ordered Moswen to follow them. He let go of his son's hand, and as he followed them over the wreckage of broken furniture and keepsakes, he was only dimly aware of the grief-stricken shouts and cries behind him.
Aqmool walked towards the police station, his head bowed, looking down at his shoes. He had not slept well. It was probably because of the full moon, and the fact he had read late into the night.
Al-Shamy’s report implicated his assistant, Moswen, and sketched a picture of an employee desperate for a handful of dollars. At first glance, the case against him in respect of the theft of antiquities was as robust as any prosecutor could ask for. Besides, there was also the matter of the private tours of the pyramid, all without consent and seemingly conducted for private profit. But some things didn’t gel. This vagueness and lack of detail. The report stated that Moswen knew of the secret Room X, but not how he came by the knowledge or how he had gained access. It was so at odds with the precision and thoroughness of the arguments supporting the other charges. It was enough to open at least one investigation, Aqmool had thought before falling asleep just before dawn.
He arrived uncharacteristically late at the police station, and hardly noticed the presence of journalists in front of the building. When he opened the door of his office, someone was already waiting for him.
Captain Mohammed Hassan.
“Aqmool, good morning,” Hassan said, looking at his watch.
“I did not know you'd be in the office, so soon after the trial,” Aqmool said, trying not to sound defensive, and hoping that only he was aware of the deep sense of unease that was stealing over him.
“Today is a big day, and I have been in the office since before sunrise,” Hassan said cheerfully. “I will be giving a press conference in a few minutes, will you join us?”
His tone reminded Aqmool that Hassan was still higher than him in the chain of command. Hassan got up and exited the office. Aqmool, momentarily taken off-guard, followed after him to the meeting room, where the journalists had already gathered. He spotted the pink-haired girl, and immediately his unease grew.
Some kind of game was in motion, and he had the nasty feeling that he was merely a pawn, not a player.
Hassan started to address the assembled press. Aqmool heard the words, but he struggled to focus on their meaning. It could have been the lack of sleep, but something about Al-Shamy’s report kept nagging at him, like a crow worrying over a corpse.
Moswen had been arrested for the pyramid murder.
After a search of his home, a cache of antiquities which were stolen eighteen months earlier from the Egyptian Museum had been found and recovered. The suspect had confessed to being part of a larger antiquities trafficking network, and also, to enriching himself through the organization of illegal visits to the Giza site. After further questioning of the guards at Cheops, they had confirmed that they had seen Moswen escort Mr. and Mrs. Pryce inside the pyramid on the evening that corresponded to the date of the homicide. The murder weapon had not been found, but US dollars belonging to the victims had been hidden in the suspect's apartment.
Hassan raised his hand to quiet the chorus of questions that erupted from the room, clearly savoring his moment of triumph. He then explained that, at this stage, the police were working on the premise that the murder was premeditated, as part of a scheme to rob the victims. Hassan concluded by confirming the Egyptian state’s commitment to extinguish the trafficking of antiquities, and made it clear that there would be no refuge or sanctuary for the robbers of tombs or antiquities dealers who were complicit in the destruction of the sacred heritage of all Egyptians.
As Hassan concluded, he glared at each journalist as if they, too, were on trial. The old man knew his business, thought Aqmool. Once he had finished, the reporters once more erupted into a frenzy, and Aqmool heard the pink-haired girl call out, “But how do you explain the disappearance in Mexico?”
Hassan just waved away the questions, but the BBC woman was relentless.
“How did they get into Room X? What evidence is there that the money belongs to Seth Pryce?”
Her questions were never answered.
Aqmool returned to his office and closed the door behind him. He walked over to the window and lowered his head into his hands. His forehead was heavy, like a low sky bringing the news of a storm. He rubbed his eyes, and looked out at the electric wires that crisscrossed the Cairo rooftops; they were dancing in the orange wind blowing as if in sympathy with his frustration and rage.
His secretary knocked on the door. Aqmool, still at his window, heard her say, “Sir, it’s about Jessica Pryce. Her aunt has arrived at the hospital, and the doctors have asked permission to disconnect the life support systems.”
Aqmool continued to stare outside. The feeling when he had first seen Hassan that morning had not left him, and now it grew and morphed into something more familiar.
Drip.
Every day, he saw the country plunge into the sordid, the hopeless, the inhuman.
Drip.
He saw civil war, terrorism, organized rape and the same old faces high on Tramadol.
Drip.
Tahrir Square becoming the center of crime, justice corrupted, and incompetence everywhere.
Drip.
And now the girl of the pyramid.
Drip, drip.
Each realization was a cold, bitter drop that he felt in the depths of his heart. As the orange wind blew outside, he was sure that one day his heart would be too full of this bitterness, and would just refuse to beat. It was merely a question of when.
“There is also a visitor for you. He says it's urgent.”
“Everything is urgent today. Who is it?” asked Aqmool, pulling his gaze away from the dancing lines in the orange wind.
“Max Hausmann.”
24
“They caught him. She can go in peace.”
Joanne, her nurse's uniform crisp and white, turned off the television in Jessica's room.
Gigi sat with her back perfectly straight against the backrest of the chair, her hands resting on her skirt, a brooch depicting a colorful bird shining brightly against her cardigan. Her sightless, pale eyes stared out from behind dark glasses as she heard the nurse tell her to ring the bell if she needed anything.
But Gigi’s mind was elsewhere. She had entrenched herself in that tiny corner of her being where she could still forgive men.
Gigi had seen humans in their full palette of nuances, from the brightest to the darkest. Her childhood memories started when the Second World War ended. The Liberation of France brought its procession of flags, celebrations, and hatred. The bangs of fireworks muffled the sounds of executions in the woods; trees sprouted human figures alongside their ripening fruits, swaying in the wind on the country roads. In her mind lived images, still vivid after seventy years, of a village cul-de-sac, where her brothers had taken part in a spectacle of revenge and violence.
She had lost her vision soon after.
It was said that it was due to an illness, but no one knew which. She had never complained. Despite the horror she saw, she could not stop loving her brothers. She began her long life as a girl with empty eyes and the memory of the savagery that could live hidden of good men. She had chosen to believe in human goodness, though, for the alternative was too terrible and not a way to live. She had chosen hope.
But there were days when she doubted that course. Like today.
This Moswen had buried her niece, her treasure, alive. What was his heart like?
So, as much out of a sense of self-preservation as anything else, she had retreated to a place within where she did not think, or reason or judge. A place where she gave up trying to understand and instead invoke
d the invisible thread that connected all things.
It was the place of prayers.
The doctors had talked to her for a long time, explaining that there was no hope for Jessica. The degradation of her body, and especially her brain, had reached the point of no return. Jessica, they said, was gone. They had made up their mind, and all they needed was for her to agree.
Gigi slid her hand over the contours of the rough cotton bedsheet until her fingers found Jessica's. She could feel their warmth, but it was only the feeble heat of the last embers of a dying fire.
She prayed. A prayer of love and joy. For a moment, she chose to believe that Jessica could live again. In the darkness of her head appeared a vision of the long dunes of the beach near her home in France. She saw Jessica, the blonde little girl with so much life and energy, talking to Jessica the adult she had become on this bed, in this room, the Jessica that was painfully thin with rough, chapped lips and yet, who smiled.
The two Jessicas were talking, playing, laughing, learning from each other. But suddenly in her vision there was someone else, like a third expression of Jessica. An observing, benevolent deity, surrounded by light. It was this image that spawned the first inklings of hope in the old woman’s chest. She tried to give it more depth and life: she felt the wind in their scattered hair, the smell of the yellow flowers against the salty sea-breeze, the prick of the sun, the roughness of the sand and the dried salt from a swim beneath the waves. The light of the angel in the dunes.
She clung tightly to that burgeoning hope. She waited, perhaps for just the most insignificant of miracles; but nothing moved, nothing changed.
Jessica was gone, and she would not come back.
The Pyramid Prophecy Page 11