Painter frowned at such a gruesome thought. A thousand questions filled his head, but he let Safia continue uninterrupted.
“We collected tissue samples and are finalizing some tests to confirm what happened. We’re hoping if we can identify some of the plants and herbs used in this process that it might help pinpoint where Harold had come from, where he had been all of this time.”
Smart, Painter thought.
“But one postmortem detail has raised a concern, a strange alteration to the tissues of Harold’s brain and central nervous system.”
“Strange how?”
“You should see this for yourself.” She tapped at her computer’s keyboard. “I’m sending you a file, a video taken roughly forty-eight hours ago by a morgue attendant in Cairo.”
Painter opened the file as soon as it downloaded. On the video, he watched a commotion around a stainless steel table. There was no audio, but from the silent tableau, something had stirred the group in attendance. A figure, likely the coroner, waved everyone back and motioned the camera operator closer. The image jittered, then settled upon a body draped atop the table. The skull had been sawn open, exposing the brain. The room suddenly darkened, and the cause behind the agitation became immediately clear.
Painter squinted at the video. “Am I seeing this right? It looks like the insides of his skull are glowing.”
“They were,” she confirmed. “I witnessed the effect myself, though it was already fading by the time I arrived at the morgue’s lab.”
As the video ended, Painter returned his attention to Safia. “Do you know what caused that effect?”
“Not yet. Tissues and fluids are currently being tested. But we believe it’s some biological or chemical agent, something Harold was exposed to, either accidentally or intentionally. Whatever it was, discovering the source has now become critical.”
“Why’s that?”
“Two reasons. First, I called Dr. Badawi this morning, to light a fire under him regarding some reports he had failed to transmit to our labs. I discovered he and his entire team are sick. High fevers, vomiting, muscular tremors.”
Painter recalled the time frame Safia had described. “They’re that sick in only forty-eight hours.”
“The first symptom—a raging fever—occurred eight hours after they opened Harold’s skull. Now family members of those exposed are showing the same initial signs. Quarantine is already being established, but at the moment we don’t know how many people have been exposed.”
Painter had been to Cairo. He knew how hard it would be to lock down that crowded, chaotic city, especially if panic spread.
A more immediate concern struck him. “Safia, how are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. I was outside the morgue’s lab when the autopsy was performed. But when I saw the strange state of Harold’s body, I had his remains and all of his tissue samples sealed up tight.”
“And once the body reached London?”
Her face turned grim. “We took precautions, but I’m afraid there were some lapses before we realized the extent of the danger. Customs at Heathrow reported the seal on Harold’s transport casket had been damaged during transit, either back in Cairo or while en route.”
Painter’s stomach tightened uneasily. Both Heathrow and the Cairo airport were major international hubs. If contamination occurred at those locations, they could have a worldwide pandemic on their hands.
From the fear shining in Safia’s eyes, she recognized this risk. “Two technicians who secured Harold’s body in our labs are already showing early symptoms. They’ve been placed in quarantine, along with anyone they came in contact with. In addition, public health agencies both here and in Cairo are questioning baggage handlers and airport personnel for any signs of illness. I’m still awaiting word, but with the levels of bureaucracy involved, I might be the last to hear anything.”
“I’ll see what I can do at my end to get an update.”
Painter had already begun running a checklist through his head. He had recently read a risk-assessment report from MIT about the role airports played in spreading disease. The same report highlighted this danger by reminding how the H1N1 flu pandemic managed to kill 300,000 people worldwide back in 2009.
She frowned. “I . . . I should’ve been more diligent.”
Painter read the guilt in her eyes and tried to assuage it. “You did all you could considering the circumstances. In fact, if you hadn’t the foresight to seal up everything so quickly, many more could’ve been exposed.”
She gave a small shake of her head, as if trying to dismiss his support. “I only acted on a gut feeling, a hunch . . . but when I saw what was happening, I suddenly had a suspicion why Harold might’ve been put through that mummification procedure.”
From past experience, Painter knew to trust Safia’s suspicions. Her intuitive leaps had proven to be uncannily accurate. “Why?”
“I think it was to protect whatever was in his head. I believe this mummification process had been employed to turn his body into some sort of vessel for this unknown agent, to preserve his flesh, especially after death, so that it could act as an incorruptible container for what was hidden inside.”
A container that had been inadvertently opened.
Painter suddenly remembered something Safia had said earlier. “You mentioned there were two reasons this matter concerned you. What’s the other?”
She stared out of the screen at him. “Because I think this has happened before.”
5:02 P.M. BST
London, England
Safia waited for Painter to absorb this news before continuing. “After I learned of Harold’s reappearance, I pulled all of his records and studies, even some of his handwritten journals, stored here at the museum. I hoped there might be some insight in them, something we missed in the past to explain his disappearance and sudden return.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“Maybe . . . something that only struck me as significant in hindsight.”
“What?”
“First, you have to understand that Harold was a bigger-than-life character, both here at the museum and to the academic world at large. As an archaeologist, he loved to challenge accepted dogma, especially in regards to Egyptology. He was equally loathed and admired, both for his wild conjectures and for his fierce advocacy of his positions. He was always willing to listen to opposing positions, but he could cut a colleague’s legs out from under them if he felt they were too closed-minded.”
A smile formed on her lips as she remembered some of those heated debates. There were few men like Harold—with maybe the exception of his son, Rory, who could go toe-to-toe with the old man. Still, the two were often at odds, arguing deep into the night on some historical or scientific point. Even when red-faced from such a debate, Harold could not hide the pride he held for his son. It shone from his eyes.
Safia’s smile faded as grief overwhelmed her again.
To lose both of them . . .
She fought back her sorrow, replacing it with a steely determination. If there was any chance Rory was still alive, she owed it to Harold to find his boy. She also owed it to Jane, who over the last two years had steadfastly refused to accept that her father and brother were dead. Safia suspected that what drove Jane to study so diligently, almost relentlessly, was to prepare herself to hunt for them, to learn the truth.
Painter drew Safia back to the matter at hand. “What does Professor McCabe’s past eccentricity have to do with any of this?”
She returned to the matter at hand. “There was one aspect of Egyptology of special interest to Harold. It was where he butted heads with many of his colleagues. It concerned the biblical story of Exodus.”
“Exodus? As in Moses and the flight of the Jews from Egypt?”
She nodded. “Most archaeologists consider the story to be no more than a myth, an allegory, versus a historical event.”
“But not Professor McCabe?”
“No, he be
lieved the story could be a true account, one that was possibly exaggerated and mythologized over the passing millennia, but nonetheless real.” Safia had many of Harold’s field journals piled on her desk, full of her colleague’s speculations, theories, and fragments of support, some quite cryptic. “I believe one of the reasons he led the expedition into the Sudan was to find proof for his theories.”
“Why search out there?”
“That was Harold. While most biblical archaeologists sought proof by scouring the lands to the east of Egypt, looking to the Sinai Peninsula, Harold believed there could be evidence to the south. He thought it was possible that a smaller group of Jewish slaves might have fled in that direction, escaping along the Nile.”
“What was he looking for in particular?”
“For any signs of a plague, especially in the mummies recovered from that remote region of the Nile. In fact, Harold specifically hired Dr. Derek Rankin for this task, a bio-archaeologist who specializes in the study of ancient diseases.”
Painter sat back in his seat. “And now Professor McCabe comes stumbling out of the desert two years later, harboring some sort of disease, while also having been the victim of a bizarre self-mummification ritual. What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you mentioned that the sickness seen in Cairo had happened before, sometime in the past. Were you referring to the plagues of ancient Egypt?”
“No.” She grabbed one of Harold’s journals and flipped to a section she had marked with a Post-it tab. “Before setting off on his expedition, Harold had sought any references from the area that might hint at the presence of a disease or contagion. He discovered something in the museum archives here, going back to the famous explorers Stanley and Livingstone. The two men had both independently sought the source of the Nile, traveling deep into the Sudan and beyond, searching for those headwaters.”
“If I remember my history lessons well enough, Livingstone vanished into the jungle and was believed dead.”
“Until six years later, when Stanley found him sick and impoverished in a small African village on the shores of Lake Tanganyika.”
“But what does any of this have to do with Professor McCabe’s expedition?”
“Harold had become fixated on this pair of men, less for their famous encounter in Africa than what became of the two explorers later in life.”
“Why? What did they do?”
“Livingstone remained in Africa until his death in 1873. Harold was especially interested in the fact that natives close to Livingstone mummified the explorer’s body before returning him to the British authorities.”
“He was mummified?”
She nodded, recognizing the strange coincidental nature of this detail. “His body is now buried in Westminster Abbey.”
“And what about Stanley?”
“He eventually returned to Britain, married a Welsh woman, and served in Parliament. It was that part of the man’s life that most interested Harold.”
“Why?”
“You have to understand that Stanley’s fame was forever tied to Livingstone’s. Because of that, he was often consulted in regards to Livingstone’s legacy. After the man died in Africa, most of the artifacts gathered during his journeys ended up here at the British Museum. But there were some objects of personal significance that remained with the Livingstone estate. It was only after the dissolution of that estate in the late nineteenth century that those last objects came into the museum’s possession. It was the record of one of those artifacts that drew Harold’s attention.”
“What was it?”
“It was a talisman given to the explorer by a native as a gift for saving the man’s child. The object was inscribed with Egyptian hieroglyphics, and according to the native’s story, the sealed artifact held water from the Nile, collected when the river had been turned to blood.”
“Turned to blood?” Painter’s voice rang with skepticism. “Are you talking about the time of Moses?”
Safia could understand his doubt. She’d had a similar reaction herself. “It could all be a tall tale. Livingstone was a well-known Christian missionary, preaching where and when he could in Africa. So it’s possible the native concocted that biblical connection about the talisman to please his Christian friend. But either way, due to the authenticity of the hieroglyphics, Harold was convinced that the object had a true Egyptian connection.”
“But what about all of this struck you as significant? How does this talisman tie into what’s happening now?”
“Beyond a drawing of it found in Livingstone’s personal papers, there is only one other mention of the talisman. At least that Harold could unearth. It’s a reference to some curse associated with it.”
“A curse?”
“After its acquisition, the artifact was opened and studied here at the museum. Within days of that event, all those associated with the project became ill and died of—” She read from where Harold had copied the lone record of this tragic event. “—of a great feverish affliction accompanied by violent fits.”
She lowered the book and saw the understanding in Painter’s face.
“Sounds like the same symptoms reported in the patients in Cairo,” he said. “So what happened back then?”
“That’s just it. Harold attempted to discover more. And even though twenty-two people died during this outbreak, he could find no corroborating evidence.”
“Even for records from the nineteenth century, that’s suspicious. Almost sounds like someone was trying to expunge all accounts of this tragedy.”
“Harold thought so, too. Yet, he eventually did learn that Stanley was consulted about the matter. He was brought before the Royal Society and questioned.”
“Why?”
“It seems he and Livingstone continued to have communication up until the man’s death in Africa.”
Painter’s brow furrowed. “Where Livingstone was also mummified.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Unless the order of events surrounding his death was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if Livingstone had undergone the mummification process before his death, like with Harold?” She shrugged. “Records only show that Livingstone’s body arrived back in England already in a mummified state. Back then, everyone would have simply assumed he’d been mummified after his death.”
“It’s an intriguing thought. But even if you’re right, where does this line of inquiry get us?”
“I’m hoping it’ll lead us to where Harold and the others vanished. It’s possible Harold discovered something—either here at the museum or out in the field—that led him to the source of this disease. What happened after that, I have no idea, but maybe discovering the source could lead us to the others.”
“Not to mention, if matters get worse with this outbreak, finding the source could be vital.” Painter stared hard at her. “What can I do to help?”
“I’ll take anything.” She gave him an earnest look, trying to put into words the fear in her gut. “Call it one of those hunches again, but I think we’re looking at the tip of a bloody iceberg.”
“I think you may be right.”
“I also fear we’re running out of time. It’s been almost two weeks since Harold came stumbling out of the desert.”
He nodded his understanding. “Which means his trail out in that desert is growing colder by the day.”
“I’ve got Jane—Harold’s daughter—searching the boxes of her father’s personal papers for any further clues. Meanwhile, medical personnel from Public Health are trying to isolate the cause of the illness.”
Painter nodded. “I can send a team to assist you there in London. We’ll also need boots on the ground in the Sudan, to try to find where Harold came from.”
Safia saw the gears turning in the man’s head. Before they could work out further plans, her office door opened.
I thought I had locked it . . .
She turned her chair
toward the door—then relaxed when she saw it was a junior curator, a postdoctoral student named Carol Wentzel. “What can I—?”
A stranger shoved past the young woman and into the office. He lifted a gun and pointed it at Safia.
She raised an arm, but it was too late.
The muzzle flashed twice. Pain flared in her chest. Gasping, she twisted toward the computer, toward the panicked look on Painter’s face. She reached a hand up to him, as if he could somehow help.
A louder retort exploded behind her. The round buzzed her ear and shattered the screen under her palm. The image went immediately dark—and a moment later, so did the rest of the world.
3
May 30, 6:24 P.M. BST
Ashwell, Hertfordshire, England
Jane McCabe fought through the ghosts haunting her attic. She felt like a trespasser in her own family cottage. Everywhere she turned in the cramped, cobweb-strewn space were reminders of those who were gone. The old worm-eaten wardrobe in the corner still held some of her mother’s clothes. Discarded in the corner was her brother, Rory’s, old sports equipment: a dusty cricket bat, a half-deflated football, even a tattered rugby jersey from his schoolboy days.
Still, one specter loomed above all else, a shadow from which none of them could escape in life, and now even in death: Her father dominated this space. Squirreled up here were mountains of old file boxes, some going back to her father’s university days, along with stacks of books and field journals.
At the request of Dr. al-Maaz, Jane had already sifted through the least grimy of the boxes, those from the last two or three years before her father vanished into the desert. She had lowered the crates down to Derek Rankin, who was in the kitchen going through their contents, searching for some clue to the fate of her father and brother.
The task seemed futile, but it was better than sitting alone, struggling to come to terms with the finality of her father’s death and the mysteries of his body’s condition.
Better to keep moving.
She stretched a kink from her back and stared out the small attic window that overlooked the village of Ashwell. The town was an idyllic mix of medieval cottages and homes with thatched roofs and plaster-and-timber walls. From her high vantage, she could spy upon the square tower of the parish church, which dated back to the fourteenth century. Rising from that direction, the faint chords of music reached her. The annual Ashwell Music Festival had been under way for the past ten days. Though it ended tonight, when Saint Mary’s held a great pageant, called the Choral Evensong.