“Equipment of the pharaoh’s personal bodyguard,” Romero added.
“While, as I mention, the shield is in poor condition,” Rush continued, “the archaeology team has used reverse-investment casting, in concert with digital enhancement, to sharpen the remains of what seems to be ornamentation on the shield’s face. Archaeology believes the ornament to be a serekh, enclosing two symbols: a fish, and what appears to be a tool of some kind.”
“A catfish and a chisel,” Romero said. “The phonetic representation of Narmer’s name. At least, that’s what I assume—if March would ever let me take a look at the damn thing.”
Rush pressed the button on the microphone. “Christina, would you mind reserving your comments until after I’ve finished my report?”
Romero inclined her head and pressed her fingers lightly to her forehead in mock genuflection. “Sorry.”
Rush addressed the microphone again. “As for the bones themselves, the skull is relatively intact, the neurocranium and the splanchnocranium suffering the least amount of damage. The temporal bones are missing. The mandible, hyoid bone, and clavicle show somewhat more deterioration. Most of the teeth are missing, and those that remain show the advanced caries common to the period.” He paused to examine the rest of the bones. “The articulated vertebra grow increasingly damaged and decayed as we move from the cervical to the thoracic to the lumbar. The last extant vertebra is L two—the sacral and coccygeal vertebrae are entirely missing. Ribs one through eight are extant. While the lower of the existing ribs become increasingly damaged, there are distinct marks on the anterior of rib six”—here he paused again for a closer look—“that suggest the scraping of a knife or sword. This would lead one to assume the manner of death to be homicide.”
“I knew it!” Romero shouted in a triumphant voice.
This sudden outburst, in marked contrast to Rush’s even, reasoned tone, caused Logan to jump. Once again, Rush turned off the microphone, an irritated look crossing his face. “Christina, I have to insist that you—”
“But you’re wrong about the manner of death,” Romero interrupted again. The note of triumph had not left her voice. “It wasn’t murder. It was suicide.”
Rush’s look of irritation turned to something closer to disbelief. “How can you possibly know—”
“And that isn’t all. Not far away—maybe fifty, maybe a hundred yards north of where this was discovered—we’re going to find more skeletons. A whole hell of a lot more skeletons. I’m off to tell Valentino where to concentrate his divers.” And without another word she turned and walked briskly out of the medical bay, leaving Logan and Rush to look at each other in bafflement.
20
The discovery of the skeleton had another effect beyond boosting the spirits of the searchers and raising the level of excitement across the Station—it also heralded the approach of Porter Stone himself. Arriving sometime late that evening under cover of darkness, he called for a Station-wide meeting the following morning. All work—even the diving itself—would take a thirty-minute recess while Stone addressed the expeditionary team.
The meeting was to be held in the largest space on the Station: the machine shop in Green. As Logan stepped into the shop at precisely ten o’clock, he looked around curiously. Metal racks stretched from floor to ceiling on three of the walls, containing every imaginable part, tool, and piece of equipment. Several Jet Skis sat on lifts in various stages of disassembly. A half-dozen other large sections of engines and diving equipment were arrayed on metal tables. In one corner sat what looked like part of the ruined generator, its flanks blackened and ugly under the bright work lights.
Logan’s glance shifted from the room itself to those standing within it, waiting for Stone. It was an incredibly diverse crowd: scientists in lab coats, technicians, divers, roustabouts, cooks, electricians, mechanics, engineers, historians, archaeologists, pilots—a throng of some one hundred and fifty people, all gathered here at the whim of a single man: a man with a crystal clear vision of what he wanted to accomplish and with the iron will to see that vision through.
As if on cue, Stone stepped into the machine shop. The crowd broke into spontaneous applause. Stone moved through the multitude, shaking hands, murmuring fragments of sentences to people who stopped him. He had abandoned the Arab garb for a linen suit, but if he had been wearing a leather bomber jacket and a pith helmet he would have looked no more the adventurer: something about his tanned, heavily weathered skin and the way his tall, lean body moved with an almost animal grace seemed to exude exploration and discovery.
Reaching the back of the room, he turned to face the group, smiling broadly, and raised his hands. Gradually, the crowd fell into a restive silence. Stone glanced around, still smiling, allowing the drama to build. And then at last he cleared his throat and began to speak.
“My first experience as a treasure seeker,” he said, “took place when I was eleven. In the Colorado town where I grew up, there was a local legend about a band of Indians that had once lived in the fields just outside town. Boys like myself, college students, even professional archaeologists had visited those fields again and again, dug holes and test trenches, swept the area with metal detectors—all without finding so much as a single bead. I was among them. I must have wandered over those fields a dozen times, eyes on the ground, searching.
“And then one day I raised my eyes from the ground. I looked—really looked—at the place for the first time. Beyond the fields, the land fell gently down to the Rio Grande, about a mile away. There were stands of cottonwoods along the river, and the grass was lush and thick.
“In my youthful mind’s eye I traveled back two hundred years. I saw a band of Indians, camped on the river’s edge. There was water for drinking and cooking, abundant fish, sweet grass for the horses, shade and shelter beneath the trees. Then I looked at the dry, barren field in which I stood. Why, I wondered, would Native Americans make their camp here—when another, more favorable spot was so close by?
“So I hiked the mile down to the river and began poking around in the dirt and grass by the riverbank. And within ten minutes I discovered this.” Reaching into his pocket, he drew something out and held it up for the crowd to see. Logan saw it was an obsidian arrowhead, perfectly flaked: a real beauty.
“I went back to that site many more times,” Stone continued. “I found more points, along with clay pipes, stone pestles, and a host of other things. But nothing, before or since, has ever filled me with such excitement as the discovery of that very first arrowhead. These days, I never go anywhere without it.” He replaced it in his pocket, then glanced at the throng, his eyes roving from person to person, before speaking again.
“It wasn’t just the thrill of discovery. It wasn’t just uncovering something of beauty, something of value. It was using my intellect, my ability to think outside the scholarly box, to unravel the riddles of the past. All the many others before me had accepted as gospel the stories of where those Native Americans had camped. I, too, started out that way—but then I learned an important lesson. A lesson I’ve never forgotten.”
Putting his hands in his pockets, he began to stride back and forth as he spoke. “Archaeological excavation, my friends, is like a mystery story. The past likes to keep its secrets. It doesn’t want to yield them up. So it’s my job to play detective. And any good detective knows that the best way to solve a mystery is to bring as many tools, as much evidence, as much investigation, to bear as possible.”
He stopped abruptly, ran a hand through his white hair. “As you know, I’ve done this many times before—with results that speak for themselves. I’m doing it again here and now. I have spared no expense on research or equipment—or talent. All of you standing before me are the best at what you do. I have done my part—and, with the discovery of this skeleton, almost without doubt the personal bodyguard of the pharaoh Narmer—we find ourselves once again on the very cusp of success. I am convinced we are days, mere days, from finding the tom
b—and in so doing, learning more of those secrets that the past tries so hard to conceal.”
He glanced again over the silent group. “As I said, I have done my part. Now—now that we are so close—it is time to do yours. Our window of opportunity is short. I am relying on you all to give me one hundred and ten percent effort. Whatever your position here—whether you lead a dive team or you wash dishes in the mess—you are an integral, a critical part of a machine. Every last one of you is vital to our success. I want you to remember that in the coming days.”
Stone cleared his throat once again. “Somewhere beneath our feet are the unguessable treasures that Narmer gathered around himself, that he placed in his tomb to accompany him into the afterlife. Our discovery, and our study, of these treasures will not only make you all famous—they will make you rich. Not necessarily in monetary terms, though of course that is part of it. But most important, they will expand our knowledge of the earliest Egyptian kings a thousandfold—and that is the kind of richness that we, as the detectives of history, can never get enough of.”
There was another burst of applause. Stone let it continue for fifteen seconds, then thirty, before finally raising his hands again.
“I won’t keep you any longer,” he said. “You all have jobs to do. As I’ve said, over the next several days I’ll be wanting, and expecting, your very best. Are there any questions?”
“I’ve got one,” Logan heard himself say into the silence.
As a hundred and fifty heads turned to look at him, Logan wondered what on earth had made him speak up. It was something he’d been mulling over privately—but he hadn’t intended to voice his speculations aloud.
Porter Stone didn’t appear to have expected any questions, because he had already turned away to speak with March. At the sound of Logan’s voice, however, he turned back, searching the crowd.
“Dr. Logan?” Stone said, spotting him.
Logan nodded.
“What’s on your mind?”
“It’s something you said just now. You said that Narmer gathered his treasures around himself, placed them in his tomb, so they could accompany him to the next world. But I was wondering—isn’t it possible that, in building such a remote and secret tomb, he wasn’t simply amassing his valuables but hiding them, protecting them, as well?”
Stone frowned. “Of course. All kings tried to protect their earthly goods against vandals and tomb robbers.”
“That wasn’t the kind of protection I meant.”
There was a brief silence. Then Stone spoke again. “An interesting conjecture.” He raised his voice, spoke to the assembled group. “Thanks again for your time. You may all return to your stations now.”
As the crowd began to break up and move away, heading for the machine shop exit, Stone turned once again to Logan. “Not you,” he said. “I think we should talk.”
21
Porter Stone’s private office, at the end of one of the interior corridors of White, was a small but highly functional space. There was no power desk, no framed magazine covers sporting his image. Instead, there was a single round table surrounded by a half-dozen chairs; a few laptops; a shortwave radio. A single shelf held several books on Egyptology and the history of the dynastic line. There were no artifacts, grave goods, or decorations of any kind. The only thing on the wall was a single page displaying the current month, ripped roughly from a calendar and taped behind the conference table, as if to underscore the time pressure they were under.
Stone waved Logan toward the table. “Have a seat. Would you care for coffee, tea, mineral water?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Logan said as he sat down.
Stone nodded, then took a seat across the table. For a moment he regarded Logan with his pale blue eyes, so prominent in the tanned face. “I wonder if you’d care to clarify what you said, back there in the machine shop.”
“I’ve been studying Narmer’s curse—and how it compares to other ancient Egyptian curses. It led me to think about something.”
Stone nodded. “Go on.”
“Many pharaohs owned priceless treasures—probably much more valuable than those of Narmer, who after all was a very early ruler. And yet none of them took anywhere near the trouble Narmer did to hide himself and his possessions. Certainly, they built pyramids in Giza, they built tombs in the Valley of the Kings—but they didn’t have themselves buried beyond their borders, in potentially hostile countries, hundreds of miles from their seats of power. They didn’t build false tombs to throw would-be looters off the scent. And Narmer’s curse, as dreadful as it is, is unusual: it doesn’t mention riches and gold. It all makes me wonder: Did Narmer have some other, overbearing concern, beyond merely keeping his valuables close?”
Stone had listened without moving. “Are you implying that, even more than his descendants, Narmer couldn’t risk having his sarcophagus defiled? He’d unified Egypt, but it was still a shaky unification; he couldn’t allow his tomb to be ransacked and his dynasty threatened?”
“That’s part of it. But not all. The incredible lengths he went to keep his tomb a secret—to me, it seems the work of a man who was protecting something, hiding something—something that was as valuable to him as life, or afterlife, itself. Something whose absence, in fact, might jeopardize the afterlife.”
For a moment, Stone simply looked at Logan. And then his face broke into a smile, and he laughed. Watching him, Logan had the distinct impression that he had just been tested—and had passed.
“Damn it, Jeremy—may I call you Jeremy?—this is the second time you’ve surprised me. I like the way your mind works. Sometimes I believe my specialists are so good at what they do, at their own little spheres of knowledge, that they forget there are other ways of looking at things.” He leaned forward. “And, as it happens, I believe that you’re exactly right.”
He stood up, walked to the door, opened it, and leaned out, asking his secretary for coffee. Then he returned to the table and pulled something from the pocket of his suit.
“What—the arrowhead again?” Logan said.
“Hardly.” Stone palmed something to Logan. It was the ostracon he’d seen in the reading room of the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities.
“Do you remember this?” Stone asked. “The ostracon that once belonged to Flinders Petrie?”
“Of course.”
Stone placed it on the table. “You remember it contains four hieroglyphs?”
“I remember that you were coy about their meaning.”
A soft knock, and the secretary entered with Stone’s coffee. He took a sip, then turned back to Logan. “Well, I’m not going to be coy anymore. You’ve graduated to the inner circle.” He regarded his guest, his eyes dancing with the same private amusement Logan had noticed before. “You recall that Narmer was—according to most Egyptologists—the unifier of upper and lower Egypt?”
“Yes,” Logan said.
“And you recall that he wore the ‘double’ crown, representing the red and the white crowns of the two Egypts—the sacred relics of the unification?”
Logan nodded.
Stone let his gaze roam slowly around the office for a moment. “It’s a very curious thing, Jeremy. Did you know that no crown of an Egyptian pharaoh has ever been found—not one? Even King Tut’s tomb, which was discovered intact and unlooted, containing absolutely everything he needed to take with him on his journey to the next world, contained no crown.”
He let this fact settle in a moment before going on. “There are several theories why. One is that the crown had magical properties that somehow prevented it from passing into the next world. Another—more popular among scholars, naturally—is that there was never more than one such crown in existence, passed down from one king to the next: thus it was the one thing that couldn’t be taken on the journey to the underworld. But the fact is, nobody knows for sure why one has never been found.”
Stone picked up the disk again, turned it over in his hand. “What Petrie saw on t
his ostracon were four hieroglyphs dating from a very early period.” Extending a finger, Stone pointed to them in turn. “This first is a representation of the red crown of upper Egypt. The second is the white crown of lower Egypt. The third is a hieroglyph of a vault, or resting place. And the last is a primitive serekh containing Narmer’s name.”
In the silence that followed, Stone put the ostracon back on the table, inscription side down, and placed his coffee cup atop it.
Logan barely noticed. His mind was working quickly. “Do you mean to tell me …”
Stone nodded. “This ostracon is the key to the biggest—and I mean the biggest—archaeological secret in history. It’s why Petrie dropped everything and left his comfortable retirement to undertake a long, dangerous, and ultimately unsuccessful search. It tells us that King Narmer was buried with the original two crowns of Egypt: the white and the red.”
22
The senior staff lounge, located down the corridor from Oasis in the Station’s Blue wing, was a space in which the movers and shakers of the expedition could gather for relaxation and friendly chat. The fact that lower-level staff were denied admittance meant that even sensitive aspects of the work could be discussed informally without fear of betraying any secrets.
Jeremy Logan entered the lounge with a distinct feeling of curiosity. He’d been unable to visit it before, but his newfound status with Porter Stone meant that all doors—most, anyway—were now open to him. The lounge was better appointed than the other spaces he’d seen, even Stone’s own office. The walls were covered in a veneer of dark wood, and chairs and sofas of burgundy leather were arranged over thick Turkish rugs. These appointments, along with the heavy brass lamps, gave the lounge the feeling of an Edwardian men’s club.
Logan put down his duffel on an empty chair and glanced around. Urns of coffee and hot water stood on a long table in the back, along with cucumber sandwiches and madeleines. One wall was lined with bookshelves; the others displayed framed landscapes and sporting prints. He wandered over to the wall of books and briefly scanned their titles. There were numerous current thrillers, lots of nineteenth-century English novels, and biographies, histories, and works of philosophy. In fact, there was everything, it seemed, except anything on Egypt or archaeology. It was almost as if this room was meant as a determined escape from the project at hand. He thought back to the bridge games he’d observed, recalled what Rush had told him about Stone’s belief in diversion from the business at hand.