Four Ways to Pharaoh Khufu (9 page)

“Oh no, he didn’t have the stele with him. He never did show me the stele either, even though I asked him many times to show it to me. I have no idea where he got it.” Fischer paused, thinking. He thought at this moment that it was probably for the best to pretend that he had not seen the stele. That way no one could accuse him of aiding and abating the thief of an ancient artifact.

“Where did you and Schulze met with the smugglers?”

“No, I will not tell you!”
That would be equivalent to putting my head inside the hangman’s noose
! His mind and body were engulfed in terror, “They will kill me!”

“That’s not my problem. And soon won’t be your problem either.”

All the color drained from Fischer’s face as Asim pulled out an Egyptian Helwan 9mm Parabellum pistol and coolly switched off the safety. The 9mm Parabellum was the Egyptian police’s standard service pistol. It was a copy of the Italian M1951 Beretta, which was developed shortly after World War II and incorporated a pivoting locking block inspired by the Walther P.38 pistol. The pistol, like the earliest Italian-made guns, had a short slide from which a short section of muzzle protruded. As Asim pointed the pistol at his captive’s face, Fischer noticed the pistol’s serial number was scratched out.

“Wait!” Fischer cried desperately. “I will tell you, just put away the gun!” While he was afraid of the smuggler’s retaliation from revealing their location, the gun in Asim’s hands scared him much more. The thought of Schulze being killed by this merciless stranger was already haunting him as he choked on the bile rising in his throat. “We met at their warehouse, in the village of El Alamein. In a small, grey building. It had a sign with a small pyramid that had the all-seeing eye inside it. That’s all I know.”

Asim stared at him sternly. “You better not be bullshitting me.”

“I’m telling the truth, I swear. That was all Schulze. I had nothing to do with it.”

“If you have lied to me, I know where to find you,” Asim stated flatly as he slowly got up from the bed’s edge. Fischer shook his head, feeling like he might survive this ordeal after all.
And to hell with the smugglers, as long as this moron with the icy eyes leaves me alone. Perhaps they will kill each other,
thought Fischer.

As he watched Asim rise from the bed and head for the door, the only desperate, screeching thought in Fischer’s mind was
Go away! Go away!
Only when the door clicked shut behind the stranger, did Fischer allow himself to get up from his chair and stagger to the portable fridge as relief started to flood his body. While he poured out the Rumple Minze Schnapps, the bottle intermittently pounded and clinked on the edge of a low-cut glass.
Death itself came after you, Karl-Heinz
. He swore he heard a squeaky voice in his head.
Death itself, Karl-Heinz
. Gripping the slippery glass, he hissed forcefully “Go back to hell!” He steamily drew it to his trembling lips and drank.

Bang! The door flung open and Asim reappeared in the doorway, his unsheathed crusader sword glinting in the moonlight. “I’ve got a better idea,” he barked, resolutely striding inside. Fischer’s stomach lurched. “I don’t trust your words,” Asim growled menacingly. “You will show me the way.” Fischer’s heart sank as he shakily set down the Schnapps.

Chapter 11

El Alamein, Egypt

Tuesday, September 19

4:55 a.m.

S
eventy miles later, the taxi arrived at the Porta Marina on El Alamein’s outskirts. From there it did not take long to find the old, grey warehouse with the sign depicting a pyramid with the all-seeing eye. Asim instructed his driver to park around the corner and be ready for a swift departure. Fischer lay captive inside the trunk. Asim had gagged him and bound his hands tightly behind his back with a rope that snaked its way around his torso and pinned his arms to his sides.

Giving a nod to the driver, Asim stealthily exited the cab and crept in the shadows toward the warehouse. As he approached the front door, the sign’s all-seeing eye stared back at him, prompting him to glance around several times. The old building had large double sash windows on both sides of its front door. Upon closer inspection, Asim realized the door was slightly ajar. He stood there for a moment and listened. Deciding that there was no noise coming from inside, he decided to cautiously push the door open and take a step inside.

Zing! A chain whizzed over Asim’s head. Fortunately for him, it was aimed too high.
I should have anticipated that
, Asim scolded himself. Moments later the end of the chain came whistling through the air toward him again. He called upon his warrior training and accelerated his perception of his surroundings. Narrowing his eyes, Asim carefully watched the chain as it approached his face. As he steadied his breathing, time drew itself out as he watched the chain’s end coming closer and closer. With lightning reflexes, Asim’s hand shot out and grabbed it, the metal links quickly wrapping around his fist. Summoning all of his strength, Asim jerked his fist to himself. Not expecting such a response, a stocky man rolled out from around the corner, following the whiplashed chain. The man dropped the chain and quickly jumped to his feet.

“Who the hell are you?” the chunky, red-haired man demanded.

Holding onto the chain, Asim remained composed, watching the man carefully. He stepped fully inside the building, steadily and resolutely striding toward the man. “I came here for the stele you received from the German, Schulze. Where is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man huffed in anger.

“Oh?” Asim’s eyes gleamed angrily. “Let me explain it to you then!”

Asim launched himself at the stocky man, but he was more nimble than he looked and managed to dodge Asim. Thrown off balance, Asim stumbled forward, knocking an antique-looking ceramic oil lamp off a nearby shelf. Recovering quickly, he managed to catch it just before it crashed to the floor. Steadying the oil lamp on the shelf, Asim appraised the situation; his red-haired opponent was surrounded on both sides by metal shelving filled and piled high with cardboard boxes.

It did not take the stocky man long to realize he was trapped, but this did not prompt him to give up. On the contrary, his face darkened and filled with rage as he looked around for an escape route. Asim calmly pulled his Helwan 9mm Parabellum out and pointed it at the redhead.

“Don’t even think about shooting in here!” the man shouted. “Don’t you know what’s inside these boxes?”

Asim kept his eyes and pistol trained on his opponent.

“Ancient statues and sarcophaguses! If you miss, you will destroy ancient Egyptian heritage!”

“I never miss,” Asim replied calmly, keeping his pistol steadily aimed at the man. As the red-haired man had determined correctly, Asim cherished his Egyptian heritage and would take every precaution not to destroy any artifacts. Keeping an eye on the smuggler, Asim cautiously looked around. His eyes jumped from some alabaster statues on a top shelf to a pair of sarcophagi with hieroglyphic writing, unceremoniously leaning against the shelving. Three small animal beds, various chests and even a few thrones adorned the room. On the far right side of the dimly lit room, Asim could make out a golden canopy shrine, various chests and a golden cow’s head. The spacious room was eerily silent, as his opponent seemed to hold his breath.

“Where is the stele?” Asim demanded again.

Suddenly grinning, the redhead responded, “Try to find it,” as his eyes shifted to something behind him

Instinctively Asim bent sharply to the ground. Seconds later, Asim heard a muffled whistle as a bullet passed where his head had been. The bullet clanged off a metal beam and ricocheted away with a loud clatter.

Spinning around to face his new opponent, Asim saw a tall bald man aiming and preparing to fire again. Asim managed to dive between some cabinets as the new man fired another shot.

“Don’t shoot, you idiot!” the redhead shouted at his friend as he fled between the shelves and hid behind some high steel boxes. “Don’t let him escape!”

Momentarily distracted by his boss, the tall bald man did not notice as Asim seized his opportunity, carefully taking aim and shooting him in the leg. The bald smuggler fell to the concrete floor, writhing and howling in excruciating pain, “Help! Help me!” he howled. Asim’s bullet had inadvertently penetrated his femoral artery, and he was unconscious within seconds.

The redhead bolted out from behind the steel boxes like a raging bull. Producing a short-barreled gun, he aimed it directly at Asim’s chest.

They fired simultaneously.

The bullet leaving Asim’s pistol tore a chunk out of the redhead’s palm but did not prevent the shotgun from spitting out a short burst of its own. Asim felt a burning sensation in the lower right side of his torso. Glancing down, he noticed a bright red spot spreading on his white cloak. Gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain, Asim looked up and fired again. The second shot did the trick as it hit the redhead in the shoulder, forcing the shotgun out of his hand. Asim watched as the redhead slowly collapsed on the floor.

Kicking the abandoned shotgun away, Asim found some rope and quickly tied the injured redhead’s wrists together and then dragged him over to his wounded friend. Ignoring the dizziness that attempted to cloud his mind, Asim positioned the redhead next to the bald guy and then bent over to tie him up completely. When the bald guy gave a deep sigh, Asim looked over and realized that the man was sitting in a widening pool of blood. Asim reached down and grabbed his wrist: dead.

The redhead suddenly moaned, summoning his strength in an attempt to get up, “I'll kill you!”

Asim punched him in the face without hesitating. With the heavy blow the smuggler slipped into unconsciousness. Asim carefully stood up and was watching the men carefully when he found himself swaying slightly from side to side. Swinging his cloak open, he determined that the bullet had merely grazed him. Even so, his side was torn up; fresh blood was leaking out with every heartbeat. Trying to staunch the blood flow, Asim used his cloak to press down firmly on the wound while glaring at the unconscious men lying on the floor near him. Staring at the pools of blood surrounding their broken forms, Asim gave a satisfied smirk as he gradually turned to view the warehouse.

The morning sun found him thoroughly searching the warehouse. He had carefully investigated every box and ransacked the little office when he realized something: the stele was not there. Either they had already shipped it out of Egypt or the smugglers had not received the stele after all. He nervously flipped open his RAZR cellphone,
What will I say to the Great C
hief?

“My fearless warrior,” the Chief responded softly after receiving the latest news about Asim’s ordeal. “You accomplished your mission and I praise you. I will immediately give a call to the Inspector and inform him about this warehouse. As for the stele, I truly believe it’s still in Egypt and soon will be ours again. Start making your way back to the tribe.”

Back at the waiting cab Asim woke up the driver and opened the airless trunk. Although sluggish, he dragged a bound and frightened Fischer out onto the pavement. With a few precise strokes of his sword, Asim skillfully cut the ropes binding his captive.

Fischer stood quietly, his breath catching in his dry throat, preparing himself for the worst. However, Asim waved him away and turned his back to the German.

Fischer fled.

As he escaped his nightmare, Fischer was filled with the terror of the ordeal and relief that he was still alive. He had no idea of anything but the simple pleasure of being alive.

It was not physical pain that troubled Asim’s heart as he leaned heavily on the cab door. Whilst fresh drops of blood slowly trailed down his cloak, it was the thought of his tribe’s sacred and beloved stele hidden in the belly of a ship sailing away from the Alexandria’s docks that sank his heart.

Chapter 12

Police Station, Cairo, Egypt

Tuesday, September 19

7:20 a.m.

T
he police station looked like a shed. Its dirty, mottled windows seemed permeated with misery and depression. Once Michael stepped inside he saw that the interior differed little from the exterior. The small, dimly lit room was sparsely furnished with a couple of chairs and a moth-eaten sofa. A lone, beat up desk, with an old-fashioned black rotary dial telephone, was placed at one end of the room. A dulled nameplate, bearing the name, ‘Setkufy Suliman, Police Inspector,’ was seemingly the only indication that he was indeed in an actual police station. A tall, heavy-set man with a balding pate sat at the desk.

Peering over his old-fashioned, black-framed glasses, the man curiously studied Michael. “I’m Inspector Suliman,” he declared imperiously without rising from his chair. “You are Michael Doyle, correct?”

“Yes,” Michael answered uneasily, still on edge about this unexpected meeting that had dragged him out of bed so early in the morning.
I should have contacted the American Embassy. This could go very wrong.
The inspector motioned for Michael sit down on the rickety chair in front of his desk. “That’s all right, I will stand. Hopefully this won’t take too long.”

“Mr. Doyle,” the Inspector said quietly. “You can relax now. This is not an interrogation,” he flashed a short-lived smile at Michael, attempting to put him at ease. “This is just a friendly talk.”

Realizing this meeting was anything but friendly, Michael decided to go with the flow. He nodded quietly and set his chin.
Wow, I don’t think I’m going to enjoy this little talk one
bit.

The desk phone rang just then, and Michael found himself with a brief respite, as the Inspector was inclined pick up the receiver and bark imperious orders and instructions. He obviously relished being in charge. Michael glanced around the room. The wobbly ceiling fan was spinning rapidly, but the room was progressively becoming hotter and dustier. Michael was already starting to sweat profusely. The inspector unplugged the phone jack from the receiver and pulled out a notebook from a drawer, slapping it on the desktop. “How long have you known the German engineer Schulze?” the Inspector asked, flashing a not entirely sympathetic smile.

“I don’t actually know him at all,” Michael replied.

The Inspector folded his hands under his chin and arched his eyebrows questioningly. “What do you mean? You went to the hospital, no?”

Michael nodded awkwardly before answering, “I didn’t know Schulze before yesterday. He was having difficulty breathing inside the Great Pyramid. I found him and gave him CPR until the paramedics came.”

“I see,” said the inspector, unmoved. “What were you doing inside the pyramid?”

Michael’s facial expression mirrored his disbelief.
Hello! We’re in Egypt! Are you seriously asking me what I was doing inside the pyramid?
However, he restrained himself, “I’m a tourist,” Michael explained patiently. “I arrived in Egypt two days ago.” He watched as the inspector jotted down notes. “This is my first time in Egypt. I was on a tour to the pyramids. While I was inside, I saw the man suffering from a health problem. I intervened and tried to help. Was that the wrong thing to do?”

“No, no, of course not. Mr. Doyle,” the Inspector smiled genuinely. “You acted like a gentleman and did the right thing.” He paused and asked, “Did you call the ambulance?”

“No, another tourist did.”

“I see,” said the inspector, writing something in his notebook. “You went with Schulze to the hospital?”

“No, but I went to see if he was OK later that same day.”

“And, what happened at the hospital? Did you get to see Mr. Schulze there?”

“No, by the time I got to the hospital, he was already dead.”

The Inspector sighed deeply and wrote something else in his notebook. “Yes, unfortunately he had a weak heart and being in a claustrophobic space such as the Great Pyramid didn’t help.” As he spoke, the Inspector avoided Michael’s eyes, which left him feeling ill at ease. Since he had entered the room, he had felt the constant, cold, penetrating gaze of the Inspector’s brown eyes. “Mr. Schulze is accused in the theft of an ancient artifact, and you were the last one who saw him alive.”

Michael was startled, “Are you saying that Schulze was a thief?”

“Yes, and we are working hard to establish the safe return of what was stolen.”

“What did he steal?”

The Inspector paused, looking at Michael carefully, “A very important ancient artifact: an ancient stele. That is all I can tell you. This is a private matter and we want to keep it that way.”

“I understand, Inspector.”

“Mr. Doyle,” said the Inspector, and Michael felt that penetrating look again. “Did Mr. Schulze say anything or give you anything?”

Ever since his brain had woken up on the way to the police station, Michael had anticipated this very question. As much as Michael was afraid of the question, at the same time, he had been eagerly waiting for it. At that moment he knew that his answer to this very question could change everything. “He only said to ‘find four ways,’” Michael answered quietly.

The Inspector’s eyes widened as he sat back, his chair creaking and groaning in protest. “Find
four ways
?” the Inspector repeated the phrase with a surprised and puzzled look. “What does that mean?”

“Inspector, your guess is as good as mine.”

Inspector Suliman sat up and quickly wrote the phrase in his notebook. After taking a moment to study the phrase, however, the inspector looked as confused as before. “Did he say anything else?”

“No, unfortunately, his condition got worse. After that, the rest of his words came out as gibberish.”

“That’s too bad,” sighed the inspector.

Turning away from Michael, he shouted something in Arabic. Suddenly a young officer donned in a crisp white uniform appeared in the doorway. Inspector Suliman barked some instructions and moments later the officer, tightly clasping the sheet of paper torn from the inspector’s notebook, ran out the door.

As soon the door shut behind the departing officer, the Inspector said, “Mr. Doyle. You were a great help. That phrase might help us expedite the safe return of the artifact. Every street and traffic policeman is already on the lookout for the stolen stele.”

Michael had no doubt about that. He had seen thousands of police officers in their crisp white uniforms since arriving in Cairo. He had read that Cairo had more police per capita than any other city in the world, and just walking down the streets of Cairo confirmed that statistic. His thoughts wandered slightly. It seemed white was an unfortunate color in a city where pollution, dust and sweat made for a disadvantageous combination.

That combination had clearly gotten the better of Inspector Suliman’s uniform as he dabbed his brow with a handkerchief he pulled out of his pants pocket. He pulled a few blank sheets of paper out his notebook and handed them to Michael. “I need you to write down the statement you gave me. Just a tiny formality…you understand?”

Michael took the offered paper and sat down in the chair in front of the Inspector’s desk. He took the Inspector’s pen and carefully began writing. He could feel the Inspector’s cold hard stare on his every word. Everything about Schulze claiming to be poisoned, the business card and notebook were left out as planned. There was definitely foul play involved in this case, and Michael was not about to risk losing the rest of his precious vacation by getting involved in the criminal proceedings of a foreign country.

Once Michael finished, Inspector Suliman took the papers and began transcribing the statement into Arabic, his hand slowly shuffling across the page, leaving behind a trail of stylish script. Once two copies had been written out, as there were no photocopiers in the office, he sat back in his creaking chair, let out a long sigh and admired his handiwork.

“Mr. Doyle, thank you. Here is a copy for you,” the Inspector handed Michael one of the papers and got up from his chair.

Michael grasped his Arabic-translated statement and stood up, “Thank you, Inspector. I’ll find my own way back.”

“Mr. Doyle, I hope you understand the need to keep all of this private.”

“Yes, absolutely.” Michael nodded as he turned to head for the door.

“We’ll be in touch in case we need anything else,” added the Inspector. Michael nodded and stepped out of the police station into the bustling streets.
Schulze is a thief? I can’t believe that. He looked like a very respectable and considerate person t
o me
.

Michael wracked his brain in an attempt to come up with a possible explanation. Everything seemed strange: the sudden death of Schulze, his phrase “I was poisoned,” the hospital report that he had died from a heart attack and now the weird conversation with Inspector Suliman. Considering all the facts he knew, all Michael could determine at present was that something was really fishy, and it was likely bigger than it had initially seemed.

Back in the small, dusty police station, Inspector Suliman was already on his rotary phone.

“Chief, the American claims to have heard the German say ‘find four ways’ when they spoke inside the Great Pyramid.”

“What does that mean?” asked the guarded voice on the other end.

“I can’t come up with an explanation. My men are working on it as we speak.”

“Good, good. Hopefully it will lead us to the stele. Did you search Schulze’s hotel room yet?”

“Yes. Unfortunately the stele was not found.”

“We need to find it as soon as possible.” The voice was thick with frustration. “The faith and livelihood depends on it! Keep monitoring the American.”

“It’s already done,” Inspector Suliman paused for a second. “I have a feeling that the American didn’t tell us the whole story. I will have my men following his every move.”

“Good, good.”

“We are also tracing Schulze’s activities from the past few days. Hopefully we will turn up another clue.”

“This ancient stele was safeguarded for many generations, so we must expedite its safe return. I know Allah will be great to you, and what the foreigner stole will be returned safely,” said the voice, sighing deeply. “Inform me of any progress that occurs. Thank you, my friend.”