The Shroud Key (23 page)

He nods.

“Possibly. But we don’t have an appointment and if we aren’t on the manifest, there’s a good chance they will turn us away and then immediately sick their friends on us. And then there’s the possibility of them recognizing Dr. Manion as the archaeologist who just got away from their bandit buddies.”

“I understand that,” I say. “But do you think it’s possible that we can at least make it through the gate, even if the professor manages to keep a low profile?”

“It’s definitely possible.”

I lower my head, stare at the LED-lit sandy floor, while I contemplate getting through the front gate without getting myself or anyone else killed.

Then, raising my head, “How much ammo we got left? I think we’re gonna need all we can get.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

An hour later, we are packed up and back inside the Land Cruiser making our way along the desert road on our way towards Giza and the pyramids. The time is eight-thirty on a starry evening. The kind of high-definition clear night that makes you feel like you can reach up and touch the stars.

Over the course of sixty minutes we’ve revised and tweaked our plan until we have something that just might work. Rather than attempt to hide ourselves under the cover of darkness, we are being very open about our intentions. Which are nothing other than entering into the site of the ancient pyramids as legitimate archaeologists and television professionals investigating unknown passages at the bottom of the Third Pyramid crypt. The plot? We are filming a two-part special for the
History Channel
called the
Mysteries of the Menkaure’s Mini Pyramid
.

Before entering into the Giza Plateau, we head back to the same Giza garage that provided us with the Land Cruiser. The tall, bearded, blue-jeans wearing Nisbah is there to greet us while Sameh talks with him about a special, immediate turn-around project. That is, retrofitting the Land Cruiser with some new detailing and some special protection. For these things, we are willing to pay a great deal. Rather, Anya’s dead dad is willing to put up the funds.

At the same time, Sameh makes a few calls to some people who specialize in outfitting archaeological and television crews.

“If we’re going to be presenting ourselves as serious television people,” Sameh says, “we’d better look like television people.”

“Trojan horse, Sameh,” I say. “Make it real.”

Two hours later the Land Cruiser is ready to ride once more. A new logo has been added to each door. It’s a single pyramid painted in bright red paint. Inscribed inside the pyramid in bright blue letters are the words,
Pharaoh Productions
. The vehicle has not only been outfitted with a bullet-proof windshield and rear window, a special plate made up of quarter inch steel has been welded to the bottom, just in case we should encounter an unexpected improvised explosive device. Stored in the back of the 4X4 are some of the tools of the television trade: cameras both big and small, tripods, lighting and sound equipment, boom stands, and various other props. Placed beside that equipment are all the tools that Andre would require if he were truly embarking on an archaeological dig inside the Third Pyramid. An assortment of shovels, Maglites, coal scoops, dust pans, a good old fashioned shaker screen, an electronic transit mapping device, weighing and measuring tools, and even a cordless hammer drill are included in the mix.

Then there are the hidden tools of my trade.

Stored in padlocked metal boxes underneath the equipment, are the four AK47s Sameh provided us with earlier, plus new ammo magazines. Added to the collection are two new RPG rounds for the reusable manual launcher, two more 9mm automatics and accompanying nine-round clips, plus four night vision goggles, and new two-way radios.

The final touch is our new clothes, courtesy of Nisbah’s first cousin who runs an Egyptian cotton export operation on the outskirts of Giza. Each of us has been issued a new khaki safari jacket a piece that bears the Pharaoh Productions logos. For head gear, new
Pharaoh Productions
baseball caps. Stored inside each of our chest pockets are laminated credentials that contain photo IDs and press passes. We also have a forged letters from the US Embassy that have been stamped by the Egyptian government stating our intention to film on the pyramid grounds on behalf of the
History Channel
. How Sameh and Nisbah are able to put this Trojan horse operation together in such a short time is both a testament to a race of people who bore the innate organizational talent to build the ancient pyramids and also to the old saying about money talking and bullshit walking.

“What if one of the guards decides to call the
History Channel
in New York to verify our presence?” Anya begs while slipping into her safari jacket. “What if he were to contact the government about our intrusion?”

Sameh’s face lights up.

“I’ve already thought of that. The number printed on the letter will dial not the
History Channel
necessarily but a special friend who will make believe he is a big shot at the
History Channel
. As for the government, we will simply have to take our chances.”

A good friend from Florence comes immediately to mind.

“Checco,” I say, winking at Sameh.

“Indeed,” he nods. “Without Checco and my associate, Nisbah, we could not possibly have put all this together in such a short amount of time. Amazing what can happen when you are blessed by Allah.”

“Yes, God be praised,” Andre says. “And thank God for my wealthy ex-wife. But what about getting past the front door? If the guards aren’t expecting us, they’re liable to turn us back no matter whom we ask them to call for verification. That is, unless you plan on shooting our way through which, in my archaeological mind, would be entirely counter-productive. Not to mention, really bloody dangerous.” He frowns and presses the back of his hand up against the underside of his chin. “I’ve about had it up to here with playing with guns and bombs.”

“Our friend Checco has a made a few calls on our behalf,” Sameh assures. “Trust me when I say, the guards will be expecting us.”

“But will they believe us?” I say, thumbing the clip release on my 9mm, checking the load, then thumbing the safety on after cocking a fresh round into the chamber.

Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of the newly refurbished Land Cruiser being fired up, as Nisbah proceeds to back it out of the garage and onto the lot.

“Belief in our intentions is not guaranteed,” Sameh says. “But I will leave such things up to God.”

“And fate,” Anya says turning and heading out through the open overhead garage door.

My beating heart pulsing on my sleeve, I follow.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

It’s going on midnight when we pull up to the main entry for the Giza pyramids. While the colorful pyramid spotlighting has been turned off, the entry facility is still lit up like a Christmas tree with pole and wall-mounted LED security lighting. Sameh pulls up to a security shack and stops the Land Cruiser so that the front grill faces a red and black vertically striped crossing gate.

The guard manning the brightly lit, glass and concrete block-walled shack is wearing the black beret, scarf, and white shirt of a government soldier. He’s packing a 9mm automatic on his hip. Mounted to the wall behind him are four AK47s at the ready. Before Sameh can even get the window down, two more soldiers step up to the gate and eyeball us through the windshield.

The window slides open, the guard sneering at us.

“How can I help you?” he says in deep-throated English.

Sameh reaches into his chest pocket, pulls out his papers, hands them to the guard.

“We’re making a documentary for the
History Channel
,” he informs, confidence in his tone, the deepest respect in his delivery.

“What is the
History Channel
?” asks the guard, holding the letter in his hand, but his eyes remaining glued to Sameh’s.

“It’s a cable television channel in the west. Lots of stories about ancient sites from all over the globe. Stories that involve the pyramids are especially popular, for obvious reasons. I’m sure we’re not the first film crew and archaeological team to make television here.”

The soldier stares down at the letter. He reads it, turns it over, sees that nothing is written on the back. Then, holding the letter outside the open window, he waves it at the two guards standing in front of us, and barks something out in Arabic.

“What’s he saying?” I ask under my breath.

“Hopefully he’s not saying, ‘Shoot the lying, spying infidels on the spot,’” Anya says from the back.

“No time for joking,” scolds Andre who is seated beside her. He’s scrunched down, his
Pharaoh Productions
baseball cap pulled down tightly over his head as if trying to hide or keep a much needed low profile anyway.

Sameh says, “He’s asked them if they know anything about a crew arriving at such an odd hour.”

The guard on the left suddenly nods, and speaks.

Sameh says, “That guard on the right said he believes someone called not long ago warning of our arrival. But he didn’t pay much attention to it.”

The soldier in the guard shack shouts something in anger at the soldier on the right.

Sameh translates again: “He said, ‘Why wasn’t I informed of this? Everything goes through me. Maybe you are drunk.’”

“So they do drink after all,” Anya whispers.

“What was your first guess?” Andre says.

My eyes are glued to the soldier in the guard shack now that he’s back to staring at the letter. For a brief moment, I think he’s about to turn us away or worse: Order his men to open up on us with the AK47s. I slip my hand inside my safari jacket, lightly wrap my hand around the shoulder-holstered pistol grip. But just as I’m about to unholster the piece, the soldier slowly hands the document back to Sameh. At the same time, he triggers a device on a nearby panel that causes the crossing gate to lift up.

The two guards ahead of us back away and make room.

“You may proceed,” he says. “But be aware that we are watching your every movement at all times.”

“How will we gain access to the Third Pyramid?” Sameh poses to the guard. “Surely it is locked.”

“When you arrive you will find that the pyramid entrance is well guarded. I will radio word for them to open the entry gates for you.” He grows a sly smile. “Keep in mind that like me, the guards are soldiers of the President’s army and are heavily armed.”

“Thank you for sharing,” Sameh grins. “We will indeed keep that in mind. Salem Allah.”

“Allah Salem,” the soldier returns. But I can only wonder if he really means it.

The soldier waves his hand in a gesture that resembles him gently slapping someone’s behind.

“You may proceed,” he says.

Sameh shifts the Land Cruiser into first, gently taps the gas, pulls forward.

The Trojan Horse worked.

We’re in. But for how long?