Four Ways to Pharaoh Khufu Read online

  It definitely came from the top, Michael decided as he searched with his eyes. About thirty feet away, in the middle of the Grand Gallery, he finally made out the silhouette of a lone man collapsed against the wall, barely visible in the looming darkness. Michael sprinted forward as the man slumped into a crouched position despite trying to support his body weight against the handrail.

  “Sir, excuse me sir, are you OK?” Michael asked upon his arrival. The man struggled to open his droopy eyelids. Michael bent over the man, “Sir, are you feeling all right?”

  The man struggled to lift his chin up, and fought to choke some words out.

  Michael placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, “Sir, are you OK?”

  “Can’t. Breathe,” the man choked out.

  Michael turned and bellowed at the top of his lungs toward the group that was entering the Grand Gallery “Somebody, anybody speaks English?” His deep baritone voice echoed thunderously throughout the Grand Gallery and into the chambers beyond. Even minutes later he could still hear his voice reverberating throughout the interlocked blocks of the Grand Gallery.

  Almost instantaneously, several tourists replied, “Yes!”

  Michael spoke quickly, “This man is having trouble breathing. I need someone to run back to the entrance for help and to call an ambulance.” Several people immediately turned and dashed back towards the entrance. Michael turned back to the stricken man, “Sir, I need you to lie down and try to relax. You will be okay. I know CPR and will try to help you restore your breathing. What’s your name, sir?” Michael reached to check the stranger’s pulse, but at that moment the man collapsed into his arms. The man wheezed that his name was Günther Schulze. Michael held no doubt that Schulze was German: the accent and the name never lie.

  Michael immediately knelt down, rolled the German onto his back, and began performing chest compressions. He looked into Schulze’s face and saw that his eyes were partially open.

  Schulze reached up and Michael paused his CPR efforts. The man fumbled inside his jacket pocket, removing a white business card.

  Michael leaned his ear to Schulze’s barely moving lips. “Promise… call her,” Schulze whispered “I was poisoned. … Beware … dark man … Afro …” Michael nodded and grabbed the card, stuffing it inside his jeans pocket. He resumed performing CPR. But the German was not about to give up easily. Again, he reached for an inside pocket of his vest. Michael put his hand inside the man’s vest and felt a small notebook in an interior pocked. He pulled it out. Schulze nodded feebly. “Find four ways…” Schulze’s lips contorted, but the rest of his speech was incomprehensible. As Schulze’s eyes rolled back into his head, his body went limp. Michael placed the notebook on the ground and continued to perform CPR as he waited for the ambulance to arrive. Each minute was desperately counted as Michael watched the seconds on his “Timex” watch slowly roll forward. It was a long and desperate wait.

  A pair of local paramedics made their way into the Grand Gallery, loaded Schulze’s body onto their hand-held gurney, and fighting the narrowness of the passageways, rushed back to the entrance. Michael picked up the notebook and stuffed it under his arm. He followed the paramedics, trying to tell them what had happened, but he was not sure if they understood a word he was saying. Finally, they were in the open air and the paramedics were preparing to load Schulze’s motionless body into the ambulance. Schulze’s arm twitched and Michael reached out to take his pulse. To his relief, he felt a slight pulse. Schulze was still alive!

  Despite the commotion, Steve the tour guide had also made his way out and attempted to assist with the language barrier. Michael asked Steve, “What hospital are they taking him to?”

  Steve inquired and then interpreted the paramedic’s Arabic response, “The Anglo-American Hospital, Zohoreya.” The ambulance doors were slammed shut and it sped away, leaving a cloud of sandy dust behind it.

  “What happened to that man?” worried one of the tourists.

  “He was having difficulty breathing inside the pyramid,” Michael replied.

  “Oh, claustrophobia. That happens to many people,” Steve said nonchalantly. “Some people have no idea how claustrophobic they are until they actually step inside the pyramid. I am sure he will be fine.”

  Yeah, right. Claustrophobia. The man was poisoned! Michael scoffed to himself. He had already decided not to mention anything that Schulze had told him inside the Great Pyramid. He did not want to start a panic.

  Visibly satisfied by the tour guide’s explanation, the crowd slowly started to disperse. Soon, Michael was left standing alone at the entrance of the Great Pyramid. Now that the crisis was over, he struggled to absorb what had happened. What did he mean by poisoning? Who poisoned him? Why? It doesn’t make any sense. Michael felt consumed by his numerous questions. It seemed that the pyramid’s mysteries could be fathomed more easily then the circumstances that he now found himself embroiled.

  Rubbing his forehead, Michael pulled out the business card business card and examined it carefully.

  Anna Schulze

  gesetzlicher Sekretär

  Florrenstrasse 201

  10719 Berlin

  Deutschland

  Telefon: 30 649901-0

  Fax: 30 649901-31

  www.GRCAnwälte.de

  Who is Anna? Hmmm… she has the same last name. Maybe she is his wife or daughter. Michael glanced at the city listed on the card. Well, she is German – that’s for sure. I need to give her a call. After all, I made a promise to a dying man.

  He turned the business card over. On the reverse side, in the upper left corner, Michael saw a four-word phrase neatly written in pink sharpie. It was obviously German, so he did not know what it meant. “Zu meiner lieben, Papa!” He read the phrase aloud a couple of times. Well, Papa definitely means Dad, he concluded. That’s a universal word.

  Along with the business card, Schulze had given him a pocket notebook. Michael slowly started flipping through it. Why would he give me his notebook? What is in here that would be important? Michael did not find anything in the notebook besides some names, phone numbers, and phrases in German, which he could not understand.

  What else did he say? Michael paused for a moment, trying to concentrate. A few minutes quietly passed by. Oh, that’s right. Find four ways! He considered the authority of so-called dying declarations, a principle that originated in the medieval English courts – Nemo moriturus praesumitur mentiri – a dying person is not presumed to lie.

  In order to shed some light on the matter and put an end to all his unanswered questions, Michael decided that he would pay Schulze a visit in the hospital. Surely, there was a rational explanation. He also decided that he should call the lady named on the business card after he stopped by the hospital, so she would know how her either father or husband was doing. After all, Michael was traveling alone and if he had gotten into trouble, he would appreciate someone helping him out.

  Taking one more glance at the pyramids, Michael decided that they would still be here after he had sorted this out, but it did pain him to leave such a picturesque view. From the Giza Plateau, the perfect chain of pyramids seemed burnt out to the whiteness below them, like a natural continuation of the sand dunes. They were harmonious barrows for the ascension of the godlike kings to be closer to the sky and the sun.

  True pharaohs’ tombs rose high above the perishable and so vulnerable mankind, Michael quoted to himself as he walked to the road to catch a taxi to the hospital.

  Chapter 6

  Giza Plateau, Egypt

  Monday, September 18

  9:44 a.m.

  The hot sands whipped into a heavy cloud behind the Red Crescent ambulance as it rushed to the hospital with Günther Schulze strapped onto a gurney in the back. As the ambulance made a sharp turn toward Giza Square, the paramedic riding in the ba
ck braced himself as he pulled out his cellphone and pressed a speed dial button. Almost immediately the paramedic started speaking rapidly in Arabic with the person on the other end of the call. A couple of moments later, the paramedic barked at the driver to pull over at the intersection of El-Malek and Faisal Bridge, next to Giza Square. The driver complied. After a brief stop the ambulance slowly merged back into traffic with a new passenger on board: Asim. Asim looked hard at Schulze’s body on the gurney. As the driver navigated the ambulance through the hectic and notorious mid-morning Cairo traffic, Asim spoke briefly to the paramedic while handing him an envelope. Slowly and purposefully, Asim made his way to Schulze’s gurney, his bushy Afro waving with the ambulance’s jerking and swaying. Keeping his icy eyes fixed on his victim the entire time; he quickly disconnected each of the tubes from Schulze’s body.

  You will die! That’s what you deserve! The thoughts that ran through his mind did little to calm him, as he still did not have the stele. Schulze took his last breath and his eyes rolled over. Asim sat next to Schulze and began a slow and meticulous search of his lifeless body.

  But all he found was a wallet. Opening it, he found a German driver’s license, several family pictures, 120 euros and 100 L.E. It can’t be! There’s gotta be something … some kind of clue! Asim slowly inspected Schulze’s clothes. He first inspected the dead man’s vest, sticking his hand in the pockets. After a close inspection of the dead man’s shirt and undershirt he found nothing unusual. The dead man’s trousers were then inspected with the same effort. In the end, Asim’s search of Schulze’s dead body had produced the same fruitless result as the search of Schulze’s hotel room the previous day. Hanging onto a strap, Asim stood up in the rocking ambulance and took an overhead view of his prey. He let out a deep, anguished sigh.

  What am I going to say to the chief? In a fury, he kicked the gurney, but Schulze’s spirit was already too far away to feel it. However, it did prompt Schulze’s left foot to fall off the gurney. Startled, Asim looked at the dead man’s exposed black sock. He braced himself against the swaying ambulance and bent over to pick up the man’s foot. He yanked off the shoe, tossing it aside. Then he grabbed the top of the sock and began pulling it off. And as he pulled, a white piece of paper was revealed. Curious at the unexpected discovery, Asim carefully pulled out the thin white piece of paper with a familiar logo, three capital red letters on a yellow background: DHL, a division of the German logistics company, Deutsche Post.

  Asim felt triumphant! The white piece of paper he was holding was a postal receipt dated September 12th. The Medjay glared down at Schulze’s body. That was six days ago, Asim thought. He must have mailed our sacred stele six days ago. The thought of their stele being shipped to a foreign country gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Oh Horus, living and great, please no!” He sobbed in a whispered wail. The crackling sounds of the ambulance radio muffled his desperate cry of prayer.

  As the ambulance made a sharp turn onto El-Tahrir Street in front of the Jordanian embassy, it suddenly came to a complete stop. The ambulance was stuck in the city’s infamous traffic, despite being only a dozen street blocks away from Cairo’s public hospital, Anglo-American Hospital Zohoreya. The ambulance’s wailing siren had no effect on the traffic clogging the El-Galaa Bridge as it crossed the Nile. Nobody moved and nobody even attempted to pull aside to let the emergency vehicle through, which is typical for Cairo traffic.

  Asim quickly examined the postal receipt. Mailed from 38 Abd El-Khalek Tharwat Street in Downtown, Cairo, he read silently. Below the heading, he observed that the item shipped weighed one kilogram and that 200 Egyptian pounds was paid for DHL Express Worldwide delivery.

  Wait, he thought. Relief flashed across the Medjay’s face. Our stele certainly didn’t weigh a mere one kilogram. For a brief moment Asim drifted back to a memory from fifteen years before, during his Right of Passage ceremony that signified his passage into manhood. That was the first and last time he had ever seen or held the sacred stele. Even though he was merely thirteen at the time, he clearly recollected lifting the weight of the stele physically onto his shoulder at the same time he ceremoniously shouldered the heavy weight and honor of protecting it.

  A ton of weight dropped off his shoulders as Asim realized there was no way the German could have mailed the stele through DHL’s Express service. But what does the receipt mean? It must be important for him to have hidden it so.

  I need to let the Chief know. Asim pulled out an outdated version of a RAZR cell phone. At least he had something to report.

  “My great warrior, may Horus always be with you,” answered the firm male voice on the other end as he had recognized Asim’s number on the incoming call.

  “May Horus always be with you, Great Chief.”

  “Tell me the good news,” commanded the Chief.

  “I carried out your will, oh Great Chief!”

  “That’s definitely good news. I know Ra will be merciful today.”

  Asim thought that the Chief sounded pleased and boasted, “The deceiving thief is gone to the distant place from where nobody returns.”

  “I assume you left no witnesses. The risk is too great.”

  “He died inside Khufu’s Great Pyramid,” Asim paused before adding solemnly, “The very place he had defiled.”

  Asim relayed all of the earlier events of the day to the Chief. He meticulously reported following Schulze from his hotel to the Giza Plateau, slipping inside before Schulze entered the Great Pyramid, and how he had patiently waited with the small syringe filled with the chemist’s poisonous liquid. Even though he had not the slightest clue what fate was waiting for him, the German engineer, Schulze, had been doomed from the very moment he had stepped inside the Great Pyramid. In the very place he had defiled.

  “Yes, the very place he had defiled,” repeated the chief somberly. “Anubis, the guardian of the underworld will not be pleased with his soul so weighted down in sin. Schulze’s heart will outweigh Ma’at’s feather, and his condemned soul will be given to Ammit, the crocodile-headed devourer of souls.” The chief exhaled calmly and engaged in a barely audible prayer.

  There was a long pause, during which Asim could hear chief’s muted pleas to the guardian of the underworld before resuming the conversation. “Then, I presume you found what he stole from us and what we so vigilantly guarded for generations.”

  “Great Chief, be Horus my witness. I searched his entire body,” Asim gave Schulze’s body another disgruntled glance. “I found a DHL postal receipt on him that showed he mailed a package six days ago.”

  The chief exhaled loudly, agitation creeping into his voice. “There is no way he could’ve mailed the stele.”

  “You are correct, Great Chief. The weight of the package was a mere one kilogram,” Asim responded quietly. “But the postal receipt is the only clue. I searched his entire hotel room, but nothing was found there either,” Asim concluded with frustration and anger apparent in his voice.

  “My fierce warrior,” the chief’s voice interrupted him, sounding composed again. “We are the Medjay. We will never quit until righteousness triumphs and what was stolen from us is returned to its rightful place. The stele will be found at any cost. I have confidence that the German didn’t smuggle it outside of Egypt. And while it is still inside the country, it is within our power.”

  Asim knew the stakes were great and eagerly awaited the next set of instructions from his Great Chief.

  “Don’t call me; I will initiate the next call. Are you on the way to the hospital?” asked the Chief.

  “Yes, we are stuck in traffic.”

  “How predictable,” the Chief chuckled. “I will make all the necessary arrangements. The cause of his death will be unsuspicious.” The Chief’s confident tone eased Asim’s mind, after all, his Great Chief was a man of his word.

  Right as Asim was about to end the call, the chief hurr
iedly asked, “What was the date on the DHL receipt?”

  Glancing down at the receipt, Asim answered, “September 12th.”

  “Very well, Asim, my fierce warrior,” the chief seemed satisfied. “You’ve done well. Just make sure you place the postal receipt inside the German’s wallet.”

  Asim was surprised to hear that request, but knew he would strictly follow it. Asim flipped his cell phone closed and tucked it back into his cloak. I’m still at the mercy of the Chief! He grabbed Schulze’s wallet and put the receipt inside. After stuffing the wallet inside Schulze’s vest pocket, Asim began the task of reinserting the tubes into the German’s lifeless body.

  The traffic finally gave way with a roar. The ambulance rushed along the streets before slamming to a halt in front of the emergency room entrance of the Anglo-American Hospital Zohoreya. As they opened the back door, Asim gave a silent nod to both paramedics, exited the ambulance and slipped away unnoticed. The gurney supporting Schulze’s body was lifted out and as the triage team ran out to greet them, the paramedics started shouting medical stats. Unobserved, Asim walked away from the scene snickering to himself. What’s the rush? He’s dead. Anyone want to take a wild guess? May I suggest…a heart attack? His own recent near-death experience at the hands of the chemist Nassar was still fresh in his mind. My “dear old menacing friend” predicted that would be the findings.

  Chapter 7

  Cairo, Egypt

  Monday, September 18

  10:14 a.m.

  Michael Doyle was sitting in the back seat of a taxi on his way to the Anglo-American Hospital Zohoreya. He checked his watch. His young driver, Ahmoud, was busily navigating his way through Cairo’s crowded streets, but the trip to visit Schulze in the hospital was taking longer than Michael had anticipated.

  Despite being eager to continue his long-awaited Egyptian vacation that he had fantasized about exploring since his early teenage years, Michael felt it was necessary to follow up and make sure nothing untoward had occurred. Deep in his heart he hoped to find Schulze well. He was also hoping that all his talk about being poisoned had been a vivid figment of Schulze’s heat-addled imagination.