Tomb of gods, p.5
Tomb of Gods, page 5
Imogen wasn’t certain if the others knew about the affair, but Gosswick knew. He’d seen her leaving Trummel’s tent in the middle of the night on the previous expedition. Gosswick still gave her disapproving looks.
With the third day winding to a close, Imogen was too anxious to sit in her tent and do nothing. She wanted to get her hands dirty. Most of all, she wanted to get her first look inside the tomb.
At dusk, she walked down the hill toward the cave. The setting sun cast long shadows on the ground. The red rock mountain was bathed in hues of orange light. She admired the ancient mud bricks of the two retaining walls that had been dug up. She didn’t see any sign of Trummel or the other archaeologists. They must be inside the tomb. They might get upset if she showed up uninvited, but it seemed worth the risk.
She followed the sandy ramp that descended between the walls for about twenty feet. She passed a few Egyptian workers pushing wheelbarrows of rocks. Their clothes and turbans were covered in grime. At the cave’s entrance stood a burly, blunt-faced guard named Corporal Rex Sykes. He was armed with a submachine gun.
Imogen suddenly felt repulsed as she remembered Sykes from previous expeditions. Last time she’d encountered him was at a hangar in Cairo. She had been doing inventory of the supplies that had arrived by plane. Corporal Sykes had unpacked wooden crates and handed out various guns and ammunition to the other mercenaries.
Sykes had kept ogling her and tried to impress her. “Ey Blondie, ever seen one of these?” He had held up his own submachine gun that reminded her of a gangster’s gun. “This meat chopper is a Finnish Suomi KP/3-1.” He patted its round magazine. “The drum mag holds seventy-one rounds. The gun spits ’em out in rapid fire. Can turn a man into Swiss cheese in seconds. Care to hold it?”
“Thanks, I’ll pass.” She saw up close that the gun’s wooden stock was covered with numerous skulls and spears etched into it. “You decorate that yourself?”
“That’s my number of kills,” Sykes said proudly. “Eight in the Congo. Ten in Sudan. Twenty in Kenya. If you really want to see something nifty, I’ll show you my Kikuyu finger necklace.” He had started to reach into his shirt, but Imogen stopped him, not wanting to see his gruesome battle trophies.
The tall mercenary had made her nervous then and did so now as his gaze watched her approach the cave tomb. When she tried to enter, Sykes stepped in front of her. “No one goes in, Blondie.”
“You’re letting everybody else enter.” She referred to a steady stream of workers who walked in and out of the doorway.
Sykes said, “They’ve got a job to do.”
“So do I. I’m Dr. Trummel’s partner on this dig. And from now on you’ll properly address me as Miss Riley.”
“I don’t care if you’re the queen herself. You aren’t going in without permission.”
The nerve of this soldier. “Maybe I’ll have a word with Captain Gosswick about your rude behavior.”
Sykes’s flint-gray eyes didn’t show an ounce of worry. “I’m only following orders. You want a tour, miss, come back with the boss.”
“I am the boss!”
“Sorry, Miss Riley.” He stood rigid, blocking the entrance.
On previous digs, Imogen had been able to go wherever she pleased. As she stomped up the ramp, she spotted the journalist, Caleb Beckett, leaning against the brick wall. He wore an amused expression as he watched her ascend the ramp.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“You behave like a woman used to getting her way.”
“Were you spying?”
Caleb raised a cigarette. “Just having a smoke.”
“I don’t see why we need a guard at the entrance. When my grandfather ran digs, I had full access to the tombs.”
Although she extended no invitation, Caleb walked alongside her toward camp. “There’ve been disappearances,” he said. “A few workers have gone missing in the caves. And one of the storage tents was vandalized. Security clamped down after that. Haven’t you heard?”
“No.” It bothered her that Trummel was keeping things from her.
“The incidents have made everyone anxious. I’m only granted access when Dr. Trummel takes me in for a photo shoot.” A camera hung from a strap around Caleb’s neck.
“Do you take that thing everywhere?” she asked.
“Even to bed with me.” He chuckled. “Actually, the story I’m doing requires a few scenic shots – dunes, camels, the mountain. Dawn and dusk provide the best light. Among photographers, it’s called God’s light.”
Ahead, the sun was sinking below the horizon. It looked like a shimmering golden ball. He stopped abruptly. “Whoa, stay right there.”
“What is it?”
“The light on your face. It’s perfect.” Caleb touched her cheek to brush something from it. “Don’t move.” He sighted into his Rolleiflex and snapped a photo. “Turn your head just slightly to the right. That’s it.”
“Do I smile?”
“No, I don’t care for forced expressions.”
Imogen was still tense from her ordeal with the guard, and the wind was strong. She could barely keep her hair off her face. Finally she gave up and let the wind take it.
Caleb studied her through the lens. “Yes, just like that.” He raised the camera. “I never miss the chance to capture beauty.”
The compliment made her smile, just a little.
He snapped a picture. “I’m referring to the sunset, of course.” He winked.
Caught off guard by his remark, a small laugh escaped her.
Caleb snapped another picture. “There’s what I was hoping to see.”
“Imogen!” Trummel crested a dune and hurried toward them, his boots kicking up sand. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” He eyed Caleb. “What are you two doing out here?”
“Miss Riley was graciously posing for the magazine,” Caleb said.
“I see,” Trummel said. “Well, I need to steal her away. Dinner is served in the mess tent, and Miss Riley and I have business to discuss.”
“Would you care to join us, Mr. Beckett?” Imogen asked.
“I’m sure he’s got some film to develop,” Trummel said.
“Yes,” Caleb said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Chapter Eleven
After dinner that evening, the team sat by a campfire and passed around a bottle of Beefeater while Trummel told tales of his wild adventures. “It is the winter of 1932. Dr. Harlan Riley, Imogen, Goss, and I, along with a few Sherpas, are camped out at some ancient fort ruins in the Himalayas, when a torrential blizzard rolls in, the likes of which none of us has ever seen.”
Imogen felt a chill as she recalled the snowstorm. She’d almost frozen to death.
Trummel paced around the campfire, making grand gestures with his arms. “The squall is hitting us with all its might. The Sherpas are frightened. Something other than the storm has them spooked. A relentless wind scours the stone ruins. Half our equipment blows away. Our team runs outside, trying to salvage what we can. That’s when I see it….” He paused for dramatic effect. “A yeti,” Trummel said, dead serious. “The abominable snowman.”
His students gasped. A few let out nervous chuckles. Piper wore an enamored expression that Imogen had seen before on the faces of Trummel’s female students.
He waited for silence, then continued, “The beast stood eight feet, a mountain of muscle covered in white fur. The worst ape stink that ever struck your nose. Its monstrous face had gray skin. A mouth full of sharp teeth. Black eyes stared at me like it wanted to rip me apart. Then it roared.”
“What did you do?” asked Piper.
Trummel smirked. “I did what any sensible chap would do. Ran like hell.”
The others laughed. Imogen made eye contact with Trummel and shook her head.
He sat back down. “Miss Riley doesn’t believe the yeti legend. But she didn’t see one.”
“The blizzard made it impossible to see anything,” Imogen shot back.
“You heard the beast roar,” Trummel challenged.
“Or the wind howl,” she countered.
“Well, I know what I saw.” Trummel looked around at his team. “There are still places on this earth that remain shrouded in mystery. Every ancient wall I’ve studied is carved with mythical creatures. The dragon-headed Sirrush at the Ishtar Gate of Babylon. The winged Anunnaki at Sumer.” He stared directly at Imogen. “Who’s to argue that some of the ancient gods and monsters didn’t exist? Our ancestors certainly believed in them. Which reminds me of a jungle expedition at the ruins of Angkor…”
Having heard most of Trummel’s embellished stories, Imogen excused herself. She liked to take night walks at the various excavation sites. She loved the quiet, the flick and snap of tarpaulins, the call of camels from their pens, distant voices of the nightshift workers. The sounds faded behind her as she walked straight out into the night. She climbed several dunes, then sat down in the sand. The stars were bright tonight, the moon a thin crescent that offered barely enough light. Imogen removed her shoes, dug her toes in the sand. The wind died down to a peaceful quiet that could only be enjoyed far out in the desert.
She heard him first, his sure, unhurried step. Has Nathan finally come to be alone with me? She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the encounter. No matter what he says, don’t do anything foolish.
The man crested a dune and disappeared again. He reappeared a minute later. With the starry night as a backdrop, the silhouette of a man wearing a safari hat loomed over her. It was just the journalist, Caleb Beckett.
“This isn’t a good place for you, Miss Riley. It’s not safe.”
Imogen bristled. “Because I’m a girl.”
“You’re a woman, not a girl, and I’d warn a man just the same.” Caleb wore a holstered pistol that she hadn’t noticed earlier.
Imogen stared up at his shadowed face. “During dinner, I asked Dr. Trummel about the disappearances. He told me some of the workers have walked off the job. Provisions had been stolen from one of the tents. That’s normal, believe me.”
“There’s nothing normal about this tomb. Trummel downplays the problems we’ve had lately. I take them more seriously.”
Imogen didn’t respond.
“I’ve made photographs,” Caleb said. “A few times when workers disappeared in the cave there was blood. Quite a lot of it. Someone doesn’t want us digging here.”
“If you’re trying to scare me, Mr. Beckett, it won’t work.”
“I’m merely informing you about the dangers. You should think twice about venturing away from camp without an escort.”
“I’ll be more careful,” Imogen conceded finally. “But I’m not ready to go back to camp just yet.”
“Would you mind company?”
“I suppose there’s room on this dune for two.”
Caleb dropped down beside her. They sat in silence a moment, staring up at the stars. Sounds of the night workers echoed in the distance.
“Dr. Trummel says this tomb is an enigma,” Caleb said, “although he won’t explain further. I imagine it has something to do with the location, a mummy entombed so far from civilization. What’s your expert opinion?”
Imogen considered. “Most tombs were built along the Nile or near a city, areas inhabited by people. My only guess is this was once near an oasis and five thousand years of migrating sand has covered up any trace of a nearby village.”
“Maybe there’s an entire complex buried beneath these dunes, like the tombs the Met archaeologists found near Luxor.”
She stiffened. “I suppose that’s possible, if Trummel’s map is correct, and there are, in fact, more than two levels beneath us. I find it interesting that you bring up the Met. Have you worked for them?”
“I traveled to Luxor last year and did a story on their find.” He was quiet for a moment. “Judging from your tone, you suspect me of something. What is it?”
“You Yanks take a less sportsmanlike approach to archaeology. A few years ago, the Met sank so low as to implant a spy on one of my grandfather’s expeditions. It’s not a huge leap to imagine they would plant a man disguised as a journalist.”
“I’m interested in discoveries that impact our understanding of history, not helping one museum outdo another. I’ll leave the competition to you tomb raiders. And, despite your assumptions, I have dozens of published articles to prove that I am, in fact, a real journalist.”
“I’ve clearly insulted you. I apologize, Mr. Beckett.”
Caleb barely let her finish. “You’re forgiven.” He removed cigarettes and a lighter from a shirt pocket and held open the silver case toward Imogen. “Got these in Cairo. Would you like a smoke?”
“I don’t usually…but yes, I’ll have one.” She leaned forward as he lit her cigarette. He left the lighter burning a beat longer than necessary. Why had Caleb followed her out here? If not to spy, then what?
“So, how about that interview, Miss Riley?”
She had forgotten that she had promised him one. “Of course, ask away. Just don’t try to pry the museum’s dirt out of me. I’ve sworn an oath of secrecy.”
“A challenge. I like that.” She heard Caleb rummaging in his satchel. He turned on an electric torch. The light bounced off the page of a worn notebook. “How long have you worked with Dr. Trummel?”
“A little over ten years. I first took some of his courses at Oxford. He came to work for the museum and teamed up with my grandfather on numerous expeditions. After I graduated, they both helped me get a job at the museum.”
“As a curator?”
“Actually, I started out at entry level, logging artifacts in the basement. Eventually I was promoted to curator.”
“And you accompany archaeologists on expeditions.”
“Growing up, I traveled everywhere with my grandfather. By the time I was twenty-five, I had worked digs in Egypt, French Indochina, Iraq, and the Himalayas. Now I only join archaeologists when they find something of interest to the museum.”
“I knew your grandfather. Met him on a dig in Saqqara. A remarkable man.” Caleb asked sharp, pointed questions. Did Grandfather believe the theories he raised in his book, that the pharaohs were linked to a race that predated the first Egyptian dynasty? What drove her grandfather to spend twenty years in search of Nebenteru’s tomb? Was the British Museum’s board withholding information about the failed expedition?
Imogen offered what little she knew. “Grandfather had always been secretive about what he was searching for. It had something to do with the piece of Ani scroll he’d found in the Valley of the Kings.” She explained that in his early years, before she was born, Harlan Riley had apprenticed under renowned Egyptologist Sir E.A. Wallis Budge. Budge, who passed away in 1934, had written many books and made numerous contributions to Egyptology and the British Museum, most notably obtaining the over-seventy-foot Papyrus of Ani from the Egyptian government back in 1888. He brought the papyrus scroll back to the museum in London where it was currently stored. When Caleb inquired about the Papyrus of Ani, Imogen explained that it had been created in 1250 BC with cursive hieroglyphs and decorated with colorful paintings of people, animals, and gods throughout. “It contains prayer spells that make up the Egyptian Book of the Dead. I’ve had the privilege of studying the original version on numerous occasions.
“Years ago, when Grandfather found a new piece of the scroll that clearly matched the one in the museum, Sir Wallis Budge helped him translate it. They discovered, hidden within the text, a mention of Nebenteru’s tomb and concluded that it was concealed within a mountain.” She nodded toward the one that loomed over them. “By that time, Budge had been too old to travel to Egypt and was nearing retirement, so Grandfather made a pact with his mentor to find Nebenteru’s tomb for England. That’s all I know.”
She left out that she suspected the museum’s board members were withholding secrets. She was relieved when Caleb paused to write notes.
“My turn to ask you questions,” she said.
He gave her a curious smile. “Okay. Shoot.”
“Earlier, when Dr. Trummel introduced you as his ‘personal photographer’ you seemed uncomfortable. Why?”
“We disagree as to my role here. My assignment is to shadow him and take photographs when he makes discoveries.”
“Where’s the discrepancy?”
“He thinks I work for him. When I’m on assignment, I’m my own boss. I don’t take orders.”
“I understand your frustration. I’ve butted heads with him for years.”
Caleb nodded. “Dealing with Trummel’s ego is a small price to pay for the chance to capture history in the making.”
“Well, I’m glad you joined the expedition. Normally, I spend weeks in camp with men who drink too much and bathe too little. You strike me as different. I haven’t completely ruled out spy, though.”
He seemed amused. “You’re still not sure about me?”
“I’m not sure of anyone.” Her confessional tone embarrassed her.
“I once read that you were raised by your grandfather. Where were your parents?”
The question caught her off guard. “They were killed when I was eleven.”
“I’m sorry. What happened?”
“It’s still hard for me to talk about. After my parents’ funeral, I was brought to my grandfather. We became inseparable. It took a while but he taught me to approach life as he did, seeing it as an adventure to be relished.
“He provided me with a string of tutors who traveled with us.” Imogen laughed. “Several tried their best to discipline me, teach me manners, make me into a proper lady. I was ungovernable. In the end Grandfather would side with me and send the tutor packing. He gave me all the freedom I wanted. I guess becoming an orphan made me independent.”
