He shone his light forward.
But what’s been excavated here? And why?
“It opens up ahead,” Gray called out.
In another few yards, the passageway dumped into a domed cavern, sculpted out of the rock.
As Jane followed Gray into the chamber, she stepped over a lip of stone at the threshold. She straightened and gasped, all but twirling in place, casting her light all around.
Derek joined her a moment later and discovered the reason for her shock. “My god . . .”
“It’s amazing,” Jane murmured.
Derek looked down at his feet. The lip of stone at his toes was just that—a lip. It curved delicately around them, sheltering a row of stone teeth, a lower arcade of incisors and molars sculpted out of the sandy floor. A few were cracked and broken. The damage looked recent, triggering a reflexive stitch of anger at the appalling abuse to this archaeological treasure.
He cast his beam around the room, spotlighting its features. A matching lip and curve of teeth hung overhead. The domed ceiling was ridged like a hard palate. Under his feet, the floor arched up in the gentle wave of a sculpted tongue.
Kowalski stretched his back, looking around with a grimace. “Let’s hope we don’t get chewed up and spat back out.”
Jane took slow steps, exploring everything. “The details are anatomically stunning.” She pointed her light to a protruding stump of rock. “That must have been where a uvula once hung. And over there, those protrusions on the walls to either side must be tonsils.”
“Looks like the left one had a tonsillectomy,” Kowalski said, noting more damage there.
Derek stepped forward, illuminating the back of the chamber. Two tunnels led out from here. He knew what they must represent.
“The esophagus and trachea,” he murmured.
Indeed the surfaces of one looked smooth and muscular, while the other was ribbed like the cartilage rings found along a human airway. He could even make out vague depictions of a larynx past the triangular flap of an epiglottis on the floor.
“What is all this?” Kowalski asked.
Gray stood a few feet away, shining his light along an arch of the roof, where the hard palate became the soft. “There’s writing here. Hieroglyphics.”
Derek joined him. Amid all the artistry displayed here, he had missed this detail. Inscribed into the stone archway were three rows of glyphs.
Jane ran her light along the first line.
Derek translated, “Who comes to the one calling him . . .”
“I guess that would be us.” Kowalski looked around at the giant mouth. “But who is he? Whose mouth are we in?”
“That’s answered in the next two rows,” Jane said, pointing to the hieroglyphs across the arch. “They’re the name of an Egyptian god written two different ways.”
“What god?” Gray asked.
“He’s a late pantheon deity,” Jane explained. “Named Tutu. He was originally the protector of tombs.”
“Great,” Kowalski grumbled.
Jane ignored him. “Later he came to represent the guardian of sleep, the protector of dreams.”
“Also the master of demons,” Derek reminded her.
Kowalski fixed his mask more securely. “Just gets better and better.”
“If this place is truly the source of the pathogen,” Jane noted, “that disease could be the very demon this sculpted representation of Tutu is guarding.”
Derek glanced over to the tunnels leading deeper, picturing an entire body sprawled under these hills, a subterranean god, sleeping for millennia, dreaming all of this time, protecting something dangerous.
But Jane’s explanation bothered him. He sensed there was more going on here. Especially since one detail about this was distinctly wrong.
He pointed it out. “Jane, look at the last glyph, the one of the seated figure. Normally the name Tutu ends with the figure of a lion or a man.”
She nodded. “Because he’s always depicted as a beast with the head of a man and a body of a lion.”
“Exactly.” Derek pointed up. “But at the end of the second row. That’s a woman, not a man.”
Jane stepped closer. “You’re right.”
“What are you talking about?” Gray asked.
Derek pulled his iPad from his pack to show him. Plus he wanted to take photos to record all of this. He pulled up a catalog of hieroglyphics and showed Gray the two symbols for male and female.
“See how the man sits cross-legged with an arm raised, whereas the woman kneels demurely.” He pointed to the last glyph. “Clearly that’s a woman.”
Gray frowned behind his mask. “But why’s that important?”
Derek shrugged, giving a shake of his head. “I don’t know.”
“Wait.” Jane touched Derek’s shoulder, her voice nearly breathless. “Remember that sketch in my father’s journal, of the Egyptian oil vessel.”
“The aryballos. The one with the double heads.” Then he saw it, too. “My god, you’re right.”
“What are you talking about?” Gray asked.
Derek pulled up the picture of the vessel, glad he had taken the time to digitize Harold’s old journal. “This was the talisman that was given to Livingstone as a gift for saving a tribesman’s son.”
“It’s also the vessel that was said to hold water from the Nile—back when the river turned bloody,” he explained. “After it was opened at the British Museum, the pathogen sealed up inside killed over twenty people.”
Gray nodded. “But somehow the outbreak was kept from spreading across England.”
“And maybe the same happened during the time of Moses,” Jane said. “Maybe the ancients found a cure and somehow my nineteenth-century colleagues replicated it. The answer may lie here.”
“Why do you say that?” Gray asked.
Derek answered. “Look at the two heads profiled on the vessel. One of a lion, the other of a woman.” He pointed up to the last two rows of hieroglyphics. “And notice the two spellings of Tutu’s name. One ends in a lion. The other in a kneeling woman.”
“Same as the vessel,” Jane said. “It can’t be a coincidence. The aryballos must have come from here. It’s further proof that the source of the pathogen must lie below—and maybe its cure.”
Derek noticed Gray’s face. Even behind the protective shield, it was plain the man was deep in thought. Then his eyes widened with some realization.
“I wonder . . .” Gray murmured to himself.
“What is it?” Derek asked.
He shook his head and swung his lamp’s beam to the two passages leading deeper. “We should keep going.”
They all turned toward the challenge.
“But which way?” Jane asked. “Esophagus or trachea?”
She ducked deeper into the pharynx to get a better look at their choices—then craned her neck, looking straight up.
“Jane?”
“There’s an opening.” As she stood, her head vanished into the roof. She shuffled her feet to turn fully around. “My god. Come see this.”
She shifted to the side to allow Derek and Gray to crowd next to her.
Straightening at her shoulder, Derek poked his head up into a small cavern. The entrance into it was sealed with a clear plastic tarp that had been duct-taped in place, but their lights pierced this protective veil.
“It’s a cranial cavity,” Jane said.
“She’s right.” Derek noted how the walls inside had been carved to mimic the folds of a brain, showing even the divisions of its two hemispheres along the domed roof.
Gray shifted his light lower. “Look to the right and left.”
His beam illuminated rows of small cubbies dug out of the rock. The niches held grapefruit-sized examples of Egyptian pottery. Some had been shattered in place long ago, leaving behind piles of broken shards. Other cubbies were empty. But those that remained were all a familiar shape and size: sealed jars bearing the profiles of a lion and a woman.
“T
hey’re identical to Livingstone’s aryballos,” Jane said, fixing her light on one of the empty niches. “This must be where his vessel had come from. Maybe it was stolen from here long ago.”
“No wonder someone sealed this place up.” Gray flashed his beam across several piles of broken pottery on the cavern floor.
A few looked freshly shattered.
Had there been an accident?
Jane turned to Derek. “For this collection to be housed here, it suggests the ancient must have known the pathogen sealed in those jars attacked the brain. Why else store it here?”
“You may be right.”
Jane sank back down. “And if they knew that, maybe they knew more.”
Derek followed her. “Like a possible cure.”
She nodded as Gray joined them. She faced the two tunnels leading deeper. “Whatever else they were hiding must lie below.” She posed her earlier question again. “But to find it, which path do we take? Esophagus or trachea?”
Derek shifted his beam to the damaged left tonsil. “It looks like there was more traffic in and out of the airway.” He pointed out the evident trampling in the trachea compared to the esophagus. “So I say we ignore Robert Frost and take the road most traveled.”
Gray nodded. “Let’s move out.”
Only Kowalski seemed disgruntled by this decision. “Yeah, let’s go deeper into the belly of a demon-wrestling god. How could that possibly go wrong?”
16
June 3, 2:41 A.M. EDT
Ellesmere Island, Canada
“Ready?” Painter asked.
Kat nodded and shifted her chair back from the table, praying the director’s plan would work. “Let’s get the ball rolling.”
After arriving at Aurora Station, she and Painter had sought to get the lay of the land. They started in the communal dining room over cups of coffee. The latter was a necessity at this late hour. Though she had slept briefly on the plane ride from D.C., her internal clock was all wonky. The caffeine had helped steady her focus.
She would have preferred more time to prepare, but the front edge of the storm would be passing over Ellesmere Island within the hour—which narrowed their window of opportunity. If they were going to attempt this rescue in time to be evacuated by the forces at Thule Air Base, they had to beat the storm.
In other words, now or never.
She eyed her target, waiting for the right moment.
After fueling up on coffee, she and Painter had moved on to the station’s recreation area. They had picked a spot neighboring a trio of pool tables. A set of double doors to the right led into a dark movie theater. There was also a gym on the other side, and visible through a window on the far side, a swimming pool glowed a soft blue. A single swimmer had been doing slow laps for the past twenty minutes, reminding Kat of a restless tiger in a cage.
Having trained in intelligence operations, she knew enough psychology to recognize the signs of stress in the handful of base personnel who wandered through the center in the wee hours of the morning. The causes were easy enough to identify. The inhabitants here were isolated, cut off from family and friends. Add to that the bipolar months of endless night or eternal day, which would strain anyone’s natural circadian rhythm—no matter how much of the world’s best coffee was supplied to them. Also the station was clearly run around the clock, offering little relief to their daily schedule.
She gave her head a sad shake.
All the fake plasma windows looking out onto sunlit beaches and happy pastel-colored walls could not offset human nature.
As expected, the worst afflicted were those on this swing shift. She suspected the individuals assigned this duty were people who did not work well with others, the most antisocial.
And our best targets.
She had selected a broad-shouldered hulk of a brute, who from the grime permanently etched under his nails likely worked in a mechanical bay. He was shooting pool with some buddies in green coveralls, all part of the same work crew. They were blowing off steam after a shift. A row of Foster beer cans lining the edge of the table had been growing steadily longer. Her target glanced her way a few times, whispering every now and again to his mates, often with chuckles.
She imagined there were not that many women working up here.
She waited until the man headed away from the pool table, aiming for one of the bathrooms. His path would take him past their table. As he approached, she stood, telling Painter she was going to the restroom, then timed her turn to bump hard into the large gentleman. She purposefully struggled with him in confusion—then jumped back with a look of fear and affront on her face.
She swore at him and crossed an arm over her chest. She looked to Painter, who was already on his feet. “He . . . he just grabbed my breast.”
Painter leaped forward, while the man lifted his palms, unsure what was happening. “What do you think you’re doing?” Painter yelled at him.
The man tried to deny her accusation, but he fumbled for words, both inebriated and confused. Painter shoved him—hard. He crashed into the next table, which raised some chuckles from his bunch.
As expected, with his dignity assaulted and too addled to think clearly, the target swung at Painter. The director ducked the fist, and the fight was on. Chairs scattered, punches were thrown, and soon the pair were rolling across the floor. The giant’s mates hung back, most clearly believing the wiry stranger was no match for their friend.
Kat grew concerned of the same.
Where the hell is—?
The doors behind her burst open. Three men in black uniforms and caps barreled inside. In the lead was their true target, the spider they had hoped to lure from his web. Anton Mikhailov charged forward, his pale face flushed, making his tattoo stand out angrily. Apparently he saw no reason to cover it up here.
“Stop this right now,” he boomed out, his Russian accent thick with fury.
They had anticipated Simon Hartnell would have ordered his head of security to watch over the DARPA investigators, especially when they were out of their rooms. All it took was a little coaxing to get him to join them.
His two men rushed into the fray and tried to pull the fighters apart.
Painter took that moment to demonstrate how much he had been reining in his pugilistic skills. He punched his opponent twice in the face, a roundhouse followed by an uppercut square to the chin. The giant’s head cracked back, and he slumped to the floor, out cold.
Painter stood, shaking a bloody fist.
Kat held back a grin.
Never should’ve doubted you.
“What is this all about?” Anton demanded.
Painter turned to him, his eyes flashing. “What sort of place are you running? This man assaulted my companion.” He waved to the others around the pool table. “Fat lot of good they did to stop him.”
His insult was sufficient to tweak the others into angry protests.
Kat backed toward Anton, eyeing them. “Can . . . can you please take me to my room?”
“Of course.” He waved to his men. “Haul him out of here. We’ll deal with this later.”
“Thank you,” Kat said, feigning great relief, shaking slightly for effect.
Anton led them out of the recreation area and across the communal dining hall to the corridor leading to their room. “I apologize for what happened,” he said, stalking stiffly before them. “There will be repercussions. I promise you.”
When they reached the door to her room, he used his own keycard to open her door. Clearly he had an all-access pass.
Good.
Kat positioned herself to shield what was to come from the hall camera. She did not know if anyone was still manning the security station, but she wasn’t taking any chances.
As the door swung open, Painter shoved Anton into the room and followed on his heels. Kat came behind them, closing the door.
As Anton turned, Painter pointed his SIG Sauer P229 at the man’s nose. “Hello, Anton Mikhailov.”
/> The man stiffened in surprise, both at the threat and the use of his true name, but he quickly composed himself.
“What do you want?” he spat back.
Painter cocked the hammer. “You’re going to take us to Safia al-Maaz.”
3:04 A.M.
“What do you think?” Safia asked Rory.
His face filled her laptop’s screen as he leaned closer to his webcam. “You may be on to something.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I couldn’t sleep after learning the mummified woman might be Jewish. I tossed and turned—then it struck me that maybe we were looking at this all wrong.”
She had the reconstruction of the tattooed hieroglyphics up on her screen. “The challenge of deciphering what was written on her body was difficult enough with the missing sections and glyphs. Still, some of the intact sections should’ve been readable, but we were assuming she was Egyptian.”
Rory sat straighter. “And we know that’s not true now.”
She pulled up onto the screen what she had been working on all night, wanting Rory as a sounding board.
“We know that Egyptians wrote hieroglyphs in two ways,” she said. “Some images were simply representational, like a symbol for a cat means ‘cat.’ But sometimes scribes would phonetically spell the same out. In the ancient Egyptian language, the spoken word for cat is miw.”
Rory nodded. “Like the sound a cat makes.”
She smiled. “Exactly. So they’d use three symbols to spell the word. Like this.”
She brought up the two examples.
“But if this woman was Jewish and spoke an early form of Hebrew, maybe we need to rethink how we’re reading her hieroglyphics. Instead of phonetically spelling out Egyptian words, maybe she was using the only script she knew to spell out her native tongue.”