Pyramid: A Novel (Jack Howard Series Book 8) (16 page)

The pilot’s voice came through his headphones. “Jack, we’re holding off for another fifteen minutes or so while a helo ahead of us delivers a film crew. As soon as they’ve cleared the helipad, we’re good to go.”

“Roger that, Charlie,” Jack replied. “I’ll use the time to get up to speed on the site. I don’t think I’m going to get much chance for that once I’m on board. And our colleague could always use a little more beauty sleep.”

“Roger that,” the pilot said. “I’ll advise you.”

A noise like a snorting water buffalo came through the intercom, and Jack pushed Costas up again and wedged him beside the window. He took out his iPad, attached the keyboard, propped it on his knees, and opened a ghostly image of the sarcophagus as he and Costas had first seen it from the submersible three months before. There was no indication that any other antiquities had been on board the ship, and the decision had been made not to excavate the site any further than was required to clear a large enough space to feed the cushioned winch cables beneath the sarcophagus preparatory to lifting it. He touched the screen and opened up the image that had brought them to this spot in the first place, a previously
unknown watercolor that had appeared in an auction a few months earlier showing
Beatrice
in the harbor of Smyrna in Turkey. On the back had been a pencilled note made years later by the captain of the ship—George Wichelo, a man thought to have died in the wreck—giving its location in this bay a few nautical miles north of Valencia, resolving a mystery that had led undersea explorers on numerous false trails over the years in the hunt for the fabled lost sarcophagus.

The artist had accurately shown
Beatrice
as a brig, with foremast and mainmast and the boom for a spanker over the stern. Despite being on the cusp of the Victorian era, only a generation away from the transformation to steam power,
Beatrice
was indistinguishable in appearance from her forbears of the Napoleonic Wars period. She still bore the checkerboard “Nelson pattern” of gunports that merchantmen in the Mediterranean retained against Barbary pirates from North Africa, still a threat in the early 1830s when the painting had been made. He tapped the screen again and brought up a three-dimensional visualization of the wreck that Lanowski had completed a few days before, based on weeks of survey using a high-precision multibeam sonar array mounted on a remote-operated vehicle flown a few meters above the seabed.

The program allowed a virtual fly-around of the site, and Jack swept his fingers across the screen to get as many angles as possible. The wreckage had been rendered in metallic gray to distinguish it from the sediment in which it had been partly buried. He could clearly see the lines of protruding frames and the regular mounds that were all that was left of her iron deck knees, the results of a refit that provided the only concession to modernity in a hull otherwise built in time-honored fashion using timbers and copper nails. The sarcophagus and the ship’s sixteen guns had been rendered in white, highlighting the elements with the greatest inert weight that might have affected the ship’s freeboard and stability. In a way that Jack had not appreciated on the
seabed, the visualization showed how all the starboard guns had shifted to the port side and how the sarcophagus was also off center, as if straining on the cordage that must once have held it in place.

There was little doubt in Jack’s mind what had caused the wreck. Lanoswki’s simulation had shown that even with extra compensating ballast, she would have been dangerously unstable with the sarcophagus on deck, three tons of granite that would have unbalanced a ship of little more than 200 tons deadweight. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to imagine the sea as it must have looked on that winter’s day when the ship had come to grief in the bay. Her last known ports of call had been Valetta in Malta and then Leghorn, modern Livorno, far up the Italian coast. At that time of year, Wichelo may have encountered strong northeasterlies all the way from Alexandria, and decided to claw his way up the western shore of Italy rather than attempting to sail due west from Malta with the risk of being blown into the North African shore and any awaiting corsairs. From Leghorn it would have been plain sailing with a northeasterly mistral behind him across the Gulf of Lyons, an exhilarating run when all went well, with the hope of rounding the southern coast of Spain into the Strait of Gibraltar. For some reason, perhaps because the wind became a gale, perhaps because the recent refit had given the vessel more leeway than the captain had been used to, perhaps because the lading of his cargo had made the ship less maneuverable—probably a combination of all these factors—his course and the coast of Spain converged just north of Valencia. Had they rounded the next headland, they might have made Valencia. As it was, the bay where they came to grief offered no shelter and only a jagged rocky shore dropping off to great depth, so there was little hope of grounding the ship or saving its cargo.

The sarcophagus had been lashed down and wedged with beams but would still have been vulnerable to a sudden roll. The captain would have done his best to
avoid broaching to—coming beam-on to the waves—knowing that a roll could cause the sarcophagus to strain against its lashings and break free. Although the ship’s guns were only lightweight six- and nine-pounders, they still weighed over half a ton apiece and must have been part of the problem in her final moments. The eight guns on her starboard side broke free of their carriages and crashed to port as the ship heeled over, adding to the displaced weight of the sarcophagus and making recovery impossible. But then as the port gunwale became submerged, she took on such a weight of water so quickly that she came upright again as she sank, keeping the sarcophagus from tumbling overboard and providing enough cushioning in the hull structure to protect it from damage when the ship hit the seafloor.

The sudden swamping had been fortunate for the preservation of the sarcophagus, but less so for the crew. As always Jack reflected on the human cost, on the terror of those final moments. It probably took only seconds for the ship to sink, taking with it anyone belowdecks and sucking down the others in the vortex. It was a minor miracle that anyone should have survived, and more so that it should have been Captain Wichelo himself, a man assumed to have gone down with the ship but whose pencilled note years later on the back of the watercolor had shown otherwise. Jack felt certain that his survival was an accident of fate; there would have been no time for anyone deliberately to abandon ship. He remembered the time he had spent in the crow’s nest of a cadet training ship when he had learned to sail, and imagined that Wichelo might have scrambled up to the maintop in the search for a safe anchorage and then been thrown clear when the ship heeled over and the masts dipped into the waves.

Wichelo’s disappearance after coming ashore was not difficult to fathom. He was an experienced captain who had taken
Beatrice
many times across the Atlantic and through the Mediterranean, who must have looked death in the face before. He would have been bound by
the immemorial custom of the sea that a captain is always the last to leave his ship. That custom was so deeply embedded in the seafarers’ code that even a hint of suspicion among friends and colleagues that he had put his own life before others might have been too much for him to bear. He might also have been doing a favor to his beneficiaries, knowing that the insurance claim would stand a better chance of succeeding if he were not there to give evidence of unsafe lading that as an honest man he might have been unable to conceal. He would have known that he had taken a risk in accepting the cargo, and that the price of failure was absolute.

Jack imagined the scene with Colonel Vyse on the docks at Alexandria, a stone’s throw from Qaitbey Fortress and the place where the Geniza poet Halevi had landed from Spain in the twelfth century. Wichelo would have been a good captain for Vyse to approach, one with an established reputation who perhaps had taken antiquities before for clients to England. Vyse might have been less concerned with the suitability of the ship itself for his particular cargo, his blunderings in the pyramid suggesting that he lacked a good eye for the logistics of transport. But he was a wealthy man who would have offered Wichelo a handsome remuneration, perhaps enough to secure a comfortable retirement capped by the small fame of being the man who had brought the centerpiece of the British Museum’s collection safely from Egypt. If Wichelo had declined, there would have been others eager to accept. He would have known that his ship was not ideal and that the summer sailing season was coming to an end, but he was swayed by the rewards. It was always a precarious business being a ship’s captain, with the lion’s share of the glory if a venture succeeded but a quick fall to ignominy if things went wrong.

Jack touched the screen to bring up Lanowski’s second CGI, an animation that he had not wanted to see until he had worked it through in his own mind. He smiled as he saw the ghostly image of the ship, exact in
every particular of a brig’s standing and running rigging. The attention to detail was just like Lanowski. He had shown Wichelo gambling on a full spread of canvas, with the rudder hard over to port in an attempt to steer parallel with the coast. As the bay loomed, the topsails were furled and the ship suddenly broached on to the waves, heeling over and swamping. As if in an X-ray through the hull, he could see the sarcophagus shift and the starboard guns break free and tumble to port, and then the ship submerging, coming upright again, and hitting the seabed almost a thousand meters below in a cloud of silt before sliding to a rest.

Jack stared at the screen. “Bingo,” he said quietly. He now felt fully prepped for what lay ahead. He took the iPad apart and slotted it into his backpack, and then brought his mind back to the present and to Captain Macalister on
Seaquest
. He was as embedded in nautical tradition as Wichelo had been. As captain he had final say on all operations carried out on board, not just navigation but also diving and exploration.

Since finding the wreck three months previously, the work to map and evaluate the site had been in the hands of a highly experienced project director, and Jack had no intention of taking over. His role with Costas was to be on the seabed to secure the cradle and look for anything that might be revealed as the sarcophagus was lifted free. Jack knew the pressure that Macalister would now be under, with the countdown into its final phase and the focus on safety for the equipment operators as well as for the divers in the water.

Jack watched the other helicopter rise from the ship, swoop low over the bay, and then disappear beyond the rocky shoreline. He thought back to Egypt, to Hiebermeyer and his desperate race against time to complete the necropolis excavation before the forces of darkness descended. At least here they were working in full cooperation with the Spanish authorities, and the only political dimension was one created by IMU itself, to use the raising of the sarcophagus as leverage with the Egyptian
authorities to allow Hiebermeyer to finish his work and to secure the release of the student in Cairo. With prime-time media across the world prepped for the event this afternoon, and with the return of the sarcophagus to Egypt hardwired into the story, the pressure on the antiquities director in Cairo would be considerable. That had been their gamble in letting in the film crews, but with the additional situation with the girl, it had seemed a gamble worth taking. He drummed his fingers against the side of the seat.
If
the weather held.
If
the new derrick cooperated.
If
there was no other glitch. He shut his eyes, mouthing the words that had become his mantra:
Lucky Jack
.

The pilot came over the intercom. “Jack, we’re going in now.”

“Roger that.”

Costas suddenly shot awake, blinking hard, his face beaming with excitement. “I’ve got it, Jack.
I’ve got it
. I know how to fix Little Joey. And I’m starving. Take us home, Charlie.”

T
wenty minutes later Jack opened the door of the conference room on
Seaquest
to a blaze of camera flashes and shouted greetings. He held up a hand, smiling, and scanned the room. He counted at least twenty-five journalists, some of them familiar faces who had followed his projects for years, others big-name foreign correspondents who had been attracted not only by the drama of the sarcophagus but also by the political dimension of its return to Egypt.

There was a large contingent of Spanish reporters, and as Jack made his way behind the table at the head of the room, he quickly shook hands with the two representatives of the Spanish Ministry of Culture who were sitting there. Beside them was James Macalister, a short, dapper man with a white beard, immaculate in his uniform with the braid of a captain on his shoulders. Space had been left for Jack between Costas and the project manager, and as he sat down Macalister leaned back and spoke to him. “We’ve done the background on the
Beatrice
and the sarcophagus, and run through the logistics. You’re just here for a quick meet and greet.” Jack nodded, and Macalister stood up, addressing the room.

“All of you will be familiar with Jack Howard, who has just arrived on board
Seaquest
with Dr. Kazantzakis.
They’ll be on the seabed supervising the raising of the sarcophagus, and you’ll be getting broadcast-quality live feed from them. There’ll be plenty of opportunities after that for interviews. Right now this is just a chance to say hello.”

A woman in the front row raised her hand, waving it in the air. “What were you doing in Egypt, Jack? You were spotted at the airport at Sharm el–Sheikh.”

Jack groaned inwardly but kept his cool. The journalist who had asked the question was one of his most ardent fans, but also a blunt instrument as far as the politics were concerned. She was one of the main reasons why he preferred to avoid any kind of press conference before a project was over, but he knew that to try to deny his presence would only stoke up her interest further. “Just checking out the dive resorts. Dr. Kazantzakis tells me that with IMU it’s all work, no play, so I was looking into doing something about it.”

There was a titter of amusement from the others, but the woman persisted. “We had a round-robin in the office guessing what mystery Jack Howard would be trying to solve in the Red Sea. The best we could come up with was the biblical Exodus, the story of Pharaoh’s lost chariot army.”

Jack look at her unblinkingly and smiled broadly. “Now that
would
be a find. If I ever make it, you’ll be the first to know. Meanwhile, I’m delighted that you’re all here for this afternoon’s show. Captain Macalister and his team have been working around the clock to get everything ready. I’m looking forward to spending time with you later.”

Macalister held up his hand. “That’s it. There will be another briefing here with the project manager at 1430 hours, and then if all goes according to plan you will be allowed on the starboard bridge wing with your cameras to film the recovery. Meanwhile you are required to remain in this room or your quarters, with the deck strictly out-of-bounds for your own safety. Thank you for your attention.”

Jack and Costas quickly got up and followed Macalister out of the room, past the two security men stationed there to enforce the captain’s instructions. Macalister turned to Jack.

“That was close.”

“Let’s hope we can keep this operation on track to give them what they’re expecting. I won’t answer any more questions from journalists about Egypt until everything is resolved there.”

Macalister pushed open the door to his day cabin and ushered them in. The room was already occupied by IMU’s security chief, Ben Kershaw, a former Royal Marine who had also worked for MI6, the British secret intelligence service. He was standing at the window with a satellite phone, but lowered it as the others entered. He quickly shook hands with Jack and Costas and then sat down with them at the conference table at one end of the room. Jack poured himself a glass of water and leaned forward, his eyes steely. “Okay, Ben. Tell us what you’ve got.”

“I followed our plan not to involve diplomatic channels except as a last resort. I used personal contacts from my intelligence days in Egypt. I now know exactly where she’s being held, in the lower ground floor of the Ministry of Culture building in Cairo, where the conservation labs have been converted into interrogation chambers.”

“Archaeology meets the modern world,” Costas said grimly.

“Our plan was to go to the antiquities director to see if he could exert leverage to get the girl released. I couldn’t get any response, and then Professor Dillen intervened. As chair of the IMU board of directors, he was in on this from the start.”

Jack took a sip of coffee. “I know why. About ten years ago, Ibn Afar tried to obtain an archaeological qualification in Britain, when he had his eye on the top job in the Egyptian ministry. He showed up in Cambridge thinking he could bribe his way into a master’s degree by promising future excavation permits to anyone
who helped him. Dillen was the only one who didn’t dismiss him outright but sat down and explained how things work in the West and then arranged for him to start off as a volunteer at the British Museum. That didn’t last long, predictably, but I know that once he was back in Egypt working his way up the greasy pole, he often contacted Dillen to ask for references and endorsement, seeing him as a kind of patron.”

“They had a phone conversation this morning,” Ben said. “Dillen told him that the offer to return the sarcophagus to Egypt still stood, and that Ibn Afar would have all the limelight. But he also told him that there would be no movement until the girl was released. Dillen and I had already agreed that we should give him a two-day ultimatum. With the sarcophagus being raised today, Ibn Afr was told that the press would be clamoring to know its destination and that the Spanish authorities would reinstate their claim to ownership if it looked as if there was uncertainty. Of course, we all know that the Spanish government, UNESCO, and IMU will no longer condone the plan to return the sarcophagus to Egypt given the present political circumstances, but Ibn Hafr is in Cairo cocooned from reality and won’t necessarily guess that. But he’s wily enough to know a veiled threat when he sees one. If he fails to come up with the goods, three days from now he suffers international humiliation and opprobrium when it’s revealed that the decision to return the sarcophagus has been revoked and his name is linked with the arrest of the girl.”

“So what was his response?” Jack said, finishing his drink.

Ben leaned forward, clasped his hands together, and stared at Jack. “There’s a trial due in two days’ time. She’ll be in the dock with a hundred or so others. The accusation is read out, and they are convicted and sentenced to death.”

“A
death
sentence?” Jack exclaimed. “That’s outrageous. For being accused of stealing a scrap of medieval manuscript?”

“Ibn Hafr says that he’ll try his best to get her off. My intelligence source says that as things stand he will probably succeed. Antiquities theft was of more concern to the old regime than to the extremists, and they’re more interested in cases of apostasy or adultery. If there are actually going to be executions, those will be the ones to go first. My source says that Ibn Hafr will make a big show of the difficulty and how he’s putting himself on the line, and that we should go along with that; it’s all part of the game. But we should hold him absolutely to the deadline, which stands at 1030 hours two days from now.”

“To the second,” Jack said coldly.

“There’s one big
if
in all this,” Costas interjected. “
If
things stay as they are. If there’s a meltdown and the extremists take over in two days’ time, then we’ve lost her.”

“She won’t be the only one,” Ben said. “If there’s a takeover, the hundreds awaiting execution now will be joined by thousands more. My source is expecting a complete purge of government ministries.”

Costas shook his head. “Roll on the Dark Ages.”

“We have to try to be optimistic,” Jack said. “Egypt isn’t like Iraq or Afghanistan, brutalized by dictatorship or decades of war. We’re talking about a civilized and decent people who will not allow themselves to be taken to the cage without a fight.”

Macalister looked grim. “Not so easy when your oppressors are psychopaths who have been building up a head of steam for over a hundred years.”

“There’s always the military option,” Ben said.

Jack stared at him. “Are you suggesting that we invade like the British did in 1882, and again in 1956? With the right force you might push the extremists out of Cairo, but then you’d be likely creating an insurgent war like the one the coalition fought in Iraq, with the same cocktail of terrorism, suicide bombings, and an enemy who disappears and rematerializes as soon as you think you’ve scored a success. The civilian population
would soon become too weakened and demoralized to resist. And any Western intervention in Egypt now would be seen by hard-liners elsewhere as tantamount to an alliance with Israel. Any radicalized regime not yet in open conflict with Israel would soon join in. We’d be stoking up World War Three.”

Ben leaned over the table and looked at him intently. “You know the other military option, Jack. You’ve been in special forces.”

“You mean targeted assassinations?” Jack pursed his lips. “I was involved in two ops against leadership targets in the Middle East. I was just a ferryman, a temporary naval officer who happened to be good at driving Zodiacs. One op was a success, the other an abort. But if you want to hear about the tit-for-tat consequences of those ops, go no further than Engineer Lieutenant Commander Kazantzakis of the U.S. Navy Reserve, who won his Navy Cross rescuing seamen blown into the water from his ship in a copycat attack of the terrorist assault on USS
Cole
, provoked by a similar U.S. special forces assassination attempt.”

Costas looked at Ben. “I was at the debrief with the SEAL team who did the op. That was back before 9/11, and the conclusion even then with targeted assassinations was that you cut off one head, and another one grows in its place. Since then the bad guys have become very good at creating the infrastructure to absorb punishment. Kill one Taliban commander, and five others are there to take his place. The extremists in Egypt must have a tight command structure, but they’ve been very careful not to publicize their leadership. Assassination is useful only if the target is a known quantity and a big name.”

Jack tapped his pencil on the table. “Which brings us back to archaeology, and to the people of Egypt. Archaeology is the greatest weapon we have against extremism. Egypt more than any other country in the world has become dependent on archaeology for its livelihood. From the lowliest camel driver on the Giza
plateau to the hotel owners and the tour guides, archaeology provides the lifeblood of the nation. That’s what we’ve got to marshal in this battle. It could be the first time that archaeology—the place of archaeology in the modern world and people’s lives—provides the critical groundswell for a popular uprising. Right now, that’s what we’re in this game for. We’re talking about saving people’s lives.”

Ben nodded. “Let’s hope it happens in time for a frightened girl and her family in Cairo.”

Jack stared bleakly around the table. He knew what Aysha would say: inshallah. He took a deep breath. “Okay. We’re done here. Thanks for everything, Ben. Keep me in the loop.”

Costas stood up. “I can finally get to the engineering lab. No time for Little Joey, but I want to run some final diagnostics on the gimbal in the submersible. There’s something I need to adjust. And I haven’t had a go with the new derrick yet.”

Macalister glanced at his watch. “Meet on deck at 1500 hours, dive at 1530. Let’s try to keep to the schedule.”

Jack pushed his chair back. “Roger that. On deck one hour from now. Enough time for me to get some shuteye. See you then.”

Ten minutes later Jack closed the door of his cabin and lay back on his bunk, suddenly realizing how tired he was. His cabin was just below the bridge, its portholes looking out over the foredeck and to starboard. He glanced around at his most treasured belongings—the cases of old books, the battered old chest first taken to sea by an ancestor of his on an East Indiaman three hundred years before, the artifacts and photographs that covered the walls. More so than anywhere else, more than his rooms in the old Howard estate in Cornwall, his cabin on
Seaquest
was where he felt most at home, anchored by familiarity. This was where he dreamed of
new discoveries, and yet it was also where the reality when he wakened and felt the tremor of the ship’s engines was more hard edged and exciting than anything he could imagine.

He stared at the wall opposite, at the hanging brass gauntlet from India in the shape of a tiger and above that a painting that Rebecca had done of the Jewish menorah from the temple in Jerusalem, the lost ancient treasure that had taken him on a quest halfway around the world when she was just a child. He was now only a flight away from seeing her, and yet when he closed his eyes it was not her he saw but the immediate task ahead of him, the inky darkness a thousand meters below and the extraordinary scene that he and Costas had seen three months before when they had discovered the wreck of the
Beatrice
and the ancient sarcophagus. He tried to relax, thinking of nothing but the sensation of being underwater, but his mind kept returning to the nagging question that had driven him to return here. Was the missing fragment of the plaque of Akhenaten still inside the sarcophagus? Did it contain the clue that he so desperately wanted, the final piece in the jigsaw puzzle that would justify a return to Egypt and their unfinished quest beneath the pyramid?

“Dr. Howard. Time to go.”

Jack opened his eyes, sat bolt upright, and stared at the chronometer beside his bed. He had been out for almost half an hour. He stood up and took a swig of water from a bottle on his desk, and then the coffee proffered by the crewman. He quickly drank half the cup. “What’s the state of play?”