The Amun Chamber Read online

  He lit the last cigarette in his pack as walked down the planked pathway, drawn by a spectacular sunrise building across the placid bay. They had stayed up late, both enjoying a second drink with their meal and the comfort of a driftwood fire. By the time they finally retired the storm was long spent.

  Enjoying the moment, he stood at the water’s edge, absorbing the peaceful silence and thinking how easily he could be seduced by such solitude. The landscape struck him as reminiscent of an Andrew Wyeth painting; at first glance almost empty, yet rich in muted color and subtle detail. Had anything of real substance changed here over the past century? He guessed not. As a youngster, Lionel almost certainly played along this very stretch of sand—and in his mind’s eye, he could picture the smallish boy scampering barefoot and happy across the beach, seeking adventure and treasure behind every wind-swept dune. Could any child with imagination not be inspired by such an idyllic existence? Perhaps in some way it even contributed to what he eventually became. But such speculation was now meaningless, he knew, serving no real purpose.

  His focus now shifted to the woman still sleeping inside.

  Richard had related to him virtually all he knew about Elizabeth, even including—with some reluctance—an unsubstantiated rumor overheard by Elise at an alumni tea party. The story circulating was that a supposedly imminent engagement announcement between Elizabeth and a prominent young attorney had been called off. If true, it was hardly a scandal; but it would go a long way towards explaining her recent behavior. As traumatic as her father’s death was, he found it hard to believe it was her sole reason for isolating herself like this out on the Cape. She gave no indication the story had substance during their evening conversation—but, then again, why would she bring up something this personal with a relative stranger?

  David turned and retraced his steps, knowing it wasn’t going to be easy leaving today. He liked Elizabeth very much—and on levels that were decidedly unfamiliar to all his previous experiences. Without question, she was a very special young woman. At the front of the house he unlocked the rental, retrieving a fresh pack of cigarettes off the car’s dash. A hot cup of coffee would taste damn good right about now. But with Elizabeth still asleep—

  A sharp rap at the window pulled his head up. She was smiling at him from inside, tempting him with a raised mug. If anything, the morning light only enhanced her natural beauty.

  No, leaving today wasn’t going to be easy at all!

  * * *

  They drove into Chatham before eight o’clock, Elizabeth needing to replenish her supply of groceries. David offered to drive. It provided him with a convenient excuse to spend more time with her. Too, he was in no rush to return to Provincetown, his flight still a good five hours away.

  What little he saw of the quaint village, he liked. It was a picturesque place, not untouched by the summer invasion of tourists, but short on the unsightly billboards and wall-to-wall souvenir shops so prevalent further north. The store she guided him to was typical of most rural towns, not unlike one where he once bussed groceries as a boy. Even the elderly proprietor appeared characteristically true to type, smiling a pleasant greeting at his first customers of the day.

  Her few purchases filled only two bags, which he placed in the truck.

  As he got behind the wheel, she said, “If you don’t mind, David, there’s one more stop I’d really like to make. It won’t take me but a few minutes, I promise. We go right by it on the way back.”

  Her directions took them to a white, clapboard church on the fringe of town, where he parked in the shade of a huge sycamore. Adjoining the church was an old cemetery enclosed by a rusty, wrought iron fence. Inside the gate, Elizabeth stood for moment as if getting her bearings, then led him to a plain granite marker. Bending forward, she placed her hand affectionately on the polished surface. The name cut deep into the stone read Norman Kant Wakelin. Born in 1912, he was eighty-four years old at the time of his death in 1996.

  “If you wondered last night,” she said, “how I ever learned anything at all about my grandfather, it was from this dear, sweet soul.”

  He waited for her to elaborate.

  “Norman was a retired merchant seaman living all alone in that first small farmhouse on the road into Chatham. When I was little, he made my vacations here something special, gave me memories I’ll always treasure. It seemed there wasn’t anything he didn’t know about Chatham, or Cape Cod—or the whole world, for that matter.” She smiled wistfully. “His home was close enough for me to slip over for visits whenever my father wasn’t watching. I couldn’t begin to count the times I spent sitting on Norman’s front porch, listening to him tell of all the exotic and wonderful places he visited in his lifetime.”

  When she paused, he asked, “Your father didn’t approve of Mr. Wakelin? Mind telling me why?”

  “It’s rather simple, really. You see, Norman and my grandfather grew up here together. Best friends since childhood. And they remained so to the end, even after Lionel deserted his family.”

  “Something your father wasn’t about to forgive?”

  She nodded.

  “That Norman and my grandfather stayed close was intolerable to him. But friends they remained. Norman told me once that even when Lionel was off living in Egypt, they still found opportunities to meet. It wasn’t often, I imagine, but whenever Norman’s schedule took him into Port Said or Alexandria, Lionel somehow manage to greet his ship, even if it only gave them a few hours together.”

  Again, she paused, then added, “I know Norman was hurt by my father’s enmity, but he understood the reasons and accepted them. That was the sort of man he was. He didn’t have it in him to pass judgment on anyone. With no family of his own, I guess he kind of adopted me. It’s rather difficult to put into words, but I always thought of him as the grandfather I never knew.” She straightened up, a film of tears evident in her eyes. “I suppose that sounds a bit strange, I realize—”

  “Not to me.”

  “Do you think maybe it was somehow being disloyal to my father?”

  “Not at all.”

  He took his time driving back to the house.

  * * *

  A half hour later, sandwiches made and fresh coffee brewing on the stove, Elizabeth went upstairs. As she walked the hallway to her bedroom, she hesitated at the bathroom door, wondering if David might need one of the fresh razors her father kept in the cabinet drawer. She considered knocking, but thought better of it when she heard water running in the shower.

  Once in her bedroom, she sat before her bureau mirror in a growing mood of dejection as she brushed out her hair. There was no question David was a very fascinating man; probably one of the most interesting and accomplished she’d ever encountered. Not only was he a gifted educator and archaeologist, but also a successful writer. And she’d be lying to herself, she knew, not to admit she found him physically attractive. But what most appealed to her defied ready definition, not something she could consciously put her finger on. And now he was leaving, soon to be out of her life completely. Just knowing this left her feeling even more confused and empty. What she needed was far more time to sort out all of her conflicting emotions.

  But time was running out.

  Within the hour, he’d be gone.

  Perhaps it would be different, she now speculated, if she could’ve somehow given him more information on her grandfather. But there was really nothing more to offer. After her father’s death, she’d gone through all of his private papers and correspondence in Boston. Absolutely nothing pertained to Lionel. Nor was there anything here on the Cape. Christ, if there was anything lying around, then surely she would’ve encountered it by now! There wasn’t a single place in the entire house that she hadn’t—

  Or was there? The attic!

  Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

  Elizabeth set the brush down and hurried out into the hall, only to hear the shower still running. She debated waiting for him; then decided
against it. Surely it made more sense to begin exploring on her own, she reasoned. Why raise false hopes on his part when there was probably nothing? Besides which, the door leading up into the attic was right there at the end of the hallway. By leaving it open, she’d certainly hear when he came out.

  Satisfied this was workable, she climbed the narrow stairway to the next floor, there flipping a switch inside the attic entrance. Though the light fixture was mounted high on the wall, the bulb was layered in dust, the illumination it provided inadequate for the size of the room. What she really needed was a good flashlight. At first glance, the visible contents of the dingy room were disappointing, offering little to investigate. Nothing like she’d hoped, anyway. Just some open cardboard boxes, a few pieces of dated furniture, and further back a flimsy rack of what looked to be old suits and winter coats. Opening one of the boxes she saw pairs of worn shoes and folded articles of children’s clothing, keepsakes someone had long ago chosen to save.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “I’m up here,” she answered. Leaning over the railing, she saw him looking up, still tucking in his shirt. “I thought it might be a smart idea if we took a quick peek through some of this material if you’ve still got time. There’s not as much as I first hoped, but what there is has been up here for ages. We’re going to need a flashlight to do it right. If you don’t mind, I’m sure there’s one in the kitchen drawer beside the sink. Could you—?”

  “Give me a second. I’ll be right up.”

  Rather than wait for him, she began checking out the portable rack. It was a metal tube affair, holding a dozen or more assorted suits on wire hangers. Why anyone had saved them was beyond her imagining. All of them were wool, now permeated with the musty scent of decay and mothballs. Holding onto the top bar, she separated several, seeing nothing of interest. She turned her head to the sound of David’s footsteps on the stairs—and as she did so, the rack suddenly shifted on its casters, tilting sharply away from her. As she reached forward to steady it, her foot caught on something solid, sending both her and the rack crashing to the floor.

  David was at her side immediately.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, helping her up.

  More embarrassed than hurt, she brushed off her legs and elbows. “No, really, I’m fine. Honestly, it was the stupidest darn thing. I tripped over something just as you came up.”

  “This?” He bent down and dragged a smallish trunk from beneath the wreckage of the rack. It was also layered in dust, a frayed square of paper affixed to the lid. To better see, he snapped on the flashlight.

  “That’s definitely the culprit,” she said, watching as he wiped the paper with his hand. “I really should’ve waited for more light, but figured—” She stopped short, noting the strange look building on his face. “What is it, David?”

  He held the beam of light on the paper.

  “You better take look at this,” he said in a low voice. “If I read this right, it’s a shipping bill from Alexandria, Egypt.”

  “What—?”

  “And look at the stamp date.”

  Doing so, her eyes widened in shock.

  It read August 11, 1956—the date her grandfather died.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  David maneuvered the dusty trunk down both sets of stairs to the living room. The weight was actually negligible; by its size and appearance hardly more than one might expect it to weigh empty. Yet it did contain something, for he felt a distinct shifting inside as he deposited it on the floor.

  The trunk’s age was obvious. It was a period piece, of a type and style unseen since before his father’s time. If this belonged to Lionel—which it must have—it was probably old even then. Plates of tarnished metal protected the corners, each dented and scarred from decades of rough handling. Two leather belts bound the lid shut, both buckled securely at the front. A keyed lock was built into the metal latch, though a cursory examination of its construction was encouraging; cheaply made, springing the inside mechanism should present little challenge.

  While Elizabeth hunted through the kitchen for a tool to accomplish this, he tackled the problem of the leather straps. The aged material was a good two inches wide, long since dried and shrunken in place; unbuckling them was no longer possible. Seeing no alternative, he knelt on the floor and pulled with all his strength until the clasps either snapped or tore free. He then flipped the straps out of the way as Elizabeth returned with a screwdriver.

  “It’s all I can find,” she said, kneeling down beside him. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll have to get a hammer or something and bust it loose.”

  That extreme measure proved unnecessary. As expected, the lock sprung easily and he opened the lid.

  Their first glimpse at the trunk’s jumbled contents dashed Elizabeth’s high expectations. She sighed in disappointment, sitting back on her heels. Inside appeared to be nothing more than a pair of worn boots atop a crudely wrapped bundle of old clothing. But was this all? David didn’t think so. Circled and tied with cheap twine, the lump was surrounded by bed sheets—or something similar in size and material—used more or less as stuffing between it and the inner walls. Like an egg in a nest, he thought.

  But why?

  He broke the twine, setting the boots aside. There was something of weight inside the makeshift package. He felt the heft of it as he pealed back the layers of clothing. Finally, there remained only a soiled cotton shirt wrapped tight around a hard—

  “My God!” he exclaimed.

  For the briefest moment, he felt his jaw actually drop as he continued to stare at the object in his hand. It was a circular plate of solid gold the width of his palm—and easily a full quarter of an inch thick. But it was the design emblazoned across its surface that froze his mind in wonder. It was beautiful—perfect in every detail—and there was no question as to what it represented.

  Elizabeth finally broke the long silence.

  “David, is—is that what I think it—?”

  He nodded mechanically. “No doubt, whatsoever. It’s the ancient sunburst symbol of Macedonian kings.”

  Molded into the surface of the gold disk were the classic eight elongated teardrop shapes required to create the symbol. The four larger were fashioned in lapis lazuli, the smaller in the finest quality carnelian—and all radiating outward from a central circle of pale blue turquoise. The cut and polished stones were superb, each masterfully keyed in place with minute strands of gold wire. The visual effect was stunning in its perfection.

  Elizabeth swallowed, clasping his arm to steady herself.

  “Does—does this mean,” she whispered incredulously, “my grandfather might’ve actually found the body of Alexander the Great? That this came from his—his—”

  Sharing her wonderment, he gave no immediate reply. At this moment, what else was there for him to believe? Everything pointed to this single, mind-boggling conclusion—and the clear evidence of it was right here in his hand.

  And it was real!

  * * *

  Six days later and half a world away from Cape Cod, David stood alone looking out through the sliding glass doors of Dr. Edith Whiteley’s private study. In his hand was a glass of scotch and soda, freshly made at her wet-bar. The deep blue of the late afternoon sky over Salonika was a welcome sight to his eyes; red tiles above brilliant white stucco, lush grass, the narrow gravel walkways—all combined to create the rural Greek atmosphere he’d come to love. Living here in Greece for the past number of years had made a convert of him. He felt at home.

  The familiar residence of his great-aunt was a rambling, tile-roofed collection of buildings that crowned a high hill overlooking the suburbs of Greece’s second largest city. The growing complex—for such the property was fast becoming since its recent donation to the University of Thessalonika—already contained a sizeable laboratory, several offices, and even a modest library. And there were still more additions on the drawing board, projects yet to be started.

  He shifted his eyes acr
oss a wide lawn to the south patio, watching as Edith mingled happily among a gathering of university guests. She clearly appeared to thrive on all the solicitous attention being bestowed upon her. And why shouldn’t she? he thought as he sipped again at his drink. It was damn well earned! No living person had done more to enhance the reputation for excellence now being enjoyed by the university. Plump in her flowered, cotton dress, she was a strong-featured woman with cropped, silver hair and sprightly blue eyes. Except for a chronic shortness of breath, which necessitated her reliance on a cane, she could easily pass for much younger than her admitted eighty-six years. Nor had her advanced age dulled her intellectual capabilities in any detectable way. Far from it. In David’s opinion, she still remained one of the most brilliant people he ever knew.

  As if somehow aware of his thoughts, Edith now left the patio and began walking back up the gravel path towards him. It was coming up on five o’clock, and knowing his wish to speak with her briefly in private, she’d doubtless given her guests some trivial excuse to break away.

  While waiting, he glanced over to where Elizabeth sat chatting with several others around a shaded table. All were people she’d met only a few hours before. If the experience of being thrust among complete strangers unnerved her, it wasn’t evident. The long flight out of New York into Athens, not to mention their connecting flight into Salonika’s Mikra Airport last night, had almost certainly exhausted her—which only made her relaxed demeanor all the more admirable.

  As he watched, he noted one man in particular seemed bent on monopolizing her attention. His name was Sal Oristano, one of Edith’s long-time acquaintances and a seemingly perennial guest at all of her functions. Not someone David particularly liked, he was a tall, olive-complexioned fellow who exuded the relaxed poise and charm of inherited wealth. Though not unattractive to women, his playboy image had gained him a rather mixed reputation in Salonika’s higher social circles. Fortunately, however, Elizabeth was presently in the reliable care of Nick Travlos, David’s closest friend at the University. Just knowing that she’d arrived with him was quite reason enough for Nick and his wife to watch over her.