Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

“I know, Dr. Collopy, but… well, this is highly unusual.”

“Not now.”

“It requires an immediate response.”

Collopy sighed. “Can’t it wait ten minutes, for heaven’s sake?”

“It’s a bank wire transfer donation of ten million euros for-”

“A gift of ten million euros? Bring it in.”

Mrs. Surd entered, efficient and plump, carrying a paper.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Collopy snatched the paper. “Who’s it from and where do I sign?”

“It’s from a Comte Thierry de Cahors. He’s giving the museum ten million euros to renovate and reopen the Tomb of Senef.”

“The Tomb of Senef? What the devil is that?” Collopy tossed the paper on the desk. “I’ll deal with this later.”

“But it says here, sir, that the funds are waiting in transatlantic escrow and must be either refused or accepted within the hour.”

Collopy resisted an impulse to wring his hands. “We’re awash in bloody restricted funds like this! What we need are general funds to pay the bills. Fax this count whoever and see if you can’t persuade him to make this an unrestricted donation. Use my name with the usual courtesies. We don’t need the money for whatever windmill he’s tilting at.”

“Yes, Dr. Collopy.”

She turned away and Collopy glanced at the group. “Now, I believe Beryl had the floor.”

The lawyer opened her mouth to speak, but Menzies held out a suppressing hand. “Mrs. Surd? Please wait a few minutes before contacting the Count of Cahors.”

Mrs. Surd hesitated, glancing at Collopy for confirmation. The director nodded his confirmation and she left, closing the door behind her.

“All right, Hugo, what’s this about?” Collopy asked.

“I’m trying to remember the details. The Tomb of Senef-it rings a bell. And, now that I recall, so does the Count of Cahors.”

“Can we move on here?” Collopy asked.

Menzies sat forward suddenly. “Frederick, this is moving on! Think back over your museum history. The Tomb of Senef was an Egyptian tomb on display in the museum from its original opening until, I believe, the Depression, when it was closed.”

“And?”

“If memory serves, it was a tomb stolen and disassembled by the French during the Napoleonic invasion of Egypt and later seized by the British. It was purchased by one of the museum’s benefactors and reassembled in the basement as one of the museum’s original exhibits. It must still be there.”

“And who is this Cahors?” Darling asked.

“Napoleon brought an army of naturalists and archaeologists with his army when he invaded Egypt. A Cahors led the archaeological contingent. I imagine this fellow is a descendant.”

Collopy frowned. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Don’t you see? This is precisely what we’re looking for!”

“A dusty old tomb?”

“Exactly! We make a big announcement of the count’s gift, set an opening date with a gala party and all the trappings, and make a media event out of it.” Menzies looked inquiringly at Rocco.

“Yes,” Rocco said. “Yes, that could work. Egypt is always popular with the general public.”

“Could work? It will work. The beauty of it is that the tomb’s already installed. The Sacred Images exhibition has run its course, it’s time for something new. We could do this in two months-or less.”

“A lot depends on the condition of the tomb.”

“Nevertheless, it’s still in place and ready to go. It might only need to be swept out. Our storage rooms are full of Egyptian odds and ends that we could put in the tomb to round out the exhibition. The count is offering plenty of money for whatever restoration is necessary.”

“I don’t understand,” Darling said. “How could an entire exhibition be forgotten for seventy years?”

“For one thing, it would have been bricked up-that’s often what they did to old exhibits to preserve them. “ Menzies smiled a little sadly. “This museum simply has too many artifacts, and not enough money or curators to tend them. That’s why I’ve lobbied for years now to create a position for a museum historian. Who knows what other secrets sleep in the long-forgotten corners?”

A brief silence settled over the room, broken abruptly as Collopy brought his hand down on his desk. “Let’s do it.” He reached for the phone. “Mrs. Surd? Tell the count to release the money. We’re accepting his terms.”

Nora Kelly stood in her laboratory, gazing at a large specimen table covered with fragments of ancient Anasazi pottery. The potsherds were of an unusual type that glowed almost golden in the bright lights, a sheen caused by countless mica particles in the original clay. She had collected the sherds during a summertime expedition to the Four Corners area of the Southwest, and now she had arranged them on a huge contour map of the Four Corners, each sherd in the precise geographical location where it had been found.

She stared at the glittering array, once again trying to make sense of it. This was the core of her major research project at the museum: tracing the diffusion of this rare micaceous pottery from its source in southern Utah as it was traded and retraded across the Southwest and beyond. The pottery had been developed by a religious kachina cult that had come up from Aztec Mexico, and Nora believed that-by tracing the spread of the pottery across the Southwest-she could thereby trace the spread of the kachina cult.

But there were so many sherds, and so many C-14 dates, that making all the variables work together was a thorny problem, and she had not even begun to solve it. She stared hard: the answer was there. She just had to find it.

She sighed and took a sip of coffee, glad she had her basement lab as a refuge from the storm raging outside the museum above. Yesterday it had been the anthrax scare, but today was worse-thanks in large part to her husband, Bill, who had a singular knack for stirring up trouble. He had broken the story in the Times this morning that the powder was, in fact, the museum’s stolen diamond collection, worth hundreds of millions of dollars, pulverized to dust by the thief. The news had caused an uproar worse than anything Nora could remember. The mayor, cornered by a bevy of television cameras outside his office, had already blasted the museum and called for the immediate removal of its director.

She forced her mind back to the problem of the potsherds. All the lines of diffusion led back to one place: the source of the rare clay at the base of the Kaiparowits plateau of Utah, where it had been mined and fired by the inhabitants of a large cliff dwelling hidden in the canyons. From there, it had been traded to places as far away as northern Mexico and western Texas. But how? And when? And by whom?

She got up and went to a cabinet, removing the last ziplock bag of potsherds. The lab was as quiet as a tomb, the only sound the faint hiss of the forced-air ducts. Beyond the laboratory itself lay large storage areas: ancient oak cabinets with rippled glass windows, filled with pots, arrowheads, axes, and other artifacts. A faint whiff of paradichlorobenzene wafted in from the Indian mummy storage room next door. She began laying the sherds out on the map, filling in its last blank corner, double-checking the accession number on each sherd as she placed it.

Suddenly she paused. She had heard the creaking-open of the laboratory door and the sound of a soft footfall on the dusty floor. Hadn’t she locked it? It was a silly habit, locking the door: but the museum’s vast and silent basement, with its dim corridors and its dark storage rooms filled with strange and dreadful artifacts, had always given her the creeps. And she could not forget what had happened to her friend Margo Green just a few weeks earlier in a darkened exhibition hall, two floors above where she stood now.