David Gibbins - Pyramid

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.”

Twenty 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.”