collection from the Upper Nile! Good Lord, take a look at this ceremonial thatof!” He held up a foot-long stone knife, flaked from gray flint.
McCorkle cast an annoyed glance at Wicherly. The archaeologist laid the knife back in its place with the utmost care, then reshrouded it in plastic.
They came to another iron-bound door, which McCorkle had some difficulty opening, trying several keys before finding the correct one. The door groaned open at last, the hinges shedding clouds of rust.
Beyond lay a small room filled with sarcophagi made of painted wood and cartonnage. Some were without lids, and inside, Nora could make out the individual mummies-some wrapped, some unwrapped.
“The mummy room,” said McCorkle.
Wicherly rushed in ahead of the rest. “Good heavens, there must be a hundred in here!” He swept a plastic sheet aside, exposing a large wooden sarcophagus. “Look at this!”
Nora went over and peered at the mummy. The linen bandages had been ripped from its face and chest, the mouth was open, the black lips shriveled and drawn back as if crying out in protest at the violation. In its chest stood a gaping hole, the sternum and ribs torn out.
Wicherly turned toward Nora, eyes bright. “Do you see?” he said in an almost reverential whisper. “This mummy was robbed. They tore off the linen to get at precious amulets hidden in the wrappings. And there-where that hole is-was where a jade and gold scarab beetle had been placed on the chest. The symbol of rebirth. Gold was considered the flesh of the gods, because it never tarnished. They ripped it open to take it.”
“This can be the mummy we put in the tomb,” Menzies said. “The idea-Nora’s idea-was that we show the tomb as it appeared while being robbed.”
“How perfect,” said Wicherly, turning a brilliant smile to Nora.
“I believe,” McCorkle interrupted, “that the tomb entrance was against that wall.” Dropping his bag on the floor, he pulled the plastic sheeting away from the shelves covering the far wall, exposing pots, bowls, and baskets, all filled with black shriveled objects.
“What’s that inside?” Nora asked.
Wicherly went over to examine the objects. After a silence, he straightened up. “Preserved food. For the afterlife. Bread, antelope joints, fruits and vegetables, dates-preserved for the pharaoh’s journey to the afterworld.”
They heard a growing rumble coming through the walls, followed by a muffled squeal of metal, then silence.
“The Central Park West subway,” McCorkle explained. “The 81st Street station is very close.”
“We’ll have to find some way to dampen that sound,” Menzies said. “It destroys the mood.”
McCorkle grunted. Then he removed an electronic device from the bag and aimed it at the newly exposed wall, turned, aimed again. Then he pulled out a piece of chalk, made a mark on the wall. Taking a second device from his shirt pocket, he laid it against the wall and slid it across slowly, taking readings as he went.
Then he stepped back. “Bingo. Help me move these shelves.”
They began shifting the objects to shelves on the other walls. When the wall was at last bare, McCorkle pulled the shelf supports from the crumbling plaster with a set of pliers and put them to one side.
“Ready for the moment of truth?” McCorkle asked, a gleam in his eye, good humor returning.
“Absolutely,” said Wicherly.
McCorkle removed a long spike and hammer from his bag, positioned the spike on the wall, gave it a sharp blow, then another. The sounds echoed in the confined space and plaster began falling in sheets, exposing courses of brick. He continued to drive the spike in, dust rising… and then suddenly the spike slid in to the hilt. McCorkle rotated it, giving it a few side blows with the hammer, loosening the brick. A few more deft blows knocked free a large chunk of brickwork, leaving a black rectangle. He stepped back.
As he did so, Wicherly darted forward. “Forgive me if I claim explorer’s privilege.” He turned back with his most charming smile. “Any objections?”
“Be our guest,” said Menzies. McCorkle frowned but said nothing.
Wicherly took his flashlight and shined it into the hole, pressing his face to the gap. A long silence ensued, interrupted by the rumble of another subway train.
“What do you see?” asked Menzies at last.
“Strange animals, statues, and gold-everywhere the glint of gold.”
“What in heck?” said McCorkle.
Wicherly glanced back at him. “I was being facetious-quoting what Howard Carter said when he first peered into King Tut’s tomb.”
McCorkle’s lips tightened. “If you’ll step aside, please, I’ll have this open in a moment.”
McCorkle stepped back up to the gap, and with a series of expertly aimed blows of the spike, loosened several rows of bricks. In less than ten minutes, he had opened a hole big enough to step through. He disappeared inside, came back out a moment later.
“The electricity isn’t working, as I suspected. We’ll have to use our flashlights. I’m required to lead the way,” he said with a glance at Wicherly. “Museum regulations. Might be hazards in there.”
“The mummy from the Black Lagoon, perhaps,” said Wicherly with a laugh and a glance at Nora.
They stepped carefully inside, then stopped to reconnoiter. In the glow of their flashlight beams, a great stone threshold was visible, and beyond, a descending staircase carved out of rough limestone blocks.
McCorkle moved toward the first step, hesitated, then gave a slightly nervous chuckle. “Ready, ladies and gents?”
Chapter 9
Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward stood silently in her office, looking at the untidy forest that seemed to sprout from her desk, from every chair, and to spill over to the floor-chaotic heaps of papers, photographs, tangles of colored string, CDs, yellowing telex sheets, labels, envelopes. The outward disarray, she mused, was a perfect mirror of her inner state of mind.
Her beautiful layout of evidence against Special Agent Pendergast, with all its accusatory paraphernalia of colored strings, photos, and labels, was no more. It had fit together so well. The evidence had been subtle but clean, convincing, utterly consistent. An out-of-the-way spot of blood, some microscopic fibers, a few strands of hair, a knot tied in a certain way, the chain of ownership of a murder weapon. The DNA tests didn’t lie, the forensics didn’t lie, the autopsies didn’t lie. They all pointed to Pendergast. The case against him was that good.
Maybe too good. And that, in a nutshell, was the problem.
A tentative knock came at the door and she turned to see the figure of Glen Singleton, local precinct captain, hovering outside. He was in his late forties; tall, with the sleek, efficient movements of a swimmer, a long face, and an aquiline profile. He wore a charcoal suit that was far too expensive and well cut for an NYPD captain, and every other week he dropped $120 at the barbershop in the lobby of the Carlyle to have his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed to perfection. But these were signs of personal fastidiousness, not a cop on the take. And despite the sartorial affectations, he was a damned good cop, one of the most decorated on active duty in the force.
“Laura, may I?” He smiled, displaying an expensive row of perfect teeth.
“Sure, why not?”
“We missed you at the departmental dinner last night. Did you have a conflict?”
“A conflict? No, nothing like that.”
“Really? Then I can’t understand why you’d pass up a chance to eat, drink, and be merry.”
“I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t really in the mood to be merry.”
