blood and his limbs will turn to ash and his tongue cleave to his throat. Should he pass the second gate, darkness will follow him, and he will be chased by the serpent and the jackal. The hand that touches my immortal form will burn with unquenchable fire. But should any in their temerity pass the third gate, then the black god of the deepest pit will seize him, and his limbs will be scattered to the uttermost corners of the earth. And I, Narmer the Everliving, will torment him and his, by day and by night, waking and sleeping, until madness and death become his eternal temple.’ ”
She replaced the sheet on the desk. For a moment, the office was silent.
“Quite a bedtime story,” Logan said.
“Isn’t it a beaut? Only a first-class bloodthirsty tyrant like Narmer could have invented it. Although come to think of it, his wife could have done the job, too. Niethotep. Talk about a match made in heaven.” Romero shook her head.
“Niethotep?”
“Now she was something. One of those bathe-in-the-blood-of-a-hundred-virgins psychos, supposedly. Narmer imported her from Scythia, royalty in her own right.” Romero turned back to the photograph. “Anyway, about the curse. It’s the longest example I’ve come across. It’s also by far the most specific. You heard the reference to the god of the deepest pit?”
Logan nodded.
“Notice he’s not identified by name. Not even Narmer, a god in his own right, dared do that. He’s referring to An’kavasht-He Whose Face Is Turned Backwards. A god of nightmare and evil that the earliest Egyptians were scared to death of. An’kavasht dwelled Outside, ‘in the endless night.’ Do you know what ‘Outside’ meant?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It meant the Sudd.” She paused to let this sink in. Then she took the two sheets, rolled them up again, and returned them to the filing cabinet. “Within fifty years or so, the advancing waters of the Sudd would have made any secrecy unnecessary. The swamp took care of the hiding for him.” She looked over at him. “But you know what? I don’t think Narmer was particularly worried about concealment. Remember, he was considered a god, and not just in a ceremonial way. Anybody messing with the tomb of a god is asking for trouble. He had an army of the dead-and this curse-to guard him. Nobody, not even the most brazen tomb robber, would dare defy such a curse.”
“What is that business about the three gates?”
“The gates are the sealed doors of a royal tomb. So it would appear that Narmer’s tomb had three chambers-three important chambers, at least.”
Logan shifted in his chair. “And this curse is the reason I’m here.”
“There have been several-how would March put it? — anomalous events since work started. Equipment malfunctioning. Items disappearing or turning up in the wrong place. An unusually high number of odd accidents.”
“And people are starting to get spooked,” Logan said.
“I wouldn’t say spooked. Restless, yes. Demoralized, maybe. See, it’s bad enough being out here in the middle of nowhere, floating in the world’s nastiest swamp. But with these strange happenings… well, you know how talk gets started. Anyway, maybe with you poking around, people will calm down.”
Poking around. As she was speaking, Romero’s initial skepticism, if not outright hostility, had slowly returned.
“So I’m to be a rainmaker,” he said. “I may not do any good, but it’s comforting to see me on the job.” He glanced at her. “Now I know where I stand. Thanks for your candor.”
She smiled, but it wasn’t a particularly friendly smile. “You got a problem with candor?”
“Not at all. It clears the air. And it can be very bracing-even enlightening.”
“For example?”
“For example, you.”
“What about me?” she asked sharply. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“I know quite a bit, actually. Although some of it is, admittedly, conjecture.” He held her gaze steadily. “You were the youngest child in your family. I’d imagine your older siblings were boys. I’d further imagine that your father devoted most of his attention to them: Boy Scouts, Little League. He wouldn’t have had much time for you-and if your brothers noticed you at all, it would be to belittle you. That would account for your instinctive hostility, your academic overcompensation.”
Romero opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again.
“There was a famous, or at least distinguished, woman a few generations back in your family: an archaeologist, perhaps, or maybe a mountain climber. The way you hang your diplomas carelessly on the wall, slightly askew, suggests an informal approach to academics-we’re all one big happy family, whether we have impressive doctorates or not. And yet the very fact you brought your diplomas at all suggests a deep insecurity about your standing on this expedition. A young woman, one of few among men, on a physically demanding mission in a harsh and unforgiving environment-you worry about being taken seriously. Oh, and your middle name starts with A.”
She looked at him, eyes blazing. “And just how the hell do you know that?”
He gestured over his shoulder with one thumb. “It’s on your nameplate on the door.”
She stood up. “Get out.”
“Thanks for the chat, Dr. Romero.” And Logan turned and left the office.
13
Logan’s schedule was free until the following morning, so he spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the Station getting his sea legs: trying to get a feel for the place and its occupants. Since he’d already seen the offices, residency, and dive staging areas, he decided to visit the science labs in the Red wing. Though the labs themselves were small, he was astonished by their diversity: not only archaeology but geology, organic chemistry, paleobotany, paleozoology, and several others. The laboratories were modular: each was a stainless-steel box approximately eighteen feet square. While some were occupied, others were mothballed: apparently, Porter Stone cherry-picked the labs he thought might be useful for a particular expedition and then activated them on an as- needed basis.
Next he visited White, which he learned was command and control. Although there were the obligatory secure areas and locked doors, the site seemed refreshingly informal: there were very few guards, and the ones he met were friendly and candid. He did not speak of the curse or his reason for being on the project; judging from the curious looks he occasionally received, however, it was clear that at least a few had been briefed.
The nerve center of White was a large space, staffed by a lone technician sitting at a terminal in a far corner. His back was to Logan, and he was so surrounded by monitors that he was reminiscent of a pilot in a cramped cockpit.
“Catch any shoplifters?” Logan said, stepping into the room.
The tech whirled around, neighing in surprise. A book that had been sitting on his lap flew to the floor, spinning around and coming to rest in a corner.
“Judas H. Priest!” the man said, one hand plucking at the collar of his lab coat. “You trying to give a guy a heart attack or something?”
“No. I imagine that would ruin Dr. Rush’s day.” He stepped forward and extended his hand with a smile. “Jeremy Logan.”
“Cory Landau.” From the mangy thatch of black hair, and the way he’d lounged in his chair, Logan had guessed even from the doorway that the tech was young. But seeing him face-to-face was a surprise. Landau couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three. He had brilliant blue eyes, the fresh, peach-colored complexion of a cherub, and-a bizarrely incongruous addition-a narrow Zapata-style mustache. A can of grape-flavor Jolt and a thick pack of chewing gum sat on the desktop before him.
“So,” Logan said. “What do you do around here?”
“What do you think?” the youth replied, leaning back in his chair, surprise giving way to an affected breeziness. “I run the joint.” He took a sip of Jolt. “What did you mean by that crack about catching
