Death of a Pharaoh (2 page)

The
Pharaoh
died at precisely
19:35:47.389 EDT; the exact moment the universe stopped expanding. It even
contracted for 78 nanoseconds. By coincidence, the Hubble Space Telescope
recorded the remarkable cosmic disturbance while it photographed a small region
of the Fornax constellation; part of its ongoing Deep Field observation.

Several days
passed before researchers at the Kavli Institute for Particle Astrophysics and
Cosmology in California would discover evidence of the incident. Despite the
clear indication of blue shifting in the computer-generated images of distant
galaxies, they would assume that what they saw was the result of a malfunction
of the telescope or perhaps an error in their own calculations. Most of them,
even the avowed atheists, would pray for such an explanation. No scientist on
the team even dared to imagine that the unprecedented celestial event captured
in a dozen photographs and distributed around the office in a plain manila
folder labeled “BLUE SHIFT” was in reality Creation gasping in horror.

It was the 12
^th
day of September of the year known as 2016, according to the calendar used by
most humans. It was a day that all histories will remember forever as the
bastard son of infamy. Her life ended in the least regal manner. Shot down in
cold blood as she strolled along a quiet residential street near her modest
condominium in Cedar Park. She slipped out just after sunset to donate a three
layer chocolate birthday cake to the nearby homeless shelter where she
volunteered every week.

No bystanders
witnessed the heinous crime. A neighbor later reported to the police that she
heard gunfire as she prepared a package of microwave popcorn for her and her
cat Cleo; just as she did every Saturday night five minutes before Law &
Order came on at nine. The fact that the contents seemed to explode even before
she pressed start, startled her. Unlike the assassination of John F. Kennedy,
few people were likely to remember where they were or what they were doing at
the precise moment this tragic murder took place, even though the consequences
for Americans, indeed for all humankind, would prove infinitely more
devastating than the loss of a popular president.

Herbert Lewis
arrived at the scene of the crime only seconds after the first squad car. At
the sound of gunfire, he bolted out of his armchair and across the hall to the
Pharaoh's apartment. She didn’t respond to his loud banging and without
hesitation he delivered two rapid kicks to the reinforced door; breaking it off
the hinges.

Only the kitchen
lights were on. The aroma of fried chicken lingered in the air. She had cleared
the table and the dinner dishes waited in the sink. He turned to verify what he
already suspected; her purse was missing from the hook by the door. At the
sound of approaching footsteps, he dropped to one knee and leveled his
semi-automatic pistol in the direction of the entrance just as two of his
agents arrived with their weapons drawn.

"Secure the
apartment!" he yelled as he tore past them and down the hall toward the
emergency exit, his mind already fearing the worst. He took the stairs three at
a time, stopping a few seconds at the bottom to conceal his pistol in the
leather holster underneath his jacket. He could hear the Doppler effect of a
siren approaching rapidly from down the block.

He burst out the
front door just as a police cruiser sped by then turned left on 49th Street
before screeching to a halt. Herbert sprinted across the manicured lawn in a
flash; his speed belied the amount of grey in his thinning hair. Before he
reached the corner, he could see part of the body sprawled on the sidewalk, her
upper torso hidden by a mailbox. He recognized the turquoise print dress she
wore when she dropped by earlier to tell him that he could take the night off
since she planned to spend the entire evening at home celebrating her
grandson's birthday. He had looked forward to several hours of basketball games
on television and a few cold beers. Now he only wanted to vomit. The scene
before him was an abomination to the Gods. He couldn't fathom what had
possessed her to leave without a security escort. He only knew that both he and
Lord Horus had failed to protect her.

One of the police
officers walked over to the body, squatted beside the head and palpated the
carotid artery. After a few seconds he got up, slowly peeled the latex glove
from his right hand and discarded it in a manner that suggested an absence of
urgency. He looked over to his partner and nodded side to side. Careful not to
disturb any evidence, he examined the immediate area while his colleague called
in a report. There was no sign of a purse, only a large round plastic container
with what looked like a chocolate cake inside. He walked over and opened the
trunk of the squad car to get a roll of yellow crime scene tape.

Herbert approached
just as he shut the lid.

"Officer, my
name is Herbert Lewis," he volunteered, "I'm the super of her
building. She lives…excuse me, she lived in number 10075." He pointed with
his thumb to the elegant two-level brick building behind him.

"Name?"

"Fannie
Carter." Herbert waited while the policeman wrote the names in his
notebook.

"That's with
an ie not a y,” he corrected the officer. “She's a widow. Retired,” he
continued. What he didn’t tell the Officer was that he and a privileged few
knew her as Fannie II, True Pharaoh of Egypt, Defender of Ma'at and Beloved of
Osiris. In the absence of that information, the officer had no idea that what
seemed a routine homicide was actually a regicide.

"Any next of
kin?" the officer asked, his pen poised.

"Only a
grandson, he lives in New York."

“Got a contact
number?”

“No,” he lied.

"Does she
usually carry a purse?"

"Yes, black
patent leather with short straps,” he indicated. “She always takes it with
her."

Both of them
turned as an ambulance pulled up, lights flashing but sirens muted, as if the
paramedics already knew that their services wouldn't be needed. Herbert
motioned to the officer that he wanted to make a call and retreated across the
street to get out of their way. He dialed a local number on his cellphone.

A male voice
answered within two rings, "Good evening, The Falcon Foundation."

"Initiate
voice confirmation!" he ordered.

"Roger,
initiating voice confirmation." After a short pause, he heard, "Go
ahead!"

"This is
Herbert Lewis, Chief of Security for the Falcon Foundation," he waited
knowing that it would only take three or four seconds.

"I have
confirmation Sir. You may proceed"

"Code Five. I
repeat this is a Code Five. Falcon down. Contact the lead agent with Falcon Two
and request a TOP report."

The delay in the
response was almost imperceptible.

"Roger that,
implementing standard operating procedures for a confirmed Code Five," the
voice sounded calm and assured, almost military in precision. "We are
moving to full alert. Please standby."

Herbert Lewis
remained on the line as he watched a member of the emergency personnel duck
under the yellow crime scene tape carrying a large plastic utility box in his
right hand. He wore a navy blue jacket with the letters MEO stenciled in white
letters on the back. He bent over to examine the body.

The voice returned
and shattered the unbearable silence, "Mr. Lewis, I have alerted Falcon
Two's team. They will provide a status report ASAP."

Herbert breathed a
sigh of relief, "Is this line secure?"

"Yes sir. You
are on satellite and encrypted."

"Patch me
through to Timbuktu."

"Right away,
sir."

Across the street,
the medical examiner extracted a pair of scissors and began to cut away Fannie's
dress in search of the entry wound in her chest. Herbert flinched as if the
metal had just dug into his own flesh. He turned away and gasped for air. He
needed to concentrate. Later, there would be time to grieve and to fight the
demons of remorse. He heard a few clicks on his phone followed by a pause then
a double ring similar to many telephones in Europe.

Someone picked up
but fumbled the receiver at first. It was 2.57 in the morning in Mali.

"Oui,
Bonjour."

"This is
Herbert Lewis. Code Five. Falcon down. This is a not a drill. Code Five. Thoth
notification required immediately! Confirmation of the transfer of powers is in
progress."

"Mon dieu. C'est pas vrai!" responded a startled Ahmed Kader,
Director of the Archives of Ma’at in Timbuktu, Mali. "Oui…I mean yes. I
will proceed at once."

He
hung up but his hand remained frozen to the phone as
if what he had just heard couldn't be true if he never let go of the receiver.
The Pharaoh was dead? Murdered? He scarcely believed the news but he knew Herbert
Lewis’ voice and the call came through the secure line from the Falcon
Foundation switchboard.

Ahmed willed
himself to move. He threw the covers back and sat up. He donned the djellaba
draped at the foot of the bed then slipped into his
soft
leather
barbouches. His wire rimmed glasses sat on the nightstand; he reached for them
then under his pillow to find the set of keys. They felt strangely cold as he
opened the wooden door that led to the central patio. A multitude of stars
carpeted the night sky and he silently voiced a prayer to Osiris. The moon had
already set but he didn’t need its light to select the proper key. He had
worked here for more than forty years, the last decade as Director and Chief
Archivist. It was not only his home; it was his life.

He unlocked a more
substantial door and once inside he shivered from the air conditioning at full
throttle meant to protect the large number of ancient volumes on display in the
elegant Reading Room. It was as close as most visitors ever came to the main archives
stored in bombproof vaults under where he stood.

He walked directly
to a bookshelf on the opposite wall then partially removed three books in
practiced order. The whirring of the motor made almost no sound as the entire
panel slid to the left uncovering a sturdy metal door with a screen on the
right for scanning his iris. He positioned himself as he had so many times
before and tried not to blink. Three seconds later the door clicked open
revealing a small vestibule with an elevator directly in front. The car was
idle
at that level with the door open.

The panel inside
offered a choice of eight floors and the last one required a key that Ahmed
removed from a leather cord around his neck. He inserted it and pushed the
button labeled PP. The elevator descended in silence and stopped at a depth of
78 meters beneath the desert. Workers had carved the vaults out of solid
bedrock and reinforced them with enough concrete and steel to resist a direct
strike by a nuclear bomb. This particular floor was normally only accessed by
the reigning Pharaoh or in the case of extreme
urgency
, such as
tonight, by himself as Chief Archivist.

The door opened
into a small room with a large solid mahogany table and an executive chair. A
flat rectangular glass box containing an ancient papyrus occupied most of the
polished expanse. The top panel, inlaid with bulletproof glass, was similar to
the one that protected the Mona Lisa in the Louvre. In fact, the same company
in France had manufactured both of them.

Ahmed entered his eight
digit personal code using a numeric keypad on the right. A slight hissing sound
started in seconds as a powerful fan evacuated the inert gas that helped
protect the priceless artifact. When the red indicator light changed to green,
he heard an audible click as the panel unlocked automatically. Ahmed raised the
heavy lid with care and swung it on its hinges until it rested on a padded
support on the left side of the table. He sat in the leather chair and reached
for the quill pen nestled in a velvet-lined inset just above the papyrus. He
dipped the nib in the adjacent ink well and began to write his message.

"My Lord
Thoth, it is with great sadness that I communicate the death by murder of Her
Majesty Fannie II, True Pharaoh and Defender of Ma'at less than thirty minutes
ago. We are taking the necessary steps to have the body recovered and
transported to Switzerland as soon as possible. I await the confirmation of
succession and will report instantly. May the Gods accompany the late Pharaoh
on her journey to the Field of Reeds! May all blessings be upon you, my
Lord." Ahmed signed the missive with tears in his eyes and sat back to
wait for the second call.