Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

Riki stuck out her chin. “You may forget, Professor, that I have degrees in biochemistry and archeology and worked extensively in the field at your Thebes site.”

“Of course. You were there when we found the mummified body of the child. Your stepfather always overshadowed things. Frasier was such an important benefactor and participant in the field excavations, I tend to forget events without him. I am grateful your family supports our work, and I am thankful for your presence here.”

“We all harbor a keen interest in the reign of Pharaoh Akhenaten,” Riki said, “and are excited at the prospect of another tomb discovery.”

“You may well be disappointed,” Stanley said. “As you know, the royal tombs of Amarna were carved in the valley several kilometers east of the city. One wouldn’t expect to find a tomb of significance where we stand.”

“You just did.”

Stanley flashed a wide grin. “Perhaps, my dear, perhaps. Offering tables have been known to be placed above ancient tombs. Many were in fact found during the early excavations here. Of course, those were associated with the temples, and they were made of ceramic. Still, there is the inscription on this one. So just perhaps.”

“Harry,” Zeibig said, “what’s your interpretation of the markings?”

Stanley pulled a small notebook from his chest pocket. “It follows the standard offering elements. My field translation is ‘A gift that the King gives to the Ruler of the Two Horizons, so that he will give a voice offering in bread, ox, fowl, and every good and pure thing, on behalf of the son of Henuttaneb, beloved sister of the King.’”

“So the table itself,” Zeibig said, “is an offering for the dead?”

“Yes, for the unnamed nephew of the Pharaoh. In the Old Kingdom era, the offerings of food were made literally to nourish both the gods and the deceased on their journey to the underworld. By the time of the New Kingdom, when Amarna was built, the offerings were made figuratively. In the same period of Akhenaten’s rule, the offerings were made through the king, or pharaoh, who was the sole intermediary with the gods.”

“This deceased boy,” Riki asked. “Could he be the nephew of Pharaoh Akhenaten?”

Stanley’s eyes glistened. “That’s what makes this so intriguing. This would appear to be a royal—or at least a noble—offering table. We know Akhenaten had a sister named Henuttaneb, but there is no record of her offspring. What’s curious is the carving of the ship with the boy. That’s an image I have never seen on an offering table. It would be difficult not to assume a connection with the vessel buried behind us.”

“Perhaps the young man had a love of boats,” Zeibig said. “Or died on one.”

Stanley nodded. “Entirely plausible.”

“What is your plan for excavating ben

eath the table?” Riki asked.

“Well—”

A gunshot rang out from the opposite side of the field. Stanley turned to see a man walking toward him with a clumsy gait. An Egyptian Antiquities Ministry agent assigned to Amarna, he frequently visited the site. A neat red mark on the front of his white shirt blossomed into a bloody crest, and he staggered and fell.

“Aziz!” Stanley cried, climbing from the pit and running toward the stricken man. He halted when a gunman emerged from the far trench and fired in his direction. The bullet struck just ahead of Stanley, spraying sand onto his shoes. The archeologist froze and slowly raised his arms.

There were three gunmen, each dressed in loose-fitting white cotton trousers and shirts. To conceal their identities, each wore a headscarf and sunglasses. Armed with automatic pistols, they rounded up Riki and Zeibig and marched them with Stanley to the large open pit where the boat’s stern had been exposed. A huge mound of sand, overburden that had been scraped away with a tractor, towered over the back of the pit, blocking the view to the Nile.

The two laborers had already been forced into the pit and were trembling at the prospect of being killed and buried there.

One of the gunmen, wearing a checked headscarf, turned to face Zeibig. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“My name is Rodney Zeibig. I’m a marine archeologist with NUMA, working on a site assessment of the Amarna shoreline. Dr. Stanley invited me to take a look at the vessel he discovered here.”

The gunman inched closer. “Where is the tomb?”

Zeibig shook his head. “I know nothing of any tomb.”

The gunman looked down his nose at Zeibig. Then in a lightning-quick move, he whipped the gun in a backhand gesture, striking Zeibig in the jaw with its barrel.

Zeibig staggered backward, tumbling into the pit beside the laborers. He landed on his side, feeling a secondary pain as a handheld radio clipped to his belt dug into his hip. He rose to his feet, remaining stooped over, and rested his hand on the radio.

The gunman stared at him a moment, then shook his head and moved on to the others. Zeibig discreetly slipped his hand to the radio’s controls and turned off the volume. He then placed a thumb on the transmit button and began tapping it on and off.

The gunman approached Riki, who stood frozen. Stanley stepped forward, placing himself between her and the gunman.

“There’s no need for this sort of behavior,” Stanley said. “We’re on an archeological dig and have simply uncovered a workboat. There’s no treasure here, if that’s what you’re after.”