“Thanks. And thanks again, Hiram. You preserved some valuable information for Egyptian archeologists everywhere.”
“No problem. I’m here if you need me.”
Max and Yaeger disappeared from the screen as Summer disconnected the call. She opened her email and pulled up Zeibig’s photo of the undamaged mural.
“It’s a remarkable image,” she said, “of an interesting woman.”
“I’d like to know her full story,” Zeibig said.
“Something just doesn’t make sense,” Dirk said. “I can understand the interest by antiquities thieves in the Amarna tomb, and also tossing our boat for more artifacts. But why risk additional exposure by stealing Rod’s phone?”
“Maybe it was exposure that they feared,” Zeibig said. “Perhaps they thought I had taken pictures of them at some point.”
“Could be,” Summer said. “I think it was the unaltered mural they were really worried about.”
“Maybe so,” Dirk said. “What self-respecting tomb raider would leave behind a solid gold chariot?”
“Then the question is, what’s so important about this image of Princess Meritaten in the mural?” Summer enlarged the photo’s lower corner, highlighting the princess on the boat.
“Maybe it’s not the princess,” Dirk said. “Maybe it’s what she’s holding.”
“The Apium of Faras?”
Dirk nodded.
“It just looks like an herb of some sort,” Zeibig said. “What could it possibly represent?”
“Maybe nothing,” Dirk said. “There’s one way to find out.”
Summer frowned. “Max said the temple is buried at the bottom of Lake Nasser.”
Dirk gave his sister a smile. “Since when are you afraid of a little water?”
29
A little water, in the case of Lake Nasser, amounted to nearly thirty cubic miles’ worth. Created by the construction of the Aswan Dam in 1902, and supplemented by the Aswan High Dam in 1971, Lake Nasser is one of the world’s largest man-made bodies of water, extending over three hundred miles, from the Upper Egypt city of Aswan to the northern Sudan desert.
Summer glanced out the window of a propeller-driven commuter plane and studied the expanse of dark water. The lake’s shoreline was a jagged line of capillary-like intrusions into the desert sands. The harsh and empty wasteland that surrounded the lake offered few signs of life.
She leaned over to Dirk. “This lake is huge. We’ve been flying over it for half an hour.”
“I’m more concerned about its depth.” Dirk’s nose was buried in a report on Nubian archeological excavations before the completion of the Aswan High Dam. “Some areas reach six hundred feet deep.”
“If that’s the case around Faras, we should have followed Rod to Cairo and flown back to D.C.”
“The good news is that Faras is a long way from the dam. It’s near the Sudanese portion of the reservoir they call Lake Nubia. The maximum depth there is four hundred twenty-five feet, with an average around eighty.”
“I’ll take the average. Where does Max put it on the lake?”
“Near the center corridor, unfortunately, a dozen miles south of Abu Simbel. The water level changes constantly, so we won’t know the depth until we get there.”
The plane touched down a short time later at Abu Simbel Airport, and Dirk and Summer followed a throng of tourists onto the baking tarmac. They collected their bags, made their way past a pair of tour buses, and hailed a weather-beaten cab. It was less than a five-minute ride through the dusty village to a cracked concrete dock aside the lake. A smiling, mustachioed man dressed in white waited for them beside an open-topped runabout.
“Ms. Pitt? I am Ozzie Ackmadan, proprietor of the Abu Simbel Inn.” He rushed over and shook Summer’s hand. “I have the boat you called about all ready. It is full of gas and has two dive tanks that were delivered this morning.”
“Very kind of you to meet us here.”
“Enjoy your day on the lake. You can return the boat right here. The hotel is just two blocks over.” He pointed up the road. “I have two rooms reserved for you tonight. Let me take your luggage, I have a vehicle right off the dock.”