Return of the Grail King Read online

  RETURN OF THE GRAIL KING

  The Power Places Series

  Theresa Crater

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

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  About the Author

  Also by Theresa Crater

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Sand drifted down from the cave ceiling and settled on Hashem Sayeed’s blue cotton shirt. He straightened as much as he could and brushed off his shoulders. Ali and Moustafa paused in their digging, hunched under the low dirt ceiling. They listened.

  Silence.

  Hashem gave a nod, picked up his spade, and went back to cleaning the earth from around a large stone. Ali and Moustafa filled sacks with dirt they’d cleared. They’d been digging this tunnel for a few months, working their way at a steady downward angle, and finally found rock. Behind rock, there was usually a tomb. In a tomb, artifacts. Ancient statues. His family could hawk the small figurines of the gods and ushabtis to the tourists, such as they were. The Giza Plateau had been practically empty since the revolution. Nothing like the old days when you could barely shoulder your way through the crowds. But things were picking up again.

  Hashem stabbed his spade into the red earth, venting his frustration and hunger. He hoped for a large sculpture, perhaps two or three. Rings with gems, ancient necklaces. Maybe even gold. Something for the black market to tide them over for a year or more. Until the rest of the world realized Egypt was safe and came back. He’d sell this house, buy something in Abu Sir, put his feet up, and watch his grandchildren play in the pool he’d build. Just like those big hotels down the street from his house. He smiled and shook his head at this. The crooks in the black market never paid a fair price, but what choice did he have? At least they would eat.

  His spade pushed through the dirt into emptiness. A rush of musty, stale air pushed through the opening.

  He rocked back on his heels and shouted, “Alhamdulillah.”

  Ali threw down his shovel. “What?”

  “A tomb, son. Inshalla.”

  The three crowded close, pulling the earth away with their hands, pounding at the hard places with the spade. Once they’d cleared a large enough spy hole, Hashem shined his flashlight through. He pushed his face up, moved the beam of the light around. Something flashed in one corner. He angled the light toward it. Gold glinted in the darkness.

  “Alhamdulillah,” he shouted again.

  Moustafa pushed his face to the hole, pointed the flashlight around, then looked back at his brother. “We’ve found gold.”

  “What is it?” Fatimah’s voice came down to them from the hole in the back of the kitchen where they’d dug.

  Hashem crawled toward her and stuck his head and shoulders out. “A tomb.”

  She threw her arms up. “Alhamdulillah.”

  Hashem reached up, and she leaned down to throw her arms around his neck. This time she didn’t make a fuss about how dirty he was. She poured him a cup of water and he drank it thirstily, then crouched and crawled back down the passage.

  Ali had already doubled the size of the opening. Hashem kicked the small pile of debris to the other side of the tunnel. They’d clean up later. He picked up the shovel and dug as close to Ali’s knees as he dared. Moustafa disappeared into the house and came back with a hammer and another spade.

  After another fifteen minutes of digging, the hole widened enough to allow a man to pass sideways. Ali and Moustafa stepped back. “You first,” Moustafa said. “It was your find.”

  Hashem clasped his hand to his heart. “There will be enough for us all, my brother.”

  “Inshalla,” they both answered at once, but this time more from habit, because they had seen the gold and the statues and the gleam of a painted wood coffin in the corner.

  Hashem stepped in. Fatimah couldn’t wait any longer and came down to watch. She passed in a lantern. The light bounced off a large gold statue, hands folded in front. The head gave off a bluish tint. Finely chiseled feathers covered the body and the graceful lines of a many-tiered menit encircled its neck. The hands held a staff topped by a djed pillar and an ankh.

  “Ptah,” Hashem breathed. Even he recognized this god.

  As if in response, the jet eyes of the figure seemed to shift in the light.

  Hashem pulled back with a start. The others had crept in as he stood mesmerized by the statue. To his right, Ali reached out and gingerly picked up a bowl from a carved niche in the wall. He turned it upside down and held it to the light of the lantern on the ground next to his father’s feet. Translucent yellow, thin and flawless. Finest alabaster.

  Moustafa leaned over the coffin in the corner and rubbed the wood with the edge of his beige shirt. He could just make out features. It looked like a man’s painted face, probably somebody important since this whole tomb seemed to hold only one mummy.

  A loud rumble came from below their feet. Then the growl of rock filled the chamber. Hashem grabbed Fatima and rushed for the opening, Ali and Moustafa close behind. A cloud of dust rushed toward them, clogging their noses. Grit burned their eyes.

  Hashem pushed his wife up the passageway, but the floor tilted. Fatima screamed and fell. Hashem took a breath of air and grit, trying to shout, but the ceiling fell in before he could let out a cry.

  Above ground, the wall of the house crumbled up to the third story and slid into the pit. A huge plume of dust rose along with the screams of children. Then silence, followed by the barks of the neighborhood dog pack.

  Lights switched on in the surrounding houses. Neighbors swarmed into the streets, pulling their clothes on as they ran. But they were too late. Where Hashem’s house had stood, the mouth of a cave showed black against the greying horizon. The people gaped in silence for a moment, not believing their eyes.

  The lone voice of the muezzin from a mosque several blocks away lifted into the coming morning as if in blessing.

  Chapter 1

  Michael Levy quietly closed the book he’d been showing to Anne and tucked the alpaca throw around her now sleeping form. She’d been doing that a lot this late in her pregnancy—just dropping off in the middle of a conversation. He gently pushed the soft wool under her rotund belly, tight as a tick who’d feasted undiscovered. He frowned at the unbidden thought. This was his child he was thinking about after all. Boy or girl—they’d elected not to know.

  He picked up the 1458 edition of The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abra-Melin the Mage and replaced it inside the small glass case they kept it in. The Le Clair library, filled with rare books and ancient manuscripts, not to mention all the important texts of esoteric literature, could content Michael for the rest of his life. Except he wanted to add some books on Egypt and archaeology. Michael had left his position at the Metropolitan Museum when he and Anne married. The Le Clair fortune made him not just secure, but able to do the kind of collecting he’d always dreamed about. He stayed involved in his field, though, consulting wi
th his colleagues at the Met and Smithsonian, the Natural History Museum, and occasionally the British Museum. Another dream come true.

  He returned to his seat by the fire and reached for coffee, but found nothing. How many cups had he already had this morning? Should he ring for some? He still couldn’t get used to having servants, but Grandmother Elizabeth told him she wouldn’t get rid of excellent workers whose family had been with hers for several generations just to satisfy his plebeian sensibilities. “Besides, the economy is still in recovery,” she’d added. That he’d even considered calling a servant for coffee told him how much he’d already assimilated.

  His cell phone vibrated across the table. Grateful it was on mute, he grabbed it up before it woke Anne and walked out into the hall, closing the door quietly behind him. The name on the screen surprised him.

  Azizi Tau. The guide and security expert Michael always added to his entourage in Egypt. Second only to Tahir Nur Ahram, the indigenous wisdom keeper also trained in Western archaeology and Egyptology.

  Michael took a few more steps away from the library door and answered. “Hello, my friend. What a surprise!”

  “I’m glad I caught you,” Azizi said. “Have you seen the news?”

  “No. What’s happened?” Michael walked back down the hall to a family room that had a television.

  “A house collapsed this morning on the edge of the Giza Plateau. The family was digging underneath the foundation for artifacts—”

  “Like everybody,” Michael quipped.

  Azizi gave a short laugh. “Yes, except this time it got a bunch of people killed. Only the family on the top floor survived, a niece and her children. The husband was in the tunnel though.”

  Michael switched on CNN, but they were covering US politics. BBC World Service News showed a crowd of soldiers circling a blocked part of the road that ran next to the Sphinx enclosure. A large group of people milled around in front.

  “That’s terrible.” He waited. Azizi had not called to tell him this news.

  “The military has cordoned off the area. The thing is, the collapse opened a huge underground cavern. We’ve found tombs on the periphery, but further in are ceremonial chambers. Lots of artifacts.”

  “Exciting.” Michael grimaced at his enthusiasm. “Except for the tragedy.”

  “Of course.” Azizi’s tone was dismissive. Egyptians took births and deaths much more in their stride. Sometimes Michael appreciated their more philosophical view.

  “We need you, Michael. Even with the stability of the new government, the Antiquities Department is still recovering from the Revolution. The President didn’t want to just reappoint all the old crew.”

  “Amazing he cares about the appearance of corruption.”

  Azizi didn’t answer immediately. Michael chided himself for speaking so openly. People in Egypt had to watch their backs again. Be careful what they said about the new regime. “The President is doing an excellent job,” he said for any listening ears.

  “Yes, he is,” Azizi parroted back.

  “I’d love to come, but we’re expecting a baby.”

  “Mabrouk. A son? Is he your first?”

  “We don’t know if it’s a boy or girl. The baby hasn’t been born yet, but Anne is due very soon.”

  This silence was different. Clearly Azizi thought that was plenty of time, plus what did birth have to do with fathers?

  “I could probably come for a couple of days. That’s all,” Michael found himself saying to bridge this cultural gap. The find intrigued him, but he wondered how Anne would take this.

  “Excellent. I will book a room for you in the Mena House.”

  “Thank you, Azizi.”

  “When can we expect you?”

  “Day after tomorrow, I suppose. I’ll text to confirm.”

  “Of course you should go.” Anne waved her hand at him as if to dismiss him already. “I’m fine. Honestly, you and Grandmother treat me like I’m some fragile Ming vase. Women have been having babies for thousands of years now, in case you didn’t know.”

  Michael mimicked shock. “Is that so?”

  She repeated this every time he asked about the trip during the day and while he packed the next morning.

  “I promise not to take long.” He headed toward the closet for a couple more shirts to add to his suitcase, but Anne caught his arm when he walked by the bed and pulled him to her. She planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. He turned his head and found her lips, touching delicately at first, but she deepened the kiss, locking her arms around his neck. She leaned back, taking him with her.

  Michael caught himself before he fell, steading himself with a hand on either side of her face. He stared down into those sapphire eyes, his torso just brushing her pregnant belly, then settled behind her and laid his hand on her stomach. The child stirred, then gave a kick. Michael pulled his hand away, but Anne took it and held it against the ripple beneath the skin.

  “It doesn’t hurt when he does that?”

  “No, only when she gets mad if I’m sleeping on my back. Then she kicks until I wake up and move.”

  He pushed his face into her waves of blond hair at her neck. “She must have a temper.”

  “He’s stubborn, like you.” She turned in his arms. Her kiss was genial.

  “I’d better get going,” he said, but didn’t move.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine. We’ll wait for you to come back.”

  “It’s just that—”

  “You should go.”

  “It’s a first for me. Not wanting to go to Egypt.”

  She laughed and pushed against his chest.

  Michael kissed her forehead and headed into the bathroom to check for last-minute toiletries. He usually kept a travel kit packed, but had been home for the winter holidays and hadn’t planned on traveling until well after the baby was born. He threw in an extra tube of toothpaste and slipped a packet of homeopathic tablets to help with jet lag into his front pocket.

  Back in their bedroom, Anne held up the lid of his suitcase. He tossed in the toiletries bag and she zipped the case shut. “I left you a surprise.”

  They walked hand in hand down to the car.

  The Le Clair family private jet pulled in next to a larger Gulfstream with the Oman flag painted on the side. Uniformed soldiers stood on either side of the tail of that plane, their guns holstered on one side, swords gleaming in scabbards on the other. Michael nodded at them as he disembarked, but neither moved a muscle. The sun burned down and the temperature had been reported at 95 Fahrenheit, hot for late January.

  Azizi had sent one of his helpers to expedite the visa process. A bored guard finally stamped his passport after waiting in line for half an hour, and they headed out to the terminal. Michael grabbed a cup of coffee before they jumped into the waiting Nissan. Azizi’s helper seemed young, so Michael didn’t ask him any questions about the situation. He tuned out the young man, who pointed out the tourist sites along the way as if this was Michael’s first trip. He indulged the kid, thinking it was good practice, and watched the Presidential Palace give way to the Mosque of Muhammad Ali and the long stretch of the cemetery. Soon the pyramids rose in the distance. The driver turned off the Ring Road and fought the traffic next to the canals. A herd of horses and one huge water buffalo stood in the middle of the canal, their owner washing them off. Further down plastic bottles and trash clogged the surface. They kept driving and the water cleared again. Village life buzzed around him, but his eyes were getting heavy. On the plane, he’d reviewed secret files about the Giza Plateau from several mystical organizations. The possibilities of what had been uncovered intrigued him.

  When they entered the village of Nazlet-el-Samman, Michael pressed his face up against the window. A wooden fence blocked the site, but the dozen men in military uniform carrying SIG 552s marked this as the spot of the collapse. They’d gotten that fence up fast.

  The black sedan pulled into the driveway of the Mena House and a bellhop dressed
in a black-fringed vest and sporting a matching fez stepped up to open his door. Michael tipped the guy—he’d gotten generous since the marriage—and stepped through the metal detector which buzzed. The guard casually waved him in, never budging from his seat.

  Azizi threw up a hand to catch Michael’s attention, and he walked over to the bar just off the lobby. “I’ve already checked you in,” Azizi said. “Come have something to drink. Relax.”

  Michael rubbed at his gritty eyes. “I thought this was an emergency,” he said.

  “We’ve got permission from the Antiquities Department to go in after dark. They want to limit visibility as much as they can.”

  Michael ordered tea, hoping it would wake him up. Outside the window, the pyramids soared into the blue sky, golden and indomitable. “What do we know so far?”

  Azizi’s smile was conspiratorial. He leaned forward, speaking in a quiet voice. “You won’t believe it. Looks like a big ceremonial court with Osiris standing in the middle. It’s surrounded by smaller temples. We’ve been able to get into the Anubis sanctuary. May be a Sekhmet shrine next to it, but they were still shifting rock when I left.”

  “Hmm, think the others will be Anput and P’tah?”

  Azizi squirmed in his seat like a kid at Christmas. “I think there’s more than four. The smaller temples might circle the large Osiris statue in the middle. We’ve hit the mother lode.” Oxford educated, Azizi’s English sounded like the upper crust of England, but his vocabulary was sprinkled with American slang. “There are stairs up and down. Might be a shrine for each major group of Neters.” Neters was the ancient word for Egyptian gods and goddesses.

  “What do you need me for?”

  Azizi glanced around the bar. “This might be the major ceremonial site the traditions have always talked about.”

  “Maybe, but the question remains.”

  “There’s more. You’ll see.”

  “I should go over to the house. Say hello to the family.”

  “Tahir will meet us at the site tonight. Get some rest. We may be at it all night.”