The Third Gate

6

The plane climbed steeply out from Cairo Airport, banking immediately toward the Nile. They flew south, following the lazy turnings of the river. Logan stared out the window, down toward the lazy, chocolate-colored surface. They were flying at only a few thousand feet, and he could make out dhows and riverboats cutting through the water, leaving wakes through red patches of lotus petals. Along the shore, and stretching inward beside a tracery of canals, were thin green ranks of banana and pomegranate plantations.

Rush excused himself and went forward to talk with the crew. This was fine with Logan: he wanted a little time to digest what he had just heard.

He found himself deeply impressed with the thin, almost frail-looking Porter Stone. First impressions were rarely so misleading. The passion and determination it must have taken to follow this fragile trail of evidence to its conclusion were awe-inspiring.

Just as impressive was the discovery itself: the true tomb of Egypt’s first pharaoh, the god-king Narmer, and its mysterious contents-this was perhaps the holy grail of Egyptology.

Gradually, the greenery along the riverbanks drew thinner, the lush palms and grasses giving way to papyrus sedge. Rush wandered back from the cabin. “Okay,” he said with a smile. “I promised myself I wouldn’t ask. But I just can’t resist. Just how the hell do you do it?”

“Do what?” Logan replied coyly.

“You know. What it is you do. Just how, for example, did you exorcise the legendary ‘ghost’ that haunted Exeter University for six hundred years? And how-”

Logan raised a hand to forestall further questions. He had known this would come up eventually-it always did. “Well,” he considered, “I’d have to swear you to secrecy, of course.”

“Of course.”

“You understand you can’t tell a soul.”

Rush nodded eagerly.

“Very well.” Logan glanced around conspiratorially, then leaned forward as if to impart a secret. “Two words,” he whispered. “Clean living.”

For a moment, Rush looked at him blankly. Then he chuckled and shook his head. “Serves me right for asking.”

“In all seriousness, it’s not usually about garlic clusters or vials of pixie dust. It just requires a rather extensive knowledge of certain subjects-some of them obvious, like history and comparative theology, some not so obvious, like astrology and the, ah, secret arts. Also, a willingness to keep an open mind. You’ve heard of Occam’s razor?”

Rush nodded.

“ ‘ Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem. ’ The simplest explanation is most often the correct one. Well, in my line of work, I take the opposite approach. The correct explanation is often the least expected, the most unusual one-at least for people like us: modern, Western educated, out of sync with nature, and impatient with past practices and beliefs.” He paused. “Take the Exeter ghost you mentioned. With sufficient research into ancient town records, and by asking the locals about old legends, I learned enough about a certain community-sanctioned murder of a supposed witch, circa 1400, to give me what I required. After that, and after securing the location of the witch’s grave site, it was just a matter of bringing certain rituals-and certain chemicals-to bear.”

“You mean…” Rush looked nonplussed. “You mean there actually was a ghost?”

“Naturally. What did you expect?”

This was greeted by silence. After a minute or two, Logan shifted. “But let’s get back to the topic at hand. Stone’s story is remarkable, but it raises as many questions as it answers-and not just about what’s in the tomb. For example, how did he discover its actual location? I mean, that ostracon is a fascinating artifact-but it’s not exactly a road map.”

For a moment, Rush’s thoughts seemed to go far away. Then he shook himself back to the present. “I don’t know all the details myself. Tremendous financial and organizational resources were brought to bear-discreetly, of course. I do know that he started by studying Petrie’s movements. Once he’d deciphered the ostracon, how would the old Egyptologist have known where to look? He wouldn’t have rushed off to Egypt in such a hurry without having a pretty good idea. So Stone began putting the known facts together. And he began his search around the Temple of Horus at Hierakonpolis.”

“Where?”

“The capital of upper Egypt. King Narmer’s home before he invaded the lush lands to the north and unified the country. That’s where the Narmer Palette was discovered around the turn of the twentieth century. And Petrie had been known to journey as far south as Hierakonpolis in his early expeditions.”

“Narmer’s capital city,” Logan said. “Home of the Narmer Palette-and, I assume, that ostracon as well. And a focus of Petrie’s explorations, to boot. So that’s the location of Narmer’s tomb-Hierakonpolis?”

Rush shook his head. “But it was the location of the document that led to the true site.”

Logan thought for a minute. “That’s right,” he said. “It couldn’t be Hierakonpolis. Because you said the site was nothing as straightforward as Egypt.” He glanced sidelong at the doctor. “What exactly did you mean by that?”

Rush chuckled. “I was wondering when you’d ask. We’ll talk all about it on the boat.”

“The boat?”

As Rush nodded, Logan felt the aircraft begin a gentle descent. Looking out the window again, he noticed the Nile had widened into Lake Nasser. In another fifteen minutes they had landed at an unnamed airstrip just past the lake: a single pitted runway, surrounded by featureless desert. They deplaned and climbed into a waiting jeep. The driver put Logan’s bags and a large, unlabeled metal case from the plane’s belly into the back, then got in and drove them west, toward the river. The sun was a pitiless white ball, baking the parched ground with midafternoon light. Within minutes they reached the river itself. Scattered ibis flew low over the water. Somewhere in the distance a hippopotamus bellowed. The jeep pulled up to a long wooden pier that seemed as deserted as the airstrip. Rush got out and led the way down to the strangest vessel Logan had ever seen.

It was at least eighty feet long but with a beam remarkably narrow given its length. For its size it rode extremely shallow: Logan estimated a draft of two feet at most. The superstructure consisted of a single, two-story construction that took up most of the deck. At either side of the bow were two small platforms, open to the air and suspended out over the water, that reminded Logan of crow’s nests. But the boat’s single most remarkable feature was at its stern: a massive, conical cage of steel, narrow end forward, as big as a Gemini space capsule and roughly the same shape. It enclosed a large, cruel-looking five-bladed propeller. The entire assembly was fixed permanently atop the stern section of the main deck.

“Good lord,” Logan said from the dock. “An airboat on steroids.”

“A description apt enough,” came a gruff voice. Logan glanced up to see a man appear in a doorway at the front of the superstructure. He was fiftyish, of medium build, with deep-set eyes and a closely cropped white beard. He stepped up to the waiting gangplank and ushered them aboard.

“This is James Plowright,” Rush said. “The expedition’s senior pilot.”

“Quite a vessel,” Logan said.

“Aye.” The man nodded.

“How does she handle?” Logan asked.

“Well enough.” Plowright had a rough Scottish burr and the Scotsman’s economy of words to go with it.

Logan looked back at the propeller assembly. “What’s the powerplant?”

“Lycoming P-fifty-three gas turbine. Retrofitted from a Huey jetcopter.”

Logan whistled.

“This way,” Rush said. He turned to Plowright. “You can cast off when ready, Jimmy.”

Plowright nodded.

Rush led the way back along the deck. Given the size of the superstructure and the craft’s slim beam, the decking was very narrow, and Logan was glad of the railing alongside. They passed several doors, then Rush ducked through an open doorway and ushered Logan into a dimly lit space. As his eyes adjusted, Logan found himself in a pleasantly appointed saloon, furnished with couches and banquettes. A variety of framed nautical scenes and sporting prints hung on the walls. The space smelled strongly of polished leather and insect repellent.

The driver of the jeep deposited Logan’s bags and the metal case in one corner, bowed, then returned to the deck.

Logan pointed at the case. “What’s in there?” he asked.

Rush smiled. “Hard disks containing the case files from the Center. I can’t completely ignore my full-time job while I’m out here.”

Within a minute, Logan heard faint sounds from the direction of the stern: the jet engine started up with a howl and the vessel drew away from the dock, its frame throbbing slightly, heading upriver toward the Sudan.

“We have two of these craft, specially built for the expedition,” Rush said as they settled onto one of the banquettes. “We use them for ferrying things to the site. Things too bulky or fragile for airdrop: high-tech equipment, for example. Or specialists.”

“I can’t imagine any site that would require a craft like this.”

“When you see it, you’ll understand all too well-I promise.”

Logan sat back on the rich leather seat. “Okay, Ethan. I’ve met Stone. I know what you’re looking for. Now I think it’s time you told me where we’re going.”

Rush smiled faintly. “You know the term ‘hell on earth’?”

“Of course.”

“Well, prepare yourself. Because that’s exactly where we’re headed.”