our tomb’s resident.”
Zeibig pointed to the lower corner. “This portion, here, was the section shot up by the thieves.”
Stanley enlarged the photo. “We have a woman in fine attire standing in a boat. She’s waving or passing something to a man on the opposite shore. I’m not sure what that signifies.”
“Any light shed by the hieroglyphics?” Summer asked.
Stanley studied the second panel of symbols. “‘The royal daughter imparting the Apium of Faras prior to fleeing Egypt.’”
“Why would a royal daughter be fleeing Egypt?” Zeibig asked.
“Good question,” Stanley said. “Akhenaten had six daughters that we know of, plus his young son Tutankhamun. It would have been unusual for a royal to flee the country. Perhaps it was due to turmoil after his death.” He rubbed his chin. “His cult of the Aten was controversial, especially with the high priests. There was likely a power struggle after his death, which may have affected the royal family. Akhenaten’s successor was a shadowy figure who may have come from the priesthood. He served as pharaoh only briefly, until Tutankhamun took the throne. Of course, Tut was just a young boy under the guidance of elder advisors, and promptly abolished the worship of the Aten.”
“Political skullduggery at its finest,” Zeibig said.
“What does the Apium of Faras mean?” Summer asked.
“That’s rather interesting, if my interpretation is correct. Faras was a well-known ancient city and fortress. I’m not aware of an associated apium—or cure, if you will—which may have been a remedy for the illness.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “the meaning exists in Faras.”
“A good bet,” Stanley said, “but I’m afraid we’ll never know.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because the city of Faras, or what’s left of it, sits at the bottom of Lake Nasser.”
A nurse entered the room with the professor’s lunch, compelling the group to say their good-byes. Zeibig promised to send Stanley the photos, and Riki committed to meet him in Amarna in a few weeks.
Outside the hospital, the group was greeted by a blast of hot, dry air.
Dirk turned to Riki. “Do you have time for lunch before your flight?”
She nodded. “I have an hour or two before I should make my way to the airport.”
“Since we’re on a college campus,” Summer said, “there should be plenty of cafés nearby.”
They followed a sidewalk that fronted the main boulevard along campus. As they approached a side street, a white sedan cut across traffic and screeched to a stop beside them. With their attention drawn to the car, no one noticed a man wearing a ball cap and sunglasses rush up behind them. He jammed a pistol in the small of Zeibig’s back. “You, in the car.” He shoved Zeibig toward the vehicle, then spun around and waved the gun at the others, motioning them to back away.
Dirk glanced at the car. The driver held a gun in the crook of his left elbow, aimed in his direction. It wasn’t the gun that dismayed him, but the man’s neatly trimmed black beard. He was the same heavyset man who’d tossed a grenade at him in Amarna.
Summer recognized him, too. “Rod, do as he says.”
Zeibig fumbled to open the door, then slid into the backseat. The sidewalk gunman jumped in and slammed the door.
As the car screeched away, Dirk and Summer turned to each other with the same look of dread. And the same question in their head.
Why had the gunmen followed them to Assiut and kidnapped Zeibig?
26
Call the police,” Dirk yelled. “I’ll see if I can follow them.”
He took off at a sprint, chasing the car as it sped down the block. He hoped he could flag a passing car, but saw only a dilapidated produce truck traveling the opposite direction. Ahead on the sidewalk, he spotted a female student wearing a hijab parking a red scooter at a bike rack.
The girl was startled when Dirk ran up and grabbed the handlebars, yanking the machine toward the street.
“Sorry . . . need to borrow it,” he said. “Police coming.” He pointed back at Summer and Riki, then searched for the starter.
The girl stormed after him, demanding in Arabic that he give it back. Dirk turned the key, twisted the throttle, and zipped away before she could get close enough to hurl more than an insult.
The scooter, a twenty-year-old faded red Vespa, looked like it had weathered a hundred sandstorms. Dirk was relieved that despite its appearance, the old thing ran strong and true.
A full block ahead, the white sedan was forced to slow as it followed a bus into a traffic