The Pharaoh Key

New York City

A​LMOST TWO THOUSAND miles to the northeast, the sun had set. In Lower Manhattan, evening was already in full swing. From the windows of his penthouse in the building on Little West 12th Street, Eli Glinn—a piece of paper in one hand—looked down at the Millennials and Generation Zs and slack-jawed tourists milling around outside the restaurants and bars below. While the Meatpacking District was no longer the hippest scene in Manhattan—that transitory claim currently belonged to the Lower East Side—weekends were still busy with the B&T crowd.

After several minutes during which nothing moved except his eyes, Glinn turned away from the window and faced the interior of his apartment. While all the equipment and mechanical contrivances once necessary for his physical limitations had been removed, very little furniture had been added, and the space retained a spare, Zen-like asceticism. The various computers, web intercept devices, and other surveillance and data-gathering equipment he’d retained after the dissolution of Effective Engineering Solutions had been relegated to the floor below. The rest of the building had been leased to an independent film production company, who’d been delighted to find such a vast soundstage—formerly the central laboratory of EES—near the southern tip of Manhattan.

Now Glinn walked slowly and thoughtfully forward, seated himself in one of two 1958-vintage Arne Jacobsen Egg Chairs, and returned his attention to the piece of paper. It was a letter, scrawled with a fountain pen in a confident hand. He re-read the final paragraphs.

There’s nothing else to tell. Dr. Crew never suspected I was acting as your agent—as you’d predicted in the initial briefing, he was more interested in the romantic possibilities than in questioning my background. And while Manuel Garza seemed naturally suspicious of everyone, he never connected me to you. Dr. Crew and I went our separate ways in Cairo. He, not surprisingly, was headed back to his cabin in New Mexico.

We avoided speaking of the subject of Mr. Garza’s death in the Eastern Desert. Without wishing to sound sentimental about it, my own belief is that the man died of heartbreak. He seemed overwhelmed by the rigors of the journey—and, particularly, by the disappointment of finding nothing at the end but broken dreams.

In truth, I have to admit my own role in this failed expedition has left me emotionally and spiritually exhausted. I am going away for a time, perhaps a long time, and will be out of reach even of you. I hope you’ll understand, Uncle, that while I will always be thankful for your guidance and assistance over the years, I don’t believe I will be able to accept any future assignments. Please always remember, though, that wherever I am I will think of you with affection.

The letter was unsigned, but Glinn knew the handwriting well and could mentally add the missing signature: Imogen Blackburn.

Even more slowly, he placed the letter on the cherry-and-glass Noguchi table before him. In addition to furnishing Imogen with a first-class education, Glinn had taught her numerous things not on the Oxford University curriculum: how to obtain a false identity; how to launder money; how to lie successfully under interrogation. When she wanted to, Imogen could be an excellent liar. That is why Glinn was surprised the lies in this letter were so patently false.

What was the reason? Had she fallen for the charming Gideon Crew? But no—Gideon had flown back to Albuquerque alone; Glinn had already checked the manifests. Had she been turned? Yet the individual facts in her letter rang true. Gideon had gone home without baggage. Garza had vanished from the radar; if he wasn’t dead, he might as well be. Yes, the facts rang true—and yet he felt certain the letter, as a whole, was not.

Something had happened out there in the wastes of southern Egypt. If they had reached the location of the Phaistos Disk, which wasn’t even clear, they had at least brought nothing back. But had they actually found something? Had he been deceived? While he was sure the letter was a tissue of lies, he had no idea where its germ of truth might be.

Glinn took in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. As he did so, he was reminded of how much he’d grown used to having a fully functional body again. One that did as it was told. Strange that, after those years of crippling difficulty, he could forget so quickly.

There was something else he had realized, as he’d brooded over—no, that was not quite the correct term—taken stock of his life over the last several weeks. He realized his memory of Sally Britton: the one and only love of his life, the woman he’d lost through his own damnable egotism…had, sadly, begun to fade. Captain Britton deserved far better than to be forgotten, even temporarily, in his delight at regaining use of his limbs.

Here was an ironic twist of fate that Glinn—master of irony—could readily appreciate. Quite by accident, in their successful scheme to distract him into lowering his guard, Gideon Crew and Manuel Garza had rewoken that memory. What Glinn had first believed to be anger at the two for humiliating him was, in reality, anger at his own forgetfulness. Seeing her on that grainy video, hearing her voice again, had driven this forcefully home. Providence had given him a new lease on life: and there was no better way for him to live it than by honoring Sally Britton’s memory and never allowing himself to forget again.

What would she say, were she here now? Let it go, Eli.

Let it go. Gideon Crew: there was nothing Glinn could do that would make a difference to Gideon. Best leave him in peace. Manuel Garza—the man had been his loyal aide-de-camp, both in the military and for over a dozen years in private life. Dead or alive, this insurrection of his was long in coming, and it could be forgiven. And Imogen…Imogen had her own life to live, and Glinn no longer had a right to intrude upon it.

I don’t know much about poetry, but what I know I could share with you. And I could love you, Eli…

Letter in hand, Glinn leaned over toward the one mechanical item he allowed in the room—a micro-cut paper shredder, with a security rating of P-6 as measured by the Deutsches Institut für Normung—and slipped the paper into it. With a whisper, it vanished into confetti.

Then he sat back again. His book of W. H. Auden poems was in the next room, but for the memory that came ghosting up to him now he didn’t need it. It was when he’d first met Sally Britton: in a leafy New Jersey suburb, outside a neat Georgian house. He had been waiting at the curb, and she’d approached him with all the authority, self-discipline, and confidence of the ship captain she was. And she was beautiful. On the spot, Glinn had offered her a job. And in return, she had smiled and quoted Auden. Closing his eyes and leaning back ever so slightly, Glinn’s own lips formed the faintest of smiles as he remembered her words, as vividly now as if she had spoken them that very afternoon: