The Mystery of Queen Nefertiti

  Charlie Wilford and the Order of the Knights of Time- I

  THE MYSTERY OF QUEEN NEFERTITI

  C. T. Cassana

  Text © C. T. Cassana, 2010

  All rights reserved

  English translation: Martin Boyd, www.dialogos.ca

  For my mother and husband,

  the people who have helped me most in life.

  And for Ignacio, Diego and Sofía,

  the people who have made it infinitely better.

  Contents

  CHAPTER I: The Order of the Knights of Time

  CHAPTER II: Another Chaotic Move

  CHAPTER III: Horatio Conwell

  CHAPTER IV: Busted!

  CHAPTER V: What Kind of Treasure Is That?!

  CHAPTER VI: But Where on Earth Is the Annulus?

  CHAPTER VII: You Knew Each Other?

  CHAPTER VIII: 51° 45′ 3.82″ N, 1° 15′ 7.59″ W

  CHAPTER IX: Welcome to Jurassic Park!

  CHAPTER X: The Great Queen Nefertiti

  CHAPTER XI: The Cat and the Crocodile

  CHAPTER XII: This Isn’t a Team Anymore

  CHAPTER XIII: Ankhesenpaaten

  CHAPTER XIV: Yersinia pestis

  CHAPTER XV: The Magic Flute

  CHAPTER XVI: Miles and Leagues

  CHAPTER XVII: E. Milford

  CHAPTER XVIII: Charlot D’Artagnan

  CHAPTER XIX: Terrible News

  CHAPTER XX: The Egyptian Dinner Service

  CHAPTER XXI: Saint Helena

  CHAPTER XXII: In Memoriam

  LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER I: The Order of the Knights of Time

  An ancient legend tells that a long, long time ago, there lived a just and pious prince named Olwelin. Although but a young man, this prince was a great scholar and a powerful wizard, a master of the Magic Arts, Alchemy and Astronomy.

  In those dark days, brutality and misfortune had devastated the European continent. Whole populations were decimated by plagues and diseases, countless fratricidal wars left carnage in their wake, and long periods of famine drained the compassion from the hearts of men, forcing them to commit heinous acts just to survive.

  Driven to despair by these calamities, Prince Olwelin swore that he would not rest until he had found a formula that would alleviate the suffering and want that afflicted his people. When they saw him lock himself away in the castle tower and work tirelessly night after night, his courtiers imagined that the prince was trying to find the philosopher’s stone, a mythical substance capable of transforming ordinary metal into gold; or perhaps the elixir of life, a magic potion that offered immortality. But Olwelin’s real objective was none other than to invent a device that he could use to rewrite history itself, to make it more just and humane.

  One tranquil starry night, the good prince met with his most loyal and valiant knights in the Throne Room, where he announced to them that he had successfully completed his task. To everyone’s amazement, Olwelin explained that his discovery would never offer gold or immortality, but what it could offer was peace, brotherhood and justice for his people. However, for this to happen, he needed their help, and believing them to be the best men in his kingdom, he invited them to join a secret order whose mission would be to fulfill this noble purpose.

  This honor, however, required great sacrifices on their part, because from the moment they agreed to take the oath of allegiance they would have to promise never to have contact with their families again, never to reap profits for themselves or their families from the power he was entrusting to them, to adhere blindly to a strict code whose terms they could not yet know, and to submit to a new hierarchical order that they would be informed of only after joining the order. The consequence of breaking this oath would be death or, worse still, a lifelong imprisonment filled with humiliations and suffering.

  One by one the men took the oath, and thus were invested as Knights of the Order of Time. When this was done, the prince explained the rules of the Order and the mission entrusted to them, and he gave each one a magical object that would help him fulfill his task.

  That same night, Olwelin used his magic to travel into the future, and thus he learned of the amazing scientific and technological advances that humankind would make in years to come. His scientific heart marveled at the progress made in medicine that would allow men to stay young even into their old age, at the construction of huge buildings unimaginable in his day, at the development of incredible devices called “machines” that would perform the most grueling tasks and allow men to travel great distances, and even to fly.

  Following that first voyage, and when he had seen that the Knights of Time had faithfully fulfilled their mission, Olwelin made many more journeys, always driven by this thirst for greater knowledge. The knowledge thus obtained enabled him to apply certain scientific advances to devices that he had made, to improve them and make them indestructible.

  On none of his visits to the future did the prince ever try to find out what had happened in his kingdom since the days of his reign. But one evening, while wandering through a big city library in search of some books on biology and botany, Olwelin strayed into the history section and felt a sudden temptation to discover the date on which his reign would end. To his surprise, his name only appeared on a long list of rulers, with no mention at all of any important detail about him or his reign. He searched in other books but found nothing further about himself, although he did learn of terrible events that humanity would face, inconceivable massacres, genocides, bloody wars, injustice, treachery, assassinations... Horrible events that would take place in different parts of the world in different eras.

  Olwelin spent many hours poring over dozens of books that related these events, many of them illustrated with images showing the suffering and brutality of which the human race was capable.

  The naive prince’s heart was broken that evening. Only then did he comprehend that however many centuries might pass, the nature of men would never change, for dwelling side by side in that nature are the most wondrous virtue and the most terrible meanness, capable of ennobling or corrupting the human soul.

  In great despair, Olwelin returned to his own time, knowing that his creations would be too dangerous if they fell into the hands of men who were reckless, greedy or obsessed with their own glory. To take them back from the knights in whom he had entrusted them would be futile, for they were indestructible and sooner or later would end up in somebody’s possession. The only solution was to ensure that they always remained in good hands.

  So once again he called his knights together, this time to share his fears with them and to announce that the mission of the Knights of Time had changed. Rewriting the past no longer mattered, because the course of history would inevitably end up being perverted in any case. Now their sole objective would be to keep the existence of their invention in the utmost secrecy, under the firm control of the Order, and to establish mechanisms that would ensure that the society would endure forever.

  The knights honored the prince’s wishes, even after his death, for they had been well-chosen as the best men to fulfill the mission entrusted to them. The objects that Olwelin had created were passed from father to son and the Order has endured into our times in the greatest of secrecy. Its mission has never changed, but its rules have, as new generations of knights adapted them to the changing times and to suit their own interests.

  Many of the objects entrusted to them are still in their possession today... but not all of them. Some of them slipped out of the hands of the Order and disappeared forever; for as Prince Olwelin himself had learned, in the heart of man dwells a meanness capable of perverting the noblest purposes.

  CHAPTE
R II: Another Chaotic Move

  Although Franz Schneider knew that he had in his possession one of the most valuable objects in the world and that many men would be prepared to kill for it, he never thought that such a thing might really happen. And certainly not on that very night.

  But as soon as he noticed a man following him at a distance, he sensed the worst and knew that he had been found out.

  Franz felt a wave of panic sweep over him. Without looking back he quickened his pace, intent on reaching the safety of his house

  He was barely able to control his nerves as he opened the door to his apartment. After crossing the threshold and closing the door behind him, he froze, his back pressed against the wood.

  “What if he’s gotten inside?” he thought. “What if he’s stalking me, waiting until I give away where I’m hiding it before he kills me?”

  A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead. Franz didn’t even dare to wipe it away. All his attention was focused on detecting the faintest sound or the slightest change that might have occurred in his luxurious apartment.

  After standing frozen there for several minutes (which seemed to him like hours), he conjured up the courage to walk to the dressing room next to his bedroom. He looked furtively around him to ensure that nobody was there, and then moved the small portrait of his father that hung on the wall to reveal a tiny keyboard. Still shaking with fear, he entered the security code and a huge wooden panel opened smoothly, exposing a chamber that contained a single object.

  Franz took a deep breath and stretched out his hand to take his salvation at last. But at that moment, just as he had suspected, a shadow lunged at him from out of the dark.

  . . .

  From his bed, Charlie looked at the calendar that was still hanging on his bedroom wall, on which a date was circled in red: November 21, 2013. The day of the move. He looked around him at his empty room and the boxes piled up on one side. He was not at all happy about having to leave.

  It all began when his mother, Maggie Wilford, got the job of Director of Conservation at the British Museum in London. Unfortunately, the museum board had decided that a person with the level of responsibility that she would have should be living close to the museum. And so the Wilfords had no choice but to move down to the big city, leaving behind their beautiful house in Cambridge with its enormous garden, where Charlie had his own playhouse.

  “I’ll bet I won’t even be able to have my own hideout in the new house,” he grumbled.

  As if guessing his thoughts, Marcus, his father, came in and sat down on the bed on the pretext of tucking him in.

  “We’ll be fine in the new house. It’s older than this house and it’s a little run-down. The garden is smaller too,” he said, as if he wanted to get the bad news out of the way first. “But the house itself is bigger. The attic is rather dark and gloomy, very large, with a lot of nooks and crannies. I can’t imagine your sister Lisa going up there, so I’d say it was the perfect place to set up your own secret spot,” he suggested with a conspiratorial wink.

  His father’s suggestion cheered Charlie up a little, although he concealed it behind a long sigh of resignation.

  “The house used to belong to the Conwell family,” Marcus went on, “a family of important archeologists and historians that has always been closely connected to the British Museum. The last Conwell to live in the house was Solomon, who was a bit of a hermit, but an expert in history and archeology. He worked at the museum. You must have seen the library. It was an absolute treasure. It was his son who sold us the house, and we bought it for a steal. Until your mother and I signed the sale agreement, we weren’t even sure whether the price he was offering was just a joke.”

  Charlie listened indifferently to this explanation, quite unaware that all this information would be of great value to him only a few weeks later.

  “I don’t care about the house, Dad,” he replied. “What bothers me is that now we’re going to have to go to a new school and make new friends...”

  “I know, Charlie, you’re quite right,” admitted Marcus. “You two don’t get any benefits out of all this, but we need to support your mother. She’s worked very hard to get this. It’s her life dream. And how could we stay here while she’s living in London? We’d only see her on the weekends and in the long run it would be bad for everyone. It’s better for us all to be together, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  Marcus leaned over his son and gave him a kiss on the forehead. Then he turned out the small blue lamp on the bedside table and left the room, leaving the door ajar.

  Charlie lay in bed, trying to imagine what the new house, and his new life in it, would be like. But neither he nor any other member of his family had any idea how that old mansion in London would change his destiny.

  Forever.

  . . .

  Franz Schneider barely felt the pinprick that injected the fatal toxin into his veins. Clearly, his assailant was a professional. The toxin killed him quickly and painlessly, and it would be utterly undetectable. When the Swiss police examined his body, they would conclude that Mr. Schneider had died from a sudden heart attack. They wouldn’t even find the pinprick on his neck, made with an experimental hypodermic microneedle that left no mark.

  As soon as Franz Schneider had fallen to the floor, his assailant, Max Wellington, bent over him to remove the simple ring he was wearing on his right hand. But just as Max was about to complete the task, a heavy blow to his head knocked him out, and he collapsed on top of Mr. Schneider’s corpse.

  . . .

  It was the third time that the Wilford family had moved house and, according to Marcus, there was no reason to assume that disaster wouldn’t strike again. Although he was not a pessimistic man, his experience with moving house had always been catastrophic.

  On their first move, which was to Cairo, the airline lost all their suitcases and they never got them back. On the second move, when they went to live in Cambridge, they lost several boxes containing books and notes that Marcus had compiled over years and years of archeological study and research; an unspeakable tragedy.

  On this third occasion, only God knew what might go wrong. This was why Marcus watched over the movers vigilantly to make sure that each and every box was loaded onto the truck.

  After looking over the house one last time, the Wilfords got into their car and followed the moving truck to London, keeping it in their sights at all times.

  After passing in front of the British Museum, the convoy drove on for a few yards and then turned a corner, where a rusted sign warned of a dead end. Lining both sides of this quiet street were elegant Victorian mansions, all white and all identical. Down the middle ran a narrow, tree-lined median strip that ended in a small roundabout, on which two horse chestnut trees fought over the limited terrain.

  Marcus parked right at the roundabout. There, solitary and proud, stood an old, gloomy-looking redbrick mansion in an evident state of disrepair. When he saw it, Charlie was amazed that his mother would have agreed to buy such a place.

  The boy got out of the car to get a closer look. Although it wasn’t ugly, its facade was certainly odd, with one half curved and the other half straight. It was utterly unadorned and seemed to have been deserted for a long time. Nothing in its simple, almost innocent appearance gave any hint of the powerful secret that this run-down mansion hid inside it.

  “What do you think, children?” asked Marcus.

  “It’s awful, Dad,” stated Lisa flatly. “It’s the ugliest house on the whole street, and the oldest.”

  She turned around to look back at one of the white houses they had passed on their way down the street.

  “That one there is for sale,” she said, pointing out the window. “You could have bought that one instead of this one.”

  “Darling,” replied her father while he undid his seatbelt, “this house was a real bargain.”

  Maggie got out of the car with a broad smile, as if her daughter’
s reaction didn’t matter to her in the least. She reached gently into her handbag and took out a key, which she used to open the front door of the old house. Charlie saw her disappear inside and made to follow her. Suddenly, his mother came out the door again with an expression of rage and disbelief. Her face began to flush red and her expression turned increasingly livid.

  Charlie knew that expression all too well: when his mother got that way, she was like a pressure cooker on the point of exploding.

  Marcus got out of the car. He knew that expression too, and obviously realized that something was wrong. It was nothing that he shouldn’t have expected; after all, they were moving house.

  Meanwhile, Maggie had gone back inside. Her furious steps pounding from one end of the house to the other could be heard from the street. The sound did not bode well.

  “Bloody hell!” they heard her exclaim. “How dare that presumptuous bastard do this to us! That arrogant, infantile imbecile! That swindler! That tasteless philistine!”

  Charlie didn’t grasp the full meaning of all these colorful descriptions. He wasn’t even sure if they were meant to be insults, because the insults that grown-ups used were sometimes so fancy that it was hard to tell whether they were criticizing someone or giving them a compliment. Wouldn’t it have been easier to say “stupid snot-face” or “pea-brained twit”? An expression like that would leave no room for doubt.

  But what was clear was that his mother was angry, even furious. And that fortunately she was not cross with him, although this was something he could never be totally sure of.

  “Bloody idiot!” screamed Maggie.

  Charlie realized that his mother’s insults were becoming comprehensible, so the situation had to be pretty serious.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Marcus as he climbed the steps to the front door of the house.

  “That bloody philistine has left everything here! He hasn’t painted the house as we agreed, and he hasn’t taken the furniture. It’s all still here! And now, how are we going to move our bloody things in???”