Four Ways to Pharaoh Khufu by Alexander Marmer Page B

and politely asked Michael what his relationship was with the patient.
    “He is my friend,” replied Michael. He paused and added, “Well, he’s not really my friend. I just met him today.”
    “Ok, mister…” the clerk paused for a second, looking at him expectantly.
    “Doyle,” said Michael.
    “Yes, Mr. Doyle,” the clerk paused and then gently apprised him, “Unfortunately, Mr. Schulze passed away.”
    “Oh my God, really?” exclaimed Michael in a state of shock. I was hoping for a miracle. But he did have a pulse when he was loaded inside the ambul ance .
    “Can you please tell me how he died?” Michael asked.
    After checking the hospital records, the clerk said, “Heart attack.”
    “Heart attack?” Michael was shocked and confused. Even though he had mentally prepared himself for the worst news possible, it had not seemed like a heart attack at the time.
    “Yes, sir, definitely a heart attack,” confirmed the clerk. “That’s exactly what it says in our records,” he looked up at Michael, his eyes soft with compassion. “I’m sorry, sir.”
    How is that possible? Michael gripped the counter in disbelief, trying to grasp the meaning of the clerk’s words and the reality of the situation. He retreated into his thoughts, trying to recall the details from earlier. Where the hell did a heart attack come from? Schulze clearly told me he had been poisoned. Was he hallucinating? I don’t think so. Something is definitely not r ight .
    “Mr. Doyle,” the clerk called Michael’s name, bringing him back from the labyrinth of his thoughts. “The family has been notified and his wife is flying in from Germany, but that is all I know.”
    From the depths of his heart, Michael wished to inform the clerk that Schulze had told him that he had been poisoned. But he decided not to start a panic or, even worse, suspicious questions. After all, they were doctors and definitely knew more about medicine than he did. I didn’t know this man at all, and I am not gonna to get myself involved in any dirty games being played—whether by Schulze or the hospital. Michael was not about to waste any more of his long-awaited vacation. But all the same, he felt he should at least talk to Schulze’s wife to let her know what had happened.
    “Can you please give his wife my phone number?”
    “Yes, certainly sir.”
    Michael quickly scribed his hotel’s phone number on a piece of paper the clerk offered him. Thinking she might want to meet with him, he added his room number as well and handed the paper to the clerk. In a fog of thoughts, he turned and slowly walked out the entrance and sat down on a nearby bench. His mind was back inside the Grand Gallery of Khufu’s pyramid.
    “I was poisoned!” Schulze’s whispered voice echoed over and over again throughout the Grand Gallery. And, now they say it was a heart attack ? Michael tried in vain to come up with a possible explanation for the discrepancy. Well, I’m sure there are poisons that fool even well trained doc tors.

Chapter 8
    Cairo Police station, Egypt
    Monday, September 18
    12:30 p.m.
     
    V isibly satisfied, Inspector Suliman of the Cairo Police Department hung up the phone after a call from his old friend, Jibade, the Chief of the local Medjay tribe. The Medjay Chief’s news had made his day. If he were to recover the missing stele, a prized ancient Egyptian artifact, it would be the highlight of his career. Known as a hunter, not only within the police department, but also among the criminal elements, Suliman had chased and successfully recovered numerous ancient Egyptian artifacts throughout his time on the force.
    “Egyptian heritage belongs to Egypt” was the motto that gave purpose to his law enforcement career. He had spent the last fifteen years preserving Egyptian heritage by catching smugglers of antiquities. His otherwise stellar career with the Cairo Police had been sullied over the last few years due to a corruption scandal involving a