Selected Detective
THE PRESENT - THE VALLEY OF KINGS

“Can we go home soon, dad? there is Alim Al-Simsim on TV, Inspector Yusuf Izzuddin Khalifa smoked his cigarette and sighed, while looking at his son, Ali, who was standing next to him holding his nose. A slender man, with high cheekbones, neatly combed hair and wide eyes shining, he exuded a calm air of prowess, offset by the humor of a serious man who delighted in laughter.

“It is not every day that you get the opportunity to tour pri badi in the largest archaeological site in Egypt, Ali,” he said persuaded.

“But I've been here with my school,” grumbled his son. “Two times. Ibu Wadud has shown everything.”

“I don't think he showed you the tomb of Ramses II,” said Khalifa, “ we've seen today. Also Yuya and Tjuyu.”

“There is nothing in it,” complained Ali, “only bat and bandage pile.”

“Stay we are lucky to be allowed to enter here,” said the father, insisting. “This has not been opened to the public since it was discovered in 1905. And just so you know, all those piles of old bandages are genuine mummy wraps, because grave thieves left her in the past after they ripped her off the corpse.” The boy looked up, his fingers fixed on his nostrils, a hint of interest radiating from his eyes.

“Why do they do that?”

“Because,” is obviously Khalifa, “when the priests wrapped the mummies, they put precious gems and talismans between the bandages, and the thieves tried to get them.” The face of the boy.

“Did they gouge his eyes too?”

“That I don't know,” Khalifa said with a smile. “Although sometimes they try to break a finger or hand. But here's what I'm definitely gonna do to you if you don't stop prying your nose!” He grabbed the boy by the waist and tickled him, as if trying to defeat him. Ali squirmed and rebelled with laughter.

“I'm stronger than Dad,” his screeches.

“I don't think so,” said Khalifa, grabbing her waist and overturning her. “I think half strong is not!” They stood in the middle of the Valley of the Kings, near the entrance to the tomb of Ramesses VI. It was already dusk and the throng of tourists that filled the valley for most of the day had now gradually left, leaving behind a terrifying empty spot. A short distance away, a group of workers were clearing rubble from an excavation trench, singing in no tone as they scavenged shards of limestone into rubber baskets. Far below the valley, a group of tourists entered the tomb of Ramses IX. Although the place had been abandoned by visitors, except for a few tourist police, Ahmad the garbage man and, on the upper slopes of the valley, the, crouching in whatever shade there is, a strange postcard peddler and snack vendor look down in the hope that there is still someone willing to buy his merchandise.

“I will tell you something,” said Khalifa, calmed the boy and stroked his hair. “Let's see Amenhotep II quickly, then we call this a day picnic, huh? It's rude if we leave now that Said has trouble finding the key.” As he said, a shout came from the inspector's office fifty meters away from his place, then a tall and sinister figure came over to them.

“Me also finally!” said the figure, while showing the key. “Someone has put it on the wrong hanger.” Said Ibn-Bassat, better known as Ginger because of his light copper hair, was an old friend of Khalifa.

They met a few years ago at Cairo University, where they studied ancient history.Money problems have prompted Khalifa to leave her studies and work for the Police Force. Instead, Said completed his studies, graduated with honors and joined the Department of Antiquities, where he pursued a career as assistant director in the Valley of the Kings. Although he never said that was the life Khalifa should have chosen for himself, he did not push Khalifa to another path either. He loved the ancient times and wanted to do anything to be able to dedicate his life to working with various relics. Not envious of his friend, of course. And Ginger had no family like her, something that would never give up, not for all the monuments in Egypt.

The three of them surrounded the valley together, passing through the tombs of Ramesses III and horemheb before turning right and following the path leading to the entrance to the tomb of Amenhotep II, which is at the bottom of a set of stairs and secured by a heavy iron door. Ginger starts opening the lock.

“How long will this stay closed?” Khalifa.

“Only another month. Restoration is almost complete.” Ali urged among them, appearing tiptoed and watching the dark interior through the trellis.

“Is there a treasure?”

“I don't think so,” said Ginger, sidelining the child and opening the door. “Everything was stolen back in ancient times.” He flicked a button and a light flashed, shining down on the uphill corridor and veering into the rock. The walls and ceilings are decorated with sculptures that tell stories. Ali looked down.

“Do you what I would do if I were King of Egypt?” He asked them again, his voice echoing in the narrow tomb. “I will choose a hidden secret room with all the treasures inside, and another room that contains only a few treasures to outwit the robbers. Like the man you told me about. Inkyman who diggerikan.”

“Hor-Ankh-Amun,” correction Khalifa, with a smile.

“Yes. I'll set a trap so that if any criminals come in, they'll get caught. Then I put them in jail.”

“They are still lucky,” said Ginger, smiling. “the usual punishment for tomb thieves in ancient Egypt was cut off his nose and sent to salt mines in Libya. Or, shot with nails.” He blinked at Khalifa and, laughing amusedly, the two men walked down the corridor behind Ali. They had just walked a few meters when they heard a rush of footsteps behind them. A man wearing a Djellaba appeared at the door of the tomb, a shadow in the bright afternoon sky, breathing heavily.

“Is there Inspector Khalifa here?” he asked, shuffling.

The detective turned his head towards his friend, and stepped back at the tunnel.

“Yes, I'm detective Khalifa!”

“You are requested to come immediately, to the side there. they found...” The man stopped, trying to catch his breath.

“What?” Khalifa. “What do they find?”

The man looked at her, with wide eyes. “Corpse figure.” From a distance, Ali's voice rang among them.

“Great! I'm coming too, Dad?”

***

The body was found at Malqata, an archaeological site at the southern end of the Theban mountains, once the site of the palace of Pharaoh Amenhotep III. Now it is a remote area filled with ruins blown by sandstorms and visited only by the most dedicated Egyptian lovers.Dusty Daewoo police cars have been waiting for Khalifa outside the office. After leaving his son to Ginger, who promised to deliver him home safely, he immediately sat in the passenger seat and the car sped up quickly. The cries of Ali protesting her were heard echoing behind them.

“I don't want to go home, Dad! I want to see a corpse!”

It took twenty minutes to reach the scene. The police driver, a young man with speckled cheeks and an uneven row of teeth, stuck his foot on the gas pedal, it crosses the road in the hills towards the Nile plain and then turns south along the edge of the mountain range.

Khalifa looked out the window as she passed through the sugar cane and molochia gardens, while smoking Cleopatra's cigarette and half listening to news reports on the car stereo about the escalating violence between Israel and Palestine suicide bombings again, the more retaliatory attacks, the more dead and miserable.

“This will trigger a war,” said the driver.

“Indeed the war,” sighed Khalifa, pulling the last puff on her cigarette and puffing it through the window.

“It's been going on for the last 50 years.” The driver took a packet of gum from inside the dashboard drawer, slipped two pieces into his mouth and chewed them vigorously.

“According to you peace can still happen?”

“No if the situation is as it is now. be careful, there is a pedati!” The driver slightly turned the wheel of his car to avoid the pedicure drawn by a donkey, which was transporting sugar cane from the harvest, and immediately returned to the track in front of the pedati at the right time so as to avoid a collision with a tourist train.

“Allah protects me,” muttered the detective, holding the dashboard. “Allah is Forgiving.” They passed through Dar al-Bahri, the Ramesseum and the scattered ruins of the temple, before finally reaching the point where the road split into branches, one turned east towards the Nile and the other west towards the ancient village of workers in Dar Al-madinah and the Valley of the Queens. they continued to drive across the smooth asphalt to the dusty path past the large temple in the habu medinet and out into the undulating desert, its surface covered in garbage and the thorny bush of camel plants.

They continued to travel for several kilometers, cornering and shaking, sometimes passing through the rubble of the rocky walls of mud brick relics of antiquity, which are brown shaped like melted chocolate, before finally meeting four police cars and an ambulance parked near a rusty telephone pole, as well as a fifth car, a dusty blue mercedes, which is somewhat separated.

“I can't figure out why you don't have a cell phone,” grumbled muhammad Sariya, deputy of Khalifa, but broke away from the paramedics and walked over to greet him. “It takes one hour to find you.”

“So, what have we found?”

“Mayat,” said. “White male, his name is Jansen. Piet Jansen.” Sariya reached into her jacket pocket and took out a plastic bag with a leather wallet inside, then thrust it at Khalifa.

“National Egypt,” said, “though you certainly wouldn't have thought that if you saw his name. Got a hotel in Gezira, The Menna-Ra.”

“On the lake side? Yes, I know it.” Khalifa took the wallet out of the plastic bag and took out its contents, observing an Egyptian identity card. “Born 1925. Are you sure he didn't die because he was old?”

“No, if the state of his body is like this,” Sariya said.

The detective pulled out a Banque misr credit card and several pieces of banknotes worth 20 pounds. In a pocket beside his wallet he found a community membership card of the Egyptian Plantation and a shabby black-and-white photograph of a fierce-looking Alsatin dog behind it. On the back of the photo is inscribed in a faded pencil, “Arminius, 1930”. He watched the writing for a while, feeling that the name was a little familiar but could not definitively reveal why. Then he put it back, put the wallet in a plastic bag and returned it to the deputy.

“You've notified her closest family?”

“No relatives are still alive,” Sariya said. “We've contacted hotel.”

“And this mercedes car? hers?” Sariya nodded. “We found a number of these keys in his pocket.” He also gave another bag containing a large key. “We have checked. Nothing out of the ordinary in it.” They walked towards Mercedes and looked through its windows. The interior is a cracked leather seat cover, a painted dashboard, a fragrance bottle hanging from the rearview mirror in a blank, except for a daily al-Ahram edition two days ago on the passenger seat and, in the same case, the, on the rear cabin floor, an expensive looking Nikon camera.

“Who found it?” ask Khalifa.

“A French woman. He was taking pictures among the ruins and accidentally found his body.” Sariya opened the notebook and researched it. “Claudia Champollion,” she read the name she wrote, trying hard to adjust her mouth to pronounce foreign vowels. “Two years old. An archaeologist. He lives over there.” Sariya nodded her head towards the tree-lined complex along the path, surrounded by a high wall of mud brick. French Archaeological Mission in Thebes.

“No relation with that Champollion, ’kan?” ask Khalifa.

“hmm?”

“Jean francois Champollion.” Sariya looked confused.

“People who found the hieroglyphs,” he said while pretending to be annoyed. “Yes God, muhammad, don't you know anything about the history of this country?”

The deputy just shrugged his shoulders. “She's pretty enough, I know it... great, you know...” He moves his hand. “mantap!” Khalifa shook her head and smoked her cigarette. “If police work were merely a matter of flirting with women, muhammad, you would be his chief commissioner right now. Any specific statements?” Sariya re-examined her notebook to signify she had written it.

“Dan?”

“Nothing. He saw nothing, heard nothing. only found this corpse, then returned to his compound and called 122.” Khalifa finished her Cleopatra, threw her away and stepped on her with the bottom of her shoes.

“I guess we should check it out. Already notified Anwar?”

“She has to finish some of her document work first, later will follow. He said, just make sure the body of this victim does not move anywhere.” The detective urges rather exasperatedly, getting used to Anwar's sense of humor, the disease expert, which is not so good. The two then inspected the scene, with feet stepping on ceramic flakes that litter the desert surface like biscuit crumbs. Far to their right side a number of children were sitting on a pile of rocks. One of them held a ball of feet, watching the police who were leaving the desert to look for signs; above the sun began to set behind the dome of the egg-shaped Dar Al-Muharab monastery. Its rays changed from pale yellow to strong honey orange. Here and there mounds of mud-brick walls emerge from the sand, weather-eaten and miserable, like ancient creatures emerging from the depths of the desert. On the contrary, it does not really indicate that they are crossing what used to be one of the magnificent buildings in ancient Egypt.

“It is hard to believe that this place was once a palace, yes ‘kan?” khalifa said while picking up ceramic flakes with traces of pale blue paint on them. “In his time, Amenhotep III ruled half of the known world. And now..”.

He turned the fragments of the earth between his fingers, rubbing the pigment with his thumb. Sariya did not say anything, just made a gesture with her hand, signaling that they should turn right.

“Away there,” said. “Behind that wall.” They crossed the patio of the road made of bricks, cracked and chapped, past something that was once certain to be the main door, he said, now only two piles of stone with stairs made of limestone between the two. On the other hand, a policeman was sheltering under the shadow at din ding's feet.

A few meters away was a heavy canvas sheet with a corpse-shaped mound underneath. Sariya stepped forward, grasping the corner of the sheet and revealing it.

“Allahu Akbar!” Khalifa. “Allah Almighty!” In front of him lay an old, very old man. His body was weak and thin, his dry skin wrinkled with spots. He fell down with one hand under his body, the other hand drooping by his side. The man was wearing a khaki-colored safari suit, and his head was somewhat bald with a few strands of whitish-yellow hair pulled back and somewhat twisted, around, like a swimmer breathing air before drowning his face back in water. The unusual posture caused by a prosthetic leg is stuck from below into the pouch of his left eye. Dry blood splashed on his cheeks, lips, and chin; a not-so-deep wound scratched the side of his head, just above his right ear.

Khalifa stood watching the corpse, watching the dusty hands and clothes, the small tear on the knee of her pants, the wound on her head filled with sand and fine gravel. He then crouched down and slowly scraped the base of the iron fake foot that emerged from the sand. The foot was very firmly stuck in the ground.

“From tent?” sariya asked, uncertain.

Khalifa shook her head. “Part of the research grid. Left from excavation. It has been around for years when viewed from it.” He stood up straight, flapping his hands at the flies that began to swarm the body and walking several meters to the point where the sand burst and was disturbed. He was able to conclude that there were at least three different tracks, which may have belonged to the police who had combed the area. He crouched down again, took his handkerchief, picked up a sharp object that was hit by blood spots on its top.

“It looks like someone has hit his head,” Sariya said.

“Then, he fell forward about his fake foot. Or driven.” Khalifa turned the stone in her hand, while staring at the splash of deep red blood.

“It feels strange that an attacker left a wallet full of money in his pocket,” he said. “And the keys in his car.”

“Maybe he was bullied?” Sariya. “Or maybe robbery is not the motive.” Before Khalifa had another opinion, there was shouting from a distance across the rubble area. Two hundred meters away a policeman stood on a sand dune, waving his hand.

“It looks like he found something,” Sariya said.

Khalifa kept the stone and the two walked over to the police. As soon as they arrived, he had descended from the mound and stood on the side of a long wall along the lower part which, in mud plaster, depicted a blue lotus flower, was, it started to fade but still seemed clearly visible.

At the center of the line there is a gap where the plaster part looks like it was just removed. Not far from there was a canvas backpack, hammer and chisel, and a black stick with silver panels. Sariya crouched down beside the backpack and turned the cover over.

“Ckk, ckk, ckk,” it clucked while getting rid of the stone with painted plaster on it. “Someone has been a brat.” He showed the brick to Khalifa. The detective was not looking at it. instead he crouched down, raised a stick, and observed the pen around him there is a miniature pattern of rose-shaped ornaments alternating with Ankh symbols.

“Pak?” Khalifa did not answer.

“Pak?” Sariya repeated, louder.

“Sorry, Muhammad.” The detective put the stick aside and turned towards his deputy. “What do you get?” Sariya gave the batubata. Khalifa held it, observing the decoration on its surface. While his gaze turned to the stick, his eyebrows frowned as if he was trying to recall something.

“What?” ask Sariya.

“Ah, no. No. just an odd coincidence.” He shook his head without caring and smiled. However, there was still a sign of uneasiness within his eyes, a sort of deeper discomfort.

Somewhat far away on the right side, a huge crow landed on the wall staring at them, flapping its wings and cawing loudly.