A God of Foreign Lands

By H. Nicholas Spinelli

The novel is a complete revision and rewrite of my book a God of Foreign Lands. The story itself is a literary, character-driven tale with elements of humor, adventure, mystery, and a touch of Egyptian mysticism; think Elizabeth Peters meets Christopher Moore.
Professor Lawrence Taylor is the current but soon to be ex-head curator of the University Museum of New York City. Doctor Roth, Professor Taylor's soon to be replacement wants him out and forgotten, even though the fact that Professor Taylor, with the cooperation of the Royal London Museum, is about to open the most impressive display of Egyptian art effects ever see outside of Ancient Egypt. The night of his last day on the job, while inspecting the basement loading area. He discovers inside an overlook container fifteen ancient Egyptian scrolls, and a journal penned by Lieutenant Billings, RAF. Overcome with curiosity, Professor begins to read the journal and is captivated by what he reads.
It's 1941, the world is at war, and England stands alone against the German onslaught. A young Egyptologist at the Royal London Museum, Reginald Billings, in a burst of patriotic fervor joins the RAF and is assigned to an observation platform in the middle of the Egyptian desert. The lieutenant's position soon becomes the target of a devastating air assault. But, three seconds before he is reduced to his subatomic particles. The lieutenant is propelled down a narrow shaft into an underground temple where he discovers fifteen ancient scrolls that will render every text on Ancient Egypt obsolete. Alive for now. The lieutenant must find a way out of his gilded prison and back to the safety of his own lines with both himself and the scrolls intact. However, safety, for the severely wounded lieutenant, proves to be an illusion. Others, with the knowledge that an ancient secret is locked within the scrolls, have learned of his discovery. And neither war nor distance will keep them from doing everything in their power to obtain the scrolls. From the battlefields of Egypt to the lush English countryside, Lieutenant Billings now finds himself in a battle of wits with a nameless foe lead by the mysterious Mr. Omar, not only for possession of the scrolls but for is very survival.
But much to Professor Taylor's chagrin, he soon discovers that deep within the shadows of his museum lurks the very same Mr. Omar. And the last chapter regarding the scrolls is about to be played out, for neither time nor distance has diminished Mr. Omar's need to possess them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. Nicholas Spinelli
• Release date: Feb 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465952967

H. Nicholas Spinelli

My bio is nether all that long or all that interesting. I live in Bradenton, Florida, with my lovely wife, Cheryl, two cats, and just a short drive from my daughter, Michelle, my son-in-law, Andreas and the two greatest grandchildren in the world ¬ Nic and Sam. Prior to retiring, I paid for my writing material by working both as a sales trainer and sales representative for a major Pharmaceutical Corporation. As far for my education, I have two degrees but neither is in English. Since graduating from college though, I have attended two classes on writing at the University of Pittsburgh, taken several courses on line from The Writers College, Gotham Writer's Workshop, and have completed a correspondence course, worth seven college credits, from the Long Ridge Writers School. For assistance and advice beyond the academics, I belong to several writers' groups, and I have attended numerous writers' conferences. In addition, I have read at least fifteen books on writing including the two best books ever written on the subject: Sol Stein's, Stein on Writing and How to Grow a Novel. Mr. Stein also produced a set of tapes from one of his fiction weekends that I keep in my car and have listened to at least fifteen times. Knowing that my literary education may not be as intense as some. Once my novel was complete, I utilized the services of a noted book doctor to help make my book even better. In January of 2006 I had my first publishing success. One of my short stories, 30 Days, was chosen for inclusion in the January 2006 edition of the on line magazine, Combat. Since then, I have been fortunate enough to have other short stories published in several regional magazines. Since my book, A GOD OF FOREIGN LANDS, is complete; I now spend all my spare time working on a new book, Echo's of Glory. To all those wonderful people who have bought or will buy my book ¬ thank you so very much. I hope you have as much fun reading my story as I did writing it.

Book preview

A God of Foreign Lands

H. Nicholas By

Spinelli

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2019 by H. Nicholas Spinelli

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashmords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN

9781465952967

This book is dedicated to Cheryl, Michelle, Nic, and Sam. The best family anyone could ask for.

CHAPTER 1

When that old fart finally hobbles in, bring him to my office immediately, said Professor Mildred Roth. The soon-to-be chief curator of the New York City University Museum to Doctor Vicky Marie, head of the department of ancient studies, seated at a makeshift desk in the middle of the hallway. And make sure he leaves that mutt with you, she added, in a voice reminiscent of fingernails moving across a blackboard.

The old fart is here. And I'll be in just as soon as I hang up my coat if that's alright with you, said Professor Lawrence Taylor, the current, but soon-to-be ex-head curator. As he shuffled into the executive suite, nodded to Vicky, stepped into his office, threw his coat across the desk, and returned to the main corridor.

Tut, he said to the aged yellow lab at his side, You'll be safer out here with Victoria while I go see what Dr. Roth wants. Vicky looked up. On a face that could easily grace the cover of Vogue was a smile. Still, her eyes burned with indignation at the lack of respect, Professor Taylor was forced to endure.

Relax, I’ve been called a lot worse, he said. Besides, I can always hide in my office. You, on the other hand, had to give up your office until ‘Her Royal Highness’ ascends to the throne.

Vicky took Professor Taylor’s hand and gave it a squeeze. If you need any help, call.

I think I finally understand how Beowulf felt before he faced the Grendel. They both laughed.

Professor Taylor walked into the office, where Dr. Ross sat scowling at several pieces of paper strewn across her desk. As he stood there in his freshly pressed, though slightly threadworm, gray herringbone suit, waiting for her to look up, he couldn't help but wonder what branch of the Machiavelli family this short, squat woman had descended from.

This Egyptian thing better be everything you're telling the higher-ups it is, she said without looking up. The entire board of directors and the board of trustees, along with the local press, will be there for opening night. You have today and tomorrow to make sure everything is perfect. Do you understand?

And a very good morning to you too, Dr. Ross, Professor Taylor said. Would I like to have a seat? Why thank you so much, but please don't go to any trouble; this one here will do just fine.

He sat down on a black leather chair directly across from her, leaned forward until his body nearly touched the desk, and said. I'm so pleased that you finally discovered this, Egyptian thing. After all, it's only the most ambitious joint project the Royal London Museum has ever undertaken in its 400-year history. Thanks to their assistance, we have managed to assemble the most impressive display of ancient Egyptian artifacts ever gathered in one place outside of Egypt.

Dr. Roth kept her gaze fixed on the papers lying on the desk. He continued anyway. I realize you have only been here four weeks. But if you had bothered paying attention when I reviewed the various projects this museum is involved in. Or, having chosen to ignore me, at least consulted with the staff about the various undertakings we had scheduled, rather than spend all your time berating them, then even you would have understood the importance of this project long before the presence of both boards brought it to your attention. Quite frankly. I should think of an exhibition that will make this institution the academic envy of the entire country would warrant national coverage. Not just a two-minute spot on the local news.

She looked up.

Secondly, if you had made even a ministerial attempt to get to know my staff. You would understand that they are quite capable of making this display the premier event of this or any season. And, they will do it, not because of any pathetic threats on your part. But because they are professionals, whose primary concern is, and always has been, the enlightenment of our clientele, and the success of this museum.

She returned her gaze to the desk.

And, he leaned so close to her he could almost smell the bacon she had for breakfast on her breath, just what do you intend to have done with me if everything is not perfect? Wrap me in gauze and lock me away in one of our sarcophagi? Or better yet, how about forcing me to retire.

Dr. Roth leaned back in her chair again and looked him directly in the eyes. Enjoy your last hurrah. The day after tomorrow, they open your exhibit, hand you a gold watch, and send you off into that good night. Then I can get to work, making sure things are run my way around here.

It's not the mandatory retirement that concerns me, he said. It's your attitude toward my staff and the direction you want to take this museum.

But you don't run things around here anymore, remember? And thank you so much for enlightening me on the full potential of your project, she said. If you're even close to being right about the amount of excitement this display will generate, I think I'll just run on over to public relations and see if we can interest the networks. After all, five minutes on the national news will do wonders for attendance. Dr. Roth said as she exited the room and headed down the hall toward the public relations department.

Professor Taylor looked up and saw Vicky standing in the doorway, glaring at Dr. Roth's empty chair. That arrogant bitch, said Vicky, as Professor Taylor slowly got out of his chair and walked over to where she stood. She gave him a hug.

Now that almost made the whole thing worthwhile, he said, wrapping his arm in hers as they walked down the hall toward his office like two pallbearers at their best friend’s funeral.

When they reached the office, Vicky drooped onto the black, overstuffed, leather visitor’s sofa. Professor Taylor walked around the desk and collapsed onto his chair, looking every one of his 75 years.

Is there anything I can do to help? she asked.

Sure, make me 35 again, he answered. Vicky said nothing but turned away and watched in silence as Tut waddled into the room and flopped down onto the faded plaid cushion she had given her so many years ago.

And just what have you been up to, old girl? said Professor Taylor.

Vicky smiled, I’m afraid I accidentally left the bottom drawer of my desk open and Tut may have found some treats that were just lying around.

Think of how much money you’ll save once that old freeloader and I are gone.

Tut looked up.

Vicky looked towards Tut, Don't worry. As long as I have a desk, there will always be a special drawer just for you. Tut laid her head down on the pillow and closed her eyes. Vicky turned toward Professor Taylor. You know it just won't be the same around here without you two.

Oh, enough! If we keep this up, both of us will end up bawling our eyes out, and I won't be able to say something to you before they toss me out of here that I have wanted to say for a long time. He gently took Vicky's hand in his.

I have known you since you were a confused freshman who had no idea what you were doing or why you were here. But even back then, I could see something special in you, something few teachers are lucky enough to see in any of their students. Vicky's eyes started to water. A true intellect, a mind not yet developed but eager and ready to meet any academic challenge awaiting it. Now, look at you, at 35 you’re the youngest director of ancient studies in the university’s history and a woman to be reckoned with. Have I ever told you how very proud I am to have had a small part in all this?

She covered his hand with both of hers and said, No one in my life has influenced me more, guided me better, or taught me as much as you. If I am a success today, it’s because of you.

Thank you, Victoria. That means more to me than anything anyone has ever said to me in my entire life.

Professor Taylor paused for a moment then said, with a twinkle in his eyes. By the way, when are you getting married?

Now you sound like my mother, said Vicky. The truth is I’m saving myself until I can find a slightly younger version of you.

My God, with all the young studs around here, there must be hundreds of wonderful men to choose from. Why, in the name of all that is logical, would you want a younger version of someone as boring as me? You need a dynamic young man who will bring romance and excitement to your life, not someone whose idea of a good time is searching around some dusty old tomb.

Vicky's face took on a serious expression. God gave me a brain, and you taught me how to use it. Unfortunately, men seem to have a problem with that. Oh, they like the exterior package, but only until I open my mouth. Then I say something intelligent, and they react by leaving skid marks on the floor running for the exit.

She sighed. All men seem to want today is a woman whose chest size and IQ are both in double digits. You, on the other hand, are not intimidated or threatened by intelligent women. You treat women as equals on the job and delight in their company socially. Vicky leaned forward in her chair. Do you realize how rare it is to find those qualities in a guy? I've almost resigned myself to the fact that I may never find a man who enjoys being with a woman who is his intellectual equal. Besides, I'd rather be in a dusty old tomb with the right man than be with a man who thinks a women's brain should remain like one of your old tombs: sealed shut, never to be opened.

Professor Taylor looked at Vicky and smiled. Where were you 40 years ago, my dear? Vicky smiled awkwardly, and the professor looked at his watch, As much as I would like to sit here and continue feeling sorry for myself, it's almost 9:30. I promised George I would meet him in the display room at 9:00.

I'll walk you there, said Vicky. I have a class in 20 minutes; if I short cut it through the main hall, I'll can make it in ten. Besides. This is my last chance to see that display of yours before it's overrun with hordes of awe-struck admirers.

Vicky and the professor took the elevator to the first floor, turned right, and walked down a long, narrow passageway until they reached two oversized oak doors. From his jacket pocket, Professor Taylor produced a large brass key, unlocked the doors, and ushered Vicky into the main display hall. An audible gasp escaped her lips.

Every time I come here. I feel like I’ve traveled back in time to ancient Egypt at the height of its power and influence, she said, with a look of awe on her face. The room was a kaleidoscope of statues, displays, and artifacts depicting life at every level of ancient Egyptian society.

Vicky looked to her right and felt as though she was intruding on the temple priests as they paid homage to gods long since forgotten. She looked to her left and almost bowed before the pharaoh as he sat on his throne, attended by the royal court. In the area beyond the court, Vicky marveled as workers, under the supervision of royal engineers, labored on irrigation projects, pyramids, and roads. She could sense the excitement in the air beyond the replica of the Nile, where Egyptian artisans painted life-sized murals of pharaoh's victories on vast temple walls while others carved giant statues of deities for the temple's interior.

In the center of the room, lit by a single halogen bulb suspended directly above the exhibit, stood a giant, black granite statue of Ammon-Re, the principal God of the New Kingdom. The contrast between the blackness of the polished marble statue and the bright direct rays of light that surrounded it left Vicky physically unable to speak or breathe for a full minute.

You know I've been through here at least 50 times since you started this project, she said after reminding herself to take a breath, and every time I return, I feel the same sense of marvel at what you have done. You should be so proud of all this.

Professor Taylor just beamed.

Vicky allowed him his moment, then said, Now before your head swells beyond the capacity of this room to hold it, would you please answer one question for me?

The professor smiled at the look of puzzlement on Vicky's face. For you, my dear, he said, anything.

I’ve worked with the Royal London Museum before, and I found the people there arrogant, uncooperative, and determined never to part with anything in their possession. Yet you somehow managed to have them send us not only their best display pieces, but even those items they'd kept hidden in storage for more years than either of us has been around. How did you do it?"

Professor Taylor laughed. It's a matter of who you know. Or, more precisely, who is willing to speak on your behalf.

I don’t understand, she said, looking even more puzzled.

Well, then, let me start at the beginning. By any chance do you remember, shall I say, a creative student named Harry Gibson?

You mean that computer geek who tried everything in class to get an A but study?

That's the one. I was late posting the grades for his class to the main computer, but when I came to his name, I found I had awarded this young scoundrel an ‘A.’ Theoretically, no one outside the faculty can access this information.

And since only his grade had been changed, it had to be his doing, said Vicky.

That fact worked to my advantage. When I called him into my office and confronted him with the evidence, he broke down and told me he had hacked into our supposedly ultra-secure computers and changed his grade.

What does this have to do with the London Museum?

The educated mind is always intrigued by knowledge.

You had him teach you how to hack?

I prefer the term – mutual sharing of knowledge.

So he earned his ‘A’ by teaching you how to hack into our computers.

Not just ours. I received the equivalent of a Ph.D. in hacking.

Vicky's eyes widened to three times their normal size. You hacked into the London Museum's computers?

Well, it really wasn’t all that hard. I had been taught by the best.

I still don’t understand. Did you tell the computer to give us a call and set up the exhibit?

Nothing so draconian. The key to my success in this endeavor was in the subtleties of the approach.

Vicky stamped her foot in frustration. Will you just tell me how you did it? This is killing me.

The professor suppressed a chuckle and said, Well, I created an entirely fictitious person. I gave him degrees from Oxford, publication credits in all the leading academic journals, the works. Then I had him – sorry about the ‘him,’ but you know the old boy’s network – write the museum suggesting the joint display. This was followed by a flurry of internal memos, each one more positive about the project than the next. And each one taking credit for the idea. Then, academia being what it is, once the project appeared to have been approved, everyone simply assumed it was.

No one ever suspected anything, or checked anything?

My dear, this is the age of computers. If it appears on the screen, it must be true.

Vicky looked at her watch. I have to run, she said, but you still never cease to amaze me. She started to walk away, stopped, then came back. She gave the professor a hug and a kiss on the cheek. That's for being the greatest asset this museum ever had or ever will have, she said, then turned away and hurried down the hall.

CHAPTER 2

Professor Taylor leaned back against an empty packing crate he had commandeered as a backrest and sighed. It was well past 7:00 P.M. And the basement storage area was the last stop in a day that had turned into a blur of commotion and motion, as he darted about the museum, personally ensuring that every display was as close to perfect as possible for the grand opening of the Egyptian exhibition, in a little over 21 hours. Sitting on the floor. With nothing but a piece of cardboard and a layer of bubble wrap between his sensitive posterior and the concrete floor was the closest he had come to a break all day.

These cement floors are playing hell with my feet, Professor Taylor groaned as he slipped off his shoes and began rubbing his bunions. God, that feels better, he said to Tut.

Tut said nothing but continued to lie beside him with a look of anticipation on her face. The professor reached into the brown paper bag beside him and pulled out two-quarter pounders, a double burger, fries, and a large Diet Cola. He unwrapped two of the sandwiches, broke them into several pieces, and set them on the floor before Tut. The fries and drink Professor Taylor set beside his leg, unwrapped his burger, and prepared to enjoy his evening meal. Not exactly a gourmet dinner in a four-star restaurant is it, old girl? But I guess we shouldn't complain. If Victoria hadn't been thoughtful enough to send this down to us, you would be chewing on a packing crate by now.

Tut was too busy working on her first quarter-pounder to answer.

Professor Taylor took a bite of his sandwich. My God, how can young people exist on such concoctions, he said to Tut. He took a sip of Diet Cola. Well, at least this taste normal.

He set the drink down and took another bite of his burger; its taste hadn't improved. What was left of his burger, he broke into several small pieces and set them before Tut. You seem to have a higher tolerance for this than I do, though I don't understand why. Tut groaned in appreciation.

Professor Taylor picked up his bag of fries, leaned back against the crate, and began eating. His gaze wandered about the collection of empty packing crates and bubble wrap strewn across the floor. It certainly looks as though everything that should be in the display room is already there. Nothing seems to be here but empty cases and …

Fries flew, and soda splattered as the wood on the packing crate Professor Taylor had been leaning against collapsed with a loud crack, leaving him flat on his back, half in and half out of the crate. Tut let out a short, high-pitched howl and raced to the scene.

I'm fine, old girl, I'm fine. Please don't worry, said the professor as he pulled himself up and out of the crate while trying to maintain an air of dignity. Blasted thing gave way at a most inopportune time. Tut walked past him and began sniffing about inside the now accessible crate.

What could possibly be so interesting that you would leave a perfectly good hamburger uneaten and unguarded while you sniff inside an empty crate. Tut began digging through the bubble wrap with her paw. What is it, old girl? Tut kept digging.

Professor Taylor reluctantly stuck his head inside.

I don’t see a darned thing in here.

Tut ignored the remark and kept digging.

Alright, he said. Since this crate isn't big enough for the two of us, when you find something of interest, kindly bring it out where we both can examine it. Professor Taylor said, moving away from the crate.

Two full minutes later, Tut backed out, dragging a package about two feet square wrapped in faded brown postal paper. The professor walked over to the dog. Now what the devil have you discovered, old girl? he said as he picked up the package and began to examine it. Smells like stale chocolate.

Tut looked up with a hopeful glint in her eyes.

It seems to have been posted to a Professor Jackson, in care of the Royal London Museum – and quite some time ago judging from its condition. Sorry, old girl, not much hope of anything edible here. Tut lay back down on her improvised bed with a dejected look on her face.

Professor Taylor sat down on the floor next to Tut. Jackson, Jackson. If memory serves me, there was a Professor Jackson who headed the Royal Museum once, but I believe he died sometime toward the end of the Second World War. Had some curious notions about a lost sect from the third dynasty. Published several papers on it, even lead a couple of expeditions to Egypt, but nothing ever came of it.

He looked at Tut. Amazing, isn't it? I can't remember where I parked my car this morning, yet something from half a century ago pops right into my mind. He returned his attention to the package.

It was posted by a Lieutenant Billings, RAF, Blackpool England. I have absolutely no idea who this Lieutenant Billings might be." He turned the package over, found nothing, and turned it back.

It would seem, old girl, that in their eagerness to please, the Royal Museum sent us everything in their possession. Or someone simply used us as a convenient way to dispose of some long-standing problem. Whatever the reason, we seem to have a mystery on our hands. What do you think? he said, looking at Tut. Should we open the package and have a look inside?

Tut lay there saying nothing.

Exhausted your curiosity already?

Tut ignored the remark.

Professor Taylor pulled at the cord, securing the package. It broke into several pieces. He removed the brown wrapping paper and dropped it on the floor. A gray cardboard packing box remained in his hands. He removed the lid and dumped its contents into his lap: a black leather courier pouch with RAF stenciled on it and a diary with a note attached to its cover. He picked up the diary and looked at the affixes note.

I say, old girl, this is getting more and more curious by the moment. He set the diary down and opened the pouch. My God, Tut, it's filled with scrolls. Slowly and with great care, he removed one of the scrolls and carefully peeled back just enough of one edge to see what was written on it. They appear to be written in hieroglyphics. Satisfied with what he had seen, he meticulously closed the scroll, returned it to the pouch, reattached the cover, and sets the container down beside him.

Well, we certainly seem to have something of real value on our hands, but just what I cannot say.

Tut sniffed the pouch, then laid her head back down.

You’re a fountain of intellectual inquisitiveness, the professor commented.

Tut yawned. I'm not keeping you up, am I? Tut closed her eyes.

Professor Taylor retrieved the diary. Would you like to hear what the note says? Tut opened one eye. He began reading.

I realized this is most unorthodox, but there is no other way. The package you now have in your possession contains 15 ancient scrolls dating back to before the third dynasty. They authenticate everything that we have theorized about that period in Egyptian history, everything we have dedicated our lives to proving but never could -– until now. These scrolls will render every book ever written on ancient Egypt totally inaccurate. Oh, how I wish I could be there with you to see the faces of those skeptics who have ridiculed us for so many years when you make the scrolls' content public.

But I can't. Somehow, while I was in Egypt, some sort of criminal ring specializing in the black-market sale of rare Egyptian relics found out about the scrolls. We'd had some small brushes with these types before, but nothing like this. This group is obsessed with obtaining the scrolls for themselves at any cost, and why not? Even in these times, there are private collectors willing to