THEY
INTERCEPTED him as he came out of Baltimore-Washington Airport, two men wearing suits and an air of
officialdom like a brisk cologne.
“Mr Anson
Hunter, the British Egyptologist?”
Egyptologist?
That sounded good. Very establishment. Anson stood a bit taller, which placed
his beanstalk
elevation a few inches above theirs. The man could have said independent,
renegade Egyptologist and phenomenologist, lecturer at out-of-town halls and
auditoriums, writer, blogger and alternative theorist as well as leader of
occasional, fringe tour groups to Egypt. But instead the man had said
‘Egyptologist’.
“Who wants
to know?”
“You are
invited to Johns Hopkins University. They want to hear you speak.”
Anson
goggled just a little. Johns Hopkins and Anson Hunter? His moment of elation
quickly faded.
They didn’t belong in the same sentence.
“A nice
thought, gentlemen, but venerable institutions like Johns Hopkins don’t want
people like me to speak. They would prefer us not to breathe.”
Anson had
arrived to give a lecture on ancient Egyptian ritual smiting power and
execration texts at a
hired Masonic hall that evening.
He tried
to move past, but the men blocked his way, smiling with steely politeness.
“Please
come with us, Sir.”
“There
must be some mistake.”
The
spokesman frowned and reached inside his coat. Hell, Anson thought, what is
this? Has mainstream Egyptology finally sent a hit squad? The hand came out of
the coat. Anson resumed the business of breathing. The man flipped open a
wallet, by way of introduction. Anson glimpsed a crest – an eagle inside a
circle and the words:
U.S.
Department of Homeland Security.
Also a
name, Browning. He was a broad-faced man with steady eyes.
Why me?
Anson’s
ex-wife May had always said that he had the burning eyes of fanatic. Had they
picked him out as a likely threat to the US homeland? This Johns Hopkins stuff
was just a cover for an arrest.
He
suddenly felt very alien.
“I’ve been
a mild threat to conventional Egyptology for years,” he said, “but I hardly
rate as a security risk.”
