THE MURDER OF KING TUT

By William Urban

Eager to read something about the Middle East that isn’t a threat to world peace, such as it is? This 2009 ‘Non-fiction thriller” by James Patterson fits the bill. Not that it’s a great book — it has certainly not thrilled its readers, most of whom have awarded it one star on Amazon (and that, perhaps only because that was the lowest rating available). I am more generous.

It may have helped that I listened to the audio-book from the Warren County Library. The reader was tolerably good, which was important because he had to work in three eras — that of Tutankhamen, that of Howard Carter, who discovered the boy-king’s tomb in 1922, and that of James Patterson, who described the problems he encountered in writing this very short book,

Of the three interlocking plots, I was most interested in Patterson’s, probably because I (and every other historian) have wrestled with the same problems. The greatest difficulty is usually a lack of information. Here it isn’t what happened to Tut — he was clearly done in — but why? Motivation is always a problem, and while the Roman question cui bono (who profits) usually provides an answer, we know that human beings do not always calculate profit and loss before committing a crime. Anger, jealousy, greed, insanity and pure stupidity have to be considered.

Patterson felt quite secure that he could figure this out from the comfort of his study in Los Angeles, while his co-author, Martin Dugard, did the dirty work of traveling to England and Egypt and interviewing people with insights worth knowing. (I was reminded of Nero Wolfe dispatching Archie Goodwin on similar tasks, but without the frequent flyer miles). The dirty work probably wasn’t all that bad, but we never hear much about co-authors or ghost writers; that’s the way of the world. (I hope he put some good meals on his expense account.)

The very audacity of Patterson’s conceit is stunning. Did he actually think that no one had ever considered the possibility that Tut was murdered? Or that nobody had asked who might have done it?

Had he called the novel “historical fiction” there would have been less criticism. After all, we allow fiction writers the freedom to invent suitable dialogue, to expand on well-known human passions as ambition, fear and lust, and we rarely complain when they throw in the occasional sex scene. (If the sex is not required in Patterson’s contract, he apparently has a sign somewhere in his house to remind him to stick a scene in periodically. He tells us that he writes instructors to himself on the tops of pages.)

The screenplay showing a weak king, a strong vizier, and an overbearing general is pretty standard fare; and the beautiful but helpless queen is usually there, too. In Ancient Egypt it was pretty standard, together with the ignorant and fanatical priests. Sort of like modern Egypt, too, I suppose, without the weak king and pretty queen.

The story of Howard Carter and his patron, Lord Carnarvon, is told more accurately. That is because Carter told it first, and told it rather well; and whatever he missed, newspapers and other archeologists filled in. The return of the Tut exhibition to America provided a target audience, and Patterson himself has a large and enthusiastic audience ready to buy anything with his name on it, even when a co-author wrote most of it.

Carter had spent a lifetime in Egypt, getting his start because he had a good eye and an ability to draw fast, then make first-class watercolors of the ancient wall paintings and carvings. He ate little, socialized less, and drank even less. This was good, considering that he had no money of his own and earned very little. The last decades of his life were given to the search for the tomb of King Tut, and when at last he found it, earning thereby instant and immortal fame, it was not long before he and Lord Carnarvon became even more famous as the first victims of the Mummy’s Curse.

Perhaps Patterson is only the most recent.

The most interesting parts of this so-so novel are the insights Patterson gives us into the way he writes novels. Patterson always works on multiple manuscripts at once, flitting from one to the other as ideas come to him and his co-authors provide plot lines. It must drive his publishers crazy to learn that he has stopped working on a manuscript they have paid an advance for, then have him promise that he’ll get right to it as soon as he can, knowing that he will finish at the last possible moment. His various co-authors must feel the same way, only more desperately, because they have more immediate bills to pay than publishers do.

Still, that’s the way it works. Less well-known authors send in a manuscript, then hears nothing until the publisher sends a letter “suggesting” changes and saying when these have to be done by. This is usually yesterday or earlier. It’s the opposite of the old army motto “hurry up and wait.” Authors do the waiting first.

Unlike most writers, Patterson makes heaps of money. That’s because he has the method down pat. He can write fast, he has an instinct for dialogue and pacing, and he usually comes up with a snappy surprise ending.

Alas, that’s the problem here. There is no surprise in the ending.

I’ve never been a James Patterson fan. I’ve read several of his books, but often the violence just makes me turn the CD player off. But this one was intriguing. And it might well be so still to anyone who doesn’t already know the story. So give it a try. After all, you’ve been warned, and the book is short.

Review Atlas (August 21, 2014), 4.