The Pyramid of Doom_A Novel

  The star watched them go, nodding approvingly as he checked them out. “Damn. I shoulda got their numbers, see if they wanted to go clubbing—”

  “Hey!” someone said. They both turned to see two men, one a beefy gel-haired twenty-something in a polo shirt with a popped collar, the other, smaller and nerdier, lurking behind him. “You’re Grant Thorn, right?”

  Eddie knew what was about to happen purely from the bigger man’s sneering smirk: His client was about to be insulted. The guy intended to impress his friend and provide them both with a boastful barroom story for years to come. He moved forward as Grant answered. “Yeah?”

  “You suck, man.” The smirk widened. “You really fucking suck. That last movie of yours, Nitrous? What a piece of shit. I watched a pirated download and I still wanted a refund.” Grant’s expression was frozen in a clenched fake smile. “And I’ll tell you something else,” said the man, pleased to have provoked him. He raised a hand to jab Grant’s chest.

  Eddie stepped in. “Put the hand down, mate,” he said in a calm but cold voice.

  Polo-Shirt was about to jab Eddie instead, but his finger stopped short under the Englishman’s intimidating stare. “What, you going to give me trouble?” he said.

  “Only if you want it.”

  Uncertainty crossed the young man’s face, and he stepped back, his friend retreating with him. “Whoa, big man, hiding behind a bodyguard,” he called as they walked away. “You still suck, Thorn!”

  “Fag!” added his friend, though not very loudly.

  Eddie kept watching until they were a safe distance from his client, then turned to Grant. “You want their numbers?”

  Grant shook his head, rattled. “Huh. Some people. No respect. Thanks, man.”

  “It’s what I do, Mr. Thorn,” said Eddie, shrugging.

  “Right.” They set off again. “ ’Course, I coulda handled him.” Eddie made a faintly dismissive noise. “No, dude, seriously! Before I started shooting Gale Force, I went on a training course—like action movie school? A whole week of learning how to shoot guns and drive fast and do Krav Maga fighting. Pretty awesome.”

  “A whole week?” said Eddie. “I’m impressed.”

  Grant was oblivious to his sarcasm. “You gotta be good to stay at the top.” They continued down Fifth Avenue, the actor attracting attention all the way to Harmann’s. To Eddie’s relief, it was only the starstruck kind.

  “Ay up,” said Eddie as he entered the apartment. He raised his voice to counter the noise from the television. “How’s things?”

  The sight of a three-quarter-empty bottle of wine gave him his answer. “Been better,” Nina replied.

  “You’re drinking too much,” he chided as he hung up his jacket. “Why’s the telly on so loud?”

  “Because it’s better than listening to crying babies or the Lockhorns next door arguing again or that monkey-faced asshole downstairs playing music at full blast. I hate this apartment.” She curled up, pressing her chin between her knees. “I hate this building. I hate this neighborhood. I hate this whole goddamn borough!” Blissville, Queens, was wedged between the Long Island Expressway, a cemetery, and a miserable gray river lined with run-down industrial buildings, and could hardly have been more inappropriately named.

  Eddie found the remote and lowered the volume. “Ah, come on, Queens isn’t that bad. Maybe it’s not Manhattan, but at least it’s still New York.” He tried for some levity. “Could have been worse; we might have had to move to New Jersey.”

  It didn’t work. “It’s not funny, Eddie,” Nina growled. “My life completely, utterly sucks.” She looked over at the letter on the counter. “I got another rejection this morning. To add to the five hundred and seventeen I already had. My career’s over; Dalton and those other bastards took care of that. They turned me into a joke, Eddie, a fucking joke! Whenever I go out it’s like people are looking at me and thinking, Hey, it’s that crazy bitch who thinks she found the Garden of Eden. Nobody takes me seriously.”

  “Who gives a fuck what other people think?” Eddie hooted. “You don’t know ’em, you’re never going to see them again, why should you care? Some wanker on Fifth Avenue gave Grant lip today, but he didn’t let it ruin his day. Or his life.”

  “There’s a slight difference between him and me, Eddie,” said Nina. “He’s a millionaire movie star. I’m … I’m nothing.”

  “Don’t,” said Eddie firmly. “Do not start all that again. You are not nothing, and you bloody well know it. And we took care of President Dalton. He’s the fucking joke now. He had to resign, he can’t do anything else to us.”

  “He did enough.” A long sigh, the wet cloak of ennui settling over her once more. “I’m never going to work in archaeology again.”

  “Yeah, you will.”

  “I won’t, Eddie.”

  “Jesus Christ, it’s me who’s supposed to be the bloody pessimist.” He opened the fridge, finding an empty space where he’d hoped to see a carton. “Did you get any milk?”

  “No, I forgot.”

  “What?” He banged the door shut. “How could you forget? I left you a note.”

  “I didn’t go out.”

  “You didn’t—” He threw up his hands. “There’s a shop around the corner, but you couldn’t even be arsed to go that far because you were moping about all day watching TV?”

  “I wasn’t moping,” said Nina, a spike of anger poking through. “You think I enjoy all this?”

  “I know I sure as hell don’t.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I don’t like seeing my wife being depressed!”

  “What am I supposed to do about it?” she demanded, standing. “Everything I do’s been taken away from me!” She jabbed a hand at the TV as the face of the Great Sphinx appeared: yet another promo for the live opening. “And then there’s sensationalist bullshit like this rubbing my nose in it. It’s not proper archaeology, it’s a stunt! And I’m not the only person who thinks that—Roger Hogarth phoned. He was going to go to the UN to give Maureen Rothschild a piece of his mind, but couldn’t make it, so he asked me to go instead.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “I said no, obviously.”

  “What?” It was far from the first time Eddie had heard her grievances about the Egyptian dig, and he’d had enough of them. “For fuck’s sake, Nina! If it pisses you off so much, why don’t you do something about it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like telling Maureen Rothschild that she’s full of shit! Don’t just sit around feeling sorry for yourself and complaining to me every time that bloody advert comes on. Complain to her! You’ve got the chance, so go to the UN and tell that old bag exactly what you think of the whole bloody thing!”

  “All right,” Nina snapped, wanting him to shut up and get off her back, “I will! I’ll call Roger and tell him I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Good! Finally!” He dropped onto the couch, the springs creaking. After several seconds of silence, he looked up at her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get mad. I just hate seeing you like this.”

  “I hate being like this,” she replied, sitting beside him. “It’s just …”

  “I know.” He put an arm around her. “But you know what? We’re a pretty good team. We’ll sort this out together. Somehow.”

  “It’d be easier if you were here more. As if things aren’t bad enough, I hardly ever get to spend an evening with my husband! It’s just me and reruns of CSI: Miami.” She gestured at the super-saturated scene on the TV screen. “I see so little of you, I’m starting to feel, ah … stirrings for David Caruso.”

  “What? He’s like a peach stone with sunglasses!” he huffed, then stroked her neck. “Look, I’ll talk to Charlie. Maybe he’s got some clients who like quiet nights in.”

  “They won’t have much use for a bodyguard, will they? And we need the money.”

  “Bollocks to the money,” Eddie said firmly. “You’re more important. I’ve got ano
ther full day with Grant Thorn tomorrow, but I’ll figure something out.”

  “So it’s just gonna be me and Caruso again? I’ll need to buy some more batteries.”

  Eddie’s face twisted in mock disgust. “Christ, your jokes are getting as gross as mine.”

  “Well, they say married couples start to act more like each other, don’t they?” She managed a sort-of smile, then glanced toward the bedroom door. “Y’know, there’s something else married couples are supposed to do. It’s been a few days …”

  “I’d love to,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “but I’m really, really knackered. And if I’ve got to keep an eye on Grant until Christ-knows-when tomorrow, I’ll need a decent night’s sleep.”

  “Oh.” She tried to conceal her disappointment. “Well, maybe in the morning, hmm? Rev me up before I go to the UN.”

  “I’ve … got to work.” He made a show of yawning to cover up his evasiveness. “Grant wants to buy a suit for some religious thing tomorrow.”

  “Considering how much he parties, I wouldn’t have taken him for the religious type.”

  “It’s not a real religion, it’s some daft cult thing. The Osirian Temple, it’s called.”

  Nina raised her eyebrows. “Yeah? Huh. They’re co-funding the dig at the Sphinx.”

  “Must be doing all right for themselves, then. No shortage of idiots with money.”

  “Some things never change.”

  Eddie smiled, then got up. “I want a shower before we go to bed. Are you okay?”

  She slumped back on the couch. “For now? Yeah. Long term? Not so sure.”

  “Something’ll come up,” he assured her. “I’m sure of it.”

  “How are you sure?”

  He had no answer to that.

  TWO

  Nina gazed up at the dark glass slab of the United Nations Secretariat Building with a glum sense of trepidation. It had been more than seven months since she’d last set foot in the UN; seven months since she had been acrimoniously “suspended” by the new director of the International Heritage Agency, and in truth a large part of her didn’t want to return to the scene of her humiliation.

  She touched the pendant hanging from her neck for luck, then, steeling herself, headed inside.

  The elevator ride seemed to take longer than she remembered, the elevator itself somehow more confined, airless. Things were no better when she emerged and was buzzed through the security door. Even though she told herself that the reception area couldn’t possibly have changed in seven months, there were enough subtle differences to render it disconcertingly unfamiliar.

  One thing had not changed, though—the figure behind the reception desk. “Dr. Wilde!” cried Lola Gianetti, jumping up to greet her. “Or is it Dr. Chase now?”

  “It’s still Wilde,” Nina told the big-haired blonde as they embraced. “I wanted to keep my professional name. Although it might have made it easier for me to find a new job if I’d changed it.”

  “So how’s Eddie?” Lola gestured at the ring on Nina’s left hand. “How was the wedding?”

  “Spur-of-the-moment. Which Eddie’s grandmother still hasn’t forgiven us for. She wanted a trip to New York.” Nina smiled, then her expression became more serious. “How are you?”

  “Recovered. More or less.” Lola glanced down at her abdomen, where she had been stabbed—in the very room where they were standing—seven months before.

  “It must have been hard coming back to work.”

  “It was … weird. For a while.” Lola shrugged, a little too casually. “But I love the job, so …” She hesitated, glancing toward the offices, and lowered her voice. “To be honest, I don’t love it so much anymore.”

  “Rothschild?” Nina asked.

  Lola nodded. “You were a much better boss. Now it’s all about who can suck up to her the most. And money.”

  “That’s part of why I’m here. Roger Hogarth couldn’t make it, so he asked me to come in his place. And Eddie nagged me into it as well.”

  “I see.” Lola returned to her computer. “Professor Rothschild’s in a videoconference with Dr. Berkeley, but they don’t usually take more than fifteen minutes. Her meeting with Professor Hogarth was scheduled for afterward, so when she comes out I’ll see if she’ll talk to you.”

  “Or even if she’ll give me the time of day,” said Nina. The thought of Rothschild was causing her long-simmering anger to rise again. She fought it back. The chances of her actually changing anything were slim to none, but now that she was here she was determined to say her piece, and needed a clear mind to do so.

  “I’ll do what I can to convince her.” Lola glanced at a tray beside the monitor. “Oh, that reminds me—there’s a message for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes, from one of the interns …” She flicked through a small pile of papers. “Here—Macy Sharif. She phoned yesterday, asking for your number. I didn’t give it to her, of course, but I said I’d pass on the message. I tried calling your home number, actually, but it’d been disconnected.”

  “We moved,” Nina said stiffly as Lola handed her the paper. “What did she want?”

  “She didn’t say. It’s funny, actually—people here have been wanting to talk to her. She was on Dr. Berkeley’s dig, but she left suddenly. Nobody’s told me why, but I think she might have gotten into trouble with the Egyptian police. Hard to imagine—she seemed nice, but who knows?”

  “I guess the IHA’s hiring policies have gone downhill since I left,” said Nina with dark humor. She gave the paper a cursory glance—a brief transcript of the message in Lola’s florid handwriting, and a phone number—then folded it.

  “So where are you living now?” asked Lola.

  Nina’s expression soured. “Blissville. It was about the only place we could afford that was still in the city and wasn’t an actual war zone.”

  “Oh,” said Lola sympathetically. “Well, it’s, er … convenient for the expressway, I guess.”

  “Yeah. And the cemetery.”

  They shared a smile, then Lola’s look became slightly hesitant. “Dr. Wilde?”

  “Nina, please. What is it?”

  “I hope you don’t think this is kinda presumptuous, but … I’m getting the feeling you’re not having a great time right now.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” They both smiled again.

  “The thing is,” said Lola, “I booked tomorrow afternoon off because I was supposed to be seeing an art gallery with a friend, and then we were going to have dinner. Only now he can’t make it, so … I wondered if you might want to come?”

  Nina almost turned down the offer out of hand before the part of her that had been stirred back into action by Eddie’s prodding reminded her that all she had on the agenda was another evening with David Caruso. “Where’s the gallery?” she asked instead.

  “Soho. And the restaurant’s in Little Italy. It’s a nice place, a friend of my cousin runs it.”

  “I didn’t know you were into art.”

  Lola blushed faintly. “Sculpture. It’s a hobby; I make little birds and flowers and things out of metal and wire. I’m not very good at it, but I thought the gallery might give me some ideas.”

  Nina considered the offer, then decided What the hell. It might take her mind off her gloom, if only for a few hours. “Okay. Yeah, why not?”

  “Great! Let me give you the addresses.”

  She looked for a notepad, but Nina handed her the sheet of paper with Macy’s message. “Here. Save a tree.”

  “Thanks.” Lola wrote down the details, then returned the page. “Three o’clock?”

  “Two, if you want. The less time I spend in the apartment, the better!”

  A door up the corridor opened. Nina turned to see Maureen Rothschild emerge, then freeze as she glimpsed Nina in the reception area. After a moment, the professor walked toward her with a pinched, utterly insincere smile. “Nina.”

  Nina gave the older woman a response in kind. “Mauree
n.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you here again. What do you want?”

  “To talk to you, actually.”

  Rothschild’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “I have a very busy schedule, Nina. In fact, I’m about to meet Roger Hogarth. I’m sure you remember him.”

  “Oh, I do. As a matter of fact, he asked me to represent him. He’s indisposed.”

  “Oh.” Rothschild’s face revealed no sympathy. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No, but he’ll be off his feet for a few days. Which is why he asked me to speak with you in his place.”

  Nina could tell that Rothschild wanted nothing more than to give a flat refusal, but Hogarth was well regarded—and connected—in the academic community. Turning away his representative out of hand might be considered an insult … or a sign that she was afraid to defend her position.

  “I suppose,” she said finally, with deep reluctance, “I could spare a few minutes. As a favor to Roger.” She started back up the corridor. Nina gave Lola a brief smile before following the older woman to her office.

  Which had once been Nina’s office. The view across Manhattan was instantly familiar, but everything else had changed. Nina’s feeling of alienation returned full force.

  Rothschild took a seat behind the large desk, gesturing impatiently for Nina to sit facing her. “Well? What did Roger want to talk to me about?”

  “About this, actually.” On the desk was a glossy brochure, promoting what it proclaimed as THE LIVE TELEVISION EVENT OF THE DECADE! The image on the cover was the Great Sphinx of Giza. Nina picked it up. “It seems like every time I turn on the TV, I see a commercial for this. I’m just curious about when the IHA turned into a shill for prime-time television and wack-job cults.”

  “The IHA is not a shill for anyone, Nina,” Rothschild said, voice oozing with condescension. “Getting co-funding from organizations like the Osirian Temple reduces our operating costs, and our share of the advertising revenue will help fund numerous other projects, as well as boosting the IHA’s profile worldwide. It’s a win–win situation, and good business, pure and simple.”