The Pharaoh's Secret

  Kurt looked up and began climbing the scaffolding. It went up into the rock above, but there was enough space around it to hide and not be crushed as the elevator went past. “Send the car back to the top,” he said, taking up a spot where he could brace his feet. “We wouldn’t want to be rude and make them wait.”

  Joe pressed the up button and the machinery came to life. The elevator car began its long, slow climb passing Kurt with a foot to spare.

  “I’ll go hide in the control room,” Joe said. “If he’s going to reverse the pumps, that’ll be his first stop.”

  65

  Scorpion drove the Land Rover across the same desert he’d been forced to walk in the blazing sun. Brief flashbacks of the pain and anger that had sustained him on that trek intruded on his thoughts. Occasionally, he saw mirages in the shape of men, who vanished like ghosts.

  His mind switched to the Americans, the men from NUMA, who had all but destroyed the organization in a matter of days. He would hunt them. Even if Osiris was finished and Hassan’s last-ditch effort had failed, he would hunt them—until the end of his days, if necessary.

  Hassan sat in the passenger seat, staring at the monotonous terrain, in silence. From time to time, the wind gusted, pelting the SUV with fine grains of sand, as the sun baked the land from high overhead.

  As the pumping station came into view, Scorpion brought the Rover to a halt.

  “Why are you stopping?” Hassan demanded.

  “Look.”

  Hassan pulled out a pair of binoculars and trained them on the low-lying building. His older eyes weren’t as sharp as Scorpion’s, but through the binoculars he could plainly see the Gazelle helicopter sitting on the pad.

  “It’s ours,” he said.

  “What is it doing here?”

  To think others had escaped and come here was too good to be true. He pulled a transceiver from the glove box and dialed up the Osiris frequency. He was about to call it when he saw the lab technicians come out of the cinder-block building with a cart. From it, they transferred crates of plastic boxes to the helicopter. A man in Egyptian military fatigues directed them.

  When the work was done, all four climbed aboard the helicopter and the rotors began to turn. The Gazelle took off and began to climb as it traveled east.

  “They’ve taken the antidote,” Hassan said. “But at least they’ve gone.”

  “They’ll come back before long,” Scorpion noted.

  “I only need a few minutes to reprogram the pumps and make it impossible for them to counteract the order. Let’s move.”

  Scorpion shifted the Rover back into gear and they began moving once again.

  —

  In the underground chamber, Kurt waited. For a long while the only sound was the endless thrum of the pumps. Joe had hidden himself in the control room.

  When the machinery in the elevator shaft sprang to life, it was startlingly loud. Kurt looked up. In the dim glow he saw the elevator car moving. It was a tiny square high above, dropping with surprising speed. Halfway down, it passed a light embedded in the side of the wall. The illumination flared against the bottom and side of the car, then vanished again.

  Kurt pressed back into the rock, holding still in the dark, as the car passed him and continued down another thirty feet before it stopped at the ground level.

  Kurt had put down his AR-15 in exchange for a pistol—in this case, a Beretta Cougar .45 automatic.

  The front gates opened with a slight clang. Two men walked out. Kurt immediately recognized Hassan. He assumed that the other man had to be Scorpion. Both had guns drawn as if they were expecting trouble. Hassan held a snub-nosed pistol, Scorpion a long-barreled sniper’s rifle.

  “We seem to be alone,” Hassan said, holstering his pistol.

  “That may not last,” Scorpion said.

  Hassan nodded. “Find a spot to cover me in case our military friends come back. This won’t take long.”

  Scorpion looked around, studying the room. He came to the same conclusion Kurt and Joe had: the only place to cover the room was from the rigging around the elevator shaft. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he climbed onto the scaffolding exactly where Kurt had ascended it.

  From his position in the dark, Kurt could have killed them both, but he hoped to take them alive. Still, his finger pressed ever so slightly against the trigger as he kept the weapon aimed at Scorpion’s head.

  Hassan crossed the floor as Scorpion took up a position on the scaffolding ten feet beneath Kurt. From there, he could watch the entire room and see into the control room. He never looked up. Even if he had, he’d never have seen Kurt, his eyes were still adjusting to the dark after driving across the blinding sands of the White Desert.

  He settled into his perch and pulled the rifle off his shoulder and held it almost casually.

  Hassan paused at the door to the control room, looked around and went inside. He moved cautiously and then vanished from sight.

  Scorpion waited. A sniper’s job was to wait and be still. But his mind would not be still. Thoughts from the past intruded. Voices. He could hear Shakir insist he walk across the desert. He could hear the American, the one named Austin, demand he throw his rifle into the teardrop bay on the coast of Gozo. He’d been just about to take a shot.

  He told himself he should have fired, should have killed him then, if not earlier. Perhaps he should have killed him instead of Hagen at the fort. But those were not his orders. He would not wait a third time.

  In the stillness, his senses seemed heightened. The hum of the pumps was soothing. But it should have been changing by now. What was Hassan waiting for?

  Scorpion blinked hard, trying to get his eyes to adjust. He saw green flares in the blackness, left over from the glare of the desert sun. He shook his head and focused on the task at hand. He had to protect Hassan. He had to stay sharp.

  He forced his mind to be quiet and stared into the control room. Finally, he saw a figure emerge from the deeper section and sit at the controls. The image was blurred at first, but then it came into focus. It wasn’t Hassan. It was Austin.

  How? he thought. How was it possible?

  He stared and brought the rifle up to his shoulder.

  The helicopter, he decided. Of course. Austin had tricked them again. He’d arrived first and waited in the control room. And Hassan was probably already dead.

  Scorpion gripped the rifle, his normally cold blood burning. He raised it to his eye, matched the sights against Austin’s silver hair and exhaled. When his body was still, Scorpion pulled the trigger.

  The shot rang out, straight and true, hitting Austin in the center of his back and killing him instantly. He slumped forward in the chair.

  Scorpion took a breath and scanned the room for Austin’s partner. He had to be somewhere close. He swung the rifle from side to side.

  As Scorpion scanned the rest of the chamber, the door to the control room flew open with a bang as the chair was shoved through it by another figure. The chair rolled across the stone floor and Scorpion saw his mistake. It was Hassan he’d killed. Not Austin.

  He aimed the rifle at the figure pushing the chair but was jumped before he could fire.

  Scorpion swung around and saw that it was Austin who’d grabbed him. He brought the rifle up, but the barrel hit the corner of the wall before he could bring it on target. The space was too constricted. He lunged forward, headbutted Austin and tossed the rifle away, pulling out a knife.

  Scorpion had just shot Hassan dead and was now fighting like a man possessed. Kurt aimed the pistol, holding it close to his body. Scorpion held his knife and made a move toward Kurt.

  Kurt fired, hitting Scorpion in the arm that held the knife. Scorpion fell back, dropping the knife. He grabbed onto the scaffolding with his uninjured hand. The knife clattered to the ground beneath them.

  “Su
rrender!” Kurt demanded.

  Scorpion ignored him and pulled another weapon from his pocket, a set of brass knuckles with a triangular knife attached to the front. Hassan had given it to him upon his promotion. The knife shape was meant to represent the reborn power of the pharaohs and the Pyramids. All of the Osiris assassins were given one.

  He slipped it onto his fingers and clenched his fist in a ball.

  “Don’t!” Austin shouted.

  Scorpion lunged forward and Kurt fired again, hitting him in the other shoulder. Scorpion reeled and barely kept his balance. He lunged again and this time Kurt shot him in the calf.

  Scorpion hung on by sheer determination. If he could just reach Austin, they could embrace in death.

  Kurt could see the obsession in Scorpion’s face. “Don’t you ever give up?” he shouted.

  Scorpion grinned. “Never!”

  He lunged again, but Kurt fired without hesitation, hitting Scorpion’s unwounded thigh. Scorpion’s leap was cut short. He fell down the shaft, slamming against the top of the car and tumbling off it and onto the cavern floor.

  He died looking up into the darkness.

  66

  By the time Kurt and Joe returned to Cairo, the clandestine part of Osiris International was coming apart. A database had been found that showed the criminal side of its actions. Payoffs, bribes, threats. Names of operatives. Names of foreign assets.

  The commercial side would continue but, according to Edo, would likely be nationalized, as most of the investors turned out to be criminals.

  Kurt was concerned for Renata and found her in a hospital, conscious and recovering and a bit confused. “I dreamt of crocodiles,” she said.

  “That was no dream,” Kurt replied.

  He explained how the antidote worked and how they’d found it. And he remained with her until an Italian medical team arrived and took her to the airport, where she was to be shuttled back to Italy for observation.

  Next, he checked in with the Trouts. They explained the trouble they’d faced in France.

  “Gamay even started tearing apart Villeneuve’s paintings,” Paul said, “because she thought he might’ve hidden the secret inside one of them. Two of the works held nothing. But then someone who called himself Scorpion got the third painting away from us.”

  “I appreciate your effort,” Kurt said, “but I have to ask, what made you think that D’Campion’s translation would be hidden in a painting?”

  “There was something in Villeneuve’s letters to D’Campion that made it sound like he was leaving a clue for his old friend.”

  “In his letters?”

  “In his final letter,” Gamay explained. “Villeneuve wrote of his fear of what Napoleon would do if he actually had the Black Mist in his possession. ‘Perhaps it’s best that the truth never come out. That it remain with you in your small boat paddling to the shelter of the Guillaume Tell.’ When Paul and I looked at the paintings Villeneuve had allegedly done, one of them depicted a small boat, crewed by several men who were rowing with gusto. We thought the translation might be hidden inside.”

  “But the men who attacked us got the painting from us before we could check it thoroughly,” Paul added.

  “I didn’t feel anything hidden in there before they grabbed it,” Gamay said. “It was just a silly idea.”

  Kurt heard her, but he wasn’t really listening. He was lost in thought. “What did the letter say, again?”

  Gamay repeated the quote. “‘Perhaps it’s best that the truth never come out. That it remain with you in your small boat paddling to the shelter of the Guillaume Tell.’”

  “‘Remain with you,’” Kurt repeated, “‘in your small boat.’” Suddenly, it made sense. “Gamay you’re a genius,” he said.

  “A genius? About what?” she asked.

  “Everything,” Kurt said. “Get yourselves to Malta. Meet up with the D’Campions. Ask Etienne to show you the painting his ancestor did depicting the Battle of Aboukir Bay. You’ll know why when you see it.”

  67

  Gozo Island, Malta

  2100 hours

  The Trouts met with the D’Campions at their estate. Nicole led them into the main parlor.

  “Excuse the mess,” she said. “We’re still cleaning up.”

  Etienne met them beside the now-darkened hearth. “I welcome you,” he said. “Any friends of Kurt Austin and Joe Zavala are friends of ours. And while I understand that he sent you, I’m not sure I understand why.”

  “He wanted you to show us a painting,” Gamay said. “One, apparently, he admired very much.”

  “The one Emile painted,” Etienne replied.

  “Aboukir Bay,” Gamay said.

  Etienne stepped aside. Behind him, above the hearth, was the painting.

  “Do you mind if we take it down?” Paul asked.

  A look of concern came over Etienne’s face. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because we have reason to believe Emile hid the translation behind it with the intention of sending it to Villeneuve. It was the one thing no French overlord would take. And that made it safe to possess.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Etienne said.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  With deliberate care, the painting was taken down. A razor blade was used to separate the liner behind the canvas. Gamay slid her hand carefully up and under the backing and with the tips of her fingers touched a folded piece of paper. She pulled out stiff yellowed parchment. It was placed on the glass of the dining room table and opened with extraordinary care.

  The hieroglyphics were obvious. The translation was written beneath them. Black Mist. Angel’s Breath. Mist of Life. A date was scribbled in the corner.

  “Frimaire XIV,” Etienne said. “December 1805.” He looked up. “All this time . . .” he said. “It was right here all this time.”

  “It may have taken a few hundred years,” Gamay said, “but Emile’s contribution to the knowledge of antiquity will be recorded now. The date of the painting and the correspondence with Villeneuve will prove he was the first to translate Egyptian hieroglyphics. And this particular find will go down in history as unique. He will be remembered as the most important of Napoleon’s savants.”

  68

  Rome

  For twenty-four hours, Alberto Piola could hardly tear himself away from the television. Images of police and regular military units swarming over the Osiris hydroelectric plant in Cairo were constant. Video from a news chopper outside of the plant showed a whirlpool of water swirling where it was being sucked into the outflow pipe and funneled back into the aquifers. Hundreds of soldiers could be seen on the ground. Jeeps, tanks and trucks filled the parking lot.

  Rumors connecting Osiris with both the disaster in Lampedusa and the droughts across North Africa were flying. Upon hearing that Shakir and Hassan were dead, Piola felt a spurt of hope that his connection to Osiris might have died with them. But, deep inside, he knew better. So he made plans to escape.

  He opened his wall safe and pulled out a 9mm pistol and two stacks of bills, twenty thousand euros’ worth. From his secretary’s desk, he took a set of car keys that went to the nondescript Fiat she drove. No one would be looking for him in that.

  He left the office and moved down the hall, trying to remain calm. He was halfway to the stairs when members of the Carabinieri appeared. He turned around and walked in the other direction.

  “Signore Piola,” one of the policemen shouted. “Stop where you are. We have a warrant for your arrest.”

  Piola turned and opened fire.

  The shots scattered the police and sent the civilians in the hall running for cover. Amid the chaos, Piola ran with abandon. He burst into an anteroom and shoved several people out of the way as he ran for the double doors. He clubbed a man in the face who wouldn’t move fast enough and fire
d a shot back at the police when they entered behind him.

  He reached the far door, pushed it open and charged into the main conference room. “Move,” he shouted at everyone. “Get out of my way!”

  As he rushed forward with the gun held high, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, all except a man with close-cropped red hair and a Vandyke beard. This man moved toward him from the side, cross-checking him like a hockey player at center ice.

  Piola hit the wall, bounced off and tumbled to the ground. The euros went everywhere like confetti, but he held on to the gun. He came up swinging it, ready to fire. He never got the chance, as it was knocked from his hand by the same man who’d tackled him.

  Piola recognized the face of his attacker: James Sandecker, the American Vice President. An instant later, Sandecker’s right fist connected with his jaw, sending him back to the floor.

  The blow stunned him long enough for the police to rush in and subdue him. He was carried out in cuffs, complaining loudly. The last thing he saw, before he left the room, was James Sandecker massaging his knuckles and smiling.

  With Piola gone, Sandecker took a seat at the end of the conference table. Shock seemed to grip everyone else in the room, but a satisfied grin had settled firmly on Sandecker’s face.

  The Vice President’s aide, Terry Carruthers, brought a bucket of ice for his hand.

  “Unless you’ve got champagne in there, don’t bother.”

  Carruthers put the bucket down. “Afraid not, sir.”

  Sandecker shrugged. “Too bad.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a fresh cigar and lit it with the old Zippo lighter.

  Carruthers reacted predictably. “Smoking’s not allowed in here, sir.”

  Sandecker leaned back in his chair. “So I’ve heard,” he said, blowing a near-perfect smoke ring across the table. “So I’ve heard.”