“Put the oxygen back on,” Gretchen said, holding up her phone. “Ketamine causes cardiogenic shock and respiratory arrest.” She immediately placed her hands on John’s chest and started CPR. Mako reinserted the cannula in John’s nose and turned on the valve. He heard a hiss as the oxygen started to flow.
It took him a second to realize what was not happening. Hearing the quiet hiss of the gas told him that the fire alarm had been shut off. Gretchen continued to pump John’s chest. Mako wondered if it wouldn’t be best to hook up the heart monitor, but he was unsure how and was still convinced they needed to get John somewhere safe, where he could be treated by a doctor they trusted.
“We’ve got to move him. I’m going after a wheelchair.”
“Maybe we better find a doctor first,” Gretchen said.
Mako left the room and fought through the chaos in the hallway. Gurneys and wheelchairs with patients temporarily abandoned after the alarm was called off were scattered among abandoned nurses’ carts.
“Doctor!”
A man bent over a patient on a gurney looked up. It was enough confirmation for Mako. “It’s urgent.” He grabbed the man’s elbow and guided him to John’s room. The doctor’s protests were lost in the hubbub of activity. Mako opened the door and gently pushed the doctor ahead of him. Gretchen glanced up as she continued to administer CPR.
The doctor reached for the phone, but Mako pulled his hand back. “I don’t have time to explain. Just help him. He’s accidentally gotten a dose of ketamine.”
The doctor, acknowledging the emergency, moved to the side of the bed. “Who unhooked him?”
“I did. No one came in after the alarm sounded,” Mako lied easily.
“We need adrenaline. Now!”
The doctor relieved an exhausted Gretchen. Seconds after her hands left John’s chest, she pulled the pistol from her bag and held it on the doctor.
“That is not necessary,” the doctor said.
“Just insurance. Where can I find what you need?”
Between compressions, the doctor gave her directions to the emergency supplies by the nurses’ station.
“They’re not going to just hand them to you,” the doctor said.
“I can be very persuasive.” She turned to Mako, who nodded, although he disagreed with her method.
Gretchen tucked the pistol into her waistband, adjusted her blouse to cover it, and left the room. The obvious bulge at her waist revealed another defect in her training. Fabric with patterns was much better at hiding concealed weapons than plain ones.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” the doctor asked. “He needs to be back on the IV and monitors.” He noticed the concerned looks. “He seems to be okay for now though.”
Mako saw no harm in a dose of the truth. “Someone tried to kill him.”
When the doctor glanced up, there was as a determined look in his eye. “He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t a vet. I’ll do what I can to protect him. Let me call the nurses’ station and have them release the adrenaline to your friend before more blood is spilled.”
The doctor didn’t wait for an answer. He picked up the receiver, but Mako never found out what his intentions were. The two men who had been chasing him burst into the room, guns held at the low-ready position.
“Drop the phone.”
The doctor had no choice but to comply. As he did, Mako, who was now on the same side of the bed as the doctor, felt something shift near his feet. He caught the doctor’s eye and slowly followed his gaze to the locked wheel holding the bed in place. Mako shifted down to the end of the bed and casually stepped down on the lever releasing the other wheel.
“He needs adrenaline now,” the doctor said, as he ignored the gun and moved around to the other side of the bed. The third wheel released. The doctor started to reattach the IV bags.
Both men were distracted by the doctor’s obligation to duty. Mako took the opportunity to move across the foot of the bed and release the last wheel lock. The doctor must have sensed it. They exchanged a quick glance and with a sudden motion slammed the bed into the two men.
Both men were taken by surprise. One was knocked from his feet and the other pinned to the wall. But the flaw in the plan was evident. The bed, now trapping the two men, lay between Mako, the doctor, and escape.
The men recovered and started to push the bed back. In tug-of-war fashion, with an unconscious John in the middle, both teams tried for the advantage. Mako and the doctor needed to move the bed out of the room, while the assailants, still pinned to the wall, fought for enough space to draw their weapons.
The standoff lasted only seconds before the door flew open.
8
Cairo, Egypt
Ahmed looked out the window as the car crossed the bridge over the Nile and approached Tahrir Square, the site of the protests that had sparked the revolution. Even with the romance associated with the famous landmark, the square—or rather circle—was still part of Cairo. The main difference was the open areas, for some were actually green. The obelisk in the center was the only adornment of an otherwise plain traffic circle. Three-quarters of the way around the circle, the driver continued onto the main avenue. A Kentucky Fried Chicken, several electronic stores, and the Steigenberger Hotel showed the Western influence in the area.
Ahead was the Egyptian Museum. The driver pulled up to a gated entrance and showed his credentials to an armed guard in the driveway. The guard peered into the backseat and met Ahmed’s eye. He waved the car through.
Ahmed entered the museum through a side entrance. The warehouses had been a mess and a disappointment. It was no surprise the same was true here, as he walked through the museum’s cluttered main floor. Sarcophaguses stacked four and five high were everywhere and showed the general state of disorganization. Ahmed all but ignored their beauty and history, as if they could really be appreciated when displayed as they were. The Grand Egyptian Museum under construction by the great pyramids would solve that, but it was behind schedule. The impatience of his superiors at the delays contributed to the sense of urgency Ahmed felt about his plan. If it failed he would be looking for his detached head in the gutter of a prison cell.
Ahmed put the thought from his mind and tried to recall what he knew of the curator. The man was under his authority, but as the caretaker for the greatest collection of Egyptian antiquities in the world, he had power of his own. Knowing where the sarcophaguses were buried—or stored—left the man in an untouchable position, but after observing the disorganization of Egypt’s antiquities here and in the warehouses, Ahmed was in the mood to correct things.
As pleasant as it would be to confront the man, Ahmed set the thought aside. That wasn’t the primary purpose of his visit. The reason lay beyond the stacked sarcophaguses, in an office near the corner of the room. He continued to navigate the labyrinth of relics, not failing to notice the glass cases were covered in a light sheen of dust, as was everything else in the museum.
Visitors were often surprised on entering the building. Used to hermetically sealed, air-conditioned museums, with the exception of several of the premier exhibits, the Egyptian Museum had no air conditioning. Over a hundred years old, crammed full of poorly organized artifacts, the building had only a series of long windows near its ceiling that allowed some airflow.
A light sheen of sweat broke out on Ahmed’s forehead as he reached the office of Dr. Rashida Mustafa, and it wasn’t all from the heat. The researcher worked for Alexandria University, so he had no direct power over her. Any influence needed to come the old-fashioned way—through work and respect, and maybe a little flattery. He would handle the physical preparation of the tomb, but Dr. Mustafa would be the person called in to authenticate the find.
Ahmed knocked on the jamb of the partially opened door. A woman’s voice called out and he entered. Rashida Mustafa sat behind a scarred desk probably as old as the museum. If he cared, he might appreciate the history of it. Rumor had it, Harold Carter had sat h
ere. But Ahmed was more interested in the here and now—and her. Ahmed couldn’t help but fantasize about what lay under the bulky robe and headscarf the woman wore.
It was a misnomer that Muslim countries were patriarchal societies. In Egypt at least, women were generally well educated and certainly more mature than most of their male counterparts. Though men preened for power and filled the top positions, women had places in the majority in many fields, especially medicine.
She looked up from her papers. “Minister.”
“Rashi.”
Her gaze melted Ahmed. He cleared his throat to buy him a few seconds. “Looking for your queen?” He motioned toward the papers.
Rashi’s unique mixture of Egyptian and European blood gave her an exotic look, as well as several advantages. The blend of British and German ancestry allowed her the benefits of a British education at the expense of her grandparents, whose own grandparents had been involved in the early 20th-century excavations in the Valley of the Kings. Her indigenous blood allowed her access to jobs that only a native could hold.
She looked up. “I’m getting closer and closer. Once we find the grave, I will have the truth.”
Finding Nefertiti’s tomb was her quest and Ahmed was going to make it happen. “I have no doubt your perseverance will pay off.”
The famous valley just outside of Luxor still held secrets. Tombs, though nothing like Tutankhamun’s, were still being uncovered. The subterranean graves cut into the limestone of the valley were unique to the New Kingdom’s pharaohs. It was a departure from the old ways, whose rulers preferred to be entombed in pyramids.
The divergence, though it had some religious implications, was primarily due to grave robbers. Ancient Egyptians believed that if their bodies were disturbed, they would not find their way to the afterlife. The robbers had no qualms about removing the gold-cased sarcophaguses with the rest of the treasure. In many cases the mummified remains were unceremoniously discarded. The older, above-ground monuments, though elaborately booby trapped, were in plain sight. By building crypts, the rulers of the New Kingdom were not immune to grave robbers, but they at least made the task more challenging by disguising the sites.
No map of the Valley of the Kings had ever been found. To make discovery even more challenging, the builders utilized the features of the limestone and marl to their advantage in excavating the tombs, which as a result appeared haphazard in their layout. Their sizes were also somewhat random and misleading, reflecting the lifespan of the ruler rather than his importance. Construction began when the pharaoh came to power and ended on his death. The famous tomb of Tutankhamun, though rich in relics, was surprisingly small and sparsely decorated. His short reign gave little time for the builders to complete their task.
“The paper you published in the Journal of Egyptian Archeology was well received. I think an exhibit with artifacts from the period might be interesting.”
She looked up, clearly surprised at his interest.
Her smile encouraged Ahmed to continue. “Yes, please draw up a list of what you plan to display.”
It was a poor Plan C. Plan A, to liberate the relics from the warehouses, had already failed. His current plan, obtaining the files from the CIA to locate the lost cache, was his best chance. If he could get them to Beecher, he was sure he could locate the relics.
“It would certainly bring more visitors to the museum,” she said.
“Yes.” He rose and bowed his head to her.
The heat didn’t bother Ahmed nearly as much as he walked toward the exit. Now in a different frame of mind, he wandered through several of the rooms, wondering what the display from Nefertiti’s tomb would look like. It would certainly be on par with the Royal Mummy Room and King Tutankhamun’s exhibit. Ahmed smiled as he left the museum. He had been professional and not made any untoward advances. Feeding her fixation on the queen was more important. Once he found the grave, she would fall at his feet.
He found the car still idling at the curb by the side entrance. The blast of cool air felt good, as did his sense of accomplishment, as he entered the vehicle. There was one more meeting to attend to secure his future and he gave the driver the address.
Minutes later, the driver dropped Ahmed at the entrance to a restaurant. The English words Abou Tark reflected the name written in Arabic above. It was a plain façade. The only difference from most storefronts was that it was cleaner. The exterior belied the interior, which defied everything Cairo. Every surface of the restaurant’s interior either shone or glittered with flashing neon and green lighting. The Koshary was an institution. If this were a tomb, it would be the motherlode of glitz. Brass, marble, glass, and shiny laminates reflected the bright-colored neon lights and TVs mounted everywhere. Sound echoed off the hard surfaces, but only added to the atmosphere.
Grabbing the oversized, polished brass handrail, Ahmed walked up the stairs and passed a giant fish tank. He glanced around at the tightly packed dining room and found the man he was looking for sitting at a table near the windows.
He took a seat across from the man. “Beecher.”
“Minster.” The worn-looking man looked up from the bowl in front of him, then resumed eating. He spoke with an English accent, but his features showed the effects of a life lived in the harsh desert climate.
Ahmed had found Denton Beecher, or rather, the Brit had found him, after Ahmed had been promoted to his first high-level position. The excavator had a knack for getting things done that most Egyptians lacked. In addition to his skill as an excavator, he was not averse to cutting corners—or eliminating obstacles all together. Much of his public reputation had come from undertaking the difficult excavation of the tomb built for Ramses’ sons. Work was still in progress with over 120 chambers already discovered. Due to the tomb’s size, the original builders had been forced to dodge certain geological features that made the tomb subject to rare but vicious flash floods. Beecher had been the only excavator willing or able to undertake the challenge of removing millennia’s worth of the concrete-like debris.
Beecher was tolerated by the archeological community in much the same way the Muslim Egyptians tolerated the Coptic Christian population—they needed the foreigners. Though the history belonged to the Egyptian people, there were few with either the upper level education necessary to call themselves Egyptologists or with the engineering skills required to bring the ancient sites back to life. To do so properly required as much work and care as in the original building.
A waiter approached the table and asked if Ahmed would be eating. He shook his head, wanting something more refined than the single item served here. Koshary—a combination of pasta, lentils, rice, and spicy tomato sauce—was the national dish of Egypt and a carb lover’s dream. If his designs on Rashi were to come to fruition, adding to his paunch would not benefit him.
The busy restaurant was loud enough to allow the men to talk without being overheard.
Beecher shoveled another spoonful into his mouth, glanced up, and looked at Ahmed with a measure of disdain. “You have a location?” Beecher asked.
The excavator knew why the minister was here.
“Yes.” He lied. Ahmed was holding his cards close. He knew he was putting the chicken before the egg, but with his superiors breathing down his neck, he needed results now. Preferably, he would have located the treasure cache first. With no word from his CIA contact, he had to assume the Agency had failed to recover the files. It would be an empty tomb, but would still generate some interest. He would have to figure it out from there.
“Can you put together a crew? A discreet crew?” Ahmed paused. “You know what they did with the workers that dug the original tombs?” He was sure Beecher knew of the mass graves found near several of the tombs, leading many researchers to believe that the less-skilled workers were terminated for eternity after completion of the tomb. Ahmed wanted to reinforce the similar fate of any loose-lipped workers.
Ahmed felt a sheen of sweat form on his forehead as he
watched Beecher shovel another spoonful into his mouth. He tried to keep the look of disdain from his face. There were few men Ahmed was scared of, and Beecher was one. The man exuded violence. Some powerful men cultivated that look, but Beecher didn’t need to. Ahmed knew the man’s history.
Beecher was as much Egyptian as Ahmed. He had been born in Luxor and lived in Egypt all his life. His parents, like many British Egyptologists, had dedicated their lives to the Valley of the Kings. Beecher had grown up watching the established archeological protocols. He quickly lost patience waiting in the shadow of his parents and supervising a handful of locals doing the excavations by hand. The Valley of the Kings was too exposed for his purposes, and to escape the vigilant watch of the administrators, Beecher had started to use his less conventional, but much more effective, methods away from prying eyes.
The watchers couldn’t be everywhere, and Beecher became adept at avoiding them. The laborious process of documenting the sites was set aside in the quest for riches. Until the revolution, Beecher’s relationship with the past minister, who profited mightily from his work, had left him in the shadows. With his contact removed from office, he needed someone else to export his goods. Ahmed was an easy choice.
The men soon became uneasy partners. As Ahmed’s star rose, Beecher became more visible, to the point where he also had to become somewhat legitimate. The decades-long excavation of the tomb of Ramses’ sons allowed him the cover to pursue his other ventures.
“We’ll have to keep it small. Can we get equipment in there? Takes those toads too long to dig them by hand.”
“No, but we can blast at night. I’ve located an area that will need little modification. A couple of charges should do it.”
Beecher put the spoon down and Ahmed avoided his gaze.
“A couple of charges?” He laughed. “Like that’ll go unnoticed!” Beecher resumed eating. He knew the logistics and danger of the work and had included them in his price. “There’s a better way.”
Storm Clouds Page 5
