Journey of the Pharaohs

by Clive Cussler

  “Your grandfather’s theory may have been outlandish, but that didn’t make him a Nazi,” Kurt noted.

  “Far from it,” DeMars pointed out. “The Nazi Party hated my grandfather’s theory, particularly because it suggested North African origins for much of European culture and its population. When France fell to Germany in 1940, my grandfather was harassed and imprisoned. Much of what he’d found over the years was taken, including the Writings of Qsn. We assumed they’d destroyed the fragments. My mother, at least, hoped they had.”

  Kurt listened to DeMars speak, hearing a sense of sadness in the man’s voice and a bit of shame. Unknown to DeMars, or even Morgan, NUMA had a surprising amount of inside knowledge regarding the Egyptians, some of which had only recently come to light. The truth is, Egyptian seafaring was more advanced than most mainstream scholars believe. They’d traveled farther and wider than anyone thought. One branch of Egyptian royalty had even wound up in Ireland. The possibility that others could have spread around Europe was not as far-fetched as DeMars imagined.

  Kurt would share that data with DeMars at some point, but first he needed answers. “I appreciate the information,” he said, “and I promise you we’re not trying to interrogate you. But if you know where your grandfather found the stones, we’d appreciate knowing.”

  “They were found in Spain,” DeMars replied. “But no one in my family ever believed that’s where they originated.”

  Kurt said nothing. He could see where this was going.

  “You see,” DeMars continued, “our grandfather was so desperate to prove his theory, there were rumors that he’d begun seeding the ground with the type of things he hoped to find. All I can say is, it was a different time.”

  Kurt understood DeMars’s sense of embarrassment. “Any chance the fragments were delivered to him by aircraft?”

  “It’s possible,” DeMars said. “I suppose you might find the answer in my grandfather’s journals. Though I warn you, he was a voluminous writer.”

  “We’d be grateful for the chance to look,” Morgan said.

  DeMars stood. “I’ll show you the journals, but there are conditions. The contents and his opinions cannot be made public. And none of the journals are to leave this house.”

  “You have our word,” Morgan said.

  “In that case, follow me.”

  Chapter 24

  DeMars led them out into the hallway and down toward the western rotunda. The circular space occupied the turret on one corner of the château. A statue depicting Joan of Arc astride her horse dominated the ground floor. It was rendered in extremely lifelike detail and gilded in gold leaf. As was customary, the Maid of Orléan held the reins in one hand and a staff bearing the French standard in the other. The banner had been crafted so expertly, it seemed to be fluttering in an invisible breeze.

  “Beautiful,” Morgan said, admiring the statue.

  “She’s our hero,” DeMars said.

  He led them up to the fourth floor and into the study. Shelves filled with material spanned the room. Reference books in one section, leather-bound journals in the next.

  DeMars strode across the room to the wall of journals and climbed a small stepladder. “These are my grandfather’s expedition journals. If you’re seeking information on the discovery, it will be in here.”

  Kurt eased up next to their host. He counted a dozen volumes covering 1927, ten for 1928, and eleven more for 1929. “You weren’t kidding about your grandfather’s notetaking.”

  “He was meticulous,” DeMars said. “That will be helpful, no?”

  “Helpful,” Kurt agreed, “and time-consuming.”

  Kurt ran his finger across the spines, starting with those devoted to 1927, skipping January through April and stopping on the volume marked May. Opening it, Kurt saw the next problem. The writing was in flowing cursive longhand. It was also entirely in French. “We may need your assistance.”

  “Of course,” DeMars said. He took the journal, sat at a desk and turned on a green-shaded reading light.

  “I can read French too,” Morgan said.

  Kurt pulled a second journal off the shelf and handed it to her. She sat across from DeMars.

  “I feel as helpful as a bump on a log,” Joe said.

  Kurt felt the same way. “We could search for terms,” he suggested, turning to DeMars.

  “My grandfather originally called the hieroglyphics fragments the red stones,” DeMars said. “Les pierres rouges.”

  “And we’re searching for a downed aircraft,” Kurt added.

  “Avion,” Morgan replied. “L’avion.”

  Both Kurt and Joe took journals and got to work. Had the library been digitized, Hiram’s computers could have searched through every word in a matter of seconds. By Kurt’s estimation, the four of them couldn’t do it in less than a full weekend. With nothing to do but get started, Kurt sat down and opened his book.

  * * *

  —

  Darkness fell rapidly in the hill country of western France. As the sun disappeared behind the mountains bordering Spain, the air turned cool and the sky faded to a dusky gray.

  With the slightest hint of orange light still glowing on the horizon, the security guard at the front gate settled in for what he expected would be a quiet evening. He said good-bye to the staff as they left and lowered the heavy gate.

  Unlike earlier centuries, none of the staff lived at the château, they had homes and families of their own to go to. Aside from the security team and a butler, only the DeMars family remained overnight. And with most of the family away for the summer, the mansion was almost empty.

  The guard laughed at the idea. The residence had fifteen bedrooms, almost as many bathrooms, two kitchens, three dining rooms and plenty of other spaces. Most of the time, it was all but vacant. Better for him, he thought. Many of the châteaux around France had been turned into tourist destinations and hotels. That meant endless foot traffic, screaming children and issues with theft. The DeMars château hosted only occasional weddings and corporate parties. If it ever became a tourist trap, the guard intended to put in for early retirement.

  Sitting back and dividing his attention between the road outside, the ever-changing security feed from the cameras around the property and the music playing softly on his radio, the guard felt the peace of the evening settle on him. That feeling didn’t change much even as a pair of headlights came down the road, slowing as they neared the driveway. He saw a turn signal light up, flashing amber in the dark, and found himself mildly annoyed as a delivery van pulled into the drive and stopped at the gate.

  Grabbing his clipboard, the guard walked out to the van. “Catering and deliveries are not supposed to arrive after six. I hope you have a good reason for coming so late.”

  The window went down and the man in the vehicle looked over at him. There was something undeniably cruel about his face. “No delivery,” he said in badly accented French. “Pickup.”

  Looking into the van, the guard noticed that the steering wheel was on the far side. That made it an English vehicle. The accent was English too. He wondered if this had something to do with the group that had arrived earlier. The woman had been English.

  “Pickup?” he said, glancing at the clipboard and looking for anything that might be scheduled to go out. “What vendor?”

  “Glock,” the man said.

  The guard froze at the sight of the Austrian-made pistol. He noticed that a silencer had been screwed into the barrel. That could mean only one thing.

  He threw the clipboard and dodged to the side, but he was not nearly fast enough. Three muted shots were fired. Two hit him in the chest, the other in his right bicep.

  He landed on the ground, stunned, bleeding and gasping for breath. He looked back to see a passenger climbing out of the van, but instead of finishing him off the man rushed into the shack and presse
d the button to open the gate.

  As the poles swung upward, a second van sped up to it, this one a larger, twelve-passenger model. It slowed, waiting for the gate to reach its zenith and the spikes in the pavement to retract. When the gate locked into position and the spikes disappeared, the van raced in.

  Mortally wounded and bleeding out, the guard still processed what he was seeing. This was an assault. A planned attack. He had to call in a warning. He reached for the microphone attached to his collar and squeezed the TALK switch. “Code—”

  A fourth bullet finished him off before he could say any more.

  Robson stood over the fallen guard, waiting for an alarm to sound or a return call to come through on the guard’s radio.

  “If anyone heard that call, we’ll be walking into trouble,” Snipe insisted.

  “Kappa and his men will find it first,” Robson said. “But I wouldn’t worry. It doesn’t sound like anyone was listening. Get him out of sight and get back in the van. We don’t want Kappa to have all the fun.”

  Gus and Fingers worked together, picking the guard up by his arms and feet and hauling him back into the shack. They laid him on the ground out of sight and closed the door. Meanwhile, Snipe had picked up the fallen clipboard. “Look at this.”

  Robson took it. It listed visitors and deliveries. He saw the names Manning, Austin and Zavala. Affiliations, UK and USG.

  “The MI5 agent and the two Americans are here,” he told the others. “Looks like we’ll get to kill three birds with one stone.”

  Chapter 25

  Château DeMars, fourth-floor study

  An hour of reading had gone by in the blink of an eye. To his surprise, Kurt found scanning for terms amid words in a foreign language surprisingly hard. It was easy for his mind to wander as his eyes glossed over and stopped really seeing what they were looking for.

  “This is like scanning the sea from a helicopter, looking for an orange life raft amid the endless blue,” he said.

  “That would be easier,” Joe said.

  Either way, it had the same effect—strain behind the eyeballs and the need for frequent breaks.

  “Yes,” DeMars said, standing up as he spoke. “Yes.”

  “Tell me you’re not just agreeing with us enthusiastically,” Kurt said.

  “I’ve found something,” DeMars said. “I think this is what you’re hoping for. Come look.”

  Kurt gladly put down the journal he was reading and moved over to the table DeMars had occupied.

  The journals covering May, June and July of 1927 sat beside him, stacked up neatly, effectively ruled out. Open in front of DeMars was the journal for August 1927.

  With the others gathered around him, DeMars adjusted his glasses and began to read aloud.

  Two days’ mule’s ride from Navia we finally arrived in San Sebastián. Here we are shown the items that the trader spoke of. Small golden castings, one in the shape of a crocodile, the other in the shape of an Anubis. They must be Egyptian. Proof that members of the dynasty were on the Continent.

  He looked up with a grin and read on.

  In addition to the golden items, these men have shown me flat sections of a reddish stone. The surface is covered with hieroglyphics. They have also a small, pyramid-shaped stone that appears as if it has been broken off the top of a marker or perhaps a small obelisk.

  Turning the page, he found a rough drawing with some dimensions listed beside it.

  “That’s a good match for what we saw in the case,” Joe said.

  Kurt and Morgan nodded. DeMars continued.

  I asked repeatedly where they dug the items up, but the old men shrug and do not answer. Perhaps they do not understand. I rephrase the words and ask how they came into possession of the items. They indicate they were among the belongings of a dead man who was found by the river a full day’s walk to the north.

  I asked who this man was and where he hailed from, but I receive only the same indistinct shrugs. He was not one of us, I am told. It is difficult to know what this means. I am in Basque Country and they do not acknowledge the government in Madrid. There is also the new divide among those who count Spain as their home. Communists and Nationalists are forcing people to choose sides. All of this is making my task of finding the truth more difficult.

  Kurt cross-referenced the dates with his knowledge of history. “Shadows of the Spanish Civil War.”

  “Indeed,” DeMars said, then went back to reading.

  Avoiding talk of the government, I ask how the man died and what happened to his body. They say he died from infection and loss of blood. Some of the men buried him and they brought his rucksack here. No one has come for him . . .

  The next page described the items in more detail and the prices paid for them, but that was the last entry for Spain. When the journal resumed, it was five weeks later and the elder DeMars was visiting a friend in Paris.

  “He doesn’t mention a plane,” Joe said. “But the dead man’s injuries match what was written in the logbook. I’d say it’s a lock.”

  DeMars was smiling.

  “You look happier than us,” Kurt noted.

  “Proud,” DeMars said. “Many have considered my grandfather’s work trivial or even fraudulent, me among them. This proves that the items didn’t originate in Spain. But it also proves his discovery was serendipity, not deception.”

  Kurt put a hand on DeMars’s shoulder. “And when we find what the Writings of Qsn are pointing us toward, he will be the biggest reason for a discovery of epic proportions. Now we just have to figure out where he was. Where, exactly, is San Sebastián?”

  Kurt pulled out his phone, used to using the power of the internet for searches such as this. At the same time, DeMars put the journal aside and went to retrieve a large atlas from the shelf.

  He carried it to the desk and placed it down with a soft thud. Leafing through the pages, he came to a section depicting northern Spain, just across the border from France.

  “This is Basque Country,” he said.

  Taking out a magnifying glass, he scanned the page, searching the names of the towns and rivers. “Here,” he said. “This is Navia. This is where they began. From there, two days by mule upriver would take them somewhere between twenty and perhaps forty miles at the most. That would bring them to . . .”

  He checked the scale of the map and then placed a ruler alongside the river. At the twenty-mile mark, there was nothing, but nearer the top of the page, close to the forty-mile limit, was a small dot with two inked notes next to it.

  DeMars got the chills. They were his grandfather’s shorthand notes. They included dates in August of 1927. “This is it,” he said, circling the town for the others to see.

  Morgan and Joe came over to look. Kurt continued to wait on his phone to cooperate.

  “It says Villa Ducal de Lerma,” Joe pointed out.

  “But the church is there,” DeMars said. “San Sebastián de las Montañas—Saint Sebastian of the Mountains. That was my grandfather’s way of saying where he was, by telling us which church he visited.”

  While Joe and Morgan looked over DeMars’s shoulder, Kurt was about to give up on his phone. The mapping application had started and then frozen. It now indicated LOST DATA CONNECTION. The reception icon at the top of the phone, which had listed the name of a French Telecom company and had held steady at four bars during their conversation with Hiram, now indicated NO SERVICE.

  “I’m not getting a signal,” he said. “But earlier I had four bars.”

  “That’s odd,” DeMars said, pulling out his own phone. “We usually have excellent service. Though mine appears to be down too.”

  Seconds later the lights went out. First in the house, then outside along the grounds, one section after another, until the hillside was dark.

  “Blackout?” DeMars asked.

  Kur
t’s frame tensed. “Blackouts happen all at once,” he said, “not a section at a time. Someone’s tripped the breakers. Do you have a landline?”

  DeMars pointed to a shelf on the far wall. On it sat an avocado green desktop phone, circa 1980. “Joe,” Kurt said.

  Joe grabbed the phone and held it to his ear. “Dial tone,” he said, nodding. “It’s working.”

  “Dial 55 for the security,” DeMars said.

  Joe pressed the 5 button twice, but the line went dead before the call could go through. Joe tapped the cradle a couple of times, but he got nothing. He looked across the room at Kurt and shook his head.

  “What’s happening?” DeMars asked.

  “My money is on a home invasion,” Kurt said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a compact .45 pistol, confirming a shell was in the chamber, clicking off the safety with his thumb and moving toward the door.

  “What about my security force?” DeMars asked.

  “Something tells me they’re already sitting this one out.”

  Chapter 26

  Château DeMars, ground floor

  Robson had caught up with Kappa and his mercenaries in the foyer on the bottom floor. Unlike Robson’s men, who were from the street, Kappa’s were straight-up mercenaries. They’d done plenty of dirty work in war-torn countries as part of Bloodstone Group’s full-service menu. Never war-fighting on the front lines—they were too valuable to be cannon fodder in some Third World civil war—they abducted dignitaries, staged political assassinations, set off bombs and conducted what passed for crowd control in countries where peaceful protest was often met with bloody assault.

  Including himself, Kappa had eight men at his disposal. He’d also brought a plethora of equipment—stun grenades, smoke grenades, body armor, night vision goggles, police scanners and even a high-powered transmitter that acted as a SERVICE DENIED jammer by overloading cell phone towers with a massive signal.