Journey of the Pharaohs

by Clive Cussler

  As soon as its eyes focused on him, the remote-controlled weapon in the fake police car began firing.

  Kurt dove back inside the limo and slammed the door. The shells put three huge dents in the armor, but the multiple levels of plating still held.

  “Either that bird has risen up against us or we’re being watched by a mechanical contrivance,” he said.

  Sandecker cast him an odd glance and then turned his attention back to the radio. He was speaking with the pilot of the nearest military helicopter, barking orders like he’d done in his younger days. “That’s right,” he said. “Engage the police car.”

  The pilot asked a question that didn’t sit well with the VP.

  “I don’t care if it is the Metro PD,” Sandecker said. “We’re taking direct fire from it.”

  The sound of a helicopter crossing above filled the street. It was followed shortly thereafter by a hail of gunfire and a minor explosion as the phony police car’s gas tank ruptured and exploded.

  “Target has been eliminated,” a voice over the radio said.

  “Great job,” Sandecker said.

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” Kurt said. “Those little remotes are still out there.”

  “Drones and RC cars,” Sandecker said, shaking his head. “You’d think they’d come up with a more dignified way to attack the Vice President.”

  “Don’t want to sound like an egomaniac,” Kurt said, “but I think I’m the target.”

  “You?”

  “Remember those arms dealers I told you about?” Kurt asked. “I’m betting this is their doing. Probably tied to the files we just borrowed from the FBI.”

  “You’re probably right,” Sandecker said.

  “Sorry for endangering you,” Kurt said, “but I’m about to turn the tables on them.”

  “And how’s that?”

  An idea had dawned on Kurt. One so devious it made him proud. “I’m going to give them another chance to shoot at me.”

  With Sandecker looking on, Kurt reached for the files Ms. Curtis had copied from the Archives. Shuffling through them, he grabbed the FBI file, the one that Hoover’s men had written before they knew the truth.

  Next, he opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bag of Sandecker’s blood and stuffed it down inside an inner pocket of his tuxedo.

  The look on Sandecker’s face told him all he needed to know. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Can you think of a better plan?” Kurt asked.

  “I can hardly think of a worse one,” Sandecker said. “But, good luck.”

  Kurt shouldered the buckled door open and got out once again. He stepped away from the vehicle with the gun in one hand, the file in the other. Moving through the smoke, he acted jumpy, turning this way and that, as if expecting to get attacked at any second.

  He knew the crow was watching him but ignored it, looking instead for any sign of the six-wheeled killing machine.

  A shadow flickered in front of the streetlamp as the black bird took flight. At the same moment, the distinctive whine of the RC’s motor sounded on the far side of the limousine.

  Kurt spun around, spotting the machine as it appeared from behind the wrecked limo. He raised his gun and pulled the trigger, firing just as the remote-controlled machine locked onto him and fired.

  Kurt’s shot was accurate, piercing the machine’s electrical gearbox and knocking it sideways just as it triggered its own weapon. The return fire flew wide off to the left, but Kurt pretended otherwise, lurching to the side and spinning around.

  To anyone watching, it looked as if he’d been hit dead center. He dropped the pistol as he fell, stumbling forward but also thumping his chest hard enough to break the bag of Sandecker’s blood.

  The punch, delivered quickly and as if he were reacting to being hit, was almost unnoticeable, but the impact tore the IV bag and sent Sandecker’s blood streaming down Kurt’s white tuxedo shirt.

  Kurt took another stumbling step to make it look good and then fell on his side. The hardest part was hitting the ground without doing anything to break his fall.

  Lying there, eyes half open, Kurt saw that the remote-controlled machine was dead but that the crow was still staring at him. He topped off his theatrics by reaching for the file he’d dropped and allowing his hand to fall short of it, then going completely still.

  * * *

  —

  Several blocks away, still in the back of the Tesla, Fydor watched the events on-screen via the camera eyes of the mechanical bird.

  “He’s down,” he said to Xandra. “Austin is down. Finally.” He sighed deeply. “I thought they were going to escape. I really thought they were going to get away.”

  Helicopters thundered overhead, heading toward the wrecked limousine. Police cars raced in from every direction, lights flashing frantically, sirens wailing.

  “Finish him,” Xandra ordered. “Quickly. We need proof of his death for payment.”

  Fydor tried to hit Kurt with another blast from the Uzi but found the remote unit unresponsive. “The RCs are out,” he said. “All three of them. Austin must have hit the last one as he went down.”

  “What about the squad car?”

  “Obliterated from above,” Fydor said. “Like we will be if we don’t get out of here.”

  “We’re not leaving without proof,” she insisted. “Use the bird. Get a close-up of Austin’s body.”

  Fydor switched screens and took control of the black bird. He directed it to swoop down onto the blacktop beside Austin’s prone body. It hopped into the air, glided from its perch and flew down, landing six feet from where Kurt lay. Drifting smoke obscuring the view.

  “Closer,” Xandra said.

  Fydor moved the crow forward. The image resolved as the gap shrunk. Both Fydor and Xandra stared at the screen. They saw Kurt in full color, saw his awkward positioning, the blood-soaked tuxedo shirt, the half-open eyes. The truth was obvious.

  “Now can we get out of here?” Fydor asked.

  Xandra hesitated. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing to something beyond Kurt’s outstretched hand. “Over there.”

  “It looks like a file folder,” Fydor said. “It must be what they went to the FBI building to retrieve.”

  “Grab it,” she ordered. “Barlow will almost certainly pay extra for it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quickly!”

  * * *

  —

  Kurt lay in the street, holding his breath and remaining still. He saw the mechanical crow swoop down and land, watched as it hopped closer and studied him. He knew it was fake—no living bird would walk through smoke and fire—but it looked and moved so realistically, it would have been easy to forget.

  It came up to him, studied him for a second and then turned its perfect bird-like head, focusing on his outstretched hand and the file on the ground.

  With two quick hops the crow reached the folder, used its beak to lift the edge and then gripped the file tightly with a mechanical claw. With the dossier held securely, the bird stretched out its wings and began flapping them wildly. It hopped in the air, swooped low along the street and then climbed higher as it picked up speed. Passing the end of the street, the black device vanished into the dark of night.

  Kurt took a shallow breath but remained where he was. He resisted the urge to grin—too much damage had been done for that—but for the first time since spotting the trawler off the coast of Scotland he knew he’d gained the upper hand. And all because of a mechanical bird.

  Chapter 51

  NUMA headquarters, Washington, D.C.

  You’re playing a dangerous game here.”

  Kurt looked across the desk to Rudi Gunn. He’d just finished laying out his plan to deal with the Bloodstone Group once and for all. He hadn’t expected Rudi to like it, but ultimately Ru
di was a pragmatist. Kurt was counting on him.

  “We’re not going to get another chance like this,” Kurt told him.

  “Why take a chance at all?” Rudi asked. “Why not toss the ball back over to Interpol and MI5 where it belongs? Ask the FBI to look into it?”

  Kurt leaned back. Despite two showers and fresh clothes, he could still smell the acrid aroma of explosives and burnt rubber from the previous night. “Interpol is a paper tiger,” he said. “And MI5 isn’t going to be much help here in America. As for the FBI, aside from one of their archivists, they consider me and my opinions about as valuable as a week-old newspaper.”

  Rudi looked at a report that detailed the FBI’s findings regarding the attack on the Vice Presidential limousine. “They have rejected your theory about being the target of the attack. Something about being a narcissist who thinks he’s more important than the second-most-powerful man in the world.”

  Kurt knew how it looked. “That’s my point,” he said. “They don’t believe a word of it. Which means they’re not looking for Barlow or his people or whoever it was that built that mechanical bird.”

  “I noticed you didn’t mention that to them.”

  “I looked crazy enough already,” Kurt said. “Didn’t want to confirm all their suspicions.”

  Rudi laughed and put away the FBI report. “So what you’re telling me is, it’s either us or no one. And you want to risk everything to trap Barlow. How can you even be sure they’ll fall for it?”

  “They have the Writings of Qsn,” Kurt said, “which, according to what Max and Hiram were able to get off that photograph, suggests the treasure lies in some desert ravine on the far side of a large sea. They also have the copies of the old FBI file, which verifies the existence of the treasure, the connection to the Granzini family and the approximate location in the Grand Canyon where the rest of the treasure lies. There’s even a hand-drawn map, aerial photos and snapshots from the inside of the cave. There’s literally no way for them to miss the connection.” Kurt grinned almost maniacally as he spoke. “They have to come here. Either that or give up.”

  Rudi looked away, twirling a pen in his fingers, as he considered the possibilities. “Realizing I couldn’t talk you out of this if I tried, I’ll consider your request. What do you need to pull this off?”

  “Satellite data detailed enough to match the location of the FBI photos to the exact spot in the canyon where the archeologists found the cave.”

  Rudi nodded. “That should be easy enough. Hiram and Max have used photos to match the contours and orientation of old landscapes before. Of course, the Bloodstone Group will have no problem doing the same thing, which I can only assume you’re counting on.”

  “I am,” Kurt said. “But, along with Max being quicker to the punch, it’ll allow us to get there first and lie in wait.”

  “By yourselves?”

  “We can’t exactly hide an army down there,” Kurt said. “If they see one thing out of place—one sign of preparation or security—they’ll bail before any of the important people show up. No good capturing a few scouts when we need to capture Barlow and his top lieutenants.”

  “I’m not letting you go in there alone,” Rudi said.

  “I’ll have Joe, Morgan and the Trouts.”

  “Not interested in seeing my entire Special Operations team wiped out at the same time. Adding one MI5 operative doesn’t change that equation. You’re going to have backup of one type or another.”

  Kurt glanced over at a map on the wall, focusing on the western United States and northern Arizona. “There’s an Army base near Flagstaff called Camp Navajo. They do a lot of basic training and National Guard stuff out there. A small detachment of Rangers sent there and held on alert would never be noticeable. Once we’ve confirmed that Barlow and his men are on-site, we make a quick call for help, the Rangers swoop in and the rest is history.”

  Rudi considered the plan. It was reasonable, especially for something Kurt had come up with. “I’m sure I’ll end up regretting this,” Rudi said, “but I’ll sign off on it. You’d better get yourself out to the Grand Canyon. And keep a low profile. Remember, you’re supposed to be dead.”

  Chapter 52

  MV Tunisian Wind, Galveston Harbor, Texas

  Solomon Barlow stood in the shadows of an open cargo hatch, watching as a motor launch approached the Tunisian Wind. Despite the shade and a strategically placed fan, his face glistened with sweat. Living in Northern Europe had left him woefully unprepared for the warmth and humidity of Galveston Bay under a late-summer heat wave.

  Robson stood next to him, suffering less from the heat but complaining more. “I don’t like bringing them here,” he said, nodding at the approaching launch. “They almost killed the Vice President. If they’re being watched, they’ll lead the FBI right to us.”

  “The FBI is busy hunting for terrorists,” Barlow said. “A strategic leak of information saw to that. They have no idea the Toymaker was behind it.”

  “I still think it’s foolish to meet with them. What purpose could it serve?”

  “We’re going to partner with them,” Barlow said.

  “Them?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The launch reached the ship and bumped alongside. A gangway was lowered from the cargo hatch and secured to the smaller boat.

  With the gangway in place, Barlow’s crewmen stepped aside. An athletic, confident woman came aboard, followed by a nervous, twitchy man who reminded Barlow of a hyperactive rat.

  They reached the hatch, stepped off the gangway and stood where the breeze from the fan could reach them.

  “Let me introduce the Toymaker,” Barlow said to Robson. “Or should I say the Toymakers? Xandra and Fydor.”

  He used their names to show them he’d figured out who they really were. Or at least their second-level aliases. The statement didn’t go unnoticed.

  Xandra stared at him. “You had it right the first time, Solomon.” She pointed to Fydor. “He makes the machines. I just keep people from beating him up.”

  “Either way, you do excellent work,” Barlow said. “You’ve been paid for it but let me thank you personally for getting rid of Austin. I’m thinking of framing the photo you sent me.”

  “Do what you want with it,” Xandra said. “I’d like to get down to business. We have something you need. It’s going to cost a share of the total proceeds before we hand it over.”

  “So you said in your message. I’m prepared to offer you just that. But first you’ll need to prove what you’ve found. Come with me,” Barlow said. “Let’s talk.”

  He led them into the ship and to the officers’ mess, which had been cleared and turned into a planning room. Four additional men waited inside. They were hardened and deeply tanned.

  “Xandra and Fydor,” Barlow said, “this is Omar Kai.”

  Omar Kai stood against the far wall, leaning at a slight angle. He was tall and slim, with wavy dark hair, sun-creased olive skin and a wide mustache that would have looked more at home on an old Western gunfighter. He wore casual clothes and had a gleam in his eye as he spoke. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “I know who you are,” Xandra said.

  No hands were shaken, no other words exchanged.

  “Everyone, take a seat,” Robson said.

  The members of the group sat at one large table, Xandra and Fydor on one side, Omar Kai and his men on the other and Robson at the far end. Barlow stayed standing and explained why they were all there.

  “We’re going to steal the greatest deposit of Egyptian treasure the world has ever known. If you choose to join me, you’ll be given cash up front for your participation, cash that you’re welcome to return to me in exchange for your portion of what we bring back.”

  “We want a half share,” Xandra declared proudly. “We know exactly where the treasure is. We’re lead
ing you to it. We won’t take anything less.”

  “Greed,” Omar Kai said. “How predictable.”

  Xandra sneered at him.

  Barlow was unfazed. “If that’s your position, you can go in and haul it out yourself. Our expert has given us a conservative estimate suggesting the weight of the treasure will exceed a hundred tons. You’re talking coffins made of gold, bars of silver, chests filled with gemstones and ornate weapons, statues carved from marble and onyx. You’re welcome to carry it out on your backs, if you like. And then, should you succeed, you can look for someone to sell it to, hoping not to get caught by an Interpol sting or upended by one of their informants.” He let that sink in for a minute. “Or you can work with me and my people will take care of the heavy lifting, sales and distribution.”

  Xandra held silent. Kai smiled and winked. Barlow knew he’d regained control.

  “You get a quarter share,” he said, “assuming you can provide us with an accurate location and assist our effort.”

  “I can give you a precise location,” Xandra bragged.

  “Then you’ll have earned your twenty-five percent.”

  “And what about our share?” Omar Kai asked.

  “You and your men also get a quarter share,” Barlow explained.

  “Generous.”

  “Not really,” Barlow said. “You’ll be taking the biggest risk.”

  Kai seemed unconcerned. “No risk, no reward,” he said. “Count us in.”

  Across the table, Xandra nodded as well. “We’re in also. What’s the plan?”

  Barlow went over an operation that would get them in and out of the canyon quickly. It allowed for a large carrying capacity and a maximum amount of stealth. He had no illusions of being able to get every trinket from the cave, but they would concentrate on the big-ticket items—the gold and jewels, the caskets and sarcophaguses, the death masks and mummies of the Pharaohs themselves.

  “The only real danger,” he warned, “would be the sudden arrival of law enforcement. That’s where you two earn your shares.”