The Bonaparte Secret

by Gregg Loomis

  Even if Dante succeeded in opening a hole to the ground above, only one of their problems would be solved, the almost-depleted supply of oxygen. The water would rise to wherever the normal table was and no farther, leaving them still below the surface. Anyone who couldn’t swim, or at least tread water, until help arrived would be in serious danger of drowning.

  Help.

  Once again, Lang thought of the members of the crew Rossi had left aboveground. He had heard no shots since the explosion that had blocked the exit from this chamber, but the fact no one had come to their assistance was ominous.

  Lang temporarily forgot the question of those above-ground as a crack of light appeared above his head. With Dante’s next swing of the pick, chunks of dirt and stone crashed into the water below, scattering several crew members who, like Lang, had been watching the little Italian’s progress.

  Almost immediately, there was a grumble of crumbling earth and a shriek. Lang would have rejoiced at the speck of daylight that appeared had it not been for a falling object plummeting from the surface above. Like a bird shot in flight, a white-clad form tumbled through the hole, smashing into the water below. It took Lang a full second to recognize the object as human, someone who seemed to be wrapped in sheets. He joined the group gathered around. A man, either dead or stunned, lay in the still-rising water. He wore what Lang guessed was Bedouin robes but there was nothing Semitic about his facial features: they were decidedly Asian. The gun that had fallen with him was unmistakable. The bullpup configuration, action and trigger in front of the magazine identified it as a QBZ type 95/97, a relatively new Chinese assault weapon that was replacing the Kalashnikov knock-off that had been the primary small arm of the People’s Liberation Army.

  Lang snatched it from the water just as a burst of gunfire from above churned the water not five feet away, sending the gathered crew frantically splashing toward the far edges of the chamber.

  Lang lunged to his left, grasping the unfamiliar QBZ in one hand. The gun had made its first public appearance when the PLA marched in to reoccupy Hong Kong, long after Lang had left the Agency and its recurring training in contemporary firearms. Happily, he still browsed the gun publications frequently enough to know what he held, if not exactly how it worked. Muzzle velocity, clip capacity and caliber were a number of details Lang would have liked to know, but now was hardly time for a familiarization lecture. The one thing he did know was that this automatic rifle would provide firepower vastly superior to the Browning in its holster at his back.

  If only he could figure out what was the safety and what was the fire selector.

  Another fusillade ripped the water, this time close enough to shower him.

  Shit! He still wore his miner’s helmet, with its light providing a perfect target. One sweep of a hand sent it spinning into dusky shadows and drawing yet more fire.

  He ducked, spinning farther into the nightlike shade provided by what was left of the mausoleum’s roof. Now he was standing in darkness, looking up at a patch of sunlit sky. Reaching to his belt, he removed the flashlight he had jammed into it, turned it on and tossed it toward the circle of light playing off the room’s flooded floor.

  It had barely splashed before a man’s head and shoulders appeared at the rim of the hole above. A ragged flame of muzzle flash jetted in the direction of the flashlight.

  The Chinese rifle was too short to steady comfortably against his shoulder and squeeze the trigger at the same time. One hand on the forward grip, the other on the trigger, Lang pointed and held on tightly as the gun bucked in his hands, its blast deafening in the confines of the burial chamber.

  For a second, he could only hear the ringing of his ears. There was no sign of the man at whom he had fired.

  How could he have missed with such a clear target?

  His question was answered a split second later as a figure leaned over the edge of the opening as though to shout something to those below. It slowly tumbled through the hole. The bright light from above showed another white robe, this one punctuated with a series of red splotches.

  As his hearing slowly returned, Lang became aware of two sounds. Someone, one of Rossi’s crew from above, was shouting something as he tossed a rope ladder into the opening. The other was the vibrating wail of approaching sirens.

  Even the Alexandria police had a limit as to how much they could ignore.

  Ansley Park

  Gurt was slightly more than an arm length away from the street person when he stopped. “Ms. Fuchs? I need to speak with you.”

  The use of her name, one she had never changed, was uncommon among her contemporary friends and associates. She had found it easier to respond to Mrs. or Ms. Reilly than explain, the reason she had not corrected Randy as they left the house . . . what, less than an hour ago?

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  He gave a smile that wasn’t a lot warmer than the ice on the ground. “A friend, a friend who’s here to help you.”

  Gurt took a step back, conscious of the man behind her. “Why do you think I need help?”

  The man’s smile didn’t move. “Because there are some very bad people who want to hurt you and your family. If you’ll just come quietly along with me . . .” He pointed to a black Chevrolet Suburban that hadn’t been there a second before but was now slowly cruising down the street. “We can take you to a safe place.”

  Gurt indicated the house with a jut of her chin. “My house is safe.”

  The tramp peered over her shoulder, obviously gauging if his partner, the man in the overcoat, was going to be any help. “Ms. Fuchs, I have orders to move you to safety. Your preference is not, repeat, not, a factor. You have quite a reputation for being able to defend yourself and my superiors feared you could be difficult. That’s why this street-bum getup, so I could at least get close enough to speak with you, try to reason without getting an arm broken.”

  Gurt sidestepped onto a neighbor’s lawn. “Tell your ‘superiors’ they were right.”

  The man was becoming exasperated. “Look, lady, I don’t want any trouble . . .”

  “Then go away and take the man behind me with you.”

  “No one is going to hurt you.”

  The voice came from behind.

  Gurt turned to look at the man in the overcoat. “Tell that to the man in the pond in the park down there.”

  Overcoat’s face became blank. “What man?”

  Gurt took a heavy breath. “The man your housekeeping department is going to have to remove before someone finds the body.”

  Overcoat gave a chuckle that had about as much warmth as his partner’s smile. “Oh, that man! There’s no body, although there might be if he doesn’t recover from the tranquilizer dart in time to get out of the water before he freezes. Now, are you coming with us?”

  He made a grab for Manfred, who yelped in fright.

  Whether it was the sound, the motion or both, the child’s reaction caused another.

  With a snarl, Grumps dove into Overcoat, sinking his teeth into the man’s ankle. With a shriek of pain, he hobbled backward, dog still attached, as he tried to pry Grumps loose.

  Gurt no longer had to think, just act.

  With a shove, she sent the tramp’s grocery cart slamming into his midsection, doubling him over with a whoosh of expelled air. Clinching her hands together above her head, she used the combined strength of both arms to bring them down on the back of his head. A few inches lower would have snapped his spine like a rotted stick of wood, but that was not her intent. Instead, she was content to smash his face into the rails of the grocery cart. She thought she heard the cartilage that was his nose snap, but she had no time to be certain.

  Turning to where Overcoat was trying to both shake his leg free of the growling Grumps and land a kick with the other, she gave the grossly unbalanced man a shove that sent him sprawling on the icy ground. She took a step back and landed a kick of her own that, if it missed his crotch, was close enough for him to roll into
a protective fetal ball.

  Reaching down, she removed the Glock from his shoulder holster before stepping over to where the other man was still on the sidewalk groaning, hands to a face that was a bloody mask. She took his weapon, too.

  “Grumps! Enough!”

  An observer of the Marquess of Queensberry rules, Grumps let go with a parting bark.

  “Grumps bit the bad man,” Manfred chortled gleefully.

  For the moment, Gurt ignored him. “Gentlemen,” she called sweetly. “Gentlemen! I’ll have your attention before anyone gets seriously hurt.”

  With eyes brimming equally with pain and hatred, they stared at her as she slowly unlocked the clip of each gun and thumbed the bullets onto the ground. Stooping, she retrieved each and dumped them into the pocket of her coat. “Please tell whoever sent you I am quite capable of taking care of myself. Any questions about that?”

  She was not surprised there were none.

  “Is good, then.” She tossed each man his empty pistol. “Our business is finished, yes?”

  Again, no answer.

  And the Chevy Suburban was gone.

  Cemetery of Terra Santa

  The last of those who had been trapped in the burial chamber were climbing the rope ladder out of it as Rossi put a friendly arm around Lang’s shoulders. “Once again, Mr. Couch, Dr. Roth, you have saved my life.”

  Lang saw no reason to point out that in both instances it had been he, not the archaeologist, who had been the target of an assassination attempt. “Glad to be of service.”

  “Do you suppose I shall ever learn who you really are?”

  This time it was Lang who shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  A parade of police cars squalled to a stop in the adjacent street, their sirens muttering to silence, lights flashing.

  Rossi took a glance at the new arrivals. “I would guess you do not want to be involved with the authorities?”

  “You would be right.”

  “Then merge with the rest of the crew.” He seemed to hesitate a moment before reaching into a pocket and handing Lang the small plastic bag in which he had earlier placed the object tentatively identified as a button. “I guess the police will detain us with questions for the remainder of the day. I do not want to risk losing this before we can relate it to the dig. Could you deliver this to the museum for safekeeping?”

  “Sure.”

  Without examining it, Lang shoved the baggie into his pocket as he headed for the tent that served as headquarters and to the still-jabbering, milling crew.

  No less than six cars emptied officers wearing the winter khaki of the municipal police and black of the assault-rifle-carrying Central Security Forces. They surrounded the area of the dig. Lang wasn’t going to just fade into the background as he had hoped.

  Two men were in plain clothes. Rossi’s crew, both Italians and Egyptians, chattered in a polyglot tumult of languages and dialects. Piecing words and phrases together, Lang understood four men in Bedouin robes had appeared at the dig. Two had held the crew at gunpoint while the other two had detonated some sort of explosive. There were nearly as many versions of what had happened thereafter as there were those telling them.

  Lang had left the QBZ in the mausoleum. There had been too many witnesses to his brief gun battle with the Asian in the robes. Even in the confusion that was likely to reign for hours, the police were going to seek him out at some point. His main concern was slipping away from the scene unnoticed before then. Although he had little doubt his forged passport back at the hotel would survive scrutiny, being detained had unhealthy implications. He was fairly certain the attempt to kill all those belowground had been aimed specifically at him, and at least two of the four who had made the effort were still at large. In the custody of the police, he would be an easy target.

  Within minutes, Rossi was engaged in an animated conversation in English with one of the men in plain clothes while the other wore a dubious expression as he peered into the chamber below. Lang reached the tent, glancing around. He spied a camera, one used to photograph objects in situ. Slinging the camera’s strap around his neck, it took him only a few minutes to find a pen and pad. So equipped, he approached Rossi and his interrogator.

  He shouldered his way between them, holding up his wallet so only the archaeologist could see he was showing nothing more than a driver’s license. “Dr. Rossi? I’m Ben Towles, Egyptian correspondent for the New York Times.”

  As verification of his bona fides, Lang thrust the camera into Rossi’s face, snapping a picture before doing the same to the policeman. He had no idea if the paper even had such a position on its staff but he was fairly sure the Egyptian cop didn’t either. Rossi’s eyes opened wide in surprise, his expression showing he thought there was a chance Lang had gone nuts.

  Lang didn’t give him an opportunity to express that or any other opinion. “I understand you were involved in a shooting just a few minutes ago. Do you think Muslim fundamentalists were involved?”

  Rossi cleared his throat, giving himself an extra second to think. “Er, I do not know. I . . .”

  The policeman was taking a few seconds of his own to recover from the surprise of having a reporter interrupt a police investigation. A member of Egypt’s own media would have expected to have his skull cracked for such impertinence, but the influence and power of American news was as world famous as its insolence. The last thing the officer wanted was a diplomatic incident on his hands.

  He finally asserted himself, showing a badge. “And I,” he said in British-accented English, “am Major Hafel Saleem of the Alexandria security police. I have many questions for this man. You may ask yours when I am finished.”

  “But I have a deadline,” Lang protested, shoving the major aside. “What kind of fascist regime does Egypt have? Have you never heard of freedom of the press?”

  It was exactly the wrong thing to say, which of course was the right thing, under the circumstances.

  Major Hafel Saleem’s eyes burned into Lang’s as the policeman grabbed him by the shirtfront. “You are not in America; you are in Egypt. Your precious ‘freedom of the press’ does not run police investigations here. I do.” He shoved Lang, sending him stumbling backward. “Now get out of my sight before I decide to have you arrested for interfering with a police investigation!”

  Lang considered threatening a complaint to the American embassy or any of the things the American media is likely to do when confronted with a system where the Fourth Estate is treated as less than privileged. He decided he had achieved his goal and didn’t need an arrest or a beating to go with it. Doing his best imitation of sullen, he slunk away to the street to hail one of the city’s ubiquitous cabs.

  Minutes later, the car was stalled in traffic, surrounded by exhaust fumes, noise and smells Lang did not want to even try to identify.

  He hardly noticed. How in hell had those guys known where he was? He had taken a random cab to be less obvious than the Mercedes. During the ride, he had taken a look behind the taxi, making reasonably sure they were not followed. Admittedly, in Alexandria’s traffic, a tail would be as difficult to spot as to maintain. He had told no one where he was going. Even if Rossi’s message had been read before delivery to him . . . No, there had been no time or date.

  Then what . . . ? He was recalling every move he had made since arrival here.

  The call to Manfred on the BlackBerry!

  How careless can you get?

  The thought brought him straight up in the cab’s seat. All cell phones, including this one, communicated with one or more relay facilities when taking or making a call. For that matter, the phone, even not in use, was constantly searching for the nearest relay station. Where there were a number of relays, as in a city, the search signals could be triangulated to place the particular cell phone in an area of a few square feet.

  He took the BlackBerry from his shirt pocket, scowling at it accusingly. His first impulse was to throw the perfidious device out of the cab’s
window. Second thought gave him a better idea. He leaned forward and changed the directions he had given the cabby.

  The taxi pulled up in front of a DHL office whose red and yellow logo announced its ability to deliver anywhere worldwide. The criterion Lang had requested had been somewhat more simple: the closest shipping office, FedEx, UPS or DHL. The cab stopped at the curb, provoking a cacophony of angry horns, which the driver ignored along with the shouted insults and rude gestures of Alexandria’s ever-impatient drivers.

  Minutes later, Lang was back in the cab, his BlackBerry on a voyage of its own. He could only hope the battery lasted long enough to complete its way to a weather station in Chilean Patagonia, that isolated end of the world where South America yields to Antarctica. He remembered the area from a map he had once perused. Spanish names that translated into things like Desolation Land, Gulf of Sorrows, Cape of Torments.

  Just the places you’d want your enemies to visit.

  Cemetery of Terra Santa

  An hour later

  Major Hafel Saleem of the Alexandria security police was frustrated. He had gotten 90 percent of the pertinent facts in the first twenty minutes of his arrival at the cemetery. The other 10 percent, perhaps the most important 10 percent, eluded him.

  Four men in Bedouin attire had appeared at the site of a duly permitted archaeological dig. Nothing unusual about that. There were always these types of explorations going on around the city. The four men had suddenly produced weapons. Not as rare an event as the major would like to think. These desert nomads were frequently armed, if not with firearms, then with knives. Violence was not uncommon. Insults, real or imagined, to family, feuds, vengeance, it really didn’t matter. They killed or maimed each other on a regular basis. The only truly unusual facet of the incident was the unique automatic weapon in the burial chamber. Saleem had never seen one quite like it.