The Iron Tomb

by Peter Vegas

  “Well, at least you’ll have something to read while you’re holed up in your uncle’s storeroom,” Mary said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  Sam picked up the Akhenaten book. Normally, something like this would be the last thing he’d consider opening, but everything had changed. This wasn’t homework, it was a matter of life and . . . He refused to even think about the D-word. His uncle would be okay. He had to believe that. Sam was going to find him.

  They were saying their good-byes on the footpath outside when Bassem pulled up in a shiny black SUV. Sam turned down Mary’s offer of a ride back to his uncle’s building, but as she climbed into the vehicle, he fought the urge to run after her. The SUV roared away from the curb and was soon lost in the sea of traffic. Feeling even more alone than before, Sam pulled his new hat down over his face like a celebrity trying to avoid the paparazzi and set off for his storeroom hideout.

  Despite the new worry of being spotted by the police, Sam took the long way back to his uncle’s building. He wasn’t looking forward to being stuck in a small room for the rest of the day, and it was late morning by the time he got to Mitre Tower.

  As well as Mary’s book, Sam had one other piece of reading material to take to his hideout.

  The envelope was sticking out of his uncle’s mailbox when he entered the building. He recognized the logo of St. Albans School for Boys. He knew he had no place opening something addressed to Jasper, but it was going to concern him in some way and, given the circumstances, he decided it would be okay.

  “Storeroom” was an exaggeration. “Store closet” was a more fitting description, Sam thought as he climbed over a broken coffee table and sat down on a folded rug. Luckily, there was a light, and the naked bulb gave the small space a soft yellow glow. Thin wooden shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, but they were empty except for a few old appliances and some plates and glasses. Sam put his sketch pad and book on the shelf next to him and made himself comfortable. Then he turned his attention to the letter.

  As Sam suspected, the letter was an update on his counseling, but it didn’t contain much he hadn’t been told to his face. Progress is slow but steady, blah blah. Sam still shows a reticence to really open up about the tragic events of his past, blah blah.

  Tragic events of his past.

  It was such a nice, tidy way to sum it up. Sum up the moment Sam’s life changed forever. His parents had both been Egyptologists with the EEF, like Jasper. After Sam’s birth, his mother had stayed home in Boston with him, but they made regular trips to visit Sam’s father on digs in Egypt. Five years ago his father left his job, and his parents took a romantic vacation in Jamaica, leaving Sam with his uncle in Cairo. The tragic event was their murder in a hotel room robbery. Overnight, Sam’s idyllic life was obliterated. He was packed off to boarding school and allowed out only a couple of times a year to return to his uncle in Cairo.

  He knew Uncle Jasper wasn’t equipped to care for him twenty-four/seven, and he knew a dig site in the Egyptian desert wasn’t the kind of place for a kid to grow up. But still . . . some part of him wished Jasper would’ve been more of a father figure.

  St. Albans was a great school. It just wasn’t . . . a home. Not like he’d grown up in.

  His memories of Egypt before his parents’ death were vague and muddled, but that particular trip wasn’t. The day he was told the news—that exact moment when his uncle had sat him down on the sofa—was burned into his brain. Cairo was the place he’d been when his world had come crashing down, and it had always tainted his feelings about the city. What you love can be taken away in an instant, and there’s nothing you can do about it. This was the driving force behind Sam’s need to always be in control. At least that’s what the counselor had told him.

  The last part of the letter was about an increase in school fees and said information had been sent to the Verulam Corporation. The name was new to Sam. He’d always assumed his schooling was paid by his parents’ estate.

  Sam slid the letter back into its envelope and put it on a shelf behind him. Nothing in its pages could help him find his uncle, so he turned to the reading material Mary had given him, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. He would find Jasper. He had to. Sam wasn’t sure what happened to thirteen-year-old boys with no family left, and he didn’t want to find out.

  Mary’s words came back to him: “We follow the clues. Put the missing pieces together. And solve the problem.” Sam wasn’t sure if the book on Akhenaten would contain any important clues, but it would help take his mind off the task he faced that night.

  5

  THE MOLE

  MORE THAN EIGHTEEN MILLION PEOPLE lived in Cairo, and on the streets that night Sam couldn’t help but think that none of them liked to go home. The roads were tightly packed with horn-happy drivers, and the footpaths were overflowing as he made his way back downtown toward his uncle’s office building.

  Sam had spent the day reading and drawing. Not hugely different from a weekend back at boarding school. Those students who didn’t go home on weekends were kept on a tight leash at St. Albans. Sam rowed on Saturdays; sports were compulsory, so he had picked the one that got him off the school grounds. The rest of the weekend was filled up with drawing and playing PlayStation with his roommates. He had been drawing a lot of zombies and hot rods lately. They were popular with the other boarders, which meant he could trade them for chocolate and other candy that was banned from the dorms. Normally, Sam could draw for hours, but stuck in the storeroom, with the evening’s outing on his mind, he had found it hard to concentrate.

  In the end, he decided to walk. Catching a taxi to the EEF offices would have made a dent in the limited funds he had left, and walking gave him a reason to get out of the apartment building earlier. His rowing coach would have been shocked to hear him admit it, but it felt good to get his legs moving. The one-hour trek also gave him time to get his head around what he was about to do.

  Sam knew the way. He’d made the journey between the apartment and his uncle’s office plenty of times, since Jasper didn’t own a car. Sam wasn’t even sure Jasper knew how to drive. Last summer Jasper had even let Sam walk the route by himself. It had happened only once, when his uncle had gone into work early, and Sam had been allowed to sleep in and walk to the EEF alone. Now, as he passed familiar landmarks, Sam remembered the excitement he’d felt that morning. He latched on to the memory, desperate to strengthen his resolve. But it soon faded into the night, leaving Sam with the reality of his plan.

  It had already been a vacation of firsts. First police interview, first escape from the police, and now he was going to attempt his first break-in. Well, not a break-in in the strictest sense. He had a security card. But that didn’t ease the sense of dread that hung over him.

  Maybe I should just go to the police?

  The thought kept popping into Sam’s head, and the closer he got to his destination, the more appealing the idea was. But he knew how that would end. Him on a plane out of the country, his uncle lost forever or stuck in jail.

  And he couldn’t let that happen.

  * * *

  SAM STEPPED INTO THE DARKENED Door-way of a shop opposite the drab little building that housed the EEF. A single light lit the empty lobby area. The only activity in the building seemed to be on the eighth floor, which was the top one. Up there, Sam could see a few people moving from desk to desk. The rest of the building, including the EEF’s office on the fifth floor, was in darkness.

  Minutes ticked by. Sam told himself he needed to wait, survey the scene, and make sure it was safe, but the truth was he was scared stiff and just putting off what came next. In the end it was the first signs of cramping that forced him into action. He thrust his hands into his pockets and stepped out onto the road. The high-pitched blast of an electric horn shattered the stillness of the empty street. Sam spun around and just missed being head butted by a screaming Egyptian wearing a motorbike helmet. Man and machine swerved wildly. Sam fell back onto th
e footpath, hitting his head on a steel garbage can. A hundred tiny stars swamped his vision, but through the haze he made out the motorbike racing up the street, the rider still angrily shaking one arm.

  Sam lay there, dazed and confused. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the alleyway that the speeding biker had popped out of. The far end of it was bathed in red light coming from a neon sign that proudly proclaimed PIZZA ON WHEELS.

  Calm had returned to the street, and Sam was just about to get to his feet when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement in the building. The lobby hadn’t been empty after all. A security guard had been sitting out of sight behind the high reception desk. The incident in the street had stirred him into action.

  Sam was still sprawled in front of the garbage can, but there was no time to hide. Any movement now would draw the guard’s attention, so he stayed exactly where he was. His only hope was that the shadows cast by the pizza shop would conceal him. That plan was shattered seconds later when the guard switched on the lobby lights, flooding the street in a golden glow.

  Sam’s cover was blown, his mission over before it had even started.

  The guard moved to the doors and pressed his face against the glass. He was looking directly across the road. Sam could only watch and wait for a look of surprise to form on his face when he spotted a boy who seemed to be using a rubbish bin as a pillow.

  But it didn’t happen. Instead, the guard turned away, killed the lights, and walked out of sight. Lying there on the footpath, the only explanation Sam could think of was that the glare of the lights had worked in his favor, blinding the guard like a performer on a stage.

  Disaster averted.

  Sam got up and dusted himself off, but the problem of the guard still remained. Even with a swipe card, an American boy turning up in the middle of the night to access the EEF offices would seem odd.

  Sam needed a way to get past the guard without being seen.

  The light coming from the eighth floor revealed perfectly smooth sides to the building. No way of climbing it. Anyway, who was he trying to kid? He wasn’t Spider-Man. There was only one way in: through the front door.

  So is that it? Sam wondered as he stood in the shop doorway. Had he failed before he had even begun? So far, all he had managed to accomplish was not getting run over by a pizza delivery guy.

  The smell of freshly baked pizza wafted down the alleyway, teasing Sam’s nose and reminding his stomach that it hadn’t been fed since morning. Pizza was all Sam could think about, so he slipped around the corner and down the alleyway.

  * * *

  WITH HIS HANDS FULL, SAM was forced to kick the big door. The huge panels rattled horribly, and the guard leapt out of his seat. The glow from a small portable TV lit the scowl on his face as he left his desk.

  “What do you want?” the man demanded.

  “Delivery for the eighth floor,” Sam mumbled from behind the stack of pizza boxes.

  “I can see that,” said the guard, “but there are no deliveries after nine thirty. They know that upstairs.”

  Sam kept his head down, hoping the cardboard wall and motorbike helmet would obscure his face. A glimpse of white skin would be sure to blow his cover.

  The guard went silent, eyeing the pizza box tower through the glass. Sam wanted to plead his case, but was worried his dodgy Egyptian accent would give him away, so he remained silent. The standoff dragged on. Sam was on the verge of chickening out and making a run for it when he heard a thunk and felt a rush of chilled air spill from between the opening glass doors.

  Sam mumbled a thank-you as he shuffled toward the elevators, but the guard didn’t hear it. He’d already raced back to his desk, deciding that his TV show was more important than telling off a pizza delivery kid. He didn’t bother to look up as the elevator doors opened. If he had, he would have been impressed with how easily the delivery boy managed to balance the huge stack of pizza boxes on one arm as he hit the eighth-floor button.

  Not quite so impressive if you knew that all the boxes were empty.

  * * *

  THE ELEVATOR CREAKED AND GROANED in that alarming way that elevators in old buildings seem to do. Under normal circumstances that might have concerned Sam, but tonight it was the least of his worries.

  It was thanks to Pizza on Wheels’s recycling program that he’d been able to assemble his pizza wall. The helmet, which had also been in the Dumpster, was a bonus. If the security guard had taken a closer look, he would have noticed a huge chunk missing out of the back of it.

  The creaking and groaning reached its climax as the elevator hit the eighth floor. It was a calculated risk, going to the only place in the building where there were people, but if the guard noticed the elevator stopping on the fifth floor, that would have been a bigger problem.

  The ping that signaled the end of the journey was disturbingly loud. Sam stepped into a dimly lit hallway lined with doors. He turned from left to right, expecting one of the doors to burst open. Instead, the elevator shut and Sam was alone. Through the frosted glass panel in the door at the far end of the corridor he could see shapes of people moving about. He hurried in the opposite direction, through the door that led into a musty-smelling stairwell. As soon as he was through, Sam dumped the pizza boxes and helmet and raced down the stairs. The fifth-floor hallway was identical to the one on the eighth, but darker. There was no light coming from the door at the far end. Behind it were the empty offices of the EEF.

  Sam moved fast. He was on the clock. Ten minutes, he figured, until the security guard started wondering why the pizza boy hadn’t come back. Then a call would be made to the eighth floor. From what he’d seen, Sam didn’t imagine the guard would actually get off his butt and go himself. But once the call went through, the pizza would hit the fan.

  The small box next to the door beeped cheerfully when Sam swiped the security card across it. He slipped in and shut the door. It was a simple office. “Simple” had been Uncle Jasper’s word. Sam’s was “boring.” Eight desks, set out in two rows of four, faced the windows. Apart from the large photos of famous Egyptian archaeological sites on the walls, a visitor might have thought it was an accountant’s office. But now, in the darkness, with only the blue glow of sleeping computers to light the place, it looked much cooler. It felt like a scene from a science fiction movie, and Sam thought that was a vast improvement.

  Jasper’s desk was in the far corner, next to the window. As soon as Sam saw it, he knew something wasn’t right. It was way too tidy. Sam’s uncle treated his workspace like his apartment: a dump. Normally, there were piles of papers, stacks of books, and artifacts from Jasper’s latest dig. Now it looked like an office desk in a catalog. A stapler and pen cup were lined up neatly behind a large desk pad next to Jasper’s old computer.

  Sam hit the power button, and while he waited for the aging gray machine to come to life, he gave the desk a going-over and found nothing. The drawers were full of rubber bands, paper clips, and other assorted bits of stationery, but nothing more. If there had been any clues lying around, the person who had spring-cleaned Jasper’s desk had taken them.

  Valuable seconds ticked by, but finally the screen flashed into action. Sam’s eyes had gotten used to the darkness, and it took a few moments to adjust to the harsh glare that came from the computer. He scanned the desktop for the small envelope icon and clicked on it. It was empty. The in-box, outbox, even the trash.

  Had Jasper deleted it all to cover his tracks? Or did someone else do it for him?

  Sam opened a new message, typed in the address he’d memorized, hit send, and then as the small arrow on the screen went around in circles, he took the mobile phone out of his pocket and hit the green button.

  “Finally. I was starting to get worried,” said Mary a few moments later. “What took so long?”

  “I stopped for pizza.”

  “You what?”

  “Nothing. Tell you later. You get the e-mail yet? I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  Mary
laughed. “Well, soooorry. Got somewhere else to break into tonight?”

  There was the tapping of keys over the phone, and then Mary spoke again. “Got it. Okay. I’m sending it straight back with an attachment. That’s something you add—”

  “I’m not completely computer illiterate. I just don’t spend hours in front of them.”

  “Oh. Soooorry again.”

  A cartoon trumpet blast announced Mary’s incoming message. Sam jumped, glancing behind him to be sure he was still alone. “I just got an e-mail from QZone73. That you?” Sam asked in a tone that sounded more relaxed than he really was.

  “Kind of. It’s an untraceable address. Now, listen, there should be a red box in it. That’s the attachment.”

  Sam spotted a small red icon named Disc Candy. “I see it.”

  “You need to drag that onto the desktop and open it.”

  Sam did as he was told and the words CLICK TO ACCEPT popped up.

  “Click,” said Mary before Sam had a chance to speak.

  Nothing happened.

  “Now what?” asked Sam.

  “Now we have to wait for a bit.”

  The question Sam desperately wanted to ask next was How long? He was getting cold and nervous. To take his mind off things, he picked up a pencil. He didn’t bother fishing his sketchbook out of his pocket; the large, clean desk pad was begging to be used. Pepperoni pizza with extra cheese was the first thing that popped into Sam’s head, so he went to work. “What’s Disc Candy?” he asked as he drew.

  “It’s a mail mole.”

  “What does it do?”

  “Well, it’s complicated, but basically it’s a program that will dig into the main server and tell us where your uncle was when he e-mailed you.”

  “Oh, dig. That’s the mole part.” Sam began applying the extra cheese to his pencil pizza. “So how do you know about this computery stuff?”

  “Spoils of a misspent youth.”

  Sam stopped drawing. “What does that mean?”

  There was another laugh on the other end of the line. “I’m not sure. I heard my father say it once. He’s the one who taught me about computers. He’s a bit of a whiz on them, and I guess I’ve picked up a few things over the years.”