by Cherry Adair
“Dylan had food poisoning bad enough to be hospitalized. My father started the dig without him.”
Thorne veered off the main road, taking them deeper into narrow streets. “When was that?”
“A few days before the dig.” She saw the two enormous stone lions flanking the entrance to the Kasr Al Nile Bridge, which connected downtown Cairo to Gesira Island and the affluent Zamalek district. “Where are we going?” She doubted it was to the Egyptian Opera House or the Cultural Center.
He ignored her question, which nonresponse was getting more and more damned annoying. “Here or stateside?”
“Here.” She needed him, and wanted him, but his shitty attitude about not answering any of her questions had to freaking stop. “Thorne, this is a partnership, remember? I don’t like being dragged from pillar to post without explana—”
He held up a finger, cutting her off as he used the phone again, requesting confirmation of Dylan’s hospital stay. “Hospital?” he asked her.
“I have no idea.” Nor did she care. Dylan wasn’t relevant. “But it was one in Cairo.”
Thorne relayed the information. He put the phone away. Isis glanced beyond the frenetic cars, all of which wanted supremacy of the road. They’d reached the outskirts of the city. “Where are we going?”
“I got a read off that tassel. The basket was bought from the souk, but the silk tassel comes from one of these houses.”
“I hope you can be more specific,” Isis observed dryly. “I can’t imagine my father knowing anyone who might live in this neighborhood. This is pretty high-end. Princes, diplomats, wealthy expats.”
“Sponsors?”
Isis looked at the shady, tree-lined streets, upscale restaurants, and expensive art galleries they passed. “I know the names of some, but not all. He talked about some of them, I met a few at fund-raisers—I don’t recall anyone from this elite neck of the desert.” But then her father occasionally took money under the table for “special projects,” something they’d argued about when she’d first discovered the practice. For a large donation, priceless antiquities found their way into private collections. He’d stopped telling her after she’d challenged him on the illegal practice. She loved her father, but he wasn’t smart enough to be a crook and get away with it. She’d been terrified he’d be caught and jailed. He’d promised he’d never do it again—but she couldn’t swear he hadn’t.
“How the hell does your father expect you to follow such vague clues?”
“The clues weren’t left for me to follow; he had them to jog his own memory.” Isis sighed, exasperated. “Maybe he knew his mind was going…”
Thorne tapped the steering wheel. “This is it.” He turned off the palm-tree-lined street onto a narrower road lined with tall oleander trees covered with white flowers, underplanted with bright red and deep purple petunias behind strips of meticulously maintained emerald-green grass. It wasn’t until they came to the tall, black wrought-iron gates of a villa that Isis realized they were on a private road.
Sunlight glinted on the gate’s gold embellishments and the high fences she could glimpse behind thick shrubbery. But it wasn’t all the gilding Isis took note of; it was the red eyes of all the cameras trained overtly on their vehicle as they drove slowly through the entrance. She bet there were plenty more surveillance cameras she couldn’t see.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” she murmured. “How are we going to gain entry? We don’t know who lives here, or how they might be connected. Dad hated to be out of his element, so I can’t picture him coming to a place like this.” Or ripping a tassel off some multigazillionaire’s prized carpet undetected.
“He had a lot of quirks for a guy needing investor backing.”
“I know.” She let a small laugh escape. “You should’ve seen him, though, once they showed up at the dig. He’d stand with his feet planted, wearing that ridiculous hat, and insist they feel the grains of sand fall through their fingers as he painted a picture of life here thousands of years ago.”
“A salesman.”
“Be it a hole in the ground, or a tomb, he has—he had—a way with painting a picture that investors loved.” At least at first. Then they’d pretty much gotten sick and tired of his bullshit, and the money had dried up.
“That tassel came from this location. So either your father visited here, or someone from here gave it to him. Either way, this is the clue we’re following because it’s the only lead we have.” Thorne opened the window and put his arm out to press the buzzer. Four cameras situated along the fence narrowed their lens apertures, zooming in on them.
“What is your business with Dr. Najid?” The polite male voice sounded as though the guy was sitting in the backseat. Isis glanced over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t. She had no idea, since the sun shone through the windows, why she felt as though a cloud had just passed overhead. A glance at Thorne showed he was oblivious.
He answered smoothly, “Tell him Professor Magee’s daughter, Isis, would like a few moments of his time.”
There was an infinitesimal pause before the man responded unctuously. “I will inquire. Please wait.”
“Ever heard of him?” he asked quietly.
Isis shook her head. “I did most of my father’s paperwork for years. If he was an investor, I’d have heard of him.”
Thorne, looking perfectly at ease, rested his elbow on the open window. Isis noticed that he had the gearshift in reverse, ready to back up at the first sign of trouble. She rubbed both damp palms on her thighs and wondered whose life she was suddenly living.
EIGHT
Najid kept them waiting for fifteen minutes outside the gates, and another thirty-seven minutes once they were inside his house, which suited Thorne just fine. He used the time to contact his people in London, gathering intel on this clearly well-heeled Najid guy.
He received a response in less than two minutes. Dr. Khalifa Najid was the Minister of Irrigation and Water Resources, had been for thirty-plus years. He was well respected in the community, married young to a wealthy Egyptian heiress, no children. He was positioned to open one of Egypt’s largest dam projects since Aswan in a few weeks. Thorne glanced at several photographs of the man and his immediate family, and collected the data, but didn’t see any obvious correlation between Najid and Professor Magee.
Didn’t see it, but his gut said it was there.
Although he felt naked without his weapon, Thorne had wisely left it secreted in a special compartment in the Jeep.
The metal detectors and body scanner were subtle, but not hidden, as they were led down the long, wide, tiled-floor hallways. Discreet security, dressed in dark suits and looking like American Secret Service agents, were strategically positioned so that they didn’t veer off course.
His GPS locating skill had never failed him. The professor had left the basket containing the tassel at the souk for later memory retrieval. The tassel led here. Ergo, Najid and Magee were somehow linked.
“Wow.” Isis eyed the opulence of the house as they were led by a white-robed servant through high-ceilinged hallways with niches holding statues and various artifacts tastefully displayed. “Everything here should be in the museum, and before you suggest it, no, I don’t think anything we’re looking at is a good replica; it’s all the real deal,” she whispered as their shoes echoed on the tiles.
The doors on either side were numerous, and all closed. The intricate hand-painted amber and lapis blue tiled floors cooled the spaces, while the musical sound of unseen fountains and the fragrance of fresh flowers added to the refined ambience of the place.
Having been raised almong similar wealthy trappings, Thorne was unimpressed. It wasn’t a home. The villa was skillfully staged to give the aura of wealth and status, meant not only to showcase the minister’s status and wealth, but also to intimidate.
Been there, done that.
They were eventually led through an arch and shown to a vast living room cooled by slowly circulating ceiling fan
s assisted by an efficient air-conditioning system. Beverages were offered and accepted, and the servant melted away. He returned within minutes bearing a brass tray holding very English-looking china teacups, a teapot and milk jug, and a plate of various small cakes. Very civilized.
Wide-open French doors overlooked what was either a large pond or a lap pool in a shade-dappled courtyard filled with greenery, lush red flowers, and white upholstered lawn furniture. Sunlight beat onto the floor tiles and bounced an amber reflection off white linen sofas and bronze-striped chairs inside the room.
The coffee table was an alabaster sarcophagus, and an enormous limestone fireplace had bas-relief hieroglyphs carved into the surround, drawing the focus to an enormous carved wooden bust of a woman with curly hair, sloe eyes, and no nose. She reminded Thorne in some bizarre way of Michael Jackson, which made his lips twitch. One entire wall was limestone carved to look exactly like a wall in a tomb, with brightly colored glyphs depicting everyday life in ancient Egypt. The execution was remarkable. But he wasn’t here to admire the minister’s art collection as he prowled the perimeter of the large room, trailing his fingers over priceless antiquities to see if anything popped.
Plenty did. The GPS numbers scrolled in his head like computer code. Nothing jumped out regarding Magee.
Twenty-foot-tall wooden palm trees with black trunks and gilded fronds filled the four corners and led the eye to the intricately painted ceiling overhead. On beauty overload, Thorne half expected Salome to appear and strip off her seven veils. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what Isis’s pale breasts looked like beneath diaphanous scarves, or how her nipples would peak at the brush of his fingers. Inappropriately aroused, he tamped down the image of Isis in nothing but sheer colored silks, and did another circuit of the room before seating himself in one of the numerous striped chairs. He chose carefully—the bright sunlight behind him, but the chair positioned so his back wasn’t toward any doorway. Crossing his legs took care of his semi-erect state, but nothing blotted out the image of Isis spotlit by the sun, wearing nothing but a mist of color.
His leg ached and the back of his neck itched. He ran his palm around his nape so he didn’t grip his thigh. Oblivious to his thoughts, Isis, head down, was clearly edgy as a cat on a hot tin roof as she paced along the outer edge of an area rug the size of a rugby field.
“This carpet should also be in a museum,” she said sotto voce as she paced. “This was probably woven in the sixteenth century, and yet even muted, look how beautiful the colors are still.” She crouched down, disappearing behind the back of a sofa. “Wool. Asymmetrical pile…” she murmured to herself. Thorne imagined her stroking the damned carpet and all the hair on his body lifted in response.
“Based on an old Persian design—Egyptian wool, and the workmanship indicates Cairene weavers. They, along with quantities of Egyptian wool, were taken to the court in Istanbul—”
“I don’t give a damn how old the carpet is.” Thorne sounded more annoyed than he should.
She rose to her feet and waved a vague hand over the floor. “I was looking for—you know.”
“We’re in the right place,” he said without elaboration. Under a long, tall narrow table holding an exquisite bust of Queen Something or other, Thorne had already spotted the place on the carpet where the tassel had been removed.
He was no expert, but he’d bet his next paycheck that the bust, along with the rest of the beautifully curated items in the room, was the real deal, and that Isis was correct. Everything should be in the museum.
“Come, sit down and drink some tea; it’ll cool you off.” Thorne never trusted that he wasn’t being bugged or recorded. He gave her a meaningful look, and she navigated the furniture without further comment.
He felt his phone vibrate once. The research people in London were fast and top-notch. He scanned the closely spaced text, then deleted the information, returning the phone to his front pocket. They had found no connection between Magee and Dr. Khalifa Najid. No meetings were recorded, no clandestine midnight encounters witnessed.
And yet Thorne had the tassel from this very carpet in his pocket.
Isis poured the hot, strong tea. “Milk or lemon?” When he indicated his choice, she added milk and tonged a couple of cubes of sugar into his cup before handing it over to him. The fragrance of her skin, an erotic combination of cinnamon and perspiration, made his mouth water and his pulse kick. Her face and throat had a damp sheen and looked as silky and soft as dewy rose petals. Thorne found he didn’t have to have eyes on her to be turned on. Just the humid, spicy, Isis-scented perfume of her turned his dick to stone.
He sipped the tea he didn’t want.
Picking up her own filled cup she sat down gingerly on the white sofa nearby, cradling her saucer in both hands, her orange T-shirt loud and cheerful in the muted décor.
Ignoring the tantalizing smell of her, turning a blind eye to the way the light stroked her skin with a pearly sheen, Thorne asked, “What business would the professor have with the Minister of Irrigation and Water Resources, do you suppose?”
“Water resources?” Her eyes widened in surprise before she shrugged and pushed her glasses up her nose. A line of perspiration outlined the leather strap between her breasts, and her hair, absorbing the humidity, had doubled in volume. She looked damp, rumpled, and sexy as hell. “I can’t think of a thing. Unless he was a sponsor, or had some kind of issue with the dig. My father tended to stay away from anyone official whenever possible.” Her tone was dry.
“Mr. Thorne. How may I be of service?”
Thorne had heard the sibilant footsteps and was aware the man stood just outside the door. Thorne waited until their host came fully into the room before he placed his cup on a nearby table and rose to his feet.
Even if he didn’t recognize Najid from the small photograph he’d just seen on his iPhone, he’d have known this man was not only wealthy, but incredibly powerful just by his bearing, which was very similar to that of the Earl. His charcoal suit was Savile Row, his highly polished dress shoes Tanino Crisci, his watch Chopard. His black beard was neatly trimmed and his dark eyes too black to read.
“Thank you for meeting with us at such short notice, Minister,” Thorne said easily, his limp intentionally more pronounced as he walked forward, hand extended to greet their host.
Najid’s handshake was firm and quick. “Unfortunately, I do not have the luxury of much time to converse. I must return to my office for a meeting. How may I be of service?”
Thorne extended his arm to include Isis in the conversation. Najid had not so much as flickered an eyelash in her direction. She might as well be invisible. “This is Isis Magee, Professor Magee’s daughter. She’s tracing her father’s footsteps in his search for Cleopatra’s tomb and thought you might be able to assist her with any information you may have.”
“I have heard of Professor Magee, of course. But there has been no discovery of Queen Cleopatra’s tomb by him or anyone else, to my knowledge.”
“Was the discovery of the tomb something you discussed with my father when he visited you in the spring?” Isis asked tightly. Thorne curled his fingers around her shoulder in warning.
Najid gave her a black-eyed glance down his hawk of a nose. “I have never had the honor of meeting your father, Miss Magee.” He shot his cuff to glance at his watch. “I’m afraid that is all the time I can afford you. I’ll have Jafari show you out.”
Isis took a step forward. “Are you saying my father never visited you here?”
“As I stated quite plainly, I have never met Professor Magee. I’m sorry I couldn’t provide the information you wanted. Good day, Mr. Thorne. Miss Magee.”
“He’s lying!” Isis said under her breath as they watched him leave the room.
“No shit. Now to find out why. Come on.”
The eyes of dozens of surveillance cameras followed them through the house and outside to their vehicle.
“WHY WOULD HE LIE?” Isis demanded like
a dog with a bone. She was turned sideways in her seat as he drove over July 26 Bridge back into the city, the late-afternoon sunlight making a glowing nimbus of her dark hair. She hadn’t even blinked when he retrieved his weapon from the hidden compartment under the floor mat on the driver’s side, where he’d stashed it, and laid it on the seat between them.
She pulled her camera case into her lap and dug in it for her phone. “I’m calling my father. Let’s see what he has to say.” She hit speed dial and put it on speaker so he could hear the ringing on the other end.
“Darling girl.”
“Daddy, how are you?”
“I found her, Isis. I found her!” The professor’s voice rose with excitement.
The her, Thorne presumed, was Cleopatra. The professor’s voice sounded eager and robust. But from reports, he was a pain in the ass and a demanding patient at Cresthaven, an Alzheimer facility just outside Seattle. Given that the place cost Isis more than she could afford made Thorne want to tell him to shut up and not add more burden to his daughter. But he knew she wouldn’t thank him for it. What did the professor want, an eighteen-hole golf course and a fishing lake?
“Found who, Daddy?”
“Cl—you know who,” he stage whispered. “I’m meeting my team after breakfast. I tell you, baby, this time the entire world will sit up and take notice! Tell your mother I won’t be home for several months. Perhaps you girls can come and visit me here in the summer. Would you like that, honey?”
“That will be great, Dad.” Isis kept her voice steady, but Thorne could feel her tight shoulders, and her set expression spoke volumes. “I just wanted to check to see how you’re doing.”
“We’re in a hotel right now. The food’s not bad, and the beds are clean. We head out to the site at first light.”
“Where is the site, Dad?”
There was a long pause before he said hesitantly. “I can’t tell you that, honey. You know even the walls have ears. I don’t want this to leak until I’ve found definitive proof my find is genuine.”
