The Egyptian

by Layton Green

  But he hadn’t seen this one.

  He needed guidance on the subject matter at hand. Professional guidance. His eyes flicked to a piece of paper. Professor Gunther Krantz, Berlin Museum fur Naturkunde, 4:00p.m., Thursday.

  Soon he would see what an Egyptologist had to say.

  – 18 –

  “Cancel that beer and come with me,” Veronica said. “My side of town is much better.”

  “Better is a relative term,” Grey said.

  “Not in this case.”

  “I’ll admit I’m curious as hell to know what you’re doing here and how you found me, but I’m spent. I just want to drink this beer. There’s another seat right there.”

  “I have a taxi waiting. Ten minute drive.”

  “Look me up tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Veronica stood in her smart cocktail dress, hands on her hips and lips parted in disbelief. She swept a hand around the dim establishment. The other patrons had left off their beers and were staring at her. “You don’t speak Bulgarian, and this place is about as exciting as a Russian winter. Are you honestly going to choose sitting here by yourself over getting into a cab with me? You should know there’s something else my watering hole of choice has which this one doesn’t: a key piece of information concerning your case. Although I can’t believe I’m having to bribe you to come with me. Are you meeting someone else later? Maybe that’s it. These Bulgarian girls are quite attractive.”

  “It’s not personal. It’s just been a long day. But if you know something, let’s talk.” He patted the stool next to him.

  “You enjoy your five-star Bulgarian beer that you can get in any bar or restaurant in a thousand-mile radius.” She lowered her voice. “I’m sure your investigative skills have already led you to a certain top dog at Somax and his mysterious new product, so you don’t need me anyway.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  “I won’t be in Sofia tomorrow. I have a lead to follow. Cheers, Dominic.”

  Grey looked at the bartender, who had a hand hovering over a pull. Grey held a finger up and wagged it, then stood with a weary sigh.

  “Call me Grey.”

  • • •

  They took a taxi to the far end of Vitosha, to a place called the Buddha Bar. Grey wondered if Veronica had brought the Buddha Bar with her from Manhattan. It was an impossibly chic scene. They sat in wicker lounge chairs on the outdoor patio and watched the surly wait staff strut around, beautiful waifish girls with almond-shaped eyes and long black hair and miniskirts. A huge projector screen on a wall across the street displayed continuous fashion shows from Paris and Milan.

  Grey ordered another Kamenitza at three times the price of the first bar, and Veronica ordered a vodka martini. She looked him over. “Do you own any shirts that aren’t black?”

  “I have a brown shirt. I think.”

  “I guess black suits you. But you could brighten up a bit. Maybe trim the hair, shave, thin the eyebrows? I suppose then you couldn’t brood as well.”

  Grey’s mouth formed a lopsided grin. “How do you find these places?”

  She stretched like a cat. “A girl has to know where to go. Although if I stop to think about this place I might start feeling self-conscious.”

  “Trust me, you have no problem fitting in.”

  She unstrapped her shoes and curled her feet onto the cushion. “So you can be charming.”

  “How do you walk in those shoes on cobblestones? Do you wear heels in the jungle?”

  “Careful tough guy. I bet I’ve been in more jungles than you.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “I dress appropriate to the situation. We’re in a cosmopolitan city, and I’m making a first impression.”

  “Sofia?”

  “Look at the people, not the buildings,” she said. “They dress like rock stars. You wouldn’t notice though, would you? For an observant guy, you have a funny way of not noticing certain things.”

  He shrugged, and took a long swig. It tasted so good he almost swooned.

  She touched his arm and smiled. “Since we’re here, and neither of us knows anyone else in this country, we might as well get to know each other.”

  “As in, I let my guard down and give you lots of information?”

  “I didn’t mean that at all. God, you are touchy.”

  “Not touchy, Veronica. You didn’t come to Bulgaria because you wanted to get to know me better.” He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “So what’ve you got?”

  “A good piece of information can’t be rushed. You remember the rules. It’s only the first round.”

  She still had her hand on his arm. The warmth of her skin was sending a pleasant tingle through his nerve endings. He finished the last half of his beer in one long swallow, and signaled the bartender. “Let’s hear it.”

  She removed her hand and covered her mouth in mock surprise. “I didn’t think it was possible. Did you mean for that to be a joke? Was it an accident? Do you need to rest now?”

  ‘”A joke is a very serious thing.”’

  “A fighter and a philosopher? My God, I’m having drinks with a Renaissance man.” She leaned forward, and puckered her lips. “Are you good with your sword?”

  His clever response came to Grey far too late, long after Veronica was already cackling at him. She said, “That was worth the price of my plane ticket.”

  Grey laughed with her. It had been a long day. “Speaking of your plane ticket, let me guess. You knew I was looking into Somax. I wouldn’t put it past you to jump on a plane to Sofia to chase a potential story, but I’m guessing you either had me followed to the airport or got a hold of the flight manifest. Being an investigative reporter, you probably have police contacts.”

  “Clever boy.”

  “In Sofia you did one of two things. You staked out Somax headquarters until I arrived, although that’s tricky, because I’ve only been once and it may have been before you arrived in Sofia.”

  “Keep going. I’m enjoying this.”

  “The only document I’ve signed since I’ve been here was with my hotel. They’re required by law to send the log to the police, so my guess is you got hold of that somehow. Probably by smiling.”

  “Not bad, inspector, not bad. Although a smile’s not enough these days. It cost me quite a few leva.”

  “I’m surprised. You’ve got a formidable smile.”

  She opened her mouth and then closed it, as if she’d expected him to say something different. “If you can guess the rest, I’ll really be impressed. But not yet. I gave you something. Now it’s your turn.”

  “You didn’t give me anything. I guessed.”

  “I confirmed your guesses.”

  “I’m not giving you my client. You’re wasting your breath.”

  “Who said anything about that? I’d never ask you to break client confidentiality.”

  “Good then.” He grabbed a menu. It was in English.

  “God, you’re impossible. I just want to know what you do. Who employs you, where’s your office, do you have a 401K? Or is that confidential and privileged information?”

  He twirled his beer between his palms, then shrugged to himself. He didn’t have a government job anymore. Why did he have such a hard time with basic personal questions? “I don’t ever want to see my name or story in print, in any form.”

  “You have my word.”

  “For the last four years I worked as a DSO, as you know. It wasn’t a bad gig, travel perks were great, but I was fed up with the bureaucracy. I’m not what you’d call a company man.”

  “I’d never have guessed.”

  He hesitated, struggling with the internal weight of his next sentence. “I was posted in Zimbabwe.”

  “That must have been interesting, given the political climate.”

  “Yeah. I was assigned to investigate the kidnapping of a retired American diplomat. He was kidnapped by a religious cult.”

  Her eyes widened
.

  “It’s a long story, and one I don’t want to get into right now. During the investigation I met a man named Professor Viktor Radek.”

  “Professor?”

  “Of religious phenomenology, at Charles University in Prague. He doesn’t teach anymore, at least not on a regular basis. He’s a private investigator.”

  “Religious phenomenology?”

  “It’s the practical, objective study of religion, as opposed to the subjective. The analysis of the cultural effect of belief and perceived phenomena on the believer.”

  “I’m with you, I think.”

  “Think of it as a scientific investigation into religion, rather than a leap of faith. The bottom line is that Viktor’s an expert on cults.”

  “This just gets better and better. Now I do have to do a story on you. Put your frown away, I’m just kidding. Go on, this is fascinating.”

  “After the Zimbabwe investigation, and after my, ah, parting of ways with the State Department, he asked me to work with him. I accepted.”

  “You must have made quite an impression, after one case. I take it the investigation went well?”

  Grey averted his eyes. “Some other time.”

  “So you’re a private investigator, and you work on cases that involve… cults?”

  “That’s a fair characterization. This is my first case with Viktor.”

  “Are you the only two people in the world that have this job? What does Somax have to do with religion or cults?”

  “Can’t go there.”

  She thought for a minute. “It must be the anti-aging groups. Is one of those nut jobs involved? I know you can’t answer, but that has to be it.”

  Grey signaled to the bartender again, this time for Veronica. “Your turn.”

  She remained quiet until the bartender set another martini in front of her. She stirred it and popped an olive into her mouth. “Have you been to Somax yet?” He nodded. “Tight security, even for a biotech, right? I used an old trick today. I hung around a bar down the street from Somax, within view of the building, until one of the scientists, a fresh-faced lamb, came in after work. He didn’t at all mind buying a curious American girl a few drinks.”

  “How many martinis have you had today?”

  “I told him I was in the biotech business. I can throw around enough lingo to get by, especially with a language barrier. He spoke decent English; that’s why I chose a young one. That and he was cute. I got some very, very interesting information out of him.”

  “I’m listening.”

  She leaned in. “He didn’t give me any trade secrets. I don’t think he knows that much. But he complained that every time something interesting comes up, the executive VP of research takes the best scientists and retreats to his private lab.”

  “Interesting.”

  “No. What he told me next was interesting. A week ago this VP stopped work on a critical project, took some scientists and went off again. Apparently it caused waves at the company.”

  “A week ago. He told you this?”

  “One thing I’ve learned in my line of work: people will tell you anything given the right conditions. Anything. They want to tell you. The bigger the secret, the more they need to tell it. It’s like money burning a hole in your pocket. The location of the lab is hush-hush, by the way. No one, or at least not the guy I was talking to, knows where it is.”

  Grey frowned.

  “But it can’t be far from the VP’s private villa where he always takes the scientists.”

  Grey controlled his reaction and took a casual sip of his beer. “You got the address, I assume?”

  She smiled sweetly and finished her martini. She stood and slid her free hand into one of his. The contact felt nice, her hand warm and smooth. Before he could react, she transferred a slip of paper into his palm. He looked down. It was a train ticket.

  “Meet me here tomorrow at noon,” she said, “with your gear. I’ve got some work to do tonight. Thanks again for the drinks.”

  Without waiting for Grey’s response, she turned and walked to the hotel across the street.

  – 19 –

  When Nomti averted his eyes to converse with Al-Miri, Jax acted. Only a fool or a sadistic egotist left someone like himself untied, even after such a severe beating. In fairness, maybe Al-Miri and Nomti didn’t know his background.

  They should have checked.

  Jax was connected to some of the most unsavory people on the planet, and some of them were arms dealers and weapons manufacturers. Jax had purchased a few very nasty gadgets over the years, and one of them never left his person. It was his weapon of last resort, and he thought right about now would be a fine time to use it.

  He coughed and held his side again, doubling over to hide his movements. His left hand slipped into his pants, down to his jock strap. Stuffed inside the padding, accessible via a tiny zip pouch, was a tiny vial of liquid. Within seconds Jax had withdrawn the vial and flicked off the miniscule cap with his thumb.

  The cap concealed a mechanized release node, similar to a bottle of hairspray. Jax was holding a miniature canister of pepper spray, one that a patdown and even most strip searches would miss.

  Jax stood. Al-Miri flung a finger at him, and Nomti whirled. “Bet you wish you hadn’t set that gun down,” Jax muttered, and then thrust the mace into Nomti’s face. Jax pressed the release, and a stream of liquid splashed over Nomti’s cheeks and into his eyes. Nomti screamed: an ugly, primal sound. He dropped to his knees and clawed at his face.

  This was not police-issue pepper spray. This was mercenary-issue pepper spray. Fifteen per cent active capsicum as compared to two per cent capsicum. Jax had been maced with this stuff before, and it felt like someone was holding your eyes open and pouring a steady stream of hydrochloric acid in them. Nomti was done for the day.

  The vial had only enough mace for one spray. Jax dropped it and went for the gun. He expected to have to fight Al-Miri for it, but Al-Miri had gathered his robe and slipped out of the door as soon as Nomti screamed. Al-Miri must not be one for physical confrontation, or for ensuring that his employees didn’t get shot in the face.

  Jax hurried out of the room. He had to assume the three men that had waylaid him were nearby. He loved freedom more than he loved revenge, so he didn’t risk shooting Nomti and alerting the staff. It was a real pity Jax didn’t have his boot knife, because he would have loved to slit Nomti’s throat.

  Jax saw the flurry of Al-Miri’s robe at the far end of the hallway. Al-Miri opened a door and stepped inside.

  Where were the other men? Had Al-Miri gone for them? Jax jabbed his thumb at the square elevator button, again and again. The wait seemed interminable, and the hallway was calm as a prayer room.

  Jax kept pushing the button. “Come on now, love, come on.”

  The door Al-Miri had entered flung open at the same time the elevator door slid apart. Jax tumbled inside. He stabbed at the button to close the door, putting his entire bodyweight behind it, as if that would help. In the hallway he heard footsteps, heavy footsteps. Someone was walking rapidly towards the elevator.

  Walking. Why not running?

  The footsteps drew closer. Just before the door sealed, a set of fingers wrapped around the edge of the door. Jax kept the button depressed, and the hand slid away just before the door sealed. Jax was lucky the elevator was older, and not sensitive like the newer models.

  Jax took a deep breath and ran scenarios through his mind for when he hit the bottom floor. He also ran scenarios through his mind for what the hell was going on, and who the hell had stuck his hand in that elevator door. Because the hand that had latched onto the door, including the fingers, had been wrapped in white bandages, swathed like a burn victim.

  – 20 –

  Grey arrived at Veronica’s hotel at noon the next day, and they took a cab to the train station. Veronica pointed to a map; their destination laid east, a town halfway to the Black Sea.

  The train ride was stunni
ng. The mountains surrounding Sofia faded into vast wooded slopes hiding villages in the crooks and curves of the hills, little stone children poking out from behind their mothers’ green skirts.

  Then wine country: terra cotta roofs and pastoral calm, fields of purple and brown cross-stitched by vines, silver-tipped olive trees feathered by the breeze, an entire landscape defined by the soft mauve draping of a mellow sun. The only reminders of the Eastern bloc were the occasional cement smoke stack spewing chemical filth, obsolete smudges of Socialism looming over the fields like giant Orwellian wardens.

  New mountains replaced the hills, first a gnarled, snow-capped range to the north, then a parallel range to the south, this one rising like giant stacked thumbs. A narrow plain separated the two, the Valley of the Roses, a river of green meadow flowing between stentorian guardians.

  They traveled miles, tens of miles, without seeing a car or a paved road. Horse-drawn carts, farmers with scythes, stillness, cloud-stroked peaks, farmhouses, orchards, waterfalls spilling into rivulets that gurgled across the long meadows, all swathed by the carmine brush of the rose beds, an ethereal beauty untainted by modernity.

  The tracks rose higher, straight through the belly of the Stare Planina to the north, the Old Mountains. It was rugged country, forgotten and beautiful, a land that evoked images of knights and quests, darkened taverns and hidden monasteries, a moonlit hike to treasure.

  The mountains decomposed into a land of hills and forested ridgelines. Before long the grays and other dull colors of civilization peppered the world again, and the train chugged into a modest town defined by the ruins of a castle looming atop a hill.

  • • •

  The town, Veliko Tarnovo, was a scenic mishmash of seven thousand years of human history. A steep gorge cut by the Yantra River drew a sly S-curve through the town, and most of the houses clustered along the sides of the gorge itself, or on the low hills squatting above. Grey and Veronica booked two rooms in a small pension clinging like a barnacle to the side of the gorge.