The Egyptian

by Layton Green

  After an early dinner in the pension’s small mexana, Veronica headed into town to hunt for information. Grey wanted to do some reconnaissance of his own, get a feel for the place.

  He bought a map and started walking. The map told him Veliko had been the medieval capital of Bulgaria, and she was a much more charming mistress than Sofia. A collection of pretty stone-and-timber framed houses characterized the streets near the gorge, and the wood-based architecture, along with narrow cobble-stoned streets, lent the town a village feel.

  Still, as in Sofia, a patina of neglect cloaked the town. The wealth of the town started at the gorge and radiated back, receding rapidly the further Grey walked from the gorge. The older sections of town reminded Grey of a poorer, Bulgarian version of the French Quarter in New Orleans. He saw street upon street of contiguous three-story town homes, crumbling and vine-covered. Hanging laundry covered intricate wrought-iron balconies which looked ready to collapse if a cat jumped on them.

  It had grown late, the time of evening where the sky reaches for the ground, and Grey found himself walking along a narrow rocky isthmus connecting the town to the fortress-like ruins of Tsarevets Castle. Grey passed through three giant arches and the remains of an ancient wall, and then the sparsely forested hill rose before him.

  The castle ruins were enormous, much larger than they looked from a distance. Broken stone pathways and cracked masonry studded the slopes, and Grey stuck to the curved main path leading to the top.

  He crested the hill just before the light failed, engulfed by the nocturnal concerto of insects. He was surprised to find someone else standing at the overlook, arms crossed and staring at the burnt smear of terra cotta roofs in the distance.

  Grey approached, and they nodded in that curt way men as strangers greet each other. Just before Grey started to descend, the man turned.

  “A nice view,” he said, and Grey agreed. He then asked, “British?”

  He was strong-jawed, handsome, maybe forty, careful with his appearance. He had clipped dark hair and compact Da Vinci proportions, but lacked any distinguishing irregularities, as if he had stepped out of a Slavic pod. He was wearing black pants and an untucked fitted shirt.

  “American.”

  He cocked his head to the side and looked Grey directly in the eyes as he spoke. His voice was confident and engaging. “An uncommon sight here. I apologize. You do not look so… open?… as most Americans. I don’t mean that in a negative manner.”

  “I’ve probably missed out on a few defining American traits over the years.”

  “Forgive me, but when I see someone from abroad admiring the view of the town I like to greet him.”

  “It’s a beautiful town. It has character.”

  “We are not yet up to the standards of the West, but in ten years I believe Bulgaria will be a new place.”

  “I hope it doesn’t change too much. The world needs more places like this.”

  “You look east and we look west.” The man gave a warm smile and extended his hand. Grey took it. The man said, “The hill is not so safe after dark. You’re staying near the center?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come. I’m going that direction. Have you tried our rakia yet?”

  “I had one or two in Sofia.”

  “Tsk. I know a nice mexana on the way.”

  “Thank you, but-”

  “Please. I will introduce you to traditional rakia and you will go on your way and when anyone asks you about Veliko Tarnovo, you can tell them about Bulgarian hospitality.”

  He introduced himself as Stefan Dimitrov. Grey didn’t take to conversations with strangers, but the man might be a source of information. They descended, and Grey found he didn’t mind Stefan’s company. He was intelligent and well-traveled, one of those people who are self-centered in conversation, but in a friendly way. Grey lacked the trait of conversational dominance, and had no need to compete with it.

  Grey learned that Stefan had been schooled at Dartmouth and Cambridge before returning to live and work in Sofia. He grew up in Veliko and came back as often as he could to recharge. He loved the forests and the monasteries, the history of the town.

  They crossed the bridge and Stefan led Grey to an old mexana. They entered under twin lanterns and a starry sky, then walked across a pitted stone floor to a booth draped with colorful Bulgarian embroidery. Low voices and the smell of roasting venison filled the sconce-lit room, and traditional rural pieces decorated the walls: accordions, farm implements, faded paintings of Orthodox Saints.

  The conversation turned to politics. They discussed how terrorism had changed the world in recent years, how there was a finite amount of innocence in each age which could only be replenished in the aftermath of catastrophe, at the start of a new age. Stefan tossed out the name of an American Senator, and asked Grey’s views on his platform.

  “I’m not much for current politics,” Grey said.

  “A petty occupation, but one that affects us all, no?”

  “If you choose to let it.”

  Two men in field jackets entered the mexana. Although dark-skinned and possibly Bulgarian, they looked out of place. They were too sober for locals, too unrefined for businessmen, too edgy for tourists.

  “Tsk, tsk. We cannot isolate ourselves from the world. It’s our duty as citizens to stay informed and provide accountability.”

  “Stay informed of what? Trends and ideals that change every few years? Self-serving demagogues that change with the tides? Accountability implies democracy. Democracy is in our hands, they told us in the military, and we can change the world. You know what was in my hands? A semi-automatic weapon. There wasn’t an opinion poll in sight.”

  Stefan fingered his rakia. “I think you confuse philosophy with politics. If politicians think too much then nothing will ever be accomplished. They must by definition elevate the needs of their constituents over those of another, or the world will stop.”

  “Has it ever been tried?” Grey waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. Man’s nature always trumps his intentions.”

  Grey’s gaze returned to the men he had noticed, now huddled in conversation in a booth across the mexana. One of the men had an ugly cleft lip.

  “Unless those intentions are imposed through legislation, a collective good, so to speak. But good intentions have a way of turning sour once imposed, like the plague of socialism that invaded our country for forty years. We expected you Americans to kill all of the socialists, but you stopped too soon!” He chuckled. “There are many who would see this foolishness return. They don’t know what to do with their free will. They have no eyes for the future.”

  “You’re assuming your opinion is the right one.”

  “Because it is, for my country,” Stefan said. “And what would you do to effect change, were you to lead?”

  Grey snorted. “I’d resign immediately.”

  “Perhaps you would surprise yourself.”

  “Leaders have to order people to pull the trigger, push the button. I won’t tell anyone to do that, and I won’t be told to.”

  Stefan nodded, his face calm. “Yes, it takes a certain person to make decisions for the whole. You’re not a nationalist, then?”

  “What’s that? Someone born in a particular piece of geography? How can I impose my wants or needs over someone who is struggling somewhere else just like I am? How does that serve humanity? Nationalism implies the elevation of one group over another, and we know how that story ends.”

  “Do you have a family?”

  “No.”

  “Ask yourself that question again when you do.”

  The two other men rose, left the mexana, and walked into the night without glancing back. He debated following them, but decided to wait and see Stefan’s play. He’d keep an eye out for the men tomorrow.

  Stefan was asking him a question. “And the Hitlers of the world? Do you let them impose their nationalism on others?”

  “Of course not. You fight to the death.�
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  “Ah, then you admit there is a place for state-sponsored violence?”

  “Look. You’re going for generalizations. I’m not anti-military, in principle. But how do you respond if you’re ordered to fire into a group of villagers your commander claims are enemy combatants? Trust me, until it happens, you don’t know.”

  “And your answer?”

  Grey released a slow breath of air. Grey had given his answer on a cracked terracotta roof, the sweat dripping into his eyes failing to conceal the misery in the village beneath him. He had chosen, and had been given a choice between a court martial and teaching hand to hand combat to Special Forces recruits. So he spent a year teaching boys how to kill, knowing most weren’t ready for the knowledge.

  “My answer is that there are no easy answers. Pacifism is a beautiful theory, until someone breaks into your home and rapes your wife in front of you. You can’t claim moral authority until real choice is thrust on you. Untested morality is simply philosophy.”

  Stefan pondered the statement, and then slapped the table and asked the inevitable question. “What is your occupation? I admit I’m curious now.”

  “Private security work. You?”

  “I’m a scientist, although now I work more on the corporate side. A company called Somax.”

  Grey did his best not to choke on his paprika chip. Stefan had also mentioned that he’d traveled to Africa on business. Grey drained his rakia. “What type of scientist?”

  “Biomedical gerontology. The science of aging.”

  Grey asked a few more polite questions; anything else would have seemed out of place. Now wasn’t the time. Stefan had obviously disclosed this information for a reason, and Grey wasn’t sure what it was. Half an hour later Stefan claimed fatigue. Grey tried to pay the tab, but Stefan wouldn’t hear of it. Grey thanked him, and Stefan handed him a business card and told him to call if he needed anything while in Bulgaria.

  • • •

  Grey walked down the street in the opposite direction from Stefan. After turning the corner he slipped into the shadows of a courtyard and doubled back down a parallel side street. He caught sight of Stefan following the road to the castle.

  Instead of taking the bridge, Stefan took a side road leading to the base of the hill. At the bottom, the road turned to the right and began to circumvent the hill. A quarter of the way around the hill Stefan turned onto a private drive. Grey crept behind him, and two minutes later the road ended at a large manor, what could easily be termed a chateau, with a view of the castle on the hill above.

  Grey hid in the woods surrounding the manor and watched Stefan step into a rear courtyard with a glass in his hand. He sipped the drink and stared at the castle. After finishing his drink he re-entered the house. Five minutes later the lights went off.

  – 21 –

  The morning after his late-night vigil Grey stumbled into the pension’s tiny restaurant. He spied Veronica sitting at the lone table on the street-side patio, and he took the chair across from her.

  She set her pen down. “Sorry I missed you last night. I was out late.”

  “Learn anything?”

  A coy smile played at her lips. “Don’t you want to order coffee first? Settle in?”

  Grey kept his own smile to himself. The waitress brought a cup of thick coffee, and he cradled it greedily. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “I have an address for our chateau,” she said. “Close to Tsarevets Hill, below the castle.”

  “That’s nice work.”

  “The guy’s name is Stefan Dimitrov.”

  Grey nodded and returned to his coffee.

  “Didn’t your mother teach you to say thank you? I’m working your case for you.”

  “I met him.”

  Veronica cut off whatever she was about to say. “You met him? How?”

  “That’s debatable. I walked to the top of the fortress hill at dusk and he was standing there, enjoying the view. We had drinks in town.”

  She considered the information. “I was there too, during the day. It’s a tourist attraction, so it’s not impossible. But very curious.”

  “Slightly.”

  “So? How’d it go?”

  “He flat out told me he worked for Somax.”

  “Do you believe it was a coincidence?”

  “Maybe the meeting, but not the aftermath. He went out of his way to take me to a mexana in town. I followed him to his house afterwards.”

  “Are you ready to tell me what this is about?”

  “You knew what you were getting into when you got on the plane.”

  “Dammit, Grey, how can it hurt? I’m not going to write about you. I just want something on Somax. They’re dirty. Do the world a favor.”

  Grey ordered another coffee. Veronica made an annoyed hiss and leaned back. “You’ll nail him faster with my help. It’s that simple.”

  “I never said I was nailing anyone. He’s a pleasant guy. I enjoyed the conversation.”

  “Is that right? Did you forget the research in Africa? Somax puts animals and African villagers on the same par as your coffee cup. And your guy Stefan’s a VP of research. You do the math.”

  Grey ordered a plate of eggs and returned to his coffee.

  • • •

  Grey cleaned up after breakfast. When he returned downstairs Veronica was gone. Grey knew what he was going to do that evening, and he didn’t like it.

  Near the center of town he saw a sign advertising Internet, and he wandered down three flights of stairs into a narrow cement dungeon filled with blinking computers. Heavy rock music blared, and most of the clientele were teenagers hunched in front of video games. He took a seat in the far corner. His inbox was empty, but he stared at it anyway.

  He and Nya had written at first, a few stilted sentences at a time, the sort of lingering, rote messages people send each other when there is nothing much to say.

  He wrote her a simple message, and his hand hovered over the send key. He reread it twice and then deleted it.

  He had thought her perhaps his soul mate, but as he continued to stare at the blank screen he wondered, what does that even mean to a restless soul? It didn’t matter anymore anyway, he told himself. She had pushed him away.

  He knew that wasn’t the whole story. She hadn’t convinced him with her eyes. But her unspoken reason for pushing him away, the part of himself he knew she could no longer accept, wasn’t going to change.

  He closed out of his email and ran a search on Stefan Dimitrov. He found nothing specific, but buried in the depths of his search he found an article he hadn’t seen before that mentioned Somax. The article was entitled “The Fourth Reich Part III: The Corporate Occult.” The source, a third-rate online journal of conspiracy theories, turned him off, but Grey scanned it anyway.

  Parts I and II of this article discussed how the escalation of global mergers and acquisitions will lead to a worldwide corporate hegemony threatening the fabric of democracy. Now we turn our attention to one of the more insidious offspring of this commercial warfare—the recent corporate obsession to uncover ancient sources of mystical power. Just as Hitler sent his scientists and archaeologists scurrying across the globe in search of occult weaponry, corporations today are spending fortunes searching for myths and legends that might provide insight into the modern mysteries of science.

  Does the Black Rock of Mecca have properties that will revolutionize quantum physics? Is the legend of the Fountain of Youth based in fact? The Nazca lines, the Pyramids, the Crystal Skulls, the Inca Stones, Stonehenge, the Salzburg Cube, dozens of others—what secrets have lain in plain sight for thousands of years, waiting for technology to catch up?

  These are questions that whet a greedy corporate appetite. Companies involved in speculative technology, in particular biotech and nanotech firms, lead the way in the scramble for the secrets of the occult. One company reputed to have a particular interest in the esoteric is Somax, a biotech founded during the heyday of the USSR, no
w headquartered in Bulgaria. Somax has a history of willingness to push boundaries, and a foray into the realm of the occult is a natural progression. Somax is but one of many. Where will Somax and its ilk venture to satisfy their rapacious curiosity? How many artifacts will they destroy? How many cultures will they rob?

  The article was too speculative and amateurish to be of any value. He stopped reading after finding no further references to Somax.

  He scanned the world news and then paid one leva, less than a dollar, for the entire hour. He stepped outside and squinted into the bright afternoon sun.

  • • •

  He wandered the sleepy town, mulling over what he knew and replaying the conversations with Al-Miri in his mind. He was in the dark, and he didn’t like it. He trusted his client less than he trusted the man he was about to follow.

  An hour before dusk he approached the castle hill from the south, the side opposite Stefan’s house. He wanted to set up at a vantage point where he could watch the manor. There were no paths on this side, and he had to scramble through scrub and over the low broken walls.

  A few tourists lingered on the main trail to the west, but the hill was so large and riddled with ruins that Grey had an easy time staying hidden. He guessed the hill was at least a mile square, and the tourists kept to a tiny part of it. Most of the hill brooded in silence, a solemn warden over the sweeping vistas of the surrounding countryside.

  The failing sun draped the town with a purple curtain of dusk. By the time he crested the hill both the light and the tourists had dissipated, replaced by scampering lizards and the hum of insects. A soft breeze stirred, infusing the dusty ruins with fresh pine from the surrounding forest.

  He took a quick break at the top. He didn’t bother to reach for his binoculars; the mesa-like summit was too broad. He’d have to head north, then descend until he found the right lookout for the chateau. Five minutes after he started walking, he heard the faint clatter of loose rock to the south.