The Egyptian

by Layton Green

  Stefan asked Viktor, “Do you believe Al-Miri is part of an ancient cult?”

  Viktor hesitated before answering, as if ordering his thoughts. “I do not believe Al-Miri is part of an ancient cult.”

  Veronica frowned. “Then why the medallion, the robes, the strange behavior?”

  “I said I don’t believe Al-Miri is part of an ancient cult. All of the classic conditions are present for the fomentation of a new religious movement. I believe Al-Miri has created his own cult, with Nu as the principal figure of adulation. This liquid in the test tube: this is the type of idea that can breathe life into a new movement.”

  “It’s just… it’s just so insane,” Veronica said.

  “Whether truth or delusion, the impact on the worshippers is the key to the success of any cult. I believe Al-Miri has convinced his followers that there is something extraordinary about this liquid.”

  “He’s convinced me as well,” Stefan murmured.

  “I suspect Al-Miri is the gatekeeper, and that his followers’ access to this substance is dependent on their allegiance to him. This type of belief and relationship could lead to the extreme behavior we’re witnessing.”

  “You mean turning people into murderers,” Veronica said.

  “Collective behavior is a very powerful force, and should never be underestimated. People will commit acts within a cult setting of which they would otherwise never dream. When violence is involved, there is often someone in the higher levels of the hierarchy predisposed to such behavior. In this case, Nomti is an archetypal example of a second man. He’s willing to use violence, is quite possibly a psychopath, and doesn’t have the personality to be a threat to the leader. And since the violence serves Al-Miri’s purposes, he lets it go on.”

  Veronica said, “Here’s my question: why? You have this rich biologist, he has whatever he wants in life, why go off the deep end?”

  “Those compelled to start a new religious movement do so for various reasons. Extreme narcissism, mental disorder, desire for monetary gain, the genuine belief that one has encountered a previously unknown truth. With Al-Miri, and without knowing more of his mental state or background, I see two influences that led to the instigation of his cult: the creation of this unique liquid, and the death of his wife.”

  “His wife?” Veronica said.

  “She was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer before he changed the name of his company to New Cellular. I believe this marked the beginning of his transformation. Perhaps he developed the liquid near to this time, perhaps in an attempt to save his wife. I believe the confluence of these two events contributed to Al-Miri’s descent into a fantasy world.”

  “Just what kind of cult do you think he’s created?”

  “His own unique blend of many elements, including the science of aging, the concept of Nu, the legend of the mummy, and beliefs concerning mythic immortality lifted from various cultures, notably al-Khidr, the eternal green man of Sufi lore. It appears he’s taken the elements of prolongevity he believes have merit, and formed them into his own distinct life extension cult.”

  Veronica strained her eyes into the desert, trying not to think of how many hours had passed since Grey had been taken. But there was nothing to see but sand and the relentless blue horizon, shimmering in the distance.

  “This—this thing about the mummy,” Veronica said. “What do you think this is?”

  “I believe he’s revived the concept of the eternal mummy as a symbolic part of his movement. Perhaps to assist with the obedience of his worshippers.”

  She felt her throat tightening. “Then you don’t believe it’s… you don’t believe there’s anything to it.”

  “Of course not. But understand that whatever secret these men believe they’re protecting, whatever goal they seek to accomplish, we know they’ll go to any lengths to achieve their objectives.”

  • • •

  Just before dusk Siwa finally appeared, and at first Veronica thought the brilliant azure disc in the distance was a mirage. Then they drew closer, and Veronica sucked in her breath when she saw the surface of a lake reflecting the bleak desert massifs in the background, lush reeds and swaying palms ringing the tranquil water. Despite the somber purpose of the journey, Veronica could not help but marvel at the otherworldly beauty of the oasis.

  Siwa is isolated by hundreds of miles of desert in every direction, the guide told them as they approached. Famous for an oracle during the time of Alexander the Great, it has been ignored ever since. The fifteen thousand Siwans speak Siwi, a Berber language, and still maintain a tribal structure.

  They pulled into the town center, a dense collection of flat-roofed brick structures surrounded by groves of date palms and olive trees. The guide pointed out the remains of Shali, the original settlement, sprawled on a hill above the town. He explained that Shali was once a fortified collection of labyrinthine mud-brick dwellings, and that in the early twentieth century it had literally melted from seventy-two hours of apocalyptic rain. The result was a mind-bending patchwork mud citadel, reminding Veronica of the work of some mad sculptor.

  If there is an end of the earth, Veronica thought, this is it.

  By the time they passed through the town, sharing the narrow roads with pedestrians and donkey carts, the sun had almost disappeared, and Siwa looked deserted. The guide found the address of the warehouse, and Veronica fumed at the locked doors.

  At Viktor’s urging the guide knocked on the door of a nearby house, and a wide-eyed man informed them that yes, a driver comes to the warehouse and then drives into the desert. He will come in from Alexandria tomorrow, the man said. Very early. He knew of no one else with access to the warehouse.

  Viktor, through the guide, pressed the man for more information. “Where does this driver go, in the desert? Who does he work for?”

  The man’s eyes flitted off to the side, and he took a step back. “No one knows. The driver comes to the warehouse twice a week and that is tomorrow and he never stays in town or talks to anyone. There are rumors, though, of strange things in the desert.”

  “What things?” Viktor asked.

  “Ancient things,” the man said. “Bad things. Leave the desert be and stay in Siwa.”

  The man said a polite goodbye and firmly shut the door, and they were forced to find a primitive hostel on the edge of town. Veronica’s frustration was a parasite, eating her from within.

  Veronica was ready to collapse. She had to use the restroom, and Viktor accompanied her to the outhouse a hundred yards from the hostel. They followed a sandy path past the ruins of a temple, to the edge of a palm grove. A stream trickled through the grove, and the moonlit night seduced Veronica with a false sense of security. She knew she should push it away, but it felt good, even for just a moment, not to feel like she was drowning in fear.

  When she left the outhouse she realized how cold the night was, and drew her arms tight. She asked Viktor, “Should we break into the warehouse tonight?”

  “Too risky. And I highly doubt there’s anything there but supplies. We’ll have to follow the driver.”

  Veronica turned away, and Viktor laid a hand on her shoulder, gently. “They won’t kill him yet. He’s the link to Stefan.”

  She swallowed and stared into the palms. Her eyes shifted to the left, towards a less dense section of the grove, following the stream as it made a silver passage through the moonlight.

  And then she saw the figure standing deep within the thicket, the swath of white bandages, the same horrible vision she had seen outside her window in Manhattan.

  She screamed.

  Viktor grabbed her with one hand, and a long, curved dagger appeared in his other. “Where? What did you see?”

  She had looked away as soon as she saw it, and when she looked back, it was gone. “I saw it again,” she said. “Wrapped in white bandages, in the grove. It was looking right at us.”

  “Come,” Viktor said. He led her down the path to the guesthouse, knife in hand,
massive shoulders hunched with tension. “We’ve had enough fresh air for tonight.”

  They didn’t say a word on the walk back, and saw nothing else despite constant glancing from side to side. They hurried inside and barred the door with furniture. Veronica didn’t question her vision; she only questioned her sanity.

  She didn’t stop shaking the entire night.

  – 57 –

  Jax was bound and gagged, on his stomach, his left cheek resting on a finished concrete floor. His head throbbed.

  Three walls of the empty room were white, the fourth glass, and through the glass Jax could see a narrow hallway. Tobacco-stained light filtered into the room from the hallway.

  That had been some plan. What will it be, Jax, death by drowning, crocodile, or gunshot? The tranquilizer had been a blessing, although perhaps he’d be better off dead than stuck in wherever the hell he was.

  He remembered waking up briefly in the cargo hold of a plane, already bound, and then spotty memories of being hustled through a cavernous room and dim corridors. He’d drifted in and out of sleep for a long time, still woozy from the tranquilizer.

  He corrected himself. He would not be better off dead. Then he would be… dead. Jax would always choose life. He had no idea what was coming next, but that was sort of the point: he loved his life on earth, and had no desire to move on to the next stage. He doubted whatever came next would be an improvement, if it was anything at all.

  A short time passed, and then four men entered the hallway and approached the room. Al-Miri and three of his lackeys, now also enrobed. The robes of his men were a different green, thicker and duller than Al-Miri’s shimmering silk.

  They opened the door and spread out around him. Al-Miri pointed, and one of the men, the one Jax remembered from the boat with a cleft lip and a cruel sneer, leaned down and removed Jax’s gag.

  “It is very simple,” Al-Miri said. “We want the test tube.”

  “Say what?”

  Al-Miri flicked his wrist, and Cleft Lip kicked Jax in the stomach. Jax grunted and wriggled on the ground. “I’m here because of the chip,” Jax said. “That’s it. No grand designs on your criminal empire, and I could care less about whatever’s in that test tube. Surely we can work something out.”

  “The time is past,” Al-Miri said softly. “Where is the scientist, and where is my test tube?”

  “Same rules as before, I’m afraid. I’ve got leverage, and I’m not giving it up without a deal.”

  Cleft Lip took out a knife from underneath his robes, lifted Jax’s head by the back of his hair, and put the knife against his neck.

  “Whoa, steady there.”

  “We have the other man as well,” Al-Miri said. “He will talk if you will not.”

  “Grey? Good luck with that. He’s got far more honor and principle than I do. I don’t have any at all. These aren’t my friends, and I’m quite willing to tell you everything. I just have to watch my back, you understand that, right? I’ll give you a freebie, to show my goodwill: I have no idea why you’re asking about the test tube, because I was told you got it back.”

  Al-Miri leaned down with a sinuous motion of his torso. He smelled of incense, and his eyes shone with an intense light.

  He’s a few pots short in the kitchen, Jax thought.

  “There will be no more lies.”

  Al-Miri’s tone told Jax that he had learned something about torture since their last meeting. Cleft Lip moved the tip of his knife to Jax’s eye. Jax rushed his words. “No lie! They told me you burst into that lab in Bulgaria, took your test tube back and killed the scientists. I thought this was about shutting up the last scientist.”

  Al-Miri leaned even closer, and Jax saw a muscle twitch in his neck. Then he stood, said something in Arabic, turned and left the room. His men followed. The glass door shut with a whoosh, and Jax was left in silence. He rolled to his side and considered what had just happened.

  I’ll be damned, he thought.Someone lied about the test tube.

  • • •

  Viktor, Stefan and Veronica returned to the warehouse at five in the morning and waited a good distance down the street for the truck driver to arrive. It was still quite cold, and Veronica pulled her shawl tight. She told Stefan what they had seen last night. “Could that liquid cause something awful to happen? Did your tests show anything?”

  “Our testing showed no adverse side affects. We had so little to spare, and so little time, it’s hard to say. But I don’t think the liquid is dangerous.”

  Veronica rubbed her eyes. She had barely slept. She felt as if she were the star in a bad horror movie, propelling herself like a lemming toward the clichéd ending. Were Al-Miri’s men watching them right now? Awaiting the inevitable rush to sea?

  The driver arrived just before seven, a tall and grim Bedouin man wrapped in layered robes and a flowing head cloth. He opened the warehouse and began loading a pile of boxes onto his truck.

  The guide slunk over to Viktor. “Did you want me to talk with him?”

  “No,” Viktor said, as the man finished loading and drove away. “We need to follow him.”

  The guide stepped back. “I do not go where he goes. There are rumors. I am sorry. I take you to Cairo.”

  Stefan looked from side to side, as if checking for observers, and then stepped close to the guide. Veronica edged in.

  Stefan reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He showed the edge of a stack of bills to the guide. “One thousand Euros,” Stefan said. “One thousand Euros to follow that man.”

  The guide swallowed. “Maybe I follow path in sand from truck. Not so close.”

  “Yes,” Stefan murmured.

  • • •

  They left the oasis and the guide quickly found the wide fresh trail of the truck, heading north into an area of the desert the guide referred to as the Great Sand Sea.

  Veronica had not realized how different the desert could be until they started driving south of Siwa. Where the desert on the journey from Cairo had been flat or gently rolling, the massive knife-edged, parallel dunes of the Great Sand Sea dominated the landscape. Veronica felt as if she were riding the impossibly long crests of giant waves, the golden undulations stretching to every horizon.

  Veronica shouted at the guide over the roar of the jeep. “Do you know this area?”

  “No one know this area.”

  “We’re looking for a limestone formation. In the shape of a gate.”

  “Limestone everywhere in desert. Can look forever.”

  “Someone did,” Viktor said.

  Veronica felt even more swallowed by the vastness of the desert than before, and a vine of fear snaked its way upward, constricting her throat. They were deep, deep into this alien place, on their own in the remote center of the vastest desert on earth, rushing towards the stronghold of a violent cult, most likely right into a trap. They could only hope to somehow sneak into Al-Miri’s compound, free Grey and Jax, and flee back to Siwa with their guide.

  She laughed at herself, an ironic snicker. In the face of searching for the eternal, she had come face to face with the leonine head of her own mortality.

  – 58 –

  Grey watched Al-Miri stride down the hallway to the door of the empty, white-walled room in which Grey was being held. Grey had been awake for a while, and he had rolled and bucked and strained until he was sure the ropes couldn’t be loosened by any action of his own.

  Al-Miri opened the door and marched into the room, followed by his men. Grey saw another of the men from Veronica’s living room: Cleft Lip. He sliced off Grey’s gag with a knife, and kept the knife against Grey’s throat.

  “My test tube,” Al-Miri said.

  Grey mumbled a response.

  “What?”

  “Come closer,” Grey said in a low voice. “My voice—something happened to it.”

  Cleft Lip stepped back, and Al-Miri moved closer.

  “Lean down,” Grey whispered.

  Al-Miri lea
ned over him, and Grey spat in his face. Al-Miri recoiled as if stung by a pit viper, and made a disturbing mewling sound. One of his men rushed to wipe the spittle off his face, and Cleft Lip struck Grey in the face with the hilt of his knife. Grey’s nose flattened and blood splattered over the man’s robes. He struck Grey again, and Grey tried to roll into him. The man kicked him and stepped back.

  Al-Miri spoke, and two of the other guards approached Grey. One put a foot on his back.

  ‘I’ll ask you one more time. No more. Your friend gave me an unacceptable response.”

  Grey laughed. “Jax? I’m sure he did. He’s not my friend.”

  “Where is the test tube?”

  “Go to hell.”

  Al-Miri nodded at Cleft Lip at the same time Grey noticed another man running down the hallway. The new man knocked on the glass door to the room, and Al-Miri turned and waved for him to enter. He stepped into the room and spoke rapidly with Al-Miri.

  Al-Miri smiled.

  Grey stopped struggling and watched them. He didn’t speak; there was nothing to say. Al-Miri left the room, and all five men approached Grey. They started kicking him in unison, a flurry of blows Grey had no way to avoid. His mind fled as the blows came, as it was trained to do. Injury is real, but pain is mental. Grey had training in both pain management and the internal martial arts, but his mental defenses took him only so far. Sometimes a particularly hard blow would take his breath away and wrench his mind back to the present.

  They finished, and Grey lay on the floor, trussed like an animal. He was bruised so badly he couldn’t yet tell if anything was broken. He wondered when they would go ahead and end it. He was no more use to them. Jax knew everything Grey did, and Jax would give it to them.

  They picked him up and carried him out the door and down the hallway. They stopped at the end of the long corridor, in front of a metal door.

  One of the men opened the door, and they tossed Grey inside. Someone stepped on his back to hold him down, and he heard a sawing sound. He looked back at the same time he felt the bonds slip off his feet.