by Brett King
“I see another has joined our party.”
“Cori Cassidy. I work with Dr. Brynstone.”
McHardy gave a cold grin. “Is that so?”
“Tell me something,” Brynstone interrupted. “What do you know about Viktor Nebola?”
He gave him a blank look. “No acquaintance of mine.”
“Tell it straight. You and Nessa Griffin don’t work with him?”
“Not a chance.” McHardy pursed his lips. “May I presume that he wants the helmet?”
“Yeah.”
“This is where our problem lies,” he said. “I have examined the helmet and I am baffled. Without the missing pieces, we can conclude nothing except that we are supposed to search in Alexandria.”
Raja made a cute shrug. “Maybe I can help.”
“How could you possibly do that?” McHardy asked.
She opened the bag. They peeked inside, seeing a facemask and another piece of the helmet, positioned side by side.
“The left cheek guard.” McHardy’s eyes widened, his expression now invigorated. “I don’t believe it.”
“Wasn’t easy, but I snuck it out of Istanbul. Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“No,” McHardy answered.
She turned to Brynstone. “You?”
“Maybe later.”
Cori could see one thing for sure. They were drawn together in a common quest, although she wasn’t sure the three would speak to each other under different circumstances. Then again, maybe she was wrong about Brynstone and Raja.
A current of attraction crackled in their conversation. Cori hated to admit the thought and it unsettled her. She had been attracted to John Brynstone since the night she had met him. Over the years, she had tried to dismiss her crush. The guy was married after all. She’d only found out about the divorce a few months ago. It was premature to guess what direction his life would take after the loss of his ex-wife.
As the others talked, Brynstone gazed at Cori. The powerful moment offered a realization. Math McHardy and Rashmi Raja enjoyed the challenge of finding the helmet. It was a quest, as much as anything. Not so for Cori and John. For them, it went beyond a challenge. It was about survival. In that shared glance, she remembered the purpose of their search. They had to save Shayna Brynstone.
Alexandria
10:13 p.m.
Positioned on a hill overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, the El-Salamlek Palace hotel sparkled with the vision of a palace. That’s because it was one, serving as a royal resort during the reign of Fouad I, the first king of modern Egypt. Rashmi Raja had talked the others into getting suites here. She desperately wanted a shower, and God knows Cori Cassidy and John Brynstone needed one after the explosion back in Crete.
Wrapped in a towel, Raja lingered in front of her window, taking in the sight of the Montazah Gardens at night. Perched on a rocky bluff, the manicured palace grounds were cast in the glow of spotlights, alive with palms and brilliant flowers.
Raja dressed in a sarong, wearing it midcalf in case she ran into Arabic men. Putting on a final touch of thick black eyeliner, she thought about the Cassidy woman. She was bright and curious with a fresh, innocent look. Brynstone liked her. They had some history going, but somehow they had lost contact until today. Was there tension between them? As she grabbed a small package, Raja made a mental note to find out.
Leaving her suite, she hurried down the hall and pounded on the door of Cori’s room. She had this sick feeling John Brynstone might be in there.
Cori opened it. She was alone in the room.
Good.
Except also bad. The woman looked stunning.
Raja had expected her to look better after a shower and a little makeup, but not this devastating. Cori knew how to rock the whole girl-next-door look with a little mascara, pink blush, and a touch of lip gloss, but she had stepped it up tonight.
Didn’t bother Raja. She thrived on competition.
Bring it, Tinker Bell.
She handed the box to the woman.
Cori flashed the whole “for me?” reaction with her eyes.
“Go ahead,” Raja said. “Open it.”
“Yeah?” she asked, pulling the ribbon. “You picked this up?”
“Had it delivered.”
She pulled away the lid, then pushed back tissue paper. She stared down at a purple lace bra. Cori looked up with a cute smirk.
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Sure I should,” Raja laughed. “We need to get work done. John and Math can’t concentrate if you’re bouncing around all over the place.”
Cori looked down at her conservative loose-fitting clothes. “Can they even tell in this thing?”
“They’re guys. You could blindfold them and they’ll still know you’re not wearing a bra. It’s wired into their brain.”
“Or maybe south of their brain.” Cori brought the bra to her chest. “Looks about right.”
“You’re shorter, but we’re close to the same size. Made a good guess.”
“Where’d you find this in Egypt?”
“Connections. I know people. Put it on. Let’s go find the boys.”
She closed the door as Raja waited outside, checking e-mails on her phone. Nothing interesting except an awkward message from Mani.
Cori came out. They walked down the hallway together, both playing nice.
The two women joined Brynstone and McHardy out on a private terrace. It offered a heavenly view of Montazah Bay, the cityscape lights shimmering on the black water. Leaning forward in a red and white lounge chair, McHardy was huddled over a table. He was back in mad-scientist mode, playing with helmet pieces like some kid with a toy.
Brynstone stood up when he noticed them. He smiled, showing all his boyish charm.
“You both look amazing.”
Raja did a little spin in her sarong.
“Thanks, John,” Cori said, standing on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on his cheek.
McHardy looked over. “The new helmet pieces help complete the picture. Can be a wee bit tricky to understand, but it will clarify the picture I know.”
The old man had barely noticed them. Fashion and appearance were lost on him.
McHardy went back to work, puzzling over the antiquated code. Brynstone took a seat across the table from the professor. Cori eased into a seat beside him. Raja remained standing. She adjusted her sarong, pulling it up to reveal more leg. An evening breeze tingled her bare skin.
“The left cheek guard from Istanbul contains interesting insights. I found a curious sentence near the edge along the curved side of the metal.” McHardy ran his finger along the symbols.
“Looks different,” Raja said. “Than the others, I mean.”
“Precisely. The helmet symbols conform to a Linear A code, with the exception of this handful of words. The characters you see are engraved in Greek and appear slightly larger.”
“Quintus the soldier engraved the helmet in Linear A,” Brynstone said. “Maybe someone else added the Greek characters.”
“My thought exactly.”
“What does the stuff in Greek say?” Cori asked.
McHardy pointed to his notebook.
Closed
the Unknown
for the Cursed
“‘Closed, the unknown, for the cursed’?” Raja repeated. “Anyone here have a clue what that means?”
McHardy shook his head.
Raja ran her hand across Brynstone’s wide shoulder. She knew it troubled the Cassidy girl when she flirted with him.
“How about you, tough guy?” she asked. “Any idea what that message means?”
Brynstone didn’t answer. She kept her hand on his shoulder anyway.
Cori cut into the conversation. “Too bad Edgar Wurm isn’t here.”
&n
bsp; “Why would you possibly say that?” McHardy wondered aloud.
“He was a cryptanalyst who sparked my interest in ciphers and codes. Years ago, he and I deciphered clues in the work of the psychiatrist Carl Jung. Wurm was a genius.”
“If you had even five minutes in his company, then you have my deepest sympathy.”
“You didn’t like Edgar?”
“No one liked Edgar except Edgar,” he snapped.
Brynstone looked at Cori. “Math and Edgar were rivals.”
“Wurm wasn’t in my league. Even if he had been, only one of us is alive today,” he chuckled. “And that’s the important thing.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t like Edgar,” Cori said. “You remind me of him.”
He glared. “Perfect rubbish.”
Raja smiled. She was starting to like Cori Cassidy.
A musical ringtone sounded from Raja’s phone, obviously annoying McHardy. His burning look gave her immeasurable satisfaction. She glanced at the caller ID.
“I think it’s Nebola.”
“You certain?” Brynstone asked, standing to face her.
“Never can be certain. He hasn’t checked in since Crete.”
“Answer it. On speaker. Keep him talking. We can’t trace the call, but the more he says, the better the chance he’ll reveal his location.”
Raja took the call.
In a cool voice, Nebola demanded an update. “Are you working with Professor McHardy?”
“Yep. We estimate that the helmet was divided into six pieces. If that’s right, we retrieved all but two. Math is decoding them now.”
“How long will it take?”
“No idea.”
“You said the facemask was a map. Has McHardy figured out what it means?”
“From what we can tell, it’s a floor plan. We’re trying to figure out the location.”
“Where are you?” Nebola asked.
She looked at Brynstone, debating her answer. He nodded.
“Alexandria. What about you?”
“Still in Crete.”
She looked at Brynstone again. They didn’t believe the guy.
“I have a question,” Raja said, going off topic. “Back in Crete, I saw you get into an SUV. A little girl with blonde hair was with you.”
A pause. “Forget you saw her.”
“Who was she?”
“You want payment for your services? Stay focused on the task.” He paused. “Brynstone’s listening, isn’t he?”
“I want my daughter back, Nebola,” Brynstone said.
A pause. “I underestimated you, Dr. Brynstone. That was a mistake, but I am a businessman. I have something you want. You’re going to find something I want. Find the bottom portion of the Scintilla, the part with the Black Chrism. Bring it to me and I’ll make a trade for your daughter.”
“Why do you want the Black Chrism?” Raja asked.
“Why do I want it? Look, no one knows for sure what the Black Chrism can do. If it can do what I think it can do, who wouldn’t want it?”
“I’ll find the Black Chrism formula,” Brynstone said, a cool threat in his voice. “You make sure my daughter stays safe. Ask Erich Metzger how I am when I’m angry.”
“He already gave me a report. You have twenty-four hours to get your daughter back safely. I’ll be in touch.”
Nebola ended the call.
Raja looked at Brynstone. “Sorry, John. I’ll do everything I can to help.”
His face looked haunted.
“Good news,” McHardy called. “I think I have determined where to find the formula for the Black Chrism. It appears to be in a catacomb.”
“Are you serious?”
McHardy had made detailed translations of the Linear A code on previous pages of his leather notebook. Leaning in, Raja noticed where he had jotted entries about each helmet piece, including the location where it had been found and notes about its significance for their quest.
Facemask (Paris)
• Recovered by John Brynstone from cave beneath Père Lachaise Cemetery.
• Includes some variety of map. Appears to be floor plan.
• May lead to location of formula used to create the Black Chrism.
Right cheek guard (Bulgaria)
• Recovered by Rashmi Raja from Paskalev residence.
• Mentions that Josephus, son of Joseph of Arimathea, is the Keeper of the Radix and the Scintilla at the time the helmet code was created.
Right skull piece (Prague)
• Recovered by John Brynstone and Rashmi Raja (via Nessa Griffin) from Charles University museum.
• Hints that the formula for Black Chrism has a hiding place.
• Hints that Black Chrism grants powers in those who receive it.
Left cheek guard (Istanbul)
• Recovered by Rashmi Raja.
• Mentions that Chrism formula is hidden in a catacomb.
• Contains message in Greek language. Does not match Linear A code engraved on helmet: “Closed, the unknown, for the cursed.”
Reading it, Raja felt a swell of pride. Among the four helmet fragments in their possession, she had provided two. Actually three, counting the one she and Brynstone had recovered from the Prague museum. Now all they had to do was find the catacomb.
Chapter 40
Alexandria
1:52 a.m.
Egypt was a landscape of gritty earth renowned for mysterious pyramids that soared toward the heavens. Unknown to many, this unforgiving desert world also concealed rich secrets birthed deep beneath windswept sands. Carved into the soft bedrock at the end of the first century, the catacombs at Alexandria served as a private tomb for a wealthy pagan family. A century or two later, it was opened up to house hundreds of Egyptian dead in a complex network of subterranean caverns. In the ancient world, the catacombs had been called Ra-Qedil. Located in the Karmouz district of Alexandria, the site was known in the twenty-first century as the Catacombs of Kom el Shoqafa.
Brynstone guessed the helmet had led Hypatia of Alexandria and Kyros to this catacomb back in the fifth century. If so, it could be the hiding place for the missing Scintilla. He hoped his team was on the right track.
The catacombs had better security than the Prague museum, but not by much. Security for Egyptian antiquities became a critical issue after the 2011 revolution that had deposed Hosni Mubarak as president. A tragic outcome of the uprising came when looters had ransacked the Egyptian Museum in Cairo as well as other archaeological sites. For a time, the Egyptian army had guarded Egypt’s museums. After that, state museum workers engaged in a long-running power struggle with the Supreme Council of Antiquities. In the years that followed, security had fallen back to the lax standards prior to the revolution. All of this was bad news for antiquities—but good news for Brynstone.
During typical tourist hours at the catacombs, two guards were posted outside a humble black iron gate. The officers worked for Egypt’s Tourism and Antiquities police. They were wearing black berets and white uniforms trimmed with black epaulettes. In the moonlight, the guards chatted next to an oversized stone sarcophagus outside the gate. Brynstone estimated that a shift change had taken place about twenty minutes ago.
Cori Cassidy and Math McHardy stayed at a distance as Brynstone and Raja moved toward the guards. The team, even McHardy, was dressed in black. The women had stripped away their conservative apparel for more comfortable clothes, both wearing fitted T-shirts and leggings.
Brynstone studied the guards, looking for behavioral patterns that would help judge their reaction to uninvited guests. Police carried Uzis around some Egyptian tourist sites, but not the guys here tonight. They packed sidearms, but it didn’t mean they planned to use them. How quickly would they go for their weapons?
Earlier, Brynstone had purchased a rubber ball from a boy on the street, overpaying for the thing. The kid had been a tough little negotiator. From the foliage around the catacombs, Brynstone signaled Raja to toss the ball.
Both guards heard it bounce across the walkway. They turned their heads, looking in silence. Neither reached for their holstered weapons.
Good sign.
Their instinct was to explore, but without using their firearms.
They came over to investigate. Moving from the shadows, Brynstone took out the closest man with a right shovel hook followed by a left hook to the chin. Raja lunged at his partner, whipping out another capoeira move, this one an efficient and devastating kick. Another solid hit and her guy dropped.
She stayed low in a fighting crouch, glancing at Brynstone. Raja was a powerful addition to the team. He nodded his approval and pulled keys from the guards.
Brynstone unlocked the gate leading to the catacombs. Cori and McHardy hurried to join them. Not bothering to wait, Raja scaled the small fence, then landed with grace on her feet. Brynstone smiled. Once a cat burglar, always a cat burglar.
They dragged the tourist police into an adjacent building and locked them inside a room. Brynstone injected them with a soporific drug, making certain they would slumber through the rest of their shift. He led the others inside. A sign announced that the catacombs were closed for the week for construction and repair.
This place was a treasure. If you believed the celebrated local legend that tour guides preached like gospel, a farmer had discovered Kom el Shoqafa in 1900. Actually, credit usually went to his donkey. While working the land, according to one telling, the animal was pulling a cart when it had staggered into a small hole. The earth collapsed beneath the donkey’s weight, sending it down a darkened shaft, and the alarmed farmer contacted local scientists who confirmed the discovery of a massive subterranean vault. The catacombs proved to be a stunning find for archaeology. Too bad the donkey didn’t survive the nosedive.
