The Library of the Kings: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  “Is that all of them?” Scott shouted through the hall.

  “There’s one more,” Tom replied.

  They ran through the hall, looking for the last man. Hagen, well hidden, watched them search and was stunned when he realized who he was up against. He opted for discretion, for now.

  After a few minutes of searching, Tom and Scott met again at the destroyed vault. Tom was carrying a mask and one of the tactical vests.

  “I found this back there. Looks like Hagen got away.”

  While Tom and Scott were tying up the last of the mercenaries still left alive, Tom noticed a Iban-style tattoo on the man’s forearm. The A and F worked into the design were all too familiar. When an organization like “Absolute Freedom” was after something, it didn’t bode well.

  He sat down with his uncle, both of them exhausted but satisfied. I need to contact Noah as soon as possible, Tom thought. It was the first time since Barcelona that he had a new lead. A short time later, a team of FBI officers and local cops stormed the hall, but there was nothing left for them to do.

  7

  Necropolis of Anfushi, Alexandria

  It didn’t look promising at all. After visiting the Necropolis of Anfushi for the first time a few days earlier, Hellen’s hopes had all but evaporated. The small excavation site didn’t look like it could possibly be hiding a sensational archaeological find. The area was run-down and unimpressive, and around the small necropolis were schools, sports fields, a harbor building, and one of the many public beaches. The excavation site itself was deserted, untended, and partly overgrown with vegetation. The tombs were from the third century—the right era, at least—but that was the only ray of hope.

  “Are you sure this is the place the letters were talking about? It looks more like an abandoned construction site,” Arno had said. And Hellen also had to admit that she would never have thought to look here for clues to the magnificent Library of Alexandria, or for anything valuable at all. The letter, however, had been crystal clear. Still, there was another problem: when she applied for permission to examine inside the tombs and corridors of the necropolis, she was immediately denied.

  “The excavation site is located too close to the sea, and most of the passageways and tombs are partially flooded or unstable due to the ingress of seawater. Exploration is therefore far too dangerous to be authorized.” —so ran the official rejection letter from the Egyptian Ministry of Culture. Even Arno’s more-than-generous attempts to offer baksheesh hadn’t succeeded in changing their minds.

  “Then we’ll go in anyway. We’ll just do it at night, when nobody will see us. And we’ll need diving equipment to get through the flooded corridors,” Hellen said matter-of-factly.

  She no longer recognized herself. Not so long ago, she would not have accepted a flat rejection from the authorities and would have got caught up in a lengthy bureaucratic to-and-fro. But she had changed. She knew who was responsible for that change, and she would remain eternally grateful to him for it . . . but that was not important, not now. Now she had to delve into the clues in the letter. It was shortly after midnight when Arno stopped the SUV directly in front of the necropolis, across the road from a military hospital.

  “We can’t stop here. Not right under the noses of the military,” Hellen said. “Let’s see if we can get in from the other side.”

  Arno agreed. Pulling away slowly, he noticed that the soldier guarding the hospital entrance had noticed the SUV and its occupants. They drove farther down the road and turned left into a narrow alley running along the side of the excavation, where they found a small grove of trees that would give them the cover they needed to scale the wall.

  Arno lifted the two backpacks with their equipment from the trunk and handed one to Hellen. They tossed the backpacks over the wall and clambered over after them.

  It was a clear, moonlit night, and they were able to cross the open section of the excavation easily without using their flashlights. They used the pry bar Arno had brought to break the padlock on the wooden door, then slipped into the first burial chamber. Hellen switched on her flashlight.

  “So far, so good,” Arno said, sliding the pry bar back into his pack. He looked over at Hellen. In her olive-green tank top and cargo shorts, and given the setting, the similarity to Lara Croft was undeniable.

  “Look!” Hellen pointed at the paintings on the wall. “Clearly pre-Ptolemaic. These cartouches are from the 26th Dynasty, the reign of Pharaoh Apries—they’re rare. I don’t understand why they’re letting the place fall apart like this.”

  “Over here’s an image of Horus,” Arno said.

  Hellen smiled. She liked being with a man with whom she shared so many interests.

  They passed through several burial chambers until they reached a larger room, its walls covered with simple geometric patterns and a representation of the god Osiris. At the far end of the room, a stone stairway descended. Arno shone his flashlight down the steps: about ten feet below, they could see the shimmer of water.

  Hellen’s heart began to race. She turned pale.

  “Hellen? Are you all right?” Arno had seen the fear on her face.

  “All . . . all good. It just reminds me of . . . of a time when I almost drowned,” she said, her voice faltering.

  She had known all along that they would have to dive, but it was only now that the reality hit home. The sight of the steps disappearing into the pitch-black water brought back all the memories, sapping her strength. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply in and out, and quickly recovered. “But we didn’t have any diving gear back then,” she said mostly to herself, trying to allay her fear. Her voice was back to normal.

  Arno took the two air bottles out of the backpack and passed one to Hellen. The bottle was barely twelve inches long and held enough air for ten minutes; a mouthpiece was attached directly to the top end. Hellen sat on the steps at the edge of the water, pulled her swimming goggles on, slipped into her fins and fitted the mouthpiece between her teeth. She also took a handful of glow sticks out of her backpack and slipped them into a pocket of her shorts.

  “Remember: we only have enough air for ten minutes,” Arno reminded her as he sat down beside her and put his own gear on. Hellen gave Arno a thumbs-up, then slid down the steps and dived. Arno followed close behind. The descent was short, and the stairs soon opened into another room. They dropped glow sticks at intervals to find their way back quickly. According to a sketch Hellen had made on a white plastic card with an underwater marker, they had to find a narrow corridor and follow it for about 200 yards. At the end, they would find a false door of the kind often found on ancient Egyptian structures. They swam on and found everything exactly as it was on the map. The outer frame of the false door was decorated with hundreds of hieroglyphics; a checkerboard pattern of yellowed dark- and light-colored stones flanked it to the left and right. They dropped a few glow sticks on the floor, giving themselves enough light to keep their hands free, and set to work.

  Twelve stones wide and twelve high. Hellen had memorized the instructions in the letter and gone through them with Arno a dozen times. From her side, Hellen counted four stones to the left and three up, while Arno counted six stones up and two to the right on his side.

  They pressed simultaneously on their respective stones. Nothing happened. The stones seemed to be fixed in place. They tried again, and again nothing moved. After a few attempts, Arno pointed to his diving watch. Their efforts were consuming more air than planned; they only had enough for five more minutes. They had to hurry or the air would run out too soon.

  Hellen took out her pocketknife and scraped some gunk out of the joints around the stone. Arno did the same. They pressed once more—and finally the stones slid back about four inches. At the same time, a stone block about two feet on a side abruptly jutted out from the center of the false door. Air bubbles rose. A hollow space, thought Hellen. They took hold of the block and tried to haul it farther out of the wall. It was heavy work, but they managed
it. The block slid out completely, and Hellen saw that there was indeed a hollow behind it. Inside were two amphorae, each bearing a symbol that she recognized instantly. Arno tapped his watch again: two minutes of air left. Hellen’s fear returned. Her last diving experience had been traumatic enough, and she had no desire to experience anything like that ever again. She grabbed one of the amphorae and swam back the way they had come, following the glow sticks. Arno took the other one under his arm and swam after her.

  Hellen’s head broke the surface. She gasped loudly—her air bottle was empty, and she had swum the last few strokes holding her breath. Arno surfaced seconds later. They had made it.

  “I know this symbol.” Hellen pointed enthusiastically at the amphorae. “I’ve seen it in my father’s papers countless times.” She was breathing quickly and smiled happily at Arno. “These two amphorae are from the Library of Alexandria. I’m sure of it!”

  8

  Bluejacket Bar, Washington D.C.

  “How did you find me?” Tom asked, narrowing his eyes at the young man in the black suit who appeared beside the piano where Tom was sitting. He had just launched into “The Blue Danube” when he saw Jakob Leitner heading in his direction.

  Leitner nodded to Scott then turned back to Tom. “When an Austrian citizen—and a former Cobra officer—is involved in a terrorist attack in the heart of Washington D.C., the local authorities tend to ask questions at the embassy,” Leitner explained confidently in his broad Viennese accent. “Your uncle is with the Navy. The rest was basic research,” he added proudly.

  “So you checked out every Navy bar in D.C. till you found me, did you?” Tom asked mockingly. He stopped playing, and Leitner shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “Looks like you’ve healed up. How have you been?”

  “Good, thanks. I’m reporting directly to CKL now!”

  Tom nodded, but he was less than thrilled to have Leitner walk in on such a private moment. Playing the piano had always been a meditative pursuit for him, and above all a solitary one. Even among those close to him, only his uncle and his best friend Noah knew, and had heard him play. He preferred to play in the anonymity of small bars, where nobody knew him. It made him feel vulnerable, but at the same time more alive than in practically any other part of his life. It was his secret, one he hadn’t even told Hellen about. The brief thought of her was like a stab to the heart. It felt like an eternity ago, as if the time with her had been in another life.

  His uncle raised his glass to Tom, interrupting his sentimental frame of mind, and downed his whiskey. They felt they had earned a drink after hours of FBI questioning. He approached the piano and held out his clenched fist; Tom briefly bumped it with his own.

  “You take care. And call her!” Scott said.

  He nodded goodbye to Tom, ignoring the outstretched hand of the young man, who said nervously to him in German: “It was nice to meet you.”

  “No hablo alemán,” Scott said in flawless Spanish. He gave Tom a wink and left the bar.

  “So I’m guessing he wants to talk to me, right? What’s up?” Tom asked, standing up from the piano and glaring at Leitner.

  The younger man cleared his throat and stammered uncertainly. “He . . . I don’t really . . . he wants . . . there’s a car waiting out front.”

  Tom laid a few bills on the piano, clapped Leitner on the shoulder with a bitter smile and headed for the exit. “Then let’s go. Don’t want to keep His Lordship waiting.”

  As they drove over the Arlington Memorial Bridge, Tom realized where the Austrian chancellor would be waiting for him. Konstantin Lang had majored in history and had a flair for the dramatic. Meeting at night on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial would be just his style.

  Tom didn’t really feel like being part of CKL’s drama though, not now. His mind was more occupied with the young FBI agent who had given him her card. After the questioning was done, they’d had a great conversation. And if even his uncle had seen the sparks flying, then he wanted to grab the opportunity.

  He took out his phone and tapped out a quick message.

  The car curved into the traffic circle surrounding the monument, then stopped where the traffic circle met Henry Bacon Drive. Tom and Leitner got out and walked to the memorial steps. The chancellor, CKL to his friends, was already sitting on the steps.

  Jakob Leitner was a former Cobra colleague of Tom’s. They had been through quite a bit together, and now it looked as if Jakob had taken over Tom’s old job. Well, good for him, Tom thought. Leitner went to where the chancellor’s bodyguard was standing off to the side, sent him back to the car with a word and took up his post.

  The chancellor beckoned, and Tom took a seat on the stairs. For a moment they both remained silent, enjoying the view. From where they sat, they looked over the two-thousand-foot-long Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool to the Washington Monument, on top of which a red signal light flashed. On the horizon was the Capitol building.

  “The seat of power. Impressive, wouldn’t you say?” Konstantin Lang said, breaking the silence. “I know I have no right to ask you this, but I need your help. I need you to come with me to Egypt.”

  Tom said nothing, but a choked laugh escaped him. Ignoring it, Lang continued: “I can’t explain it, but for some time now I’ve felt like things are slipping. Everything our parents and grandparents built up after the war, all the ways we’ve managed to open up society . . . it seems like it’s worth nothing anymore. We’re back to medieval conditions, and the only politics that seems to get any traction is the politics of fear. The Ibiza affair, Brexit, Putin in Syria, Trump almost starting a war just before his impeachment . . . you start to wonder if the forest fires in Australia were arson, or if it’s really Mother Earth kicking our ass.”

  Tom thought about whether he should say something, but decided to let his friend talk for the time being. Just then, his cell phone buzzed. An unknown number. He declined the call and put his phone away again. In any case, it reminded him that he still hadn’t contacted Noah, and that he should call him again when he was finished with Lang.

  “Austria is a divided country now, and the same thing is happening everywhere. You see extremes developing all over the place. I’m attending an economic conference in Cairo in two days and I’d like you to accompany me, just on this one trip. There haven’t been any direct threats, and I have no concrete suspicions, but I’d feel a lot safer if you were with me.”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “I don’t even know if I can trust Cobra anymore,” the chancellor said, quietly enough that Leitner wouldn’t hear him.

  Tom thought for a moment, then said: “Konstantin, I’m sorry, but I’m done with that life. I’ve got myself a nice little place in California now, and believe it or not, I just started college there, too. I don’t want all that anymore.” Tom got to his feet and moved two steps lower. “I’m sorry. Really. But Leitner’s a good man.” He nodded in Jakob’s direction.

  “There’s no need to answer right away,” replied Konstantin. “Sleep on it and let me know tomorrow. The driver will take you to where you’re staying.”

  Tom held out his hand, and the chancellor shook it. “Sorry. Don’t count on me,” Tom said. “But I do wish you all the best,” he called over his shoulder as he reached the bottom of the stairs and walked back to the car. He took out his phone and was about to check the missed call when a new text message caught his eye. He smiled happily.

  This might turn out to be a nice evening after all, Tom thought as he wrote a short reply. Again, he’d forgotten to call Noah.

  9

  The White House, Washington D.C.

  “You can go in now,” said the secretary to the graying gentleman in his mid-fifties. He was sitting in an armchair in the anteroom of probably the most famous office in the world, calmly waiting for his appointment. He entered the unmistakable office and was met by a man about the same age, with a grave expression on his face. They shook hands and sat down across from one another on the bei
ge sofas.

  It wasn’t every day that he had to brief the president of the United States. But here he was, in the Oval Office, at his feet the Presidential Seal with its imposing bald eagle, sitting across from the most powerful man in the world.

  President George William Samson, the 46th president of the United States, was more concerned with repairing the blunders made during the scandalous presidency of his predecessor than with realizing his own political goals, and the man would support his president in any way he could. In his years with the CIA, he had seen several presidents come and go: this one seemed more competent than the last, at least, though that wasn’t saying much. The new First Lady was also a definite improvement: an exceptionally charitable person who juggled several non-profits, operating in different corners of the world.

  “Sir, there is no doubt at all: last night’s incident at the Smithsonian was AF-related. With the help of the Austrian Cobra officer, all of the surviving mercenaries, except their leader”—he glanced at the dossier in his lap—“a man named Isaac Hagen, were taken into custody. If Mr. Wagner hadn’t happened to be there, we would have no idea who was behind it, and we would be dealing with many more casualties.” He handed the dossier to the president.

  “An Austrian? I just met with their chancellor. Always thought they were only good at skiing and waltzing.” He smiled.

  “Cobra is one of the finest antiterrorist units in the world. Their training is rock solid. Our guys fly over there regularly to train with them.”