“Why, no.” Gharib replied, curious about this change of attitude and what the vizier’s motive might be.
“We may not always agree, but by the great pyramid of Cheops we should never lose our respect for each other.” The vizier bowed and walked around to the side of the desk, holding out his hand to the chief inspector, whose mouth opened in surprise. Before Gharib could respond the vizier said, “I wish to let you know how much I respect the job you and your ancestors have done for Egypt. After all, were it not for the efforts of your grandfather we would never have found the remains of the Falcon God.”
The chief inspector’s brow wrinkled. He had never considered the vizier capable of such a reversal. Appreciating what he heard, Gharib listened intently.
“Our everyday actions are scrutinized by those to whom we report. As servants of this great nation, would it not be shameful if we were to engage in combat like a pair of Roman gladiators on the dirt covered floor of some ancient coliseum? May I have your hand to shake in agreement on at least that issue?”
“I suppose you’re right.” The astonished inspector rose from his chair and came around to the side of his desk. He truly wanted to believe that his admonitions had stimulated a positive reaction. Mohammed Gharib extended his hand. “Perhaps I have misjudged you.” With a firm grip on the vizier’s right hand, he said, “Although I admit I would never have anticipated hearing you say it, our country is depending on our ability to work together for—”
A long, finely honed blade plunged into Gharib’s belly, changing his beneficent expression to one of agony and the realization of betrayal. Nausea and searing heat swelled within him as the knife his visitor had concealed within his robes slid in, all the way to the hilt, and rose, slicing through his liver, intestines, stomach and part of a lung. Coating the left hand and wrist of his murderer, blood rushed like a fountain from the gash in the inspector’s hand-sewn, Egyptian cotton shirt. Like melted wax on the side of a tapered candle, it flowed down the length of his charcoal-gray, pin-striped pants in thick, unbroken burgundy rivulets.
As blood spattered onto his shoes and the tile floor, the grip of the inspector’s right hand became weaker while the left hand of the vizier continued to twist and thrust the knife as far into Gharib’s body as it would go. Finally, the inspector’s legs buckled. He collapsed onto his knees, grimacing and gasping for air before falling onto his side and rolling onto his back. He stared up, into eternity and the fluorescent lights that hung from the wooden beams above, his mouth opening and closing like a doomed goldfish removed from water.
With morbid curiosity the vizier observed his dying adversary, wondering if perhaps the chief inspector might be trying to speak or if he were experiencing intense thirst. Once before, in the desert, he recalled discovering a man near death, partially covered by sand, without the remaining strength required to reach the lifesaving waters of a palmed oasis that lay not more than 300 yards away. His mouth had made the same pitiful movements. Gharib blinked several times and squinted as if trying to see something far away, his blood covered hands trembling and twitching. The tormented expression on his face began to relax as death sapped the strength and erased the edges of tension from his once proud, defiant features.
“Your blood is hot, Inspector,” the vizier commented as he viewed the gore covering his own hand and feet. “Are you thirsty? If only I had more time, now that we have settled our petty differences, I would gladly share that cold, refreshing drink you spoke of. But I fear I must leave. You see, I have to speak with some men that I have hired to throw a welcoming party at a private airport for your messiah.
“Perhaps Number Seven will intercede on your behalf with Osiris when your heart is judged, but I think it more likely that Sobek will find it a tasty morsel, and that you will dwell in darkness forever, being devoured each day with the rest of the imbeciles that believe in this mistake that you felt compelled to worship.”
Gloating over his longtime adversary, his lip curling in triumph, exultation overwhelmed the vizier as he stared down into Gharib’s glassy, lifeless eyes. Being one of the key figures in the government project to clone the messiah meant he lived above the law. He wasn’t concerned about arrest or investigation by local police, but realizing how it would look if he went out on the streets with blood covering his right hand and foot, he washed up as best he could in the inspector’s private restroom.
When he returned to the office, he stepped over the inert body and the still spreading puddle of blood. Proceeding to the phone that rang during his argument with the chief inspector, he noticed the digital readout indicated one message. On a hunch he pressed play. His eyes widened as he recognized the recorded voice. A thin smile of satisfaction spread across his lips. After hearing the message he pressed erase, pulled his own phone out of his pocket and dialed. When the call was answered he spoke only one sentence. “Call me immediately if there is any change in flight plans.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ra-Amunhotep bowed his head as if apologizing, “My Lord, Mohammed Gharib did not answer his phone. I could only leave a message.”
“A message? What did you say?”
“That we are in transit from England and will be landing at Cairo International later this evening as planned.”
“That’s all?” Horus wanted to be sure. “Nothing else?”
“That’s all,” the priest confirmed.
“I see,” Horus stroked his chin, considering his options. He sensed that something had gone wrong, and wondered if the vizier might be planning a less than warm reception for him at the airport in Cairo. “Hmmm, perhaps we should rethink our destination. We could just as easily land at Alexandria or Luxor, rather than Cairo.”
Seeing Horus and the two priests conferring, the flight attendant approached once again and respectfully inquired, “I don’t mean to intrude, gentlemen, but is everything satisfactory? Is there anything you need?”
Noticing the name tag on the attendant’s jacket, Horus answered with, “Yes, Doris, get me the pilot.” Her smile never faded. Being a professional, she wasn’t about to convey the slightest concern. “I wish to speak to him, now,” Horus demanded. “We have a change of plans.”
“If you would share your request with me I would be happy to communicate…”
“This is not a request.” Horus assured her, “and I do not intend to share this information with anyone other than the pilot.”
When the pilot arrived, he looked impatient and somewhat irritated. His job was to fly the plane, not interact with or entertain the passengers, or “geese,” as he was fond of calling them. Suspecting that the flight attendant had somehow failed to do her job, he began with, “Doris said you wanted to see me?”
A model of Britannic detachment, Captain George Chamberlain shook his head, underscoring his reluctance to consider flight plan alterations. But when Horace revealed the reason for the change, when informed of the potential assassination plot, Chamberlain blanched visibly, imagining a spray of bullets ripping through the Gulfstream’s cockpit glass. The prospect of machine gun toting hit men waiting at the boarding gate in Cairo left him more than a little rattled.
“I have no way to be sure,” Horus admitted, “but it is possible they may have thought this through quite thoroughly and could have assassins posted at more than one airport. To provide them with a minimum of time for preparation, I would think it prudent of us to withhold our change of plans until the last possible moment.”
Abandoning his air of superiority, Captain Chamberlain readily agreed, “Yes, yes, of course,” and added, “When we transmit our new destination I’ll inform that airport’s security of our predicament. Surely they’ll…”
Horus interrupted, waiving a hand to dismiss the captain’s idea, “I wouldn’t recommend that. While I cannot be certain that anything is amiss, I wouldn’t be particularly surprised if some of the agents you seek to alert may have been recruited to act against us. For all we know they may have been fed some
preposterous story. Why, they may have been led to believe we have a kidnapping situation onboard, or, as farfetched as it may seem, that I am some kind of international terrorist and that these are my accomplices.” Eyebrows raised, Kherep-Isfet and Ra-Amunhotep glanced at each other, mildly amused.
“Hadn’t considered that,” Chamberlain nodded. “Good thinking.”
“Consider this as well, Captain,” Chamberlain’s heart rate spiked as his passenger suddenly reached inside his jacket, but, rather than producing a weapon, the tall Egyptian withdrew a different form of persuasion from beneath his white silk sport coat; ten crisp bills, each worth 500 Euros. Chamberlain didn’t like interacting with the geese, he abhorred the idea of having to file changes to his previously logged flight plan, and he was terrified of the possibility that he might be flying right into an ambush, but he did like Euros. Yes he did, and he preferred little stacks of big bills as opposed to large piles of small bills. The larger denominations were such handy space savers, especially when you were dealing in quantities of 5,000 Euros or more. He smiled a thin, nervous smile and reached out to accept the offered gratuity.
“If you stop to think about it,” the captain complained, “it’s not so much, really, when you consider that fact that I could get killed.”
Horus reached out, patted the captain on the shoulder and said, “Captain, I have been looking for a pilot to fly my own private jet. I need a jet like this one and I need a man I can trust, a man like you, George. I guarantee you that we will do further business, assuming we all survive this day.”
Chamberlain stuffed the Euros in his pants pocket and asked, “So, where would you suggest that we land?”
“Continue on our present course for now. Notify me when you absolutely have to have an answer if we are to land at Alexandria,” Horus replied, “I’ve not yet decided whether to land there or at Luxor. Oh, by the way, do you have any weapons on board?”
“We have a Glock 18 in the cockpit. It’s quite lethal, really — kind of like a machine gun and a pistol at the same time, but…” Chamberlain seemed almost ashamed to admit, “I really don’t even like to hold it. I’ve never fired it.”
“Alright, that’s okay, George.” Horus patted the pilot’s shoulder once again and said, “Let’s pray that at the end of this day you’ll still be able to say you’ve never fired it.”
~~~
A few hours later, concealed behind a baggage pickup trolley, Abasi fumbled with the 50 round magazine before shoving it into his Uzi. He muttered, “I was supposed to take my wife shopping today and then they call us at the very last minute. If the kidnapper doesn’t kill me, she will.” He shot a quick glance at Yafeu and nodded in the direction of a gleaming private jet that had just landed, nearing the end of the Luxor International Airport runway. “That’s the one,” he said.
Yafeu nodded and forced a clip into his weapon. “Why couldn’t they have given us something decent to shoot with, like an MP-7? You can’t shoot straight with these relics,” he protested, “they don’t even make these anymore; they’re worthless except for close range fighting! I wonder where they got these damned things?”
“Probably left over from the Seven Day War, way back in the 70’s,” Abasi yelled as flight 322 exited the runway and made a sweeping right hand turn across the tarmac. Heading slowly toward its assigned gate, the roar of the powerful Rolls Royce engines was now reduced to a high pitched whine but was still plenty loud as to make spoken communications difficult.
“You mean the Six Day War,” Yafeu shouted back, swinging into the passengers’ seat of the baggage trolley, “and it wasn’t in the seventies, it was in 1967!”
“What?” Abasi cupped a hand to his ear.
“I said it was the Six Day War and it was in 1967 — not the seventies!”
Abasi nodded to let his fellow assassin know that he understood and hopped into the driver’s seat of the trolley. He turned the ignition key, placed the transmission in forward gear and prepared to drive out to meet the incoming jet. Before pressing down on the throttle he got a funny look on his face, leaned over and shouted, “Yafeu, if you get killed today, at your funeral I’ll tell everyone that you knew your history!” As the trolley lurched forward, Yafeu extended his middle finger and waived it vigorously at Abasi.
After removing his seatbelt and instructing Jeanne’s nurse to attend to her, Horus got up and walked briskly to the front of the plane as it continued to taxi to the boarding gate. Near the front of the plane he stopped and leaned against the side of the cabin, peering through the first passenger window with one knee resting on the cushion of a plush leather sofa, searching for anything that might be considered suspicious. As the red airfield stairs vehicle lumbered towards them followed by the large, black Mercedes Limo that had been ordered Horus noticed a third vehicle pulling out onto the tarmac. He called out, “Doris, why would a baggage trolley be coming out to meet us? I don’t think we have anything requiring transportation to the terminal’s pickup areas.”
Viewing the approaching service vehicles through the thick hatch window, a curious look on her face, Doris replied as the jet came to a complete halt and the engines shut down, “I’m not sure, sir. Perhaps we should ask them. I know we ordered covered stairs, but I don’t believe we ordered a baggage trolley. Could be a mix up, I suppose.” She turned the release wheel on the hatch as the airfield stairs were being carefully positioned against the fuselage.
~~~
“Look Yafeu,” Abasi pointed to the opening hatch as he stopped the trolley, placed it in park and removed the key from the dash.
Jumping from his seat to the concrete, not far from the foot of the mobile staircase, Yafeu replied, “Keep your Uzi hidden underneath your jacket until we reach the foot of the stairs.”
Abasi jumped off the baggage trolley and joined Yafeu. This wouldn’t take long. Maybe he would still make it home in time to take his wife shopping.
Shouted in Arabic, the barrage of obscene language that laced the air may have been more potent and closer to lethal than the first spray of fire from Abasi’s antique Uzi. It couldn’t have been more off target. Bullets pinged harmlessly off the metal steps and the exposed side of the mobile stairs without coming close to either the plane or the intended target.
“What are you shooting at?” Yafeu screamed. They hadn’t been given but two magazines, each. If they got involved in a gunfight that lasted more than a couple of minutes they would run out of ammunition.
Trying to explain and save face, aware that he had allowed control of the weapon to get away from him, Abasi shrugged and screamed back, “You were right. These things are worthless! Why did you ever accept them?”
“Me?” Yafeu felt like throwing punches. “You were there too!” Incredibly, he let his Uzi fall to his side, the strap hanging on his shoulder like a ladies bag as he shouted again, “You could have said something!”
“You were already taking charge. I could see that you wanted to handle it. I didn’t want you to…”
“What are you,” Yafeu stared at Abasi. “My wife?”
They stared at each other, squinting under the brilliant sun. Silence ruled for one brief moment, then Abasi erupted, “No I am not your wife, you goat of the devil! Do not talk about…”
From inside the cabin, concentrating on the images below, Horus, Kherep-Isfet, and Ra-Amenhotep each leaned with their faces pressed against the first three windows, furthest forward of the eight on the left side of the jet. Everyone else lay on their stomachs, like Doris, or crouched down beneath tables, like Buckingham and Captain Chamberlain, or they were cowering in the back as was the slightly inebriated nurse with her patient who seemed to have begun to awaken.
“Where are we?” Jeanne asked, looking around. She seemed bewildered. The last thing she recalled, she had been in her apartment. She blinked. Where was she now? She stood up unsteadily and prepared to head for the exit, not knowing what she might find beyond.
“You’re about to get your
head shot off if you don’t stay down!” The nurse shouted, trying to push Jeanne back down in her seat.
“No, no, I’m not supposed to be here,” Jeanne’s voice rose as her wits cleared. “I’ve been kidnapped!”
That shout caused Horus to look away from the two assassins that threatened to kill them all if he and his two priests were unable to control their minds and turn them against each other. Because their attention had been diverted by the attempt on their lives, they had ceased to exert their influence over Jeanne, whose sedative was also wearing off.
Holding out her arms in the confused belief that her Egyptian boyfriend and ex-classmate at M.I.T. had come to rescue her, Jeanne shouted, “Horace, Horace!” She forced her way past the nurse who fumbled in her black bag for the sedative Jeanne should have been given an hour ago. The medication for the injection had been drawn up, but she had dozed off for over an hour after her third complimentary cocktail.
Still unsteady, Jeanne stumbled after only a couple of steps and would have fallen to the carpet had it not been for the strong arms of her old friend. Safe, she was safe, she thought, in the blissfully powerful embrace of this man who had…
“Hey, wait a minute,” she said, tensing up in his embrace. What had he done? She caught a fleeting glimpse of memory — not enough to make everything clear, but enough to let her know Horace wasn’t innocent.
At that same moment a sharp pinch accompanied the hypodermic needle that sank into her neck. The nurse watched with satisfaction as her patient struggled for a moment and then collapsed in the big Egyptian’s arms. After she had been lowered into a seat, as the world receded, Jeanne barely heard the shots fired from the Glock 18 that quelled the assassination attempt.
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 21
