by Gabriel Hunt
“With the Stone in the British Museum.”
“Precisely.”
“So what about this second tablet?”
Amun poured himself another glass of mint tea. “Are you sure you won’t have a drink, Mister Hunt? You know it is an insult to refuse hospitality from an Arab.”
“How do I know the tea’s not drugged?” Gabriel said.
“You don’t,” Amun said. “If I wish to drug you, Mister Hunt, you will be drugged. If I wish to kill you, you will be killed. Now drink your tea.”
Gabriel lifted the glass to his lips, sniffed, and took a sip.
“You see?” Amun said. “Not everything is a threat, my friend.”
“Let’s get one thing straight. We’re not friends.”
Amun shrugged. “Perhaps we will be once you have laid hands on the most important archaeological discovery in the history of the Western world.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Gabriel said.
“Mister Hunt. You can pretend all you like, you will not convince me that you are not curious.”
“Sure I’m curious. I’d have been more curious if you hadn’t kidnapped my sister.”
“Perhaps,” Amun said. “But you would have been less likely to turn the Stone over to us rather than to one of your museums once you’d found it.”
“How do you even know this second tablet exists? I’ve never heard about it.”
“Yes, well. That is in the nature of secrets: few people hear of them. And this one was kept very secret indeed.” Amun raised a hand to stop Gabriel from interrupting. “The Second Stone, as we have come to call it, was a good deal smaller than the first and buried quite a bit deeper in the ground. Napoleon’s brother Louis found it after the main excavation was completed. He unearthed it with the assistance of his private secretary and kept it for the emperor, as a gift. When Louis returned to France in 1799, he brought the Second Stone back with him. But he couldn’t restrain himself and described it to his brother in a private letter sent in advance by courier. We have that letter.”
“How do you know he was telling the truth about it?” Gabriel said.
“You think he would lie to his brother? To Napoleon Bonaparte? No, no, it was the truth. When he arrived and presented the Second Stone to Napoleon, the emperor was overjoyed. He spent a week sequestered with the piece and summoned one of his most trusted advisors to his side to examine it with him. We have that letter as well.”
“Is that all you’ve got—a couple of letters? I mean, they might fetch a good price at Christie’s, but . . .”
“That is not all we have,” Amun said. “We have been searching for the Second Stone for well over thirty years, Mister Hunt. We have chased down false leads by the dozen, we have questioned people who we thought might be harboring information about its whereabouts, and one halting, painful step at a time, we have drawn closer to its hiding place. And we believe we have now found it.”
“So why don’t you go get it, if you know where it is?”
“We know generally where it is,” Amun said, “not precisely. And we also know that the location is protected, both mechanically and by a secret society sworn to keep the Second Stone ever from coming to light again.”
“What do you mean, ‘mechanically’?”
“When Napoleon finished his examination of the Second Stone, he ordered the aide he had summoned—an engineer of some repute—to take the Stone to Napoleon’s birthplace in Corsica and hide it there, in a cave near Ajaccio. Napoleon worked closely with this engineer to design the hiding place. We believe the vault in which the Second Stone was placed contains a number of traps—deadly ones, Mister Hunt, based on Napoleon’s own ideas. To prevent the Stone from being found or stolen, you understand.”
“And the secret society?”
“That was Louis’s doing. He organized the group to keep watch over the Stone’s location. This small group of Corsicans has passed the knowledge down, father to son, through ten generations. They still exist today.”
“And how do you know that? Another letter?”
“No, Mister Hunt,” Amun said. “Much simpler than that. We succeeded in capturing one of them. He told us much before he died.”
“But not the location of the cave.”
“Not its precise location, no. He would have, eventually. But he was too weak. His heart . . .” Amun made a gesture with one hand, a closed fist opening.
A second Rosetta Stone. Gabriel was having some trouble wrapping his brain around the idea. It would be a treasure, to be sure—a priceless one that men might die to possess. But why would they die to keep its mere existence a secret?
“What’s so special about this Second Stone? There’s got to be something more to it than its archeological significance.”
Amun smiled. He leaned forward across the table. “After seeing what was inscribed on the Second Stone, Napoleon Bonaparte conquered Europe. He was a strong soldier before—but after, for a time . . . ? He was unstoppable. He was a god.”
Gabriel put both hands on the arms of his chair, started to stand. Kemnebi stepped closer.
“What is it, Mister Hunt?” Amun said. “We are not done.”
“Oh, yes we are,” Gabriel said. “I’m not searching for some magic stone you think will give you the power to conquer the world.”
“Don’t be rash,” Amun said. “Your sister will die if you walk out of here now. And so will you.”
“For heaven’s sake,” Gabriel said. “How good a magic stone could it have been? Napoleon lost!”
“Sit down!” Amun snatched up Gabriel’s Colt and pulled back the hammer. “Or would you rather be shot with your own gun?”
Gabriel sat.
“First of all, Mister Hunt, I did not say it was a magic stone. I only said it was contemporaneous with the Rosetta Stone and contained an inscription of sufficient interest that Napoleon spent a week examining it.”
“Examining what?” Gabriel said, exasperated. “He couldn’t have read it—the Rosetta Stone itself wasn’t even translated for twenty more years!”
“Be that as it may. He inspected it, and somehow emerged changed. Transformed. By all accounts, it was the inscription on the Second Stone that gave him the power to achieve what he did. You may call it magic if you wish; I prefer to think of it as the will of the old gods, those who gave the pharaohs their power. Bonaparte gained power he should never have had. He gained . . . I am not sure what to call it. Charisma. The mantle of a great leader. Whatever along these lines he had before was multiplied a hundredfold. A thousandfold. He became the Napoleon of history books, the famed emperor of Europe. He was a changed man.”
“Who lost!”
“Yes, ultimately. He made some serious mistakes and was brought down—but he came closer to dominating the world than anyone since Alexander or Genghis Khan.”
“Did they have magic stones too?”
“Who knows? Perhaps. All we care about is what Bonaparte had.” Amun took another swallow of his tea. His hand was shaking now, very slightly, and Gabriel saw sweat dotting his brow. The man was not completely unflappable. “He had no right to it,” Amun said. “It was ours—it was Egypt’s. The stone and the power it conveyed. And you are going to help us get it back.”
Gabriel stood once more. Kemnebi leaned toward him, grinding the knuckles of one enormous hand against the palm of the other.
“I’m not leaving,” Gabriel said. “Just need the bathroom. Too much tea.”
Amun nodded at Kemnebi. “Show him where it is.”
The big man extended one long arm, pointing. He followed close behind as Gabriel walked between two tall piles of rugs. A wooden door stood open and through it Gabriel could see a small cubicle with a sink and commode.
He shut the door behind him, unbuckled his belt, and went through the motions of using the facility, trusting the sound to travel through the thin door. Meanwhile, he reached into his jacket pocket and dug out his cell phone. He saw a text message from Sammi on the
screen:
THAT’S THE PRO
That was all there was. Just the three words, and the third possibly not even complete. That’s the problem . . . ? That’s the professional . . . ? What had she meant to type—and what had prevented her from finishing the message?
Pressing the phone’s tiny loudspeaker tightly against his ear to muffle its sound, Gabriel thumbed the icon to dial Sammi’s cell phone. It rang just once and then went to voice mail.
Damn.
After zipping his pants and washing his hands, Gabriel swung the door open.
Kemnebi and Amun were standing there, waiting for him. Before Gabriel could say a word, Kemnebi grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall. The big man patted him down until he felt the phone through Gabriel’s jacket. He groped inside and held it aloft like a prize.
“You should have known better,” Amun said. “We can’t allow you to be in contact with the outside world, Mister Hunt.”
Kemnebi dropped the phone on the floor and then stomped on it with his boot, smashing the thirty-thousand-dollar device to pieces.
“Oh, and you can forget about your female companion,” Amun added. “By now, I am afraid she is no longer among the living.”
Chapter 8
It was difficult for Sammi to tell how fast the van was going. From the smoothness of the drive, she suspected they were on an expressway.
She’d given up yelling and kicking when it became clear it was doing no good. Instead, she concentrated on the ropes around her wrists. When she had been her father’s assistant, she had used thicker cords that were easier to manipulate. These felt as narrow as shoelaces; they were tight and dug painfully into her skin.
The secret of slipping rope ties was to prepare for the escape prior to being bound. Houdini would stand in poses that expanded his muscles so that when he relaxed his pose after being tied he gained the millimeters of slack he needed. Another approach was to discreetly influence the person doing the binding into tying his knots a specific way—like using a magician’s “force” to compel the choice of a particular playing card. Or you could use your fingers and wrists to twist the knot as it was being secured—the so-called Kellar method, which Sammi’s father had taught her. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had the opportunity to do any of these things.
The van hit a bump and Sammi stifled a yelp. The floor was unpadded corrugated metal and any time they passed over an uneven spot in the pavement she slammed against it. With her arms trussed tightly behind her and her shoulders aching from the strain, getting banged around like this was no pleasure.
She continued to work on the ropes as the terrain changed. She felt the vehicle slow and the road become rougher.
With an effort that almost made her pass out, she managed to force one of the constricting ropes up over the fleshy tissue of her right palm, the thickest part of her hand. The thin cord tore into her skin as she worked her wrists and palms back and forth, loosening the bonds a tiny fraction at a time.
A few minutes later the sounds outside the van changed. Sammi could no longer hear other traffic. The vehicle was not only traveling on a rougher road—it was traveling on an empty one.
Not a good sign.
She sped up her efforts, using a fingernail to saw at the rope, struggling to apply pressure with her index finger.
Then her nail broke.
Sammi cursed aloud but kept sawing. It hurt like hell—but maybe the ragged edge of the broken nail would get through the rope that much quicker.
The van made a sharp left turn that threw her against the inside wall, then it continued on over a rocky, bumpy road. She tried to maintain her concentration.
Pretend it’s an underwater trunk escape. You’re being buffeted by the current, you’ve got ninety seconds of air, you’ve got to get out.
Now.
With an excruciating effort, she slipped two fingers beneath the rope and strained to squeeze through the narrow opening she’d managed to create. The sweat on her palms provided some lubrication, but—was it enough?
Just a little more. She could feel it. She was almost there.
Which was a good thing, since the van was slowing further.
Finally the rope slipped. She pulled her fingers through and felt the rope slide free onto the floor of the van. The next thing was the burlap bag. With trembling fingers, she untied the cord securing it around her neck and stripped it off. She drew in a deep breath—the air in the back of a filthy van had never tasted so fresh. She took a moment to get her bearings.
A metal partition separated the van’s cab from the back. There was nothing else back here with her.
Now what?
She didn’t have a plan. She didn’t have a weapon. She had only one advantage—she wasn’t tied up anymore, and they didn’t know it.
Moments later the van pulled to a stop. She crawled over to the back doors as she heard the men get out of the cab. Then footsteps on gravel, moving to the rear.
Keys rattled in the lock. They were about to open the doors.
Sammi positioned herself on her back, her feet against the doors.
They started to swing open.
Sammi kicked out, hard, hitting both men, one heavy metal door in each kidnapper’s face. She lurched to her feet and jumped out of the van. One of the men, a short, stocky Egyptian in khakis and hiking boots, was on his side on the ground, groping at a shoulder holster. The other, a taller man with hair the color of cold ash and cheeks pocked with acne scars, was still on his feet. She kneed him in the groin as hard as she could. The man howled and bent double. She gave him another knee, this time to the jaw, and he went down.
The other man, meanwhile, had managed to get his gun out. Sammi fell face-first in the dirt and heard a bullet speed by overhead, ricocheting off the side of the van. She reached over to the unconscious man beside her and, with a heave, dragged his body between her and the shooter. He fired again, but high, trying not to hit his fallen comrade.
The comrade had a holster as well, on his hip, and Sammi wasted no time in snatching the pistol out of it. She was no expert with guns, but she knew enough to take the safety off and aim it in the right direction.
The man across from her leveled his gun right back at her. He called something to her in Arabic, the tone condescending. Put down the gun, she imagined, or maybe, You’re not going to pull that trigger, are you, little lady?
She pulled the trigger.
The look of surprise that blossomed on the man’s face was matched only by the sudden spread of a red bloom across the front of his shirt, like a time-lapse movie of a rose opening.
He fell backward, blood pooling beneath him.
Sammi scrambled to her feet and glanced around. It was a desolate patch of land, home to what looked like an abandoned rock quarry or possibly a one-time archaeological dig. A deep, narrow trench had been dug in the ground.
They had planned to kill her and bury her here.
She thought briefly about filling the grave with the body of the man she’d shot, but there was no telling how soon the other one would come to. She could have shot him as well—she considered this briefly—but she decided that one shooting in a day, and that in self-defense, was her limit. She was not a squeamish woman, but she drew the line at shooting an unconscious man.
She did hold onto his gun, though.
Returning to the van, she climbed in behind the wheel, found the keys in the ignition. Her purse and cell phone were in the well between the seats, along with the binoculars with the broken strap.
Sammi closed the door and started the engine. She could see Cairo’s skyline in the distance. Gabriel was somewhere back there. She floored the gas.
Chapter 9
Amun led Gabriel through an archway and into a modestly appointed dining room. A table had been set for two.
Kemnebi followed close behind.
“I thought you might like a bite before we embark on our journey,” Amun announced as he gestured to a
chair. “Please.”
“I’m not hungry,” Gabriel answered. “I had lunch.”
“Come, come. We have already discussed the insult of refusing hospitality. Try some of our delicacies. I don’t expect you to clean your plate.”
Gabriel took one of the seats. Amun bowed slightly and then sat across from him. Kemnebi stood near another archway that was draped with long, hanging curtains. He clapped his hands. A young woman wearing a niqab entered with a tray. The pungent aromas of cooked food wafted into the dining room.
She placed a basket of pita bread on the table and poured two glasses of water. Along with a pair of steaming bowls, Gabriel noted the several sets of utensils on her tray. Including knives.
The woman put the bowls of greenish soup in front of both men and doled out a spoon apiece from the stack of cutlery, then carried the tray out of reach, standing with it against one of the walls.
“Have you tried our molokhiyya soup?” Amun asked. “It’s made from a vegetable that’s distinctly Egyptian.” He took a piece of pita with his right hand and dunked it into his bowl. Gabriel did the same. The soup was salty but very good.
“You’ve been to Egypt before, I take it?”
“Many times,” Gabriel replied. “Never had the soup, though.”
“I am pleased,” Amun said, “to introduce a man as worldly as you to a new experience.”
“I’ve never had my sister kidnapped either,” Gabriel said.
“Or your traveling companion killed, I imagine.”
“No,” Gabriel said, “that one I’ve had.”
“Well, I’m sorry to burden you with it again. With either of these distasteful events. Rest assured it gives me no pleasure to do these things. I am not a sadist, Mister Hunt. Merely a man with a purpose.”
“So was Torquemada,” Gabriel said.
“Yes, yes, Torquemada,” Amun said. “Eat your soup.”
Gabriel took another spoonful, trying hard to control his temper. It was difficult to converse politely with the man responsible for Lucy’s kidnapping and Sammi’s present situation. Whatever that might be. He knew how skilled she was at getting out of impossible traps; he wouldn’t believe she was dead till he got some proof.
