The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) (14 page)

The man
with the needle rounded the bedside, and George’s muscles tensed to scramble
away, then relaxed, knowing there was no escape. He was an old man, an invalid
by some accounts due to his accident, and would have no hope of fighting off
two young, healthy men.

But they
couldn’t take away his dignity.

The
other man spoke, remaining at the foot of the bed.

“If you
wanted to honor our Pharaoh, there was only one thing you needed to do.”

“Name
it, we’ll do it.”

“Leave
him to rest in peace.”

The man
sporting the needle darted forward, plunging the device into his cheek. He
gritted his teeth, then the needle was removed and the man stepped back.

“The
curse of the Pharaoh’s has begun,” said the Oxford man. “Tell the others it
will continue until the Pharaoh’s tomb is returned as it was, and all activity
stops.”

George
nodded. “I will deliver the message, but they won’t stop”—he pointed at where
he had been jabbed—“not over this.”

“Perhaps
not tomorrow,” said the first, his voice almost smiling. “But after your
agonizing death, they may feel differently.”

And it
was an agonizing death.

At first
it seemed like nothing, and the next morning he could have been forgiven for
thinking the entire episode was a dream, save one thing. The small mark on his
face where he had been injected.

Each
morning in the mirror it grew. But he felt fine. He tried to ignore it, dabbing
his face with shaving cream, covering up the welt, as he performed his morning
ritual, and with a hiss and a wince, he realized he had sliced the top off the
growing welt.

Blood
spilled over the blade and down his cheek, mixing with the foamy white soap.
Cursing his stupidity, he finished shaving, then administered to the blemish by
holding a handkerchief on the spot until the bleeding stopped. It took some
time, but eventually it did, and he was able to depart for the dig site.

It would
be the last time he saw it.

His wife
was sent for, and she arrived in time to say goodbye, his days filled with
fever and cough, pneumonia having set in. And one week later, on the 5
^th
of April, he met his maker, after a week of agonizing pain and hallucinations,
all the while crying of the Curse of the Pharaohs, and the king cobras that had
visited his bed chamber to deliver a warning.

All who
disturb the Pharaohs, shall die.

Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site

One Day Before the Liberty Island Attack

Acton’s lungs were sucking air at an alarming rate and he knew if
the massive cover stone didn’t start to move soon, he would have to call a halt
to the operation. The cavern they had found yesterday was a good size, but it
seemed crowded now. He and Laura were accompanied by Chaney, half a dozen
students, and another half dozen Egyptian laborers. A pulley system had been
set up, a massive pile of sand had been transferred in overnight and piled on
either side of the stone doorway, and a dozen men were grunting as they pulled
on the ropes.

And it
wasn’t working.

He
exchanged a quick glance with Laura who was directing the operations. She
nodded as if she read his mind.

I’m
going to die if we don’t stop!

“One
last time, give it everything you’ve got!” she yelled, one of the Egyptian
supervisors screaming it in Arabic.

Everyone
eased off on the ropes then snapped them back, hard, pulling with all their
might. Acton started to see spots as he pulled with every ounce of strength he
could muster, and still nothing.

Then
suddenly, something.

It was a
scraping sound, stone scraping on stone, and it sent a surge of adrenaline
through him, and from the smiles he saw on the other sweat streaked faces surrounding
him, the others as well. Everyone was pulling hard, everyone giving it
everything they had. They all wanted to see what was inside, to see if what
could be the greatest archeological find in centuries was still intact. When
Acton’s flashlight had first lit the cover stone, he had known immediately what
this was.

The lost
tomb of Antony and Cleopatra.

Why it
was out here in the Nubian Desert, so far from Alexandria, was beyond him. But
he didn’t care if he was in the middle of Nevada; if the find were genuine, it
would be the most exciting, incredible thing he had ever laid eyes upon in his
entire career.

But they
needed to move this damned stone first.

“Again!”
yelled an excited Laura, and they all pulled with renewed vigor, and again the
scraping sound, louder and longer. The stone, laying against the cavern wall,
at about an 80 degree angle from the ground, was moving, finally, and soon
would come the difficult part. The skill part.

“This
time both crews! Again!”

And this
time the two crews pulled in unison, his crew the brute force crew, the second
the guiding crew, tasked with not only preserving any gains made by the first
crew, but to guide the stone when it finally came free, which was why the
second crew were entirely students and Chaney. They had to be certain the
instructions had been understood, and assurances from a translator weren’t
enough.

The
stone began to tip, passing the 90 degree mark, and the momentum they had built
had it tipping outward and toward those manning the ropes.

“Everyone
toward me!” she yelled, her Arabic echo shouting the same.

Acton
dug his heel into the ground and began to pull to his left instead of away from
the wall, and he realized immediately that Laura’s insistence on the
instruction being “toward me” rather than “to the left” was the right choice.
He wasn’t certain the laborers would know their left from their right, and in
his own exhaustion, he couldn’t be sure he knew either.

But he
knew exactly where the most lovely voice in the world was coming from, even if
it were barking orders like a slave driver. He felt the stone start to swing,
the grinding sound echoing through the chamber, terrifyingly loud. A glance
over his shoulder showed the massive stone now turning away from the cave wall,
and toward the huge pile of sand that Laura stood near the top of, on the side
away from the stone, and as it continued to swing around, he lost track, his
exhaustion taking over, when he heard a shout.

“Let
go!”

He
tossed his rope and stepped away from the stone as it collapsed slowly toward
the mound of sand, Laura stepping back quickly as the enormous stone picked up
speed.

It hit
with an almost anti-climactic thud, the sand serving its purpose of cushioning
the fall, preserving the cover stone bearing the carved symbols indicating
whose tomb this was for future generations to enjoy. A smile spread across his
face as he collapsed to the ground and the chamber filled with cheers. He felt
arms around him as Laura rushed over and hugged him.

“Are you
okay, Dear?”

“I’m
getting too old for this shit,” he moaned.

“Lethal
Weapon.” She grinned, seemingly pleased with herself that she had picked up the
reference to one of his all-time favorite series. “And sorry, Darling, but
you’re more Riggs than Murtaugh, so you don’t have any excuses.”

“Ugh,
you
are
a slave driver.”

“If we
had a drum, I think it would have helped.”

“Next
time I’ll be sure to bring one.”

She
laughed and helped him to his feet.

“Lights!”
he called, and several students rushed forward with large lanterns and flashlights
as Acton and his fiancée approached the now gaping entranceway into what Acton
hoped would be the greatest find in the history of Egyptian archeology.

And as
they stepped through the entrance, their lights flickering on the mysterious
interior, there was a cry from somebody behind them, then the sound of panic
setting in. Acton swung around to see the laborers all scrambling for the rope
ladder that led to the surface, pushing and shoving at each other as they
competed for the narrow escape route.

“What’s
wrong?” he asked, stepping out, but as his light played across the back of the
cover stone, he didn’t bother listen for an answer. The cause for their panic
was clear. In the center of the massive stone was a carving of a king cobra,
coiled around the hieroglyph representing Death, with an inscription carved in
hieroglyphics, Latin, and Arabic. Quickly translating the Latin, he gasped.

“The
Curse of the Pharaohs!”

Cairo, Egypt

One Day Before the Liberty Island Attack

Imam Mahmoud Khalil sat cross-legged on the floor, his followers few
but devoted, spread throughout the room, similarly seated, devouring his every
word. This was what he loved. The rapt attention, the hanging on every word. It
was power. The power to inspire, the power to control.

The
power to effect change.

Tired of
the far too moderate teachings of the Imam he had followed since his youth, he
struck out on his own, preaching his own views, far more hardline than most,
but in his view, far more true to the Koran than some moderates would have the
Infidels believe.

The
ultimate goal of the Koran was to lay out the foundation necessary to convert
the entire world to Islam. It was plain to anyone who read the Holy words.
Peaceful coexistence was not an option. Peaceful subjugation was, in which
those of a different religion could live amongst Muslims, but it was every good
Muslim’s duty to harass them until they converted, or struck out in violence so
they could be killed in the name of Allah.

Those
who wanted to live in peace would convert to the religion of peace. It was very
simple. Why so many pussyfooted around the true message was beyond him. The
Infidels had already lost, they just didn’t realize it yet. Their economies
were collapsing in a frenzy of security spending brought on by the glorious
successes of Osama bin Laden, their populations were scared, and when just two
young men bombing a marathon could bring a city of almost five million to a
halt for a day, and distract a nation for days, costing untold billions in lost
productivity, imagine what sustained, small attacks could do.

But Khalil
wanted to inspire, and his plan, in the making for years, would not only uphold
one of the tenets of Islam, but stab a dagger of fear throughout the Western world
when those countries decided what monuments to decadence to build; it would
encourage the nation of Islam, spread throughout every country, to rise up, and
commit the small acts of terror necessary to bring the Western economies to a
grinding halt, thus destroying their ability to strike back.

For
tomorrow, the world would change forever, and the idol, worshipped by an entire
nation, and the huddled masses around the world, would be no more.

The Arab
Spring had been a glorious triumph, but not in the way the ignorant West
thought. The countries that had overthrown their leaders had overthrown
secularist leaders and replaced them with “democratically” elected Islamist
governments. And as each domino fell, more and more of the caliphate was being
restored. Eventually these countries would unite in common purpose and
eliminate the plague that was Israel, then push all Western influence from
their lands.

And
tomorrow’s inspiration would enflame the passions of today’s youth for
generations, demonstrating the superiority of those who followed the true
religion.

Khalil
turned to the monitors facing him, his much larger base of followers spread throughout
the world awaiting their final instructions before chaos was unleashed. He
smiled as he looked at each screen, the true believers, willing to die for
their god and his prophet, staring back with expressions ranging from fear to
excitement, but without exception, devotion burning in their eyes.

He held
out his hands, encompassing those watching remotely, and those in the room
ready for their domestic assault, and turned his eyes upward.

“Rejoice
today in the gifts granted you by Allah, enjoy yourselves, then purify your
souls, for tomorrow your brave sacrifice will see you in Jannah, with Allah’s
perpetual blessing in Paradise, for helping fulfill his Word brought to us by
the prophet Mohammad, peace be upon him.” His head lowered, his eyes opening as
he looked at his flock, then with a surge of fury in his heart as he thought of
those who would dare try to stop him, he shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”, and was
quickly drowned out by those around him as they lost themselves in the rapture
of true belief.

And with
that belief, that devotion, the restoration of the Caliphate would begin
tomorrow as the false idols were destroyed.

Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site

One Day Before the Liberty Island Attack

Laura stepped forward, her expert hands running over the inscription
carved into the stone. She read the words several times, then finally said them
out loud, confirming Acton’s translation.

“Death
shall come on swift wings to him that toucheth the tomb of a Pharaoh.”

“Good
thing you’re a woman otherwise I’d be scared for you.”

He
received an elbow to the gut.

He
grunted then chuckled as she stepped back.

“I
always thought that the curse was a myth created by the newspapers during the
King Tut excavations. There were no actual glyphs with those words, it was made
up by someone.”

“A
joke?”

She
shook her head. “These look like they were carved here long before the Tut
expedition. And judging from what I saw inside, no grave robbers have touched
this place.”