The Egyptian (12 page)

Her eyes widened.

“It’s a long story, and one I don’t want to get into right now. During the investigation I met a man named Professor Viktor Radek.”

“Professor?”

“Of religious phenomenology, at Charles University in Prague. He doesn’t teach anymore, at least not on a regular basis. He’s a private investigator.”

“Religious phenomenology?”

“It’s the practical, objective study of religion, as opposed to the subjective. The analysis of the cultural effect of belief and perceived phenomena on the believer.”

“I’m with you, I think.”

“Think of it as a scientific investigation into religion, rather than a leap of faith. The bottom line is that Viktor’s an expert on cults.”

“This just gets better and better. Now I do have to do a story on you. Put your frown away, I’m just kidding. Go on, this is fascinating.”

“After the Zimbabwe investigation, and after my, ah, parting of ways with the State Department, he asked me to work with him. I accepted.”

“You must have made quite an impression, after one case. I take it the investigation went well?”

Grey averted his eyes. “Some other time.”

“So you’re a private investigator, and you work on cases that involve… cults?”

“That’s a fair characterization. This is my first case with Viktor.”

“Are you the only two people in the world that have this job? What does Somax have to do with religion or cults?”

“Can’t go there.”

She thought for a minute. “It must be the anti-aging groups. Is one of those nut jobs involved? I know you can’t answer, but that has to be it.”

Grey signaled to the bartender again, this time for Veronica. “Your turn.”

She remained quiet until the bartender set another martini in front of her. She stirred it and popped an olive into her mouth. “Have you been to Somax yet?” He nodded. “Tight security, even for a biotech, right? I used an old trick today. I hung around a bar down the street from Somax, within view of the building, until one of the scientists, a fresh-faced lamb, came in after work. He didn’t at all mind buying a curious American girl a few drinks.”

“How many martinis have you had today?”

“I told him I was in the biotech business. I can throw around enough lingo to get by, especially with a language barrier. He spoke decent English; that’s why I chose a young one. That and he was cute. I got some very, very interesting information out of him.”

“I’m listening.”

She leaned in. “He didn’t give me any trade secrets. I don’t think he knows that much. But he complained that every time something interesting comes up, the executive VP of research takes the best scientists and retreats to his private lab.”

“Interesting.”

“No. What he told me next was interesting. A week ago this VP stopped work on a critical project, took some scientists and went off again. Apparently it caused waves at the company.”

“A week ago. He told you this?”

“One thing I’ve learned in my line of work: people will tell you anything given the right conditions.
Anything
. They want to tell you. The bigger the secret, the more they need to tell it. It’s like money burning a hole in your pocket. The location of the lab is hush-hush, by the way. No one, or at least not the guy I was talking to, knows where it is.”

Grey frowned.

“But it can’t be far from the VP’s private villa where he always takes the scientists.”

Grey controlled his reaction and took a casual sip of his beer. “You got the address, I assume?”

She smiled sweetly and finished her martini. She stood and slid her free hand into one of his. The contact felt nice, her hand warm and smooth. Before he could react, she transferred a slip of paper into his palm. He looked down. It was a train ticket.

“Meet me here tomorrow at noon,” she said, “with your gear. I’ve got some work to do tonight. Thanks again for the drinks.”

Without waiting for Grey’s response, she turned and walked to the hotel across the street.

W
hen Nomti averted his eyes to converse with Al-Miri, Jax acted. Only a fool or a sadistic egotist left someone like himself untied, even after such a severe beating. In fairness, maybe Al-Miri and Nomti didn’t know his background.

They should have checked.

Jax was connected to some of the most unsavory people on the planet, and some of them were arms dealers and weapons manufacturers. Jax had purchased a few very nasty gadgets over the years, and one of them never left his person. It was his weapon of last resort, and he thought right about now would be a fine time to use it.

He coughed and held his side again, doubling over to hide his movements. His left hand slipped into his pants, down to his jock strap. Stuffed inside the padding, accessible via a tiny zip pouch, was a tiny vial of liquid. Within seconds Jax had withdrawn the vial and flicked off the miniscule cap with his thumb.

The cap concealed a mechanized release node, similar to a bottle of hairspray. Jax was holding a miniature canister of pepper spray, one that a patdown and even most strip searches would miss.

Jax stood. Al-Miri flung a finger at him, and Nomti whirled. “Bet you wish you hadn’t set that gun down,” Jax muttered, and then thrust the mace into Nomti’s face. Jax pressed the release, and a stream of liquid splashed over Nomti’s cheeks and into his eyes. Nomti screamed: an ugly, primal sound. He dropped to his knees and clawed at his face.

This was not police-issue pepper spray. This was mercenary-issue pepper spray. Fifteen per cent active capsicum as compared to two per cent capsicum. Jax had been maced with this stuff before, and it felt like someone was holding your eyes open and pouring a steady stream of hydrochloric acid in them. Nomti was done for the day.

The vial had only enough mace for one spray. Jax dropped it and went for the gun. He expected to have to fight Al-Miri for it, but Al-Miri had gathered his robe and slipped out of the door as soon as Nomti screamed. Al-Miri must not be one for physical confrontation, or for ensuring that his employees didn’t get shot in the face.

Jax hurried out of the room. He had to assume the three men that had waylaid him were nearby. He loved freedom more than he loved revenge, so he didn’t risk shooting Nomti and alerting the staff. It was a real pity Jax didn’t have his boot knife, because he would have loved to slit Nomti’s throat.

Jax saw the flurry of Al-Miri’s robe at the far end of the hallway. Al-Miri opened a door and stepped inside.

Where were the other men? Had Al-Miri gone for them? Jax jabbed his thumb at the square elevator button, again and again. The wait seemed interminable, and the hallway was calm as a prayer room.

Jax kept pushing the button. “Come on now, love, come on.”

The door Al-Miri had entered flung open at the same time the elevator door slid apart. Jax tumbled inside. He stabbed at the button to close the door, putting his entire bodyweight behind it, as if that would help. In the hallway he heard footsteps, heavy footsteps. Someone was walking rapidly towards the elevator.

Walking. Why not running?

The footsteps drew closer. Just before the door sealed, a set of fingers wrapped around the edge of the door. Jax kept the button depressed, and the hand slid away just before the door sealed. Jax was lucky the elevator was older, and not sensitive like the newer models.

Jax took a deep breath and ran scenarios through his mind for when he hit the bottom floor. He also ran scenarios through his mind for what the hell was going on, and who the hell had stuck his hand in that elevator door. Because the hand that had latched onto the door, including the fingers, had been wrapped in white bandages, swathed like a burn victim.

G
rey arrived at Veronica’s hotel at noon the next day, and they took a cab to the train station. Veronica pointed to a map; their destination laid east, a town halfway to the Black Sea.

The train ride was stunning. The mountains surrounding Sofia faded into vast wooded slopes hiding villages in the crooks and curves of the hills, little stone children poking out from behind their mothers’ green skirts.

Then wine country: terra cotta roofs and pastoral calm, fields of purple and brown cross-stitched by vines, silver-tipped olive trees feathered by the breeze, an entire landscape defined by the soft mauve draping of a mellow sun. The only reminders of the Eastern bloc were the occasional cement smoke stack spewing chemical filth, obsolete smudges of Socialism looming over the fields like giant Orwellian wardens.

New mountains replaced the hills, first a gnarled, snow-capped range to the north, then a parallel range to the south, this one rising like giant stacked thumbs. A narrow plain separated the two, the Valley of the Roses, a river of green meadow flowing between stentorian guardians.

They traveled miles, tens of miles, without seeing a car or a paved road. Horse-drawn carts, farmers with scythes, stillness, cloud-stroked peaks, farmhouses, orchards, waterfalls spilling into rivulets that gurgled across the long meadows, all swathed by the carmine brush of the rose beds, an ethereal beauty untainted by modernity.

The tracks rose higher, straight through the belly of the
Stare
Planina
to the north, the Old Mountains. It was rugged country, forgotten and beautiful, a land that evoked images of knights and quests, darkened taverns and hidden monasteries, a moonlit hike to treasure.

The mountains decomposed into a land of hills and forested ridgelines. Before long the grays and other dull colors of civilization peppered the world again, and the train chugged into a modest town defined by the ruins of a castle looming atop a hill.

•  •  •

The town, Veliko Tarnovo, was a scenic mishmash of seven thousand years of human history. A steep gorge cut by the Yantra River drew a sly S-curve through the town, and most of the houses clustered along the sides of the gorge itself, or on the low hills squatting above. Grey and Veronica booked two rooms in a small pension clinging like a barnacle to the side of the gorge.

After an early dinner in the pension’s small
mexana,
Veronica headed into town to hunt for information. Grey wanted to do some reconnaissance of his own, get a feel for the place.

He bought a map and started walking. The map told him Veliko had been the medieval capital of Bulgaria, and she was a much more charming mistress than Sofia. A collection of pretty stone-and-timber framed houses characterized the streets near the gorge, and the wood-based architecture, along with narrow cobble-stoned streets, lent the town a village feel.

Still, as in Sofia, a patina of neglect cloaked the town. The wealth of the town started at the gorge and radiated back, receding rapidly the further Grey walked from the gorge. The older sections of town reminded Grey of a poorer, Bulgarian version of the French Quarter in New Orleans. He saw street upon street of contiguous three-story town homes, crumbling and vine-covered. Hanging laundry covered intricate wrought-iron balconies which looked ready to collapse if a cat jumped on them.

It had grown late, the time of evening where the sky reaches for the ground, and Grey found himself walking along a narrow rocky isthmus connecting the town to the fortress-like ruins of Tsarevets Castle. Grey passed through three giant arches and the remains of an ancient wall, and then the sparsely forested hill rose before him.

The castle ruins were enormous, much larger than they looked from a distance. Broken stone pathways and cracked masonry studded the slopes, and Grey stuck to the curved main path leading to the top.

He crested the hill just before the light failed, engulfed by the nocturnal concerto of insects. He was surprised to find someone else standing at the overlook, arms crossed and staring at the burnt smear of terra cotta roofs in the distance.

Grey approached, and they nodded in that curt way men as strangers greet each other. Just before Grey started to descend, the man turned.

“A nice view,” he said, and Grey agreed. He then asked, “British?”

He was strong-jawed, handsome, maybe forty, careful with his appearance. He had clipped dark hair and compact Da Vinci proportions, but lacked any distinguishing irregularities, as if he had stepped out of a Slavic pod. He was wearing black pants and an untucked fitted shirt.

“American.”

He cocked his head to the side and looked Grey directly in the eyes as he spoke. His voice was confident and engaging. “An uncommon sight here. I apologize. You do not look so… open?… as most Americans. I don’t mean that in a negative manner.”

“I’ve probably missed out on a few defining American traits over the years.”

“Forgive me, but when I see someone from abroad admiring the view of the town I like to greet him.”

“It’s a beautiful town. It has character.”

“We are not yet up to the standards of the West, but in ten years I believe Bulgaria will be a new place.”

“I hope it doesn’t change too much. The world needs more places like this.”

“You look east and we look west.” The man gave a warm smile and extended his hand. Grey took it. The man said, “The hill is not so safe after dark. You’re staying near the center?”

“Yes.”

“Come. I’m going that direction. Have you tried our
rakia
yet?”

“I had one or two in Sofia.”

“Tsk. I know a nice
mexana
on the way.”

“Thank you, but-”

“Please. I will introduce you to traditional
rakia
and you will go on your way and when anyone asks you about Veliko Tarnovo, you can tell them about Bulgarian hospitality.”

He introduced himself as Stefan Dimitrov. Grey didn’t take to conversations with strangers, but the man might be a source of information. They descended, and Grey found he didn’t mind Stefan’s company. He was intelligent and well-traveled, one of those people who are self-centered in conversation, but in a friendly way. Grey lacked the trait of conversational dominance, and had no need to compete with it.