The Egyptian (24 page)

She left the cozy clutter of her office and took the employee staircase to the Coin Room. A stroll through the treasures of the lower level whetted her appetite for the smorgasbord of artifacts upstairs.

She loved the museum at night. It was one of the few places in Cairo where one could be alone. Sixteen million people, seven within the city limits. And for her daily respite from the smog-choked insanity of Cairo to be a midnight waltz through the handsome corridors and galleries of this museum, well, it was like giving a child the spare key to the chocolate factory.

She climbed to the upper level and sighed in pleasure. Was there any manmade place on earth more spectacular than the recreated tomb of Tutankhamun? It throbbed with mystique, with all that is secret and rich and lost.

Then on to the Royal Mummy Room, the place she always lingered until those silent wrapped bodies sent tingles of unease creeping down her arms. Even with all her knowledge and years in this museum, she loved that she could still be alone in this room and experience the same thrills of her field that first drew her in.

The mummies brought back an unpleasant memory of the second call, the one that was referred to her, probably because everyone considered her the most available Egyptologist. She thought she’d handled herself fairly well, all things considered. She had provided the necessary information and her voice hadn’t trembled too much, she didn’t think, when the caller identified himself as Detective Kassem from the Cairo police, calling to solicit her opinion on a series of brutal murders in Bulgaria.

Murders, the detective had said in a grave but slightly embarrassed voice, near which a few pieces of very strange evidence had been found.

•  •  •

Viktor listened to his messages and closed his phone with a thoughtful twist of his wrist. The Egyptologist had returned his call, and would be happy to talk with him.

Then he’d listened to Grey’s message.

Viktor didn’t consider himself a white knight. He enjoyed helping people, as he suspected most functioning human beings did, although he questioned the true nature of altruism, as any philosopher must.

Viktor valued his work with the various police departments worldwide because it gave him insider access to extreme situations. One could never hope to fully explore the enormous number of cults in the world. Assisting the police gave him a shortcut, a built-in worldwide alarm system to cult behavior on the far end of the spectrum. The deep and frightening end.

Viktor sat in a leather chair in the study of his Prague town home and uncorked the bottle of Suisse-Couvet. Vintage absinthe was exceedingly rare and abominably expensive, but there was nothing quite like it. He performed La Louche and then crossed his legs, glass in hand, as he stared at the gaslit glow of the street outside his bay window.

Perhaps Al-Miri was a one-off, a quack, an eccentric. He’d checked his Interpol contacts, and found no information on criminal activity related to a cult of Nu, or any other cult, coming out of Egypt. Viktor also conducted his own research, and found no mention of a cult claiming allegiance to Nu.

Ever.

He considered the prospect of a revival cult. Revival cults can be intense, even violent, but they often involved adherents unconnected to the weight of history. And history held that which Viktor craved most. Knowledge. Secrets.

If there were a God, if there were powers at work in this universe above and beyond the human experience, then they had likely existed for a very long time. Cults and religions claimed inside knowledge of such powers, and Viktor had made it his life’s work to study as many of these claims as he could.

He’d seen more exorcisms than he could count, he’d seen Juju priests induce blindness and boils with a wave of the hand, he’d seen Tibetan monks melt snow ten feet from their bodies, he’d seen the drug-induced zombies of Vodun, he’d seen mind readers and levitators and necromancers and fire-walkers and telekinetics and balls of colored air floating through cemeteries.

He’d witnessed a great many things for which he, or science, had a potential alternative answer. He’d witnessed a select few for which mankind, at least in this stage of its development, had no answer. That, however, did not make them supernatural.

And Viktor wanted proof.

Perhaps, just perhaps, Al-Miri was not part of a revival cult. Maybe it was that rarest of cults, the one that had survived in the shadows since ancient times, the one which had no desire for infamy, no underlying collective psychological need for attention.

Ancient Egyptian religion: one of the eldritch ones, bearer of untold secrets lost for millennia. An originator of myth and legend. Viktor had investigated one or two of the mystery cults that had survived into modern times, but those were products of foreign invasions into Egypt. Bastardizations all. Then there were the starry-eyed New Age devotees of Ra, Osiris, Isis.

Fools.

The worship of the gods of ancient Egypt, in the original manifestations, was extinct.

Or was it?

His mind wandered to sights unseen. He thought of life, death, ancient gods and secrets, the evil deeds men do, of even darker things. He roamed further and further, until finally he let the arms of his muse flutter and wrap him in their familiar embrace.

The warmth of her touch tingled through him, and his eyes narrowed to a dull gleam, smoldering embers stoking the forge of deepest night.

I
can’t believe I let this child come to my apartment for a drink
, Veronica thought.
What the hell am I supposed to do with him? Help him apply to grad school? Where’s my wine—I need to slow down, or something might happen I’ll regret in the morning.

Since when did I get so prudish? Because if nothing else, he’s hot. Oh God, now he’s taking his shirt off, what does he think’s going to happen? At least there’s a tee shirt underneath. Nice arms… this guy has a body. He’s blond, though. If only he didn’t talk so much. And was taller. And had darker hair. And green eyes. Stop it, Veronica! He said his name was Utah. Are you kidding me? Has he not seen Point Break? How can you say that name in public with a straight face?

Utah folded his arms and leaned against the wall of Veronica’s apartment. She thought he looked like a silly version of Marlon Brando, except for the white tee shirt and the biceps and the hair, which were all pretty right on.
Fine. Maybe not so silly
.

He grinned. “So you said something about a drink?”

“Yeah, sorry, just thinking about work.” Veronica stepped to the kitchen in her high heels. She really wanted to take them off, but then he might stop staring at her legs, which was unacceptable.

He followed her to the kitchen. “What kind of journalist are you? Like on the news?”

“That would be a reporter. I’m an investigative journalist.”

“Oh. Like undercover.”

“I take all sorts of assignments.”

“Who do you work for?”

“An arm of the WHO.” After a look of non-registration she said, “The WHO—the UN. The United Nations.”

“Gotcha.”

He did not look impressed. Big strike. Veronica uncorked a bottle of wine and didn’t even ask. She handed him a Red Stripe, and he grunted his approval.
What happened to thank you
?

“So what do you do? I mean other than wait tables. PhD student?” she said hopefully. “Actor? Model?”

“I’m a personal trainer. I just work the restaurant gig on the weekends, help out with the rent. I’m building my client base.”

She took refuge in her wine.
Oh how the mighty have fallen.

Utah removed himself from the wall with a nonchalant twist of his torso and walked straight at Veronica. He bent to kiss her, and she put a finger on his lips. “Didn’t we just meet?”

Instead of backing away, he grinned and slid his free arm around her waist. He had confidence, she’d give him that. And really nice arms.

“I’m really attracted to you,” he said.

Thank you, she said to herself, thank you thank you thank you.
You can go now
.

•  •  •

Grey and Stefan stood outside the restaurant as the midtown traffic swished by. “I’m accustomed to a walk after dinner,” Stefan said. “Do you mind?”

“Lead the way.”

They crossed a few streets and then headed down Second. A carnival of bars and restaurants hovered on either side as they walked.

“I love New York,” Stefan said. “I was able to visit a few times while I was at Dartmouth. It was everything Sofia was not.”

“It’s a great city, but Midtown Manhattan isn’t exactly the status quo in the five boroughs.”

“If you scratch at New York you find many layers,
da
. But if you scratch at Sofia you find a medieval peasant underneath her skirt.”

Grey chuckled. “I’ll take your word on that one.” They turned a corner and admired the elegant spire of the Chrysler building. Grey said, “Is there any way you can start a research project from what you saw in the lab?”

“Now that I know it exists, I don’t know how I could continue with… lesser… projects. When I sleep the answers stare at me, when I wake they drift out of reach.”

“Maybe whoever discovered it will publish it.”

“I have to believe they cannot yet reproduce it. Perhaps it was an accident. An accident that could revolutionize the science of aging. All of humanity, my son—” Stefan stopped and grasped Grey by the arm. “My friend, what if I proposed something to you?”

“I don’t think I like where this is going.”

“Think of what—”

Grey cut him off with a whisper. “Quiet. Act like nothing’s wrong. Turn left at the next street.”

“What is—”

“Quiet and keep walking.”

They turned the corner. Grey’s eyes swiveled, then he pulled Stefan into a jog. “I don’t think they saw us.”

“Who?”

“You know our hotel’s a block away, right?”

“Yes.”

“There were two men watching it. One was on a bench with his legs crossed. One was standing across the street at a bus stop. The bus came and he didn’t take it. Both looked Egyptian.”

Stefan’s face crumbled. “Why are we running? Why don’t you,” he waved his hands, “you know.”

“For one, we’re in the middle of Manhattan. But that’s not the main reason I’m running.”

“Then why? Where are we going?”

They reached the end of the block. Grey scanned the street again, then reached for his phone. “Veronica,” he said grimly.

•  •  •

Veronica finished her last sip of wine. “I’m sorry, but I’m really tired.”

Utah smiled. “I’m fine with going to bed. No strings attached.”

She rolled her eyes and moved to the door. “You’re very attractive, and you’re sweet, in a manly sort of way. But I think it’s time to say goodnight.”

He put his palms up and backed away. “No sweat. You know where to find me.”

She let him out, and closed the door behind him. She poured herself another glass of wine, kicked her heels off and flopped on the sofa.

A minute later her cell rang. She reached for it at the same time she heard a knock on the door. She frowned; she thought she’d made herself clear.

Maybe Utah had forgotten something. She ignored her cell for the moment and opened the door. Four men she’d never seen before stood in the doorway, one who was only as tall as her shoulder, but whose torso filled the doorway.

Then her eyes caught a glimpse of the floor of the hallway behind the men. Utah was sprawled on it, unconscious. At least she hoped he was just unconscious.

She got out half a scream before the short man rushed her and clamped a hand over her mouth.

V
eronica tried to bite her attacker, and he pressed his thumb and forefinger into her cheeks until she stopped. Her knees buckled from the pain.

He shoved her into a chair. Three other men followed him in, dragging an unresponsive Utah behind them. One of the men ran his eyes across the room, spotted her camera, and smashed it.

The short man spoke in a rough whisper and very broken English. “You scream, I kill.”

“What do you want? The other cameras are in the closet, I swear.”

He came even closer, until his body was right in front of hers. He smelled unwashed. His loose-fitting dark clothing could have come from a thrift store. And what the hell was that thing on his back?

She repeated her first statement, and he took a fistful of her hair in his hand. He pulled until she whimpered. Veronica had taken a few self-defense classes, and knew a few places to hit a man that wouldn’t feel so good. But she also knew there were three more men in the room who would hurt her if she tried anything.

More importantly, she had the terrifying feeling that the deformed man standing in front of her with the smashed face and savage eyes was begging for her to strike back.

“Where is scientist?” he said.

She squirmed and he yanked her hair back further. She screamed and he struck her across the mouth. Her head rang and she thought for a moment she would pass out. A thin trail of blood trickled down her mouth, and she began to shake.

Veronica had seen many hard men in her career, especially the early years. And she knew without a doubt that if she did not play this situation exactly right, this man would kill her for sport. And maybe anyway.

He raised his hand again. “Wait,” she said. “Wait.” Her mind spun. Why hadn’t she listened to Grey? She knew no help was coming. She was alone for the evening, not counting poor Utah. It frightened her on so many levels she couldn’t comprehend it.

She knew they wanted Stefan, and she knew where he was staying. If she told them, they might let her live, and they might not. They would certainly incapacitate her while they went to Stefan’s hotel and killed him. She knew Grey could fend for himself, but there were four men here, and probably more elsewhere. And this man in front of her—this animal—he was different.

What she did know is that if she didn’t tell him where Stefan was, she was going to be tortured and killed.