The Pharaoh's Secret (14 page)

In a cramped, claustrophobic space, Kurt peered through a diving mask into the nothingness of utter darkness. He drew smooth, even breaths from a small regulator and tried to gauge how much time had passed. It was hard to tell. Lying completely still in the darkness and silence was the equivalent of a sensory deprivation tank.

He tried to stretch his legs, which had fallen painfully asleep. Wriggling and twisting his feet like some small animal trying to burrow through the soil, he forced them through the packing materials the way one pushes one's feet between the overtight sheets of a well-made hotel bed.

“Watch it,” a voice called out. “You're kicking me in the ribs.”

Kurt took his lips off the regulator. “Sorry,” he said.

The stretching had helped a little, but he was still uncomfortable: something sharp was jabbing him in the back, and the hay that had been used as insulation was itchy. Finally, he'd had enough.

Wriggling his arm through the loose padding until it was in front of his face, he was able to make out the tiny glowing marks on his Doxa watch.

“Ten thirty,” he said. “The party should be rolling by now. Time to emerge like cicadas from the ground.”

“I hate those bugs,” Joe said. “But I'll be glad to imitate one if it means you stop kicking me.”

Kurt burrowed upward, surfacing through the hay and Styrofoam, listening for any sign of danger outside the crate. Hearing nothing, he tapped a switch on the side of his mask. A single white LED came on, reminiscent of a reading light. It enabled Kurt to see Joe rising up through the loose mix of packing materials across from him.

“This might be your worst idea ever,” Joe whispered. “When I tell Paul and Gamay about it, they'll never believe it worked.”

“I was just trying to think
outside the box
,” Kurt deadpanned.

“Very funny,” Joe said. His tone suggested he was not amused. “How long have you been waiting to use that?”

“At least an hour,” Kurt said. “I know where I went wrong. Next time, we get a bigger crate.”

“Next time,” Joe replied, “you can impersonate a FedEx package on your own.”

Despite their best attempt at creating a false bottom for the crate, the hay and Styrofoam had settled all around them. The truck had been delayed in traffic. And, as a final insult, it felt like they'd been dropped about three feet at the end of the delivery.

“Good thing they didn't look too closely at this cannon of yours,” Joe added. “It says ‘Made in China' on the side.”

“Did you want a real cannon lying on top of you?” Kurt said.

“Can't say that sounds comfortable,” Joe replied.

Kurt didn't think so either. “Let's just hope they delivered us to the right address.”

Kurt wriggled his other hand free and opened a Velcro pack strapped to his arm. He pulled a thin black cable from the pack and unwound it. Attaching one end to his goggles and the other to a small cylinder that was actually a tiny camera, he prepared to take a look at their surroundings.

“Up periscope,” he whispered.

Tapping a button on the camera, he gave it power and threaded the wire upward through a tiny hole drilled in the top of the crate.

As the lens focused, an image was projected on the inside of Kurt's mask. It was grainy, since the back section of the warehouse was dimly lit.

“Any Japanese destroyers up there?” Joe whispered.

Kurt panned around, twisting the wire a little bit at a time. “Nothing but open seas, Mr. Zavala. Take us up.”

Kurt reeled the camera back in and disconnected it as Joe got to work prying the lid upward. Kurt took care of his side, switched off the mask light, and together they eased the top of the box backward.

Joe scrambled out first, Kurt followed seconds later and both men hid behind the crate until the feeling came back into their limbs.

“This place looks a lot bigger on the inside than it did from the street view,” Joe noted.

A quick look told Kurt it was more of a maze than an orderly arrangement of sections. In the back, where they were, all the items were stored on the ground floor, but the rest of the space was filled with racks and shelves, in some places stacked three stories high.

“We'll never look through all this stuff in a couple of hours,” Joe said.

“Most of it's irrelevant,” Kurt said. “We need to focus on the items set for auction. Anything Egyptian, in particular. I'm guessing whatever they plan to sell will be on the ground floor, maybe even separated from everything else. So let's ignore the shelves unless something catches your eye. You take the left side. I'll take the right. We'll work our way to the front.”

Joe nodded and put a tiny speaker in his ear, which was connected to a radio, and Kurt did the same. Both men also pulled out cameras that would take digital pictures in infrared. Pictures they could review later.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Kurt said. “Security will be jumpy, after what happened the other night. And I'd rather not get shot or have to take any of them out to protect ourselves. If anything happens, meet back here or take cover.”

“You don't have to tell me twice,” Joe said. “Tasers and pepper spray aren't going to be much use against pistols and shotguns.”

Knowing they would be dealing with innocent security guards, they'd brought along only nonlethal methods of subduing anyone they encountered.

“Then don't get caught by the people with the pistols and shotguns,” Kurt said.

“Good advice under any circumstance.”

Kurt grinned and offered an archer's two-finger salute before moving off and focusing on the dimly lit space ahead of him.

Hassan had arrived in Malta just before the party with orders to take charge of the operation. He was to retrieve what he could of the hieroglyphics record and destroy any evidence that remained. Fortunately, his men had already infiltrated the museum's security service. Posing as legitimate guards, they'd now taken over the warehouse and were ready to search for and remove the artifacts. All Hassan needed for his plan to go smoothly was to keep the security supervisor talking to the rest of his men.

He stood behind the supervisor with a gun drawn as the man spoke to the guards assigned to the ballroom via a radio. In what seemed like a suspicious bit of good fortune, three-fourths of the security detail was stationed in and around the ballroom. That left only eight men at the warehouse. And two of them were operating undercover for Osiris.

Hassan knew the artifacts in the warehouse were valuable, but to him they were worth nothing in comparison to the yacht-owning, private aircraft–flying captains of industry who were attempting to buy them for their own collections.

A call came over the radio. “We've made our rounds. More diamonds and pearls than you can shake a stick at. But everything is secure over here.”

The supervisor hesitated.

“Answer him,” Hassan prodded, jabbing him with a pistol.

The manager keyed his own microphone. “Very good,” he said. “Report back in thirty minutes.”

“Affirmative. Do you want to swap any of the guys out? They're probably getting bored back there.”

Hassan shook his head. There was no one left alive to swap out.

“Not at this time,” the supervisor replied. “Continue your watch over there.”

Hassan figured they were safe for a little while. “Now,” he said, “show me where lots thirty-one, thirty-four and forty-seven are.”

The supervisor pondered over this for a second too long. Hassan backhanded him across the face and he fell over, taking the chair to the ground with him.

“You'll find I don't like to wait,” Hassan explained.

The night supervisor held up his hands submissively. “I'll show you.”

Hassan turned to Scorpion. “Get the explosives and something to transport the items on. If we have to, we'll destroy them, but I'd prefer to bring them back to Egypt where they belong.”

He pointed to a second man. “Infect the computer with the Cyan virus. I want all record of these artifacts erased.”

The man nodded and Hassan stood back satisfied. All seemed
to be in order. But no one paid any attention to the flickering TV screens displaying the feed from the security cameras. On two separate displays black-clad figures could be seen sneaking through the darkened warehouse.

Scorpion reappeared with a four-wheeled cart.

“Excellent,” Hassan said. “Let's start with lot thirty-one.”

—

Joe stood in front
of a hard plastic case. Beside it was a placard that read
XXXI
.

“Thirty-one,” he said.

Joe pulled open the hard case and unzipped a fireproof sheet of Nomex. Underneath it lay part of a broken tablet with Egyptian art on it.

Depicted on the stone was a tall green man holding his hand over a group of people that were lying on the floor of a temple. Men or women in white robes stood behind them. Lines drawn from the hand of the green-skinned man to the sleeping or dead people made it look as if he were levitating them. In the upper corner, a disk that might have been the sun or moon was covered as if in the midst of an eclipse.

Joe had spent some time in Egypt. He'd even done a little archaeology there. He recognized some of the iconography.

Joe held a wire connected to an earpiece. Squeezing it allowed him to talk and the signal would be transmitted to Kurt. “I've found a tablet with Egyptian art on it,” he said. “You should see this green guy, he's huge.”

“Are you sure it's not an early version of
The Incredible Hulk
?” Kurt replied quietly.

“Now, that would really be worth something,” Joe whispered back.

He raised a camera, scanned the artwork and then covered it up once again before moving on.

On the other side of the warehouse, Kurt was having less luck but was moving as quickly as he dared. Like most museums, this one had far more artifacts than it could possibly display. As a result, they would often loan pieces out or rotate exhibits, but most of the overflow remained in the warehouse.

That and the lack of any discernible method of organization were making the job even harder. So far, Kurt had discovered sections dating to the Peloponnesian conflict and the Roman Empire located side by side with artifacts from both World Wars. He'd come across a section of relics from the French Revolution, weapons the British carried at Waterloo and even a scarf allegedly used to stem Admiral Nelson's bleeding when he'd been wounded at Trafalgar.

Kurt imagined the scarf might have carried almost religious significance for the Royal Navy if it was authentic. The fact that it was up for sale in Malta made him doubt its provenance. But treasures had been found in backyards before.

Next, he found some Napoleonic artifacts, including several with placards beside them, one of which read
XVI
.

A step in the right direction, he said to himself.

The first thing he discovered was a group of letters, including orders Napoleon had sent to his commanders demanding more discipline in the ranks. The next batch of documents was a request for more money. This letter had been sent back to Paris, only to be intercepted by the British. Finally, there was a small book, listed as
Napoleon's Diary
.

Despite the time crunch they were under, Kurt couldn't resist looking. He'd never heard of Napoleon's diary before. He opened the container and unzipped a fireproof envelope that surrounded the book. It turned out not to be a diary at all but instead a copy of Homer's
Odyssey
, in Greek. He flipped through the pages. Notes in French had been scribbled in the margins here and there. Napoleon's? He guessed that was the idea, but perhaps one that was up for debate too.

Still, as he studied the pages, he noticed something else: certain words were circled and some pages were missing. By the ragged edges he found, Kurt guessed the pages had been torn out. The prospectus sheet attached to the diary indicated it had been with the deposed emperor right up until his death on Saint Helena.

Despite his curiosity, Kurt closed the book, sealed up its container and moved on. It was interesting, but the men who'd killed Kensington were looking for Egyptian artifacts.

In the next section, Kurt found two glass-walled tanks, each the size of a small truck. The first tank held various treasures on porcelain racks and looked almost like a giant dishwasher. The second contained a pair of large cannon barrels, suspended on slings. A note scribbled in grease pencil on the glass indicated the tanks were filled with distilled water, a fairly common method to pull embedded salts out of iron and brass objects recovered from the sea.

He peered through the glass. Nothing Egyptian in either tank.

“Just like the supermarket,” he muttered, “I'm always shopping in the wrong aisle.”

He switched aisles and then stopped and crouched in the shadows. He saw movement in the gloom ahead of him at the far end of the aisle. A man and a woman. Strangely, they were dressed like attendees at the party. And both were holding pistols.

Kurt pressed the talk switch on his own earpiece and said to Joe, “I've run into some company.”

“I'm not alone on this side either,” Joe replied.

“Meet me in the middle,” Kurt said. “We need to take cover.”

He backtracked and met Joe close to the two distilled-water tanks.

“A group of men came out of the office armed to the teeth,” Joe said. “They were dressed like guards, but they had another man held at gunpoint. So I'd say there's been a takeover of the most hostile variety. I suggest we hide or exit stage left.” He pointed back down the aisle.

“Can't go that way,” Kurt said. “There's a couple coming from that direction as well.”

“More guards?”

“Not unless guards wear tuxedos and evening gowns. They must have come from the party.”

Before anything else was said, they heard the dull rolling of heavy wheels on the concrete floor. A pair of flashlight beams bounced lazily across the shelves ahead as the group Joe had seen neared the corner.

“Should we head back to the crate?” Joe asked.

Kurt looked around. He'd lost track of the second group. And he didn't like the idea of running around the warehouse hoping not to bump into any gun-toting madmen. Especially when there seemed to be so many of them.

“No,” he said. “We need to hide.”

“Okay. There's not a lot of cover here.”

Joe was not wrong. The shelves were either too packed to get into or too sparse to offer any real protection. He glanced over his shoulder at the large aquarium-like tanks and the cannon barrels inside them. It was their only hope. “Time to get wet.”

Joe turned, saw the tank and nodded. They climbed a small ladder on the side of the tank and eased in as gently as possible. As the ripples dissipated, they took a spot behind the first cannon barrel and peered over it like a couple of alligators hiding behind a log in a swamp.

The first group passed by: five men—three with guns, one pushing a dolly and one more who looked to be at their mercy, a pistol aimed at his back. They were all dressed as part of a security team, just as Joe described. They continued on without glancing at the tanks and soon turned down another aisle and vanished.

“They're obviously here to pick something up,” Kurt whispered.

Before Kurt could say any more, the couple appeared. But
instead of joining the others, they moved more cautiously, picking their way down the aisle. Examining things on the shelf.

Kurt could hear their whispers. The back wall of the tank, which was higher than the front, was acting like an echo chamber, collecting and amplifying the sounds.

“I see what you mean about the woman,” Joe whispered.

She was tall and lean and wearing a black evening gown with a side slit. Strangely, she wore flat shoes. She leaned close to one of the shelves.

“Here's another one,” they heard her say. “But I can't read the placard. It's too dark.”

The man in the tux glanced around. “We're clear for the moment,” he said. “Shade your cell phone light.”

The dim glow of her cell phone came on, half covered by her hand. She studied the placard. “Not what we're looking for,” she said, sounding frustrated.

The man glanced down the aisle and made what seemed like a wise decision. “Let's move quickly. I'm not a fan of crowds.”

With silencer-equipped pistols gripped tightly in their hands, the couple moved off.

“Something tells me they're not with the others,” Kurt said, stating the obvious.

“How many people are robbing this place?” Joe asked.

“Too many,” Kurt said. “This has to be the least secure warehouse in the Western world.”

“And we're the only ones without weapons,” Joe replied. “A decided disadvantage.”

Kurt could not have agreed more, but something else was nagging at him. “The man in the tux,” he began. “Did his voice sound familiar to you?”

“Vaguely,” Joe said. “Can't place it.”

“Neither can I,” Kurt said. “I didn't get a good look at his face, but I know I've heard that voice before.”

The aisle looked clear for a moment. “Should we make a break for it?” Joe asked.

“I don't think we'd get to the door,” Kurt replied. “We need to scare everyone else away and alert the authorities. The only way I can see doing that is to pull a fire alarm. Did you see one anywhere?”

Joe pointed toward the ceiling. “What about those?”

Kurt looked up. A system of pipes spread across the ceiling like an electrical grid. At various points, protruding nozzles and cone-shaped sensors were marked with glowing green LEDs. They had to be heat or smoke detectors.

“Can you get up there?” Kurt asked.

“You're talking to the champion of the Saint Ignacio jungle gym challenge,” Joe said.

“I have no idea what that is,” Kurt said. “But I'll take that as a yes.”

“Trust me,” Joe said. “The scaffolding around the shelves will make it easy.”

With a quick glance down the aisle, Joe climbed out of the tank, eased over to a ladder and began to climb. Once he reached the second level, he picked his way across the shelf and climbed another ladder. He was almost to the ceiling when several shots rang out and all hell broke loose.