The Pharaoh's Secret

by Clive Cussler

  He pointed to the bottom. “Look here. Frogs. That was the second plague, I think. And there. Locusts. Also a plague.”

  Gamay’s eyes widened as she saw what Paul was getting at. She retrieved the book of letters and began reading aloud. “‘La vérité sera révélée’—‘the truth shall be revealed’—‘à lui comme la colère de Dieu’—‘to him like the Wrath of God.’”

  “Could he have been painting what he was writing?” Paul asked. “Or vice versa?”

  “Maybe,” she said, “but I have an idea.”

  She went back for the book of letters and began reading through one of them. “The vessel holds the power, the ship is the key to freedom.”

  She pointed at the painting of the warship and then flipped to another letter.

  “This one was the most coherent,” she said. “And based on the dates, it’s the last one in the series. From the context, I assume it was written to D’Campion, though, again, it’s not signed or addressed.”

  She ran her finger along the text and began reading. “‘What weapon could be this way? he asks. It is nothing but superstition, he insists. At least, this is what his agents tell me. And yet, he asks me to prove to him all that I know. Even if he wants what we can bring him, he no longer wants to pay for it. They say I’m in his debt. A debt that must be paid. I fear it’s unsafe for me to even try, but where else have I to go? And, in truth, I now fear what the Emperor would do with this weapon in his hand. Perhaps the entire world would not be enough for him. Perhaps it’s best that the truth never come out. That it remain with you in your small boat paddling to the shelter of the Guillaume Tell.’”

  She looked up, pointing at the third painting. “Small boat, paddling somewhere with great effort.”

  “What are you thinking?” Paul asked.

  “He had to hide what D’Campion sent him,” she said. “But he needed to keep it close at hand. Somewhere he could get at it.”

  Paul could guess the rest. “Paintings, done with great haste, by a man who’d never painted a thing before. You think he hid the truth in the painting somehow?”

  “No,” she said. “Not in the painting itself.”

  She took the painting of the Plague Upon Egypt and turned it over. On the back of the picture there was heavy, coarse paper glued to the frame. Setting the painting down, she pulled a Swiss Army knife from her purse. “Hold this steady while I slit it apart.”

  “Are you insane?” Paul whispered. “What about the Wrath of God for doing bad things?”

  “I’m not worried about that,” she said. “We’re trying to save lives here.”

  “What about the Wrath of the Proctor?”

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she said. “Besides, you heard him. He couldn’t care less about these paintings. He’d probably sell them to us for a song, if he was allowed.”

  Paul held the frame steady as Gamay opened up the sharpest blade of the knife. “Make it quick,” he said.

  Gamay began to separate the thick paper backing from the artwork, careful not to plunge the knife too deeply. When she’d gone all the way along the bottom, she reached up inside the frame.

  “Well?”

  She moved her hand along the inside of the bottom stretcher and then bent down and looked up into the gap. “Nothing,” she said. “Let’s try the others.”

  With Paul now a willing accomplice, she separated the backing of the warship painting next. A quick check also found nothing.

  “Guess the warship wasn’t the key,” Paul said.

  “Very funny.”

  Finally, she went to work on the painting of the small boat being rowed by the men.

  “Hurry,” Paul said. “Someone’s coming.”

  The clip-clop of shoes echoed off the tile floor, closing in on them. Gamay quickly closed the knife.

  “Hurry.”

  The proctor appeared at the end of the aisle and Paul hastily pulled the painting away from Gamay and slid it back into the rack. Instead of exclamation or rebuke, or even a look of shock, the proctor remained remarkably still.

  Only then did Paul realize the proctor was stumbling stiffly forward, not even looking at them. He fell forward face-first with a knife sticking out of his back.

  Another man appeared behind him. This man was younger, with slowly healing sores on his forehead and cheeks. He pulled the knife from the proctor’s back and wiped it coldly. Two more men moved in, flanking him.

  “You can stop what you’re doing now,” the man with the sores said. “We’ll take it from here.”

  56

  “Who are you?” Paul asked.

  “You can call me Scorpion,” the man replied.

  He seemed proud of the name. Paul couldn’t imagine why.

  “How did you find us?” Paul realized there was little point to such questions, but he was trying to stall for time. He’d never seen this Scorpion person before. Even though he could guess who Scorpion worked for, it seemed impossible that the men could know who he and Gamay were.

  “We have D’Campion’s diary,” the man said. “He mentioned Villeneuve many times. From there, it was easy to choose Rennes and find Camila Duchene.”

  “If you’ve hurt her . . .” Gamay threatened.

  “Fortunately for her, you arrived before we did. It made more sense to follow you than to harass an old woman. Now, hand over the book of letters.”

  Paul and Gamay exchanged a sad glance. There was little they could do. Paul stepped in front of Gamay, allowing her to palm the pocketknife, though it would do little good against the serrated nine-inch blades the men across from them were carrying.

  “Here,” he said, closing the album and shoving it forward. It slid along the smooth tabletop and came to rest beside Scorpion, who grabbed it, looked through it and then put it under his arm.

  “Why don’t you leave before the police arrive?” Gamay suggested.

  “There are no policemen on the way,” Scorpion assured her.

  “You never know,” Paul said. “Someone might have seen you—”

  “What were you doing with that painting?” Scorpion demanded, cutting Paul off.

  “Nothing,” Paul said. Even as the word left his mouth, Paul knew he’d spoken too quickly. He’d never been a good liar.

  “Show it to me.”

  Paul took a deep breath and reached back into the rack. As he slid the frame out, he realized he’d grabbed the wrong work of art. It was the warship. Maybe that was a good thing, he thought.

  Rotating it to a flat position as if to lay it on the table and slide it toward Scorpion, Paul realized he now had a weapon in his hands. He twisted his body and flung the framed painting like a Frisbee. It hit Scorpion in the stomach, doubling him over.

  Following up his attack, Paul lunged forward and kicked the man while he was down. “Run!” he shouted to Gamay.

  Paul’s large size had many advantages and disadvantages. Because of his height, he’d rarely been in fistfights. Few people chose a six-foot-eight-inch opponent when looking for someone to tangle with. But, as a result, hand-to-hand combat wasn’t his forte.

  On the other hand, when he put his weight behind it, he could deliver a powerful punch or kick. The shot from his boot sent Scorpion flying backward into his two friends. The three of them seemed particularly surprised by the assault and not a little unsure of the best way to attack this large, angry man.

  Paul didn’t wait for them to figure it out. He turned and ran in the other direction. He made it around the corner and saw Gamay running for a door in the distance.

  “Get them!” Scorpion shouted.

  Paul caught up with Gamay as she reached the door. Only now did he realize she was carrying the painting of the rowboat.

  “I thought you were moving slower than normal,” he said.

  “I just had to
have it,” she said in her best high-society voice.

  “Let’s hope we can keep it,” he said, pushing the door open.

  They’d come to a stairwell, a fire escape by the sparse look of things. Paul pushed open the heavy steel door.

  “Up or down?” Gamay asked.

  “I’m guessing down leads to a basement, so go up.”

  They ran up the stairs, reached the next level and tried the door. It was locked.

  “Keep going,” Paul shouted.

  They continued up, spurred on by the sound of the door below banging open.

  Beside a placard that read L3, Gamay pushed on the next door.

  “It’s locked,” she said. “Aren’t these things supposed to remain open at all times?”

  They went up one more level and found light streaming in through a window. “This is the roof,” Gamay said.

  Paul tried the door, but it was also locked. Gamay responded by using the frame of the painting to smash the window out. Brushing away the glass, she climbed through.

  Paul followed and tumbled out onto the museum’s roof. A small section around them was flat and tarred, but the rest was tiled and sloped. “There has to be another way down.”

  Across the tiled section was another flat spot with a small hut on top. It looked exactly like the stairwell they’d just come out of. “That way,” he said.

  Gamay went first as Paul looked around for a makeshift weapon. He saw nothing useful and charged after her. The green-tiled roof was steeply sloped on both sides, the tiles wet and worn smooth from decades in the French rain.

  Paul and Gamay climbed up onto a flat section where the slopes met at the peak. It was no wider than a balance beam and one wrong step would send them tumbling.

  They traversed the central section, jumped down onto the flat, tarred area and ran to the door. It was locked, but the window was quickly smashed.

  Behind them, their pursuers were on the roof.

  “You go,” Paul said. “I’ll hold them off.”

  “No dice,” Gamay said. “That was a nice move inside, but we both know you’re no giant version of Bruce Lee. We stick together.”

  “Fine,” Paul said, “but hurry.”

  She handed him the painting, put her hands on the windowsill and screamed. When Paul turned, he saw that someone inside had grabbed her arms and was dragging her in. He grabbed her legs and pulled. A tug-of-war lasted a second and Gamay came flying out. There was blood on her mouth.

  “You okay?” Paul asked.

  “Remind me to get a tetanus shot when we get home.”

  “That’s only if you get bitten,” Paul said. “Not if you do the biting.”

  “Then never mind,” she said.

  They were now trapped. Paul plucked a hand-sized chunk of broken tile from the rooftop, but it wasn’t much of a weapon. The man inside the second stairwell began to slam himself against the door.

  “Now what?”

  “The canal,” Paul said. “We’ll jump.”

  They climbed onto the tiles again, but this time they went down the slope. Gamay had the balance of a mountain goat, but Paul felt that his height was now a hindrance. He found it hard to keep low enough not to have a sensation of falling forward.

  He began sliding down on his backside. Gamay did the same and they eased toward the edge. They were four stories up with an eight-foot gap to cover.

  Paul said, “That’s farther down than I thought.”

  “I don’t think we have a choice,” Gamay said.

  “Maybe they’ll be afraid to follow.”

  Behind them, the men were climbing onto the tiles. “Guess not. You first.”

  Gamay tossed the painting down. It landed on the stone path beside the canal.

  “Give us the painting,” one of the pursuers shouted. “It’s all we want.”

  “Now he tells us,” Gamay said.

  “Ready?” Paul asked.

  She nodded.

  “Go.”

  Gamay used her legs to maximum advantage, crouching and springing forward. She flew, with arms windmilling, cleared the wall at the edge of the canal by several feet and plunged into the dark water.

  Paul followed. Launching himself and landing beside her.

  They surfaced seconds apart. The water was frigid, but it felt marvelous. They swam to the wall, where Paul gave Gamay a boost out onto the path and climbed out himself. She’d just put her hand on the frame of the painting when the first of three splashes landed in the canal behind them.

  “These guys don’t know when to quit,” Gamay said.

  “Neither do we.”

  With the men swimming toward them, Paul and Gamay took off running. They were blocked by another sinister-looking pair at the end of the lane.

  “Trapped again.”

  A small outboard-powered boat sat tied up on the canal. It was that or nothing.

  Paul jumped in, nearly capsizing the small boat. Gamay hopped in and untied the rope. “Go!”

  Paul yanked the starter rope and the motor came to life, spewing forth a cloud of blue smoke. He twisted the throttle and more fumes poured from the old outboard, but the propeller dug into the water and the narrow little boat sped off.

  Paul kept his eyes forward, careful not to hit any of the dozens of boats and barges tied up at the water’s edge. He’d just begun to feel safe when another small boat raced out of the fog behind them and began to close the gap.

  57

  “Go faster!” Gamay shouted.

  The outboard motor was open full-throttle, but the boat was not breaking any speed records.

  Paul tried letting off the gas, twisting the throttle to full again in hopes that they would pick up some more speed. He found the choke and pulled it open halfway. It was a cold, damp morning and he thought that might help. But the motor sputtered instead.

  “That’s not faster,” Gamay pointed out.

  “I don’t think this boat does faster,” Paul said. He jammed the choke shut once again and focused on weaving around impediments and boats tied to either side of the canal like an obstacle course.

  The small boat following them was doing the same and catching up in the process. Around a sweeping right-hand turn, the bow of the chase boat banged the back corner of Paul and Gamay’s boat. The bump sent them surging forward and they scraped the stone wall.

  As the river straightened, the other boat pulled up beside them. One of the men raised a knife and was about to fling it at Paul when Gamay swung an oar she’d found and clubbed the attacker. She caught him across the side of the head and he went over and into the water, but a second man—a man she recognized as Scorpion—grabbed the end of the oar and yanked it toward him.

  Gamay was almost pulled into the other boat. She let go and fell back as Scorpion flung the oar aside.

  The boats separated once again and she saw him ready his knife. “Closer,” he yelled to his compatriot.

  “Make it hard on them,” she shouted to Paul. “Drive this thing like it’s rush hour.”

  Paul took her advice and the two boats came together twice, banging their metal sides each time and bouncing off of each other. An oncoming barge forced them to separate again and they spread out to either side of the channel. But once they’d passed it, their pursuers came veering toward them once more.

  This time, the boats hit and locked together awkwardly. The larger and faster boat won the battle for control and forced Paul and Gamay’s smaller boat toward the wall of the canal. They hit the wall and scraped along it, sending out a shower of sparks.

  As they came off the wall, Scorpion lunged across the transom and seized the painting at Gamay’s feet. She grabbed the edge of the frame and held on, but the man reared back and the old wooden frame gave way.

  Gamay was left holding a splintered piece of red oak whi
le Scorpion fell back in his boat with the rest of the painting. His partner immediately angled their boat back out toward the center of the canal and accelerated.

  “He’s got it!” Gamay yelled.

  The roles reversed for a moment and Paul turned as sharply as he dared. The boats crashed together once more, but they didn’t link up and the impact knocked Paul’s hand from the grip of the throttle.

  By the time he’d grabbed it again, the small outboard was sputtering. He twisted it open, but all that did was flood the motor with fuel, killing it. The boat’s pace slackened with a terrible sinking sensation.

  Paul grabbed the starter cord and yanked on it with great ferocity.

  “Hurry!” Gamay shouted.

  The other boat was speeding off. Paul jerked the starter cord a second time and then a third. The outboard sputtered to life and they picked up speed again, but the other boat was far ahead and leaving them behind. They soon lost it in the mist.

  “Can you see them?” Paul asked.

  “No,” Gamay replied, straining to look through the fog.

  A few minutes later, they came upon the boat. It was empty and abandoned, floating beside the right bank of the river.

  “They’re gone,” Paul said, stating the obvious. “We’ve lost them.”

  Gamay swore under her breath and then looked at Paul. “We need to call the police and the paramedics and send them to the museum.”

  “And have them check on Madame Duchene as well,” Paul said.

  He guided the small boat ahead until they found a flight of stairs and a landing by the canal’s edge. They got out together and ran to the first open business they could find. Gamay was soon on the phone and the police were on their way.

  There was nothing they could do now but wait.

  58

  Cairo

  Tariq Shakir sat in the darkened control room, waiting for news. There were no radio reports, no buzzing walkie-talkies, only the hardwired phone and the data line that ran the length of the pipeline tunnel back to the Osiris hydroelectric plant. Through these wires came the news that his plan was coming to fruition.