The Pyramid of Doom_A Novel

by Andy McDermott

“I said, ‘You’re fucked.’ ” Before the man could do anything more than blink in surprise, Eddie yanked him forward to slam his head against the doorjamb. The scientist collapsed.

  “Ah … are you just going to leave him there?” Nina asked as he dumped the unconscious man behind a lab bench. “I mean, you’re planning to blow the place up.”

  “He’s making a bioweapon, so fuck him.” Picturing the disapproving expression accompanying his wife’s frosty silence, he relented, slightly. “Okay, I’ll drag him downstairs when I go. Happy now?”

  “Not until you’re out of there in one piece.”

  He grinned, then turned his attention to the gas tanks. There was a space between them; he activated the detonation circuit of one cigarette-pack-sized block of C-4, then slid the explosive into the gap. “Hmm.”

  “What?” Nina asked.

  “Bit obvious. Hang on.” The large steel ovens beside the tanks were open. He reached to the back of one and felt beneath the perforated gas pipe. It was greasy and sooty, but there seemed to be enough room. The second pack armed, he forced it down out of sight. “There.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now,” he said, taking the scientist by his arms, “I get out of the pyramid, push the button and blow this place to buggery.”

  “What about all the people in the temple?” Macy asked. “Won’t they all get crushed?”

  “I’m tempted to say fuck ’em too, but there’s a couple of floors in between,” he told her as he dragged the man to the door. “Unless this thing’s built of cheese and moonbeams, those C-4 packs aren’t big enough to bring the whole place down. The top won’t be a nice sharp point anymore, though.”

  “Just make sure you’re not inside,” said Nina. “And don’t forget Grant.”

  “Hey, he’s still technically a client,” he said, using the scientist’s keycard to open the door and hauling him through. “Wouldn’t do my job prospects much good if I lost one, would it?” He backed across the room, bumping open the door with his backside to enter the lobby.

  A chime sounded.

  The elevator.

  Eddie dropped the scientist and whirled, pulling out his gun—

  Too late.

  A pair of guards had come from the stairs, weapons pointed at him, and two more armed men rushed from the lift. Broma and Lorenz.

  Knowing he had no chance of surviving a four-way shootout, Eddie froze, dropping the gun. “Arse.”

  “Chase,” said Shaban, stepping out between his two bodyguards. His scarred face clenched with anger—and sadistic pleasure. “Just in time for our ceremony …”

  THIRTY

  Nina stared in horror at the screen as Shaban’s hand swelled to fill the camera’s field of view—and it went black.

  “Shit!” she gasped. “We’ve got to get him out of there!”

  “I can’t,” said Assad, dismayed. “The ASPS don’t have authorization to act until we know the zodiac’s there.”

  “Grant said it is,” protested Macy. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “No, we need visual proof—which is what your husband was supposed to find!” he snapped at Nina.

  “Dammit!” She ran to the truck’s open rear door and looked helplessly along the lakeside at the castle—then remembered something and switched her headset’s channel to the phone. “Grant! Can you hear me? Grant!”

  A rustle of fabric, then: “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Grant, they’ve caught Eddie! You’ve got to get out of there …” An idea. “Your phone! If you take a picture of the zodiac, the Egyptians can move in.”

  “Wait—they’ve caught Eddie? Shit!” The actor’s usual laid-back drawl frayed into near-panic.

  “Grant, Grant, just listen!” Nina shouted. “Go into the relic room and take a photo of the zodiac, and we can rescue you and Eddie!” She glanced at Assad for confirmation that a cell phone picture would be enough; he nodded.

  “Okay. Rescue. Good idea.” She heard his footsteps as he crossed the lounge—then a sudden whumph of material over the mouthpiece as he shoved the phone back into his pocket. “Shit, someone’s coming!”

  The sound of a door opening, then a voice: “Mr. Thorn?”

  “Y-yeah?”

  “The ceremony is about to begin. Come with us.”

  “Come with you three guys?” said Grant. “Sure. My own personal escort, huh? Cool.”

  Nina realized what he was telling her—surrounded by three men, he wouldn’t be able to take a picture of the zodiac.

  And without one … he and Eddie were on their own.

  One of the guards hurried out of the lab. “We found this,” he said, holding up a C-4 pack.

  Shaban turned over the radio detonator his men had just taken from Eddie in his hand. “Explosives? Not subtle. But not surprising, from you.”

  “I like to be consistent,” said Eddie, forcing himself not to look back toward the oven. The second pack would be harder to find, and since there was only one detonator, Shaban might also think there was only one charge.

  But even if the other bomb wasn’t found, it wouldn’t make much difference: C-4 was a very stable compound, needing extreme heat and a physical shock—the kind provided by the blasting cap inside the pack—before it would explode. He needed the radio detonator to destroy the lab. And Shaban seemed unlikely to give it back.

  “How did you know I was here?” he asked, trying to divert the Egyptian’s mind from the detonator. As long as he didn’t think to destroy it, there might still be a chance …

  Shaban indicated his ill-fitting green jacket. “Bad tailoring. I always insisted that the temple’s security forces had their uniforms fitted. Khalid liked it because it made everyone look smart, but it has another advantage—it’s easy to tell when somebody doesn’t belong.”

  “Good thinking, Two-Face.”

  Shaban’s jaw clenched, but he restrained himself from responding personally, instead nodding at Broma—who clubbed Eddie with his gun, dropping him to his knees. “Ow! Twat!”

  “I would have told him to shoot you, but I have something better in mind.”

  Eddie didn’t like the sound of that, but kept quiet as he was hauled upright. The other man emerged from the lab. “I couldn’t find anything else,” he reported.

  Shaban regarded the block of C-4. “That would have been enough.” He looked back at the detonator, then tipped out the battery before crushing the device under his heel.

  “Shit,” Eddie muttered. The only way now to set off the hidden explosive was manually—which would take him with it. The pack had no timer.

  The Egyptian read his expression. “No backup plan? Too bad.” He smiled coldly. “You’ve come a long way to be here for my ceremony. So now … you can be part of it.”

  Hands secured behind his back, Eddie was taken at gunpoint into the temple.

  It was vastly more impressive than the auditorium in Paris. The doors through which the arriving cultists had entered led to a glass-and-steel staircase descending into a huge pit-like arena below floor level, the deep space filled with hundreds of people.

  A central aisle had been left clear, green-clad men lining it like an honor guard. At its far end was another, narrower flight of stairs rising to a wide catwalk-like extension from the front of a high black marble stage. Four large, gleaming chrome statues of Egyptian gods stood at the protruding section’s corners. The walls were frosted-glass panels laser-etched with hieroglyphs. The whole place seemed like some demented cross between a rock stadium and an Apple store.

  Shaban, Lorenz, and Broma had taken a different route through the pyramid, leaving the guards to hustle Eddie down into the pit, along the aisle and up the unrailed stairs to the stage. Seeing that he was a prisoner, the cultists booed and bellowed for his blood. The sight of what, despite its chrome-and-glass trappings, looked uncomfortably like a sacrificial altar gave Eddie the nasty feeling that they expected to get it.

  His captors took him to one side and waited, giving h
im a chance to look for possible escape routes. The only choices were back down into the pit, exits on each side of the stage—and a set of double doors at the center of the back wall. This entrance was flanked by a pair of even larger statues. The bodies were of Osiris, similar to the statues outside the god-king’s tomb, but the heads were different, the figures having been recently decapitated and replaced by the visage of some strange beast, a fearsome, elongated cross between jackal and horse.

  The face of Set.

  Shaban had wasted no time in putting his mark on the temple. Eddie now also realized why the cultists had been made to go to the more distant entrance. The double doors led north, to ancient Egyptians the direction reserved for royalty. Osir had designed that feature of the temple for effect … but his brother believed it.

  Minutes passed, the crowd’s anticipation rising. Then the lights dimmed.

  “Set! Set! Set!” the cultists chanted, raising their clenched fists high to punch the air. “Set! Set! Set!”

  The doors opened.

  Spotlights tracking him, Shaban stepped onto the stage. When he left Eddie, he had been wearing an expensive but understated suit—now his clothes were anything but subtle. He had donned a set of green-and-black robes, a modern interpretation of traditional Egyptian royal clothing, and an elaborate headdress, again a stylized version of those traditionally worn by the pharaohs. Broma and Lorenz stood in the half shadows behind him.

  The cultists went berserk, screaming “Set!” over and over again, stamping their feet so hard that the stage floor trembled. Shaban took in the adulation as his brother had before him, then raised his hands. The tumult quickly died down.

  “Servants of Set!” he said, voice booming from loudspeakers; the headdress also contained a microphone. “Welcome! The day has finally come. The worthless platitudes of Osiris have been swept aside. He is no more. I am at last the true leader! I am Set reborn! And I will show the world the true power of a god!”

  The response from the crowd was more frenzied than before. Even the guards surrounding Eddie were caught up in the moment—though not, he quickly found when he tested his bonds, enough to forget why they were on the stage. One jabbed a gun into his back as Shaban again signaled for silence.

  The scientist who had crossed the courtyard with the cult leader earlier approached, bearing the containment flask. He bowed and presented it to Shaban, then retreated.

  “This,” said Shaban in a low voice, “is the seed of our power. This is how the Temple of Set will spread my will over the world. In this container”—his voice rose as he held the flask over his head—“is death. Death, to those who oppose us. Death, to the unbelievers. Death, to all those who refuse to bow to the might of Set!”

  The crowd chanted and stamped again—though, Eddie realized, fractionally less powerfully than before. Maybe not all of them were 100 percent behind the idea of global genocide …

  Shaban lowered the flask. “This container is just the first. When you leave, you will take with you many more. Slowly, invisibly, you will spread their contents across the world. By the time our enemies realize what we have done, it will be too late—they will already have consumed this death. There is only one way they can survive—by pledging their total obedience and worship to the Temple of Set! You, my followers, will be safe—the bread of Set will protect you.” His voice rose again, almost a scream. “But only those I deem worthy will receive it—all others will die! The reign of Set has begun!”

  Another explosion of approval came from the pit—but this time there were noticeable pockets showing rather less enthusiasm. The cult leader returned the flask to the scientist, then faced the crowd once more … though Eddie saw a now familiar tension in Shaban’s face, anger just barely contained beneath the surface.

  “I know some of you may be having second thoughts,” he said, his voice almost silky, reassuring. Shaban might not have had his brother’s oratorical skills, but he had certainly taken notes. “If you have doubts, now is the time to make them known.” He gestured to the stairs leading up to the stage. “Come. Step forward. I will end your fears.”

  He smiled, but his eyes were crocodile-cold. “Don’t do it!” Eddie shouted, seeing a few of the cultists moving to the aisle, but the guards pistol-whipped him to his knees. His voice was lost in the murmurs of the crowd, those taking Shaban up on his offer being regarded with suspicion, even hostility, by the others.

  About twelve men hesitantly grouped in the aisle. “There are no more?” Shaban asked, mild tone and empty smile again concealing his emotions. He surveyed the crowd for any more signs of disaffection. Seeing none, his lips curled to reveal his true feelings. “Then bring them to me!” he barked.

  The guards lining the aisle had been prepared for this moment. In a sudden burst of action, they closed in from both sides, crashing together like two green waves. Fists and feet flailing, they beat the dissenters to the floor. When the chaos ebbed, the bloodied dozen were dragged up the stairs by three men each. The rest of the crowd began a horrible baying that grew louder and more animalistic as the moaning victims were brought to the altar.

  Shaban glared at the doubters with contempt, then turned back to his followers. “You have accepted me as your leader—as your god! There is no room for doubt, no room for fear—I give you eternal life, and in return I demand eternal obedience! I am your god! I am Set!”

  “Set! Set! Set!” screamed the crowd.

  He moved behind the altar, picking up a long, wicked blade. A nod to the nearest group of guards, and their prisoner was hauled onto the glass-topped block. His cries for help went unheard beneath the mob’s yelling.

  Holding the knife up to the spotlights, Shaban began a sinister prayer, his amplified words rolling around the chamber. “I pay homage to you, O Ra, lord of heaven. I am your champion, the doer of your will within this world. Your light falls upon the great mother Nut, whose hands encompass the sky above us, and the great father Geb, whose body spans the earth beneath us. I am your son, your servant … your warrior.”

  He raised the blade higher. “In blood, I show my worth,” he proclaimed. “In blood, I slay your enemies. In blood, I take my rightful place as the ruler of this world, and the next, for all eternity! Those who do not believe, shall suffer! Those who oppose, shall fall! I am Set, lord of the desert, master of darkness, the god of death! I am Set!”

  The masses below began their awful chant once more, fists punching skyward in unison. Eddie spotted Grant, who was watching in horror as he realized the ritual’s inevitable end, but was too afraid to fight or flee.

  “I am Set!” Shaban repeated. “I have slain the coward Osiris, and now in blood I take dominion over all things! I am Set! Set! Set!”

  He plunged the knife downward.

  Blood gouted from the helpless man’s chest as Shaban stabbed again and again, the guards holding him down as he writhed and convulsed … then fell still. Eddie watched, appalled.

  But Shaban wasn’t finished. Clothes spattered with trickling red spots, he rushed to the next prisoner, face alight with an insane glee. “I am the bringer of death!” he cried, slashing the knife across the man’s throat and sending a crimson spew down his chest. The other men struggled and screamed, but were held too tightly to escape as the knife plunged into their flesh. “This is the fate of those who question! Those who follow me shall live forever—and all others will die!”

  “Jesus Christ!” Nina gasped, turning pale as she listened to Shaban’s rant via Grant’s phone. Macy covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide. “He’s killing them!” She faced Assad. “Send in your men!”

  Sweat beaded on the Egyptian’s face. “I … I don’t have the authority,” he said desperately. “I need to—I need to call the minister.”

  “There’s no time! We’ve got to—oh shit …” She trailed off as Shaban spoke again.

  “Grant Thorn,” said the cult leader, the name echoing around the temple. “Will Grant Thorn step forward? Mr. Thorn!” />
  “I’m … I’m here,” Grant croaked, mouth as dry as dust.

  “Good.” Shaban smirked nastily. “I’m sure you all know Mr. Thorn. But”—the smirk darkened—“he was a follower of my brother. It is time to see if he will pledge himself to his new god.”

  “Uh … sure!” Grant cleared his throat. “Sure thing! I—I pledge to worship you, O Set! Totally!”

  “I will need more proof than mere words,” said Shaban. “Come up here.”

  Grant hesitated, but was pushed forward by a pair of goons. Shaking, he ascended the stairs. At the top, he looked around at Eddie, the statues, the ceiling—anything to avoid Shaban’s cold stare, or the bloodied bodies around the altar.

  “I’m giving you a great honor, Mr. Thorn,” said Shaban, stepping up to him. He was still holding the dripping knife; Grant cringed back from its point. “You have all seen the fate of those who do not obey my will. Now …” He looked around at Eddie, the sadistic smirk returning. “Now you will see the fate that awaits the enemies of Set.”

  “A blow job from a supermodel?” Eddie shouted, a display of defiance that earned him a hard blow to the head.

  Shaban sneered. “This man,” he said, pointing, “has opposed us. Has tried to destroy us. Has tried to deny you everlasting life!” The crowd jeered. “There can be only one punishment—death!” He whirled to face Grant, holding up the knife in front of the actor’s face. “And you, Mr. Thorn, will prove your loyalty to the Temple of Set—by killing him.”

  Grant’s mouth moved silently before his voice fearfully emerged. “Oh, no, I, ah … that’s really your kind of honor.”

  “I insist,” said Shaban icily. He nudged a corpse with his foot. “And you know what happens to those who do not obey the will of Set.”

  Pushing the knife into the reluctant actor’s hands, he quickly stepped back out of arm’s reach, then gestured to the guards holding Eddie. “Bring him to the altar!”