Journey of the Pharaohs

by Clive Cussler

  “Mine too,” Joe said.

  Pembroke-Smythe continued. “We thought the delivery in Dunvegan might have been the fruit of their labors, but it seems to be just a step along the way. Your suggestion—that they want the information on the stones and not the stones themselves—is all we have to go on. But it’s an intriguing idea.”

  “What about the journal?” Kurt asked.

  “We were just looking it over,” Morgan said. “It’s not a journal, it’s a logbook from an old aircraft. The final entry carries a date of December 1927. Because the ink has faded and the pages have turned brittle, most of the entries are unreadable. However, the last pages read like a diary, including notes that suggest the man who carried it had crashed in a remote area. He indicates taking a few items and attempting to hike out to civilization. It was a difficult task, considering he had an injured leg and nothing but dry scrubland and a rocky riverbed to hike through.”

  “Dry scrubland,” Joe said. “Doesn’t sound like England.”

  “Any mention of Egypt or artifacts?” Kurt asked.

  Morgan shook her head.

  They were clearly lacking information. It was even possible the logbook/journal had nothing to do with the other artifacts, but there was no way to say for sure.

  “What about your informant?” Kurt asked. “Any chance you can use him to get to the bottom of this?”

  Pembroke-Smythe answered this way. “We think it’s wise not to reach out to him at this moment.”

  “Why is that?”

  Morgan explained. “My informant has an agenda of his own,” she said. “He’s a competitor of the Bloodstone Group, not in the arms business but in the world of stolen artifacts. We call him the Collector. He’s known to spend large amounts on the black market. But as far as we can tell, very little of what he buys ever comes up for sale again.”

  “What’s his connection to the Bloodstone Group?” Kurt asked.

  “How does he know what they’re up to?” Joe added.

  “The association is a little murky,” Morgan admitted. “We think he may have been a client of Bloodstone’s at some point. Our best guess is, they had a falling-out, possibly a disagreement over price. Perhaps the Collector decided it’s better to steal what he’s after rather than pay Bloodstone for it. At any rate, where the Bloodstone Group wants to dig up these treasures to sell them, the Collector seems more interested in keeping them for himself. And we’ve been using that desire in our efforts to stop them.”

  “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Joe noted.

  “Exactly,” Pembroke-Smythe chimed in. “Whoever he—or she—is, this Collector has been spot-on in predicting what Bloodstone will do, though he must not have total insight because he labeled this delivery ‘the big one.’”

  “Relying on criminal sources for information tends to be a game of diminishing returns,” Kurt said. “We used to do the same thing in the CIA. We found the informants would miss out on the most crucial details just when you really needed them.”

  “A scenario we’re encountering now,” Pembroke-Smythe said. “All of which leads to an important decision. Either we sit and wait or we take action. Since action is almost always preferable to sitting and waiting, we’ve chosen to move forward.”

  “Meaning what?” Kurt asked.

  “We intend to cut the Bloodstone Group off at the knees by finding out what they’re after and securing it before they do. That’s where you two come in . . . if you’re interested . . .”

  “Take out their source of income and they wither on the vine,” Kurt said.

  Pembroke-Smythe nodded and then added a final touch to the sales pitch. “MI5 is simply not equipped for something like this. We stop smugglers, prevent terrorist attacks, arrest people. We don’t search for lost treasure. And while we could go bring in university types and the like, putting civilians in the same arena as the Bloodstone Group would be considered bad form.”

  “Clearly,” Kurt said.

  “You two, on the other hand,” Pembroke-Smythe said, “have proven yourselves willing and able to step into the breach. Based on that, and Dirk’s insistence that there’s no one he’d rather send into a fight, I’d gladly make an exception and welcome you aboard.”

  Kurt took a sip of the tea while considering the invitation. Tipping the cup back, he noticed a cake-like sludge at the bottom of the cup and wondered if a spoon might be in order. He glanced over to Joe. “We did come here to find an ancient ship. If we can’t find a Viking one, maybe we can find an Egyptian vessel instead.”

  Joe nodded. “It would make our return to D.C. a triumphant one.”

  Kurt turned back to their hosts. “We’re in. Where do we start?”

  Both Morgan and the Colonel grinned. “By taking the items in that crate to someone who can decipher the hieroglyphics. That ought to shed some light on what Bloodstone is really after.”

  Chapter 17

  The East End, London

  The streets of London were never truly deserted. Countless pubs, coffeehouses and restaurants drew crowds late into the evening. And after the last of the night owls went home, a small army of delivery trucks, street sweepers and road crews appeared. They scoured the city, preparing it for the next morning’s rush.

  Still, the farther one got from the heart of London, the quieter things became. In the East End—beyond the gentrified sections—walking around the streets in the wee hours of the morning meant one was either hopelessly lost or criminally inclined.

  Wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans and Army boots, Robson was more the latter. He walked the dangerous streets without a hint of concern on his face. And why should he worry? He was coming home.

  He passed corners where he’d sold drugs, a dead-end alley where he and a few mates had fought another gang. He’d been knifed in the leg that night, but before he went down he’d broken one man’s arm and smashed two of the interlopers in the face with punches assisted by brass knuckles.

  The infection from the wound had been horrendous, but going to the hospital would have landed him in prison, so he’d waited out the pain with a bottle of scotch and some black market antibiotics.

  Laughing morosely at the memory, Robson pushed on, heading for the docks. A few miles down the road, a brand-new section of the port loaded and unloaded ships twenty-four hours a day. He could see the lights from here. But the wharves nearby were abandoned. They lay silent and rotting, watched over by a pair of rusted cranes that hadn’t moved in a decade. Every few years someone would promise money to refurbish the area and bring it back to life, but the money never came. And it never would.

  Ignoring the blight, Robson passed along a graffiti-covered wall. He arrived near the dock and found he was alone. Disappointing.

  Putting his fingers to his lips, he whistled loudly. “Come on, you lot!” he shouted. “Stop wasting my time.”

  The whistle and shouts prompted movement. Two men came out from behind the base of the old crane, two others emerged from the shadows of a blacked-out building with broken windows. One of them moved forward. “That really you, Inky?”

  “I told you, it’s Robson now.”

  “Oh really?” There was mockery in that response.

  The men assembled before Robson. First in line was a long-haired man they called Fingers because he’d been pretty good with a guitar until someone broke his hand. Beside him was a short fellow with blocky shoulders who everybody called Snipe, though he hated the nickname. The third and fourth men were half brothers, Daly and Gus, a muscle-bound pair who’d been groomed as boxers by their scheming dad—a man who turned out to be the father of neither. As he looked at them, Robson was struck by how funny it was he couldn’t remember any of their real names.

  “The prodigal son returns,” Gus said. Gus was a bruiser, a rugby player with a build to match, an amateur MMA fighter in his wildest dreams a
nd in real life a part-time enforcer for a local heavy.

  “Prodigal nothing,” Robson said. “After tonight I’ll never set foot in this slag heap again.”

  “Too good for this place?” Daly said, pushing between the others and pointing an accusing finger in Robson’s face. “You royalty now or some fink?”

  “Compared to you, I am.”

  Robson had expected a better reception but was prepared for the worst. Bad neighborhoods were the same all over—those people who got out were held up more as traitors than success stories. Daly had another reason to hate Robson, though it was all in his mind.

  With Daly fuming already, Robson stood calmly with his hands in his pockets. He’d made sure to position himself so that the lone streetlight was behind him. It gave off just enough illumination to show him that Daly’s eyes were bloodshot, raw and wild. That meant he’d been drinking for sure. Hard liquor, probably, cheap vodka being his go-to painkiller.

  After drinking enough, Daly was always spoiling for a fight. And he was brutal when he got his hands on someone. He’d even busted up Gus a few times. Some said the only reason Gus was still alive was the fact that he and Daly shared a mother.

  For now, Robson held silent, waiting for Daly’s train of thought to wreck itself and start over. The inaction seemed to calm his old friend—for now.

  Snipe asked the next question. “What’s this really all about?”

  “I have a job for you,” Robson said.

  “We heard that before. What’s it pay?”

  “Enough to get you lot out of here. Assuming you have any ambition at all.”

  Daly didn’t seem to like that idea. Unknown to Robson, he’d become more important in the local gang during Robson’s absence. Daly’s ego was wrapped up in it. He was something of a big fish here. He would never leave for a larger pond. And as far as he was concerned, neither would any of his boys. “We know how you got out of here,” Daly spat. “Set us up. Snitched us raw on the last job, you did. Put me and Gus in the pound for three years.”

  “The fence gave you up,” Robson said, “not me. I told you not to nick any of the jewels, just the cash, but you didn’t listen. I told you to fence them in some other city, but you still didn’t listen. That stupidity cost you.”

  Daly pulled out a butterfly knife, opening it in a flashing metallic blur. “It’s going to cost you more than it cost me.” He stepped forward, expecting Robson to back off.

  Robson held his ground, eyeing Daly. “Careful, mate. Another step and I’ll feed you that knife.”

  Daly lunged without warning, his free hand grabbing Robson’s lapel while the hand holding the knife surged forward and upward. It was a quick move. And once he’d grabbed the jacket, there was no way for Robson to pull out of range.

  Only he didn’t need to.

  With practiced calm, Robson pulled the trigger on the snub-nosed pistol in his jacket pocket. It blasted a hole in the leather of Daly’s jacket and a bigger hole in his gut. The impact staggered the attacking man.

  Robson fired again and Daly stumbled back, losing his grip on the jacket and dropping his weapon at the same time. The knife hit the ground with a soft clink, Daly landed with a heavy grunt. He rolled over, made a halfhearted effort to crawl away and then collapsed.

  Stepping back and pulling the pistol from his pocket, Robson looked around. “Anyone else?”

  He stared at Gus, but Gus had no real love for his half brother. Jealousy was their primary bond.

  “Bloody hell,” Fingers said. He’d dropped down to see if Daly was breathing. “You killed him.”

  “The bullet killed him,” Robson said, “along with his own stupidity. Now, do you lot want to hear about the job or not?”

  “The coppers will be down here before long,” Snipe said. “You know they will.”

  Robson doubted that. A pair of muffled gunshots out near the docks in the middle of the night wouldn’t be heard by anyone with any inclination to call it in.

  “Dump him in the river,” Robson said. “And then make your choice. You can stay here and waste away, pulling little jobs, selling smack and dodging the cops, or you can come with me. I’ve got a job that’ll make you rich. And if you do it right, there’s more to follow. But you decide now ’cause I won’t ask again.”

  Fingers, Snipe and Gus remained frozen even as Robson began to walk away. Too much on their plates all at once, Robson thought. Too much at one time.

  After a pause of indecision, they came to their senses. Snipe and Gus picked up Daly, dragged him to the edge of the dock, as Fingers looked nervously in every direction.

  Robson heard the splash but kept on walking, heading for the nearest tube. He reached the stairs and went down without looking back.

  Fifty yards behind him, the members of his former street gang followed, crossing the street against the light, which was flashing ominously red, and then pausing near the steps of the underground station.

  They exchanged shocked glances, but no one said a word. The sound of a train pulling in rebalanced the scales. It was now or never. A collective decision was reached. They rushed down the stairwell, desperate not to miss the train.

  Chapter 18

  Cambridge University, near King’s College Chapel

  Kurt, Joe and Morgan arrived in the town of Cambridge at noon the next day. By then, the last remnants of the storm had passed and warm sunshine had settled over southern England. It was calm and idyllic, with birds chirping and butterflies fluttering about.

  In terms of weather, it felt as if they’d traveled to another continent. In terms of scenery, it felt as if they’d traveled to another time. The Cambridge campus unfolded like an illustration from a storybook. Its Gothic buildings, complete with towering spires and stone archways, stretched toward the sky. Between them lay sprawling manicured lawns, crisscrossed by stone pathways and dotted with well-tended gardens. Through it all ran the waters of the River Cam, trickling no louder than a whisper.

  As they passed the famous chapel of King’s College, Kurt gave voice to an odd thought. “I wouldn’t be shocked if we ran into William Shakespeare.”

  Joe was thinking of a different writer. “Or Harry Potter.”

  Morgan had been to Cambridge a couple dozen times over the past three years. But even she couldn’t deny that there was something magical about the place, especially in the warm light of late summer. “If you two are done gawking at the scenery, we have business to attend to.”

  Morgan carried a brown leather briefcase with her. Inside were high-resolution photos of the items they’d found in the metal crate—one of the flat stone fragments, for making a physical comparison. The rest of the artifacts had been left behind, locked up for safekeeping.

  Kurt continued to gawk but also focused on her. “Tell me about this expert we’re going to meet.”

  “Professor Cross,” she said. “He’s something of an old curmudgeon, much like you’d expect. He talks to himself a lot, but he’s very sharp. He’s an expert in ancient cultures of the Mediterranean and the dynastic authority on Egypt. He spent years abroad—mostly in Egypt, from what I’m told, but also in Libya, Ethiopia and the Sudan. His main interest is preserving and protecting history. He went over to Libya and Iraq during the wars in hopes of protecting the museums that were being looted and destroyed by the terrorists.”

  “Sounds like a man of conviction,” Kurt said.

  “He is,” she insisted. “And well-traveled. If you give him the chance, he’ll explain in excruciating detail just how many expeditions he’s been on, and how many national museums he’s partnered with.”

  As she spoke, Morgan rolled her eyes the way one does when talking about an exasperating parent or child who was also much loved.

  “How long has MI5 been working with him?”

  “Almost three years,” she said. “Ever since the investigation int
o the stolen antiquities ramped up. Be careful what you say to him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s got a photographic memory,” she said. “He can even translate hieroglyphics without resorting to reference books or guides.”

  “Nice skill to have,” Joe said, “considering the business he’s in.”

  “What time are we supposed to meet him?” Kurt asked.

  “Noonish,” she said, taking them across one of the great lawns and down toward the river, which ran through the heart of the university.

  Kurt glanced at his watch. “It’s ten past noonish now. And we seem to be getting farther from the buildings.”

  “I know,” Morgan replied. “We won’t find the professor in his office on a day like this. He’d rather be out on the water.”

  Kurt smiled. “I like him already.”

  They approached the river and a bridge made of stone that looked as if it was right out of Camelot. Down below, the Cam trickled by a long wooden boat that was resting alongside a stone jetty.

  A bespectacled man, wearing brown pants, a mustard-colored corduroy jacket and a flat cap made of tweed, was standing on the back end of the boat. Morgan waved to get his attention. “Afternoon, Professor. Sorry to bother you on a day like this but we have something we’d like you to look over.”

  “So I’m told,” the professor said. “Please, come on down.”

  The trio made its way down a flight of steps and out onto the jetty, where introductions were made. The professor gave Morgan a hug before shaking Kurt’s and Joe’s hands. He agreed to look at the latest discovery provided they did it as far from the confines of his small office as possible.

  “You’ll get no argument from us,” Kurt said.

  They climbed into the boat, taking a seat on the bench in the center, while the professor used a long pole to push them away from the dock. With another shove they began gliding forward.

  The flat-bottomed boat was known as a punt, the person in charge of pushing the boat known as the Punter. The professor initially seemed more than happy to do the job, but once they’d passed under the bridge he looked for a replacement.