The Forbidden Tomb

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘And Farid did?’ Cobb asked.

  Seymour nodded. ‘On the night in question, he had a substantial charge at a local Kentucky Fried Chicken; the one right across the street from here. Now, I’ve been known to eat my fair share of fast food, but even I can’t consume three buckets of chicken and a dozen drinks in a single meal. Maybe two buckets, but certainly not three.’

  Seymour snorted at his own joke. It was an obnoxious sound like a pig sniffing for truffles, but coming from the bow-tied Seymour, it was actually endearing.

  Sarah smiled. It had been a while since she had heard his laugh. ‘What about recently? Any activity on the students’ cards since their disappearance?’

  He shook his head. ‘There were no hits on their credit cards, their mobile phones, or their e-mail accounts. They disappeared without a trace. Literally. No footprints at all – either in the sand or digitally.’

  ‘What about Manjani?’ Cobb asked. ‘I was led to believe that he was spotted after the incident.’

  ‘He was,’ Seymour confirmed. ‘He spent one night in a seedy hotel in el-Bawiti, a small town in the Western Desert, before he disappeared as well.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I’m good at what I do.’

  ‘Let me guess: he used his credit card.’

  Seymour shook his head. ‘Actually, Manjani was smarter than most. He didn’t use a credit card to pay for the room or his cell phone to make any calls. But he did use a payphone to reach out to someone from his past, and that’s where he slipped up. On the night in question, he used a payphone across the street from the hotel to call Dr Farid. Not once, not twice, but five times. My guess was to warn him, or to ask for assistance, or both.’

  Sarah nodded in understanding. ‘He must have been scared out of his mind. Did he ever get in touch with Farid?’

  ‘He couldn’t,’ Seymour replied. ‘Farid was already dead.’

  Her mouth dropped open. ‘Someone killed him?’

  Seymour quickly realized his mistake. ‘No, not at all! The man was seventy-eight years old and in failing health. He passed away shortly after the team had left for the desert, which meant Manjani was unaware of his death.’

  ‘You’re sure it wasn’t foul play?’

  ‘Foul play, no. Fowl play, maybe. Three buckets of extra crispy would stop most people’s hearts.’ Seymour snorted again, even louder than before. So much so that a group of tourists glanced over to determine the source of the obnoxious sound.

  Cobb grabbed Seymour’s arm and gently pulled him away. The last thing he wanted was to turn up on anyone’s radar. ‘Tell me more about Manjani. Was he clean?’

  ‘Squeaky,’ Seymour assured them. ‘The same with Farid and the rest of the team. I’ve looked into academic records, work histories, credit reports, and every other digital source you can think of. Manjani and Farid were incredibly respected among their colleagues. Every peer evaluation was filled with glowing remarks and notes of admiration. The students all performed at honors level, and none has any challenges to their integrity in their files. Except for a couple of traffic tickets, they’re spotless.’

  Cobb nodded in appreciation. After working with Dade, a street hustler who talked in half-truths, Cobb loved the military efficiency of Seymour’s reports. Although he could do without the loud snorting, the material itself was first rate.

  ‘And the students?’ Cobb asked.

  ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘What were they studying?’

  ‘Everything,’ Seymour claimed. ‘Archaeology, Egyptology, Roman literature, pagan theology, Greek antiquities, Mediterranean folklore, archaeoastronomy, and a few others. It was quite the diverse collection. I’m not sure how all of these areas fit together, but I can tell you that their divergent backgrounds are decidedly Manjani-esque.’

  Sarah didn’t understand the reference. ‘How so?’

  ‘Dr Cyril Manjani held – or rather holds – doctorates in several of the aforementioned fields and has published articles in many others. Based on all that I have read, I am quite comfortable calling him an über-genius.’

  Cobb grimaced. If Manjani was as intelligent as Seymour claimed, then there was a damn good chance that he would never be found. And even if he were, it would probably be far too late to do Jasmine any good. ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘About?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘Can an über-genius be tracked?’

  Seymour grinned. ‘He might be book-smart, but that doesn’t always translate to the street smart. He’s good at covering his tracks, but he’s not the best. Let me ask you, what’s the first thing you do every morning?’

  Cobb stared at him. ‘I take a piss.’

  Seymour snorted. ‘Okay, after that?’

  ‘I eat breakfast and clean my gun – but not necessarily in that order. Seriously, where are you going with this?’

  Sarah interrupted him. ‘Unlike Rambo over here, I tend to be a little less soldierly. The first thing I do is check my e-mail.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Seymour laughed. ‘And, thankfully, so does Manjani. He’s using a brand-new account that’s being routed through a web server in the middle of the Aegean Sea, but I’m sure it’s your man.’

  ‘The Aegean?’ she blurted. ‘There are literally hundreds of islands, not to mention thousands of boats, in the Aegean. Any way you can narrow it down for us?’

  ‘Of course I can,’ he said proudly, as he tucked his thumbs underneath his suspenders and snapped them against his chest. ‘Dr Manjani is hiding on the island of Amorgos.’

  58

  Thursday, November 6

  Katapola, Amorgos

  (140 miles southeast of Athens, Greece)

  Surrounded by the turquoise waters of the Aegean Sea, the island of Amorgos is located at the easternmost edge of the Greek Cyclades, one of the island groups that make up the Aegean archipelago.

  With no airport on Amorgos, those who wish to visit can do so by private boat or on one of the public ferries that service the island’s two ports: Katapola in the south and Aegiali in the north. These shuttles – which include catamarans, jet boats, and traditional cruisers – offer daily routes between Amorgos and the nearby islands.

  Unfortunately, it was a long way from Egypt.

  The quickest way for Cobb and Sarah to reach the Cyclades would have been to charter a seaplane in Cairo to fly them directly to the island of their choice. But Cobb took that option off the table when he learned that air traffic near Amorgos was sparse at best. Circling the island a couple of times on a sightseeing tour was one thing, but actually touching down just off shore was bound to attract unwanted attention.

  Another possibility was to grab a flight to Athens, then work their way south. It wasn’t a difficult trip, but it wasn’t fast, either. By the time they made their connecting flight from Athens to Naxos and then caught the ferry from Naxos to Katapola, they would have wasted more than a day. They needed to get there as soon as possible if they hoped to catch Manjani when he checked his e-mail as part of his morning routine.

  Their answer came in the form of a regional airline that promised to have them in Santorini shortly after dawn. From there, it would take less than two hours to reach Amorgos by boat as long as the weather stayed clear and the sea remained calm. As fate should have it, their quest was noble and the gods blessed their journey.

  And no one released the Kraken.

  The high-speed ferry arrived at the port city of Katapola just after nine. Cobb stared out the window at the rocky coast of the small island, searching for hidden beaches among the sheer cliffs. Sarah wasn’t interested in the sights. She had spent the entire trip curled up on the seat beside him, getting caught up on her sleep.

  He couldn’t blame her.

  It had been a grueling week.

  Initially, they had hoped to blend in with the crowd as it left the ferry, but it turned out they were the only ones departing in Katapola. In fact, they were the only ones in
sight, as if the entire island had been deserted for an impending disaster.

  And yet that wasn’t the strangest thing that he noticed.

  Or didn’t notice.

  Cobb had visited many ports in his life, and the one thing that all of them had in common were signs for local destinations. In St Petersburg, imposing steel placards with massive Cyrillic letters announced routes inland. In Montego Bay, there were charming, hand-painted wooden planks that pointed to the nearest bar. The signage was distinct for each country, but the goal was the same: to guide new arrivals.

  But in Katapola, there were no signs at all.

  Sarah noticed it, too. ‘How’s your Greek?’

  ‘Slightly worse than yours,’ Cobb replied.

  ‘Which means it’s non-existent.’

  They headed inland, hoping to spot someone who could point them in the right direction. Eventually, Sarah spotted a man sprawled on a wooden bench. At first she thought he might be dead, but as they approached he popped upright as if he had been caught sleeping on the job by his supervisor.

  She smiled, and the man smiled back.

  He even raised his hand and waved.

  ‘Jack, take a look.’

  As Cobb followed her gaze, the man stopped waving and signaled for them to come forward, letting them know that he would welcome a conversation.

  ‘You are lost?’ he called out. A Scandinavian accent tinged his words, but it was the alcohol in his system that slurred his speech.

  ‘Just a bit,’ Sarah admitted.

  ‘Where you going? Maybe Jarkko can help.’

  ‘Who’s Jarkko?’ she asked, confused.

  ‘I’m Jarkko!’ he announced proudly. ‘And Jarkko knows the sea like a butcher knows his meat. Yesterday was Athens. Today is Amorgos. Tomorrow is Malta – if Jarkko can find it in the dark. The island is quite small, and Jarkko is quite drunk.’

  With no other options, she was willing to humor their new companion. Walking closer, she saw his callused hands and sunburned face. Together with his three-day beard, Jarkko had the look of a man who had spent his lifetime on the water. She scanned the slips nearby, focusing on a battered wreck of a fishing boat.

  ‘Yours?’ she asked.

  Jarkko looked at the boat and laughed. Then he turned in the opposite direction and pointed to a magnificent yacht anchored far offshore. It rivaled the size and splendor of that yacht that Papineau had secured for them in Alexandria – which meant it cost a lot more than a drunken fisherman could afford.

  ‘That one,’ Jarkko bragged.

  Cobb rolled his eyes. ‘Great. He’s drunk and delusional.’

  Jarkko laughed at the suggestion as he pulled out a thermos from under the bench. He then filled the cap with steaming brown liquid and offered it to Cobb. ‘Kafka?’

  Cobb didn’t speak Greek, or Swedish, or whatever language the crusty fisherman had just muttered, but a hot cup of coffee sounded pretty damn good at that moment. Despite his reservations about the man himself, Cobb knew that in some parts of the world declining an offer of food or drink was tantamount to a slap in the face.

  ‘Sure,’ he said as he grabbed the cup and lifted it toward his mouth. A split second before he took a sip, he caught a whiff of its aroma and turned his head in disgust. ‘Oh my God, what is this shit? You said it was coffee. That’s not coffee.’

  Jarkko started to laugh. And not a normal conversational laugh, but a loud, booming chortle that shook his entire body. ‘Not coffee. Kafka. Mixture of coffee and vodka. My own creation. Is good, no?’

  ‘No!’ Cobb objected as he handed the cup to Sarah so she could take a whiff. ‘It’s not good at all! It smells like piss that’s been mixed with lighter fluid. Seriously, how can you drink that stuff?’

  Jarkko patted his belly. ‘I am tough guy. Iron stomach.’

  ‘And a pickled liver,’ Cobb added.

  Jarkko stared at him and burped his rebuttal.

  Sensing an opportunity to belittle Cobb while ingratiating herself with a local, Sarah took a sniff of the liquid, shrugged like it was no big deal, and then drank the kafka in a mighty gulp as if she were at a bachelorette party in Las Vegas. To make the moment complete, she glanced at Cobb and sneered. ‘You’re such a pussy.’

  Cobb started to defend himself, but quickly realized that anything he said would fall short of the mark, so he simply held his tongue in silence.

  Meanwhile, Jarkko’s reaction was the exact opposite. He looked at Sarah with puppy dog eyes and muttered the first thing that came to mind. ‘I think I love you.’

  Sarah smiled and handed him his cup. ‘In that case, I was hoping you could give me some directions.’

  ‘Yes!’ he exclaimed as he rose to his feet. ‘Jarkko will give you anything! His thermos! His yacht! His sexy underwear! Tell me, do you like to fish?’

  ‘I do,’ she said as she gently pushed him back down, ‘but let’s start with directions. Do you know a place called Diosmarini’s?’

  ‘Yes! Jarkko knows it very well. It is up steep hill. If you climb on Jarkko’s back, Jarkko will carry you there – and pay for breakfast.’

  ‘As tempting as that sounds,’ she grabbed Cobb’s elbow for emphasis, ‘we have a previous engagement.’

  Jarkko groaned in heartbreak. ‘You are engaged? Why you flirt with Jarkko?’

  She smiled at him. ‘Because you’re too sexy to ignore.’

  ‘Yes – Jarkko sees point. Jarkko has forgiven you!’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘So,’ Cobb said as he glanced at his watch, ‘the café is right up the hill?’

  Jarkko nodded. ‘Yes, keep walking. You find, right there. Look for white sign, white tables, white chairs. It is so bright even you can find it.’

  59

  Jarkko’s directions to the restaurant were spot on, much to the surprise of Cobb, who figured there was a damn good chance that the Finn sat on the bench all day, drinking his kafka, and randomly making up directions for wayward travelers in order to amuse himself. Then again, Jarkko’s affection for Sarah seemed so genuine that his moment of accuracy was probably intended to impress her rather than to reward Cobb.

  Either way, the café was right where it was supposed to be.

  And more importantly, so was Dr Manjani.

  According to Seymour, the missing professor checked his e-mail every morning at Diosmarini’s café, using a local wireless network. Sometimes he remained online for minutes, and other times hours, but he made an appearance every single day. To find him, all they had to do was show up for breakfast.

  The smell of roasted beans flooded their nostrils as Cobb tried to distance himself from the memory of the dreaded kafka. Though he longed for the biggest espresso that they were willing to make, he walked through the restaurant to the courtyard beyond where he spotted the professor at one of the ubiquitous white tables.

  Manjani’s hair was shaggy and unkempt. Thick, bushy eyebrows pushed the frames of his glasses away from his face as he read from his laptop, forcing him to stare down his nose like Santa Claus checking his naughty list. He had dark circles under his eyes and his clothes hung loosely, as if he wasn’t sleeping or eating at all.

  Cobb had seen several pictures of Manjani from the weeks and months before his disappearance, and the man he was staring at was a shell of his former self. If Cobb hadn’t been aware of the tragedy in the desert, he would have assumed that the professor was dying from cancer or some other horrible disease that ravaged its victims over time. Instead, he sensed the only things eating away at Manjani were his inner demons.

  Remorse for the students who had lost their lives.

  Shame for running away from his past.

  Guilt over his survival.

  As a former soldier who had lost men in combat, Cobb could identify with those feelings better than most. So much so that he could spot the suffering from across the room, like a pusher spotting a junkie. And yet, even though he felt empathy for Manjani – because based on everything
he had heard, the professor was a good guy in a bad situation – Cobb knew that they were there for information, and he was willing to do just about anything to obtain it.

  Cobb headed forward until Sarah grabbed his arm.

  ‘Slow down,’ she whispered as she pulled him aside. ‘So, what’s your plan? Are you going to stroll right up to him, tell him who you are, and lean on him for information?’

  ‘Pretty much. But you know, subtle.’

  She smiled. ‘I’ve seen your version of subtle, and it’s typically anything but. How about you sit this one out and let me handle things?’

  ‘Sarah, we don’t have time for games.’

  ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘when you were in the Army, how often did you go up to the enemy, tap him on the shoulder, and ask him questions about his past?’

  ‘Define “tap”.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘What’s your point?’ he asked.

  ‘We did things different in the CIA. Much different. The trick is to get all the information that you need without arousing suspicion of any kind. You don’t want anyone to clam up because you asked the wrong questions or gave off the wrong vibe. Trust me, it takes a lot of panache to pull it off.’

  Cobb grimaced. ‘Are you saying you don’t like my style?’

  ‘No,’ she assured him, ‘I’m not saying that at all. I just think this particular job might need a woman’s touch.’

  ‘Fine. Who did you have in mind?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I thought so,’ he said as he took a seat at an empty table on the opposite side of the patio from Manjani. ‘He’s all yours. Let me know if I can help.’

  ‘Just be sure to smile and wave when he looks your way.’ She pulled the tie from her ponytail and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘How do I look?’

  Cobb shrugged. ‘Meh.’

  She smiled. ‘You’re such an ass.’

  ‘Not really. I’m just lacking panache.’