by Brett King
This time, he heard it. Loud and clear.
“Impossible,” he sputtered. “You have no option. You cannot break off the engagement. That is the sole privilege—”
“I changed the rules.”
“Rashmi Raja, you are a wretched woman.”
“Then count yourself lucky you’re not marrying me.”
“Tell me, are you insane?”
“I don’t love you, Mani. Okay?”
“Love?” he asked, exasperated. “Love is fairy-tale nonsense the Americans have fed into your brain. What does love matter to a marriage?”
“Before I would have said nothing. Now? I’m not so sure.”
“You are mistaken about our engagement, Rashmi. I will marry you. It is the will of our families and it is your duty. You will live in India with me, never to return to the United States. I will reform you to be an obedient wife. You will see.”
She shook her head. “You’ll never be my lord and master, no matter how much my family wishes it to be so.”
“Your family,” he mocked. “If you respected your family, you would not speak such nonsense.”
“I told you before, I’m doing things my family could never understand. I don’t expect you to understand, okay? What I need you to understand is that we are over. Finished.”
“You must marry me.” He gritted his teeth. “You are too tall for many Indian men. A husband must be taller than his wife.”
“You’re not.”
He didn’t listen. He was probably in denial about his height. Or lack of it.
“In addition, you are old, Rashmi. You are already twenty-four and still unmarried. That is unacceptable.”
“For my family, maybe. Not for me.”
“Worst of all? This is your fourth engagement. Your face and body are highly desirable, but your independence is ugly. That is why the other three refused to marry you.”
“Yeah, well, I was counting on you to do the same.”
“I am stronger than the others. I made a pledge to your family,” Mani replied. “I vowed to them that I would not break off our engagement. I will marry you in October. Do you understand me now?”
She kissed his cheek. “Too bad it ended like this. Thanks for bringing the bag. Hope you have a good life.”
She started to turn, but he grabbed her arm, wrenching her around to face him.
“You are an immature and willful child, but I will break you, Rashmi Raja. You are coming with me to India.”
“No,” she said in a flat voice. “You are flying home alone. I will do all I can to honor my family, but not with you as my husband.” She tightened her mouth. “I’m not who you think I am. You need to accept that and move on.”
He tightened his grip. “You will learn to obey me.”
“And you will learn to listen when a woman tells you no.” She brought out her Beretta and nuzzled the barrel against his stomach. “I will not marry you. Get it now?”
Perspiration dotted his forehead. His eyes seemed to bulge as he looked down. All he could say was, “A gun? You have a gun?”
“Like to see me use it?”
He swallowed.
“Fly back to India,” she said. “Alone. Tell my family that you ended our engagement. Do you understand what I will do if you don’t obey me?”
He stared at her, not breathing.
Looking around, Raja grabbed his neck, bracing his head as she gouged the barrel deeper into his shirt. “Do you understand?”
“I think—”
“You think?” she repeated. She lowered the weapon, pushing the barrel against his crotch. “Think I won’t pull this trigger?”
“I will do as you say,” Mani choked.
“Promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Good,” she said, holstering the gun. “I have a long memory. And a terrible temper when I am wronged.”
He stared without speaking.
Raja patted his cheek. “Forget me, Mani. Stop being a sexist jerk and go have a good life.” She folded her hands together in front of her chest and smiled. “Namaste.”
John Brynstone lingered outside an open-air coffee house in Cairo. Two elderly men argued about sports as they played chess beside him, one smoking apple-scented tobacco from an ornate glass hookah. Checking his watch, Brynstone slipped around the corner. He had spied Rashmi Raja as she talked to an Indian man. Their conversation had turned intense, leaving the guy seemingly in numb disbelief.
Brynstone was in disbelief himself. He had not felt anything since hearing the news of Kaylyn’s murder. He’d always figured he would die before her, given his insatiable hunger for risk and the danger of his former government career. Bitterness had bled into their relationship over the last few years, but he still loved his ex-wife.
More than anything, his heart ached for their lost child.
Shaking himself back into the moment, he glanced down the street. Raja turned away from the stranger. What was happening down there? Brynstone had seen the man hand her a leather bag back at the restaurant. She was cradling it now, protecting it.
What was in that bag?
Sensing movement, Brynstone turned. An Egyptian man was standing near him, the guy dressed in a rumpled white suit like he had awakened in it. A bulging stomach pushed out above his waistline. He wore a thin mustache and unruly black hair plastered beneath a hat.
“Hate to see messy relationships, my friend.” The man’s amused expression revealed crooked teeth. “You an American?”
“Who are you?”
“Name’s Ahmad Salem.” He handed over a business card with a bent corner. “Private detective. You look like you could use some assistance.”
Brynstone handed back the card. “Not interested.”
A chuckle. “That’s what they all say. Been in the business twenty-four years. One thing I’ve learned is that everyone needs help. She your mistress?”
Brynstone looked down at him. “Who?”
“The Indian woman. She’s fiery.” He adjusted the glasses on his bulbous nose. “I saw you outside the ahwa watching. I noticed how you looked at her. A woman like that? She is trouble. Still, I am happy to offer my services.”
“Outta my way. I’m busy.”
He started to turn, but the man stepped in front of him.
“You don’t understand women.”
Brynstone arched an eyebrow. “And you do?”
“Listen, my friend, I know—”
“I don’t have time for you,” he growled. He brushed past the Egyptian, leaving the guy behind. Brynstone sprinted down the street. As he headed toward Raja, Wurm called on the cell.
“John, we need to talk. I’ve read an important document. It’s called the Kyros Scroll. Let me tell you about it.”
“Little busy right now, Edgar.”
“Real quick. A man named Kyros was a student to a scholar named Hypatia who broke the helmet code back in the early fifth century. This was before it was split into six sections. The helmet led Hypatia to make a riveting discovery. John, imagine if she found our missing chrism formula.”
“Led her where?”
“I can’t be certain. At the time, Hypatia and Kyros lived in Alexandria. You need to search there.”
“Got it. Better go now, Edgar.”
Brynstone ended the call and tucked the phone in his pocket. He was on the move.
Rashmi Raja turned the corner. She looked up.
No way.
John Brynstone was waiting for her. Arms crossed. His ice-blue eyes were blazing.
“Nebola was right,” she smirked. “Better be more careful when I try to slip away from you.”
“Don’t listen to Nebola. Man is a sociopath.” He frowned. “What’s in the bag?”
She debated options, but didn’t
take long on her decision. This wasn’t the time to mess with Brynstone. As he watched, she opened the bag like a guilty kid caught shoplifting and brought out a cheek guard. It resembled the one she had taken from Paskalev’s home in Bulgaria.
“Back in London, you said you had only one helmet piece.” His eyes narrowed. “One piece.”
“Yeah. I lied. I do that sometimes,” she said, sliding the helmet piece back into the bag. “It’s a character flaw.”
“When’d you get it?”
“Months ago.”
“From where?”
“Istanbul. I was waiting to hand it over to Nebola.”
“That still your plan?”
“I have a feeling you won’t mind. Especially if it gets your daughter back.”
“The man who gave you the bag. Who is he?”
“My ex.” She fixed her gaze on him. “Any luck finding Math?”
“He lied to us. Seems to be a lot of that going around.”
Her eyes widened. “What did he lie about?”
“He agreed to meet me in Cairo, but that was just a way to distract us. He’s not here. He hoped to figure everything out on his own. That’s my private hypothesis.”
She raised the bag. “Bet he can’t find it without this.”
“Better be right about that.”
“Where is he?”
“Not sure I can say. Trust seems to be a big issue right now.”
“Come on, John. You can trust me.”
“Yeah?”
“You know you can. Games are over. I promise.”
“Math lied about Cairo. He went to Alexandria instead.”
“Okay, since we’re unloading on the guy, I have another McHardy dick move to report.” Raja sighed. “I should have said this back in Prague. That woman who stole the helmet relic from the museum? The one we left behind for the police?”
“Nessa Griffin.”
“You said she studied with Math?”
“A little. Undergrad history courses. After that, she turned to archaeology. Her older brother, Reece, earned a doctoral degree under McHardy. Nessa had her brother murdered. McHardy didn’t know until I told him.”
“Was he surprised, John?”
“I sensed a distance between them.”
“They work together?”
“Not after Reece died. Remember in London? Nessa kidnapped McHardy and tied him up. You saw that.”
“Right, but check this out. Back in Prague? After I took her down, she whispered something to Math. She said, ‘Do they know we’re working together?’ Math punched her in the face. He wanted to shut her up.”
“You sure, Rashmi?”
“Just telling you what I saw.”
Brynstone thought it over. “We need to stop McHardy.”
Chapter 39
Alexandria, Egypt
9:37 p.m.
They wanted to touch her hair.
Everywhere Cori went in Egypt, people came over and put their hands on her blonde hair. Her clothes also presented a problem. Like Raja, she had attracted unwanted attention with tight-fitting shorts and tees that revealed too much skin. One creepy guy leered and whistled and called the women “pretty babies.” Brynstone shot him a look and the guy backed off real fast.
Brynstone steered Cori and Raja into a clothing store and encouraged them to change. He bought a woven cotton headscarf to wrap Cori’s hair. Out of respect for the local culture, she and Raja decided on long-sleeve and loose-fitting cotton blouses and black skirts that reached past their knees. Cori still hadn’t found a bra, however.
They had considered taking the train to Alexandria, but decided instead to hail a service taxi. Traffic was a nightmare between the two cities, but the driver thrived on it, swerving around one car after another at reckless speeds. Brynstone didn’t mind. Neither did Raja. Cori tried to laugh it off, but she found herself closing her eyes and practicing deep-breathing exercises with every breakneck maneuver. Once, years ago, her mom had taken her on a ride called Colossus in England’s Thorpe Park. The roller coaster had given her a tour of vertigo hell with two gut-wrenching corkscrews, a vertical loop, and five heartline rolls. Even as a teen, it had been a terrifying experience for her. When the cab pulled to a stop, Cori decided she’d rather line up for Colossus again than take another ride in this guy’s taxi.
Compared with Cairo, the pollution and crowds seemed more bearable in Alexandria. As they headed on foot through a local marketplace, a wind drifted in from the sea, tempering the sting of heat. Markets were scattered along every street, flavoring the air with the scent of raw fish. Shoppers and tourists flooded the square, fighting past shop-front vendors who offered merchandise while purring, “This is just for you.”
Cori slipped on sunglasses to avoid eye contact. Still, she noticed a local wearing a Gap shirt and Levi’s staring at her. It seemed like wealthier Egyptians favored American and European brands. He approached her, apparently to flirt, but caught sight of Brynstone and turned away. Nice thing to be in the company of a badass. She nudged closer to Brynstone as they navigated through the market square.
As they walked, Raja pulled out her phone. It jangled with a filmi ringtone, a song from some Bollywood movie.
She glanced up. “McHardy’s calling.”
“Put him on speaker.”
She punched the button. Cori heard the man’s voice, with his light rhythm of a Scottish accent.
“Rashmi, how are you keeping?”
“Where are you, Math?”
“Egypt, of course,” he answered. “Listen, I’ve been looking over the helmet, trying to piece together our little mystery.”
Raja hit the Mute button on her cell. She looked up. “He can’t figure it out. That’s why he called. He’s desperate.”
“He needs the missing pieces,” Brynstone agreed. “Just watch. He’ll try to cover his ass.”
McHardy continued: “Listen, Rashmi, I determined something of critical importance. I believe our destination is not Cairo after all.”
Raja tapped the Mute button. “Oh, yeah?”
“I believe it is Alexandria.”
“No kidding.”
Cori had heard about McHardy’s game. It sounded like the professor had lied to Brynstone and Raja about going to Cairo. During an earlier flight, Brynstone had made friends with McHardy’s pilot. Suspecting that McHardy wasn’t straight with him, Brynstone had called the pilot to learn the jet’s true destination—which had inspired the hellish taxi ride to Alexandria.
“Tell me something,” McHardy said. “Have you, um, been in touch with Dr. Brynstone? Since Prague, I mean.”
As they walked through the square, she answered, “Matter of fact, I have.”
“Recently?”
“Not long ago.”
She stopped abruptly. Cori looked around, trying to figure out why they had stopped. A crowd of people wandered around them, some loaded with groceries and supplies.
Over the phone, McHardy asked, “Well then, where is Brynstone?”
Raja grinned. “Right behind you, Math.”
Cori looked up. A silver-haired man in front of them made a violent turn, twisting his neck to look back. Surprise played on his bony features. John Brynstone crossed his arms and stared down at him.
“John,” he said, lowering the phone. “What, uh, are you doing here?”
“You told us Cairo instead of Alexandria so you could search for the Black Chrism formula alone. The whole time you knew we needed to come here.”
“No, John. Listen, I tried to—”
“Come clean, McHardy.” Brynstone stabbed the man’s chest with a finger. “You’re working with Nessa Griffin. Why did we break into the Prague museum if she was already doing it for you?”
“I—I didn’t know,” he stuttered, his face g
rowing red. “Nessa knew about the Prague helmet piece, but I didn’t know she was breaking into the Charles University museum. I was thrilled when you and Rashmi rescued the artifact from her.”
Raja stepped in. “You didn’t look thrilled when she mentioned how you work together. You punched her in the face to shut her up.”
McHardy stiffened. He was a man of awkward expression. “Remember in London, John? When we three met? Raja assaulted Véronique, a woman who worked for me.”
“Worked for you? Or worked for Nessa?”
“Both, actually,” McHardy said. “To be perfectly honest, Nessa works for me.”
Brynstone narrowed his eyes. “You said Nessa and her men kidnapped you while you were on vacation in London.”
“I did say that, didn’t I? In truth, I planned the entire thing. A short time before my men delivered you to the warehouse, I had Véronique and Nessa confine me to the wall. I wanted you to believe I had been abducted, much like yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t care for you, Dr. Brynstone. As it happened, I needed your help. I resolved to feign the role of a victim, so that you would prove more cooperative.”
“Another lie.”
“I prefer to see it as an unhappy necessity,” McHardy answered. “Of course, I didn’t anticipate Rashmi Raja sweeping into the room to kidnap me. Then you insisted on pursuing us, John. You went and crashed my beloved MGB roadster into our vehicle.”
“That was your car back in London?”
“Aye. You were reckless with my car.” He looked at Rashmi. “And you were reckless with me.”
“Yeah, I feel bad about that,” she added. “Looking back, I should have taken the time to really kick your ass.”
“Now that we’ve all brought our frustrations to light,” McHardy said, “may I ask who stole the facemask?”
“That would be me,” Raja admitted.
“Please say you still have it.”
She patted the leather bag. “Safe and sound.”
“We have forged an uneasy alliance,” McHardy said. “None trusts the other. That is clear, but we do share a common objective.”
As the man spoke, Cori detected the scope of his intelligence and conceit. In that respect, McHardy reminded her of Edgar Wurm. As if reading her thoughts, the professor turned to her.