The Library of the Kings: A Tom Wagner Adventure

by Roberts, M. C.

  “I’m impressed,” said the president. “So who were these mercenaries?”

  “Former members of various special ops teams. English, German, South African . . . one or two Americans, too. Sir, they all have one thing in common: they’re all dead.”

  The president looked up in confusion from the dossier, a collection of files on the individual mercenaries.

  “I thought they’d been arrested?”

  “Yes, sir. I apologize. I meant to say they were all declared dead years ago, all officially killed in action. And these ‘ghosts,’ as we so affectionately call them, offered themselves as mercenaries to the highest bidder. In this case, AF.”

  “And have the interrogations produced anything?” asked President Samson, although he knew that such men were unlikely to give up much.

  “Nothing, sir, as expected. They’re professionals. They don’t talk.”

  The president was now holding Tom’s file in his hand. “Tell me, this Tom Wagner—isn’t he the same fellow who had a run-in with one of our aircraft carriers in the Mediterranean, what, six months ago?”

  “The same, sir,” the man answered with a smile.

  “He certainly gets around,” Samson murmured and smiled.

  “Since I’ve been in charge of the AF project, this is the first confirmed incident since Barcelona. What we don’t know is why they broke in at all. The Smithsonian staff told us that the head of the facility was interrogated by the leader of the mercenaries before he was murdered. Unfortunately, they have no idea what it was about—but apparently he was either unwilling or unable to give the man an answer, and was summarily executed. Both we and the FBI are still in the dark about what they were after.”

  The president stood up and paced across the Oval Office. He stopped by the window and gazed out over the Rose Garden. “What I’m about to tell you is known only to a handful of people,” he said. “I think I know what AF was after in the Smithsonian,” he added in a more subdued voice. The CIA man looked at him in surprise. From beneath his shirt, President Samson withdrew a silver card dangling on a chain around his neck, and slipped it into a narrow slot on his desk. A small panel slid sideways to reveal a palm scanner. He laid his hand on the scanner and typed a twelve-digit code into the adjacent keypad. Around them, all the doors locked, the windows went dark, and the painting of George Washington, hanging above the fireplace opposite the president’s desk, swung aside to reveal a wall safe.

  The CIA man was taken aback, to say the least. President Samson crossed to the safe, opened it and took out a file and a small box. He handed the file to his astonished guest; Project Hermes was printed on the cover.

  “Not even Congress knows about this,” the president said. “They’d think we’d lost our minds, wasting money and resources on this. The project was initiated by Franklin D. Roosevelt at the end of World War II. Since then, this information has been passed only from one president to the next. And every president has had a confidant—I want you to be mine.” He opened the small box and removed a chain and card identical to the one he wore around his neck. He handed it to his guest.

  “Project Hermes is incomplete. I would like you to obtain the remaining parts. If an organization like AF is after them, we have no time to lose. Read the file. You will find all the information you need inside. I already know what you will think—I thought the same at first, that my predecessor was making a bad joke. But believe me, it’s all true.”

  The leader of the free world saying things like this? Unbelievable, the CIA man thought. He had already skimmed a few pages of the file and could hardly believe what he was looking at. It read like something out of a bad movie.

  The president continued: “A CIA team in Brazil recently became aware of a new lead. I want you to take charge of it personally. We can’t trust anyone on this. Bring Project Hermes to a successful conclusion, whatever it takes, and we’ll all be able to sleep a little easier.”

  President Samson returned to the desk and removed his key card. The safe and the sliding panel on the desk closed immediately, and the doors unlocked.

  Departing, the CIA man saluted and shook hands with the president.

  “I will not let you down, sir.”

  He already had the door handle in his hand when the president spoke again.

  “This is about more than just national security. The fate of the entire world is at stake.”

  10

  Anfushi Necropolis, Alexandria

  As Hellen and Arno made their way back along the passages, Hellen chattered away like a wind-up toy.

  “I’m so incredibly curious to find out what’s inside these amphorae. I mean, Arno, can you imagine? What if we really find the crucial clue to the Library of Alexandria inside? It’s hard to imagine what that would even mean for science. For archaeology, it would be unprecedented. We’ve been searching for this library for centuries. I can’t wait to open them and find out what’s inside. But we have to find somewhere we can open them properly, with as little damage as possible. They’ve been sealed tight, too, to survive the passage of time. My God, I hardly dare to dream what we might find inside. Lost knowledge from ancient times, things we can’t even imag—”

  The word hung in Hellen’s throat. They had stepped out of the passageway into the open yard only to find themselves face to face with a squad of Egyptian soldiers, three of whom had their AK-200 rifles leveled at them. Arno looked at Hellen with horror.

  “Fuck!” he muttered. Hellen looked at him in surprise. Until now, she had known Arno as a man of culture, not someone who ever used that kind of language. But his emotions seemed to have run away with him— presumably their joint project had become as important to him as it was to Hellen.

  “You have no permission whatsoever to be conducting archaeological investigations on Egyptian soil,” said one of the soldiers, obviously the ranking officer among them, judging by the amount of gold decorating his shoulder. He paused for a moment to give his next sentence even more weight. “Dr. Hellen de Mey, the Egyptian Ministry of Culture explicitly denied your application to carry out any exploration or research at the Necropolis of Anfushi. You are not allowed to be here, you certainly have no permission to remove artifacts of any kind from the necropolis and under no circumstances are you allowed to examine them. All this”—he made a sweeping gesture—“belongs to the Egyptian people. That includes the plundered goods you are holding in your hands.”

  The man snapped out an order, and two soldiers hurried to Hellen and Arno and took the amphorae from them. Hellen resisted briefly, but one of the soldiers held his gun to her forehead and she panicked, almost dropping the amphora. Tears clouded her eyes, but when she saw the determined look on the soldier’s face, she backed down and, trembling, handed it over. Arno looked petrified.

  “You can’t do this!” Hellen cried. “We discovered these. Without us, these amphorae might never have been found at all. We have a right . . .”

  “You have no rights here at all!” the man giving the orders barked at her, and Hellen was taken aback by his intensity—he was truly starting to frighten her. But she had made up her mind not to give in, not yet. She took a step toward the commander.

  “I am an employee of Blue Shield, a UNESCO organization. I’d be happy to show you my credentials.”

  The commander nodded. Hellen rummaged in her backpack and finally dug out her old UNESCO identification card. She handed it to the commander. “This provides us with diplomatic immunity and a scientific right to our find.”

  The captain smiled grimly.

  “Dr. de Mey, please do not take me for a fool. As you have no doubt noticed, I know exactly who you are. I also know that you have not been with UNESCO for some time. This ID isn’t worth the plastic it’s printed on. As for diplomatic immunity . . .” He laughed and shook his head.

  Hellen’s hopes of wriggling out of the situation vanished, and her face drained of color.

  After a long pause, the commander continued: “But I a
m in a good mood tonight, and I would like to spare myself the paperwork that arresting you would mean. So I’ve decided not to take you into custody at this time, despite the fact that you have just lied to an officer of the Egyptian army.”

  Hellen was about to say something, but Arno tugged at her sleeve.

  “Hellen, it’s probably best if we just get out of here, before he changes his mind.”

  Hellen nodded in resignation and watched as the soldiers wrapped the two amphorae carefully in blankets and placed them on the back seat of their car. As they drove away, Hellen felt her chance of fulfilling her father’s dream—of getting just one step closer to the Library of Alexandria—burst like a soap bubble.

  11

  The Mayflower Hotel, Washington D.C.

  Tom luxuriated in the refreshing shower. He had needed it. When he’d arranged to meet the young FBI agent Jennifer Baker at his hotel bar the previous night, he hadn’t expected them to end up in his room an hour later.

  “It’s highly . . . unorthodox for me to . . . get involved with a . . . witness,” she had managed to gasp through a flurry of kisses. They had practically attacked each other in the elevator. They had hardly arrived in Tom’s room before pieces of clothing were falling to the floor as they made their way to the bed. “I could lose my job,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse and casting it to the floor. They tumbled onto the bed, and there was no more talking.

  She was as untamed a creature as any Tom had ever known, but she was the right woman at exactly the right time. After what Tom had been through, he needed to celebrate life.

  Now, in the shower, he decided to forego his usual five miles on the treadmill and his daily circuit training in the hotel’s fitness center. Jennifer had worn him out enough already. He got out of the shower, slung a towel around his neck and went back to his room. It was not a bad thing at all to find a ravishing woman in his bed in the light of the morning sun.

  He got dressed and kissed Jennifer on her naked shoulder. “Good morning,” he said. She stretched and smiled up at him. “I just need to call my uncle, then we can go find some breakfast.” He stepped out onto the small balcony, taking in the view from the luxury hotel. Behind him, Jennifer slipped out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

  Tom didn’t go on vacation often, but when he did he liked to treat himself a little. That meant a decent hotel with a pool, a fitness center and good food. That wasn’t always possible, of course—the remote corners of the world to which his action-and-adventure jaunts took him didn’t usually offer such luxuries. But he could get by with a sleeping bag, too, when he had to.

  Tom took out his cell phone to call his uncle, and then remembered the call from the unknown number the evening before, during his meeting with the chancellor. He clicked on voicemail and lifted the phone to his ear, and his face instantly drained of color. His hands trembled, but he forced himself to listen to the message a second time.

  “Tom, you gotta help . . . they’ve got me . . . Osa . . . I’m in—” The choppy, fragmented words in the short message made Tom’s guts twist. Immediately, he called the number on the display, but all he heard was: “The number you have dialed is temporarily unavailable.”

  What could he do? Noah’s call had come hours ago. Tom had tried to call Noah himself the evening before, to tell him about AF turning up in Washington. In fact, it had been more than two months since he had actually spoken to his best friend. Noah had been on permanent loan to Cobra from the Israeli secret service, Mossad, and had decided to return to Israel after the events six months ago.

  A few years earlier, on a joint mission with Tom during which they had saved the Austrian chancellor’s life, Noah had been seriously injured. He’d been confined to a wheelchair ever since. To this day, Tom blamed himself. The physical distance between them, and the fact that they hadn’t worked together for a long time, were already putting their friendship to the test— and now that his friend really needed him, he hadn’t been there.

  Calm down! Think! he told himself, trying to put his thoughts in order. There was nothing you could have done anyway, the call broke off almost immediately.

  Would his uncle be able to help? Scott’s contacts at the Pentagon could find out where the call had originated. Or should he go to the embassy? With the chancellor in the U.S., Tom would surely be able to use the embassy’s resources—after all, Noah had been one of them. He chose the embassy, packed his things and was about to leave the room when the phone on the nightstand rang. He snatched the receiver off its cradle.

  “Mr. Wagner?” Tom heard the concierge’s voice. “You have a visitor. She would like to meet with you immediately.”

  “A visitor? What’s her name?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot answer that, sir. The lady is waiting for you in conference room 302,” the concierge said, and ended the conversation.

  Tom replaced the receiver. Who the hell is this now? he wondered. Someone from the embassy? Is Konstantin sending that cute PA of his to persuade me to fly with him to Cairo?

  Tom left the room. He’d banished the young FBI agent in the shower from his mind. He took the elevator to the conference center on the third floor and hurried down the hallway in search of room 302.

  When he found it, he threw open the door and his heart almost stopped. His hand reflexively flew to his hip, but there was nothing there: he was on vacation and wasn’t armed. Facing him, at the far end of the long conference table, stood a young and beautiful black woman—with a silenced pistol pointing back at him.

  Ossana Ibori.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Wagner.” Taken by surprise, he hesitated for a moment, then did as she bade and sat down on one of the comfortable chairs at the head of the table.

  Tom was rarely speechless, but this was one of those times. Ossana Ibori was an agent of AF, the terrorist organization responsible—not least—for the death of Tom’s parents. AF also employed Isaac Hagen, the man who just the day before had broken into the Smithsonian with his men. Ossana and Hagen in the same city, and then the emergency call from Noah? That couldn’t be a coincidence. What the hell is going on? Tom asked himself. The answer came soon enough.

  “No doubt you are wondering why I am visiting you here in your hotel,” Ossana said in her crisp South African accent. She placed the gun in front of her on the table, beside an open laptop.

  Tom’s tension grew. He clenched one fist under the table and racked his brain, trying to figure out how to gain some advantage on the bitch, but she was holding all the cards.

  “You see, Mr. Wagner, we are in a difficult situation. We are facing a small problem in the Middle East and have come to the conclusion that you are the man to help us. Knowing you as I believe I do, I’m sure you can’t be bought, so we’ve come up with something special.” She pressed a button on the laptop and an image appeared on the huge screen suspended on the side wall.

  At the sight of his best friend’s bloodstained face, Tom sprang up from his chair. Noah was sitting bound and gagged, in what looked like a dark basement room.

  “You—” Tom didn’t get far with the sentence. The cocking of Ossana’s gun, once again trained on him, made him fall silent.

  “Mr. Wagner, please. Let us talk like professionals. We have a problem, and you are the solution. If all goes well, you’ll get your crippled Israeli back unharmed in one piece . . . well, almost in one piece,” she said malevolently. She pushed a file across the table to Tom.

  12

  Amoun Hotel, Alexandria

  “I’ve got to ask UNESCO for help. We have to get the amphorae back before they vanish forever into some warehouse at the Egyptian Museum,” Hellen said as they entered the hotel room. Her hotel was only a few minutes from the necropolis, and she had decided to let her frustration settle a little before deciding what to do next.

  “Why would they take the amphorae to the Egyptian Museum? They could take them anywhere.”

  “We’re in Egypt. Anything that gets dug out of the ground
here goes to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, at least at first.”

  She reached for her phone and scrolled through her contacts, until she found the number she needed. Her finger hovered a few millimeters above the display.

  “What’s wrong?” Arno asked.

  “You know who the new boss of Blue Shield is these days,” said Hellen, fighting her frustration.

  “Damn. I hadn’t thought about that,” Arno said sheepishly. He went over to her, wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. “You know, you’ve made it through so many dangerous situations in the past, and these amphorae mean so much to you. You can do it. You will come through. Besides, can a call to your mother be so bad?”

  “You don’t know her. She drove my father up the wall. Although, to be fair, he drove her up the wall, too. Things were never that great between us, even when I was little, and when papa disappeared they got worse.”

  Hellen’s voice had grown quieter. Arno squeezed her again, and she pressed her cheek against his shoulder. They remained like that for a minute, unmoving, and Hellen felt a sense of security she hadn’t known for a long time. Arno was a good man. He was there for her and she could rely on him—in moments like this, she felt it most of all.

  “Oh, to hell with it. What the worst that can happen?” Hellen said suddenly, pulling free of Arno’s embrace. She tapped the number on the display, lifted the phone to her ear and waited.

  “Hello, Mother,” Hellen said, and Arno was astounded how different Hellen’s voice suddenly sounded. Hellen noticed him watching her and turned away.

  “Hellen! How nice of you to call. We haven’t spoken in, well, forever. Let alone actually met. The last time was when you—”

  “Yes. When I quit Blue Shield.”

  “Which I still don’t understand, frankly. But you always have to have your way. You get that from your father.