Almost an hour later, as the authorities were wrapping up their investigation and the ambulance prepared to leave, Luxor International Airport’s head of security, John Pendleton, stood there shaking his head, staring through round, wire-rimmed spectacles at a photograph he had pulled up on his digital notepad. “I believe I knew one of those two men that tried to kill you. I met him many years ago at the University in Cairo shortly after my family moved down here from Liverpool. His name was Yafeu.” Looking down pensively at the blood on the concrete the inspector continued, “We actually played cards together quite often. I thought he was rather a decent chap back then; quite intelligent. I can’t imagine what might have happened that changed him to the point where he would become capable of doing such a thing as this.” The inspector paused, shaking his head again as he watched the ambulance pull away and then added, “I’ll tell you one thing about him, though; he knew his history.”
“Did he?” Horus asked, intending to be polite, but wishing for the investigation to be over.
“You’re a pretty lucky man, mister, mister…”
“Khenemetankh.” Horus sighed as he filled in the blank, offering for what was at least the fourth time the name that he had used in college which remained on his passport.
“Yes sir, of course, there it is,” Pendleton pointed to where he relocated the name on his digital note pad, “Mr. Khenemetankh, if it hadn’t been for flight 322’s attendant, let’s see,” Pendleton paused again and scrolled further down in the case file to find her name, “ah yes, her name is Doris Litchfield. Anyway, if it hadn’t been for her crawling back into the cockpit and finding that Glock 18, those men might very well have finished their walk right up those stairs and killed all of you. I wonder what went through their minds when they saw her standing in that entryway.”
“I wouldn’t hazard a guess.” Horus replied wearily, wishing the chatty chief would shut up so he and the priests could join Jeanne and her nurse in the limousine and head back to Giza.
Pendleton persisted, “Who would have believed she was such a crack shot with a weapon like that? Not those two, that’s for sure, eh? Killed them both with one short burst, she did. Not bad looking either. Bet she makes an excellent martini as well.” Seeing Horus’s forlorn gaze at the time on his watchphone, Pendleton finally got the message and extended his hand. “May the gods continue to smile upon you, as they have today, sir. As I said before, you’re a very, very lucky man.”
“Yes, thank you Inspector, at times it does appear as if the gods are with me.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The vizier grasped at straws. What he considered amounted to high treason, but after learning of the failure at the Luxor airport he saw no alternatives. If he were to save his own skin, he would have to act fast.
The thought crossed his mind that his actions might result in the demise of the messianic cloning project. Five millenniums of careful planning could be sabotaged. The immensity and consequences of his actions sickened him, yet the vizier felt certain that if he sat around and did nothing, not only would he wind up dead, this flawed, faux pharaoh would lead Egypt to total ruin.
If lucky, he would be imprisoned as soon as Horus returned from the airport — imprisoned and later rescued. But there would be no chance of rescue if he wasted any of the remaining time.
On the other hand, if fortune failed to smile upon him, he would be tortured and killed rather than imprisoned. He picked up the phone and dialed the United States, CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia.
In the midst of a video conference regarding renewed Taliban activity in Afghanistan and their rumored involvement in the HMS Prince of Wales incident, Morgan Robinson fumed when an aide informed him of an urgent call concerning a matter of national security.
“A matter of national security?” he growled, his face growing red. “What the hell do you think I’m in the middle of right now, my yearly homeowners’ association business meeting? You think I’m negotiating how much to pay for trash pickup next year or how much to pay the lifeguards and maintenance crew at the civic center and our community pool?” Despite his initial protests, he relented and accepted the interruption after being told the man on hold claimed to have information on the whereabouts of the terrorist known as the Falcon.
A quick trace on the call revealed an origination point in Cairo, Egypt.
Identifying himself only as the vizier, one who moved freely within the inner circle of a militant faction called the Osiris Project, the informant implicated the former M.I.T. student, Horace Khenemetankh, as being responsible for the Prince of Wales incident, as well as the assassinations of the vice president and U.N. Ambassador Franklin.
Robinson interrupted the caller. “How could one man be responsible for what happened to the Prince of Wales? We hadn’t considered him in that incident, but Khenemetankh is one of our prime suspects in the poisonings that occurred at the Watergate hotel during the Democratic Party fund raiser. He’s also the only suspect in a kidnapping case involving a young lady named Jeanne Mosley. Can you tell us where to find him?”
“Can you offer me protection and political asylum?”
“That depends on what you have to offer,” Robinson shot back.
In spite of his skepticism, Robinson began to take notes. He drew three heavy, horizontal lines across the center of the legal pad page to separate the Taliban teleconference notes from those pertaining to the most wanted terrorist in the world.
Robinson didn’t know what to think of the mysterious caller’s revelations, including his claim that Horus used nothing more than a canister of liquid nitrogen and a small, wooden replica of an aircraft carrier in the attack on the Prince of Wales.
“Alright,” Robinson admitted, “I’m not saying I believe you, but can you tell me where we can find this supernatural messiah?”
The disgruntled overseer of the Osiris Project claimed that the militant faction operated from a reinforced bunker beneath the Great Sphinx at Giza. “That is where you will find the Falcon. He is the one we should all fear, the one whose task is to return Egypt to its former glory. You will likely find me in that compound, incarcerated, but hopefully still alive. If you are able to mobilize a team and act quickly, you may be able to trap this terrorist in his own cage before he has fully developed all of his magical abilities.”
“Magical abilities?” Robinson didn’t believe in magic, Voodoo, or miracles of any kind. Instead of taking notes, he began to doodle absent-mindedly as he listened.
The caller explained, “For now his power, when he is unassisted, remains limited primarily to things like mind control and the ability to change skin and hair color.”
That struck a nerve. Robinson recalled the last words of the Brent Elkins, the agent who had died in pursuit of the Falcon, “He’s not black anymore.”
The mysterious caller continued, “The Prince of Wales incident involved transcorporeal telekinesis, something he is currently able to perform only with the assistance of his lector priests. Still, the death of those British seamen indicates an increased ability to tap into the powers of Osiris and Isis.”
Robinson struggled with what he heard. A confirmed agnostic, he believed only in the here and the now, in cold hard facts and evidence. He had never understood why educated people worship mythical beings that offered rewards, only after death, in return for a life of piety, abstinence and subservience. “There must be some other explanation — a logical one,” he argued, while putting the finishing touches on a figure he had drawn.
Looking up at him from the bottom of the legal pad, he saw a representation of some creature with a head that looked vaguely like an aardvark. It had a forked tail and a long, strange snout that curved downward. The figure’s ears were squared and stuck straight up on either side of its head. Robinson stared at the odd drawing, puzzled as to why he would have drawn such a thing. It looked a little bit like an Egyptian hieroglyphic symbol. His normal doodles consisted of swirls and circles, or amateuri
sh, three dimensional drawings of World War One or World War Two airplanes and dirt track race cars, things he had enjoyed drawing as a boy.
“If you fail to heed this warning, Director Robinson, your world of logic will find itself upon its knees. Be warned of what may transpire if the cloned messiah is given the time he needs to recreate the Fluid of Life.” The vizier’s description of an immortal Egyptian army and citizenry seemed both laughable and chilling, even to someone like the CIA director who had seen and heard more than a few farfetched plans to achieve world domination.
When queried by Robinson as to whether the Falcon’s acts of terrorism were being conducted with the approval and knowledge of the Egyptian government, the vizier replied, “I assure you, Director Robinson, that the Osiris project is fully funded by the Egyptian government and that they stand united in support of its agenda, although they will disavow any knowledge of its existence and will publicly condemn any violent actions against other nations.”
Robinson concluded the man on the phone had lost his mind, or actually knew of a pending threat, the likes of which the modern world had never imagined.
After he hung up, the head of the CIA pondered whether he should pick the phone back up and dial President Daley or should he just lean back and laugh? He stared down at the weird stick figure he drew. This story sounded absurd, but for reasons he couldn’t explain, his gut told him he had better believe it. It felt like he had become a pawn in a chess game, moved by some outside influence worming its way into his thoughts, manipulating his mind, compelling him to follow a specific course of action. He didn’t like the way that felt and considered dulling the invasive sensation with the bottle of Crown Royal that rested in his bottom right hand drawer, underneath a pile of junk.
He opened the drawer and peered down into the only area of disarray allowed in his otherwise well organized office. Dismayed, yet undaunted by the clutter, he pushed aside his CIA employee handbook, a partially used ream of laser jet computer paper, a couple of unread hardback novels — The Praetorian Guard by John Stockwell and Dreamcatcher by Stephen King — as well as a half dozen empty file folders, a box of business cards, an unopened bag of Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies, a couple of wrinkled, stained ties, and a used legal pad with scrawled notes from long forgotten meetings. He paused for a moment, thinking about opening those cookies. And that was just the upper mantle of his multi-layered trashography
Finally, buried further down in the drawer’s complex junkosphere, he spied it in the back corner, the bottle of Crown Royal given to him as a Christmas gift two years ago by a flirty secretary from Vice President Gilpatrick’s office. As he slid the bottle out of its blue pouch, he thought, so, this is how it feels to be an archaeologist? Like an ancient artifact, the unopened bottle once again saw the light of day, or at least fluorescent light. It had waited for him, perfectly preserved; knowing this day would eventually arrive.
~~~
“The terrorist known as the Falcon is supposedly a cloned god? And by that you mean a real supernatural being?” There was a pause as the president considered how to react. “Are you sure you haven’t been drinking, Morgan?”
“No sir, Mr. President,” Robinson swore, “I haven’t been drinking, I rarely do, and in all my years with the Agency I have never had a drop while on duty, but between you and me, I have a bottle sitting on my desk. And as soon as I hang up this phone I plan to start.”
“Relax Morgan,” Daley urged, “You can’t possibly believe what this...what did he call himself?”
“A vizier.”
“Whatever. You can’t be taking any of that shit seriously.”
Robinson picked up the legal pad and examined the stick figure again. He realized why he had drawn it. He had been forced to. “You don’t know what I’m feeling, Mr. President. You don’t want to know.”
~~~
Hearing a dial tone, President Daley stared at his phone. He had known Morgan for a long time, nearly 20 years. In all that time he had never heard the CIA director talk like that. He sounded rattled. That bothered him. Men like Robinson didn’t get rattled — ever. Morgan wouldn’t get rattled if someone told him an asteroid the size of Texas had been spotted bearing down on Washington D.C.
After speaking to the U.S. Defense Minister, President Daley decided to ask the U. N. Peacekeeping forces to become further involved so that U.S. involvement could be minimized or avoided. The head of the U.N. forces reminded Daley of the restrictions imposed on his soldiers. “Our armed forces can’t cross the Egyptian border without their knowledge and permission, Mr. President. And the Egyptian government isn’t going to allow us to attack a terrorist hideout, supposedly hidden beneath the great Sphinx at Giza, based on what some crackpot caller claims is about to happen.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Egyptian equivalent of Benedict Arnold had just finished his call when the door to the laboratory opened. Two uniformed soldiers with machine guns walked in, both training their weapons on the vizier. He didn’t even bother getting up. What would be the use? He would deny any accusations of wrongdoing and profess his continued loyalty to Egypt. Kherep Isfet and Ra-Amenhotep entered the lab after the two soldiers, followed by Horus. He smirked at his advisor and evoked a touch of his old college roommate’s humor, saying, “Honey, I’m home.” Advancing to the opposite side of the table from where the vizier sat, Horus pulled out a chair and asked, “You don’t mind if I join you, do you?”
Seemingly untroubled, the vizier replied, “I’ve been looking forward to your return, my Lord. Please,” he motioned, “do sit down. You must be weary.”
“Weary? Yes, though my weariness is more akin to emotional malaise brought on by disappointment in one whom I once trusted.” Horus sat and stared across the table into the eyes of his adversary. “You claim that you were looking forward to my return, Vizier? Is that so? Would that be why you sent a welcoming party to greet me? I wanted to thank you for that. How thoughtful.”
“I sent two men who were to provide security, my Lord. Two men that I felt could be trusted to protect Egypt’s messiah. Did they not prove satisfactory? Did something happen?”
“You know what happened, Vizier. You watched my every step. You had half of Egypt’s air traffic controllers on alert in case of a last minute change in the flight plan of the private jet I boarded.” Horus leaned forward and asked, “Do you remember what I once said to you about assassination and how it differs from lab experiments?”
The vizier’s eyebrows arched. “Recently, my Lord, rather than respectfully listening and learning from those around you, you have become prone to giving orders and lecturing your most trusted advisors. I do admit that when you do this I have a tendency to absorb little of what you say, though I do have a vague recollection of your saying something to that effect.”
“Come now, surely you remember me saying that if a planned assassination attempt goes awry you don’t have the luxury of being able to start over and rerun things until you get the desired result.”
“My lord, forgive me, I do not follow.”
“You don’t?”
“No, my Lord. Please, what is your point?”
“My point is that you have lost my trust and you have squandered the only chance you will ever get.”
“The only chance? To do what, Lord Horus?”
“To kill me.” Horus motioned to the two soldiers. “Take him away. Place him in an isolated cell and keep him under constant surveillance until I decide what to do with him.” He stood as the two guards lifted the vizier from his chair and added, “Shoot anyone who attempts to visit him without my consent.”
Late that afternoon after being bathed in scented waters and patted dry with soft towels, Jeanne was carried by pharaoh’s bare breasted handmaidens to an eight foot wide by ten foot long bed, covered in lemon yellow silk sheets and fragrant red rose petals. Still sedated, though not as heavily as on the plane, she felt as if she floated through the air, supported by the lightest of
breezes. As the combined power of magical mating incantations chanted by Horus and the lector priests began to take effect, the young servants left the room. Closing the golden curtains behind them, they waited outside, leaning against the polished and painted limestone walls, giggling with prurient interest. Before long they would clearly hear that which they were not allowed to see.
The gentle breezes Jeanne felt became soft breath upon her skin — hot, damp, respiration. She struggled to open her heavy eyelids and caught a brief, frightening glimpse of what appeared to be a winged human with golden eyes and the feathered face of some predatory bird. But in less time than it took to blink, the vision dematerialized, breaking up into dark red puffs of smoke that billowed around her, twirling in tight circles that curled between and around her fingers and hands. Spiraling around her wrists and forearms the crimson vapors produced a light, almost imperceptible tickle, like a thousand feathers being drawn delicately over her body. Pulsing and tumbling beyond her elbows to her shoulders, neck and ears, tiny puffs lingered around her lips before sliding down over her breasts.
When she longed for kisses to compliment the amazing sensations she felt, kisses were suddenly there. Incredible, magical kisses. At first soft and sweet, they became firm, moist, and passionate, applied with exactly the right technique at precisely the right time. Teasing and touching each and every sensitive curve, crevice and hollow of her perfumed body, the lips, tongues and fingers of smoke slipped in and out, up and down, leaving her weak, wet and wanting to cross some new sexual threshold, some new level of pleasure never before experienced by any female.
With all of her senses on fire, only one element seemed to be missing. The key that could unlock the door to the deepest, most guarded pits of flaming passion. The most powerful, most ancient aphrodisiac of all, love. The sensual puffs of smoke became more than vapors with the ability to arouse her. In her sedated and spellbound state Jeanne became convinced that the smoke somehow had become the fingers and physical features of the man whose countenance formed above her through the swirling fog. In their touch, the billowing clouds conveyed a deep sense of commitment and devotion — the kind of emotion she desired from one man, Thomas Franklin.
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