As Ra-Amenhotep hurried away, Horus drew back the curtains and entered the room. Jeanne lay still and pale, like Sleeping Beauty languishing under the spell of a wicked witch. Below her closed eyes, a veil of thin, red cloth obscured her porcelain complexion. Moved by her beauty, Horus bent on one knee beside the bed.
~~~
In a golden, sun-bathed field, located deep in the depths of her subconscious mind, Jeanne chased after her two beagles, Siegfried and Roy, who barked at a fleeing rabbit. Startled by what she assumed to be the voice of God, coming from the sky, she stopped running and squinted up through the fluffy clouds.
“How could you fall in love with Thomas?” the voice asked. “Could he place the riches of the entire world at your feet? Could he have offered you eternal life?”
~~~
Studying Jeanne’s face, Horus searched for any sign of consciousness. He could never harm her if she were awake, gazing at him with those jewel-like green eyes, but she never batted an eyelash.
“Thomas is a good man,” Horus admitted. “But he is only mortal. His love, no matter how ardent, is finite. My love, on the other hand, knows no constraints.” He shook his head and promised, “I will be yours and you will be mine, here, and in the next life.”
Remembering the movie, Sleeping Beauty, which they watched at her apartment in Boston, Horus wished that something as simple as a kiss, love’s true kiss, could change everything, including all of the prophecies and expectations associated with his destiny. But this wasn’t a Disney movie. Kissing those full, red lips would not reanimate his queen. Rather than providing a happy ending, a kiss would only serve to increase his pain and grief.
He brushed away the strands of dark hair that fell across her forehead and covered one cheek. What if Ra-Amenhotep is unable to find the drug or the syringe? Horace stared at his hands, holding them palms up, and then turned them over. Can I do it?
While unpleasant, the idea had seemed easier before he came through those curtains. Here, in the subdued atmosphere of this chamber, kneeling in her presence, he questioned his resolve. Around her thin, delicate neck hung an exquisite gold necklace, worthy of a queen, accented with the blue, lapis lazuli often used in ancient Egyptian jewelry.
Mesmerized by her beauty, Horus picked up Jeanne’s hand for what he realized might be the last time in this life and interlaced his fingers with hers. Behind him, he heard something brush past the opened curtains. Anticipating the priest’s return, he let go of Jeanne’s hand and glanced back. Rather than Ra-Amenhotep, he saw Amenti. The cat stopped halfway into the room and circled back towards the entrance, looking over her shoulder, meowing in a tone that suggested he should follow.
“I know, Amenti, I know. Time is short. But first, I have something I must do.”
Amenti’s meow became more insistent. Again, she approached Horus and then retreated to the room’s entryway. Blinking, she appeared perplexed as to why Horus ignored her. At last, she gave up. Like most cats, she had no patience for anyone, commoner or king, mortal or immortal, who didn’t exhibit the good sense to follow when she beckoned. She disappeared, slinking past the curtains, back into the hallway.
Assuming that Ra-Amenhotep could not locate the syringe and potassium chloride, Horus flexed his long fingers, took a deep breath, and prepared to end Jeanne’s life. As he reached for her, the room began to shake. Filtering through the sand and rock, Horus heard the muffled, percussive chop of whirling helicopter blades.
“Time has run out,” he whispered. “The battle has begun.” He placed the palm of one hand beneath Jeanne’s chin. With his other hand, he pressed down firmly on top of her head. On the verge of delivering the quick twist that would usher her into the afterlife, a thought struck him with the impact of a thrown spear. What if she is carrying my child?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wearing a brown flight suit and an olive-colored helmet fitted with a black visor that covered his eyes, the chunky pilot turned around to see who slapped him on the back. Scrawled with a wide tipped felt pen, the name Omar appeared in black on a strip of masking tape stuck to his helmet.
“Set her down over there, Omar,” Thomas shouted as he pointed. “Near the back of the Sphinx.”
“Over there?” Omar shouted back. “Why do you want me to land there? There is no entrance there. Why force the men to have to go all the way around? We should land near the front, where the other Apache is landing.”
“No!” Thomas shouted again, continuing to point, “It won’t take much more than a minute to reach the front. After all, the whole thing isn’t that big, not above ground, anyway. But we can’t afford to let anyone escape through the secret opening near the back of the Sphinx. Two or three of us need to stay back there. I know it!”
“How do you know this?”
“I’ve seen it!”
“What?” Behind the Apache copter pilot’s visor, Thomas could tell Omar stared at him as if he were crazy.
“I said, I’ve seen it!”
“You’ve seen it?” Continuing to hover above the monument, twisting back and forth, dividing his attention between flying the helicopter and yelling at the lunatic American, the pilot shouted, “When did you see this secret opening? Are you going to tell me you saw it while you vacationed in Egypt, when you took a guided tour, perhaps?”
Before Thomas could answer, the pilot offered a sarcastic tour guide impression. “Over there is the secret exit known only to the infamous terrorist and kidnapper, the Falcon. We will pause now for pictures. Please be sure to visit our souvenir gift shop at the end of the tour.”
Leaning over the back of the heavyset pilot, Thomas pointed forward through the clear canopy at the specific spot in the sand. “It’s there.” he slapped Omar’s back. “Trust me!”
“Trust you? I would have to be out of my mind! Get back to your seat. What are you doing up here, anyway? Go back and fasten your harness!”
“No! No! Listen to me, I’m Thomas Franklin, the son of the assassinated U.N. Ambassador. I’m telling you, Omar, you need to set us down there!”
Omar stared at the American for so long that the big attack helicopter began to bank, tilting dangerously to the right, “Arghhh,” Omar screamed, recognizing how close they came to crashing. “You are going to get us all killed! All right, all right. I should have my head examined. I will probably be court-martialed and shot for listening to you, but I will do as you say. Now, I am telling you for the last time, Thomas Franklin, go sit down and allow Omar to land this bird.”
~~~
Below the desert floor, cracks appeared in the elaborate ceiling depicting a thousand stars shining in the black Egyptian sky. Portending a thunderous cloudburst, a light mist of sand sprinkled through the fissures that snaked through the painted nocturnal firmament. The walls and floors trembled, threatening to collapse the foundation of the Great Sphinx, guardian of the eastern horizon that had defied the elements and vengeful deities for four and a half millennia.
With each detonation the shaking of the compound intensified until it rumbled like a massive earthquake rather than an attack.
Kicking up sand which poured from multiple angles like jets of water into a sinking submarine, Horus raced through the dust-choked, deteriorating hallways adorned with the hieroglyphics and ornate artwork illustrating the reincarnation and rise of an immortal Egyptian messiah.
Deserted by his lector priests, the medical staff, and the not so special armed forces sworn to protect him, Horus left his queen’s fate in the hands of almighty Osiris. He raced past the stacked cages in the animal compound where the subjects of yet-to-be conducted experiments clawed and gnawed in frantic desperation at their wire prisons.
Rats, monkeys, and in a corner by itself, a grotesque, misshapen creature with disturbingly human eyes expressed indignation in their own unique ways, creating a cacophonous choir. Their screams were directed solely at the reincarnated god, whom they blamed for allowing this tragedy. The howling of the unrecognizable creat
ure in the corner reached a pitiful crescendo as it pointed an accusatory, ape-like finger. Standing in the doorway, Horus stole one last look at the twisted beast before he pressed the red button that activated the closing and locking of the heavy door.
In the adjacent chamber, the next discharge caused the lights to flicker and die in the lab where Egypt’s top scientific minds had labored under the direction of the Falcon. White sparks from bursting bulbs and severed electric lines cascaded down, showering the microscopes and computer components with incandescent beads of light that sprayed a surreal fountain of shadowy projections on the walls. If not for his keen vision and the dim, battery powered emergency lights that activated when electrical power failed, all chances to make it to the back of the compound in time to escape would have been lost.
Sprinting for the last possible way out, Horus heard and felt the concussion of explosives on the other side of the metal quarantine door. If he could scale the emergency escape ladder and reach the secret exit, he might still avoid capture. Another, more powerful blast blew the lab door open, and hurled the would-be pharaoh to the floor. He sprawled at the foot of the round stone vat containing the last, untested attempt at recreating the Fluid of Life. Scrambling to his feet, Horus gazed across the hazy, dimly lit chamber as he heard the voices of invading soldiers pouring through the door. He could make out their accents, mostly Brits, with a few Americans.
At the back of the compound, Horus eyed the steel escape ladder protruding from the limestone wall. Installed 20 years ago as a last resort method of escape in case of fire or toxic fumes, the 45 foot climb provided the only way to reach the submarine style hatch. The weight of the accumulated sand above the hatch might prevent even a person of his superior strength from opening it, but he had to try.
Like a strobe light in a night club, the lights flickered as he glanced for the last time at the fluid in the stone vat. The magical waters shimmered with phospherescent sheen, rippling with each successive blast. I know this formula is the one, he thought. If only there were time to test it. He shook his head and stepped onto the first rung of the ladder, his powerful fingers gripping the cool, hard surface of a painted black steel bar.
Climbing with the speed and agility of the screaming primates in the research lab, he reached the hatch and twisted the release wheel while balancing adroitly on the top rung of the ladder. Initially, as feared, even though he pushed with all of his considerable might, the hatch failed to budge.
As the voices of the invading soldiers grew louder, he tried again, this time with success. Perhaps one of the Egyptian guards had found the secret exit above, and cleared the sand away. As the hatch opened, sand and light poured in from around the edges, causing Horus to turn away, shielding his eyes. When he looked back up, still squinting, he saw the shapes of soldiers whose nationality he could not identify.
Although his eyes quickly adjusted to the searing light of the brilliant desert sun, he blinked in disbelief at who he saw. Bending down, extending an arm towards him, Horus recognized Thomas. He wore a tan desert camouflage uniform and a helmet that bore the insignia of the U.N. Peacekeeping Forces. At the end of the extended arm, rather than a helping hand, Thomas held a pistol.
~~~
Thomas peered down into the round opening, perhaps more emotionally shaken than Horus by the realization of who stared back. When the hatch opened he assumed it might be the remnants of the scientific research and development staff, or Egyptian military personnel, but not Horus.
He had wondered if he would ever have the chance to say the things stored up, deep inside. The sensation that coursed through his body as he faced his father’s assassin and the man responsible for driving his mother insane overwhelmed him. For a moment he couldn’t speak. Before either of them could recover enough to say a word, another violent explosion from within the compound shook the ladder.
~~~
Stunned by the sight of his old friend turned enemy, Horus released the wheel of the hatch, which swung upward on its hinges, leaving him nothing to grab. Attempting to regain his equilibrium, Horus swung his arms like a tightrope walker losing his balance. Swaying this way and that on the top rung of the ladder, he lunged for and missed the wheel of the hatch. Realizing he would fall, he called out as he toppled backwards, “Thomas, help me!”
Instinctively, Thomas tossed his pistol aside and reached out. “I’ve got you!” he shouted. But Horus’s feet slipped off the ladder. As he fell, with their hands interlocked, the weight jerked Thomas off of his feet and into the sand. Although no weakling, Thomas knew he would not be able to support the six-foot-six, 230 pound frame that dangled below him. Straining with all of his might to hold on, while the two soldiers that had stayed with him hung onto his legs to keep him from sliding forward, Thomas grunted, “Try to get your feet back on the ladder, I can’t hold you!”
~~~
At that moment the British and American forces burst into the final chamber and stared up to see Horus, who had reestablished his grip on the top bar and struggled to get a foot back on the ladder.
One of the soldiers shouted in a Hispanic accent. “There he ees! He’s geetting away!”
Horus heard the bark of gunfire from an automatic weapon. His eyes flew open wide in pain and disbelief as two slugs ripped into his back.
“Cease fire!” came another shout from below. “You hit him, Vasquez, he won’t get away now. Besides, that’s one of our men up there, at the top. You might hit him if you fire again.” Vasquez raised his weapon over his head and launched into an end zone dance celebration.
~~~
Feeling his strength ebbing away, Horus stared up at Thomas, his golden brown eyes and bronzed face expressing pain and a hint of atonement. He asked, “Thomas, what are you doing here? You must know that I never intended to kill your father, you must know that.” He tried to continue, but turned away and coughed: a nasty, body racking, wet sounding cough. When he raised his head again, a mouthful of blood forced up from his torn lungs escaped from between his lips, dribbling down over his proud dimpled chin onto his chest.
No longer overcome by the sight of his nemesis, Thomas answered, “I am here to stop you — to stop your damned assassinations, kidnappings and acts of terrorism. I have hunted you and tracked you down to see that you are brought to justice, to see that you pay for the barbaric crimes you have committed.”
Horus gasped, partially due to his wounds, but also in reaction to the incriminating accusation from a man he had once considered to be his best friend, perhaps his only friend. His voice weakened as the rising tide of blood in his lungs made it difficult to breathe, but he sputtered, “I am no criminal, Thomas.” The look of atonement vanished, replaced by defiant pride. “By silencing Gillpatrick I may have averted a war between the oil cartel and the United States, and as for Jeanne,” Thomas reached out and grasped his enemy’s right hand again to keep him from falling as the Egyptian’s body twisted in pain, blood dripping freely from his mouth as he convulsed.
Horus managed to replant both feet on the ladder and released Thomas’s hand. His face drawn and pale, he wheezed, “You are too late to save Jeanne. By now, she should be with my father.” He gazed past Thomas, pointing with his free hand towards the cloudless Egyptian sky and whispered, “Father Osiris, judge me to be righteous of soul.”
As Horus continued to stare skyward, two more Apache helicopters came into view. With Mohammad Gharib gone, he figured the Egyptian government must have taken the vizier’s advice to allow him to be captured or killed. The fools had mounted no effort to repel the invaders. They would probably resume the Osiris Project as soon as an eighth clone could be produced.
He felt betrayed and deserted by his country, his teachers, his priests, his beloved queen and his best friend. His strength almost gone, his arm fell to his side and he paused, trying to catch his breath. When he looked up again, he said, “Mother Aset I beseech you, with the magic of Thoth you must restore me, so that I may still restore Egypt.�
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Facing Thomas, Horus’s resolute but faltering voice gurgled as blood filled his lungs and throat. “You and the other pawns of Set may think that you have stopped me, but let me assure you, old friend…” sarcasm and malevolence hung thick in the air as he choked, his chest heaving as he struggled to inhale enough oxygen to add his final words, laced with the venom of 20 cobras, “we shall meet again,” he hissed.
Horus closed his eyes, released his grip on the top bar of the ladder, and fell backwards. Tumbling limply, he landed with a resounding smack into the very center of the nine foot wide, three foot deep vat, 45 feet below.
~~~
Looking down for any sign of life from his former friend, Thomas marveled at how there had been no splash. The phosphorescent waters swallowed him in one voracious gulp as if they were dying of starvation and Horus provided the sustenance they craved.
Feeling none of the exhilaration or satisfaction a victor normally relishes, Thomas lay on his belly in the sand, staring numbly into the darkness of the ancient chamber. He felt like he had finished a long, electrifying novel, one that had consumed him completely. But rather than being thrilled by the ending, he found himself torn by the depressing realization that no more pages would be turned. No more twists and turns would stimulate him, and there would be no happy ending.
Good had vanquished evil, the way it’s supposed to happen in a book, or a play, or a movie. However, this wasn’t the conclusion he wanted. After the final sentence, he couldn’t walk out of the theatre, or close the book, and whistle a happy tune. The end, in this circumstance, could not be discounted or forgotten simply because the culmination of the story was not to his liking.
Like the grandeur of ancient Egypt, once the greatest nation on the face of the Earth, Horus had become a memory. The assassin and his victim, the vice president of the United States, who surely would have been the next president, were both relegated to future history books and Hollywood screenplays. Sonya Franklin, his mother, would probably never recover. His father the ambassador, a man who devoted his life to doing nothing but good for all mankind, was dead. And, on top of everything else, he had not been able to find Jeanne, who, in all likelihood was dead as well.
The Falcon and His Desert Rose Page 25