by Gabriel Hunt
Chapter 6
The mere name of Cairo, one of the oldest cities in the world, immediately conjures up images of pyramids, mosques, camels, and sand dunes. In reality, it is a booming modern metropolis of nearly seven million people.
But Gabriel knew if you looked you could still find traces of the Cairo that once was, especially in the section of the city known as Old Cairo. Once called Coptic Cairo, it was a center of early Christianity until the Islamic era. The sights and smells and sounds of Old Cairo combined to provide visitors with a picture to rival any fantasy they might have of the fabled city.
It was half past noon when Gabriel and Sammi arrived. The sun was blazing in the sky and the streets in the center of the city were packed with people and automobiles. The cars dwindled as they got to the narrower streets of Old Cairo, where foot traffic was the norm. Gabriel’s meeting with the Alliance of the Pharaohs wasn’t until one o’clock. He and Sammi sat in a café on the border of the famed Khan el-Khalili, the bazaar that dated back to the fourteenth century. They made a quick meal of kushari, a heavily spiced blend of rice, lentils, and macaroni smothered in a sauce of garlic and vinegar.
“Do you know how to find the stall where you’re supposed to meet them?” Sammi asked as she studied a pocket map of the market they’d picked up.
He pointed to a spot on the maze of streets. “Right there.”
“All right,” she said. “And then what?”
“I imagine they’ll want to go someplace else to talk. It won’t be out in the open, you can be sure of that.” Gabriel traced his finger along one crooked street. “Possibly here or here. One of the places tourists don’t go. Which will make it difficult for you to follow us without being noticed.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Sammi said. “I know a thing or two about getting around without being seen. I did a pickpocket act with my father—”
“I’m sure you were terrific at it,” Gabriel said, “in Nice, where you speak the language and redheads aren’t so uncommon. Here it won’t be as easy.”
As he spoke, she dug through the shoulder bag she’d hung from the corner of her chair. She pulled out a headscarf similar to the one Kasha had worn. In seconds, every lock of her hair was neatly tucked away beneath it. “Don’t worry about me,” she repeated. “You just take care of yourself.”
Gabriel took the cell phone from his jacket pocket and turned it off. “I don’t need this thing going off while I’m meeting with them.”
She took it out of his hands, turned it back on again.
“What are you doing?”
She waited for the screen to light up and then pressed a button on the side. A loud tone was followed by a quieter one, then a quieter one still, and finally no sound at all. “Just turn the ringer off. That way I can at least send you text messages if I need to.”
“How would I know you’ve sent one?”
“Look at it once in a while,” she said. “If I’ve sent one, you’ll see it.”
Gabriel didn’t argue, just tucked the phone back in his inside pocket, where it nestled next to his Zippo lighter.
“Suppose they take you inside a building,” Sammi said. “How long do I give you?”
Gabriel thought about it. “Two hours. If I’m not out by then, I want you to go back to the hotel and call Michael. You have his number, right?”
“You’ve given it to me twice.”
“Well, use it. If anything goes wrong, I don’t want you coming in after me by yourself.”
Sammi gave him an exasperated look.
“I mean it,” he said. “I don’t want you getting hurt, or worse.”
“Neither do I,” Sammi said, “believe me. There are few things I like less.”
“Good.” Gabriel looked at his watch and got to his feet. “Now remember, you follow from a distance. Understand?”
“It’s what I’ve got these for.” She pulled the pair of binoculars they’d bought on the way into the city from her bag and slung them around her neck. “Or does that make me look too much like a tourist?”
It did make her look like a tourist. But he thought that was a good thing, on the whole. They were less likely to do anything to a tourist. “You look fine,” he said.
Sammi took his hand, gave it a squeeze. “Be careful, Gabriel.”
“Always,” he said. He walked out of the café, crossed the busy street, and entered the bazaar. Sammi gave him a half-minute head start, then gathered her things, left a few bills on the table, and followed him.
Gabriel walked purposefully through the twisty streets of the souk. On either side, an endless variety of shops and food stalls advertised wares both ancient and modern, the owners calling out to him as he passed and urging him to come and buy. Clothing, jewelry, spices, perfumes—if you knew what you were looking at, some authentic bargains could be had. You even came across the occasional rare piece of real value. Invariably stolen, of course, and bound to be confiscated if you tried to carry it out through customs at the airport. At another time, Gabriel might have enjoyed exploring a bit, maybe even haggling with a vendor or two (nothing here was for sale at fixed prices). But that would have to wait for his next visit. If he had a next visit.
He found the location he was looking for, a store labeled with a sign in Arabic and English. The English portion identified it as Jumoke’s. The store was built into the ground floor of a two-story building. Elaborately patterned carpets hung from poles outside the shop and also served as an awning. It was one of the larger venues in the souk.
Gabriel stopped by the entrance and pretended to be interested in one of the carpets. He casually glanced back the way he’d come, but there was no sign of Sammi. That was a good thing. After a moment, a short Egyptian man approached him from the back of the store.
“Good afternoon, sir. You have a fine eye—that is our most beautiful carpet.”
“It’s very nice,” Gabriel said.
“You want it? I make you a good deal.” The man’s eyes glittered.
“I’m afraid not,” Gabriel said. “I’m just looking.”
Gabriel felt a hand land on his shoulder from behind. “Do not turn around, Mister Hunt.” The hand moved, frisking him. First one side, then the other. He felt his Colt being lifted out of its holster. The Egyptian in front of him had an apologetic expression on his face.
“I was this close to buying it, too,” Gabriel said.
The Egyptian shrugged. “You still can. We ship.”
But by then the frisking had ceased and Gabriel had other things to focus on. A man walked around from behind him, one hand extended. He was very tall, a few inches past Gabriel’s own six feet. He wore a lightweight white suit and a fez. His skin was olive-colored, his eyes dark brown and piercing. Beneath his lower lip he sported a thick goatee. Gabriel figured him to be in his fifties.
“My name is Amun,” the man said. “Thank you for being so punctual, Mister Hunt. You are right on time.” The man’s English was accented, but mildly; it sounded smooth and cultured, as though many hours of practice had gone into polishing it. He might have been an actor or a politician.
“You’re with the Alliance of the Pharaohs?” Gabriel asked.
“I am.” He gestured over Gabriel’s shoulder and Gabriel turned his head to look. Behind him stood a much larger man, not so much in height as in bulk. He was dressed in a suit as well, but no fez.
“This is Kemnebi,” Amun said. “He is my assistant.”
“What does he type,” Gabriel said, “ninety words a minute?”
Amun chuckled. His offered hand having gone unshaken this long, he let it fall to his side. “Why don’t the three of us go inside this shop and have a talk?”
“I’m not going anywhere until I know that Lucy is all right,” Gabriel said.
“You have my word, Mister Hunt.”
“And you have my sister,” Gabriel said. “Your word means very little to me.”
“You wish to talk to her?” Amun said.
&nb
sp; “Yes.”
“Come inside. We will get her on the phone. It is more private, don’t you think?”
“You can get her on the phone right now.”
Amun smiled slightly. “Out here?”
“Out here.”
“Very well.” Amun removed a cell phone from his pocket and keyed in a number. He spoke Arabic to someone on the other end. After a pause, he handed the phone to Gabriel.
“. . . hello?” It was a woman’s voice. She sounded as if she’d just been awakened from a deep sleep. It could have been Lucy. Or not.
“Lucy?” he said cautiously. “It’s Gabriel.”
“Gabriel? Gabriel! Where are you?” She still sounded half-asleep—but it was her.
“Are you all right?” he said. “Have they hurt you?”
“I’m okay. I’m just . . . sleepy. The bastards gave me—” But her voice was cut off.
“Lucy? Lucy!”
Amun held out his hand for the phone. Gabriel angrily slapped it into the man’s palm. The Egyptian held it to his ear, spoke a few more words in Arabic, and then hung up.
“As you can hear, your sister is alive and well. My word is good, Mister Hunt.”
“She’s alive,” Gabriel conceded. “She didn’t sound well. What have you pumped her full of?”
“Nothing worse than people her age pump themselves full of every day. It’s probably a good deal safer, in fact, and less unpleasant when it wears off.” The man shook his head. “Please understand, we had to calm her down, or she would have hurt herself trying to get away. She might have hurt others as well. Believe me, it is better this way.”
“I ought to wring your neck right here.”
“You could try to do that, Mister Hunt. But Kemnebi would prevent it, and if he failed, you have my word that your sister would be dead within five minutes.” Amun smiled gently. “Please. I do understand how you feel; if it were my sister I would feel the same. But it is not necessary. We are civilized men. We will go inside, we shall talk and have some tea together, and you will see that what we want from you is not so terrible. You will agree to what we ask and your sister will be released unharmed, I promise.” He held out his hand again and gestured toward the entryway. “Please,” he repeated, and Kemnebi weighed in by placing a heavy palm against the back of Gabriel’s neck.
Gabriel stared at Amun for a moment and then turned and walked inside.
Sammi lowered her binoculars and cursed to herself in French. Suddenly Lucy’s kidnapping made sense.
She was standing behind a display of inexpensive jewelry in a shop across from Jumoke’s. The shopkeeper, a woman, approached Sammi and asked if she needed assistance.
“No, thank you. Sorry.” Sammi left her cover and moved out into the busy lane. She looked for another place where she could stand unnoticed and chose a doorway half hidden in shadow. Keeping one eye on the entrance to Jumoke’s, she took out her cell phone and began hastily to type out a message on its miniature keyboard. She had to warn Gabriel, had to explain to him who that man was—
But she didn’t get the chance to finish. Before she’d gotten three words into her message, the door she was propped against suddenly opened inward. Sammi stumbled and put out one hand to catch herself—but as she did, a burlap sack was thrown over her head from behind.
“Hey!” she shouted, her voice muffled. She tried to swing an elbow behind her, but her arm was seized in an iron grip. She raised one leg and brought her boot-clad heel down swiftly and heard a grunt of pain. The hold on her arms tightened. She struggled to break free, but there was no way. A moment later, she felt herself lifted off the ground and thrown over someone’s shoulder.
The quality of the light filtering through the burlap changed as she was carried inside. She felt the strap of the binoculars snap as it was yanked painfully against her neck. Her cell phone had vanished in the tussle as well. She felt two pairs of hands roughly frisking her, then her own hands were tied behind her back with some sort of narrow cord. She squirmed and fought and shouted till one of the men gave her a chop, hard, through the bag. Her head rang from the blow and she tasted blood—she’d bitten into her cheek. She was lifted again, then carried for a span, and then dumped onto a cold metal surface. She heard what sounded like the doors of a van being slammed shut and locked. The van bounced slightly as someone climbed into the driver’s seat, then again when the other man joined him in the passenger’s. Sammi resumed shouting and kicked against the side of the van, but if anyone heard there was no sign. The driver started the ignition and drove away.
Amun led Gabriel and Kemnebi through Jumoke’s to a storeroom in the back. Heaps of carpets, flat and rolled, lay on the floor. They navigated between them to a small room that served as an office.
Amun took a seat in one of the room’s two chairs and gestured for Gabriel to take the other. Kemnebi came around and laid Gabriel’s Colt on the table between them.
“How lovely,” Amun said, raising the gun and appraising it with a connoisseur’s eye. “An antique, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And I’m going to want it back.”
“Of course. If our talk goes as well as I expect, I will return it to you with pleasure.” He set the gun down again and accepted the glass of tea Kemnebi was holding out to him. A scent of mint wafted across the table. Kemnebi held a glass out to Gabriel.
“No, thanks,” Gabriel said.
“It’s very good,” Amun said, “especially when it’s so hot outside. No? Well perhaps a bit later.” Kemnebi set the glass down in front of Gabriel, some of its contents sloshing out into the saucer.
Amun picked up a cardboard tube from the floor, dug inside it with a finger, and removed a rolled print. He unfurled it, weighing down one corner with Gabriel’s gun and another with his saucer. The print showed a black-and-white photograph of a stone tablet covered in hieroglyphics. One corner of the tablet was broken off.
“Do you recognize it, Mister Hunt?” Amun asked.
“Of course,” Gabriel said. “Any undergrad would. It’s the Rosetta Stone.”
“Correct. A relic of ancient Egypt and one of the most important and most valuable artifacts ever discovered. It now unfortunately resides in the British Museum in London.”
“So?”
Amun’s brown eyes flared. “One day it shall return to Egypt, I promise you that. But that is neither here nor there.”
“Well, it’s not here,” Gabriel said. “It is there.”
Amun took a sip of his tea. His hand didn’t shake. “I know you are trying to provoke me, Mister Hunt. Perhaps I will do or say something I regret, something you could use to gain an advantage over me.” He set the cup down again. “I won’t.”
“Okay,” Gabriel said. “So you won’t. What is it you want me to do—break into the British Museum and steal the Rosetta Stone for you?”
“No, no, of course not. Nothing that simple.”
“Simple,” Gabriel said.
“There’s nothing simpler than taking something from a museum,” Amun said. “What we want your help with is considerably more difficult.”
“You going to tell me, or do I have to keep guessing?”
Amun stretched out a finger and traced it along the edge of the Rosetta Stone. “As you can see, there is a piece missing. Broken off. Lost forever. Who knows what additional information it might have contained, what secrets?”
“What’s your point?”
“What if I were to tell you, Mister Hunt, that a second entire tablet exists, twice the size of this missing piece, one that contains even more precious—more powerful—information than the stone in the British Museum? Information that could, quite simply, change the world?”
Chapter 7
Gabriel raised his eyebrows.
“I see you are skeptical,” Amun said. “What do you know about the Rosetta Stone, Mister Hunt?”
“You want a history lesson, you should ask my brother. He could talk your ear off.” Amun said nothing. “It’s, what,
from the time of Ptolemy—one of the Ptolemys, anyway, something like two hundred B.C., right?”
“That’s very good, Mister Hunt,” Amun said. “Go on.”
“What else. There are three texts on the stone, or more precisely the same text written in three different languages. Comparing them was how Egyptian hieroglyphics were first deciphered.” Gabriel remembered Sheba McCoy regaling him with the story in bed one night, tracing the lines of various ancient symbols across his bare chest with a fingertip. He’d always had a thing for linguists, but never more so than that night.
“Go on.”
“That’s all I’ve got. As I recall, the text on the stone was nothing too interesting—something about taxes and putting statues in temples, wasn’t it?”
“Something like that. It was Ptolemy the Fifth and you were off by four years, but that’s better than most Americans could have done. Better than most Egyptians, for that matter. Do you recall how the Stone was found?”
Gabriel had a sudden sense of déjà vu. The old boy seemed to be turning up everywhere. “Napoleon’s army found it. Around 1800?”
“Seventeen ninety-nine. Bonaparte had led a campaign into Egypt in ’98. Having effectively conquered the country, he brought in scientists and archaeologists to rape us of our treasures in the name of ‘historical discovery.’ The Stone was found in Rashid—an area the French referred to as Rosetta at the time. The history books are sadly incomplete with regard to exactly what happened to the Stone over the next two years, after Napoleon returned to France, leaving his men here to continue their work.”
“Didn’t the British also invade Egypt around that time?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes. The British and the Ottomans. They decided to challenge the French, using my country as a battleground. The French took the Rosetta Stone to Alexandria along with numerous other bits of plunder, in an attempt to keep it all out of their enemies’ hands, but it didn’t work. The British prevailed, the French surrendered. The French commander, a man named de Menou, tried to keep the Rosetta Stone for himself as personal property. But that ended as you might expect.”