The Lost Tomb of Cleopatra (Brook Burlington Book 1)

by JT Osbourne

  "Tell me what you know," Muller whispered, urging. "No one will know it's you who talked."

  The man's head kept shaking. "I am sorry, I can't do that," he replied in fairly decent German. "I am only allowed to reveal that information to the next Guardian—"

  The slap came quickly, violently sending the old man's head far to one side, and nearly knocking his thin frame, chair and all, to the floor.

  "I will ask you again," Muller stated patiently, seizing the man's hollowed cheeks and jerking his face back. Muller was not in the mood for games. He'd been hand-picked by Reichsmarschall Goering for this special mission, and this was his first solid lead after months of eating sand, drinking parasitic water, swatting flies, and inflicting enormous pain on the local population, who seemed impervious to it. Berlin was getting impatient with the mission's lack of results, and as horrible as this posting was, it had to be better than the alternative. Even in this lonely outpost rumors had swirled: Operation Barbarossa, and the invasion of the Soviet Union. Muller knew that being relocated to the eastern front was a near-certain death sentence. Death a million times over.

  Muller slapped the man again out of frustration. The trail could not simply run cold again, not based on one man's resistance. Goering did not take disappointment lightly.

  Growing desperate, Muller pulled his prized Luger from its leather holder and nestled the barrel of the gun between the elder's widened eyes. He spoke evenly. "I have appointed myself as the new Guardian.”

  The man seemed bewildered by the statement.

  "Translate!" Muller ordered.

  The Somalian spoke. The old man said nothing.

  "Tell me your secret—tell me where she's buried!" Muller whispered, and the translator repeated it in Arabic while retreating a few steps — presumably hoping to avoid bullet shards, brain matter, or skull fragments from whatever would follow.

  The old man's brown eyes stared back at the German, and for a moment the soldier was conflicted. This was clearly a man who had seen a lot, and his courage was admirable; honorable, even.

  That's what we're about, isn't it? Blood and Soil. Children, Kitchen, Church.

  It was late, and Muller needed sleep. He'd hoped to learn the whereabouts of one of Egypt's great, unexplored burial grounds, its riches destined to become one of the centerpieces of the planned Fuhrermuseum in Linz.

  Muller studied the hardened expression of the prisoner. The man was prepared to die to keep the secret, he knew, his stomach sinking. Killing hadn't become any easier for Muller over the past few months. "Casualties of war," they called the "sacrificed" civilians. Muller had cringed the first time he'd heard the term. "Sacrifice" indicated something voluntary, didn't it?

  "This is a much bigger fight. We are justified." Muller had informed his hesitant fellow murderers, but he secretly didn't believe it. Barely twenty-seven, his heart had not yet turned to stone. That would come later.

  For now, he had one last trick up his sleeve. He went to the tent's entrance and threw back the flap. Outside, in clear view of the old Guardian, a line of six of the village's women and children stood with their backs to a long trench—a freshly dug grave in the sand.

  The old man spoke rapidly now, so quickly the interpreter had difficulty keeping up with the Arabic.

  "What's he saying? What?" Muller asked hopefully, the pitch of his voice rising in anticipation.

  "He says you won't find them. He says the bodies are protected by the Golden Whales."

  "Where?" Muller asked simply.

  The translator hesitated. He wouldn't ask the old man—he knew the answer.

  "That he won't tell you," the translator stated morosely.

  Muller went back to the tent opening. With a simple instruction in German, the support unit opened deafening fire, executing the village's women and children, their bodies falling into the trench. Screams echoed throughout the village.

  "Sergeant," Muller said, pointing his Luger again, resting it on the old man's forehead. "Send a message to the Reichsmarschall. We have obtained directions to the mummies. We leave at sunrise."

  "Sir?" the sergeant replied, puzzled.

  "Do it! Tell them. We have the information."

  "Yes sir," the puzzled sergeant replied, hurrying out quickly, happy to be gone.

  The old man spoke quickly, loudly, his forehead tapping the tip of Muller's Luger.

  "Is he praying?" Muller asked.

  "No," the interpreter replied. "He's not praying. He says 'You occupy our land today, but this land is ours. We will win—our knowledge is more powerful than your bullets.'"

  Muller's hand shook involuntarily. He'd seen the cave-paintings just to the south—12,000 years old, it was guessed.

  "It is a curse," the translator went on. "He is putting a curse on you."

  Fighting the dread that had taken hold in the pit of his stomach, Muller pulled the trigger. The bullet did massive damage, but Muller didn't look. He whirled on his heels and headed out of the tent.

  "Message sent," his sergeant reported just outside.

  "Ensure there are no survivors," Muller said simply, and marched to his own tent.

  "Yes sir," the sergeant replied in a robotic monotone.

  10

  Cairo, Egypt

  If Cairo had changed over the years, Brook couldn't really tell. Blindfolded, she would have recognized the crush of twenty-three million people, choke of smog, and the gritty feel and taste of sand in her teeth. Natives called Cairo Unn ad-Dunya—Mother of the World.

  Yeah, if your mother's a ten-thousand-year-old schizophrenic stand-up comedian with a cruel streak about her, Brook mused to herself as she stepped out into the mayhem that went with finding a cab.

  Any other visitor might have been overwhelmed by the various guides and drivers at the airport anxious to escort a foreign visitor to a hotel, the pyramids, a mosque, church, museum or restaurant; anywhere for the right price. For a precious few moments, these locals held the gift of gab. English was spoken, French, Italian, German—even Mandarin— but just enough to get the job. Brook shook them all off—firm but friendly, Cairo style—picking an older man with a classic London taxi, vintage 1963, whose look said, "I really don't care."

  She'd been in Cairo for less than ten minutes, and already felt she was being followed. Maybe she'd seen too many movies, or read too many novels, but she was pretty sure muggers, pickpockets and other predators hung out at the airport, following unsuspecting tourists, waiting for a chance to strike.

  Worried, she kept one eye on the driver, one out the back window, and an appropriate fare and tip in her fist, fully prepared to jump out and run, or find another cab.

  Instead of a destination, Brook gave the man directions, turn by turn. Her driver from the last time she was in Cairo, whom she only knew as Saa, resided in exactly the same place—an outdoor teashop—and she found him easily.

  "What calls you back to Egypt this time?" Saa asked after preliminary hellos, the serving of tea, and inquiries into the health of various family members. As Brook opened her mouth, Saa raised a finger "No no, let me guess..." He held his hand to his head, searching the heavens for an answer. "Saint Mary of Egypt Christian Church, in the Sinai."

  The shock on Brook's face made Saa bellow.

  "Relax, your secret is safe with me, Miss Brook," Saa whispered. "I have been expecting you. I fill my taxi-cab with petrol, I check water, I take on emergency supplies. The Sinai is unforgiving, my daring friend."

  Brook smiled. Saa always managed to create drama from the most mundane situations.

  "Unless you prefer to ride a camel. "Sometimes the tourists..." Saa broke off, and rolled his eyes in exasperation.

  Brook shook her head. "Your cab's fine."

  "Shall we go, then?"

  Brook nodded, but Saa didn't rise from his chair.

  "There is travel ban to the Sinai," he warned in a low tone.

  "Not a ban," Brook answered, without hesitation.

  "Okay, 'advi
sory,'" Saa came back, waving his hand as if such distinctions were beneath him to even consider.

  "You want more money."

  "Miss Brook, I am insulted you say such a thing," Saa folded his arms, feigning insult. "I'm only concerned for your safety."

  "Ten percent more than last time." Brook offered, knowing exactly what this was about.

  "Thirty."

  "Twenty."

  Saa considered.

  "By the hour, plus mileage. Same as last time?" he asked.

  "Yes, certainly."

  "Twenty-five it is, then," Saa said.

  "I said twenty," Brook replied.

  Saa shrugged. "Twenty-three?"

  "Twenty-two," Brook said with finality.

  "Deal." They didn't shake hands—even in the most secular areas in Cairo, it wasn't done anymore.

  Reminded of where she was by this exclusion, Brook adjusted her headscarf. She'd worn it—plus the pashmina around her shoulders, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and sunglasses—in order to avoid eye contact with males. Egypt wasn't as conservative about female dress as other Middle Eastern countries, but Brook didn't need the harassment, and her beacon-like red hair was best left covered. On account of the Indiana Jones association, she'd left the fedora at home in favor of a couple more feminine models. Though baseball caps and cowboy hats were beginning to appear among the youth, hats in general weren't often seen on men or women in this part of the world. When they were, it was generally for religious reasons, and not to fight the sun. It had surprised Brook when she first noticed it. Because of her red hair and the sun-sensitive skin that came with it, she wouldn't go anywhere in the world without a few samples from her modest collection of hats.

  "You are my weird Christian cousin from Canada?" Saa smiled.

  "You remembered—that's so sweet!" Brook joked.

  Saa’s smile widened.

  "Okay," Brook went on. "I get the 'Canada' and I get the 'cousin' and I'm fine with 'Christian,' but do I have to be 'weird?'"

  "Definitely, unless you prefer 'crazy' or 'idiot.'"

  "Weird's fine," Brook laughed. Weird meant she wouldn't have to speak, and if she did, wouldn't have to make sense. Weird made her harmless, uncomprehending. Weird wasn't worth killing on the spot. Enemies, spies, and infidels weren't "weird."

  .

  11

  Cairo, Egypt

  Tom Manor congratulated himself on his decision not to take the tour boat. He watched the large vessel he had avoided as it left the Cairo dock a half-mile down, and quickly made its way into the middle of the Nile. The tour boat was a motorized, elephantine, novelty version of the three-man, triangle-sailed feluccas common in the river. Tom watched as it soon found itself surrounded by smaller boats crammed with desperate people calling to the foreigners, offering souvenirs, drinks, snacks and other trinkets. He guessed that, like the crowd onshore, many just asked for money, period, not offering anything in exchange.

  "Baksheesh! Give me money, give me!" was the usual cry, and many of the tourists—Canadians, Americans, Europeans—did just that.

  Tom slipped away from the crowd, put on a fierce face that said, "I'm FBI, you sons-of-bitches—get outta my way!" and headed down to the other docks, where the fishermen worked alongside transporters, ferrymen, and smugglers. He found a couple of young men whose English was serviceable on one of the ubiquitous feluccas which, though suitable for lakes and rivers, were too small for the open sea.

  The boat itself wasn't that much larger than the beloved Flying Dutchman of Tom's youth, aboard which he had crewed for his uncle during many exhilarating races on Long Island Sound.

  After a combination of hand-gestures and common English words, it was established that Tom wanted a ride to Aswan, which was ten hours by car, but six days by felucca.

  The two brothers—at least, Tom figured they were brothers—seemed both amused and amazed at the request. The older one, bolder and friendlier, managed to convey to Tom they weren't exactly a tourist vessel. There was no toilet on board, for instance (a difficult thing to communicate in itself), not to mention the lack of a kitchen, bedrooms, or shelter. Not a single luxury, Tom thought. He showed them his backpacker's sleeping bag and ultra-light, freestanding pup tent—under four pounds all in—and indicated that their boat was exactly what he wanted.

  Not convinced, the older brother gestured off to the large 500-person luxury tour-boat, just then blowing its air-horn, showing off, and chugging up to speed, leaving the armada of poor beggars in its wake.

  Tom again indicated no, and then the younger brother, worn scarf over his head, hiding behind the other young man like a fugitive from a Victor Hugo novel, whispered something to his co-pilot. The younger man, insistent, pulled out a cheap plastic calculator, typed in a number, and showed it to his brother privately. They spoke quickly, chattering—Tom had no idea what about.

  Agreeing, the other brother showed Tom a number, the price for the trip. It was a large sum, in foreigner-gouging territory.

  "Six days down, six days back?" the man asked Tom, who nodded. "How many days Luxor? How many Aswan?"

  Tom thought. He hadn't considered that. He'd be engaging this pair for three weeks, at least.

  "Four days," Tom said, holding up four fingers. "Four days Aswan, four Luxor."

  The two conferred again, seemingly alarmed by this news. The discussion centered on the figure on the calculator; the younger man didn't want it changed, the older brother insisted on it.

  Tom picked up his gear and prepared to disembark and walk away from the whole deal.

  As expected, the older brother stepped in his way.

  "Food included. This is good price. We pay for food. Good food. You like. Traditional Egyptian food."

  Tom smiled, nodded, and stuck out his hand.

  "Deal," he said.

  Again the brothers needed a conference.

  "If we buy food, we will need an advance."

  "Oh. How about half?"

  The brothers consulted.

  "All in advance," the older brother replied. "You could have an accident. Crocodiles."

  Tom smiled. He happened to have read recently that there were few, if any, crocodiles left above the Aswan Dam.

  "Half," Tom repeated, reaching under his shirt for his hidden money-pouch, tied with a string around his neck.

  "Jihadists," the older brother insisted. "You get killed by jihadists, we lose money."

  "If I get killed by jihadists, just take everything I've got," Tom suggested.

  The honesty was one step too far, and suddenly none of the men could look each other in the eye. Of course they'd take his things. Perhaps that was what they had in mind all along—kill him, take everything including his fancy camping gear, then dump his carcass overboard for the crocodiles that weren't supposed to be there anymore.

  The two brothers tried not to acknowledge this fundamental truth. They donned a particularly innocent look, and took great pains to take the money—half—without any eagerness whatsoever.

  But as soon as the younger one had the cash in hand, and counted it to be sure, he leapt to shore with a huge burlap bag and started running, only to come back a moment later and speak rapidly to the brother on the boat.

  "Diet?" the brother asked Tom. "You not eat some things?"

  "Everything," Tom said. "I eat everything."

  "Peanut allergy?" the brother asked.

  Tom laughed.

  "No, no allergies."

  "Gluten?!" the little brother on shore burst out with glee, as if it was the only English word he knew, and found it hilarious.

  "Gluten is fine!" Tom answered, and all three laughed.

  What these two had heard about Americans, Tom had no idea. But he figured if the younger brother had intended to fetch friends with sharper, larger knives to come back and dispatch Tom he wouldn't have taken the burlap bag, or worried about Tom's crazy American food sensitivities.

  The brother returned with a full bag, and the felucca was soon mov
ing down the river, sails filled yet doing ten knots at best, beaten by the sun.

  The boat was nothing like the Karnak, the riverboat in Death on the Nile. There were no grand Lords and Ladies suspected of murder, no doting nieces, nurses, or attendants.

  No toilet! Tom said to himself.

  12

  The Sinai Peninsula, Egypt

  The Sinai was, exactly as advertised, the most inhospitable land in the world. Brook herself had never been there before. Only the Badawwi, or Bedouins, could survive, using skills that were thousands of years old and a strict code of conduct handed down from Abraham to Moses to Hammurabi, and ultimately Muhammad. There were no known great civilizations to study, no buildings or artifacts to view, only the struggle to stay alive. To most, the Sinai was a harsh impediment to getting somewhere else, be that Aqaba, Suez, Palestine, or Damascus.

  Brook could tell it was dangerous, and not just because of the sun blasting down on Saa's cab. Unlike before when he drove her, Saa didn't have one arm over the seat next to him, swiveling his head back and forth between Brook herself and chattering to her in the rear-view mirror. There were none of his trademark crazy stories; and he didn't even have the radio blasting pop songs. Instead, he gripped the steering wheel, stared at the road ahead, and said nothing, leaving Brook to her thoughts and fears in the back seat.

  It soon became evident that Saa's concerns were justified.

  A checkpoint appeared: a dozen armed men around a Toyota pickup flagging down the vehicle. Brook was struck by how young they were, and how nervous, pointing their machine guns at her and never taking them off-target.

  Saa was forced to shut the car off, and the air conditioning with it. He rolled down the window and spoke rapidly and confidently to the head man—head teenager, really—while Brook watched the hand dangling next to the emergency brake twitch and shake like a hanged man.

  Even with her limited Arabic, Brook recognized "weird Christian cousin from Canada" and tried not to react. As all eyes turned to her, she wondered what odd thing she could safely do to convince them, but decided instead just to appear frozen, petrified—not a stretch given her current state.