The Lost Tomb of Cleopatra (Brook Burlington Book 1)

by JT Osbourne

  Rabbit, too, joined in the fun, specializing in knives, bayonets, axes—anything sharp—creating an impressive pile a little way off.

  Brook knew it wasn't really archeology. There was no attempt to catalog the placement of objects, or discover their context. This place was part of the larger battle across all of North Africa which had occurred not that long ago, well-documented in countless books, articles, memoirs, movies and TV shows. The only point was to collect, and neither Brook nor Katy really cared about the tools of war, though eventually many of the smaller, more affordable pieces would no-doubt appear in Katy's shop for the tourists to pore over.

  "This isn't really a 'dig' at all," Katy remarked to Brook in a rare moment when Katy wasn't peering through her camera lens, asking Brook to comment on one thing or another.

  "More like a scrape." Brook replied. They were sat at a picnic table after lunch, and Katy reached over to her camera and turned it on—not surreptitiously exactly, but not making a show of it, either.

  "How do you feel about that?"

  Brook noticed Katy had taped over the little red light above the lens; the blinking indicator that the camera was recording.

  Brook moved her laptop and opened the lid, blocking the camera. She recalled a conversation she'd had with Katy long ago, when Katy had described the making of a documentary. "You just shoot and shoot and shoot. Since cameras don’t run on film anymore, it doesn't cost anything, so you just shoot. Maybe you get something, maybe you don't, but that's not the point. The point is you're getting the subject used to the camera being around. They stop being so shy of it. They don't exactly forget it's there, but they kind-of do, enough that they eventually don't feel like they're on stage. The camera's just part of the furniture."

  "Like a pet snake," Brook had remarked.

  Katy had laughed. "You got it!"

  Reminded of that conversation, Brook vowed to be ever-vigilant when it came to Katy's camera. That said, she could see the advantage of a documentary to their work; not to popularize it, but to enlighten the public, and counter some of the ridiculous and Romantic popular notions about archeology, but while Brook enjoyed countless hours of those shows herself, she had no interest in having her life put on display for the world to see and judge.

  The morning's work had made clear to Brook what they were dealing with. This was neither a storage bunker, nor the site of any conflict. This was too far south of the main battles; the give-and-take seesaw tank war between Rommel and Montgomery that had essentially been an east-west stalemate across the expanse of North Africa. Brook figured this place was a repair facility of sorts, used by both Allied and Axis troops at some point. Just far enough south of the main front, it was still reachable and drivable, unlike the sands to the south. Damaged tanks and other vehicles were brought in for repair, or their parts cannibalized, then sent back into the line of fire. That could be the only explanation for the sheer quantity of steel scattered in the area. Digging deep wasn't necessary here; only a thin layer of sand covered most of the material.

  Belts, knives, ammunition, helmets—anything with a swastika on it had a certain value in the open market, Brook knew. She'd come up with several thousands of dollars worth of militaria in just a few minutes, she figured. Perversely, Nazi items were worth triple the price of anything American or British. Brook had no idea what a Panzer gearshift would bring, or a piece of track from its wheels, but she figured if money was what Strelov was interested in, this place would do just fine.

  As she worked, Brook wondered how many times the ball bearings, gears, and wheel cylinders had been covered with sand in the evening wind only to be uncovered again the next morning.

  "Not unlike the battle itself, apparently,” Brook said to herself. There was evidence of a bombing raid, based on the cratering of the local terrain. Who had bombed whom wasn't obvious.

  Despite her feelings on the findings, Brook was enjoying the dig. It was quiet, a chance to think, and the workers spoke minimally to each other. There wasn't a language barrier; most of the diggers were German or Eastern European archaeologists who spoke near-perfect English— instead, the silence came from a certain concentration on the task at hand, and possibly a respect for the lives lost. Not that they found human remains; it appeared any casualties had been either relocated to the war cemeteries around El Alamein or sent back to Germany and Italy on one side, or the US and Great Britain on the other.

  Even Katy put down her camera and went to work quietly.

  "I'll pester you with endless questions later," she had whispered to Brook.

  "I'm looking forward to it," Brook replied, pretty sure it was a condition of her release rather than generosity on Katy's part.

  As Brook worked, she gave herself tasks. First and foremost was to look for signs of Neferu. She was under no illusions that either he, Mark Antony, or Cleopatra were buried here, and still clung to the "golden whale" theory, but the queen and consort could certainly have passed this place on their way to their final rest. Equally, Neferu may have, followed by Muller.

  That was her second task. She had an idea that the German was the key. Brook looked up at the diggers in her sight. Many of them—maybe all—spoke German, she was sure. Perhaps they'd do the translating for her. Some seemed to be students, perhaps graduate students, possibly unpaid volunteers or interns. Any one of them would be thrilled to do some translating for some side-money, Brook figured, if not just for the sheer joy of being part of the pursuit.

  She rejected all the men—she didn't need that complication at this point—and, without bigotry, she told herself—she rejected some of the women for the same reason.

  Of course, they all ultimately worked for Strelov, which was a risk. Would they pass on what they translated to him as well? That reminded her of yet another task: wrestling Muller's diary from Ali.

  Brook watched as he paced the desert a hundred yards from the main dig, talking frantically on his phone and gesturing with his hands. With Ali, you could never tell whether he was angry or merely excited. Volatile was the word Brook had once used.

  Ali hung up quickly and hurried forward—a silly walk, Brook had always thought, borne of handsome but ill-fitting and totally inappropriate Italian shoes.

  Come, come he signaled when close enough.

  Brook put down her work to go and speak with him privately. Instinctively, Katy picked up her camera to follow. Ali waved her back.

  "No, sorry, no!" he called.

  Katy didn't argue, and returned to work on her small patch of sand.

  "Okay," Ali said after he had Brook alone, catching his breath then catching it again, as if just being near Brook doubled his agitation. "Here's the thing. Your tomography. The Egyptians are talking to the Israelis, but the Israelis are still burning about the criticism of the Dead Sea Scrolls—how long have they had them? Sixty years? Anyway, nobody wants an international incident right now what with the Arab Spring, Syria, the Turks, the Kurds, blah blah blah. God, I hate this place!"

  Before Brook's eyes, she watched Ali spiral down a deep emotional hole. For the first time since she'd known him, Brook worried for his mental health. She touched his arm tenderly. "Ali..."

  The touch seemed to calm him. He looked from her hand to her eyes. His dark irises moistened visibly.

  "I'm sorry," Ali said. "I was once so strong, wasn't I?"

  "You still are," Brook told him.

  He smiled bravely. "Anyway, I will keep trying, but your scrolls will have to stay unread with the nuns at Saint Mary's in the Sinai."

  "I can help," Katy interrupted.

  Ali jumped. She had snuck up on the two of them.

  Knowing she had seen his moment of weakness, Ali's anger flared. "How long have you been there?! Where's your camera?! Where's your camera?!" he shouted, grabbing Katy's bag, unzipping it open to examine the contents and check for peepholes before giving it back to her.

  "I can help. I know people. If it has to do with diplomats and permissions and interna
tional stuff, I can really help," Katy said sincerely to Ali, looking to Brook for confirmation and seemingly unaffected by his outburst. "Just give me the particulars."

  "Excuse us a second," Brook said, steering Ali away. At one time she could control Ali completely. Now, she wasn't so sure. "Katy has resources," she explained when they were alone again.

  Ali glared past Brook at Katy, who turned and went back to the dig.

  "She's done amazing things in the past," Brook went on. "Why not let her give it a shot?”

  He shook his head.

  “What do we have to lose? That scroll might be important. It might be the key to the whole thing!"

  Ali wasn't ready to give it up. He still huffed, like a bull in the ring. His manhood was being questioned, his authority, his ability to get things done. "This is my operation," he grumbled.

  Brook said nothing.

  "If Strelov can't swing this, how the hell could she?" Ali demanded.

  "I don't know," Brook told Ali. "But why not let her try? She's come through in the past."

  "There are other places to get this done."

  "The Israelis are set up. They have the expertise."

  "Okay, okay," Ali said, calming himself. "She reports to me, understand? Any arrangements she makes, I must know about them, clear?"

  Brook didn't know what strings Katy planned to pull, but she guessed revealing them to Ali (and possibly Strelov by extension) was a non-starter.

  "Of course, of course," Brook told Ali, knowing it was a lie, "it all goes through you."

  Ali looked skeptical, but he seemed to accept that somehow his face had been saved. "You tell her.”

  "I will."

  "Okay, then; we'll see what she can do."

  "Fair enough."

  "Now, about this stupid documentary," Ali growled, shaking his head in mock disgust.

  Brook smiled.

  Ali chuckled with relief at the eased tension. "We're going to be movie stars, right?"

  "God, I hope not!" Brook blurted out.

  They both laughed, a team again, however temporarily.

  ***

  "All set," Brook whispered to Katy when she went back to the dig.

  "Yeah? What did you have to promise to get that done?" Katy asked.

  "Ego massage, that's all."

  "Ah, like a back-rub."

  "Something like that," Brook told her. "I just hope you can swing what I'm asking."

  "Me too," Katy agreed. She threw down her trowel, gloves, and paintbrush, took down the information on the St. Mary's scrolls, then pulled out her phone. "Wish me luck!” she said, marching back toward the trucks. For the rest of the day, Brook's concentration was divided between the dig, its treasures, and listening to and watching Katy on the phone, laughing, cajoling, shouting at times, selling hard.

  It reminded Brook of her father.

  27

  Alexandria, VA, 1991

  The night that Cale Burlington's life had started to go off the rails was one Brook would never forget. She was only eight years old at the time, and living outside of Washington, DC, where her father had found a part-time lectureship at Georgetown. Brook had been drawing at the kitchen table—she still owned and treasured both drawing and table—when there was a knock at the door. Her father Cale and mother Rose had both yelped and shrieked and ran to answer.

  An old man stood there, all beard and wool, smelling of tobacco and dampness, like some sort of dark Santa Claus, complete with thick glasses and a bewildered grin on his face. Brook's parents danced and screamed and sang like crazy drunks. There was much hugging and kissing; and Brook wondered if she should retire to her room.

  "Is this Brook?" the man exclaimed, hurrying forward to take Brook's head in his hands to adore her, instantly. Her face had felt hot against his cold hands.

  "Yes, Brook," Rose confirmed, every inch the proud and loving mother.

  The man's name was never given, but they were quickly off to the living room, where the sound grew even louder and alcohol flowed freely. They spoke in and out of German and something else—Yiddish or Russian? Brook wasn't sure.

  Cale's journey from the adventure of underwater exploration to the less dramatic suburbs of the nation's capital had been its own kind of hellish descent. Despite his reputation—because of it in some cases—Brook's father could have taken a job at a museum somewhere, or an auction outfit, but what Cale liked above all was to dive, deep in the water, enjoying the thrill of the watery chase, so when the Western Hemisphere became off-limits to him, he journeyed to the Mediterranean and the Middle East.

  A short stint in a Greek prison and a monumental fine convinced Cale to become a bit more respectable, following all the laws—as well as helping to write those laws, in many cases—and becoming a permanent part of a newly-created UNESCO Committee of Experts designed to prohibit trafficking of antiquities. Cale even set up his own foundation—which Carl ended up running—tasked with ending grave-robbing and international smuggling. Cale Burlington's newfound respectability on land didn't stop him from taking the same daring risks under the water, however, and one evening off the coast of Cyprus, while exploring what he believed to be a rare Minoan shipwreck—intact—his left eardrum ruptured, damaging his sinuses and ending his diving career. He went down with an infection, something he'd gotten away with in the past, but not this time.

  He'd ended up outside of Washington, where he was in touch with the archaeological world, but no longer an active participant. He advised on laws designed to protect the world's riches, appraised objects for museums and private collectors, and he consulted on diving operations throughout the world from the comfort of his den. A less ambitious man might have been satisfied with his life—comfortable, with a beautiful wife and two bright, adoring children—but even at the age of eight, Brook could see how genuinely miserable her father was.

  Until Jacob showed up. That was the man's name, Brook learned later; Jacob Linsky. He came with information linking the Nabataeans, inhabitants of the ancient city of Petra, with the Incas in the New World via Angkor in Southeast Asia.

  Cale had called it his "missing link"; the proof he needed of a far more robust communication between the ancients of Africa, Europe, and the Middle East, and the ancients of North and South America. In addition, Jacob showed him evidence from the jungles of Cambodia that the travels had gone that way, across the south, then Polynesia, followed by the New World.

  The inclusion of Petra in the loop also fit nicely with Cale's theory. Sitting at the south of what is now Jordan, near the Israeli border, Petra was the perfect way-station between Egypt, Greece, Assyria, Persia, and all of Europe and Asia in the centuries before Christ. The narrow passages into the city made the place unconquerable, and the abundance of fertile land and water in the highlands surrounding it made it a perfect spot for the sophisticated Nabataeans—Arabs migrated long before from North African deserts. Much later, the Crusaders used the place as a safe headquarters for raids on their Arab enemies. So did T.E. Lawrence, or "Lawrence of Arabia" in his revolt alongside the Arabs against the Ottoman Empire in World War I.

  There was evidence, Jacob insisted. Brook still had the drawing the old man had made on a sheet of paper on the living room coffee table. It showed a line between Zimbabwe and far to the south in Africa, stretching the Eastern Mediterranean, across the Sinai to Petra, to the Persian Gulf to India, over the Bay of Bengal to Cambodia and on to the Philippines, Pape'ete, and Latin America.

  It was quite a tale, but backed up by new evidence, including DNA from once-living tissue. Cale had been in no shape to be skeptical. His entire existence—all the dives, all the hardships, all the money, the time he'd served—had led up to the moment, he believed, when he'd blow up the notion of an ancient world of tiny enclaves of unconnected peoples, going about their unconnected lives completely unaware of their long-lost relatives half-way around the globe.

  "We will do this," Brook heard her father say, taking the stranger's hand and sha
king it like their lives depended on the strength of that grip never releasing.

  "Thank you," Jacob Linsky said, a tear in his eye. He turned quickly, gave Brook's mother a perfunctory hug, then rubbed Brook's head and rushed out of the door to a car—not a cab, Brook noticed, but a long, black car, the kind she'd seen in Washington coming in and out of the embassies on Massachusetts Avenue.

  28

  Alexandria, Egypt

  "Can I ride with you?" Brook asked Ali at the end of the day.

  "Certainly," Ali answered, but not before looking to Grekov and Rabbit for permission. Grekov signaled Rabbit to join them in the first car. Ali and Brook hurried to sit in the back while Katy fiddled with her camera at the car behind.

  "Doesn't Katy need you for the documentary?" Ali asked as the car took off, Katy reluctantly remaining in her seat.

  "I think she filled up her data card," Brook laughed. "And exhausted herself besides. She'll soon be asleep back there, I guarantee you."

  "Poor kid."

  "There's no moon, so no light anyway—we're free of her for now," Brook said, blushing, suddenly hyperaware of how that sounded. Here they were, going back to the hotel together, sore and tired and exhilarated by a hard day's work.

  Rabbit drove on, alert for danger. In the back, neither Ali nor Brook spoke. There was much to say, they both knew, and nothing at all. Brook turned her attention to the window. The sunset was spectacular, but she had never known a sunset to be less than spectacular in her entire experience in the Middle East. Each one was different, too; unique.

  Ali opened his mouth to speak, but stayed silent in deference to Rabbit behind the wheel. "When we get to the hotel?" he whispered.

  Brook nodded.

  Rabbit gave no reaction. With him, you never knew: did he not hear, did he not understand, or was he just playing it cool?