The Lost Tomb of Cleopatra (Brook Burlington Book 1)

by JT Osbourne

  "Maybe a little walk?" Ali suggested when they reached the hotel.

  "Okay," Brook agreed.

  They walked, Rabbit twenty yards behind them. The sun was down, and the slight chill to the evening was heaven. Stars and moon lit up Earth and sky.

  "Did she have any success with getting the scrolls to a lab?" Ali asked, all business.

  "Not yet," Brook answered, "but don't underestimate her."

  "Listen," Ali said, after thinking a minute, and apparently coming to a decision, "I want you to make a copy of Muller's books. You can do that in the hotel office. Or you can scan them and fax them, or e-mail them if you want. I need to keep the originals, but if you want to have your own translation made..."

  The offer took Brook's breath away.

  Ali's eyes glistened, reflecting tiny pinpoints of light from the stars and moon. He could start crying any second, and Brook felt the tears welling up in her own eyes as well, the weight of her emotion pressing against her chest.

  "Are you sure, Ali?" Brook asked, understanding he was admitting defeat, telling her in his way that it was over between them. Right then, she loved him more than ever.

  "I am not sure," he choked a little, with an uncomfortable laugh. "I am not sure at all. But I don't want this stupid German to be a source of awkwardness between us."

  Brook nodded.

  "I still love you, you know," Ali whispered, holding up a hand, imploring her not to answer, before dropping his hand away and dismissing the whole idea.

  I know, Brook left unsaid. Breaking the momentary silence, Brook's phone rang. She answered, happy to cut the moment short. "Hello?"

  "Miss Burlington" came the answer. It was Professor Green.

  Ali turned away, giving Brook space, and gestured as if to say, "I will not listen in, trust me."

  "How are you?" Brook asked brightly into the phone.

  "Personally, I'm getting old, but that's not why I called, is it?"

  Brook laughed.

  "Nothing on your stone artist yet, I'm afraid," Professor Green told her. "But if there's anything out there, I'll find it, believe me, no matter how improbable that is. Now about the précis you e-mailed me—a bit thin, I must say. Would you have any more hints where I might find this fellow?"

  Brook paused, unsure what to say with Ali there.

  "This isn't a good time to speak, is it?" Professor Green asked, lowering his voice slightly, indicating he enjoyed the art of deception as much as anyone.

  "You're right about that."

  "Let me guess," Green went on. "You have somewhere nearby a male friend, perhaps even our old friend Ali, and you're using me to indicate you have some other lover."

  "Uh-huh," Brook answered.

  "Well then, I won't spoil your little comedy of manners!" Green told her brightly. "Speaking of which, just to spice up the plot a little, you got a call from someone named Tom who'd very much like to get in touch."

  "Who?"

  "Tom, no last name given. Says he's in Egypt..."

  "No. That's...If he calls back, you don't know me."

  "Well, it's too late for that."

  "Take a message. Don't tell him where I am. Please don't give him my number." Brook begged.

  "Certainly," Professor Green replied. "We'll talk soon?"

  "Yes. As soon as I can. Thank you."

  "You're welcome," Green told her. "Now I'm going to hang up, but after I do, I suggest you say, 'I miss you' very sincerely, then give me a kiss over the phone."

  "Okay, that's creepy."

  Green laughed, and hung up.

  "I miss you," Brook said after all, and gave the phone a kiss, and hung up, vaguely appalled and bewildered at herself.

  She turned. Ali was too far away to witness the performance, anyway.

  "Your young man?" he asked, once she had trudged over to join him.

  "Young man?"

  "The one you saved in the desert, then left at the hospital." Ali answered. "He's trying to get hold of you?"

  "Yes," Brook told Ali. "I...to thank me or something—who knows? He should get better and go home, that's all. Anyway, that wasn't him, that was..." She panicked briefly. Had she given Ali a name? Would "imaginary boyfriend" do?

  "The new boyfriend?"

  "That's right," Brook confirmed. "The new boyfriend."

  "I couldn't help but hear a little," Ali apologized.

  "It's okay, Ali," she assured him. "There should be no secrets between us," Brook lied, with as much sincerity as she could muster.

  Back at the hotel, she waited in the lobby while Ali retrieved Muller's diary from his room. It wasn't one simple book; there were ten volumes in all. She leafed through one briefly—there were pages torn out in places.

  "Did you do this?" she accused.

  "Of course not," Ali answered. "This is the way I found them. And the way you'll give them back to me, if you please."

  "Okay," Brook answered, not asking the obvious: Where did you find them?

  She took the books right into the tiny "Complimentary Guest Services" room, where she began scanning each page into her laptop computer. The books themselves measured nine and a half inches by seven inches, and were leather-bound, with Muller's name embossed in gold on the covers; nice, presentation-style books a professor or parent might give a student, or gifts from one business associate to another—intimate enough to be personal, but just barely. Brook guessed each volume contained 150 pages. Muller wrote in careful, beautiful, cursive writing. Feminine, Brook noticed.

  It was big and bold, turning smaller as the war raged on. He averaged 100 words a page at the beginning, but there were around 300 words per page toward the end as Muller squeezed two lines of writing into each book's preprinted rule. At first Muller wrote only on one side of the paper, but when he reached the end, he started back the other way, writing on the back. It made the task of scanning all the harder for Brook. She was already going to end up with about 3000 individual files, one for each page—it would do no good not to have them in consecutive order, or have the writing on the back bleed into each photocopy.

  As she toiled away, aching thanks to using the same hand, wrist, and arm muscles she had used all day digging in the dirt, Brook again wondered again how Ali had come across the documents, and what had prompted him to think it would be of interest to Brook and her lifelong fascination with the final resting place of Queen Cleopatra.

  Debating possible translators reminded Brook of a former grad-student, Marta—one of Brook's favorites from six years before—who was bright, eager, and funny. She'd gone back to Germany before receiving her degree, got herself married, and started raising kids. Brook and Marta had communicated off-and-on over the years, dwindling now to a couple times a year.

  At the time she had left school, Brook thought it was a shame; Marta had been such a good student. She just hated academia, the games of an old boys' world, and the competitiveness of archaeology in general. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, Brook recalled that Professor Green had had something to do with that. Perhaps he pushed Marta too hard—she didn't remember, but unlike Brook, who thrived on a crusty old challenge like Stuart Green, Marta had walked away.

  Between scans, Brook sat down at her laptop and composed a quick note to Marta, asking if she'd be interested in a translation job. It might be the perfect solution, Brook felt—someone with a background in archaeology but not currently immersed, someone who would be loyal to Brook alone, and would likely need the money. Brook no longer had Marta’s phone number, but sent the e-mail, hoping it would work.

  When she was done scanning, Brook turned her attention to the missing pages, noting their page numbers and the words immediately preceding and following. Five pages were missing in total, torn out carefully by hand, not by a knife or scissors—all from one volume, and by the size of the writing, the final volume, Brook figured. The pages immediately in front of the missing pages all ended with complete sentences, and the pages after all began with new sentences as
well, so Brook surmised the pages had never been part of the manuscript, instead torn out to use separately.

  Toilet paper?

  Brook held the book up to the light and studied the pages next to the missing ones. If Muller had used these pages as stationery, perhaps he'd written with the page still in the book, leaving an impression on the adjoining page.

  Brook searched the room, finally finding what she needed: a pencil. Remembering a trick she'd seen in some TV show or movie, she began rubbing the pages gently with the pencil's lead. To her amazement, a second script emerged over the first. What it said, she couldn't tell—still German. She had already copied the visible page; it shouldn't be hard to extract the other text, should it? Would she need x-ray tomography for this, too?

  Brook worked both frantically and carefully with her pencil. Muller had indeed written on both back and front of the pages, tearing them out after completing them. She wondered why he'd do that, taking a chance on damaging his work on removal. Or had he decided later to remove these pages as evidence of something?

  "No," Brook spoke out loud. "He wouldn't have ended his sentences so neatly."

  Brook checked again—indeed, the rest of the diary didn't operate that way. Sentences crept easily from page to page with abandon.

  She scanned the rubbed pages into her laptop, adjusting the brightness and contrast, bracketing a range of exposures, in the hope Marta would be able to make something of them. Brook then labeled the copies so they'd sit next to their counterparts in a file-list on the computer.

  Sometime around dawn, she received an e-mail from Marta stating she'd be delighted to complete the translation. Brook answered back and sent the files, along with instructions to start with the last book first, and start with the "rubbed" pages.

  "You got it," Marta replied.

  ***

  "You should put these away in a safe place,” Brook told Ali when she handed back Muller's notebooks the next morning, exhausted. She had been up most of the night copying.

  "I know. I will," Ali replied.

  "The hotel safe for now?" Brook suggested.

  Ali thought about that. He nodded.

  "That will have to do, I guess," he said. "Yes, I'll do that."

  He headed off to the front desk, and was then escorted to a back office. Brook had the strange sense it was all an act for her benefit, a charade. She hoped he wouldn't notice the pencil-rubbings she'd made, or that she hadn't sent the scanned files to him as well as Marta.

  Brook shook the cobwebs out of her head. Did the paranoia come with the lack of sleep?

  As if in response, Grekov and Rabbit stepped off the elevator. Brook considered needling them about not keeping track of her, but decided against it. For one thing, she didn't want to goad them into sticking any closer or checking her bed in the middle of the night; and for another, she had the feeling that even if they weren't next to her every minute, they were always nearby.

  "Good morning," was all she said, heading for the hotel cafe for breakfast.

  "Good morning," they answered in unison.

  Like a couple of regular human beings, Brook smirked.

  29

  Suez, Egypt

  Tom Manor knew one thing for certain: Money gets you everywhere. He could tell by the tone of Professor Green's voice that he would never find Brook through him. The man sounded like her father, standing on the front porch, shotgun at the ready; the "so ya wants to marry my precious daughter, do ya?" type.

  No, Tom would try another way. He wasn't obsessed, quite, and not in love with Brook—yet—but he was anxious to get out of the hospital, find her, and become part of her world. A certain desperation had set in, and Tom feared if he missed this chance his life would steer off in a wrong direction, to a destination unpleasant, from which Tom would never recover. He dialed the phone.

  "Burlington Foundation," a receptionist answered pleasantly.

  "Hello," Tom began, "I'd like to speak with Carl Burlington, if I may?"

  "I'm not sure if he's available. May I ask who's calling?"

  "This is Tom Manor," Tom said, his voice affecting a sense of intimacy, "and Carl doesn't know me from Adam, to be perfectly frank. I'm on the board of the Manor Foundation, which has an association with your foundation going way back, I believe. Besides, he and I went to school together. Sure, a couple years apart and with different majors, but that still ought to account for something, one would hope, wouldn't one?"

  "Hold, please," the receptionist responded.

  Tom waited, a smile on his face. The conspiracy theorists were right—rich people all over the world belonged to a closed cabal designed to keep themselves rich and everyone else poor, begging for every crumb they can get, and happy to receive it.

  Once in the club, there were hundreds of ways to tap into the various branches, for all manner of purposes; to access money, wield power, find a beautiful archaeologist—

  If Carl didn't come on the line—though Tom was certain he would—there were other avenues: mutual friends from Harvard, Yale, Wall Street, and the diplomatic corps.

  "Hello, Tom?" Carl came on the line like they were long-lost friends. "Tom Manor?"

  You ol' sonofabitch, Tom thought to himself, grinning.

  30

  Alexandria, Egypt

  Marta called in the middle of breakfast. Her voice was muffled—it sounded like she was on a train.

  "Yes, yes, it's me. Marta."

  "What time is it there?" Brook asked.

  "Same time as you, silly—Cairo time is the same."

  "Oh, right," Brook agreed. She really needed to get some sleep. Before she had picked up, Brook had figured Marta was begging off the translation job. There'd be no other reason to call so soon. To her surprise, and for once in her life, Brook was wrong.

  "The writing's no problem," she had said. "The guy's got incredible handwriting. Perfect, in fact. Weirdly perfect. His mom, dad, or a teacher must have done a real number on him."

  "How about the missing pages?" Brook asked.

  "I managed to find something in there, too," Marta answered. "They're letters all right, and the name and address is clearly written on the top of each one."

  "That's terrific," Brook enthused, looking up from her breakfast as Katy came into the cafe, took a seat, and diligently began filming Brook on the phone. "So could you make out the content?"

  "Not a chance," Marta told Brook, "but I had the name, address and phone number, so I'm on the train to get the originals."

  "What?"

  "They're love letters."

  "And the woman's still alive?"

  "No..." Marta said, "No."

  "It's not a woman, is it?" Brook blurted out, thinking of Muller's handwriting.

  Marta laughed. "Yes, it's a woman. She died a few years ago, but her daughter still has the letters, and knew exactly what I was talking about. I'm on my way to see her and make copies. She only lives an hour from me."

  Brook sat stunned, an expression she was sure Katy captured beautifully, zooming in slightly to emphasize a look of real drama.

  "Brook? Are you there?" Marta asked.

  "Yes, yes. I'm here," Brook answered. "I...wow."

  Marta laughed again. "Amazing, isn't it?" she enthused. "When you're dealing with living human beings instead of dead ones wrapped in stiff linen?"

  Brook didn't recognize the laugh—Marta had never been so relaxed as a student. Maybe she made the right decision after all.

  "I thought I'd make copies," Marta explained. "The daughter has a scanner right there, apparently. Is that good enough? She sounds proud that they might be important, but she wants to keep the actual letters, I think."

  "A copy is fine. It's the content I'm interested in."

  "Good, good."

  "Thank you so much," Brook answered. "This is so helpful."

  "You're paying me by the hour." Marta reminded her teasingly.

  "Worth every penny."

  "Yes, penny is right!" Marta laughed
again. "Keep an eye on your e-mail."

  "Okay, bye." Brook hung up.

  "That sounded good?" Katy remarked, hoping for a full explanation on camera.

  Perhaps it was the breakfast, Marta's call—she sounded so happy!—or Katy's camera in her face, but Brook was overcome by the existential doubt that sat so heavy on her brain that sudden nausea overwhelmed her. She needed to find the ladies’ room.

  Brook rushed into the nearest one, and the bathroom attendant greeted her warmly. In response, Brook charged into a stall.

  The attendant shifted uncomfortably.

  Katy came in to join the attendant. There was nothing either of them could do for a minute except listen, and wait to offer help when the time came.

  "She's pregnant?" the attendant asked in a whisper, using the giant "big-belly" gesture that was universal across all languages and cultures.

  Katy shrugged. She didn't know.

  31

  Alexandria, Egypt

  It wasn't an underwater operation, so technically there was no reason for Cale Burlington not to be involved. The project leaned more to the academic, Jacob Linsky insisted. With Cale's help he planned to show once and for all the connections between the so-called "separate" civilizations of the ancient world.

  The backers also insisted Cale be involved. They needed his expertise; as well as his sales skills, in order to convince a number of government agencies in Europe, the US, the Middle East, Asia, and South America to back the plan. International cooperation was key, as was the support of museums, universities, and certain private foundations.

  "This could be the largest, most important dig of this century," Brook had overheard her father tell her mother late one night.

  Brook's mother, familiar with Cale's exaggeration and always skeptical, kept her thoughts to herself. She supported her husband to the end, without a hint of what must have been a profound disappointment in almost every case. Without hesitation, he'd be off halfway around the world, leaving his wife with the young children—that was just Cale.