The Lost Tomb of Cleopatra (Brook Burlington Book 1)

by JT Osbourne

  "Thank you," Brook said simply.

  ***

  Professor Green waited in his office, phone within reach, eyes on his computer screen, hoping for contact from Brook. He'd gone over the maps and data, and felt the evidence was solid, the sculptor Neferu had certainly drawn a map to somewhere.

  Suddenly, a chime rang from Green's computer. An e-mail from Brook, with an attachment! Green opened it. More scans, dozens of them, maybe a hundred! He picked up the phone.

  51

  New York, NY, 1992

  "I'm so sorry, Cale," Jacob began, once he'd taken a seat next to Raymond Manor on the bench in the park. Cale stayed standing, and his hand relaxed around the pistol in his coat pocket. As angry as he was, he wouldn't execute Raymond Manor and Jacob Linsky in a corner of Central Park. "I didn't want you to get hurt, but there was nothing I could do," Jacob went on.

  "What did you do, Jacob?" Cale asked. " Tell me exactly."

  Jacob took a moment to gather his thoughts, and told the entire tale while Raymond Manor listened silently. The whole thing had been a scam from the beginning, Jacob explained, devised by Strelov, who planned to uncover and steal priceless artifacts from five different continents without lifting a hand or risking a ruble of his own money. He'd managed to get Raymond Manor involved, then Jacob, and unknowingly, Cale.

  "The evidence?" Cale asked. "Was that a scam, too?"

  "What evidence?" Jacob asked, puzzled.

  "The communication of ancient civilizations across the globe?" Cale asked, feeling foolish even as he said it.

  Jacob snickered. "Completely fake," he said.

  Cale fingered the pistol in his pocket again—maybe he could do it. "You knew about this scam?" he challenged Manor.

  "No, I didn't," Manor answered.

  "Yes, he did!" Jacob contradicted.

  "No!" Manor protested.

  "Not at first, maybe," Jacob explained. "But he figured it out soon enough. He won't say anything because he thinks you're wearing a wire."

  Cale stiffened. He wasn't wearing a wire, but he realized he should be. It was a good idea. He shook his head. "I'm not recording this. Are you?" he asked Manor, who shook his head too.

  "Mr. Manor here intended to load up the trucks and steal away with all of it in the middle of the night— leave everyone else empty handed," Jacob explained. "But Strelov was one step ahead of him. He ambushed the trucks at all five digs and made off with the artifacts, never to be seen again."

  "Strelov or the artifacts?" Cale asked.

  "Both," Jacob answered.

  Cale stared at his friend, who looked down at the ground, then off into space, avoiding Cale's gaze. "Why, Jacob?" Cale asked plaintively.

  "You know my family, Cale?" Jacob answered, daring to look his old friend in the eye.

  "No, I don't know—"

  "That's because I kept them a secret. They were back in Russia. 'Oppressed'—that's the word. Watched every minute. Picked up, jailed, and tortured at the whim of every petty bureaucrat or oligarch. It's not the old Soviet Union days—the gulags were actually cleaner then—but for my family, it was just as bad. Strelov gave me a way out. He showed me how they could pack up, move to Israel and be free for the first time in their lives. And not just my wife, son, and daughter, but my elderly mother, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins—a whole village set free from slavery. The evidence was fabricated for your benefit, and for Mr. Manor here. Strelov knew this moron would try to double-cross him, which he did, and he was right there around the first hidden turn in the road."

  Raymond Manor shifted uncomfortably—he wasn't used to being called a moron at all, let alone by an aging immigrant without any kind of financial portfolio.

  "You had a good run," Jacob told Cale. "So did I, but now it's time for the children. They aren't your children, but you did this for them, and it was a good thing. You should be proud. Thank you."

  Cale thought about that. He believed Jacob, and he'd traveled the world enough to recognize a Buddhist moment when he came across one—when the right thing to do was to appreciate and enjoy the great wheel of karma kicking a deserving soul in the ass, not trying to change what couldn't be changed. Jacob was right: he had saved his family, and Cale had helped. That's what Cale would hang on to. That would have to be enough.

  In later months, looking back, Cale realized the project had been just too good to be true, of course. But once invested, no one wanted to see the plugs pulled. Academic greed could be just as strong as the monetary kind. Discoveries were being made; careers advanced, papers published, awards proffered. No one wanted to mention that the Emperor wore no clothes, or that the basis for all the activity was false, a result of many forgeries, Piltdown Man reborn.

  Cale could see where he'd been wrong. Jacob Linsky had convinced him the project was a go with or without Cale's help. He hadn't come to Cale as a beggar—no, Cale simply didn't want to be left behind. He'd trusted Jacob. Even after it all went sour, Cale still trusted that Jacob had done the best thing he could for his family. They had escaped what was left of the dying Soviet Union. They got out. They'd live in Israel, if not comfortably, at least safe, with something to live for besides pain and bitterness.

  For that, he could forgive Jacob. He might have done the same thing in the same position.

  52

  Alexandria, Egypt

  Carrying the crate with both hands, Brook walked as quickly as she dared through the dimly lit parking lot to the rental car buried in the back corner. Her steps echoed against the concrete...or was somebody following her? She stopped suddenly. The footsteps continued!

  Brook whirled.

  Tom followed, arms aloft, his laptop in one hand, briefcase in the other. "Didn't mean to scare you!" he called out.

  Brook did look terrified. Her face glowed white in the darkness.

  "It's me—Tom.” He tried again, approaching slowly, arms wide, like a cowboy trying to corral a stray calf.

  "What are you doing?!" Brook yelped, fear turning to anger. "You scared me to death!"

  "I'm sorry," Tom replied sincerely, stopping a safe distance from where Brook still shivered.

  "What do you want?" she demanded, loosening the fingers clutching the crate.

  "Ali wants me to go with you to Cairo," Tom whispered.

  "I'm going alone," Brook stated firmly, turning and heading for her car.

  "Ali insisted," Tom replied.

  "No."

  "It's either me or Grekov and Rabbit, apparently," Tom said.

  Brook stopped. "He wouldn't," she said, without conviction.

  "He might."

  "I'll take that chance," Brook said, walking on past her rental car, suddenly deciding she didn't want Tom to know which it was.

  "I need to talk to you anyway," Tom said, in pursuit. "It's about the scrolls the Israelis are scanning. I have the answer."

  Brook turned back. “You’ve got my attention.”

  "Can I go to Cairo with you?"

  "After you tell me."

  "Fair enough," Tom said. "Which car is yours?"

  Brook carried the crate to the back of the rental car and popped the trunk. She put it down.

  "Let me," Tom said. He produced a Swiss Army knife and folded out a screwdriver attachment.

  "Let's just see what's really in this puppy, shall we?" he said, and made quick work of the screws holding the crate together. "Maybe you'd better stand back."

  Brook froze, wondering what kind of trick this was.

  "If it is a bomb..." Tom suggested.

  Brook walked around the front of the car where she could watch him work and still see the crate, but might be somewhat protected from flying shrapnel. Tom carefully opened the crate.

  "Looks good," he said, signaling Brook to come around and look.

  "That's it," Brook agreed when Tom had pulled the padding aside to get a better view. "The same pot."

  "You sure? No switcheroo?" Tom asked.

  "No. Close it back up."


  Tom put the crate back together.

  "Switcheroo?" Brook chuckled once it was sealed.

  "Hey, I'm new to this cloak and dagger stuff," Tom said.

  "Uh-huh."

  "See how suspicious you are?" Tom protested. "It's affected you—all this."

  "Well, you're right about that."

  "Of course I am."

  "The scrolls. What did you find out about the scrolls?" Brook asked.

  Tom—despite his claim of innocence—looked around to see if anyone was listening. He noted the closed-circuit surveillance cameras in every corner of the parking lot's ceiling.

  "Come on, I'll show you," Tom whispered, picking up his laptop and briefcase, going for the passenger's side of the vehicle. "On the way to Cairo," he added.

  "Okay," Brook agreed, getting behind the wheel, "but it better be good."

  "Oh, it's good," Tom assured her.

  Grekov insisted on driving himself. He hated the way Rabbit drove, always waiting until the last second to hit the brakes, tailgating, driving too fast, and sitting at lights long after they'd turned green.

  Rabbit fumed in the passenger's seat, but Grekov ignored him. They tailed the rental car to the main road from Alexandria to Cairo. It wasn't difficult; the rental was snow white and their dark SUV was nearly invisible, shielded by just enough traffic.

  "Are they going to talk?" Grekov complained, checking the receiver volume again. "They drive but don't talk?"

  "They're in love," Rabbit joked.

  "So tell me," Brook's voice boomed from inside the car a quarter-mile ahead.

  Grekov turned the sound down. Rabbit laughed.

  "Just a second," Grekov and Rabbit heard Tom say.

  A radio came on loudly, playing Arabic pop-music, a grating woman's voice, high and sharp.

  "Damn...," Grekov cursed quietly.

  Rabbit snickered again; he enjoyed seeing Grekov stymied.

  Tom and Brook spoke, but the music obscured their words. A recording was being made, but Grekov knew he'd never be able to make out the conversation. As advanced as the technology was, he couldn't think of a way to separate two complex pieces of sound on the same recording.

  "These are star-maps," Tom explained to Brook in the car.

  "What?" Brook asked, reaching for the radio.

  "Leave it on," Tom told her, covering her hand. Brook withdrew it quickly. Tom moved closer and spoke a little louder, just inches from her ear, his breath hot and moist. "Neferu's scrolls are star-maps. All the little dots—they're stars."

  Brook shook her head. "I don't get it," she admitted.

  "The desert at night is a sea," Tom explained. "You wouldn't travel in the day anyway—it's too hot—you'd travel at night. In the day, you only have one star to guide you—the sun, east to west, not very precise. At night you have thousands of stars, millions even, and planets, and if you know how to read them, it's as good as GPS."

  Brook still didn't get it.

  "Sailors have used the stars to navigate for thousands of years," Tom went on. "At night, where each star pops up out of the horizon and then sets—that's an exact direction you can aim your ship for."

  "Where'd you come up with this?" Brook wanted to know.

  "My uncle. He took me sailing on Long Island when I was growing up. We sailed in a bunch of Flying Dutchman races. He picked me 'cause I listened to his stories and I didn't weigh much, either."

  Brook drove, making no reply as she tried to figure out how the stars were going to help her.

  "My uncle, see," Tom went on, "had sailed around the world, the South Seas, Far East, Australia, Africa, India, South America. His hobby was learning to navigate like the natives—the Polynesians, the Maori, the early Hawaiians, who all used their extensive knowledge of the stars—"

  "So you think you can find where Neferu was going with these star-maps of his?" Brook exclaimed, catching on. She avoided mentioning Cleopatra or Antony.

  "Definitely. With help from my uncle."

  Brook exhaled deeply. She whooped, victory!

  Tom laughed.

  In the SUV following, Grekov and Rabbit definitely heard the whoop and laughter over the music, but nothing else.

  "There are millions of stars, aren't there?" Brook mused as she drove.

  "Billions," Tom agreed.

  It's the one thing that always struck Brook each time she traveled to a dig: once outside city lights, the number of stars lighting up the sky multiplied a thousand-fold. Whole clusters, galaxies and constellations cluttered the blackness with brilliance, especially when there was no moon. The sky is a neighborhood. It made sense to her, this navigational method Tom was talking about. She made a mental note to investigate it for her own purposes.

  "So you're saying you can tell me where Neferu is taking us?" Brook repeated with sudden excitement.

  "Right to Antony and Cleopatra!" Tom announced.

  Brook gave him a look—so he knew...

  "You're famous, Brook," Tom explained. "There are chapters in books about you, articles about you, some of which you wrote yourself. Everybody knows what you're looking for."

  Brook nodded. At one time, she'd felt that reputation was an asset; anyone with information on the last Pharaoh queen would know who to take it to. But now, that notoriety felt like a target drawn on her back.

  "We may not get the exact spot," Tom had to admit. "But close, I think. I've got my uncle working on it. He's a pretty bright cookie. And I'm gonna get the hang of it myself, I swear."

  Brook nodded, but she figured Tom was exaggerating. Her initial excitement died down. They'd need to get very close, or very lucky. The vast Sahara didn't give up her secrets easily.

  A light popped on in the dashboard. "We need to stop for gas," Brook noted. She pointed to an approaching exit. "And I need to stop hearing this awful music!"

  Brook punched the radio, and the pop stopped flowing.

  "You don't really think the car is bugged, do you?" Grekov and Rabbit heard Brook say.

  "Damn!" Grekov cursed. Rabbit laughed.

  "You can't be too careful at this point," they heard Tom reply up ahead.

  The rental car pulled off at the exit, and the two Russians followed, careful to stop out of sight on the other side of the station.

  Brook's phone rang. Unfortunately for Grekov and Rabbit, Brook took the call away from the car while Tom filled it with gas.

  "This is Professor Green," Brook heard.

  "Yes, hi, I got your message," she answered as she headed around the side of the gas station, stretching her legs. "I'm sorry I didn't call back."

  Grekov and Rabbit ducked behind the dashboard as Brook headed their way. They'd parked in darkness, their windows were tinted, and it was the middle of the night, but still—

  "I think I have something on the scrolls," Green told Brook as she walked past the SUV without looking at its occupants. "They're stars. It's a star-map."

  "Wow," Brook said.

  "That's what I said," Professor Green agreed.

  "I mean 'wow' because we just figured that out, too, just a couple hours ago."

  "Oh..." Green said, the disappointment clear in his voice.

  "I was just told."

  "Oh." Green said again. Only then did she catch his tone.

  "You confirmed it. Definitely confirmation," Brook told him. It’s the least you can do.

  "Yes, the Astronomy Department..." Green trailed off.

  "Tom thinks it's some kind of stellar positioning map, giving directions," Brook said.

  "Who's Tom?" Green wanted to know.

  "Tom. He's a civilian. He..."

  "The young man who called!" Green realized. "He found you, after all."

  "Yes, he did."

  "And that turned out okay?" Green asked.

  "Not sure yet," Brook answered. "What about the Astronomy Department?"

  "They can tell me where each map was drawn, longitude and latitude."

  "That's wonderful! I can coordinate it with T
om's findings," Brook told the professor.

  "Yes, of course."

  "We're getting close," Brook told Green. "I can feel it."

  "Be careful."

  "Excuse me?" Brook asked. Her phone was breaking up. She needed to recharge it.

  "I said, be careful!" Green almost shouted into the phone.

  "Good bye to you too," Brook replied, and hung up.

  Tom had already filled the car and cleaned the windows. "You want me to drive?" he asked.

  "No," Brook replied, and got back into the car. Tom climbed into the passenger's seat. "You get a receipt?" she asked.

  "Uh-huh," Tom said, pocketing the slip, "but this one's on me."

  "No, it's not," Brook told him. "Cut it out. The university will pay for it out of the grant money." She drove out onto the highway, the black SUV containing the Russian tail fifty yards back, and held out her hand. "Receipt."

  Tom reluctantly handed it to her. "Are you mad at me for some reason?" he asked.

  Brook shook her head. She was mad at him for some reason, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

  "We need gas, too," Rabbit commented down the road, after fifteen minutes of total silence in both vehicles. "Where?" Grekov asked. "Find a place." Rabbit did the calculations—they'd need to stop in about forty miles. As stupid as Rabbit was about some things, he was a whiz at math, Grekov knew—he could trust whatever Rabbit came up with. Grekov calculated himself. They'd still be on the highway then. He could pass the rental car before the next exit. If they were quick about it, they could fill up and be back on the highway right behind Brook and the other American, leaving them out of sight for only a few minutes—maybe five at most.

  "We'll do that then," Grekov said aloud, completely forgetting Rabbit in the seat next to him.

  "Do what?" Rabbit asked.

  "Nothing. You'll see," Grekov answered, annoyed. "How far will that go on a tank of gas?" he asked, pointing to Brook's car ahead.

  "What kind of car is it?" Rabbit asked.

  "Honda, Nissan, Toyota, Hyundai—who knows? Four cylinders. It'll all be the same. Compare it with this thing."

  Rabbit took out his phone and started to work.