by JT Osbourne
"And find me a station thirty-five miles ahead," Grekov added. "Easy on, easy off. We'll have to do it like a pit-crew—fast and smooth."
"Uh-huh," Rabbit muttered. Grekov's overdramatizing was beginning to annoy him.
***
I know why, Brook suddenly realized as she drove on. I know why I'm mad at him. It was the call from Professor Green. He and Tom had come to the same conclusion about Neferu's illustrations—that they were star-maps, a way of guiding a traveler at night.
But you can't discuss it, can you? Can't talk about one to the other.
Brook couldn't mention Professor Green to Tom. He'd be upset someone else had made the same discovery; he was a man. Males were competitive, she probably shouldn't have even mentioned Tom to Professor Green. She'd heard the tone in his voice when he learned someone else was involved; another man.
Brook dismissed the thought. Green's way past the age he'd think I'd be interested, isn't he? He doesn't even like me!
She heard the naïveté in her own thought. It didn't matter to a man, and it wouldn't matter to Green. Or Tom. Tom and Green—not to mention Ali—would be happy smashing horns against each other like a bunch of mountain rams if given half the chance. Brook supposed it was flattering. She knew she was attractive; a little anyway.
"What are you thinking?" Tom asked quietly, turning the radio back on to cover if needed.
Brook snorted and laughed. "About myself, that's all. Pure narcissism."
"You?" Tom smiled.
"Yes, me."
Puzzled, Tom searched for another station. Brook took another look in the mirror. That car was still there; an SUV, black, like a million others in Egypt driving the main roads that night, no doubt, but for some reason, Brook didn't much care for it.
"How's this?" Tom asked, picking an oldies station, American pop music.
"Okay." Brook agreed. A romantic love song played—Gershwin or Cole Porter or Irving Berlin—the kind of thing a would-be lothario would rush to put on the turntable in an old movie. "A little before my time," Brook added.
"Grandparents' music," Tom agreed. "I love it."
Brook listened. She had to agree. If she'd been alone, she would have sung along. She knew the lyrics, if not the composer. She checked the mirror again. "What are the chances of one car driving at exactly the same speed as another for almost an hour on a road like this?" she asked.
Tom turned quickly to look behind them. "You think we're being followed?" he asked.
"I don't know. But they were back there before we stopped for gas, and they're back there again."
"Maybe they stopped, too," Tom suggested.
"We would have seen them," Brook replied.
"There were other stations, other exits..."
"I'm going to speed up a little. Let's see if they do, too." Sure enough, the car behind sped up, and when Brook slowed the car behind slowed, too. After a few miles, the dark car following suddenly stepped on the gas.
"They're coming fast. Get ready," Brook warned. They came so fast she was sure they were going to run her off the road. At the last second, the dark SUV swerved into the left lane and took off at great speed into the darkness ahead.
"I couldn't see who it was," Tom said, shaking his head.
"Me neither," Brook admitted. They drove another mile or so in silence.
"Why would they suddenly speed up like that if they were following us?" Brook wondered.
As if in reply, an exit sign appeared ahead—the international gas-pump symbol prominent. Brook slowed the car.
"What are you doing? We just got gas," Tom commented, leaning over to check the gauge.
"But maybe they didn't..." she speculated, driving past the exit ramp and pulling off the road under the overpass. "Let's just see what happens." She turned off her lights, but not the engine, leaving the radio on, too. A few cars sped by on the highway, and a few drove down the ramp to get back on it. Brook checked her watch, wondering exactly how long they should wait.
"Ten minutes," Brook decided, whispering. "To make sure."
"It doesn't take ten minutes to fill up a tank, even on something that big," Tom hissed back, taking out his phone as if to look it up somehow.
"Ten minutes maximum," Brook replied. "We have to make sure they're ahead of us."
"Then we should wait fifteen."
Suddenly the black vehicle was careening down the ramp, foot to the floor, its engine racing. The thing jumped onto the highway and took off.
"Okay, we'll wait another five minutes and go slow." Brook decided. She turned up the radio even louder.
"There's a shortcut," Tom told Brook, holding his phone up for her to see. "We go down here three miles and fork off—excuse the expression."
Brook laughed. "Okay.”
"That’s if they don't do the same thing," Tom warned.
"They won't. They'll be looking on the main road, and we won't be there."
"Unless they know where we're going," Tom remarked.
He and Brook exchanged a look. They both knew that would be a possibility. If it was Grekov and Rabbit following, it could either be their habit to nose in, or they might have been tipped off, and the likely culprit would be Ali.
"They don't know where we're going," Brook insisted, hearing the tone in her voice—not convincing at all.
Tom said nothing.
53
Cairo, Egypt
Grekov and Rabbit sat in the front seat of the black SUV and waited impatiently around the back entrance of the National Museum in Cairo. Grekov drank a cold coffee — he hated them, but it was the only thing with caffeine he would consider in the convenience store they stopped at on the outskirts of the city. Rabbit was drinking an energy drink, which Grekov complained would probably kill him.
"You'd like that," Rabbit remarked.
"Could be a blessing," Grekov shrugged. To say Rabbit was getting on his nerves would be an understatement. Several times during the night, Grekov had been seconds from pulling over, putting a bullet in Rabbit's head and dumping his body in the desert. Rabbit was an inveterate know-it-all, a chronic backseat driver, and the fact that Grekov had lost the archaeologist and her companion on the one road in the middle of nowhere had made it all the worse.
Barely on speaking terms, they waited.
"She's not coming," Rabbit suggested. "She took the jar and headed for the hills. She planned her escape and is probably halfway to the airport right now."
"Shut up," Grekov stated bluntly. "You watch too many movies." Rabbit reached over to the radio. Grekov slapped his hand away. "We're on a mission here," he reminded the younger man.
"Mission," Rabbit smirked.
"There they are. See?" Grekov pointed down the street.
The white rental car drove slowly, as if looking for something. The two Russians watched the car park next to the back door of the National Museum. They ducked as Brook stepped out and rang the bell situated under the single bare bulb glowing bright and yellow over the door.
An attendant in a white lab coat came out along with another man, presumably a curator; in a tweed jacket, tie, and displaying body language that indicated he was up way past his bedtime.
Tom popped open the trunk, but before bending in to pick up the crate, he gave an elaborate salute to the Russians he'd just spotted down the street.
"Okay, you bastard," Grekov answered, raising his hand out the window and waving back.
Tom grinned and helped carry the crate inside, which the four of them treated like a precious child. A moment later, Tom came back out and skipped across the street. Rabbit wrapped his fingers around the pistol in his pocket. Grekov did the same with his gun.
"Hey, guys, how's it going?" Tom called, showing his hands as he approached the vehicle. "Beautiful night, isn't it?"
"Yes, beautiful," Grekov replied as Tom slapped his hands on the roof of the car and leaned into the window a little. "Keep your hands in view, please," Grekov requested.
"How about
you do the same?" Tom suggested.
"Fair enough," Grekov replied, slowly pulling his hands from his pocket. Rabbit followed suit. Tom lowered his hands at a ninety-degree angle to the car, like he was giving it a blessing.
"What are you two trying to pull?" Rabbit asked from the passenger's seat.
Amused, Tom looked at Grekov with an expression that said, "You let him ask the questions?"
"Answer, please," Grekov joined in, smiling.
"I think you know," Tom said, "but since you ask, we're returning an object to its rightful owner."
"How nice," Grekov smiled.
"And then we're going to drive back the way we came, and you're welcome to follow, just to be sure we make it okay."
"Our pleasure," Gregov answered amiably.
"I think we're going to stop a few places, though," Tom added. "It might be a little boring for you."
"Why you stop?"
"Take pictures of the night. A little hobby of mine," Tom told them, walking away just as Brook stepped out from the back door of the museum.
Tom waved to her and skipped back to the rental car, amused by the stunned look on Brook's face. "So they're here after all," she commented.
"Yup. And by the heat of their engine, they’ve been sitting there quite a while."
Tom and Brook got into the car and drove away. Grekov and Rabbit followed.
"Just think of them as bodyguards," Tom suggested on the drive back to Alexandria, after Brook had checked her rear-view mirror for the fiftieth time.
"Uh-huh," Brook replied. "What are you doing?" she asked, pointing to the computer in Tom's lap, which he seemed to be coordinating with his phone.
Tom turned the radio louder. "Tell you in a minute," he said. "Next dark area, if you could stop, I'd like to check some things."
Brook soon found a spot away from city lights. Grekov and Rabbit pulled up a quarter-mile back. Tom got out of the car, marched a little ways into the desert, placed his laptop on a rock, and looked for the same sky on one of Neferu's drawings.
"I'm trying to get a handle on this stars thing," he told her.
"Should we be doing this in front of them?" Brook asked, indicating the Russians behind them.
"Not in a million years will they figure out what I'm doing," Tom assured her. "I don't even know what I'm doing, and I'm the one who's doing it." He paused. "That sounded funny, didn't it? Like something Yoga Berra said." Tom sighed, knowing he was babbling a little. He looked at Brook, who watched from a little ways off. "You make me nervous, you know," he said.
Brook blushed. "I'm sorry," she said.
"See, the thing is, I have to line up the stars with the drawings, and somehow from that figure out where Neferu was when he made them. Another navigator might understand it—one around at the time of Christ maybe, but to me it's Calculus, Trigonometry and Astronomy—none of which I ever took."
"There's something I should tell you," Brook began.
Tom stopped what he was doing and turned to her. "That sounds serious.”
"Professor Green figured out the same thing as you. He brought in the Astronomy Department," Brook confessed.
"That's good!" Tom exclaimed. "'’cause it depends on the time of day and the day of the year, what season it is. It may even be different now than it was two thousand years ago. I really don't know. I don't have a handle on all the factors, I'm just guessing. A real astronomer would know how to do this. Does Green have locations for where Neferu is leading us?"
"Not yet," Brook told him, "but he's working on it. I mean, they're working on it. Green won't be happy till the whole university's involved."
Tom folded up his laptop. "Well, there's no point in me working on it, then," he said. "This is fabulous news."
Brook felt a little disappointed. She'd been fascinated by Tom's motivation and energy, his eagerness to learn and explore. He'd turned too quickly into just another consumer, rather than an inventor. He'd given up too easily.
They got back in the car and drove back onto the road. Grekov and Rabbit followed again.
"What was that all about?" Rabbit asked.
"They're messing with us, that's all," Grekov replied unconvincingly.
Rabbit didn't say anything. Grekov had a way of making everything about him, as if everything on the planet only existed to either please or annoy him. He fingered the pistol in his pocket. If Grekov wasn't his boss...if Grekov didn't pay all the bills, and Rabbit's salary to boot...if Grekov hadn't pulled Rabbit up by his ears out of the hell-hole that was his existence when he was only fifteen years old—
"You tell me," Rabbit hissed, "and I'll kill them both."
Grekov took his eyes off the road just long enough to check Rabbit's face, to see why he was suddenly stating the obvious. "Of course," he said, worried.
Rabbit made no reply.
***
"Why didn't you say something about Professor Green?" Tom asked finally, in the front seat of the car up ahead.
Brook blanched. "What about Professor Green?" she stalled, as if she didn't understand.
"Professor Green and the Astronomy Department—why didn't you tell me?"
"I did tell you," she protested.
"Eventually, but not at first."
"I just found out," Brook insisted. "At the stupid gas station. He called me, and I told you as soon as the subject came up again."
"Okay," Tom surrendered, dropping it.
It's not because I don't trust you, Brook wanted to say, it's because I don't trust you not to be a man—competitive, combative, insecure, and troubled. She couldn't say that aloud.
Brook turned off the radio. She didn't care who was listening in on this. "I love archeology," she said. "I've always loved it. It's dealing with people I can't handle, okay? As far as I'm concerned, my clients are dead people. They want me to find their bodies and discover the circumstances of their lives years ago. That's all; everything else is a waste of time."
Tom stared. He said nothing, even when Brook looked over at him, but she knew by his expression just how deeply he felt the sincerity of her painful words. Back a quarter-mile, in the SUV, Grekov and Rabbit waited to hear more, but the words never came.
54
Alexandria, Egypt
Brook woke up alone in her bed the next morning. Tom woke in his room, two floors down.
“That's a different story,” Brook said to herself as she got ready for the day.
It was true that she and Tom had become close that night, but fatigue weighed them down, and when the moment came, neither felt like making a serious decision, or that first move.
Grekov and Rabbit had peeked at them from down the hotel hall like a couple of matchmakers in an old silent film produced somewhere in Bulgaria. Rabbit had bet on the two getting together, but Grekov had called Rabbit an "idiot romantic," and ended up winning the bet and the equivalent of a hundred bucks when Brook and Tom went their separate ways.
"How are you?" Brook asked Katy as she joined her friend at breakfast.
"Tired," Katy admitted.
Brook laughed.
"That's funny?" Katy asked.
"Not at all. I'm sorry," Brook answered. She felt well-rested, despite being up most of the night driving to Cairo.
"Okay, who is he?" Katy demanded to know.
Brook laughed again. "Just because I'm in good spirits doesn't mean there's a man involved," she protested.
Ali arrived, looking less energetic than even Katy. "So it isn't him..."
Brook shook her head. "You're incorrigible."
"What are you two talking about?" Ali asked.
"Nothing," Brook stated firmly.
"How did it go last night?" Ali asked as casually as he could, hoping in vain that Katy wasn't paying attention.
"All good," Brook answered.
"What's all good?" Katy demanded.
"I'll tell you later," Brook replied.
"No, you won't. You'll tell me now." Katy reached down, pulled up her camera
and started filming. "I'm supposed to be doing a documentary. I need openness. I need transparency. What happened last night?"
To Katy's consternation, Brook and Ali found it terribly amusing.
"I'll have the Basterma b’il bayd," Brook told the waiter, who'd just come over.
"Yes, ma'am."
"And coffee."
"Same here," Ali told the man.
"Yes sir."
Giving up, Katy put her camera away and went back to her breakfast—spiced, mashed fava beans on baladi bread.
"I will tell you later," Brook insisted.
Ali shook his head and finger, vetoing the idea. "She will not.”
"Maybe." Brook added with a laugh.
Their food came—eggs cooked in ghee with dried beef on the side. Katy watched Ali and Brook dig in like lumberjacks. Katy wondered if Ali’s comment was just to put her off the scent. They were certainly eating like a couple of fresh lovers.
Grekov and Rabbit watched from the other side of the room.
***
On the way to the dig, Brook read another batch of Muller's diary, which Marta had translated and sent along. There were no new clues as to their location, only to Muller's state-of-mind at the time. By translating the diary from the end to the beginning, the change in Muller's attitude stood in even sharper relief. He had never been an enthusiastic German soldier, but his slow shift from placid acceptance to virulent distaste for the cause was remarkable, particularly in light of his willingness to write down his growing hatred of the Nazis. On the other hand, his diary showed a growing desire to hide the archaeological aspect to his mission.
It was as if Muller didn't care if they found him out as a traitor, and wouldn't even give a damn if they took him out and shot him against a wall, but it would pain him greatly to have the treasures he felt certain he would find handed over to the Reich.
In that way, Brook felt very close to Muller. Same situation, different decade.
"What are you reading?" Katy asked in the back of the SUV, pointing to Brook's laptop.
Brook closed the lid. "Nothing.” Like Muller’s situation, there was no one she could talk to about it.