He set the tray on a low table and poured tea from a glass pot.
“You like those mugs?” he asked Pan. “I give you good price.”
Pan set the mug down and stepped closer to the security cameras and the masks. “What about these tea towels?” she asked.
“Yes, good price.”
The man’s eyes followed Pan’s every step.
“And these Tutankhamun masks?” she asked.
The man stopped pouring. “No. Those are very expensive.”
Pan’s eyes flicked to me, and back to the mask with the sign.
“You won’t give me a good price?” she asked. “For this one here?”
“That one is not for sale,” the man replied. “Display only.”
He held up a glass of steaming tea. His smile looked forced now. “What are your names?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Two children alone. It is not usual. Where are your parents?”
“I don’t know,” Pan said. She turned, looked the man hard in the eye. “Where are our parents?”
The man’s smile vanished. His hand trembled as he set the glass back down. His voice suddenly changed from the broken English of a shop owner to fluent American English.
“You both must listen to me,” he said, urgently. “I was not sure that you were the Atlas twins. You are in danger. If you—”
We didn’t hear any more, because right then I smashed him on the head with the tea tray. I really did! He collapsed and curled up on the ground, swearing and clutching his head.
I jumped over him and rushed to the Tutankhamun mask. “I think it opens,” I said, sliding my fingers around its edges.
I dug my nails under one side of the mask and the front hinged open.
The mask hid an electronic device that was a bit thicker than a tablet computer, with a curved shield jutting from its screen, like a pair of binoculars sliced in half. A pinprick of red light shone in its centre.
“What is that?” Pan asked.
“Some sort of security device, I think.”
“A fingerprint reader?”
“No, it’s too high up. Maybe a retina scanner.”
“A what?”
“I’ve seen them in the movies. They read your eyeballs like fingerprints.”
“But why would there be one here?”
Part of me wanted to grab Pan and get out of there. But what then? We couldn’t go to the police. What would we tell them? Our parents have vanished so we attacked a shop owner?
“So?” Pan asked, peering into the scanner. “What now?”
The old shop owner was still on the floor, clutching his head.
“We need his eyes,” I said.
I really hoped he was a bad guy, because what happened next wasn’t much fun for him. We dragged him to the back of the shop and lifted him so his face was in front of the scanner.
He was heavier than he looked, and I struggled to hold him up as Pan pushed his head closer to the device. His eyes kept closing, so she reached around and held them open.
“Come on, Pan,” I grunted.
“You want to do this? I keep touching his eyeballs.”
“I hit him with the tray!”
“Are you even sure this thing is a retina scanner? Maybe it’s for—”
“Wait, look.”
The red light on the device had changed to orange. Scans of the shop owner’s eyes appeared on the screen, divided into tiny grids. They grew brighter and the man’s pupils began to glow red … and then, nothing.
The scanner went dark.
“Great,” Pan said. “It didn’t work.”
I laid the shop owner back on the floor.
“OK,” I said, defeated. “Maybe we should find the police, or—”
Suddenly, metal shutters slammed across the front of the shop.
A siren wailed so loudly that we both covered our ears. The scanner sucked back into the wall and then the wall split apart. A horizontal screen the size and height of a kitchen table slid from behind.
Cabinets revolved, their plastic souvenirs replaced by high-tech gadgets, camouflage costumes on rails and mounted weapons. Pan pulled me back as a section of the carpet rose and then slid to the side. Another screen rose from below, forming a glass floor. In seconds the place had changed from a tacky tourist shop into a set from Mission Impossible IV.
Spots of red light appeared on the table-sized glass screen, and brighter lights beamed from each dot. Pin-sharp projections appeared above the screen, hovering photographs of two people I knew well.
Mum and Dad.
10
“Are you scared?” Pan whispered.
“No,” I replied.
“Me neither.”
So why had we moved so close to each other that our sides touched? I felt Pan’s heart pumping as hard as mine as we gazed around the transformed shop.
More holograms projected from the glass table, floating beside the images of Mum and Dad. There were blueprints of buildings, charting every skylight, service pipe and air duct. Above them were the names of museums: the British Museum, the Smithsonian, the Met. There were 3-D plans of Egyptian tombs, with floating labels noting the width of the walls and type of rock.
“What is this place?” Pan said. “What’s it got to do with Mum and Dad?”
The shop owner lay on the floor, still groaning from the blow to his head. Stepping over him, I examined the contents of one of the cabinets. I recognized some of the kit from action movies. There were flare guns, sniper scopes, GPS tracking devices…
“Uh, Jake?” Pan said, pointing.
The holograms had changed again, the projections of Mum and Dad now replaced by photos. One showed our family at Cairo Airport. Another caught us standing outside The Grand Old Lady of Cairo. Who had been there, spying on us?
“This is too creepy,” Pan muttered.
Another photo appeared. It showed Mum crying on Dad’s shoulder as we stood over the stolen tablet. As I looked at the picture, guilt chewed at my insides. That was the last time we’d seen our parents. Was it the last time we would ever see them?
A mix of shame and anger and that urge to make trouble came over me then. I kicked one of the cabinets. It shuddered, then rocked. Pan joined in, ramming her shoulder against the case as I booted it again and again, until the whole thing crashed onto its side. Glass shattered and gadgets tumbled across the floor.
I went for a high five, but Pan left me hanging again.
“Jake, look.”
Lights beamed from the screen in the floor, forming another hologram – a six-foot statue of an Egyptian god. The slim figure was wrapped like a mummy and wore a white crown shaped like a traffic cone. The image was impossibly real. We could see every crack in the stone, every flake in its ancient paint. The figure’s arms were crossed over his chest and he held what looked like a candy cane and a tiny fishing rod, clutching them close as if he was scared they might get pinched.
Pan touched the hologram. It crackled and re-formed just as clearly.
“Jake, what is going on here?”
I didn’t have a clue, but I didn’t get a chance to answer.
“Oh, I’d say breaking and entering, criminal damage and general childish immaturity.”
The voice rang out around the shop. We’d been so fixated on the holograms that we’d not heard one of the cabinets slide to the side. A tall figure watched us from a doorway.
“So, nothing unusual for the Atlas children,” he added.
He stepped into the shop. He had slicked-back silver hair and a gleaming red mark on his cheek.
“The scarred man!” I gasped.
11
“Don’t be frightened,” the scarred man said.
Well that didn’t help. He raised his hands to show us he didn’t have a weapon, which of course made me think he did.
I glanced around the shop, looking for anything I could use to fight, but the man came closer, blocking my path. He was weather-be
aten, tanned, but suave too. His stubble was neatly trimmed along his square jaw. Gold initials on his leather jacket read DKT. As he came closer, I smelled aftershave, like Christmas spices.
Pan’s hands bunched into fists.
The man noticed and a slight smile creased his cheeks. He patted his pockets. “Are we going to have a fight?” he asked. “If so, I have a card somewhere that I’m supposed to show you. It warns you that I am a black belt in ju-jitsu. It’s a silly legal thing so you can’t sue me in the event of irreparable organ damage.”
If Pan heard she didn’t care, but I reached and held her back. Whoever the guy was, he knew what was going on. We needed answers. Then we’d fight.
“Jake,” the scarred man said. “Good to see you again.”
“You know this person?” Pan snapped.
“No,” I said. “Yes. Sort of.”
How could I explain? It still sounded crazy to me even now that I was face to face with the man. “Who are you?” I demanded.
“My name is Kit Thorn,” he replied. “Doctor Kit Thorn.”
“That doesn’t answer our question,” Pan said. She marched closer and prodded the guy in the chest. “Who are you?”
The man’s smile vanished. His jaw tightened and one of his eyelids twitched, as if it was being yanked by an invisible thread. He stepped past Pan and helped the shop owner up from the floor, neatening the man’s multi-coloured jellabiya.
“This gentleman you attacked is my partner, Dr Sami Fazri. Sam is a computer scientist, nanotechnologist and the leading expert of future technology at the universities of Cairo, Harvard and Oxford. He developed military drones before the military, and wearable technology long before anyone ever wore technology. He is a genius, although he’d never admit it.”
The old shop owner – Sami – rubbed the back of his head, checking for blood. “Some genius,” he muttered. “I got sucker punched.” He smiled weakly. “No hard feelings.”
“And you?” Pan asked, prodding the scarred man again.
“I am a genius too,” replied Dr Kit Thorn. “Although I am quite comfortable with that.”
“You’re a thief,” I said. “A tomb robber.”
The man burst out laughing. “Actually I am an archaeologist, an ancient historian and a philanthropist. But, yes, I specialize in acquiring lost artefacts. You’ve read my name in newspapers, no doubt?”
“No,” I said.
“Oh. Then you’ve seen my face on TV? Or … perhaps your parents mentioned me?”
I shrugged. Nope.
The guy’s eyelid twitched again. “Then may I ask how you knew?”
“You have plans of tombs,” I replied, “and maps of museums. And most of the gadgets here are for finding things in tricky places. There are GPS trackers, grappling guns and night vision goggles in that cabinet.”
“You recognize NVGs?” Sami asked. “You’re only twelve.”
“Twelve and a half.”
“Where are our parents?” Pan demanded.
“Your mother and father were working for me,” Kit replied.
“They’re … they’re treasure hunters?” I asked.
Another laugh from Kit, so loud it caused the hologram to flicker. “Good lord, no. They are college professors. Your parents were experts in a period of Egyptian history that interests us.”
“They are experts,” Pan corrected.
“Of course. We hired them to consult and sent our bag as a card. They were supposed to meet us here today.”
“But you spied on us and took creepy photos.”
“It became apparent that you might be in danger.”
“Why would we be in danger?” I asked.
Kit glanced at Sami, who nodded.
Kit cleared his throat. “What I am about to tell you is highly secret information that few individuals other than myself could possibly have acquired, gathered through courage, skill and good old-fashioned—”
“Just tell us, will you?” Pan demanded.
Kit glared at her and again his eyelid fluttered. But he forced a smile and stepped to the hologram of the god. “Do you recognize this figure?”
“It’s Osiris,” Pan replied. “The Ancient Egyptian god of death and fertility. He was killed by his brother, Set, and then put back together by his wife, Isis. After that he ruled the Egyptian underworld, where he judged souls after they died. He holds a crook and a flail, farming tools that symbolize his rule over life and death.”
Kit looked stunned. “How the devil did you know all that?”
Pan swore at him in reply. She wasn’t showing off, she just wanted him to know she wasn’t stupid. But I definitely saw a hint of a smile as she spoke.
I nodded along, like I knew all that stuff too. “What’s any of that got to do with us?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Kit replied. “But Osiris has a lot to do with your parents and their disappearance. Or at least, Osiris’s tomb does.”
“Tomb?” Pan asked. “Gods can’t have tombs.”
“According to the Ancient Egyptians they could. There are references to the Tomb of Osiris throughout their literature.”
Kit slicked back his hair. “It is my belief,” he continued, “that the Ancient Egyptians built a tomb for Osiris, most likely for ceremonial use. A tomb that has been lost for millennia. A tomb that I, Dr Kit Thorn, shall discover.”
“Stop telling us your name and start telling us what’s going on,” Pan insisted. She looked like she was about to shove him, but again I held her back. We needed to focus on the important stuff.
“So you’re looking for this tomb?” I asked. “Why?”
Kit snorted as if that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard. “Why?” he said. “Why? You’ve seen the treasures found inside the tomb of Tutankhamun?”
“Of course,” Pan said.
“Well, he was a minor king. Osiris was a major god. Imagine what riches might lie inside his tomb. It will make Tut’s look like a pound shop.”
“Riches?” Pan prodded Kit a third time. “You’ve still not said why our parents are in danger.”
This time Kit didn’t smile. Holding Pan’s glare, he pulled a card from his pocket and set it on the hologram projector screen.
“That’s your legal warning,” he said.
Sami touched Kit’s arm. “Uh, Kit? Not a good idea to fight a twelve-year-old.”
“Twelve-and-a-half,” Kit replied.
I was ready to get involved, but Sami’s grip tightened on Kit’s arm.
“They deserve answers,” he said.
Kit glanced at Sami and then back at Pan. “Of course,” he said. “Sam?”
On cue, Sami began to work his hands across the floating holograms, moving them through the air. It was a strange sight, that little old man using such high-tech stuff. And he was so fast. His wrinkled fingers worked at incredible speed, like a conductor before an orchestra. He pinched one projection, flicked it away, then expanded others into separate files so new images rose from the table screen.
The projection of Osiris flickered, then changed to a black-and-white photo of a man with a droopy moustache and safari suit.
“This is Percy Vyse,” Kit explained. “The only archaeologist to make any serious effort to locate the Tomb of Osiris. He vanished in 1932.”
“Vanished?”
“Well, not quite. His body was finally found in 1989 in Abydos. He had been murdered and mummified, with a symbol burned onto his chest.”
The projection changed again. A strange symbol hovered above the screen, a column with four lines across the top. It looked like an electricity pylon, apart from the snake coiled around its base.
“Do you recognize this?” Kit asked.
“It’s a djed pillar,” Pan said. “An Ancient Egyptian symbol for strength. It’s meant to be Osiris’s backbone.”
“I’m sorry to say you are wrong,” Kit said, although he didn’t look sorry at all. “But so would be ninety-nine percent of experts. The one percent is m
e. Notice the cobra? And how the bisecting lines curve upwards? It’s subtly different from the djed pillar. It is in fact the symbol of the Cult of Osiris.”
“Cult?” I asked.
“A secret sect,” Kit replied, “whose members have worshipped Osiris since ancient times. I’ve encountered dozens of cults in my various adventures, and these fellows are among the worst.”
“They have something to do with our mum and dad disappearing?”
“I think by now we can assume your parents are not stuck in traffic.”
Kit laughed at his own joke, but stopped when no one joined in.
“Our guess,” Sami explained, “is that your parents were contacted by this group, posing as us. The cult is searching for the Tomb of Osiris too, and plan to force your parents to help them. The cult waited until they were alone and then abducted them. Last night, did they receive a message, or a phone call?”
“We don’t know,” I said.
“When they left, did they seem in a rush?”
“We don’t know that either.”
“Well, what time did they leave?”
“Look, we don’t know anything,” Pan replied. “We had a fight. We were in our room all night.”
“Must have been a pretty bad fight,” Kit said.
Pan glanced at me and then looked away. All the fights were bad, but that one had pushed Mum and Dad over the edge. Had it led to this? If we hadn’t fought, they wouldn’t have gone out alone. The cult wouldn’t have had a chance to grab them.
I thought of my parents, captured and scared. They weren’t adventurers like Kit. They wouldn’t be able to cope.
Pan stared at one of the photos of our family projected above the screen, and I knew she was thinking the same thing.
“They’ll be freed, though?” she asked. “Once they’ve helped the cult?”
“Hopefully,” Sami replied. “I think probably—”
“No,” Kit interrupted. “Your parents will no doubt suffer the same fate as poor Percy Vyse.”
“You mean…” I could barely bring myself to say it. “Turned into mummies?”
Pan whirled around and kicked another of the cabinets. “We have to tell the police.”
Jake Atlas and the Tomb of the Emerald Snake Page 4