“A burglary attempt—?”
“And apparently a successful one. He was found lying in front of a heavy wooden cabinet with its doors forced open. They deduced a thief had used the screwdriver to jimmy the lock just prior to being surprised by Shadid. The struggle that followed must’ve been intense, for there was a considerable amount of dried blood on the floor—and, according to the article, not just Shadid’s. The investigating officer believed the killing wound through the man’s neck was far too localized to account for all of it. His death would’ve happened too quickly—plus, of course, there was that blood on the blade of his knife.”
“Meaning the intruder didn’t escape unscathed . . .”
“Exactly. Needless to say, the cabinet was empty. Whatever it held—and we now believe it must’ve been the pearl necklace—was long gone when his body was finally discovered days after the incident. Everything points to the perpetrator being the teenager Haleem described.”
Karim readily agreed.
“Based on existing evidence,” he said, “it all fits too neatly to conclude otherwise. My congratulations, gentlemen. Well done. So, what comes next? I’m guessing it now becomes critical to somehow learn everything possible about this Tahan Shadid fellow. If he indeed possessed that necklace prior to his demise, he must’ve come upon it somewhere. The question is where?”
“Any ideas where to begin?”
“Well, I think a good start is to see what the El Quseir police department has to offer. For example, if he had any sort of checkered history—which seems likely with what we already know—then they may have a wealth of information to provide a bigger picture of his activities before his death. That’s worth examining.”
“Omar already has it covered,” said David. “He’s made arrangements to spend the day there tomorrow to see what he can dig out. Anything else?”
“Nothing I’m sure you haven’t already considered. A few things come to mind; tax records, court records, surviving relatives—you name it. If he lived here his entire life, then it wouldn’t have been in a complete vacuum.”
David gave an appreciative nod. All of this was going to take considerable time and effort. But it couldn’t be helped. The possible reward to be found at the end of the tunnel was far too great to even contemplate stopping now.
He noted the time and reached for the phone.
“I need to make a quick call to Ahmed back in Alexandria. Fill him in on our progress to date. It’s overdue and he’s doubtless wondering what’s been going on over the past few days. In our excitement we can’t forget his involvement here.”
“Before you do,” Elizabeth interrupted, “there’s something else you guys need to know about—something that puts a whole new slant on things. And not a good one, I’m afraid.”
Her expression was such David replaced the phone.
“What is it, hon?”
“In plain words, it seems someone has been following our every move since we arrived in El Quseir. To what end is anyone’s guess.”
* * * *
The Port of White Harbor, August 24 Of The Year 30 BCE.
A frustrated Diodorus had spent three long, tedious days awaiting the overdue arrival of the ship called Senuset,a wide-hulled merchant vessel he’d contracted sight-unseen to transport his small group from the southeastern shores of Egypt to distant India. When it finally sailed into port and tied up at the main pier, his relief was short-lived.
With the declining sun rapidly sinking in the desert sky behind him, he could only watch with growing impatience as the vessel began a lengthy process of unloading its existing cargo and taking on new. The ship’s unconcerned owner informed him this procedure would take at least another two days to accomplish. Three at the very most, he told him with an apathetic shrug. Certainly nothing to become concerned over.
Unfortunately, Diodorus believed this steady accumulation of unforeseen delays was already proving problematic. Perhaps even critical. Within just the past several hours, his finely honed instincts told him he was being watched. By whom exactly, he wasn’t entirely certain, though he was beginning to have suspicions.
One candidate in particular stood out in his mind. A tall man with closely cropped hair had ridden in that very morning—and as Diodorus, himself, had done three days earlier, chosen to set up camp well outside the fringes of the many merchants gathered there to do business at White Harbor. The mere fact that he arrived entirely alone—without servants or extraneous baggage—made him someone requiring more scrutiny. Just what was the fellow’s intended purpose here? he wondered. And Perhaps most disturbing of all was his close proximity to the secluded campsite of his small group.
And if the man was who he feared!
By all the gods, what then?
Having no immediate answers, Diodorus mentally sifted through his scant options as he walked back toward his tent through the spaced palm trees and gathering twilight. Time was working against him. After all, he was a scholar in the middle years of his life—hardly a trained soldier!—and he now found himself deeply regretting his foolish choice to ever have undertaken this mission.
In retrospect, he recognized that the decision had in many ways been thrust upon him by circumstances outside his control. Too, he knew his innate pride was also partly to blame. As Caesarian’s chief tutor since the boy’s ascension to the throne at the age of five, who else but him was Cleopatra to entrust with his safe delivery from Egypt? For good or ill, her choice had fallen on him.
Such was his fate.
For all he knew, she might now already be dead and laid in her tomb.
While pondering this depressing probability, he failed to notice the figure straight ahead of him. As if awaiting his return, the tall man was nonchalantly leaning against one of the bigger palm trees not sixty paces from the isolated tent, watching the four young men who had just emerged. Following the scholar’s specific orders since their arrival at White Harbor, they were only allowed to do so after nightfall—and then only for a limited amount of time.
Taken by surprise, Diodorus’ first reaction was to reach for his knife.
What stopped him, however, was the totally relaxed stance of the man. His benign manner not the least bit threatening as he then casually gestured toward the young men now conversing softly amongst themselves.
“Your master is the one on the left, is he not?” Speaking in an amiably tone, his calm observation sent a sudden chill up the stunned scholar’s spine. “I’d recognize him anywhere, for I served under the great Julius in the years before his assassination.” He paused for a long moment. “I must say the physical resemblance to his sire is quite remarkable! Much more so than I anticipated.”
This was all happening far too fast for Diodorus to assimilate.
“I—I don’t know what you’re—”
The man silenced his stammering with a condescending smile.
“Oh, please, Diodorus! That is your name, is it not? No need for us to play games here. Come join me for a cup of wine over at my campsite. I’ve something to give you—and we really do have things to discuss.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Present.
When finally alone in their seaside bungalow, David relaxed on the end of the comfortable couch, his crossed ankles on the coffee table, his arms cradling a reclining Elizabeth as they reviewed the day’s events. It was after 10pm. Outside the open curtains of the screened patio doors, a full moon had risen, its tranquil glow providing all the light they desired.
Needless to say, foremost on David’s mind was the surprise revelation of their having been followed since arriving in El Quseir—the unusual circumstances of which he found not just troubling, but an increasing puzzlement, as well.
And for several obvious reasons.
In many ways, it made no rational sense.
To begin with, it was clear the perpetrator was definitely not a professional. At least not in David’s estimation. But did this make the man any less dangerous? If
the fellow was employed as such, then whoever hired him certainly wasn’t getting his money’s worth. Not by a long shot! No qualified person doing this for a living—even if only part time—would ever allow himself to be spotted three times in the span of just twenty-four hours. So what did this leave?
One possibility was an amateur working entirely on his own.
But with what motivation?
“I assume you ran this by Ahmed over the phone,” said Elizabeth. “Did he have any fresh thoughts on it?”
David nodded.
“Two, actually. Both are somewhat reasonable. He figures there’s always a chance it might be tied in with those persistent media people who recently gave me so much trouble regarding the Aztec gold discovered in Texas. For a long period, their reporters doggedly tailed me everywhere. My refusal to grant them interviews never went down very well. Drove a fair number of them nuts, in fact. I’d hoped this disruption in our lives was all pretty well over with, but maybe that was wishful thinking on my part.”
Elizabeth considered this for only a brief moment.
“That seems unlikely to me. For one thing, as I recall the man appeared to be Egyptian. What was Ahmed’s other suggestion?”
“Something that makes more sense; at least for the moment, anyway—or until we get evidence otherwise.”
“Which is?”
“He feels it more probable this has nothing to do with either one of us. He’s inclined to believe him to be a local thief on the lookout for something worth stealing, arguing that all the work Karim and Lana have done over the past few years uncovering marketable artifacts hasn’t gone unnoticed. If that’s it, then it’s merely coincidental that the man started right at the same time we showed up.”
Elizabeth seemed to find this somehow more believable.
“I suppose it would explain why he was caught watching me and Lana out skin-diving today over the site, not following you and Omar around town.” She paused. “But I know how you think, darling. You never put much stock in coincidences of any kind?”
“No, not as a general rule,” he acknowledged. “However, I might be wrong in this particular instance. At least I hope so. If Karim and Omar haven’t already considered the possibility, I’ll run it by them tomorrow and get their opinion. We have enough problems to work through without adding yet another to the list.”
She cuddled closer, her warmth becoming an ever-growing distraction.
“And since we’re speaking of Omar . . .”
“I wasn’t aware we were,” interjected David, now amused by the slightly conspiratorial tone in her voice. “Or have I miss something here?”
“Oh, nothing earthshaking. I just want to ask you something. Promise not to laugh?”
“Okay.”
“Well, it may only be my woman’s intuition, but have you noticed how he looks at Lana whenever he thinks no one is watching? I have. I picked up on this when we first arrived—and once again on our excursion to Dendera.”
What prevented him from breaking his promise was Elizabeth’s long history of being more often right than wrong when it came to her intuitive observations. He’d early on developed too much respect for her natural abilities to now suddenly begin questioning the validity of her judgment. But this?
“Just to clarify,” he asked, “are you suggesting he has—what?—some suppressed romantic feelings for Lana that he chooses not to express?”
“Is this so far out of the realm of possibility?”
“Well no, but—”
“But what? Neither one of them is married. Both have well-established careers in the same field. Surely you’re not ruling it out solely due to the age difference between them?”
“You apparently aren’t. Let’s say you’re right. Knowing Omar as I believe I do, I suspect he’d see that as a major—if not insurmountable—obstacle. I’m reluctant to ask, but have you hinted any of this to Lana?”
“Of course not! I was only curious if he’d ever had occasion to express any such feelings to you.”
“No, he hasn’t,” he said firmly. “Nor would he. So if we’re now done with this exercise, let’s adjourn to the bedroom and begin one closer to my heart. All this talk of unrequited love has—”
She stopped him with a passionate and lingering kiss; then whispered, “My thoughts exactly, darling.”
Cairo’s Old Suburb Of Bulaq. Five Hours Later.
By 3:26am, the growing body count inside the aged Khafaghi mansion was already up to five—soon to be six if one included the large, sleeping mastiff tethered to an iron post in the central courtyard. So deadly proficient was the man standing thirty feet away with his drawn weapon of choice that the animal scarcely twitched as the single bullet ended its life.
Like the previous five kills—all skillfully accomplished since the man’s stealthy entrance into the darkened building—no sound had betrayed his presence. The finely machined silencer attached to the barrel of his trusted Beretta ensured his mission here would continue to go undetected.
He expected no other outcome, for he’d done his research well.
In killing, as with anything else, careful planning was key.
By itself, the act of cold-blooded murder never provided him with any measurable degree of pleasure. Far from it. However, when the elimination of others stood in the way of achieving his ends, he felt no compunction against doing what he deemed necessary. For him, personal emotions never were part of the equation. Too, his training and natural abilities were such that he happened to be extremely good at it—having a merciless and calculating talent for violence that few other individuals possessed.
He found this attribute had always given him a decided edge in life, one he’d repeatedly used to full advantage.
The man glanced at his digital watch as he reviewed his progress so far. While doing so, he calmly pulled a fresh clip of .22 longs from his shirt pocked and snapped it into the Beretta’s handle. Everyone on the lower level of the building was accounted for, all shot through the head as they slept in separate rooms. Though he didn’t know any of the five by name, he knew two of them were the newest additions to Abdel Khafaghi’s expanding family of employees being spoken of on the streets. No longer content to limit his business operations to the black-marketing of antiquities, the ambitious fool had also recently begun delving into the lucrative drug trade.
But all of this was about to end.
He made his way up the worn stone steps to the second floor, and then silently slipped into the dark and spacious chamber he knew belonged to Abdel. Enough moonlight filtered in through the ancient mashrabiyah casement screens to disclose a corpulent figure sprawled naked on a bed. Adjacent to him was the slight figure of what the man rightly perceived to be a heavily drugged girl of undetermined age, her mouth slack, her head lolling slowly from side to side.
It became evident that Abdel wasn’t asleep, only resting after his most recent exertions, for the faint sound of the man cocking his gun in the shadows was more than enough to alert him to danger. He heaved himself up into a sitting position, his small eyes quickly locating the intruder. Before he could cry out, however, he saw the Beretta aimed straight at his sweaty face.
Swallowing hard, he froze in utter panic, trying to make sense of what his ears were now telling him.
“You must realize you could’ve avoided this,” said the man, stepping slightly closer to his target. “After all, I did give you ample opportunity. Not that it really matters at this point, but why didn’t you simply accept my warning and back away from something that didn’t concern you?”
Abdel moved his head in genuine confusion.
“I don’t—don’t know what you mean,” he finally managed.
“I’m referring, of course, to the fellow you hired in El Quseir to keep tabs on David Manning. That was a very foolish mistake on your part. Even fatal, I fear. Was my warning through your man Samir somehow too vague for you to fully comprehend? I admit I find myself somewhat curious. A pity, if tr
ue.”
The mention of Samir’s name drained away what little color remained in Abdel’s stunned face. “That was you?”
The man nodded—then pulled the trigger, opening a small hole in the middle of Abdel’s sweaty forehead. Falling back onto the bed, he stared upward with unseeing eyes, his blunt features fixed in death. Only then did the assassin move fully out of the shadows. As drugged and oblivious to all this as the woman was, he knew he couldn’t run the risk of leaving her alive. Leaning over, he gave her face a cursory examination before ending her wretched existence. Perhaps he was actually doing her a kindness.
The last conscious image to register on her partially opened eyes was the long, ragged scar that dominated half of his face.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Shubra Military Base.
Fourteen miles outside central Cairo, Lt. General Tazir Rahal carefully shed his dark street clothes in the privacy of his official living quarters before donning his full army uniform.
It was 5:02am, a hint of approaching dawn in the eastern sky.
Despite being in his late fifties, the sleep deprivation was only a minor annoyance, very manageable under the circumstances. The night’s complicated activities had taken a bit longer than originally anticipated. But such was often the way of things. What mattered most was that the clandestine operation went as planned, everything else being irrelevant. Besides, he knew his current adrenaline level was quite sufficient to carry him through his morning duties. He considered this to be critical, for as the commander of Shubra Military Base, he could ill-afford allowing underlings to see any suspicious deviations in his regular routine. Over the years, his innate ability to conceal and maintain a separate life had become second nature to him, the art of deception a well-trodden path he’d followed continuously since childhood.
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