"My apologies my Lord but we cannot be too careful, the staff of the hotel have been here this morning." He then crossed his arms as if waiting for someone. A moment later, there was a knock on the door. Ethan was the closest and turned to open it.
Ryan didn't recognize the man who entered carrying an official looking briefcase.
"Gentlemen," he addressed them all with a nod. He placed his briefcase on the table and extracted a single page document. When he closed it, Ryan noticed the seal of the Department of Justice.
He began to read, "Executive Order 15678 dated September 16, 2016. Section 1. This executive order declares that the building located at 210 West Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia, known as the Rittenhouse Hotel shall be declared extraterritorial for a period of three hours beginning at 09:00 Eastern Daylight Time on September 17, 2016 and as such international territory not subject to the laws and sovereignty of the United States of America. Section 2. This executive order will expire at 11.59 pm on September 17, 2016. Signed Barak Obama, President of the United States."
The man replaced the letter, closed his briefcase with a snap of the latch, waved goodbye and promptly took his leave without another word. Ryan couldn’t believe what had just happened.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Chief Mbaye explained, "It is necessary that you take your oath in Egyptian territory."
"But we are still in Philadelphia."
"That is correct. Allow me to present Mr. Abdul Raman, Vice chancellor of the Embassy of Egypt in Washington. Mr. Raman bears a document declaring this room temporarily an adjunct of the Embassy and therefore sovereign territory of Egypt."
Mr. Raman dutifully placed the diplomatic order in front of the Chief.
"Thank you, Abdul. As always we are grateful for your assistance."
The diplomat stood then turned to Ryan, "May Horus protect you my Lord Pharaoh."
"Now that we are officially in Egypt, we may start."
Ryan interrupted, "Before we proceed. I have a few conditions."
If Chief Mbaye was surprised, he didn’t show it.
"First, I want your assurance that my adoptive parents will be protected."
“My Lord, your parents are both long time Servants of Ma’at. Our rules prevented them from ever telling you the truth. You didn’t assume that your late grandmother would leave you with perfect strangers?”
Ryan was surprised but it immediately made sense and explained so many things.
“Second, I want Zach to become a member of my security team.”
“Are you in agreement with that Mr. Lewis?”
‘Yes, Lord Vizier. It was already contemplated.” Herbert winked at Zach.
“Next?”
“We need to take care of Zach’s mother and brother. As long as she is dependent on her husband, they will be in danger.”
Chief Mbaye turned again to Herbert Lewis.
“If the Pharaoh requests we can arrange a new house for them where she will be safe from her abuser.”
“Please pay any costs out of my inheritance,” Ryan stated.
Chief Mbaye turned back to Ryan with a look of infinite patience on his wrinkled face.
“Since you appear to have some influence with the President, I want you to get an Executive Pardon for a prisoner at Sullivan named Diego Luque Sanchez.”
Chief Mbaye nodded in agreement, “Anything else?”
“Anyone have season tickets to the Yankees?”
Chief Mbaye looked quizzically at his bodyguard.
“Baseball, my Lord Vizier.”
“I see,” he responded dryly. “Well if there is nothing else then may we proceed?”
“Go ahead,” Ryan answered with a voice steadier than his shaking knees.
Chief Mbaye signaled to a security agent who stepped forward with a large flat suitcase that he opened in front of Ryan. It was full of white sand.
"My Lord, please remove your shoes. This sand is from the temple of Ma'at near Luxor."
Ryan untied his laces and removed his shoes and socks then stood in the sand as instructed.
Everyone rose.
Chief Mbaye solemnly began to read from a document in his hand.
"I, Nkosana Jonathan Carter, legitimate successor of Her Majesty, Fannie II, True Pharaoh of Egypt, Defender of Ma'at and Beloved of Amon, do solemnly swear to preserve the sacred principles of Ma'at against all enemies and to obey without hesitation any orders given to me by the Supreme Council of the Gods. I freely and without coercion accept my destiny as True Pharaoh and so demonstrate by signing this document and affixing the royal seal."
“Do you so swear?”
“I swear.”
The Chief reached over and placed the document on the table. He offered Ryan a fountain pen.
Ryan took it in his left hand. He was aware that all the others were holding their breath. He almost signed, Ryan J. Murphy but corrected himself and instead wrote Nkosana Jonathan Carter as he had practiced before breakfast. He expected church bells to peal or fireworks to explode. All he heard was the chief flicking a lighter as he held a red candle over the document in order to melt some wax. One of the assistants approached with the gold falcon seal that Ryan remembered from the box the night before. Ryan took it in his hands and placed it on the wax. Instantly the pain was gone in his head. When he looked at the others, they were all on one knee with heads bowed.
"Long live the True Pharaoh and may Lord Horus protect you against evil," Chief Mbaye intoned.
"Long live the True Pharaoh," the others responded in unison.
Suddenly Ryan felt a loud rushing in his head, like a strong wind. It was as if millions of souls had just sighed.
"What you have just heard my Lord Pharaoh is the sound of Ma'at recovering some balance. You may not completely understand yet but you have just saved hundreds of thousands of lives."
It had all taken less than thirty minutes and Ryan really didn't feel that different until he glanced at Zach who was also on bended knee. A lump formed in his throat.
"What are your first orders Lord Pharaoh?” the chief asked.
“I believe it is tradition that I appoint a new Lord Vizier. Would you agree to stay on for a few weeks until I have gained more experience?”
Chief Mbaye smiled in approval, "I live to serve you, Lord Pharaoh." He then added, “If I may, Mr. Franklin from the foundation has prepared your briefing books to help you understand the working of the organization. There are also some trading orders that require your immediate attention."
"How will I know what’s the right thing to do?"
"The same way that you knew intuitively to trust Ethan, you must let good guide your hand."
Mr. Franklin opened a file on the table. Ryan sat in front. The man patiently explained that most were futures trading orders. Some of them were to sell gold futures and others to acquire contracts to short sell petroleum. Ryan instantly regretted that he hadn’t joined the investment club at school. He picked up the pen and somehow knew that he should decline to approve the first document and when he turned to the second, he signed without hesitation."
"I see that you will be a fast learner, my Lord," Chief Mbaye noted with satisfaction.
"If you are ready, we have a lunch in a private room downstairs with the first member of your advisory council. You might recognize her, she is the current Chairman of the Federal Reserve.”
Chapter Eighteen
Professor Sonkin’s residence, Pittsburgh: 10:23 EDT September 20, 2016
Dmitri had remained in hiding since the murder of Fannie Carter. He barely left his apartment and he called in sick for the past week; not that anyone at the university even cared. Every knock on the door was a nightmare and he even stopped answering the telephone unless he recognized the number. He fretted about his weight loss. Maybe he was just paranoid but he was certain that the police were about to swoop down any minute and arrest him for his role in the crime. The only bright spot was that the Foundation resumed normal tr
ading activity a few days after her death. Perhaps Stevenson was right and his method was the best solution after all.
Still, someone was making the decisions and Dmitri was determined to avoid any more surprises. The record of recent trades, with a strong concentration in petroleum futures, seemed to confirm that little had changed. Maybe she hadn’t been the Grand Poobah after all. For the first time in days, Dmitri began to relax. He even contemplated calling Ludmila for a session.
He was about to pick up the telephone when the connection to Fannie’s computer went down. He instantly forgot about his Russian whore and frantically called his hacker employee.
“I’ve lost the echo from African Queen’s server.”
“Give me a sec.”
Dmitri drummed his fingers on the desk. Sweat started to form on his brow.
“It’s gone,” was the reply after three maddening minutes.
“Can we get it back?”
“Doubt it,” he answered, “they’ve pulled the plug.”
“What do you mean ‘pulled the plug’?”
“They’re on to us Professor,” he explained. “Someone has figured out that we were listening and they’ve moved digital digs.”
“Can’t you do a reverse trace on the trades and find the new server?”
“I’ve already checked. The trading account is closed.”
“There has to be something you can do?” he pleaded. “That’s why I have you on that fat retainer, isn’t it?”
“You pay me to keep my mouth shut and to risk hard time so you can get rich. Face it Professor, you’re screwed!”
“And you’re fired, you son of a bitch!” Dmitri yelled into the phone before slamming it down.
This time he didn’t hesitate to dial Stevenson’s number.
“Who do you think is making the trades?” the lawyer asked after listening to Dmitri’s explanation.
“What does it matter?” Dmitri responded. “They’ve moved shop and we’re now blind.”
“The situation is unacceptable for our plans,” Stevenson complained. “We can’t take any more chances.”
“What are you going to do?”
“At least you had the sense to call right away,” he admitted. “Give me the name and address of your computer guy. We don’t want him to have an attack of principles and run to the authorities.”
Dmitri provided the information. The hacker probably wouldn’t remember but Dmitri had once visited him at his mother’s home to deliver money at the beginning of their collaboration.
“Just leave everything to me Professor. Why don’t you get out of town for a while?” the lawyer suggested. “Take your Russian bitch on a romantic cruise or something.”
Dmitri wanted nothing more in the world than to put distance between him and the Consortium. “How will I know if everything works out?”
“You’ll still be alive!”
Right after Dmitri freaked out on him; Darrin Conners grabbed his leather jacket and hurried down the stairs of the modest duplex in Pittsburgh that he shared with his widowed mother. He could see the flickers from the television reflected on the half-opened door of the small living room converted into a bedroom. It had been years since she could handle the stairs. As usual, she was asleep in her favorite armchair. It was barely past noon but that’s what a bottle of gin before lunch will do for you. He didn’t bother to wake her up on his way out.
He straddled the shiny Harley Davidson Special Edition Fat Boy parked out front. With its 1584cc twin cam engine, it was his pride and joy. Since he’d started to work for the professor, he maintained his operations center in a small rented storage unit not far from his home. He respected the capabilities of his peers too much to assume that his own firewalls were impenetrable and he wanted to keep his real identity a secret. In the computer underground, his handle was Black Rhino and he was famous for being the first and the last hacker to assume temporary control of an active United States military satellite.
It had been a good run over the past decade, even if his employer was an asshole. Thanks to the generous monthly retainer, he managed to pay down the mortgage on his mother’s house and all of her medical bills after the HMO cut her off. Their excuse was that alcoholism was a preexisting condition. A rat’s ass for them! Six months later, he hacked into their patient records and distributed them on the internet. They were still paying big time for their arrogance.
He had no idea who Sonkin was involved with but he wasn’t going to wait around to find out. He had long planned for this day. He had a numbered account in the Bahamas where he had stashed most of his cash. In ten years, he had saved more than two million bucks. It would take him less than a week to be operational on some Caribbean island with another Harley and a black chick with huge honkers. No need to worry about his mother; the caregiver received an automatic monthly payment. In her alcohol-induced daze, she probably wouldn’t even miss him.
It took less than half an hour to arrange the flights using stolen credit cards then wipe all his hard drives clean with powerful magnets. He would only take one laptop with him containing proof of his illegal activities on behalf of the professor. Just in case he ever needed to plea bargain his way back into the loving embrace of Uncle Sam.
When he turned out the lights for the last time, it reminded him of a scene in a Jason Bourne movie. He pulled down the metal door and snapped the thick padlock shut. He had prepaid the rent for the next six months and it would be a year before anyone bothered to cut it off. He felt confident on the cruise back to the house. He could hear the television as soon as he walked in the door. He’d leave some cash on the table. It was the least he could do.
Darrin fell to his knees and vomited only seconds after he walked into the living room. His mother sat in the armchair just as he had left her, except that her head was missing. Her hands still clenched a bottle of gin covered in blood. He was out the door in a flash and only stopped long enough to pull the strap of the computer bag over his head as he started his motorcycle. He quickly abandoned the futile attempts to attach the security strap of his helmet under his chin. His hands shook too much.
He raced down the block; glancing over his right shoulder every few seconds to make certain that no one followed him. He never saw the speeding brown Subaru run the red light on his left. The brutal impact threw his body more than fifty feet, bounced his head off a brick wall and impaled him on the top of a wrought iron fence severing his spine. Amazingly, he was still alive when the driver of the vehicle walked over to remove the laptop from around his neck.
“Your mother loved sucking my dick, jerk off! Head for a head. Get it?” The killer laughed at his own sick joke.
Darrin’s life drained out of him while the unspeakable horror of his mother’s last moments echoed in his thoughts.
Chapter Nineteen
Jim Stevenson’s residence, Battery Park, Manhattan: 09:02 EDT September 22, 2016
Stevenson felt exasperated; not an emotion he was intimate with and he resented the lack of control. Finding the identity of the woman’s replacement was proving more difficult than he imagined. The hacker’s computer was protected by military grade encryption and so far they had failed to crack the password. It was vexing and he didn’t like the sensation. He had always felt secure with the Consortium, mostly because his ruthlessness was a talent they found useful, even if somewhat vulgar. They admired his tailored suits he thought. Ruthless but well dressed; it was an irresistible combination. Still, they wouldn’t hesitate to cut his throat if he failed them. He enjoyed life and life with means was even more gratifying. He needed to find the heir right away.
He jumped when the ringing of the telephone intruded on his thoughts; so few people had his private number. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t that idiot Sonkin. As he reached for the phone, he thought perhaps he should have him killed now just to save him the trouble later.
“Boss?”
It wasn’t Sonkin but he instantly recognized the voice as Vinnie’s. I
t was, he imagined, similar to that of a waking vampire who had been asleep for centuries and hadn’t yet fed, his vocal cords like strips of dried beef jerky screaming for blood.
“Any news?”
“No.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“You know that job in Cedar Park?”
Stevenson waited for him to continue without falling into what might have been a trap.
“Stole her purse, just like you asked.”
Stevenson picked up a nail file while he waited.
“Kept it.”
He started to work on his right index finger.
“I like souvenirs from my jobs.”
Stevenson brushed some of the fine dust off his vest and wondered how long this quaint treatise on necro-memorabilia was going to last.
“She had pictures in her wallet.”
He examined his handiwork and was about to change fingers when the caller spoke again.
“Most of them are of one of those cons,” he announced. “Ya know, the two all over the news.”
Stevenson dropped the nail file and bolted upright in his chair.
“The ones who escaped the other day?”
“Yeh.”
“The black one or the white one?”
“The nigger.”
Stevenson almost pissed himself with delight. It all made sense. He was the right age. The prison break only a few days after her killing and far too much money spent just to free a couple of insignificant young punks. He had to be the heir. How could he have missed it?
“Nice work Vinnie,” he remarked trying to sound blasé, “the information might be useful.”
“Want me to find ‘em?”
“Let me handle it for now,” he decided, “but don’t go anywhere; I’ll have another job for you soon.”
Stevenson hung up the phone and reached for his rolodex. He had a Special Agent for the FBI on his payroll. A decade ago, he’d discovered that the happily married father of two teenagers had a weakness for young male transvestites. It only cost the lawyer five hundred bucks to get enough damming video to guarantee the agent’s cooperation when Stevenson was feeling heat from the Feds for his ties to the mafia. Best investment he ever made. He wanted in the loop for the prison break investigation.
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