Eternal Journey

by Alex Archer

  He hadn’t wanted to devote so many to tying up the loose ends at the sites. There was much other work to be done. How could the terrorist have recommended such incompetent fools! She was just one woman, and according to Jon, she wasn’t even armed.

  May you appear in happiness wherever we go. Let whoever is listening be satisfied. Let there be heartfelt joy. Let there be no lies told against me before the great one, the lord of Amentet.

  Hamam was pleased Jon had called to tell him Annja Creed was at the dig. He in turn called Sayed, who guaranteed the woman’s imminent demise. Sayed needed her dead just as badly as Hamam did; he wanted Interpol to keep thinking he was in England.

  But he was also saddened about Jon’s revelation. The immature graduate student had become his favorite, and he had hoped to have him killed last, or perhaps even spared and brought along to Egypt and incarcerated, if necessary, as an assistant. Now Jon would have to die with Annja Creed, quickly before he started piecing things together. Jon was a tad juvenile, but he was very, very bright. He might figure out Hamam’s plan and tell someone. Curious Jon had seen the fish, after all.

  Hamam continued to translate.

  The place once closed is open. The place sealed is truly sealed. That which rests in the sealed place is opened by the Ra-soul residing inside. I am delivered by the eye of Horus. I walk, a journey over a long, long road. The road of souls is open to me.

  Hamam concentrated on the small pieces of pottery now, bowls that might have been for broth or for some religious ceremony—possibly the latter as they were found in the temple. The clay was thin and fragile, and despite his careful efforts, Hamam worried that some pieces might break during transport.

  “Can’t be helped,” he said. “Worth the risk.”

  He continued to work until everything was wrapped, and then he began placing the pieces in a crate filled with straw and shredded newsprint, making sure to put the jewelry on top. He would have preferred better packing material, but it was what he could find in the museum’s storage closets, and searching elsewhere might draw undue attention.

  The museum curator thought these objects would eventually go on display—after Hamam and the department’s other archaeologists had cataloged and photographed them. Hamam smiled at how gullible the curator was.

  Hamam’s reputation had helped gain him access at any time to the museum—he was in the basement of it now—without having a security guard hovering. Hamam was considered one of the most renowned Egyptologists in the world, and no nefarious activities had been publicly linked to him. Hamam’s illegal deeds had been low-key up until this point; he’d given no one a reason not to trust him. And those few who had asked too many questions were no longer among the living.

  He moved to another table, this with larger pieces, all of them taken from the niches in the cave as his students called it. In Hamam’s native Egypt so many of the tombs and temples that had been excavated had already been stripped of their treasures—by grave robbers from centuries past. But the cave had not been touched before he and his students had discovered it, and so the relics were as pristine as time allowed.

  “All of this priceless, and all of this mine alone.” He selected a large bowl to begin with, nearly as big across as a dinner plate. It was painted inside and out, and though the paint had faded considerably, hints of color remained. The images were of half suns and stiff-looking birds, with a border that might have been a serpent. Hamam intended to inspect it—to inspect everything—under better light when he got home.

  “Doctor, I’ve loaded nineteen crates now. Any more?”

  Hamam nodded to the crate he’d just packed on the table behind him. “Thank you, Kim.”

  The man was Korean, so powerfully built that his shoulders strained the seams of the janitor’s uniform he wore. His face was all angles and planes, and the sheen of sweat on it made his skin almost glow in the fluorescent lighting. Kim was Hamam’s man, not picked by Sayed. He’d come over with Hamam, independently, and was quick to find janitorial work at the university. Hamam had two other such associates working upstairs in the museum, packing more crates.

  “I’ll have this crate finished shortly, Kim,” Hamam continued. “I will need three more crates for packing, for the rest of these relics. Then I will be finished here.” He paused. “Do you realize how precious these things are intact, perfect?”

  Kim carefully picked up the packed crate. “What about the museum?”

  “The pieces I’ve marked are being crated as we speak and loaded onto the second truck. We’re only taking one of the mummies.”

  Kim made a snorting sound. “The museum is open tomorrow. I thought we were crating those after hours tomorrow night. Everything’s closed Sunday—nothing would be found missing until Monday.”

  Hamam placed the wrapped bowl in the bottom of another crate and started to wrap a pitcher with kangaroos and cows’ heads painted on it. “I had to move up the event, Kim. The American television star has forced my hand.”

  “This Annja Creed that you mentioned?”

  Hamam snarled. “Yes, this Annja Creed.”

  “That is why you had us buy the plane tickets today.” Kim snorted again and left, his heavy feet thudding dully against the concrete floor.

  Hamam placed the pitcher in the crate and moved on to another piece. He was working faster than he would have liked, but Annja Creed had brought this about. If anything chipped or shattered in the move, it would be her fault. She would be paying soon enough—for her past and any future transgressions. Sayed had promised.

  He inhaled deeply, wanting to pull the history of these objects inside himself. It was rare perfume to him, the odor of the ancient clay and preserved wood. It was his history and his ticket to life among the gods, and it lulled him into a state of euphoria as well as any narcotic could.

  Hamam was so caught up in the relics that he didn’t hear footsteps approach, until someone was almost on top of him.

  “What’s going on here?”

  The words startled Hamam, and he dropped an idol of Hathor he’d been wrapping. The clay figurine landed on the table and broke in two.

  Hamam whirled, his eyes daggers aimed at the intruder.

  It was a campus security guard. He didn’t think they ever ventured into the museum basement. Had he started upstairs? Hamam’s heart seized with worry that his associates had been caught.

  “I am packing up relics,” Hamam answered. “Have you been upstairs yet?”

  The guard narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “I always start my rounds in the basement.”

  Hamam wrapped the two broken pieces of the idol; he would have them repaired at home. He placed the pieces in the crate and went on to a vase.

  “What are you packing all of this for? Weren’t they just unpacked?”

  “From the dig?” Hamam worked faster. “Well, yes, they were just unpacked. But that is because they were first packed by students out there, not packed professionally, and certainly not for any sort of voyage.” He placed the vase in the crate and eyed the other objects, determining what would go in next.

  “Where are they going?” This particular security guard had seen Hamam a few times before in other parts of the museum.

  “Why are you curious? I have authority to be here. You know that. The dig, and these relics, they are under my aegis,” Hamam said authoritatively.

  The guard shrugged and relaxed his shoulders a little. “No worries. Have to be careful,” he said. “It’s my job. These things are valuable. The museum’s a showpiece for the university.”

  “It’s good that you’re careful,” Hamam said. He settled on another bowl, this one with an uneven lip that suggested it might have served as a cup. “You can never be too careful with relics such as these.”

  “So where are they going?” The guard was persistent.

  “On loan,” Hamam answered almost too quickly. “To a place not terribly far from Cairo.”

  This seemed to satisfy the guard,
and he turned to leave. Hamam placed the wrapped bowl in the crate and picked up a wooden ankh about a foot long and half that wide. It looked to be carved from a white stringybark, engraved with miniature ankhs and half suns and lacquered with something that had worn off along a stem that was sharpened like a stake. Hamam had found a few of these and guessed that they were intended to be driven in the ground to mark something. The wood was still hard, preserved because it had been in a high niche and moist air had not touched it.

  “Is there paperwork on this?” The guard had stopped in the doorway. “I saw someone carrying crates out to a van.”

  “You don’t need to concern yourself with paperwork,” Hamam replied. “That’s for provosts and the curator, not for you.”

  “Have to be careful,” the guard repeated. He stepped back into the room. “This just doesn’t seem right.” He reached for a walkie-talkie on his belt. “Probably everything’s filled in triplicate somewhere, but I want to make sure. You understand. There are rumors of layoffs, and I don’t want to give them an excuse.”

  Hamam moved surprisingly fast given his age and the close confines of the room filled with tables. Before the security guard could thumb the control, he’d driven the sharp stem of the ankh into his stomach.

  The guard hollered and fell to his knees, dropping the walkie-talkie and clawing at the ankh that Hamam pulled out and thrust like a dagger again and again. Then Hamam stepped back as the guard fell forward, blood pooling around the limp body.

  It had been some time since he’d killed a man, and though necessary in this instance, it was nevertheless distasteful. Hamam stared at the bloodied ankh, bent and wiped it on the back of the guard’s shirt. Some had soaked into the wood, where the lacquer had worn off. It would be difficult to restore, Hamam knew. He stood staring at the body and the ankh for several minutes. Kim’s return stirred him.

  The big Korean did not hide his surprise at seeing the dead guard.

  “It was necessary,” was the only explanation Hamam offered. He pointed to a big roll of plastic along one wall. “That will help,” he said. “There’s an incinerator in the basement of the arts building, where my office is. You can dispose of him there. Quickly.”

  “And then come back here to get the rest of the crates?”

  “Of course, Kim. Hopefully, we will not have to leave anything behind.”

  “Nakim and Harold, they were starting to load the ones from upstairs when I came down. The trucks are nearly full.”

  “Good, good.”

  “You will be leaving soon?”

  Hamam nodded. “The crates I’ve scheduled to fly out before dawn. We’ve three hours to get them to the airport. You have your ticket?”

  “Nakim and Harold, too. They were expensive.”

  “Last-minute flights always are. I will cover them. When do you leave?”

  Kim had ripped free a large sheet of plastic wrap and was working to roll the dead security guard in it.

  “Tomorrow afternoon. It was the earliest we could get.”

  “It will do. They’ll discover the museum robbery in the morning. And they will not discover the other until it is too late.”

  “We will be away from the campus long before then, waiting at the airport.” Kim struggled to sling the guard over his shoulder. Blood pooled between the uniform and the plastic, looking like hamburger that had bled out in the package at the butcher’s.

  “The cameras were disabled before we came in, and all the sensors,” Hamam said. “No one will tie you to this.”

  “And you?”

  “I will be away shortly. And I do not believe anything will be traced to me. I arranged other robberies this night, from two museums in the city. Clues there, and here, are being planted to direct suspicion away from me.”

  “If anyone lives who cares to be suspicious.” The big Korean smiled as he started down the hall. “They will have other things to worry about.”

  “And Kim?”

  He paused and turned slightly so he could see Hamam.

  “If you’re going to shower tomorrow, do it very, very early.”

  Kim nodded knowingly.

  19

  Annja stood on the ridge between the two camps, looking down at the university dig. Wispy clouds had drifted across the moon, cutting the light and making it more difficult to pick out the details. She hadn’t found Dari, but then the ridge was long and dark, and she had no intention of calling out for him. She’d listened intently during her climb, thinking she might hear him scrambling up the slope or moaning if he’d slipped and hurt himself. Of course, if he’d really hurt himself he might not be making any noise at all, or if he’d been killed by her assailants.

  The breeze had died down since her previous trip, and she was sorry for that. The cool wind had been invigorating and had kept her from sweating. She unzipped her Purple Pussycat jacket and flapped the edges of it to cool her. She shouldn’t be so warm, she thought, and so she felt her face.

  A fever, like I need that on top of everything else. It was probably a result of the cracked ribs and the sprained ankle, and not giving herself a chance to rest. She usually healed quickly—if she afforded herself an opportunity to do so. She put her weight on her good ankle and scanned the site. Someone had left a lantern on in one of the tents—Jon’s.

  “Can’t see enough to—” Annja smiled with an idea and climbed higher, to where she’d encountered the two assassins. It took her several minutes to reach the spot, and only a minute more to find what she was looking for—the night-vision goggles the Muay Thai expert had been wearing. “Perfect,” she pronounced.

  She fitted them on and tightened the band so they wouldn’t fall off. It cast the world into a landscape of blacks and greens, like something out of a science fiction movie. She’d used something similar before, and so it didn’t take her long to adjust. Then she started looking along the ridge for Dari.

  “This is nuts,” she whispered. “I should be back with the students and Wes.” She felt responsible for them. But she also felt responsible for the biker she’d dragged into this because she needed transportation. She hesitated, looking down the slope and to the students’ tents. Then she was looking beyond them, to a vehicle that was cutting across the ground and driving up to the canopy where the sifting tables were. Vehicles weren’t supposed to come right up to either dig site, she knew; there were designated places for them to park some distance back.

  Annja crouched, seeing four men spill out of the vehicle while at the same time seeing a lone figure emerge from one of the smaller tents. “Dari,” she said. She could tell that by the outline and the smooth-shaped head. “Keep your head down,” she whispered, as if willing the words to him.

  He’d obviously heard the car approach, as he clung to the side of the tent, trying not to be seen. The four men spread out across the camp.

  “No. Oh, please no.” Before gaining her sword and being plunged into one perilous adventure after another, Annja had known little about guns. Now she could easily identify them.

  One of the men toted an assault rifle, an M-16 by the look of it. Another carried an Uzi. The remaining men had M-14 Minirifles and pistols, the latter probably 9 mm P-85s from the silhouettes. She took in a breath and held it, steadying her nerves, and then she started down the rise, intent on getting Dari out of there. She touched the hilt of the sword with a thought, ready to call it into her hand in a heartbeat—not that the sword would do her a lick of good unless she was in close.

  She was halfway down the slope when she saw Dari start up several yards to the north. The man with the M-16 was coming around the side of the tent and had spooked him. Annja skidded the rest of the way down, summoning the sword as she went, and clamping her teeth shut swallowing a cry of pain. It felt as if someone had shoved a hot poker against her ribs.

  The M-16 cracked, a bullet narrowly missing Dari. It struck a rock at the base of the ridge. A second shot followed, the muzzle flaring in her night-vision goggles. She couldn�
�t tell if Dari’d been hit. But he was still moving.

  Chaos ensued. The other three men were alerted by the gunshots and came running. One man raised his pistol in his left hand and fired into a tent as he went. The man with the Uzi sprayed another tent.

  So many men sent to kill one woman, she thought. She swallowed hard as she realized they weren’t just sent out here to kill her. A hit team this size would be sent to kill everyone, and maybe do a little fast cleanup work afterward. Annja realized that she’d been right to pull the students away from the dig.

  “Annja!” Dari had spotted her and was crab-crawling toward her, sending bits of rock and clumps of mud up in his wake.

  “Get down!” she hollered as the rifleman drew another bead. “Drop! Now!”

  Two of the gunmen fired just as Dari took her advice. The bullets thudded into the rise, rock shards ricocheting, just as Annja managed to reach Dari.

  “Where’d you find a sword?” Dari let her tug him up. The two started weaving up the ridge.

  “In the rocks,” Annja lied. She found an upthrust of granite and stuffed Dari behind it. She tucked herself next to him as more shots ricocheted off the rocks.

  “Sword’s nice,” Dari admitted. “But we need a gun.”

  “A gun would be nice,” Annja said. “Maybe I’ll take one of theirs.”

  “Find those goggles in the rocks, too?”

  “Yeah.” At least this time she could answer truthfully. “Listen, Dari, I’m going to draw them away. You need to get up and over to the other camp and warn them we have company.”

  “I can’t leave you alone—”

  “Yes, you can,” she hissed. “There are eighteen people in that camp. I’d rather that not turn into eighteen bodies.”

  Dari nodded.

  She saw his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously, as if he was constantly swallowing, and his hands clenching and unclenching. He wanted a little adventure? He had it in spades, she thought, hoping he’d live to tell Nate and the rest of his friends about it.