Journey of the Pharaohs - NUMA Files Series 17 (2020)

by Cussler, Clive

  “Clearly,” Kurt said.

  “You two, on the other hand,” Pembroke-Smythe said, “have proven yourselves willing and able to step into the breach. Based on that, and Dirk’s insistence that there’s no one he’d rather send into a fight, I’d gladly make an exception and welcome you aboard.”

  Kurt took a sip of the tea while considering the invitation. Tipping the cup back, he noticed a cake-like sludge at the bottom of the cup and wondered if a spoon might be in order. He glanced over to Joe. “We did come here to find an ancient ship. If we can’t find a Viking one, maybe we can find an Egyptian vessel instead.”

  Joe nodded. “It would make our return to D.C. a triumphant one.”

  Kurt turned back to their hosts. “We’re in. Where do we start?”

  Both Morgan and the Colonel grinned. “By taking the items in that crate to someone who can decipher the hieroglyphics. That ought to shed some light on what Bloodstone is really after.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The East End, London

  The streets of London were never truly deserted. Countless pubs, coffeehouses and restaurants drew crowds late into the evening. And after the last of the night owls went home, a small army of delivery trucks, street sweepers and road crews appeared. They scoured the city, preparing it for the next morning’s rush.

  Still, the farther one got from the heart of London, the quieter things became. In the East End—beyond the gentrified sections—walking around the streets in the wee hours of the morning meant one was either hopelessly lost or criminally inclined.

  Wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans and Army boots, Robson was more the latter. He walked the dangerous streets without a hint of concern on his face. And why should he worry? He was coming home.

  He passed corners where he’d sold drugs, a dead-end alley where he and a few mates had fought another gang. He’d been knifed in the leg that night, but before he went down he’d broken one man’s arm and smashed two of the interlopers in the face with punches assisted by brass knuckles.

  The infection from the wound had been horrendous, but going to the hospital would have landed him in prison, so he’d waited out the pain with a bottle of scotch and some black market antibiotics.

  Laughing morosely at the memory, Robson pushed on, heading for the docks. A few miles down the road, a brand-new section of the port loaded and unloaded ships twenty-four hours a day. He could see the lights from here. But the wharves nearby were abandoned. They lay silent and rotting, watched over by a pair of rusted cranes that hadn’t moved in a decade. Every few years someone would promise money to refurbish the area and bring it back to life, but the money never came. And it never would.

  Ignoring the blight, Robson passed along a graffiti-covered wall. He arrived near the dock and found he was alone. Disappointing.

  Putting his fingers to his lips, he whistled loudly. “Come on, you lot!” he shouted. “Stop wasting my time.”

  The whistle and shouts prompted movement. Two men came out from behind the base of the old crane, two others emerged from the shadows of a blacked-out building with broken windows. One of them moved forward. “That really you, Inky?”

  “I told you, it’s Robson now.”

  “Oh really?” There was mockery in that response.

  The men assembled before Robson. First in line was a long-haired man they called Fingers because he’d been pretty good with a guitar until someone broke his hand. Beside him was a short fellow with blocky shoulders who everybody called Snipe, though he hated the nickname. The third and fourth men were half brothers, Daly and Gus, a muscle-bound pair who’d been groomed as boxers by their scheming dad—a man who turned out to be the father of neither. As he looked at them, Robson was struck by how funny it was he couldn’t remember any of their real names.

  “The prodigal son returns,” Gus said. Gus was a bruiser, a rugby player with a build to match, an amateur MMA fighter in his wildest dreams and in real life a part-time enforcer for a local heavy.

  “Prodigal nothing,” Robson said. “After tonight I’ll never set foot in this slag heap again.”

  “Too good for this place?” Daly said, pushing between the others and pointing an accusing finger in Robson’s face. “You royalty now or some fink?”

  “Compared to you, I am.”

  Robson had expected a better reception but was prepared for the worst. Bad neighborhoods were the same all over—those people who got out were held up more as traitors than success stories. Daly had another reason to hate Robson, though it was all in his mind.

  With Daly fuming already, Robson stood calmly with his hands in his pockets. He’d made sure to position himself so that the lone streetlight was behind him. It gave off just enough illumination to show him that Daly’s eyes were bloodshot, raw and wild. That meant he’d been drinking for sure. Hard liquor, probably, cheap vodka being his go-to painkiller.

  After drinking enough, Daly was always spoiling for a fight. And he was brutal when he got his hands on someone. He’d even busted up Gus a few times. Some said the only reason Gus was still alive was the fact that he and Daly shared a mother.

  For now, Robson held silent, waiting for Daly’s train of thought to wreck itself and start over. The inaction seemed to calm his old friend—for now.

  Snipe asked the next question. “What’s this really all about?”

  “I have a job for you,” Robson said.

  “We heard that before. What’s it pay?”

  “Enough to get you lot out of here. Assuming you have any ambition at all.”

  Daly didn’t seem to like that idea. Unknown to Robson, he’d become more important in the local gang during Robson’s absence. Daly’s ego was wrapped up in it. He was something of a big fish here. He would never leave for a larger pond. And as far as he was concerned, neither would any of his boys. “We know how you got out of here,” Daly spat. “Set us up. Snitched us raw on the last job, you did. Put me and Gus in the pound for three years.”

  “The fence gave you up,” Robson said, “not me. I told you not to nick any of the jewels, just the cash, but you didn’t listen. I told you to fence them in some other city, but you still didn’t listen. That stupidity cost you.”

  Daly pulled out a butterfly knife, opening it in a flashing metallic blur. “It’s going to cost you more than it cost me.” He stepped forward, expecting Robson to back off.

  Robson held his ground, eyeing Daly. “Careful, mate. Another step and I’ll feed you that knife.”

  Daly lunged without warning, his free hand grabbing Robson’s lapel while the hand holding the knife surged forward and upward. It was a quick move. And once he’d grabbed the jacket, there was no way for Robson to pull out of range.

  Only he didn’t need to.

  With practiced calm, Robson pulled the trigger on the snub-nosed pistol in his jacket pocket. It blasted a hole in the leather of Daly’s jacket and a bigger hole in his gut. The impact staggered the attacking man.

  Robson fired again and Daly stumbled back, losing his grip on the jacket and dropping his weapon at the same time. The knife hit the ground with a soft clink, Daly landed with a heavy grunt. He rolled over, made a halfhearted effort to crawl away and then collapsed.

  Stepping back and pulling the pistol from his pocket, Robson looked around. “Anyone else?”

  He stared at Gus, but Gus had no real love for his half brother. Jealousy was their primary bond.

  “Bloody hell,” Fingers said. He’d dropped down to see if Daly was breathing. “You killed him.”

  “The bullet killed him,” Robson said, “along with his own stupidity. Now, do you lot want to hear about the job or not?”

  “The coppers will be down here before long,” Snipe said. “You know they will.”

  Robson doubted that. A pair of muffled gunshots out near the docks in the middle of the night wouldn’t be heard by anyone with any inclination to call it in.

  “Dump him in the river,” Robson said. “And then make
your choice. You can stay here and waste away, pulling little jobs, selling smack and dodging the cops, or you can come with me. I’ve got a job that’ll make you rich. And if you do it right, there’s more to follow. But you decide now ’cause I won’t ask again.”

  Fingers, Snipe and Gus remained frozen even as Robson began to walk away. Too much on their plates all at once, Robson thought. Too much at one time.

  After a pause of indecision, they came to their senses. Snipe and Gus picked up Daly, dragged him to the edge of the dock, as Fingers looked nervously in every direction.

  Robson heard the splash but kept on walking, heading for the nearest tube. He reached the stairs and went down without looking back.

  Fifty yards behind him, the members of his former street gang followed, crossing the street against the light, which was flashing ominously red, and then pausing near the steps of the underground station.

  They exchanged shocked glances, but no one said a word. The sound of a train pulling in rebalanced the scales. It was now or never. A collective decision was reached. They rushed down the stairwell, desperate not to miss the train.

  CHAPTER 18

  Cambridge University, near King’s College Chapel

  Kurt, Joe and Morgan arrived in the town of Cambridge at noon the next day. By then, the last remnants of the storm had passed and warm sunshine had settled over southern England. It was calm and idyllic, with birds chirping and butterflies fluttering about.

  In terms of weather, it felt as if they’d traveled to another continent. In terms of scenery, it felt as if they’d traveled to another time. The Cambridge campus unfolded like an illustration from a storybook. Its Gothic buildings, complete with towering spires and stone archways, stretched toward the sky. Between them lay sprawling manicured lawns, crisscrossed by stone pathways and dotted with well-tended gardens. Through it all ran the waters of the River Cam, trickling no louder than a whisper.

  As they passed the famous chapel of King’s College, Kurt gave voice to an odd thought. “I wouldn’t be shocked if we ran into William Shakespeare.”

  Joe was thinking of a different writer. “Or Harry Potter.”

  Morgan had been to Cambridge a couple dozen times over the past three years. But even she couldn’t deny that there was something magical about the place, especially in the warm light of late summer. “If you two are done gawking at the scenery, we have business to attend to.”

  Morgan carried a brown leather briefcase with her. Inside were high-resolution photos of the items they’d found in the metal crate—one of the flat stone fragments, for making a physical comparison. The rest of the artifacts had been left behind, locked up for safekeeping.

  Kurt continued to gawk but also focused on her. “Tell me about this expert we’re going to meet.”

  “Professor Cross,” she said. “He’s something of an old curmudgeon, much like you’d expect. He talks to himself a lot, but he’s very sharp. He’s an expert in ancient cultures of the Mediterranean and the dynastic authority on Egypt. He spent years abroad—mostly in Egypt, from what I’m told, but also in Libya, Ethiopia and the Sudan. His main interest is preserving and protecting history. He went over to Libya and Iraq during the wars in hopes of protecting the museums that were being looted and destroyed by the terrorists.”

  “Sounds like a man of conviction,” Kurt said.

  “He is,” she insisted. “And well-traveled. If you give him the chance, he’ll explain in excruciating detail just how many expeditions he’s been on, and how many national museums he’s partnered with.”

  As she spoke, Morgan rolled her eyes the way one does when talking about an exasperating parent or child who was also much loved.

  “How long has MI5 been working with him?”

  “Almost three years,” she said. “Ever since the investigation into the stolen antiquities ramped up. Be careful what you say to him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s got a photographic memory,” she said. “He can even translate hieroglyphics without resorting to reference books or guides.”

  “Nice skill to have,” Joe said, “considering the business he’s in.”

  “What time are we supposed to meet him?” Kurt asked.

  “Noonish,” she said, taking them across one of the great lawns and down toward the river, which ran through the heart of the university.

  Kurt glanced at his watch. “It’s ten past noonish now. And we seem to be getting farther from the buildings.”

  “I know,” Morgan replied. “We won’t find the professor in his office on a day like this. He’d rather be out on the water.”

  Kurt smiled. “I like him already.”

  They approached the river and a bridge made of stone that looked as if it was right out of Camelot. Down below, the Cam trickled by a long wooden boat that was resting alongside a stone jetty.

  A bespectacled man, wearing brown pants, a mustard-colored corduroy jacket and a flat cap made of tweed, was standing on the back end of the boat. Morgan waved to get his attention. “Afternoon, Professor. Sorry to bother you on a day like this but we have something we’d like you to look over.”

  “So I’m told,” the professor said. “Please, come on down.”

  The trio made its way down a flight of steps and out onto the jetty, where introductions were made. The professor gave Morgan a hug before shaking Kurt’s and Joe’s hands. He agreed to look at the latest discovery provided they did it as far from the confines of his small office as possible.

  “You’ll get no argument from us,” Kurt said.

  They climbed into the boat, taking a seat on the bench in the center, while the professor used a long pole to push them away from the dock. With another shove they began gliding forward.

  The flat-bottomed boat was known as a punt, the person in charge of pushing the boat known as the Punter. The professor initially seemed more than happy to do the job, but once they’d passed under the bridge he looked for a replacement.

  “Punting is the best way I know to relax,” the professor said. “It engages the body and the mind. But if I’m going to be reading and working, someone else will have to take over up here.”

  “Manual labor,” Joe said quickly. “That sounds like a job for Kurt.”

  Kurt didn’t mind. He stood up and reached for the pole.

  “Come back here,” the professor said. “Stand on the Cambridge end. Don’t want to be confused with those miscreants from Oxford who do their work from the middle of the boat.”

  “Perish the thought,” Kurt said in his best British accent. It drew a smile from the professor and a shameful shake of the head from Joe. Morgan couldn’t help but laugh.

  Standing up on the raised deck at the back end of the punt, Kurt tested the depth of the water. The pole went in eight feet before hitting bottom. By pushing down and back, while keeping his feet planted firmly on the deck, he got the boat moving again.

  “Very nice form,” the professor said. “If you need a summer job, don’t hesitate to call.”

  Kurt laughed, pulling the pole out of the water and bringing it forward for the next thrust. As he worked, the professor sat down across from Morgan and Joe.

  Morgan lifted the briefcase up and put it between them on the bench. She dialed in the combination and then opened it. Reaching in, she pulled out the dossier filled with pictures.

  “As usual,” she said, “everything we show you is an official government secret. Discussing this with others will result in severe penalties, up to and including you being thrown in the dungeon.”

  It was a formality they’d obviously been through several times.

  “I’ve been in several dungeons,” Professor Cross said. “Fascinating places.”

  “As long as you’re just visiting,” Joe said.

  “Quite right,” the professor replied. “Quite right.”

  He opened the dossier, read through the notes and turned to the photographs. “Interesting,” he said more than once. “Intrigu
ing.” Finally, after studying the rest of the photos, he looked directly at Morgan. “I assume these have something to do with the thieves you’ve been chasing.”

  Morgan explained how the artifacts had come into their possession, even going so far as to mention having to shoot the smugglers. “Without anyone left alive to interview, we have no way of determining why they wanted these items so badly. What do you make of the inscriptions?”

  The professor went back to studying the photos, making notes and even holding a few of the pictures up to the light like a doctor might study an X-ray. Next, he examined the flat stone with the writing on it. After looking over the markings, including the cartouche that Kurt had noticed, he spent what seemed like an inordinate amount of time feeling the texture of the stone and hefting its weight, even closing his eyes at one point as if to heighten his other senses. “Yes,” he said. “Very interesting indeed.”

  Satisfied, he handed the stone back to Morgan and looked over the photos again. On the back of one he scribbled and scratched, crossing out a few things and then jotting down something new just below. “It has to be …” he muttered.

  “Has to be what?” Morgan asked.

  “I’m sorry,” the professor said, “you’re right. These relics are unique. They point to something very valuable. A treasure both vast and glorious.”

  “This is a treasure map?” Joe asked.

  “Not a map,” the professor replied. “More like part of a story. The hieroglyphics on each piece draw a word picture. Something like saying, Over the hills and through the wood, / To Grandmother’s house we go. It’s not a map but it gives you some idea of how to get there. In this case, if I might paraphrase, it reads Down the Nile and out to sea, / With the Pharaoh’s treasure we go.”

  “That’s more like it,” Joe said, perking up. “Which Pharaoh are we talking about?”

  The professor grinned and adjusted his glasses. “Ever heard of a character named Herihor?”