The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) (4 page)

Suddenly
the man flipped the hood back, and all doubt was removed, the royal markings
painted on his face, the necklace that adorned his neck made by Tarik himself.

He
bowed, deeply, to this stranger.

“How may
I be of assistance to my Queen?”

“Her
majesty requires two king cobras to be delivered to her chambers tomorrow
morning.”

Two king
cobras?

Tarik’s
mind raced as he tried to imagine what she could possibly want them for. They
were deadly, terribly deadly, just one bite would kill a man. It would be a
slow death, but painless, the venom first paralyzing the eyes, then the body,
so nothing would be felt as the heart stopped beating, and the body slowly
starved itself of oxygen.

Then he
smiled.

A
fitting way to strike back at Octavian, who no doubt entered her chambers
unannounced, unwanted, to gloat at his victory over her and the great Antony.

If
she could have one of the cobras strike him, he would be dead, and even if she
were killed, she would have the satisfaction of knowing her enemy died first.

It was
an incredible plan, but how he could possibly help her execute it eluded him.
He said as much to the messenger.

“Your
brothers are farmers?”

“Indeed.”

“Suppliers
of the royal household?”

Tarik
nodded.

“Each
day you deliver, among other things, a basket of figs to her majesty?”

“Yes,
yes I believe they do.”

Tarik
wasn’t involved in the deliveries, but he remembered his brothers mentioning it
once that the Queen had a love of the chewy treat when in season.

“Place
the snakes in the basket, pile the figs on top. Once delivered, we will take
care of the rest.”

Tarik
nodded, and before he could ask any further questions, the man had flipped the
hood back up, covering his face, and departed into the night, leaving Tarik to
tremble in the doorway at what he was about to take part in.

He
grabbed a nearby robe, tossing it over his shoulders to protect himself from
the chill outside, then stepped from his house to help strike the final blow
against their oppressor.

Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site

Two Days Before the Liberty Island Attack

Professor James Acton looked up slightly, spotting a pair of brand
new boots, covered in dirt, with pant legs to match. He needn’t look any higher
to know it was his friend, Hugh Reading, a man who was quickly discovering that
an archeological dig site in the desert was
not
his cup of tea.

“Bloody
hell! Look at these trousers!”

Laura
Palmer, Acton’s fiancée and love of his life, leaned over and playfully flicked
some of the dirt away with her brush.

“Better?”

The former
Scotland Yard Detective Chief Inspector harrumphed and walked away, muttering
about getting some fresh air, which Acton knew meant the tent he and Laura
slept in. Reading had questioned why they were the only two blessed with air
conditioning in the desert, and Laura had tried to explain it was a communal
tent during the day, and at night in the desert, you didn’t need air
conditioning.

Reading
had done his best Iceman “Bullshit” cough, which Acton was impressed he knew
what with the cultural and partial generational divide. The next morning a
shivering Reading had asked how the hell they slept in such bloody cold.

“Didn’t
bring any warm clothes, did you?” Acton had jibed.

Reading
had glared at him. “It’s the bloody desert. Of course I didn’t bring
warm
clothes.”

Warm
clothes were donated by Acton and several of the students, along with his
former partner at Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Martin Chaney. Chaney had
been eager to accept the invitation, Reading not as much, but with enough
cajoling from his friends had agreed. After all the four of them had been
through over the past several years, a bond had formed. Reading and Chaney the
bond formed between police partners; Acton and Laura the bond of a love forged
under fire, and the sharing of those experiences binding them all.

Reading
was Interpol now, which had proven convenient for them during recent events in
Rome. Chaney’s work for the Triarii, a two thousand year old organization
founded from the ruins of a Roman legion tasked with protecting the crystal
skulls by their Emperor Nero, allowed him the freedom to travel anywhere if it
were on Triarii business, and after what Professors James Acton and Laura
Palmer had done for them when they all first met, favors were owed.

Which
meant Chaney was able to follow his friends into the middle of nowhere and play
archeologist, but with a purpose that he had alluded to, but hadn’t mentioned
to Acton yet. It was driving Acton a little nuts, because he was certain it was
Triarii related, and every time they entered the picture, bullets started
flying.

All
Acton wanted was a nice, peaceful two weeks in the Egyptian desert with his
fiancée and friends.

Gunfire
erupted to Acton’s left, but he ignored it.

“Is it
that time already?”

Laura
looked at her watch.

“No, not
for another five minutes.” She looked around then sighed. “Must be Terrence
again, I don’t see him anywhere. I’m going to have to have a talk with him. The
self-defense training is encouraged, but not at the expense of his studies.”

Terrence
Mitchel was a young university doctoral candidate from the University College
of London where Laura taught. He was eager, brilliant, and had discovered
recently he loved shooting things. After the events in London and elsewhere
around the globe, Laura had used her considerable inherited wealth to provide
both her dig site in Egypt and Acton’s in Peru with exceptional security,
provided mostly by ex-SAS British Special Forces.

Acton
knew they both slept at night a little more secure knowing these guys were
around, but also because they were taking the opportunity to be trained in
self-defense techniques, along with how to handle pretty much every weapon
imaginable. This training had saved their asses on more than one occasion, and
allowed them to contribute meaningfully to several operations they had been
mixed up in.

After
the recent turmoil in Egypt, Laura had thought it might be a good idea if the
students, at least those interested, were taught some basic self-defense and
survival skills.

They had
both been stunned when every single student requested the training.

So at
ten each morning the camp would gather for one hour and train with the SAS
guards. Much of it was straight physical fitness, but at least half of every
session was basic hand-to-hand combat and weapons training, along with a five
to ten minute lecture on surviving a hostage situation, tricks on how to break
out of zip ties, how to kick down doors, and a myriad of other things that
Acton wished he had known years ago. His training with the National Guard and
his tour during Desert Storm hadn’t prepared him for much of what he’d been
through. Straight combat, sure, but escape and evade, recon, hostage rescue,
sniper tactics, etc., were all Special Forces type training that he had never
been exposed to.

He and
Laura took these training sessions seriously, discussing each lesson amongst
themselves, and now the students, while working the site. They all found talking
about what had just been taught reinforced it in their minds, and they all knew
it just might save their lives one day.

Reading’s
head poked out from the air conditioned tent.

“What
the bloody hell was that?”

“Self-defense
training starts in five. Want to join us?” asked Laura, still on her knees,
chipping away hundreds of years of caked dirt from what they had determined to
be the foundation of a house, probably from around two thousand years ago.

“Between
the Falklands War and you two, I’ve heard enough gunfire for a lifetime.”

He
disappeared back into the tent as Chaney roared with laughter at his former
boss. “He just wants to get back to the air conditioning.” Chaney turned to the
professors, hands on his hips. “Rather than shoot at paper targets, I think
I’ll go for my morning constitutional.”

“Huh?”

“‘Walk’,
dear,” explained Laura.

“Oh.”

“See you
soon,” said Chaney who then strode away from the camp and the dig site.

“Where
do you think he goes?” asked Acton.

Laura
shrugged. “Probably nowhere in particular. There’s not much to see around here,
we
are
kind of in the middle of nowhere.”

Acton
stretched his back then wiped his brow with a handkerchief he had fished from
his pocket.

“If he
finds an ice cream stand, let me know.”

“At ten
in the morning? You’ll lose your figure,” teased Laura.

Acton
dropped his head, raising his eyebrows, and gave her a look.

“Exsqueeze
me? I’ll have you know my stomach is still flat after all these years, despite
your cooking.”

Laura
feigned hurt.

“Are you
insulting my cooking?”

Acton
grinned and wrapped his arm across her shoulders, drawing her into him.

“Not at
all, my dear, I love your cooking.” He lowered his voice. “Especially your
home
cookin’.”

“Is that
another American euphemism?”

Acton
laughed as he led them toward the training area and the ever increasing
gunfire.

Alexandria, Egypt

12 August, 30 BC

Cleopatra stirred at the sound of her door opening, and immediately
fought to contain her excitement as her servants entered, bringing her usual
supplies for her morning ablutions. Scented hot water, cold water, soaps and
perfumes, a basket of assorted fruits, and another of her favorite figs, the
basket larger than normal.

But she
successfully contained her glee, and instead simply stood, stance wide, arms
outstretched, as she was attended to by her servants. Their ministrations
seemed impossibly slow today, and her trusted handmaiden looked her in the eye,
then glanced at the basket of figs, and she knew her orders had been fulfilled.

She
would have her revenge on Octavian, the traitorous heathen who would dare to
usurp a Pharaoh. She knew she had lost, she knew it was over for her, and there
was no way Octavian would get close enough to her for her to exact the revenge
she truly wanted.

Her
thoughts turned to her children. Her first son, with Caesar, before Antony,
would be named Pharaoh. But Caesarion she knew wouldn’t be allowed to live. Her
heart ached as she thought of her beautiful boy and the pain he was about to
endure after she was dead.

But at
least it would be short lived.

There
was no glory in parading a seventeen year old boy through Rome, and no reason
to torture him, for he had done nothing to Octavian.

He would
die, swiftly, before the notice of his ascension to the throne reached the
outer edges of the kingdom.

And what
of her other children, those she had with her beloved Antony? Ptolemy, and the
twins Alexander and Cleopatra Selene? Would they too be killed, or would mercy
be shown? She closed her eyes, praying to the gods to spare her children, to
let them live, even if in obscurity, the life of a Pharaoh, or royalty, no life
at all.

She
waved off her handmaiden who tried to wrap her robe around her shoulders,
instead letting it hang around the tie at her waist, her breasts exposed to the
cool morning breeze making its way through the windows. It was a perfect day. A
beautiful day. And on any other day she would have sailed the Nile were she
permitted, but no more. No more could she rule her people. No more could she
gaze upon her kingdom.

And no
more could she make love to her dearest Antony.

She
walked over to the table where the supplies had been placed, and took a drink
of water. She selected a fig, and chewed on it absentmindedly, staring at the
basket, looking for the king cobras that should be at the bottom. She had
requested two, should the first escape, but only one was needed to do the deed.

She felt
a hand on her shoulder. It was her trusted handmaiden, who had arranged the
delivery. Her eyes were glassed over, but her face strong. Cleopatra gave her a
smile of thanks, then motioned for her to distract the alert eyes of Octavian,
Epaphroditus. Her servant slinked over to the man, her lithe body irresistible
to most, but Epaphroditus ignored her.

What
is he, a eunuch?

She bent
down in front of him, and Cleopatra smiled as the man’s eyes were irresistibly
drawn to the remarkable example of womanhood being displayed. He shifted in his
chair.

Cleopatra
began removing the figs from the basket, and before Epaphroditus noticed, she
had nearly reached the bottom. Sinking her hand into the remaining figs, she
felt something move. She grabbed it tightly, and the basket shook in protest,
drawing the attention of Epaphroditus, who pushed her handmaiden away with a
brush of his large hand.

Cleopatra
pulled her hand from the basket, revealing the king cobra, a young one, less
than an arm’s length long, but as deadly the day it was born as any adult. She
spun toward Epaphroditus, holding the menacing creature out. With her free
hand, she reached for its head, grabbing it tightly, it now under her control,
but the creature now writhing in anger.

“Stay
back!” she ordered, Epaphroditus still advancing. She rushed a step forward,
the cobra’s hooded head facing her captor, and he stopped, retreating several
paces, shouting for help. She rounded her bed, placing it between her and him,
her handmaidens huddled in the corner, cowering in fear of the vicious, deadly
creature. The door sprung open, several Roman Centurions rushing inside.