Wild Storm (19 page)

“Pleased to meet you,” Storm said, smiling.

“A little too pleased, I’d say,” Strike grumbled under her breath, shooting him a look that could have been used to make the opening incision for heart surgery. Storm returned her glare with a blank face, a front affected throughout the world by men who are desperately trying to pretend they did not notice the attractiveness of another woman in their midst.

They had gotten close enough that their camels were now regarding each other at least as closely as the humans. Antony let out a groan and was again starting to slobber. Luckily, the humans seemed to be friendlier in their greeting. Storm watched as Dr. Comely’s eyes went wide for a second, and then seemed to fill with understanding.

“Are you with the I-A-P-L?”

“Sorry?” Storm said.

“The International Art Protection League. I just…I saw the gun sticking out of your pack there, and I—”

Strike was about to correct her, when Storm jumped in. “Yes. Yes, we’re with the International Art Protection League. Sorry, normally when people refer to us by our acronym, they say ‘i-apple,’ kind of like iPhone, but, yes, we have guns. And camels. And we are here to protect you. Your art. You and your art.”

“I’m so, so relieved you’re here,” Comely said. “We’ve been having the worst problems with bandits. They’ve stolen so many of our finds, I just can’t even begin to…”

She turned and yelled to a man who was just coming out of camp on his camel. “Professor, it’s the art protection people!”

Katie was smiling like she was a devout pilgrim and Storm and Strike were the Second Coming.

“May I present Dr. Stanford Raynes,” she said.

The man road his camel with a jerky hesitance. He was tall and thin and had a haughty, academic air that Storm immediately disliked. Still, he smiled and again exchanged names.

“Won’t you join us in camp?” Katie said.

“It would be our pleasure,” Storm said, spitting out the words before Strike could find the language that went with her scowl.

“Wonderful, wonderful. You can even help us extract our latest find from the tombs. It is potentially very, very exciting. But it’s also sort of heavy,” Katie said, turning her full attention to Storm. “Not that it would be a problem for you. You look like you could lift a tank. You must work out a lot, Mr. Talbot.”

“I’ve been known to,” Storm said.

Strike now had murder in her eyes, but she said nothing.

“Well, come on then,” Katie said. “We’ll have a rest while we wait for that big ball of fire to go away, but then there’s much to be done.”

CHAPTER 18

SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE EAST

n the far wall of Ahmed’s office, there was a large painting of a scene from “The Three Apples,” one of the tales related by Scheherazade in
One
Th
ousand and One Nights
.

In it, a fisherman discovers an ornate trunk, which he sells to the caliph, the ruler of all Islam. When the caliph opens the trunk, he finds the body of a young woman, hacked to pieces. The caliph dispatches his wazir—his chief advisor—to find the murderer, giving the wazir three days to accomplish this task or else face death himself.

On the third day, the wazir has failed and is about to be executed when two men appear, both claiming to be the murderer. The story unfolds from there with a series of turns, each more unexpected than the next, made all the more extraordinary when you remember the teller of the tale, Scheherazade, was trying to save herself from beheading by a merciless king.

To modern scholars, “The Three Apples” is one of the earliest known examples of a thriller in literature, relying as it did on an unreliable narrator and a multitude of plot twists to enthrall readers.

To Ahmed, it was a reminder that no one can be trusted and nothing is as it seems.

Which was
fi
tting, because the painting wasn’t just a painting.

It was also a door that led to a secret place, a chamber tall enough for a man to stand in, deep enough to stash anything of value. One of Ahmed’s ancestors had created it, to hide who-knows-what from who-knows-whom.

Ahmed had actually played in it as a boy. He’d steal some halva from the kitchen, fill an amphora with water, and scurry in early in the morning, before his father had finished his breakfast. Then, sufficiently provisioned, Ahmed would spend the day in there, spying on his father. The painting was transparent from the inside in a few places, allowing Ahmed to see out even though no one could see in. He would stay there, very quietly, listening intently to the conversations that passed between the men who came in.

Ahmed called the compartment
aman
, Arabic for safe.

Eventually, his father discovered what Ahmed was doing. But rather than scold his son, he praised the boy’s cleverness. He bid Ahmed to cease entering
aman
surreptitiously. But, every now and then, he would invite his son in to eavesdrop on an important conversation.

Now pay attention to this
, he’d say.
Th
is man is going to ask me to sell to him for a hundred gineih a unit. I will tell him such thing is not possible, that no one could sell for so little, that I will not be able to feed my family on that amount. I will plead and be quite pitiful. Eventually, he will acquiesce and accept a hundred-and-twenty-
fi
ve, never knowing that it only cost me
fift
y.

Other times, it would be:
Th
is man will begin by begging me for a special deal. He will cry about his own poverty. I will berate him for his weakness and then pretend to give him a very special price of a hundred and
fift
y gineih. He will say that his own children will go hungry. As a magnanimous gesture, I will give it to him for a hundred-and-twenty-
fi
ve gineih. It still only cost me
fift
y.

Ahmed was amazed how often his father’s predictions turned out to be accurate. He learned much about the world of men and business while secreted away in
aman
.

He never guessed that, someday, he would use the chamber to hide a store of something called promethium, a substance that could be used to make a weapon more powerful than anything his father could have dreamed of.

Nor did Ahmed guess that there were would be times he would ask members of his own security force to hide in there. Just in case. And only because Ahmed was not as gifted as his father at anticipating what visitors to the office might say and do.

And because those visitors tended to be more dangerous than the ones Ahmed’s father had entertained.

Ahmed was looking at that painting, thinking of the lessons of “The Three Apples,” remembering those long hours he had whiled away inside as a boy, when his phone rang.

“Yes?” he said in Arabic.

Ahmed’s side of the conversation went as follows:

“Yes, I’m ready. I am always ready. You know that….

“Any time you like. Would you like it to be tomorrow? I can make it tomorrow….

“Yes, of course I will have the money. Have I ever failed you?…

“And we are agreed on the price?…

“No, no, no. That is not acceptable. Not at all. These complications you speak of, these are not my problem….

“Well, so kill them if you have to kill them. What do you expect me to do, weep at their funeral? They mean nothing to me….

“Well, then I will suggest to you the desert is a wonderful place to dispose of a body. You are aware of the saying we have about that, yes?”

Ahmed then laughed and said, “No, no. It is this: sand only surrenders that which it wants to. You take care of your problems. I’ll take care of mine. I will see you in the morning, Allah be praised.”

CHAPTER 19

WEST OF LUXOR, Egypt

atie Comely’s cheeks were flushed, and for once it wasn’t only because of the heat.

“I just don’t understand where your objections are coming from,” she was saying to Professor Raynes. “These people are the answer to our dreams. Did you see the size of that guy? He could fit three Egyptians in his pocket. More importantly, did you see the size of his gun? And the woman looks like she can handle herself, too. Certainly a lot better than a bunch of so-called guards that run away the second someone gives them a cross look.”

Katie and the professor had retired to his tent. The heat of the day was upon them. Outside, the mercury was climbing toward fifty degrees Celsius, more than 120 degrees Fahrenheit. Inside Raynes’s tent, a solar-powered air-conditioning unit pumped in cool air that provided a hedge against the oppressiveness of the desert. Much of the cold leaked down through the wooden floor that Raynes had installed to lift his tent off the sand. The result was that the tent was merely lukewarm, as opposed to sweltering.

Still, it was a lot more posh than most of the archaeological digs Katie had been on. Raynes had all the latest equipment, plus generators to run it all. It helped give the camp at least a veneer of civilization amid the brutality of their surroundings.

“All I’m saying is, I’m not sure I trust these people, Katie,” Professor Raynes said.

“How could you say that? They’re from i-apple. They’re here to protect us.”

“Yes, yes, I know we
think
they’re from i-apple. But normally people from the International Art Protection League don’t just show up out of nowhere, on camels, without warning.
Th
ey call ahead.
Th
ey come in trucks.
Th
ese people, they could be anyone.”

Katie put her hands on her hips. “Why would they
say
they’re from i-apple if they’re not from i-apple? That just seems like a random thing to go claiming. If you’re that worried, call up your contact in Bern.”

“I will, I will,” the professor said.

“It’s just, we’re so close. I’ve got Bouchard ready to move. He’s coming out tonight.”

She had taken to naming her mummy Bouchard, after Pierre-François Bouchard, the French army officer who found the Rosetta Stone—the discovery that was considered to have launched the entire field of Egyptology. Until Katie was able to get the mummy back to the lab, she would get no closer to knowing his real name. Which of the many previously unfound ancient kings of Egypt was he?

“I know how much he means to you,” the professor said, softening his tone.

“Anyone who says they want to help? As far as I’m concerned, I don’t care if they are charlatans in some way we don’t yet realize. If they protect us, I’ll buy whatever snake oil they want to sell us or—”

“Katie, are you sure that’s wise?”

“I just…I lost Khufu and if I lose this too…I mean, this is my whole—” she began, then stopped because she realized she was about to cry.

“Katie, Katie,” the professor cooed.

He stood, walked around behind her, and began rubbing her shoulders. It was the first time he had ever touched her in a way that couldn’t be considered professional. She had a mind to fight it, to shrug it off, and to chastise him for it. She knew about his crush. It was wrong on many levels.

But then she reminded herself she needed all the help she could get. There were worse things than accepting an unsolicited back rub. If that’s what kept him on her side, she would allow it.

TWO TENTS OVER,
there were no back rubs going on.

“Oh, Mr. Talbot, you’re so big and strong,” Clara Strike said in a mocking rendition of Katie Comely’s soprano voice. “You look like you could lift anything. As a matter of fact, why don’t you come over here and lift up my skirt?”

“Oh, stop.”

“And when you’re done, what do you say we dig around in whatever you find there? I bet we could really do some wonderful excavating.”

“What are you suggesting?” Storm asked.

“What am I suggesting?” Strike said, returning to her normal tone. “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying she wants to play a game of hide the hieroglyph with you, and from the way you’re looking at her, the feeling is more than a little mutual.”

“Come on now,” Storm said. “You’re just being silly.”

“Silly, am I? Sorry; so it was just a coincidence that we went into the desert a newly and happily married couple—Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, on their honeymoon, riding the most romantic camels in all of Egypt, deeply in love—and the next thing I know I’m actually an old maid, schlepping over sand dunes with some guy named Tommy Talbot.”

“Terry Talbot. I told you I didn’t like the name Sullivan.”

“So you divorced me, just like that? The institution of marriage is that meaningless to you?”

“I didn’t div—

“I just don’t know what I’m going to say to all our friends who came to the wedding. And all the money my parents spent. Can you return a wedding dress that’s only been worn once?”

“Can I remind you we were not actually married?”

“Not anymore, apparently,” Strike sniffed, holding her chin up high.

“I was improvising, okay? I also told her we were international defenders of art, whatever the hell that means. I can’t be held accountable that the young woman happens to be impressed with my physique.”

“Yes, yes. I know. You’re
sooooo
ruggedly handsome.”

Storm brought a bandana to his face, dampening it with the sweat that was forming on his brow and lip. “Look, we’re here, okay? And I don’t know if you noticed, but this appears to be the only thing in the target-zone radius that’s not a pile of sand. The promethium might well have been discovered here.”

“By a bunch of archaeologists?”

“Or maybe by the people who were here before the archaeologists, I don’t know. But, as you so vividly pointed out, there is a lot of excavation going on here. People who dig in the Earth tend to find things down there. Maybe things like promethium.”

Strike uncrossed her arms, grabbed a water bottle, and took a swig. Storm could tell she was softening.

“Look, if you’ve got a better idea than hanging out here, I’m all for hearing it,” Storm said. “But at the moment, I think this is our best bet. At the very least, I’m sure we can protect them from these bandits that are supposedly roving around out here. Who knows? Maybe the bandits are the ones behind it. Or maybe there are Medina Society members embedded here at the dig site, pretending to be part of the expedition when really they’re secreting out the promethium every time they return to civilization? There are a host of possibilities.”

Strike fingered the water bottle. “Okay, so what are you proposing?”

“First off, we maintain the cover of being Talbot and Sullivan from the International Art Protection League. There seems to be a lot going on tonight. You shadow Professor Plumb—”

“Professor Raynes.”

“Yeah, whatever. As I was saying, you stick with him, see if you can work your charms on him to figure out what’s really going on. Pay attention to the natives, too. They’re the ones who are doing the heavy lifting, as Katie pointed out. But it still seems like Raynes is the head honcho of this dig site, so he’ll probably know about anything that’s been happening here. Meanwhile, I’ll hang out with Dr. Comely.”

“Terrible sacrifice for you that it is,” Strike said, narrowing her eyes.

Storm did his best to look virtuous. “Why, Mrs. Sullivan, I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

THE FEROCIOUS SUN HAD FINALLY BEGUN
to settle in the sky, flooding the desert with mysterious reds and complex yellows. The sand released its heat with the same kind of speed it had soaked it up in the morning. And at the dig site, the teams of grad students, postdocs, professors, and local workers had shifted back into an active state.

“We basically have two work sessions a day,” Katie Comely was explaining to Storm, who was patiently following behind her. “We’re up before first light so we can take advantage of the morning hours. We take a siesta in the middle of the day. And then we work again at night, usually at least a few hours after sunset.”

“When do the bandits strike?” Storm asked.

“The morning. It’s almost like they know when we have something really valuable. I think one of the workers is tipping them off, probably getting paid for the information. But I don’t know which one, and my Arabic isn’t very good yet, so it’s hard for me to make any headway in that area.”

“And when they come, it’s…on camels? In dune buggies? What?”

“Pickup trucks. They need the trucks to haul off our stuff. You can see them coming from a ways off, but there seems to be nothing we can do to defend ourselves. It’s so disheartening. The professor has hired security, but they turn tail and run without firing a shot.”

“Who are these bandits? Do you know anything about them?”

“Well, they cover their faces, of course. They’re just…locals, I guess. Desperate locals. Egypt’s economy has been in a real tailspin with all the political instability. Unemployment has spiked. Sometimes I wish I spoke better Arabic so I could talk to them. There has to be a way to get them to stop what they’re doing. Maybe we could hire them to provide security for us, you know? Pay them protection money. Either that, or maybe I could convince them to, I don’t know, find someone else to rob.”

Katie had led him to the entrance of the tomb and was about to go underground when she paused.

“Oh my goodness, do you hear that?” she said.

Storm stopped behind her and tuned his ears to a sweet chirping sound. It was at once angelic and strangely uplifting, like nothing Storm had ever heard.

“What is that?” Storm asked, finally focusing on the small, yellow bird making the sound.

“That,” Katie said, “is a very rare sight, indeed. That’s a Jameson’s Finch.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Egyptians believe it’s extraordinary good luck to see a Jameson’s Finch,” she said. “It’s like the American equivalent of a rabbit’s foot, a horseshoe, and a four-leaf clover, all in one. People who see a Jameson’s Finch are said to be on the brink of something very fortunate happening to them. The bird originally had a number of names. No one could seem to agree what to call it. Pharaohs actually kept the finches at their palaces so they could enjoy the songs. We’ve found mummified finches in the tombs of pharaohs who couldn’t bear the thought of going to the afterlife without their favorite songbird.”

“Poor bird.”

“Actually, what made it a poor bird is that they were being hunted to extinction. These finches have a very narrow migratory path, stopping at just a few spots on their journey from the tip of South Africa up to Egypt each year. It made them an easy target for poachers.

“Then Jameson Rook, the famed magazine journalist, wrote a major story about the bird’s plight and how it was going the way of the carrier pigeon if no one stepped in. Several governments in Africa, which normally couldn’t agree on anything—even what name to give the finches—banned hunting of the finches and also set up some sanctuaries for them. And the finches’ numbers rebounded to the point where they’re now no longer considered endangered, merely threatened. The Egyptians were so thrilled not to lose the bird, they officially renamed it Jameson’s Finch, in Mr. Rook’s honor.”

Storm listened to the bird’s song, then mimicked it, pursing his lips and tweeting back at it in its own lilting song.

“Wow, that’s pretty impressive,” Katie said. “Maybe you’re good luck, too?”

“We’ll just have to hope so,” Storm said.

As they went underground, she began narrating the history of the dig site—how it had been discovered by Professor Raynes, using his advanced seismographic techniques; how a rotating team of archaeologists had been unearthing treasures from it for a year now; and then how she had happened upon the hollow stone and the hidden tunnel underneath.

Storm listened with half an ear. He was keeping an eye out for anything that seemed out of place or anyone acting strangely. For whatever he had said to Strike, he wasn’t totally convinced the dig site had anything to do with the promethium. But it made sense to act as if it did. There was no downside of being wrong, and potentially great benefits to his investigation if he was right.

So he studied everything and everyone with great care. Even Katie Comely. If the Medina Society really was as clever as everyone thought, it very well might be using a fresh-scrubbed American girl as an operative.

Storm kept asking questions, being careful to stay true to his cover. The passageway Katie was leading him down had been widened and reinforced to prevent cave-in. Storm was able to walk—albeit in a crouch—down into the lowest tomb. Once there, Storm could stand. They had set up temporary lights that set the whole place aglow.

“Up until just a few days ago, it’s very possible no human beings had laid eyes on any of this for five thousand years,” Katie said, pointing out some of the hieroglyphics on the walls.

“And this,” she finished, “is the mummy I’ve been calling Bouchard. Note the way his arms are crossed. Note how intricately the linen was bound around him and the care that was taken with every detail. We won’t know until we unwrap him, but my guess is we’ll find a very painstaking embalming. There’s no doubt in my mind this was a pharaoh. But we have to be able to get it back to the lab so we can study it adequately.”

Storm looked at Katie, then at the human-shaped pile of rags in front of him, trying to imagine what this king’s world had been like and what kind of troubles he had faced. What would this king have felt about something like the Medina Society, a group that believed in killing and maiming to achieve its goals? He probably wouldn’t have blinked an eye. Brutality was the norm back then. Power was taken by force. The losers were killed or enslaved. It was only modern humans who were supposed to be more evolved.

Katie was talking about the various scientific processes that would soon be applied to the mummy when Storm interrupted her.