EIGHT
Najid kept them waiting for fifteen minutes outside the gates, and another thirty-seven minutes once they were inside his house, which suited Thorne just fine. He used the time to contact his people in London, gathering intel on this clearly well-heeled Najid guy.
He received a response in less than two minutes. Dr. Khalifa Najid was the Minister of Irrigation and Water Resources, had been for thirty-plus years. He was well respected in the community, married young to a wealthy Egyptian heiress, no children. He was positioned to open one of Egypt’s largest dam projects since Aswan in a few weeks. Thorne glanced at several photographs of the man and his immediate family, and collected the data, but didn’t see any obvious correlation between Najid and Professor Magee.
Didn’t see it, but his gut said it was there.
Although he felt naked without his weapon, Thorne had wisely left it secreted in a special compartment in the Jeep.
The metal detectors and body scanner were subtle, but not hidden, as they were led down the long, wide, tiled-floor hallways. Discreet security, dressed in dark suits and looking like American Secret Service agents, were strategically positioned so that they didn’t veer off course.
His GPS locating skill had never failed him. The professor had left the basket containing the tassel at the souk for later memory retrieval. The tassel led here. Ergo, Najid and Magee were somehow linked.
“Wow.” Isis eyed the opulence of the house as they were led by a white-robed servant through high-ceilinged hallways with niches holding statues and various artifacts tastefully displayed. “Everything here should be in the museum, and before you suggest it, no, I don’t think anything we’re looking at is a good replica; it’s all the real deal,” she whispered as their shoes echoed on the tiles.
The doors on either side were numerous, and all closed. The intricate hand-painted amber and lapis blue tiled floors cooled the spaces, while the musical sound of unseen fountains and the fragrance of fresh flowers added to the refined ambience of the place.
Having been raised almong similar wealthy trappings, Thorne was unimpressed. It wasn’t a home. The villa was skillfully staged to give the aura of wealth and status, meant not only to showcase the minister’s status and wealth, but also to intimidate.
Been there, done that.
They were eventually led through an arch and shown to a vast living room cooled by slowly circulating ceiling fans assisted by an efficient air-conditioning system. Beverages were offered and accepted, and the servant melted away. He returned within minutes bearing a brass tray holding very English-looking china teacups, a teapot and milk jug, and a plate of various small cakes. Very civilized.
Wide-open French doors overlooked what was either a large pond or a lap pool in a shade-dappled courtyard filled with greenery, lush red flowers, and white upholstered lawn furniture. Sunlight beat onto the floor tiles and bounced an amber reflection off white linen sofas and bronze-striped chairs inside the room.
The coffee table was an alabaster sarcophagus, and an enormous limestone fireplace had bas-relief hieroglyphs carved into the surround, drawing the focus to an enormous carved wooden bust of a woman with curly hair, sloe eyes, and no nose. She reminded Thorne in some bizarre way of Michael Jackson, which made his lips twitch. One entire wall was limestone carved to look exactly like a wall in a tomb, with brightly colored glyphs depicting everyday life in ancient Egypt. The execution was remarkable. But he wasn’t here to admire the minister’s art collection as he prowled the perimeter of the large room, trailing his fingers over priceless antiquities to see if anything popped.
Plenty did. The GPS numbers scrolled in his head like computer code. Nothing jumped out regarding Magee.
Twenty-foot-tall wooden palm trees with black trunks and gilded fronds filled the four corners and led the eye to the intricately painted ceiling overhead. On beauty overload, Thorne half expected Salome to appear and strip off her seven veils. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what Isis’s pale breasts looked like beneath diaphanous scarves, or how her nipples would peak at the brush of his fingers. Inappropriately aroused, he tamped down the image of Isis in nothing but sheer colored silks, and did another circuit of the room before seating himself in one of the numerous striped chairs. He chose carefully—the bright sunlight behind him, but the chair positioned so his back wasn’t toward any doorway. Crossing his legs took care of his semi-erect state, but nothing blotted out the image of Isis spotlit by the sun, wearing nothing but a mist of color.
His leg ached and the back of his neck itched. He ran his palm around his nape so he didn’t grip his thigh. Oblivious to his thoughts, Isis, head down, was clearly edgy as a cat on a hot tin roof as she paced along the outer edge of an area rug the size of a rugby field.
“This carpet should also be in a museum,” she said sotto voce as she paced. “This was probably woven in the sixteenth century, and yet even muted, look how beautiful the colors are still.” She crouched down, disappearing behind the back of a sofa. “Wool. Asymmetrical pile…” she murmured to herself. Thorne imagined her stroking the damned carpet and all the hair on his body lifted in response.
“Based on an old Persian design—Egyptian wool, and the workmanship indicates Cairene weavers. They, along with quantities of Egyptian wool, were taken to the court in Istanbul—”
“I don’t give a damn how old the carpet is.” Thorne sounded more annoyed than he should.
She rose to her feet and waved a vague hand over the floor. “I was looking for—you know.”
“We’re in the right place,” he said without elaboration. Under a long, tall narrow table holding an exquisite bust of Queen Something or other, Thorne had already spotted the place on the carpet where the tassel had been removed.
He was no expert, but he’d bet his next paycheck that the bust, along with the rest of the beautifully curated items in the room, was the real deal, and that Isis was correct. Everything should be in the museum.
“Come, sit down and drink some tea; it’ll cool you off.” Thorne never trusted that he wasn’t being bugged or recorded. He gave her a meaningful look, and she navigated the furniture without further comment.
He felt his phone vibrate once. The research people in London were fast and top-notch. He scanned the closely spaced text, then deleted the information, returning the phone to his front pocket. They had found no connection between Magee and Dr. Khalifa Najid. No meetings were recorded, no clandestine midnight encounters witnessed.
And yet Thorne had the tassel from this very carpet in his pocket.
Isis poured the hot, strong tea. “Milk or lemon?” When he indicated his choice, she added milk and tonged a couple of cubes of sugar into his cup before handing it over to him. The fragrance of her skin, an erotic combination of cinnamon and perspiration, made his mouth water and his pulse kick. Her face and throat had a damp sheen and looked as silky and soft as dewy rose petals. Thorne found he didn’t have to have eyes on her to be turned on. Just the humid, spicy, Isis-scented perfume of her turned his dick to stone.
He sipped the tea he didn’t want.
Picking up her own filled cup she sat down gingerly on the white sofa nearby, cradling her saucer in both hands, her orange T-shirt loud and cheerful in the muted décor.
Ignoring the tantalizing smell of her, turning a blind eye to the way the light stroked her skin with a pearly sheen, Thorne asked, “What business would the professor have with the Minister of Irrigation and Water Resources, do you suppose?”
“Water resources?” Her eyes widened in surprise before she shrugged and pushed her glasses up her nose. A line of perspiration outlined the leather strap between her breasts, and her hair, absorbing the humidity, had doubled in volume. She looked damp, rumpled, and sexy as hell. “I can’t think of a thing. Unless he was a sponsor, or had some kind of issue with the dig. My father tended to stay away from anyone official whenever possible.” Her tone was dry.
“Mr. Thorne. How may I be of service?”
Thorne had heard the sibilant footsteps and was aware the man stood just outside the door. Thorne waited until their host came fully into the room before he placed his cup on a nearby table and rose to his feet.
Even if he didn’t recognize Najid from the small photograph he’d just seen on his iPhone, he’d have known this man was not only wealthy, but incredibly powerful just by his bearing, which was very similar to that of the Earl. His charcoal suit was Savile Row, his highly polished dress shoes Tanino Crisci, his watch Chopard. His black beard was neatly trimmed and his dark eyes too black to read.
“Thank you for meeting with us at such short notice, Minister,” Thorne said easily, his limp intentionally more pronounced as he walked forward, hand extended to greet their host.
Najid’s handshake was firm and quick. “Unfortunately, I do not have the luxury of much time to converse. I must return to my office for a meeting. How may I be of service?”
Thorne extended his arm to include Isis in the conversation. Najid had not so much as flickered an eyelash in her direction. She might as well be invisible. “This is Isis Magee, Professor Magee’s daughter. She’s tracing her father’s footsteps in his search for Cleopatra’s tomb and thought you might be able to assist her with any information you may have.”
“I have heard of Professor Magee, of course. But there has been no discovery of Queen Cleopatra’s tomb by him or anyone else, to my knowledge.”
“Was the discovery of the tomb something you discussed with my father when he visited you in the spring?” Isis asked tightly. Thorne curled his fingers around her shoulder in warning.
Najid gave her a black-eyed glance down his hawk of a nose. “I have never had the honor of meeting your father, Miss Magee.” He shot his cuff to glance at his watch. “I’m afraid that is all the time I can afford you. I’ll have Jafari show you out.”
Isis took a step forward. “Are you saying my father never visited you here?”
“As I stated quite plainly, I have never met Professor Magee. I’m sorry I couldn’t provide the information you wanted. Good day, Mr. Thorne. Miss Magee.”
“He’s lying!” Isis said under her breath as they watched him leave the room.
“No shit. Now to find out why. Come on.”
The eyes of dozens of surveillance cameras followed them through the house and outside to their vehicle.
“WHY WOULD HE LIE?” Isis demanded like a dog with a bone. She was turned sideways in her seat as he drove over July 26 Bridge back into the city, the late-afternoon sunlight making a glowing nimbus of her dark hair. She hadn’t even blinked when he retrieved his weapon from the hidden compartment under the floor mat on the driver’s side, where he’d stashed it, and laid it on the seat between them.
She pulled her camera case into her lap and dug in it for her phone. “I’m calling my father. Let’s see what he has to say.” She hit speed dial and put it on speaker so he could hear the ringing on the other end.
“Darling girl.”
“Daddy, how are you?”
“I found her, Isis. I found her!” The professor’s voice rose with excitement.
The her, Thorne presumed, was Cleopatra. The professor’s voice sounded eager and robust. But from reports, he was a pain in the ass and a demanding patient at Cresthaven, an Alzheimer facility just outside Seattle. Given that the place cost Isis more than she could afford made Thorne want to tell him to shut up and not add more burden to his daughter. But he knew she wouldn’t thank him for it. What did the professor want, an eighteen-hole golf course and a fishing lake?
“Found who, Daddy?”
“Cl—you know who,” he stage whispered. “I’m meeting my team after breakfast. I tell you, baby, this time the entire world will sit up and take notice! Tell your mother I won’t be home for several months. Perhaps you girls can come and visit me here in the summer. Would you like that, honey?”
“That will be great, Dad.” Isis kept her voice steady, but Thorne could feel her tight shoulders, and her set expression spoke volumes. “I just wanted to check to see how you’re doing.”
“We’re in a hotel right now. The food’s not bad, and the beds are clean. We head out to the site at first light.”
“Where is the site, Dad?”
There was a long pause before he said hesitantly. “I can’t tell you that, honey. You know even the walls have ears. I don’t want this to leak until I’ve found definitive proof my find is genuine.”
Isis squeezed her eyes shut. “Do you remember leaving a small basket containing a carpet tassel at Beniti’s?”
“Why would I do that? A carpet tassel from where?”
Isis met Thorne’s eyes and pulled an expressive face. Her father believed he was in Egypt and about to start the dig. He still had no memory of the events leading up to his supposed discovery of the tomb. So if he’d met Dr. Najid, it must’ve been very close to the time of his attack. All his memories stopped and started around the time he’d come to Cairo on his last dig. The most crucial month was gone.
Thorne avoided hitting a gang of street urchins running between heavy traffic. Horns blared, but nobody slowed down. A glance in the rearview mirror showed a blue Mercedes E Class on his right, about ten cars back, and an ancient-looking tan Audi directly behind him, weaving between the other vehicles.
He pressed the gas, listening to the disjointed conversation with only one ear as he navigated the congested road and watched the tails.
“The tassel led us to the Minister of Water and Irrigation, Dr. Khalifa Najid,” Isis pushed, determined to get something out of the old man. Thorne wanted to tell her she was wasting her time. “Does his name ring any bells?”
“None. I don’t like it here, Isis,” he said petulantly. “When can I leave?”
“Aren’t you about to go on a dig?” Isis asked tentatively.
“I—I am? No, honey, I think we’re at Connie and Al’s place… Or maybe this is the Mihms’ house? Let me ask your mother.”
“I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.” Her voice broke, and Thorne watched her straighten her spine as she told her father bracingly, “Why don’t you wait for her on the bench by the front door where it’s nice and sunny?”
“It’s raining! I’m bored. I should be with you looking for her. Why don’t I come out for a bit and help you?”
Isis curled her fingers into her palms. Thorne laid his hand over hers, and she shot him a grateful look. “Daddy, you’re in Seattle, and you were hurt the last time you were in Cairo. You’re in a place I know you’ll be safe. Please be patient. I’m here in Cairo, and we’re looking for her. I’ll find her for you, I promise.”
Several moments of silence went by while the professor seemed to be trying to process the information. Isis had a shitload more patience than Thorne would’ve had in a similar position.
“You’re a good girl, honey. Call us and let us know how you’re doing. Your mother sends her love.”
“I will, and you call me if you remember anything. Even the smallest thing might help us. I love you, Daddy. Be good.”
“Find her for me, Isis. Just find her. I don’t know why, honey, but she’s in grave danger.”
She put up a hand even though Thorne wasn’t about to say anything. “Give me a minute, okay?” She put her phone back in her camera bag and sighed. “My mother died fifteen years ago. And Cleo in grave danger? She’s been in the same resting place since thirty BCE!”
Thorne took his hand off hers to rest on the gun lying beside his hip. He wasn’t sure if sympathy was what she needed right now. Hell, if it was, he wasn’t the man for the job. Her sadness was palpable, but she didn’t cry as he suspected she wanted to do. She held on to her emotions by a tenuous thread.
“It’s so unfair. As wacky as he can be, my father has a brilliant mind and a talent for archaeology. At one time he was the top Egyptologist in the world. It’s so damned unfair.”
“He’s being well taken care of.”
“Right,” Isis said briskly. “And we have a puzzle to solve. Clearly something is going on. Najid doesn’t know we can’t confirm him ever meeting with my father, so a lie was pretty risky—if that’s what it was.”
And maybe he did know the good professor was incapable of remembering, so he felt he could lie with impunity. “We don’t know that what he said isn’t the truth. But you know that people lie for any number of reasons. Deceptive gain, or to escape punishment—number-one reason: to cover their arses,” he said dryly. “How about we pay a visit to your father’s friend in the hospital and see if he can shed any light on a possible connection between your father and Najid?”
“Sure,” she said, biting her lip, something Thorne wanted desperately to do himself. “Keep heading this way; you’ll see the hospital off to the right. I hate to say it, but I’m not sure what to do next. I have no idea where my father might have hidden more clues, which means we’re at a dead end, right?”
“Not necessarily.” Thorne kept an eye on the two vehicles tailing them. An innocent man didn’t follow the daughter of a man he claimed not to know. “Beniti al-Atrash might have more insight than his son.”
Thorne changed lanes, speeding up. The Jeep might look like half the other vehicles on the road, but the engine was souped up and could outrun anything chasing them. Thorne didn’t want to put that to the test. He hoped the men following them were there merely for surveillance. He didn’t want a shoot-out with Isis in the car.
The vehicles kept pace. Local plates, tinted windows. He punched in the license plates one-fingered on his phone, then added a question mark. Let London ID them.
“Fingers crossed.”
Thorne didn’t believe in crossed fingers or lucky rabbits’ feet. His good-luck charm was an automatic weapon. His Glock tended to even the playing field.
It didn’t take long to reach the hospital on El Kasr El Aini Street in Garden City, and they found al-Atrash’s room on the second floor without incident.
Christ. He hated hospitals. The smell of antiseptic curled through Thorne’s nervous system and settled like an oil slick in his gut. The sight of a wheelchair, shoved against the wall, made him remember…
“Are you all right?” Isis asked, laying her hand lightly on his arm. He felt a sizzling arc of electricity resonate through his bones. Static electricity, nothing more.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” His voice was curt. He hadn’t set foot in a hospital in months, but his body reacted to the stimuli as if he were once again in a hospital bed, where even a morphine drip hadn’t been enough to mask the pain.
“Because you’re limping more, and gritting your teeth. Your leg hurts from all that damned running around, doesn’t it? Maybe we should have it looked at while we’re here?”
“I’m fine.” He’d had enough f*cking doctors poking and prodding him for a lifetime. “This is the room.”
“Let me go in and see if he’s up to visitors first.”
Thorne motioned for her to go ahead. He leaned against the wall outside the door and surveyed the people milling about. Doctors, orderlies, a couple of women sitting outside a room wringing their hands and talking quietly. Normal hospital activity. His mother had visited him. Once. She couldn’t handle his “infirmity.” Better that way. In those months it had taken everything in him not to chuck it all in and wave the white flag for Boris Yermalof to f*cking come and finish him off. It had taken a little too f*cking long for the anger to become stronger than the pain. Once that happened, he did everything in his power to get the hell out of there and start living.
He still had an itch on the back of his neck. One of the cars following them had turned off with him, parking seven cars over in the lot. Thorne went over to the window and looked down. Two shadowy figures were all he made out through the tinted windows. Thorne figured he had multiple choices of just who’d sent them.
At any other time, Yermalof would’ve been at the top of his hit parade. God only knew, the son of a bitch was mean enough, angry enough, determined enough to track him down to the ends of the earth in retaliation for what Thorne had done to him.
The losers who’d attacked him in the underpass, the guys who’d chased them earlier that day, Dr. Khalifa Najid… hell, he’d even add Husani the Kiss Whisperer, and Dylan Brengard, the casual ex-boyfriend.
The list was growing, and they’d barely been in Cairo forty-eight hours.
The door opened and Isis popped her head out. “He’s doing much better. Come in. I told him you were my boyfriend to keep things simple.”
Whatever Thorne was feeling right then, simple it was not. This wasn’t a mere case of finding a long-lost tomb and restoring Magee’s dubious reputation. The professor had enemies. More than one if Thorne was the judge of the situation. And the man’s daughter tied him in knots.
He followed her inside.
The second bed was empty, the curtain pulled back. Just the three of them in the room with the door closed. Beniti al-Atrash was in his late sixties. He looked like he’d done a couple of rounds with middleweight champion Carl “the Cobra” Froch. His arm was in a cast, supported by a sling; one eye was swollen shut; the four-inch gash to his cheek was black and blue and stitched like Frankenstein’s monster. That must’ve hurt like a son of a bitch. Thorne approached the bed as Isis introduced them.
“Isis has explained some of the circumstances surrounding August’s discovery of the tomb of Cleopatra.” Al-Atrash cut to the chase as he tried to straighten against the pillows Isis was mounding behind him. When she was done fussing, he brought his palm to her cheek and smiled at her before addressing Thorne.
“Do you concur with little bird’s theory that my attacker, and the two attempts on your lives, are a direct result of whatever it was my friend unearthed when he was here three months ago?”
Thorne sat on the empty bed, and after a moment Isis came and sat beside him. She slipped her much smaller hand into his, clasping his fingers where his hand rested on his knee. “It’s very likely, sir. This many violent confrontations in such a short space of time after our arrival, coupled with the unprecedented visits to your shop and stall, would indicate that everything is tied in to Professor Magee’s find. Can you tell me anything about your attackers?”
“I had closed the stall first, then gone through to close the shop. The three men were inside when I came through the back. One man demanded, ‘Where is it?’ Since I had no frame of reference, I presumed he wanted the cash box, which I gave him with all haste. He took the money, stuffed it into his pockets, and swore at me, then asked again.
“I asked what the ‘it’ was he referred to. One of the other men hit me with his gun.” The older man touched his left eye with his fingertips. His hand shook. Isis tightened her fingers between Thorne’s and he squeezed back.
“The third punched me in the stomach. I don’t remember much after that. Husani found me when he brought the goods inside from the street.”
“Did any of them mention my father by name, or say Cleopatra?” Isis asked.
“Not that I recall, little bird. I am deeply sorry.”
“God!” she said achingly, as her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry this happened to you.” She turned to Thorne. “Is there even a remote chance that this has nothing to do with my father?”
“I don’t believe so. This is all too premeditated to be unrelated. And the only thing everyone seems to have in common is your father.” The only person who didn’t fit was the Russian, although Thorne didn’t rule him out entirely.
“You were with him just before he flew home in April,” he said to al-Atrash. “Do you believe he really did find Cleopatra’s tomb at last?”
For several minutes Thorne thought the man had fallen asleep. But eventually he opened his eyes. “They called me from this very hospital to say he’d been found by a group of tourists out on the sand. He was disoriented. Extremely confused. I wanted to believe him, but to be frank? I don’t know if he found the tomb and was moved away to deflect curiosity while someone else plundered it, or if he became confused and was set upon by bandits.”
“But all his companions were killed.”
“Seven men who had been on various digs with him before, yes.”
“The police considered it a gang-related crime,” Thorne mused. “All the valuables were stripped from the men, and anything of value was removed from their camp.” He rubbed his thigh absently, then abruptly stopped when Isis gave him a sympathetic and worried look. “Is there anything else you remember between the time you came here to see the professor and when you put him on the plane back to Seattle?”
“August searched for Cleopatra’s tomb for almost twenty-five years. Do I think he was desperate enough to prevaricate one last time? Perhaps. But the day after he was brought to the hospital he seemed quite lucid, and he assured me that he had indeed found it.”
“That’s when he called me and told me to arrange a press conference,” Isis said quietly. “After the last time, I refused. Unless he could show me irrefutable proof. He claimed he had it and he’d show me when he got home. But by the time I picked him up at Sea-Tac the following day, he didn’t even remember that he’d returned to Egypt, let alone that he’d found the tomb.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore. Did he leave anything else with you for safekeeping? You know how he loved to leave himself clues to jog his memory at times.”
“No. Nothing. I believe he donated all his notes and artifacts from his digs to the London Natural History Museum to preserve his legacy before he came here last.”
“He did, and we came from there after going through as much of his work as possible. They’re in the process of mounting his exhibit now. It’ll be open next month. I’m hoping he’s well enough to attend.”
“Insha Allah.”
“Na’am,” Isis said softly. “God willing. Have you noticed any unusual antiquity activity in the last few months?”
“No more than usual. I have procured some very good pieces that are genuine, and many more that are not. Are these pieces from the tomb of Cleopatra? I can’t say. There was nothing that I saw that would identify them as such.”
“So we’re back to square one. Do you still have any of these pieces?”
“We still have three coins and a necklace with exquisite workmanship indicating royalty. See Husani; he will show you. They might give you the clue you seek. Are you an antiquities dealer, Mr. Thorne?”
“No, I’m a banker. I’m merely here to lend support to Isis while she’s here. What can you tell us about Dr. Khalifa Najid?” Thorne changed the subject to safer ground.
“The Minister of Water Resources and Irrigation?” Al-Atrash glanced from Thorne to Isis and back again with a puzzled frown. “I don’t understand. Surely you are not suggesting that he has anything to do with these attacks?”
“We believe my father visited him around the time he found the tomb. The basket you were keeping for Dad contained the tassel from a carpet. Dr. Najid’s carpet. We think my father left it as a clue for himself, but we can’t figure out what their connection was. As for the broken stick—” She shrugged. “Do you have any idea why he’d want that? The minister denies knowing or ever meeting my father.”
“There would be no reason for their paths to ever cross. Dr. Najid has held that prestigious position for more than three decades. He is considered a big hero for bringing water to the desert with the new dam in the Valley of the Scorpions. He’s well liked and well respected in the community. He’s known as a connoisseur of Egyptian artifacts, and has a well-documented and well-publicized collection. But as far as I know he doesn’t sponsor digs, at least not that I’ve ever heard.”
Isis’s palm was damp, but Thorne kept his fingers twined with hers. He didn’t remember when he’d ever done something as simple as hold a woman’s hand. It felt oddly… right. “Would their paths have crossed socially?”
The older man smiled. “Socializing in that rarefied environment would make August supremely uncomfortable. And while I consider him my brother, and mean no disrespect, he does not enjoy feeling inferior socially. His milieu is the area in or around his precious tombs. That was where he always took prospective sponsors. Out to whatever dig he was showcasing, where he was in control and, how do you say it—the star of the show. Not to detract from my old friend, but he was a showman. And he knew what pleased the moneymen.”
He shook his head. “No. I cannot see August attending afternoon tea, or a soirée in Dr. Najid’s social circles. This would be highly unlikely.”
Thorne saw that the older man was tiring, and got to his feet, tugging Isis with him.
“We’ll go now,” Isis said, then walked over to wrap her arms gently around the older man’s shoulders. She rested her check against his for a few moments, then kissed him and stepped back. She slid her hand back into Thorne’s. “If you need anything, Husani will contact us.”