The Lost Tomb of Cleopatra (Brook Burlington Book 1) Page 22

  A thought surged through her brain like a tidal wave, and shook her to the bone. Was Muller actually Strelov? The entire scenario came into rough focus in her imagination. What if Muller had found her Cleopatra and him Antony, and instead of turning them over to Goering and his thieving thugs, with whom he had become thoroughly disillusioned, he had taken the treasures for himself? What if he'd hidden them somewhere, until after the war? Once hooked, he might have continued, from hiding, to collect the treasures of antiquity. With find after find in his hands, perhaps Muller had been unable to kick the fascination. Brook knew how that went—she'd felt it herself—the excitement of discovery. Even if ownership itself wasn't the thrill for her personally, she supposed it could be for someone like Strelov.

  What kind of life might he have lived? Deserting the army, changing his name to something Russian—the hated enemy of Germany— just to throw off the scent, or in revenge? A missing person, but very much alive, living in the shadows, never to be seen or photographed, in possession of many of the most valuable objects known to history. Brook imagined herself in Strelov’s position, living in something like a castle without a care in the world.

  While her imagination soared, Brook's eyes sagged to the rough rhythm of the SUV over the rocky road. The night's adventure caught up to her, and she drifted to sleep.

  Katy, next to her, considered Brook's closed laptop. Slowly, the computer slipped an inch, then another. A few more bumps and it would fall to the floor, perhaps damaging it.

  Katy checked the rear-view mirror. Grekov glanced back, somehow understanding what Katy had in mind.

  Another bump; and the computer slipped again.

  Katy reached over and gently pulled the laptop aside. She placed it on the seat between them. What she would do next, she wasn't sure.

  Grekov glanced behind him at the laptop on the seat. Katy was certain that if she weren't there, Grekov would grab it, open it, no doubt transfer all the information to a thumb-drive at some sort of proprietary record-breaking speed, and have it back on the seat before Brook had finished her first dream.

  In response, Katy placed her hand on the silvery device.

  She smiled at Grekov; he smiled back.

  55

  Matrouh Governorate, Egypt / Morgantown, WV

  Grekov took another step up the ladder in order to better oversee the dig, which had doubled in size in the last few days. It now covered a full three acres, with over two hundred trusted diggers hard at work. In some ways, it was a typical archaeological site, with the usual logistics, but in others, this was different: Grekov had insisted Ali hire only European workers; the locals had been shut out. The logistics had been difficult; every hotel, hostel, bed & breakfast, and spare room in southwest Alexandria was now occupied, and buses were needed to drive the workers to the site, far away from urban areas, so food, water, sanitary needs, first aid and all the rest needed to be supplied.

  Ali had been good at it—Grekov left the details to him. In exchange, for the most part, Grekov left the actual archaeology to Ali. Grekov knew the symbiosis could not last. The trick, he knew, was knowing when to break the pact. The Roman pot had not been the point; Grekov had acceded to Ali's demand. And just this morning, he declined the opportunity to take Brook's computer from her and steal its secrets.

  With the new influx of diggers, Brook, Katy and Ali were there mostly to supervise, hurrying to various points in the dig as they were summoned; identifying objects found, suggesting ways to extract the items with as little damage as possible to the treasures themselves and the surrounding terrain as possible. In that sense, it was an easy dig to control; they were under no illusions that they would find a tunnel to a burial vault, signs of walls, rooms, or buildings. There was no reason for ancient Egyptians to settle here, and even less to bury a Pharaoh. Even so, Brook's heart soared every time she was called over to look at something. It was possible, she reasoned, that the Roman soldiers had perished in battle, not because of some curse, or godly interference (Osiris being the chief suspect in that regard), but because certain Egyptians had taken a stand to protect their queen's final resting place, and her cherished lover's remains.

  She didn't think this was the place—both Muller's diary and Neferu's star-maps indicated it was further south, and more westerly—but she kept an open mind, and her heart told her she was very, very close.

  After lunch, Tom gave Brook a quick look, blinked, then wandered off, as if going for a walk. Sensing something was up, Brook caught up with him.

  Katy watched, for once not hurrying along with her camera. Instead, she kept an eye on Grekov and Rabbit, and Ali, who was constantly on his phone. Brook had left her laptop on the lunch-table, unconcerned, and since the drive out to the site that morning; Katy had made it her responsibility to keep an eye on it.

  Katy knew suspicious behavior when she saw it, and Grekov, Rabbit, and even Ali were becoming increasingly suspicious.

  "I got the final batch of scroll-scans from the Israelis," Tom whispered to Brook under the hot noon-day sun. "At least the sky-map part."

  "Oh boy," Brook said, catching her breath. This is what she'd waited for, but now that it was here—she stumbled on the fine gravel rocks, and Tom had to catch her from falling.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "Yes, I'm fine. You'll send me those maps?"

  "Already did it," Tom said. "Should be on your computer now."

  Brook wheeled around in a sudden panic. Her computer sat safely next to Katy on the lunch bench. In fact, Katy had rested her hand on it protectively. "You said last of the star maps, right?" she asked.

  "That's right."

  "What makes you think it's the last?" Brook asked.

  "Because it goes back to text," Tom replied. He showed Brook the image on his phone.

  She recognized the inscription: 'Find me and you find her and you find him'. Brook studied the words, and the signature. Eventually, she would need to find an expert to see if the papyrus and the signatures on the statues were the same. It wasn't a given that Neferu knew how to read and write—he was a lowly stone carver, after all, no matter how exquisite his artistry.

  But would Neferu delegate something this secret to a scribe? The inscription said "me," didn't it?

  "This is the place," Brook said, tapping Tom's phone screen. "We need to find this place."

  Tom shook his head. "Your astronomy department is going to have to do that for you," Tom told her. "As much as I'd like to—"

  "Okay," Brook interrupted. He was about to say how he'd do anything for her, or some other sincerely annoying clap-trap, she was sure of it, and Brook wasn't in the mood.

  "I don't think my uncle can do it either. He's pretty sharp, but it's amateur sharp, far from expert."

  "I understand."

  "What I think I can do is verify it," Tom offered. "If we're actually on the spot, I might be able to compare this to the sky, and be pretty sure if we found the place or not."

  "Let's hope we get that far," Brook answered, turning back to the main canopy, where her computer sat under Katy's watch. "Incidentally, keep an eye on your phone and computer," Brook added.

  "Got it," Tom replied.

  Once back with her laptop, Brook downloaded the scroll-scans and the final star-maps, storing them on her computer in a file marked "student essays and final grades," where she was sure nobody would look. She then sent the files on to Professor Green as an e-mail attachment with the note: "Maybe the end?"

  Brook's phone rang almost immediately.

  "Stuart Green here."

  "Hello, Professor," Brook answered, moving away from Tom, who had followed her back. Though she felt guilty about it, she still preferred talking to Professor Green in private.

  "So this is the last of the stars?" he asked.

  "That's what Tom says."

  "Tom?

  "Tom Manor."

  A noticeable silence filled the line for several seconds, leading Brook to ask, “Professor? Are you stil
l there?”

  Regaining his focus, Green responded quickly, "Right, right—the young man who found you in the desert."

  "I found him, really, and he's not that young. Young in some ways, older in others."

  Green didn't say anything. What he heard in Brook's voice told him all he needed to know. The poor kid's not in love...yet. She's conflicted. Even though he saw the funny side of it, the old teacher couldn’t help but be concerned. He chuckled in spite of himself.

  "What's so funny?" Brook demanded.

  "You are," Green answered.

  "Can your astronomers get to work on what I sent you?"

  "Absolutely," Green assured her. "They're champing at the bit. Talking about the Nobel Prize and a write-up in National Geographic."

  "Them and me both," Brook answered back.

  "It might take a couple days, though," Green said. "Whatever voodoo they use, it's slow-moving."

  "All right," Brook said, dismayed. There was no use rushing things. "I'll be waiting. Send it as a text to my phone. You know how to do that, right?"

  "I'm not that old!" the professor scolded playfully, pretending to be offended.

  Brook didn't say anything.

  Green could sense the tension from her side of the world. "Yes," he said more seriously. "I'll text it."

  "To my phone—not e-mail," Brook emphasized.

  "I heard you," Green reassured.

  "Make that two separate texts—longitude and latitude, five minutes apart."

  The request heightened Green's worry. "Right," he said crisply, the British stiff upper lip coming into his voice. "Two texts, five minutes apart. Longitude first, and then latitude. Should we have a code-word so you're sure it's me?"

  "Good idea," Brook told him.

  "'Kelly.' If it doesn't say 'Kelly' first, it's not from me."

  "Good."

  "You think your phone's tapped?" the professor asked.

  "I don't know," Brook answered, "but for this particular piece of information..."

  "Say no more," Green answered.

  "Talk soon."

  "All the best."

  They hung up. Brook had realized somewhere in the middle of that conversation that there was no reason to wait. She knew most of what she needed to; what plans she needed to make, and approximately the location she needed to go to. Green's answer to the final star-maps would be the gun going off for the race. She needed to be in the blocks, on her toes, ready.

  Brook wished she'd started planning earlier. She couldn't begin to imagine what an operation like the one that was forming in her mind would entail, or what she had already overlooked. The code business with Green had been smart, but an improvisation. What she needed now was a clear plan of attack.

  ***

  After Green hung up, he called Professor Richard Yeats of the Astronomy Department. It was only early morning, but he agreed to meet with Green.

  "At the planetarium." He told the other professor. "That's where we're working on this now."

  If Yeats was surprised that Green hadn't simply e-mailed the latest sky-charts, he didn't let on. Green packed up his things, locked his office, and headed down the long hall.

  "This place is creepy," he said aloud, as he'd done many times before. Green wasn't a superstitious man, but by saying this, he truly believed he'd kept the ghosts at bay all these years.

  The morning was chilly, but Green decided to walk across campus anyway, for exercise and to think. The ‘cloak and dagger’ implied in Brook's call tugged at him, but he wasn't sure what to make of it yet. He himself had been spooked more than once, and many times without reason. But there had been that one time, on the Anatolian Plain...

  The planetarium was very impressive.

  Professor Yeats, thirty years Green's junior, seemed pleased with Green's reaction when he threw the switch, dimmed the lights, and projected a vast universe of stars, planets, black holes, and other bodies on the giant dome over their heads.

  "People think this is just for show," Yeats said. "High school field trips, and to impress potential incoming freshman and grad students, but we do real work here."

  "Oh, I..." Green started to say, then realized he had nothing to say. He did wonder how much this gizmo cost, and how that cost impacted the Archaeology Department's budget, every year.

  "That's okay," Yeats told the older man. "You don't have to say anything. But without all this, we wouldn't be able to do your little research project, for instance."

  As if on cue, a couple of graduate students walked in—Max and Jinjing, Professor Green soon learned. Max was Middle Eastern, and Jinjing from China. Both spoke English, but Jinjing also appeared to speak Arabic, and Max Chinese. Green wondered briefly if they were a couple, as they took his laptop and plugged it into their system, which took him aback a little.

  "Don't worry," Professor Yeats assured his fellow academic, "we're not here to steal all your secrets."

  "Okay," Green answered.

  "Let me show you how we do this," Yeats told Green. "First, we go to the last star-map you gave us."

  Max manipulated the machinery, displaying a screen-sized square above them, the image scanned from one of the scrolls of a night sky. Jinjing worked another computer, spreading the same image over the entire planetarium screen.

  "This is what the night-sky, near dawn, looks like if you are standing here..."

  Yeats turned a computer monitor toward Green. A map of Egypt appeared, with a thin red line headed out from Alexandria, wriggling southwest. The astronomer pointed to the end of the line.

  "We expect the latest data you brought tonight to bring us further in the same direction," Yeats explained.

  "Go to the last image if you can," Professor Green told the students. "There's no reason to worry about the interim drawings. The latest one is the last one—the destination."

  "This may take some time," Yeats said. "The demonstration took only a few seconds because I knew the answer—I'd done it before."

  "I understand," Green answered, though he truly didn't understand any of it.

  "You wouldn't have a date, would you?" Yeats asked.

  "A date?" Green asked, confused.

  "The date these drawings were made?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Professor Green replied. "They start August 12th, 30 B.C."

  The astronomer stared.

  "August 12th?"

  "That's right. August 12th."

  "Two thousand years ago?"

  "That's right," Green said.

  "Wow, that's pretty precise," Yeats declared.

  "It was an important date, but now that I think about it, it might have been the day after, or a couple of days later than that even. Does that make any difference?"

  "Not much," Yeats chuckled. "You've narrowed it down. Knowing it was summer helps, but frankly, two thousand years is nothing when it comes to astronomy. What we see at night is much the same as they saw 40,000 years ago, or a million years ago, give or take a couple of objects and a slight difference in position or two. So what's so important about the date?"

  "The date?"

  "August 12th, 30 B.C. Something must have happened that day for you to have it on the tip of your tongue."

  It was clear Green didn't want to say.

  "I can look it up, you know," Yeats whispered. "There's this thing called the Internet. It's even on computers now."

  "It's the day Queen Cleopatra died," Green whispered back, "but I'd rather that not be a part of the general discussion right now, thank you."

  "Got it," Yeats told the other professor. "Secret's safe with me."

  Green looked at the two graduate students, busy with the new maps and their calculations. Was the secret safe with them as well? It was late into the night before the team came up with an exact longitude and latitude for the last place a star-map was drawn.

  "How accurate is this?" Professor Green asked, tapping the two numbers he'd already entered into his phone.

  Yeats shru
gged and looked at his two protégés for help. "Quarter of a kilometer to half a kilometer error margin." he said. The two grad students seemed to agree. "The artist doing the drawings is incredibly precise, considering he's eyeballing it, but he can't get nearly as exact as we can. When his stars differ from the facts, we have to make assumptions, but I'd say half a kilometer on the outside either way, so you'd have to consider a square kilometer total if you were looking for something."

  Green nodded. That would have to do.

  The air was freezing by the time the professor left the planetarium. Professor Yeats and his two students seemed like they were in no hurry to leave, and Green didn't think to ask for a ride. The wind had come up, lowering the wind-chill, and forcing the professor to duck behind a campus building to catch his breath. In a moment of panic, he took out his phone and typed: "Kelly," followed by the longitude the astronomers had given him. After rechecking the number; his hand frozen and shivering, Green managed to hit send. He noted the time, added five minutes, and hoped he could make the archaeology building by then. Green took off running, or as close to it as his age would let him.

  The five minutes went more quickly than Green expected. Out of breath and running against the wind, he was forced to stop again. Huddled in the doorway of the Student Union, he sent the latitude result via text to Brook's phone again. It was seven minutes after two in the afternoon where Green stood; in Cairo it would be just after nine in the evening.

  "Okay," Professor Green stated firmly, "you've done your duty. If you freeze to death out here, at least you've done that." He stepped out into the cold and continued walking. There were more buildings here, and he was less exposed to the wind.

  All in all, Green felt pretty good about things.

  56

  Alexandria, Egypt

  "Grekov's acting strangely," Katy told Brook that night.

  "How can you tell?" Brook asked.

  "I can’t prove anything, but he's keeping an even closer eye on us, if you haven't noticed. Working in shifts with Rabbit and the new guy."