The Lost Tomb of Cleopatra (Brook Burlington Book 1) Page 7

  Tom tested the door. It creaked a half-inch open and stayed there. As predicted, real heavy, real loud.

  Through the crack, he spotted a road-crossing going by—

  Now!

  Tom pushed the door using all his weight and strength. Blinding sun stung his eyes as the man on Tom's sleeping bag jumped up; the tent wriggling like a cartoon.

  Tom escaped with a half-jump, half-fall. This was not what he had had in mind—the door had opened only a foot, and he had been forced to squeeze out rather than make a well-timed jump, so instead of planting his feet and running alongside the train when he landed, or making a tight, controlled roll, he stumbled backwards, slamming his elbow into the side of the train heavily, then narrowly avoiding the deadly steel wheels and falling hard into the desert dirt and rocks.

  As the train continued east, Tom realized that the boxcar door was stuck, and the two large, now-angry men were trapped inside, already a couple of miles down the track.

  Ignoring the pain in his arm, Tom struggled to his feet, and started running; a stumbling gait at first, then faster, thirst burning his throat. Tom laughed to himself, relieved. He'd make it to the road. Where there were roads, there were cars, buses, donkey carts, camel trains—he wouldn't be picky. He'd cheated death, for now.

  19

  The Sinai Peninsula, Egypt

  "You comfortable, Miss Brook?" Saa asked on the drive back to Cairo. They'd stayed the night at the monastery, and Saa seemed invigorated by the experience. Brook heard he'd stayed up late drinking with the dozen or so monks who were starved for outside company, and who'd been delighted by Saa's stories.

  "Yes, very comfortable," Brook answered, honestly this time. They were headed north for Suez, the sun just rising over the Sinai. A train whistled lazily, not too far away.

  Suddenly, Saa shrieked and jerked the wheel to one side, sending the car careening across the road. Brook had seen a figure running out of the sand and hitting the windshield hard, yelling something—Brook hadn't heard what. He was red-faced, American maybe, and completely out of place.

  The cab clattered over the train tracks and Saa hit the gas, speeding off.

  "Stop! Stop!" Brook shouted, turning back in her seat and spotting the man stumbling and waving both arms, desperate, then disappearing as the car drove over a rise in the road. "Go back!"

  "No, ma'am. No. When a man rushes to your car in the desert, you don't go back. No."

  "Stop this car!" Brook repeated, opening the door and threatening to jump.

  "Shut the door!"

  Brook held the door open, her voice firm. "Go back!"

  Saa sighed. Crazy Canadian cousin—ha!

  Defeated, he slowed and carefully made a three-point turn in the road. Without saying a thing, he slowly drove back to the rise in the road, where he stopped the car. Brook sat stunned at what she saw: another car on that empty road. This one did stop for the man, and two burly Europeans quickly had him against their dark sedan and were giving him a rough onceover.

  "Go, go!" Brook urged. "We have to help him."

  "This is none of our business," Saa explained.

  With a growl, Brook opened her car door to get out.

  "Okay okay, stay in the car. We go," Saa relented. He drove forward slowly to where the two men were taking turns slapping and punching the American—he was American, Brook decided—you could tell by the face, the clothes, the shoes, and the indignation.

  "Who are you, my friend?" the smaller and older of the two insisted, not friendly at all, slapping the young man hard across the face before he realized the other car was approaching. At that point the pair backed away, letting the American slump to the ground against the car.

  "Hello!” the smaller man hailed Saa's cab, hand in the air and a wide grin on his face.

  Russian— the accent was so thick you didn't have to be good at this to figure that out. Presumably, the other man was too.

  Despite Saa's protestations, Brook climbed out of the car and marched to the little guy extending his hand. He was older than he looked from a distance.

  Should be retired and living in his dacha on the Baltic, Brook thought.

  "Gregory Grekov," he said.

  Brook walked right past him and went to the young American—again, not as young as Brook had thought at first. He was good-looking—handsome, in fact; tall, and in good shape besides some serious bruising.

  Brook bent down. He was trying to say something.

  "Tom Manor,." he managed to whisper.

  "I'm Brook."

  "Brook." Tom repeated, and tried to raise his hand.

  "Did these men do this to you?" Brook asked as quietly as she could.

  Tom shook his head. "Kidnapped on the Nile, jumped off a train, ran into a car—" He started to laugh, began to cough, and quickly gave up. "Then..." Tom nodded to the two Russians standing a short distance away, with Saa, Brook noticed. "Out of the frying pan, into the fire—"

  "You!" Brook said, pointing to the bigger Russian thug.

  "He is called 'Rabbit', Miss." The other Russian offered.

  "And you, Saa—" Brook said, pointing to the driver. "Help him up. Put him in the back seat of the car."

  "Miss, I beg you," the shorter Russian, Grekov, clamored, "you don't know who this is. He rushed you in your car."

  "Saa?" Brook begged.

  Rabbit looked at Grekov, awaiting orders—perhaps to shoot them all with the pistol Brook saw peeking out from under that leather jacket. And bury the evidence, Brook thought morbidly.

  Grekov nodded toward Tom. Go ahead, do what she says.

  "We searched him already." Grekov added.

  Saa and Grekov went to work picking Tom up off the road and dragging him to Saa's car. Tom, nearly unconscious, bravely moved his feet, but he wasn't much help. Brook climbed into the front seat so Tom could lie down in the back.

  "We'll take him to Suez," Brook said to Saa. "Go fast— No, go a normal speed. We don't need to attract attention."

  Brook checked Tom's pulse. Strong. His chest rose and fell—he was breathing. She took a second to breathe herself before her blood pressure went up and her anger returned. She looked out the back window.

  "They're following!" she exclaimed, spotting the Russians’ black sedan a half-mile back.

  Saa checked the mirror, and agreed. "Yes, they're following."

  "Who are they?" Brook demanded.

  Saa shrugged.

  "They're Russians, Gregory Grekov and somebody named 'Rabbit.' Why are they following us, Saa? Do you know them? Did you rat me out?"

  He squirmed in his seat. He didn't like being called a rat, especially by a woman, never mind someone he considered a friend. "They are your bodyguards," Saa admitted.

  "Bodyguards?"

  "To protect you. Their job is to keep you safe—"

  "Wait, what? Why? I don't need bodyguards!"

  "Somebody thinks you do," Saa shrugged.

  Brook froze. Strelov. She'd made a bargain with the devil, and even if it was Ali who'd really made the bargain, she was a co-signer. The thugs came with the deal.

  Tom moaned and shifted in the back seat.

  "Hang in there," Brook soothed. No response.

  "You don't know who this American is," Saa reminded Brook. "He ran at the car."

  "He was desperate for help."

  Saa shrugged. "Maybe, or maybe he just wants to get your attention. Maybe he just wants to get into your car, become your friend. Just because the Russians are nasty men, doesn't make them wrong about this man."

  Brook stared at Tom's face—nothing about him spelled danger. Yet Saa was right. Before she had a chance to speak, he cut through her thoughts.

  "He may be awake and listening to everything we say," Saa warned.

  "Okay," Brook decided. "We'll drop him off at the first emergency room in Suez, and then drive on to Alexandria. I'll call the American Embassy and give them his name—that's all I know. If he's still got ID on him..."

 
Brook broke off, contradicting herself. No, I won't search him. I'll do my duty, that's all, as little as I can. I need to find Neferu...and his queen.

  "Brook," Tom groaned from the back, "Brook, what's your last name?"

  "Burlington." Brook answered.

  "The famous Egyptologist?" Tom croaked.

  Brook stared. A fan?

  Saa gave her a look—I told you so.

  "I'm not famous," Brook answered, "but yes, technically I am an Egyptologist."

  "I read your book," Tom grinned, staring up at Brook like she was a rock star, before he clutched his ribs, groaned, and passed out again.

  "Is he dead?" Saa asked. "I hope he's dead."

  "Saa!" Brook admonished and reached to check Tom's pulse. There was no need; his chest rose and fell strongly. "No, he's not dead, Thank God." She watched his eyelids flicker, long lashes framing his tanned face. Good-looking guy, even if he is a fan…

  20

  Alexandria, Egypt

  Poor Ali. He sat with a bouquet of flowers in his hands in the lobby of the Alexandria hotel, just waiting, one more poor stood-up slob in a long history of stood-up slobs, until Brook walked in, filthy, disheveled, and in a bit of a daze, followed by a hotel porter rolling a baggage cart.

  Unperturbed by her appearance, Ali leapt to his feet and did his best impression of an NFL running back skittering across the nicely carpeted floor, and dodging chairs, sofas and tables before thrusting the flowers forward.

  "Welcome, welcome! Welcome to Alexandria!" Ali almost shouted. He was grinning like an idiot, and what was even more painful was that he knew it. During his hour-long wait in the lobby, he'd been working up the next thing to say, something like "Still so lovely!" or "Just as I remembered you!" but since Brook appeared to have just wrestled a pack of hyenas, he opted to omit the last part.

  "You look great, Ali!" Brook exclaimed, taking the flowers.

  "And you—"

  "It was kind of an eventful journey." Brook understated. She had called ahead and told him there'd been "some problems".

  "I'm so sorry—"

  Brook held up a firm hand, stopping him. Like many Egyptians, Ali felt the need to defend his homeland, play the gracious host, and take responsibility for every unfortunate moment a visitor might have. Brook had gone through that with him a few times, and wasn't having it.

  "Not now," she stated firmly.

  "Of course. First your room, and a bath. I've made reservations for dinner."

  "No, not that either," Brook replied, turning away from Ali's deep, forlorn eyes. Stay professional. "First I need you to arrange for some tomography."

  "Oh my," Ali said, taken aback. "Your scroll in the Sinai?"

  "Yes."

  "That would probably have to go to the Israelis working on the Dead Sea Scrolls," Ali stated dismally. "Slowly, I might add."

  "Can you do it?"

  "The Egyptians and Israelis aren't getting along so well right now," Ali mused. "And it would be expensive."

  "What about Strelov—he's got deep pockets, right?"

  If they were going to dance with the devil, it might as well be a tango.

  "He has pockets," Ali replied.

  "And maybe some influence?" Brook suggested.

  "The Russians and Israelis aren't getting along, either," Ali lamented, then added quickly: "But don't worry. I will ask. I will make it happen if it possibly can."

  Brook smiled.

  "Thank you, Ali," she said.

  Ali grinned again, now certain he was making a fool of himself.

  "Thank you for the flowers," Brook said. "They're very nice."

  "I'm glad you like them."

  "I need a bath, a drink and a nap, maybe not in that order," Brook told him.

  "Certainly. Let's check you in," Ali declared, full of energy, signaling the porter who'd waited so patiently for Brook and Ali to finish. "And dinner?" he asked hopefully.

  "Yes, it sounds lovely," Brook admitted.

  Ali's smile relaxed a little. The two of them were a team again, with the potential to be more?

  Maybe that was too much to hope for.

  21

  Alexandria, Egypt

  Brook came down the hall, the hotel porter following suit with her bags on a cart. Grekov and Rabbit waited, flanking the door to Brook's hotel room. At first Brook was a little startled by their presence, more amused than incensed, and finally—frankly, miraculously, after what she'd been through—she settled on being happy to see them. She hadn't spoken to them since they originally crossed paths in the desert; and the Russians wisely kept their distance. She much preferred the sight of them in front of her to in the rearview mirror.

  "Gentlemen," she said, taking out her keycard, "I suppose you want to check the room?" She slid the card into the lock and pushed open the door, half expecting it to explode like a scene in an action film.

  "Already checked," Grekov whispered, his eyes sliding to the hotel porter.

  Brook, taken aback, watched Grekov nod to his cohort. Rabbit halted the porter.

  "We'll take it from here, starik," Rabbit told the young man, picking up Brook's bags easily in one arm, leaving his right free to reach the pistol Brook clearly saw peeking out from under his jacket for a second time. The porter looked like he was going to argue the point, but Grekov stepped up with a couple of bills, and stuffed them into the porter's fist, whispering something in Arabic—a warning, Brook assumed from the kid's look—and they all watched the porter turn around and push his now-empty trolley back to the elevator.

  Brook went inside her room. It was nice enough, but nothing special; a bed, a bathroom, desk, TV, and closet. Basic, yet comfortable.

  Rabbit deposited Brook's luggage on the bed and stood back, folding his arms in front of him, one hand clutching the other wrist—standby position, ready for action at a moment's notice. Brook wondered if he was going to watch over her like this all night.

  "Nice room, no?" Grekov asked at Brook's ear, making her jump.

  At his voice, another thought entered her head. "You didn't...you didn't install listening devices in here, did you?" she accused.

  Grekov looked stunned, and hurt. "No no, of course not—"

  Still, Brook thought she detected a smirk on Rabbit's lips. She huffed, paranoid. Did he always wear a smirk like that?

  "We don't spy on you," Grekov soothed, shooting his partner a look. "You are our client. We watch you, sure, to protect you. But at a distance, very subtle. We are classy. Professionals, just following orders."

  "Whose orders?" Brook tried.

  Grekov tutted and waved an admonishing finger before pressing it to his lips.

  "Okay, okay," Brook relented. "Thank you. I appreciate it. Now I want to be alone, okay? I'll sleep, take a shower, go to dinner in the evening..."

  The Russians stared.

  If it's okay with you, Brook thought, annoyed.

  "Certainly," Grekov nodded, bowing, clacking his heels slightly, and signaling to Rabbit with a snap of his fingers.

  Then they were gone. Brook took a deep breath and collapsed on the bed. In any other hotel room like this, she would have taken off her clothes, pulled back the top-sheet and enjoyed the cool feeling of the starchy linens. But not with Grekov and Rabbit watching, no matter what they said. Instead, Brook stood, went to the window and pulled back the heavy green drapes.

  Alexandria! The view was spectacular. A teeming, modern urban center met a relaxed seaside resort, with a mixture of hundred-year-old buildings and brand-new architecture such as the hotel she stood in. Minarets stuck up in various places along the skyline, competing to be the tallest. Below that, Brook knew, were reminders of a much older civilization and religion.

  She closed the curtains with regret. The sun was just sinking, anointing both Brook and the room with afternoon heat. It would be another hour or two before it would be bearable, if they were lucky.

  ***

  Ali picked the place for supper—a restaurant with a terrac
e overlooking the marina—more appealing for its atmosphere than great dining, Brook figured. But pricey, she also noticed immediately.

  "Don't worry," Ali said at Brook's frown. "Strelov's orders—get the best. Like the hotel. You like it?"

  "It's very nice. Great view."

  Ali smiled, pleased.

  Also pleased, and situated at the other end of the terrace were Grekov and Rabbit, perusing their menus with undisguised gluttony, Rabbit chewing hungrily on a bread-roll.

  "You and I are social scientists, teachers." Ali stated, interrupting Brook's thought. "Our lives are dedicated to knowledge and not riches, but we can appreciate good things, can't we, from time to time? Don't we deserve that?"

  Brook smiled and raised her glass of water—the wine hadn't yet arrived. She and Ali toasted "good things".

  In honesty, Brook felt like an imposter. Yes, she drew an assistant professor's meager salary at the university, but she was not without other means—her father had seen to that. She wanted for nothing, and denied herself very little that could be bought on the open market. This wealth was something she'd never confided about to Ali. She sensed he was sensitive about money, maybe even embarrassed a little, and wouldn't be happy with a girlfriend (as Brook once was) who had more than he did.

  They ordered seafood and salads, and Brook told the story of her journey into the Sinai, as well as the adventure of the return trip. She was careful not to overdramatize or exaggerate the danger, or say anything nice about Tom Manor, to spare Ali's feelings—he was still protective of her, she saw it in his eyes.

  "You didn't hire the bodyguards?" she asked suddenly.

  "Me?" Ali laughed. "I'm a professor. I don't have that kind of money, and if I did, I wouldn't know where to find them."

  Brook nodded, accepting his denial. At the same time, she couldn't help wondering if there wasn't more to it, something Ali wasn't saying.

  Her mind quickly turned to her desperate desire to know about Muller's diary, but it was better to let Ali bring it up, or, if she did, to let it be in the course of regular conversation. She wanted Ali to hand it over to her so she could get it independently translated, leaving Ali out of the loop. Within an hour, she could make a copy and get someone else on it. If there was a discovery in there, she didn't want to share.