The Lost Tomb of Cleopatra (Brook Burlington Book 1) Read online

  "Okay, I'll see you there," Ali stated simply. "Keep us in sight," he told Grekov.

  Ali jogged off to an identical vehicle ahead, and jumped in. Inside sat only a driver, Brook noticed. She could have gone with him. Faintly annoyed, she glanced down at the papers Ali had given her as the two-vehicle caravan took off through the streets of Alexandria.

  Muller's diary!

  As eager as she was to read the sheets of paper, Brook folded them and put them in her messenger bag. She'd read them later, out of Katy's sight.

  "Katy, you can't be following me around looking over my shoulder with that stupid camera!"

  Katy kept on filming, replying from behind the lens. "Why not? Howard Carter had Harry Burton taking pictures."

  "And he hated it," Brook shot back.

  "But he was wrong, wasn't he?" Katy soothed, never taking her finger off the "on" button. "Those photographs are an important part of the historical record—a gift to history—like what I'm getting with my 'stupid camera.'"

  "Okay, okay, pretend to take the high road," Brook stated as calmly as she could, despite her fury. She couldn't win here. Whatever she did or said was being added to the permanent record and would be edited at Katy's pleasure. Brook suspected Katy would turn the footage into a reality show, more suitable for a trashy cable network than The Discovery Channel.

  "How's my brother?" Brook asked.

  "Okay," Katy answered. "Same as always. Lonely, maybe; he wanted to talk. Maybe more," she laughed wickedly.

  Brook shuddered and wondered if Katy and Carl had something between them—a past, a present, or maybe even future. Katy always was more in touch with him than Brook was. She worried this safe subject of conversation between them would become off-limits if Katy and Carl got together.

  "So what's the deal with Carl's name?" Katy asked, camera rolling on. “Maybe you’ll give me an answer for the audience.”

  "Oh, yeah—that. Did you ever ask him?"

  "Won't answer. Sounds like a sore point. Name, 'Carl'—father's name, 'Cale.' Is that weird, or what?"

  "There's nothing weird about it," Brook protested.

  "Typo at the hospital? Mix-up in names?"

  "Cale wanted Carl to be 'Cale Junior,' of course. My mother called my dad a narcissistic bastard and refused to do it."

  "Carl is a compromise!" Katy laughed. "That's incredible."

  "That's our family," Brook answered simply.

  "I'll have to bug him about that." Katy said.

  "Don't!"

  "We'll see. Now, next question—"

  "Later."

  "You want to read that stuff Ali gave you?" Katy guessed.

  "That's right, without the camera."

  "What is it?"

  "I'll tell you after I read it, okay?"

  Katy was doubtful. "Will you?"

  "No," Brook laughed.

  "I didn't think so," Katy agreed, filming a little tail on Brook's face, hoping for more. "And…cut."

  Katy put the camera down in her lap, but the little red light on the front remained on.

  Brook noticed this, but didn't mention it. She retrieved the pages, keeping them turned away from the lens. It was Muller's diary all right; the first entry told the story of the moment he set foot on North African soil. Muller outlined his mission: to find, obtain, and ship back to Germany Egyptian cultural artifacts from the first instance of the civilization to what was then the present day.

  Brook got the immediate sense of a large operation divided into smaller "scouting parties," of which Muller and his half-dozen men were just one part. She knew the outlines of the Nazis’ quest: to find evidence that Germany was the place that civilization began, and that Germans were the original occupants of the Earth, and therefore the true, rightful owners of the entire planet.

  Brook's own father, Cale, as militant an anti-fascist as anyone, actually shared one of their theories: that the great civilizations of Central and South America—Olmec, Maya, Inca, and Aztec—resulted from Nordic and Mediterranean colonization, with contributions from Southern Asia and Pacific Islanders.

  Hitler, embarrassed by German poverty between the wars, and shamed by the advances of Britain, France, Italy and the U.S. in the field of archaeology while his people starved, yet convinced history would prove forever the superiority of the German race, pushed hard and spent big on exploring ancient cultures and artifacts.

  Muller's attitude was decidedly less ardent. "Just the facts” appeared to be his method, and his writing style was so flat it was impossible to discern much about the person behind it.

  That's Muller, Brook decided, not Ali's translation. Ali was a passionate individual, as was evidenced by notes in the margins, attempting to read between Muller's lines.

  Attempting, but failing, Brook said to herself. Muller is not to be analyzed. He is a robot. He won't show himself—not here.

  She quickly finished the ten pages, and sighed. It wasn't nothing, but it wasn't much. There were place names Brook didn't recognize, but that wasn't surprising; her own research had taken place mostly along the Nile and the Mediterranean, not in west Egypt, Libya, or the south—a vast, sandy, triangular wasteland with Benghazi, Al-Jawf and Alexandria at its vertices. If Cleopatra and her lover were buried somewhere in that area—180,000 square miles, Brook figured, roughly— they were most likely going to stay there.

  25

  Morgantown, WV

  It had always been a question in Professor Stuart Green's mind, going back to the beginning of his research, whether historians and archaeologists concentrated too much on kings, queens and the royal households. Shouldn't history be about regular, average people, the populace?

  Lately, there'd been movement in that direction, thanks to "The People's History" of this and that. As far as the ancients went, it was a touchy subject. Historians had focused on the rich and powerful from the beginning. The elite wrote the histories, built the monuments and buried themselves in long-lasting tombs intended for immortality. Even Shakespeare had mostly ignored the "common man," though they were his audience. A showman above all else, he knew ordinary men had no interest whatsoever in "the ordinary".

  Green himself had once argued with Brook about this.

  "I've heard all that kind of garbage before," he said. "About how with all the knowledge you discover, you're only discovering yourself, blah blah blah. Rot! Truth is truth. Facts are facts."

  "But we don't know what it was like thousands of years ago," Brook had argued. "We make assumptions based on our own personalities and experiences."

  "Nonsense."

  "We infer from the evidence."

  "I don't infer. And you shouldn't either. It’s to be avoided at all costs."

  Brook had stayed silent. She felt they were both right; another concept she assumed Professor Green would disagree with, no doubt.

  "Listen," he had said, with sincerity, "that point-of-view leads straight to madness. You and I find a priceless work of art with the image of Khnum on it. We see beauty; the thief sees food on the table; the jihadist calls it blasphemy, devil worship, a false idol, and smashes it into little pieces. Who's right there? It’s all based on personal bias. My personal bias isn't about beauty or religion, or commerce. My truth is truth, simply, for its own sake."

  At that point in the conversation, Green had seen that Brook was highly agitated. Maybe it was his words, or maybe it was because—he was just that conceited—she was excited that he was treating her like an equal; a confidante worthy of Green's persuasion.

  "Okay, fair enough," Brook had nodded. "We're on the same side, you know."

  That had been several years before, and Professor Stuart Green still wasn't so sure. He wondered why Brook had called him—the real reason. Was she so hard up for help she had been forced to call the one person she wouldn't want to be beholden to? Was she humoring him; giving him some dead-end assignment, soothing his ego, keeping him occupied? Green hoped it was more than that.

  He fired up his c
omputer; a modern miracle he still marveled at. He was old enough to remember undergraduate nights at the library, the dark smells deep in the stacks, the hidden knowledge contained in each and every volume. Green had wanted to devour every single book, from poetry to novels to history. He'd waited impatiently in class, listening to the instructors ramble on, writing down references they made—authors, books, subject matter—grist for his eager fingers rummaging through the card-catalog, which stretched the length of a basketball court.

  Professor Green took a deep breath. He'd never been a sentimentalist. Ironically, despite his field of study he hated looking back. A sign of old age, he had always thought, which he despised. His thoughts wandered back to Brook. Maybe she respects you, Green dared think. Maybe she respects you and needs your help. He scoffed, and admonished himself aloud, "Don't be ridiculous."

  When did artists begin signing their own works? Green asked himself, his attention back to the task at hand: Neferu, a stone carver.

  Off the top of his head, Green figured the trend of artists claiming their works had come with the Renaissance, and rise of Humanism and Individualism, perhaps as a commercial consideration; a form of branding. Before that, the Chinese had used the "chop" —a seal or stamp used like a signature, dating back five centuries.

  The Chinese invented everything—from spaghetti to yo-yos.

  Green jumped up and paced his tiny office, filled with stacks of books—books everywhere. He stomped the floor, threatening to topple every one of them, even the ones on the shelves. A thought had entered his mind—the seed of an actual "eureka" moment—but it wasn't fully formed, and his body shook with the impact of trying to piece it together.

  An artist, a painter. A famous one. Valuable paintings. And with those valuable paintings came forgeries; good ones, impossible to tell from the originals except by self-important "experts" with dubious motives, on absurd grounds.

  DNA—that was it!

  This artist was taking a swab from his cheek and smearing his DNA on the back of his canvasses! Proof beyond doubt.

  Green scribbled quickly: "DNA. How long does it last? How do you get it? Mummies? Rocks? Bricks? Fabric? How to compare? How much does it cost? Call Bio Dept? Who do I know in Sciences? Faculty? Must know someone who knows someone. Tell Brook."

  Green crossed out the last two words, ripped the page out of his notebook and taped the page to his desk next to his computer, the way he did with any important information. It still might get lost in the mess that was his office, but the professor had at least tried to keep himself organized.

  "Neferu!" he exclaimed, typing in the word. He waited for the world to answer him.

  Green laughed.

  "Neferu I," the first reference came up, "deceased."

  "That's right—bloody four thousand years ago!" the professor guffawed. Brook's sculptor had taken his name from the first queen of the Eleventh Dynasty, first wife of Pharaoh Mentuhotep I. That meant the man had a sense of history at least, taking a 2,000-year-old name...and a female name at that. Could this be a woman?

  The phone rang. Professor Green jumped. He answered, expecting it to be Brook again.

  "I'm sorry to call so late," a man’s voice apologized. "I figured I'd get an answering machine."

  "No machine," Green answered, annoyed. It sounded like a young man— probably one of his students, some idiot undergraduate who'd be better off majoring in Engineering.

  "Yeah, hi. I'm Tom, and well, I'm looking for a professor," the voice said. "Brook Burlington?"

  Oh God, Professor Green thought to himself, I've become a dating service.

  "She's not here," he stated flatly.

  "I know that. She's in Egypt. But I don't know exactly where. I'm in Egypt too, see?"

  Professor Green understood perfectly. Brook Burlington was attractive, smart, probably "fun". It made sense that a certain of number of strays would follow her home.

  "It's not what you think," Tom went on, a touch of desperation in his voice.

  How does he know what I think?

  "I'm interested in her work. I'm a student of archaeology. Ancient civilizations. I want to volunteer."

  Professor Green heard himself in Tom's voice; the 25-year-old Stuart Green who thrilled at evidence of the Pharaohs, the Assyrians, the Minoans, the Urians and everything associated with them—the 25-year-old Stuart Green who Brook had brought back to life, Green realized, with one phone call and one assignment: Neferu.

  "I'll tell you what, young man," Professor Green spoke into the phone. "If you give me your number, I will pass it on to Miss Burlington the next time I speak to her."

  "When will that be?"

  "Within twenty-four hours, I'm sure."

  "That's terrific! Thank you—that's great. Who is this, incidentally?"

  "Professor Stuart Green, head of the department."

  "Oh my, I know you! I've read some of your articles. Your books."

  "Yes, well, that's very flattering."

  Green didn't believe a word of it.

  "Thank you so much for spending the time—"

  "Just give me your number," the professor interrupted. Professor Green knew when he was being buttered up—and enjoyed it immensely—but only up to a point.

  26

  The Dig Site

  Matrouh Governorate, Egypt

  The two-car caravan came to a checkpoint. The troops held the same automatic weapons as those in the Sinai, but this guard-post was manned by Eastern Europeans and Russians, who spoke in serviceable English.

  They seemed to know both Grekov and Rabbit.

  The expedition was further along than Brook had thought—more organized, with a great deal of security. In fact, the dig itself was a full mile across the desert from the checkpoint itself. Brook heard drones overhead as a sinking feeling washed over her. This would be the way of the archaeologist from now on, she feared. There was always newer, more sophisticated technology; underground radar, security, robots, and overhead surveillance on air, sea, and land. There'd be permits and lawyers, international agreements for large operations by great numbers of personnel. Would there be room for explorers like her or her father much longer? Would there be any more stories of shepherds stumbling upon a treasure like the Dead Sea Scrolls?

  You're a hopeless romantic, Brook admitted to herself. Just like your father.

  Two dozen skilled workmen—again Europeans—dug in the sand. A perimeter of fifty yards square had been roped off. They'd gone about a foot deep, Brook noted as she stepped out of the SUV. It wasn't the small crew Brook had first suggested to Professor Green. The university hadn't provided any funds, only a faculty member—Brook herself—which was enough to keep their hand in. This was a much more expensive operation, judging by the security arrangements, than a state university could ever mount.

  Ali went to speak to the man in charge. Brook caught up with the pair, but they spoke in German, and Brook couldn't make it out. The supervisor seemed pleasant and unconcerned, shooting an easy smile to Brook.

  "A pleasure to meet you," the man said after Ali had introduced him: Professor Wolfram hailed from a private university in Berlin— Brook didn't recognize the man's name, or that of the school. The professor led Ali and Brook to a large, open-sided tent, where several technicians worked with their finds, brushing, cleaning, tagging, categorizing, logging and boxing up for shipment elsewhere.

  Brook could see the material was from World War II, mostly German. She didn't ask who thought they owned it, or where it might be going; she didn't care. The irony of the Germans coming back to sift through the sand for their war-junk wasn't lost on her.

  In the distance, back by the vehicles, Brook watched Katy being detained by security. They had Katy's camera and wouldn't give it back. Katy squawked—Brook could hear it from the tent—in every language she knew, to no avail.

  "Excuse us, Professor," Brook told Wolfram, and took Ali aside. "What's going on here?"

  "What do you mean? It's a dig, th
at's all. You've seen what they've found."

  "The security?"

  Ali laughed, overdoing it a little.

  "It's how we have to do it now," he shrugged. "It's the way it's done, whether it's against jihadists, kidnappers, or thieves. Hasn't it always been this way? The fact they're all Europeans is Strelov's idea, admittedly. I prefer to hire local people, to help the local economy—good neighbors and all that—but there's too much chance of corruption these days Strelov is right about that at least."

  Brook wanted to ask Ali if he'd ever actually met Strelov, but bit her tongue.

  "Should we let them take your friend away?" Ali asked, indicating Katy, who'd made no progress with the men blocking her way. "They could make her disappear, I believe, if I asked politely."

  "You're kidding, of course," Brook said, hoping that was true. Ali had changed. He seemed tenser, less carefree; an older, sadder version of the man she'd once loved. "Let her do her thing. It doesn't bother me."

  "I wanted you to ride out in the car with me," Ali admitted. "So we could talk."

  "Me too," Brook lied. Being alone with Ali was awkward now.

  "Don't worry too much about all this." Ali offered, throwing his hands out, dismissing the activity under the hot sun with a broad wave. "This is more like digging through a trash dump than archaeology, believe me. Don't let this concern you. We aren't here for bullets, helmets and belt-buckles."

  "Thank you for saying that, Ali," Brook told him. "Release Katy, and give her the camera back. Maybe sometime you'll tell me what's really going on, but right now, I feel like digging."

  With that, Brook stepped into the dig area, picked up a trowel, went to her knees and got to work. To Brook's surprise, Ali was interested in the Nazi material: with an array of helmets, medals, belts, guns, hats, boots—you name it—buried just beneath the sand, Ali was like a kid in a candy-store, delighted with the varieties of sugar.

  "Look, look!" screamed Grekov, joining in the boyish fun and hoisting a fully intact MG42 machine gun out of the ground. Hitlersäge, Brook noted, Hitler's bone-saw. Possibly the deadliest machine gun ever built.