Channeling Cleopatra (17 page)

"Gosh," Leda said, slithering out of and
around the cab to join the driver and his emergency backup measure.
"Is this the very same bike ridden by Cleopatra and Julius Caesar?
The one they took with them on the barge so when they wanted to go
ashore she could show him the real Egypt?"

"Ha ha. Madame is joking. That will be
twenty dollars, American, please."

"Should be ten if I do half the
pedaling."

"Oh, no, madame. If I did all of the work,
it would cost you nothing because I would leave you here and save
myself. However, madame did say she needed to reach the airstrip on
a matter most urgent?"

"Okay, okay, you got me."

They hopped on and pedaled for all they were
worth. Usually, they could find a path between cars, but at a
couple of points, they had to dismount and portage the bike over
jammed cars until they reached the turnoff for the Desert Highway.
After a few hundred feet, Hassan braked the bike so hard it toppled
sideways and only the foot of Leda's long leg stopped them from
falling over. "What is it?" she asked.

"Your American Grand Canyon, madame. We must
go around now, I think."

Leaning out to see beyond him, she beheld a
deeper shadow in the night-shrouded road. A very much deeper
shadow, about two feet wide. "Okay," she said.

They detoured through the deserted lot of a
deserted office complex and continued at a more cautious pace.
There were three more serious breaks in the road, but Leda and her
"driver" were able to walk the bike across two of them, although
the pavement crumbled under their heels in an alarming fashion.
Once the road and surrounding structures piled up in a mountainous
heap in the middle and it was just after they detoured around it
that they heard a sound like—well, all Leda could think of was
Godzilla rising from the bay in Tokyo. Then she realized what it
had to be. "Shit," she said.

"Excuse me, madame?" the driver asked.

"The dam broke."

"In that case, I think perhaps we must pedal
more quickly, madame," he replied.

Ahead, the air was thick with smoke. Heading
into the district occupied by many of the poor fellahin, Leda saw
much of the district was on fire, the flames leaping from hovel to
hovel, more stalled cars, trucks, carts, food squashed, skinny
chickens squawking and flapping in panic, people rushing to and fro
like souls on first arrival in hell, before they received their
assignments.

Leda pulled up her T-shirt tail and covered
her mouth and nose against the smoke and kept pedaling.

The driver was beginning to exude an
unpleasant smell from his manful efforts on the front of the bike,
a goaty pong not particularly improved by its overlay of Old
Spice.

At last they neared the airstrip.

The treacherous moon was still shining
overhead as if all was right with the world below. Its rays
brightened a long, placid strip of runway, miraculously unperturbed
by the quake. And unoccupied by any kind of aircraft.

"Shit," Leda said.

"We have missed your flight?" the driver
asked.

"Bingo," she said.

"So where do you wish to go now?" he
asked.

She was about to say they should return to
the harbor—a harbor no longer dry, she felt sure, but once more
filled with the Mediterranean, which had probably taken as interest
the excavation's headquarters, part of the beach, perhaps some of
the highway and Fort Quait Bay. That much damage was to be expected
from the crashing of the sea back into its natural bed. Had there
been a tsunami, she and the driver and most of Alexandria would
have drowned by now.

As they turned, a glint of light caught her
eye. Moonbeams winked from a small metal heap on the side of the
road ahead. "No, wait, let's see what that is," she said. But she
recognized it already. Her dad's bike.

"Step on it," she told the driver and
pedaled harder.

She wanted to think that in his enthusiasm
to get her specimen to Chimera, in perhaps his eagerness to run his
errand and return to the earthquake, Dad had ditched the bike and
sprinted to the runway, tube in hand, hopped aboard the plane,
traded motorcycle helmet for leather aviator's helmet, tossed his
figurative aviator's neck scarf back over his shoulder with a cry
of "Curse you, Red Baron!" and flown away.

Fun to think that, yeah,
but actually Dad was the kind of guy who be anxious to
return
to the disaster to
do what he could about saving lives, keeping the peace, getting the
injured to medical care, and protecting property in his copious
leisure time.

But not this time. That was his bike. And
just a few yards beyond it was his helmet. 'Old Mothah Hubbard' was
blazoned across the back in silver letters. A long crack ran
between the last two words and up to the crown. The inside was wet
when Leda touched it, and her fingertips came away with dark
stains.

Setting her jaw so tightly she could hear
her orthodontist screaming, she walked back to where Dad's prized
Sopwith lay, not wrecked but just lying there. Nevertheless, the
road was also covered with a wet, dark stain that wasn't gas or
oil, and when Leda held her fingers up to the moonlight, it dyed
them red.

The driver stared down at her and
fidgeted.

"It's perfectly obvious to the trained eye
what happened here," Leda said. "There was a tremor, the bike went
down with Dad, he hit his head, and trying to see how badly he was
hurt, he took off the helmet and threw it over there. He probably
dragged himself over to the control shed to call for help. Maybe
he's passed out in there now."

"Yes," the driver said. "And my twenty
dollars?"

Ignoring him for a moment, she picked up the
Sopwith. She tapped the tank to see if there was still fuel in it.
She didn't smell any on the road, so she wasn't surprised to hear a
slosh. She checked the wires and the gear lever, but Dad had been
true to his usual form. The bike was fine. All she really had to do
was start it. She hung the broken helmet over the handlebar, slung
her leg over the bike, and grabbed for the clutch—and got the
brake. "Shit, it's a Brit!" Of course it was. Everything was on the
wrong side. The driver was pulling at her sleeve.

She swore again, dug inside her pants pocket
for the twenty bucks, and handed it to him. He pedaled off back
down the road again.

Switching hands this time to accommodate for
British bikes having their controls on the opposite sides from
American ones, Leda pulled the clutch in, goosed the gas with a
twist of her thumb and forefinger, stomped down with her right foot
on the kick lever to start it, then jerked her leg the hell out of
the way so when the lever sprang back it didn't add to the
collection of bruises she was already sporting. The bike gave a
little cough and caught, roaring and popping before settling down
to the thrum of a powerful beast eager to run and play. As she
increased the gas, it jumped a little, but she eased down on the
seat and rode slowly up to the Quonset hut.

All the way she searched by the light of the
headlamp, looking for drag marks, more bloodstains, any evidence of
what had happened to her dad.

No light shone from under the Quonset hut's
firmly closed door, but then the power was out all over the city
now. Or maybe the dimwit who worked there was getting more beauty
sleep. She checked the back, where he had been sleeping before. No
one was there. The rat had abandoned the sinking ship. Maybe he had
friends or relatives he wanted to take care of during the
emergency, but it was going to cost him what was probably one of
the best jobs in Egypt. Or maybe—wonderful thought—maybe the runway
guy had heard the crash and took Dad to the hospital in his own
vehicle.

Leda called, “Anybody here? Runway guy? Dad?
You in there? You okay?” But neither word nor grunt answered. She
shoved open the door and walked in. Moonlight followed her
inside.

She plucked her little penlight from a
pocket and panned it around the room until it found an oil lamp,
which she lit.

She sighed and perched on the edge of the
desk, trying to think what to do next. Her knees felt like cooked
noodles from the pedaling, and she was still a little lightheaded.
She hoped Dad hadn't tried to fly away with a head injury like the
one he must have sustained to put that crack in the helmet. She
didn't see how he could still be conscious, but if he was, she
wouldn't put it past him to try.

Her cell phone was in another pocket of her
pants. Handy things, these cargo pants, not flattering but very
practical. She didn't really expect to get him, but she dialed his
number anyway.

His phone rang a few feet away from her,
from the Sopwith.

"Omigod, the saddlebags. It's in the
saddlebags," she said, and pulled them off and with trembling hands
pawed through filthy cleaning rags and underwear. Something hard
was inside the first roll, but it wasn't the cell phone. That fell
to the ground, unheeded, with another clump of dirty laundry, while
she stared at the little round titanium tube she'd unwrapped.

Where the hell was he? If he flew off, it
wasn't to finish his mission, because here was the sample.

CHAPTER 16

Leda made herself useful as long as she was
there. With the runway manager missing, someone needed to take up
the slack, and she'd been around enough airstrips and aircraft
carriers that she knew the drill. She got her exercise by setting
out flares along the runway, glad of Dad's bike so she didn't have
to walk the whole distance. Then she started the emergency
generator, which turned on the low-intensity overheads. She called
Nucore on Dad's cell phone, after inserting the new battery he had
jammed in the bags with it at the last minute, to apprise them of
the situation and ask what airborne assistance they could expect
within the next few hours. She also informed them they were going
to need a relief runway manager.

After that, she answered the phone a lot.
Nucore was fast; she had to give them that. Within about two hours,
the planes and copters began landing, and she was so busy she
couldn't think straight. Pete and a number of the men from his
crews arrived in the most rattletrap collection of trucks, cabs,
donkey carts, and motorbikes Leda had ever seen to take delivery of
equipment and supplies.

Leda ran out to meet him.

He looked up from hefting a box of supplies
and grunted.

"Pete, have you heard anything from or about
Dad?"

"No, but I've been a little busy since you
left," he said. "The dam broke."

"I heard. I bet they heard it in Cairo. How
is . . . everybody?"

"Everybody with sense enough to get the hell
out of the way as fast and as far as they could is pretty much
fine, I guess. Those who didn't aren't so lucky. There is going to
be a lot of cleanup to do. My replacement will repair the dam and
pump out the harbor again so work can continue. Now, if you'll
excuse me, I'm a little busy."

"Oh, sorry," she said. Then asked, "Your
replacement?"

"I got fired. They had to blame somebody,
didn't they?"

"Shit, sorry," she said.

He put his load down again and turned to
face her. Her uncharacteristically contrite tone alarmed him. "Why?
Didn't Duke make it here?"

"Yeah, but it looks like he crashed the bike
and busted his head open."

"Just his head huh? He's probably okay
then."

"I hope so," she said but couldn't manage a
smile. "Can I help?"

"Sure, start lugging stuff to the
trucks."

That kept her occupied for several more
hours. But then, finally, she had to think about where to go and
what to do with herself. And how to go about finding her Dad.

Belatedly, she remembered the specimen. How
in the hell had she ever thought getting to Kefalos was the most
important thing in the world? She'd forgotten about it so utterly
she hadn't hitched a ride on the last plane going back for more
supplies. Well, she'd catch the one after.

The relief runway manager finally arrived,
and she showed him what she'd logged.

"I don't know where the other guy went," she
said.

"His family was visiting downtown
someplace," the relief guy said. "But look, you've done enough.
You're exhausted. Go in the back and lie down."

"I need transport out of the country ASAP,"
she said. "Back to Kefalos."

"I'll let you know when the next plane in
gets ready to leave," he promised. No further urging was necessary.
She hit the cot and dropped into a deep hole of sleep.

* * *

Gabriella, having made a brief foray to
Mykonos to give Mo the specimen to deliver to Chimera, flew back to
Ginia's villa. The helipad was located atop the flat roof of the
east wing, and a strange copter was sitting there when Gabriella
arrived.

Madelaine and Nessa Benoit, medical bag in
hand, came out to meet her. "Can we hitch a ride back to Mykonos
before you shut down?" Nessa shouted over the copter blades.

"How is he?" Gabriella countered.

Nessa shook her head and said in a tired,
almost mechanical voice, "Gone. I left him for a few moments to go
to the bathroom, and when I returned, he had stopped breathing. We
tried resuscitation, but we couldn't save him."

Gabriella could have mistaken the weariness
in the doctor's voice for professional disappointment except for
the quick glances Madelaine kept darting first to her, then to
Nessa. The girl looked as if she desperately wished to chain-smoke.
Gabriella said casually, "It's too bad. We did what we could."

"Yes," Nessa said shortly and turned her
head away, starting to climb into the copter. "What we could. Under
the circumstances. Oh, I have a message for you," she said, again
in that mechanical voice. "Ginia said to tell you that although
she's sure you will be wanting to return to Egypt right away, you
must come back here when you've delivered us to Mykonos. There's an
important guest you are to help her entertain. She says to dress
for dinner."