Hunt Through Napoleon's Web (8 page)

“You should have known better,” Amun said. “We can’t allow you to be in contact with the outside world, Mister Hunt.”

Kemnebi dropped the phone on the floor and then stomped on it with his boot, smashing the thirty-thousand-dollar device to pieces.

“Oh, and you can forget about your female companion,” Amun added. “By now, I am afraid she is no longer among the living.”

It was difficult for Sammi to tell how fast the van was going. From the smoothness of the drive, she suspected they were on an expressway.

She’d given up yelling and kicking when it became clear it was doing no good. Instead, she concentrated on the ropes around her wrists. When she had been her father’s assistant, she had used thicker cords that were easier to manipulate. These felt as narrow as shoelaces; they were tight and dug painfully into her skin.

The secret of slipping rope ties was to prepare for the escape prior to being bound. Houdini would stand in poses that expanded his muscles so that when he relaxed his pose after being tied he gained the millimeters of slack he needed. Another approach was to discreetly influence the person doing the binding into tying his knots a specific way—like using a magician’s “force” to compel the choice of a particular playing card. Or you could use your fingers and wrists to twist the knot as it was being secured—the so-called Kellar method, which Sammi’s father had taught her. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had the opportunity to do any of these things.

The van hit a bump and Sammi stifled a yelp. The floor was unpadded corrugated metal and any time they passed over an uneven spot in the pavement she slammed
against it. With her arms trussed tightly behind her and her shoulders aching from the strain, getting banged around like this was no pleasure.

She continued to work on the ropes as the terrain changed. She felt the vehicle slow and the road become rougher.

With an effort that almost made her pass out, she managed to force one of the constricting ropes up over the fleshy tissue of her right palm, the thickest part of her hand. The thin cord tore into her skin as she worked her wrists and palms back and forth, loosening the bonds a tiny fraction at a time.

A few minutes later the sounds outside the van changed. Sammi could no longer hear other traffic. The vehicle was not only traveling on a rougher road—it was traveling on an empty one.

Not a good sign.

She sped up her efforts, using a fingernail to saw at the rope, struggling to apply pressure with her index finger.

Then her nail broke.

Sammi cursed aloud but kept sawing. It hurt like hell—but maybe the ragged edge of the broken nail would get through the rope that much quicker.

The van made a sharp left turn that threw her against the inside wall, then it continued on over a rocky, bumpy road. She tried to maintain her concentration.

Pretend it’s an underwater trunk escape. You’re being buffeted by the current, you’ve got ninety seconds of air, you’ve got to get out
.

Now
.

With an excruciating effort, she slipped two fingers beneath the rope and strained to squeeze through the narrow opening she’d managed to create. The sweat
on her palms provided some lubrication, but—was it enough?

Just a little more. She could feel it. She was almost there.

Which was a good thing, since the van was slowing further.

Finally the rope slipped. She pulled her fingers through and felt the rope slide free onto the floor of the van. The next thing was the burlap bag. With trembling fingers, she untied the cord securing it around her neck and stripped it off. She drew in a deep breath—the air in the back of a filthy van had never tasted so fresh. She took a moment to get her bearings.

A metal partition separated the van’s cab from the back. There was nothing else back here with her.

Now what
?

She didn’t have a plan. She didn’t have a weapon. She had only one advantage—she wasn’t tied up anymore, and they didn’t know it.

Moments later the van pulled to a stop. She crawled over to the back doors as she heard the men get out of the cab. Then footsteps on gravel, moving to the rear.

Keys rattled in the lock. They were about to open the doors.

Sammi positioned herself on her back, her feet against the doors.

They started to swing open.

Sammi kicked out, hard, hitting both men, one heavy metal door in each kidnapper’s face. She lurched to her feet and jumped out of the van. One of the men, a short, stocky Egyptian in khakis and hiking boots, was on his side on the ground, groping at a shoulder holster. The other, a taller man with hair the color of cold ash and cheeks pocked with acne scars, was still on his feet. She
kneed him in the groin as hard as she could. The man howled and bent double. She gave him another knee, this time to the jaw, and he went down.

The other man, meanwhile, had managed to get his gun out. Sammi fell face-first in the dirt and heard a bullet speed by overhead, ricocheting off the side of the van. She reached over to the unconscious man beside her and, with a heave, dragged his body between her and the shooter. He fired again, but high, trying not to hit his fallen comrade.

The comrade had a holster as well, on his hip, and Sammi wasted no time in snatching the pistol out of it. She was no expert with guns, but she knew enough to take the safety off and aim it in the right direction.

The man across from her leveled his gun right back at her. He called something to her in Arabic, the tone condescending.
Put down the gun
, she imagined, or maybe,
You’re not going to pull that trigger, are you, little lady?

She pulled the trigger.

The look of surprise that blossomed on the man’s face was matched only by the sudden spread of a red bloom across the front of his shirt, like a time-lapse movie of a rose opening.

He fell backward, blood pooling beneath him.

Sammi scrambled to her feet and glanced around. It was a desolate patch of land, home to what looked like an abandoned rock quarry or possibly a one-time archaeological dig. A deep, narrow trench had been dug in the ground.

They had planned to kill her and bury her here
.

She thought briefly about filling the grave with the body of the man she’d shot, but there was no telling how soon the other one would come to. She could have shot him as well—she considered this briefly—but she
decided that one shooting in a day, and that in self-defense, was her limit. She was not a squeamish woman, but she drew the line at shooting an unconscious man.

She did hold onto his gun, though.

Returning to the van, she climbed in behind the wheel, found the keys in the ignition. Her purse and cell phone were in the well between the seats, along with the binoculars with the broken strap.

Sammi closed the door and started the engine. She could see Cairo’s skyline in the distance. Gabriel was somewhere back there. She floored the gas.

Amun led Gabriel through an archway and into a modestly appointed dining room. A table had been set for two.

Kemnebi followed close behind.

“I thought you might like a bite before we embark on our journey,” Amun announced as he gestured to a chair. “Please.”

“I’m not hungry,” Gabriel answered. “I had lunch.”

“Come, come. We have already discussed the insult of refusing hospitality. Try some of our delicacies. I don’t expect you to clean your plate.”

Gabriel took one of the seats. Amun bowed slightly and then sat across from him. Kemnebi stood near another archway that was draped with long, hanging curtains. He clapped his hands. A young woman wearing a
niqab
entered with a tray. The pungent aromas of cooked food wafted into the dining room.

She placed a basket of pita bread on the table and poured two glasses of water. Along with a pair of steaming bowls, Gabriel noted the several sets of utensils on her tray. Including knives.

The woman put the bowls of greenish soup in front of both men and doled out a spoon apiece from the stack of
cutlery, then carried the tray out of reach, standing with it against one of the walls.

“Have you tried our molokhiyya soup?” Amun asked. “It’s made from a vegetable that’s distinctly Egyptian.” He took a piece of pita with his right hand and dunked it into his bowl. Gabriel did the same. The soup was salty but very good.

“You’ve been to Egypt before, I take it?”

“Many times,” Gabriel replied. “Never had the soup, though.”

“I am pleased,” Amun said, “to introduce a man as worldly as you to a new experience.”

“I’ve never had my sister kidnapped either,” Gabriel said.

“Or your traveling companion killed, I imagine.”

“No,” Gabriel said, “that one I’ve had.”

“Well, I’m sorry to burden you with it again. With either of these distasteful events. Rest assured it gives me no pleasure to do these things. I am not a sadist, Mister Hunt. Merely a man with a purpose.”

“So was Torquemada,” Gabriel said.

“Yes, yes, Torquemada,” Amun said. “Eat your soup.”

Gabriel took another spoonful, trying hard to control his temper. It was difficult to converse politely with the man responsible for Lucy’s kidnapping and Sammi’s present situation. Whatever that might be. He knew how skilled she was at getting out of impossible traps; he wouldn’t believe she was dead till he got some proof.

“What exactly did you do to my . . . traveling companion?”

“Miss Ficatier?” Amun said. “You were told to come alone to our rendezvous. Let’s leave it at that.”

“If she’s been harmed—”

“What? What, Mister Hunt? You are in no position to make threats. If I were you, I’d resign myself to cooperating. After all, I am sure your sister means more to you than some woman you just met in Nice.”

“She’s my sister’s friend.”

“She should have stayed home.” Amun snapped his fingers and the woman with the tray came forward again and collected their bowls. She vanished for a moment through the curtains, then returned with something new on the tray, a platter of rice topped with chunks of cooked lamb and onion. The dish smelled of marjoram and lemon juice. Once again, Gabriel eyed the utensils.

“May I have a fork?” Gabriel asked.

“It is customary to use your bread,” Amun said. He demonstrated by scooping up some of the food with a piece of pita.

The woman was refilling their water glasses. As she turned back toward the kitchen, Gabriel shifted his foot to catch the hem of her garment, a full-body
burqa
. She took two steps before the tug on the fabric trapped under Gabriel’s heel overbalanced her and she tripped, sending the tray and extra utensils flying.

Gabriel jumped up from the table to help her. “Are you all right?”

Her veil—the
niqab
—had slipped to one side, revealing her features. Embarrassed, she pulled it back into place.

He put a hand on her arm to help her up, but she jerked it out of his grasp. He gathered up the scattered utensils instead and put them back on the tray. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, in Arabic, as he handed the tray to her; it was one of the few expressions he knew. Behind the veil, he could only see her eyes as they glanced
at the pile of knives and forks and then back at him. There was a question in her gaze. Gabriel shook his head minutely. She turned away and vanished through the curtains.

“I apologize, Mister Hunt, for Nabirye’s clumsiness,” Amun said. “She will be disciplined.”

“Don’t do that, it was my fault. I stepped on her dress by accident.”

“You are kind to try to protect her, but I know you are lying,” Amun said.

“I’m not—I did step on her dress—”

“Yes,” Amun said. “But not by accident. Kemnebi, please search Mister Hunt’s sleeves.”

Reluctantly, Gabriel submitted to his third pat-down of the day. Kemnebi found the long-handled dinner knife he’d shot up his right sleeve in the confusion. The big man brandished it in Gabriel’s face, tweaking the underside of his chin with the point.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” Amun said, “that you won’t be able to put anything over on me? It is getting tiresome.”

“All right,” Gabriel said, sitting at the table again. “Consider the lesson learned.”

He scooted his chair closer to the table, his trouser leg neatly covering the second knife he’d grabbed. The blade was snug against his calf, the handle held in place by the elastic of his sock.

Gabriel scooped some rice onto his piece of pita and stuck it into his mouth.

“When we have finished,” Amun said, “Kemnebi will take us to the airport. We’re going to take a short plane ride.”

“Where to?”

“Morocco.”

“If you wanted me in Morocco, why didn’t you just have me meet you there in the first place?”

“I had business to attend to here in Cairo. Besides, I had to make sure that anyone you brought with you for protection could be disposed of. As we have seen, I was right to be concerned.”

“And what’s in Morocco?”

“Oh, many things are in Morocco,” Amun said. He ate another mouthful of the meat. “If you are well behaved, Mister Hunt, perhaps we shall let you see your sister.”

Gabriel didn’t say anything.

“We shall spend the night in Marrakesh. The following day we leave for Corsica. In between, we will provide you with access to all the materials we have in our possession on the subject of the Second Stone. We want you to be well prepared when you go after it.”

Gabriel thought about the task they were proposing—if you could call insistence at gunpoint “proposing.” Was it really possible that there was a second Rosetta Stone, one that somehow held the secret to Napoleon’s world-dominating reign? Gabriel had learned long ago never to dismiss anything as impossible. He’d seen things in his travels that no sane man would believe if he hadn’t witnessed them himself. And yet . . . the thought of a mystical inscription from the time of the pharaohs that somehow gave the French emperor the ability to conquer millions? It was a lot to accept.

On the other hand, even if the legend of the inscription was just that—a legend—the stone itself might well be real. And the traps protecting it.