Relentless (15 page)

“He’s in a… He has Alzheimer’s. He doesn’t remember what happened that night at the tomb.”

Husani frowned, stroking his bearded chin. “Your arrival has apparently set off an unfortunate chain of events, little sister. Cairo is not safe for you.”

“We were attacked last night when I came here to see your father. Husani, do
you
know where the Queen’s tomb is?”

He shook his head and started moving the baskets with more gusto. “I do not. But then you know how much your father favored puzzles. Especially since the community didn’t believe his wild claims.”

“Do you believe he found her tomb?”

He paused and glanced at Isis over his shoulder. “I believe that my father, a man who has never lied to me, believes this is so.”

“Do you know where it is?” she asked again.

“I do not, nor does my father. But you must leave Cairo, Isis. These men are dangerous.”

Thorne opened the camera bag and took out the small black notebook. “Does this look familiar?” He held it for the other man to see.

“Yes. We sell them here at my stall. The professor purchased many to jot down notes. Is this one of his?”

“Not sure,” Thorne prevaricated. He didn’t trust anyone.

The Egyptian met his eyes and merely gave a small nod before turning to Isis.

“Your father left two items with my father for safekeeping. Here.”

“Thank God.” Isis breathed deeply, then held out her hand. “We were hoping he’d left a clue of some kind. What’s this?” she asked as the other man laid a length of wood across her palm.

“It’s a broken piece of a walking stick. Don’t ask me the significance, for I do not know.”

“Seriously?” Isis took the carved stick and handed it to Thorne. “Not only is it broken, but a walking stick like this is mass-produced and sold at a hundred stalls here alone.” Frustration laced her words.

Thorne took it, hoping she wasn’t about to burst into tears. “The stick and carvings are machine made, probably in China. Nothing special about it that I can see.”

She looked hopeful. “Maybe it’s hollow and he’s written me a nice letter explaining everything.”

Thorne twisted and inspected. “Not hollow.”

“Husani, what do the glyphs say?”

“A poem for long life and prosperity.”

“Of little value?”

“Of no value at all, I’m sorry to say, little bird. It makes no sense to me, either, but my father informs me
that the professor was very specific that he hold this, and the box, until he returned and to give them to no one else.”

She held it out to Thorne. “Can you get anything from this?”

“Bought somewhere close by. I don’t see any significance.”

Isis blew out a breath and handed it back to her friend. “Would you mind if I leave it here with you? I have no way to carry it safely, and I don’t want to lose it. Obviously it has some sentimental value for my father. I’ll take it back to Seattle. Maybe seeing it will jog his memory.” She paused. “What box?”

He handed her a small boxy reed basket about the size of her palm, crisscrossed with a length of grubby ribbon. An equally dirty white business-sized card was tied on top. Thorne reached over to pinch the paper between his fingers, acknowledged the stream of GPS numbers suddenly running through his head, and flipped over the card so both he and Isis could see the
tyet,
the hieroglyph knot hastily sketched on one side. He turned the card. The other side was blank.

Isis carefully untied the thin ribbon, stuffing it in her camera bag absently so she could lift the lid. The bright light in her eyes dulled. Inside was a ratty silk tassel, the kind that could be found on millions of Turkish rugs worldwide.

“Damn it, Daddy,” she muttered under her breath, her disappointment evident from the slump of her shoulders.
“Couldn’t you just write me a note like a freaking normal person?”

“DYLAN CAME TO SEE
me this morning as well,” Husani told Isis with a frown on his smooth features as he handed her a small cup of mint tea she didn’t want, then poured another for Thorne. “What’s going on, Isis?” he asked after handing Thorne a cup. “Does your presence, and that of your old friend, have anything to do with my father’s attack?”

Dylan?
Her heart fluttered. “What did he want?” A small alarm dinged. The attack after their arrival in Cairo, Beniti’s attack, and now
Dylan
had visited Husani?

Thorne cocked a dark brow in her direction. He had very expressive eyebrows. “And he is?”

“My father’s assistant.”

“Little bird’s fiancé,” Husani said at the same time.

“Dylan was never my fiancé,” Isis quickly denied. “We dated. He wanted more; I wanted less.” Zero chemistry, nothing like what she and Thorne created together. “What did he want, Husani?” she repeated.

“To speak with Father.”

Her nape tingled with apprehension. It was plausible. Dylan, being an Egyptologist, and having worked for her father for years, knew Beniti al-Atrash. They came to her father’s old friend when they wanted honest workers to go on a dig, or needed supplies whose prices hadn’t been jacked up to the skies.

Why
wouldn’t
Dylan visit him if he was in Egypt? But why would her father’s assistant pick this time of year to
excavate when the heat index was killer and most of the locals who could afford it left the city?

She adjusted the strap between her breasts, the weight of the camera comforting against her side as they talked. “What did he want?” She opened the bag and shifted things to accommodate the small box. It was a tight fit to close the bag. “Did you tell Dylan that Beniti is in the hospital?”

Husani shrugged. “No. When he found out that Father was not here, he said that Professor Magee sent him.”

Isis curled her lip. “He did not.”

Implacable, unflappable, Husani added, “He claimed your father sent him to retrieve the object he left behind on his last trip.”

Her arm brushed Thorne’s as she touched her camera bag. “The stick and the box?” His innate strength lent her courage. “Did he ask for them specifically?”

“No, which raised my suspicion. When I inquired as to what the item might be, he prevaricated, then admitted he didn’t know what had been left. I informed him I had no knowledge of such an article, and he departed.” Husani shrugged as if he had no control over the whims of fate. “He was not pleased.”

Dylan “not pleased” was as petulant and whiney as a hormonal teenager. Isis shot a look at Thorne. “Dylan’s fishing. He wasn’t here that last time with my father, so he shouldn’t even know about this.”

“I figured. This adds another new player, doesn’t it?” Thorne took his phone from the front pocket of his jeans. “What’s this Dylan’s last name?”

“Brengard.” Isis’s fingers tightened around the lid of her camera case. “You don’t think he was the one who sent those men last night, do you? That doesn’t sound like something Dylan would do. He’s…” Weak. A follower. “A pacifist. Well, maybe not that, but he doesn’t seem the kind to condone violence.” He’d taken her rebuff with a shrug.

Isis knew unequivocally that if and when Thorne decided not to be as patient as he was pretending to be, he’d take and not ask. She just wanted to make sure to let him catch her when he was ready.

He gave her an indecipherable look as he punched in a number on his phone. “If there’s enough incentive people will do anyth—” He stopped abruptly at the sound of a skirmish outside, whipping his gun from under his shirt at the small of his back and subtly stepping in front of her.

Heart in her throat, Isis peered around his arm, hearing running footsteps approaching, accompanied by shouts of anger.

Hell, not again—

SEVEN

T
horne and Husani both leveled their weapons toward the swinging curtain at the entrance to the inner sanctum as the driver pushed his way through the carpets hanging from the ceiling.

“Company,” he said quietly and succinctly, his eyes intense and focused. He too carried a very large black gun.

Who the hell
was
Connor Thorne?

“Back door?” Thorne demanded, addressing Husani.

“I know the way,” Isis told him, forcing the basket down so she could latch the camera bag. “Are you coming, Husani?”

“I will greet the visitors,” he said grimly, tucking his gun into the back of his loose pants. “Go, little bird!”

“Thank you! This way.” Isis pushed between hanging layers of fine kilim rugs. The stall backed up into Beniti’s small shop, which faced the alley in the next block. Thorne stayed on her heels and the driver brought up the rear.

“Get the lead out,” Thorne told her briskly as they moved from blankets, textiles, and plastic sphinxes to more expensive faux artifacts.

“We can go through here, and then through the next shop, and then out a side d—” Her words were cut off by the sound of a gunshot. She spun around, slamming into Thorne’s hard chest. Isis braced a hand over the steady beat of his heart. “Husani!”

He grabbed her upper arm. “Let’s go.” Twisting her around, he propelled her between crowded display cases, intricately inlaid tables where she’d played as a child, had haggled behind the counter as she got older, and stolen her first kiss as a teen.
“Move!”

They emerged through a narrow side alley crowded with tourists. The noise was jarring. How would they know who was after them in the crush of humanity? In the teeming mass of people someone could come right up and shoot them, knife them—
whatever
them—without being observed until it was too late.

Sweat beaded her brow, and her heart raced erratically with the adrenaline surging through her. She stayed close to Thorne, slipping her hand into his, grateful when his strong fingers tightened around hers as they pushed through the shoppers and tourists.

As they walked, Isis scanned the faces of the people surging around them like waves around a rock. Suddenly, instead of a million bits of color and potential photographic vignettes, she saw a thousand different threats. Everyone was suspect. Everyone looked potentially dangerous. One-handed she adjusted her camera around her neck, making sure it was safe if she had to run again, glad that
this
time she wore tennis shoes instead of strappy sandals.

“Back to the car?” She raised her voice to be heard over the noise of people haggling, shouting over loud music, normal conversation at higher than normal volume. This circus atmosphere, the colors and smells, the sounds of Egypt—all the things she loved now presented a threat. Thorne’s fingers tightened over hers, and he gave a little tug. “Turn left.”

Isis pointed right. “But the car’s that way.” Or not. She had her father’s crappy sense of direction. She’d played in the labyrinth of the souk for years, but getting lost then had been an adventure that always led to pleasant discoveries and surprises—and a safe return to Beniti al-Atrash’s shop, escorted by other shopkeepers who knew her and her father.

“We have another vehicle parked on the other side. Yes,” he said to the driver, clearly in answer to something she hadn’t heard. The guy melted into the crowds surging around them. Thorne kept her moving, although it wasn’t a simple task to navigate the onslaught of shoppers and laughing, playing children filling the narrow streets.

Only someone intimately familiar with the souk could navigate the congested labyrinth with his certainty. If he’d studied a map of the area as he claimed, he must have a photographic memory, because his steps never faltered, and they were never obstructed by a dead end.

He walked quickly down what looked like a blind alley, but pushed through T-shirts hanging in wild disarray from the ceiling of a small stall. They emerged into one of the narrow car-lined side streets running alongside the bazaar. The vehicle, a filthy Jeep with tinted windows,
was parked nose out. He activated the door lock from half a block away and popped the door, almost shoving her inside before rounding the front and getting in himself.

The car started with a deep throaty roar and they were off. He didn’t drive crazily, although doing so probably wouldn’t attract any more notice than did the rest of the drivers on the congested roads. He eased into traffic with aggressive confidence while she dug in her bag for a wad of tissue. Sweat ran down her temples and collected between her breasts.