The Egyptian (34 page)

The guide interspersed the numbing silence of the Western Desert with occasional factoids, such as how Saharan sand dunes can reach as high as six hundred feet and can wipe out an entire settlement during a sand storm, and how vast underground aquifers far beneath the desert well up into sporadic depressions and oases between the Nile Valley and the Libyan border, sustaining a modicum of life.

The elephant in the desert was that everyone knew it was Stefan they wanted most, and he was sitting right beside them. They might have bought some time by leaving Cairo, or they might not have. Maybe Al-Miri’s men were right behind them, watching them. They could be waiting on them at this Siwa place.

This was insanity, but Veronica didn’t know what else to do. She wasn’t leaving Grey at the mercy of those sadistic bastards. She knew in her gut that by the time the police found him, if ever, he’d be dead.

Every molecule in her brain screamed at her to let Viktor and Stefan go without her. But it was too late for that. They might need her help, and she wasn’t sure she’d be safer anyplace else anyway.

This whole thing was surreal. It simply wasn’t happening.

Only it was.

•  •  •

Hours later, both the beauty and monotony of the desert had left Veronica in a state of numb amazement. Besides tiny Bahariya Oasis, a two minute blip on the journey, they had not seen another person, vehicle or sign of civilization. The parched air stung her throat and filled her nostrils with a crisp purity. The unending red and gold sands, a symphony of windswept geometry on a scale almost hard to believe, left her with a feeling of insignificance. Veronica had no idea how the guide kept track of where they were going.

When they were well into the desert Viktor drew them close and relayed what he’d learned from Professor Hilton and the police. When he told them about Nomti’s background, Veronica wrapped her arms around her knees and stared into the desert.

Stefan asked Viktor, “Do you believe Al-Miri is part of an ancient cult?”

Viktor hesitated before answering, as if ordering his thoughts. “I do not believe Al-Miri is part of an ancient cult.”

Veronica frowned. “Then why the medallion, the robes, the strange behavior?”

“I said I don’t believe Al-Miri is part of an
ancient
cult. All of the classic conditions are present for the fomentation of a new religious movement. I believe Al-Miri has created his own cult, with Nu as the principal figure of adulation. This liquid in the test tube: this is the type of idea that can breathe life into a new movement.”

“It’s just… it’s just so
insane
,” Veronica said.

“Whether truth or delusion, the impact on the worshippers is the key to the success of any cult. I believe Al-Miri has convinced his followers that there is something extraordinary about this liquid.”

“He’s convinced me as well,” Stefan murmured.

“I suspect Al-Miri is the gatekeeper, and that his followers’ access to this substance is dependent on their allegiance to him. This type of belief and relationship could lead to the extreme behavior we’re witnessing.”

“You mean turning people into murderers,” Veronica said.

“Collective behavior is a very powerful force, and should never be underestimated. People will commit acts within a cult setting of which they would otherwise never dream. When violence is involved, there is often someone in the higher levels of the hierarchy predisposed to such behavior. In this case, Nomti is an archetypal example of a second man. He’s willing to use violence, is quite possibly a psychopath, and doesn’t have the personality to be a threat to the leader. And since the violence serves Al-Miri’s purposes, he lets it go on.”

Veronica said, “Here’s my question: why? You have this rich biologist, he has whatever he wants in life, why go off the deep end?”

“Those compelled to start a new religious movement do so for various reasons. Extreme narcissism, mental disorder, desire for monetary gain, the genuine belief that one has encountered a previously unknown truth. With Al-Miri, and without knowing more of his mental state or background, I see two influences that led to the instigation of his cult: the creation of this unique liquid, and the death of his wife.”

“His wife?” Veronica said.

“She was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer before he changed the name of his company to New Cellular. I believe this marked the beginning of his transformation. Perhaps he developed the liquid near to this time, perhaps in an attempt to save his wife. I believe the confluence of these two events contributed to Al-Miri’s descent into a fantasy world.”

“Just what kind of cult do you think he’s created?”

“His own unique blend of many elements, including the science of aging, the concept of Nu, the legend of the mummy, and beliefs concerning mythic immortality lifted from various cultures, notably al-Khidr, the eternal green man of Sufi lore. It appears he’s taken the elements of prolongevity he believes have merit, and formed them into his own distinct life extension cult.”

Veronica strained her eyes into the desert, trying not to think of how many hours had passed since Grey had been taken. But there was nothing to see but sand and the relentless blue horizon, shimmering in the distance.

“This—this thing about the mummy,” Veronica said. “What do you think this is?”

“I believe he’s revived the concept of the eternal mummy as a symbolic part of his movement. Perhaps to assist with the obedience of his worshippers.”

She felt her throat tightening. “Then you don’t believe it’s… you don’t believe there’s anything to it.”

“Of course not. But understand that whatever secret these men believe they’re protecting, whatever goal they seek to accomplish, we know they’ll go to any lengths to achieve their objectives.”

•  •  •

Just before dusk Siwa finally appeared, and at first Veronica thought the brilliant azure disc in the distance was a mirage. Then they drew closer, and Veronica sucked in her breath when she saw the surface of a lake reflecting the bleak desert massifs in the background, lush reeds and swaying palms ringing the tranquil water. Despite the somber purpose of the journey, Veronica could not help but marvel at the otherworldly beauty of the oasis.

Siwa is isolated by hundreds of miles of desert in every direction
, the guide told them as they approached.
Famous for an oracle during the time of Alexander the Great, it has been ignored ever since. The fifteen thousand Siwans speak Siwi, a Berber language, and still maintain a tribal structure
.

They pulled into the town center, a dense collection of flat-roofed brick structures surrounded by groves of date palms and olive trees. The guide pointed out the remains of Shali, the original settlement, sprawled on a hill above the town. He explained that Shali was once a fortified collection of labyrinthine mud-brick dwellings, and that in the early twentieth century it had literally melted from seventy-two hours of apocalyptic rain. The result was a mind-bending patchwork mud citadel, reminding Veronica of the work of some mad sculptor.

If there is an end of the earth, Veronica thought, this is it.

By the time they passed through the town, sharing the narrow roads with pedestrians and donkey carts, the sun had almost disappeared, and Siwa looked deserted. The guide found the address of the warehouse, and Veronica fumed at the locked doors.

At Viktor’s urging the guide knocked on the door of a nearby house, and a wide-eyed man informed them that yes, a driver comes to the warehouse and then drives into the desert.
He will come in from Alexandria tomorrow
, the man said.
Very early
. He knew of no one else with access to the warehouse.

Viktor, through the guide, pressed the man for more information. “Where does this driver go, in the desert? Who does he work for?”

The man’s eyes flitted off to the side, and he took a step back. “No one knows. The driver comes to the warehouse twice a week and that is tomorrow and he never stays in town or talks to anyone. There are rumors, though, of strange things in the desert.”

“What things?” Viktor asked.

“Ancient things,” the man said. “Bad things. Leave the desert be and stay in Siwa.”

The man said a polite goodbye and firmly shut the door, and they were forced to find a primitive hostel on the edge of town. Veronica’s frustration was a parasite, eating her from within.

Veronica was ready to collapse. She had to use the restroom, and Viktor accompanied her to the outhouse a hundred yards from the hostel. They followed a sandy path past the ruins of a temple, to the edge of a palm grove. A stream trickled through the grove, and the moonlit night seduced Veronica with a false sense of security. She knew she should push it away, but it felt good, even for just a moment, not to feel like she was drowning in fear.

When she left the outhouse she realized how cold the night was, and drew her arms tight. She asked Viktor, “Should we break into the warehouse tonight?”

“Too risky. And I highly doubt there’s anything there but supplies. We’ll have to follow the driver.”

Veronica turned away, and Viktor laid a hand on her shoulder, gently. “They won’t kill him yet. He’s the link to Stefan.”

She swallowed and stared into the palms. Her eyes shifted to the left, towards a less dense section of the grove, following the stream as it made a silver passage through the moonlight.

And then she saw the figure standing deep within the thicket, the swath of white bandages, the same horrible vision she had seen outside her window in Manhattan.

She screamed.

Viktor grabbed her with one hand, and a long, curved dagger appeared in his other. “Where? What did you see?”

She had looked away as soon as she saw it, and when she looked back, it was gone. “I saw it again,” she said. “Wrapped in white bandages, in the grove. It was looking right at us.”

“Come,” Viktor said. He led her down the path to the guesthouse, knife in hand, massive shoulders hunched with tension. “We’ve had enough fresh air for tonight.”

They didn’t say a word on the walk back, and saw nothing else despite constant glancing from side to side. They hurried inside and barred the door with furniture. Veronica didn’t question her vision; she only questioned her sanity.

She didn’t stop shaking the entire night.

J
ax was bound and gagged, on his stomach, his left cheek resting on a finished concrete floor. His head throbbed.

Three walls of the empty room were white, the fourth glass, and through the glass Jax could see a narrow hallway. Tobacco-stained light filtered into the room from the hallway.

That had been some plan.
What will it be, Jax, death by drowning, crocodile, or gunshot?
The tranquilizer had been a blessing, although perhaps he’d be better off dead than stuck in wherever the hell he was.

He remembered waking up briefly in the cargo hold of a plane, already bound, and then spotty memories of being hustled through a cavernous room and dim corridors. He’d drifted in and out of sleep for a long time, still woozy from the tranquilizer.

He corrected himself. He would not be better off dead. Then he would be… dead. Jax would always choose life. He had no idea what was coming next, but that was sort of the point: he loved his life on earth, and had no desire to move on to the next stage. He doubted whatever came next would be an improvement, if it was anything at all.

A short time passed, and then four men entered the hallway and approached the room. Al-Miri and three of his lackeys, now also enrobed. The robes of his men were a different green, thicker and duller than Al-Miri’s shimmering silk.

They opened the door and spread out around him. Al-Miri pointed, and one of the men, the one Jax remembered from the boat with a cleft lip and a cruel sneer, leaned down and removed Jax’s gag.

“It is very simple,” Al-Miri said. “We want the test tube.”

“Say what?”

Al-Miri flicked his wrist, and Cleft Lip kicked Jax in the stomach. Jax grunted and wriggled on the ground. “I’m here because of the chip,” Jax said. “That’s it. No grand designs on your criminal empire, and I could care less about whatever’s in that test tube. Surely we can work something out.”

“The time is past,” Al-Miri said softly. “Where is the scientist, and where is my test tube?”

“Same rules as before, I’m afraid. I’ve got leverage, and I’m not giving it up without a deal.”

Cleft Lip took out a knife from underneath his robes, lifted Jax’s head by the back of his hair, and put the knife against his neck.

“Whoa, steady there.”

“We have the other man as well,” Al-Miri said. “He will talk if you will not.”

“Grey? Good luck with that. He’s got far more honor and principle than I do. I don’t have any at all. These aren’t my friends, and I’m quite willing to tell you everything. I just have to watch my back, you understand that, right? I’ll give you a freebie, to show my goodwill: I have no idea why you’re asking about the test tube, because I was told you got it back.”

Al-Miri leaned down with a sinuous motion of his torso. He smelled of incense, and his eyes shone with an intense light.

He’s a few pots short in the kitchen
, Jax thought.

“There will be no more lies.”

Al-Miri’s tone told Jax that he had learned something about torture since their last meeting. Cleft Lip moved the tip of his knife to Jax’s eye. Jax rushed his words. “No lie! They told me you burst into that lab in Bulgaria, took your test tube back and killed the scientists. I thought this was about shutting up the last scientist.”

Al-Miri leaned even closer, and Jax saw a muscle twitch in his neck. Then he stood, said something in Arabic, turned and left the room. His men followed. The glass door shut with a whoosh, and Jax was left in silence. He rolled to his side and considered what had just happened.

I’ll be damned
, he thought.
Someone lied about the test tube
.

•  •  •

Viktor, Stefan and Veronica returned to the warehouse at five in the morning and waited a good distance down the street for the truck driver to arrive. It was still quite cold, and Veronica pulled her shawl tight. She told Stefan what they had seen last night. “Could that liquid cause something awful to happen? Did your tests show anything?”