The Arab Fall (A James Acton Thriller, Book #6) (James Acton Thrillers) Read online

  He sighed, returning his attention to the necklace, a necklace that was, in fact, a design he could appreciate, a design he recognized.

  For he had made it.

  And he knew for a fact it was buried with his late Pharaoh’s body, he himself having been brought in to consult on the burial as to what the finest jewels were to bury with their fallen god. He felt a rage build in his heart as he stared at the piece, dumbfounded. His brothers and others they had gathered over the two moons that had passed since the sealing of the burial tomb had watched over it day and night.

  Someone had betrayed them.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked his shopkeeper, Kontar.

  Kontar pointed at the necklace. “It’s one of yours, isn’t it?”

  Tarik nodded.

  Kontar frowned, grasping at the narrow goatee he sported in an attempt to appear a higher caste than he actually was. “As soon as I saw it, I knew. Of course I should know it, since I know all your work. But this one. Isn’t this…?” He apparently dared not finish the sentence.

  Tarik nodded again, running his fingers over the piece, feeling the surge of energy from what was once a living god whose perfect, divine skin it had graced perhaps only days before.

  “Where did you get it?” he repeated.

  Kontar turned his nose up. “A most disagreeable creature. I’ve seen him before as he has tried to sell his ill-gotten gains. I’ve always turned him away before, knowing who and what he was, but this time, when he showed me what he had, I couldn’t.” Kontar sighed, running his own fingers over the piece. “It is so lovely, and I am certain she would have loved it had she been able to see it.”

  “She is a god. Of course she was able to see it.”

  “Yes, of course, I am certain you are right,” scrambled Kontar, touching his forehead and looking up in apology. “It is so difficult to think in terms of the divine, that I sometimes forget they are all knowing and all seeing. Forgive me.”

  “It is not I of whom you must ask forgiveness. Ask it in your prayers tonight.” Tarik pointed at the necklace. “Who is this ‘disagreeable creature?’”

  “His name is Shakir. He lives in the lower quarter, a pickpocket, lowlife. But never before have I seen him with a piece such as this. Usually just trinkets. Small items that locals would wear, not royalty.”

  “You will take me to him.”

  “Me? You? You mean you want to go to”—Kontar paused, the look of horror on his face almost comical—“the lower quarter?”

  Tarik nodded. “We must get to the bottom of this, and in order to do so, we must go where the answers are.”

  And right now, those all appeared to be in the lower quarter with a petty thief named Shakir.

  Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site

  Two Days Before the Liberty Island Attack

  “So where did you find it?” asked Laura, her expert eyes scanning the level area for any hint of something of interest. Her beloved James was at her side, his hands on his hips as he too examined the rather plain sight, the sand blown smooth by the wind, not a hint of vegetation, and beyond a grouping of rocks that stretched from left to right for about fifty feet, there was nothing.

  “By the rocks,” said Chaney, pointing. He rushed over to a spot between two decent sized rocks and jabbed his finger at a spot on the ground. “Right here. There was just a bit of it showing when I found it. I had to dig it out with my hands.”

  James approached the spot carefully, examining the surroundings, as did Laura. There was nothing obviously special about the spot, except its proximity to the rocks, which might explain why it hadn’t been lost to the desert sands, the rocks providing some sort of protection from the wind. Then again, the rocks themselves were just as likely to be buried in a sandstorm, as unburied.

  I wonder which it is?

  She looked about the area, and there were no other rocks anywhere, just this cluster, which seemed a bit odd, but definitely not out of the realm of possibility. Her expert eye began to examine the rocks more closely as James and their detective friend crawled around on their hands and knees, digging at the dry sand.

  There were some high winds two nights ago…

  She bit her lip, the pattern of the sand around the rocks suggesting an easterly direction, but not giving her any indication of whether or not these rocks had been buried and out of sight until then, or had stood their lonely vigil for hundreds or thousands of years, undisturbed, their elevated position merely allowing the sand to blow past them and into the depressions surrounding them.

  The satellite photos showed that this had once been farmland rather than the barren desert it now was. The bed of an ancient river nearby was clearly visible on the satellite photos, and evidence of irrigation had already been found. This was a rather smooth area, ideal for farming at the time. She crossed her arms, stroking her chin.

  “I think these rocks were placed here.”

  “What’s that, Dear?”

  “The rocks. I think they were placed here deliberately.”

  James stopped digging, looking at the rocks surrounding him, Chaney continuing his almost frantic attack at the sand.

  “This was farmland, right?”

  Laura nodded.

  “Perhaps they cleared the rocks from their fields, piling them here?”

  Laura scratched her wrist absentmindedly, then brushed some sand off her lap.

  “Odd place though to put them. Why not off to the sides, where they would be out of the way? Then this entire area could be plowed without concerning yourself about rocks.” It didn’t make sense, but only if these were the only rocks. For all she knew there could be dozens if not hundreds buried under the sand all around them. In two thousand years, land could become unrecognizable.

  James stepped into the center of the rocks, then slowly turned around, examining the area.

  “You’re right, it doesn’t make sense. Unless this is supposed to mark a spot?”

  Laura’s eyebrows shot up. “Something ritualistic, perhaps?”

  James pursed his lips, then slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so. The rocks would be more uniform in size, more perfectly laid out. These seem to be intentionally different, as if to disguise their purpose.” He sighed. “Assuming they have a purpose.” He dropped to a knee, rolling aside one of the smaller stones. He glanced under it, then at the other rocks, then back at her.

  “Perhaps we’ve been at this too long.”

  Laura chuckled, rolling the stone nearest her away from the circle and looking under it, finding nothing.

  “You mean we’re seeing what we want to see?”

  Chaney stopped his mad digging. “Are you saying I’m wasting my time?”

  The look on his face, that of a disappointed child, made her laugh. “No, you’re not wasting your time. It’s never a waste to explore an area where an artifact has been found. Sometimes you find nothing, sometimes you find everything. If James hadn’t had his team dig out the cave in Peru, he would never have found the crystal skull that the Triarii were searching almost a thousand years for.”

  “And my students would be alive today if I hadn’t had them dig it out.”

  James pushed another stone, this one larger, out of the way, his anger and sadness at the memories still too raw.

  “Sorry, Dear, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  James flashed her a weak smile, then pushed another stone out of the way. “Don’t worry about it, it’s something I need to deal with. Eventually I’ll be able to talk about it, but not yet.”

  Laura rose and stepped into the center of the rocks, holding out her hands. James rose and she hugged him, squeezing him tightly, willing some of her strength to him as she felt him hold on, his chest heaving a single time as he fought for control of his emotions.

  “Hello, what’s this?”

  They both turned to look at Chaney, who had just rolled another of the larger rocks away. As he wiped the sweat from his brow wi
th the back of his left hand, his right had hold of something and was tugging at it none too gently.

  Suddenly whatever he had was torn from his hand and jumped toward her several inches.

  “Stay perfectly still,” said James, still holding her from behind.

  “What is it?” she whispered, afraid to breathe, Chaney’s curious expression as he looked at them adding a few extra beats as her heart began to pound harder in her chest.

  “We’re sinking.”

  Her immediate instinct was to try and scramble out of what must be quicksand, but she knew that was wrong, it would simply cause them to sink further.

  But she also knew this wasn’t quicksand. It couldn’t be. Not here, not at the top of this plateau, with these rocks, with whatever it was Chaney had been gripping inching toward her slowly.

  This was something else entirely.

  “Chaney, stay where you are, and get ready to catch Laura.”

  Chaney stood up, bending slightly at his knees, his arms stretched out.

  “But—”

  Laura didn’t have a chance to voice her objections. She felt James drop suddenly, his hands on her bum, then a terrific shove as he pushed her up and toward Chaney. She felt Chaney’s arms around her, pulling her from whatever it was she had been standing in, and as he spun her away from the danger, she looked on with horror as her beloved rapidly sunk, his eyes locked on hers, his hand outstretched, as he disappeared from sight.

  “James!”

  Alexandria, Lower Quarter, Egypt

  30 BC, Seven Weeks After Cleopatra’s Death

  Tarik stood at the edge of an alleyway with his shopkeeper, Kontar, and watched as the petty thief, Shakir, worked the crowd. Tarik had to admit, watching the elderly man work was like watching a master artist paint, or perhaps more appropriately, a dancer, each movement he made choreographed with precision, executed with the practiced hand of decades of experience.

  He was indeed a master thief.

  In the twenty minutes they had observed him, he had relieved six people of their purses, and three of bracelets that had yet to be missed. Tarik shook his head in disgust. To him there was nothing worse than thieves. Men and women worked long and hard to earn their money, then thieves simply took it from them, as if they had some sort of entitlement to possess that which they did not earn.

  His blood boiled.

  He pushed back his robes, revealing his belt, and the money purse hooked to it, then stepped into the marketplace, strolling amongst the stalls, toward Shakir. And he noticed with satisfaction, that Shakir almost immediately spotted him.

  Or rather his purse.

  Within seconds it seemed Shakir was at his side, and with barely a bump, Tarik had been relieved of his purse.

  But not the dagger he pulled from its sheath. Turning, he pressed the blade into Shakir’s back, causing him to stop. Tarik leaned in and whispered in his ear.

  “Remain silent and walk to the alleyway on the right. Make a sound, and I will run you through.”

  Shakir thankfully remained silent, only nodding. His arms began to rise and Tarik pushed the tip of the dagger a little harder against the man’s back.

  “Hands down, act natural.”

  Again Shakir nodded, his arms quickly coming down, and they began to weave their way through the busy market, Shakir’s hands twitching every time a purse made an appearance. Tarik found it remarkable how many people exposed their money to the world without a second thought, some so blatantly he at times felt they deserved to have it stolen, so they could learn a lesson for next time.

  But this market not only sold luxuries, it also sold basic food. And a stolen purse here could mean a starving family elsewhere. He pushed the dagger a little harder as his anger boiled at the thought, and he made a promise to himself to donate more at the temple so they could administer to the starving wretches.

  They entered the alleyway and his shopkeeper, Kontar, grabbed Shakir and pulled him into the shadows, pushing him face-first against the wall. Tarik flipped their prisoner around and pressed the dagger to the man’s throat.

  “I’ll have my purse.”

  Shakir’s head shook up and down, his old, leathery skin swaying with the effort like a gizzard. The purse quickly made an appearance, and Tarik took it, hooking it back on his belt. He turned to Kontar.

  “Show him.”

  Kontar pulled the necklace out and held it up as Tarik leaned in closer.

  “You sold this to my friend yesterday. Do you remember?”

  Shakir trembled out a nod.

  “Where did you get it?”

  Shakir shook his head. “I-I don’t know.”

  “In Ra’s name, if you don’t tell us, I’ll slit your belly open myself and leave you here to stain this filthy place,” hissed Kontar, his own dagger making an appearance.

  Shakir’s eyes were wide with fear, and the sound of water hitting the dirt of the alleyway caused Tarik to look down then step back as a puddle of urine formed at their thief’s feet. The old man looked up and away, his face one of shame at the lack of courage his bladder had shown.

  What could make an old man steal like this?

  But Tarik checked his sympathy, realizing the practiced hand he had watched came from decades of plying his trade as a young man, a young man who had simply grown old by the unfortunate fact he had never been killed.

  A tribute to his skill.

  “The name.”

  Shakir shook his head. “I don’t know it, but I know the face.”

  Kontar beamed a quick grin at Tarik, he having a hard time containing his excitement as well

  “Where is he?”

  “It isn’t a he, it’s a she.”

  Tarik wasn’t prepared for that answer, but as he thought about it, it did make sense. After all, it was a necklace, one meant for a queen, not a king, its delicate design feminine. Voices near the alleyway caused all their heads to spin as a trio of Roman Centurions paused, their backs to them. Tarik cupped his hand over the old thief’s mouth, but the man didn’t make a sound, probably no more eager to meet the soldiers than Tarik was.

  The Romans moved on, as did Tarik’s heart as he slowly removed his hand. He and Kontar both breathed sighs of relief, as did their captive. Tarik pointed at him, his narrowed eyes and turned down lips meant to elicit as much fear as possible.

  “Who is she?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Where did you steal it?”

  Shakir pointed to the marketplace with a shaky finger. “There.”

  “In this market?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she a regular?”

  Shakir shook his head. “No. At least, she wasn’t.”

  Tarik’s eyes narrowed further. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, every day since the necklace was stolen, she has come to the market.”

  “What does she do?” asked Kontar, apparently unable to contain his excitement any further.

  “I don’t know. As soon as I see her, I leave.”

  “Have you seen her today?”

  “No, but she should be arriving any moment now. She comes the same time every day.”

  “Let me guess. The same time you stole the necklace from her.”

  Shakir nodded.

  Tarik felt a twinge of pity for the woman. The necklace was obviously important to her, and this piece of garbage had stolen it with no regard to how it might impact her. But then he remembered why they were there. The necklace itself was stolen, stolen from their god. She was a thief as well, or at least associated with thieves.

  He had to know who it was. He pushed Shakir toward the entrance of the alleyway, and all three stood in the shadows, looking out. “You will point her out to us. If you try to run, you will find my dagger in your back. It should fetch a good price in the afterlife.”

  Shakir said nothing, instead his eyes, trained on the crowd, narrowed as he searched the throngs. Tarik spotted a sundial indicating midday when Shakir po
inted.

  “There.”

  He pointed at a thick mass of people, and Tarik was about to ask who, when he spotted her. A woman out of place, her face too clean and pampered to fit in, despite the ragged robes she wore as a disguise. The expression on her face was one of worry as her head darted from left to right, then back again, searching not the vendors, but the customers undulating through the stalls and past the carts.

  It was a beautiful face, a regal face.

  And it was a face he knew well.

  For it was the face of his sister-in-law, the wife of his beloved youngest brother, Fadil.

  Nubian Desert, Egypt, University College London Dig Site

  Two Days Before the Liberty Island Attack

  Special Agent Hugh Reading, Interpol, had decided he hated the heat. How he had allowed himself to be convinced to join this dig on his vacation was something he’d need to closely examine, to make certain whatever pressure points had been used on him could never be used again. But at this particular moment, he was quite content. His chair, positioned in front of the air conditioner, he himself slouched in it, his feet propped up on either side of the blessed machine, he now positioned perfectly to enjoy the frigid air that poured from the belly of the beast, running up his legs, over the boys, up his stomach and chest, to his sunburnt neck and face.

  Simply put, it was heavenly, if not a little obscene.

  And with his eyes closed, he knew why he was here.

  Protection.

  It was a miracle James and Laura had made it out of China alive during the incident there a few months back. At least this time they had successfully avoided the news, their contribution to go down in some secret files opened to the public in twenty five years when no one cared. But here in Egypt, with the Muslim Brotherhood, whose name belied their true nature as rabid Islamic fundamentalists, now in control since the ouster of Mubarak, Egypt was no longer safe.

  Not that it had ever truly been safe.

  But now there was an entirely different level of extremism out there, endorsed by the government, tacitly endorsed by a police force that was content to sit idly by, and ignored by a military that was simply waiting for the country to fall into chaos before they stepped back in and took control, with the blessing of the international community, and the average non-political citizen.