Amun took Gabriel’s arm and steered him toward a carpet shop. It looked more or less identical to Jumoke’s, except that the sign over the entryway here said NIZAN.
Kemnebi strode up to a closed wooden door in the side of the building and rapped on it. After a moment, a man opened it and greeted first Kemnebi and then Amun in Arabic. This was Nizan, presumably; he might have been Jumoke’s brother.
Amun and Kemnebi followed Nizan into the shop through the side door, Gabriel trailing behind them, and the two other men from the limousine coming after him. Nizan lifted a curtain and led them all into a back room. He then squatted, lifted the corner of a carpet on the floor, and revealed a hinged trap door with a metal ring in the center. The ring was secured with a hasp and a heavy padlock. Nizan fished a key out of his vest pocket and used it to remove the lock. He put both hands inside the ring and grunted as he lifted it. The door creaked open, revealing a staircase leading down.
Kemnebi was the first to descend, then Amun prodded Gabriel to follow. The underground passageway he found himself in at the foot of the stairs was long and curving, but well lit by bulbs dangling overhead. Gabriel thought the tunnel itself looked old, despite the presence of electric lights; it might have been carved centuries ago, the markings on the stone suggesting blows from hand tools rather than any sort of heavy machinery. He wondered what its original purpose had been. Something unsavory, he was sure.
They walked for what felt like about a city block before coming to another staircase leading back up. Kemnebi pressed a button on an intercom box mounted on the wall. They heard a scuffling of feet above, then another trap door opened and the group ascended, single file.
They emerged into a small room lined with shelves of food supplies—it looked like the pantry of a modern home, Gabriel thought. Two men stood waiting for them, guns in hand. They greeted Amun and Kemnebi warmly but regarded Gabriel with suspicion.
The trap door was lowered and a carpet replaced over it. The men walked them into a living room furnished with a combination of modern and traditional Arabic fittings. In one corner, a large whiteboard stood, covered with scrawled diagrams and words Gabriel couldn’t read. There were curtains drawn over all the windows. Through the curtains Gabriel could see that the windows were boarded up from the outside.
“We’re back where we started,” Gabriel said. “We just made a big circle.”
“That is correct, Mister Hunt,” Amun said.
“Why?”
“I am sure you can appreciate that we prefer to keep our activities out of view of prying eyes,” Amun said. “The way we came is the only way in.”
“I guess I’m supposed to feel fortunate that you’re letting me see the place,” Gabriel said.
“You should, Mister Hunt. You are the first non-Egyptian who has.”
“What about my sister?”
Amun smiled thinly. “She was blindfolded, of course.”
“And why do I get this special treatment?”
“Because you work for us now,” Amun said. “We must begin trusting each other sometime.”
“Can I ask you something? If your raison d’être—pardon my French—is resurrecting the glory of Egypt, why didn’t you set up this secret clubhouse there?”
“We have found,” Amun said, “that it is best to operate outside of Egypt. There are certain groups within our country—the government, for one—that support what we do in theory but cannot publicly condone some of the more . . . decisive acts the Alliance has carried out.”
“You mean like torture, kidnapping, and theft?”
“Yes,” Amun said. “Those would be examples. Of course what we do is simply retribution for crimes committed against Egypt, and many in the government have told us privately that they wholeheartedly support our actions. But to say so publicly would be impossible.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Gabriel said.
“Your media would leap upon it instantly,” Amun said, “the international media would follow, and any politician who expressed solidarity with us would be hounded from office by the chorus of outraged voices. The media, after all, are in the control of the Jews, who would like nothing more than to see—”
“Yes, yes, the Jews,” Gabriel said. “Eat your soup.”
Amun fell silent, but the look in his eyes was vicious. Finally he spoke. “We need not like one another, Mister Hunt. But we do have to work together. I suggest you show me a bit more respect.”
“Actually, Amun, I think you have it backward. I think you need me. And I think you know you need me. You’ve been looking for your Second Stone for thirty years and you haven’t found it yet. You think I can get it for you. Fine—maybe I can. But if you want me to cooperate, you’re going to have to show me and my sister a bit more respect.”
“We have shown your sister enormous respect,” Amun said. “We have not killed her.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Gabriel said. “But we’re going to need more than that.”
“For instance?”
“You can let me see her. I’d also like my gun back.”
“You will see your sister in an hour. Your gun is another story. You will get it back when I am certain you will not use it to harm me or anyone else here.” Amun gestured to the men who had let them in, who were now standing on either side of Gabriel. They took hold of his arms. “Now. I respectfully ask that you join me in my study so that you might learn about the work you have ahead of you.”
The two men forcefully propelled Gabriel forward, practically lifting him by the elbows. Together, they climbed the stairs to the second floor. The men shoved him into a dark room lined with bookshelves and took up positions on either side of the doorway. Amun seated himself on the edge of a desk made of some highly polished dark wood, almost black. A map on the wall behind him showed the geography of Corsica in enormous detail. There were pushpins stuck into it in various locations.
Amun spoke curtly in Arabic to one of the men by the door, then turned to Gabriel. “Would you like something to eat or drink? You have a lot of reading ahead of you.”
“I could use a bourbon and ice.”
Amun shot him a look. “No alcohol in a Muslim house, Mister Hunt.”
“Water, then,” Gabriel said. “Just not from that guy out in the square, please.”
Amun communicated the request to the guard and the man ran off.
“Why don’t we start with this map, Mister Hunt.”
Gabriel came closer and studied it. Most of the pins were clustered in the lower half of the island, close to the capital city of Ajaccio and a little farther south, near the towns of Filitosa, Propriano, and Sartene.
“I’ve been there,” Gabriel said. “That region’s where all the prehistoric sites were discovered.”
“Correct. Fascinating places, old as Stonehenge. Full of caves and houses made of rocks and strange menhirs arranged in circles.”
“You think the Second Stone is hidden somewhere around there?”
“We know it is. In one of these prehistoric forests close to Ajaccio.” Amun pointed to a bulging leather folder on the desk. “Inside here you will find copies of all the documents I mentioned earlier. Some in Italian, some in French; one or two in very bad English. I can translate the ones—”
“Not necessary,” Gabriel said. “I should be fine.”
“There is also a good deal of material about Napoleon in the folder.” Amun opened it and thumbed through a stack of stapled documents, some yellow with age, some gray and faded almost to illegibility. The stack was as thick as the manuscript of a book, and not a skinny paperback, either. Gabriel estimated there were five or six hundred pages.