The fall from the tunnel to the floor was only a few feet, but she couldn’t see much of where she was landing. For all she knew, it was covered with snapping, stinging scorpions. She dropped and came to her feet quickly, ready to stomp any of the little devils that dared come near her.
But the floor was bare. Satisfied she was out of danger for a moment, she focused her beam on her surroundings.
And nearly lost her breath.
It was another crypt. The hieroglyphs lining the walls told her as much. Her light panned over an open stone sarcophagus along the far wall. The lid, also stone, lay in several pieces on the floor next to it, suggesting tomb robbers had reached it at some point, perhaps in antiquity, before the entire complex had been buried under sand.
Keeping her eyes wide, walking gingerly so as not to disturb anything, she moved slowly toward the ancient coffin. She leaned over, and then peered inside.
And nearly lost her breath again.
There was a mummy, wrapped in brittle, yellow linen. The funeral mask, if there had ever been one, was long gone. But the body was still there. Intact. Perfect. The arms were folded, right over left.
This was not just any mummy.
This was a pharaoh.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, even though she had the place to herself.
It was a find that would change the trajectory of her career, a life-changing stroke of incredible good luck, potentially a discovery that would add to — or alter — what the world knew about one of its most important ancient civilizations.
But only if the mummy didn’t suffer the same fate as her Khufu statue. She had to get it safely to the lab, or this would all amount to nothing.
NIGHT HAD COME TO THE DESERT. And with the night came the cold. Sand heated up quickly under the scorching solar glare, but it lost heat just as quickly once the sun set. Temperature swings of sixty degrees or more were not unusual.
Katie had a blanket wrapped around her as she stared into a fire, watching the flames waver and the sparks leap into the sky. Most nights, they didn’t build a fire — wood was too scarce, and it would be like a signal flare for wandering bandits.
But Professor Raynes had declared that they would celebrate what just might be the most significant find of the whole expedition. And so they had built a great bonfire. Many toasts followed: to Katie, to Raynes, to Egypt, to the dig’s sponsors, to anything anyone could think to raise a glass to.
All around her there were drunk and/or dozing archaeologists. The graduate students had gone at it particularly hard.
Only Katie — supposedly the most celebrated of the celebrants — had not partaken.
And now she stared into the flames, lost in her thoughts. She had spent most of her life as a student, absorbing information that had been discovered and promulgated by others. But now she was poised on the brink of an important transition: she was going to be in a position to be a creator of information, to add to human knowledge — not just take from it. To actually be in a position to make a contribution to a field she loved so much was almost dizzying. And yet she also knew it could be snatched from her, quite literally at any second.
“Everything okay?”
The voice made her jump and gave her a shot of adrenaline. It had been quite a day for her nerves.
“You scared me,” she said, bringing her hand to her chest.
Professor Raynes patted her shoulder. “Sorry, sorry. I thought you heard me coming.”
She shook her head.
“You ought to be the drunkest among us,” he said. “Why are you the most sober?”
“Because I’m worried.”
“About what?”
She tilted her head toward some of the dayworkers, who were just out of earshot. “Them. They know exactly what was found down there. And I’m sure they can sense from the excitement how valuable it is. If one of them heads back to town and spreads the word that there’s been a big discovery, how long is it going to take until we’re seeing another dust cloud with thieves riding in front of it?”
Raynes nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that—”
“We have to do more than think!”
“Settle down, settle down,” he said, putting both hands up like a crossing guard trying to halt schoolchildren. “I’m already taking steps to deal with that.”
“Don’t tell me by hiring more guards. They turn tail and run the second we need them,” she said, aware she was sounding whiny. “I’d rather try to shoot these bastards myself than rely on those jokers.”
“No, no. We’re through with them. I’ve contacted the IAPL.”
“Umm…okay?” Katie said, her confusion plain.
“Sorry. International Art Protection League. It’s an NGO that specializes in this sort of thing. They started in Bern, Switzerland, and focused on cracking down on museum theft in Europe, helping police agencies cooperate with each other across international boundaries. Too often pieces that were being stolen from one country would appear on the black market in another one, where they weren’t even aware of the theft. They had some good successes early on and attracted some major donors, and now they’ve branched out into Asia and Africa.”
“I don’t want to catch these guys once the mummy is already on the black market, I want—”
“That’s the thing that’s made the IAPL so effective. They realized a while back you had to be proactive as well as reactive. They send teams out, filled with — I don’t know what you would call them — mercenaries, I guess. Soldiers of fortune. They’re highly trained and they won’t run the moment some guy in a pickup truck fires a few rounds in the air.”
“And are they going to help us?”
“We’ll see,” the professor said. “We’ve made the request. We’ll just have to hold tight and hope for the best. It’ll take a few days to extract that mummy. Maybe they’ll be here by then.”
Katie’s eyes returned to the fire. “I hope so,” she said. “I really hope so.”
CHAPTER 10
HERCULES, California
f there was one good thing about working for Jedediah Jones, it was that most of the free world owed him favors.
Jones had traded one of them to get Derrick Storm a seat on a military cargo plane that had taken off from Andrews Air Force Base at first light.
The mood aboard had been tense. The speculation in the media was that terrorists were responsible for the flights that had gone down, even if no one could guess how they were doing it. The crew had decided that with commercial flights grounded, there was at least a 50 percent chance the terrorists would target military planes next.
“Don’t worry, we’re not going anywhere near Pennsylvania,” the captain had assured Storm.
Storm had nodded, not wanting to tell the man that the weapon was most likely mobile, and that it could probably be wheeled anywhere. Nothing in the sky was safe until Storm could figure out who was doing this and why.
Jones had been typically taciturn when Storm had shared his thoughts about the laser beam and the missing scientist who might be behind it. “Sounds like we need to get you out to California,” was all Jones had said.
The flight chased the sun across the country, making good time in empty airspace. It landed just as the Bay Area was purging itself of morning traffic. In an unmarked vehicle borrowed from the air force — another underpowered Chevrolet, unfortunately — Storm drove out to Hercules, a small town just north of Berkeley.
William McRae’s onetime home was a large brown ranch with tan shutters set on a pretty piece of land near the top of a hill. Storm could see a deck on the back of the house that provided a commanding view of the valley spread below. On a clear day, he bet some of the tall buildings of San Francisco were visible. It was what realtors would call a million-dollar view. While Storm was no professional appraiser, he would not be surprised if the house would fetch something in that neighborhood if it was ever put on the market.