Clive Cussler: The Pharaoh's Secret

Scorpion had just shot Hassan dead and was now fighting like a man possessed. Kurt aimed the pistol, holding it close to his body. Scorpion held his knife and made a move toward Kurt.

Kurt fired, hitting Scorpion in the arm that held the knife. Scorpion fell back, dropping the knife. He grabbed onto the scaffolding with his uninjured hand. The knife clattered to the ground beneath them.

“Surrender!” Kurt demanded.

Scorpion ignored him and pulled another weapon from his pocket, a set of brass knuckles with a triangular knife attached to the front. Hassan had given it to him upon his promotion. The knife shape was meant to represent the reborn power of the pharaohs and the Pyramids. All of the Osiris assassins were given one.

He slipped it onto his fingers and clenched his fist in a ball.

“Don’t!” Austin shouted.

Scorpion lunged forward and Kurt fired again, hitting him in the other shoulder. Scorpion reeled and barely kept his balance. He lunged again and this time Kurt shot him in the calf.

Scorpion hung on by sheer determination. If he could just reach Austin, they could embrace in death.

Kurt could see the obsession in Scorpion’s face. “Don’t you ever give up?” he shouted.

Scorpion grinned. “Never!”

He lunged again, but Kurt fired without hesitation, hitting Scorpion’s unwounded thigh. Scorpion’s leap was cut short. He fell down the shaft, slamming against the top of the car and tumbling off it and onto the cavern floor.

He died looking up into the darkness.

By the time Kurt and Joe returned to Cairo, the clandestine part of Osiris International was coming apart. A database had been found that showed the criminal side of its actions. Payoffs, bribes, threats. Names of operatives. Names of foreign assets.

The commercial side would continue but, according to Edo, would likely be nationalized, as most of the investors turned out to be criminals.

Kurt was concerned for Renata and found her in a hospital, conscious and recovering and a bit confused. “I dreamt of crocodiles,” she said.

“That was no dream,” Kurt replied.

He explained how the antidote worked and how they’d found it. And he remained with her until an Italian medical team arrived and took her to the airport, where she was to be shuttled back to Italy for observation.

Next, he checked in with the Trouts. They explained the trouble they’d faced in France.

“Gamay even started tearing apart Villeneuve’s paintings,” Paul said, “because she thought he might’ve hidden the secret inside one of them. Two of the works held nothing. But then someone who called himself Scorpion got the third painting away from us.”

“I appreciate your effort,” Kurt said, “but I have to ask, what made you think that D’Campion’s translation would be hidden in a painting?”

“There was something in Villeneuve’s letters to D’Campion that made it sound like he was leaving a clue for his old friend.”

“In his letters?”

“In his final letter,” Gamay explained. “Villeneuve wrote of his fear of what Napoleon would do if he actually had the Black Mist in his possession. ‘Perhaps it’s best that the truth never come out. That it remain with you in your small boat paddling to the shelter of the Guillaume Tell .’ When Paul and I looked at the paintings Villeneuve had allegedly done, one of them depicted a small boat, crewed by several men who were rowing with gusto. We thought the translation might be hidden inside.”

“But the men who attacked us got the painting from us before we could check it thoroughly,” Paul added.

“I didn’t feel anything hidden in there before they grabbed it,” Gamay said. “It was just a silly idea.”

Kurt heard her, but he wasn’t really listening. He was lost in thought. “What did the letter say, again?”

Gamay repeated the quote. “‘Perhaps it’s best that the truth never come out. That it remain with you in your small boat paddling to the shelter of the Guillaume Tell .’”

“‘Remain with you ,’” Kurt repeated, “‘in your small boat.’” Suddenly, it made sense. “Gamay you’re a genius,” he said.

“A genius? About what?” she asked.

“Everything,” Kurt said. “Get yourselves to Malta. Meet up with the D’Campions. Ask Etienne to show you the painting his ancestor did depicting the Battle of Aboukir Bay. You’ll know why when you see it.”

The Trouts met with the D’Campions at their estate. Nicole led them into the main parlor.

“Excuse the mess,” she said. “We’re still cleaning up.”

Etienne met them beside the now-darkened hearth. “I welcome you,” he said. “Any friends of Kurt Austin and Joe Zavala are friends of ours. And while I understand that he sent you, I’m not sure I understand why.”

“He wanted you to show us a painting,” Gamay said. “One, apparently, he admired very much.”

“The one Emile painted,” Etienne replied.

“Aboukir Bay,” Gamay said.

Etienne stepped aside. Behind him, above the hearth, was the painting.

“Do you mind if we take it down?” Paul asked.

A look of concern came over Etienne’s face. “Why would you do that?”

“Because we have reason to believe Emile hid the translation behind it with the intention of sending it to Villeneuve. It was the one thing no French overlord would take. And that made it safe to possess.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Etienne said.

“Only one way to find out.”

With deliberate care, the painting was taken down. A razor blade was used to separate the liner behind the canvas. Gamay slid her hand carefully up and under the backing and with the tips of her fingers touched a folded piece of paper. She pulled out stiff yellowed parchment. It was placed on the glass of the dining room table and opened with extraordinary care.

The hieroglyphics were obvious. The translation was written beneath them. Black Mist. Angel’s Breath. Mist of Life. A date was scribbled in the corner.

“Frimaire XIV,” Etienne said. “December 1805.” He looked up. “All this time…” he said. “It was right here all this time.”

“It may have taken a few hundred years,” Gamay said, “but Emile’s contribution to the knowledge of antiquity will be recorded now. The date of the painting and the correspondence with Villeneuve will prove he was the first to translate Egyptian hieroglyphics. And this particular find will go down in history as unique. He will be remembered as the most important of Napoleon’s savants .”

For twenty-four hours, Alberto Piola could hardly tear himself away from the television. Images of police and regular military units swarming over the Osiris hydroelectric plant in Cairo were constant. Video from a news chopper outside of the plant showed a whirlpool of water swirling where it was being sucked into the outflow pipe and funneled back into the aquifers. Hundreds of soldiers could be seen on the ground. Jeeps, tanks and trucks filled the parking lot.

Rumors connecting Osiris with both the disaster in Lampedusa and the droughts across North Africa were flying. Upon hearing that Shakir and Hassan were dead, Piola felt a spurt of hope that his connection to Osiris might have died with them. But, deep inside, he knew better. So he made plans to escape.

He opened his wall safe and pulled out a 9mm pistol and two stacks of bills, twenty thousand euros’ worth. From his secretary’s desk, he took a set of car keys that went to the nondescript Fiat she drove. No one would be looking for him in that.