Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Through Napoleon's Web

“Who’s Amun?”

“Tall guy, goatee, fez?”

She shook her head. “Haven’t met him. Have you seen Khufu yet?”

“Who’s Khufu?”

“The boss around here,” she said. “Calls himself ‘Khufu the Second.’ Like he’s a pharaoh. Carries a scepter, wears a mask, this traditional Egyptian thing . . . He’s the man in charge.”

“I thought Amun was—”

“I don’t know who Amun is,” Lucy said, “but he’s not in charge. You meet Khufu, you know he’s the boss.”

She lay back on the bed. Her eyes were sliding shut, though she was fighting to keep them open.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she said. “I don’t want you hurt because of me.”

“What do you mean, shouldn’t have come?” He reached out and stroked her cheek. “I’m your brother. Of course I’m going to come.”

“I bet Michael’s mad at me,” she mumbled.

“He’s worried about you,” Gabriel said.

“He’s always worried. About everything.”

“So he’s more worried than normal. He cares about you, you know.”

“Even though I haven’t talked to him since I was seventeen?”

“Even though,” Gabriel said. “You’re still his sister.”

Her eyes slid shut and this time they stayed shut.

“I’m glad,” she said, her voice very tired, “that at least they’re not asking for money. That’s what I figured they wanted. And I really didn’t want Michael paying ransom for me. You know how I feel about the money.”

“Yeah, I know.” Gabriel smoothed her hair. “When this is all over, maybe you can explain it to Michael. Over a nice dinner in New York.”

She sleepily shook her head. “Not happening.”

“Why not?” Gabriel said, but at that moment the door swung open and Chigaru entered carrying a tray. He put it down on the desk, glared at Gabriel, and left without a word.

There was a plate of rice, some strips of grilled chicken, a little pile of hummus. A bottle of water accompanied it.

“Try to get some down,” Gabriel said—but when he turned to look at Lucy he saw she was asleep.

Well. It would keep. Hopefully she’d eat some when she woke up, maybe even a bite or two of the chicken. Not that he was too optimistic. Lucy had been a committed vegetarian since childhood.

Gabriel went over to the window. There were indeed bars attached on the outside of the glass pane. The wooden boards were screwed into the wall over them. Peering through the cracks between the boards he could just make out the bougainvillea-covered wall of the building across the street.

And what about the building they were in? Gabriel remembered his brief look at it when they’d gotten out of the limo. There was no bougainvillea here. No fire escape, no drainpipe. Nothing to hold onto or to shimmy down. Just three sheer stories of sandstone wall.

Gabriel raised the window, put his hand through the bars, and tested the strength of the boards. They seemed firmly attached. The only thing was, as Gabriel knew from caving and climbing, sandstone was soft. You could drive a piton into it barehanded if you had to, and pull it out again afterward; whatever screws they’d used to attach these boards should come out, too, with enough force. He gave one of the boards a few blows with the heel of his hand. After three or four, he felt it loosen slightly, and after a few more it was moving noticeably. One more strike, he thought, and it would come free.

Gabriel closed the window and went back to the chair. Lucy was sitting up, chewing on a spoonful of rice.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said.

“I was, till you started banging on the window.”

They heard a hand at the doorknob outside, saw it turn.

“Eat,” Gabriel whispered quickly, “and rest—and be prepared to move, fast, when I come for you.”

The door opened and Kemnebi stuck his head inside. He gestured to Gabriel.

“Come,” he said again.

Gabriel stood. “All right. I’m going to want to talk to Amun.”

“Later,” Kemnebi said.

“What do you mean, later? I want to talk to him now.”

“Later,” the big man repeated. “Khufu awaits.”

Chapter 12

He was led downstairs to the ground floor, through the living room, and into a corridor he hadn’t seen before. Gabriel was struck by the sudden change of decoration in the hallway. The walls here were the color of stone and uneven, and had been painted with fairly good hand-drawn reproductions of Egyptian hieroglyphics. It was as if the Alliance wanted to give the impression of walking into a pyramid or an ancient temple. They’d even mounted torches along the way in metal holders. As the modern living room receded behind them, it felt a bit like walking back through time.

Gabriel reached out and touched one wall. It wasn’t genuine stone—it felt like cast resin, painted over to look like stone.

“Do not touch,” Kemnebi snapped.

“Disney’s got nothing on you guys,” Gabriel murmured.

They reached the end of the corridor, where the wall was painted to look like a large sandstone block. Kemnebi grabbed a concealed handhold and pulled it open. The wall swiveled toward them, revealing a chapel-sized space lit by torches. Gabriel stepped through. He suspected they were in the adjacent building now. He turned to ask—but Kemnebi pushed the section of the wall closed behind him.

Gabriel was alone.

The interior was designed to resemble the King’s Chamber from an Egyptian pyramid. Gabriel had seen the real thing several times and this was not a bad facsimile. The pyramids had been built as elaborate tombs for the pharaohs, intended to provide them with a comfortable home in the afterlife, though ancient notions of comfort had never struck him as all that comfortable. You’d generally have a large throne made of a single piece of carved stone; the one here was set upon a pedestal with six steps leading up to it from the floor. You’d have your statues of Egyptian gods—here, several man-sized ones stood flanking either side of the throne and much larger ones in each corner of the room were posed as if holding up the ceiling. Smaller statuettes were scattered around, alongside pedestals bearing basins filled with water. A sarcophagus stood on the right side of the chamber, its stone cover intricately decorated with jewels and gold inlay.

“Bow, American. Bow before your pharaoh.”

The voice echoed through the room. It was crisp and commanding, with a hint of a Middle Eastern accent, but only a hint.

Gabriel moved toward the throne. He was off to one side and could see that it was still empty—and there was no one behind it, either. But as he watched, a man suddenly appeared, stepping out from a patch of shadow.

Khufu was as Lucy had described him, dressed in the vestments of an Egyptian pharaoh, from the wood-soled sandals up to the ornate nemes , the striped royal headdress. The nemes had fine accordion pleating on lappets, folds that were held to the forehead with a metal band. And below that band, covering his face, the man wore a carved mask of a falcon. Gabriel recognized it as the face of Horus, the god of pharaohs. The man also wore an ankle-length transparent robe—transparency once signified an Egyptian’s wealth and importance—and beneath the robe he wore a loincloth. Aside from several gold bracelets on his arms, the rest of his sinewy body was bare. He held a golden scepter in his right hand, its head curved like a cobra about to strike.

“You shall bow to me, American,” Khufu said. “Willingly or no.”

Gabriel didn’t move. “This is quite a display,” he said, “but that’s all it is. A display. Any man could build it, if he was rich enough and had a thing for King Tut. I’m not impressed.”