Heather Graham (17 page)

She had seen tremendous poverty in Egypt—poverty that clung to the children, to the scalpers at the tourist attractions, to the men who eked out a living along the Nile, to the women who grew old years before their time.

Jim had cared about the people of Egypt as he had cared about its treasures. He sought the tomb of Anelokep not for personal gain, but for the Egyptian government. The treasures from the past belonged to Egypt, but they could be viewed and appreciated by the world. And each time such an exhibit went on loan, the income derived from its showing came back to the people.

“It is a pity,” Alex murmured aloud. She glanced at the sheep, ambling about their grazing grounds, apparently oblivious to the heat. In contrast to the voluminous robes and galabrias worn by the adults, the four boys who tended the flock, youths ranging from seven to ten years old, Alex assumed, were half naked. Their slender young bodies were as lithe and agile as those of the sheep as they hopped about occasionally to urge a stray back to the fold.

“All is the will of Allah,” Rajman said, shrugging with fatalistic acceptance. He idly chewed a blade of grass and lay back against the dune, resting his head upon his folded arms. He closed his eyes against the sun and then twisted toward Alex, opening one. “If it is the will of Allah,” he said softly, “we will find your father.”

Alex smiled and nodded. It is
my
will to find him, she thought, and God help me, I will do so. Alex believed that fate—and God—were partial to those willing to help themselves along.

Rajman yawned. “Do you care if I take a catnap?”

“No, take a nap,” Alex said, subduing the smile that sprang to her lips. She needed to study the hieroglyphics, and it would be much easier to study if Raj wasn’t chattering away.

Except that when Raj stopped chattering, her mind began to drive her crazy again. Sitting upon the cliff, she suddenly became so angry she wanted to throw something—at D’Alesio. He had refused so adamantly to marry her—but he was more than willing to go to bed with her. Not that she had really wanted to marry him, but it was the principle of the thing. The most galling part about it all was that she was not horrified, she was not noble—she wanted him. And it didn’t gel at all with her emotions.

“Oh, God,” she groaned aloud. “This is not productive.” Neither was it comfortable. It seemed that beneath the desert sun she was besieged with chills, then riddled with heat. And she was so very, very nervous. Read! Work! she commanded herself. Think of Jim.

That thought finally did it. She could not make time pass. She could not make the evening come any faster by dwelling upon both dread and feverish anticipation.

She pulled out her notebook and studied the translations she had already made. The first was from a wall relief taken from one of the temples in Luxor. It was a prayer offered to Osiris, and the wall painting above the words had been that of Anelokep in his guise as that god.

Hieroglyphics were tricky because certain symbols could be translated several ways. There could be vast differences in interpretation and therefore confusion among such words as “under,” “behind” and “after.”

Anelokep had ruled after the boy king Tutankhamen, but long before the great king Seti I. He was eighteenth dynasty, as was Tut, and among the Theban kings who had rejoined Upper and Lower Egypt. Dozens and dozens of kings and great nobles had been interred within the cliffs of the Valley of the Kings, but as well as those esteemed graves, there were catacombs full of the mummies of the poor people. In fact, Alex assumed that within that sprawling area of carved rock and cliffs and caves there were literally millions of mummy remains, centuries of an ancient civilization, a gluttony of death.

Tutankhamen’s tomb had become a tourist attraction, but before Howard Carter, the English archaeologist, discovered the tomb, there had been nothing but sand where the crowds now walked daily. Time had done what most often the priests could not: given the tomb a natural barrier. Carter had dug for years to find the sixteen steps that led to Tut’s comparatively small and modest tomb.

Alex glanced down at the notes she had made. “Forever shall you sleep eternal, Anelokep, King of Upper and Lower Egypt, Pharaoh, divine ruler who has made us and kept us one. In sight of (or in view of, or viewed by, or beneath the view of) the great (grand, powerful) lady shall you lie as your soul rules into eternity, joining the gods.”

Alex sat back and stared up at the sun, then shielded her eyes against it, letting her mind review the history of ancient Egypt. At the dawning of the New Kingdom, the pharaohs, as men-gods, had begun to come closer to the people. With the establishment of the Valley of the Kings, there had arisen the problem of allowing the people into the temples of the kings to perform various deeds of sacrifice in honor of that particular ruler’s afterlife, while still hiding the actual burial site and the treasures needed for that afterlife. Numerous tombs were robbed in antiquity; Anelokep didn’t intend to be plundered while he lay by as a hapless mummy. Therefore it wasn’t time that hid his tomb but the cleverness of his priests and builders. They had created a puzzle, and she held the puzzle pieces.

Alex had become so involved with her work that she had been listening to the strange noise a long time before it registered in her mind. Then, as the whirring overhead became more persistent, she stared disbelievingly into the sky. There was a helicopter overhead. In the quiet of the desert it appeared as absurd as a spaceship with little green men hovering over the Sears Tower.

The glare of the sun upon the metal was blinding as Alex tried to study it, but shielding her eyes as it came nearer and lower, she became sure that it was a modern and expensive craft—small, sleek, and efficient—except that it appeared the pilot was either drunk or flying high on something else.

The boys who had been tending the sheep were staring upward, as stupefied as she, while the startled sheep began to
baa
and disappear in various directions.

Alex tapped Rajman’s arm. “Raj!”

The craft hovered closer and closer to the ground, creating miniature sandstorms as it approached. Alex frowned deeply in consternation. Then a little thud hammered in her heart. Perhaps the helicopter had come from town; perhaps they were coming out to find her with news of her father.

She absently tapped Rajman again. He didn’t respond, and she nudged him again. This time she received a reply: a loud, rattling snore.

The helicopter landed, and a spray of sand filled the air. The right-hand door opened. More absurd than the ultramodern chopper landing in the time-preserved desert were the three men who wobbled and hopped out of the open, swinging door. They were in full Arab dress, their galabrias all a dun color similar to that of the sand.

“Raj!”

The men were coming straight at her, and she realized belatedly that they had honed in on her position from the sky while she was blissfully unaware, her only concern being ancient symbols.

“Raj!” This time she half slugged him. How had he slept through the obnoxious roaring of the helicopter blades, Alex wondered bitterly.

Her punch finally woke him. He blinked and frowned in confusion, then smiled at her as if she were a bit crazy for waking him so crudely.

Some nap, Alex thought fleetingly.

“What—” Raj began, but then he did hear the whip of the blades and he stared toward the helicopter and the Arabs making their fast approach.

“Allah be merciful!” he breathed, spellbound as she had been for an instant.

“Raj, who are they? Are they government men? Raj!”

His eyes turned to her, and they held no speculation, only panic. “Government—no. I think—get up, Alex, and run. Run toward the oasis and start screaming as loud as you can.”

“But Raj—”

“Do it, Alex!”

“What about you?”

“They don’t want me, and I don’t believe they’ll hurt me. I’ll try to stall them. Head back for the oasis and scream for help as loud as you can. Please, Alex, I beg of you—
run!
”

Alex stared beseechingly at Raj, then at the three Arabs who were approaching too quickly, then miserably back to Raj.

He stood and dragged her to her feet. Her precious notebook fell unheeded to the sand. Raj gave her a little push. “Run, Alex!”

Suddenly her feet took flight. In wild panic she started racing across the dunes. She twisted her head to see over her shoulder and realized that she had started running too late; the Arabs knew how to run on the sand, she didn’t. Their shoes were made for the sand; she still wore the delicate Moroccan slippers.

Raj, who did attempt to stall the men, was simply knocked down.

Alex turned her eyes back toward the oasis and discovered a new burst of strength. Her heart was hammering like a drumbeat, and sharp needles of pain shot through her legs. But she was young and in good tone, and she began to believe she could outrun the men until she tripped over the hem of the long robe she wore. Sprawling and rolling in the sand, she heard the thudding of footsteps against the earth and knew she had been caught. As she scrambled to stand, a large woven blanket was thrown over her and she was rolled in it. With her arms secured to her body, her legs useless, and her head slightly exposed, she was easily hauled like a sack of potatoes and carried over one of the men’s shoulders. She could vaguely hear his labored breathing.

She hadn’t had time yet to be really frightened; now she was too stunned to fully assimilate fear. Her first feeling was, strangely, exasperation. Not again, not again, this is getting ridiculous.

She could only see patches of the world as she was jostled along. A spit of sand, a tuft of grass, the trunk of a date nut. And then even those swatches were gone as she heard the whirling of the chopper blades. She was stuffed through the door and onto the small floor of the helicopter.

She heard screams then; furious Arabic chants, bloodcurdling war cries. Struggling fiercely with her wrapping, she managed to sit up and see out the window.

The men of Ali Sur Sheriff were coming. They rode, they ran, scimitars gleaming in the sun, an occasional rifle letting off a thunderous shot.

They were coming for her. Apparently one of the shepherd boys had heard her cries and had run back to the camp. For a moment she appreciated the beauty and passion of the people. Their sheikh had taken her in, and therefore she was one of them. They would fight for her; they would, if need be, die for her. But there was to be no battle, and for that Alex was glad. The helicopter gained altitude recklessly, and the tribal fighters of Ali Sur Sheriff were left behind in the sandstorm created by the chopper’s departure.

A hand roughly pushed her back to the floor, and there was little Alex could do. She still couldn’t comprehend what was going on, but she wasn’t terribly frightened about whatever it was. She was too busy being terrified by the crazy lurch and swing of the helicopter. Muslims were abstainers, but she could have sworn the pilot was drunk. His comrades were shouting fiercely in Arabic; the pilot was shouting fiercely back. And still the helicopter lurched and swayed, losing altitude, gaining altitude.

There was only one prayer upon Alex’s lips, and that was that she would survive the insane flight.

Ali Sur Sheriff was a devout man. At high noon, when the sun blazed ferociously straight overhead, the caravan halted. It was time for prayer. The men rolled out their rugs and faced Mecca upon their knees. In deference to his friend, Dan too kneeled in the sand, lowering his head in silence. Perhaps something of the holy quality of the moment got to him, or perhaps he finally gave himself time to think. But while he had been thinking about Alex with bitterness all morning—despite their “terms,” she had cornered him and he wasn’t fond of being cornered—he was suddenly possessed with the ardent desire to laugh. He had been worried about her and James Crosby. The many threats she had made had pricked him like barbs, and he had been goaded into making a deal he didn’t want.

But he was realizing, as his smile deepened, that he liked Dr. Alex Randall. True, half the time he was tempted either to throttle her or hog-tie and gag her; but there was more to her than that angelic blond beauty. She was as stubborn as a mule and as tenacious as a desert cactus, but she was also vibrantly beautiful and possessed of that natural, subtle but oh so appealing sensuality. Her determination, honesty and loyalty—and that fervent devotion she bore her father—were extraordinary qualities, Dan thought, in a woman of her beauty.

He lowered his head farther as he felt his grin spreading. The arrangement was becoming very appealing to him. He was eager to reach Haman’s, and determined to learn what he could. And very, very eager to return for the night.

A sound suddenly permeated his thoughts, and he looked quizzically toward the sun. A small helicopter was flying overhead, hopping dangerously across the pure blue of the cloudless sky. His frown returned to his features as he studied the disappearing vehicle as it careened westward. A helicopter? Out here?

“It is the Christian,” Ali said with a laugh, “who stays longest on his knees. Are you that badly in need of spiritual guidance?”

Dan grinned and rose, startled to realize that he had been staring after the helicopter for a long time. “Ali, what’s a chopper doing out here?”

“Another toy,” Ali said, shrugging. He stared up into the sky and then pointed northward across the horizon. “Like that toy.”

Straining his eyes, Dan could make out a large pink heap half covered by desert sand. Squinting more, he realized he was staring at a large pink Cadillac. With surprise he turned back to Ali.

“Haman!” Ali laughed. “The chopper must be another amusement, like that Cadillac. He has so much money that he doesn’t know what to do with it. Every once in a while he buys a big American car, drives it around until it runs out of gas, overheats or stalls, and then just leaves it. He can buy another if he wishes.”

Dan laughed. “That’s one way to save on repair bills.” He shook his head, thinking Haman could use a financial consultant. Ali, he believed, was worth billions rather than millions, and yet he had a sense of constructive expense and waste. But then Ali had been educated in Britain and the United States and he had traveled enough to realize that even his resources could not cure some of the world’s poverty. He had set goals for his riches, with the belief that charity began at home, then extended as far as was feasible.