Shrouded in Secrets Read online

  The moon, stars and city lights illuminated the area enough that she didn’t bother to turn on the flashlight dangling from her wrist as she walked toward the Sphinx, hands filled with two water bottles and the just-purchased food. The guard at the gate to the complex let her in, saying nothing, as usual. When she reached the excavation chamber, she spied a lantern burning brightly outside the barred and locked entrance, but she saw no sign of Kamal.

  Marjorie set her load down and called out, but received no answer. She was torn between anger at him for leaving his post and fear something bad had happened to her surly assistant. The gate over the entrance appeared intact, offering no indication of trouble, but she knew remaining alert and cautious on any archeological project could mean the difference between life and death. The lucrative black-market antiquities trade made looters dangerous if anyone stood in their way.

  She glanced around for something to use as a weapon and her eyes rested on a small rock hammer Kamal must have left behind. Marjorie grabbed the tool and stuck the handle through her belt, called out again, then made a quick check of the many corridors linking the rooms in the burial preparation building—still there was no hint as to Kamal’s whereabouts.

  By the time Marjorie reached the gateway leading out of the Sphinx complex, the guard had left his post and the lock was left to look closed, but hadn’t been clicked shut. Letting herself out, she ran toward the guesthouse, trying desperately not to let her imagination run wild and panic.

  “Ahmed, are you awake?” she whispered as she tapped on his door.

  Marjorie didn’t want anyone to see her at her male assistant’s room for fear of offending any conservative onlookers, but her patience wore thin as worry for Kamal’s safety and a nagging sense something was drastically wrong filled her mind. She knocked louder, then reached for the doorknob—it was unlocked. Glancing in both directions down the hallway, she eased the door open and nearly collided with Ahmed as he stumbled toward her, his eyes half-covered with the t-shirt he pulled over his head while walking.

  “What is it?” he asked, annoyance etched on his face.

  “Kamal. He isn’t at the site, but I can tell he’s been there.”

  “He probably had to go to the bathroom. We are still human, you know? We’re not machines.”

  “No. He didn’t take the lantern. I called to him and received no answer, and then I checked all the rooms and corridors. Something is wrong. It’s too quiet.”

  Marjorie knew neither of her assistants liked taking instructions from a woman, especially a foreigner. Accepting their attitude as primarily cultural, it didn’t bother her much, but she hated the fact they had no respect for her as a professional. While she hadn’t made any significant discoveries in her career, or published many earth-shattering papers, she was thorough and competent. She had good technique and was as capable as any other archeologist—man or woman—of making the next major find. She just needed a bit of luck and a little cooperation.

  “I’m sure everything’s fine. Why don’t you go get food while I check on him?”

  “No. We’ll look together. Besides, I already bought dinner. I feel responsible for you two. I’m the head of this project, and if anything goes wrong, I’m the one who’s accountable.”

  “Why must you Western women always take charge?” he demanded as he turned his back on her and strode into his room, leaving the door open.

  How tired she was of her two assistants questioning her on everything. She suspected they criticized her leadership to their Egyptian counterparts. But, they had been good workers, and Marjorie needed them. She only hoped they didn’t realize it, or she would have an even bigger challenge on her hands.

  Marjorie fought the urge to give Ahmed a strong shove in the back to get him moving faster. He took so much time splashing water on his face and searching for his shoes that she was certain he was trying to annoy her or stall. Fidgeting, she smoothed an errant strand of her short blonde hair behind her ear, while watching Ahmed slowly lace his shoes. She hated his shoes—the tread on his soles left tiny divots in the sand, reminding her of the holes created by the creepy spiders that had invaded her tent the last time she had worked on a dig in a remote part of the Egyptian desert.

  She could tell he wasn’t convinced they had a problem, but at least he quit arguing, though he continued to move slow enough to make thoughts of strangling him with his belt flash through her mind. He meticulously fed the leather strap through each belt loop of his pants. She watched impatiently as he cleaned his glasses on the tail of his shirt and ran his fingers through his unruly mop of dark, curly hair.

  “Let’s get this over with, so maybe I can have a couple hours of sleep before relieving Kamal in a few hours,” he said as he grabbed a flashlight and followed Marjorie out into the night.

  They hiked the short distance between the guesthouse and the gate to the Sphinx complex in silence. Marjorie’s mind whirled, wondering if she should have gone straight to the authorities. She had no proof anything was wrong, though every nerve in her body sizzled on high alert.

  “The guard was here when I arrived, but gone when I left.”

  Ahmed ignored her comment and kept walking. They reached the entrance to the chamber and nothing had changed. She waited as Ahmed called out to Kamal half-heartedly and strolled around the corridors she had already checked.

  “Are you satisfied? You two always question every word I say. I’m tired of having to prove everything and wasting valuable minutes. I realize you don’t care about the timetable established for the project, but if something has happened to Kamal, your hesitation to my concerns might have—”

  “Quiet.”

  Marjorie stopped in mid-sentence and listened. At first, she heard nothing, but after several moments the sound of metal scraping against rock reached her ears. She glanced over at Ahmed and watched his eyes track the sound to the same place as she had—outside the burial preparation chamber, near the Sphinx.

  Ahmed flipped off his flashlight and took several silent steps toward the exit. She followed his lead, stowed her light, pulled the hammer from her waistband, and crept after him. As they left the structure and stood on the hard-packed earth facing the monument, the noise grew louder.

  “We should go for help. The guard must be here somewhere. He couldn’t have gone far. He probably just went for food.”

  “I’ll go. Why don’t you try to get closer and find out what’s going on? If you backtrack through the corridors you can reach a higher vantage point to the left side of the Sphinx,” Ahmed replied as he looked down at the tool clutched in her hand.

  Marjorie nodded in agreement, knowing it wasn’t a good plan, but unwilling to risk the safety of another one of her students. She had to ascertain whether or not someone was damaging the Sphinx, and if Ahmed left the area to search for the guard, he would remain out of harm’s way.

  Once Ahmed was out of sight, Marjorie had to fight to hold back the fear. She was alone, scared, and angry. If someone harmed the Sphinx while she stood nearby and did nothing to try and stop the damage, the guilt would be unbearable.

  Marjorie gripped the hammer handle, took a deep breath, and crept back toward the entrance of the burial preparation area. The scraping sounds grew louder as she inched forward. The silhouette of a man appeared. Marjorie froze, squatting low to the ground to minimize her outline. She squinted into the darkness, unable to make out the man’s identity.

  The figure knelt near the left paw of the Sphinx, but she couldn’t see what he was doing. Suddenly, the man stood and ran away, scaling the fence separating it from the road. Kamal! Marjorie leapt to her feet, ready to call out, but before the words could be spoken, a massive explosion vaulted her to the side, throwing her into the bottom of the excavated trench in front of the Sphinx. Landing on her belly, face plastered into the dirt, she braced herself as debris rained down. Chunks the size of bricks pelted her back, forcing air violently from her lungs. She wanted to scream in pain, but with a mo
uth full of grit and her lungs void of air, no sound escaped.

  When the shower of rubble finally stopped, Marjorie continued to lay still. The all-consuming pain confirmed she wasn’t dead. Wiggling her toes and then her fingers, she groaned in relief that everything worked. Her ears rang from the deafening sound of the blast, every inch of her body ached, but nothing felt broken.

  As quietly as possible, Marjorie dug herself out from under the stone fragments and inched her way to the lip of the trench. She peered over the edge of the pit and the sight brought tears to her eyes. It was gone—everything destroyed.

  She couldn’t look away from the pile of rubble marking the spot where one of the greatest manmade wonders of the world had once stood proudly over the desert. Transfixed on the complete destruction of the Sphinx, her mind refused cognitive function. Marjorie wasn’t sure how long she stared in disbelief at the dusty pile, until a bright light caught her eye and forced her thoughts back to reality.

  Kamal and Ahmed stood at the edge of the rubble on the far side of the fence. Kamal held something in front of him at arm’s length, as if afraid of getting too close to the item. Ahmed directed the beam from his powerful flashlight through the back of a clear object. The light shot out two openings, resembling eye sockets, with such intensity that the beams smoked and ignited a tent canopy ten yards away.

  Ahmed doused the light and both men hurried toward a small dented pickup. Marjorie didn’t even hear the doors slam, the engine roar to life, or the vehicle leave as she stared at the dancing fire, the flames quickly spreading from one canopy to the next, eating away at the canvas. She shuddered, thinking about what would have happened to her if she had stood next to the Sphinx, exposed, as Ahmed had suggested.

  CHAPTER THREE

  September 23, 6:00 P.M.

  Langley, Virginia

  CASH LUKER SAT on the corner of Diane Espinoza’s desk. She spoke crisply to someone on the phone, clearly trying to ignore his close proximity. He loved to annoy her and watch her brown eyes darken to charcoal as her temper rose. Good friends since the CIA recruited her two years ago, they had shared countless pizzas while complaining about their boss, Owen Washburn, the Director of the National Clandestine Services (NCS) branch.

  Cash flinched as she slammed the receiver down and glared at him. He knew something big was going on by her expression and the urgent summons back to Virginia he’d received late last night. Her round cheeks darkened several shades and her clenched fists rested on her desk. A stack of documents piled in front of her indicated she was busy and in no mood to take his usual teasing in stride.

  “That cowardly jerk screwed me over again,” she hissed.

  Cash curled his top lip under and bit it to keep from laughing.

  “I assume you’re referring to our beloved boss?”

  “Two more agents, who have been here half as long as I, got promoted to the field this week, and I’m still stuck behind this desk. I think he’s a closet sexist and he only recruited me to score double brownie points from the big boys for hiring an ethnic minority and a woman all in one package.”

  “And what an explosive little package he landed. I’m sure you scare the heck out of him. You do me. But seriously, let me chat with Washburn again before you file an EEO complaint.”

  “Your loyalty and those chocolate-colored puppy-dog eyes are why I love you,” Diane replied as a wide smile spread across her lips.

  “I’ve always got your back,” he said with a grin, while batting his eyes playfully.

  She reached up and ruffled his thick messy brown hair like she would a kid brother and met his gaze. “Those eyes always look right at a girl as if you actually care what she’s thinking and saying. Unfortunately for you, I’ve got your number. I know where your mind and your eyes are usually focused, and you’d better bring them back up to the conversation at hand before I smack that grin off your face.”

  “Gee, I can’t even do something nice for you without getting insulted and threatened. Tell me, what’s so important that I had to drop everything and fly back from Brazil just as I was closing in on Raul. I chased him all the way across the Atlantic and would have nabbed him and his cronies if Washburn would have given me a couple more days. Sometimes I think he’s forgotten what it’s like to be in the field, not that he was ever any good in situations where the real action occurred. Now that he’s a paper pusher, he thinks his emergencies are my emergencies, and most of the time I could care less.”

  “Don’t know what’s up. He seldom chooses to take me into his confidence,” Diane said as she gathered her laptop and headed toward the briefing room with Cash at her heels.

  He held the door open while Diane stormed through. As the door swung shut, he found a large group of people staring at him, many of whom he didn’t recognize, seated around the conference table.

  “You’re late. Not that I’m surprised,” Director Washburn stated. “Diane, bring us some coffee. We’re in for a long one.”

  Diane set her computer down and left the room without a word. Cash could feel the heat radiating from his friend as the door eased shut behind her, but he’d deal with her anger later. He took a seat between Owen Washburn and Pete Bradshaw, a young agent with the Science and Technology branch of the CIA. He glanced at Pete questioningly and received only a shrug.

  Cash’s eyes scanned the name cards Diane placed in front of each person in attendance—Marjorie Burton of the British Museum of Mankind, Ian Murray with MI6, the United Kingdom’s external intelligence service, and Diego Vilas with Interpol’s Regional Secretariat Office in Argentina. The group’s common denominator wasn’t jumping out.

  The diverse assembly struck him as odd. The short, stylish blonde hair, delicate features, and thin pale lips of Marjorie didn’t jive with her slinged arm, nor her bruised and scratched face and hands. Ian didn’t fit the typical MI6 agent mold. His sandy brown hair stood in short spikes, his grin wide, and his casual Hawaiian shirt and baggy jeans went against the pompous, stuffy aura usually surrounding the British agents Cash had worked with in the past. And Diego bordered on pretty—smooth, flawless features, styled hair, and dressed in the latest urban fashion. Cash never trusted a man who put too much effort into his appearance, and he’d bet this one spent more time getting ready every morning than Diane.

  “Yesterday afternoon at approximately 2:45 Greenwich Mean Time, simultaneous break-ins occurred at the Smithsonian, the British Museum of Mankind and the Trocadéro Museum in Paris,” Director Washburn began. “Similar items were stolen from each museum, and it is believed, according to Ms. Burton, that an additional item of a comparable nature was discovered near the Sphinx three days ago and looted by her assistants.”

  Cash listened, watching Diane move silently around the table, filling each party’s cup and smiling courteously. He had to hand it to her—while he had no doubt she wanted to rip their boss to pieces, she projected the image of poise and grace. He could only imagine how much she fantasized about pouring Washburn’s coffee on his crotch, but she kept her cool. She deserved more than being the NCS Director’s receptionist and gofer. Her PhD work in ethnography and anthropology was well-respected, and she finished her training with the CIA at the top of her class, yet Washburn wouldn’t cut her a break. Cash hoped his friendship with Diane hadn’t contributed to his boss’s constant belittling of her and her stalled career.

  A digital world map with the three museums highlighted popped up on the huge monitor dominating the wall at the front of the room.

  “I assume these items are of considerable value by the international audience assembled here, and by the fact you summoned me back at a bad time,” Cash stated, as his focus returned to the matter at hand.

  “On the antiquities black-market the items would probably fetch a healthy sum, but not enough to risk the complicated thefts. If you believe in ancient legends, though, they may symbolize the end of the world, or at least a decent chunk of it,” Washburn said with a smirk. “But I’d prefer to s
tick to the facts and keep the mythology to a minimum. Paris decided to work alone on the burglary issue, but they’ve requested to be kept in the loop on whatever we uncover. Egypt offered us any support we need, but right now, they’re struggling to deal with the destruction of the Sphinx, so they’re leaving the external investigation to us. All parties have agreed to maintain a media blackout to the extent possible on the nature of the items stolen, until we track down the culprits. Cash, since the majority of thefts occurred on American soil, we’ll take the lead and work with the other agencies represented here to find out who’s behind the thefts and why. I want this cleared up before the tabloids catch wind of the crimes.”

  Cash hated working with MI6 and Interpol. They were competent, but it always seemed to complicate matters when multiple agencies became involved. His foreign counterparts tended to operate too much “by the book” for Cash’s taste. He wasn’t even all that thrilled about working with Pete, uncertain what a scientist could contribute to a worldwide theft.

  “So, what was stolen that’s interesting enough for the media to care?” Cash asked.

  “Ancient crystal relics—some resemble human skulls and others resemble cartoon-character heads. One was lifted from Paris, another from London, possibly one from Egypt, and four from the Smithsonian,” Washburn replied.

  Cash still didn’t understand, but before he could ask a follow-up question, the quiet of the room was shattered by a glass coffee carafe hitting the corner of the table and bursting into thousands of tiny jagged shards. His eyes focused on Diane’s face, which had drained of color. She clearly understood the significance he still hadn’t grasped. She instantly bent down and began picking up the pieces of glass scattered across the carpet.

  “Sorry, Director Washburn. I’ll get this cleaned up immediately. I’m sorry for the disruption. So sorry,” she stuttered, hands shaking as she tried to gather the shards.