The Cult of Osiris

The Cult of Osiris

ANDY MCDERMOTT

Copyright © 2009 Andy McDermott

For my family and friends

Prologue

Giza, Egypt

The time-weathered face of the Great Sphinx regarded Macy Sharif impassively as she paced before its huge stone paws. She didn’t give the ancient monument so much as a glance in return; in the two weeks she had been here, the Sphinx and the pyramids beyond had gone from awe-inspiring wonders to mere backdrops for a job that had fallen far short of her hopes. In the first week she had taken hundreds of digital photos and video clips, but now her camera was just a weight in one thigh pocket, untouched for days.

How had Egypt, of all places, turned into such a crushing disappointment? From an early age, she’d been entranced by her grandfather’s stories of the land of his birth; tales of kings and queens and good and evil in a land of wonders, better than any fairy tale because they also happened to be true. It was an exotic, romantic world, as different from Miami’s wealthy Key Biscayne as Macy could imagine, and even as a child she’d been determined that one day she would experience it for herself.

But the reality had not lived up to the dream.

She stopped pacing, checking the shelters beside the Sphinx’s right paw. Still no sign of Berkeley.

A glance at her watch: approaching eight fifteen p.m. The expedition leader’s daily videoconference with the International Heritage Agency in New York was due to start then, which gave her less time to catch him than she’d hoped. At eight thirty, the nightly sound and light show would begin, a gaudy display of coloured spotlights and lasers cast upon the pyramids and the Sphinx. Berkeley and the senior members of the archaeological team always departed soon after the opening chords boomed from the loudspeakers, leaving the juniors and the local hired hands with the scut work of securing and tidying the excavation.

Macy wasn’t even sure if Berkeley considered her a junior team member, or a mere labourer. Okay, so she had another two years of study before she completed her degree, and maybe her grades didn’t exactly put her at the top of the class, but she was still an archaeologist, kind of. Surely that granted her the right to do something more than make coffee and carry rubble?

She resumed her pacing, reflected light from the Sphinx’s spotlit face casting an orange wash over her pale olive skin. Her surname might have been Egyptian, but her looks revealed her mother’s Cuban heritage. She paused to straighten her ponytail, then at the sound of muffled voices hurriedly rounded the giant paw to see the team boss emerge from the dig. On their first meeting, she had initially thought Dr Logan Berkeley to be attractive, in an academic sort of way. Mid-thirties, a swoop of chestnut-brown hair across his forehead, refined features . . . then he’d opened his mouth and revealed himself as an arrogant jerk.

It was a description she could apply equally to the two men with him. TV producer Paul Metz was squat, barrel-shaped and bearded, with a lecherous gaze that to her distaste Macy often found aimed in her direction. She liked male attention, sure . . . but not from all males.

The other man was Egyptian. Dr Iabi Hamdi was a senior official with the Supreme Council of Antiquities, the government agency overseeing all Egypt’s archaeological activities. The paunchy, thin-haired Hamdi was technically in charge of the dig, but seemed happy to let Berkeley do whatever he wanted, being more interested himself in getting his face in front of the TV cameras. Macy wouldn’t be surprised if, at the moment the long-thought-mythical Hall of Records was finally revealed to the world, Hamdi popped up in front of the lens to boast of the crucial part he’d played in its discovery.

That broadcast was the current topic of discussion. ‘So you’re abso, pos-i-tively, one hundred per cent sure that you’ll crack open the door right on time?’ Metz asked, in a tone suggesting he thought otherwise.

‘For the last time, we’ll open the vault entrance exactly when I said,’ Berkeley told him, his nasal, superior New England voice filled with frustration. ‘I know what I’m doing. This isn’t my first dig, you know.’

‘It’s the first one you’ll have done live in front of fifty million people, though. And the network won’t be happy if their prime time special is two hours of you chipping at bricks. They wanna see something spectacular, and so does everyone else. People love this Egyptian crap.’

Torn between defending his heritage and keeping on good terms with the producer, Hamdi decided on the latter. ‘Dr Berkeley, can you assure me that we will keep to the schedule?’

‘Eight days from now,’ Berkeley said through clenched teeth, ‘we’ll be showing the world something even more incredible than Atlantis, don’t you worry.’ He turned towards a nearby portable cabin with a satellite dish on its roof: the team’s headquarters. ‘And speaking of schedules, it’s time I checked in.’

Maybe he wasn’t in the most receptive mood, but Macy had to take the chance. ‘Dr Berkeley, have you got a minute?’

‘Only as long as it takes me to walk to the cabin,’ he snapped, giving her a dismissive look. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s about me,’ said Macy as she kept pace. ‘I was hoping I could get more involved with the actual archaeological work? I think I’ve proved that I’m up to the job.’

Berkeley stopped and turned to face the young woman. ‘The job?’ he said, letting out a sarcastic sigh. ‘That says it all, doesn’t it? Macy, archaeology is not a job. It’s a calling, an obsession, something that drives your every waking thought. If all you want is a job, McDonald’s and 7-Eleven are always hiring.’

‘That’s not what I meant—’ Macy began, taken aback by his hostility.

‘The reason you haven’t been involved with the main dig,’ Berkeley interrupted, ‘is precisely that: you haven’t been involved. What, exactly, have you done to earn a place here? The other juniors all have multiple digs on their résumés, and they all graduated with the highest honours. You?’ His mouth twisted with contempt. ‘Charity fundraising connections. And good causes or not, I don’t appreciate having unqualified undergraduates foisted on me because Renée Montavo at the UN owed your mom a favour. You ought to be damn grateful to be here at all. Now, go and finish the clean-up. I’m late for my videoconference with Professor Rothschild.’ He strode into the cabin, slamming the door.

Macy stared after him in shock, then turned to find Hamdi and Metz watching her. Hamdi adjusted his little silk bow tie uncomfortably before going back into the shelter covering the main excavation, leaving her alone with Metz. ‘Wanna career change?’ he said, leering. ‘I got the numbers of some modelling agencies.’

‘Get bent!’ She scowled and stormed off round the Sphinx. Ahead, one of the uniformed security contractors was heading up the ramp out of the excavated pit in which the Sphinx sat. Wanting to be alone, she turned and went into the ruined temple in front of the statue, dropping into the shadows within the broken walls.

She sat on a stone block, trying to hold her emotions in check. She was angry, but also upset. Egypt definitely hadn’t matched up to her dreams - not so much wonder and romance as drudgery, smog, stomach bugs and hissing, pinching, cat-calling creeps accosting her on the streets. And now she’d just been completely insulted by her boss. Asshole!

The lighting changed, dropping the Temple of the Sphinx even deeper into darkness. The sound and light show was about to start; after two weeks, Macy practically knew the almost comically portentous narration by heart. Normally she would be packing away the team’s gear during the display, but tonight . . .

‘Screw that,’ she muttered, lying back on the stone. Berkeley could pick up his own stupid tools.

Site security chief Sefu Gamal quickly traversed the walkway running between the Temple of the Sphinx and the smaller, marginally less ancient ruin to its northwest. At the walkway’s end was a guarded gate. Since 2008, the once-open plain of the Giza plateau had been surrounded by over twelve miles of high steel and wire fence, partly to restrict the numbers of peddlers hawking trinkets and camel rides to visitors, and partly for security purposes: Egypt was unwilling to risk a repeat of the 1997 massacre of tourists at Luxor. Now, the plateau was observed by hundreds of security cameras and members of the Tourist Police, and all visitors were screened by metal detectors.

But there were more fences within, these not there to protect tourists from terrorists, but to protect Egypt’s treasures from tourists. Access to the interiors of the pyramids was restricted to just a handful of visitors each day, while the Sphinx itself was almost entirely off-limits - and with a major archaeological excavation in progress, the Sphinx compound was even more closely guarded than usual. The sandstone pit containing the statue was bounded to the east by its temple, to the west and south by cliffs where it had been dug out of the desert, and to the north by a modern stone wall supporting a road across the plain. Only those with passes were normally allowed access.

But tonight there would be an exception.

Gamal reached the gate and waited as the son et lumière display began. A couple of hundred tourists sat in ranks of chairs beyond the Temple of the Sphinx, watching the spectacle. He would have preferred the meeting to take place much later, after the last display had finished and the tourists - and the IHA team - had gone, but the man he was expecting was impatient . . . and quick to anger.

Approaching headlights: a black Mercedes SUV. This must be his visitor - since the erection of the boundary fence, traffic through the site was restricted. The first person out was unfamiliar, a rangy, long-haired Caucasian in a jacket of what looked like snakeskin, his straggly goatee doing little to conceal the almost equally scaly roughness of his face. He rounded the vehicle to open the door for another man, like Gamal an Egyptian.

Gamal stepped through the gate to greet him. ‘Mr Shaban,’ he said. ‘A great honour to meet you again.’

Sebak Shaban had no time to waste on pleasantries. ‘The dig’s behind schedule.’

‘Dr Berkeley said—’

‘Not that dig.’

Gamal concealed his discomfort as Shaban turned to look straight at him. An old burn scar ran across his right cheek from what remained of his ear to his top lip, the skin rippled and faintly glossy. The scarring had pulled down the outer corner of his lower eyelid, exposing glistening pink tissue within. From his previous encounters, the security chief was convinced that Shaban was well aware of the psychological impact of his injury upon others, favouring them with the unblemished, fairly handsome left side of his face until he wanted to express his disapproval in graphic form with a simple turn of the head. ‘There was a slight delay - very slight,’ he said quickly. ‘Part of the ceiling collapsed. We’ve already shored it up.’

‘Show me,’ ordered Shaban, walking to the gate.

‘Of course. Come with me.’ Gamal glanced questioningly at the other man, who followed them through.

‘My bodyguard,’ said Shaban. ‘And friend. Mr Diamondback.’

‘Diamondback?’ Gamal echoed uncertainly.

‘Bobby Diamondback,’ said the bodyguard, his accent a languid yet menacing American drawl. ‘It’s a Cherokee Indian name. Got a problem with that?’

‘No, not at all,’ Gamal replied, thinking he looked more like a cowboy than an Indian. He led them along the walkway. ‘This way, please.’

Mocking the sound and light show’s bombastic narration had slightly lifted Macy out of her black sulk when she spotted Gamal, from her position in the shadows only his upper body visible above the top of the temple’s northern wall.

There were two other men with him, one an ugly guy with a greasy mullet and a snakeskin jacket, and the other someone she recognised. Mr Sharman, Shaban, something like that? She had seen the scar-faced man briefly at the start of the dig; he was connected with the religious organisation co-funding it with the IHA. Presumably he was here to meet Berkeley.

The trio made their way to the corner of the smaller temple, where Gamal paused and looked towards the Sphinx - almost furtively, Macy thought. The cold stare of the man in the snakeskin jacket swept over her as he surveyed the area, then unexpectedly flicked back. An involuntary shudder ran through her. She had no idea why - she had every right to be there, and wasn’t doing anything wrong - but by the time the rational part of her mind told the rest of her body to relax, he had looked away again.

To Macy’s surprise, rather than descending the ramp towards the Sphinx, Gamal hopped across the gap between it and the upper level of the Sphinx compound, disappearing from her view. The other men followed.

Weird. The upper temple was over a thousand years younger than its larger neighbour, a product of the New Kingdom from around 1400 BC, and while it was in relatively better condition than the Temple of the Sphinx it was much less important historically. Why was Gamal giving a private tour? In the dark, at that?

Standing, she saw the tops of the men’s heads as they walked towards the temple entrance - and continued past it. Now she was really curious. There was nothing else up there. Where were they going?

Macy climbed out of the temple, seeing the trio rounding the ruin above. Some childhood Nancy Drew instinct kicked in, the urge to find out what they were doing rising, but she resisted it - until shouting came from the Sphinx. Berkeley, yelling at an Egyptian labourer who had just dropped a box.

Screw it, she thought. If Berkeley was still acting like a jerk, she didn’t want to be anywhere near him. Instead, she ascended the ramp and jumped across to the upper temple.

Green laser lines flashed above her, projecting hieroglyphics on the pyramids as the narrator sang the praises of Osiris, the immortal god-king of Egyptian legend. ‘Yeah, yeah, heard it all before,’ Macy whispered as she peered round the temple wall.

Part of the plateau’s north end had been cordoned off by orange plastic netting where repairs were under way on the high wall. A couple of small cabins and a tent-like structure stood amongst stacks of bricks and piles of rubble. It was such a mundane sight that while Macy had seen it every day as she entered the Sphinx compound, she had never actually noticed it before. Certainly nobody ever seemed to do any actual work there.

There was someone there now, though. As well as the men at the gate, other guards patrolled the compound to make sure no tourists tried to get up close and personal with the Sphinx. But the man waiting for Gamal and the others wasn’t patrolling. He was guarding the construction site.

The lighting changed, more lasers and spotlights slashing the black sky. The guard watched the display, only turning away when the visitors reached him. Brief words were exchanged, then he let them through the netting.

Gamal reached the tent and pulled aside a flap, revealing lights within. The other two ducked through, and with another furtive backwards glance Gamal followed. Macy jerked back behind the temple wall, wondering if he’d seen her, before realising how dumb she was being. So what if he had?

She peeked out again. The guard was strolling along the netting perimeter, looking bored. Through the gaps around the tent flap, she glimpsed activity within.

The movement stopped.

Macy kept watching, but it didn’t resume. What were they doing in there? Unless all three men were squashed together at one end, the tent didn’t seem big enough for them to keep out of sight. If anything, it now looked empty, but she couldn’t see how that was possible. It was right against the high wall.

She noticed something else, though: a faint plume of smoke. No, not smoke - fumes, chugging up from the end of a hose. But there wasn’t a generator in sight.

So where were the fumes coming from?

Interest now well and truly piqued, she rounded the corner, keeping low behind a pile of dirt. But she quickly realised her stealthiness was pointless; to reach the construction site, she would have to cross a wide, open space, and unless the guard was blind he couldn’t miss her.

But in a few moments, maybe he would be blind . . .

She knew what came next in the sound and light show, having heard it every night. The narrator was about to begin his tale of Khufu, builder of the Great Pyramid - and the lights would briefly drop to black before illuminating Khufu’s monument at full brightness.

Macy closed her eyes, waited . . .

The lights went out.

She opened her eyes again and raced for the tent. Only a few seconds before the Great Pyramid lit up like a beacon—

Dramatic music thundered from the loudspeakers, the Great Pyramid exploding into view to the northwest. Macy reached the gap in the netting and skidded to a halt behind one of the stacks of bricks. She glanced round it and saw the guard staring at the floodlit structure.

She let out a breath, feeling something she hadn’t felt since first arriving in Egypt: excitement. No, that had been more like anticipation, but this was a genuine, almost child-like thrill. This was fun!

Holding in a nervous giggle, she looked at the tent. Now that she was closer, she could hear the chug of a generator - but only faintly, and with an odd echo. She checked again that the guard wasn’t looking in her direction, then crept to the tent.

Nobody was inside.

‘The hell?’ Macy wondered aloud, slipping in. One end was taken up by a makeshift cubicle of cheap particle board. Since it was little more than three feet wide, she doubted Gamal and the others were huddled within.

But she lost interest in it when she saw what was at the tent’s other end.

A trestle table had construction blueprints spread out across it; she recognised the topmost as a plan of the Sphinx compound. What had caught her attention, though, wasn’t on the table, but hanging on the tent wall above it. Large colour photographs, blow-ups of ancient papyrus scrolls. The same scrolls that had brought her here in the first place.

The Hall of Records, a repository of ancient Egyptian knowledge beneath the Sphinx that was reputedly only surpassed by the Library of Alexandria, had long been considered nothing more than a myth. But a privately funded archaeological dig in Gaza had discovered papyrus pages that described not only the Hall itself, but also how to get into it - through a passage that had once descended between the Sphinx’s paws. When the pages were scientifically confirmed to be over four thousand years old, the Hall suddenly became one of the hottest topics in archaeology, and the Egyptian government granted the International Heritage Agency’s request to conduct the dig that would confirm whether or not what was said on the Scrolls was true.

The problem, Macy knew, was that the IHA had only been given three scrolls.

Yet here was a fourth.

She moved closer, silently mouthing the words as she translated the text. The ancient language had been taught to her by her grandfather along with Egyptian history and mythology, his hobby eventually influencing her choice of degree. The new scroll said more about the Hall of Records than the IHA had seen: not just its position, but its contents. Something about a map chamber, a zodiac, that revealed the location of . . .

‘The Pyramid of Osiris?’ Macy whispered in disbelief. That was nothing but another of her grandfather’s myths, surely? Osiris was a legend pre-dating even the First Dynasty of almost five thousand years ago, and legends didn’t have big-ass tombs built for them, only pharaohs.

But that was what the papyrus said. The Pyramid of Osiris, the tomb of the god-king. No suggestion that it was a myth; the text seemed as factually descriptive as it was about the Hall of Records. ‘Whoa,’ she said as she realised what that meant. If the Pyramid of Osiris was real, then so was the man buried inside it. Not a legendary god, but a flesh and blood ruler, until now lost in time. If his tomb could be found, it would be one of the greatest discoveries in history . . .

She looked at the plans on the table. The position of the east-west entrance tunnel to the Hall of Records and the IHA excavation were both clearly marked - as was another, longer tunnel from the north.

It crossed under what was now the modern road and ran, she realised, directly beneath the tent in which she was standing.

Macy turned to the wooden cubicle. The panel facing her was hinged, a roughly cut hole acting as a handle. She eased it open.

Now she knew where the three men had gone. Down. A ladder descended into a shaft, dim lights revealing the bottom over twenty feet below. The hose expelling the generator’s exhaust fumes ran up one corner, the machine now clearly audible.

As were voices.

Getting closer.

Excitement fled Macy, replaced by fear. Someone was running their own secret dig, trying to beat the IHA team into the Hall of Records. Trying to find the Pyramid of Osiris for themselves.

Which meant that if she was caught in here . . . she was in trouble.

What should she do? Tell someone - Berkeley or Hamdi? But Gamal was obviously in on it, and they would believe him over her. She needed proof . . .

Weight in her thigh pocket. The camera.

She pulled it out and switched it on. The wait for the lens to extend and the screen to light up had never seemed so long.

A rattling sound from the shaft. Someone climbing the ladder.

Throat tight with rising panic, Macy took a picture of the four papyrus pages, then tipped the camera down to capture the blueprint. Click—

‘What the fuck?’ The shout came from below, the accent American. The guy with the snakeskin jacket. He had seen the flash.

Another shout. The guard outside. Macy heard his footsteps thudding towards the tent. The clattering of the ladder was louder, faster, as the man hurried up it.

She ran—

The guard threw open the tent flap - just as Macy burst through, shoving him aside and sprinting for the temple. She was through the plastic netting before he regained his balance.

‘Hey!’ she shouted, hoping somebody from the IHA dig would hear her, but her voice was drowned out by the light show’s narration. Behind, Shaban screamed orders to catch her.

Fright spurred her on. She rounded the ruin, the shadowed maze of the Temple of the Sphinx spread out below, ominously lit in shards of red and green. Someone was on the walkway—

‘Dr Hamdi!’ Macy cried. ‘Dr Hamdi, help!’

Hamdi stopped, looking bewildered as she leapt over the gap to land in front of him. ‘What is it, miss - Macy, isn’t it?’

‘Back there!’ she gasped. ‘They’re digging, they’re trying to rob the Hall of Records!’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

Macy looked back as the guard ran round the side of the upper temple, slithering to an uncertain halt when he saw Hamdi. ‘That guy with the scar, Shaban, he’s in charge! He’s got a fourth scroll - I took a picture!’ She thumbed a button to bring up the image. ‘Look!’

Hamdi’s expression changed from confusion to shock. ‘I see. Come with me.’ He took her by the arm . . .

And gripped, painfully tightly.

‘Hey, what—’ Macy said, trying to pull free. He squeezed harder. ‘Let go!’

He ignored her. The guy in the snakeskin jacket ran into view. ‘Bring her up here!’ he yelled.

Hamdi pulled Macy towards the gap. She thrashed at his face, but he deflected her blows with his free hand. The guard ran towards them—

She fired the camera in Hamdi’s face. He flinched, dazzled by the flash - and Macy smashed the camera’s hard edge against the bridge of his nose. Another strike to his forehead, and she wrenched herself from his grip.

The guard leapt across the gap, blocking the way to the Sphinx. Instead, she ran along the walkway - and saw the two guards from the compound gate rushing at her.

They were all in on it!

She changed direction, jumping on to the Temple of the Sphinx’s northern wall and running along it. The ancient, weathered stone was uneven beneath her feet.

‘Get after her!’ the American shouted. The first guard followed her on to the wall. The two men ahead also changed direction, intending to leap over the ditch separating the temple from the compound’s upper level and tackle her.

The wall was over twelve feet high, too far to jump down . . .

Instead she flung herself off the wall at an angle - just barely reaching the top of a ruined stone pillar five feet below, then springing off that, legs flailing, into the darkness beneath. Pain exploded in both feet as she hit the ground and fell, her phone and some loose coins flying from a pocket and skittering away.

The guard jumped off the wall after her—

The lighting changed, the red highlights on the lower block suddenly vanishing. The man’s outstretched foot missed its top. His other shin cracked into the stone’s edge, sending him spinning to the unyielding ground. He let out a keening wail as he clutched his injured leg.

Macy wasn’t feeling much better, gasping in pain as she stood. She was not far from a passage leading to one of the temple’s original entrances. Ankles throbbing, she limped into the deeper darkness behind the high eastern wall.

She turned the first corner, looking back. A guard was on the north wall, but his attention was on his wounded comrade. He hadn’t seen her. Round the second turn—

And crashing to a stop against metal bars.

Shit! She’d known there was a gate to keep tourists out of the temple, but it was taller than she’d thought, too high for her to climb. Beyond it she saw the seated audience, but they were looking up at the brilliantly lit Sphinx, not the unimposing ruin in front of it, and wouldn’t hear any shouts for help over the soundtrack’s bombastic crescendo.

Macy could hear other shouts, though. Her pursuers were in the temple.

And she was in a dead end.

The shouts got closer.

The inner wall facing the gate was somewhat lower than the others - and in the light shining through the bars she could pick out footholds. She scrambled up. All the past hours of gym practice for the cheerleading squad no longer seemed such a chore.

She looked over the top of the wall - to see the guy in the snakeskin jacket only ten feet away on the other side, other men spreading out across the temple floor. One ran into the entrance to the passage.

Trapped—

She pulled herself up and lay flat along the wall’s top, holding her breath as her heart pounded. The running man rounded the corner, reached the gate, looked through it. Nobody fleeing the temple, just tourists gawping at the display.

‘Does anyone see her?’ called the American, shining a tiny but bright LED flashlight between the ruined pillars. The shouted replies were all negative.

Hamdi and Shaban hurried to him. ‘She can’t have got out,’ said Hamdi, one hand clutched to his nose. ‘The entrances on this side are all blocked.’

‘Who is she?’ Shaban demanded angrily.

‘One of the IHA team. Macy Sharif. She’s just a student.’

‘Student or not, she could ruin the entire plan if she gets out of here,’ said Shaban.

‘We gotta find her,’ the American added. ‘Fast.’

‘What are you going to do with her, Mr Diamondback?’ asked Hamdi.

‘Whaddya think?’ There was a metallic sound that froze Macy’s blood. A gun’s hammer being cocked.

‘You’re going to . . .’ Hamdi tailed off, shocked.

‘I’m sure as hell not spendin’ the next twenty years in an Egyptian jail ’cause of some li’l whore of a student.’

‘Dr Hamdi,’ said Shaban, ‘if she gets away, you and Gamal will have to handle Berkeley. Bobby, we need to send people to watch her hotel, the airport, anyone she might go to for help. She’s American?’ Hamdi nodded. ‘Use our contacts there to find out where she lives - and where her family lives. Send people to watch their homes, tap their phones. We have to silence her.’

‘Count on it,’ said Diamondback. A second click - another gun.

Macy trembled, a terrified nausea churning within her. They were going to kill her! Every instinct told her to run, but she didn’t dare move.

One of the guards called out from the temple’s southern end, reporting that the other entrance passage was empty. Diamondback shone his light across the courtyard. ‘What about those stones there, by the wall? Could she climb ’em?’ He walked towards them, the heels of his cowboy boots clip-clopping on the stone flags.

‘Go with him,’ said Shaban. For a moment, Macy thought he was talking to Hamdi, before realising it was one of the guards.

The one who had come into the passage after her.

There was nobody between her and the east wall—

Adrenalin overcame her fear. She sprang up and ran along the wall, jumping up to a higher block.

‘Hey!’

Diamondback had seen her.

Macy gasped in fright, expecting a gunshot - but it didn’t come. The sound and light show was ending, and a shot would be heard by hundreds of people. She climbed another block, finding herself at the edge of the east wall. The ground was over twenty feet below.

Diamondback scaled the wall on which she’d been hiding as effortlessly as a lizard. The guard ran back into the passage. Macy turned, crouched - and dropped. Fingers clutching the weathered stone, she slithered down the wall, toes rasping for purchase.

She let go—

More pain as she hit the ground and fell on her back, but she was too scared to let it stop her. She rolled and took off across the dusty expanse. The audience was dispersing, milling towards the nearby exit in the outer fence.

Behind her, the guard climbed the metal gate as Diamondback reached the highest part of the wall, eyes scanning for her, locking on - then losing her again as she shoved into the crowd. Someone hollered in protest, but Macy ignored him and ducked low, weaving between the clumps of tourists. If she could reach the exit, the edge of Cairo’s urban sprawl was just yards beyond the fence . . .

The guard was over the gate. Diamondback landed beside him. More men ran along the walkway above the temple. Macy moved faster, knocking people aside in her desperation to reach the exit. There were two white-uniformed members of the Tourist Police at the gate, but they hadn’t yet been alerted to the chase. Come on, move—

Diamondback and the guard were running. The guard shouted to the policemen, who looked round. Some of the tourists did too, stopping to see the cause of the commotion.

A gap opened up. Macy took it, rushing through the gate before either cop could react. By the time one started after her, she was already halfway to the dark alley between the nearest buildings. She raced into the shadows. A junction; she went right, deeper into the maze. Clattering footsteps echoed behind her. Left, right again. Don’t be a dead end, don’t—

A low, narrow gap in one wall just before an intersection. On some wild instinct she squeezed through it. She found herself in a small yard behind a house, faint light coming from a window above. The only other exit was a door into the house itself.

She pressed against the wall, eyes wide in fear as the footsteps drew closer - then passed, slowing at the intersection. More men ran up. Clip-clop. Diamondback. She held her breath. If one of them noticed the little gap . . .

They ran again, splitting up to follow each of the alleyways. The footsteps quickly faded into the night.

Macy slumped, panting.

She stayed in the yard for almost twenty minutes, waiting until she was absolutely certain nobody was nearby before creeping back through the hole. The alley was empty, silent. Getting her bearings, she headed deeper into the sprawl.

After ten nerve-racking minutes, she reached a small square. Muffled music came from a café on the far side, but all she cared about was the battered yellow box of a payphone on a pole nearby. Warily watching the street, she fumbled for her remaining change, then made a call.

‘Macy? Is that you?’ Berkeley sounded even angrier than before.

‘Yes,’ she said, voice low. ‘They’re going to rob the Hall of Records! There’s another tunnel, they’re digging—’

He wasn’t listening. ‘Macy, come back here and turn yourself in to the police right now.’

‘What - what do you mean, turn myself in? I haven’t—’

‘Dr Hamdi has agreed not to press charges for assault, but only if you give yourself up and return the piece you took immediately.’

‘What piece?’ Macy protested, confused. ‘I didn’t take anything!’

‘Macy, Dr Hamdi and Mr Gamal both saw you chip a piece off the Sphinx! Do you have any idea how serious that is? People have been sentenced to ten years in jail for less! Running away has just made it worse, but if you come back now, I’ll do what I can to placate the authorities—’

‘Look, listen to me!’ she cried. ‘Hamdi’s part of it, and so’s Gamal! Go and look for yourself, there’s—’

‘Macy!’ barked Berkeley. ‘Get back to the dig, now, and give yourself up. If you don’t, there’s nothing I can do to help you. Just—’

Macy slammed down the receiver, fear and panic back in full force. What the hell was she going to do? Shaban had sent people to stake out the hotel. She couldn’t even collect her belongings. All she had were the clothes she was wearing and whatever she had in her pockets.

Which wasn’t much. Her camera, a small wad of Egyptian pounds, about a hundred US dollars. At least she still had her passport and credit cards; there was no way she would have left them unattended in her hotel room.

She weighed up her options. Whether she turned herself in or the police caught her, Hamdi and no doubt a parade of others would be ready to testify against her. And if Shaban’s people caught her . . .

The mere thought set her heart thudding again. They wanted her dead. And even if she got out of Egypt, they would be waiting for her to go home, watching her parents. She couldn’t risk getting them involved.

Then there was Shaban’s plan itself. If he got out with whatever he planned to steal before the IHA team opened the Hall of Records, nobody would even know they had done it, since Berkeley would be seen by millions as the first person to enter the chamber in thousands of years. She had to warn someone. But if Berkeley wouldn’t listen, she had to find someone else - someone more likely to believe her, and convince others to take action.

Macy stepped away from the phone, unconsciously adjusting her ponytail . . . and that triggered a thought.

She reached back into her pocket. There was something else with her passport: folded pages from a magazine. When she opened them, the face of an attractive woman, red hair in a ponytail much like Macy’s, smiled up at her.

Dr Nina Wilde. The discover of Atlantis, and more. Macy’s inspiration, the woman who had given her the determination to get here in the first place.

And a woman whose claims had been utterly disbelieved . . . before being proved spectacularly right.

She regarded the picture. It was a long shot; Dr Wilde was no longer with the IHA after some controversy the previous year. Macy had been disappointed at not getting the chance to meet her. But surely she still had enough influence to help . . .

If she could reach her. As far as she knew, Dr Wilde was in New York. And Macy was still less than a quarter of a mile from the Sphinx.

One step at a time, she decided, setting off for central Cairo.

1 New York City:

Three Days Later

Nina Wilde struggled to wakefulness, fighting simultaneously through the smothering sheets and the remnants of a cloying alcoholic fug to look at the bedside clock. It was well after ten a.m. ‘Crap,’ she mumbled, about to chastise herself for oversleeping . . . before remembering that she had nothing to get up for.

She almost pulled the sheets back up in the hope of returning to sleep, but even a brief glimpse of the small and ugly bedroom was enough to make her want to get out of it. Not that the rest of the apartment was much better, but it represented a least-worst option.

She put on a vest and a pair of sweatpants, ran her fingers through her unkempt hair, then padded into the other room. ‘Eddie?’ she called, yawning. ‘You here?’

No reply. Her husband was out, though he had left a note on the small counter separating the kitchen area from the rest of the cramped living room. As usual, it was as terse as a military communiqué. Gone to work. Will call later. Probably out until late. Love Eddie x. PS We need more milk.

‘Great,’ she sighed, picking up the small pile of mail beside the note. Credit card bill, probably large. Other credit card bill, almost certainly even larger. Junk, junk—

The last envelope had the name of a university printed in one corner.

Despite herself, she felt a flutter of hope, and hurriedly tore it open. Maybe this one was the way out of their miserable life of the past several months . . .

It wasn’t. She only needed to see the words We regret to know it was another rejection. The academic world had turned its back on her. Once someone was labelled a crank, it was a tag that was almost impossible to remove - even if that person had been right all along.

Nina put down the letter, then slumped on the creaking couch and sighed again. A smear campaign by a powerful enemy had not only cost her her job, but also left her regarded as a nut, on the same level as those who claimed to have found Noah’s Ark or El Dorado or Bigfoot. Her previous world-shaking finds - Atlantis, the tombs of Hercules and King Arthur - suddenly counted for nothing, academia as prone as any other field to having only a short-term memory: what have you done for us lately?

So now she was out of a job, out of prospects . . . and perilously close to being out of money. All she had was Eddie.

Except she didn’t, because the demands of his work meant he was almost never there.

A baby started crying in one of the neighbouring apartments, the thin walls doing little to muffle the noise. ‘God damn it,’ she muttered, putting her hands over her face.

Eddie Chase emerged from the East Side brownstone building, glancing up and down the street before descending the steps.

‘I saw that,’ said a woman’s voice behind him.

Eddie looked round at her. ‘Saw what?’

‘You, checking there wasn’t anybody outside who might know you.’ Amy Martin came down the steps, her dark bob bouncing, and squeezed the balding Englishman’s waist. ‘You’re so cute.’

‘It’s not exactly something I want getting back to Nina, is it?’ he told the younger woman. ‘I’ll tell her myself, when the timing’s right. And I don’t want anyone else to find out, either.’

Amy grinned. ‘You enjoy it, though. Don’t deny it.’ She went to the kerb, looking for a cab. ‘So, you wanna do this again tomorrow?’

‘Yeah, if I can make it,’ Eddie told her. ‘Depends if Grant Thorn needs me or not.’

She grinned again, shaking her head. ‘I still can’t believe you get to hang out with a movie star.’

‘I’m not exactly “hanging out” with him. I’m his bodyguard, not his best mate. And he’s, well . . . kind of a prat.’

‘But one with a Lamborghini, right? That’s pretty cool.’

‘Bit of a waste, though. He never drives it faster than ten miles an hour ’cause he wants everyone to see him inside it.’

‘You guarding his body today?’ A cab approached; Amy waved it down.

‘Yeah, picking him up in a bit. He wants to buy a suit for some charity bash this evening, so I’ve got to keep an eye on him. ’Cause Fifth Avenue’s such a dangerous place.’

The cab stopped as Eddie’s phone rang. He looked at the screen: Nina. ‘Well, have fun with your Hollywood buddies!’ Amy said as she got in.

‘I’ll try,’ he replied, answering the phone. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ said Nina. ‘Where are you?’ He had become all too familiar with her leaden tone over the past months, but this morning it had a little extra sprinkle of gloom.

‘I’m . . . just at the gym with Grant Thorn.’

A pause. ‘Oh. When will you be able to come home?’

‘See you tomorrow!’ Amy called as the cab pulled away.

He gave her a slightly annoyed wave. ‘Not for ages, sorry. I’m with him all day.’

A second disappointed ‘Oh’. Then: ‘Who was that?’

He shot the departing taxi a guilty look. ‘Someone in a cab.’

‘I thought you were at a gym?’

‘I’m waiting outside. What’s wrong?’

She sighed. ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

‘It matters to me. Look, I can call Charlie, see if someone can cover for me.’

‘No, it’s . . . it’s okay. I mean, ha, we need the money, right?’ The laugh came across as more desperate than amused.

‘You sure? If you want, I can—’

‘It’s okay, Eddie. It’s okay.’ It sounded anything but.

His phone chirped, telling him someone else was calling. A glance at the screen told him it was his client. ‘Sorry, but I’ve got to go. Oh, did you get my note about the milk?’

‘Yeah, I did. I’ll see you when you get back. I love you.’

‘Love you too,’ he said as she disconnected. Great. Now he felt even worse about lying to her.

He switched to the incoming call. ‘Hello?’

‘Hey, the Chase-ster!’ came the laid-back voice of Grant Thorn. ‘Where you been, man? Your phone was busy.’

‘Yeah, my wife called.’

‘The old ball and chain, huh? Just kidding, man. Not saying she’s old at all. Hey, why don’t I take you two out to dinner sometime? How about that?’

‘Sounds like fun,’ Eddie answered non-committally, secure in the knowledge that all memory of the offer would have vanished from the actor’s mind by the time they met. ‘You still want me to meet you at your apartment?’

‘Yeah. There’s this chick here, give me twenty minutes to get rid of her. Okay, two chicks. Make that thirty minutes. Oh, and can you pick me up a carton of OJ? Got a serious case of dry-mouth. ’

‘I’m your bodyguard, not your butler, Mr Thorn,’ Eddie reminded him. His job might be to look after his clients, but that didn’t include wiping their arses for them, and he always made sure they knew it. ‘Maybe you could get one of your chicks to go out for it.’

‘Oh, dude! I don’t want them to come back! I mean, they’re hot and all, but once the box is opened there’s a no-return policy, right? Look, I got five hundred bucks in my wallet here. It’s yours if you bring me a carton of OJ. Like a bonus. Huh?’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Eddie told him before ending the call. Unlike the dinner, he was definitely going to remind Grant about that offer.

Nina sat morosely at the living room table, nursing a black coffee. Her laptop was open, awaiting her command, but so far she hadn’t even checked her email.

She took an experimental sip from her mug. Without milk, the coffee had been too hot to drink immediately; now it had cooled, it was too bitter. She grimaced, wondering if she could drum up the energy to go to the store for milk. The more she considered it, the less likely it seemed.

Her phone rang, startling her. She picked it up. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Nina.’ A familiar voice - Professor Roger Hogarth, an associate from her university days. They had been in occasional contact over the past months, but mostly by email.

‘Roger, hi! What can I do for you?’

‘Always business first with you, isn’t it?’ His chiding was delivered with amusement. ‘I’ll get to that in a minute. But how are you?’

‘I’m . . . fine,’ she said flatly.

‘And the new apartment? Liking it any more than when you moved in?’

‘The less said the better, I think.’

A small chuckle. ‘I see. Don’t worry, things will improve, I’m sure. Probably when you least expect it. And on the subject of unexpected things . . . first, you remember that I was trying to meet Maureen to complain about that ridiculous sideshow she’s got going on at the Sphinx?’

‘Yes?’ said Nina, feeling a stab of anger at the mere mention of the name. She’d had plenty of reasons to dislike Professor Maureen Rothschild even before the woman became one of the principal architects of her fall from grace.

‘Well, she finally agreed to see me. Tomorrow, in fact.’

‘Really? That’s great.’

‘Took a lot of persuading, as you’d imagine. But unfortunately, the second unexpected thing is . . . I can’t go.’

‘Why not?’

‘Slipped on the stairs, and now I’m sitting here with my foot bandaged up like a mummy.’

‘Are you all right?’ she asked, concerned.

‘Just a sprain, thank God. The perils of old age are ridiculous, though - I did the pole vault and high jump when I was young, never so much as stubbed a toe. Now I drop six inches and I’m out of action for a week!’ He tutted.

‘So what are you going to do about Maureen?’

‘Well, that’s why I’m calling. I was hoping you might go in my place.’

‘Are you serious?’ Nina said, surprised. ‘She’s the person who fired me!’

‘Okay, it could be . . . awkward. But what she’s doing is a travesty of archaeology. It seems that every time I turn on the TV there’s another commercial for this circus.’

‘Yeah, I’ve seen them,’ Nina muttered. The promos for the live opening of the Hall of Records had been omnipresent for the last couple of weeks, irritating her more with each repeat.

‘It’s shameless commercialism, not science. And if there’s nothing in there, it’ll make the entire archaeological profession look like utter fools by association. I doubt it’ll make any difference, but somebody at least has to say these things to Maureen.’

‘And you want me to do it? Sorry, Roger. Maureen Rothschild is one of the last people I want to see.’

‘I understand,’ Hogarth said after a pause. ‘I thought you probably wouldn’t, but I had to try. Someone of your standing would have more chance of getting the point across.’

Nina tried to hold in her bitterness. ‘My standing’s not very high with anyone right now.’

‘Don’t underestimate yourself, Nina.’ This time, the chiding was more pointed. ‘One setback doesn’t end a career. I’ve had more than a few myself.’

‘Not on my scale, though.’

‘Oh, well,’ sighed Hogarth, accepting defeat, ‘we’ll just have to pray this whole affair doesn’t turn into a disaster.’

‘Let’s hope. Get well soon, Roger.’

‘Thank you. And I’m sure things will get better for you too.’

She said goodbye, then hung up, blowing out a glum breath. The coffee had gone cold, but she was now even less enthusiastic about leaving the apartment than before.

True to his word, Grant Thorn really did present Eddie with five hundred dollars in exchange for a carton of juice. By the time he arrived at the Upper West Side apartment, both ‘chicks’ had gone, though either one had forgotten to retrieve her hot pink thong from Grant’s lounge or the actor had a fetish he would prefer the tabloids didn’t discover.

Whichever was the case, neither was Eddie’s concern: his job was only to keep Grant from physical harm. After he and Nina had been fired from the IHA, he had called upon his extensive list of contacts from both his military career as a member of Britain’s elite Special Air Service and his subsequent work as a freelance bodyguard and troubleshooter to find new work. His reluctance to spend any length of time away from his new wife had limited his options, but eventually a friend had put him in contact with a man called Charlie Brooks, who ran a ‘personal protection agency’ for New York’s wealthy and famous. The assignments meant unpredictable hours, but they at least paid enough - just - for Eddie to support himself and Nina.

Even if certain economies had been necessary.

Eddie suspected he would hear about the largest of them yet again when he got home, but for now his mind was on the job. Grant had just spent more on an Italian suit than Eddie used to earn in a month at the IHA, and the shopping expedition was far from over.

‘Okay, that’s my outfit for the mayor’s event tonight,’ said the actor, checking his reflection in a mirror and making a millimetric adjustment to his gelled hair before heading for the exit. Eddie opened the door for him, then smoothly moved past to check Fifth Avenue for potential trouble. No crazed fans or irate movie critics awaited them. ‘So next, let’s see . . . Harmann’s.’

‘Not your usual style,’ Eddie remarked. Though every bit as far out of his price range as the store they had just left, he knew that the tailor’s suits were considerably more conservative.

‘I need something formal for tomorrow, dude,’ Grant explained. ‘It’s not every day I meet a religious leader.’

Eddie raised an eyebrow; nothing he had seen suggested his charge was the remotest bit spiritual. ‘Didn’t know the Pope was in town.’

‘It’s not the Pope, dude. Better than that! It’s my man, Osir!’

‘Who?’

‘Khalid Osir! You know, the Osirian Temple?’

‘You mean that cult?’

For the first time since Eddie had met him, Grant sounded offended. ‘Dude, it’s not a cult! It’s a real religion, changed my life. You want to stay young for ever? They can help you do it.’ He raised both hands to his tanned, blandly handsome face. ‘I’m twenty-nine, right? But I haven’t aged a day since I was twenty-seven . What more proof do you need, man?’

‘Guess you’re right,’ said Eddie, straight-faced. Grant seemed mollified. ‘So, this . . . religion. Expensive, is it?’

‘No, no! It’s not like some con job. You can donate whatever you like. And it’s up to you if you want to buy their stuff.’

‘Stuff?’

‘You know, the stuff that tells you how to follow the path to eternal life. Books, DVDs, diet supplements, bottles of genuine Egyptian sand, these awesome little pyramid dealies that energise the air in a room . . .’

‘Got you,’ Eddie said, his suspicions about the cult’s priorities confirmed.

‘I’m going to a meeting tomorrow - got a personal VIP invite. Short notice, but no way was I going to miss it. Actually getting to meet Osir, it’s like - like when an ordinary person meets me. Or Jesus! It’ll be so cool.’

‘Speaking of ordinary people . . .’ said Eddie, suppressing his sarcasm as he spotted three wealthy-looking young women reacting with squeals of delight at the sight of the movie star. He moved in front of Grant to intercept them.

‘I think I can handle this, dude,’ Grant said, grinning. Eddie moved aside, but still kept a close watch as they clattered over on their Jimmy Choos. ‘Hi, ladies! How are you?’

One woman seemed on the verge of hyperventilating, fanning herself with a small Gucci bag as the other two bombarded Grant with praise for his most recent movie - more specifically, the scene where he had worn nothing but a pair of Speedos. ‘Can we get a picture?’ one asked, digging an expensive phone from her handbag.

‘Sure thing,’ said Grant. ‘Dude, can you do the honours?’ Eddie took the phone and snapped a couple of photos as the trio crowded round the actor. They seemed thrilled with the results, thanking Grant before leaving, already forwarding the pictures to everyone in their address books.

The star watched them go, nodding approvingly as he checked them out. ‘Damn. I shoulda got their numbers, see if they wanted to go clubbing—’

‘Hey!’ someone said. They both turned to see two men, one a beefy gel-haired twenty-something in a polo shirt with a popped collar, the other, smaller and nerdier, lurking behind him. ‘You’re Grant Thorn, right?’

Eddie knew what was about to happen purely from the bigger man’s sneering smirk: his client was about to be insulted. The guy intended to impress his friend and provide them both with a boastful bar-room story for years to come. He moved forward as Grant answered. ‘Yeah?’

‘You suck, man.’ The smirk widened. ‘You really fucking suck. That last movie of yours, Nitrous? What a piece of shit. I watched a pirate download and I still wanted a refund.’ Grant’s expression was frozen in a clenched fake smile. ‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ said the man, pleased to have provoked him. He raised a hand to jab Grant’s chest.

Eddie stepped in. ‘Put the hand down, mate,’ he said in a calm but cold voice.

Polo-shirt was about to jab Eddie instead, but his finger stopped short under the Englishman’s intimidating stare. ‘What, you going to give me trouble?’ he said.

‘Only if you want it.’

Uncertainty crossed the young man’s face, and he stepped back, his friend retreating with him. ‘Whoa, big man, hiding behind a bodyguard,’ he called as they walked away. ‘You still suck, Thorn!’

‘Fag!’ added his friend, though not very loudly.

Eddie kept watching until they were a safe distance from his client, then turned to Grant. ‘You want their numbers?’

Grant shook his head, rattled. ‘Huh. Some people. No respect. Thanks, man.’

‘It’s what I do, Mr Thorn,’ said Eddie, shrugging.

‘Right.’ They set off again. ‘Course, I coulda handled him.’ Eddie made a faintly dismissive noise. ‘No, dude, seriously! Before I started shooting Gale Force, I went on a training course - like action movie school? A whole week of learning how to shoot guns and drive fast and do Krav Maga fighting. Pretty awesome.’

‘A whole week?’ said Eddie. ‘I’m impressed.’

Grant was oblivious of his sarcasm. ‘You gotta be good to stay at the top.’ They continued down Fifth Avenue, the actor attracting attention all the way to Harmann’s. To Eddie’s relief, it was only the star-struck kind.

‘Ay up,’ said Eddie as he entered the apartment. He raised his voice to counter the noise from the television. ‘How’s things?’

The sight of a three-quarters empty bottle of wine gave him his answer. ‘Been better,’ Nina replied.

‘You’re drinking too much,’ he chided as he hung up his jacket. ‘Why’s the telly on so loud?’

‘Because it’s better than listening to crying babies or the Lockhorns next door arguing again or that monkey-faced asshole downstairs playing music at full blast. I hate this apartment.’ She curled up, pressing her chin between her knees. ‘I hate this building. I hate this neighbourhood. I hate this whole goddamn borough!’ Blissville, Queens, was wedged between the Long Island Expressway, a cemetery and a miserable grey river lined with rundown industrial buildings, and could hardly have been more inappropriately named if it had tried.

Eddie found the remote and lowered the volume. ‘Ah, come on, Queens isn’t that bad. Maybe it’s not Manhattan, but at least it’s still New York.’ He tried for some levity. ‘Could have been worse; we might have had to move to New Jersey.’

It didn’t work. ‘It’s not funny, Eddie,’ Nina growled. ‘My life completely, utterly sucks.’ She looked over to the letter on the counter. ‘I got another rejection this morning. To add to the five hundred and seventeen I already had. My career’s over; Dalton and those other bastards took care of that. They turned me into a joke, Eddie, a fucking joke! Whenever I go out it’s like people are looking at me and thinking, “Hey, it’s that crazy bitch who thinks she found the Garden of Eden.” Nobody takes me seriously.’

‘Who gives a fuck what other people think?’ Eddie hooted. ‘You don’t know ’em, you’re never going to see them again, why should you care? Some wanker on Fifth Avenue gave Grant lip today, but he didn’t let it ruin his day. Or his life.’

‘There’s a slight difference between him and me, Eddie,’ said Nina. ‘He’s a millionaire movie star. I’m . . . I’m nothing.’

‘Don’t,’ said Eddie firmly. ‘Do not start all that again. You are not nothing, and you bloody well know it. And we took care of President Dalton. He’s the fucking joke now. He had to resign, he can’t do anything else to us.’

‘He did enough.’ A long sigh, the wet cloak of ennui settling over her once more. ‘I’m never going to work in archaeology again.’

‘Yeah, you will.’

‘I won’t, Eddie.’

‘Jesus Christ, it’s me who’s supposed to be the bloody pessimist.’ He opened the fridge, finding an empty space where he’d hoped to see a carton. ‘Did you get any milk?’

‘No, I forgot.’

‘What?’ He banged the door shut. ‘How could you forget? I left you a note.’

‘I didn’t go out.’

‘You didn’t—’ He threw up his hands. ‘There’s a shop round the corner, but you couldn’t even be arsed to go that far because you were moping about all day watching TV?’

‘I wasn’t moping,’ said Nina, a spike of anger poking through the cloak. ‘You think I enjoy all this?’

‘I know I sure as hell don’t.’

She didn’t like his tone. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning I don’t like seeing my wife being depressed!’

‘What am I supposed to do about it?’ she demanded, standing. ‘Everything I do’s been taken away from me!’ She jabbed a hand at the TV as the face of the Great Sphinx appeared: yet another promo for the live opening. ‘And then there’s sensationalist bullshit like this rubbing my nose in it. It’s not proper archaeology, it’s a stunt! And I’m not the only person who thinks that - Roger Hogarth phoned. He was going to go to the UN to give Maureen Rothschild a piece of his mind, but couldn’t make it, so he asked me to go instead.’

‘So what did you say?’

‘I said no, obviously.’

‘What?’ It was far from the first time Eddie had heard her grievances about the Egyptian dig, and he’d had enough of them. ‘For fuck’s sake, Nina! If it pisses you off so much, why don’t you do something about it?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like telling Maureen Rothschild that she’s full of shit! Don’t just sit around feeling sorry for yourself and complaining to me every time that bloody advert comes on. Complain to her! You’ve got the chance, so go to the UN and tell that old bag exactly what you think of the whole bloody thing!’

‘All right,’ Nina snapped, wanting him to shut up and get off her back, ‘I will! I’ll call Roger and tell him I’ve changed my mind.’

‘Good! Finally!’ He dropped on to the couch, the springs creaking. After several seconds of silence, he looked up at her. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to get mad. I just hate seeing you like this.’

‘I hate being like this,’ she replied, sitting beside him. ‘It’s just . . .’

‘I know.’ He put an arm round her. ‘But you know what? We’re a pretty good team. We’ll sort this out together. Somehow.’

‘It’d be easier if you were here more. As if things aren’t bad enough, I hardly ever get to spend an evening with my husband! It’s just me and re-runs of CSI: Miami.’ She gestured at the supersaturated scene on the TV screen. ‘I see so little of you, I’m starting to feel, ah . . . stirrings for David Caruso.’

‘What? Okay, I really do need to spend more time at home!’ He huffed and stroked her neck. ‘Look, I’ll talk to Charlie. Maybe he’s got some clients who like quiet nights in.’

‘They won’t have much use for a bodyguard, will they? And we need the money.’

‘Bollocks to the money,’ Eddie said firmly. ‘You’re more important. I’ve got another full day with Grant Thorn tomorrow, but I’ll figure something out.’

‘So it’s just gonna be me and Caruso again? I’ll need to buy some more batteries.’

Eddie’s face twisted in mock disgust. ‘Christ, your jokes are getting as gross as mine.’

‘Well, they say married couples start to act more like each other, don’t they?’ She managed a sort-of smile, then glanced towards the bedroom door. ‘Y’know, there’s something else married couples are supposed to do. It’s been a few days . . .’

‘I’d love to,’ he said, rubbing his eyes, ‘but I’m really, really knackered. And if I’ve got to keep an eye on Grant until Christ knows when tomorrow, I’ll need a decent night’s sleep.’

‘Oh.’ She tried to conceal her disappointment. ‘Well, maybe in the morning, hmm? Rev me up before I go to the UN.’

‘I’ve . . . got to work.’ He made a show of yawning to cover up his evasiveness. ‘Grant wants to buy a suit for some religious thing tomorrow.’

‘Considering how much he parties, I wouldn’t have taken him for the religious type.’

‘It’s not a real religion, it’s some daft cult thing. The Osirian Temple, it’s called.’

Nina was surprised by the coincidence. ‘Yeah? Huh. They’re co-funding the dig at the Sphinx.’

‘Must be doing all right for themselves, then. No shortage of idiots with money.’

‘Some things never change.’

Eddie smiled, then got up. ‘I want a shower before we go to bed. Are you okay?’

She slumped back on the couch. ‘For now? Yeah. Long term? Not so sure.’

‘Something’ll come up,’ he assured her. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘How are you sure?’

He had no answer to that.

2

Nina gazed up at the dark glass slab of the United Nations’ Secretariat Building with a glum sense of trepidation. It was over seven months since she had last set foot in the UN; seven months since she had been acrimoniously ‘suspended’ - more accurately, ‘fired’ - by the new director of the International Heritage Agency, and in truth a large part of her didn’t want to return to the scene of her humiliation.

She touched the pendant hanging from her neck for luck, then, steeling herself, headed inside.

The elevator ride seemed to take longer than she remembered, the elevator itself somehow more confined, airless. Things were no better when she emerged and was buzzed through the security door. Even though she told herself that the reception area couldn’t possibly have changed in seven months, there were enough subtle differences to render it disconcertingly unfamiliar.

One thing had not changed, though - the figure behind the reception desk. ‘Dr Wilde!’ cried Lola Gianetti, jumping up to greet her. ‘Or is it Dr Chase now?’

‘It’s still Wilde,’ Nina told the big-haired blonde as they embraced. ‘I wanted to keep my professional name. Although it might have made it easier for me to find a new job if I’d changed it.’

‘So how’s Eddie?’ Lola gestured at the ring on Nina’s left hand. ‘How was the wedding?’

‘Spur of the moment. Which Eddie’s grandmother still hasn’t forgiven us for. She wanted a trip to New York.’ Nina smiled, then her expression became more serious. ‘How are you?’

‘Recovered. More or less.’ Lola glanced down at her abdomen, where she had been stabbed - in the very room where they were standing - seven months before.

‘It must have been hard coming back to work.’

‘It was . . . weird. For a while.’ Lola shrugged, a little too casually. ‘But I love the job, so . . .’ She hesitated, glancing towards the offices, and lowered her voice. ‘To be honest, I don’t love it so much any more.’

‘Rothschild?’ Nina asked.

Lola nodded. ‘You were a much better boss. Now it’s all about who can suck up to her the most. And money.’

‘That’s part of why I’m here. Roger Hogarth couldn’t make it, so he asked me to come in his place. And Eddie nagged me into it as well.’

‘I see.’ Lola returned to her computer. ‘Professor Rothschild’s in a videoconference with Dr Berkeley, but they don’t usually take more than fifteen minutes. Her meeting with Professor Hogarth was scheduled for afterwards, so when she comes out I’ll see if she’ll talk to you.’

‘Or even if she’ll give me the time of day,’ said Nina. The thought of Rothschild was causing her long-simmering anger to rise again. She fought it back. The chances of her actually changing anything were slim to none, but now she was here she was determined to say her piece, and needed a clear mind to do so.

‘I’ll do what I can to convince her.’ Lola glanced at a tray beside the monitor. ‘Oh, that reminds me - there’s a message for you.’

‘For me?’

‘Yes, from one of the interns . . .’ She flicked through a small pile of papers. ‘Here - Macy Sharif. She phoned yesterday, asking for your number. I didn’t give it to her, of course, but I said I’d pass on the message. I tried calling your home number, actually, but it’d been disconnected.’

‘We moved,’ Nina said stiffly as Lola handed her the paper. ‘What did she want?’

‘She didn’t say. It’s funny, actually - people here have been wanting to talk to her. She was on Dr Berkeley’s dig, but she left suddenly. Nobody’s told me why, but I think she might have gotten into trouble with the Egyptian police. Hard to imagine - she seemed nice, but who knows?’

‘I guess the IHA’s hiring policies have gone downhill since I left,’ said Nina with dark humour. She gave the paper a cursory glance - a brief transcript of the message in Lola’s florid handwriting, and a phone number - then folded it.

‘So where are you living now?’ asked Lola.

Nina’s expression soured. ‘Blissville. It was about the only place we could afford that was still in the city and wasn’t an actual war zone.’

‘Oh,’ said Lola sympathetically. ‘Well, it’s, er . . . convenient for the expressway, I guess.’

‘Yeah. And the cemetery.’

They shared a smile, then Lola’s look became slightly hesitant. ‘Dr Wilde?’

‘Nina, please. What is it?’

‘I hope you don’t think this is kinda presumptuous, but . . . I’m getting the feeling you’re not having a great time right now.’

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ They both smiled again.

‘The thing is,’ said Lola, ‘I booked tomorrow afternoon off because I was supposed to be seeing an art gallery with a friend, and then we were going to have dinner. Only now he can’t make it, so . . . I wondered if you might want to come?’

Nina almost turned down the offer out of hand before the part of her that had been stirred back into action by Eddie’s prodding reminded her that all she had on the agenda otherwise was another evening with David Caruso. ‘Where’s the gallery?’ she asked instead.

‘Soho. And the restaurant’s in Little Italy. It’s a nice place, a friend of my cousin runs it.’

‘I didn’t know you were into art.’

Lola blushed faintly. ‘Sculpture. It’s a hobby; I make little birds and flowers and things out of metal and wire. I’m not very good at it, but I thought the gallery might give me some ideas.’

Nina considered the offer, then decided: what the hell. It might take her mind off her gloom, if only for a few hours. ‘Okay. Yeah, why not?’

‘Great! Let me give you the addresses.’

She looked for a notepad, but Nina handed her the sheet of paper with Macy’s message. ‘Here. Save a tree.’

‘Thanks.’ Lola wrote down the details, then returned the page. ‘Three o’clock?’

‘Two, if you want. The less time I spend in the apartment the better!’

A door up the corridor opened. Nina turned to see Maureen Rothschild emerge, and freeze as she saw Nina in the reception area. After a moment the professor walked towards her with a pinched, utterly insincere smile. ‘Nina.’

Nina gave the older woman a response in kind. ‘Maureen.’

‘I didn’t expect to see you here again. What do you want?’

‘To talk to you, actually.’

Rothschild’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. ‘I have a very busy schedule, Nina. In fact, I’m about to meet Roger Hogarth. I’m sure you remember him.’

‘Oh, I do. As a matter of fact, he asked me to represent him. He’s indisposed.’

‘Oh.’ Rothschild’s face revealed no sympathy. ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘No, but he’ll be off his feet for a few days. Which is why he asked me to speak with you in his place.’

Nina could tell that Rothschild wanted nothing more than to give a flat refusal, but Hogarth was well regarded - and connected - in the academic community. Turning away his locum out of hand might be considered an insult . . . or a sign that she was afraid to defend her position.

‘I suppose,’ she said finally, with deep reluctance, ‘I could spare a few minutes. As a favour to Roger.’ She started back up the corridor, Nina giving Lola a brief smile before following her to her office.

Which had once been Nina’s office. The view across Manhattan was instantly familiar, but everything else had changed. Nina’s feeling of alienation returned full force.

Rothschild took a seat behind the large desk, gesturing impatiently for Nina to sit facing her. ‘Well? What did Roger want to talk to me about?’

‘About this, actually.’ On the desk was a glossy brochure, promoting what it proclaimed as The Live Television Event of the Decade! The image on the cover was the Great Sphinx of Giza. Nina picked it up. ‘It seems like every time I turn on the TV, I see a commercial for this. I’m just curious about when the IHA turned into a shill for prime-time television and wack-job cults.’

‘The IHA is not a shill for anyone, Nina,’ Rothschild said, voice oozing with condescension. ‘Getting co-funding from organisations like the Osirian Temple reduces our operating costs, and our share of the advertising revenue will help fund numerous other projects, as well as boosting the IHA’s profile worldwide. It’s a win-win situation, and good business, pure and simple.’

‘Funny, I didn’t realise the IHA was a business.’ She opened the brochure, seeing a picture of Logan Berkeley posing in a heroic stance with the pyramids behind him. ‘And you put Logan in charge?’

‘Logan was the best candidate for the job.’

‘Logan’s a self-promoting egotist. What about Kal Ahmet, or William Schofield? They’ve both got far more experience.’

‘They were on the shortlist, if you must know,’ said Rothschild coldly. ‘But Logan was my personal choice. His presentation impressed me the most.’

You mean he kissed your ass the most, thought Nina, but she kept it to herself. ‘And was Logan okay with totally perverting the principles of archaeology? Was that part of his presentation?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean rushing everything and throwing out any notion of diligent scientific practice so the network can get big ratings during sweeps week.’

‘You are the last person to lecture anyone about “diligent scientific practice”, Nina,’ snapped Rothschild. ‘Your utter disregard for anything even approaching proper procedure is one of the main reasons why you were fired, if you remember!’

‘This isn’t about me,’ said Nina, the simmering rising towards a boil. She waved the brochure. ‘It’s about the IHA selling out. It was established to protect these kinds of finds, not exploit them!’

‘Ah, now I see why you’re here,’ Rothschild said, a sneering smile spreading on her thin lips. ‘Some last desperate attempt at self-justification, is that it? You want to beat your fists against the temple walls of your oppressors so you can convince yourself that you’re right and everyone else is wrong?’ She stood, hands spread on the desk as she leaned forward. ‘Get over yourself! Contrary to what you may think, you were not the indispensable heart of the IHA - the organisation runs perfectly well without you. In fact, it’s better without you. Do you know how many employees have died since you left? None!’

Nina drew in a sharp breath. ‘That was low, Maureen,’ she said, tight-mouthed.

For a moment, Rothschild’s expression suggested that even she thought she had gone too far. But the moment quickly passed. ‘You’ve said what you came here to say, Nina. I think it would be best for everyone if you left now. And it would probably also be for the best if you didn’t come back.’

Nina rose, clenching her fists to stop Rothschild from seeing that her hands were trembling with anger. ‘What you’re doing in Egypt is an embarrassment to the archaeological profession, and you know it.’

‘We both know who the real embarrassment to the profession is,’ Rothschild countered. Nina gave her a hateful look, threw open the door and left the office.

There was a park north of the United Nations; Nina strode round it, her anger barely lessened even twenty minutes later. In some perverse way, part of her actually wanted to keep stoking it - once it was gone, all she would be left with was misery, deeper than ever.

But she knew she couldn’t keep it burning indefinitely.

Taking a long, slow breath, she took out her phone and called Eddie. To her surprise, his cell was switched off, rather than on voicemail. Odd. Eddie never switched off his phone.

Even that brief distraction took the edge off her anger, depression roiling back in like a wall of fog. Not in the mood to do anything but go home, she headed west along 42nd Street to the subway station at Grand Central. About halfway there, her phone rang. Thinking it was Eddie, she snapped it up, only to see an unfamiliar local number on the screen. She composed herself, then answered.

‘Is that Nina?’ said a Jersey-accented voice.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Charlie, Charlie Brooks.’ Eddie’s boss.

‘Oh, hi,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine, thanks. Listen, I’ve been trying to get a hold of Eddie, but his phone’s off. Is he with you? I need to talk to him about a new client.’

‘No. I’ve been trying to call him myself.’

‘Really? Huh. Not like him to be out of contact when he’s not working.’

‘Isn’t he with Grant Thorn?’

‘Nah, not till later. Well, if you talk to him in the next hour or so tell him I called, else I’ll pass it on to one of my other guys.’

‘I’ll tell him.’ She disconnected. If Eddie wasn’t working, then what was he doing, and why was his phone switched off?

More to the point . . . why had he told her he would be with Grant Thorn all day?

In her current frame of mind, she couldn’t help constructing scenarios. None of them were good. Was he doing something he didn’t want her to know about? The past months had not been ideal for their relationship. What if he was seeing someone else?

She shook her head, refusing to countenance it. Eddie wouldn’t do that to her.

Would he?

She reached Grand Central and rode the subway back to Queens, taking the gloomy walk south to Blissville. Along the way, her phone chimed - not a call, but a text message. Eddie. Terse as ever.

Sorry I missed call, in middle of something. Talk later. How did UN go? Eddie x

‘Super fine,’ Nina sighed.

The black Cadillac limousine cruised through midtown Manhattan. ‘Almost there, Mr Thorn,’ said the driver.

‘Good, cool,’ said Grant. He was wearing the formal suit he had bought the day before. He was also on edge, a far cry from his usual cocky self as he fingered his collar.

‘You okay?’ Eddie asked.

‘Yeah, yeah, fine. Just, you know, this is a big thing. Even bigger than winning the People’s Choice award.’

Eddie kept his opinions on that to himself as they arrived at their destination. The Osirian Temple’s New York ‘church’ was actually an unimposing East Midtown building with a neon sign over its entrance, an Egyptian-style eye superimposed over a triangle, which he assumed was meant to be a pyramid. But while the building was nothing noteworthy, the crowd outside resembled the crush surrounding the red carpet on Oscar night.

‘Lot of people,’ he said. Several men in tailored dark green blazers cleared a space so the Cadillac could pull over.

‘Fast-growing religion, man. I mean, who doesn’t want to live for ever?’

‘Depends who you’re living with.’ The limo stopped. ‘You want me to wait with the car?’

‘No, come in with me, check it out. Maybe you’ll even want to join up.’

To his credit, Eddie just about managed to hold in a sarcastic comment as he got out of the limo and opened the door for Grant. The crowd responded enthusiastically as the star emerged.

‘Hi, everyone, hi! Great to see you,’ said Grant, turning on the megawatt smile that had helped take him to ten million dollars a movie. The men in green acted as a human cordon as he headed for the entrance, shaking hands and posing for photos. As the limo pulled away, Eddie’s experienced eyes swept the crowd for any hint of threat, but everyone seemed to be behaving. All the same, he subtly increased his pace, shepherding Grant towards the door.

It soon turned out, though, that the movie star wasn’t the afternoon’s top attraction. More men emerged from the building, a green-blazered phalanx driving through the crowd like a plough to clear a path across the sidewalk. Someone cried ‘It’s Osir!’ - and as one, the throng turned to watch a longer limo arrive.

If Grant had been greeted with enthusiasm, this was nearer to hysteria. To Eddie’s amusement, a hand that had been outstretched to Grant was snatched away just as he reached for it, leaving the actor with a brief expression of startled hurt. The minders flanked the limo’s door.

Khalid Osir climbed out.

Even at first glance, Eddie could tell Osir had that special quality possessed only by a lucky few - a natural, powerful charisma, evident in the easy confidence with which he moved and the irrepressible sparkle in his eyes. Eddie guessed him to be in his mid-forties, though he somehow got the feeling that Osir was older than he appeared. And while Grant was a movie star, a man of the moment who had made it with the help of good looks, modest talent and a great agent, Osir looked more like a movie legend, someone who would outshine younger rivals generation after generation. He glanced at his client. Grant’s face was a mix of awe and a hint of jealousy.

‘Hello, my friends!’ the cult leader boomed over the cheering. ‘I’m so happy to see so many of you here today. May the light of the sun-god Ra bless you all!’

‘May the spirit of Osiris protect and strengthen you!’ people chanted in reply. Even Grant joined in, though he accidentally transposed ‘protect’ and ‘strengthen’. Osir beamed and made his way to the building, talking to his followers along the way. Eddie couldn’t help noticing that attractive women got the lion’s share of his attention.

Another man had meanwhile stepped out of the limo, practically unnoticed by the crowd - though his scowl immediately stood out amongst the smiles, and the third man who followed him set off warning bells at the back of Eddie’s mind. It was obvious from his features that the second man was closely related to Osir - a brother? - but it was equally plain that his sibling had been more favourably blessed both by the genetic lottery and by life itself, his own harder, thinner face scarred by a major burn across his right cheek. His wiry, greasy-haired companion in the snakeskin jacket, meanwhile, looked like a redneck, but from his alert stance and attitude Eddie could instantly tell he was ex-military.

Osir reached the door to find Grant waiting for him. ‘Ah, Mr Thorn!’ he said, clasping the actor’s hand and shaking it firmly. Cameras flashed in the crowd; the two men instinctively turned to face them with their widest smiles. ‘It’s so good to finally meet you.’

‘Same here, Mr Osir,’ said Grant.

‘Call me Khalid, please. I feel like I know you already from your movies.’

Grant grinned, pleased. ‘Really? Cool! I’ve tried to watch all of yours, but they’re kind of hard to get on Netflix. I saw Osiris and Set, though. You were awesome in that.’

Osir waved a hand modestly. ‘You must visit the Osirian Temple’s headquarters in Switzerland, and I will show you the others. Come whenever you like; my door is always open. But acting is behind me now - I have a new calling. And I am so very pleased that you,’ he turned to address the crowd, ‘that all of you have chosen to follow me on this incredible journey. There are already tens of thousands of us, all around the world, and our numbers will grow as more discover that only through the teachings of Osiris can true immortality be found. We shall all live for ever!’ He raised his hands, the crowd cheering again.

His brother impatiently gave an order, and the minders pushed the crowd back. One opened the door, and with another wave Osir went inside with his companions, the man in snakeskin giving Eddie a disdainful look.

Grant went to the door, but hesitated when he realised Eddie wasn’t following. ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s not really my kind of thing. You go in; I’ll wait for you.’

‘No, come on, man. You listen to what he’s got to say - it’ll change your life. You’ll be able to reverse your ageing, look like you’re in your thirties again.’

‘I am in my thirties,’ Eddie told him frostily.

‘Really? Whoa. No offence, dude. You just look kinda . . . battered.’ Realising his words weren’t thawing his bodyguard, Grant changed his mind. ‘Okay, you . . . wait for me. Yeah.’

‘Have fun, Mr Thorn,’ Eddie said as Grant went inside. He shook his head, grinning faintly. His employer was living proof that some people would believe anything.

Still, at least the Osirian Temple appeared to be the harmless kind of crank cult.

Several hours later, Eddie returned home. ‘So how did it go at the UN?’ he asked as he entered the apartment - and saw that today’s wine bottle was fully empty. ‘Oh.’

‘It was absolutely goddamn horrible,’ said Nina, scowling. She had only felt up to calling Hogarth a few hours earlier, and the act of relating the argument had made her angry all over again. ‘I didn’t accomplish anything at all, and Maureen was an utter bitch who ended up making me feel this big.’ She waved an unsteady hand at him, holding her thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart. ‘I shouldn’t have gone. I wouldn’t have gone if you hadn’t forced me.’

‘I didn’t force you,’ Eddie objected.

‘Yeah, you did! You might as well have carried me there in a sack!’

He shook his head. ‘Jesus! Rothschild’s the one who pissed you off, so why’re you having a go at me?’

‘Because you’re here!’ she cried. ‘For a change.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Eddie sighed. ‘Not this again. I was working! I offered to try to work something out with Charlie yesterday, and you told me not to.’

The mention of Charlie reminded Nina of something. ‘Where were you this morning? I tried calling you, but you didn’t answer your phone.’

‘Probably ’cause I was working. I’m not supposed to take personal calls when I’m on the clock. You know that.’

‘But you weren’t when I called you, though. Charlie phoned me - he couldn’t get hold of you and asked if I knew where you were.’

He hesitated, uneasy. ‘What time was this?’

‘After I left the UN. About half past one.’

‘Oh, right. Yeah, I was with Grant Thorn.’

‘That’s funny,’ said Nina, amusement far from her face. ‘Charlie told me you weren’t working until later.’

The sound of wheels spinning in his head was almost audible. ‘That’s ’cause . . . I was doing Grant a favour. Off the books.’

‘What sort of favour?’

‘He wanted me to pick him up some orange juice.’ Seeing her dubious look, he went on: ‘Seriously! Lazy sod couldn’t be bothered to walk a block to get it himself.’

‘I thought you had a policy about not doing that sort of thing. Y’know, the whole bodyguard not butler principle.’

‘Well, when he offers to pay me an extra five hundred bucks it’s more like a guideline.’

‘He paid you five hundred dollars to get orange juice?’

He retrieved yesterday’s wad of notes from his jacket and tossed it on to the table. ‘See? Bloke really does have more money than sense.’

Nina regarded the money suspiciously. She knew Eddie more than well enough to be aware that maintaining a poker face was not one of his talents, and he seemed to be inwardly congratulating himself on his quick thinking. Maybe Grant Thorn really had been absurdly generous, but there was more to the story. ‘So what were you doing for the rest of the day? It doesn’t take that long to buy orange juice.’

‘You didn’t see the queue,’ he said, with a half-laugh that faded under Nina’s gaze. ‘Yeah, I was doing something else too. I . . . met up with a friend.’

Her gaze intensified. ‘A female friend?’

‘A cop friend.’

To his concealed relief, Nina didn’t point out that it was possible to be both female and a cop. Instead, she said, ‘I didn’t know you had any cop friends.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t know I was supposed to give you a complete list of all my mates everywhere in the world. I’ve got loads of friends.’

She wasn’t sure if he’d meant to put emphasis on the I’ve part of his reply, but in her current mood she wasn’t going to let it pass without comment. ‘Unlike me, you mean?’

‘Where did that bloody come from? I never said you don’t have any friends.’

‘Well, that’s because I do have ’em. I’ve got . . .’ She considered it, face falling over the seconds it took her to finish the sentence. ‘There’s Piper.’

‘Who moved to San Francisco.’

‘Matt! Matt Trulli’s a friend.’

‘Who you haven’t spoken to for months.’

‘He’s still a friend! And there’s Lola!’ Nina added with a triumphant jab of her hand. ‘Lola’s a friend. And I’m having dinner with her tomorrow, actually. So, yeah, I’ve got friends.’

‘I never said you didn’t! Why’re you getting all defensive about it?’

‘Because . . . because that’s something else that’s been getting me down,’ she admitted. ‘Almost all of my friends are archaeologists or historians. And ever since I got screwed over by the media, they’ve been treating me like I’m radioactive.’

‘Then maybe they weren’t really friends to begin with,’ Eddie told her. ‘So why’d you instantly assume I was seeing a woman friend this morning? What, you - ha! - think I’m having an affair?’

‘No, not really, just . . .’ She sagged. ‘It would have been the perfect capper to a really horrible day. The thought came to me, and it just wouldn’t go away. You’re out at all hours, and I . . . well, I haven’t exactly been the best company recently. And we haven’t, y’know, had sex for a while.’

‘Five days is “a while”?’

‘We only just got married - we’re supposed to be having sex every five minutes!’ She flopped back on the couch. ‘God. After all the horrible crap that happened to us, I thought that at least our getting married would be one perfect thing that would see us through it. But . . .’

‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you?’ Eddie asked, concerned.

‘No, God, no. It’s just . . . it hasn’t been what I thought it would. What I hoped it would.’

‘Marriage’s like life, I suppose. Things always change, and you’ve got to adapt with ’em. There’s a military saying - dunno who said it, Napoleon or someone - “No plan survives contact with the enemy.” ’

‘It was Field Marshal Helmuth von Moltke,’ corrected Nina, earning herself a double-take from her husband. ‘But if marriage was the plan, who’s the enemy?’

‘Everyone and everything outside this room.’

‘I hate this room.’

‘Okay, off this couch.’

‘Not a big fan of the couch, either.’ They both managed half-hearted laughs.

‘Well, look,’ said Eddie, ‘I’m not seeing anyone else, okay? I know what it’s like to be on the other end of that from when I was married to Sophia. So don’t worry about it. Or anything else, either. Have a nice girlie day out with Lola tomorrow, and take your mind off everything.’ He gestured at the wad of money. ‘If Grant asks me to pick up any more orange juice for him, maybe we’ll even be able to afford a holiday.’

‘That’d be nice. Somewhere exotic.’

‘Egypt?’ The TV was showing another promo for the opening of the Sphinx, the live event now only three days away.

Nina huffed. ‘Yeah, right. I think it’d be a tad out of our price range.’

He kissed her cheek. ‘Let’s see what tomorrow brings, eh?’

3

Despite waking with another hangover, Nina felt better than she had for quite some time. Merely committing herself to doing something outside her depressed rut had acted like a spark; after Eddie left to babysit another client around town, she decided to follow his example and cross the river to spend time in her native Manhattan before meeting Lola.

She found the memo Lola had given her and double-checked the gallery’s address. The message from Macy Sharif was written above it, forgotten until now. She didn’t remember the name; the intern must have started at the IHA after she left.

Remembering what Lola had said about Macy’s getting into trouble with the Egyptian police, she almost dismissed the note from her mind, but on a whim, prompted by her new-found urge to action, decided to follow up on it instead. It would take her the better part of fifteen minutes to walk to the nearest subway station, so making the call would at least pass the time. She left the apartment, dialling the number as she descended the narrow stairs.

‘Hello?’ A man’s voice.

‘Hi,’ said Nina, thumb already hovering over the button to end the call. ‘May I speak to Macy Sharif?’

Hesitation, then wariness: ‘Who’s calling?’

‘My name’s Nina Wilde. She left a message asking me to call.’

The ambient noise from the other end of the line became muffled as the man put his hand over the phone. There was a short exchange with someone else, then a cry of excitement. Nina raised her eyebrows. This Macy was very keen to speak to her.

A clunk and rattle as the phone was snatched from its owner. ‘Hello? Hello! Dr Wilde, are you there? Is that you?’ The woman’s accent was upscale southern with a vaguely Hispanic lilt.

‘Yeah, hi,’ Nina replied as she reached the sidewalk, rounding a ridiculously large red pickup truck parked outside her building before crossing the street. ‘Is this Macy?’

‘Yes, it is, yeah! Dr Wilde, thanks for calling me back, it’s such an honour to be talking to you. Really! I’m a big fan of yours.’

A fan? Nina wasn’t quite sure how to take that. This wasn’t some practical joke, was it? ‘Uh . . . thanks. You left a message at the IHA that you wanted to talk to me?’

‘Yes. Look, this’ll probably sound weird and maybe a bit stalkerish, but I really need to see you in person. I’ve got something I need to show you. You still live in New York, don’t you?’

Nina eyed the streets around her. ‘More or less.’

‘I’m staying with a friend in the East Village. Is there any chance you could meet me?’

‘I’m actually heading into Manhattan right now,’ Nina volunteered without thinking, before realising that she’d just blown a chance to turn Macy down politely. ‘But I don’t know if I’ll have the time today.’

‘I can meet you whenever, wherever - I just need ten minutes of your time.’

‘For what?’

‘It’s about Dr Berkeley’s dig in Egypt, at the Sphinx.’

The mention of Berkeley brought back the previous day’s humiliating meeting with Rothschild, which didn’t do Macy’s request any favours. ‘That dig’s nothing to do with me,’ Nina told her. ‘If you want to talk to somebody about it, you’d be better off finding someone at the IHA.’

‘No, I really need to show this to you. In person. You’ll understand why once you’ve seen it. Please, Dr Wilde? Just ten minutes. Five minutes, even. It’s really important.’

The pleading in her voice seemed completely genuine. ‘Look,’ Nina finally said, ‘I’m meeting a friend, and we’re going to dinner later. But I might be able to see you after that.’ The East Village was her old neighbourhood, not too far from where she and Lola would be having dinner. She tried to think of somewhere fairly close to a subway station, so she could return home afterwards with the minimum of fuss. ‘There’s a coffee shop called 52 Perk-Up on 7th Street, near Second Avenue. If I’ve got time, I’ll call you and we can meet there. I can’t promise anything, though.’

‘That’d be awesome,’ said Macy with evident relief. ‘Thank you, Dr Wilde. Thanks for talking to me.’

‘No problem. Bye.’ Nina disconnected, already wondering if she could come up with an excuse to let Macy down gently. Whatever she had to say about Berkeley’s dig, it wasn’t her problem.

Still, ten minutes of her time wouldn’t kill her.

Eddie spotted the long queue of people outside the nightclub from the far end of the block. Even relatively early in the evening, people were lined up four abreast in the hope of getting into one of the Upper West Side’s hottest new venues.

‘Looks pretty cool, huh?’ said Grant as his bright orange Lamborghini Murciélago cruised slowly along the street. For day-to-day travel round New York the actor relied on the ostentatious anonymity of the limo service, but when he wanted to be noticed he employed a vastly more eyecatching vehicle. ‘Check out that crowd - hell, check out those legs!’ He lowered his window for a better look at the miniskirted women waiting to enter. The car had already attracted attention, and when people realised a Hollywood star was at the wheel the reaction was almost a riot. Grant grinned his expensive grin and waved, blipping the throttle to let a tiny fraction of the supercar’s 631 horsepower howl through its exhaust pipes.

A section of sidewalk at the club entrance was cordoned off by velvet ropes: the VIP area. Grant pulled over, a valet swooping in to collect the keys in exchange for a token as he got out and stood before a galaxy of flashing phone cameras. Nobody needed to check that his name was on the VIP list, though Eddie didn’t receive the same star treatment. ‘Whoa, guys, he’s with me,’ said Grant as two bouncers closed ranks in front of Eddie like meaty sliding doors. ‘It’s cool, he’s my bodyguard.’

‘This little guy?’ rumbled the larger of the two hulks, smirking. Eddie gave him a scathing look. A brief stand-off, then the bouncers moved apart and he followed Grant inside. Behind, a snarl announced the Lamborghini’s departure for the parking structure down the street.

The club’s interior was on three levels, the lowest an almost pit-like dance floor with a higher area containing the long, neon-lit bar surrounding it. Overlooking both was a glass-walled balcony: the VIP lounge. The pounding music was as trendy and contemporary as the overdone hairstyles of the clubbers, and Eddie didn’t have the slightest idea of the band’s name.

‘Christ, I feel old,’ he muttered as he followed Grant up to the balcony.

Nina almost didn’t call Macy after her pleasant afternoon and dinner with Lola; in fact, until she opened her bag to check her phone for messages and saw the note, she had completely forgotten her earlier conversation. She could have simply shrugged and gone home, but the twin proddings of politeness and minor guilt swayed her otherwise.

She had no messages, so entered Macy’s number again. The same man answered, with the same suspicious air, before she heard Macy say in the background, ‘Is that her? Joey, give me the phone!’ One brief scuffle for possession later, and she was on the line. ‘Hi? Dr Wilde? Is that you?’

‘It’s me,’ Nina assured her.

She sounded relieved. ‘Thanks for calling back. Can you still meet me?’

‘Do you remember where I said?’

‘The coffee place? Yeah, Joey knows where it is. Can you meet me right now?’

‘Yeah, I guess,’ said Nina, still not sure if she should go through with it. ‘I can be there in . . . fifteen minutes?’

‘That’s great! I’ll be waiting for you. Dr Wilde, thank you so much for doing this. I’ll see you soon.’ She hung up.

Nina made a faint noise of exasperation, then set off. She might as well get it over with.

The area hadn’t altered much in the two and a half years since she’d moved out of the East Village; some stores and restaurants had changed hands and a few buildings had been renovated, but 52 Perk-Up looked much the same as the last time she’d been there. The paintings on the back wall were by different local artists, and new faces were serving, but beyond that it was as self-consciously bohemian as ever.

It was also small; she would have deduced which customer was Macy within moments even if she hadn’t sprung up to greet her. ‘Dr Wilde! Hi!’

‘You’re Macy, I take it,’ said Nina, coming to her table. Macy Sharif was not what she had expected; she had assumed that anyone involved with a dig as major as the Sphinx would be at least a post-grad. But the extremely attractive young girl before her, black hair tied back in a ponytail, was too young even to be a graduate, maybe still in her teens. She was also dressed more for spring break than study - as well as an extremely short denim skirt, she wore a very tight designer top emphasising her breasts. The slightly malicious thought crossed Nina’s mind that Berkeley might have chosen her for his team for reasons other than her academic qualifications, before she decided that was unfair. She didn’t know anything about the girl; she should at least give her the benefit of the doubt.

‘Yeah, that’s me! Hi.’ Macy seemed genuinely pleased at the meeting; maybe she really was a fan. ‘I’m really glad Lola managed to get hold of you - I tried calling your number in the phone book, but it wasn’t working. So I went there in person, but the building super said you’d moved out.’

‘Yeah, a few months ago.’ Now Nina was faintly unsettled; perhaps Macy was a fan in the original sense of the word, derived from ‘fanatic’. But she appeared normal and polite enough.

‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘No thanks, I’m fine.’ The table had another occupant, a man of Macy’s age with a fake tan, a necklace of chunky wooden beads and a spiky hairstyle that resembled something from a Japanese cartoon. He briefly looked Nina up and down, then turned his gaze back to Macy’s chest. ‘Hi,’ Nina said. The young man grunted.

‘You sure?’ Macy said. Nina nodded. ‘I could use something. Joey, go get me a cappuccino, will you? I want to talk to Dr Wilde in private.’

Joey grunted again and got up. ‘I’ll sit over there, keep an eye on the door.’

Nina gave Macy a curious look. ‘Something I should know about?’

‘I’ll tell you soon. Please, sit down.’ Nina sat opposite her. ‘Joey’s just watching out for me. He’s a friend from college - well, a friend with benefits.’ She grinned, making Nina a little uncomfortable about her openness. ‘He’s about the only person I know in New York. I’m from Miami.’

‘Right,’ said Nina, not particularly interested. ‘So, what did you want to talk to me about?’

Macy sat straighter. ‘First thing - can I just say it’s so great that you were willing to see me? I’ve wanted to meet you for ages. You’re like my hero!’

‘Really?’ Nina felt a little glow inside her; it was a long time since she’d had any kind of professional flattery.

‘Oh, totally! It’s because of you that I picked archaeology for my major. I didn’t really know what I wanted to do, but then I read this and thought: wow, that is so cool.’ She took out several slightly tattered magazine pages from her bag, laying them out flat on the table. Nina immediately recognised them as an article from around a year and a half earlier, about her discovery of Atlantis. One of the pictures was a photograph of herself, beaming proudly. Her younger self had her hair in the ponytail she had favoured at the time, prompting her to glance up at Macy’s very similar style.

‘Er, yeah,’ said Macy bashfully as she fingered her own tied-back hair. ‘I, ah, kinda borrowed your look. I thought if it worked for you . . . Hope you don’t mind.’

‘No, not at all,’ Nina said, the glow moving to her cheeks in slight embarrassment.

Joey returned and delivered a cappuccino, then sat at a table near the door. ‘See, when I read this,’ Macy continued, ‘it made me realise that wow, there really is all this amazing stuff still out there to discover.’ She tapped Nina’s picture. ‘And when I saw it was you who’d found it, it was like, oh my God! I mean, most archaeologists are guys, right, and they’re usually pretty old, but you? You were like a real-life Lara Croft. I thought, well, if you could do this, I could do it too!’

Nina knew the younger woman had meant it as a compliment, but wasn’t thrilled by her phrasing. ‘So . . . you weren’t sure what you wanted to do until then? You weren’t serious about archaeology?’

Macy shrugged. ‘The big, exciting stuff, sure. And I was already into Egyptology ’cause of my grandparents - they were from Egypt originally. My grandpa used to be a teacher, and he taught me to read hieroglyphics when I was a kid, which was pretty cool. But most of my first year, I kind of goofed off. I was in a sorority, I was a cheerleader, every night was party night - you know what it’s like!’

‘Hmm,’ said Nina, who at university had been anything but a party animal.

‘But then I almost flunked out, and that was when I realised I needed to pull myself together. Part of it was because I didn’t want to let down my mom and dad - I mean, they were paying for it! So I started working harder, and picked up my grades. But then when I heard about the IHA dig at the Sphinx, I realised it would be such a huge boost for me if I could be a part of it. So I managed to get on the team—’

‘There must have been a lot of competition.’

‘Oh, totally. But my mom does a lot of fundraising for international charities and she’s got friends at the UN, so that helped!’ She smiled brightly.

‘I’m sure it did,’ said Nina, unimpressed that nepotism, not hard work, had won her a place on the dig. While she didn’t consider herself the kind of person who made snap judgements, she was forced to admit that her initial appraisal of Macy - a party girl who relied on her looks and money to coast through life - seemed accurate. ‘Well, look, it’s been nice meeting you, and I’m glad I was such an inspiration, but I need to get moving.’

Macy’s face fell. ‘Oh, no, wait! Please, wait - I need to show you this.’ She hurriedly stuffed the pages back in her bag, her hand returning with a digital camera. ‘You know about the scrolls that told us how to find the Hall of Records, right?’

‘The ones that were found in Gaza? Yeah. I still keep up with the news.’

Macy didn’t register the sarcasm. ‘Okay, well, the Osirian Temple gave three pages to the IHA, right? Turns out they didn’t give us all of them.’

An image appeared on the screen. Nina looked more closely, seeing what appeared to be ancient Egyptian papyruses, though the hieroglyphics were too small to read on the LCD display. ‘Are these the pages?’

Macy pointed at the three leftmost pages. ‘These three are. But this one,’ she tapped the one on the right, ‘is something nobody’s seen before. Not at the IHA, anyway. The first three pages talk about what the Hall of Records is and how to find it. This one says what’s actually in it.’

Nina regarded her dubiously. ‘And what is in it?’

‘A map that tells you how to find the Pyramid of Osiris.’

‘What?’ Only the memory of having been at the other end of a similar discussion, trying to convince others of the truth of a legend, stopped Nina from letting out a dismissive laugh. ‘The Pyramid of Osiris? That’s barely even a myth - it’s more like a fairy tale. You could count all the references to it in known ancient Egyptian texts on one hand, and even then it’s only mentioned in connection with the mythology of their gods. It’s not real.’

‘Well, I didn’t think so either,’ said Macy, bristling, ‘but somebody does. Somebody who’s going to dig into the Hall of Records before the IHA and steal the map.’

Now Nina did laugh. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. Someone’s digging under the Sphinx at the same time as the IHA? In the middle of the busiest tourist attraction in the entire country, and nobody notices?’

‘It’s true!’ Macy protested. ‘They’ve dug a shaft at the north end of the Sphinx compound - I saw it!’ She flicked through the images on the camera. ‘I took a picture of the plans, look!’

Nina gave it only a cursory glance. ‘There’s no way they could do that without attracting attention. They’d be arrested the moment they stuck their shovel into the ground.’

‘No, the people in charge, they’re in on it! Gamal, the head of security, and Dr Hamdi - look, see?’ Another picture, this one a blown-out closeup of a man’s startled face. ‘They’re both working for a guy from the Osirian Temple!’

Nina kneaded her forehead. ‘Why are you telling me this? If you really did uncover some conspiracy to rob the site, why didn’t you just tell Dr Berkeley? Or the Egyptian police?’

‘I didn’t know who I could trust. Dr Berkeley might have been in on it too.’

‘Logan Berkeley’s many things,’ said Nina drily, ‘but I don’t think he’s a crook.’

‘He didn’t believe me, anyway. He already had some problem with me, I don’t know why. He’s kind of a jerk.’

Nina couldn’t help a sardonic smile; that was certainly one of the ‘many things’. ‘The police, then. The Egyptians take artefact theft very seriously.’

‘I couldn’t go to the police.’

‘Why not?’

‘They kinda . . . wanted to arrest me. They think I stole a piece of the Sphinx and hit Dr Hamdi.’

‘What?’

‘I didn’t!’ Macy reconsidered that. ‘Okay, I did hit Dr Hamdi . . .’

Nina stood. ‘I think I’ve heard enough.’

‘No, wait, please!’ Macy jumped up; across the room, Joey half rose, watching Nina suspiciously. ‘Look, they chased me, they were going to kill me! I had to get out of Egypt.’

‘So why come to me? Why didn’t you tell the IHA?’

‘Because they wouldn’t listen; they thought I was a thief. I came to you because . . .’ Her expression crumbled to downcast disappointment. ‘Because I really thought you’d believe me.’

Despite herself, Nina felt a pang of sympathy for the young woman. Whether she was paranoid or just the victim of a hyperactive imagination, Macy had still gone through a lot to meet her ‘hero’ - only for the meeting to fall short of her hopes. ‘Look,’ she said, more quietly, ‘right now I don’t exactly have the highest opinion of the IHA, but that doesn’t mean they won’t listen to you. Okay? There aren’t bad guys hiding round every corner - you can go to them and tell them your side of the story.’

‘I . . . suppose,’ said Macy unhappily.

‘You don’t have to do anything right now.’ Nina glanced at Joey, who had relaxed. ‘Go home with your friend, sleep on it, then call the IHA in the morning. I promise, it’ll be okay.’

Macy didn’t appear convinced, but she nodded reluctantly, then moved to meet Joey near the door.

Nina sat again, deciding to wait for them to go before leaving herself. The meeting certainly hadn’t been what she expected, but at least it had been different, a break from blankly vegging out in front of the TV.

Though that was all she had to look forward to when she got back to the apartment. Eddie probably wouldn’t finish work for hours. She sighed.

Macy and Joey turned to go. The door opened before they reached it.

And Macy shrieked.

Nina looked up in surprise. In the doorway was a greasy-looking man in a snakeskin jacket, his straggly goatee twisting as he leered at the young woman.

Macy jerked back. ‘That’s him! He’s one of them!’

‘Hi again, li’l girl,’ said the man, his grin widening unpleasantly as he advanced. Jaw set, Joey stepped in front of him—

And crumpled to the floor, doubled over as the man smashed a punch - and a set of brass knuckles - into his stomach.

The other customers reacted in shock. The man stepped over Joey as Macy fled past Nina to the back of the room.

He followed—

‘Hey!’

He turned towards Nina’s shout - and she flung Macy’s untouched cappuccino into his face. The cup hit his jaw, foaming coffee splashing everywhere.

She kicked a chair at him as he lurched back. ‘Macy! Run!’

4

Macy shoved past a waitress to a door behind the counter, hesitating as she looked back at the moaning Joey. ‘Don’t stop!’ Nina ordered as she ran after her. Macy went through the door. Nina followed. The manager moved to bar her way, but flinched back at her shout of, ‘Not me, him! Call the cops!’

The man in the snakeskin jacket hurled the chair aside. She slammed the door, seeing several large boxes full of bags of coffee beans on shelves. A pull, and a box slammed to the floor.

Macy reached a fire door, barging through it into an alley—

A thick arm lashed out, clotheslining her to the ground.

Snakeskin had set a trap, an associate lying in wait outside.

Another shelf held several hefty Pyrex coffee pots. Nina snatched one up and ran for the fire exit. The door behind her was kicked open. The box crumpled - but the beans inside it absorbed the impact, stopping the door from opening wide enough to get through.

Nina reached the fire exit. Macy lay dazed on her back outside, a doughy, shaven-headed man bending down to grab her—

The coffee pot hit the top of his head with a flat clonk. He let out a surprised grunt of pain, stumbling back. Nina swung the pot again. This time it shattered against his skull, chunky fragments bursting outwards like hailstones. The man fell against a dumpster. Nina reached out to Macy. ‘Come on, get up!’

Pain and fear momentarily replaced by wide-eyed wonder, Macy gazed up at her before grasping her hands. ‘Oh - oh, my God! That was amazing!’

‘You should see me with a teapot. Come on!’ Nina pulled her up, jumping over the bald guy as they ran down the alley.

‘How did he find me?’ Macy cried. ‘I didn’t tell anyone where I was, not even my parents! How’d they know I was in New York?’

‘You told Lola,’ Nina realised. ‘She must have told someone at the IHA, they told Berkeley, he told - whoever those guys work for.’ They reached the street.

‘But how did they know I was meeting you?’

‘What am I, a detective?’ Nina saw a cab up the street. She waved furiously as they ran after it. ‘Taxi!’

‘We’re getting a cab?’ said Macy in disbelief.

‘Unless you’ve got a helicopter, then yeah!’ The cab stopped - but not, Nina realised, for them. A well-dressed couple stood on the opposite sidewalk, the man’s hand outstretched. ‘Hey, that’s our cab!’

The man grabbed the door handle. ‘He was stopping for us.’

‘This is an emergency, we need it!’ Nina reached the vehicle and yanked open the other rear door. ‘Macy, get in!’

‘What the hell are you doing?’ the woman shrilled. ‘Driver, don’t take them!’

‘I don’t want no trouble,’ said the driver, a skinny man with a strong Brazilian accent, as he leaned out of his open window to address Nina. ‘I stop for this gen’leman and lady, okay? You wait for next—’

The window of Nina’s door exploded. The driver screeched in agony as a bullet ripped into his left shoulder, speckling the windscreen with blood. Nina whipped round, seeing Snakeskin at the end of the alley with a gun in one hand.

Aiming—

‘Get down!’ she yelled. Macy shrieked and dived headlong into the cab as the rear windscreen blew apart.

Nina threw herself to the asphalt. A bullet hole erupted in the cab’s flank just above her with a plunk of cratered metal. Another window shattered, the woman screaming hysterically. Other pedestrians ran for cover.

The onslaught stopped.

The gunman’s weapon was a revolver, a six-shooter. He needed to reload.

Nina jumped up and threw open the driver’s door. The Brazilian was hunched in his seat, right hand squeezing his wounded shoulder. ‘Move over, move!’

He gasped something in Portuguese before reverting to English. ‘You crazy? I been shot!’

Nina stabbed at his seat belt release, then tried to shove him into the other seat. ‘I’ll get you to a hospital - just move over!’

‘You can have the cab!’ the well-dressed man gabbled as he ran off, his screaming companion clacking after him as fast as her high heels would allow.

Macy peered over the top of the back seat. ‘Oh, oh oh!’ she cried, pointing.

‘ “Oh!” what?’ Nina demanded, finally forcing the weakly protesting Brazilian out of the driver’s seat and jumping in to take his place. She looked back and saw the reason for Macy’s panic. The gunman had drawn a second pistol. ‘Oh, shit!’

She slammed the gear selector to Drive and stamped on the gas pedal.

The balding tyres screeched before finally finding purchase, the taxi lurching away. It was one of the city’s remaining Ford Crown Victorias, the former mainstay of New York’s taxi fleet being phased out in favour of less-polluting hybrids. To Nina, it seemed as though it should have been retired itself a long time ago, the transmission clunking and whining.

Whatever its state of repair, it could easily outpace a man on foot.

But not his bullets.

‘Duck!’ shouted Nina. Macy dropped flat again as more shots clanged against the taxi’s bodywork. One whipped over her and struck the bulletproof partition between the front and back seats with a crack, leaving a jagged scar across the Plexiglas.

‘My cab!’ the driver moaned, financial pain briefly overcoming physical. Teeth gritted, he forced himself upright, took his hand from his wound . . . and started the meter.

Nina looked at him. ‘Are you kidding me?’

‘No free rides,’ he gasped. ‘Now get me to hospital!’

More noise from behind - not gunfire, but the shriek of tyres as a massive, bright red Dodge Ram pickup truck skidded to a standstill. The bald man lumbered from the alley and climbed in, the snakeskinned gunman glaring after the retreating taxi before holstering his empty weapons and running to the cabin’s rear door. With a V8 roar almost as loud as the gunshots, the Ram snarled into pursuit.

Nina now remembered seeing the distinctive vehicle earlier that day - outside her apartment. They had found out that Macy was trying to contact her . . . and staked her out in the hope that she would lead them to their prey.

‘Forget the hospital,’ Macy said. ‘We need the police! Where’s the nearest precinct?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the driver. Both women shot him looks of disbelief. ‘I only live here three weeks!’

‘Do you know where it is?’ Macy asked Nina.

‘Ah . . . no.’

‘You said you used to live around here!’

‘I never needed to go there - New York’s not that dangerous! Well, normally.’ Nina swerved round a couple of cars waiting at a red light and made a wallowing turn to head north. ‘I think there’s one on 21st Street.’

Macy looked up at the street signs. ‘That’s over ten blocks! Have you got a phone? I’ll call 911!’

‘Yes,’ said the driver, nodding. ‘Yes, call an ambulance, good idea!’

The road ahead was still busy. Pounding the horn, Nina swung out into the opposite lane to get past a crawling garbage truck, barely missing an oncoming car as she darted back in front of it. Macy slithered across the back seat, broken safety glass tinkling with her. ‘Not an ambulance, the police - whoa!’ Nina gasped as another cab braked sharply ahead of them. She spun the wheel as fast as she could, but clipped its rear quarter and ripped off the end of its bumper. Enraged horns blared. ‘Shit! Sorry,’ she added to the mortified driver.

She fumbled in her bag for her phone, fighting to keep control of the cab with one hand. Behind, a skirl of rubber and a flare of spotlights in the mirror warned her that the Dodge had made it through the intersection as well. She found the phone, shoving it through the partition’s money slot. ‘Here!’

Macy dialled 911, giving a hurried, panicky description of their situation to the operator as Nina swerved through traffic to keep out of their pursuers’ line of fire. ‘The cops said to head for 21st Street,’ Macy said, ending the call. ‘They’re going to try to meet us.’

‘If these assholes don’t catch up first.’ Despite Nina’s best efforts, the Dodge was gaining. Macy tried to push the phone back through the slot, but she held up a hand. ‘No! Go to the contacts, call “Eddie”.’

‘Who’s Eddie?’

‘My husband.’

‘This isn’t the best time to tell him you’ll be late for dinner!’

‘Just dial it, smartass! He’ll know how to get us out of this!’ She shared a worried look with the driver as the cab shot through the next intersection. ‘I hope.’

Eddie had taken an immediate dislike to Grant’s buddies, a pair of overgrown fratboys who were taking full advantage of the extra pulling power granted by association with a movie star. But he kept his opinions to himself as they pawed at the skimpily dressed girls who had been easily persuaded to join them in the VIP lounge. Instead he lurked discreetly nearby, concentrating on his job, which was to get rid of the arseholes and nutters his client didn’t want near him. The arseholes and nutters he did want near him weren’t his problem.

His phone rang. Nina. He wasn’t supposed to take personal calls when he was working. But Grant wouldn’t notice while trying to count his latest ladyfriend’s teeth with his tongue. ‘Hey, love. What’s up?’

‘Someone’s trying to kill me!’

He could tell she wasn’t joking. It sounded as if she was in a car. ‘Where are you?’

‘The East Village, round 12th Street.’

Shit! That was almost half the length of Manhattan away, a hundred blocks - the better part of five miles. ‘How many bad guys? Are they armed?’

‘At least three, and yeah!’ An urk of overstressed tyres came from the other end of the line, followed by a high-pitched shriek and angry car horns.

The shriek wasn’t Nina. ‘Who’s with you?’

‘Someone from the IHA, and the cab driver - he’s been shot!’

‘Why aren’t you calling an ambulance?’ demanded a pained but angry male voice.

Eddie’s fists tightened in frustration. He was too far away to help directly - all he could offer was advice. ‘Have you called the cops?’

‘Yeah - we’re trying to get to a precinct.’

His eyes locked on to Grant, an idea forming. ‘I’ll call you right back,’ he said. ‘Just keep ahead of ’em!’

He ended the call and strode to Grant’s table. ‘And I do my own stunts, too,’ the actor was boasting to the wide-eyed young woman. ‘In Nitrous, when I ran along the top of that tanker truck as it blew up? That was really me.’

He was neglecting to mention the computer-enhanced fireballs and all the safety gear that had been digitally painted out of the shot, but Eddie decided not to enlighten her. Instead, he held out his hand. ‘Mr Thorn. I need your valet parking token.’

Grant looked up, confused. ‘What?’

‘The parking token. Give it to me.’

The actor stared at him uncomprehendingly. One of his friends rose with a drunken smirk. ‘Hey, Mr Bodyguard, how about you chill the fuck out and give us some priva—’

An instant later, his arm was twisted up behind his back and his face slammed against the table. Grant flinched. ‘Token!’ Eddie snapped. ‘Now!’

‘Uh, what are you doing?’ Grant asked as he fumbled for it.

Eddie shoved his friend to the floor and snatched it from him. ‘I need your car,’ he said as he hurried for the stairs, the VIP lounge’s other occupants not sure how to react to the lightning-fast burst of violence.

‘Dude, you are so fired!’ Grant shouted, jumping up and following. ‘And there’s no way you are taking my car. No way!’

‘Way,’ Eddie replied. He raced down the stairs and pushed through the crowd. Shouts rose behind him as the clubgoers realised there was a Hollywood star in their midst and closed in as if drawn magnetically.

He reached the street and thrust the token into the head valet’s hand, together with a fifty dollar bill. ‘Mr Thorn’s car. Quick.’ The valet pocketed the money and issued instructions into a walkie-talkie. Eddie impatiently tapped a foot. It wouldn’t take Grant long to force his way through the mob.

His phone rang again. ‘Nina! What’s happening?’

‘Still being chased!’

‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

‘How quick will that be?’

He heard the high snarl of the Lamborghini’s engine from the parking garage. ‘Very.’

He moved to the kerb, glaring at the parking structure. The Lamborghini’s engine note echoed as the valet gingerly manoeuvred the supercar down the ramp. Come on, get a bloody move on! Grant would reach the doors at any moment.

The Murciélago emerged from the garage, street lights gleaming from its polished orange skin. It pulled up in front of the VIP entrance, driver’s door scissoring upwards. Eddie held up another fifty to entice the valet out—

‘Hey!’ Grant rushed on to the sidewalk, shrugging off his fans. ‘Stop him! That’s my car!’

The valet was still unfolding himself from the low-slung driver’s seat. The bouncer who had mocked Eddie’s height earlier advanced. ‘Okay, hold it—’

Eddie kneed him in the groin, then smashed a powerful punch up into his face as he doubled over, knocking him backwards into his companion. Both men tumbled, pulling down the velvet rope. Clubbers saw their chance and rushed for the doors, the queue suddenly degenerating into anarchy.

Eddie yanked the gawping valet from the Lamborghini, tossing him on to the bouncers, then swung himself into the car and pulled down the door. He put the Murciélago into gear and was about to take off when Grant leapt in front of it, banging his hands down on the bonnet. ‘You’re not taking my car, man!’

Eddie revved the engine, jolting the car forward a few inches. Grant’s face flashed with fear, but he held his ground. Changing tack, Eddie looked through the narrow rear window to make sure he wasn’t about to squash anybody, then snicked the gearstick into reverse and sharply pulled back.

Grant almost fell flat on his face before regaining his balance. He caught up as Eddie stopped, flinging open the passenger door. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Someone’s trying to kill my wife!’ Eddie shouted. ‘I need to get to her, fast - either get in or get out of the way!’

Grant chose the former, his bewildered expression returning. ‘Dude? Seriously?’

‘Seriously!’

‘Shit, dude, no way! Well, come on, let’s go save her!’ The half-smile on Grant’s face suggested that he was already picturing himself as a real-life action hero. ‘What are you waiting for? Let’s roll!’

Eddie held back a sarcastic comment. Instead, he blasted the Murciélago away from the nightclub with an ear-splitting V12 howl.

Nina looked back. The Ram was still behind them, closing as both vehicles weaved through the traffic along Third Avenue. The pickup truck was much larger than the cab, not a vehicle at home on the streets of New York, but it was also more powerful - and better maintained. The Crown Victoria now sounded as though several important parts were rattling around loose in the gearbox.

The driver was making just as much noise. ‘For the love of God,’ he cried, ‘stop! You can keep the cab, just let me out!’

‘Look - what’s your name?’

‘Ricardo!’

‘Ricardo,’ said Nina, ‘we’re almost at the police precinct. Okay? Just one more block!’ She pounded on the horn and swung the cab into the wrong lane to avoid cars stopped at the 20th Street intersection, cringing as she saw headlights rushing at her from the left - then the taxi was through. She hauled it back into the right-hand lanes.

The Ram also swerved, smashing into a car and sending it spinning on to the sidewalk. But the truck was barely slowed, the heavy bullbar across its radiator grille taking the brunt of the impact.

Macy stared back at the crash. ‘Jesus!’

‘Just hang on!’ The next intersection was just ahead . . .

Which way was the precinct? Left or right?

21st Street was one-way, traffic running westbound across Manhattan - and the road to the right was blocked by waiting cars.

No choice—

Nina turned hard left, the cab tipping on its suspension. A Porsche was parked just beyond the crosswalk, the Crown Vic skidding right at it.

‘Shit, shit, shit!’ She wrestled with the controls, feeling the back end sliding. If she braked, the cab would spin out and hit the other car—

Instead, she spun the wheel back and stepped on the gas.

The rear wheels writhed and squealed, kicking the taxi out of its skid - but not quickly enough to stop its tail from bashing against the Porsche. There was a horrible crunch as the cab’s rear bumper was ripped off.

Nina straightened out. ‘Sorry,’ she told Ricardo. He made a disgusted sound.

Rising sirens. Flashing lights, the red and white strobes of police cars—

In the mirror.

‘Damn it!’ The precinct had been in the other direction, and now they were heading away from it, away from help.

Macy, looking back, was happier. ‘Yes!’ she crowed as the cars at the lights pulled out of the way to let the cops through. An NYPD patrol car accelerated across the intersection—

And was hit by the Ram as it ploughed round the corner, the police cruiser smashing into the Porsche and folding it like wet cardboard. The pickup tore away the police car’s front wheel as it wrenched free of the wreckage and continued the pursuit, twisted debris dangling from its bullbar like streamers.

Macy’s relief vanished in an instant. ‘No!’

‘Have you still got the phone?’ Nina shouted.

‘Yeah, but—’

‘Call Eddie again!’

Macy thumbed through Nina’s contact list. ‘What can he do?’

‘You’d be surprised. Just call him!’

Macy frowned, but found the number and selected it. ‘It’s busy!’

‘What? Who the hell’s he talking to?’

The Lamborghini powered out of 108th Street and turned sharply south, its broad tyres and four-wheel drive keeping it clamped firmly to the road. The lateral G-force of the turn, on the other hand, threw Eddie against the door. Ahead, the long straight of Central Park West stretched to infinity, the park itself a swathe of darkness to their left.

Streetlights and windows streaked into hyperspace as the Murciélago accelerated. Eddie leaned back upright, Grant holding the phone to his ear. ‘So can you help us?’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Amy - now in her official role as Officer Martin of the New York Police Department. ‘But it’ll take a while to get the word out to every unit - if you get stopped before then, you’ll get a ticket.’

That was the least of Eddie’s worries. ‘I’ll just not have to get stopped, then.’

‘Or you could not break the speed limit . . .’ Amy’s tone became dubious. ‘You’re speeding right now, aren’t you?’

‘A bit,’ he admitted as the speedometer needle flashed past eighty.

‘Where are you?’

‘105th Street . . . 104th . . . 103rd . . .’

‘God damn it, Eddie! Don’t you know how dangerous that is?’

‘Just make sure all your guys know that Nina’s the good guy and the fuckwits chasing her are the bad guys, okay? Bye!’

‘So . . .’ Grant said cautiously as he withdrew the phone, free hand tightening round the leather armrest, ‘you’ve driven fast cars before, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ said Eddie, focusing on the road. The Lamborghini’s grip and handling made weaving through the traffic a precise, almost game-like experience, but the slightest mistake would not only total the Murciélago, but probably injure or even kill innocent people as well.

‘Like what?’

‘Last thing I drove this fast was a Ferrari 430.’

Grant nodded approvingly. ‘Cool car. Yours?’

‘You think I’d be working as a bodyguard if I could afford a Ferrari?’

‘Good point, man. Whoa, bus, bus!’

‘I see it.’ The oncoming lanes were almost empty for at least two blocks. Eddie whipped round the bus and accelerated, the Lamborghini surging effortlessly past a hundred miles per hour.

Grant let a relieved breath escape. ‘So this Ferrari - you took good care of it, right?’

‘Nope,’ said Eddie with a small smile. ‘Smashed it to fuck.’ The gulp from the other seat sounded as though Grant was trying to suck the breath back in. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after your Lambo.’

‘Not a scratch, okay?’

‘If it gets anything bigger than a scratch, you probably won’t be in any state to worry about it.’ He let the actor figure that out for himself as the phone rang again. ‘Get that, will you?’

‘Eddie!’ Nina shouted as Macy poked the phone through the slot. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m on my way,’ came the Yorkshireman’s voice. ‘I’ve told a mate in the NYPD what’s going on, and I’m coming south - head uptown, I’ll meet you. Where are you?’

‘Going north up Park.’ She had turned off the narrow 21st Street on to the much broader Park Avenue.

‘The bad guys?’

‘Right behind us!’ yelled Macy.

She wasn’t kidding. The lights in the mirror flared brighter, the Ram’s engine roar like a charging beast. Figures leaned from its windows, the bald man in the front passenger seat, Snakeskin behind the driver.

Both had guns raised—

Macy dropped flat, the phone snagging in the slot and falling to the dirty floor. Gunfire crackled, the flat boom of the revolver and the rapid chatter of a TEC-9 machine pistol. More shots struck the cab. The bulletproof screen took another two rounds, a fist-sized section crazing just behind Nina’s head. Another hit and it would shatter . . .

She made a savage left turn, the Crown Victoria crashing heavily over the central divider between two trees. Ricardo yelled in pain.

The Ram was too big to fit through the gap after them. She straightened and headed into the oncoming traffic, a car swerving on to the sidewalk to avoid a head-on collision, then turned again to swing the cab westwards.

The Dodge had to take the turn at a sharper angle. Its back end slewed wide, throwing Snakeskin back inside - and almost pitching the bald guy out on to the street. The oversized vehicle screeched to a halt to give the gunman time to pull himself back in.

The stop had opened up the gap between the two vehicles. But not by much. Nina scoured her mental map of Manhattan for anything that might widen it further, at the same time working out the quickest way to meet Eddie. Across Fifth and Broadway, then north on Sixth Avenue . . .

The Ram re-joined the pursuit, gaining fast.

The Lamborghini screamed southwards, eating up the three-mile straight of Central Park West. It was now near the bottom of the long avenue, approaching Columbus Circle. Eddie danced through the gaps in the traffic, accelerating.

‘Er, dude,’ Grant pointed out, ‘you’re gonna have to slow down for the turn - it’s one way.’ Southbound vehicles on Central Park West were forced to turn on to 62nd Street, the southernmost two blocks being northbound only.

‘It’s my way,’ Eddie corrected. There wasn’t time to take a detour. Instead he fixed his gaze on the lanes ahead. Was there a space?

There would have to be.

‘Dude,’ said Grant, voice rising in urgency as they neared 62nd Street. He jabbed a finger ahead - at the approaching headlights filling every lane. ‘Dude, dude, dude!’

Grimacing, Eddie turned—

Not right on to 62nd, but left - up the sloping kerb at a crosswalk and on to the broad sidewalk along the park’s walled edge. A long line of parked cars flicked past to their right, hemming them in.

‘You’re doing seventy on the sidewalk!’ Grant choked.

‘Yeah, I noticed!’ He batted the horn, people leaping aside as the Lamborghini swept past.

‘If the cops stop us, I’m totally gonna say this was a kidnapping!’

Eddie ignored him. They were at Columbus Circle, a large multi-lane roundabout.

And they were about to go round it the wrong way . . .

Grant let out a stifled gasp as Eddie whipped the Murciélago between two parked bicycle rickshaws and off the kerb, landing with a bang. Teeth clenched in a rictus grimace, he swung the Lamborghini between the disbelieving drivers rushing at him. Horns blared, tyres squealed, headlights streaked past on either side as he swung the supercar from left to right and back again, each barely missed vehicle making a sharp swip! of displaced air as it whipped by.

Central Park South—

He turned, foot down to blast through a gap before a truck closed it - and was clear.

For a moment. A siren wailed, a police car on Columbus Circle entering pursuit.

Grant looked back. ‘Oh, man! Cops!’

‘Just like in Nitrous, eh?’ Eddie said. He powered along Central Park South, swerving through traffic to make a screeching turn on to Seventh Avenue. The road down to Times Square was relatively clear; relieved, he accelerated again. Over the rising song of the engine he heard a voice. Nina.

‘The phone!’ he said. Grant held it up.

‘Eddie, Eddie!’ said Nina. ‘Are you there?’

‘Yeah, I’m here. Are you okay?’

‘They’re still after us! Where are you?’

He ducked across the lanes to avoid a knot of traffic. ‘Seventh.’

‘Seventh?’ He knew the scathing tone; that of every single New Yorker, convinced they alone knew the best way to navigate their city. ‘Why the hell are you on Seventh? Take Broadway!’

‘I know where I’m going!’

‘Dude, not the time for a domestic,’ Grant warned, pointing ahead. The neon glare of Times Square was approaching fast, the traffic getting thicker.

‘Where are you now?’ Eddie asked Nina.

‘On Sixth, coming up to 30th.’

He remembered that if he got on Broadway south of Times Square, it intersected Sixth Avenue at Herald Square, around 34th Street. ‘Keep going - I’ll meet you!’

‘And then what are you gonna do?’

‘I dunno - something violent! Just stay ahead of them!’

He ignored the sarcastic ‘No!’ from the phone, fixing on the road as the Lamborghini wailed through Times Square. Grant’s face, two storeys high, watched it pass from a billboard advertising his latest movie. Cars streamed across their path on 44th Street - and beyond, he saw more flashing lights as cops from the small police station at the square’s south end started their vehicles.

He speeded up, angling for a gap—

‘Shit!’ gasped Grant as the Murciélago shot through the crosstraffic, one car’s front bumper passing so close that it brushed the Lamborghini’s rear corner. ‘You said not a scratch, man, not a scratch!’

‘It’ll buff out,’ Chase replied, the joke a cover for the shudder that ran through him as he realised just how near he had come to a crash. He shot past the little police station, then turned hard, cutting across a short section of 42nd Street to join Broadway.

Strobe lights flashed across the buildings behind as more police cars joined the chase. He swore under his breath, looking down Broadway.

Where was Nina?

Where was Eddie?

The cab reached the lower end of Herald Square. Nina risked a glance up Broadway as she crossed the intersection and continued up Sixth Avenue, seeing police lights in the distance, before looking back at the nearer and much more menacing lights in the mirror. The pursuing police cars had also drawn closer, but were unable to overtake the powerful truck.

‘Hey, there’s my store!’ said Macy. Nina looked back, wondering what the hell she was talking about. ‘You know, Macy’s.’ She pointed as the giant store rolled past to their left.

‘Just hold up the phone,’ Nina snapped. ‘Eddie, where are you now?’

‘I’m almost there. Where are you?’

The taxi reached the 36th Street intersection, Nina checking for traffic coming from the left - to see a bright orange sports car zoom down Broadway. ‘Eddie, are you in an orange car?’

‘Yeah, why?’

‘I just missed you! I’m going north on Sixth!’

Eddie said something, but it was drowned out by Macy’s cry of, ‘They’re catching up!’ The pickup’s driver had put the hammer down, the great chromed whale-mouth of its grille looming large.

And Snakeskin was leaning out of the window again, revolver raised—

Nina hurled the cab into a desperate left turn on to 37th Street as a bullet punched through the door just above her thigh.

Eddie heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet impact over the phone. ‘Shit!’

He had to double back - but two NYPD cruisers were moving to block Broadway ahead, despatchers alerting them to the second high-speed chase.

And there were more police cars behind him . . .

‘Hang on!’ he shouted to Grant as he stabbed a button to deactivate the traction control - then dipped the clutch as he spun the wheel with one hand and yanked hard on the handbrake with the other.

Even with four-wheel drive the Lamborghini couldn’t keep its hold on the road, slithering round in a 180-degree spin as Eddie mashed the accelerator to the floor. The engine roar was accompanied by an earsplitting scream from the smoking wheels as the Murciélago lunged forward again, the tortured tyres laying thick black lines of rubber on the tarmac.

Ahead, the other police cars moved to box him in - then hurriedly swerved aside as the cops realised he wasn’t going to stop. He shot between them, the two cruisers behind him pulling into single file to follow the writhing Murciélago through the gap.

The tyres found grip again, the sudden jolt of acceleration like a kick to the back as the oncoming traffic peeled off to either side, headlights flashing, horns blaring. 37th Street was coming up fast. Eddie eased off, about to turn right to catch up with Nina—

A battered yellow cab hurtled across the intersection right in front of him.

Time slowed to a crawl as Eddie recognised the red-haired figure at the wheel, Nina looking round at him open-mouthed as the Lamborghini thundered straight towards her—

Eddie twitched the wheel - and accelerated. The world snapped back to full speed as the Lamborghini crossed just in front of the cab. He thought he heard Nina’s scream behind him, but it was probably his imagination: it would have been lost in his own.

Adrenalin surging from the almost-collision, Nina looked in the mirror - to see the Ram smash square on into a police car that had been chasing Eddie. The cruiser cartwheeled along the street in a storm of flying glass.

The impact had affected even the Dodge, the bullbar buckled back through the radiator grille and the hood crumpled upwards. Behind it, another police car skidded to a halt, cops breaking off their pursuit of the Lamborghini to help their colleagues.

‘Did you see that?’ Macy said breathlessly.

‘Kinda hard to miss,’ said Nina. ‘Eddie!’

‘You okay?’ Eddie asked her as Grant held out the phone in his shaking hand.

‘Yeah! Jesus, I nearly hit you!’

He turned west on to 39th Street. ‘Head for Times Square - I’ll get behind you and block them.’

‘Eddie, one of them’s got a machine gun!’

‘I’ll worry about the machine gun - you just put your foot down!’

Grant blinked. ‘Worry about the what?’

But Eddie had something else to worry about. Ahead, a truck was reversing into a loading dock, blocking the street. He braked hard and blasted the horn in frustration. ‘For fuck’s sake! What next, two guys carrying a sheet of glass?’

The truck was clear; he veered round it, powering towards the Seventh Avenue intersection.

Nina’s cab shot across the junction, heading north. If he could get ahead of the pickup—

The dented Ram roared past just before he made the turn. ‘Shit!’ He swung in behind it, vision filled by the broad red tailgate. Headlights blurred past on both sides. Like Broadway, Seventh was a one-way street, southbound only.

Grant cringed as an SUV passed uncomfortably close to the Murciélago. ‘We’ll never get past!’

‘What’re you talking about?’ Eddie countered. ‘We’re in a fucking Lamborghini!’ He dropped down a gear—

And floored the accelerator.

There was a gap in the traffic to the left - only short, but it was all he needed.

He hoped . . .

The Lamborghini surged forward, rocketing past the Ram with a triumphant howl and darting back in front of it. Eddie braked. Startled, the pickup’s driver also slowed, his vehicle weaving, before realising he had the clear weight advantage and could just barge the supercar aside.

Eddie accelerated again, just enough to keep ahead of the truck. He saw Nina’s cab pulling away as it headed for Times Square, its tail lights the only red points in the sea of headlights parting before it.

And directly ahead of it, a bus.

Ricardo gestured feebly. ‘A bus, there is a bus.’

‘I see it,’ Nina told him. It was a red British-style double-decker, an open-topped tour vehicle for sightseers.

Coming straight at them.

‘There is a bus!’

‘I see it!’ She flashed the headlights and pounded on the horn, keeping her foot down.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Ricardo.

Macy stared in disbelief through the cracked partition. ‘We’re gonna hit it!’

‘He’ll stop, he’ll stop . . .’ Nina poised her other foot over the brake, ready to jam it down—

The bus driver chickened out first, the safety of the few passengers on the last tour of the night his top priority. He braked hard, the bus’s wheels locking . . .

It skidded.

‘Oh, that’s bad,’ Nina gasped. The bus slewed round through almost ninety degree, a metal and glass roadblock.

But a driver in the lane to the right saw the danger and accelerated away just before the bus hit his car from behind - clearing a space.

Nina took it.

The Crown Victoria hit the kerb with a bang. A huge NYPD logo on the wall of the Times Square station house filled Nina’s vision; she screamed and spun the wheel, the front bumper rasping against the sign as the car careered along the sidewalk. People dived out of the way, but there was an obstacle dead ahead—

‘Shit!’ Nina wailed as she hit a hot dog cart. The vendor had already sprinted away, his stall spinning like a top in a spray of boiling water and flying frankfurters as the cab bowled it into the intersection.

Then she was clear, powersliding on to Broadway. She looked back . . .

The bus swayed to a standstill - blocking three lanes right in front of the Lamborghini.

‘Shiiiiit!’ Eddie and Grant cried. The only way to avoid a collision was to follow Nina—

A spine-jarring thump as they mounted the sidewalk, then Eddie turned hard left to round the bus, barely missing the whirling hot dog cart.

He too looked back—

The skidding Dodge Ram hit the bus.

It ploughed straight through it, the lower deck bursting apart in an explosion of shredded metal and flying seats. Most of the passengers were on the upper deck, those few downstairs fleeing for each end of the vehicle as the pickup rolled through its middle. It crashed down in Times Square, screeching to a stop on its side.

The Lamborghini also shrieked to a halt. Eddie opened the scissor door and jumped out, landing in a crouch to look over the supercar’s bonnet. The overturned Ram was dribbling fuel from a ruptured line, its driver slumped bloodily through the smashed windscreen. Another of its occupants, a chunky bald man, had been thrown clear and lay near the hot dog cart. He still had a weapon clutched in one hand, a compact TEC-9 sub-machine gun.

The Lamborghini’s other door swung up. Grant emerged - and to Eddie’s dismay ran straight for the bald guy. ‘Wait, get back!’ he shouted.

The actor ignored him, reaching the weakly moving gunman - and kicking the TEC-9 out of his hand, sending it skittering away to clank against the wrecked Dodge. ‘This is a citizen’s arrest!’ he proclaimed, putting a foot on the man’s back and striking a pose. He grinned at Eddie. ‘Just like in Citizen’s Arrest, huh?’

‘Idiot,’ Eddie muttered, hurrying round the Murciélago. He passed the steaming hot dog cart, a blue flame from a squat gas cylinder still burning under its water tank. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, man. That was . . . intense. Wow!’ A flash came from the top deck of the ruptured bus as someone took his photograph. ‘So, did we save your—’

A cop ran round the bus, pistol raised. ‘Freeze!’ he bellowed. ‘Put your hands up and get down on the ground, now!’

Eddie immediately raised his hands. Grant, meanwhile, faced the cop, unconcerned. ‘It’s okay, man. We’re the good guys.’ He nodded towards his billboard. ‘See? It’s me!’

The cop twisted his arm behind his back. ‘Shut up! Get on your—’

The Ram’s rear door flew open and Diamondback burst out like a Jack-in-the-box. He saw the three men and aimed his revolver—

Eddie tackled Grant, wrenching him from the cop’s grip as Diamondback fired. The bullet caught the cop in the chest. Blood spurted out as he crashed to the ground, his gun bouncing away and sliding under a stalled taxi. Its driver ran for cover.

Hauling Grant with him, Eddie dived over the cab’s bonnet as Diamondback fired again, the taxi’s windscreen exploding. He shoved Grant against the front wheel, spotting the cop’s gun near the back.

Diamondback jumped down from the Ram. He fired another two shots at the cab, blowing out windows, then snatched up the TEC-9.

Eddie threw himself into a forward roll to the rear wheel and grabbed the gun, a Glock-19 automatic. He pressed his back against the wheel and checked on his charge.

Grant was shuffling towards him—

‘Back!’ Eddie yelled, diving at the actor as Diamondback opened fire on full auto. A string of ragged bullet holes blew open in the doors just behind him as he knocked Grant back. More bullets ripped into the front of the cab, piercing the thin steel bodywork - before clanging ineffectually against the solid metal of the engine block.

‘Cars are concealment, not cover!’ Eddie shouted at the shaken Grant as the onslaught stopped. ‘Didn’t they teach you that at action movie school?’ He popped his head up. The snakeskin-jacketed gunman was out of ammo, dropping the TEC-9 and switching back to his revolvers. Nearby, the bald man, face a patchwork mess of cuts and grazes, staggered to his feet.

‘Eddie!’ a woman shouted. He looked round and saw the uniformed Amy approaching in a rapid crouch, her partner behind her.

Diamondback fired again, forcing everyone down. His companion drew a pistol as they retreated. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Amy demanded.

‘Ask them!’ he replied, gesturing towards the gunmen. ‘They’re the twats who just tried to kill my wife!’

Another shot punched through the cab, spitting shrapnel. Grant yelped, and Amy flinched. ‘NYPD!’ she shouted. ‘Drop your weapons!’

More bullet hits on the cab, the sharp crack of an automatic joining the revolvers’ louder blasts. The two men weren’t receptive to orders. Eddie looked under the taxi’s front bumper to see them hurriedly backing away as other cops returned fire. With an officer already down and civilians at risk, they were shooting to kill - but he needed at least one of the gunmen alive to learn why they wanted Nina dead.

He hefted the Glock - and fired it under the car, the bullet tearing a bloody hole in the bald man’s right ankle. He fell, screaming. Eyes narrowed to agonised slits, he looked up at Diamondback. ‘Help me!’

Diamondback returned his gaze . . . then without even changing expression shot him in the head. A sunburst of blood sprayed the street beneath him.

‘Jesus!’ Amy gasped as Diamondback took refuge behind the overturned Ram. Then she realised what Eddie was about to do. ‘No, wait!’

But Eddie had already sprung out from behind the taxi, running at the pickup with the gun raised. His target was behind the Dodge . . . and it was no more bulletproof than the cab. He aimed low, hoping for a leg shot as he blew a line of holes from the back of the truck to the cabin—

Diamondback dived out from the front of the truck - and fired.

But he wasn’t aiming at Eddie.

The shot hit the hot dog cart’s gas cylinder - which detonated like a bomb.

The concussion knocked Eddie off his feet. By the time the roiling explosion dissipated and the cops recovered from the shock of the blast, Diamondback had sprinted away down 43rd Street, shoving through the fleeing crowd.

Eddie swatted away a burning hot dog bun and stood painfully. Amy hurried to him, other cops running past them - some to help the injured officer, the rest in fruitless pursuit of the killer. ‘You okay?’

‘I’ll live,’ he grunted, looking at the bald man. ‘Unlike him.’

Amy shook her head, still stunned by what she had just witnessed. ‘Cold-blooded murder, right in front of a bunch of cops? That guy’s insane.’

‘Maybe, but he’s good at what he does. I don’t think your guys’ll catch him.’

‘We’ll see,’ Amy said with wounded professional pride - but also a certain resignation.

Grant came over, face white. ‘Whoa. Man. You, you . . .’ He pumped Eddie’s hand vigorously. Amy’s eyebrows shot up as she recognised him. ‘You saved my life, man! I’d be dead now if you hadn’t been there!’

Eddie decided not to mention that it was Grant’s own fault he’d become a target. ‘All part of the job.’

‘No, man, seriously. Anything you want, anything you ever need, just let me know. It’s yours.’

‘How about your Lamborghini? Kidding,’ he clarified, seeing from Grant’s face that ‘anything’ didn’t literally mean anything.

‘Man!’ said Grant, gazing at the Murciélago. ‘I can’t believe it. You said not a scratch, and damn, you did it!’

Even with the scrapes it had taken the Lamborghini appeared unscathed, reflected firelight gleaming off its paintwork. ‘Yeah. Normally anything I drive gets totalled. Must have got lucky this time . . .’

The trickle of gasoline from the wrecked Ram reached one of the burning buns.

‘Buggeration—’ Eddie began, throwing Grant and Amy down as a line of flame scurried back to the pickup’s fuel tank—

The Ram exploded, somersaulting end over end through the air - to smash down on top of the Murciélago, crushing it flat.

Eddie sat up. ‘And fuckery.’

Grant gasped plaintively at the sight of three hundred thousand dollars of scrap metal. Somebody on the bus took another photo. ‘Oh, man!’

‘You had insurance, right?’ said Amy.

His expression gradually relaxed. ‘Yeah. Huh. Good point. And I wasn’t sure about the colour anyway.’

‘Eddie!’ Eddie got up as Nina ran to him. ‘Oh my God, you’re okay!’

‘Forget me, it’s you I was worried about.’

They embraced, then she looked back at her battered cab. Macy had done as Nina told her and run off, but there was still someone in the vehicle. She turned to Amy. ‘You’ve got to get an ambulance. The cab driver got shot.’

‘I think we’ll need more than one,’ Amy told her, radio already in her hand. ‘Eddie, I don’t know what just happened here, but you are sure as hell going to tell me.’ She regarded Nina, then Grant. ‘And so are you, and you . . . hell, I should arrest everyone in a five block radius!’

‘You know her?’ Nina asked Eddie.

‘Yeah, she’s a friend.’

Her expression became more suspicious as she looked the attractive police officer up and down. ‘Wait . . . your cop friend? The one you were with the other morning?’

‘Ah . . . yeah,’ he admitted. ‘That one.’

‘You’re Eddie’s wife?’ Amy asked. Nina nodded. ‘Okay, tell you what - how ’bout we make all the introductions down at the precinct?’

5

‘Well,’ said Eddie, slumping on to the couch the following morning, ‘when I said “Let’s see what tomorrow brings” . . . that was more than I had in mind.’ ‘Getting chased and shot at?’ Nina replied. ‘It was just like old times - in exactly the way I didn’t want. I’m amazed we didn’t end up in jail.’

‘You can thank Grant for some of that. You know who he rang with his phone call? His manager. Who rang his publicist, who rang the mayor . . .’

‘The mayor?’ said Nina, surprised.

‘Yeah. That charity thing the other night? They met each other there. And since the mayor was fawning over the hot Hollywood star and having loads of photos taken with him, it would’ve been a massive embarrassment if his new best mate got locked up a couple of days later.’ He grinned humourlessly. ‘Which is why Grant’s in today’s papers as a real-life action hero instead of as a mugshot. But it’s Amy we really owe.’

Nina’s lips tightened. ‘Why her?’

‘She vouched for us, basically. That twat in the snakeskin jacket blowing someone’s head off in front of half the NYPD made it pretty obvious who the bad guys were, but we’d still have been in trouble if she hadn’t stood up for us.’

‘Stood up for you, you mean.’

Eddie knew the tone. ‘Oh, God. What?’

‘You know what, Eddie. That woman, Amy - you were with her the other day when you said you were with Grant Thorn!’

He held out his hands in exasperation. ‘Yes, I admit it! But there’s nothing funny going on - she’s just a friend. I’ve got loads of other female friends all over the world, and you’ve never had any problems with them.’

‘That’s because you didn’t lie to me about them! How many other times did you tell me you were working while you were seeing her?’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ he sighed, ‘I’m not seeing her, okay? We’re not meeting up in secret to bang each other’s brains out, if that’s what you think.’

‘Then what should I think?’ Nina demanded, but before she could get an answer the door buzzer rasped. She went to the speaker. ‘Yes?’

‘Dr Wilde? It’s Macy.’

‘Come on up.’ She pushed the button to unlock the outer door, then turned back to Eddie. ‘We’ll discuss this later.’

‘There’s nothing to bloody discuss,’ he said. ‘She’s just helping me with something, all right?’

‘So why didn’t you ask me to help you? That’s what husbands and wives are supposed to do - y’know, help each other.’

‘It’s not that kind of thing.’

Nina was about to ask what kind of thing it actually was when there was a knock at the door. She opened it to find Macy, still in her skimpy clothes from the previous night. Eddie automatically checked her out, earning a scowl from his wife. ‘Macy, come in,’ she said.

‘Thanks, Dr Wilde,’ she replied, entering the apartment. ‘I’m glad you’re okay.’

‘Yeah, me too. Are you okay? Is your friend all right?’

‘Joey? He’s fine, just a bit banged up. I called him after I found a hotel for the night. Oh, here’s your phone.’ She handed it back to Nina. ‘What about you?’

‘We spent most of the night being questioned by the police, which was fun. This is my husband, by the way,’ Nina said, indicating Eddie. ‘Eddie. Chase. Who lives up to his surname when it comes to skirts, apparently.’

Eddie made an irritated noise, then went to Macy. ‘Hi. Yeah, I’m Nina’s husband - and part-time bodyguard. For all the thanks I get.’

‘Hi.’ Macy gave his hand a perfunctory shake, giving him a look-over that was equally brief. Nina could tell what she was thinking - too old, too bald - and smirked.

‘So,’ he said, sitting down, ‘now you’re here, maybe someone can finally tell me what the hell’s going on? Like why something in Egypt meant I had to nick Grant Thorn’s Lamborghini and chase you halfway across town?’

‘You know Grant Thorn?’ Macy asked. ‘He is so hot. Wow. That’s cool.’

‘Grant Thorn’s not who we should be talking about,’ said Nina, seeing that Macy’s opinion of Eddie had just been revised upwards. ‘It’s those guys who were after you. Were they the same ones who chased you in Egypt?’

‘Only the guy with the bad hair and the terrible jacket.’

‘Thought his jacket was pretty cool, myself,’ said Eddie. He frowned, a memory tickling his mind.

‘What?’ Nina asked.

‘I saw someone with the same jacket, just recently . . .’ His frown deepened as he tried to recall the image. ‘Shit! It wasn’t just the same jacket - it was the same guy! He was at that cult thing Grant dragged me to.’

‘The Osirian Temple?’

‘Yeah, that’s it. He was in a limo with the head guy, some ex-actor. There was another bloke too, this miserable-looking sod with a big burn scar—’

‘Oh, my God!’ Macy interrupted. She tapped her right cheek. ‘The scar, was it here?’

‘Yeah, right across his face.’

‘He was there too!’ she told Nina excitedly. ‘He was at the Sphinx - he was in charge of the whole thing!’

‘What is this thing at the Sphinx?’ asked Eddie. ‘What are they after?’

‘You know those TV commercials that get me so mad?’ said Nina. He nodded. ‘They’re after that.’

‘They’re trying to dig in before the IHA so that they can steal what’s inside,’ Macy elaborated.

‘Which is?’ Eddie said.

Macy took out her camera. ‘I’ll show you.’ She saw Nina’s laptop. ‘Can I connect it to that?’

Nina rummaged in a drawer for a connecting cable, then plugged the camera into her MacBook Pro so Macy could copy over the relevant files. A minute later, she was able to take a proper, detailed look at the images she had seen in miniature on the camera’s screen. ‘So those are the three scrolls that were given to the IHA . . .’

‘And that’s the one that wasn’t,’ said Macy, pointing at the fourth of the ancient pages. She zoomed in. ‘This part here describes the north entrance to the Hall of Records - it would’ve been reserved for the pharaohs’ use, ’cause the Egyptians had a big thing about the Pole Star symbolising royalty and the gods.’ She flicked through to the next picture, showing the blueprints of the Sphinx compound, and pointed out the two tunnels. ‘Everyone else would have used the eastern entrance.’

‘The one Logan’s excavating,’ Nina said, nodding. ‘What else does it say?’

Macy returned to the first picture and scrolled down it. ‘Something about a map chamber . . . here! There’s a zodiac in it, which if you know the secret tells you how to find the Pyramid of Osiris.’

Nina’s scepticism returned. ‘Are you sure that’s what it says?’

Macy sounded almost peevish, before remembering to whom she was talking. ‘Yes, I’m sure, Dr Wilde. I thought it was weird too, but that’s what it says. The zodiac’s some kind of map.’

Nina regarded the screen. The first three scrolls about the Hall of Records had proved accurate, and if the fourth were as reliable . . . ‘This could be huge. If the Pyramid of Osiris really existed, it’d change everything we thought we knew about Egyptian history.’ She looked at Macy. ‘And the guys after you obviously believed it’s real enough to kill for.’ Her gaze returned to the papyrus. ‘What else does it say?’

Macy read on. ‘The tomb of Osiris, the immortal god-king, keeper of . . . of the sacred bread of life.’

‘Not much of an immortal if he’s in a tomb,’ Eddie pointed out.

‘It’s complicated,’ said Macy. ‘He was murdered by being trapped in a coffin, resurrected, murdered again, became immortal but could never come back to the living world . . . kind of an ancient daytime soap opera.’

‘It’s a bit more than that,’ Nina said tartly. ‘The Osiris mythology is the foundation of the entire Egyptian religion. But does this text tell us how to find the pyramid using the zodiac?’

Macy scanned through the rest of the papyrus. ‘No. I guess that’s a need-to-know thing for the priests or whoever. But it definitely says the zodiac’s the map to the tomb.’

Eddie leaned closer to the screen. ‘So if this pyramid’s real, what’s inside it that’s worth blowing up half of Times Square for? Are we talking Tutankhamun’s treasure?’

‘More than that,’ Macy told him. ‘Osiris is who all the other pharaohs aspired to be - the greatest Egyptian king ever. Even though they thought they were going to become gods themselves when they died, none of them would ever have dared try to outbling him, because he’s the guy who actually judges if they deserve to go into the next life or not.’

‘So all the pharaohs’ treasures that have ever been found,’ said Nina thoughtfully, ‘would still be less valuable than whatever’s in Osiris’s tomb. And considering how incredible some of the finds from other tombs have been . . .’

Eddie stood back. ‘There’s your motive, then. Money. Lots and lots of money.’ He indicated the screen. ‘Go on the Internet - I think we should have a gander at this Osirian Temple thing.’

Macy opened the browser, typing in the address of the Qexia search engine. ‘Not using Google?’ Eddie asked.

‘This is cooler,’ she said, entering a search string for the Osirian Temple. A ‘cloud’ of results appeared, the largest at the centre. She clicked it, taking them to the cult’s home page. A heavily airbrushed portrait of Khalid Osir, standing before what appeared to be a large pyramid of black glass, smiled at them.

‘That’s the guy I saw the other day,’ said Eddie. ‘Used to be a big movie star in Egypt.’

Nina read his potted biography. ‘And then he got religion. Though I guess his ego was too big for him to just join someone else’s - he had to start his own.’ According to the bio, Osir had founded the Osirian Temple fifteen years previously, the organisation now headquartered in Switzerland and established in over fifty countries.

‘Looks like it’s a nice little earner,’ Eddie said as Macy clicked through to other pages. As much of the site seemed to be devoted to selling merchandise as to explaining the cult’s beliefs.

Macy snorted sarcastically at one section of the latter. ‘What? That’s not even right! Osiris wasn’t immortal while he was still alive - that didn’t happen until he entered the Underworld.’

Nina scanned the rest of the text. ‘Huh. For a cult that’s based round the myths of Osiris, it doesn’t seem too interested in the accepted versions of those myths. It’s like this guy Osir’s deliberately ignoring anything that conflicts with what he’s trying to say.’

‘Trying to sell, you mean,’ Eddie corrected as another page opened, more catalogue than catechism. ‘Look at all this stuff. Diets, exercise plans, vitamins . . . it’ll all help you live longer, yeah, but he slaps a picture of a pyramid on it and charges five times more than you’d pay at the supermarket, and makes you listen to a load of religious twaddle while you’re doing it.’

‘It’s not just “twaddle”, Eddie,’ Nina chided. ‘People might not believe in it now, but it was the basis of a civilisation that lasted for almost three thousand years.’

‘Maybe, but this Osir bloke’s making it up as he goes. So, typical cult, really.’

Macy had meanwhile found another page: the Osirian Temple’s leaders. Osir took pride of place at the top, but below his entry was a smaller, black and white picture of another man with similar features.

‘Sebak Shaban,’ Nina read. ‘They look a lot alike - maybe they’re brothers.’

‘Yeah, I thought that,’ Eddie said, remembering seeing them together two days earlier. ‘How come they’ve got different surnames?’

‘Duh,’ Macy said off-handedly. ‘Osiris, Osir? It’s like a stage name.’ Eddie glared at her, but she didn’t notice. ‘And yeah, total Photoshop.’ The picture of Shaban very much favoured the left side of his face, but the part of his upper lip that in real life was scarred here appeared completely normal.

Nina leaned back. ‘And you’re absolutely sure he was in charge of whatever was going on at the Sphinx?’

‘Totally. It was him.’

‘And the guy from last night works for him?’ Macy nodded. ‘Okay, so they really, really want to make sure you don’t tell anyone about it.’

‘So what do we do?’ Macy asked.

‘We tell someone about it,’ said Eddie. ‘Duh.’

She pouted. ‘I tried. Nobody in Egypt would listen to me. When I phoned Dr Berkeley, he just told me to turn myself in to the police.’

‘How did you get out of Egypt if the police were looking for you?’ asked Nina.

‘Through Jordan. I heard him,’ she indicated Shaban, ‘say to watch the airports, so I couldn’t get out that way. But I had my passport and some money with me, so once I got back into Cairo I took a bus to this little town out on the east coast, and persuaded some guy to take me across to Jordan in his boat. Then I got another bus to Amman, flew back to America, and here I am!’

Macy was more resourceful than she seemed, Nina decided. Even Eddie appeared mildly impressed that she had evaded the authorities. ‘And then, out of everybody you could have turned to, you came to me.’

‘Because I knew you could help. And you did. If you hadn’t saved me, that guy would have killed me. So, thanks!’

‘Not a problem,’ Nina replied. Eddie grunted sarcastically. ‘But now you’re safe—’

‘I hope,’ Macy cut in, glancing warily at the door.

‘I think that after last night’s little debacle, the bad guys will be trying to get as far away from New York as possible. But since you’re hopefully safe, and we’ve got the pictures, we can tell the IHA what’s happened.’ She gave Eddie an uncertain look. ‘That’s assuming Maureen Rothschild will even speak to me.’

Persuading Lola to ask Rothschild if she would take a call from Nina was easy. Actually getting Rothschild to answer proved harder. It took three attempts, Nina telling Lola to relay increasingly hyperbolic pleas before the older woman finally, and resentfully, picked up.

‘Well, this should be interesting, Nina,’ she snapped. ‘After last night, I’m surprised you’re not calling me from prison. From what I saw on the news, there were two dead, several injured, a colossal amount of property damage and half the city thrown into chaos. Just another day for you, isn’t it?’

Nina held back an acidic reply, forcing herself to remain diplomatic. ‘Maureen, this is very important. It’s about the dig at the Sphinx.’

‘What about it?’

‘Someone’s trying to rob the Hall of Records before Logan can open it.’

There was a brief silence before Rothschild’s disbelieving, explosive, ‘What?’

‘The Osirian Temple - they’re behind it. They used a fourth page of the Gaza scrolls that they didn’t give to the IHA to locate a second entrance. They’re digging into it right now.’

Another pause. Then, to Nina’s anger, a mocking laugh. ‘Thank you, Nina, for confirming my theory - you have gone completely insane. I thought claiming to discover the Garden of Eden was outrageous enough, but this? Why would the Osirian Temple carry out a second dig when they’re already helping pay for the first one?’

‘Maybe you should ask them,’ Nina growled. ‘But I’ve got a picture right here of the fourth scroll, as well as a plan of the tunnel.’

‘And where did you get these pictures? One of those websites that claims there are flying saucers recorded in Egyptian hieroglyphics?’

‘No, from Macy Sharif.’

‘Macy Sharif? You mean the intern?’

‘That’s right.’

‘The intern who’s wanted by the Egyptian police for assault and antiquities theft?’

Nina glanced at Macy, who was watching anxiously. ‘I think she was framed. Everything that happened last night was because they were trying to kill her, so she couldn’t tell anyone what she’d discovered.’

Rothschild’s voice turned cold. ‘Nina, I really do not have the time to listen to paranoid conspiracy theories. Don’t call me again.’

‘At least look at the pictures. I’ll send them to you—’

‘Don’t bother.’ She hung up.

‘God damn it,’ Nina muttered. She emailed the pictures anyway, then called Lola once more.

‘I’m guessing it didn’t go well,’ said Lola. ‘Professor Rothschild just told me never to put you through to her again.’

‘Yeah, I thought she might. Listen, I just sent her an email with some photos attached - she’ll probably delete it without even looking, but I’m going to send it to you as well. Can you print them out and put them in her in-tray or something? It’s really important that she at least looks at them.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Hey, did you see what happened in Times Square last night?’

‘I might have heard something,’ said Nina, deadpan. ‘Bye, Lola.’ She sent a second copy of the email to Lola, then slumped in her chair. ‘God, this is so frustrating! If I’d still been at the IHA I could have had someone check it out in five minutes.’

‘There’s got to be something else you can do,’ Macy protested. ‘If these guys get their hands on the zodiac, they’ll work out how to find the Pyramid of Osiris and go rob it - and nobody else will ever know that they’ve done it. The whole place’ll be lost for ever! Is that what you want?’

‘Of course it’s not what I want,’ Nina snapped. ‘But there’s not really much I can do about it, is there? Unless we actually go to Egypt and catch them red-handed . . .’ She tailed off.

Eddie recognised her look. ‘No,’ he said in a warning tone.

‘We could go to Egypt.’

‘No, we couldn’t.’

‘Yes, we could.’

‘We don’t have visas.’

‘Our UN visas are still valid.’

‘We’ve got no bloody money!’

‘We’ve got credit cards.’

‘That are almost maxed out!’

‘I’ve got a credit card,’ offered Macy. ‘I’ll pay.’

Nina gave the nineteen year old an incredulous look. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Sure! I’ve got tons of credit.’

‘Must be nice,’ Eddie muttered.

Nina was still dubious. ‘I don’t know how much it costs to fly to Egypt, but I’m pretty sure it’s not cheap. We can cover it ourselves.’

He made a face. ‘If we sell a kidney or two.’

‘It’s not a problem, I can afford it,’ said Macy. ‘Well, my mom and dad can, but same diff. My dad’s a plastic surgeon and my mom’s a psychiatrist, they’re really rich. They pay for all my stuff anyway.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Nina. ‘Macy, have you actually told your parents about any of this?’

She looked sheepish. ‘Ah, that would be no. They don’t even know I’m back in the country.’

Nina was horrified. ‘Oh, my God! How could you not tell them?’

‘I was trying to protect them! That scar-faced guy said he was going to send people to watch our house and tap the phones, so they could find me. If Mom and Dad didn’t know anything was wrong, they wouldn’t get worried, and they couldn’t give me away.’

‘Well, they’ll know something’s wrong now,’ Nina told her. ‘Even if the IHA didn’t contact them after you got in trouble - which I’m pretty sure they would have done - I had to tell the police about meeting you last night. They’ll have got your parents’ details from the IHA, and called them.’

Macy went pale. ‘Oh. I . . . didn’t think of that.’

Nina indicated the phone. ‘Call them, right now. Let them know you’re okay.’

She picked it up and dialled. ‘Mom, hi! Mom? Mom, calm down - I’m okay, I’m fine. Yes, I’m okay, really! Oh, the IHA called, huh?’ She grimaced. ‘No, that’s not what happened at all, they’re totally lying!’ She huffed impatiently. ‘Mom! No, I can’t come home, not just yet. I’ll come back as soon as I can, but there’s something I need to do first, it’s really important. I’ll tell you and Dad all about it afterwards. Oh, and if you think anyone’s watching the house, call the police, ’kay?’

That prompted a near-hysterical response loud enough for her hosts to overhear. ‘Jeez, Mom! Look, really, I’m okay. I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Give my love to everyone. Mom. Mom! I said I’ll call you. Okay, hanging up now. Bye. Bye.’

Macy lowered the phone, looking flustered and frustrated. ‘Parents! God! They can be such a pain sometimes.’ Then she looked at Nina, suddenly apologetic. ‘Oh! Sorry.’

Nina was confused. ‘For what?’

‘I read in the Time article that your parents died when you were about my age, so I didn’t want you to think I was saying that about all parents. I’m sure yours were great. Sorry.’ She went back to the laptop.

‘Er . . . okay,’ said Nina, taken aback.

‘Subtle, ain’t she?’ Eddie whispered.

‘Yeah. I think you two’ll get along fine.’

‘Tchah!’

‘Okay,’ said Macy, looking round at them, ‘so, flights to Egypt. Do you guys want regular or vegetarian meals?’

6

Giza

‘Hey,’ joked Eddie, ‘didn’t they get smashed up by the Transformers?’

‘I am so never letting you choose the movie again,’ muttered Nina as she gazed in awe at the three enormous monuments before them. The Great Pyramid of Giza was the only survivor of the Seven Wonders of the ancient world, the others lost to time and conflict millennia ago. Part of the reason for its endurance was sheer size; though Khufu’s pyramid and its companions, the slightly lower Pyramid of Khafre and the markedly smaller - but still massive - Pyramid of Menkaure, had long since lost almost all of their white limestone outer casings, their colossal cores of sandstone and granite remained intact after more than four and a half thousand years.

Macy was less impressed. Her hair hidden beneath a baseball cap and her face partly covered by a pair of oversized sunglasses, she ground an impatient foot into the gritty sand. ‘I’ve already seen the pyramids. Like, every day I was here. Why aren’t you talking to Dr Berkeley?’

‘Partly because he’s not here yet.’ Afraid of being recognised, Macy had not gone with Nina and Eddie to the Sphinx compound, where they unsuccessfully tried to persuade the IHA team to grant them access. ‘He’s doing some TV show in Cairo, talking about the dig. He won’t be back for a couple of hours. And partly because . . . well, I’m not coming all the way to Egypt and not visiting the pyramids!’

They set off up the road along the compound’s northern side. Eddie peered over the wall at the construction site below. ‘This shaft, it’s down there?’

Macy joined him. ‘Yeah. In that tent.’ She pointed it out.

He made a mental note of its position, also taking in that it was better guarded than Macy had described. Two men in uniform - though not that of the Tourist Police, suggesting they were private security contractors - were on watch.

Macy looked towards the Sphinx. ‘There are more guards than before.’

‘Making sure nobody else cocks up their dig,’ Eddie said. ‘Might be a good thing, though.’

‘How?’

‘If they’ve brought in new guys, there’s less chance of someone recognising you.’ He ran his fingers along the underside of the stone slab topping the wall as if testing its weight.

‘Something?’ Nina asked.

‘Just planning ahead. So, we going to get some pyramid power?’

The Great Pyramid’s base was only about a quarter of a mile from the Sphinx, though the massive area it covered, the bottom of each face over 750 feet long, meant the walk needed to reach the entrance on the northern side was close to twice that. The entrance itself, where several dozen people were already waiting, was gated and watched by the Tourist Police and official guides. Access to the pyramids’ interiors was only allowed twice a day to small numbers. Even exhausted by the eleven-hour flight from New York, Nina had insisted they be there the moment the ticket office opened.

When the gate opened, some discreet but firm blocking by Eddie allowed Nina and Macy to be the first to scale the stone tiers and enter. ‘It’s steeper than it looks in pictures,’ Nina commented. The narrow, smooth-walled passage descended into the heart of the pyramid at almost a thirty-degree angle, and the ceiling was uncomfortably low.

Eddie caught up, squeezing past an annoyed tourist at the entrance. ‘Christ, it’s cramped,’ he complained. ‘Guess the pharaohs were all short-arses. So, where does this go?’

‘There’re two routes,’ said Macy. ‘If you keep going down you end up in the original burial chamber, but it’s kinda boring, there’s nothing there. They decided to use a different chamber while the pyramid was being built.’

‘Must’ve pissed off the architects,’ Eddie said, grinning. ‘I can just imagine it. “He wants to do what? But we’re already halfway finished. Fucking clients!” ’

After sixty feet the passage split, one leg continuing down while the other, its ceiling even lower, headed upwards at an equally steep angle. Though she wanted to explore the entire place, Nina opted to take Macy’s words to heart and follow the latter route. Even this early in the morning, the air in the tunnels was hot and stifling. Leg muscles protesting at the floor’s steepness, she headed up the passage, bent low.

‘So did this place have any booby traps?’ Eddie asked.

‘Booby traps? Shyeah,’ said Macy sarcastically. ‘You only get those in Tomb Raider games.’

‘Oh, ya think?’ Nina said, prompting a surprised look from the other woman. ‘You should try reading the International Journal of Archaeology rather than just magazine articles sometime.’

‘I do read the IJA!’ Macy insisted. ‘Well, the interesting bits.’

‘It’s all interesting,’ said Nina, affronted.

‘Right, like finding sixteenth-century Mongolian toothpicks compares to discovering Atlantis.’ Behind Macy, Eddie laughed, annoying Nina even more.

But her irritation vanished as she arrived at another section of the pyramid’s interior. A horizontal passage branched off the one she was ascending, but it was the continuation of the climb that caught her attention. Though little wider than the tunnel from which she had just emerged, it was far taller, almost thirty feet high. The Great Gallery was a long vaulted chamber constructed from massive limestone blocks.

‘Now this is more like it,’ said Eddie, stretching as he emerged from the passage. ‘What was it for?’

‘There’s a theory that it was part of a counterweight system to lift blocks up to the top, but . . . nobody really knows,’ Nina admitted. Like so many aspects of the pyramids, the Great Gallery’s exact purpose was a mystery. She looked down the horizontal passage. ‘That’s the Queen’s Chamber down there, right?’

‘Yeah,’ said Macy as more tourists entered, most of them opting to take a break from the climb by going along the flat corridor. ‘Although there was never a queen in there - her pyramid’s a little one outside. It’s just another boring unfinished burial chamber.’

‘Another one?’ said Eddie. ‘Christ, the architects must have been throwing down their papyruses by now.’

‘Even if it’s empty, it’s hardly boring,’ Nina objected as she continued up the steps that had been added to the Gallery. ‘The workmanship - of all of this - is amazing even by today’s standards, and they did it all with just simple tools.’

‘And loads of slaves.’

‘Nuh-uh,’ Macy countered. ‘The builders were actually all skilled craftsmen. They got paid. The slave thing’s just a lie that the pharaohs who came after Khufu, or Cheops, whatever you want to call him, spread to make themselves sound better. “Sure, we could have built an enormous pyramid too if we’d used loads of slaves,” kind of thing. Khufu wasn’t any worse than any other pharaoh.’

‘So why’d they decide to build pyramids in the first place?’ Eddie asked. ‘What’s so special about that shape?’

‘Nobody knows,’ said Nina.

‘I’m going to hear that a lot, aren’t I?’

‘It’s probably symbolic, something of religious significance, but nobody’s come to any agreement on exactly what. But it’s a shape they spent a lot of time and effort trying to perfect, even in the earliest dynasties. The pyramids back then were stepped like ziggurats, one layer on top of another, but as their engineering skills improved they started building them with smooth sides. A pharaoh called . . . Sneferu, I think?’ Nina glanced back at Macy, who nodded, pleased to be asked. ‘He built the Red Pyramid at Dahshur, which was the first “true” pyramid. It was pretty big - but the pyramid built by his son was a lot bigger. And we’re in it.’ She swept out her hands to take in the vast structure surrounding them. ‘As for why they were so determined to build pyramids . . . like I said, nobody knows.’

They reached the top of the incline, Nina pausing to recover her breath. To her mild irritation, Macy appeared completely unfazed by the climb. Another low horizontal passage led deeper into the tomb, opening into a taller chamber after just a few feet. Eddie peered inside, seeing deep grooves running up the far wall. ‘What’s this?’

‘Anti-theft device,’ said Macy.

‘Thought you said there weren’t any booby traps?’

‘It’s not really a trap. More like a vault door. They built it with three huge stone blocks hanging from the ceiling. Once Khufu was buried, they dropped the stones so tomb raiders couldn’t get in.’

They entered; the room was completely empty. ‘So where are the stones?’

‘Tomb raiders got in,’ Macy chirped. ‘They smashed the stones, then walked right into the burial chamber. It’s just through here.’ Another hunched traversal of a short stone tunnel, then . . .

The King’s Chamber. The burial vault of the pharaoh Khufu, sealed over four and a half thousand years before.

‘This is it?’ asked Eddie, disappointed. The rectangular room was almost forty feet by twenty, dominated by the remains of a large granite sarcophagus - but apart from the lidless coffin it was completely empty. Not even the walls bore any decoration. ‘I was expecting something a bit more flash.’

‘It did get Lara Crofted,’ Macy pointed out, a little condescendingly. ‘If it was like Tutankhamun’s tomb, the whole room would have been full of treasure.’ Her eyes lit up at the thought.

‘It wouldn’t all be treasure,’ Nina reminded her. ‘A lot of it would have been items for Khufu’s journey through the Underworld to be judged by Osiris - food and drink, things like that. But yeah, there would still have been plenty of treasure.’

Eddie stood aside as other tourists entered, leaning against the granite wall. He watched as Nina examined the sarcophagus, after a minute saying, ‘I don’t think he’s in there.’

‘I know that. I just don’t get many chances to see things like this in person any more, do I?’

‘You should have asked the Egyptians when you were at the IHA,’ Macy suggested. ‘They’d have probably given you a private tour.’

Nina’s mouth compressed into a sour line. ‘Yeah, thanks for reminding me.’

‘So when will Dr Berkeley be back at the dig? We should get back there - the sooner you talk to him, the sooner you’ll be able to check out the construction site.’

‘She’s got a point,’ said Eddie.

‘All right,’ Nina muttered, reluctantly leaving the sarcophagus. ‘I’m going to be pissed if you’ve dragged me out of here and he still hasn’t arrived when we get there, though.’

To Nina’s annoyance, Berkeley indeed had not yet returned from his TV appearance when they got back to the Sphinx compound. He was expected in thirty minutes - thirty minutes Nina could have spent exploring the Great Pyramid.

When he eventually did arrive, it was closer to fifty than thirty minutes later, which did not improve Nina’s mood. But she put on a pleasant face, knowing she would need to charm him into allowing her access to the dig. Berkeley got out of a white-painted government car, its driver emerging as well. ‘Hey,’ Eddie whispered.

‘What?’

‘The other bloke, he’s the one from Macy’s photos. The one she clocked with her camera.’

‘Crap, you’re right.’ Berkeley’s companion was Dr Hamdi. She glanced past the Temple of the Sphinx at the more intact Valley Temple to the south. Macy, still in her baseball hat and sunglasses, was lurking amongst the milling tourists, as close as she dared come to the dig site. ‘If Macy’s right, then he’s not going to want anyone to go near that tent.’

‘Bit late to start wondering if she’s right, innit?’

‘Maybe we’ll find out now - we’ll see how this Dr Hamdi responds.’ She approached Berkeley, Eddie behind her. ‘Hey, Logan! Logan! Hi!’

Berkeley reacted with first surprise, then wary uncertainty when he realised who was calling to him. ‘Nina? What are you doing here?’

‘Oh, just on vacation,’ she replied airily. ‘We wanted to drop by and say hello, seeing as it’s your big event tonight.’

‘Tomorrow morning, technically - the live broadcast starts at four a.m., local time.’ Berkeley’s wariness was creeping towards outright suspicion, not believing for a moment that their presence was a holiday-related coincidence.

Hamdi had an odd look of half-recognition. ‘Friends of yours, Dr Berkeley?’

‘Colleagues,’ Berkeley said firmly. ‘Ex-colleagues. Nina, Eddie, this is the SCA’s representative at the excavation, Dr Iabi Hamdi. Dr Hamdi, Nina Wilde and Eddie Chase, formerly of the IHA.’