The Forbidden Tomb

53

In less than a minute, Petr Ulster would have his answer. Every action he had taken thus far had been leading to this moment. Soon he would know if the meticulous planning and preparation had ultimately led to success — or if he was doomed to fail yet again.

Like an expectant father in the waiting room, he leaned closer to the window, desperately searching for the slightest sign that everything was okay. He knew to keep his distance, but the anticipation was almost more than he could stand. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face as he stared at the clock, watching the seconds tick down.

Finally, the buzzer sounded.

The moment of truth had arrived.

Ulster lowered the oven door and peered inside. So far, everything was perfect. He slowly wrapped his gloved hands around the tiny crock, careful not to dip his fingers into the scalding liquid below. He held his breath as he gently lifted the bowl from the water. And then, without warning, his miniature soufflé collapsed.

Ulster sighed in frustration.

He dropped the bowl back into the water bath of the baking dish and yanked the entire assembly from the oven. As he turned toward the island of his expansive kitchen, he realized that he was quickly running out of space.

The counters were littered with soufflés in various states of disrepair. What had started early that morning as a craving for a tangy lemon treat had quickly turned into a culinary challenge of epic proportions. When he had run out of lemons, Ulster had switched to salmon as it was then his fourth hour of battle and a savory lunch seemed more appropriate. As night fell, he had switched yet again, this time preferring the fine Swiss chocolate of his homeland.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, the soufflés would not stand.

An entire day of laboring, and he had yet to taste victory.

Ulster laughed at the sight, knowing that he had a busy night ahead of him if we were to have the kitchen cleaned by the time his personal chef returned from his day off.

As he switched off his oven and conceded defeat, he felt the vibration of his cell phone from somewhere deep inside the pocket of his apron. Twisting to retrieve it, his sizeable girth strained against the tightly wrapped fabric. He suddenly felt as if he were bound by the casing of his favorite Polish sausage.

When he finally reached his phone, Ulster was surprised by the blocked number on his caller ID. His private line was unlisted, and he had taken great pains to guard against its dissemination. With that in mind, he decided to play a hunch.

‘Jonathon?’ he guessed.

‘No, this is Jack Cobb. We met in Geneva about a month ago.’

‘Of course! We had dinner at the Beau-Rivage.’ Some people used mnemonic devices to recall people and places, but Ulster remembered meals. ‘You had just returned from the mountains, if memory serves. Something about a train?’

‘Yeah,’ Cobb grunted. ‘Something like that.’

As far as he knew, it was more than anyone had learned about his previous adventure. Given the purpose of his call, he was encouraged by Ulster’s knowledge but slightly disturbed by his insight. He wondered where Ulster had acquired his information because it certainly hadn’t been from him.

Then again, their entire relationship had been rooted in mystery. Neither of them was fully aware of the circumstances that had led to their initial conversation — a mysterious benefactor had made the arrangements — but both were willing to play along because both benefited from the relationship. Cobb had access to one of the top historians in the world, and Ulster liked to talk about history even more than he liked to eat and drink.

And that was saying something.

‘So, Jack, to what do I owe this honor?’

‘You said to give you a call if I ever need help, and the truth is that I’ve run into some trouble here in Egypt.’

‘Alexandria!’ Ulster blurted. He suddenly remembered that Cobb had been tasked with exploring the Egyptian city. He didn’t know what Cobb was looking for — after all, Cobb didn’t even know what he was looking for when he was given the map — but one thing was certain: cleaning the kitchen could wait. ‘How stupid of me! Please forgive my momentary lapse of memory. It’s been a very stressful day.’

‘I know the feeling.’

‘I bet you do,’ conceded Ulster, who had watched coverage of the bombing on the news. ‘The Egyptian authorities have yet to release a statement, but off the record they’re downplaying the event. Do they really believe that people will accept their inane story about earthquakes and ruptured gas lines? I have seen my fair share of explosions in recent years, and it’s clear to me that this incident was not caused by seismic activity.’

‘You got that right.’

Ulster lowered his voice to a whisper, as if he were about to deliver privileged information. ‘Jack, if you’re in trouble, I know people. Just tell me what you need, and I will make the call. My friends are former military, and trust me when I say that they’re very good at what they do.’

‘I’m former military,’ Cobb argued, half insulted by the comment. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got that angle covered. The help I’m looking for is more academic in nature. I was hoping you could lend me a hand.’

Though he hardly looked the part in his dirty apron, Ulster was the director of the Ulster Archives, a facility that housed the most extensive private collection of documents and antiquities in the world. Founded in the Alps by Petr’s grandfather, the Archives had grown from a small assortment of artifacts — smuggled from Austria to Switzerland in coal cars in advance of the Nazi occupation — to what it was today. Though its early success could be attributed to his ancestors, Petr was directly responsible for its recent additions including a magnificent haul from Mexico.

‘Certainly!’ Ulster boomed. ‘How can I be of service?’

‘My team came across something that we’re not quite sure how to interpret. I was hoping you could give me your thoughts.’

‘Jack,’ he said tentatively, ‘I’d be happy to help with your project, but I think it’s important for you to know that I am not a certified Egyptologist. Yes, I admit that I am somewhat versed in all manners of history — after all, it is a job requirement — but the detailed knowledge that you’re looking for should probably come from someone on your own team. That last thing I want to do is to step on anyone’s toes.’

Cobb grimaced. ‘That’s part of the problem. Our historian has gone missing. I have some of the footage she recorded before she disappeared, and I’m asking you to take a look at it. Do you have access to the Internet?’

‘Yes, of course. Just give me one moment.’

Ulster removed his apron and tossed it to the ground as he hustled from the kitchen to his nearby office. He activated the hands-free feature on his cell phone as he sank into the overstuffed, high-back office chair in front of his computer. Then he grabbed the mouse and waited for further instructions. ‘Okay, I’m ready. Now what?’

‘Look at your e-mail. You should see a message from James Bond. Open it, and click on the link.’

‘Look at that,’ Ulster laughed. ‘I got an e-mail from James Bond!’

‘Sorry about that. My computer guy is kind of obsessed.’

Garcia had known that the team would need the camera footage available to them at all times, even when they weren’t in range of the boat’s wireless network. Rather than load the files onto each of their phones, Garcia had made the data available on a secure website that he had created. The information was streamed from his server, which was encrypted with so much security that it would take even the best hackers weeks to work their way through. Access to the site was normally limited to their personal devices, but Garcia had programmed a temporary password to allow partial access to the system.

Ulster was given the code, and he punched it in.

A moment later, he was scrolling through images.

‘These are spectacular,’ Ulster blurted.

‘So I’ve been told. But what do they mean?’