The Pharaoh's Secret

23

Tariq Shakir stood in a chamber once reserved for the pharaohs and their priests. A hidden tomb, untouched by grave robbers, it was filled with possessions and treasures far surpassing those discovered with Tutankhamun. Art and hieroglyphics from the height of the First Dynasty lined the walls. A smaller copy of the Sphinx, covered in gold leaf and blue semiprecious stones, dominated one end of the huge room and a dozen sarcophaguses rested in its center. Inside each, the body of a pharaoh, thought to have been stolen and desecrated thousands of years ago. Mummified animals were placed around them to serve them in the afterlife and the skeleton of a wooden boat rested nearby.

The world at large knew nothing of this chamber, a fact Shakir had no intention of revealing. But he brought in experts from time to time to work on it and he saw no reason he and his people should not bask in the full restored glory of the ancients. After all, if he succeeded, a new dynasty of his own creation would rise over North Africa.

But, for now, he had a problem.

He left the burial chamber and walked to the control room. There, his trusted lieutenant, Hassan, was on his knees, being held at gunpoint, per Shakir’s order.

“Tariq? Why are you doing this?” Hassan asked. “What is this all about?”

Shakir took a step toward his friend and raised a finger. It was enough to quiet Hassan. “I’ll show you.”

With a remote control, he powered up a flat-screen monitor on the far wall. As an image began to appear, the sun-blistered face of candidate number four emerged.

“A report came in from Malta,” Shakir said. “Hagen and two members of your handpicked team were tasked with eliminating the Americans. One of them was killed, Hagen was captured and one escaped. I’m sure you understand why it is imperative that none of our operatives be captured.”

“Of course I do,” Hassan replied. “For that reason, I sent—”

“You sent a candidate who failed me,” Shakir boomed. “One who I was led to believe had died in the desert three days ago.”

“I never suggested he was dead.”

“You kept his survival from me,” Shakir said. “One and the same transgression.”

“No,” Hassan insisted. “He survived. You didn’t inquire. I took it upon myself to execute your offer, which was that any of those who made it back to the checkpoint would be given another chance.”

Shakir despised having his own words used against him. “Except that it’s not possible for anyone to have survived the march back to the checkpoint. Not thirty miles, across the desert, in the blazing sun, without any water or shade. Not after weeks of draining competition with little sleep.”

“I tell you, he made it,” Hassan said. “And without help. Look at his face. Look at his hands. He burrowed into the sand when he thought he was going to die. He hid there until dusk. Then dug his way out and continued on.”

Shakir had seen the scars. Smart, he thought. Resourceful. “Why wasn’t this reported by the men?”

“The checkpoint was deserted when he arrived,” Hassan insisted. “The men had left assuming, like you, that no one would live to finish the trek. Number four broke in and made contact with me. Seeing his strength and determination, I decided he would be the perfect choice to watch our own men. He was there without their knowledge. Should they falter, his orders were to eliminate them and keep us from being exposed.”

Shakir was the unquestioned leader of Osiris, but he wasn’t afraid to admit his mistakes. If Hassan was telling the truth, then number four was indeed the one candidate worthy of being honored with a position — and, just as important, a name.

Ordering Hassan to keep silent, Shakir unmuted the satellite link and questioned number four. The answers were close enough without being identical. Shakir felt he was hearing the truth, as opposed to a practiced story.

He glanced at the guards behind Hassan. “Let him up.”

The guards pulled back and Hassan stood. Shakir turned to number four.

“Let me tell you a story,” he began. “When I was a child, my family lived on the outskirts of Cairo. My father scavenged metal from the trash heaps to sell. That is how we survived. One day, a large scorpion came into our house. It stung me. I was about to smash it with a brick when my father stayed my hand.

“He said he would teach me a lesson. So we put the scorpion in a jar and tried to drown it, first with cold water and then with hot. Then we left it out in the sun, beneath the clear glass, for days. Then we poured rubbing alcohol over it. It tried to swim but couldn’t and eventually settled to the bottom. The next day, we drained the alcohol and dumped the scorpion out onto the dirt beside our house. Not only was it still alive, it immediately turned to attack us. Before it could get me, my father flicked it into the distance with a broom. The scorpion is our brother, he said to me. Stubborn, poisonous and hard to kill. The scorpion is noble.

On-screen, number four nodded slightly.

“You’ve proved your worth,” Shakir said. “You’re one of us now. A brother. Your code name shall be Scorpion for you have proven to be stubborn, hard to kill and, yes, even noble. You did not beg me for mercy in the desert. You did not give in to fear. For this, I commend you.”

On-screen, the man with the newly bestowed title bowed his head.

“Wear those scars proudly,” Shakir said.

“I shall.”

“What are your orders?” Hassan asked, trying to get back into the conversation but mostly just thankful to be alive.

“They remain as before,” he said. “Get the artifacts before they’re made public and erase all record of them within the museum. This time, you will go and supervise personally.”