The Pharaoh's Secret

56

“Who are you?” Paul asked.

“You can call me Scorpion,” the man replied.

He seemed proud of the name. Paul couldn’t imagine why.

“How did you find us?” Paul realized there was little point to such questions, but he was trying to stall for time. He’d never seen this Scorpion person before. Even though he could guess who Scorpion worked for, it seemed impossible that the men could know who he and Gamay were.

“We have D’Campion’s diary,” the man said. “He mentioned Villeneuve many times. From there, it was easy to choose Rennes and find Camila Duchene.”

“If you’ve hurt her…” Gamay threatened.

“Fortunately for her, you arrived before we did. It made more sense to follow you than to harass an old woman. Now, hand over the book of letters.”

Paul and Gamay exchanged a sad glance. There was little they could do. Paul stepped in front of Gamay, allowing her to palm the pocketknife, though it would do little good against the serrated nine-inch blades the men across from them were carrying.

“Here,” he said, closing the album and shoving it forward. It slid along the smooth tabletop and came to rest beside Scorpion, who grabbed it, looked through it and then put it under his arm.

“Why don’t you leave before the police arrive?” Gamay suggested.

“There are no policemen on the way,” Scorpion assured her.

“You never know,” Paul said. “Someone might have seen you—”

“What were you doing with that painting?” Scorpion demanded, cutting Paul off.

“Nothing,” Paul said. Even as the word left his mouth, Paul knew he’d spoken too quickly. He’d never been a good liar.

“Show it to me.”

Paul took a deep breath and reached back into the rack. As he slid the frame out, he realized he’d grabbed the wrong work of art. It was the warship. Maybe that was a good thing, he thought.

Rotating it to a flat position as if to lay it on the table and slide it toward Scorpion, Paul realized he now had a weapon in his hands. He twisted his body and flung the framed painting like a Frisbee. It hit Scorpion in the stomach, doubling him over.

Following up his attack, Paul lunged forward and kicked the man while he was down. “Run!” he shouted to Gamay.

Paul’s large size had many advantages and disadvantages. Because of his height, he’d rarely been in fistfights. Few people chose a six-foot-eight-inch opponent when looking for someone to tangle with. But, as a result, hand-to-hand combat wasn’t his forte.

On the other hand, when he put his weight behind it, he could deliver a powerful punch or kick. The shot from his boot sent Scorpion flying backward into his two friends. The three of them seemed particularly surprised by the assault and not a little unsure of the best way to attack this large, angry man.

Paul didn’t wait for them to figure it out. He turned and ran in the other direction. He made it around the corner and saw Gamay running for a door in the distance.

“Get them!” Scorpion shouted.

Paul caught up with Gamay as she reached the door. Only now did he realize she was carrying the painting of the rowboat.

“I thought you were moving slower than normal,” he said.

“I just had to have it,” she said in her best high-society voice.

“Let’s hope we can keep it,” he said, pushing the door open.

They’d come to a stairwell, a fire escape by the sparse look of things. Paul pushed open the heavy steel door.

“Up or down?” Gamay asked.

“I’m guessing down leads to a basement, so go up.”

They ran up the stairs, reached the next level and tried the door. It was locked.

“Keep going,” Paul shouted.

They continued up, spurred on by the sound of the door below banging open.

Beside a placard that read L3, Gamay pushed on the next door.

“It’s locked,” she said. “Aren’t these things supposed to remain open at all times?”

They went up one more level and found light streaming in through a window. “This is the roof,” Gamay said.

Paul tried the door, but it was also locked. Gamay responded by using the frame of the painting to smash the window out. Brushing away the glass, she climbed through.

Paul followed and tumbled out onto the museum’s roof. A small section around them was flat and tarred, but the rest was tiled and sloped. “There has to be another way down.”

Across the tiled section was another flat spot with a small hut on top. It looked exactly like the stairwell they’d just come out of. “That way,” he said.

Gamay went first as Paul looked around for a makeshift weapon. He saw nothing useful and charged after her. The green-tiled roof was steeply sloped on both sides, the tiles wet and worn smooth from decades in the French rain.

Paul and Gamay climbed up onto a flat section where the slopes met at the peak. It was no wider than a balance beam and one wrong step would send them tumbling.

They traversed the central section, jumped down onto the flat, tarred area and ran to the door. It was locked, but the window was quickly smashed.

Behind them, their pursuers were on the roof.

“You go,” Paul said. “I’ll hold them off.”

“No dice,” Gamay said. “That was a nice move inside, but we both know you’re no giant version of Bruce Lee. We stick together.”

“Fine,” Paul said, “but hurry.”

She handed him the painting, put her hands on the windowsill and screamed. When Paul turned, he saw that someone inside had grabbed her arms and was dragging her in. He grabbed her legs and pulled. A tug-of-war lasted a second and Gamay came flying out. There was blood on her mouth.

“You okay?” Paul asked.

“Remind me to get a tetanus shot when we get home.”

“That’s only if you get bitten,” Paul said. “Not if you do the biting.”

“Then never mind,” she said.

They were now trapped. Paul plucked a hand-sized chunk of broken tile from the rooftop, but it wasn’t much of a weapon. The man inside the second stairwell began to slam himself against the door.

“Now what?”

“The canal,” Paul said. “We’ll jump.”

They climbed onto the tiles again, but this time they went down the slope. Gamay had the balance of a mountain goat, but Paul felt that his height was now a hindrance. He found it hard to keep low enough not to have a sensation of falling forward.

He began sliding down on his backside. Gamay did the same and they eased toward the edge. They were four stories up with an eight-foot gap to cover.

Paul said, “That’s farther down than I thought.”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Gamay said.

“Maybe they’ll be afraid to follow.”

Behind them, the men were climbing onto the tiles. “Guess not. You first.”

Gamay tossed the painting down. It landed on the stone path beside the canal.

“Give us the painting,” one of the pursuers shouted. “It’s all we want.”

“Now he tells us,” Gamay said.

“Ready?” Paul asked.

She nodded.

“Go.”

Gamay used her legs to maximum advantage, crouching and springing forward. She flew, with arms windmilling, cleared the wall at the edge of the canal by several feet and plunged into the dark water.

Paul followed. Launching himself and landing beside her.

They surfaced seconds apart. The water was frigid, but it felt marvelous. They swam to the wall, where Paul gave Gamay a boost out onto the path and climbed out himself. She’d just put her hand on the frame of the painting when the first of three splashes landed in the canal behind them.

“These guys don’t know when to quit,” Gamay said.

“Neither do we.”

With the men swimming toward them, Paul and Gamay took off running. They were blocked by another sinister-looking pair at the end of the lane.

“Trapped again.”

A small outboard-powered boat sat tied up on the canal. It was that or nothing.

Paul jumped in, nearly capsizing the small boat. Gamay hopped in and untied the rope. “Go!”

Paul yanked the starter rope and the motor came to life, spewing forth a cloud of blue smoke. He twisted the throttle and more fumes poured from the old outboard, but the propeller dug into the water and the narrow little boat sped off.

Paul kept his eyes forward, careful not to hit any of the dozens of boats and barges tied up at the water’s edge. He’d just begun to feel safe when another small boat raced out of the fog behind them and began to close the gap.