The Eye of Anubis

by The Dark Inviting

An archaeologist battles an old nemesis in a search for an ancient artifact.

The Eye of Anubis

I

Death, when it finally came, didn't feel as I had always thought it would. No pain, no sensation of utter terror at the gaping uncertainty of what – if anything – lay beyond the threshold. It was more like being drawn into sleep against my will, following a current against which I couldn't swim. I felt myself laugh at that analogy because I had always thought of life as being like a river, with each of us being carried down it trying not to wash up on the shores of stagnation, trying to stay with the current, which at the end of the journey played the ultimate practical joke of forcing us off the waterfall into oblivion. My eyes fell to the floor, which I couldn't feel beneath my face but knew to be cold stone. I thought it interesting how the grains of scattered sand around me looked so rough, like little stones, or boulders, or mountains. A distant sound now, growing stronger, like wind rushing through trees, or an approaching waterfall.

II

My foot slid out from under me, skidding across the roughsoft surface onto which I had just dropped. My hand stung when I slammed it down to keep my balance. Khaleb dropped down beside me, exhibiting despite his girth a little more grace than I had demonstrated, and started setting up the tripod for the portable battery powered floodlamp he had packed away in a sack slung over his shoulder. Two minutes later he toggled the switch, and the chamber into which we had dropped from the desert above was revealed to human eyes for the first time in 3400 years.

The chamber was small, about ten by twenty feet, the walls adorned with magnificent hieroglyphs depicting scenes of both war and feast, along with smaller groupings of field harvesting and fishing. One wall was entirely devoted to an elaborate scene of worshippers paying tribute to the Pharaoh, various canopic jars and stacks of food placed beside him as he sat regal-like on his seat, one foot forward and looking straight ahead with calm powerful eyes. The glyphs, having been sealed away from the damaging effects of fresh air for the past 3400 years, still retained near-original color quality – bright yellow, fiery red, rich blue, gleaming gold. The floor was scattered with sand, probably a result of our cutting open a section of the ceiling in order to gain entry. Sand continued to leak into the chamber from above, and looking up I saw the brown churning air whistling over the hole we had made. The sandstorm had come on us quickly after we had located the site, and we had to hurry to take ground penetrating radar readings to find the exact location of the chamber before the sand-saturated storm reached us and leached into our equipment, rendering it useless.

The chamber we were now in had a short tunnel leading off it, slanting upward with an angled floor toward the surface. The end of this tunnel was sealed with limestone blocks – probably the original entrance. In the middle of the wall opposite to the tunnel was a low door one and a half yards high and half a yard wide, leading into darkness.

"That's where we want to go," I said, staring at the doorway and grabbing at the pole of the floodlamp. Reaching the door, I stuck the lamphead in ahead of me, having to hold it with both hands due to the top-heavy design. Slipping sideways and crouching, I pushed in behind it, catching in the corners of my eyes specular glints reflecting off dull shiny objects. Having passed through, I stood and confronted the new chamber.

Bare rough-hewn rock walls wrapped around me, merging with a domed ceiling. The entire chamber looked as if it had been carved right out of the limestone – an artificial cave. In the center of the small chamber stood a stark unadorned sarcophagus, the stone of the sides and lid having been ground flat. Against the far wall a single life-sized statue of Anubis stood guard over the sarcophagus, obsidian with solid gold headdress and waistcloth, holding a long solid gold staff in his left hand, with his left foot forward as if halted in mid-step. Lean and muscular, the ancient god of the underworld had stood here, staring straight ahead with unblinking eyes, undisturbed for 3400 years.

Khaleb scuffled in, having a more difficult time than I in fitting through the narrow opening. Brushing off his white robe he glanced about the chamber, which was heavy in shadows cast from the single lamp, and his gaze held on the statue of Anubis. "Is that it?" he asked with a nonchalance which both surprised and annoyed me.

I nodded and walked up to it, standing directly in front of the ancient god, which reached a good 12 inches above my own six foot height. The object in the pocket of my cargo pants weighed heavily, as if it knew it were home and was impatient to be placed back where it belonged. I stepped around the statue, examining it more closely. Besides the staff, Anubis held nothing, and seemed to have been carved from a single large block of obsidian for I could discern no seams, not even where the staff-arm extended out from the body. The perked-up ears, the dark inset eyes, the protruding jackal snout, all exhibited a proudness evident, and the general form spoke of coiled strength, ancient power, and forbidden secrets. All I had to do was make him speak.

I pulled out the object, holding it in the flat of my palm. I knew I was delaying in a morbid attempt to prolong the pleasure of the moment, poised on the brink of success with the prize just beyond my grasp. I stepped to the front of Anubis and reached up to the top of the staff and gently deposited the object in a concave depression at its top, having to rotate it slightly to get the right fit. A giddy mood came upon me and I stepped back, spread my arms wide, and said "Speak!"

Khaleb came over and stood beside me, staring at the statue as if expecting it to become animate any second. I held my breath, and for the few seconds when nothing happened I wondered if I had made a mistake, if Schroeder had been wrong all along about his theory. A weight started to descend through me, and everything was perfectly silent save for the sandstorm echoing hollowly from outside.

A faint sound, not unlike a small stone dropping onto a large boulder, followed immediately by a louder click coming from the sarcophagus. A rush of adrenaline rode the wave of excitement surging up through me but I managed to contain my composure and grab hold of one end of the sarcophagus, beckoning Khaleb beside me. It was only with massive effort that we were able to push the mammoth stone casket aside, rotating it on a pivot point under one of the corners. Anubis' staff had controlled a balance-based locking mechanism which held the sarcophagus fast to the floor when secured, until the balance was adjusted by the additional weight of the key – the object I had brought.

Sweating and out of breath from our 20-second ordeal, I bent over and rested my hands on my knees, peering over the edge of a rough-hewn stone staircase cut into the ground beneath where the sarcophagus had been. I looked to Khaleb and chuckled. He had a wide grin on his face, blazing white teeth against a darkly tanned face. I stood and pulled my flashlight from its holster on my belt. "Let's check it out."

I landed a foot on the top stair and heard a loud click from behind me. Before I had finished turning around I knew what it was. A cry from Khaleb, and I saw a whorl of white as he flung open his robe and pulled out his Uzi. At the same time a single shot rang out solidly from a pistol held by a blond-haired man crouching on the opposite side of the doorway, reaching in and partly illuminated by the floodlamp. The shell tore into Khaleb's chest, its muffled echo dying quickly, and Khaleb's white robe started turning red. He fell backward from the force of the shot, slamming his head on the edge of the sarcophagus. A pair of eyes stared toward the domed rock ceiling, reflecting their owner's final expression of shock.

I dove behind the sarcophagus and pulled out my own sidearm, a Glock 29. "Renner!" I called out. "I know you're there. At least have the balls to show yourself instead of getting the hired help to do your dirty work." A scuffling from the area of the doorway was followed by a voice speaking with a Dutch accent.

"Don't be so fucking stupid, Prescott, even though it's your natural state." More scuffling, and the voice sounded a bit closer. "Come on out, and we'll talk."

"My friend over there didn't like what you had to say a minute ago."

"He pulled an Uzi on us, what would you have done? It was him or us, and you're the ones who –."

"'Him or us'," I echoed. "The Renner family motto. Didn't you learn anything from Thailand?"

"I'd've hoped it was you who would learn something, after that pasting I gave you."

"So you're planning on doing the same thing here, with whatever's down there," I unconsciously cocked my head toward the newly discovered stairs even though he couldn't see me. "You're nothing but a common thief, Renner. The sooner you realize that, the better off you'll be. Here, let me help you..." I reached around the corner of the sarcophagus and fired three rounds from the Glock in the general direction of the doorway. They weren't going to let me out of here alive, and as much as I despised Renner and his techniques – indeed, his entire worldview – I still held a grudging respect for him whose skills I thought to be on par with my own. We had tangled before, and we had both got out of it relatively unscathed, Thailand notwithstanding. Not an easy task for work such as this. My rounds drilled into the walls of the chamber, hitting nothing but rock.

"You're wasting nothing but ammo, and time," called out Renner. "You're cornered, you have nowhere to run. You have no choice."

I heard more scuffling and quickly glanced around the corner and caught a glimpse of blond hair squattingly moving through the doorway and making for the far side of the sarcophagus. I slammed my body to the rough ground and rolled to the far corner, squeezing the Glock's trigger after a half-panicked aim. The blond man's head jerked as he fell back, his head bouncing once against the hard floor before starting to leak blood from the hole I had just put in it. "It's just you and me now," I said between hard breaths caused by adrenaline which refused to abate.

"Like old times," came the thinly dry response. "We used to make a good team, you and I."

"The game ends here today," I breathed.

Renner was silent for a moment. "What's wrong with your voice?"

"Nothing," I replied gruffly, annoyed.

"Sounds like someone has a cold. Listen, I can wait all day. I have food here, and water. How much water do you have, Prescott? You must be getting parched."

"Do you really think I'm that stupid, Renner? You've forgotten mental tricks don't work on me."

"Oh, in my experience they work on everyone, sooner or later."

I looked up at the statue. Anubis stood silent, watching the little children playing their little children's game. I got the uncanny feeling that his eyes, still staring straight ahead, were laughing at me. Scuffling from the doorway. Now was the time. I really didn't want to kill Renner if I didn't have to – I'd rush him as he was coming through the door and knock him out. I crouchwalked to the next corner of the sarcophagus, the one around which I'd be able to see the door, and peering around caught a glimpse of Renner just starting to come through. I stood and sprinted for the doorway, intending to grab his arm and pull him inside. With my first step rounding the corner, I slipped on a loose rock and crashed to the floor, my Glock skidding out from under me with the keen sound of graphite scraping against rock.

For a split second we both froze, Renner and I, and then at the same instant we started again, Renner coming out the doorway into the chamber and me lunging for the Glock like a baseball player sliding into home. I grabbed it and Renner saw me raise it and raised his as I squeezed the trigger, expelling a single round aimed pointlessly in the general direction of his legs. He fired his own, at the same time lunging behind the far side of the sarcophagus. It seemed like minutes passed before the sharp clap of Renner's weapon died away in my ears. I tried to move, but found I couldn't. I tried to move my head to look for Renner, but the filthy black dog-demon towering over me wouldn't even grant me that final wish.

III

The thick cloud of sand following us in the door-mirror of the ancient Willys-Overland jeep as we raced across the desert gave me a sense of excitement that I had not felt since before arriving here. Ahead of us lay only open desert for hundreds of miles, and our target, now only 150 miles distant if the map provided to me was correct. Deep-treaded tires chewed through the drycoarse sand eagerly, sharing my own enthusiasm. Every so often we'd hit a small depression and the jeep, having next to no shocks, would jerk and cause a small jolt of pain to shoot through my head. My driver, Khaleb, hadn't uttered a single word since we started out, allowing me the indulgence of wondering what I would find when we reached the temple. To his credit he hadn't asked me about the last-minute change of meeting place when we had finally met, which I had arranged through Tariq, although the reason was probably obvious. I got the impression Khaleb was one who kept his secrets close.

This place was immersed in legend both ancient and young. The Valley of the Kings lay far behind us, not far from the west bank of the Nile, and I couldn't help but recall the stories I had heard in my youth about that place, about mysterious and enigmatic groups which still held watch over the Valley, appearing from time to time as an excavation was underway, standing on the ridge above the tombs only to vanish moments later. And of course there were the omnipresent curses, which I dismissed as little more than fear mongering – after all, what better way to keep something hidden than by making people not want to find it in the first place? But still a morbid facet of my mind wished the stories were true, that the ancient priests did hold certain arcane knowledge forgotten to us in modern times, that the deaths of Lord Carnarvon and his dog in 1923 were really the product of a curse placed on Tutankhamun's tomb, and not simply an amazing coincidence after all. And there are other stories, almost too many coincidences, but reason was my warm blanket against the chilling wind of irrationality.

And thus, I had to temper my excitement with realism, realizing the possibility that the site may well have been sacked by looters at any time over the past 3400 years. I looked down at the map which lay open on my lap, estimating our current position in relation to the red dot I had drawn in the middle of nowhere that was our destination as if I could mentally speed us up and get us there faster. 25 degrees 2 minutes 17 seconds north, 27 degrees 14 minutes 39 seconds east. My musings were cut short by a change in the engine's pitch – we were slowing down.

"What's going on?" I asked, my voice sounding nasal due to the bandage covering my nose.

Khaleb pointed the thumb of his left hand at his window. "A sand cloud. Maybe a small storm, maybe another car."

We came to a stop and Khaleb switched off the engine as we stepped outside. After three hours of having my eardrums assaulted by the old roaring engine, the new silence sounded unnatural – not a breeze, not a sound save for the thin crunch of sand beneath our boots. I stretched and walked around the front of the jeep, already the sweat was forming on my forehead and neck from the overpowering hotness. Khaleb was facing south looking through black binoculars at a dark area which looked like rain clouds.

"Sand storm, coming up fast. If we hurry we can beat it before it hits." He lowered the glasses and handed them to me. Peering though the lenses, it still looked like dark rain clouds to me but I took his word. "If he was following us," he continued, "he'd use that as a cover."

I nodded, familiar with Renner's tactics. He would know we would suspect him but also that we wouldn't be sure. By him using the storm as a cover we might not know if he was really there until mere moments before he made his move. A rivulet of sweat tickled its way down from between my shoulder blades to the small of my back, where it was absorbed by the material around my waist.

The choice was simple: proceed to the site and wait for him – if indeed he was following us, or turn back now and meet him head on. The solution was simple as well: if we were wrong and he wasn't trailing us, we would lose a day's work due to the storm. If he was trailing us, whether we met him midway or at the site itself would make little difference.

"Let's go," I said, handing him back the binoculars and making my way around the jeep. Hard metal against hard metal as the doors slammed into their latches, and Khaleb roared the resting engine awake and slammed it into gear. With a spin of all four tires we lurched ahead toward the red dot.

IV

"Sabah el-kheir." The thin voice on the opposite end of the line sounded bored. I hated using payphones, especially ones like this that looked like a cross between a museum piece and something from Doctor Who, but I couldn't use my cell phone here and didn't feel like walking the few dozen meters to the clear zone.

"Tariq, it's Prescott, Schroeder's associate. I saw you this morning."

"Ah, yes yes, where are you? Your driver couldn't find you."

"There's been a slight change of plans." I could almost hear him frowning. "I need the driver to meet me somewhere else."

"Ah, is that all? I thought it was something big. Where are you? We thought you had been killed or decided to jump ship," he chuckled to himself.

I glanced about, making sure nobody was close enough to listen in. "He should meet me at the Ahmed Maher center, I'm waiting for him now."

"The hospital? What -."

"Just, I'm here waiting now, at the main door. This is where I am."

"Still impatient I see, very well. He will be there in twenty minutes. I will tell him to hold up a big card that has 'Prescott' written on it." He started laughing, half cackle, half cough.

"Good enough." I hung up the receiver before he could ask me any more questions, and sat down on a nearby bench to wait. A frail old woman of about 80 wheeled up to me in a motorized wheelchair and asked me to pass her the newspaper on the table to my left. I passed it over and she smiled, muttering thanks and nodding her frail wrinkled head before doing a 180 and speeding back down the hall in the direction from which she came.

V

Fishawi's Teahouse. Perhaps Cairo's most famous, it has been run by the same family, and has remained open 24 hours a day, since 1773. I stepped into it now, an hour earlier than my meeting with the driver Tariq had arranged, to scope the place out and get a feel for it. The cracked mirrors on the wall threw back broken reflections of the patrons – a colorful mix of tourists, sheiks, and upscale locals, and sheesha smoke hung lazily from the ceiling like a thin cloud.

I walked slowly toward the only open empty table, situated between a stuffed crocodile with dangerous-looking teeth perched on a shelf on the far wall, and a table of three westerners. The creaky wooden chair I sat on threatened to break at my slightest movement but somehow retained its integrity, belying its apparent age. I placed Schroeder's envelope on the table in front of me and a waiter appeared out of nowhere, taking my order for a Turkish coffee and an apple sheesha.

The place had been easy enough to find, occupying an alley off El-Hussein Square near the center of the Khan. I had been careful to make sure I wasn't followed, in case Renner got any ideas or had staked out the various entries into the bazaar. Renner. The very name sounded foul in my mind. He had caused me more trouble over the past two years than in the previous ten combined, and had the uncanny knack for showing up exactly when he was least wanted.

The three at the table next to me were having a loud discussion about a trip from which they had apparently just returned. One of them, a man in his twenties with brown hair with an accent I took to be Belgian, was becoming animated.

"...in the market, and he got one of the staff to come over and started running off this long list of fresh vegetables that he wanted to get. I don't mean just a few, I mean he was planning to buy literally sacks of potatoes, cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, turnips, whatever else."

His two companions chuckled. "So I said 'Who do you think's going to carry all this?' and he just stood there and looked at me for a second and said 'The donkeys'." Brown Hair threw his arms up in the air as if in desperation. The waiter returned and deposited a mug of black liquid and a sheesha in front of me with a slight upturn of the corners of his lips which I took to be a smile. I could smell the delicious aroma of the water pipe.

"Now, we'd already hired three donkeys, two of them to carry each of our packs and the other for the guide, so I said 'What, are you planning on hiring more?' and then he said, and I quote, 'Well, if the donkeys don't carry it, we'll have to carry it ourselves'. I couldn't believe him. We'd already been over the whole food thing the previous day when we were planning the trip, so it was beyond me why he was doing this big change at the last minute, but even more so - who the hell takes sackfulls of fresh vegetables with them on a four day trek through the mountains?? That's why pasta and dehydrated food was invented! Compact and light!" He leaned back heavily in his chair and tossed up his arms in exaggerated exasperation just as I was taking a sip from the mug. His hand hit the back of my head and piping hot coffee splashed onto and up my nose, scalding me. I dropped the mug with a gasp and started sputtering, the porcelain hitting the wood table but not breaking, spilling its contents onto the table and soaking Schroeder's envelope with hot black wetness.

"You'll want to watch what you're doing, pal," I said irritatingly, mopping my face with the cloth I always kept in one of my coat pockets.

"Sorry friend, didn't mean any trouble. Maybe you'll be wanting to sit on the other side of the table though."

I looked at him, my face smarting from being washed in scalding coffee. "Maybe you'll be wanting to keep your arms by your side instead of waving them around. Its close quarters in here."

The waiter reappeared with a handful of fresh napkins and a large cloth, and started wiping off the table. I took the napkins and tried to soak up the coffee on the envelope, but it was already too late, as a good amount of it had soaked through and reached the documents inside. As I stared at it, I could feel my blood pressure starting to rise. I carried the map safely and soundly tucked into my inner coat pocket, and at the moment that was Brown Hair's only salvation from lying unconscious on the floor.

"All I'm doing is telling my friends here about an experience I had a few days ago. If you sat too close to us, that's not my fault."

"See, I didn't sit too close to you." The waiter finished and glanced at each of us quickly before walking away with his wet cloth. "If you hadn't been so stupid and flailed your arms around like a turkey trying to take off into the wind, we wouldn't be having this problem now."

Brown Hair got up slowly from his chair and stood in front of me. "We don't have a problem, but it seems like you do." People were starting to stare at us now. If there was one thing I hated having spilled on me more than coffee, it was attention. I stood and faced him, and saw that he was taller than me by a good four inches.

"How about you buy me a new coffee and we'll call it even."

"How about you piss off and sit back down." He smirked at me with a condescending look and a slight cock of his head. I'd seen that look before on others, and it had always landed me in trouble. I had my pride, and I wasn't about to be humiliated by this goon in front of all these people.

"That's not going to work," I said. "But how about..." I swung a fist at him but he blocked it as if anticipating my move, and tried to land a right cross on my face. I twisted and grabbed his arm and spun around behind him, and for a moment it looked like I had him but then he slammed his head back, and the back of his skull impacted with my nose in a spray of blood and pain. My grip on him loosened ever so slightly for an instant, but that was all he needed to break free and push me back, my balance compromised by the pain shooting through my head. I crashed against my table and it collapsed, sending me to the floor amidst pieces of old wood. The waiter and two others came running but Brown Hair and his two friends were already walking for the door. The waiter barked a command at his two associates, and they picked me up as I grabbed Schroeder's envelope and stuffed it into my jacket, carrying me with dragging feet to the door. I stumbled outside, cradling my nose in my hands, blood running like small bright red rivers through my fingers and down my arms.

I tried to remember where the nearest hospital was.

VI

Concentrated adrenaline gripped me in its icy fist, constricting my lungs and accelerating my heart. I leaned back, feeling rough-hewn stone against the back of my shoulders through my sweat-soaked shirt and tried to catch and quiet my breath in the deadly silence of the alley into which I had just turned.

Steps approached, heavy and running, and I pushed back further into the shadow cast by the high gas lantern perched atop a round wooden pole out the alley and across the street. I didn't dare look at my pursuers, not even to make sure they didn't see me, but rather closed my eyes and envisioned pulling a black cloak around myself, covering me entirely and masking any reflection I might cast or sound I might make.

Within seconds the running footsteps began to die away, echoing down the dark deserted street, and it was only then that I allowed myself to begin to feel safe. As I straightened myself and my hand brushed against the object I still carried in my right-front pocket, I realized I was still far from it.

VII

Clucking of chickens merged with the sound of lilting wooden flutes, children screaming at play, and a low background roar of traffic to form a unique orchestration permeating the open-air Khan el-Khalili bazaar, or "the Khan" as it was referred to by locals. Located in downtown Cairo in the Islamic area of the city, the daily plaza had been a permanent feature of Cairo for more than 600 years, having been founded by the Emir Djaharks el-Khalili in 1382. The monopolized spice markets in the Khan had forced European explorers to find alternate trading routes for goods coming from the East, directly resulting in Columbus' landing in the western world in the 15th Century. One could find literally anything here – food from single biscuits to elegant delicacies, weapons from Swiss Army knives to AK-47's, and various other categories of modern convenience interspersed with traditional Egyptian and Islamic wares. Electrical supplies, clothes, carpets, perfumes, animals for both vanity and eating, copperware, medical supplies (some of a dubious nature, I noted), musical instruments, hijab, ceremonial knives, replicas of ancient art were all to be found here. It was the continent's largest shopping mall, open to the blazing blue sky of the Nile Delta.

I took my time wandering around as I had all day to kill - I wasn't meeting the driver Tariq had arranged until tomorrow morning. He hadn't told me much about him except that he was fat, and that he would know me. I passed by a rickety wooden pen floored with a blanket of richbrown matted dirt and manure, reeking in the hot sun even though the pen was covered by a wide light cloth. Four piglets scurried within the pen, and a fifth was being held up under its fore-legs by its keeper, a short thin Arab with a short thick beard and mustache. Squealing in high gear, the piglet was bobbed in the air and swung around, its owner crying out an advertisement for succulent juicy pork at a low, low cost. Other pig farmers in nearby lots were doing the same, trying to entice shoppers to their own pens. I walked down the street to an area filled with hand-crafted wooden musical instruments where small flutes and pipes were mixed in with carved lyres both large and small, guitars, ukuleles, pighide drums, and an astonishingly wide variety of rattles. A box of small xylophones with colorful keys and plastic sticks bore the stencil "hecho en Espana".

I stopped at a set of wooden pipes with eight hollow tubes joined in a row, each one successively shorter - or longer, depending on your point of view - than the one beside it, with the longest being about 10 inches in length. They were tied together with a multicolored wool-like cord, and each tube bore part of a picture that formed a whole with its neighbors – a replica of the Dream Stela, discovered in the 1800's buried between the forepaws of the Sphinx. The pipes would make a good gift for my nephew, and so I deposited the requisite coins into the wrinkled calloused hand of a fat old woman with an omnipresent toothless grin and kind eyes, seated behind the table.

I turned onto al-Muski Street and was instantly assaulted by the most delicious-smelling spices I had ever encountered. A hundred wooden cases held a hundred different spices, rainbows of powdered color mixed in with lemons and olives. My stomach growled slightly and I turned back the way I came, deciding to find something to eat once I found the other thing I was looking for. The scent of sandalwood as I turned onto the next street was as prevalent as the throngs of people.

Walking between rows of pottery now, placed on tables, on the ground between and under them, hanging suspended from wooden bars nailed to the makeshift frames of the stalls. I saw with a passing glance the quality of most to be inferior, and so didn't pay them heed. I turned right at the next intersection and found myself staring into a jungle of animals – of the toy variety. Thin-plastic blobs looking like mutated guinea pigs with huge googly eyes were lined up neatly on the nearest table, in the order of the colors of a rainbow. Opposite it to my right hung stuffed monkeys and chimpanzees and orangutans from wooden poles, the monkeys all hanging upside down by their tails in a weird bat-like tribute. I looked around for a stuffed lizard but didn't find one. Maybe further down at that lot where the long stuffed crocodile jutted its open-jawed head into the narrow street, making passersby have to bypass around it.

A search of the scattered items on the table revealed nothing, so I asked the slim boy of about 12 who was manning the stall with the seriousness of a lawyer: "Echaya?" He turned without expression to a series of boxes aligned against the back of the stall and reached into one, pulling out a green and yellow lizard with beady black eyes and floppy brown felt paws, as if he knew exactly where to find it. The faint trace of a smile crossed his face when I nodded, as if he were trying to maintain a sober countenance. I paid the asking price and he nodded curtly to me and leaned down to deposit my payment under the table in what sounded like a metal box. I strolled further down the street following my nose past a few stalls of real and replica weapons toward the scent of freshly-baked bread, the stuffed lizard staring ahead unblinking from under my left arm, a gift for my baby niece.

I grinned unconsciously as I turned onto the street from where the scent of fresh bread was wafting out over the area. Breads, pastries, cakes, pies, and cookies all battled to win the prize of my attention, a prize which I granted to a tall heap of fresh biscuits a few yards away, still warm from the wood-fired oven in which they were born. There were more people on this street than in ones approximate, and I had to work my way through the crowd to get to my destination. I was just before the biscuit table when I stopped in my tracks, causing a person behind me to crash into me. I muttered a low "assef", not moving my eyes from what had caught my attention and had set off an alarm within me. The figure standing to one side of the table, holding a fresh biscuit in his hand – my biscuit, I thought with a pang of jealousy - had narrow shoulders and close-cropped black hair visible beneath a khaki-colored fedora sporting a black band. The scar running from behind his left ear along to the back of his neck was both obviously and telltale. Renner stuffed half the biscuit into his grubby mouth with a grubby hand, and turned as if to leave. I turned sharply, raising a hand to my face and feigning to scratch an itch on my temple, hoping he hadn't seen me. I started walking – at a moderate pace so as to not attract attention to myself – back the way I had come and turned right at the first opportunity along a wide street where carpets were being sold. Rolls and rolls of them, stacked against the walls of makeshift stalls, hanging unfurled over wooden rods placed between high supports, everywhere carpets of all sizes and all colors. I picked up my pace and glanced back – Renner hadn't turned the corner. Had he seen me? I decided to not take the chance, and continued weaving through the crowd of carpet-lookers, following a general direction towards the west, and the nearest exit from the Khan.

Renner here in Cairo, I thought. It couldn't be a coincidence. His sources were too well-placed, he had to have been informed of Schroeder's plans and had come to Cairo hoping to get to the site before me. It was just dumb luck that we both liked fresh biscuits. I was a few dozen yards from leaving the bazaar and stole another glance back over my shoulder. Renner was there, looking out over the crowd in the wrong direction, and another man with blond hair was standing with him, scanning the crowd to the west. The blond's gaze fell upon me half a second after I had noticed him, and his mouth barked words to Renner which I didn't hear over the omnipresent blaring music and animal squealing and people-noise. Renner turned his head sharply and for a moment our eyes were locked. I turned and pushed my way through the remainder of the crowd, winning dirty looks and Arabic curses, and stepped out onto a busy downtown sidewalk. Smiling politely at two policemen standing nearby, I hurried out into the dusk-darkened streets of Islamic Cairo.

VIII

A high-pitched ring as the steel plate nailed crudely along the top of the old wooden door crashed against the thin tin of a little ball hanging from the ceiling. The sound repeated as I closed the door behind me, eventually being replaced with the low notes of a clarinet playing a contemporary piece, coming from a single ancient-looking Panasonic speaker high on the far wall. I glanced about the dimly-lit curio shop, taking in the almost packrat-ish design of the single large room comprising the shop, row upon row of shelves and cases, most spaces filled with every assortment of item you could imagine. An antique carved hashish pipe lay beside a shrunken monkey head, eyes staring wildly straight ahead. A shark tooth necklace, yellowed with age, resting half off its shelf, beside a dirk sheathed in dirty leather which stank of rotting wetness, although it was quite dry to the touch of my finger.

The rich scent of burning cannabis filled my nostrils, directed toward me by the down-current of the slowly revolving ceiling fan above my head, and I noticed the thin man perched behind the long worm-eaten counter ahead of me. I stepped up and rested my hands palm down against the subtle cuts and imperfections which had accreted on it over what I suspected to be many decades of neglect.

I looked into the thin man's glazed eyes and gave a slight smile. "It's a hot day."

The man twirled between his bony fingers the copper-capped end of a small yellow hose running from a tall blue hookah sitting on the counter to his right, and opened his mouth to speak, revealing a yellow-rotten set of teeth. "I hear they're calling for rain."

"This time of year? Maybe a sunshower."

Hollow eyes ran over my face, as if measuring up my value to be spoken to further. The bony hand lifted the thin hose to thin lips and he nodded toward me as if trying to get my attention, even though I was only one yard away staring him in the face. The hose lowered and dropped behind the counter, and the hand that had been holding it was thrust toward me with palm up and fingers waving wildly.

"Yah yah," he clucked. "The day's getting old, let's have a look." Vapors of smoke escaped through his rotten teeth as he spoke, drawn lazily upward by the faint current of the ceiling fan. I reached into my right-front pocket and produced the object, feeling the worn smoothness of the edges as I lifted it toward him and placed it heavily in his open palm, my eyes never leaving his, which never left the object. He pursed his lips and squinted his eyes in an expression which on anyone else would look comical, but on him seemed to fit perfectly normal. He swung an articulated light up from behind the counter and shone it on the object, which he peered at intently, turning it over and over, examining it from every angle and taking in every detail and marking. A satisfied grunt, and the articulated light was replaced to its previous position. Hollow eyes looked up at me but they now seemed to hold a sparkle which a moment ago hadn't been present.

"Yes yes, what you have here is all right. Very good, very good." He licked his lips and looked down at the object. "Do you know how to use it?"

"Yes," I replied, nodding slightly. "My research is always complete."

He let out a sound that can only be described as half cough, half cackle. "Yes yes, I guess you are right. But still..." He rolled the object around his palm with his fingers. "A very dangerous thing to carry around in the open. Very dangerous. My services include holding onto it for you until we reach where you're going. Free of charge, of course."

Schroeder's contact or not, I didn't like the sudden change in plans. "I leave tomorrow, and I require it now." My left hand, still resting on the counter top, I turned palm up.

Thin lips frowned. "Very dangerous, very dangerous."

"It would be more dangerous for you to keep it."

Another cackle-cough, and the thin lips turned upward into a yellow-toothed smile. "Yes yes, I was only trying to help you, you see. Besides, it isn't I who will be accompanying you on your journey. A driver will meet you tomorrow. Be at Fishawi's Teahouse in the center of the Khan, at nine o'clock in the morning. Try the mint tea and a shisha, very aromatic, very good."

"How will I know him?"

"He will know you. And you will know him I think when you see him." I gave him a puzzled look, to which he replied, "He is a little... fat." He squeezed the object slightly in his fist. "This," he said in a low voice as he placed it into my upturned palm, "is a highly sought after possession."

"Almost as highly sought after as what I came here to collect." I flicked him a quick cold grin and pocketed it.

"Ah, yes yes. You are a very impatient man, you know. You should take it from me, relax, slow down, you'll live longer." He bent down and pulled a large brown folded envelope from somewhere behind the counter, which he placed on the worm eaten board, as well as the hose, which he placed to his lips with a grin and a grunt. I took possession of the envelope and glanced inside it, then stuffed it into the inner pocket of my jacket.

"Not smoking," I said. At his puzzled expression, I elaborated. "That's the key to a long life." The grin vanished, and I gave him a small salute as I turned to leave.

"This song," he said as I started walking to the door. "Do you know what it is?" I listened to the melody coming from the speaker. The notes were regularly spaced and of a simple nature.

"I don't know, a child's tune?"

He gasped as if I had just committed the worst blasphemous act one could possibly imagine. "A child's tune?! That music is the oldest known song, thirty-five hundred years old. It's a cult hymn from Ugarit, in Syria."

I nodded, not knowing what he was getting at. "That's interesting."

"What I mean to be saying is, sometimes it's better that things not be known, not be found."

"You mean like –."

He clucked at me. "I don't mean like anything. I'm just saying, sometimes it's better. Look at this song. If it hadn't been found it would still be a great mystery to the world – the world's oldest song! What could it be? Could it be a glorious orchestration befitting the ears of a King? But no, now it has been found and turned into a comical thing, a 'child's tune' as you put it."

I nodded, dismissing his warning. "Nice doing business with you, friend." The music accompanied me as I approached the door, the tin bell ringing again. I squinted at the bright afternoon sunlight, and a fly kamikazeed into my right ear.

IX

Cautiously, so as not to fall into the river, I stepped into the small water taxi and sat down in one of the simple wooden seats, the boat rocking slightly beneath me. The pilot, who introduced himself as Mahmoud, smiled a wide smile as he purred the engine to life and started out from the jetty. I had instructed him to just coast up and down the river in the vicinity of the jetty for an hour - which was no small cost considering the taxi usually held six people and I had rented it out alone – with the intention of using the privacy to check my email and send a message to Schroeder. Here on the river, away from prying eyes, was one of the most private places one could find in town.

The waterfront of Cairo passed along beside me as we moved farther out onto the wide river. I opened my pack and took out my laptop, slipping the modem card out of the case and into its slot, turned it on and watched the other boats on the river as the computer booted up. The connection established, I checked the account I used solely for work purposes and found three new emails, the first from Bateman, of an animated woman bellydancing with the message "have fun!" above it. The second was a confirmation of a deposit made into my Swiss bank account – from Schroeder, presumably, based on the amount. The third was an electronic version of the documents already in my possession.

I typed up a quick email to Schroeder as an update, letting him know I had arrived and would be meeting with his contact later in the day and would keep him appraised as circumstances permitted. I sent it off and glanced at my watch. Four hours until the meeting. My computer emitted a low singular beep – a reply from Schroeder, consisting of just one word: "proceed". It was four in the morning where he was, did the man ever sleep?

Mahmoud excused himself for interrupting the silence, and said he felt obliged to point out the magnificent sites his ancient country had to offer. I listened politely, not telling him that the sites which interested me more were a few hundred miles to the south, Karnak and the Valley of the Kings. Especially the Valley, which held me entranced ever since I had first heard of its existence in childhood, listening to stories of the place where Kings and Queens were buried in secret underground tombs filled with vast riches and protected by ancient curses. Of course, as I grew older my interest became more academic in nature, but the allure never left me, and I fully intended to take a day and explore the Valley once this assignment was over. I would rank it as a crowning event of my life.

With a satisfied grin of anticipation, I killed the link and closed up the computer, sitting back to enjoy the rest of the ride.

X

I threw my duffel bag onto the bed, wishing it were me. Only a few more minutes. Registering the click behind me of the door closing and automatically locking, I cast a glance around the room while walking across it to check the view from the single floor-to-ceiling window, grabbing the TV remote as I passed it. The Novotel was like any of a hundred hotel rooms I'd been in before – stark, impersonal, artificially clean. I didn't like the brown-and-white checkered pattern on the bedspread, it was too 70's, but apart from that the room was in good condition, a fax machine an internet hookup on the wooden desk in the far left corner of the room. A look out the window gave me a stunning view of the parking lot, and of the airport terminal less than half a mile beyond with a single plane on final approach, probably mostly filled with western tourists.

I pulled shut the blinds and aimed the remote over my left shoulder, pressing the power button. I had no intention of watching TV, I only wanted to sleep, but needed a few minutes to unwind. Al-Jazeera seemed like a good choice. The screen came to life with a report from Sri Lanka about new negotiations with Tamil rebels. Listening to it in the background, I opened the mini bar and pulled out a tiny bottle of Arak – I loved licorice-flavored drinks – and sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling the object in my pocket. I pulled it out and lay back, resting my elbows on the bed and holding the object directly above my head suspended with the fingers of both hands. Strange how such a little thing could elicit such excitement in people's minds and make them go to such great lengths to attain it. For centuries it had gone unnoticed, until now, and now everyone was after it to get to the secrets which only it could unlock.

Or which it was thought to unlock – nobody had ever been this close before. A perverse thought flew across my mind that the whole thing was a hoax, an ancient joke thought up by some person whose sole job it was to think up practical jokes and lay them for future generations to find and busy themselves with. I wondered how Schroeder had managed to get a translation of the inscriptions carved around the outer edge, and what the script said. They were intricate, embedded into the stone without trace of chipping or imperfection, and were a darker color than the material into which they had been carved. The gold circle surrounding the central sapphire reflected a blazing stubborn proudness carried down across time. Between the gold circle and the edge were more carvings - glyphs and pictures of the Pharaoh interacting with sentries of the Underworld. Images frozen in time as much as they were frozen in stone. I pulled the object closer to my face, seeing my eye reflected in the highly polished sapphire set at its center. One eye gazing into another.

Tomorrow, if Schroeder's contact came through, would be the day that this ancient eye would finally see again.

XI

The low thrum of the Boeing 767 lulled me toward sleep. I had always loved flying, not only for the fact of the journey itself but also for the feeling it gave me, sitting in a warm cabin listening to the white noise of the engines outside, lights dimmed, while outside the world rushed by at almost-mach speed. It was almost like the feeling I got from walking in a raging blizzard, safely entombed in thick warm winterwear.

On this flight there was a movie playing, but I couldn't be bothered watching it. Something about a young man who had accidentally switched souls with an old man and was trying to convince the girl he liked of his new personage. On the screen their mouths spoke silently, she was yelling something at him. In my mind I imagined what they were saying. "But my dear, it's still me, even though I look fifty years older." "You're just a dirty old man trying to get me in bed, leave me alone!" "No, it's... it's... me." "Ahhhhh! Get out of here before I call the police." "But I am the police, don't you remember, I passed the exams but couldn't graduate due to being stuck in that elevator." "You fool, you couldn't even shoot a paintball gun, never mind something like... this!" I imagined her pulling out a pistol from the back of her pants and putting him, the other guy, herself, and the poor sods who had poured millions into the making of this movie, out of their misery.

I turned my head to the right and stared down, watching the moonlight reflected from the waters of the Mediterranean. How many others have crossed here in times past? Over countless centuries these waters have bore witness to the evolution of civilization, from the ancient Egyptians and Greeks right up to the emerging European superstate.

The soft ding of a steward-light chimed somewhere ahead of me, and I pulled myself out of my reverie to go over the papers Schroeder had given me. I already knew the history of the object of course, but I was curious to see how detailed Schroeder's own research would be. Leave it to Schroeder to have his field ops overly prepare for a task. I started reading the printouts, which gave a fairly standard history, starting from the earliest accounts of the object being in the possession of an Egyptian high priest named Shihotep around 1340 BCE. Shihotep had been found to have been skimming off the top of the plunders of the Pharaoh, Akhenaten, apparently for years. Under torture one of Shihotep's aides had confessed to his master's crimes, and Akhenaten had sent a column of royal guards from the then-capital of Akhet-Aten to Shihotep's temples at On - modern-day Heliopolis. Shihotep apparently still had friends in high places, for when the guards reached On they found – nothing. Shihotep had cleared the place out, leaving only empty pottery flasks and religious papyri behind.

The guards returned to Akhet-Aten only to find Shihotep already there, having come in on his own accord to strike a deal with the Pharaoh for a pardon. In exchange for the pardon, Akhenaten demanded the full and immediate return of all that which Shihotep had hoarded over the years. Shihotep told Akhenaten that the wealth had been secreted in a hidden vault, the location and key to which would be turned over to Akhenaten once Shihotep had been granted safe passage to the coast. The Pharaoh, suspecting Shihotep of trying to trick him into sending him into exile as a rich man, had him arrested on the spot. The location of the vault Shihotep kept to himself, even through what had apparently been the most excruciating torture. He died without revealing the location to that which he had hidden away. After his death, the only item found on his person had been a flattened circular rock about three inches in diameter, with the edge carved all around in a language neither Akhenaten nor the high priests could identify. At its center was a sapphire, and the Pharaoh suspected it to be part of what Shihotep had stolen, and so placed it in his treasury.

The next mention of the object had been in 481 BCE, in the account of one Husayn Hassod of a battle between Persian and Egyptian forces, as chronicled in the second volume of his history of the Persian Empire under the 36-year rule of Darius I. A small cache had been secured by the invading force, including what was described by Hassod as "a sapphire set in stone and ringed with the prayers of the enemy". After that, it seemed to stay in one place until Alexander the Great came along and found it during one of his conquests in the 330's BCE. Apart from a very brief mention halfway down a standard manifest of captured goods, there was no other record of it, and the sapphire-stone seemed to disappear into the mists of time until somehow ending up in Schroeder's hands, by means I neither wanted nor cared to know about. He had it – that was all that mattered, and after a few weeks of negotiations it was placed in my trust, and his trust placed in me.

A blonde-haired stewardess came up to me with a wheeled table in tow, bringing me back to the present. "Would you like a refreshment, sir?"

I shook my head and she started to pass. "Actually," I began, changing my mind. "If you have any pretzel mix?" She reached into a compartment and pulled out two small bags, handed them to me with a practiced grin.

A small jolt of turbulence and the fasten-seatbelts light chimed on. I stuffed Schroeder's papers back into my pack and leaned back. The movie was over now, replaced by an animated display of the ground below and our position above it. In another 10 or 15 minutes we'd start our descent. I couldn't wait to get some sleep.

XII

Schroeder was a hard guy to miss. I'd only met him in person once before, two years ago, and in the intervening time he hadn't changed in the slightest. Over six feet tall, heavyset but not fat, with black hair cut neat, he displayed a gracefulness of movement which belied his physical stature. On seeing me at the bar in the Third Arm, he started toward me, extending his hand when within shaking range. I stood and shook it, and – just like two years ago – thought all the bones in my hand might break, but this time I managed to make no outward display of the uncomfortable pressure.

"Schroeder," I said by way of greeting, grinning slightly. "Good to see you again."

"Always good to see you." He bowed his head slightly and motioned with his free hand toward my empty seat. "Please."

We sat, Schroeder eyeing the duffel bag I had underneath my seat. "I see you came prepared."

"I always am," I smirked, "especially when working with you."

He plunked a fat unfolded manila envelope on the bar and slid it over to me. "Most of what you'll need is in there, your ticket, travel documents, other instructions."

"Other instructions?" I asked, eyeing the envelope as if I could see through it. "You'll be meeting with an associate of mine in Cairo, Tariq el-Venkata. He runs a curio shop in the Islamic section of town. Don't let his appearance fool you – I assure you he's quite adept. You will exchange a few words, which are on one of the documents in there," he nodded toward the envelope. "After he's assured you're really you, he will give to you the final document you'll need." A look of smug satisfaction took residence on his face as he leaned back.

"And that document is...?" I asked.

"A map, showing the location of Shihotep's holding vault."

My eyebrows rose involuntarily. "Really? How'd you manage that one, Schroeder?"

"If I told you that, you'd be a rich, rich man. I can't give away all my secrets now, can I?" he grinned.

"I suppose not."

"As much as I'd like to stay and have a drink, I have other pressing matters to attend to, and you have a flight to catch," he tapped the envelope and stood to leave. "Oh, I almost forgot, you'll be needing this." Reaching into his inner left coat pocket, he pulled something out and placed it in my hand. It was wrapped in thin paper, and I carefully peeled back some of it, catching a flash of rich blue. I glanced up at Schroeder, who grinned again. He always seemed to be grinning. "I'll expect an update every twenty-four hours, through the channels you'll find in the documents I gave you. Good luck."

With that, he turned and walked away, becoming just another person in the crowd. I pulled the paper back over the object and placed it in the front pocket of my cargo pants. There was nothing in it to set off the detectors at the gates, and there was no way in hell I was going to carry it off my person. I opened Schroeder's envelope and pulled out the ticket he had secured for me. Departure in three hours, time enough for a good tall drink.

XIII

The lights dimmed in the wide auditorium as the emcee strode toward the podium. Seated in the leftmost seat of the farthest-back row, I had a good view of the crowd, whose hushed whisperings were rendered quiet as the tuxedoed man cleared his throat slightly.

"Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, welcome to the first night of the Metropolitan Museum of Archaeology's Empires of the Past series. Over the course of the next five nights, you will be transported from the depths of the Peruvian jungle to the heights of the Mongolian Plateau, from beneath the waters of the Indian coast to across the Ural mountains. Tonight, we are honored to have as guest speaker Doctor Jiang Li Ying, professor of Far Eastern Studies at Oxford University. Her subject tonight is the Ming Dynasty of China, and I have no doubt that you will find her presentation to be as intriguing and cerebral as any that has graced our eminent walls. Please join me in welcoming, Doctor Jiang Li Ying."

He raised an arm toward his right, and polite applause broke out as a figure walked across the stage from a hidden door and shook hands with the emcee, who made his exit just as the applause started to die down. Dr Jiang was short in stature, perhaps five feet six inches, and athletically built, at least as far as I could tell from this distant vantage point. Her short black hair was straight and framed a face which appeared younger than she must have been. She looked up at the crowd and waited for the last smattering of applause to drift off.

"Thank you for taking part in tonight's presentation," she began in a slightly-accented voice. "As you know, tonight I will be speaking about the Ming Dynasty of China, one which held a remarkable place in our history and left a distinctive mark on not only the culture of China but on today's society in general. As you will learn shortly, the arms of the Ming Dynasty reach even today throughout the whole world."

"First coming into power in the year 1368 of the Common Era at the hands of one of only three peasants ever to become Emperor of China, the Mings replaced the Yuan Dynasty, which held power during the time of the Mongol occupations. Despite being somewhat paranoid in nature, the new Emperor made giant strides in improving the lives of common peasants, improving the agricultural system across the country and instituting ambitious projects culminating in the building of the Great Wall."

"Perhaps one of the most pervasive legacies left to the modern-day world by the Mings is, surprisingly enough, the novel. Storytellers, who would travel the land telling wondrous tales and fables in exchange for money or food, began to write down their stories to form personal libraries – after all, it's much easier to chronicle and read a hundred stories than it is to commit to memory and remember those same hundred. Broken into sections – or chapters, if you will - whose purpose was to mark the point at which the storyteller would pause and collect money, these novels became highly sought-after objects and were soon made more widely available. The most famous of these novels -"

A chattering beeping sound echoed through the chamber. My cell phone, which I had stupidly forgot to turn to vibrate before the presentation began. Doctor Jiang paused momentarily and glanced in my general direction as if trying to find the source of the rude unexpected interruption. I clawed at my phone to remove it from its belt clip and flip it open before it could ring again, and succeeded, breathing a low "sorry" to the person seated to my right, whose academic expression was one of stern disappointment. Jiang continued as I got up from my seat and raised the phone to my face, making for the door to the foyer.

"What!" I breathed into it lowly as I entered the foyer and closed the door behind me.

"Prescott, Bateman."

"Bateman, you made it home after all. To what do I owe the honor."

"Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No, I was just... catching up on history." I walked toward the long row of floor-to-ceiling windows that made up part of the front of the museum. Taxis raced along the wet asphalt of 42nd Street, oblivious to the small buildup of snow still remaining on the surface, their headlights reflecting kaleidoscopically through water droplets on the exterior of the vacuum-paned plexiglass.

"Uh huh," came his slightly puzzled reply. "Well then, what's your schedule like for the next few days?"

"Clear, up until next Thursday. What's up?"

"Schroeder wants to see you." I froze. "Don't worry, like I said he wasn't pissed. He has a little project for you."

"Redemption?" I asked dryly.

"Not at all. This is something he's been working on for a few years now, so it's close to him."

"Well then," I said slowly, still somewhat suspicious. "I guess I should feel honored."

"I would. Tomorrow at oh-nine hundred, the Third Arm, at the airport. He said to come packed for a few days' travel."

"Did he say where I'm going?"

"Just that it's someplace warm, so don't pack the long johns," he chuckled.

"Alright. Nine o'clock, I'll be there."

"I'll let him know. Good luck, Prescott."

"Thanks." I ended the call and placed the phone back in its belt holster. Casting a regret-filled glance at the doors to the auditorium through which I could barely make out Doctor Jiang speaking, I made for the main doors, to go home and pack.

XIV

I stared out the bay window of my 23rd storey apartment, the notes of Mozart's Exsultate Jubilate providing a sense of security against the swirling chortling snowstorm raging outside. The music drowned out all but the highest of the gusting wind, the sound of which provided a measure of comfort to me, inside warm and secure.

"Di chan nahw ka."

I turned to the figure curled up on the couch – lithe, soft, smooth. A trace of a smile tugged at one corner of her lips. Ice crackled thinly against the insides of the glass I held in my right hand as I strode to the fireplace and poked at the flaming hissing logs piled within with an iron poker which had been on the hearth. Satisfied with the resultant spray of sparks and growth of the flames, I placed another piece of wood on top of the fire, and sat down close beside her and stroked her thigh with my hand.

"Is that better?"

She purred a response and snuggled up closer to me, resting her head on my lap, her long black hair splaying out over my legs. I could feel the heat of her body through the long white t-shirt she wore. The bay window shuddered against a particularly strong gust, the snow outside, even at 23 floors up, being whipped angrily around the cold black cauldron of night. The worst snowstorm of the season, and he had to pick this night to come over.

I tried to justify not answering the door when he rang, but couldn't think of a good enough excuse. Schroeder would hear about it, and then he'd have words for me, and it would just cause more trouble than it was worth. A soft-toned bell, and I groaned slightly as I coaxed the girl off my lap and, still holding my bourbon, went to the door and opened it. "Bateman," I acknowledged the visitor.

"Prescott," came the stolid reply, and I ushered him in, taking his jacket and hat and hanging them on the coat rack pegged to the wall behind the door.

"How's the night?" I asked dryly, neither expecting nor caring for a reply.

"Oh you know, about the same as it looks."

I poured him a glass of bourbon and dropped two ice cubes into it, handing him the glass, the newly-immersed ice crackling sharply and pathetically in the warm liquid. I motioned with a nod toward a chair beside the couch, and he took it. The girl sat up with her legs curled under her, and ran her hand along the back of my shoulders when I sat down beside her.

"Who's your friend?" Bateman asked.

"Just a souvenir I brought back from Thailand. No worries, she doesn't know English."

Bateman chuckled. "That seems to be a recent trend with you, doesn't it?"

"Actually I like it this way. Imagine the conversations."

"Speaking of souvenirs from Thailand..."

I nodded and extricated myself from the mound of smooth hot flesh. Walking to the bar, I reached down and opened a cigar box from behind the cabinet, pulling something out. "You have no idea the shit I had to go through to get this." I tapped what I carried lightly and handed it to him, a faint twinge of nervousness weaving its way down my spine.

Bateman turned the small porcelain figurine over slowly in his hands. Slightly yellowed with age in places, it still retained most of its original blue coloring. "Is this it?"

I nodded and sat down again. Bateman looked up at me from over the figurine. "Schroeder will want to know."

I swallowed back the last of my bourbon and rested the glass on a square brown leather coaster on the end table nearest me. "I'll give you the short version," I said, collecting my thoughts amidst incursions by Mozart. "When I came out of the temple, he was right there, sitting on a log as if he owned the damn place, surrounded by no less than ten Thai army boys, all of them with rifles on me. I dunno who tipped them off... I'd only been in there a little more than an hour so he must've been on my tail since Prachin Buri."

"Renner," Bateman said rhetorically.

I nodded and started lightly running my hand along the girl's bare leg. "He took my specimen bag, gave me some shit-ass speech about destroying history, and put me in the back of an open truck with the goons watching me. We started down the Plateau, I think he was planning on taking me to Krung Thep and handing me over to the Heritage Office, but I jumped the truck when we slowed down on a switchback. Slid down a ways, got a fucking sprained ankle and wrist trying to stop." The girl nuzzled her head into my neck, her hair smelling like evergreens. "Anyway I managed to get to a farmhouse and secure transport before they found me. Drove to Krung Thep, picked up my new friend here, and poured you a bourbon."

"But, you had them. They were really there, and you actually held them in your own hands."

"Oh yes, they was there all right," I nodded. "Another sixty seconds and I would've been on the road with them." I paused, remembering the moment when I stepped into the inner chamber and saw them, covered with the dust and grime of centuries, and then when I was finally face to face with them, the past incarnate into twin forms of magnificent gold figures sitting on an obsidian-lined shelf carved into the ancient granite wall before me, and then when I actually touched them, and swore I could feel a power coursing through into my hands, which may have humbled me if I hadn't known my place. "You should've seen them, Bateman. They would've been worth a sprained ankle."

Bateman nodded and grunted. "He's getting to be a pain in the ass, not only for you. An operation in Mongolia six months ago had to be pulled because of him."

"Yeah, well, Schroeder's little trinkets are probably rotting in Renner's museum now. Where's he based from anyway?"

"Renner? Cambridge. I hear he just got some kind of promotion."

"And he didn't even send me a thank you note," I said dryly. Mozart lowered his tempo, the snowy shrilling wind outside providing a blustery contrast. Bateman slapped a hand on the arm of his chair and polished back his drink.

"That does it for me. Don't worry about Schroeder, he'll be pissed at Renner, not you. Not much you can do when you have a dozen M-79's staring you in the face."

"Yeah." I walked him to the door, the girl moving down in front of the hearth to poke at the logs. Bateman donned his hat and jacket and we shook hands.

"Time to brave the elements once again," he said melodramatically.

"Have fun out there."

"Have fun in here," he nodded towards the girl, curled in front of the fire. The door closed and locked automatically, and I turned my attention to other matters.