Disclaimers: as before

Thanks for those reviews. I really appreciate it :)

Here's some more of my Nano ramblings. Hope they make sense – don't worry, I did edit quite a bit!

CHAPTER TWO: UNDERHAND DEALINGS

'Nigel…wait! Oh for goodness sake…err, sorry madam!'

As his younger brother fled the premises, Preston, without knowing quite why, felt compelled to chase him. He dodged through the miasma of fellow coffee drinkers, nearly sending flying a young woman with a tray who had been hovering hopefully over their table. Then he legged it down the escalator and off across the forecourt, all the while with Nigel still in his sights.

Whilst cursing both his brother and his actions, the notion flitted through his mind that he had been rather blatant – and, very possibly, a little mean. But, damn him, Nigel was just so bloody easy to wind up! The elder brother just couldn't help himself!

Preston plunged out through the large, swinging door at such a pace that the tall man on security muttered curtly into his 'walkie talkie'.

'Nigel, for Christ's sake, what's this all about? Wait!'

But Nigel, who was now already to the gate, didn't hear. It hadn't occurred to him for one second that Preston would bother to follow him.

'Excuse me, sir – I'm terribly sorry, but you left this on your table.'

Preston turned abruptly to see the woman he had nearly knocked over hurrying after him. She was around the same age as Nigel and, from her casual clothes, it was evident she was also a research student. Her brunette, wavy hair was scraped back into a short ponytail, and she was brandishing a small black mobile.

'Oh, I beg you pardon,' he flustered, slightly out of breath. 'But it isn't mine….oh! Of course, it's my brothers! Thank you so much. You really are awfully kind.'

The girl smiled awkwardly. 'It's a pleasure.' She glanced regretfully off in the direction of the younger brother, who had now disappeared, and returned with a sigh to her coffee and chocolate cake. She'd been searching in the library a humanities student that cute for at least a decade. Finally she had spotted one and she'd been stalking him for days! But just as she was on the verge of actually making eye contact with him, he had run – literally run! – from the room, leaving her with the gawky, dull-looking elder brother. Maybe, she decided, she should give up and try scientists…

Meanwhile, Preston hadn't made any more progress after Nigel. He was getting fed up with this! Besides, now he had Nigel's phone, it was for his younger brother to come to him to get it back. He knew where he was!

Preston was about to shove the said object in his pocket and head back to his office at the British Museum, when it began to vibrate and beep in a most alarming manner: the combination of blips and blops formed themselves into Beethoven's 'Fleur de Lys'.

It was enough to make a music lover's skin crawl! 'I've got to switch this thing off,' he thought. But then he caught sight of the name flashing up on the little display: Sydney Fox.

There was no choice now. Preston gave a nervous cough and answered.

'Hello?'

'Hello? Uh, you're not Nigel.'

'No, it's Preston.'

There was a surprised pause, as Sydney thought: 'What the heck is he doing answering Nigel's phone.'

'Oh,' she continued. 'Well, is Nigel there? I need to speak to him urgently.'

'I'm so sorry, he just popped off,' replied Preston, unable to control his curiosity. Had he been right about Sydney and Nigel's 'lover's tiff'?

'Um…could, I, err, take a message for him?'

Sydney's suspicion sparked. 'Nigel is alright, isn't he? Where are you both?'

'Uh, the British Library. We were just having a coffee.'

'Oh, okay. That's good, in fact. That place is nice and crowded. Make sure Nigel doesn't leave before he calls me, though. It's important, Preston.'

'Fine,' responded the elder brother, cringing slightly at the implicit lie. 'I will. Are you sure there's no message? Nothing you want me to pass on to him? I am his brother you know? You can trust me.'

Sydney nearly exploded with disbelieving laughter; all Preston heard was a sudden fitful cough.

'Are you quite well, Professor Fox?'

'Yes…cough…yes! I'm good. Look, just get Nigel to call me ASAP. And…keep an eye on him, okay?'

'Err, okay, just out of interest, why …?' Before he'd even finished the sentence, however, the line had gone dead.

'What was all that about?' he pondered. ' Nigel shouldn't leave the library? Well, that ship has sailed!'

A disturbing though hit him as he slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. Could Nigel really be in danger? But if so, surely Sydney Fox would be here, not on the other side of the pond still?

He hurried to the gate of the complex and looked both ways. He could see neither hide nor hair of Nigel. The little sod could certainly move it when he had to!

Preston groaned and glanced at his watch. It had only been supposed to be a half-hour respite, a quick jaunt to the library – any excuse to get away from his insufferable boss. If he didn't get back to the Museum soon, however, he knew he'd be missed and in trouble…

With that, Preston Bailey straightened his jacket, adjusted his tie, and hurried across the pedestrian crossing, back towards the gracious colonnades and crowded corridors of his workplace.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Nigel's wary glances skirted from one angry bad-guy to the other. Neither of them were looking at him or speaking to him. Deviega had a handgun clenched in his first and vaguely pointing his way.

He tried to take a deep breath, but it caught painfully in his throat. 'I mustn't be scared,' he told himself. 'It's what they want.'

Yet who was he trying to kid? He was petrified.

The Mercedes was stuck in traffic. Although the windows were shaded, this was mightily obvious because the car was stalling much more than it was moving. When it did move, it shuffled forwards agonisingly slowly. It was inevitable really, at around noon on a busy working day in a major capital city. 'But then', thought Nigel, his distress growing, 'what's the rush? Sydney is on the other side of the world and might not know anything's wrong until…until…'

He tried to stop himself finishing that thought but, of course, he couldn't. Visions of his possible fate pounded his imagination, chilling him to the bone. Despite the unwanted body-heat that emanated from his two companions, he suddenly found he was shivering,

'My jumper,' thought Nigel miserable. 'I must have dropped it in the street when they shoved me into the car!' His anger swelled when he remembered why he had been there in the first place.

'This is all bloody Preston's fault! If it hadn't have been for him, I'd still be safe and warm in the Manuscripts Room. And now I've been kidnapped - again! - and I've not even got my phone or jumper so I'm going to be both untraceable and cold. Great! Just great!'

As it came to a standstill again, vibrations from the engine of the petrol-guzzling vehicle juttered through Nigel's body, making him feel slightly sick. Still, his captors said nothing.

This was getting daft, decided Nigel. There must be a good reason for his abduction, besides bitter revenge - and these two lowlifes were going to have the common decency to tell him!

He mustered the best of his courage and asked quietly, although not with a tinge of sarcasm: 'Um, thanks for the ride…but would you be so kind as to tell me what all this is about? And then drop me off somewhere within easy walking distance of the nearest branch of Caffé Nero?'

Two sets of beady eyes swooped down onto him like vultures upon their prey. Nigel blanched and instantly regretted his pathetic attempt at humour.

'Sorry,' he murmured.

Deviega's chiming tones cut through the loaded atmosphere first: 'What is this all about?' he echoed sardonically. 'What is this all about? Now let's get this clear – does your little inquiry concern anything other than the obvious: in other words, about how your life from now on will be being nasty, brutal and extremely short?'

Nigel stared down into his lap. How was he supposed to respond to that?

Then somebody seized his hair, jerking his head upwards and his chin up. He found himself staring unwillingly into Deviega's scarlet and angry face: 'Answer me, Bailey!'

'Uh…yes,' stuttered Nigel, doing his best to look pissed-off rather than horror-stricken. 'I want to know what this is about…and…and…'

Deviega laughed maliciously: 'So I'm supposing rightly that you want to know how you can extend that worthless life of yours a little?'

'Something like that,' replied Nigel, swallowing hard. 'Oh God, Sydney,' he thought. 'Will you ever even find my body?'

Deviega released him with such a forceful shove that Nigel crumpled back onto Bellimo's lap. He glanced up at the second crime lord's face only to receive a scowl of such hatred that even Sydney's hated nemesis seemed benign by comparison.

Bellimo was about a decade younger than Deviega, but appeared to have aged much in the past six months. The chunky teddy-bear good-looks that had helped him pass himself off as a university lecturer had been eroded by an onslaught of deep lines around his eyes and across his forehead, so distinct they could almost have been drawn by a biro. His full head of greying blond hair had receded greatly, and his nose and jaw seemed much more jagged and angular. It occurred to Nigel that the former dodgy antique's dealer might not have enjoyed his six months in jail! And that he probably held him – Nigel – almost entirely responsible.

He sat up quickly, before he could be forcibly removed.

'Show him, Bellimo,' barked Deviega. 'Let's see if it's worth keeping him from the mud at the bottom of the Thames.'

Bellimo pulled a yellowing sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Nigel, who instinctively pulled his glasses from the top pocket of his light-red shirt.

It was a rubbing of engraved hieroglyphs, evidently taken some time ago. They were arranged oddly in two columns rather than moving from right to left across the page, or visa versa, as was typical.

'A friend of mine once told me you claimed you could eat glyphs for breakfast,' leered Deviega, elbowing Nigel in the ribs. 'So let's see what you can do – unless you want to see your breakfast again!'

'It would be nice to have some lunch!' lamented Nigel silently, but concentrated hard on the hieroglyphs, wondering grimly what historical treasures he might be about to unwillingly betray.

Most of the symbols were easy to decipher and seemed to be constructed into some kind of love poem. The fist, a barbed arrowhead standing next to a ripple of water, and the profile of a human face, were the well-known emblem of a kiss: the start of any great love-affair. The next, a fish with water and a pair of embracing arms, spoke of a romantic caress. The last symbol, in the first column at least, spoke of the act of lovemaking itself: a quail chick, two bread loaves and a crude representation of the male member.

'This first column is about some sort of romance…' He began, and then broke off as Deviega jammed the gun into his stomach.

'If that's the best you can do, it's the Thames sludge by teatime. Any idiot can translate that - I thought you were a specialist! What does the second column say?'

Nigel swallowed hard and returned his attention to the paper. Focussing hard, he could almost blot out the feel of the cold steel of the gun-barrel that seeped through his thin shirt.

'Its…its about war…I think.'

'You think? We need answers or its goodbye Bailey!'

'Well…this top one is the sign for a ruler – the crook and the sloping hill, and the looped cord tell of military might…but these last two, I just can't be sure. I've seen this four-point star standing beside the female figure before, in my thesis research, and I do have some theories…but…but…I've not worked out the exact meaning yet. I probably could translate it, given time and access to my notes…and I need to know where this rubbing comes from and if there is any more of it, to be quite sure what it says. In these cases, context is everything.'

To Nigel's great relief, Deviega nodded slowly, as if this was an acceptable answer. Bellimo seemed satisfied too, and pointed to the bottom symbol, which resembled a tall obelisk surrounded by the same four-pointed stars. 'What do you make of this?'

Nigel focussed on the final motif and stifled a gasp. He did have a good idea what it was – but it was the last thing he wanted to tell these rogues about.

'I…I don't know.'

Deviega laughed dryly, jabbing the pistol harder into Nigel's middle. 'Don't think you can get away with bluffing us, Bailey. This isn't a game! Believe me, one false move and its going to hurt.'

'But…really, I don't know.'

Nigel never saw the blow coming; Bellimo's other fist knocked the wind from him completely, while Deviega's grabbed him by the hair again.

'Don't mess us around, Bailey. It's Cleopatra's Needle, isn't it?'

'Yes,' wheezed Nigel. Well, seeing as the bastards knew anyway, there wasn't much point in unnecessary suffering.

'Okay, boy, talk. Tell us everything you know.'

'Um…okay,' panted Nigel, still gathering his breath. He wished Deviega would let go of his hair – it was most uncomfortable. 'There are, uh, several Cleopatra's Needles. The most famous are a trio of granite obelisks that stand in London, Paris and New York. All are ancient Egyptian, acquired by the said cities over the past two centuries but none of them actually belonged to Cleopatra herself. In fact, they were all first erected in the Egyptian city of Heliopolis on the orders of Thutmose III, in around 1450 BC…of course, that's nearly fifteen centuries before the ill-fated reign of the famous Egyptian queen…'

Deviega yanked at his hair again. 'Stop stalling! Tell us what you know about the real Cleopatra's needle! The one that stood in the court of the lady herself and on which she inscribed the declarations of her love for both Julius Caesar and Marc Anthony.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' replied Nigel, his voice a whimper as he braced himself for another blow. Fortunately, it never came.

'Yes you do,' growled Deviega. 'You gave a paper on it at a Harvard Egyptology conference four months ago.'

'Oh…oh, that Cleopatra's Needle!' Nigel feigned surprise but felt more that little grateful he'd got away with his lie relatively lightly.

'I…uh…haven't found out any more about it. At least no more than was in the essay.'

Before his breakthrough yesterday it wouldn't have been a lie. But it was now – and he could sense they knew it. But he could also tell they badly wanted any information about this obelisk, even though he wasn't quite sure why. If he could hold them off with a little enigmatic bluster, maybe it would keep him alive long enough for Sydney to catch up with them. Besides, he was now genuinely curious about something.

'Um…those hieroglyphs,' he ventured. 'Where did they come from? I mean, most people believe the obelisk was destroyed in the First World War, shortly after it was dug up by the Russian Egyptologist, Boris Dostoyevsky.'

'But you don't, do you? At least not according to your eloquent little paper!'

Oh, how Nigel cursed himself for having espoused his clever hypothesis so soon.

'Uh…no. But I have no proof.'

'Find any in Dostoyevsky's notes?'

Nigel groaned internally. 'Err, nothing much…'

Bellimo smashed his fist into Nigel's stomach again, leaving him gagging for air.

The antique dealer snorted at Deviega above Nigel's head. 'That'll do for now. He'll talk when we need him to, and he'll do the job. Just don't give him an inch.'

'You don't need to tell me how to handle a captive,' spat Deviega. 'You're an amateur Bellimo! Fox brought you down last time and now you're lucky to be on board with me. I'm the only one who can handle her…'

He trailed off as the black screen that divided the back seat from the driver and passenger in the front slid suddenly open. The round, pasty face of Bately appeared, grinning hungrily.

Nigel, still struggling to regain his puff, responded to the revolting new sight with an angry glare. He knew exactly what that bastard wanted and, even if it killed him – which, it increasingly looked like it might – he wasn't going to let him have any of it! To make his point, he bore his teeth, mustering his best attempt at a feral snarl.

Unfortunately, Bately found this rather attractive: 'Having trouble with Nigey? I'll sort him out!'

'No doubt you will,' replied Deveiga, arching an eyebrow. 'All in good time. Nigel has started sharing some interesting information, and we eagerly anticipate the time when he learns to be even more generous.'

'Cool,' said Bately. 'So, have you asked him if he knows anything about the Amber Room?'

'The Amber Room!' gasped Nigel, unable to contain his intrigue. 'You mean the carved amber panels from the chamber of Peter the Great, unrivalled in their craftsmanship and beauty, and lost since they were looted by the Nazi's in World War Two?'

'Yeah, that's the one,' confirmed Bellimo angrily. 'Bateley, you idiot! He didn't need to know about that!'

'The Amber Room,' marvelled Nigel again. 'It's the Holy Grail to Relic Hunters! Apart from the Holy Grail itself, of course…'

'Okay, I've had enough of this,' snapped Bellimo. Pulling a heavy-looking spanner from his waistband, he raised it purposefully above the back of Nigel's head. Nigel scrunched up his eyes, bracing himself for the blow he was pretty sure was coming. Deviega, however, grabbed the other man's wrist before he could carry out the dreadful deed.

'No! As much as I despise Fox's lapdog, we need him in working order. He needs to be able to think, at least.'

Nigel breathed a sigh of semi-relief, which jammed in his lungs like iron when he saw Deviega pull a large bottle of brown-looking liquid and a cloth out of the pocket in the seat in front of him.

'Let's do this properly,' he growled. In one all-too-fast movement he poured the liquid onto the cloth, and slammed it down over Nigel's nose and mouth. The younger man tried to wriggle away, but somebody held him fast. The pungent odour of chemicals gushed through his airwaves for a second, making his stomach wrench. Then everything went black.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Preston only thought about his younger brother again as he was about to leave to office. As usual, he jumped straight to the hat-stand as the clock struck five, took down his overcoat, and pulled from his pocket the oyster card that would convey him home.

'Damn it,' he thought, as his hand brushed on Nigel's phone, also still cosseted in his jacket. 'The ungrateful sod never came over to pick it up! Well, that's his lookout - I'm going home! He can come and get it from me there or live without it!'

He was half way to the tube-station when a pesky sense of responsibility kicked in.

'Damn! Damn! Damn! Nigel, why do you always have to be such an inconvenience?'

His better nature winning over, Preston Bailey did an about-turn and stomped off back towards the British Library.

Mild concern turned to genuine worry when he reached the cosy little corner behind the oak bookcase where Nigel had been working.

Everything was just as Nigel had left it before they went out for coffee. His neatly written notes were splayed all over the desk, the folder of aging manuscripts lay open in just the same place. His neatly sharpened pencil was just where he had placed it as he rose to flee the room.

'Oh God, Nigel, where are you?'

Then something caught Preston's attention. Sticking out from the top of folder of documents was the manuscript that Nigel had been studying when he arrived, and which he had quickly tucked underneath a blank envelope so it couldn't be easily read. Preston pulled it out. It was a handwritten shipping bill dated October 1915, and signed by Boris Dostoyevsky.

'Boris Dostoyevsky, Boris Dostoyevsky…' Preston mulled over the name. 'Wasn't he the Egyptologist who was supposed to have uncovered the real Cleopatra's Needle before it was destroyed by the Jerries or something in early 1916…oh!'

Preston froze with amazement as he read what the shipping bill was for: one large, stone obelisk of Ancient Egyptian origin. According to this document, signed and stamped, it was transported from Cairo to St Petersburg in late 1915.

'Good heavens, Nigel! What were you on to? This could be the greatest find of the 21st century!'

Sweat began to prick on the back of Preston's neck even as the idea struck him. Chances are, Nigel was just throwing a hissy-fit, right? He'd taken an afternoon off – hell, the man he affectionately referred to as Podge was probably sitting in the window of the Pizza Express opposite stuffing his face!

Still, he knew what he was about to do was immoral. If he was caught, he could be arrested. But…if he wasn't? Well, then he, Preston Bailey, could be the one to engineer a magnificent discovery and get the glory he so deserved for a change!

Preston glanced over his shoulder and checked nobody was looking. Then, with the dexterity, if not the assurance, of a professional thief, he folded the browning piece of paper in half and tucked it in his top pocket.

'Aaaargh!'

Preston nearly jumped a mile in the air as Nigel's phone began to blare out 'Fleur de Lys' from his pocket. Every eye in the room was suddenly wrested upon him.

'Sorry, sorry,' he flustered and, fumbling to turn it off, he dashed from the manuscripts department.

The phone was still ringing as Preston tore past another annoyed looking security guard and back into the foyer. He was so panicked that it was chiefly through luck that he even found the answer button.

'Hello!'

'Preston? Where's Nigel? He never called. Did you give him my message?'

'No…but it isn't my fault. I just haven't seen him. I waited for ages, though.'

Preston could sense the mounting tension through Sydney's silence. 'Okay, Preston,' she said slowly. 'This is serious. Nigel could be in real trouble.'

'Why? Look, if you'd told me more earlier it might have helped. What's he gone and got himself mixed up in now?'

'I can't explain that over the phone,' barked Sydney in a tone that Preston daren't argue with. 'I need you to help me. Look for Nigel, look everywhere, and ask around and find out if anybody has seen him. Keep the phone on - I'll be in touch.'

She hung up without even saying goodbye. 'Bloody Yanks – no manners at all,' sniffed Preston.

Still, he was certainly now a little alarmed about Nigel – and not a little intrigued as to whether finding his brother could lead him even close to locating a highly career-enhancing relic.

He sauntered back over towards the coffee bar. No doubt Nigel spent a lot of time there. Somebody must have seen something.

IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Preston turned up nothing but blank stares, until he made an inquiry at another coffee bar, a kiosk located outside library, just before the gate.

The girl there remembered Nigel; in fact, she seemed to know him quite well. The very mention of his name brought a coy smile to her lips, and her cheeks flushed pink. 'How does he do it?' wondered Preston. 'She's a pretty one, too! How does he charm them all - and scarcely even notice?'

The girl, Ellie, had seen Nigel leaving in a hurry just before lunchtime. He'd not stopped to say 'hi', which she thought was odd as there'd been no queue at her kiosk at the time. He'd looked upset, and she had wondered why.

'He turned right out of the gate,' she said. 'After that, I couldn't see him.'

'Thanks for your help,' said Preston, favouring her with his most beguiling smile.' Maybe I'll drop by tomorrow for a coffee.' Ellie, however, looked far from thrilled at the prospect.

'Typical', grumbled Preston to himself as he hurried towards the gate.

He turned right, as instructed, but then wondered where on earth he was going. From here, Nigel could have gone anywhere. This was pointless!

He was just crossing the side street before Euston, harbouring strong intentions of catching the tube home, when something caught his attention. There were tyre marks on the road; heavy, dark ones, the sort left when a weighty vehicle screeched to a halt.

'Bloody bad drivers, making a mess all over the roads,' he thought smugly. 'They should travel on the Underground like a decent citizen. I hope they paid the Congestion Charge!'

He was about to pass on when something else flickered into the corner of his vision. It was nothing out of the ordinary: somebody had left a jumper lying on the pavement. But he recognised it instantly. It was the blue woolly sweater that Nigel had been wearing earlier.

Preston ran over and picked it up; it was Nigel's, unmistakably. It smelt, it even felt like his brother, both scratchy and soft.

A lump formed in his throat. What had happened to him? The tyre marks started to take on horrendous new meanings.

The phone in his pocket rang again and he answered it in an instant: 'Sydney, this is serious. Nigel is in trouble!'

'I know,' she agreed. 'What've you found, Preston?'

'His jumper, by the side of the road… I suppose he could have just dropped it…but, there's tyre marks…oh God, who's got him, Sydney?'

'Where are you?'

'Uh, up the side turning before Euston station. But what does it matter to you? It'll take you over eight hours to get here!'

'Don't bet on it, Preston.'

'What? What do you mean? Where are you?'

The phone line went dead before the reply came loud and clear: 'I'm right here!'

Indeed, there she was. Sydney Fox was standing on the corner in front of Euston station, not ten metres away from where Preston stood, clutching his brothers jumper.

'What? How?'

'It's a long story,' panted Sydney. 'But I have to go after Nigel, and I have to go now! And I need every bit of information you can possibly give me if we're going to find him alive!'

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