Author's notes: [chapter revised in 2019] Hello there :o) I hope you've had a wonderful Christmas and a happy New Year's Eve despite the tragedy in South Asia. We've observed the three-minute silence at twelve, though I know that it won't do much good for the poor souls who lost their lives there and everyone who lost one or several relatives and friends. So I'll send a warm and heartfelt hug to anyone who needs it.
The title of this chapter is from a Chris Rea song, and we all know what the "road to hell" is paved with…
Disclaimer: I am now the proud owner of the famous 12-DVDs set of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and Christmas has come and gone, which means I'm fairly short of money by now. However, I'll state that I do not own the characters featured in The Mummy and its sequel; they belong to Steve Summers and Universal Pictures. Not me. Right? If I did, I'd have much more money. Still, I created the Fergusons, Fahad Hakim, Charles Hamilton and a few secondary characters we've not met yet.
FAIRY TALES AND HOKUM
Chapter 9: The Road to Hell
To say that dawn was Evelyn's favourite moment of the day would not have been quite right. Back home in London, sunrise or the minutes preceding it was something like the calm before the storm, a welcome lull during which she would get some time to cast off the last remnants of sleep. It was also the first moment of the day that she spent together with her husband and son, and she loved the little routine that had gradually settled between them.
On weekdays, Evelyn usually got up first, and then was the first to go downstairs to the kitchen and pick up the bottles of milk outside the smaller kitchen's door. Then Rick would join her and help her with toast while she sipped her tea and fixed his coffee and Alex's breakfast, who, despite some grumpy mornings, was generally never very long to turn up for any meal. After breakfast, Rick would drop Alex at his school on his way to work, while on fair-weather days she'd take out her bicycle to ride to the British Museum.
But here… Egypt made everything different. The 'Land of Living Sand', as she remembered her mother's usual expression, was a land of contrasts. The night was as cold as the day was hot in the desert. In the city, when the sun rose, seeing sunlight creeping down the white-washed house fronts was just as heartening as was the gradual sensation of heat slowly warming up the air around you and the ground beneath your feet. Everything changed, from the temperature to the colours, and all things seemed to come back to life in one fluid movement. Each morning a resurrection took place.
Such thoughts Evelyn welcomed as she walked along the streets of Cairo on this early Sunday morning. Even if it didn't drive away her worries, it did wonders to abate her concern somewhat. She had missed the Egyptian sunrise. The little flat-roofed houses slowly regained their whitish colour, tinged with a yellow shade that gradually lightened as the sun rose higher in the sky.
Although the sensation of gradual warmth did not raise her spirits the way it would have done in other circumstances, she felt that it would probably have been worse had they been in London. After an entire night spent in research, building up theories and plans with Dr Hakim and Ardeth Bay, the three of them were still without a clue. It was not without difficulty that Evelyn had finally agreed with Ardeth and headed home to get some rest.
Alex had been sleeping for a while now already, and was still fast asleep now as Ardeth carried him home. Her boy had bravely held on until he finally dropped on Hakim's couch at about five in the morning, exhausted. The break of dawn had been a sign that it was high time to leave and get some rest. Evelyn doubted she would fall asleep quickly, considering the impressive amount of mint tea she had downed throughout the night to keep herself awake, and Hakim made it quite strong. She had hesitated about waking Alex or not, till Ardeth had kindly suggested carrying him home himself. Evelyn had a feeling that the wish to see the two O'Connells home safe and sound had prompted the suggestion just as much as friendship.
Despite the rising cheer of the Egyptian dawn, and Ardeth's quietly reassuring countenance, she felt tired, along with hungry, and not a little bit discouraged. Something of it must have been showing on her face, because as they turned round a corner not very far from her house, Ardeth looked at her with a funny expression in his black eyes. "Don't be so disheartened, Evelyn. Even if we haven't managed to get all the pieces together last night, we will find them."
Evelyn let out a little laugh, low enough not to wake Alex. "You really are unpredictable, Ardeth. You weren't nearly as optimistic last time we went to search for a missing member of the family."
Ardeth's sudden grin lit up his dark face. "I'm afraid it's a habit we Medjai seem to have. Expect the worst, and doubly enjoy the best when it comes at last."
Evelyn couldn't help a grin, too. "I must admit that it sounds like a good philosophy. But tell me, then – what makes you so certain this time that we will find Rick and Jonathan?"
"I don't know, to be honest. I almost never rely on certainties. But I have faith in our stubbornness, as well as in the both of them. I now believe O'Connell to be able to more or less get out of any difficult situation, and for all his faults, your brother can prove remarkably resourceful as well."
So understatements were not the prerogative of the English after all. Picturing what Jonathan's expression would be if someone told him Ardeth had called him 'resourceful', Evelyn smiled as she picked up her keys from her pocket and opened the door.
The dark, silent house felt empty when she entered it with Ardeth slipping in behind her, quick and quiet as a shadow. Everything was just as she had left it when she had gone last evening to the British Consulate after her lengthy conversation with Satiah. Rick's trilby was left untouched on the chest of drawers in the living room, and she had even forgotten to bring the tea tray back to the kitchen. The abandoned cups, milk jug, teapot and cold kettle made for an oddly lonely picture in the light of the small lamp she had just turned on; the shutters had been closed all day to keep the heat away, and she didn't feel like opening them now. Something twisted in Evelyn's insides, an emptiness that she quickly dismissed, putting it down to exhaustion. She gave a sigh as she turned away from the table, gently rubbing the bridge of her nose.
Wait a minute. Something doesn't look right here. Evelyn turned back to the table, blinking furiously to erase all traces of sleep, and only then did she take notice of the square envelope lying right there on the table, plain as day.
"Ardeth!" she whispered as loud as she dared to the Medjai who had one foot on the first step to the first floor. Alex stirred a little in his arms. "Have you seen this?" Curiosity, mingled with dread, overtook any trace of weariness, and she swiftly grasped the letter. She had a fairly good idea what it was about.
Ardeth nodded. The light didn't quite reach him where he was standing, and she could only see his chin, his high cheekbones, and the tip of his aquiline nose. Everything else was hidden in shadow.
"I have, but if I may, I'll put Alexander to bed first. I'll be downstairs in a minute."
Evelyn nodded, a little ashamed that she had not had this reaction herself. But as she gazed down at the letter and waited for her friend to come down, a sinking feeling of foreboding began to creep into her stomach. This particular letter would be no good at all.
Ardeth was soon downstairs and standing beside Evelyn as she ripped the paper open. The letter was wordy, but short enough.
Mrs O'Connell,
As you may have guessed by now, your husband Rick O'Connell and your brother Jonathan Carnahan are, as we write, enjoying our company in a place that I am sure you will understand we will keep secret. They will be brought back to you in due time, when what is expected of them is completed, and this only if you do not have the rather foolish impulse to do something rash like going to the police.
I am positive we understand each other, Mrs O'Connell. We are a powerful organisation, and will not be troubled by impulsive actions, especially on your part.
Yours respectfully.
Evelyn would have wanted to say something, anything, but her throat felt too tight to talk. Instead, she let go of the letter, which now seemed to burn her fingers. Ardeth was looking at her, but she avoided his gaze, aware that she was blinking more than was usually necessary. Her vision was slightly blurred at the edges, and she wasn't sure whether tiredness was the sole reason.
"Well, at least the cat is out of the bag now," she said shakily when she could find her voice again, sounding like a pale imitation of herself.
Ardeth appeared grave. When Evelyn felt collected enough again to look at him, he said, "Whatever cat you are speaking about, this certainly is an important discovery."
Evelyn's tight lips relaxed for a second in an ever-so-slight smile. Ardeth always said that for all his good will, he would never quite get used to colloquialisms.
"Don't worry about it more than you already do, Evelyn," he carried on gently, seemingly not noticing her slight change of expression. "Those who have written this letter meant only to frighten you into inactivity. However, we must be careful. Do you mind if I take this letter to Fahad Hakim? I promise that it will be back before you know it."
"Are you going back to Dr Hakim's right now, then?" Evelyn asked, startled. "What about rest?"
"If this is what concerns you, don't worry, I will get some soon," Ardeth answered. "But I advise you to sleep now. Today will be a long day, and it would be best to get prepared for anything that might happen."
Evelyn nodded, tiredness abruptly coming back so strongly that it almost drove even her fears away. She folded the letter and handed it to Ardeth, who took it and carefully put it in a pocket of his robes.
"I'll be on my way, then," he said as Evelyn showed him to the door. "Have a good rest, and make the most of it."
"I promise I will," she said with a tired smile, still blinking. "There's simply no question of you waltzing off to some haphazard adventure in search of my husband and my brother without me."
"I would have been greatly surprised otherwise," said Ardeth with a smile of his own that made his eyes flash.
Thomas Ferguson had not closed an eye last night.
It wasn't the first time that he stayed up all night, far from it. This sort of thing tended to happen fairly often in this line of work. He had got used to the headaches, the stiffness, and the coated tongue that usually followed a whole night spent doing paperwork and drinking Earl Greys, occasionally splashed with a shot of brandy. One or two by night, no more, was his general rule.
However, on this particular night, Tom hadn't done any of the paperwork. He had simply, stupidly lain awake on his cot all night, pondering the situation.
What a right fuckin' mess.
He had arrived at this conclusion early enough, despite the fact that he had truly grasped the extent of the Chamber's plans when Gabriel bloody Baine and his hit squad had popped out of that Lincoln and told Jon, O'Connell and him to get in. At that moment, he had known that what he had dreaded and what nobody had told him was turning out to be true: the Chamber needed more than the diamond to achieve their goal; for some reason they wanted the people who had owned it as well. True to form, they had picked the first 'suspects' they had come across. And sent their most insufferable agent after them. Honestly, for all his posturing, agent Baine was little more than a smug thug with a thesaurus.
Tom shook his head, putting his pen back on the table and massaging the bridge of his nose. Why did it have to be Jon? And why did it have to be him on this case? He had been genuinely glad to see his old mate again, to share memories of the good old days, and talk about their respective lives. And when they had phoned him in the early hours of the following morning to tell him what his assignment was going to be, he had protested vehemently. But his requests for another assignment had been rejected and he'd got stuck in this bloody shambles.
Never, in eight years of work, had he been so reluctant to complete an assignment. Jon wasn't like most of the lads he had known from school, from friendly grown foreign, a stranger with nothing in common anymore. No matter how much each of them had changed, Tom had really felt, for a couple of hours, as if they were back in that little café on the bank of the River Cherwell with Liz, sharing some good laughs and a few silences.
War hadn't shattered that right away. People had left, proud and glorious in spanking new uniforms, never to come back, while he worked himself to the bone trying to pay for his studies and study at the same time. Edwin Farbow had joined up in August 1914 and died two months later. Arthur McAllister had been repatriated three years later with one foot missing, lost to trenchfoot disease. Elizabeth, who had joined up as a nurse and left for the front by then, had only found out he was even alive six months later.
The pressure on students to enlist had been tremendous. The Empire needed officers, and for some unfathomable reason one of the places they looked was 18 and 20 year old boys whose main concern so far had been not failing Ancient Greek.
Neither Tom nor Jon had been in a hurry to go to war, despite that pressure; it was Liz who had left first, surprisingly. Tom had barely finished his history degree in 1916 when he got conscripted two weeks after his 22nd birthday. Jon, six months younger, had enlisted right after, saying he was sick of getting white feathers handed to him in the street. They lost sight of each other after basic training; Tom only met him again briefly once or twice after the war before he and his sister Evelyn moved to Egypt for good.
Thus Tom Ferguson spent the last twenty months of the war in the Army Service Corps, driving ammunition, food, and equipment to and from the front, amidst shells and bullets and landmines. When the war was over, he had a captain's rank and a real talent for driving in the worst kinds of conditions, but also a true horror of driving at all. Thank goodness for trams, buses and cabs.
It was on a train that he had met Liz again a few years later. Then they had met again, and one thing leading to another, realised that they couldn't do without the other's company.
Tom tried to blink away the sting in his eyes, the result of another sleepless night. He longed for Liz's cool hand on his brow easing the worries away like she would do, or enveloping him in a tender hug. He longed to bury his face in her thick curly hair, breathe in the familiar scent of clove and vanilla, so sweet, so reassuring. Her very presence, however quiet, was indispensable to him, be it hearing her humming softly in another room, the sound of her feet on the floor, a glimpse of her as she passed, the rich colours of her dark red hair, a smile in her hazel eyes, the warmth of her lips… They had been apart before, sometimes for days, but both of them knew they had the other to come home to. Now that she had been taken away from him by force – not to mention the fact that he had strict orders not to see her – he truly realised how much he missed her. It was constantly there, like a knot in his throat that reminded him why he was doing what he was doing.
Throughout his career, he had had to do some dirty work now and then, but it never interfered with his personal life. For him, being a secret agent consisted of a lot of dull paperwork and very little actual field action, which he had eventually been happy about after reading a few fellow agents' reports.
Oh sure, when the Chamber had contacted him at the very beginning he had been beside himself with joy. At last, a serious organisation, if a little obscure, with direct links to the British Government was interested enough in his work on ancient civilisations to hire him! Officially he was a consultant of the British Antique Research Department. In reality, he was a clerk in the Chamber of Horus, a secret governmental organisation specialised in keeping a watch over precious or supposed dangerous artefacts and acquiring them. The name originally came from the legendary secret treasure chamber said to be hidden in the depths of the Great Pyramid. Tom still didn't really know for sure whether they had discovered it. His specialised field was the Valley of the Kings, not the north of Egypt, and any information was carefully compartmentalised.
He had known the bare bones about Imhotep, High Priest of Osiris, and the consequences of his affair with Pharaoh Seti 1's concubine Anck-su-namun – not just the hom-dai that had followed, but also some of what had happened both eleven and two years ago. It had been hard to lie to Jon. One of the reasons Tom was so seldom assigned to field work was his inability to lie without overacting and a certain tendency to blunder. Hiding things was not a big problem; as far as Elizabeth was concerned, he had been working for eight years for the Research Department. But he still had some difficulty with telling correctly a downright lie, lacking the aplomb for it.
Unlike Jon. Jon was by far one of the best liars he'd ever seen. That ability had got the two of them out of many a tricky situation.
The pen he'd put down earlier almost hit the wall. No matter how hard he tried to think seriously about his report, his thoughts always came back to either Liz or Jon.
Tom let out a frustrated sigh, furious with himself. For someone who liked life simple and comfortable, his current situation was anything but, between the concern gnawing at his guts and the feeling that a big part of this sorry mess, if not everything, was his fault.
Well, not quite everything, to be honest. But definitely a big part of it.
He had to explain himself, at least to Jon. There was no way in hell they'd let him see Liz, let alone talk to her, until the whole thing was over. Jon was easier to reach. Tom could always find one pretext or other that the henchmen would buy.
Right now was just the right time, too. The guards had been reduced to two rookies on Sundays, who probably wouldn't dare question the word of a senior agent. The perfect circumstances for a word alone with Jon and O'Connell.
Tom holstered his service gun as he stood up and headed for the door of his office, much smaller than his cover office in the British Consulate in Cairo. Half of his files and books were there, and the other was here in his Giza office. He had hardly enough room for his desk, his chair and his coat-rack, which was fine for him. It wasn't as if he spent such a lot of time in there anyway.
Only a couple of hours after lunchtime and it was already sweltering. Tom was sweating under the light jacket he was more or less forced to put on to hide the holster when walking in the street. Consequently he was in a bit of a bad mood when he finally arrived at the house the Chamber had requisitioned because of its good location and thick basement door, and used it to appear more self-confident than he felt.
"Ferguson," he said after the regulation knock on the door and flashing his badge at the young agent. "I'm here to interrogate the prisoners."
The lad – Michaels, Tom believed his name was – opened the door. He gave an embarrassed smile as Tom's eyes fell on the lemonade glasses and honey cakes on the table, called his colleague to check his identity again, and showed him down the worn and dusty stairs. Tom found himself alone in front of the door with the keys before he could even think up a better excuse. It had not been three minutes since he had knocked at the door. Amazing. Either the newbies were amazingly incompetent, or he had the devil's own luck for once.
Now that the two agents had gone back up to the ground floor to their lemonades, there was no sound other than the muffled voices, engaged in lively conversation, of the two 'prisoners' on the other side of the door. Tom hesitated for a few seconds, the memory of Jon's fist the evening before still quite vivid in his jaw. But he kept reminding himself that sorting things out with his mate was worth the risk.
With an intake of breath as if before a plunge, Tom took out the keys and opened the door.
The conversation ceased immediately, and he found himself under the fire of two pairs of bright blue eyes, one round and furious, the other slightly slanted and cold. It unnerved him for a second.
"Oh," Jon said in an absolutely flat tone, as if Tom was something nasty stuck on the sole of his shoe, "it's you."
Tom paid no attention to the sudden pang in his heart and closed the door behind him. "Hi, Jon," he attempted rather lamely. "O'Connell," he added after a second, with a slight nod to the American.
Neither of the two moved.
"What are you here for exactly?" asked Jon in a cold voice he had never used to talk to Tom before.
"Yeah," came O'Connell's quiet growl. "Aren't you afraid you're gonna get hit?" After a second's glance at Jon two steps behind him, he added, "… Again?"
Something flickered over Jon's face, like the ghost of a grin. This perhaps did more harm to Tom than his former friend's tone of voice.
Tom shook his head. "Look, I kinda have an idea of what you're thinking right now. But if you feel like takin' it out on me, at least wait till you know why you're here."
"I'm sure you and your bosses have a very important reason for keeping us in here. But we're more interested in getting out. What makes you think you're just gonna walk out of here when you could be our ticket out, buddy?" O'Connell said, a dangerous expression on his face.
Tom's heart rate picked up speed. Not that he was truly surprised. He'd seen prisoners escape with the unwilling help of a hostage, and he simply wasn't going to make that blunder. He stood his ground and took out his gun in a swift move.
"Well, this, for one," he said simply.
O'Connell didn't say nor do anything, but his bright burning gaze remained fixed on Tom. As for Jon, he just stood there silently, but there was something on his face that made Tom avoid looking at him in the eyes.
"Look," he finally repeated, "I came here by myself. No one knows I'm here but the two agents up the stairs. I'm not acting under orders now, all right?"
"And after all the rot you've been feeding us, we're actually supposed to believe you?" Jon piped up. His narrowed eyes, totally devoid of warmth, made a stark contrast with his nonchalant attitude, hands casually buried in his pockets.
"Yeah, that's what you're supposed to do," snapped Tom. "For chrissakes, man, I'm 'ere to help!"
"Then why don't ya let us out, huh?" deadpanned O'Connell, his eyes still fixed on him. Tom stared back.
"I can't do that. They'd hurt me wife if I did."
"We figured that out, thanks," said Jon, an unreadable expression on his face. Tom turned to him, surprised.
"How's that?"
"Because I spent half the night talking to her yesterday," O'Connell said. "She was in the cell thing right next to ours."
Tom's heart missed a beat.
"You talked to Liz? How is she? Is she all right?"
"Seems she is," said Jon, with in his voice something that sounded like a sneer and didn't suit him at all, "and not thanks to you."
Tom couldn't help a withering glare. "D'you really think this is a time for witty remarks?"
Jon's eyes went round. "Could you think of a better time?"
"Actually, yeah, I could!"
"All right, stop it, you two," O'Connell cut in, looking a bit exasperated. "Jeez, you sound like a couple of kids. You, get to the point. You, let him talk."
Jon shot the American a rather dirty look, but didn't add anything. Tom holstered his gun and took the opportunity to speak, somewhat grateful for O'Connell's intervention.
"Right. Well, as you may have guessed, I don't really work for the British Antique Research Department –" a snort interrupted him, and he glowered at Jon "– but for a governmental institution called the Chamber of Horus, and we're supposed to look after dangerous ancient artefacts. That's why the diamond of Ahm Shere was removed from the museum – right, Jon, if you snigger one more time I'll just leave here and not come back."
"Please," Jon said sarcastically before O'Connell could say anything, "do carry on. I'd hate to interrupt you."
Torn between remorse and sheer exasperation, Tom cast another quick glare at his former friend, and continued, "So the diamond was taken. My assignment was initially to try and keep the curator busy while a team took the diamond… But right before the start of the mission, the day before in fact, I bumped into you totally by chance – yes, that much is true – and me bosses changed their plans.
"They decided to use you as a connection to the Museum through the curator in order to get me inside the museum in the first place. But you were so eager to show me that diamond that everything went much quicker than expected."
Tom preferred to stop there, because facing the combined looks of a pained and furious Jon and an equally furious O'Connell was a bit much. He carried on despite the lump in his throat that he fought hard to swallow.
"Jon, you have to believe me when I say that I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to do anything as far as you and your family were concerned, and I certainly didn't want you involved in this mess! But you must understand that orders are something you can't just ignore…" Christ, how stupid he sounded! "I – I don't know what they would have done, but it wouldn't've been very nice. These folks don't joke, mate."
"Oh really? I sort of felt that when they bashed my head in twice," sneaked Jon with so much venom that even O'Connell glanced at him with a slightly surprised expression. Tom tried to steel himself.
"Look, the evening before the theft of the diamond, I was told that I was to help the team in it, meaning let you be stunned and then be knocked out too meself. I said no, that there was no way in hell I'd let anybody hurt you to serve their interests. That's when they told me that I didn't really have a choice."
He took in a long breath, and to his relief, neither Jon nor O'Connell said anything in the meantime.
"They showed me a picture of Liz in a room I didn't recognise, with in her hands an issue of the Voice of Cairo. They told me that they had guessed I'd say that, and that if I didn't obey orders, I'd receive bits and pieces of her… a finger… a toe… every day." His voice broke a little. For a second time he tried to swallow the lump in his throat, without much success. "I didn't know they could actually do something like that, but I wasn't that surprised somehow."
Again, Tom stopped and nobody said anything. This time it was Jon's turn to avoid his gaze, looking pale, but O'Connell still stared at him with something like interest in his bright blue eyes.
"What would you have done if it were you?" asked Tom, turning to the American, suddenly angry. "If you'd seen a picture of your wife like that, and heard them sayin' they'd torture her if you didn't obey? Wouldn't you have done everything you could for all this bloody mess to end quick?"
"Cool down, I get your point," O'Connell said slowly. "I'd never do anything that put Evy in danger. But if some bunch of weirdos had kidnapped her, I sure as hell would have done everything to find her and get her outta here."
Tom shook his head. "You don't understand. I can't just leave this job. They'd find us anywhere and kill us."
"Now you're just being paranoid," muttered Jon, his voice a little bit shaky. "Surely you can't be that important?"
"Not really, Jon, but I know a lot of stuff that could be dangerous for them. I'm just a pawn in the game, but they can't afford to lose any."
"What game are you talking about?" O'Connell asked lowly, his eyes narrowing. "What kind of twisted game is that?"
That's the moment the door chose to open with a grim creak.
"One with extremely important resonance, Mr O'Connell," said a low, chilling voice from the threshold.
Charles K. Hamilton stood there, flanked by none other than Baine and an unassuming fellow named Stephens, and wearing what came closest to a smile on his face.
"Who the hell are you?"
Rick had never seen this guy before. He had never even seen anything like this guy before. Oddball Number One he knew, sort of, and the second goon was an unknown quantity, but this guy… He was clean. Despite the fact that he came from the hot and dusty outside, there was not a single grey hair sticking out and his suit was perfect. He looked so immaculate it was disturbing.
When you looked further than the suit, though, there was just something creepy about the guy. Real creepy. Apart from his black suit, an oddity in itself, everything about him was grey – his hair, the hue of his skin, and his eyes. Those eyes were the coldest Rick had looked upon in a couple of years.
Rick's eyes fell on the two Englishmen. Ferguson had blanched, and Jonathan wore a weird expression on his face.
Then it dawned on him. "I've just met Nosferatu", "His boss wanted to see me about what happened at the Museum two days ago. Seems that the Research Department was keeping an eye on the diamond…"
"You're his boss, right?" he said to the newcomer, jerking a thumb toward Ferguson without looking at him. "The guy Jonathan went to see yesterday."
Unlike the rest of his person, the creep's teeth showed white when he unveiled his eye-teeth in some grim attempt at a smile. Rick almost expected them to be grey as well.
"You know, Mr O'Connell, from what I had gathered so far, you didn't strike me as the smart sort." Here he glanced sideways to Number One, who offered the American his slimiest, most toad-like smile. "It seems that hearsay does not do you justice."
"What do you want with that diamond?" Rick asked abruptly. He always hated people beating around the bush, and to him it looked as though they'd been doing just that for a while. "And you!" He cast a brief look at Ferguson, who looked horror-struck. "Thought you weren't 'acting under orders'?"
"I was not," shouted Ferguson, sounding desperate. It was then that Rick noticed that Jonathan's glare had not left the Liverpudlian since his boss arrived. "I swear to God, I wasn't!"
"First things first, Ferguson," came Grey Guy's calm, low-pitched voice. "Since you do not already know me, Mr O'Connell, my name is Charles Hamilton, and I am indeed a 'boss', Ferguson's and many others'. We happen to work within a governmental organisation called the Chamber of Horus. That should be enough for you to know.
"Still, Ferguson is speaking the truth: I certainly did not give any order for him to interrogate you, although I did suspect that he would try and reach you anyway. That is why I gave particular orders to the two agents up there for them to contact me whenever he came, if he did.
"As for the Diamond of Ahm Shere… I take it that Ferguson did not have the time to fill you in about that particular subject, did he?"
"Yep, he stopped before the interesting part," Rick said, keeping his voice even. Ferguson turned a pair of hurt and surprised brown eyes to him. To tell the truth, Rick had not been unsympathetic to the Englishman's story, but there were some things that needed to be done quick. And he didn't really feel like apologising to Ferguson.
"Did he now?" There was something mocking written all over Hamilton's severe face, down to the eye-teeth. "Well, it is true that there is a lot our mutual 'friend' doesn't know about." He turned away from Rick to Jonathan. "Mr Carnahan, I apologise for not greeting you so far. How do you fare in this simple but homely abode?"
"Not too bad, the accommodation is just top-notch," Jonathan eventually said, shifting his gaze from Ferguson to his boss. "Except for your coffee, which is just about the most foul-tasting, revolting bloody thing I've ever had the misfortune of tasting in my life."
Rick couldn't help a grin. His brother-in-law could be very entertaining when he decided to turn on the posh and wield it like a weapon.
Hamilton pursed his lips, and his gaze went even colder, if such a thing was possible, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he turned to Number One and the other guy.
"Mr Baine, Mr Stephens? You can leave us now, gentlemen. Wait for me behind the door, and do not let anyone come out or in unless I give you the order to. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly, sir," answered Number One, aka Baine. To be honest, Rick was rather relieved to have a name for the guy. It was a lot easier to hate someone when you had a name to go with the death threats.
Once they were outside and the door was shut, Hamilton slowly turned to the three of them again, and, looking at each of them in turn, said, "Now, has any of you heard about something called the Night of the Long Knives?"
Such an intensity had just kindled in Hamilton's dead-looking grey eyes that Rick almost unconsciously racked his brain for an answer to the echo the term had made. And he found it.
"Something that happened in Germany a couple of years ago, right? The papers talked about it." The memory was hazy, but it definitely rang a bell about some nasty kind of stuff. He even remembered a few caricatures published at the time.
"I think I sort of see what you mean as well," Jonathan said behind him in a low voice. "Wasn't it something about purges in the German army and whatnot?"
"Pleasure to see you read the press so carefully," said Hamilton sarcastically. "It did have something to do with Germany, in this you are both correct. However, I do not suppose that the words 'Sturm Abteilung' mean anything to you. Am I mistaken?"
Rick couldn't help but exchange a puzzled glance with Jonathan and Ferguson, who both glanced back, looking equally lost. Where was all of this leading to?
"I might have known. Well, gentlemen, know then that Adolf Hitler did not come to power all by himself. He had help, as all leaders do. In his case, there were faithful followers who had been behind him as early as the mid-Twenties, and who had been organised into a sort of alternate army, or militia, if you will.
"Now, three years ago, decisions were made to remove the SA, as they were called for short, from the scene. As it turns out, they were starting to be a nuisance rather than a support to Hitler: although most were still faithful to him, they had quite a bad reputation among the German people, and the German people's unquestioning faith in their Führer is paramount to Hitler. Furthermore, there were whispers of discontent among the SA themselves that their Führer had forgotten whom he owned his very power as the Chancellor to in the first place.
"These kinds of whispers came completely expected, even hoped-for. Three years ago, on the pretence of quelling a plot, Hitler secretly sentenced leaders of the Sturm Abteilung to be massively eliminated."
Jeez. Rick still couldn't for the life of him see the point that Hamilton guy intended to make, but the whole business definitely smelled foul. Glancing at the two other Englishmen, he could see that, while Ferguson's brown eyes were narrowing, Jonathan's blue eyes had gone rounder.
"Oh, I remember," he said. "That's right, it was in the papers, made quite a scandal at the time –"
"My, what a memory the public has." Hamilton rolled his eyes. "In any case, what the papers did not print was that the actual number of 'victims' was not sixty-one, as the Nazi government stated, but over four hundreds, maybe a thousand."
"A thousand!?" Rick was barely aware of his mouth falling slightly open. He goggled at Hamilton for a little while, long enough for the thought to really sink in. A thousand people killed just for the sake of a reputation, without trial, without anything? Even the guy from Kafka's story had had a trial, if a phony one.
He remembered what Cazenave had told him, back in the Legion, about executions of rebels in the army in '17. How they had been court-martialled and shot to show the others how the officers dealt with 'traitors'. Rick remembered the grim expression in the Frenchman's eyes as he told him that the actual number of victims of such 'operations' was surely much bigger than what he had heard.
But here… The huge number made things suddenly look huge. Four hundreds at least. Shit.
"Yes, gentlemen," said Hamilton, and there was something sinister in his not-smile as he looked at the three of them. "Sort of boggles the mind, doesn't it? Of course, I was not supposed to know this fact. It took some personal investigation for me to find out. But you see, I had motivations." There he stopped, and continued in a flat tone, totally devoid of emotion, "One of my second cousins… 'disappeared' at the time."
Rick, Jonathan, and Ferguson looked at each other.
"Allow me to display a few details of my family history. Kurt – the cousin I am talking about – came from the German side of the family, and had lived all his life in the country his mother was born in. As it turns out, he became infatuated with Hitler's idea of a new Germany, and climbed step by step the ladder to higher ranks of the SA. I think he was the equivalent of our rank of sergeant when the Night of the Long Knives came to pass.
"As the German government gave our family no account whatsoever of what had befallen Kurt, I decided to do research on my own. My rank in the Chamber of Horus proved quite useful when I discovered the Germans' – and more specifically Hitler's – interest in the occult, and soon enough I had a contact of my own in the Nazi government."
"You don't mean you traded pieces of information about our treasures for information about your cousin!?" Ferguson asked, sounding thoroughly shocked. Hamilton didn't even look at him.
"Quiet, Ferguson. I did not do research on my cousin only. When I discovered that they had had him executed, I did not broach the subject anymore and concentrated instead on the Nazis' plans. My contact was – rather stupidly, I have to say – glad to give me details on what they were going to do to Europe and Britain in particular. No need to say that I had him done away with as soon as he became too dangerous."
"Aren't you afraid a cousin of his will investigate his death?" said Rick, sarcastic.
"Very funny. In any case, what I learned then is the reason of your presence here."
"Could you by any chance be more precise?" Jonathan asked.
"I could." The Englishman's voice, from low and chilly, turned downright creepy at this point. "Gentlemen, something terrible is about to happen at the hands of the Nazis. I do not know when, but someday, soon, that black order will sweep over Europe, a denial of all the values of Christianity, and the world as we know it will be over."
Despite the fact that this had to be one of the most ridiculous ideas he had ever heard, Rick couldn't help but feel a little unsettled by the guy's flat, dead serious tone, and the total lack of light in his cold grey eyes. Besides, he had some experience now with announced apocalypses.
"That's what your 'contact' told you?" Rick said, not wanting this creep to think he believed this load of bullshit for one second. "Could've picked something more original. We're kinda used to 'the end of the world as we know it', ya know."
He had the small satisfaction of hearing a quiet chuckle coming from behind him. At least his brother-in-law's sense of humour appeared to be intact.
Hamilton glanced at him with a look of intense disgust, to which Rick replied with a fake grin.
"Oh," Hamilton said, gritting his teeth, "because you have witnessed Imhotep's rising twice, you think you are prepared for everything? You fools, I am not talking about science-fiction mummies waking up from the dead!"
"Because what happened at Hamunaptra and Ahm Shere is science-fiction now, is it?" Jonathan exclaimed before Rick could say anything. "Not sure that those who died back there would agree with you, old chap." There was genuine anger in his eyes, and something in his voice quivered as he finished his sentence. Rick didn't even have to look at him to know that the both of them were thinking about the same person who had 'died' back there.
Ferguson looked at his old friend with an odd expression in his eyes, but didn't say anything. Maybe he was thinking about the same thing.
"What I meant to say –" Hamilton's voice grew louder "– was that Imhotep is nothing compared to what Adolf Hitler plans to do. He was an evil, yes, but an evil of another age – Hitler is, or will be, the evil of our age. Has none of you read Mein Kampf? Do you not understand that he will do – and is in fact doing – exactly as he says? If he can order hundreds of his own supporters killed, what will stop him from killing thousands?"
Despite what Evy liked to call his 'matter-of-fact' nature, which undoubtedly referred to his habit of believing only what he could see with his own eyes, Rick was starting to get a bit uneasy. This guy seemed deadly serious. And what was more, he did sound like he completely believed what he was saying. But…
"I still have a question. What does all this have to do with us?"
Hamilton's lips curled in a sort of smile. "Nothing – and everything. In fact, the real point of your being here is Ahm Shere."
"Ahm Shere?!" What the –
"Thought it was supposed to be science-fiction," Jonathan piped in, his eyes narrowed like each time he was thinking hard and fast. Usually it was when he was trying to come up with an escape plan – and the person he was trying to escape from was usually Evy.
"You know, Mr Carnahan –" Hamilton turned for a second to him with something that looked like sarcasm in his eyes, otherwise seemingly devoid of any expression, "– you really are sounding like somebody who would like to pass for a complete idiot. I'm going to assume that you are not one and resume my explanation."
"You do that, old boy, while I send for my duelling pistols."
Rick glanced at Jonathan. The man still looked a little bit pale, but a little pissed as well. But then maybe this had something to do with the fact that he didn't have a gun pointed at him this time.
"So very droll," Hamilton said flatly. "Now, where was I?"
"Ahm Shere," replied a chorus of three voices, one American and the other two English.
Hamilton cast a withering glance at Ferguson. The Englishman winced.
"When you are quite finished with this childish behaviour, perhaps I might tell you the exact reason why you betrayed your former school friend, Ferguson," he said in a voice that made Rick very glad he wasn't in Ferguson's shoes right now. "Now, Ahm Shere.
"I cannot remember a time when I wasn't fascinated with this legend. The oasis lost in the great desert… The pyramid in the middle of the luxuriant, but deadly wild forest… And the fact that this pyramid was said to be made of gold undoubtedly had its attraction. But to tell the truth, all these legendary tales weren't really the focus of my attention. What I was most interested in, ever since the very beginning, was the Army of Anubis."
Funny, Rick mused. Archaeologists never seem to dream about normal stuff. My own wife dreams about old decaying corpses and all this guy can think about is an old decayed army – which, incidentally, doesn't exist anymore.
"Well, too bad for you," came Jonathan's voice. "Place's closed. Last time I heard, the Army was gone."
"If you would be so kind as to not interrupting me for trifles like this," Hamilton said icily, "I would greatly appreciate it. If the three of you were a little more aware of Egyptian history, then you would know the full story of Ahm Shere."
"What, you mean about the Scorpion King, how he sold his soul to Anubis so that he could have his own big bad army to kick his opponents' collective ass, was then sucked into the pyramid, how Hafez and his pals woke Imhotep up two years ago so that he could kick the Scorpion King's ass, so that his army would be his?" Rick had said that quickly, without even stopping to breathe. Hamilton looked at him, one grey eyebrow raised in obvious disdain.
"Americans."
"Watch it, you," Jonathan snapped. This made Rick blink in surprise, then smile just a bit.
"Your depiction is more or less accurate, Mr O'Connell," Hamilton admitted. "The Army of Anubis was bestowed upon the Scorpion King as a gift, a token of his alliance with the jackal-god. It logically disappeared in the blink of an eye when you killed the Scorpion King with the Sceptre of Osiris. I wouldn't be mistaken if I was to say this is all you know, would I? However, it is not the entire truth."
"What d'you mean, 'not the entire truth'?" Rick asked, frowning. "I did kill the Scorpion King!"
"Oh yes, you undoubtedly did," Hamilton said derisively. "However, this 'truth' has more to do with the Army of Anubis than with the Scorpion King. Know this, gentlemen: though Mathayus is dead, the army that used to be his remains, buried deep under the sand that now covers Ahm Shere."
"Wait," Rick interrupted, taken aback by the enormity of the news, "this means that these freakish jackal-headed things aren't gone?! And who the hell is this Mathayus?"
"Mathayus was the name of the Scorpion King, when he was still human," Ferguson said quietly. Rick almost started. He had all but forgotten the guy was there at all.
"Thanks," he said quickly, rather reluctantly, before turning back to Hamilton, "But I thought – hell, we all thought that once the Scorpion King was dead, his army was sent back to the Underworld?"
"It is true, in a way," Hamilton explained, with the tiniest touch of patience in his voice. "But then, you surely remember that the Creature Imhotep intended to kill the Scorpion King to take command of the Army of Anubis?"
"Sure, we're not likely to forget that, are we?" Jonathan chimed in.
"Then you will see it makes sense. I presume that Mr O'Connell here did not kill the Scorpion King in order to own his army, did he?"
Rick shrugged wordlessly, having to admit it.
"By killing Mathayus, you have stopped his army – for a while. But what you don't seem to be aware of is that the pact he made with Anubis demanded that he'd be worthy of him. By allowing you to kill him, he proved unworthy of the god's trust, and so from this moment the Army was out of his hands."
"Okay, I get it. Whoever killed the Scorpion King proved his worth, and got the Army of Anubis as a reward afterwards, right?" Despite the fact that it sounded rather far-fetched, Rick had to admit that it did make sense, in a twisted sort of way. But how come Ardeth hadn't told them about it?
Maybe the Medjai just didn't know. The thought came in the form of a nasty pang as Rick realised he'd always expected them – and especially Ardeth – to know just about everything that went on in Egypt. Well, it was their job, in a way; they always did seem to lurk in the background, conveniently taking care of everything that needed to be taken care of.
But they were human beings. There must be one thing they didn't know. Like what would happen to Alex if he didn't take off the Bracelet of Anubis before seven days had passed.
Too bad it turned out to be this kind of small details.
"Precisely, although I would certainly not put it this way." Hamilton sounded almost pleased to have such a keen audience. "It is written that the Army of Anubis shall come to whoever claims it after Anubis' servant proves unworthy. And it just so happens that, when the moon sets on the morning of June 30th – that's next Thursday, as you may have guessed, and the new moon of this month – the Egyptian year changes. We will enter the Year of the Jackal – the year Anubis is most celebrated. And, supposedly, the year when he is at his most powerful."
"And what does all this stuff have to do with Hitler?" Jonathan asked. Hamilton got a funny look in his eyes at that. This look struck a bell in Rick, who remembered it from somewhere, though he couldn't place it.
"Have you heard nothing of what I said?" the older Englishman said, his grey eyes suddenly ablaze. "Is it so hard to put two and two together – can you not see what I'm getting at? Hitler has the power to do more harm to humanity than Imhotep and the Scorpion King themselves could ever dream of – and what's more, he is planning to use this power!"
Rick's jaw dropped in spite of him. He'd just understood. "Jeez Louise… You're gonna send the Army of Anubis in Germany to kill Hitler and –"
"– And wipe out Germany in the process!?" Jonathan's face had turned very white very quickly. He looked as though he'd just been punched in the stomach, reflecting what Rick himself felt.
"I would say something along these lines, yes," Hamilton answered calmly. "The world can only be safe when every single one of his followers are dead."
To say the silence that fell in the room was heavy would have been a hell of an understatement. Rick's eyes remained fixed on Hamilton's steady, expressionless gaze, his square face, his clean black suit, unable to keep himself from wondering at the strange turns situations tended to get as soon as they and Egypt were involved. Maybe – like what he knew about America – the country just tended to attract nutcases.
"Look, buddy…" he finally said hesitatingly, after a long intake of breath. "You can't use a… some kind of weapon of mass destruction on an entire country because of what its government or its leader might do. What about anyone who disagrees with the guy? They'll just be obliterated with the rest!"
"Collateral damage is inevitable. It's a risk I'm prepared to take."
Rick's mouth fell open, and a thought crossed his brain like lightning.
The thing about the French Foreign Legion was that it attracted all sorts from all kinds of different countries, and for all kinds of reasons. Sometimes they remained secret, sometimes the soldiers shared them; nobody ever asked. Pavel had shared his one night. That was when Rick had heard the word 'pogrom' for the first time.
"You see, prijátelʹ," he had told Rick one evening, "there are places when one day, someone will shout 'Kill the Jews! Kill all the Jews!'. And because they think killing Jews is solution to all problems, Jews will die. Like my wife die. My father. The mother of my father. My little boy. Problem remain, and one day, someone else shout 'Kill the Jews!' And reznjá – cutting, killing – starts again."
There was nothing Rick could say to that, even if he had wanted. He took a long gulp from the flask of dubious alcohol Beni had procured somewhere, then wordlessly handed it to Pavel. Pavel had only sipped a bit before staring at him with eyes that looked like bottomless wells.
"Sometimes, place is in people's head. You watch out for these people, O'Connell. These people, in charge? Danger, and not just for Jews."
Rick had remembered that conversation more and more clearly for the past half-dozen years. It was very easy to forget that the outside world existed when you were on a dig with your gorgeous, loving wife, unearthing timeless artefacts to her unending enthusiasm. It was even easier when the dig ended up involving swallowing half your volume in Nile water, pursuing your son's kidnappers halfway across the desert, and seeing your gorgeous, loving wife murdered before your eyes and come back with someone else's memories on top of the usual ones. But some things he paid attention to.
"You know," he said slowly, "there's a lot of German people who would live a lot better if it wasn't for Hitler. I mean, they'd probably be happy if you had him assassinated. And you're really planning on letting them be 'collateral damage'!? What'd they do to you?"
"Not to mention," came Jonathan's unsteady voice from behind him, "it's not even that certain that Anubis' army will obey you, is it? Do you really think they'll care to stay within the borders of Germany?"
"What are you talking about? Of course it will obey me – it obeys the one who claims it, the legend is quite clear about that!" snapped Hamilton. Rick rolled his eyes.
"I admit this is not the right place in the world to say that, but – Christ, you mustn't always take this kind of fairy tales and hokum at face value!"
"He's right." Jonathan's voice sounded a bit firmer. "Take Ahm Shere: the pyramid was supposed to be made of solid gold and everything. Well, I've seen the bloody thing close, and I can tell you, it's not gold. Not on the outside, anyway."
In other circumstances, Rick would have snorted. That reality had not matched legend on this particular point had been a sore point for his brother-in-law.
But Hamilton looked dead set. He could have been deaf to what they had said, for all his expression changed. "Don't waste time and breath," he said coldly. "You will not make me change my mind. I'll let you know that you have no choice – you haven't had any choice ever since you were asked to take the Diamond to England."
Oh, crap! "What d'you mean? When was this stunt set up?"
"Quite some time ago, actually," Hamilton answered, his voice dangerously low. "It began when you, Mr Carnahan, sold the Diamond of Ahm Shere to the Cairo Museum of Antiquities. But I believe it was truly set in motion when Italy finished invading Ethiopia, only a few months after the events of Ahm Shere. However, if you speak of my projects, you may as well know that they are my own. No orders were given to me. I took the initiative in retrieving the Diamond – which shall be needed in time – and bringing you here."
"I'd still like to know what this has to do with us," Rick mumbled, still trying to remember where he had seen something like the funny look in Hamilton's eyes.
"Quite simple, in fact. You, Mr O'Connell, are the one who killed the Scorpion King, so we figured it would be a good thing to have you on hand when I claim his army, if only to make sure you don't end up with it. Now, as for Mr Carnahan… Let's just say that as someone who entered and got out of the Pyramid of Ahm Shere, you are what I could familiarly call an added bonus."
"Goodness me, I'm flattered," said Jonathan, sarcastic. "Now, there's something I'd like to know. Why did you pick me and not somebody useful like my sister? She's the real specialist, you know."
"Beside the fact that, through Ferguson here, you were the one who led us to the Diamond of Ahm Shere? Well, I imagine that you just were in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Jonathan looked down at his shoes, his hands in his pockets. "Yes… Well. Story of my life, really."
Something suddenly clicked into place out of nowhere in Rick's mind. That look. Hamilton's. That curator guy – Hafez or something – had had the same back in the pyramid, when Rick had walked past him on his way to murdering the bitch who had killed his wife and that bastard Imhotep. The curator had his hand stuck in the statue of a scorpion at that moment, and there had been triumph and something else, something wild in his eyes, so utterly convinced he was that his 'Lord Imhotep' would 'take command'.
Rick suddenly felt sick. Hamilton was just as utterly convinced that he would be doing the right thing in murdering thousands, tens of thousands of people, innocent or not. Anubis' Army aside, the sheer thought of someone capable of thinking like that was scary. No, not scary. It was terrifying.
Hamilton looked at them and said, ever so polite, "Well, gentlemen, it has been a pleasure talking with you, but there is some business I must take care of. Good afternoon, and be sure we will be seeing one another in the near future."
He walked over to the door, with a brief glance at Ferguson who dithered, his brown eyes shifting from Jonathan to Rick, his broad face looking a little green around the edges. "Well, Ferguson! Should I lock you up here as well?"
"N—no sir, I'm comin'," the Englishman stammered in a strained voice. He walked out first, without looking back.
As Hamilton crossed the threshold, Rick, unable to stop himself, said hotly, "What makes you think we're gonna let you do that? There are people out there whose only job is to protect the world from creeps like you, and I really don't wanna be in your shoes when my wife gets to you."
Hamilton let out a low chuckle.
"And what makes you think I'm going to allow myself to be stopped?"
dum dum duuum
Notes/Translations:
Giving white feathers to men of fighting age not wearing uniforms on British soil during WW1 was a thing. It was supposed to call them cowards in front of everybody and shame them into enlisting. Naturally – beside the obvious – it had all sorts of unexpected downsides, and quite a few young veterans with honourable discharges and wounds that weren't obvious received white feathers and were understandably pissed off about it. Plus all the men who couldn't enlist because they had disabilities or jobs that just couldn't do without them.
Prijátelʹ (прия́тель): "friend", "mate", "buddy".
Not gonna lie, the scene where Hamilton explains his plan and his motivations was a big source of stress for me. I've wanted to rewrite it – or parts of – for years, because I wanted to make it clear that he had to be stopped (because 1] his plan is basically "wipe out Germany to stop Nazis" and 2] it's a bad idea to mess with dark magic anyway since you never know whether you'll really be its master or not), but also that hell yes Nazis are the worst, and the fewer of them the better. Hopefully I succeeded.