Favoured Friends
Part 22/?
Summary: An invitation to the National Egyptology Conference quickly becomes deadly race for the mythic Ichriem against an old rival of Sydney's - the assassin known only as 'the Viper'.
Note: This is a round robin originally posted at the Relic Hunter Yahoo Group. Although I'm posting it, I did not write the entire thing. This part was written by Cari Loran ( carilorus@yahoo.com )
Also, I have Support Services. That means that, if you want, you can put me on Author Alert and receive notice when other stories of mine are posted, even if you haven't paid yourself.
Posted: Thursday, May 8, 2003
When he was a boy, Nigel could remember hearing people say they had "too much information"... a phrase he'd never understood. Afterall, how could one ever have too much information?
Information was a good thing wasn't it? It was a certainly a valuable thing, something people studied their whole lives to gain, spending every penny to enhance. From an early age his father had taught him the value of knowledge, of information... how important it was to have and never take for granted. `Feed your mind Nigel,' his father once told him, `there's no limit how far you can go."
No, Nigel had never believed there was such a thing as "too much information." It was a myth, a fallacy, a legend along the lines of Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. No one could ever know too much, the very idea went against the human spirit, it was absurd.
But now, for the first time in his life, Nigel had the creeping sensation he'd just been exposed to just such a phenomenon: He'd been given too much information. It was like opening the closet and having the Easter Bunny hand him his jacket.
Mer de Tueur? Syd and a government agent? His brother's inheritance? A buyer in Cairo setting up a trap? His flirting brush with heat stroke suddenly seemed like the least of his problems.
The inheritance... Good Lord, he'd totally forgotten about it. He'd naturally sent Preston a card for his birthday, but the dual significance of the date had slipped his mind. The spring had been hectic, filled with busy days and months, he'd scarcely had time to buy a card and write a short letter, much less contemplate the maturing of his brother's trust fund. Seven and a half million pounds... Eleven million American dollars.
And Preston was being asked to give it all up.
Nigel wondered how his brother had taken the news, then instantly decided it wouldn't have been well. And the money would have little to do with it. If the situation were reversed, Nigel knew he'd gladly give up the millions in exchange for Preston. They were each the only family the other had, and had finally begun to form a tangible bond that proved it. *I'm sorry Preston.*
The Viper was regarding him with a cautious eye, probably trying to ascertain whether or not he'd lose consciousness again. There were times when the man... the villain in front of him seemed to have flashes of concern, perhaps even worry for his well-being, and Nigel couldn't help but wonder what drove the man to do the things he apparently did all his life. Was it money? Or was it something else?
From what Nigel could see, Sydney had been right in her description of The Viper; he was a fairly ordinary-looking fellow... he had no missing limbs, no bizarre disfigurements, not even a visible scar. He was fairly muscular despite his age, which Nigel estimated in the early fifties, and spoke with a faint continental accent that the grad student couldn't even begin to pin down.
Seeing Nigel was keeping a tenuous grasp on the real world, The Viper pulled him to a sitting position then leaned over and opened a cooler, withdrawing a bottle and twisting off the seal. "Here," he pushed the container into Nigel's hands. "Drink this... and do it slowly or you'll make yourself sick."
Nigel blinked and fought off a wave of dizziness at his new vertical position, then studied the cold bottle with pointed scrutiny. For all intents and purposes it looked like some kind of sports drink, a distant version of Gatorade. Its brief absence from the cooler had already spawned a glittering outbreak of condensation, dripping from the bottle in tantalizing rivulets and running over his fingers. It might as well have started singing a Siren's song.
Casting caution to the wind and ignoring the nagging little voice in the back of his mind which reminded him it might be drugged, Nigel took a grateful sip of the cool liquid. As he savored the respite on his parched throat he spared a glance at his captor, half expecting him to chortle in the villainously-maniacal fashion of a mad scientist who'd tricked someone into drinking their elixir. Instead he was met with a satisfied nod and an expression that seemed to approve of his careful sipping as if to say `Good, he didn't throw up.'
"Drink it all," the older man ordered, tapping the lid of the cooler. "There's more. I don't need you getting dehydrated. Are you hungry?"
Nigel shook his head, taking another drink from the bottle. The thought of food was somehow wildly unappealing, probably due to the lingering dryness of his throat. "Perhaps later."
The Viper grunted, apparently satisfied with the answer. He sat in silence for a moment. "You know, you seem like a smart boy," he mused. "What made you ever hook up with the likes of Sydney Fox?"
Nigel steadied his drink and pushed himself up a bit more, suddenly feeling very pithy. "I don't know, what made you become The Viper?" he countered. Uh-oh. Did he really just say that? *The sun must have addled my brain worse than I thought.*
But instead of being angry, the older man actually laughed. "Touché." He reached in the cooler again, pulling out a bottle of water and screwing off the top. He took a generous gulp and grinned. "That's why I like you."
"Charming." Nigel muttered. Truthfully though, it was probably the best thing he'd heard in days, much better than hearing `I don't like you.' If he could keep on The Viper's good side it might very well help his chances of getting out of the whole mess alive.
"Ah... and there's some more of that famous dry British wit." The mercenary leaned back. The two of them were sitting on the floor of the airplane, their backs braced against a long maroon couch which had been substituted for all the seats on the left- hand side. "Although you pull it off better than most." He took another swig of water, wiped his hand across his mouth and smoothly changed the subject. "What do you know about Mer de Tueur?"
Nigel glanced at his captor, wondering if the question was a test of his knowledge or just The Viper's way of making small talk. "It's an island off the coast of western Morocco, probably no more than a mile wide. The name literally means `killer sea' because the waters around the island are filled with jagged rocks and sand bars, they make sailing there a hazard." He furrowed his brow, trying to remember anything else useful. "I don't believe anyone lives there permanently. The French tried to establish a sort of phosphate mining outpost there in the 18th century, but they abandoned it after they kept losing their ships on the rocks."
"Very good." The Viper praised, raising his water bottle in salute. "But let's go a little farther back, say two or three thousand years."
"Oh, um, well..." Nigel sipped his drink again. If The Viper was testing him, he was about to get an ear full. "Morocco was inhabited by the Berbers until it was invaded in the 12th century BC by the Phoenicians, who basically took over the coast, along with most of the Mediterranean coast, and built up a trading empire. But by the 6th century BC, the Phoenicians had fallen to the Carthaginians, and they kept their hold on the coastline until they became involved in the Punic Wars and fell to Rome. The land then became part of the Roman Empire. When Rome fell, it was essentially open season on the territory, it was invaded by nearly every power who could sail a ship."
The Viper smirked rather slyly. "Yes, but what of the Egyptians? Ichriem was their little toy after all."
"The Egyptians?" Nigel frowned. "No, they never conquered that area. The closet thing I can think of would be the Phoenicians... They were part of the Egyptian Empire, but they revolted and finally broke away around 1200BC, which was roughly when they moved on to conquer Morocco and take over the coast."
The mercenary set down his water bottle and clapped his hands together three times in congratulations. "I see Oxford still lives up to its reputation. So now what does all this information tell you?"
Nigel took a deep breath; the information told him plenty, it spoke veritable volumes. "It tells me that the Phoenicians most likely stole Ichriem when they broke away from the Egyptian Empire. They brought it with them to Morocco and hid it away on Mer de Tueur, probably hoping the dangerous waters around the island would keep the Egyptians from ever reclaiming it."
The Viper chuckled in satisfaction. "As you British like to say, `Bravo'. I knew you were a smart boy... much smarter than your alleged mentor." He glanced at his watch. "We're at least a day ahead of her now."
At the reminder Sydney might soon be waltzing into a trap, Nigel steadied himself for what he was about to say. "You said you were setting a trap for Syd in Cairo... Why? I know you don't like her because of that bit with the prayer book, but if we're so far ahead, what difference does it make?"
The Viper clicked his tongue. "You're smart, but you're also very naïve aren't you?" He regarded Nigel with a tolerant expression, as though talking to a child. "I used to be like that before I learned how the world really works." A hard note that echoed cruel experience crept into his voice. "It's cold out there my boy, and it's kill or be killed. Fox may be your friend, but she's my rival. She proved she was a danger the day she cost me the prayer book, and Ichriem is too big a prize to risk losing."
Nigel stared at the man, knowing he couldn't say anything at the moment to change his mind. The Viper must have had a sense of decency inside, he'd given himself away by renting the airplane and saving his captive from the forced march across the desert. But wherever the sense of decency was kept, Nigel didn't know, and didn't know which key might unlock it for his advantage.
So instead of speaking, he merely looked away and took another sip from his warming sports drink, idly wondering if the Phoenicians ever dreamed just how long they'd keep Ichriem hidden.
End Part Twenty-Two