CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
If you stand only on the safety of the banks spearing fish, how can you know the depths of the river? Can you fathom the darkness under a ledge of rock or understand the life of the fish writhing on your spear? You mistake the teeth of the crocodile as the edge of the abyss, but the chasm is more terrible than teeth, and certain.
I fulfill the law and the law demands your blood. I am Sebak the crocodile, the catastrophe, the devourer, the necessity. Impaled on my teeth, you shall be blessed for you will glimpse truth. I am only the secrets of your own dark heart, your lust, your greed, your anger, your flesh. As long as you breathe, I shall exist to snatch you from yourself, to grind your bones and chew your flesh, to tear the darkness from your heart. I am the living power of water, the cry that catches in the throat, the sob that shatters stone.
On my teeth you smell the stink of flesh. To you I seem a living horror. But I tell you in truth, I am your own soul and it is with great sorrow that I crush the life you have made. I weep with the loss, but you do not believe. Such destruction is madness, you say. You do not understand. Is it madness to cut the wheat so that bread can be made? When you were born into this bright land, did you not weep for the lost dark of the womb? Whether or not you understand the law, you exist because of it.
When you've reached the lips of the great devourer, you are staring into the jaws of creation.
--Excerpt from "Becoming the Crocodile", Egyptian Book of the Dead, as translated by Normandi Ellis
There was a spring to his step and a lightness in his heart that Imhotep hadn't felt in an age or more. Had he been the type who whistled as he walked, he would have. That sort of display, though, had never been a part of the repertoire of iron self-discipline he adhered to as high priest of Osiris, so his newfound hope showed only in the relaxed happiness of his face and the smiling lightness in his eyes.
They had their chance. Finally—finally—fate had turned a smiling countenance upon them instead of continually tying knots in the thread of their lives. Amun Re would allow him to stay here with her. He had to; even a god could not be so cruel as to dangle a feast in front of a starving man and then callously take it away.
She loved him. Even now, those words rang in his ears, warmed his heart, filled his soul. She loved him. No three words had ever meant as much to him. He let her words replay themselves in his mind—the soft, husky sweetness of her voice turning them into an almost physical caress. "When the god allows your choice, make it knowing that I love you with all my heart." She loved him.
For a split second, Imhotep's eyebrows pulled together in a small frown. Had he told her that he loved her in return? He thought he had, but… Calling upon his almost photographic memory, he replayed the entire conversation in his head. No, he had not. At least not this time. He knew he had started to, on at least one other occasion, but not this time… With a groan, Imhotep mentally cursed his stupidity at the omission, determined to rectify it at once when he saw her again. He would tell her he loved her so many times she would tire of hearing it, show her that he loved her in any way he could imagine. A smile curved his lips as he pondered the limits of his imagination—he was, after all, an imaginative man, and would delight in testing the limits of his creativity. And if that was not sufficient, dignity be damned, he would climb to the top of this accursed pyramid and shout it over the plague-infested depths of the wretched jungle.
But that would have to wait. For now, he would have to settle for appeasing the needs of these modern healers, and let them bleed him once more. Turning a corner, he headed down the passageway leading to the infirmary.
"Imhotep." His name bounced off the walls, ricocheting down the corridor like a stray bullet. Startled, he met the Med Jai's worried look with a frown of his own.
"Bay." Even now, after all that had happened, even considering the strange degree of intimacy that had sprung up between these two unlikely allies, Imhotep had a difficult time unbending enough to take the note of distant censure from his voice. "You seem harried, Med Jai. Additional troubles?"
"The same troubles, Imhotep, only amplified." Ardeth caught up with the priest and fell into step beside him. "Have you seen Bernstein or any of the Sudanese diplomats?"
"I have not." A wry twist of his lips served to bridge the self-erected barrier somewhat. "I have spent the past hour heeding your sound, if less-than-tactful advice."
Taken aback by the priest's candor, Ardeth stopped short. "And?"
"I am in your debt, Med Jai." The answer was not a direct one, but the implication was unmistakable. It was reinforced by the self-satisfied gleam in the priest's eyes and the persistently lurking smile that threatened to offset the stern expression he seemed to favor.
Ardeth couldn't quite stop the brief pang he felt at Imhotep's words. For a short while, long ago—had it been only days?—he had almost let himself imagine… But no matter. The universe, no doubt, was unfolding exactly as it should.
"I am glad, Imhotep." In a spontaneous gesture of camaraderie that surprised both men, he clapped Imhotep on the shoulder. "Truly. I am glad for the both of you. And there is no debt—if anything, consider it a debt owed you that has now been repaid." Awkwardly, he pulled his hand away, not sure what had prompted him to react in the way he had—as he would have reacted to this sort of news from one of his friends—one of his brothers.
"My thanks to you, then, Med Jai." But Imhotep was uncomfortable with the odd sense of fellowship as well, and quickly steered the conversation into a less personal realm. "You are still troubled by the Sudanese?"
"Not just the Sudanese anymore. There is something happening in the camp. The Sudanese have almost all disappeared, somewhere; Bernstein is nowhere to be found, and…."
"They have not gone into the jungle, have they?" Imhotep hadn't taken any of them for fools, particularly Bernstein, but…
"I do not know." Ardeth considered it for a moment. "I do not think so."
They had reached the doorway leading into the infirmary. It was oddly noisy inside; whereas before, the sickroom had had an almost church-like quiet to it, the sound of raised voices now disturbed the calm. Ardeth quirked an eyebrow at Imhotep, who merely shrugged and stepped inside the door.
And entered chaos.
Medical personnel scrambled everywhere, some milling around, some digging through supplies and containers and the small refrigerator unit, others simply wandering aimlessly, trying to look needed. On the far side of the room, a red-faced Robillard was screaming at Maggie and Phyllis, one fisted hand pounding against the palm of the other as he verbally bludgeoned them. A lone beacon of tranquility, Jean Godfrey spoke quietly to him, obviously trying to get him to calm down enough to listen to what the two technicians were trying to tell him. Doug, looking marginally better, was propped up in his bed, still hooked up to the squid-like tentacles of medical equipment and monitors. An additional IV bag now hung among the others—a single, small bag of yellowish, antibody-containing fluid dripping hope into his veins, along with the antibiotics and saline that had been running steadily into him for days now.
Amid the bedlam, no one noticed the two interlopers, except Callie, who had been waiting for at least one of them. Moving in her typically quick but graceful manner, she came to meet them, her voice pitched purposely low, so as not to carry across the room. "Thank goodness you're here. There's been an incident…"
"What has happened?" Ardeth was loath to interrupt her, but the niggling worry he'd harbored for days was beginning to explode into a cancerous specter of dread, mutating and growing and displacing everything but the hideous threat of its own reality. "What is wrong?"
"I hate to say it—and no one is exactly sure how or when it happened—but all the vials of Imhotep's blood that Maggie drew earlier have disappeared somehow. They used one or two to create the plasma infusion for Doug, but they were storing the others…wanted to send them back to the lab in Khartoum, and from there to Geneva." Her dark eyes swung from Ardeth to Imhotep. "They were going to draw more blood from you to continue Doug's treatment." Nervously, her eyes moved again, this time to glance at the equipment-filled bubble that housed Doug. "But now they're gone."
"This was an accident? Or a deliberate theft?" Imhotep refused to jump to conclusions—that the Med Jai was so anxious was bad enough. At least one of them needed to remain calm.
The ebony curtain of her hair swung back and forth as Callie shook her head. "They don't know. Right now, Robillard's treating it as an accident—assuming that someone misplaced the vials—but we've looked almost everywhere, and they haven't turned up yet. It's beginning to seem like it wasn't an accident after all."
"But why would someone steal blood?" Imhotep mused. Just one more strange thing to add to the list of oddities and eccentricities surrounding this modern society. Blood was powerful, a potent ingredient in any number of rituals, spells, and even potions, but he had already become convinced that men of the twenty-first century held little awe and less belief in the old arts and customs, especially magic. To modern man, it was science or nothing—no compromises, no arguments. Just cold, deductive reasoning and calculating logic. It was a pity, really—the universe held so much more, if they would simply open their eyes to its wonder.
"It wasn't just blood, Imhotep." Callie corrected him. "It was your blood—and a possible cure to one of the most deadly diseases ever known to man. Any number of people would pay a considerable amount of money for something like that—and most of them for no good reason."
"They would have no reason for doing so? Then why would they…" The idiosyncrasies of the Hebrew language were sometimes still a puzzle to him.
"No, no." Ardeth cut in impatiently. "She means their reasons would not be good ones. Moral ones. Ethical, honorable reasons. A number of people could use something like the antibodies in your blood to do very bad things."
Comprehension dawned, and Imhotep turned back to Callie. "Who has been here since then? Or are the healers themselves under suspicion?"
Again, she shook her head. "I don't think so. Like I said, Robillard's treating it like an accident so far." Thinking back, she recalled, "But there were a couple of visitors shortly after you left, now that I think about it. A few of the government representatives showed up, asking Robillard for a tour of the lab. I thought it was a little strange at the time, given the total lack of interest they've shown so far, but then again, with a possible cure right at our fingertips, I can understand why they'd suddenly be interested…"
"The Sudanese." Ardeth's bad feeling kept expanding, and he exchanged a quick look with Imhotep. The priest wore his usual impassive expression, but he inclined his head in a slight nod. It seemed as though the Med Jai's intuition was proving reliable after all. "How long ago were they here?"
"An hour, maybe two, I guess. Honestly, I didn't pay much attention to them." Callie sounded more worried than she had. "You think they took the vials? Don't you think someone would have noticed?"
"I don't know, Doctor al Faran." Ardeth answered her. To Imhotep, he said, "I am going to find them. No one was outside—they must be in the pyramid somewhere." In a swirling spiral of black robes, he started out the door, only to stop just as suddenly. After a moment's hesitation, during which time he steadfastly refused to look back over his shoulder, he added. "I would be grateful for your assistance, Imhotep."
Imhotep would have gone with the Med Jai—he started to, in fact, but Callie's hand shot out, stopping him before he had gone more than two paces. "Where are you going? We need more blood now—Doug's going to need another treatment at any minute."
Torn, Imhotep glanced between the two of them—the doctor and the Med Jai—both of them needing his assistance, both of them deserving it, in one way or the other. But the Med Jai's concerns, for all that circumstance had added more weight to them than they had carried before, were suspicions only. Callie's concern was real, and substantial, and lying in a bed across the room from him. Imhotep's decision was made for him. "Bay, this will not take long. I will join you as soon as I am able."
Ardeth's only answer was a terse nod, before he hurried away down the corridor. Suddenly wondering whether or not his decision had been the correct one, Imhotep turned back to Callie. "This can be done quickly?"
She nodded. "I'll draw the blood myself. They're still occupied, anyway," she added, indicating with a tip of her head the still-arguing medical staff. "It won't take long at all. Come on."
He followed her into the room, ignoring the pandemonium as best as he was able.
"So you're with us?" Connelly leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his photographic equipment lying in a forgotten heap on the stone floor. "One of the good guys?"
Hassan's smile was almost non-existent, a barely perceptible twitch of his thin lips. "That would depend on your perspective, and who you are asking, Mr. Connelly."
"I don't much give a damn what the other team thinks about it, Hassan." Connelly shot back, straightening up and looking the other man in the eye. "My loyalty is to the good old U.S. of A., and its citizens, in whatever little corner of the world they happen to be digging up. You're either on our side, or you're not."
"My loyalties are to my government, Mr. Connelly." Hassan's eyes were black chips of ice as he set the record straight. "But to that end, you and I are working towards the same goal. My government has no use for these fundamentalist religious zealots, either. They are a liability to us, to our goal of creating a place for ourselves in the global economy, the global community. We want them stopped, as do you and your government."
"The enemy of my enemy…" Connelly started, and Hassan smiled again, the expression—thin-lipped and brittle though it was—strikingly incongruous on his grimly set features.
"…is my friend," the Sudanese man finished. "Exactly so."
"Ellie!" Her father burst into the room, out of breath and out of patience. "Thank God!" He grabbed her arm and began pulling her out of the room, away from her tools and the work she had been doing. "Come on," he urged, impatient with her resistance. "We have to get out of here now!"
Eliana made a grab for her supplies, pulling away from him. "Dad," she protested, "what's the matter with you?" The wild-eyed man yanking on her arm was not the distinguished, dignified scientist she had known all her life. A jolt of the foreboding she had felt just minutes before ran through her again.
"No…time, Ellie," he puffed, struggling for breath. "We have…to get…out of…here. They've set…a bomb."
That got her moving. She abandoned her supplies, taking her father's arm and hurrying out the door with him. A barrage of questions pelted his back as she followed him out the room's arched doorway. "Who? A bomb? In the pyramid? But why?"
"I don't…know, Ellie." The jog through the pyramid, compounded by the adrenalin surge and his overpowering fear had taken its toll on John Bernstein, and he looked much older than his fifty-odd years. "I heard them talking…in the grotto. Arabic—Sudanese accent—someone wants to…obtain the virus and then…destroy the pyramid."
"What can we do?" Her mind was racing; the pyramid was her father's life's work. For it to be destroyed… "How much time? Do you know?"
"They said…hour…on timer."
"An hour…" Thankfully, there weren't many people in the pyramid—the workers were mostly outside—but the students, and the medical team, and Doug, and…Imhotep. "The infirmary! Dad—we have to warn them, get them out of here!"
"I know, Ellie, I know—I'll go there as soon as I get you safely out of here." He had caught his breath sufficiently by now to be more coherent. Eliana understood his need to get her out of the pyramid, but there was no way she was going to leave the doomed structure until she was certain Imhotep was out, as well.
"Dad, there are at least a half-dozen students in here, too, and I don't know where they've all been assigned. You need to get to them—I can go to the infirmary. It's on the way out, anyway." They were almost at the juncture of several passageways—one led up and out, past the hallway leading to the infirmary, the other led down to the stairway leading to the great hall and beyond that, to the grotto, the others branched out in various directions, leading to other rooms and chambers. It was a giant maze—and if they didn't hurry and get everyone in here out, it would become a giant tomb, as well.
"Damn it Ellie, I don't want to leave you in here!" But Bernstein knew that she was right. He knew where everyone was working—at least where everyone was supposed to be working—and it would be quicker for him to locate them and get them out. Eliana certainly had enough time to get to the infirmary and get out. But she was his only child, his flesh and blood, and leaving her alone in here went against his every instinct.
Gently, Eliana took his hand. "Dad. It's not like I'm going to take my time, here. I'll go straight there and then head straight out, okay? You need to get to your students."
With a nod, he acknowledged her logic. "You're right, of course. But you get out of here as soon as possible—there's no telling how much time is left."
A voice from the passageway leading to the outside had them spinning around, seeking its source. A darker shadow separated itself from the dimness of the corridor, and Tariq Bashir oozed out from the passageway. A concerned frown lengthened his already overlong face, narrowed his too-beady eyes. "What's this Professor? Get out? Not much time left?" He looked from one to the other, a pained expression taking the place of the frown. "Whatever is wrong?"
Eliana felt her scalp crawl, and a shiver of fear passed through her. Bashir had never been high on her list of favorites—she had even preferred Mousa to him—but never before had she felt such an overpowering sense of dread in his presence. A quick glance at her father proved that he, too, was dismayed to encounter Bashir. The voices in the grotto had been colored with Sudanese accents—they were surrounded by Sudanese—it could have been anyone at all that he had heard. And Bashir was certainly a prime candidate for evil-doing.
"Professor? Ms. Bernstein? Are you all right?" Bashir took a step closer. His eyes narrowed further. "Do tell me what is wrong."
Bernstein was clearly torn. Obviously, Bashir could have been one of the voices in the grotto, in which case Bernstein and Eliana were in peril. On the other hand, perhaps he was simply an annoyingly ingratiating, simpering bureaucrat who needed to be dragged out of the pyramid as well. But which was it? The conflicting choices waged a brief war in Bernstein. Finally, though, he reached the only conclusion he could. He would have to take the chance. If Bashir was innocent, they could not leave him in here.
Even so, he could still be circumspect about it. "We've discovered a…fault…in the pyramid's structure." It was a small lie, in Bernstein's mind. A bomb could certainly be considered a fault. A big one. "It is imperative that everyone evacuate the structure at once. Staying inside is too dangerous." Walking forward, wearing what he hoped was a self-assured, calm expression, Bernstein made to walk past Bashir, gesturing for the other man to precede him.
Bashir took a step sideways and back, a move reminiscent of a sidewinding snake. For a tall, lanky man, Bashir moved in a surprisingly sinuous, reptilian way. Like a snake, his hand struck out, catching Bernstein on the forearm. "A fault, you say? What sort of fault?"
Was that a trace of suspicion in Bashir's voice? Bernstein couldn't be sure, so he continued holding his cards close. Sometimes the only good move was a bluff. "A fault. A defect in the structure's integrity, man." He let his annoyance seep through into his voice. "Do I need to define it further? We're all in danger if we don't get out of here."
Bashir's hand didn't move. If anything, it tightened even more on the archaeologist's arm. "A defect, eh? This defect just…appeared, then? After five thousand years, the pyramid is suddenly unsafe? How…amazing."
Intuition warned Bernstein to get away from the man. There was something wrong here, deeply wrong. He shook off Bashir's hold. "I will not debate this with you, Bashir. Get out or not, the choice is yours. But you were warned." He stepped forward, intending to shove past the bureaucrat.
He found himself staring into the barrel of a gun. "I think not, Professor." Bashir's thin lips were now set into a leering grimace that didn't even attempt to look anything but evil. With a small flick of his wrist, he motioned for Bernstein to retreat.
The archaeologist had no choice, not with the business end of a mean-looking semiautomatic pointed at his nose. And not with Eliana standing right behind him. Damn it, damn it! So Bashir was in on the plot. "What the hell, Bashir?" His only option was to continue the bluff. "Have you gone insane?"
"Not at all, Professor. I am perfectly sane. And perfectly aware of the only little…fault…in the pyramid's design. You are referring to the bomb in the grotto, of course." Bashir continued to advance, forcing Bernstein backwards until he was standing next to Eliana. She stood silent, watching Bashir as he flicked his wrist again, encompassing both her and her father in the gun's arc. That Bashir had finally tipped his hand, revealed himself as one of the miscreants, didn't surprise her. The man's malevolence surrounded him like a tangible aura—a palpable odor of rot and evil that polluted whatever space he happened to inhabit. Still silent, she watched as he indicated with another wave of the weapon that he wanted them to move. "Unfortunately for you, since you also seem to be aware of the structure's recently acquired shortcomings, you won't be leaving it again." He stopped to chuckle at his own wit. "Let's go, then, shall we?"
"Why are you doing this, Bashir?" Bernstein turned towards the passageway Bashir had waved at, pushing Eliana ahead of him and starting down the sloping tunnel that led to the grand hall, and from there, down to the grotto. "Why would you possibly want to destroy a national treasure like this?"
"This treasure is a worldly one, Professor. My brothers and I care not for the things of this world." A maniacal gleam shone from his eyes, the single-minded fervor of the true believer. "Our treasure is in heaven, with Allah, and the reward he has promised us for bringing the infidels to their knees and spreading the true faith to every corner of this evil globe is a great one."
"And destroying Ahm Shere will accomplish that goal?" Bernstein walked slowly, continuing to keep himself between Eliana and the gun. "I don't follow your logic, Bashir."
"The pyramid is collateral damage, Professor." A poke in the ribs with the gun's barrel ordered Bernstein to pick up the pace. "Our goal is the weapon it contains. A weapon that will give us supreme power of life and death over our enemies."
There was only one thing in the pyramid that could be considered such a weapon. "The virus."
"How astute of you, Professor." Bashir snickered. "Such an intelligent man you are proving to be. It will be almost a pity when you meet your end here."
"At least let Eliana go, Bashir." Bernstein begged, not caring that the pleading tone in his voice betrayed his fear. "She has nothing to do with this. She's no threat to you."
"Dad…" Eliana's protest died with the stern look that Bernstein gave her. A sick misery filled her, not just for her fate and her father's, but for everyone else trapped inside. No one else would know; no one else could be warned. They were unknowingly sitting inside their own grave. Imhotep… She choked back a sob, realizing that once again, they had lost. But it was possible…maybe he could escape, get out of the pyramid in time… She closed her eyes briefly, putting every ounce of her soul into a heartfelt plea for him to go, to run, to get out. She doubted her telepathic ability, but perhaps the gods would show her at least one final kindness, and somehow get her message through to him. If it was her time, so be it. But Imhotep…
Bashir's disgusted snort brought her back to herself. "What do you take me for, Bernstein? Of course she's a threat. She knows what our plan is; she can identify me. She will meet the same fate as you." The gun prodded into Bernstein's ribs again. "Now get moving. As you seem to be aware, we're running short on time."
"Shit!" Connelly moved away from where he had been flattened against the cold stone of the corridor. They had almost barged in on Bashir's little party—only luck and the fact that voices carried so well down the pyramid's narrow stone corridors had managed to warn them in time to stay hidden. "Shit, shit, shit!"
Hassan was just opposite him, similarly plastered to the rock wall. "I echo your sentiment, however crudely expressed it may be." His eyes were pinpoints of reflected light in the dimness of the corridor. "We're now dealing with a hostage situation."
"Brilliant summation, Ace." Connelly glared at him. "Any suggestions on how we fix this? We've got hostages; we've got a bomb. Gee, which one will you take?"
Hassan arched an eyebrow and looked down his patrician nose at Connelly. "The bomb."
Clearly, this was not the answer Connelly had expected. Caught midway between reaching for his gun and looking down the passageway Bashir and his captives had taken, he swiveled back around to face Hassan. "You will? Handle the bomb, I mean? You have experience in explosives? Think you can manage to defuse it?"
Hassan shrugged. "I won't know until I see it, but I have the experience and the training to handle almost anything I've seen so far. We know where it is, we know who we're dealing with…"
"Maybe you know that. All I know is that they're a bunch of religious kooks with a doomsday fetish and they've planted a bomb in the grotto."
"Then you know approximately as much as I do, Connelly." Hassan was unperturbed, his composure completely unruffled. He was exactly the sort of person Connelly would have expected, now that he thought about it, to be able to defuse a bomb…or to plant one in the first place. He was stone-faced, calm, and completely, deadly serious. "They are religious fanatics—a fundamentalist fringe group, working at odds with the mainstream Sudanese government. Their fanaticism stems from their belief in a heavenly reward for obeying their god's command to wipe the earth clean of infidels—and they define infidels as anyone who does not believe with the same fervor as they."
"Well, I'll tell ya what, Hassan. I don't know what god they worship, but that's not the kind of thing my God approves of…"
"Nor does mine, Connelly." Hassan assured him, watching and waiting as the American checked to ensure that his gun was loaded and ready. "Nor does mine."
His weapon ready, Connelly looked at the Sudanese man. "How familiar are you with the layout of this place, Hassan?"
The counter-intelligence officer allowed himself the satisfaction of a tiny smirk. "Probably as familiar as you are, Connelly."
Matt nodded. "Right. So the best way for you to get to the grotto, then…"
"…is to take the tunnel to the right, which winds down and around the main rooms of the structure, avoids the grand hall, where our godly friend is surely taking his hostages, and continues downward until it connects with a passage that leads to the temple shrine, and from there, the grotto."
Matt was impressed. The man had done his homework. Good. It would make things a lot easier than trying to stage some sort of distraction so Hassan could sneak by Bashir. He gave the tall Arab a salute. "Good luck, then, Hassan. I'll take out Bashir and get Bernstein and his daughter out of here. You sure you can do this?"
But his words echoed through empty air. Hassan was already gone, his silent footsteps racing against an unseen, unknown clock.
Ardeth slowed his pace and watched, his silent footsteps slowly carrying him down the corridor towards the open antechamber at the end. Connelly squatted in the dimly lit room, the bags containing his photography equipment spread about in an organized sort of disarray. He could easily have been a photographer going through his equipment, selecting just the right combination of apparatus to ensure that the images he captured were picture perfect. The only note of discord sprung from the fact that it was certainly not lenses and film that Ardeth saw strewn about on the floor, nor was it a camera that Connelly was quickly and efficiently assembling and loading.
The high-powered rifle shone a dull metallic gray as Connelly twisted the last piece into position, locked it into place and snapped in the ammunition cartridge. It was a lethal-looking piece of weaponry—military-issue, by the looks of it. Certainly, it was nothing that a photojournalist had any business carrying around, no matter how many regiments of cannibalistic Pygmies they intended to bump into during the course of an honest day's work in a jungle that appeared and disappeared at the whim of the gods.
Connelly's hand skimmed over the barrel of the weapon. With an appreciative smile, he tested its weight with both hands, tossing it lightly up and down before laying it gently on the satchel that had contained its disassembled parts. Quickly, he began to scoop up the remainder of the arsenal lying on the ground, the arms and munitions going into the bottom of the various bags and containers, the harmless photographic decoys resting on top as camouflage. In seconds, the bags were stuffed full again, and Connelly stood, looking around the room for a place to secure them while he followed Bashir and his captives.
"I would offer to watch your equipment for you, Mr. Connelly, but I am not much of a photographer." Ardeth stepped out of the hallway, a silent, black-clad apparition materializing from the gloom. In the flickering play of torchlight that illuminated the vestibule, his swarthy complexion was darker than ever, and the tattooing on his forehead and cheekbones seemed to dance over the darkness of his skin in a sinister pattern of lines and shadows. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he approached slowly, patiently, his eyes dark caverns in a face that held too many secrets. "I confess, I have a better working knowledge of the other equipment you seem to have brought with you on your photo shoot."
Connelly spun around in surprise, not used to being caught off guard. "Bay. What the hell are you doing here?" He raked a hand through his sun-streaked hair, obviously agitated. His eyes dropped to the rifle, loaded and ready, lying on the floor not a meter away from him. It was also within a meter of Bay, and Connelly saw the other man smile as his gaze dropped to the weapon, as well.
"Before I answer that, Mr. Connelly, perhaps you might share your real identity and purpose here. You are obviously not who you claim to be, unless the New York Times now takes to hiring mercenaries as global correspondents." Ardeth's posture was relaxed but wary, and he continued to keep an eye on Connelly and the gun. He would almost bet his life on the fact that Matt Connelly and he were on the same side, given the man's past, but he wanted to hear it for himself.
Connelly's cover would have been blown in minutes, anyway, so he saw no reason to keep up pretenses. Besides, he still had his insurance policy—he could feel the heavy weight of the revolver back inside its holster beneath his khaki shirt. He could have it out in seconds—much less time than it would take Bay to make a grab for the rifle. He decided to oblige the man.
"My name is Matt Connelly. Did I say I was from the New York Times?" A silly grin curved his lips upward. "Oops, little mistake. Sorry about that. I meant the CIA." He didn't extend his hand in greeting, and the smile didn't quite melt the glacier blue of his eyes.
"Of course." Ardeth nodded. He believed Connelly; there was no reason not to believe him.
"So. Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?" Connelly felt fidgety. His hand positively itched to make a grab for one of the weapons.
"You already know my name. My reasons for being here, however…" The Med Jai paused, not sure how to answer. His reasons for being at Ahm Shere had undergone a metamorphosis over the last few days. He was no longer sure what was required of him, what remained of the charge he had once single-mindedly sought to carry out. But he could read the agitation in Connelly's stance, and knew he would need to provide an answer. He stepped forward and to the side, away from the rifle on the ground, and held his hands out to show that he was unarmed. "I am part of an…organization…that monitors this area. We watch to ensure that nothing harmful…arises."
Connelly's arm swung around in an arc that encompassed most of the room. "Gee, you kinda missed this little…arising, didn't you?" Seeing the consternation on Ardeth's face, he shrugged and reached for the rifle. "So you're with the Sudan government, then? One of Hassan's men?"
"I am not," Ardeth corrected, and watched as Connelly turned to face him again, wary once more. "The organization I am affiliated with is private, and relatively unknown." His face hardened slightly. "We would prefer that it remain that way."
"Well, since I don't know what the hell they are, I'm sure not going to go telling your secrets, Bay." Connelly growled. "But as you can see, I'm a little busy here…"
"What has happened, Mr. Connelly," Ardeth asked, gesturing towards the rifle. "You have been operating covertly for days—now you forsake your cover…for what? What has happened?"
"Dunno if you need to know that, Bay." Connelly didn't know why, but for some reason, he instinctively trusted Bay. Still, the man had no reason knowing the full extent of what was going on here. But he could tell him enough to get him out of here safely. "But you do need to know that it's no longer safe in the pyramid. A bomb's been planted down in the grotto—so get out of here, and if you find anyone on the way out, take them out with you, and get as far away from the place as you can. If you have any weapons, take them with you, to keep the critters away. But keep it quiet about the bomb—we don't need to start a mass panic. Someone's down there now, trying to disarm it…"
"This was the doing of the Sudanese, was it not?" Ardeth showed no signs of leaving. Nor did he seem overly surprised at the news of the bomb. This should have alarmed Connelly, but for some reason, it didn't.
"Not the Sudanese as a whole—some fringe group of loonies who think they'll get a one way ticket to heaven if they take out as many infidels as they can. And they apparently want to bring a few of the pyramid's unique little germs back home to play with, too…"
"They have the virus?"
"They must, because they planted the bomb in the middle of the germ factory. They wouldn't be blowing it up if they still needed it." Connelly's characteristically flip response was more grim than usual. "Look, I'd love to stay here and chat, but I've got things to do…"
Something didn't fit, here. "I thought someone was already disarming the bomb. If that's the case, what are you doing going back down there? Shouldn't you be helping to evacuate the pyramid?"
"Look, Bay," Connelly said, glancing down the passage to the great hall. "There are some other…issues."
"What issues, Connelly?" Ardeth's feeling of foreboding grew. "If you told me, perhaps I could help you…"
"Okay, Bay, here's the rest of the story, but I have to talk fast, and you need to listen faster." His words were interrupted by another quick glance down the hallway. "Bashir's in on this. He ran into Bernstein and his kid on their way out—Bernstein had found out about the bomb, somehow, and Bashir pulled a gun on them. He's taking them down towards the grotto, and I need to catch them before he gets there."
Ardeth was horrified. Bashir—it was no surprise to learn that he was one of the terrorists—had taken Eliana and her father hostage? There was no way he was leaving now.
"Connelly, I am sorry, but Eliana is my friend, and I cannot leave her…"
The younger man rolled his eyes. "See, I knew it was a mistake to tell you."
"Let me help you, Connelly." Ardeth wasn't begging, and he wouldn't. He didn't have to. Logic was on his side in this. "Two of us working together have a better chance than just one."
Connelly hesitated. There was some truth to what Bay was saying, and he really didn't have time to argue with him. If Bay could handle a gun…
"Can you use a handgun, Bay?" Connelly asked, pulling the gun from its holster.
"I can, but I prefer the rifle."
Connelly rolled his eyes again. "Figures."
Motioning Ardeth over to him, he picked up the rifle and held it out to him. "Okay. If you're using this, you're going to be a sniper. I want you up in the gallery encircling the great hall. Find a position where you've got a clean shot at Bashir, and if I can't take him from the ground, it's up to you. Take him out. You understand?"
Ardeth nodded, taking the weapon from Connelly and testing its weight in his hands. "I understand."
"All right, then, Bay. Let me give you a quick run down on how this thing works." He took a step nearer, and the two men bent their heads over the rifle, Ardeth quickly learning that the weapon was an even deadlier tool than he had first suspected.
The scene he stumbled upon was one from some of his worst memories, and he had to remind himself that this time they were not his enemies. Still, the distrust was hard to set aside, and as Imhotep walked into the vestibule and saw Ardeth and Connelly huddled over the weapon, he held back a shudder of revulsion and fear. Forcing himself to continue, he reminded himself that Ardeth had proven himself trustworthy over and over again, and Connelly had always been an honorable man. Even so, it was difficult to take those last few steps into the room.
"What is going on here, Bay?"
"Imhotep." Ardeth looked up from the rifle. "You are finished in the infirmary?"
The priest inclined his head in a brief nod. "For now." They have enough blood to complete Doug's treatment, as well as several vials for their studies. Although he still found the concept that his blood contained miraculous properties that the modern healers wanted to study somewhat unbelievable, the fact that Doug's condition had deteriorated no further—in fact was improving somewhat—was beginning to convince him.
But none of that answered his question. "What is going on here?"
Ardeth and Connelly exchanged a glance, and the American shook his head slightly. There was no way he intended to tell Imhotep about Eliana being held hostage. The man was too personally involved—Connelly would bet his life on that—and he couldn't be counted on to remain objective. He would be a loose cannon, and to Connelly's military-trained mind, that was a dangerous thing. He turned to the Med Jai, a look of warning in his eyes. "Why don't you fill our Egyptian friend here in on the situation in the grotto, while I try to take care of the other little issue? He can help evacuate the place, while you help me take care of the other things."
Turning to Imhotep, Connelly gave a brief salute. "Sorry, man, I gotta go. Bay'll fill you in on the situation in the grotto." Another warning look at Ardeth, and Connelly was gone.
A less perceptive man than Imhotep wouldn't have caught the slight emphasis on the last three words. He waited until Connelly had disappeared down the passageway before turning a glowering visage on the Med Jai.
"Bay, what is going on here?"
The route Connelly took, once he made his way down the passageway leading to the grand hall, took him around the upper gallery and down a smaller staircase towards the rear of the large room, where he could catch up with Bashir and his hostages without them seeing him prance down the main staircase. They had not yet left the room, and while Connelly was relieved, he was also somewhat alarmed. There was no reason for them to have stopped, although Bashir seemed to be filling the time nicely by taunting Bernstein about how Ahm Shere's demise would be credited to him, leaving him to make his mark on history by destroying the treasure he had sought his entire life. To his credit, Bernstein wasn't rising to the bait, but Bashir didn't seem to notice, so enamored was he of the sound of his own voice.
But why was he standing down here, killing precious time? Connelly sidled up behind one of the massive pillars circling the outer perimeter of the room, and watched the Sudanese man. In between taunting the archaeologist, he looked up and around the room, almost as if he was expecting someone. Almost as if he was…waiting.
If he was waiting for reinforcements, Connelly's time was limited, at best. He had to make his move now, while the odds were still in his favor. Cautiously maneuvering his handgun into position, he took a deep breath and prepared to step into view. For now, Bashir was far enough away from Bernstein and Eliana to give him a clear shot. He was good enough with a gun to simply wound the man, immobilize him without killing him, so that they could question him later.
His instincts sent a shiver down his spine and had the hair standing up on the back of his neck a split second before the hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned around to look into the obsidian black eyes of one of Bashir's henchman. The man smiled coldly, and with a flick of the wrist that held the gun to Connelly's head, indicated that Connelly should lose the revolver.
With a sigh, Matt lifted his hands over his head, took a step backwards, and started to lower his right hand, the one holding the gun. The gun dropped to the floor, a metallic clang signaling its fall. As the Sudanese man sensed victory, his grin broadened, and he failed to see the feral look of danger in Connelly's eyes. He looked away for a split second, looking over to see if the noise had drawn Bashir's attention, and Connelly saw his opening. Grabbing the man's gun hand with his right hand, and bringing his fisted left hand around in a vicious jab that broke the other man's nose, Connelly reversed the odds again. The other man fell to the floor, moaning and clutching at the bloody pulp of his nasal cartilage.
With a sneer, Connelly reached sideways for his discarded gun. His hand fell instead on a booted foot. "Looking for this?" the Arabic-accented voice asked sarcastically, as the dark-skinned hand held the revolver just out of Connelly's reach. "I'm thinking you may need to apologize to my friend, here, for ruining his face for him."
"Like hell," Connelly growled, but was interrupted by a stream of furious Arabic coming from the grand hall. His new acquaintance grinned at him again, and waved his own gun at Connelly.
"My superior says he would like us to join him, Mr. Connelly." A mocking bow told Connelly he was to precede the other man into the room. "He is not a patient man, and it will not do to keep him waiting."
Imhotep watched as Ardeth hiked the rifle up under his arm and prepared to head down the passage after Connelly. The American had been gone for mere minutes, but the Med Jai was anxious to follow him. He had explained the situation with the Sudanese, the explosive device in the grotto, and the need for Imhotep to get those still inside the pyramid out. And he had also explained that there was a situation with one of the Sudanese—Bashir—that Connelly needed his assistance to resolve.
Imhotep agreed with the need for immediate evacuation—Eliana after all, was still inside the doomed structure, and he was impatient to get her safely outside. But something about the Med Jai's words did not ring true, and as Ardeth turned to go, Imhotep's hand shot out to detain him. "Bay." The word was clipped, impatient. "You have not told me everything, have you? There is something you are keeping from me."
Ardeth looked at the priest, his worry outlined in the lines of his face. His dark eyes went to Imhotep's, but he couldn't hold the man's gaze, and finally he dropped his eyes and looked away. Ardeth understood Connelly's unspoken warning—and the reason for it—but he also knew how he would feel in Imhotep's position. Suppose Eliana were his to protect and cherish?
His resolve wavered, then came crashing down. "He has Eliana, Imhotep. Bashir is holding her and her father hostage." Miserable as he felt, giving the priest this kind of news, he felt marginally better for having done the right thing. Imhotep had the right to know.
Imhotep stood immobile, frozen in shock. "He what?"
"He has taken Eliana and Professor Bernstein hostage." For all that he was anxious to get moving, Ardeth tried to answer him completely. "Connelly and Hassan, who is apparently a member of Sudanese counterintelligence and not affiliated with these men, overheard the exchange. Bernstein somehow found out about the bomb, went to get Eliana, and Bashir intercepted them as they were leaving the pyramid. He is taking them down into the grotto—where the bomb is located."
Imhotep stared at Ardeth, cold fury on his face. "You thought to keep this from me?"
"We thought it would be better if you did not know, Imhotep. Connelly is with the CIA—an American government agency working to eradicate groups of men like this. He is trained in such matters. I have some experience with weapons as well. And neither of us is as emotionally involved as you—we can remain clear-headed and focused. Even though I care for Eliana, as a friend, I can keep my emotions out of this and remain calm." He fixed the priest with a level stare. "Can you say the same?"
"No," came the immediate response. "I cannot. But because of my feelings for Eliana, I am the one who will see to her safety. It is my responsibility—it is my right." His voice was colder than the black flame in his eyes, and Ardeth realized there would probably be no stopping him.
"My friend," Ardeth placed his hand on Imhotep's shoulder, ignoring the priest's flinch. "You know nothing about modern weapons, I have no time to teach you, and we have only the one rifle between us, in any case. What is it you hope to do?"
Imhotep's voice was bleak, as the truth of the Med Jai's words sunk in. "I do not know, Bay, but I must do something."
"Going down there with no weapon save anger and arrogance would put you in grave peril, Imhotep."
"If any harm comes to Eliana, Med Jai, my life is worth nothing anyway."
Ardeth stared silently at the priest, until finally the pressure of each passing minute became too great. He had to follow Connelly.
"All right, Imhotep. Follow me. We will devise a plan as we go."
Connelly walked around the pillar, stepping out into the muted light of the grand hall, and took in the new scene. Bernstein was down on the floor, unconscious, and Bashir held Eliana with an arm around her neck, the barrel of his pistol pointed to her head.
"Your father…" Connelly said to Eliana, ignoring Bashir for now.
She shook her head, but it was Bashir who spoke. "Unconscious only, at least for now. He was beginning to annoy me," he offered in smiling explanation, before his small grin blossomed into something truly evil. "How kind of you to join our little party, Mr. Connelly. I think, though, that you may have been a bit duplicitous with us about your true vocation. You aren't really a photojournalist, are you, my friend?"
"Go to hell," was Connelly's only response. Surreptitiously, he glanced upwards, at the seemingly empty gallery. Where the hell was Ardeth Bay?
"I think perhaps you may reach that destination before me, Mr. Connelly," Bashir rejoined, then glanced behind Connelly to where his two associates stood, the one still holding his gun on Connelly, the other still moaning, bleeding and clutching his smashed nose.
Ardeth waved Imhotep to a halt towards the end of the passageway. From where they stood, they could see out into the great hall, and clearly hear the conversation drifting up from the cavernous room below. Neither sight nor sound was reassuring right now.
Connelly had obviously stumbled into some sort of trap, and been captured. Bernstein lay on the floor, unconscious or worse, and Eliana was in Bashir's clutches, a gun pointed at her head.
Imhotep started forward immediately, blind fury etching his face in stark lines, but Ardeth held him back. "Wait, Imhotep. Now is not the time to rush heedlessly in."
"What do you suggest, Bay?" the priest hissed, almost shaking from the control it took to stay there, instead of rushing immediately to rescue Eliana.
"Cool heads must prevail, Imhotep," Ardeth warned, though understanding sympathy shone in his eyes. "No matter how tempting it would be to simply attack, that strategy is not a good one."
Imhotep considered for a moment, then asked, "You are skilled with that weapon, Bay?"
Ardeth nodded. He had been instructed in the use of weapons, both ancient and modern, since he was a boy.
"What was your original intent—yours and Connelly's?" Imhotep asked, glancing again towards the scene in the hall below.
Ardeth shrugged. That plan was surely null and void by now. "I was to find a spot in the upper gallery here, where I had clear aim at Bashir. Connelly would attempt to overtake him directly, but if that failed…"
"It seems to have failed, Med Jai." The priest observed, with grim sarcasm.
"I was to take Bashir out from above," Ardeth finished, ignoring the jab.
Imhotep nodded his agreement. "But with Eliana held as she is, that will be impossible, without endangering her."
"Agreed," Ardeth affirmed. "But if Bashir could be distracted, convinced or coerced into letting her go…"
They both looked down into the hall again. With the two of them added to the equation, the odds were in their favor once more. One of the Sudanese held Connelly at gunpoint. Connelly, however, might be able to take advantage of a momentary diversion, and disarm the man. The other Sudanese couldn't even be considered—he was a mewling mess, and would be easy to further immobilize. That left Bashir, who was still clutching Eliana. He would be the challenge.
"Find your position, Bay," Imhotep ordered. "I will find a way to distract him. But when he releases her, do not hesitate." The priest's voice dropped an octave, filled with hatred. "Kill him."
"Imhotep, you can't walk in there unarmed." Ardeth knew his protest was falling on deaf ears, but he had to try to reason with the man. "You'll be a walking target."
"It is our best chance, Bay," Imhotep said, and from the grimly determined tone in his voice, Ardeth knew there would be no dissuading him. "Eliana needs me, and I will not fail her. Even if something should happen to me, I must try." He paused, grief and despair warring with the anger in his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, filled with anguish. "She is everything to me, Bay. Everything." His gaze locked with Ardeth's. "Surely you must understand that by now."
Ardeth was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, Imhotep, I understand." He watched as the priest took a breath and turned to walk down the stairway. Once more, Ardeth's hand pulled him back. "Give me a minute—no more—to find a vantage point, then make your move." He reached out to clasp the priest's hand. "Good luck, my…friend."
Imhotep looked down at their clasped hands and, for a moment, the strangeness of that sight transfixed him. What an unlikely outcome to this strange saga—a Med Jai actually calling The Creature a friend. And stranger still, that The Creature would, in the end, consider the Med Jai a friend, as well.
The priest lifted his eyes to the Med Jai's once more, and Ardeth could almost believe that he saw a momentary sheen of moisture in Imhotep's eyes. But the moment passed, the look was gone, and after a brief clasp in return, Imhotep pulled his hand free.
"Good luck to you as well, Bay," he said, watching as Ardeth slid off into the shadows, moving on quick, silent feet. The Med Jai didn't hear the last words the priest murmured. "May your god guide you and keep you safe…friend."
The minute passed.
He knew that somewhere along the edge of the hall's upper mezzanine, Ardeth was securing a position from which he had a clear view—and a clear shot. He could see that below, on the main floor of the great hall, Connelly was attempting to move into a better position himself. Connelly's situation was complicated and his maneuvering slowed by the fact that he was in full view of Bashir and his henchman, who happened to be holding him at gunpoint. But as Imhotep started down the huge stone staircase that led from the halls and passages of the pyramid's upper levels to the massive open area of the great hall, all he saw was Eliana and Bashir and the gun that the crazed man was pointing at her temple.
The priest made no attempt at subterfuge—at this point, he would leave subtlety and stealth to Ardeth and Connelly and the other men who didn't have such a personal stake in the outcome. The rational part of his mind recognized that in reality, they all did have a stake in the outcome—somewhere deep in the bowels of the pyramid, an explosive device was set on a one-way countdown to annihilation—but the emotional part of his mind rejected that claim. Unlike Imhotep, neither Ardeth nor Connelly was watching as a madman held a gun on the woman they loved. They could afford to be rational, logical, cool-headed and detached. He could not—not while some lunatic was threatening Eliana.
As he had expected, the sound of his footsteps drew the attention of the armed Sudanese and their hostages. He tried to ignore the look of panic on Eliana's face, the expression of baffled annoyance painted over Connelly's features. He focused instead on his enemies, who watched with as much amazement as antagonism as an unarmed man walked calmly into the midst of a holy war. For a moment, and a moment only, Imhotep felt a pang of regret over the loss of the immeasurable powers of the Hom Dai. Once, he could have walked uncaring into a firestorm of bullets—and laughed at the mere mortals wielding the weapons. No more. He was as mortal as they—he felt pain, he bled, he could die. He was not afraid of death—by now, he was well aware that death was not the worst possible fate that could befall a man—but he was deathly afraid, all the same.
His gaze flickered to Eliana; he tried to give her as reassuring a look as he could muster, while he walked into range of the weapons in the room, one of which was now pointed at him. Bashir's gun was still pressed tight against Eliana's temple. During those last few steps down the staircase, he held her gaze, staring into the emerald green of her eyes as though trying to look through them and read the essence of her soul. All else faded away—fear, anger, caution…memory.
He took the last step, and his foot fell on the great seal of Anubis.
Light shot upward from all around the perimeter of the seal, tiny pillars of blazingly bright white energy that climbed from the stone floor upwards, as if reaching towards heaven itself. It formed a single, perfect column from floor to ceiling and seemingly beyond as well, effectively trapping Imhotep inside a pulsating, rotating prison.
The priest stopped instantly, glancing first to the right and then to the left. At first his face registered nothing but confounded shock. Then, as he looked down at the seal he stood upon and upwards into the gyrating cell of energy, realization stole over his features and shock faded into disbelieving horror.
The gods' timing, of course, was as impeccably horrible as ever.
"No!" he screamed, in dismayed, futile protest. He launched himself towards the wall of light, his fists up, trying to hurl himself through the barrier.
Eliana flinched and turned away, sure that Imhotep would be harmed—the light looked scorchingly hot, hot enough to burn flesh, incinerate skin and muscle and bone. For all its brilliance, though, the light was a cold flame—cold and impenetrable. The wall of energy rebuffed his assault and swatted the priest aside like a giant flicking away an annoying insect, and Imhotep landed on the floor in a winded, ignominious heap.
"What the hell…?" Connelly summarized for everyone, as they all looked on in open-mouthed shock. From somewhere far off, the sound of wind began to build.
A hundred paces away from each other, through the wall of light, Imhotep and Eliana's eyes met, and at that moment, hope began to seep from his heart and doubt crept like a slinking specter into his soul. His time had come; Amun-Re had returned.
Time shuddered to a gasping halt. The light swept around in a dizzyingly fast whirlwind, gaining strength and power as it swirled around its nexus, the great seal of Anubis and the man trapped inside. His fists continued their puny bombardment against the impenetrable wall of energy, but Imhotep knew that his struggle was futile. The light was nothing a mortal could hope to challenge; nothing a mere human could beat into submission or escape from. Even as an immortal himself—the Creature forged by the power of the Hom Dai—Imhotep had not been immune to the whim of the gods.
Another futile barrage of blows, and he gave up, sinking to his knees. The light kept him captive, trapped him in its circle of power, and all he could do was stare helplessly through its translucent gleam as Eliana watched, and understood. He saw the knowledge reflected in the deep emerald of her eyes as a single tear traced a sparkling line down her face, as she stood there in silence, Bashir's gun still pointed at her temple. She knew; his time had finally come.
He stretched his hand out in mute appeal towards her, towards the light, as if somehow a gentle assault might penetrate the barrier where all the brute strength in the world had already failed. The light was immune to that sort of attack, as well. If anything, it seemed to grow thicker, more opaque, sealing him off more securely from the others, from life, from hope.
Imhotep gave up completely. What would be; would be. He was once again at the mercy of the whims of the gods. He knew Eliana couldn't hear him—by now the sound of the distant wind had built to hurricane proportions. In one last attempt to communicate what he hadn't yet told her in words, he bent his still-outstretched arm inward, his hand lifting towards his chest, his palm over his heart. I love you. The gesture was unmistakable, the unspoken vow understandable in any language, a non-verbal pledge that spanned the millennia, breaching the barriers of language and time, heartbreaking in its unerring simplicity, connecting two souls, two hearts. I love you. Wherever he might be taken, no matter what lay before him, what path he was forced to walk, he would carry her with him.
Through the imperfect window of the light, Eliana saw him, saw the gesture, and understood its meaning. Not caring that she had a gun pointed at her head, she pulled away from Bashir, tears now streaming freely down her face. Bashir, as awestruck as any of the rest of them by the awesome display, loosened his hold on her slightly, although the gun stayed put.
Her hand went first to her lips, then to her heart, and the sad half-smile he gave her in return told her that he understood. One last gesture, a small downward arc of her palm that was a sad echo of their own special gesture said goodbye, communicated more than anything else she could say or do that he was free to choose whatever path he must, and regardless of his choice, she would love him. If this was the end, he could go on knowing that for a short while, in this lifetime, they had found each other again, and had loved, and however briefly, had overcome fate's machinations.
A grimace of emotion twisted Imhotep's handsome features, and for a second, anger replaced the glint of unshed tears in his eyes. For a second, it looked like he would once again try to beat his way through the barrier of light, but in that second, the light took control, a new beam arcing downwards, spearing the priest through the chest, through the hands, and, when his back arced in a spasm of pain, his head thrown back, eyes clenched shut, mouth open in a silent scream of agony, the light struck again, a blindingly bright beam shooting like a laser straight towards him.
The circling whirlwind of light gathered speed, its opacity grew, cutting Imhotep off from Eliana's sight, and from some far corner of the pyramid came the wind—gusting and blowing like a barely restrained hurricane, its roar deafening and frightful and full of the fury and power of god.