They were walked off first, the other passengers staring at them wordlessly with judgement in their eyes. Statistically the likelihood of ever seeing any of them ever again was extremely low, but Jonathan still felt vaguely humiliated as they were marched out so everyone could have a good gander at the traitors.

There were armed officers of the Service de documentation exterieure de contre-espionnage waiting for them when they arrived to Calais, and they were wordlessly escorted to a car waiting for them, making Jonathan feel appropriately anxious. Minutes later, they pulled out front of a rather swanky-looking hotel, the uniformed driver wordlessly handing them their papers to check in.

"What-" Alex frowned down at the papers that he was holding.

He shrugged. "I made a telephone call."

Jonathan didn't know how old Claude managed to fandangle getting them hotel rooms so quickly, but he had stopped questioning how CJ got things done the day Jonathan trudged through the dust and blood of Algeria in 1942 to find a shiny red Cadillac Convertible waiting to pick him up and take him to the Governor General's residence.

"I'm assuming he's in the bar?"

The driver didn't reply but the corner of his mouth twitched and Jonathan took that as an affirmative. Old Claude DuPont was always a bit of a lush. He let his friends check them in as he headed to the bar, looking for CJ's familiar sleek silver head.

"CJ."

"Jonathan." Claude DuPont's accent made his name sound more like Jonazan, but he wasn't in the mood to clown him on it right now.

"I was surprised you even picked up the phone."

"Believe me, so am I." The suave Frenchman waved a hand and Jonathan sat down at his table. Looking back at it, Jonathan was pretty sure that he got many of his own sweeping expansive gestures from CJ. "After this we're even."

"I'll try not to take that personally."

"Please do."

Over the tabletop CJ slid over to him an envelope marked Ultrasecret.

"Ah, classified files. My favourite."

Jonathan attempted to take it but CJ didn't take his hand off the file, quirking a brow at him.

"We're even."

"Don't you trust me?"

"Not as far as I could spit."

"Fine, we're even." Jonathan plucked the file from his fingers. He flipped the envelope open, and rifled through the contents. Student papers, reports, photographs from digs, study notes, and a yellowed telegram. He found a photograph of the dark-haired Simon roping off a pit, and in the background in his undershirt and suspenders was Kurt. Even though the photo had only really been taken a handful of years ago, the big man looked so much younger. The innocence before the evils of the world truly came crashing in.

"What do you know?"

"Simon Gerhard has a degree in archaeology and anthropology from the University of Berlin. Even before the War he was working for the State on various expeditions to try and prove the whole Master Race purity merde." CJ said, swirling his drink around his glass. "He caught Heinrich Himmler's attention in 1936 when he published a paper on the Spear of Longinus."

Jonathan's eyebrows rose. "The Spear of Destiny?"

"The very one." CJ nodded. "His last paper was published in 1943, while he was stationed in Libya. Gerhard wasn't seen again after that. It was assumed he died in the Desert War."

Jonathan winced. The Desert War had been brutal, so brutal that even if you had survived, unless you actually walked into your dining room while your family was actively having dinner it would have been assumed that you were yet another of the bloated corpses rotting under the harsh desert sun.

"That's it?"

"He was a scholar that used Himmler's obsession with the arcane to get the government to fund his excavations."

"As any good conman would."

"That's rather more your area of expertise than mine." CJ took that as his cue to rise, buttoning up his cream-coloured jacket, slipping his Panama hat on over his shock of silver hair. "Please, lose my telephone number."

"Dear Claude, one would think you don't like me anymore!"

"Perish the thought." The agent tipped his hat to him. "Nile."

Later, when Jonathan went to pay for his drink, he just had to laugh. CJ, of course, had gone and ordered himself a dinner and the most expensive wine on the menu and then gone ahead and left him with the tab.

Jonathan walked back down the corridor toward their rooms, his nephew following at his heels after having found him. Alex was more than a little put out that he hadn't been allowed to sit in on his uncle's meeting with the French spy.

"Do I want to know why you know some bloke in French intelligence? I thought you hated the French. Does Mum know about this?" He said it with a threatening tone.

"Are you going to tattle on me to Mummy?" Jonathan tucked the file under his arm, not giving in to the baiting. "I'm your Uncle Jon. I always know a bloke."

Alex's laugh trailed off into silence and Jonathan thanked the Lord that his nephew was still willing to accept that explanation for so many of his more problematic idiosyncrasies. "Are we in trouble?"

"As compared to the trouble this family tends to get steeped in?" Jonathan said. "Well, the dead haven't come back from the grave yet."

"You said that this bloke went missing in 1943. Maybe the dead have already come back." Alex shrugged.

"You're just so happy and upbeat, aren't you?"

"My adult nihilism and existential dread are starting to kick in."

"Wait until you're as old as I am." Jonathan thought back to the telegram in the file. A telegram to the North African campaigners begging for more people, that Gerhard had made a massive discovery that could change the course of the War and definitively crush the very heart of the Allies. It may have not been the Spear of Destiny but it was just as good. If not better.

The Emerald Tablet of Thoth.

His other companions didn't take too kindly to the information provided. Or particularly, one companion.

"It's a fairy tale." Sigrun Magnusson said, her well of patience starting to run dry.

"The tablet was found under a carved statue of Hermes in Tyana, clutched in the hands of Hermes Trismegistus."

Her nose twitched in annoyance. "Hermes Trismegistus didn't exist. He was a medieval Arabic invention created from an amalgam of Hermes and Thoth."

Jonathan carried on like he didn't hear her, flicking through the journal he'd been carrying since taking it from Kurt's pocket. It had only taken a few pages of chicken-scratch writing for Jonathan to realise that he was holding a research journal. He'd virtually a whole library of his own from his semi-respectable days, and remembered when he'd told Evy he was considering just binning the lot she'd reacted like Jonathan had just suggested lighting a campfire in the Library of Alexandria to add to the ambiance. Most of them honestly weren't all that exciting, but his baby sister always had a visceral reaction to anyone wantonly destroying knowledge.

"Thoth divided his knowledge into 42 plates, codifying the great scientific principles that ruled the Universe. According to legend apparently after the gods fell, the tablets were hidden so no person could find them. Only Thoth was supposed to be able to retrieve this Book." He said, eyebrows raised.

"Oh, good, then we're fine since only a god can move this book." The sarcasm was palpable.

"And the tablets are supposed to be sheets of emerald. And it supposedly had the exact instructions for turning lead into gold."

Sigrun shook her head. "Of course that's what you take away from this."

"What can I say, I like my shiny things." Jonathan said. "There are other legends that say that the Tablet was once in the Ark of the Covenant."

She rubbed her forehead, a vein twitching in her temple. "The Ark of the Covenant."

"But there's no way Gerhard found the real Emerald Tablet." Alex said. "The Tablet has been referenced in texts all over the world. Parts of it have been reproduced in the work of Roger Bacon, Albertus Magnus and John Dee. Isaac Newton did a translation. There are so many folios that call themselves the Book of Thoth that they can't all be. It's a lost book, but it's… not a lost book. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, dear nephew, I am aware of that. But what if, hear me out, all these versions are slices from the original edition? And have been reproduced and retranslated so many times that they bear no resemblance to the original text?" Jonathan said. "Like, honestly, who really thinks, say, the Epic of Gilgamesh or the Bible bears any resemblance to the original text?"

Alex's eyebrows rose while Sigrun looked like she could feel her brain slowly imploding from the overload of stupidity. While this sort of thing was old hat to the like of the Carnahan-O'Connells, it had been only relatively recently that the no-nonsense archaeologist had been forced reluctantly into the world of magic and legend.

"The Nazis thought they found the Emerald Tablet. The original text."

The expression on her face was like she was dually fighting an aneurism and also the urge to slap him silly. "And I suppose Gerhard thought the original text was in Atlantis? Lemuria, perhaps?"

"Not exactly." Jonathan gave an apologetic grimace.

Sigrun put her head in her hands.

"What's that look for? I haven't even said anything yet!"

She still didn't say anything and Jonathan had to concede that she still probably had a point. He opened the journal, flicking through.

"Gerhard thought he'd located the Emerald Tablet in-"

"Punt."

For a moment he thought he'd been called something entirely different before Jonathan remembered all the lectures he'd had to endure from Evy over the years on Queen Hatshepsut, his sister close to worshipping the one woman who had ruled Egypt in her own right as Queen and then King, ruling over arguably one of the country's most prosperous and profitable ages before her stepson had done his best to erase her from the dynasty and the very history of Egypt.

He turned to see Kurt leaning heavily against the bedroom doorframe, eyes bloodshot and face wan and looking like absolute hell. Jonathan wouldn't be exaggerating much to say he'd seen mummies that looked livelier. He blinked dumbly. He'd kind of thought he'd used enough laudanum to knock the fellow out for at least a couple of days.

"Hello."

"Hello." Kurt replied, shuffling into the room. He looked at the book in Jonathan's hands like if he wasn't so exhausted he'd dash across and fling it into the fire.

"People have been looking for Punt since the New Kingdom period came to an end." Alex said. "And it became a land of myths and legends."

Kurt nodded. "Ta netjer."

"God's Land." Jonathan said. He and Sigrun exchanged a look. "Dear chap, I know that Himmler lost his marbles and went off sending all you boys chasing rainbows and the Master Race and all that nonsense, but you can't truly believe you found Punt."

"I don't know if it was, but Simon found something." Kurt said. "He was positive of that, before I… went away. The Egyptians were trading with the Land of Punt since at least the Forth Dynasty."

Well, there was no time like the present. "How did you get Gerard's excavation journal?" Jonathan asked curiously.

"When I returned home, after the War. My apartment had been ransacked, half-demolished, but there it was. A package addressed to me on my doorstep." The big fellow sank down on the lounge like his legs were refusing to support his weight any further.

Germany must have very dedicated mailmen. Jonathan's eyes narrowed. "And you took it with you?" It wouldn't have been one of the first things he chose to do if someone mailed him a Nazi's diary.

"It was a reminder of our foolishness, when we were young and believed ourselves invulnerable and unshakable in our faith, a talisman to the way things had been." Kurt said. "My cabin on the train was searched."

"And you think it was Gerhard looking for the journal?"

"Indeed. But he did not find it. It may seem ghoulish but I carried it always, a reminder to never again be what I had been. A reminder not to fall to the same naiveté ever again."

"The missing corner…"

"For as long as I had it, that page had been torn. That was how I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That Simon was coming for me." He said simply. "He left it for me."

"You never believed he just died?"

"Part of me still believes that it is entirely possible that Adolf Hitler could walk into the atrium at any moment." Kurt said shortly. "I still… hear them, sometimes. All of them."

Jonathan understood. For a long time after his first war, he had also been followed endlessly by phantoms. He supposed he still was, only that he had learned how to weed out the corporeal from the ghosts.

"Why would he come for you?" Sigrun asked.

"Because I was the only one he told about the Tablet, we were the only ones looking for Punt."

Jonathan and Sigrun exchanged a look. "So he'd knock you off so he'd get to the Tablet first?" Jonathan asked. "But you weren't even thinking about it until this mess happened! Why not just take the diary and scarper?"

"Unless."

The men looked at her. Sigrun pursed her lips. "Simon Gerhard stalled the ferry and tried to poison us, so Kurt would have been left entirely unprotected. Even if he had killed you, there was no way he was going to get off the ferry unapprehended."

"So he'd be back to topping himself." Jonathan said. "Unless that was the plan all along. Find the journal, destroy it, kill you and then himself."

"And no one would ever find Punt or the Emerald Tablet." Alex concluded.

"Well, it's very possible that something was found. The Nazis were all through Egypt and North Africa." Jonathan said matter-of-factly.

"No. We have a job to do. We can't go off chasing fairy tales if we still expect to be paid. We are not going treasure hunting." Doctor Magnusson said firmly. "Kurt and I have speaking engagements."

"Oh, boo to you. Like you really want to give a talk to a bunch of clueless kids about the development of folklore mirroring advancements in technology."

Her eyes narrowed. "We are not going to Africa. Excuse me for not having the luxury of… bumming around the world like some rich playboy."

"Are you insinuating something, my dear doctor?"

That was when young Andy Hallet poked his head around the room door, still in his street urchin clothes. Jonathan briefly wondered how he had managed to get past the doorman. Hallet tapped Alex on the shoulder, leading in theatrically. "Pst. Have Mum and Dad stopped arguing yet?"

Sigrun rubbed her forehead again, like she was wondering why she hadn't fired all of them yet. "Andrew."

"Yes, Mother?" He asked innocently. Alex turned his snort into a cough. The absolute brass balls on the little shit were something to behold.

"Have you got something to say?"

"I don't want to sit on the naughty step again."

"Andy!"

"Okay, okay. I've got us a ride."

"Please don't be another bus." Jonathan said.

Hallet just grinned.

Busses. Always bloody busses! Well, fingers crossed that this time they didn't get pulled over by another officious little idiot working for some sort of secret agency. That'd be just what he needed. His balled-up jumper behind his neck, Jonathan leaned his forehead against the grimy glass window, staring out at the provincial countryside. He had no particular fond memories of France. Memorable ones, yes. Fond ones, no.

Sigrun and Kurt's speaking engagement was in three days. With any luck it would be smooth sailing until they got to the Museum.

The bus slowly bounced to a stop, the grizzled driver opening the doors and indicating for them to bugger off. Jonathan dragged his bags out, feeling like a packhorse. It probably didn't help that he'd gallantly offered to carry Doctor Magnusson's tools, which were decidedly heavier than he had anticipated.

"I'm going to get you for this."

Andy Hallet rolled his eyes. "Okay, Pop."

There was a dark green Packard waiting beyond the runway, and the kid pulled a set of keys from under the wheel well as the bus took off, shaking them out.

"I'm driving." He announced.

"Shotgun." Alex said immediately.

Sigrun sighed with the weight of someone who had thought they had finished dealing with the idiocy of young men a long time ago. Kurt slammed the boot after he loaded the last of the bags. He was quieter than usual, but had otherwise seemed to have returned to himself. "Shall we go?"

And so off they went again on their merry way. It was a good thing that Jonathan actually liked these people with how familiar they'd been forced to become with each other since he'd joined Doctor Magnusson's team. He'd see if he still felt the same a few years from now.

The Packard pulled out onto the street, and Jonathan had to admit that the kid was a smooth driver. Beside him in the middle, Sigrun was going through her canvas bag while at the other window Kurt was staring out at the countryside with a wistful look on his face. The boys in the front were casually chatting about whatever nonsense that young men spoke about. A moment of calm in the insanity that was his life.

And that was when a maroon car rocketed out of a side street. He caught a glimpse of a dark-haired lady behind the wheel before she smashed into the front of their car, sending them spinning around and around and around.

Jonathan's head smashed into the side window, and he was out.

Richard O'Connell had finally escaped from Evy's relentless complaining about the unreliability of her elder brother, like it was still somehow a surprise to her after all these years. Jonathan and his little crew were supposed to be here two days ago, so Evy would have had a whole week to knock about Paris with her brother without the looming threat of imminent death. Rick would be the first to say that he sometimes still didn't get his wife's relationship with Jonathan. Jonathan joked about trading her for a camel and Evy threatened to marry him off and it was an almost constant back and forth that was honestly tiring to watch. Maybe Rick would have understood better if he had siblings.

He crammed his large frame into a little Parisian café in his quest for a decent cup of joe, feeling like an absolute giant. The looks he was getting as he stumbled his way through the rusty French he hadn't really needed to use in the last ten or so years didn't exactly help his ego.

He stirred his coffee and broke a piece off his pastry. Despite the aloofness of the French, Rick pondered that there were certainly worse places to be stuck.

Yeah, there were worse places he could be stuck.

And then the calm morning shattered.

A lady walked calmy past Rick on the sidewalk, and he paid hardly any attention to her. She opened the door to a maroon MG and fired the engine. She calmly pulled out of her parking spot before pulling a U turn and peeling rubber the hell out of there just as a green car came around the intersection on the other side.

And the woman in the MG jerked the steering wheel to the side and floored it. Right to the green car.

Rick stood, his brain already two steps ahead and knowing what was about to happen, but he still jumped as the MG smashed into the front end of the green car, sending it into a spin. Pedestrians scattered, screaming, and other vehicles screeched to a stop, a couple of horses dumping their riders and bolting.

There was another squeal of rubber and he jumped to the side as a battered delivery van drove up on the sidewalk, almost clipping him, stopping abruptly in front of the crash. The doors rolled open and men in nondescript dark clothing jumped out.

His feet immediately started moving of their own accord, and before Rick really realised it, he was running toward the crash.

"Hey!" Rick shouted. "Hey!"

One of the men glanced briefly at him before indicating for his people to continue. They wrenched open both rear doors before reaching in and grabbing both window passengers. The first was a big man with short blonde hair and they hefted him into the waiting vehicle.

"What the hell-? Stop!" Rick took another step and that was when a gunshot rang out and he threw himself behind a phone booth, the glass webbing and cracking.

-the second man was decidedly more familiar-looking and Rick watched as a limp dark-haired figure was dragged from the car and unceremoniously dumped in the van. He made to move from the phone booth but more gunshots rang out, pinning him flat to the sidewalk.

The van's door slammed shut and with another scream of rubber the vehicle rammed through the stalled traffic and disappeared.

Rick sprang to his feet, sprinting across the road to the car. Other good Samaritans also were stopping, pulling the other occupants from the vehicle, and Rick skidded to a halt as the front passenger door was pulled open and his own son staggered from the car, supported by a couple of shocked Frenchmen.

"Alex!"

"Dad."

His boy all but collapsed in his arms, still dazed and confused by the sudden stop. "Dad, they got Uncle Jon."

Of course.