Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (47 page)

“I just need a goddamned bathroom!” he shouted, and flew into a coughing fit.

This soured the vast majority, but an especially altruistic pair helped him up, guiding him down the hall until they too were cast away with a belligerent thrash. Jivu passed them on his way down the hall.

He smiled and said in Arabic, “So ungrateful, no?”

The pair nodded and shrugged, one saying, “What can you do?”

Nearing a large, illuminated lavatory sign, Turner lost his balance once more, tripping over himself and veering to the wall opposite the restrooms, disappearing into a recess.

Jivu jogged forward to catch up—this being the perfect, inconspicuous little nook—reaching the corner just in time to see an auditorium door swinging slowly shut. Inside, a flurry of laughter rose from a large audience. He opened the door just as it finished shutting.

A bright spotlight shone on a well-dressed American man standing beside a lectern, addressing the spectators with his microphone. “And that’s not even the most exhilarating from the find!”

Applause.

Spread across the stage, and lit dramatically from above, stood four or more black kiosks bearing papyrus scrolls. A large screen behind them displayed live magnified views from a nearby camera, and above the screen stretched a wide banner:

The Library of Alexandria

Ancient Knowledge of Humanity: Returned

An Egyptian man at side-stage translated the speaker into Arabic.

More applause.

The American began pacing the stage. “Many of these ancient intellectuals invented entire
disciplines
like geography, or musical theory, and authenticated scientific facts that wouldn’t be discovered again until as recently as the twentieth century!”

Jivu stepped inside and eased the door shut behind him. A man with a large tripod and glowing camera glanced back at him before returning to his monitor. A tripod and various gear bags obstructed the aisle behind the back row of seats, and sticking out just beyond the corner, the legs of another tripod, suggesting the entire aisle was a blocked-off mess. Turner had to have cut left.

“But hey,” the emcee went on, “any random person can read a script. How much more thrilling would it be to hear about some of these scrolls straight from the source—the man that brought these invaluable pieces of human history back from obscurity?”

Tentative applause during the translation. Turning heads, searching eyes.

Jivu leaned against the wall and peered around the corner.

“That’s right … All the way from New Jersey, U.S.A.—a gifted, generous man I’m so very honored to call a lifelong friend—Mr. … Matthew … Turner!”

A bar of black swung from behind the wall, striking Jivu across the eyes. Hands—dozens of hands, it seemed—grappled at him from head to shoulder to shirt to groin. As wild applause rang out through the theater, his body slammed to the ground. Something that felt like a leather arm rest clapped down over his mouth, and wrapped around-side his head. His nose had been broken, eyes stung, knees on his shoulders as his shirt was torn open, fingers digging through his pockets, shoes ripped off, hands probing every inch of his body. Within twenty seconds, all of his weapons had been found and removed.

“Thank you, Cameron,” Turner’s entirely healthy voice through the loudspeakers. “That was quite the introduction.” The translator began to speak, but Turner stopped him, saying in an elegant Egyptian Arabic, “Oh, thank you sir, thank you so much. It’s okay, I’ll repeat for everyone.”

Applause, as Jivu was pulled to his feet. Behind his back, restraints cinched around his wrists, and then more, pinning his elbows together.

The miracle of a white man speaking their language.

“This man
loves
to be on stages,” Turner said in Arabic. The audience cackled.

They had Turner blown up on the big screen. He had on a sport coat to cover his stained shirt, though thinking on it now, Jivu guessed it hadn’t had a drop of blood on it—real or fake. Maybe some wrinkles and dirt stains.

Turner’s friend was off beside him—no clue what was being said—grinning stupidly as Turner went on. “He and I met once before, for
maybe
two minutes. But he’s a fun guy, so when I point to him, let’s give him some huge applause … Cameron Langley!” The astonished friend appeared near to climaxing there on stage.

Jivu glanced around at the faces of his captors. Also, clearly American. It was to be an unsanctioned snatch-n-grab. Brilliant, actually, given that he wasn’t an Egyptian citizen, nor was he even officially in the country. The video call, that whole performance from the hotel to the waste bin … all orchestrated to draw him to this exact spot. Admirable planning and dedication, but Jivu’s team would be waiting outside to—Unless … they, too, had been captured.

The operatives began shuffling him toward the corner doors—the doors out of which Turner must have slipped as Jivu entered the theater.

“Oh, and we also have another special surprise guest,” Turner announced, motioning to the back corner. “The beloved President of the Republic of Kenya, Jivu Absko!”

Cameras swung about and Jivu saw his bleeding, gagged face projected above the stage. Awkward applause from a few random seats. The operatives all spun away, ducking their heads and murmuring, “Oh, what a dick,” and “You asshole,” as they thrust him to the doors.

“Yikes, guess he’s in some kind of trouble,” Turner said as the doors swung shut.

* * *

Iris walked an erratic path around the cabin’s large deck, searching for cell phone signal. As if an elevation change of two feet would make all the difference, she alternated raising her phone overhead, and holding it at eye height. At the farthest back corner, the No Service at her screen’s top disappeared … thought about signal … thought about signal … and…

“Two bars!”

“What’s that?” called Aunt Denora from the open kitchen window.

“I got signal! Two bars!”

“A miracle, sweetie. You know we have a perfectly good phone inside here, right? Two of them, actually.” A boisterous laugh from Aunt Denora.

“Yeah yeah,” Iris said as the spinning circle thing spun.

She’d better have a text, voicemail, or email from Matt or Joss. A text message alert appeared, but it was from her carrier, informing her she was approaching her data limit.

She growled and went inside. “I’m taking you up on that phone thing,” she said as she passed her aunt, and grabbed the kitchen phone off the hook—one of those 70s-era wall jobs with a wood veneer on the receiver. They just loved wood veneers back then.

The home voicemail line rang and Iris entered the required codes to check for messages. There were many of varying import, from crap to nonsense to ultra-crap, but one message made her freeze in place, wide-eyed.

“Hi there, Turners, this is Tuni …” She sounded relaxed, but exhausted.

Iris jotted down the info on a notepad with more cartoon cats than white space for writing actual notes. The message said she’d only be reachable there for another few hours, but Iris hung up before checking when it was left.

Country code 254. She was still in Kenya, at least when she called. Iris dialed the number.

“Good heavens,” Aunt Denora said from the sink. “You calling the space station?”

Iris shushed her lovingly. A woman answered in Swahili, but fortunately also spoke English. She put Iris through to the room number.

“Hello?” Tuni’s voice, unmistakable.

“Tuni, it’s Iris. I just got your message. Are you okay?”

“Oh, Iris, thank God. I’d cry right now hearing your voice, but I think I’ve run dry. I’m fine …
we’re
fine …” A child in the background, presumably Alexander, asked who Iris was. “She’s an old friend, bubu. Let Mama talk a moment, okay? Sorry, Iris.”

“No, please, it’s just great to hear you’re all right. And he sounds adorable.” She wanted to say she couldn’t wait to meet him, but for some reason that felt too awkward. “So talk to me. What can I do to help? Do you need money, transportation …?”

“Thank you so much,” Tuni said, yawning. “Sorry … little sleep the past few days. Actually, the men who were, well … the men we were
with
gave me ten thousand dollars this morning before passing us off to a cab. So I think we’re fine in that department, though I’m not at all certain how we’ll leave the country without proper papers. I haven’t a passport or anything for either of us.”

“Well, look, Matt happens to be in Egypt right now, maybe ten hours away. I’ve zero doubt he’d come to help in a heartbeat.”

“No, no,
God
… Thank you so much, again, but no. I can’t quite face Matthew just yet.”

“I understand,” Iris said. “Maybe tell me where you’re trying to get?”

“New Haven. My mother’s.”

“Got it. Can I have twelve hours? You’d said you were leaving in three.”

“No … I mean, yes. Twelve hours, of course. I meant no, I’m not leaving. I was going to go to sleep, but
somebody
hasn’t seen cartoons in days and just can’t bloody settle down. Please, take all the time you need. I feel we’re safe here. And again, I can’t thank you enough. And please pass that on to Matthew, as well.”

Heracleion, Aegyptus – 303 CE

Outside the carriage’s window, the aging fishing village of Heracleion dissolved into the sea. As with most other Nile estuaries, the coast here had been split into hundreds of little islands, the canals progressively splintering between patches of land, until finally becoming only sea. Long ago—ages before Romans, or even Greeks, had visited Egypt—this place was a bustling harbor like Alexandria. It was called Thonis, and through those docks the old Pharaohs sold Egypt’s surplus grain to neighboring kingdoms.

What remained now, Neos observed, were the remnants of both Egyptian temples and Greek, and one of the few remaining places where a person could fish to feed their family without paying an official by the pound.

Neos exited the carriage, took little Sopatrius from Skyla’s arms, and peered up at his girls—Afwahlania, eleven, and his eldest, Azeenia, twelve. For the journey’s last leg, they’d decided to sit up front and
“help”
Unza drive the horses. Despite her seventy-seven years, Unza needed no help—not with anything.

“Down,” Unza commanded the girls, and nudged them toward their respective steps, and then added her version of
be careful:
“No.”

Skyla took Sopatrius back from him. “I don’t want to take him over those horrible bridges. We’ll leave him here with Unza.”

“What?” Neos turned to her, and a resolute face awaited him. She looked more like her mother every year, though had
always
had Patra’s stubbornness. “Philip hasn’t met him yet! Nor have his daughters!”

“No,” Unza said, and scooped Sopatrius away from Skyla. The baby cried, and Unza lifted him over her head, spinning him around. “Zuzuzuzuzu …” He gaped, and watched her face and the spinning ground, and he giggled, and drooled.

Unza had always been with them, and helped a lot raising the girls, but ever since Patra died, she’d become the grandmother of the house.

“It’s not safe,” Skyla said. “Besides, they’ll all walk back with us when we leave, anyway. They’ll meet then.”

Neos conceded, and the four of them left Unza and the baby with the carriage. On their way out to the remains of Cleopatra’s Palace—one of the farthest islands in the chain—the girls ran ahead, tiptoeing across the now even-more-untrustworthy foot bridges, and darting in and out of once-magnificent monuments.

Passing the Temple of Heracles—still a spectacular sanctuary—Neos observed a couple of the statues had either been refurbished or replaced. Philip’s hand, unmistakably.

“I see the sisters,” Skyla said, and Neos gazed across the canal to Cleopatra’s island. Philip’s eldest daughter, Theophila, was on a makeshift scaffolding, touching up a mural as her sister, Cyra, on the ground, herded their children.

Neos held Patra’s keystone in his palm, running his thumb over the etched words. “I don’t trust Cyra’s husband.”

“Neither do I,” Skyla said. “But until we know if any of ours can be stewards, we shouldn’t have both stones. Logically,
neither
of us should have one—certainly not when there’s a legitimate Steward among the group. The sisters are legitimate. And one of them will be inheriting Philip’s, when the time comes.”

They started across the last bridge just as the girls went gleefully screaming into the crowd of young cousins. Philip’s daughters both peered across the canal and waved. Neos and Skyla waved back.

“I know I don’t have to remind you the whole point of keeping the keystones apart from each other-”

Skyla interrupted, “It’s a true relief you know this,” and smirked.

“I’m going to speak with Philip about it. He’ll understand. I don’t think he’s all that enamored with his son-in-law, either. It’s really up to him, as the last of them.”

Once the reunion cheer had settled, stories old and new shared, and children all reintroduced, Philip took Skyla and Neos with him to the Temple’s wide-open front courtyard. In its peak years of activity, this paved area hosted nonpermanent structures where visitors could purchase illustrations or statuettes of Egypt’s last pharaoh.

These days, Rome was all too happy to let that likeness fade away. Neos’s mother, Zenobia, had evoked Cleopatra during her “uprising,” and the most recent failed revolt, just eight years ago, had been led by Coptics seeking Egypt’s return to Egyptians.

“Do you like it?” Philip asked. He wore an odd grin.

“Like what?” Skyla asked, glancing about.

Neos observed a lone statue rising from just beyond the courtyard’s low balustrade. “Is that new?”

Philip pinched his chin, mocking deep contemplation. “Is it?! I can’t … seem … to recall.”

Neos snickered and grabbed Skyla’s hand, the pair brushing past him to examine the new statue. From the back, it was obviously Isis—the posture, the tunic, the hair—but sculpted of some exquisite black stone he’d never seen.

Philip’s chisels and picks lay about the balustrade and pavement blocks along with all of his polishing tools. Neos stepped carefully through them, sat on the balustrade, and spun his legs over top, dropping into fresh, dark soil on the other side. He held out an arm to help Skyla down as he took in the new statue.