The Hunters Box Set, page 64
part #1 of The Hunters Series
“Yeah,” Cobb grunted. “Something like that.”
As far as he knew, it was more than anyone had learned about his previous adventure. Given the purpose of his call, he was encouraged by Ulster’s knowledge but slightly disturbed by his insight. He wondered where Ulster had acquired his information because it certainly hadn’t been from him.
Then again, their entire relationship had been rooted in mystery. Neither of them was fully aware of the circumstances that had led to their initial conversation—a mysterious benefactor had made the arrangements—but both were willing to play along because both benefited from the relationship. Cobb had access to one of the top historians in the world, and Ulster liked to talk about history even more than he liked to eat and drink.
And that was saying something.
“So, Jack, to what do I owe this honor?”
“You said to give you a call if I ever need help, and the truth is that I’ve run into some trouble here in Egypt.”
“Alexandria!” Ulster blurted. He suddenly remembered that Cobb had been tasked with exploring the Egyptian city. He didn’t know what Cobb was looking for—after all, Cobb didn’t even know what he was looking for when he was given the map—but one thing was certain: cleaning the kitchen could wait. “How stupid of me! Please forgive my momentary lapse of memory. It’s been a very stressful day.”
“I know the feeling.”
“I bet you do,” conceded Ulster, who had watched coverage of the bombing on the news. “The Egyptian authorities have yet to release a statement, but off the record they’re downplaying the event. Do they really believe that people will accept their inane story about earthquakes and ruptured gas lines? I have seen my fair share of explosions in recent years, and it’s clear to me that this incident was not caused by seismic activity.”
“You got that right.”
Ulster lowered his voice to a whisper, as if he were about to deliver privileged information. “Jack, if you’re in trouble, I know people. Just tell me what you need, and I will make the call. My friends are former military, and trust me when I say that they’re very good at what they do.”
“I’m former military,” Cobb argued, half insulted by the comment. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got that angle covered. The help I’m looking for is more academic in nature. I was hoping you could lend me a hand.”
Though he hardly looked the part in his dirty apron, Ulster was the director of the Ulster Archives, a facility that housed the most extensive private collection of documents and antiquities in the world. Founded in the Alps by Petr’s grandfather, the Archives had grown from a small assortment of artifacts—smuggled from Austria to Switzerland in coal cars in advance of the Nazi occupation—to what it was today. Though its early success could be attributed to his ancestors, Petr was directly responsible for its recent additions including a magnificent haul from Mexico.
“Certainly!” Ulster boomed. “How can I be of service?”
“My team came across something that we’re not quite sure how to interpret. I was hoping you could give me your thoughts.”
“Jack,” he said tentatively, “I’d be happy to help with your project, but I think it’s important for you to know that I am not a certified Egyptologist. Yes, I admit that I am somewhat versed in all manners of history—after all, it is a job requirement—but the detailed knowledge that you’re looking for should probably come from someone on your own team. That last thing I want to do is to step on anyone’s toes.”
Cobb grimaced. “That’s part of the problem. Our historian has gone missing. I have some of the footage she recorded before she disappeared, and I’m asking you to take a look at it. Do you have access to the Internet?”
“Yes, of course. Just give me one moment.”
Ulster removed his apron and tossed it to the ground as he hustled from the kitchen to his nearby office. He activated the hands-free feature on his cell phone as he sank into the overstuffed, high-back office chair in front of his computer. Then he grabbed the mouse and waited for further instructions. “Okay, I’m ready. Now what?”
“Look at your e-mail. You should see a message from James Bond. Open it, and click on the link.”
“Look at that,” Ulster laughed. “I got an e-mail from James Bond!”
“Sorry about that. My computer guy is kind of obsessed.”
Garcia had known that the team would need the camera footage available to them at all times, even when they weren’t in range of the boat’s wireless network. Rather than load the files onto each of their phones, Garcia had made the data available on a secure website that he had created. The information was streamed from his server, which was encrypted with so much security that it would take even the best hackers weeks to work their way through. Access to the site was normally limited to their personal devices, but Garcia had programmed a temporary password to allow partial access to the system.
Ulster was given the code, and he punched it in.
A moment later, he was scrolling through images.
“These are spectacular,” Ulster blurted.
“So I’ve been told. But what do they mean?”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Cobb had spoken to Ulster on one previous occasion, and he had quickly learned that Ulster had the ability (and the desire) to talk about anything and everything under the sun. So he was more than a little surprised by the silence on the other end of the line.
“Are you still there?” Cobb wondered.
But Ulster didn’t respond. He was far too focused on the images on his computer screen to hear that question or any other that Cobb had asked.
“Petr!” Cobb shouted.
“Hmmm, errr, what? Did you say something?”
“I’ve been saying a lot of somethings, but you’ve been ignoring me for the past five minutes. If you keep it up, I’m going to shut down your access to the website.”
Ulster flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry, Jack. I truly am. Sometimes I’m like a horse with blinders: I only focus on what’s in front of me. That is particularly true when history is involved, and let me assure you: this is history.”
“In what way?”
“In every way!” he said excitedly. “Hieroglyphs like this simply do not exist in the modern world. The clarity. The depth. It’s as if these were carved only yesterday. These symbols are utterly remarkable. Where did you find them?”
“On a wall in the ancient cistern level of the city.”
“Amazing. All this time and they were just waiting there, hidden under everyone’s feet. Tell me, is the wall recoverable in a single slab? Or will your team remove it in sections?”
“Recoverable?” Cobb blurted. It suddenly dawned on him that Ulster hadn’t connected the dots on his own. “Petr, listen to me. There’s no more wall. There are no more symbols. They don’t exist anymore. The bombs destroyed everything.”
Ulster’s heart sank. “Why would someone destroy something like this?”
Cobb rolled his neck. “Petr, that’s why I’m calling you. Our historian was in the middle of examining the wall when she was taken by the bombers. Without her, we don’t know what to make of this or why she was taken. I was hoping you could help.”
Now that Ulster understood what was being asked of him—and what was truly at stake—he took a long, hard look at the images. He started with the one that he felt had the most significance. “This glyph of the horned man symbolizes Alexander the Great. The protrusions are meant to evoke comparisons to Amun-Ra, the head of the Egyptian pantheon. Alexander considered himself the divine progeny of the creator.”
“Go on,” Cobb said.
Ulster clicked forward on the website. “The rectangular blocks and papyrus reeds represent the foundation of Alexandria. As you may have noticed, trees are scarce in that region. But the annual flooding of the Nile delivered a bounty of mud that could be formed into sun-dried bricks. These were used to create their homes.”
Cobb nodded, satisfied with Ulster’s translations. Now that he had seen the historian’s abilities firsthand, he was willing to give him one more piece of the puzzle: the brand on the bomber’s neck.
“This brings us to image three,” Ulster said as he geared up for his next lecture. “If you take a closer look at the overlapping triangles, you will notice—”
“Let me cut you off right there.”
Ulster paused. “Am I going too fast?”
“Definitely not,” Cobb assured him. “I simply wanted to get your thoughts on a specific image. One that we need to keep confidential.”
Ulster nodded in understanding. “Yes, of course. You can count on me. Though I am a bit loquacious at times, I do it within the bounds of secrecy.”
“Glad to hear it. Please check your e-mail again.”
Ulster did as he was told and opened the new message with a photo of the brand. Even though the symbol was much darker than all of the others, he recognized it immediately. “Where did you get this? Did it come from the wall?”
“No,” Cobb replied. “This symbol wasn’t carved into stone; it was burned onto flesh. You’re looking at the back of a man.”
“Oh my heavens! Then the legends are true!”
“Legends? What legends?”
If Ulster had a weakness—other than food and spirits—it was his tendency to ramble. Even the simplest of questions were often addressed with long-winded monologues that encompassed much more than was asked. It wasn’t arrogance—he had no intention of touting his knowledge or belittling others—he simply felt that some inquiries were worthy of a comprehensive presentation.
Unfortunately for Cobb, this was one of those times.
Ulster took a deep breath. “As you probably know, the Sahara is one of the most treacherous places on planet Earth. No fewer than seven distinct deserts encompass more than three hundred and fifty thousand square miles, with virtually no water at all. And it has been that way since the Neolithic Era.”
“Did you say Neolithic?” Cobb grunted in annoyance. He simply didn’t have time for the history of Africa. “Fast forward please.”
“Yes, of course,” Ulster said, racking his brain for the best place to restart. “In 525 BC, a Persian army of more than fifty thousand men was ordered to lay siege upon the Oasis of Siwa in western Egypt. Not a single soldier arrived at their destination. How is it possible that no one—not a single soul in fifty thousand—survived a direct march across Egypt? Are you telling me that the sun and sand ravaged an army that was well stocked with food, water, and supplies? Or were there other forces involved?”
Cobb jumped in. “Petr, I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. What does any of this have to do with the brand?”
“I was just getting to that,” he assured him. “As far back as the Persian Empire, there have been stories about the Sahara and the people who defended it. Warriors who could overwhelm any army. Warriors who bore this mark. Nowadays, it’s probably hard to fathom why someone would still worship an ancient deity like Amun-Ra, but ancient religions—Christianity, Islam, and so on—are still widely practiced throughout the world. As a general rule, the more isolated a community, the more fervent their culture.”
“Meaning?”
“Isolation breeds purity. Purity breeds devotion. Devotion breeds fanaticism. And based on everything I’ve seen, the bombing in Alexandria was the work of fanatics.”
“No need to tell me.”
Ulster flushed with embarrassment. “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to suggest that I know more about the devastation than you. I mean, you were there in the rubble, and I was here on my sofa.”
“Petr, relax. I wasn’t insulted by your statement. In fact, I found it insightful. I’ve been trying to wrap my head around the extreme nature of the blast ever since I left the tunnels, and now it makes perfect sense. These men weren’t just protecting symbols on a wall; they were protecting their way of life.”
“Exactly,” Ulster said.
“It also explains the other attack.”
“Which attack is that?”
Cobb filled him in. “We think these warriors were involved in the slaughter of an archaeological team near the Bahariya Oasis. We also have reason to believe that the expedition leader survived the attack. If so, we’re hoping that he has information about the men who took our historian.”
Ulster nodded. “You’re referring to Cyril Manjani.”
“Wait! You know about the Manjani expedition?”
“You could say that and a whole lot more. The truth is I actually know the man himself. And so do you, on some level. After all, what is a man but his life’s work?”
Cobb was certain that he had never met Manjani, and all of that other nonsense about a man’s work went directly over his head. “Honest to God, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Absolutely none. Please explain it.”
Ulster nodded. “The map of Alexandria I gave to you in Geneva?”
“What about it?”
“It’s his map. He found it on his expedition.”
The words hit Cobb like a sucker punch, so much so that his brain kept interrupting one thought with the next as he tried to piece everything together.
If Manjani knew—
Then that must mean—
And Jasmine found—
Then the symbols might—
After several seconds of utter confusion, Cobb eventually settled on a single question. “How did you get the map?”
“How?” Ulster said with a chuckle. “By opening my mail! Believe it or not, Cyril sent it to me here at the Archives. At first I thought it was some kind of sick joke—after all, I thought he had perished in the attack at the Bahariya Oasis—but once I saw the level of detail, I realized that it wasn’t a prank. It couldn’t be. It was authentic.”
“But why? If the map was so valuable, why would he give it away?”
Ulster shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, but I’d imagine it had to do with the tragic outcome of his expedition. At least that’s what I gathered from his note.”
“What note? You didn’t say anything about a note!”
“I didn’t?” He laughed at himself. “Sorry about that. Like I said, sometimes I live my life with blinders, and when I get too involved in one thing, I tend to forget—”
“Petr! Do you still have it?”
“Yes! As a matter of fact, I do. Hang on, I’ll read it to you.”
Ulster rummaged through the piles of research strewn about his desk until he found the note that he was looking for. Although the message was written in Ancient Greek, he translated it flawlessly. “My dearest Petr, it is with great shame that I send you this map. I hope you may someday finish what I have started. Sadly, I dare not risk my life again to find what I sought. Forever grateful, Cyril Manjani.”
Cobb shook his head, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together in his mind. Some things made perfect sense. After the slaughter of his team, Manjani was too scared to use the map that he had discovered during his expedition, so he had sent it to the Ulster Archives, a facility that encouraged the sharing of knowledge in the academic community, with the hope that someone else would continue the search for the tomb.
And yet, other things made no sense at all: particularly Ulster’s motivation for giving the map to Cobb in the first place. If it was as rare and valuable as Jasmine had claimed, why did Ulster give it to someone he had only just met?
“Petr,” Cobb said, “I hate to put you on the spot like this because I know how much you value confidentiality—ironically, I wouldn’t be talking to you if you didn’t—but I need to ask you a straightforward question that requires a straightforward answer. Otherwise, I’m not quite sure we can continue our chats.”
“You want to know why I gave you a copy of the map.”
Cobb nodded. “Exactly.”
“You’re right,” Ulster assured him, “I value confidentiality more than most. After all, my grandfather would have been shot by the Nazis if not for the silence of a great number of people who smuggled our family library out of Austria. Not only would the Archives never have existed, but neither would I.”
“I realize that, which is why—”
Ulster cut him off. “That being said, I fully understand your need for answers, so I’m willing to speak in hypotheticals. How much do you actually know about the Archives?”
“Only what you’ve told me and what I’ve read online.”
“Then you know that the main goal of the Archives is not to hoard artifacts. Instead, it strives to bridge the schism that exists between scholars and collectors. In order to gain admittance to the facility, a visitor must bring something of value, such as an ancient artifact or unpublished research that might be useful to others. In return, we provide access to some of the finest relics in the world. On rare occasions, we allow objects to be loaned out to people who are unable to make it to Küsendorf, but in those cases, we require something extra special as collateral.” Ulster smiled. “And if they donate something extraordinary, I’m willing to personally deliver the item they requested.”
Cobb read between the lines. Obviously the nameless benefactor who had set up his initial meeting with Ulster had donated something substantial because the Archives were willing to loan out a copy of a map that very few people even knew existed. “Hypothetically, can you give me an example of extraordinary?”
Ulster smiled even wider. “Oh, I don’t know—perhaps detailed information about a missing train and photographic evidence of everything that was recovered. Something like that would generate a lot of goodwill, don’t you think?”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Wednesday, November 5
Giza, Egypt
(12 miles southwest of Cairo)
Forty-five hundred years ago, the newly constructed Great Pyramid of Giza was revered as the final resting place of the pharaoh Khufu. Only the most noble of visitors were permitted entrance into the sacred grounds. It was an honor reserved for royalty.
