“Who do you work for?” the man sitting in a chair in a darkened corner asked for the fifth time.
“I work for myself. My business card is still in your hand. Just because I came into possession of the object in question before you gentlemen could steal it does not mean I’m not who I say I am.”
“Yes, Mr. Klaus Udell, of”—the man held the business card up to the light—“Dresden, Germany.”
“Yes, I run a fashionable antique shop on the outskirts of—”
Whack. The open-fist blow to the side of his head made his vision find that ever-elusive tunnel that usually preceded being knocked the hell out. The man shook his head and stared at the black-bearded man who had delivered the sneak attack. This thug he would remember.
“If you insist, I admit it’s not that fashionable a shop.” His blue eyes never left those of the bearded man, who now moved to the side of the chair. That irritating smile was still etched on his dark features.
“Humor. I’m so glad that you have some. You are going to need it, my friend. The days of Europeans pilfering our heritage are over. An example must be made.” The man finally stood, and the official identification was made. This was the gentlemen you see on the Discovery Channel and National Geographic. He was famous inside and outside of Egypt. Dr. Hasan Mobbari, national director of the antiquities bureau for the government of Egypt.
“Well, I see you have made enough fame and fortune to fool your bosses into thinking you’re looking out for their best interests. Smuggling antiquities from your own people and department must be pretty lucrative.”
The small man laughed. “Very lucrative.” Mobbari walked over and faced the handcuffed man. “Why do I get the sense that my presence here and my nefarious outside interests have not come as a surprise to you?”
The man in the chair only smiled with blood staining his lower lip. Then he looked toward the man who had hit him. The smile eased off.
“In case you have not noticed, I am a thief. Thieves know certain details about life in our game. You are one of those details. I am what is called an opportunist, a veritable black sheep in the antiquities world.”
“Black sheep?” Mobbari asked, confused.
“It’s an American turn of phrase. I sometimes hang out with some, well, let us just say, shady and despicable individuals.”
Mobbari actually flinched back a step when the man had raised his voice when he said the word despicable.
The smaller man quickly regained his composure.
“It makes little difference just who your thieving friends are; they cannot help you at this time. We are very secure here in the museum. It is Sunday, we are closed, and the security department, well”—he laughed again, more heartily this time—“they’re mine also.” He lifted the blond-haired man’s chin up. “Now, let us speak on the subject of the crown of Ramses II.”
“Is that something you have misplaced? For a fee, I could possibly put out some feelers and assist in finding this, well, whatever it is you’re looking for.”
This time the blow was straight into the side of his jaw. His head burst with stars, but that didn’t stop the handcuffed man from turning and facing the bearded attacker. His eyes were intense and filled with malice as he took the brutish man in.
“This facetious attitude will not help you avoid the pain that is coming your way, my German friend. All this talking is meaningless anyway. I am afraid your filthy ilk, your partners in crime as it may, have betrayed you.”
The knock came loudly on the steel door. The sound echoed off the walls as if they were in a huge cave system. One of the uniformed men went to the door and slid a small door back and looked. He closed the viewing port and then turned to face the head of Egypt’s antiquities department.
“Two museum staff with a small crate.”
“Ah,” Mobbari said, smiling as he leaned down and into the face of his guest, “opportune timing, I must say. My German friend, it has arrived.”
The blond man looked up as the smile on the face of not just this arrogant fool but his minions also became larger. It was if they all had a secret that he wasn’t privy to.
“Let them in. I’m sure Mr. Udell would be interested to see what we have recovered.”
The two men in white coveralls were allowed in. They had a small wooden crate between them. They set it on a table and then began to open it with small crowbars. Mobbari and his men were involved and excited as they watched the object being uncrated, enough so they paid no attention to the deliverymen. The top of the crate came off and then the sides. The two large men stepped back as all eyes went to the straw-filled case.
Hasan Mobbari reached into the crate after donning white cotton gloves and pulled out a magnificent headpiece designed and built over 3,400 years before by the brilliant artisans in the court of Ramses II. The crown was white and had an inner crown of red; there was the golden cobra in its most menacing posture on the front — ready to strike. All this detail culminated in the most famous crown in history. The two differently colored parts indicated the kingdoms of Upper and Lower Egypt. Mobbari held it up to the light and then toward the blond man sitting in the steel chair.
“Magnificent piece!” Mobbari exclaimed.
“So, you were just torturing me for the pure enjoyment of doing so?” the man asked as he spit another mouthful of blood onto the cement floor. His eyes once more went to the bearded face of his assailant, who only nodded with pleasure and smiled even wider.
“Not at all. It is and will be far more fun,” Mobbari said as he finally lowered the crown. “You see, I have contacts inside your world also. The men who turned you in, Herr Udell, informed on you when my rather extensive net was closing in around them. Not only did we recover the crown in your fifth hotel room — very resourceful, by the way — they also gave us your real name and profession — Mr. Henri Farbeaux. Or should I address you as Colonel?” Again, the irritating laugh. “Without even knowing it, we have captured a man wanted in nearly every country in the known world.”
The five other men laughed also. The two larger men in the coveralls did not. They had removed the silenced dart guns so fast that the men were still laughing when the .22-caliber Phisolene anesthetic — filled glass darts slammed into their necks, chests, and even one man’s forehead.
“Oh, shit. That had to hurt,” a blond man said as he removed his baseball cap and his museum overalls. “The instructions from Pfizer said don’t hit anyone above the neck.”
The other man, this one with black hair, eased over to Mobbari and removed the crown from his shaking hands. “Well, I told you for years I was a better shot than you, Swabby,” the dark-haired man said.
“Who are you men?” the antiquities director asked in as a defiant voice as he could muster after seeing his men fall to the cold flooring.
“Who they are makes no difference, you traitorous thief.”