She turned the phone over and hovered her finger over the screen. But she didn’t immediately answer it. The name that was displayed was one she didn’t expect to see. She hadn’t talked to the caller in nearly a year, nor had she seen him in nearly three.
Zahra silently mouthed his named. “Baahir?”
Chapter 15
Baahir
A pair of big, burly SUVs stopped close to where Baahir’s vehicle had come to a shrieking halt. But the Egyptologist was already long gone. With the sealed scroll clutched in his bloodied hands, Baahir ran as fast as he could down the narrow alleyway. He took the first right and then put on even more speed, darting across the road toward the rear parking lot of the Cleopatra Hotel.
He had no idea why Agent Rahal was trying to murder him. A find like this shouldn’t have been something to kill for. It was a phenomenal, historical discovery, but not one that should cost lives. The only reason he could comprehend it was because of money. Baahir wasn’t an expert on the value of black-market antiquities, but he imagined that the first Book of the Dead ever written would fetch a pretty penny.
Still…
That didn’t feel right. Rahal didn’t admit much back at the temple, but what he had relayed spoke volumes. He had said that the scroll wasn’t for him. Whoever it was for, Baahir had a feeling that they wanted the scroll for themselves, and not just to acquire it to sell it off to the highest bidder moments later.
They wanted Baahir dead because he was a witness. That he was sure of.
Baahir entered the parking lot and pulled out his phone as he ran and, for a moment, thought about calling the police again. Baahir balked at the idea, though. For all he knew, the police were in on it as well, and would lead him directly towards his would-be captors.
Three sets of headlights came zooming around the front of the hotel. Two more vehicles had joined the manhunt. Baahir was at a serious disadvantage. Getting to the museum was now an impossibility. They knew he was headed there and would, no doubt, have someone watching the building closely.
Shit, he thought, ducking behind a minivan.
Two of the three automobiles stopped. Five men in total exited the vehicles, speaking in hushed tones. Baahir recognized one of the men as Rahal, the man from the dig site. The other four were total strangers to him…
Except for one.
It can’t be.
Surely his eyes were playing tricks on him. His memory was usually sharp, but in his current condition, Baahir was having trouble focusing on any one thing. He took a moment to catch his breath and get his bearings. As his mind cleared, he picked up on what was being said between Rahal and the mystery man.
“Where is he?” the bald, bearded man asked.
Rahal threw up his hands in frustration. “I don’t know. I swear I saw someone come this way.”
The larger of the two men stepped up to the other. “Find him, Fahim.”
Rahal shrank away. “I will, Khaliq. You can count on me.”
Khaliq.
The other man’s intimidating presence and name jogged Baahir’s memory. He recalled a news story about a man named Khaliq Ayad, owner of The Pharaoh's Lounge back in Giza. About a year ago, there had been a brutal murder committed in the establishment’s parking lot. Baahir hoped the memory wasn’t a premonition of what was to come. Khaliq himself had apparently been responsible for the atrocity, but the only witness to the event had died mysteriously mere days before Khaliq was to be tried, and the charges had been thrown out.
Why are you here now? Baahir questioned.
Khaliq held a phone up to his ear, and in the illumination of the two vehicles’ headlights, Baahir saw a symbol that he knew all too well. Khaliq’s right forearm contained a simple tattoo depicting the scales of Anubis. And there, in the middle of the two scales, was the jackal-headed god.
Buried deep within Baahir’s years of research, he had come across the mention of the clandestine organization surrounding the ancient deity. Whenever something incredible was discovered that revolved around the death god, the Scales of Anubis were said to have been involved in some capacity. To this day, most people believed them to be nothing more than a myth — a legend like, Anubis himself.
“Fahim,” Khaliq called out.
Rahal paused his advance into the parking lot. “Yes?”
“What of the jar?”
Baahir’s ears perked up. Oh, no!
“Dr. Hassan said it was with his sister in London.”
Khaliq pulled the phone away from his ear. “London? Where exactly?”
Baahir didn’t know why a man like Khaliq Ayad would find it so interesting that the jar was in London.
“The British Museum.”
“And the sister?” Khaliq lifted the phone back to his ear, but his attention was still on Rahal.
The agent turned and stepped into the parking lot. “Her name is Zahra Kane.”
Baahir fumbled for his phone and snuck away, heading deeper into the parking lot. The police had just moved into second place in the order of whom he needed to contact.
Zahra needed to be warned.
Baahir tapped a name toward the top of his speed dial and lifted the device to his bloodied temple. He winced and switched ears. He didn’t exactly know what injuries he had sustained in the crash. Everything hurt. Each of the individual wounds masked the other injury’s severity to a degree. He was definitely bleeding from a cut to his ear and to his right temple. Baahir vaguely recalled the explosion of glass that struck him in the face as his SUV flipped.
The phone rang twice and connected.
“Baahir?”
Chapter 16
Zahra
“Zahra, thank God!”
She hadn’t heard from her brother in eleven months. The tone in his voice concerned her. “What’s wrong, Baahir?”
“Listen to me carefully. I don’t have much time.” He grunted, and in between his deep breaths, she heard heavy footfalls. Baahir was on the move, running from something…or someone. “Do you still have the canopic jar?”
Zahra’s right eyebrow rose. This was why he was calling? She turned her head and eyed the heirloom. It sat majestically atop a four-shelf, mahogany bookcase. The jar’s placement made it look like one of the gargoyles overlooking the grounds outside Notre-Dame in Paris.
Twenty years ago, George and Hanan Kane had acquired the beautifully carved, black, two-foot-tall jackal-headed object. Ancient Egyptians used similar canopic jars to preserve the embalmed organs of the recently departed. The Kanes’ jar was an oddity. It had been carved out of volcanic igneous rock, not limestone, as tradition had dictated. Whoever had made it had also given it a heavy coat of polish.
Other than the impressive craftsmanship, the piece wasn’t all that unusual. At the time, it had been a remarkable acquisition, one that Zahra’s parents had made together while on vacation in Cairo. They had bought it from, what Hanan had described as, a less-than-reputable street vendor. But George didn’t care. He had been immediately enthralled with it and had happily handed over a wad of Egyptian pounds amounting to one-hundred U.S. dollars.
After Hanan’s tragic death, George had given it to his daughter at her request. He agreed, explaining that it was for “safer keeping,” but Zahra really knew why he had gifted it to her. The jar reminded him too much of the lost love of his life. Zahra had kept it because it reminded her of her mother and her extensive Egyptian heritage.