The Lair of Anubis

  by

  Alex Lukeman

  Copyright © 2020 by Alex Lukeman

  http://www.alexlukeman.com

  This is a work of fiction. Organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used entirely as an element of fiction. Any resemblance of characters in this book to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means except by prior and express permission of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Books in the Project Series:

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Harker Group

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  Epilogue

  Notes

  End Game | by | Alex Lukeman

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Further Reading: High Alert

  Books in the Project Series:

  White Jade

  The Lance

  The Seventh Pillar

  Black Harvest

  The Tesla Secret

  The Nostradamus File

  The Ajax Protocol

  The Eye of Shiva

  Black Rose

  The Solomon Scroll

  The Russian Deception

  The Atlantis Stone

  The Cup

  High Alert

  Solomon's Gold

  Phoenix

  The Last Option

  The Black Templar

  The Sword

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  Prologue

  Alexandria, Egypt

  12 August, 30 B.C.E.

  The blood was gone, washed away from Mark Antony's pale corpse. Cleopatra's attendants had bound the gaping wound of the sword with linen and fair ointments and dressed him in his finest battle armor. Only the breastplate was missing. The leather gleamed with fresh oil.

  The Queen of Egypt reached out to touch her lover for the last time, her grief a hard fist clutching her heart. Why had the gods brought her to this cruel ending? Had she not built temples, made sacrifice and penance? Was she not the earthly incarnation of Isis ? Had she not been a faithful servant to the Sun God, making sure his tomb would never be defiled by the loathsome Octavian?

  Her grand dream of ruling in Rome with Antony had vanished quicker than the morning mists on the Nile. Her legions had deserted her, lured away by Octavian's gold. Now she was a prisoner in her own palace, surrounded by Octavian's soldiers.

  Two male attendants stood next to Antony's body, castrated slaves who had been with her for many years. The two were devoted to her. Though they appeared soft, both were strong and fit beneath the outer layers of fat.

  "Finish his armor," Cleopatra said.

  The eunuchs picked up the chiseled breast plate and buckled it onto the corpse. For the last time, she watched them tighten the straps holding the armor in place. It had to be done, though the body was only an empty shell. Antony's sensual, warrior spirit had fled to the realm of Anubis. Soon she would join him.

  Octavian had promised not to violate Antony's corpse. He'd agreed to let them be buried together, but Cleopatra knew he lied. Her spies had told her the truth. He was going to slowly strangle her after parading her in a golden cage before the jeering crowds of Rome, then burn both their bodies and scatter the ashes into the sea.

  Octavian had sent his man Epaphroditus to watch over her, fearing she would kill herself before he could bring her to Rome. It hadn't been difficult to make Epaphroditus believe she was resigned to her fate. She'd convinced him that she hoped to win over Octavian with her famous sexual charms. The man was child's play for the woman who'd seduced Julius Caesar. He'd left her alone with her servants, satisfying himself by posting guards outside her chambers.

  Epaphroditus was a fool. He knew nothing of the secret passage that emerged far beyond the ring of soldiers Octavian had placed around her palace.

  A dark-haired woman waited nearby, dressed in diaphanous green silks. She was Cleopatra's favorite attendant and occasional lover. Her name was Artemisia.

  The wide bed Cleopatra had shared so many times with Antony beckoned, the soft cushions and cool sheets indifferent to the harsh reality of her defeat. The bed would no longer know the cries of their passion, but it could serve a final purpose.

  As she crossed the room, Cleopatra paused before a mirror of polished brass. She brushed a curl of black hair away from her eyes, casting a final, critical glance at the pale robes of silk that adorned her. One last look at the body that had driven Rome's most powerful men out of their senses with lust.

  "Artemisia, is everything prepared for the journey? You know what to do?"

  "Yes, Mistress. Everything is ready, as we planned."

  "The slave has been prepared?"

  "Yes, my queen. It is astounding. If I did not know better, I would swear she was you."

  "Did she suspect her fate?"

  "No, Mistress, she suspected nothing. She died peacefully."

  "Come close, Artemisia. A final kiss."

  Artemisia came to Cleopatra's bedside. They held each other for a lingering, last embrace.

  "Bring the cup."

  "My Queen..."

  Cleopatra's voice was firm. "Bring it. Now."

  "Yes, mistress."

  "And the basket."

  "Yes, mistress."

  Cleopatra lay back against the cushions.

  Artemisia returned with a covered basket in one hand and a jeweled goblet in the other. She set the basket down on a table by the bedside.

  "The mixture is as I asked?"

  "Yes, Mistress. The essence of poppies, hemlock, and the purple flowers from the mountains of Galicia."

  Tears ran down Artemisia's face. Cleopatra took her hand, a gentle touch.

  "Shhh, don't weep. We all make the journey to the lair of Anubis. You are my sweet companion, Artemisia. We will meet again in the afterlife."

  "Yes, Mistress."

  "You must leave within the hour."

  "Yes, Mistress. I know."

  Cleopatra picked up the cup, held it to her lips. She paused, then drained it. Within seconds she felt the mixture begin its deadly work. She reached for the basket, before the potent drink rendered her unable to move. She lifted the lid and stuck her hand and arm inside, then gasped as she felt a sharp, deep bite. A venomous cobra clung to her by its fangs as she pulled her arm from the basket.

  The women in the room cried out in fear. The two eunuchs went to their knees and covered their faces.

  Cleopatra lay back and closed her eyes. She had to make sure nothing could bring her back. The bite of the cobra was always fatal, but it was a painful, unpleasant end, one that would disturb her beauty. The mixture she'd drunk ensured a painless death. There would be no ugly contortions, no rigid paralysis.

  A terrible feeling of helplessness swept over her as the poisons took effect. Her heart hammered in her chest. It felt as though the world was dropping away beneath her. For just a moment, she felt uncontrolled fear.

  "Antony," she said.

  The light faded. Minutes later, the Queen of Kings was dead.

  1

  Professor Lewis Freeman turned on the lights and emitted a long sigh as he took in the dusty chaos of the storeroom. Rows of shelves filled with relics from ancient Egypt lined the walls. This was one of many similar rooms in New York's Natural History Museum, where objects deemed unsuitable for display were deposited and forgotten. The museum's twenty-five buildings sprawled over four city blocks. No one knew how many artifacts it contained. Over the years, many strange and rare things had been forgotten in rooms like this.

  Freeman was collecting research for an academic paper about Egyptian influence on Roman arts and culture during the time of Octavian. He was hunting for a papyrus describing trade between Alexandria and Rome. It was supposed to be somewhere in this room.

  Many of the objects on the shelves were damaged. Others were c
ommon and of little importance. That explained why they had ended up here, deep in the bowels of the museum. A thick coating of dust lay over everything. No one had been here in years.

  Freeman knew the papyrus was stored in a wooden box, but that didn't help much. There were a lot of wooden boxes on the shelves. Compounding the problem, many of the labels identifying contents had faded over the years. Some were illegible. Freeman could eliminate a few boxes by size and shape, but that still left hundreds of possibilities.

  He rolled up his sleeves and began the search. Working methodically, he would take a box from the shelves to a worktable, open it, and look through the contents. Two hours later, he still hadn't found what he was looking for.

  It was hot and stuffy in the confined space. Freeman sneezed. The fluorescent lights overhead illuminated millions of motes of dust floating in the air. He sneezed again.

  He'd worked his way about halfway down one side of the room when he saw a plain, narrow box that was about the right size. It had been pushed behind a damaged bust of one of the pharaohs. Freeman moved the bust to the side and lifted the box away from the shelf. The label identifying the contents was gone. The box itself appeared to be made of dark walnut. The lid was hinged and fastened down by two brass hooks. The construction of the box suggested it had been manufactured sometime in the nineteenth century.

  Freeman brought the box to the worktable and set it down, pushed back the hooks and lifted the lid. Inside was a papyrus scroll. A faint, dry odor of age rose from within. Faded writing in ancient Greek was visible. A sense of satisfaction rippled through him.

  This must be it. The writing is from the right time period.

  Freeman closed the lid. This wasn't the place to unwind the fragile document. He'd have to take it upstairs to his laboratory, where Kalima would help him with the delicate task.

  His research assistant was more than another pretty intern working on her doctoral dissertation. She had a sharp mind and the gift of making him feel that his dry, academic world was important and meaningful.

  He sneezed again and left the room with the box under his arm, unaware that he had just guaranteed himself an early and unpleasant death.

  2

  Elizabeth Harker was at her desk, reading an article about China's push to 5G technology. She was a small woman, barely five feet tall. Her heart-shaped face and milk-white skin gave her an elfin look, accentuated by small, almost pointed ears. An emerald brooch pinned on her black suit jacket matched the brilliant green of her cat-like eyes. She looked up as Nick Carter and Selena Connor came into her office.

  Nick's light weight gray sport jacket hung loose over the shoulder holster he favored. Selena had dressed in a dark blue sweater, denim jeans, and high black boots. The sweater brought out the odd violet color of her eyes.

  "Morning, Director," Nick said.

  Selena reached up to brush a wisp of hair away from her eyes and sat down next to Nick on a long leather couch positioned in front of Elizabeth's desk. A huge, orange tomcat jumped up onto her lap and began purring. The cat was enormous. He had a tattered ear and one long tooth in front. When he purred, it sounded like the rumble of a small engine.

  "Burps is drooling again," Nick said.

  "They're my old jeans. It doesn't matter. Does it, Burps? We don't care if you drool, do we?"

  She scratched the cat under his chin. The rumble got louder. Burps had been with them since Nick and Selena had gotten together. The cat had once saved their lives, distracting an enemy who'd come to kill them. His reward was a life of protected luxury as an honorary member of the team.

  For many years Elizabeth Harker had headed up the Project, a covert counter terrorism unit formed under the previous president. The new man in the White House wanted no responsibility for operations that might come back to haunt him if they became public. Not long after he'd been elected, President Hopkins had found an excuse to disband the unit.

  No responsibility, but Hopkins wasn't above finding ways to take advantage of the team's expertise without exposing himself to the consequences if something went wrong. He knew Elizabeth's sense of duty would never let her refuse a request from the White House when it involved national security. He would route the request through the CIA, passing responsibility onto Langley. Elizabeth had little respect for Hopkins, but country came first.

  When the Project lost its official status, she'd formed the Harker Group. To outward appearances the group was a security consulting firm, but not a lot had changed. Things remained much the same as they'd been before. The difference was that without the protection of a presidential shield, she'd become more cautious about the kind of assignments she'd take on.

  The successes of her team were known within a limited circle of influential people. People came to her with situations that required extreme discretion and specialized expertise.

  Sometimes clients needed something simple and refreshingly safe, like the request that had come across her desk the day before. For once it looked like no one was going to get shot at or blown up. That seemed to happen with annoying regularity whenever they took something on.

  "We have a new client," Elizabeth said. "Someone who needs Selena's help. He's a professor in charge of the Egyptology department at the Natural History Museum in New York. His name is Lewis Freeman. Freeman has a papyrus scroll he wants Selena to translate. Apparently it's written in a combination of ancient Greek and hieroglyphics."

  "There are a lot of people who can read ancient Greek and hieroglyphics that live in New York," Selena said. "Why me?"

  "Freeman has ties to Langley. He knows about you from your academic reputation and he knows about us through his connections to the intelligence community."

  "That still doesn't answer Selena's question," Nick said. "Every time someone wants her to translate something, people start shooting at us."

  "You're being paranoid, Nick," Elizabeth said. "This man is an academic. He's not going to start shooting at you."

  "Maybe not, but I still don't get why he wants us involved. Not if there are other people who could translate it for him."

  Elizabeth looked at her watch. "We'll find out soon. He'll be here in about half an hour."

  "You said he has ties to Langley. How about calling Hood and asking about him? How often does a professor turn out to be a spy?"

  "We don't know he's a spy. If it makes you feel better, I'll call Clarence and see what I can find out."

  "That's all I ask," Nick said. He turned to Selena. "Want to shoot a game while we're waiting?"

  A regulation pool table stood in the library, off to the right of Elizabeth's office. They'd lost their former headquarters when the president shut them down. Selena had funded the acquisition of a restored federal mansion near Washington, situated on twenty acres of prime Virginia countryside. They'd taken to calling it Virginia House.

  "You're on," Selena said.

  Elizabeth watched them get up and go into the other room. She'd never had children. What she did have was Nick and Selena and the rest of the team.

  They were all the family she needed.

  3

  Professor Lewis Freeman was in his early fifties. His glasses were round, rimmed with gold. They had smudges on them. He was going bald, his scalp encircled with a wreath of wispy brown hair turning gray. He wore a gray jacket with leather patches on the elbows, navy blue trousers, and heavy black shoes. Overall, he was the kind of man people tended to forget soon after they'd met him.

  Freeman carried a long, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. He clutched it to him.

  "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

  "My pleasure," Elizabeth said.

  She introduced him to Nick and Selena.

  "Doctor Connor, I've been looking forward to meeting you," Freeman said. "The article you wrote for the Egyptology Journal on the evolution of demotic writing a few years ago was most enlightening. When I saw what was on the scroll, I thought of you immediately."

  "I'm flattered, professor, but frankly I'm not sure why you sought us out. From what you told Director Harker, there should be people in New York capable of translating the scroll for you."

  "I didn't want to reveal what I'd discovered over the phone," Freeman said. "I'm familiar enough with Middle Demotic and hieroglyphics to make a good stab at translation. But this scroll is different. I think when you see it you'll understand why I wanted a second opinion. There's a section I have been unable to translate with any success. I suspect it may be written in code. I've been told that you and your friends might be able to decipher it."