The elevator doors opened, and Abigail once more was surprised by the modernity of their surroundings. Long marble floors and plenty of glass surrounded her. Riley escorted her over to a desk and handed his ID to a man who obviously knew him. Once more, he gave Abigail’s name.

  The man nodded. “The Director is expecting you both. Go on.”

  With that, they continued on past a row of lush tropical potted plants and turned left into another elevator. The elevator likewise had iris and thumbprint security. Abigail shuddered as she remembered films where a perpetrator cut out someone’s eye and cut off their thumb to bypass the security.

  “Are you all right?” Riley asked when they were in the elevator. “You’ve gone quite white.”

  Abigail forced a laugh. “I’m fine. Just a bit nervous.”

  If Abigail had thought the building ultramodern until now, the Director’s office was something else. She expected guards outside the door, but nobody else was around.

  A chill passed over Abigail when she saw the man she assumed was the Director. He reminded her of someone she had seen recently on an old TV show— she couldn’t quite remember which one. He had an air of danger about him. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn he was totally unscrupulous. His smile was affable enough and his handshake was only barely firm. Still, she had no doubt he would have no compunction issuing orders to kill someone.

  “Have a seat,” the man said to Abigail, waving politely in the direction of a plush chair.

  Abigail was surprised at the size of the Director’s office and at the wall of glass behind him, behind which was a terrace filled with flourishing plants. She was surprised that there were no artifacts on the walls, only some modern art.

  “Delighted to meet you at last, Abigail. May I call you Abigail?”

  “Of course,” she said, raising one eyebrow.

  “You may call me the Director,” the man said slowly. “We’re grateful for your help in the last mission.”

  Abigail had no idea how to respond so simply said, “You’re welcome.”

  “I know I can rely on your utmost discretion.”

  He said it as a statement, not a question. Abigail did not feel the need to respond, but when the man raised one bushy eyebrow and tapped his large jowls with his thumb, she said, “Yes, of course.”

  He turned his attention to some papers in front of him. “You’re familiar with Goliath’s spear?”

  Abigail nodded. “Yes.”

  The man leaned back in his chair. “What do you know of it?”

  “I know that it was described as being like a weaver’s beam which some people take to mean the width of the spear but in fact referred to the weaver’s loop. The end of the spear was iron, said to be sixty shekels, which is about fifteen pounds.”

  The Director narrowed his eyes. “And do you think the weight is accurate? Or could it be an exaggeration? Didn’t it need a giant to lift it?”

  Abigail rubbed her forehead. The whole giant thing was one of the mistranslations that had bothered her from time to time. “Yes, that weight wasn’t unusual, but Goliath wasn’t a giant as such. The Biblical giants were not tall people. The word referred to a race of people. The ancient text says Goliath was about six feet tall and it was, in fact, a much later translation that said he was nine feet tall. In fact, scholars today believe that his height increased with each translation—you know, like Chinese whispers.”

  The Director frowned ever so slightly. “So, you’re saying Goliath wasn’t a giant?”

  Abigail waved one hand in dismissal. “It’s not as easy as yes or no. Allow me to explain?”

  The Director leaned forward which Abigail took to mean she could continue. “Goliath was indeed very tall. In the Bible, First Samuel does say he was a head taller than Saul, who was also said to be quite tall. All scholars agree that Goliath was indeed quite tall. Now, the other matter is the Giants. Like I said, Giant was the name of a race of people. These days the word Giant means, well, a giant like in Jack and the Beanstalk, but in those days Giant meant a Rephaim, a nationality. It had nothing to do with tall people. Words change meaning over time, and today Giant means a very tall mythological person, but back then, it meant nothing of the sort.”

  The Director stabbed his pen on the table. “I don’t think it’s important for us to understand all this giant business. It is, however, important to know whether you believe the estimation of this spear’s size to be correct?”

  “Absolutely,” Abigail said. “In fact, it was a common weapon. It was the type of weapon carried by the Nuzi chariot warriors and also the Greeks.”

  Although the Director intimidated her, she was too full of excitement to resist a further question. “Have you found Goliath’s spear?”

  The Director did not seem irritated by the question. “Not exactly. We have, however, come across an Egyptian papyrus that gives its whereabouts.”

  Abigail’s hand flew to her throat. “A papyrus gives the whereabouts of Goliath’s spear?” she asked, unable to contain her enthusiasm.

  The Director offered a slight nod. “Yes. Perhaps I should be more precise. The papyrus allegedly gives the whereabouts, but we cannot be sure. Apparently, there is a code that has to be deciphered or a meaning that is not quite clear.”

  Now Abigail was getting a little confused. “You don’t mean translated, do you? Do you mean there are symbols or something like that—it contains a clue?”

  The Director drummed his pen on the desk again. “Precisely. It’s not solely a matter of translation; it’s a matter of figuring out what it means. I do believe, however, you can translate Egyptian?”

  “Well, I’m not very good at Coptic,” Abigail said. “Do you mean hieroglyphics? What year is it? Do you have a dating for the papyrus?”

  “We think it’s around 1,000 BC,” the Director said. “And yes, hieroglyphics.”

  Abigail nodded. “Yes, I can read hieroglyphics.”

  The Director shuffled some papers. “It’s not simply a matter of translating it, as I said. It appears a little more difficult than that. I’m sending you both to Cairo right now to retrieve the papyrus and pay for it. If it falls into the wrong hands, it can be sold to a private collector for millions of dollars. Most of the great paintings of the world have been sold that way.”

  Abigail wanted to ask a question, but Riley spoke first. “Who will be on the team?”

  The Director shook his head. “It’s just the two of you. I want you to slip in and out of Cairo. Pay the man for the papyrus, slip straight out, and bring the papyrus back here. No big deal.” He waved one hand dismissively. “Your contacts there are Walid and Mona. This is a simple mission.”

  Somehow, Abigail doubted that.

  4

  CAIRO

  Fouad Almasi clutched his backpack to his chest. It contained the precious papyrus, safely packed inside a metal case. Maybe he hadn’t done the right thing, trying to sell it to two organizations at the same time. He knew Vortex’s reputation—after all, he had sold them a stolen artifact on a previous occasion, but when he had shown a friend the papyrus, the man had become overly excited and said it was a papyrus that indicated the location of Goliath’s spear.

  Fouad trusted the old man. After all, he was a scholar and not interested in money. To the old man, treasure was the knowledge of the past. Unfortunately, Fouad was unable to find out more from the old man because he had a heart attack and died before help could reach him.

  Fouad was saddened by his death. He had liked the old man, but more to the point, he wouldn’t be able to use him any longer to verify ancient artifacts. The man had been a real gem, uninterested in money yet able to verify artifacts. Now, Fouad would have to find someone else, and he knew it would be difficult, if not impossible.

  This was his last chance at making good money for certain, which was why he had initially offered the papyrus to Vortex. His contact at Vortex had fallen through, so he had offered it to the Americans instead. They had offered a higher price than Vortex had agreed, but afterward Vortex had contacted him to say they would purchase the papyrus.

  What was he to do? The Americans were offering more money, but no one ever crossed Vortex and lived to tell the tale. He hoped he would be the first. In fact, he was counting on it.

  He had covered his tracks as best he could. All he had to do was make the exchange and hightail it out of Cairo as fast as he could. He intended never to return to Egypt, so when Vortex came looking for him, he wouldn’t be there.

  Fouad drove around in the bustling Cairo traffic, turning this way and that, all the while watching to see if he was being tailed. After a while, when he was certain he wasn’t being tailed, he headed for The Hanging Church. He needed to get there early. If the RHTF agents got there before him, they might think he wasn’t coming and leave, and then he would be in a most unfortunate situation.

  He parked as close as he could to The Hanging Church and headed through the courtyard, up the steps, and into the building. Once inside, he ducked back behind a wall and stood there for some time looking at the people milling around. No one looked like a mercenary. In fact, he didn’t see anyone who looked suspicious.

  Fouad checked his watch once more. He had arrived with plenty of time. He stayed there in the shadows watching people coming and going, and all the while, his heart beat ever faster.

  Only minutes to go, and he would be a free man—if he could get away from Egypt. He intended to go to live in Kazakhstan. No one would ever find him there. The only problem for him would be the cold. Still, it was better to be frozen and to live rather than the alternative. Fouad nodded slowly to himself.

  He diverted his eyes for a moment and looked at the icons representing the archangels Gabriel and Michael, as a fresh flood of tourists surged up the stairs. He moved away and walked over to stand near the main altar. He allowed himself a moment to study it. It was magnificent, covered with Coptic cross designs and made of ebony inlaid with ivory.

  Fouad looked at his watch yet again. If the RHTF agents were on time, they would be here any minute. He decided to walk back to his vantage point by the stairs. An elderly woman stepped in front of him, barring his way. He looked at her in shock. Surely, she wasn’t a Vortex agent? She was smiling at him. “Fouad?” she said.

  He gasped.

  She opened a box.

  Fouad looked in horror as bees flew out of the box. He screamed and flailed his arms. He reached for his backpack, for his EpiPen to inject himself against the inevitable anaphylactic shock. Just as he did, someone snatched his bag. Fouad looked up to see a young teenager calmly walking away with his backpack over his shoulder.

  5

  TWO DAYS EARLIER

  CAIRO

  The man walked into the house. The lock was easy to pick. He had already ascertained the target’s wife was out shopping. Silently, he glided over the floors looking for the target.

  He found him in a study, sitting at an oak desktop with green leather. The faint smell of musty books hung on the air.

  The old man’s breathing was soft but raspy. He looked up, startled. His hand flew to his chest. “How did you get in?”

  The man swiftly crossed to the desk and loomed over the old man. “You’ve seen an Egyptian papyrus from the time of the New Kingdom.”

  The look on the old man’s face told him everything he needed to know.

  “No,” the man lied. The assassin walked around the room. He came to a stop by a large cupboard. He looked inside. “What do you store in here?”

  The old man appeared perplexed. “Things that need to be stored upright.”

  The man turned back to him with a frown. “Like papyri?”

  The old man did not answer. His breathing was coming more rapidly now.

  The assassin carefully removed some of the papyri from the cabinet. The old man got up and walked over. “Be careful.”

  “I can assure you I will be careful,” the assassin said. Having removed everything from the cabinet, he turned to the man. “And I know all about you. You’re William Bilsen, and you’re a retired Egyptologist. I know you have seen a papyrus depicting the spear of Goliath.”

  The man turned white.

  The assassin continued. “I need the name and address of the man who showed you the papyrus.”

  William Bilsen clutched the bookshelf behind him, causing an old leather-bound copy, Alan H. Gardner’s Egyptian Grammar, to fall to the ground, narrowly missing his foot.

  “No one showed me that papyrus,” Bilsen said in a raspy voice. “You’re welcome to look through the papyri I have here.”

  “This is your last chance.” The assassin held his coat aside to show a gun.

  Bilsen knew nothing about guns, but he was afraid, very afraid. “Nobody showed me a papyrus like that,” he said again. “I know nothing of any spear.”

  “Into the cupboard.”

  Bilsen coughed. “What?”

  The assassin waved his gun at Bilsen and indicated he should climb into the cupboard.

  “I can’t go in there,” the old man squealed, deathly afraid.

  Still, he had no choice. As Bilsen climbed into the cupboard, the assassin crouched down. “I know you have a severe case of claustrophobia.” He shut one of the cupboard doors. “If you don’t tell me the name and address of the man who showed you the papyrus, then I will hold the door shut.”

  It was apparently too much for the old man. “It was Fouad Almasi,” he said. “I don’t know his address.”

  With a smile, the assassin pushed the other door shut and held the doors there, ignoring the old man’s pleas. He waited for Bilsen’s weakened heart to give out. He had done his research—he knew Bilsen suffered from congestive heart failure.

  After the deed was done, he removed Bilsen’s body and dragged it back to the desk. In what he thought was a nice touch, he removed one of the papyri with his gloved hands and put it in front of the body.

  No one would know he had been there. No one would know William Bilsen had not died from natural causes.

  Now, he simply had to track down Fouad Almasi.

  It didn’t take the assassin long to find Almasi’s address. It was a common name, and for that he was grateful. Almasi had made the mistake of emailing a friend to tell him he had seen the papyrus mentioning Goliath’s spear. Vortex’s technology had easily found the reference and passed it on to him. All he had needed was the name.

  6

  CAIRO

  Abigail arrived, jet lagged and somewhat out of sorts, in the modern sprawl of Cairo. It was the previous morning, Cairo time. She and Riley had not been sitting with each other on the plane. She didn’t know if that was for security reasons or simply because they had booked late with Kuwait Airlines—no private jet this time.

  “We’re taking a bus to Walid and Mona’s,” Riley said by way of greeting after he bought tickets in Cairo.

  Abigail waited for ages, filled with tension at what might lie ahead as well as with boredom. Conversation with Riley was difficult due to the noise. It wasn’t long before the ticket office called them over. Through the translation efforts of a stranger on the street, Abigail gathered that the bus had already left.

  She shot Riley a worried look. “What do we do?”

  He rubbed his chin. “The only solution is to get a taxi to take us to the next scheduled stop for the bus.”

  The ticket seller nodded and at once hailed a taxi. To Abigail’s horror, it was a dilapidated Fiat with a floor so rusty she could see the road between her feet. The ticket seller had obviously impressed the driver with the need for speed, as he drove like a maniac through the thick traffic.

  Without warning, the driver veered into the oncoming traffic onto the wrong side of the road, before veering further over onto the verge. He accelerated. Abigail watched in horror as he dodged carts, pedestrians, bicycles, and parked cars, leaving a billowing wake of dust before skidding to a stop next to the bus.

  Abigail got out of the taxi as fast as she could, followed by Riley who collected their things. She scrambled, shaking, onto the bus.

  The bus deposited Abigail and Riley on a busy street. To Abigail, it seemed to be one of the world’s busiest roads. All around her, the locals offered up a brief prayer before stepping straight out into the traffic, holding up their palms in a stop signal.

  Riley took Abigail by the arm. “The only way to cross is to walk in the shadow of a group of locals who are using that tactic.”

  Abigail had no idea whether Riley was joking, but she made it across the road without incident. Cairo was dirty, noisy, and crowded. Abigail had no idea how anyone could follow them in that environment and that, at least, was a good thing.

  Riley glanced over his shoulder before stopping outside a building and speaking into the security intercom. He identified himself and the voice said to come straight up.

  Abigail walked onto corridor along a beige stone floor that led to an elevator. When they were inside the elevator, Riley said, “Walid is my contact.”

  Abigail was surprised. “Are you going to his home? Isn’t that dangerous? For him, I mean.”

  Riley shrugged one shoulder. “It’s just the way things are in Cairo. Vortex would have no interest in Walid. I must warn you, his wife likes to feed you.”

  As if on cue, Abigail’s stomach grumbled loudly. “That sounds good,” she said.

  Riley looked as though he were about to say something, but the elevator doors opened. He led the way down another beige corridor. A man was standing in a doorway, waiting to meet him. “Riley,” he said warmly. He raised one eyebrow at Abigail.