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There I was -- alone in enemy territory, without a clue. The problems I usually faced were small compared to being stuck inside an international terrorist's headquarters. I would have hyperventilated if I wasn't so afraid of passing out and being found in the morning by Assad's staff.
I checked again for escape routes, finding nothing. There were lots of windows, but they were the modern kind that didn't open. Of course, we were 29 floors up, so even if I could get a window open, there was little chance I'd climb out of it.
I don't like heights, remember?
The only way out was through the front door. I looked at my watch: one hour until the office opened. One hour until I joined Blake -- wherever he was being held -- unless I could come up with some way to avoid becoming the hostage behind Door Number Two.
I plopped myself at the receptionist's desk and rifled through it. Although I'd never met or seen her, I knew one thing for sure: she had long, manicured fingernails and was probably rather vain about them. There were no less than four bottles of nail polish on the top of her desk, and one entire drawer was full of nothing but more polish, polish remover, nail files, cuticle cream and cotton balls. She obviously took her work lightly.
I doubted that information would help me out of this hole, but one never knew. I filed it away for future reference and rechecked my watch: less than 15 minutes to go. I went into the ladies rest room, shut the last stall and crawled up on top of the toilet seat so no legs would show and waited.
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Someone reached inside and flipped on the lights. I gave a little prayer of thanks: whoever it was didn't come into the ladies room. I waited five minutes, carefully climbed down from the commode, flushed the toilet just in case someone walked in at that moment and looked at my watch. It was a quarter after eight. I washed my hands at the sink, pushed my hair back out of my eyes and took a deep breath. I had a plan -- not a good one and not one that was likely to work -- but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.
I was going to walk out as though I had a right to be there and wing it if anyone stopped me. I pushed open the door and stepped out into the hall. People were bustling about, but no one paid any attention to me. I made my way confidently to the front door and started through it when the receptionist happened to glance up at me. She said something in Arabic that I figured probably meant "Stop." I shook my head.
"Sorry, I don't speak the lingo," I said, and started to push open the door.
"I said to stop. Who are you? How did you get in here?" She switched to English. Her voice was definitely challenging. I looked as bored as possible even though my heart was beating like a conga drum.
"I'm Mahmoud's nanny. I couldn't sleep and decided to take a walk and had to use the bathroom, so I stopped in here," I said, as casually as possible. It rang false in my ears, too, but I knew I was lying. I hoped she didn't.
"There's only one way to get to the bathroom, and that's past my desk. I don't remember seeing you," she said, her voice said she didn't believe me. I saw her carefully start to lift the telephone receiver. It was obvious her nails were wet.
"No, you didn't look up when I came in. You were too busy polishing your fingernails," I said. "Nice shade of red, by the way. Goes well with your hair."
She dropped the receiver.
"Uh, go on. I'm sorry to have stopped you. It's my job. I'm sure you understand..." she said.
I smiled -- hey I could afford to be magnanimous -- and thanked her and whooshed through that door before she had a change of heart. Once out in the lobby, I grabbed the elevator to the top floor, where -- wouldn't you know it -- the guard stopped me. I told him I'd taken a walk and that the guard who was there before him had been asleep when I'd left. I didn't tell him I was the reason the guy was asleep. He looked uncomfortable, but passed me.
I had to get Mahmoud and head for Chandler's tomb. There was absolutely no time to waste.
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I was running on pure will power by the time Mahmoud and I made it to tomb's site. No sleep and not knowing where Blake was -- or if he was even alive -- had given me a headache. And realizing there was a leak in the WUSS organization didn't help. For one thing, I couldn't call anyone.
Since I didn't know who the mole was, I couldn't take a chance of letting anyone know I was working for WUSS, or what I'd found out about Assad and Razzack, the terrorists we were after. I would have contacted Mr. B -- Blake's Alfred Hitchcock-look-alike boss -- if I'd had a way to do it. As it was, all I had was the one local phone number -- and I didn't know who answered it.
So I was with Mahmoud, racing to Chandler's tomb and hoping against hope we'd be able to stop him from opening it. But, despite the headlong rush, we were too late to prevent the tomb from being opened, even though the driver practically killed us getting us there.
When we arrived, we found a mob scene, replete with several vehicles that appeared to be ambulances. I jumped out of the car almost before it stopped moving, Mahmoud coming up fast behind me, and grabbed an officious looking fellow in a suit as he walked by.
"What's going on?" I asked. He looked at me with a blank expression on his face, then shook my hand off his arm. Mahmoud stepped in and said something to the man in Arabic. The man replied -- I didn't understand a word he said, but I knew it wasn't good. Mahmoud turned to me, his 10-year-old eyes round as Frisbees.
"They opened the tomb and several of the workers went inside. Miss Eileen, he says they dropped dead right inside in the tomb!"
"Dead? What about Chandler?" I asked. He turned and fired my question off to the man.
"He's OK. He wasn't one of the first ones in. Those are the ones who died. But there's more." The kid paused dramatically.
"Go on," I prompted.
"The first chamber in the tomb -- I think it's called the anti-chamber, the one before you get to the burial chamber -- had a stone block in it with a warning written in hieroglyphics."
"And?" I asked, prodding him to continue.
"They say something about a curse. I'm not sure what the exact words are." He asked the other man a question. The man shrugged, gave a short reply and walked away. The child turned back to me.
"Wow! It's a curse on anyone who disturbs the Pharaoh's sleep! Just think! A real live curse!"
"Whoopie-doo, a curse. Do you know where Chandler is?" I looked around at the uncontrolled mayhem that boiled around us. People were scurrying all over the place, and the local men who were hired to work at the tomb were gathered in what looked like an angry -- and somewhat rebellious knot. I thought I recognized Geoff Chandler's back to us, standing with the group of men. It looked like they were having a heated conversation.
Walking over with Mahmoud in tow, I tapped Chandler on the shoulder. He turned and -- for a moment affixed me with the oddest expression I'd ever seen. Then his face relaxed.
"Oh, it's you. Hello. Sorry, this hasn't turned out to be quite as I'd hoped it would." The man was off-balance, almost shell-shocked.
"Geoff, what happened?" I asked. He took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture that looked part nerves and part habit.
"I don't know. We were opening the tomb and I was to be the first one inside, but my assistant -- he was holding the lanterns and he and two other of my men pushed on inside ahead of me. They walked a couple of feet into the chamber and then just dropped. One of my other men watched them from the outside. He was afraid to go in."
"And you?" I had to ask. Why wasn't Chandler the first one in? Inquiring minds -- at least my inquiring mind -- wanted to know.
"I'd been distracted at the last minute. Someone called to me and I went back to speak with him. I hadn't realized we were that close to making entry. I thought I had a few more minutes before we broke through," he looked quite forlorn. "They're all dead, you know. My assistant, the other two."
"What happened? "
"Who knows? The bodies were brought out, but there are no marks on them. I went inside myself and -- nothing. Nothing happened."
"The hieroglyphics on the stone. What did they say?" I insisted. I had to know what Assad and Razzack were up to. He sighed.
"That there was a curse on anyone who opened the tomb. That all who disturbed the Pharaoh's slumber would die and bring great dishonor to their patrons. I suppose that means me," he grinned weakly.
"Do you believe it?" I asked him.
"I don't know what to believe," he said.
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Mass confusion continued at the tomb site and it was obvious we weren't doing anyone any good there. Reluctantly, Mahmoud and I climbed back into the car.
"Boy! A real live curse!" Mahmoud was excited.
"Yeah. A real live curse. I guess there's not much else to see out here, so we might as well go back to Cairo," I started to roll down the window between us and the driver when I had a thought.
"Hey, Mahmoud. Does your Dad know a guy who's a little shorter than he is, lighter skin, blue eyes, but Arab by birth?" Mahmoud contemplated the description.
"Sounds like Uncle Abdul," he said.
"Uncle Abdul?" Inside I was turning handsprings -- Abdul Razzack!
"Yeah. He's a friend of my father's, but he's always kind of cranky."
"Oh?" I tried to appear nonchalant. "Where does he live?"
"Live? I don't know," Mahmoud said. My stomach lowered itself back to the ground. I was hoping to find out where Razzack had taken my partner. I really needed Blake at this point.
We drove back to Cairo in silence.
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I was incredibly weary. With no sleep the night before and the kind of day where nothing went right, I was more than ready for bed when we returned. I took a hot shower and dressed for dinner, thinking I'd retire as soon as we'd eaten. I needed to find Blake, but unless I got some rest, I'd be too giddy to function.
I eased myself into my spot in the kitchen and was preparing to take a bite of my sandwich when Phil -- that incredible pain in the rear end -- appeared.
"Mr. Assad wishes to speak with you," he said in his snotty British accent. I sighed, put my sandwich back on the plate and followed him to the library where he left me with Assad, who was sitting at a desk writing something. He looked up at me.
"I see you've managed to survive all of your adventures," he said.
"Adventures?" I squeaked out the word. What did he know?
"Yes, trailing around after a little boy can be very tiring, I know. Tell me, Mrs....."
"Baxter," I reminded him, as I relaxed.
"Yes, Baxter. Why are you so interested in finding Abdul Razzack?"
I felt his dark eyes bore into me and had the sudden, unmistakable urge to throw up. He knew.
"Who?" I tried to bluff.
"You know who I'm talking about. And I know about you and your partner. I think it's time for you to join him. Take her," he said and two of his men stepped in and snatched me up. One tied my hands behind my back, the other put a gag on my mouth.
"Take her to Razzack's camp," he said, then looked at me.
"Goodbye, Mrs. whoever you are. I will not be seeing you again because, unfortunately for you, my associate, Mr. Razzack is going to kill you. So, as you Americans are so fond of saying, 'Have a nice day," he said. He gestured for his men to take me away.
Nice? That's not exactly the word I'd use to describe the rest of that day.
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