Centurion's Rise Page 3

  Tomal swallowed hard and summoned his most contrite tone. “Your hired blades won’t help in this matter. I have no means to secure so much money in a single day, or even a year. That is a lifetime of earnings you demand of me.”

  “Then your head on a pole at the front door with a sign reading dead beat debtor will be an excellent example to others,” the madam answered with a snap of her fingers.

  The three men drew their blades, surrounded Tomal, and started to move in causing the blood to drain from Tomal’s face as his fate drew near.

  “Such violence will not be necessary,” the citizen in the corner said calmly. He got down from his seat, approached the bar and placed seven golden Talents on the counter one by one. “These will settle his affairs.”

  The man then pulled out one more Talent, worth 20,000 Sesterces, and placed it in the outstretched palm of the madam. “And this is for making sure every citizen that came in last night knew who to thank for filling their pleasures.”

  Tomal’s face lit up. Having his life saved at the eleventh hour was thrilling, but knowing his benefactor was now in town really made his day.

  The generous man thanked the madam once more, took Tomal by the arm and gruffly ushered him into the street. Not a soul was stirring at the early hour so the two men stood alone. Tomal turned to face the man and gave him a hearty embrace.

  “It’s most agreeable to see you again, sir,” Tomal said to his captain. “Now we can really get your senate campaign galloping along at full tilt.”

  Hastelloy broke the hug and stood back to dress down his subordinate. “I gave you specific instructions not to start spending serious coin on the campaign until the last few weeks. The citizens always vote for the last name they hear before casting their ballot. Why have you been racking up massive charges over the last six months?”

  “People vote for the name they hear most often during an election, not last,” Tomal countered.

  “Oh really. Then tell me, had I not come here last night when I got word some fool was buying drinks and women for everyone, would any of them have known my name? You were passed out in the corner with an open tab rather than pressing palms and making sure everyone knew who to vote for in exchange for their good time.”

  Hastelloy stepped up and got right in Tomal’s face. “I was the one who turned last night into a campaigning event. Under your stewardship all that money would have been pissed away with nothing to show for it.”

  Tomal’s only response was the dazed look of a man severely hung over. What could he say? Hastelloy was right. He allowed himself to once again get caught up in the lavish moment of excess and would have foolishly squandered the funds. It was a weakness that continued to haunt him. Finally Tomal concocted a response to save the moment for himself.

  “Your name has been spread about this district for months. Your opponent has already spent himself into bankruptcy trying to keep up. The election is yours.”

  “Including the bill I just covered for you in there, over a million Sesterces were spent,” Hastelloy vented. “The same result could have been achieved through cheaper methods.”

  Tomal swallowed hard realizing the next moment would send his commanding officer over the edge, but it needed to be said otherwise his life would soon be in jeopardy again. “Your cost estimates are not entirely accurate, sir. When your funds did not arrive quick enough, I was forced to borrow money from other sources.”

  Hastelloy’s face turned flush as he bit down on his lower lip to contain an outburst. “How much,” he finally managed.

  “Five million Sesterces in all,” Tomal admitted.

  “That is outrageous!” Hastelloy barely managed to contain and avoid waking half the city.

  Not wanting to make a scene in the middle of a brothel district to sully his epically expensive run for the Roman Senate, Hastelloy took Tomal under the arm and forced him towards the villa he and the rest of the crew occupied while in the capital.

  “There will be a reckoning for this, Tomal, mark my words.”

  **********

  “Tell me,” Dr. Holmes interrupted his patient. “How much money would five million Sesterces be in present day American dollars?”

  “It would be about a one for one exchange, so Tomal racked up five million dollars of debt,” Hastelloy answered. Anger was still clearly on his mind.

  “So that bill at the brothel from one night was almost a quarter million dollars?” Dr. Holmes asked in amazement. “How in the world is that even possible?”

  “You don’t have to look too hard to find a present day example,” Hastelloy instructed. “Just a few years ago a corporate CEO got himself fired for ringing up a quarter million dollar charge at a strip club in New York City on his corporate credit card. I believe he is now affectionately referred to as the Lap Dunce.”

  Jeffrey let out a laugh remembering the headlines. How anyone could be so profoundly stupid was almost beyond imagination. The laughter subsided as he jotted down in his notes the patient’s incorporation of a present day headline into his delusional story about the past. Even the specific debt amount of $241,000 Tomal accumulated matched the event that happened just a few years back.

  Dr. Holmes glanced up to pose his next question, “Was it all worth the price; were you elected?”

  “Yes, doctor, I was,” Hastelloy answered with pride. “You are looking at a former member of the Roman Senate; sans the toga of course. It was expensive, but ultimately worth the price.”

  Chapter 4: Extortion

  Mark took a moment to admire the view as he drove a rented Range Rover truck old enough to be the original over a bridge that spanned the Nile River and brought him onto Gezira Island. The place in many ways reminded him of Manhattan Island in New York City. It was in the center of a concrete jungle, yet separated from the rest by a river on all sides with only half a dozen bridges leading in and out of the posh district.

  The headquarters for Egypt's Supreme Council of Antiquities was located on the island and he was finally granted an audience with the organization’s secretary general. Knowing the meeting took over a week to arrange made Mark seethe with frustration. His credentials with the National Security Agency gave him an all access pass to anywhere and anyone in the United States, but this was Egypt. Things worked differently here.

  The delay wasn’t all bad since it gave him time to do his homework on Secretary General Hass. Mark didn’t foresee any real difficulties getting the information he needed, but it never hurt to know what leverage points were available if push came to shove.

  Mark pulled his car into the only visitor parking space left. Before getting out of the vehicle he leaned forward in the seat and pulled a desert eagle pistol out from under his tan sport coat. He chambered a round and verified the safety was off before concealing it once more.

  As he sat back in the seat again, Mark caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. He refastened the ratty Texas Rangers baseball cap on his head that used to cover the scalp of NASA flight director Alfred Kranz. Mark took the cap following the flight director's suicide to avoid interrogation as an uncomfortable reminder of his failure.

  Mark still remembered helplessly observing the deep space communication probe speed away from earth while broadcasting loud and clear the mathematical coordinates for Earth for anyone out there willing to listen. The odds of actually reaching alien life were miniscule, but what if the hypothetical little green men weren't friendly? Long odds or not, the probe posed an unacceptable national security risk and now it was out of his considerable reach.

  Mark pulled out all the stops to scuttle the probe, yet somehow flight director Kranz always managed to stay one step ahead. The coup de grace came when Mark realized the probe’s broadcast signal had been tampered with before leaving earth orbit. Somehow the signal was amplified by a factor of five thousand, and the broadcast frequency changed to match that of a signal the NSA had been tracking since late 1947.

  That year mankind stumbled u
pon indisputable proof they were not alone in the universe. An interstellar craft carrying four life forms crashed in Roswell New Mexico and brought with it the radiation frequency signature their technology used; creatively named Frequency Alpha. A frenzied effort to survey the cosmos for Frequency Alpha came back with disturbing results.

  Readings always disregarded as background radiation showed countless instances of Frequency Alpha originating near the galaxy core. Those readings often accompanied a slightly higher reading; Frequency Beta. The working theory was a hotly contested interstellar war was underway near the galaxy core; far, far away from earth.

  The news was buried of course and only two NSA field agents, the President, and his Scientific Advisor knew the whole truth of the matter. Five or six others knew fragments of the truth, and the other seven billion human beings on earth remained delightfully clueless.

  Panic struck the agency in 1951 when they discovered that a signal matching Frequency Beta was emanating from earth, always occurring on the evening of a full moon, and never in the same location twice. In all that time the transmission only deviated from this pattern on two occasions: three consecutive days in 1989, and sporadically over the last six weeks.

  Flight director Kranz made the changes to the communication probe. He had answers, but even when Mark trapped Alfred in his office Mark found he was still behind the curve since the flight director had already swallowed a cyanide tablet to end his life before any ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’ were brought to bear.

  Countless questions that could no longer be asked of the dead NASA flight director jabbed the back of Mark’s mind like a rusty nail. The only remedy was to continue the quest for answers down any avenues still available. In a shredded recycle bin Mark found the flight director’s travel itinerary and was now following up on his meeting schedule.

  The bite of a pistol hilt against his back brought his mind back to the present and he moved to exit the vehicle. Before standing up he grabbed a short stack of manila folders from the passenger seat then shut the truck door behind him. It never hurt to carry multiple loaded weapons into an unknown situation he thought while making his way to the front door.

  At the reception desk, Mark was greeted by a balding heavy set man in his late fifties who wore a suit that probably cost more than his annual salary. The antiquities business has been good to you, Mark thought as he greeted the man with a stiff handshake.

  “Dr. Hass, it’s a pleasure to meet you sir,” Mark said with all the acquiescence he could muster. The thought of the week long delay was at the front of his mind as he forced a smile and said, “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”

  The Secretary General released the handshake and guided Mark toward a bank of elevators. “I regret we could not meet sooner. One of our directors turned up missing at a dig site last week and the situation has demanded the organization’s full attention.”

  The two men boarded an elevator car one quarter the size Mark was expecting inside; the two men barely managed to squeeze in. “Could you press level nine please,” the doctor asked of Mark.

  “Apparently three American citizens also vanished from the same dig site,” Mark said as the elevator began its agonizingly slow ascent. Dr. Hass was apparently unaware how useful underarm deodorant could be for personal hygiene. Mark took short breaths that did not involve any intake through his nose as he continued. “My government would like to know if there is anything we can do to assist.”

  “We appreciate your generous offer, but I don’t think it is required at this time,” Dr. Hass said dismissively. “We have everyone looking into this.”

  The elevator doors opened and Mark hastily burst through the opening to take a long deep breath of fresh air. All too soon the aroma of Dr. Hass joined him in the narrow hallway and led them both to the right toward an office at the end.

  Mark was not about to take no for an answer. “I have all the respect in the world for the archeological skills of your organization, but when it comes to criminal activity I fear you are entirely out of your element.”

  “Criminal activity,” the Dr. Hess repeated and came to a full stop and turned to face Mark just outside the office door. “What makes you think that is a possibility?”

  Mark leveled an expression of disbelief at how naïve the good doctor must be to ask such a question. “Four individuals looking for ancient artifacts around the Great Pyramids and Sphinx might have drawn the attention of people with less than honorable intentions don’t you think? Particularly if they managed to find something of value.”

  “I see your point,” Dr. Hass mumbled as he entered the office and shut the door behind them. Mark took a look around the uncomfortably cramped room and immediately moved to open a set of windows on the far side of the desk. Otherwise he was not sure he could remain conscious in the enclosed room and the offending odor of Dr. Hass.

  “How do you know what they were working on?” Dr. Hass asked as he took a seat at his desk and gestured for Mark to join him on the other side.

  “I don’t, and that’s the problem,” Mark responded with a hint of accusation behind his words. “I know where they were last seen and that they pulled a dig permit with your organization. I would like a copy of the permit paperwork so I can have more specifics on the matter, just in case nefarious elements are in play.”

  “I’m afraid those documents are confidential,” Dr. Hass declared in no uncertain terms. “All archeological digs and research writings are run through this organization exclusively in order to minimize the opportunity for illegal activities. Imagine if all the permits became public records. The grave robbers would know all the most likely locations to hit, or the specific individuals to follow or abduct in order to get what they are after.”

  “A moment ago you dismissed illegal activity as a possibility in this case,” Mark pointed out. “Now you use it as a defense not to share information with the United States government to help ascertain the whereabouts of three of her citizens. That strikes me as . . . convenient.”

  That comment must have sent Dr. Hass’ blood pressure through the roof as his face developed a distinctly red hue. “The permits are not shared with anyone outside the SCA. That is how we guarantee the safety of the applicants and the integrity of our great and ancient heritage.”

  Mark tossed the first of three manila folders he carried onto the desk facing the good doctor and indicated he should have a look. Dr. Hass’ eyes nearly popped out of his skull when he opened the folder and saw an application and detailed site diagrams of the likely burial chamber for Cleopatra and Mark Antony. “This application was submitted and denied last year. While I waited for this meeting I paid the proposed dig site a visit. Care to hazard a guess as to what I found?”

  The stone silence let Mark know he was pulling the correct lever with this man. “I found a thoroughly excavated site, but a completely barren tomb.” A dismissive smile crossed the lips of Dr. Hass until Mark slapped a second manila folder down on the desk to reveal pictures of artifacts sold on the black market over the prior year. The smile vanished with great haste.

  “Would you look at what came up in the underground auction world this past year,” Mark mused. “Why its genuine gold coins stamped with Cleopatra’s bust and seal along with Mark Antony’s suit of armor, sword, and the list goes on and on. What are the odds?”

  “It would appear someone has a backdoor key to our records,” Dr. Hass stammered.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Mark fired back and punctuated his declaration by slapping the last manila folder down on the desk. “Your Cayman Islands bank account has done quite well as of late, Doctor. The marked increases just happen to coincide around the sale dates of these artifacts on the black market.”

  Dr. Hass let loose a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan and then moved to pick up his phone. “I don’t have to sit here and listen to these accusations. Security will show you out.”

  Mark lurched forward and
depressed the disconnect lever while leveling an accusing index finger at the good doctor’s chest. “You can take the hard way of course, but there are two things you need to know about me. I am well connected, I always get what I want, and I never play fair.”

  “That’s three things,” Dr Hass observed smugly.

  “See, not playing fair already,” Mark beamed with his accusing finger transitioning to an open palm. “I don’t give a damn how many of these ancient trinkets you sell for your own account. I want the application for this specific dig. Hand them over and those three folders disappear forever. If you make that phone call, my colleague back home will put them on the front page of every news publication on the planet before I even leave this office.”

  Mark pulled his finger off the phone, “You have five seconds to make up your mind.” Four seconds later Mark left Dr. Hass’ office with the application in one hand and a cell phone in the other placing an urgent call.

  Chapter 5: Stayin’ Alive

  Professor Brian Russell woke to the sound of a cellular phone playing the Bee Gees song Stayin’ Alive as a ringtone. He blinked a few times to bring his eyes into focus. For an instant he envisioned himself once again standing out in the sands of Egypt admiring the Sphinx and wondering if a chamber was hidden in the monolith’s body.

  When his eyes finally focused on the seamless metal walls and the iron bars separating him from his two captors, Brian realized he already knew the answer. There was a hidden chamber, and he had a very good view of it at the moment.

  Dominating the center of the ten foot by thirty foot room housed inside the Sphinx was a polished metal cube with a neon blue sphere floating a half inch above. Protruding from one end of the cube was an eight foot long object that could only be described as a glass covered coffin. The rest of the chamber was lined with sophisticated electronics equipment, dual monitor work stations, storage lockers and a small work table off in the far corner.