Sinai Deceit: An Archaeological Thriller (A Darwin Lacroix Adventure Book 5), page 1
SINAI DECEIT
A DARWIN LACROIX ADVENTURE
DAVE BARTELL
Copyright © 2022 by Dave Bartell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Preface
Prologue
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5
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Epilogue
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Tenny Wright, who taught me how to put my soul into my writing
The Monastery of Saint Catherine is the oldest continuously active monastery on Earth.
“Few places on earth have played so decisive a part in the history of mighty nations as this largely barren, sparsely populated peninsula. There would have been no Egyptian empire in western Asia, no spread of Islam in north Africa, no Alexandria, no Arab conquest, had Sinai not provided a critical thoroughfare.” Jill Kamil, author of The Monastery of Saint Catherine in Sinai
“Moses… remove your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground.”
PROLOGUE
Nile Delta, Egypt
24 August 1799
Henri Lacroix stepped off the sloop in Rasheed under a blood orange sky and strode toward the frigate Muiron—the fastest remaining vessel in the decimated French fleet. His mission accomplished, he rushed to stow his precious cargo and escape the marauding British. The sun, tinged by the dust over the vast Saharan desert, cast a pall over the eerily quiet quayside as Henri searched for an officer. All work had stopped and the dock hands prostrated in Maghrib, the evening prayer.
Henri caught a young lieutenant’s eye and motioned him to a stack of five crates. “Load these immediately. We sail within the hour,” he said.
“As you wish, sir,” replied the junior officer.
Henri placed silver coins into the man’s palm and glanced at the workers. Then he eyed the lieutenant to emphasize his point. “Don’t be stingy with the bonus. The cargo’s precious.”
He moved on to chat with another officer. In less than five minutes, the Egyptians finished their prayers and began moving Henri’s crates. When the cargo net closed about them, Henri ran aboard and stood by the hatch as the crates were lowered into the hold.
On deck, lanterns held back the twilight as the frigate’s crew scurried about readying for departure. Henri looked south towards Cairo as a strong northerly breeze rippled the frigate’s sails and cooled the deck planking, still warm from the day’s sun. He caught a whiff of exotic spices and freshly baked aish baladi, which caused his stomach to growl as he envisioned sweeping the flatbread through fava bean paste. A firm hand grasped his shoulder, bursting the comfort food moment.
“Did you succeed?”
Henri stiffened at a voice he knew well and turned to face Napoleon Bonaparte. The thirty-year-old general scrutinized Henri from behind deep-set gray-blue eyes. With his Egyptian campaign in tatters, he needed Henri’s expertise to elude the British. Napoleon’s shoulder-length hair lashed about in the swirling wind as he waited.
“Yes,” Henri replied. “Smith’s fleet will turn northeast at eight o’clock. We sail along the Alexandrian coast until we see the signal. Tell your men to light it no earlier than 4:00 a.m., or we’ll have the English upon us.”
Napoleon barked an order, and a junior aide sprinted down the gangplank where he shouted at the cavalry who galloped away.
“Did he buy it?” asked Napoleon, turning back to Henri.
“Who, Smith? I doubt it. He’s a spy,” Henri snorted. “I assured him you’re a royalist. But he’s still trying to get out from under Nelson’s shadow and could very well move to capture us.”
“Yes. I suppose we’d make a career-defining catch,” said Napoleon, staring upriver into the gathering darkness before he turned back to Henri. “Join me in the stateroom for dinner. You’ll need your strength to navigate the coastline.”
Henri said he would and returned his attention to the hold. As the crew finished tying down the crates, he reflected on his frenetic movements. Six days ago, Napoleon’s aide had burst into Henri’s Cairo studio, informing him they were leaving Egypt. Henri had protested that he could not leave his work. But as four soldiers entered, the aide had retorted it was not a request. With a mere two hours to pack, Henri had grabbed only the most critical samples, equipment, and notebooks before the four-day journey up the Nile.
Yesterday, Napoleon had sent him on a diplomatic errand to speak with Sydney Smith, the Royal Navy’s captain tasked with maintaining the British blockade. The two had become acquainted while being held in the Temple prison in Paris: Smith on arson charges for burning French ships and Henri over a prize capture gone wrong. They had bonded as each possessed a renegade spirit that bristled under the yoke of more powerful leaders.
Henri had negotiated with Smith to allow Napoleon’s escape from Egypt and keep his own priceless cargo from falling into British hands or, worse, sinking into the depths. After a tense tête-à-tête and a gift of exquisite gold artifacts from the French expedition in upper Egypt, Smith had finally agreed to look the other way.
Henri’s thoughts returned to the present as sailors shouted and the Muiron’s sails snapped. Dockhands cast off the mooring lines, and the bow swung into the current. They were leaving Egypt on the very day Salim, the alchemist, had finally promised to take Henri to the source.
Damn you, Napoleon. Henri stomped the deck as the quayside retreated.
Two hours later, during the main course in the Muiron’s stateroom, a middle-aged diplomat in civilian dress asked Henri, “You’re both from Corsica? Did you and Napoleon know each other?”
“Our families fought together for Corsican independence,” said Henri.
Napoleon overheard and looked over. “Yes, Henri and I terrorized the streets of Ajaccio while the grown-ups plotted and schemed. Do you remember the time we stole the wine merchant’s cart?”
“As I recall, it was you. It only became we after you were caught. Perhaps if we’d not drunk so much of the cargo.”
Napoleon roared with laughter. Henri, the diplomat, and the ship’s senior officers joined in. When the moment had passed, the captain shifted the conversation, asking Henri, “Are you sure this will work?”
Napoleon answered for him. “Henri’s the best privateer I’ve ever met. He’s worked the Barbary Coast since he was thirteen.”
“Understood, but do you know this section of the north African coast?”
“Well enough,” said Henri. “It will be a tense night—”
A rap on the door interrupted and drew their attention, and a junior officer opened it. “We’ve left the river mouth,” he said.
“Light’s out!” commanded the captain. “All unneeded hands below decks, now!”
Henri followed the captain to the foredeck, where they surveyed the dark coastline. He repeated earlier instructions to maintain course into deeper water to avoid shallows caused by the river Nile’s silt deposits.
The captain ordered the Union Jack raised. It would be difficult to see at night, but would give them an element of protection if spotted by a British vessel. In less than a quarter of an hour, the first officer ordered a turn to port, when the Alexandria lighthouse came into view.
Nearly seven hours later, the Muiron glided past the sleeping city of Alexandria so close they could hear the surf. Henri
Onshore, a few lamps burned at this hour, but still glowed enough to silhouette the frigate to any ship farther out to sea. To alter their profile to that of a smaller vessel, the captain had ordered the furling of all sails aft of the foremast. At the same time, high in the rigging, sailors stared out into the Mediterranean Sea for British ships.
An hour later, the city’s lights faded as the Muiron rolled along the calm black sea, and a crescent moon rose, orange in the Saharan haze. Its faint glow was just enough to highlight their sails.
“Signal to port!” yelled a man from aloft.
Henri spun toward the sea of sand beyond the breakers and, minutes later from his lower vantage point, saw the fiery glow of the signal. The view through his telescope confirmed the fire on the high walls of the Taposiris Magna, an ancient Ptolemaic structure west of Alexandria. At last, he sighed and his shoulders relaxed as he crossed to the starboard railing and scanned the sea. He saw nothing, but his heart resumed pounding while waiting for the order to turn. They'd have few defensive options if caught this close to the coast.
Finally, they drew parallel with the bonfire, and the captain gave the order to turn. The vessel heeled and picked up speed as men, working like spiders in a web of rigging, unfurled the sails. The bow wave kicked up and Henri instructed the watchers on the bowsprit to stay alert for treacherous shoals. He maintained vigil throughout the waning night, until, as dawn tinged the eastern sky, the captain sent a junior officer to relieve him.
Once lying in his bunk, he thought of the crates in the hold below and his lost opportunity with the alchemist in Cairo. I was so close to the discovery, he lamented, but at least he had the crystals. As sleep eluded him, he began plotting his next steps.
Corsica, France
8 October 1799
The British fleet dogged the Muiron for over a month until it made port in Ajaccio on the first of October. Napoleon ordered a quick resupply, only to be trapped in the harbor by the contrary Corsican winds. He paced the decks, itching to get back to the mainland. He’d received a message about more French defeats at the hand of the second European coalition and his brother assured him the time was ripe to seize power. France had had enough of government by committee following the Reign of Terror and needed a true leader.
At last, a week later, the winds subsided, and Napoleon issued the command to sail on the morning tide. Henri’s wife, Aglaé, organized a send-off dinner for Napoleon, his officers, and the elites of Corsica’s capital city at the Lacroix mansion on Rue des Oranges. The home radiated elegance and the sumptuous meal reminded the men, who had been warring for two years, of the pleasures of French society.
Long into the night, after the guests and officers had departed, Henri dismissed the servants so he and Napoleon could speak privately.
When the two were alone, Napoleon said, “Come with me, Henri. Lucien assures me the Republic needs my leadership. I need trusted men. The Directory’s corruption has bankrupted the nation.”
“I think not,” said Henri, beckoning his friend into the library. “I’m sure your brother has enough good men. This past week has shown me that my place is here. The shipping company needs a firm hand.” He poured cognacs, and they sat silently for a time.
Napoleon finally asked, “What did you do in Cairo during my campaign in the desert? You never said.”
Henri gazed into the amber liquid and swirled it around the snifter. His thoughts drifted back to a day two years ago when he’d gone to Cairo to inquire about an object found in a tomb. In a small dark shop, a neatly robed man worked over a small flame, heating an iron pot. When Henri held out a crystal found in a tomb near Saqqara, the man’s eyes went wide. Henri tried to ask a question through broken Arabic, but the man waved him off, turning to a pot.
He increased the flame under it and removed several jars from a shelf. He added precise amounts from the jars into the pot, sending a heady aroma into the closed space. “Put it there,” said the man, pantomiming the action so Henri understood. Then, the man gently stirred the now boiling mixture around the crystal and pinched a powder from a pouch around his neck.
He waved Henri closer, then tossed in the powder. A cloud billowed from the pot. Henri reeled as a vapor enveloped them. The shop swirled in a kaleidoscope of color as the robed man grew in stature. Henri felt weightless and steadied himself against the table. Suddenly, his mind emptied. The mental restlessness he’d experienced before accompanying Napoleon to Egypt was replaced by a growing sense of connection—he’d found the purpose he so desperately sought.
The air cleared, and the room settled again; everything had sharp clarity. The man removed the crystal with a pair of tongs and held it up for Henri. It glowed brightly from yellow spots beneath its glassy surface and he placed it on the table, its heat scorching the wooden surface.
“Give me a coin,” said the alchemist.
Henri placed a five francs silver piece in the man’s outstretched palm. The alchemist grasped its edges with the forefinger and thumb of his other hand. Slowly, he moved it until just above the crystal, then let go. The coin wobbled, suspended in mid-air.
Henri crouched down, no stranger to conjuror’s tricks. But, as if to dispel Henri’s doubt, the old man lightly stroked the coin’s edge. It spun slowly. Henri tore a page from his notebook and slid the paper between the coin and crystal, expecting it to fall. Nothing happened. Whatever force levitated the silver could pass through other material.
“Mon Dieu!” He touched the coin, stopping its spin. Then he spun it again. The back of his neck tingled, and the feeling spread through his limbs. He stood and looked at the alchemist. “What is it?”
“Takwin,” said the man.
For the next two years, while Napoleon fought the Ottomans, Henri worked with the robed man, delving into the mysteries of the strange crystal. He learned it was a diamond after showing it to a mineralogist in the French expedition. In time, Henri’s Arabic improved, but he could never grasp the meaning of takwin. His frustration grew as the old alchemist spoke in riddles, saying, “the crystals came up from the ground.” He kept promising to show Henri its source, but always had an excuse not to. The day after he finally agreed to take Henri to the crystals, Napoleon’s messenger had showed up.
“Henri? Where did you go?” asked Napoleon. “Each time I ask about Cairo you withdraw. What happened my friend?”
“I met someone,” said Henri, sipping more cognac.
“You sly dog. I heard the women in Cairo have a devilish charm.” Napoleon swayed in his chair, mimicking a dancer.
Henri had not intended to insinuate it was a woman, but it deflected his friend from probing further. They toasted to “the woman” and a short while later Napoleon declared he must go.
