CARTER [P3C5] – The Trap

The Chronicles of Samuel Carter – Part III: Chapter Five

This is Part Three of the Chronicles of Samuel Carter. If you would like to start at the beginning, please find Part One linked below.

The Chronicles of Samuel Carter

And now for the continuation…

Part III – Chapter Five: The Trap

The desert mountains were aglow with molten morning gold when they landed in Hurghada. Thorne and Bellatrix had stayed behind in Cairo, taking care of some “unfinished business,” as Theodore called it, which involved extorting information by means they both knew best how, while the rest continued south in a race to find the last resting place of Alexander the Great.

According to the magnetic and gamma-ray spectrometric data gathered from the aircraft’s sensors, the holographic system onboard the supersonic jet had shown a map of the terrain, highlighting three potential search areas. Their rendezvous point was two hours due west by car, where a guide and camels were waiting for them.

“Hmm, hmm, ze lines, Alexandria to Hurghada and Luxor, then north to Suez, interesting, zat appears to be a symmetrical triangle,” noted Professor von Traunstein.

“Yes, the last known position puts my father north of the Umm Balad fortlet. We’ll start there,” said Jackie. “Thorne, you’re our eyes and ears in Cairo. It wouldn’t be unlike my father to have left a few traps there. Be careful, stay out of sight and don’t get caught.”

* * *

“Roger, Eagle One. Operation Nightingale is a go,” replied Thorne theatrically over the long-range comm.

Bellatrix shook her head.

“What? Come on. It’s like we’re in our very own spy movie,” said Thorne, scanning Bellatrix by accident with his new AR contact lens, showing eleven hidden blades on her body. “Wow, you’re sharp…”

“Say again?”

“Uh, nothing. I’m a shadow, I’m invisible, a ghost,” he made a swooshing sound and entered the bar.

“Yeah, they’ll never see you coming,” mocked Bellatrix, vanishing into a dark corner while Thorne moved to the far end, sat down and ordered drinks like a tourist.

They didn’t have to wait long for Wilbert the Weasel to drift in, a stink of greed on him, slinking towards Thorne’s table, glancing around with shifty small eyes, before sitting down, unaware of the slender girl that could slit his throat at any moment.

More than once did Bellatrix feel the urge to strike, but she stayed hidden, patiently waiting for the slimy Weasel to start talking and then crawl back to where he had come from.

She could almost make out what Thorne was saying, no doubt reciting one of his ridiculous exploits in a vain effort to impress. He seemed irritatingly happy, and when he stole a glance in her direction, unseen, fleeting, a mere hint at a bond so utterly profound that she felt her anger melt, only to be furious with herself at such foolish a thought, berating herself, thumb on her blade, the sharpness of the edge pressed against her skin, the anticipation of pain, of cutting, spilling blood, focussing on her pulse beating against the steel, on her breathing, eyes trained on the man she had assumed to be the origin of her plight, only to find that she did not know what she felt, only that her hunger to cut ran deeper than any wound.

Without realising, she had moved closer, still in the shadows, almost within reach, when the Weasel abruptly stood up and left.

“Did he tell you what we need to know?” Bellatrix leaned on the chair where Wilbert had sat a moment ago, her eyes narrowed.

“Some of it. He didn’t know where the tomb was but said he knew who did.”

“And you let him go?”

“Yeah, he’ll rat us out, first chance he’s got.” Thorne looked at the glass in his hand.

“I’ll cut out his tongue.”

“Easy now, we want him to sing. I’ve slipped that Weasel one of the professor’s nifty buttons. We’ll hear every word,” he winked and finished his whiskey.

“And after…” she made a cutting motion.

“Love your enthusiasm,” Theodore paused, inclined his head, hesitating to say more.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, my ass. Spit it out.”

“I was wondering… about your mother.”

“Mother?” she scoffed.

He looked at her but kept silent.

“How can you not know about Beaumont’s lab? Artificial wombs, cosy, cold steel cribs and soulless feeding bots to tuck you in at night, all very motherly.”

“That’s… awful.”

“Yeah, whatever. I don’t need your pity.”

“You can talk to me, Trix, you know?”

“Look, me not cutting your little Thornes off doesn’t mean we all of a sudden sign up for family therapy, m’kay?”

“Okay, okay.” Thorne raised his hands when his comm clicked. “Wilbert’s making a call.”

Thorne paid, and they left the bar. The call Wilbert had made was short and cryptic. He seemed scared, too scared to talk over the phone, and what he had said sounded like a take-out order, “The usual, M17, pickup,” and the reply, a muffled woman’s voice, “Twenty minutes,” kitchen noise in the background.

“Maybe he’s hungry,” joked Bellatrix.

Thorne grimaced, and they blended with the stream of people, tourists and locals alike, two dark specks of cloth carried past special offers proclaimed in fifteen different languages, for special friends, hand-woven galabeyas for only fifteen pounds, postcards and magnets for five, and for the lucky ones, a rare papyrus of a spell from the Book of the Dead, priceless, for only two pounds.

A wiry, thin fellow, peddling souvenirs that magically appeared from under his many folds, had attached himself to Bellatrix, and was trying to sell her a heart scarab along with a Nile cruise on his boat for a one-time only deal of fifty pounds.

Theodore couldn’t help but grin, albeit a little worried for the man. Bellatrix was at the brink of a steely demonstration when Thorne pulled her aside into a corner, pointing straight ahead.

Wilbert the Weasel, glancing around, ducked into a doorway, past a hooded figure peering out from the shadows, and the door closed.

“I’ve lost the signal,” said Thorne.

“I’m going in,” said Bellatrix when an explosion shook the ground, and the building Wilbert had entered was ablaze, stone and rubble scattered all around.

People screamed and ran and shouted. A merchant was holding his head, having been hit by a piece of rock. A young voluptuous woman, wearing clothes neither apt for the climate nor location, was in the dirt, wailing, a small wooden splinter sticking out of her thigh and upon touching it, she started shrieking as if she was about to die.

A man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a meticulously trimmed grey beard kneeled next to her and tried to calm her, only to be insulted and hit with her handbag, which she swung with such fervour that the handle came off and its contents splattered all over the place.

“Look at what you’ve done. You killed me. You killed me. You killed me!” The woman screamed, her eyes bulging.

The man kept quiet, reset his spectacles with his index finger, and deftly pulled the minuscule splinter out from the woman’s thigh, releasing a drop of blood at the sight of which the woman passed out, while around them, people rushed to help the injured.

Bellatrix and Thorne moved through the chaos towards the collapsed building, entry now impossible. She glanced back at the woman lying on the ground, the man holding her head in his lap and gently stroking her hair.

“You think he knew he was being followed?” asked Bellatrix, still staring at the woman.

“Possible,” said Theodore, pointing at a group of men advancing towards them. “It’s a trap!”

Bellatrix snarled, her blades whirring through the air, and two attackers fell to the ground before they could take another step. The remaining three drew automatic weapons and started firing at the empty spot where she had dealt out death a second before.

“I hate guns.” Thorne took cover in the corner, squinting as a blur of black descended on the advancing brutes.

A flurry of steel, a severed arm, still firing, a leg departed, the man’s disbelief engraved on his ashen face as he fell to the ground, bleeding out in a fountain of red.

Bellatrix whipped the blood from her katana and raised it above her head.

The last man standing, a mountain of a man, dropped his empty rifle, licked his lips, two arms as thick as roots reached behind his back and drew two khopesh swords, dark and serrated. Teeth bared, he grunted and swung his weapons as in demonstration of his might, the air hissing around him.

Bellatrix observed his stance, his movement, slightly favouring his left side, or maybe he feigned it. She stood perfectly still, every fibre in her body ready to spring into action, a solitary bead of sweat travelled down her temple.

He lurched forward, a thrust and a stab. She sidestepped, spun around him, her blade singing all the way. He took one step, another and fell to his knees, both hands still holding his swords lying on the ground before him, the last thing he saw before his head landed between them.

“Well, so much for keeping a low profile,” said Thorne, stepping over the severed body parts.

---

The Map

X-Point in the Eastern Desert of Egypt

Of course, the above map, while an actual map of Egypt, the lines, while indeed resulting in what appears to be an almost symmetrical triangle, is pure fiction, devised for the sole purpose of serving the narrative. Unless, against all odds, someone finds the final resting place of Alexander the Great¹ at that red circle. In such an unlikely event, I call dibs.

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1. In 2024, Egyptologist Christian de Vartavan published his Locating the Tomb and Body of Alexander the Great, in which he suggests that the body of Alexander may be in the Eastern desert of Egypt. (source)