P R O J E C T B R A I N F I R E

PROLOGUE: THE VALLEY OF KINGS, 1943

The blazing eye of Ra faded into crimson behind the rocky Theban hills, resurrecting the shadow beings who creep across the Valley of Kings by evening, then merge in death once more with the darkness of night.

Just as the annual inundation of the Mother Nile brings life-sustaining water to the dry Egyptian croplands, so the daily setting of the sun in the west brings the cool of the evening--a merciful respite from the sun god's pitiless stare which heats the ancient valley by day into a natural stone oven.

For Abdul, the deepening evening brought no such mercy. He raised his powerful arm from the hand-powered bellows he was working and wiped the sweat from his brow, then resumed the endless pumping. The ashen coals flared to a glowing cherry red. Abdul glanced at the distant horizon and noticed the sky to the west was turning the same red as the fire, then dropped his eyes quickly and continued pumping the bellows forcefully. He could hear the murmuring voices of his masters approaching and knew it was best to appear hard at his labor.

"With a thousand workers like Abdul, Germany could double its industrial output," a

good-humored German voice spoke.

"And with a million, Herr Major, we might even win the war," a second German voice said with a sarcastic laugh.

Abdul stood quiet, pretending not to hear them coming. Like his father, and his father, and his father before him, Abdul was a tomb robber by trade. In the family business, the less one heard, the longer one lived.

The Major's voice became more serious as he stepped up to Abdul and handed something to him. "This is the last of them. Professor Schwartz found it buried in the dirt behind the large statue."

Abdul grasped the golden statue of a hawk-headed man and slipped it carefully into the molten pool bubbling in the crucible.

* * *

By mid-afternoon the following day, the busy crucible had been drained into the forms for the last time, and the chill of the night had cooled the molten gold into glistening ingots.

Working in the shade cast by an eight-foot crate, Abdul knelt over a shallow wooden box, struggling to jam the last of the gold bars into it. He plucked out a handful of packing straw, but still the bar refused to nestle in beside the others like it. Absorbed in his difficult task, he did not hear the Major saunter up beside him.

"Perhaps we should not have found that last statue. It seems the others refuse to make room for it," the Major said, more amused than concerned. "Well, our schedule does not allow for such lack of cooperation," he said curtly. "Why don't you just nail the box shut and keep that renegade bar, Abdul."

"Yes. Keep it. We have the larger pieces for the cultural heritage of the Reich. And, what shall we say, a few of the more insignificant ones set aside for the SS officers responsible for this operation. Yes, you keep it. We shall all prosper from our endeavors."

"Such generosity is unknown to me,” Abdul said, quickly tucking the heavy bar into the worn leather bag containing his few possessions.

The Major pondered something curiously for a few moments, then spoke again. "So, you do not fear the curse?"

Abdul hammered down three nails, securing the lid of the box tightly. "I do not know of any curse."

"The inscription," the Major said. "The inscription on the base of the statue. Professor Schwartz tells me it says 'He who plots against the sanctity of Horus shall perish at the hands of a Fool'."

Abdul's penetrating stare met the Major's curious eyes. "Tell me, Major. Are you German SS officers fools?"

"Nor do I, Abdul. Nor do I," the Major said confidently, then turned and walked away.

A few minutes past four that afternoon, a German transport plane heavy with extra fuel and pilfered golden treasure taxied across the flat scorching desert.

The blazing eye of Ra stared down upon the aircraft as it lifted skyward through a gritty fog of propeller blown sand and slowly banked northward.